The people of Riverwood thanedom, who were walking on the needles the past few days were besides themselves with joy when the young stranger came back to them on the eve of the sixth day, bringing not one, but both of Frodnar’s children, alive and unharmed, if a little underfed.
No time was wasted: food was brought out, barrels were cracked open, torches and braziers were lit in abundance, all work was abandoned for the one night of the celebration that ensued. Song, dance, and general elation were everywhere.
He observed most of it from a quiet nook. He was never much for celebrations, and has grown slightly weary of tearful thanks that Frodnar and Dorthe showered him with for saving their children. The anonymity suited him much better.
“You’re a right hero, you know that?”
He snapped from his thoughts: a young lady that he recognized as a part time server in Hervird’s inn was standing next to him, offering him a flagon of mead. He accepted it gratefully: anonymity or not, free drink was always appreciated.
“I should thank you for bringing those two back: we weren’t this busy since High Queen Skeldi won the war.”
He smiled, taking a long sip of mead.
“I’d say that this drink is thanks enough.”
“Mmm, that may be, but I don’t think it really relays the real extent of my gratitude,” she said as she leaned towards him doing her best to stick her bottom out further and make her breasts stir more underneath her dress, “if you catch my meaning.”
He looked at her. Had she approached him when he was a few years younger, he wouldn't think too much before jumping at her like death on a crone. But now…
“If you want to show me your gratitude,” he said before draining the rest of the mead and unceremoniously handing her the flagon, “you can start by gathering the elders in that there house. I still have some unfinished business with them.”
She took a step back, visibly disappointed, but nodded and silently took her leave.
He closed his eyes, threw his head back, and took a deep breath of crisp winter air. It was the little moments like these that made life worth living. He lamented not appreciating them more when he was younger, but it wasn’t of much consequence; he still had a long life before himself, unless some critter did him in and had him for supper. But he didn’t worry much about that.
Fixing his cloak slightly to appear more presentable, he picked up the sack laid next to his feet, and stepped towards the house. The girl did her job, it would seem: the elders sat behind a massive oak table. Three men and three women, all but one of them with at least streaks of silver in their hair. But anyone who lived in Skyrim long enough knew better than to mistake them for frail elders. Several more curious folks gathered around to get a closer look. Riverwood’s Thane, Lydia the Dragonslayer, wasn’t present.
“Ah, the hero arrives!” cried one of the men, smiling beneath his thick brown beard.
“Indeed I do,” he replied. “But I am no hero; I’m merely a hunter. And the hunt was successful.”
He reached into the sack and pulled out its content. Someone screamed. Someone else knocked down a chair in an attempt to back away. Someone else yet swore by Talos’ name.
The already leathery hide of the beast was now sagging, and only the rope on which the head was hung kept it in place.
“Shor’s bones, boy, what is that thing!?” cried the same man that welcomed him just moments ago.
“This thing, Master Alvor, is a windigo,” he answered. ”He and his kind were once Reachmen, worshippers of Namira who… overindulged in the gifts of their Dark Lady. In time, their tribesmen learned of their inhuman tendencies and exiled them. But even that was not enough to steer them away from their path, and they stuck to their habits. Over years, they became less and less human, until they finally devolved to this.” He shook the head for emphasis.
Silence lay heavy over the room as the elders processed what they just heard.
“Namira?” said one of the women. “But, that means… no, it couldn’t.”
“It means exactly what you think, my Lady. They feed on human flesh.”
He could almost feel the wave of disgust that washed over the room.
“So you’re saying,” continued one of the men, “that this thing, this… windigo, took the children away, to… to...” He couldn’t continue.
“Windigos are eternally starving, Master Embry, yet unable to die from malnourishment. It is a horrible existence. In milder seasons, they’ll mostly feed on local wildlife or scavenge what they can. They’ll also attack men and mer, but only during night and only in wilderness. But during tough winters, when wildlife and travellers are scarce, their hunger will force them away from their caves and ruins, and into the human settlements. They’ll mostly go after children when this happens. Probably because they're softer.”
A few people took in breath. Two tried to hold back vomit. One only succeeded long enough to sprint from the room and yet fail outside.
“This one,” he continued, unbothered, “still had some personal affects from his time as human, which is remarkable, really. From what I’ve gathered, he was of the Druadach tribe. What forced him so far away from home, I don’t know, but it is fortunate that he couldn’t claim any more victims.”
“Hervird said he stuck him with a spear,” added Alvor. “Said it didn’t injure him.”
“Master Hervird wasn’t quite sober at the time, Master Alvor. Had he been, he would have noticed that the spear he used had a silver filigree on its head. The reason you didn’t find any blood is because windigos are allergic to silver; it burns them and causes their bodily fluids to boil and evaporate.”
“Will any more come for us?” asked one of the women.
“Windigos revile the company of even their own kind, Lady Gerdur,” he answered. “This one didn’t even have a mate: only a cave filled with bones. And as I’ve said, he went uncharacteristically far away from his cave. So no, I don’t expect any will show up. But it is still best to be safe.” He returned the head into the sack and placed it on the floor between them. “Take this, burn it to ashes, then mix them with two measures of silver dust and scatter them around your walls. It should keep them away for a lifetime.”
“A question, stranger, before we conclude this.” The speaker was the only elf in a group of the elders, shorter by a head than all of them, but without doubt older. “Why didn’t it kill the children and eat them on the spot? Why bother dragging them all the way to Reach?”
The throbs of unease in the room were almost palpable. All present were aware of the Green Pact and how strict the Bosmer were about it. That it was one of them that asked that question probably came out in bad taste.
“Master Alehir,” he started, “windigos may be only be somewhat higher than beasts, but they aren’t stupid. They know that winter means less food, so they try to save what they can get. I suppose it is somewhat similar to us drying hams and ribs. By what I saw there, he probably still had something to chew on on the day I found him. Had I arrived a day later, this town would have an inhabitant less.”
“Well then; let us be thankful you arrived when you did, my boy.” The elf was jovial beyond what his face revealed. “Now, the part you are likely eager to hear about. Your payment.” Alehir reached under the table and pulled up a bag that was almost as large as his head. It fell on the table with a resounding thud.
“I am aware that the agreement was a hundred and fifty Haralds, but in light of recent events, we have decided it was simply too little for a hero such as you.
His brow raised as he opened the bag to inspect it. It looked nothing out of the ordinary.
“Inside, you will find two hundred Haralds, non-taxed. They are yours with our heartfelt gratitude.”
He smiled, and tied the bag. “I thank you for your generosity and hospitality. If it pleases you, I would like to depart immediately.”
“Why leave so soon?” asked Gerdur. “Is the celebration not to your liking?”
“I mean no disrespect, Lady Gerdur, but I have been away from home for too long. I shouldn’t delay much longer.”
Alehir’s lips curved into a smile. “How very thoughtful of you. I shall pray for your safe passage through this rugged land. Stendarr willing, we will meet again!”
“I should hope not.” he said, fastening the bag to his sword belt. “The only reason I could imagine us meeting again is if another monster plagues you. And even I, who makes his living from these things, do not wish that.”
Alehir burst into laughter. “You are wise beyond your age, young master. Very well then: Stendarr willing, may we meet again as old friends.”
He smiled and stepped towards the door, but turned back midway.
“Before I leave, please: where are your shrines?”
“A hundred paces to the north, just before Ysmir’s Falls,” said Gerdur. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” he smiled. “I just wish to pay my respects.”
---
Already halfway to Whiterun, he smiled when he realized he could still hear the music coming from Riverwood. It brought him some joy to know that he inspired such merriment, but it brought him further joy that he didn’t have to be a part of it. He just wanted to come back to the only place he could’ve ever called home.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
He tugged at the metal cord tied around his neck. A large amulet slipped from under his shirt: a silver wheel, richly engraved on the rim, with a detailed relief of a woman’s face in the middle, with two emeralds in place of eyes. In the dark of the night, the emeralds glowed dimly. Along with his sword, it was his most prized keepsake and possession. A first gift from his mother.
His thumb caressed the face on the medallion, and the emeralds slowly dimmed until they finally stopped glowing. The spell that kept going for the last six days was finally broken, allowed to rest and recharge.
He was already far away that nobody would come looking for him. He slipped the amulet back into his clothes. Stupid for the magic as he was, he was grateful of the powerful enchantment of Illusion that the piece had. He smiled as he imagined the faces of some of the brighter people in Riverwood: it should occur to them about now that none of them had ever asked for his name.
---
It took him only four days to reach the northwest end of Skyrim. The castle loomed in the distance, half hidden by the snowstorm. Some decades back, it was home to a cult of powerful, pureblood vampires, before they were exterminated by the Dawnguard. Now, it was a home to the Order of the White Cairn. His home.
A small but well-built cabin, separate from the half-ruined villange, stood by the dock. Only a single boat was tied to it. The boatman, a grizzled old man named Edgtho, was sitting outside despite the cold, puffing from his ceramic pipe.
“Seems we’re both out late, old man,” he noted as he approached.
“Go choke on a codpiece, you whelp,” croaked Edgtho. “I’m always out late and you know it.”
They both erupted into laughter at the same time, before embracing each other.
“Come on now, boy,” said Edgtho, wrestling himself from the younger man’s bear hug. “Come on inside and let’s have a round.”
“I’d love to, old man, but I really cannot. I must make my report. And besides, I’ve already been away for far too long.”
“And some obligations are waiting for you, I reckon,” added Edgtho bitterly.
“Aye, and that too.”
“Dagon curse you, boy! You never come and visit me! I could roll up and die tonight and you wouldn’t know it until I was clean bones!”
“As if that could happen, old man,” he replied. “You’ll outlive us all, mark my words. And besides, you’ve already forgotten that I paid you a visit just before I left.”
“You did?” Edgtho frowned. “Ah yeah, yeah you did. Silly me and my old head.” He knocked his pipe on the wall of his shack. “Ah bother it all! I know you’ll come visit your old uncle Edgtho eventually, so let’s be at it.” Showing the agility of a much younger man, he leaped into a boat and unfastened the rope that held it to the deck.
“In you go, whelp!” cried Edgtho. “It’s time to take you to your lair.”
The sailing was mostly smooth. Edgtho insisted on hearing everything about his last hunt, from the monster he fought, the children that he saved, how much he was paid, and all that happened in-between.
“And,” Edgtho added, after hearing of the celebration, “tell me: how many young wenches did you roll over this time?”
This remark earned him a fistful of cold water to the face. He laughed it off.
“You had that one coming, old man,” smiled the youth.
“Damn right I did, boy!” roared Edgtho. “And well done,” he added quietly, smiling under his moustaches.
They made it to the other shore quick enough. He felt a wave of relief wash over him when his boots hit the wet, frozen ground. He never much liked boats.
Just as Edgtho was preparing to leave, he called out and tossed him a small sack. Edgtho caught it, and immediately frowned.
“Dammit boy, I don’t need charity!” he complained.
“Yes you do, old man. I’ve known you long enough to know that you’ll drink your next salary away. Drink this away instead, and get yourself something to eat that isn’t histcarp or halibut. And get some Telvanni resin and fix that boat, or we’ll be swimming to the mainland within a month.”
Edgtho’s frown melted away into a smile. He said nothing, merely nodding before sitting down and rowing away, whistling an old tune.
As the boat’s lantern vanished in the distance, he turned his eyes to the castle. The wall, built only some few years ago, encircled the main building, making it almost a fort. Seldom was there a window on the castle that wasn’t lit. He grinned: after months in the wilderness, he has all but lost the track of time, but it seems that luck has smiled on him and he arrived at the best possible moment.
It was the 15th of the Evening Star, and the celebration of the North Winds Prayer was in full blow. He took a step, looking forward to the warmth of a great hall.
A swish, followed by a resounding thud. He turned his head to inspect. An arrow, still shaking slightly, was nailed into the post. It came so close to his temple that it ruffled his hair. He took another moment to inspect the fletching. White feathers with red tips. He rolled his eyes.
“Who comes to us amidst such storm?” called out the voice from above the gatehouse.
“Naught but a lone wolf, searching for his pack,” he responded.
A moment of silence, and then the heavy portcullis raised, opening his path. A figure approached him, wrapped in a coat of russet fur.
“A bit late to be wandering about, innit?” the figure asked.
“A bit late to be loosing warning arrows at someone, Lormaril,” he replied.
“Nonsense!” rebelled the mer called Lormaril. “You know I never miss.”
“There is a first time for everything, and when that happens, I wish to be far away from you.”
“Far enough for me to hit you on accident, eh?”
He said nothing, merely standing still as if he was waiting for something. Seconds turned to minutes. Finally, the ring of a bell echoed throughout the night. Then another, and another: seven of them in total. One for each hour. He grinned.
Lormaril doubled over as a fist struck him in a stomach with a force of that seemed comparable to a lance driven forth by a galloping horse. He fell to his knees and vomited on the ground, his golden face sweating despite the cold. He straightened up, gasping.
“Are you trying to kill me, you bloody idiot?” roared Lormaril.
“Not at all, friend,” he responded. “Just returning the favour.” He continued towards the castle. “If I remember correctly, your watch should be over now!” he said loudly. “Come back to the great hall and replace what you just unloaded.”
“I only relieved Ronneth an hour ago!” cried Lormaril miserably. But his words fell on deaf ears.
He arrived to the gates in less than a minute and pushed them open. The warmth from within struck him like a wave. It was a pleasant change from the frigid weather he spent the last several days in. The sounds of music, dance, and merriment drew him forward, until he stood on the small balcony overlooking the great hall.
Almost everyone was there: fifty souls in total, male and female, men and mer, joined not by blood or contract, but by kinship and fellowship. His heart grew with a fond warmth watching them; they were more than just friends and colleagues to him. They were his family.
None of them noticed him. Actually, almost none: a young man who just finished telling a particularly funny story just happened to look in his direction. His eyes spread as wide as tankards, and a smile bloomed on his face.
“He’s back!” he cried. “The Easterling is back!”
All conversation in the room ceased. Music stopped abruptly. The only sound heard was the crackling of fire.
A moment later, the room exploded with cheers and the sound of feet scrabbling against carpets and bare cobblestone. He didn’t even have time to step back before he was seized and tossed over the balcony, into the living sea that seemed undecided on what to do with him. So many hands trying to hug him, pat him on the back, pull him in their direction. The rush of such warmth and affection, especially with the contrast of the past few days, was at the very least violently jarring.
Before he could truly make sense of what was happening, he was seated at a table, a flagon of beer appeared in his hands and a small group was gathered around him, eager to hear of his latest adventure.
He started telling his story in detail, and they listened attentively. He told them of the inkeeper’s story, the long quest for the creature’s cave which he found by sheer accident, and of his battle with the monster and subsequent triumph. He told them of how he found the children and brought them safely home. The part about the shrines earned him salves of laughter, but the part after that had everyone silent. No words were needed: he chose a difficult and perilous journey to them over a heroic treatment in the thanedom, just so he could see them sooner.
“Always knew you had a soft spot for us in your heart, old boy,” said a large Dumner who sat next to him.
“Aye, as Rhyvos said!” cried a young Nordic woman, slamming her flagon into the table to accentuate her point.
“See, everyone,” said Rhyvos, “even Olga agrees with me. Who’d have thunk I’d live to see it happen?”
The room once again exploded in laughter. And he laughed with them, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t out of relief or irony, but of pure, unbridled joy. He was finally back to where he belonged.
He was the centre of much attention for the next hour, but he soon grew tired, in all meanings of the word. The same young man who was the first to greet him was the first to notice it, spoke once again.
“Our brother seems weary, folks! Let him go upstairs to get some rest.” He sounded surprised with his own courage.
His suggestion was met with approval, and one voice that proclaimed that “she wouldn’t let him get much rest.” The laughter resumed.
He nodded thankfully to the boy, who nervously smiled and raised his cup to him.
He made his way up the tower with as much speed as he had left to him. What awaited him was worth pushing through any fatigue.
There; the doors to his chambers. He grasped the handle and pushed.
The fire crackling in the fireplace was the only audible sound. Combined with the obscene amount of red and purple on the carpets, drapes, tapestries and banners, the room felt warmer than it was. He assumed it’d belonged to a woman back in the days of the Volkihar, but neither he or the room’s previous owner made any effort to change much. Monster as she was, she had a good taste.
Of course, two changes were made. Some less tasteful tapestries were thrown out and replaced with a large banner with the sigil of the Order: a white wolf on the black background, howling to the heavens. The other change made was tossing a coffin that the vampire used to slumber out and replacing it with a finely curtained and adorned bed.
And there she was, in her silken nightgown, as beautiful as ever. As soon as she heard the hinges creak, her eyes lifted from the open book in her hands, a lengthy read by the name of 2920. Her luscious red lips spread into a smile as she immediately leapt out of the bed, running barefoot across the Hammerfel carpet of red and gold, her red hair flowing around her, before throwing herself in his embrace. Their lips locked in a kiss.
It seemed like an eternity before they separated. Her hazel eyes were full of tears.
“You’ve been gone for so long,” she whispered, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Aye,” he responded, “that I have. But I am back now. And with what I bring, I won’t have to go out until mid-spring.”
Her lips spread into smile once again. “Means more time together”
“Indeed it does,” he smirked. “Now, help me get out of this thing, would you?”
She giggled like a girl much younger, and immediately started unfastening plates from his armour.
“Anything interesting happened?” she asked, as she was fiddling about his spaulders.
“Please don’t make me tell it all over again,” he begged. “Ask Findel tomorrow morning: she’ll be more than glad to tell it to you.”
“Sounds like quite the journey already,” she said as she removed his cuisse.
“Nothing really out of the ordinary,” he responded.
“There!” she exclaimed as as the final belt on the breastplate was loose. He threw it off with relief, before stripping off the shirt beneath it. His back was now bare, drawn by many scars, and marked with two tattoos. The one close to his right shoulder was the same wolf that stood proud on the banners of the Order, only black instead of white. The other, much more smaller, was a bit higher up, almost at the base of his neck: it was a tiny bird in flight.
Turning around, he bent down and picked her up as if she were a child. An excited squeal escaped her lips, as he carried her over to bed. He lowered her onto the mattress and loomed over her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
He finally broke the silence. “Helena, I’ve missed you so much.”
“And I missed you, Gareth,” she responded. They were both lost in each other’s eyes.
He leaned down to kiss her when the door blasted open. A young Cyrod rushed in, blessedly ignorant that he was interrupting.
“Julius!” yelled Gareth while straightening himself up, focusing all his willpower into sounding friendly, and not annoyed at the irony of a same man who delivered him here now interrupting.
“Master Gareth,” he said, “you are being summoned to the council chamber. Lady Ara-” he abruptly stopped as he noticed the scene. Redness crept into his cheeks. Helena looked as if someone just swiped a bite off her fork.
“Well, Julius,” spoke Gareth, “as you can see, we’re a bit busy here. Is it vital to come down now?”
Julius seemed to be lost for words, just staring into the two of them. Finally, he snapped himself out and cleared his throat.
“Lady Araneya demands a report and the immediate payment of the dues,” he said, trying desperately to look at anything other than them. “She said to be ready in five minutes. But I’ll see if I can buy you five more.”
He nervously attempted a salute before running out and slamming the door behind him. Helena still looked ready to follow the boy out and kick him down the stairs, but her lips began to curl into a heady smirk.”
“Ten minutes,” she laughed. She suddenly turned serious. “We can do it.”
She waved her hand, and all fires in the room grew dimmer. Gareth only smiled as he slid the nightgown off her shoulders. He hoped he could muster enough strength for both acts.