The idyllic village I had pictured in my mind when fantasizing about a life in Skyrim held few differences from Riverwood. A fairer, greener town I had not ever imagined. Quaint homes were perched on the gentle hill, and the honey-slow river babbled nonsensically as it made its course just beyond the town. The river separated the mill from the main town, creating a small island. The creak of the mill, the scent of the pines, the flow of the river; it was all like some vision from my dreams. A green-clad, log-toting elf passed by, looking at me with a suspicious curiosity reserved for strangers who came without a warning or ane explanation, as he went about his chores. A large man was working the mill restlessly. A bird flitted across the sky, proclaiming his joy with a lighthearted chirp. A fairer day seemed impossible to wish for, I supposed, as I looked at the peaceful, simple little settlement and its contented people.
How easily this place could become Helgen.
It was clear to me that both Hoster and Bilandis were familiar with the village, for they both proceeded with no lack of confidence to lead me around a corner and across a small bridge. We were met with curious glances.
"We need t'find a woman by the name o' Gerdur. Good lady, she is. Her kin were the first to settle here. Built the sawmill, and then the town sprung up about her like weeds," Hoster explained over his shoulder as we stepped across the slats of wood that made up the little bridge. Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn't help pausing to admire the large water wheel as it tirelessly turned, churning the water as it passed on its long journey to the sea. I found myself wondering where the water's ambling would take it to after that, after it reached the sea.
"Gerdur!" Hoster cried, his voice pulling me out of my musings. Divines, I was becoming quite the daydreamer!
I hurried to rejoin my two companions and the canine. They were walking just behind the mill, on a small flat patch of grass. Before them was a large tree stump, the remains of what must have at one time been a great, towering thing. And upon that stump sat a woman of indeterminable age, with hair indecisively caught between blonde and brown. As Hoster called her name, she turned her face, work-weary yet wise, towards them. Rising, she took a few long strides to meet them.
"Hoster?" Gerdur was asking in a singularly rugged sort of voice, a voice of a working woman, though there was a pleasant sort of shock in her faded brown eyes. She seemed as though she would have been quite happy to see the Nord man if it were not for the set of his jaw that warned of bad news. "Hoster, what brings you here?"
Bilandis spoke up. "Urgent news from Helgen," he announced, unintentionally drawing out the suspense, the little dramatic that he was. "Bad news.”
Gerdur looked at him with mingled confusion and apprehension. "Bileris?" she asked, dazed, "What is it?"
The little elf opened his mouth to correct her on his name, but I stepped forward to get straight to the point. Despite my wontness to brood and fantasize, I have never had designs to heighten the drama of any situation through intentional theatrics.
"A dragon," I told her, my voice catching as I spoke the word aloud for the first time. Hoster and Bilandis both looked at me, sucking in their breath simultaneously. It would have been amusing, were it not for the fact that their reaction was not horribly fitting. We had yet to call it a dragon. Yet to admit it to ourselves, I fancied.
Gerdur took it similarly. "A dragon? That cannot be true. Dragons have been dead since the time of-“
“Since the time of Tiber Septim,” I finished for her, impatiently. My dear reader, you may have noticed by now, but I shall not hesitate to admit it; I have always been prideful, especially when it comes to my knowledge, especially in my youth. In those days, few things irritated me so much as being flatly contradicted by someone who clearly was less-read on the topic than I, even more so when this person provided no reasoning. Further, I could plainly see the disdain in the Nord woman’s eyes as she regarded me, an Altmer. The mistrust there was like a spark, lighting the tinder beneath my admittedly short temper. “Trust me, good lady, I am not in the habit of being mistaken.”
“Please,” she continued on, unaware of just how short my fuse was growing, “I am a Nord. You can’t possibly be trying to tell me that you know more about dragons than—“
The end of my patience was reached. Not willing to tolerate any more insults on my intellect, I interrupted her.
“No more,” I cut in, “Please, no more. Nord blood is no substitute for study, and of the latter I have had no shortage; I assure you of that, and on another point I may assure you: I saw a Dragon in the sky above Helgen. I felt the shadow of its wings and the heat of its breath. If you doubt me, visit the ashes of Helgen. Or even better, track the beast responsible to its lair! Then, you may speak to me of dead dragons!”
Perhaps my outburst was in poor taste; I do not argue that. Regardless, it had the desired effect. Gerdur did not protest further and I saw the doubt subside, if doubt it had been and not denial. Whether or not it was the harshness or the earnest with which I spoke, it disarmed her. I also did not fail to notice the looks of shock on the faces of my companions. Oh, how little they knew me then!
Slowly, Gerdur recollected herself and spoke again. “The ashes of Helgen?” she repeated, looking to me, surely in hopes that I would contradict myself or say that it had all been some cruel joke. Obviously, I gave no such indication. I watched realization dawn on her. Then, after realization, understanding. She turned her glistening eyes to Hoster, who was refusing to meet her gaze.
“Your sister?” she asked, simply, though her voice threatened to break.
When I had first laid my eyes on Hoster War-Horse, with his firm jaw, wide shoulders, and boisterous defiance, even when striding towards the block, I did not think I would ever see such a man cry.
Gerdur’s hand was firmly pressed against her lips as she stared at Hoster. Bilandis and I, though, turned our eyes away from Hoster, as much out of respect for his grief as out of uneasiness at seeing him cry so.
Some long moments passed, the four of us frozen in that woeful tableau. Finally, though, Gerdur brought us through it.
“This is no discussion to be had out here,” she decided firmly, in that manner I have noticed only in mothers, that way of barreling through grief with a set jaw and a suggestion, “Come, follow me.”
Minutes later, we were seated about the dinner table of a small cottage. Gerdur and her husband’s, though the latter was out at work. Clearly, the woman was able to conduct her own affairs confidently without the interference of her husband; in that regard, Gerdur reminded me of my mother. For a moment, I found myself thinking of the home I had left, but the gravity of the situation brought me back.
“What were you doing in Helgen, Hoster? Ralof said you were with him and Ulfric in Windhelm.” Gerdur was asking, seated at the head of the table, opposite Hoster. Bilandis and I occupied the other two seats as we listened to Hoster’s tale.
With a glance over at Bilandis and I, a glance that spoke of a wariness of our loyalties, the Stormcloak decided to go ahead with his story.
“I was. I was with Ulfric when I was captured.”
“Ulfric? Captured?” Gerdur echoed.
“Aye.”
“And Ralof?”
“Aye.”
Again, Gerdur’s hand flew to her mouth. Hoster continued.
“We were scouting around near Darkwater Crossing. A damn Imperial trap’s what it was. No chance to fight back. The cowards caught us off guard, they did, and Ulfric knew fighting’d only get us all killed, so he surrendered. We were all bound and loaded up into the back of some wagons. They’d already captured some other poor fool. A horse thief, said he was from Rorikstead. We thought they’d take us to Solitude or the Imperial City, but Tullius met us in Helgen. Lined us up by the block without so much as a trial.”
“Did Ralof get out? Ulfric?”
“I do not know,” he answered at length, “About Ulfric.”
The meaning behind his words, or rather the words that remained unspoken struck Gerdur harder than any Warhammer. I watched grief bloom like a black flower across her features. How much pain could the Gods inflict in one day, I wondered!
Her sobs were the only sound made for some time, as my two companions and I sat there, tense, and if I can speak for the others, quite uncomfortable. No one offered an arm to hold her or a word to comfort her, and seconds became minutes before Gerdur tried to speak. The contortion of her face and the quivering of her lips made her words all but unintelligible, but whatever it was that she was trying to say was clearly important.
“Yes, of course,” Hoster answered. “I shall see to it myself, Gerdur.” It was clear to me that he regretted not being able to offer her anything more than that promise.
“You’re- You’re welcome to rest here,” Gerdur continued, her words often interrupted by heaving breaths, her voice smothered behind the hand still clasped to her lips. Gods, the poor woman, she seemed loathe to allow herself any time to grieve.
We all softly thanked her, though Hoster added, “Thank you, Gerdur, but, like you said, Jarl Balgruuf must be warned. Perhaps these two would wish to remain and rest a bit, but I must carry our message on to Whiterun.”
“I would like to join you, Hoster,” I said, having no intention of leaving the journey unfinished.
Bilandis spoke up, as well. “I need to go to Whiterun, regardless. See, my carriage was lost in Helgen, and all my goods with it. I’ll need to start fresh and, well, Whiterun’s as good a place as any.”
Hoster did not hide his pleasure well, though I could tell he wished to. As a Stormcloak, I imagine he did not feel it proper to seek the companionship of an Altmer and a- Well, I did not know at the time just what blood ran in Bilandis’s veins, but he had called himself half-elf. Still, though, a hint of a smile warmed Hoster’s face.
And so, as the afternoon sun was finally lowering in the sky, the three of us, plus Meeko, began the next leg of our journey together, with clean clothes, full stomachs, and well-stocked bags. We were just minutes out of Riverwood, having crossed a small bridge and wandering a dirt path in the direction Bilandis claimed would lead us to Whiterun when the sound of hoofs beating the dirt road came from behind. Turning, I saw a rider pursuing us, and coming on quick. Bilandis, Hoster, and I all turned about, prepared to fight if it came to that, but all of a sudden, I heard an exasperated sigh from Hoster. A bow was in his hand and a quiver on his back. As he grew nearer and nearer, the rider’s olive skin and dark hair named him an Imperial.
“Hoster!” cried the horseman in a loud voice that carried across the distance. He pulled his horse to a halt just before us.
Yes, I knew that he was certainly an Imperial, though not of the usual sort. His long, night-black hair was unkempt and pulled back in a lazy braid. Brown eyes appraised our Company before finally falling on Hoster, and it was not hard to see the dislike there. Several days of stubble formed a messy beard on his mistrusting face, and he was clad in leathers. A hunter.
Our Nord companion looked up at this Imperial hunter, pausing before he spoke with a sigh.
“Henrik.”
Comments