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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count - Part IV: Lark

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While writing this chapter, I realized I'd need to split this chapter in two or we'd have a massive 11k giant on our hands. A lot of stuff happens over Part IV, and I didn't want to overwhelm anyone. Lark, continued will be up later this week!

Thank you, @ravenmind2001, for your feedback on this chapter!

Taglist:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

Content Warnings: None, unless you count Alec's obsession with the Dragonborn.

#######

The dragon wasn’t a part of her travel plans.

Following the White River into Eastmarch, they were only what she guessed was halfway through the caldera when its shadow swept overhead, large and dark. Then came the wash of fire, charring everything in its path, including her.

Leara barely raised a ward and cast an ice cloak over herself when the fire rained over her. She could hear Bishop somewhere beyond the wall of flames, but he was the least of her concerns.

The onslaught ended, the dragon banking west on the wind toward the mountains. She released the spells, a little too warm in her silver plate for the cool weather, but none the worse for wear.

“He’ll be back in a moment,” she told Bishop as the ranger jogged over to join her, Karnwyr beside him.

“Great, I was itching for a fight!” he said, grin wolfish.

“That would be the burns after he roasts you for dinner.”

Bishop’s mouth opened for a comeback – then he stumbled forward with a cry.

The dragon was on the road, the stones shaking as he crawled toward them.

Leara pushed Bishop aside, her katana in hand. She stared down the dragon, crystal blue eyes meeting the fathomless dark ones of the other dovah.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

·•★•·

Windhelm was a stone fortress of grey and white. Under the buildup of ice and the wear of centuries, she supposed it wasn’t that different from Cloud Ruler Temple. Only, the Blades had a pride in their ancestral architecture that was felt from even when first arriving at the Akaviri fortress. There was an air of neglect about the city, permeating from the stones as deep as the permafrost. Leara squeezed her eyes shut.

Cloud Ruler Temple was in ruins, neglected, forgotten.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Her eyes fluttered open, shoulders rigid. “Just thinking.”

“You weren’t quiet when you trumped that dragon.”

“I shattered the vertebrae in his neck. I would hardly call that ‘trumping’.”

The bridge was long, though it was nothing compared to the Imperial bridge leading to the city isle. Snow and ice crunched underfoot as they approached the city; Leara felt tension mount inside her the closer they got to the gates. “Have you been to Windhelm before?’ she asked, much to her own surprise.

Bishop laughed, void of amusement. “I’ve been everywhere in this frozen hell of a province, ladyship. Yeah, I’ve been to Windhelm a few times. Can’t stand it, either. The people here think it’s cold when they have their cozy little houses. Huh! I’ve endured much worse as a child and survived on my own with nothing more than branches to keep me warm.”

“You didn’t have to come,” she reminded him for what was probably the umpteenth time.

“And leave you exposed to the prying eyes and wandering hands of people like the Thalmor? Do you have a death wish?” he asked.

They entered through the city gates. “I suppose not,” she sighed. “Where’s the inn?”

“First time? Bishop waggled his eyebrows at her. Leara crossed her arms, expectantly. “Candlehearth Hall over that way?” he jabbed his thumb toward a two-story building across from the main gate’s thoroughfare. At first glance, Candlehearth Hall appeared larger than the Bannered Mare in Whiterun, its gabled roof blanketed in the remnants of an early morning snowfall that blended it into the stone grey of the skyline. “Not a bad selection of ale,” Bishop continued. “Better than any of the swill the Dark Elves serve in that rathole they gather at in the Grey Quarter.”

“I see,” Leara nodded, lips thinning. A Dunmeri cornerclub sounded better than another loud tavern where the patrons were either. Drunk, singing about her, or both. Knowing Bishop, though, he’d start something and get them both kicked out. Or worse: he’d be kicked out and she would have to hear some offensive comment about the Dunmer ‘making off with the local women’ or something.

Karnwyr bumped her hand, his nose cold.

“Come on, boy. We’ll find you a fire.”

Entering Candlehearth Hall was like going from the daytime into night with a single step. The bright frosty air of Windhelm’s streets gave way to a dark, smokey interior, glowing warm with candlelight. The tantalizing smell of roasting meat wafted through the air and Leara couldn’t help but giggle when Karnwyr scented it, his head perking up.

At the sound of the door, the woman behind the counter peered passed the customer at the bar. "This here's Candlehearth Hall. Great room's upstairs, an' there's a bed for rent on the ground floor,” she said as Leara stepped up to the counter. “Got some fresh-baked bread an' good cheese, if you're after a bite to eat.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Leara smiled, bracing her hands on the counter. Behind her, Bishop cleared his throat. “Enough for two, and some ale.”

“You’ll want to ask Susanna after the ale,” the proprietor said. “I’ll have your meals right out. Where is Nils?” she mumbled, slipping off down the hall.

“Don’t mind Elda,” the man at the counter said. “She’s always after the waitstaff here.”

“Good help is hard to come by,” Bishop said, eyeing the man darkly.

The man ignored him; instead, his attention seemed caught on the twin rings on Leara’s dominant ring and middle fingers. “I say, those are curious rings! I’ve never seen one with a band of fire in it before! How did you come by them?”

Her fingers curling inward, Leara glanced down at her rings. While one was a mithril band studded with starlit diamonds that both boosted her natural magic reserves and combatted her difficulty in regenerating magic on her own, the other was a jet-black band with a glowing vein of gold like fire running round the ring. Its only other feature was a trio of stars engraved on the interior side of the band. “Family heirlooms,” she replied.

“You wouldn’t happen to be interested in selling them, would you?” the grey-haired man asked.

“Ah, no, no thank you.” Then, to dissuade any further questions, she added, “They really are unremarkable. Just trinkets a mage in my family was toying with. I don’t even think they do anything.”

“Mages often hide secrets in their work,” the man chuckled.

“Hey, buddy, the lady said she’s not interested!” Bishop growled.

“Bishop . . .” Leara whispered, closing her eyes.

“I’m merely making conversation,” the man retorted. He turned back to Leara. “If you’re ever interested in uncovering what powers your rings may have, I own the House of Curiosities a few streets east of here. The name’s Calixto Corrium.”

“Thank you.”

Just then, Elda returned bearing two plates loaded with bread, cheese, and some jerky. “For your dog,” she told Leara as they traded plates for septims. Leara smiled in thanks – then winced when Bishop plucked a piece of meat and chomped down on it.

Upstairs, Leara and Bishop found a small table near enough to the fire for Karnwyr to curl up while still under their – really, Leara’s – watchful eye.

The great room wasn’t overly crowded, though there were a fair number of customers partaking of an early lunch not dissimilar to theirs. Most were alone or in pairs, so what talking there was was a low murmur. In the corner, a Dunmer woman was lightly strumming a lute, lulling the atmosphere into a cozy calm warmed by the crackling of the hearth. Leara found herself pleasantly surprised by how peaceful it was.

Across from her, Bishop was chomping down on his bread, polishing it off in the time it took Leara to set Karnwyr’s jerky next to him on a napkin and slice her own bread and cheese and put together little sandwiches. “Where’s that barmaid with the ale?” he wondered out loud.

“You may have to go find her,” Leara sniffed. Over Bishop’s shoulder, she saw a woman in a server’s apron disappear into a side room. “I think she went down the back stairs,” she told him.

Grunting, Bishop stumped in that direction, disappearing by the time Susanna reentered the room, a tray of mugs balanced on her arm. Passing by Leara’s table, she deposited a single mug of mead by her plate.

“Thank you,” Leara said, lifting the mug.

“Anytime, my burgundy beauty,” Susanna said with a wink.

Leara pushed her fallen hair behind her ear once the barmaid was gone. She needed to redo her braid again. “It’s mahogany,” she whispered into her mug, lips pinching around the rim.

Her eye caught a plumed red hat making its way through the crowd, coming to a halt across the hearth from her. Underneath, or rather, wearing it, was a short blond man in poet’s sleeves and a wide collar that belonged in an old Nibenese theater, not Windhelm. Was he preening?

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat.

Everyone ignored him.

“Our hero, our hero, clams a warrior’s heart. I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes!”

What was he doing? Leara frowned, noticing from the corner of her eye as Karnwyr buried his head under his paws. The performance continued. She knew there were bound to be songs about her – she was the embodiment of an ancient Nordic hero – but this? Windhelm was the last place she expected something as Bretic as spoken poetry to become popular. Though, she mused as the man continued his recitation, it didn’t seem to be that popular to begin—

Someone started clapping along to the second reprise of ‘the Dragonborn comes’. Then someone else, and another. She looked around in surprise to find the room far more crowded than before. Where did these people come from?

“What the Hell is that?” Bishop asked, plopping next to her. He pointed at her mead, barely touched, “and where the Hell did that come from?”

“Here,” Leara said, sliding the mug toward him, appetite lost.

“It’s an end to the evil of all Skyrim’s foes. I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes.”

It was like watching a wagon pileup in the middle of the marketplace. It was so bad, and yet she couldn’t look away.

Another drawn-out line, another round of applause, and then the – bard? – swept off his hat and gave a deep bow, his tussled blond hair falling just so around his face. Holding that pose, Leara saw him peek a glance at his audience, before his too green eyes fixed on her. He winked.

“I think my ears are bleeding,” Bishop groaned into Leara’s mug. “I need more mead.”

Bishop left. And the not-quite Bard came over, taking his seat. All Leara could do during this too fast exchange was stare.

“Forgive me, my lady, have I the honor to speak to the Dragonborn?”

How in the—? Divines, was she to be recognized everywhere now? Decades of successfully hiding in plain sight and now her face was imprinted in the minds of every citizen in Skyrim! Even if she managed to keep ahead of the Thalmor now, her lead would be lost as soon as the Dominion got ahold of someone from her growing fan club.

She was quiet for too long, she realized as the bard frowned slightly. It looked as if he didn’t do that often, his muscles seemed unsure as to how to form the lines. “Yes, I . . .”

He cut her off. “By the Divines!” he cried, jumping to his feet. His outburst drew the attention of nearly everyone in the room. “It is delightful to be standing in your presence.”

“Please sit down,” Leara said, hands fisted in her lap. Her palms were cold.

“Today, we witness a living legend among us, none other than the Dragonborn herself!” the bard said, his delivery full of drama. “Our hero, our hero, who indeed claims this warrior’s heart. I told you, I told you, and the Dragonborn came!”

Did he just wink at her again?

Her nails dug into her palms, and she regretted not putting her gloves on that morning.

She stood. “Thank you, but I really must—”

His hand on her elbow stopped her in her tracks. Was it her fate to run into every man in Skyrim who wanted to lay hands on her? “If I could just have a moment of your fine company, my lady! Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alec.”

“Lovely to meet you, Alec,” she said tersely. She was a sycophant magnet. Well. Her fingers curled into palm and traced a rune for frost on her skin. “If you would be so kind as to let go of my arm,” she batted her eyelashes. Alec tore his hand away from her as if frostbit. But when he looked back at her arm, there was nothing there.

He gave her an easy grin, bouncing back a little too quickly for her comfort. “I have spent so much of my time studying your adventures,” he explained, his eyes shining. “From the terrors at Helgen to your endless eradication of the dragon menace. You are our hero.” – He made as if to grab her hand but abandoned the movement, thank Akatosh – “Your strength and humility bring hope to every heart in Skyrim. We bards sing your songs so that our children’s children may remember the glory of the Dragonborn, the savior of Tamriel!” Then, in what might have been a smooth line from nearly anyone else, he said, “Though, meeting you I see no account of your beauty has ever given you the justice you deserve.”

“How kind of you.”

“Kindness holds no place over honesty.” And sarcasm cast no shade over rose-colored spectacles. “I speak only the truth. You are truly inspiring, a beautiful muse for the beating heart of a musician.”

“That’s great,” she said, tone as dry as the Alik’r.

“Please,” he pressed, “you must come to a special performance I’m arranging here in Windhelm. I would be delighted for you to be my guest.”

“Re-ally,” Leara drew out. “That sounds lovely, but I’m on a very important errand now, crucial to the safety of the world you understand. I—”

“Just you wait, my dear!” he said, steamrolling over her. Could she not get a word in edgewise with this bard? “I am so pleased to share the experience with you. I will see you at the palace, my muse.”

Wait— “The palace?”

Alec nodded, far too enthusiastic. “The Palace of the Kings. The Jarl’s steward has engaged me for the evening to perform for the court. But what is performing for jarls and lords when the most legendary woman in Skyrim will be there in a place of honor?”

The Jarl?

The tension in her chest snapped into place like an iron lung. Her insides were cold and hot at once. Was she nervous? She couldn’t tell, and she usually did so well at maintaining her internal equilibrium. It’s nothing, she told herself. Nothing. She saw him at Helgen and his eyes glazed right over her face. It would be the same here, certainly? He might show an interest in her being Dragonborn – hopefully one with more decorum than shown by some of her fanatics – but he would only see her as the Dragonborn, right? He wouldn’t see a ghost from his past. Not even Elenwen—

She thumbed the black band, pushing it back and forth around her finger.

“Tonight, my muse,” Alec said, and Leara was so preoccupied that when he reached for her hand and kissed it, she let him.

Leara was still standing, stiff and statuesque, when Bishop rejoined her. An involuntarily whiff told her he’d downed at least three mugs of mead, on top of finishing hers earlier. “We’re going to a bard performance tonight,” she said, face stony.

“The Hell? Why are we doing a stupid thing like that?”

“We were invited.” Leara closed her eyes, resigned. “Well, I was, and since you insist on following me everywhere, that means you’re coming as well.” At his baleful look, she stuck her nose in the air. “It’s the polite thing to do,” she sniffed.

“Polite? Ladyship, do you realize just how many things you do for people because it’s the ‘polite thing to do’?” Bishop asked, huffing mead scented air in her face. “What’s the point in endearing yourself to them? They’re useless and they will use you in return!”

“Perhaps,” Leara said, willing to play Daedra’s advocate. “But when people like you, it’s easier to get things done.”

He gave her a dark look. “Whatever. I still question your intelligence.”

She was too, seeing as she was about to risk exposure.

·•★•·

The worn silk slipped through her fingers with painstaking familiarity. After so long wrapped up in the bottom of her bag, she was surprised and relieved to find it still intact. The folds of the skirt needed steaming and the white lace girdle was pinched, but it was nothing she couldn’t fix with a little Alteration. Such spells were some of her first castings, even before she learned to dance with ice and fire.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Did your mother not teach you to knock?” she asked, pulling and tucking the lace with gentle quirks of her fingers. Tendrils of white gold magicka curled through the threads, aligning them to their original pattern.

“She taught me to drink and not to trust people,” he said. He leaned over her shoulder. “Is that some kind of housewife magic?”

“Tailor’s craft,” she corrected. She’d forgotten how much lace made up this girdle! “It’s not very common outside of High Rock or the Imperial City.”

“Huh.”

Leara continued to work her way through the lace, restoring it to order. Once that was finished, she cupped her hand and breathed a Bretic rune word; steam pillowed in her hand, and she ran it slowly down the gauzy skirting.

“So what’s this for?” Bishop asked. He’d sat down on the floor with Karnwyr as she worked.

“Tonight,” Leara said, concentrating on her gown. “You do realize we’re attending court, yes?”

“Yeah, I just don’t care,” he replied. “Why dress myself up for a bunch of lazy, entitled nobles and one creepy little bard?” He snorted, “Bards! As if he’d know anything about letting women come for anything. His voice alone is enough to send them running in the opposite direction.”

She decided to ignore literally most of that comment. “We’re attending the court of Ulfric Stormcloak. He’s hardly a lazy noble.” In fact, he’s so energetic that he could kill her.

“No, he’s worse.” Bishop said, sitting straighter. He braced his arm on his raised knee. “He’s a religious freak with the power to sway people to his side like mindless zombies. And for what? Talos worship? Pfft, I don’t like the Empire by any means and the Thalmor can rot in Oblivion for all I care, but starting a war just so you can worship a damn god is stupid. I’d sooner eat Karnwyr than die for any god.”

“I didn’t realize you hated the gods so much,” Leara murmured.

“I’m surprised you don’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Don’t you see?” His hand was on her calf. Leara stilled, her only movement the mechanic back and forth of the steam spell over her skirt. “They made you Dragonborn and left you to take care of their mess for them. How can you trust them when they’re the reason you have to throw yourself in front of every blasted dragon in Skyrim?” His grip tightened, right on the lined trousers that usually sat under her greaves. She continued steaming. There was a stubborn crease near the hem, and she needed to be careful getting out lest she burn the delicate skirt. “They play a game with everyone’s life, with your life, and you just stand back and watch it happen!”

“Yes,” Leara whispered. Contrary to Bishop’s intention, she felt a sudden urge to go join a chapel to one of the Divines. Maybe when this was all over, she could become a Priestess of Akatosh? The Dragonborn spreading the teachings of the Dragon God. The irony made her smile.

“—that’s why you need to be careful tonight, ladyship.”

What? “Yeah, sure.”

·•★•·

“I must say, you look quite sexy tonight. All that armor you wear covers up the best parts.”

“You’re too kind,” she said with a dry snort. Leara burrowed into the cloak she’d borrowed from Susanna; she would need to buy one of her own for the journey to Winterhold. An alchemist or the blacksmith may be interested in the dragonscales in her bag. Selling those would cover any cost. She hoped.

Bishop, as expected, wore his same old travel-stained leathers. Whereas Leara left her katana tucked in-between the bed and wall in her room with a napping Karnwyr to act as guard, Bishop’s bow and quiver remained on his back and she knew that if she searched him, she’d find more than one dagger, too. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for wanting to be armed; while she had a wide arsenal of spells she could reply on, his mundanity limited him to what tangible weapons he could get his hands on. Still, given his volatile nature, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with him walking fully armed into a jarl’s court.

Even if the Jarl might kill her.

“I take it you’re ready for the performance?” she asked as they left Candlehearth Hall for the frosty dusk coating Windhelm’s streets. Masser and Secunda were visible overhead against a backdrop of constellations and distant stars. Leara hoped that meant there would be no snowfall overnight.

“No, I couldn’t find enough wool to plug up my ears with.” Bishop held up a flask and took a long swig from it. “There’s not enough mead in all of Skyrim to make me ready for this crap.”

“But you’re still going to try,” Leara sighed. As much as she wasn’t looking forward to another spoken word poetry fest that would likely feature her as a subject, her own worry kept her mind too alert to think about drinking even the first mug of mead, much less the endless stream she knew Bishop would soon imbibe. “You might actually forget everything anyway.”

“Trust me, I have other ways of forgetting. Mead or not,” Bishop chuckled.

She pinched her nose; exhausted already and they hadn’t even arrived at the palace! “I’m sure they’ll have enough free alcohol that you want need any of your other methods.”

They were quiet the rest of the way to the Palace of the Kings, though Leara couldn’t consider it peaceful. Bishop was a specter at her side, glaring at passersby and sneering at the guards. His attitude was sour, and it blackened her already worried mind. As they ascended the steps to the palace avenue, Leara felt the tension tighten around her ribs, constricting. She forced a deep breath, and then another. Feim. Zii. She exhaled.

Everything was going to be fine.

After telling the gate guards why they were there, Leara and Bishop entered the great hall. Removing her borrowed cloak, she folded it over her forearm and took in the room. It was a long, high-ceilinged room with towering stone walls draped in blue banners depicting the golden outline of the bear sigil. Centermost was a banquet table where a team of kitchen maids were arranging bowls and platters in preparation for dinner. If all went well and they stayed for the feast, she’d try to take a beef bone back to Karnwyr. He would like that.

Bishop gave a low whistle. “A lot of history in place like this. And a lot of riches, for that matter.”

“Yeah,” Leara nodded, voice distant.

As if dragged by an unseen force, her gaze found the throne. Framed by the banners of Eastmarch, it sat high on a dais at the end of the hall. The throne of Ysgramor. The throne of the Jarl of Windhelm.

It was empty.

Leara released a slow breath. Where was he? As she looked around, a Nord with a rather impressive mustache exited from a side passage. On seeing Leara and Bishop, he hurried over, his fur lined hat flopping back and forth on his head. “Hail, you’re the Dragonborn, I take it?”

“Yes, I am,” Leara answered, resigning herself to public recognition no matter where she went.

“I’m Jorleif, the Jarl’s steward. I was asked to keep a look out for you, but,” his gaze shifted to Bishop, who loomed over Leara’s shoulder with a dark scowl on his face, “your guest wasn’t expected.”

“Go figure!” Bishop mumbled. It took all that was in Leara not to lean back and dig a sharp elbow into his ribs.

“His presence isn’t a bother, is it?” Leara smiled.

Jorleif shifted from foot to foot. “We have plenty of seating in the gallery. The two of you just won’t be together.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Leara cut over Bishop.

“Right,” Jorleif nodded, glancing between the ranger’s hard glare and the Dragonborn’s genteel smile. “If you’ll follow me.”

Jorleif led them down the passage he’d appeared from before and into a low hallway lined with torches. “The concert is being held in the Gallery of Kings. Normally Jarl Ulfric likes to keep it reserved for quiet reflections honoring the old kings, but he agreed for the concert to be held there.”

“Will the Jarl be in attendance?” Leara asked, forcing her lungs to expand.

“Oh yes,” the steward nodded as they crossed into a long room. It was smaller than the great hall, with a much lower ceiling, but that did nothing to diminish the effect of the statues framing the walls, situated between fogged glass windows like pillars. A large statue, holding the likeness of a war axe carved with the face of a screaming elf, stood across from the entrance and to the side. Leara twitched, uncomfortable at the sight. So that was the great Ysgramor and his mighty Wuuthrad. Lovely.

The hall was already fairly full as people milled about the side tables arranged on either side of the entrance where platters of tarts and rolls, though most were already settled in seats closer to the back. There were enough mead bottles available too, she noticed as Bishop snagged two, both for himself. Leara counted several empty benches closer to the front. She looked to Jorleif in question. “Assigned seating for the thanes and great families of the city,” he explained. “And you of course, Dragonborn.”

“You’re telling me all those empty seats already belong to somebody?” Bishop demanded.

“Yes,” said Jorleif. He pointed to a chair near the backrow that stood next to a statue adorned a large beard, knotted at the end, and a winged crown. The plaque beneath read; Jorunn the Skald-King. “This will do for you, I think, if the Dragonborn agrees.”

“Sweetness—”

“Sit beside the Skald-King, Bishop. Perhaps he’ll teach you something about music during the concert,” Leara quipped. She couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved not to be sitting with Bishop. She already wasn’t looking forward to whatever Alec had planned for her, but it would be infinitely more tolerable without Bishop griping in her ear through the whole thing.

“This way,” Jorleif said, leading her from the silently fuming ranger toward the front row. Leara’s jaw slackened when she saw the ornate highbacked chair in the center of the aisle. “That’s not mine, is it?” she asked, chest welling with trepidation.

“Ah, no,” Jorleif coughed. He directed her attention to shorter, though no less ornate chair. Its back was just low enough to let her hair cascade in an unobstructed waterfall. “There’s your seat, Dragonborn. Enjoy”

“Thank you,” Leara whispered, mouth pressed into a line as she stared at it. Why did something tell her that this chair was chosen just to display her hair? It was such a small idea, really inconsequential, but she got the impression that Alec was well attuned to such attentions to detail. Which was fine, except when it came to her. Then it was more than a little creepy, especially after they shared only one conversation. Sighing, she tucked a faded red strand behind her ear. She would need to reapply the dye soon.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable chair, she decided once she sat down. It’d be better if it was placed closer to the middle in the midst of everyone else. While she had an excellent view of the area sectioned off to act as the stage, she knew very well she was in excellent view of both Alec and the audience, which didn’t bode well if he did or said anything embarrassing.

Why was she subjecting herself to this, again?

A thud and a sigh next to her jerked her from her silent crisis. The taller chair was occupied. Crystal eyes glanced up, meeting a wall of storms before darting away, back to the stage.

“Ah, Dragonborn. I was told you would be attending tonight’s festivities,” Ulfric Stormcloak said by way of greeting.

“Jarl Ulfric, it’s an honor,” she said, ending in a squeak. She cleared her throat, flushing. She met his raised eyebrow with a reassuring smile. It didn’t do anything for her, but the Jarl of Windhelm nodded, placated.

She couldn’t help but stare at him. Aside from a brief glimpse from a separate prison wagon and then another stolen stare as they escaped the fires of Helgen, it had been twenty-six years since she’d seen him, really seen him. The decades between carried news of his campaigns, but they said nothing of the storm in his eye nor the steel in his face. This was the man who would be High King.

And if he knew the truth, he would be her executioner.

“I must admit, I wasn’t looking for you to come to Windhelm,” he was saying.

“Oh?”

“Yesterday, I received a report from a patrol of the dragon you felled south of Kynesgrove. That’s the second one you’ve slain in my hold, and yet you avoid the city.” He leaned across the armrest of his chair. “Are you nervous, Dragonborn?”

“Ye—no. I’m fine,” she coughed. Ulfric offered her his unopened mead. Surprised, she took it, but only picked at the wax seal.

“I don’t blame you if you are,” he said lowly. Leara gaped at him. He what? “The attention of bards can be overwhelming, especially ones such as this Alec,” Ulfric’s nose wrinkled. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy Alec’s spoken word poetry, either. “I heard he’s planning to pen the complete account of your travels. Says he’ll call it the Ode to the Dragonborn.”

“That’s a rubbish title,” Leara heard herself respond. “That couldn’t even be classified as an ode. It’s an epic.”

“What would you call it?” Ulfric asked her.

Her mind whirled. “The Strundu'ul Edda.”

The storm in his eyes lit up. “Stormcrown. Fearsome.”

“I thought so,” Leara smiled. She smiled? She exhaled and studied the Jarl of Windhelm under her lashes. His mask had improved by leaps and bounds in the last two and a half decades, of this she was certain. But she’d seen under it – was there when it shattered. She knew the invisible cracks only a few could see like the lines on her palms. None of them were telling; he held no hidden thoughts from her, not right now.

He didn’t recognize her. Not her voice, not her face. Nothing.

And of course he wouldn’t, she chastised herself. How could he? Her right hand tightened over the left, over her rings. The black band’s enchantment wasn’t active; she passed for an elf of mixed ancestry. Not an Altmer. Not a member of the Aldmeri Dominion. This whole time, she was working herself up for nothing. After all, she was a Blade, the art of concealment was her domain. If she could slip under Elenwen’s nose at the ambassador’s own party, why couldn’t she slip under Ulfric Stormcloak’s? One weight out of many left her shoulders, and she relaxed into the feeling.

“I take it you don’t particularly care for Alec’s work?”

Ulfric chuckled at her inquiry. “Hardly, but Jorleif persuaded me. He said such festivities would be good for me and good for the people. For the people’s sake, I agreed. Though I do not think you agree,” he added wryly at Leara’s grimace.

Leara glanced over her shoulder. Several of the front benches were occupied now, though the ones closest to her and Ulfric were still empty. Turning back, she whispered in a conspiratorial whisper, “Oh, it’ll likely be very nice for the people. But not for me, I think.” At Ulfric’s inquisitive eyebrow, she elaborated: “As you know, as Dragonborn, I am Alec’s, ah, muse.”

“My condolences,” Ulfric bowed his head, though she could see the twinkle in his eye.

Leara couldn’t help but marvel at this entire exchange. If someone told her that morning that she’d be seated with Ulfric Stormcloak in his hall, making digs about a sycophantic bard, she likely would’ve accused them of being on skooma. And yet, here she was.

Both Leara and Ulfric straightened in their seats as a pale haired women swathed in crimson and gold stepped on to the manufactured stage. “Please, everyone, take your seats as the show is about to begin.”

“Here we go,” Leara sighed. Beside her, Ulfric barely suppressed a laugh.

Then Alec was on stage, poet sleeves puffed and plumed hat primmed. Spreading his arms, he gave a shallow bow. “Good evening, Windhelm! May I thank you all for venturing out on this cold, wintry night to witness the One, the Great, Alec, Prince of Song! I wish to dedicate tonight’s performance to someone very special to me.” His too green eyes found her, piercing. He winked at her. “She is the most inspiring, beautiful woman I have ever met, and I have a song in my heart I must sing to her.”

She mouthed a vague, “By Talos, this can’t be happening,” as Alec lifted his lute.

Then, honest to the Divines, he began to sing. “Let me dream of you and me and a place to be. Let me heal those scars unrevealed.”

Leara pressed herself into her chair, mortification building with every word this so-called ‘Prince of Song’ sang to a crowd of Windhelm’s citizens. Words about his feelings for her. What she could do for him. Her worrying nails broke the seal of Ulfric’s mead, and she guzzled it just to distract herself from the unpleasantness.

“Only you can save me. Only you can heal me,” he pleaded, strumming a handful of chords on his instrument. “Cure my eternal loneliness and kill my blinding hopelessness!”

Every mode and method of interrogation she was taught under the exactingg hand of the Aldmeri Dominion paled in the face of this new torture. Perhaps, perhaps Alec was a Thalmor agent sent to break her and return her to the Embassy? If so, she had to hand it to Elenwen for her originality. Prolonged exposure of this kind might just break her.

Would definitely break her, she corrected once Alec begged for her to let him love her. Whoever said things were better when put to song was wrong. They were actually so much worse. The urge to bury her face in her hands and scream mounted the longer and more explicit the song drone on, especially once the audience began to participate, clapping hands and snapping fingers to the steady tempo set by the lute.

“Let me dream of you and me for all eternity in a place where you can be with me . . .” Alec sang drawing out the final note. His ardent verdant stare didn’t sway from her in the moment.

Applause swelled throughout the gallery. In the chair next to hers, Ulfric gave a few short claps, but no more. The lines drawing down his mouth told her exactly what he thought of the performance.

And it was only the first of the evening.

·•★•·

“I have never been so embarrassed,” Leara whispered when Alec finally left the stage and a trio of Nords were drums and a flute took up a pounding jig.

“I’m sure,” Ulfric told her. “It was wildly inappropriate.”

“The audience didn’t seem to think so,” Leara sniffed, baleful. “They were quite into it.”

“They did not have the advantage of observing the lack of amusement from the bard’s muse during the performance,” the Jarl reminded her.

Leara’s mouth popped open. “Was that a pun?” she asked, a giggle springing up and taking her by surprise.

Instead of answering, Ulfric gave her a little half smile. Getting to his feet, offered her his hand. “Would you join me for some refreshment, Dragonborn?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, pretending she didn’t see his hand as she gathered the stray wax from the mead’s seal. Straightening, she met his eyes, and felt the curious eyes of the crowd on her – them – as the people intermingled around them. She cleared her throat, and added, “My Jarl,” in a subdued tone.

Ulfric gave her a wry smile, and she wondered about it as he led her through the chattering crowd toward to the refreshments. There was a quiet humor in him, wry and seasoned, but subtle in its delivery. Backhanded compliments were likely right up his alley. She recalled his dry retorts those first few days in the chamber. Before his voice gave way to the strain of screams.

A sharp intake of breath. She closed her eyes. This evening was getting to be too much, too memorable in more ways than one.

Warm fingers brushed against her hand, encircling her wrist. Her heartbeat stuttered. “Yes, my Jarl—”

“Pet names, darling? Not too sure how I feel about that one.”

Leara’s eyes blew open. Bishop stood in front of her, his hand clamped over hers like a manacle. Over his shoulder, she could see Ulfric Stormcloak engaged in a quiet conversation with Jorleif, a crease lining his brow.

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Bishop bit out in a hiss, just audible over the murmur of the crowd and the lively music beat out by the band. “You do realize that I and every blasted fool in here could see you two? What the Hell were you thinking, giggling and batting your eyes at him like some cheap whore?”

“Bishop—” Not here, please. Not here, not now.

“Did I not tell you to keep your head down and avoid the damn Jarl?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through her with the subtle precision of an assassin’s blade.

She swallowed. “If you did, I wasn’t listening.”

“You stupid woman!”

Breathe in, breathe out. She mustered an air of indifference, “I didn’t pledge myself to the Civil War, if that’s what you’re worried about!”

The cold eyes and curled lip Bishop gave her chilled her blood more than her frost magic ever could. “As if that’s the only thing I was worried about.”

In a sea of people, she was an island, caught in a hurricane as the waters churned around her. Not here, the little voice in the back of her mind whimpered. Not in front of all these people. Not in front of—

“My muse!”

Leara jolted backward, freeing herself from Bishop’s grasp as Alec materialized at her side.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again! I’m overjoyed that you came!” His hand sought hers, but she pressed it into the folds of her skirt, just out of reach.

“Are you serious?” Bishop frowned. Alec ignored him.

She was strangling on cotton. “Ah, Alec, your music was . . .” Embarrassing. Discomforting. Creepy. “. . . sweet.” Nauseatingly so.

That sickening feeling resurfaced at Alec’s lovesick expression. “My beautiful muse, I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “Please, dine with me tonight, my lady. I wish to sing for you more. I wish to hear all of your wonderful stories from the road. We can spend an unforgettable night together.”

In whose bed? she wondered, her stomach churning. “I—”

“The Dragonborn has agreed to be my guest tonight, bard. Save your offer for another night,” Ulfric Stormcloak said. He’d rejoined her without anyone noticing. “Unless she would like to accept your offer. Mine can sit for another night,” he said, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He knew bloody well she had no intention of spending an evening with Alec, tonight or any other!

“Jarl uh, Jarl Ulfric,” stammered Alec, eloquence lost.

In the background, Bishop growled. He was ignored.

“I,” Leara began. Her eyes were caught in Ulfric’s storm. She wanted to – but no. Tonight was too much, even after – or in part because of the unexpected camaraderie between her and the Jarl of Windhelm. If only . . . But Bishop’s burning stare torched her skin. There was an expectancy in them, as if he knew she would choose him. It dawned on her then to fear what he might say or do if she didn’t. Don’t test him here, she told herself. Not tonight. “I’m rather tired,” she said, voice thin. “I beg your pardon, my Jarl, but I believe I’ll take my leave for the evening.”

Ulfric frowned, and Leara wondered if it was directed toward her or either of the men beside her. It could be for the war, she thought. His mind could be leagues away with his war camps, returning to his cause after the momentary distraction she brought him. She was an evening’s entertainment in more ways than one, it seemed. “As you wish,” he said, tilting his head in acceptance. “Until we meet again, Dragonborn.” And then he was gone without acknowledging either Bishop or Alec, lost in the sea of people.

“Are you certain you wish to leave so soon, my muse?” Alec asked. “I can promise you a night you will never forget!”

“She said she’s tired, boy. Let the woman rest, will you?” Bishop growled.

“Savage,” Alec sneered, the movement awkward and stiff, but no less pretentious on his smooth face. He turned to Leara, “Are you sane, my lady? How can you trust a man like this?”

Bishop made a move toward Alec, but the bard didn’t seem quite as intimidated by Bishop as he was by Ulfric Stormcloak. In fact, he looked purely disdainful. A fight was sparking between them. Before it could rise into a blaze there in the middle of palace, Leara did the only thing she could think of to put out the fire.

Throwing herself at Bishop, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Let’s leave, Bishop.”

Alec made a strangled noise, but Bishop’s attention was focused solely on her. There was a glimmer in his eyes that unsettled her stomach more than it already was, but she remained where she was. A blanket of snow to put out the fire.

“C’mon.” Bishop’s voice was gruff. Leara felt eyes boring into her as Bishop’s arm encircled her waist. He led her from the hall, Alec spluttering gracelessly in their wake.

She could never show her face in Windhelm again.

#i didn't know you were keeping count #fanfic #ao3 #ulfric stormcloak #bishop #karnwyr #alec the prince of song #windhelm open mic night #anti bishop #dovahkiin #the elder scrolls #skyrim #tes #mod post #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn

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moodcrab · 1 year

Text

Fixing Skyrim's Main Quest

Part One, Setting

Obviously it's set in Skyrim, but let's tweak it a bit.

Time

First of all, if there's one thing we can all agree on from Skyrim and Fallout 4 it's that Bethesda doesn't know how long 200 years is.

It's a very long time.

For reference, two hundred years back from the time of writing this Mad King George was king of England, it wasn't even the Victorian Era yet. The American Civil War was decades away from starting. The entire industrial AND technological revolutions as well as BOTH World Wars and the collapse of the British AND Ottoman Empires happened in that time, with plenty of room to spare.

It's a VERY long time!

Placing a two hundred year gap between Oblivion and Skyrim was a bad decision considering how very little actually happened. Tamriel should be drastically different, like they should have cars by now.

The major events that did happen, the Rise of the Medes, the Rise of the Thalmor, The Red Year, The Infernal City, The Void Nights, The Great War and White Gold Concordat could easily happen within one lifetime, so we're going to say the events of Skyrim take place in 4E64.

From a writing point of view, this small change makes it a lot easier to keep track of things that were a bit of a mess in vanilla, like the life of Ulfric, or the backstory of Gaius, Karliah and Mercer, which were all over the place if you were actually paying attention. It also means you can talk to people who actually remember these things happening, who were children during the Oblivion Crisis. You could even change Esbern's name to one of the younger Blades members you meet in Oblivion seeing as Esbern has the role of lore depository.

Religion and Culture

The next setting change is to remember this is Skyrim, not Cyrodiil. The Nords don't worship the Nine/Eight. In fact, the only reason the Nine/Eight exists as a pantheon at all because of the Nords stubbornness around the worship of foreign gods.

The Temple of Kynareth is now The Temple of Kyn, and Gildergleam Sanctuary is the home of Kyn's Holy Order. The College of Winterhold is no longer Hogwarts but the Chantry of Jhunal (a 'college' is a place of study, research and academia, not just a school). You might meet The Vigilant of Stuhn on the road, who don't live in a hut but a temple. Instead of a priest of Arkay in the Halls of the Dead we have priests of Orkey. Tsun, a god we actually meet in vanilla but has no shrines or altars, will replace Zenithar. And, most interesting to our story, a cult of both Alduin and Herma Mora - our two villains - gods to be placated rather than worshipped.

This said, the Imperial Cult will definitely have a strong presence in Skyrim and Talos, being an Ysmir, is particularly venerated (as is Ysgramor and Wulfharth). Yes, over the centuries the Imperial Cult and will obviously have spread into Skyrim, we can lean into this with the Civil War, putting a much bigger emphasis on the more "Imperialised" Holds siding with the Empire and the old school Atmoran Holds siding with the Stormcloaks. It never made much sense to me that the "true Nords" were more upset than the Imperials over the whole Talos situation, this change makes it so that while both sides are pissed off, one reacts with frustrating diplomacy and patience while the over reacts with stubborn honour and impulse, a more cultural divide rather than a pro/anti Talos one.

The Imperial position would be to play along with the Thalmor in the open, but to secretly fund and organise cults to other men-turned-gods and Imperial/Nordic hero gods such as Pelinal, Wulfharth, Ysgramor, Reman, Alessia and Martin, as well as the concept of Ysmir (which would actually include Tiber Septim and The Last Dragonborn). They would not openly support nor allow any arrests or persecutions of these cults by Justiciars. The Stormcloak position will remain "Fuck that bitch this is Skyrim."

Geography

This might sound crazy, but Skyrim was too hot.

No I'm kidding, I'm not so in love with the lore that I think a game of endless snow would be anything but boring. But there are some things that were cut out of the land that left Skyrim wanting. For instance there are hardly any settlements. Amber Guard, Granitehall, Nimalten City, Reich Corigate, Lainalten, Oakwood, Pargran Village, Laintar Dale, Dunpar Wall, Dragon Wood, and North Keep are all Skyrim cities that are missing from the game. Like not even abandoned ruins, they're just not there.

I totally understand there are size limitations but this is meant to be a country. It has five town sized cities and three village sized cities. And some villages. And they mostly look like Riverwood. Seriously, what exactly is the difference between Karthwasten, Falkreath, Shor's Stone, Winterhold and Riverwood, all towns from different Holds? It's like if shopping malls were made of wood.

The other thing about the vanilla settlements I didn't like was Bethesda seems to be stuck in Fallout style post apocalyptic design. Solitude has been there for thousands of years but no one has ever thought to shift these boulders from out of the middle of the street? There are ruins in better shape than Windhelm and Markarth? You can sum it up with Whiterun's Western Watchtower, which looks exactly the same after a dragon destroys it. Surely the ravages of civil war and the dragon crisis would have a bigger impact if things weren't already destroyed.

In fact, let's address the Imperial Fort situation. At the start of the game only 3 forts were occupied by actual soldiers, two of which were destroyed in the early game (Helgan and the Western Watchtower). Literally ALL other forts are in ruins and occupied by bandits or other undesirables. Consider that Skyrim is a country that recently took part in the Great War, but is currently dealing with a Civil War. Forts are not easy to build, and are insanely useful for medieval warfare. It truly beggars belief that practically none of them are maintained and fortified until the Player Character decides to get involved. To strain credulity further, many of the war camps you encounter in the wilds are literally in the shadows of major fortifications that have been left to rot. There is even a side quest to reclaim a Nord's fort from bandits, which is also a ruin. Is the implication that the man lives in a ruin? Or is it that in the short time the bandits have been there they've done a century or two of damage? Why would they do that?

Skyrim has a lot of dungeons, and a lot of quests that are basically "clear dungeon", we can't sacrifice some of this boring content for some more towns or forts, with characters, and things to do?

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 1 year

Text

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count - Part IV: Lark, continued

ao3

masterlist

First | Previous | Next

Happy Friday! Please enjoy the aftermath of open mic night and Leara's continuously unraveling mental state. I do appreciate all the feedback I've recieved on this story. It's a difficult story to write: on the one hand, I'm building toward a satisfying ending where Bishop gets his comeuppance and Leara comes into her own as Dragonborn, but on the other, taking Leara through the dark valley before we get to the other side is hard. Next chapter she really does pass through the dark as she decends into Blackreach on the hunt for the Elder Scroll, with no one but Bishop for company. Certainly nothing will go wrong, right?

Thank you, @ravenmind2001, for your feedback! ✨

Taglist:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

Content Warnings: Attempted sexual coercion and assault

#######

“I was going to bring you a lovely bone,” Leara whispered, stroking Karnwyr’s ears. “But I was getting overwhelmed, and Bishop wasn’t playing nice with people. It was . . . not a good evening.”

Karnwyr wagged his tail, lazily thumping it against her legs. Leara pressed a kiss to his soft head. Lifting his head, Karnwyr licked her chin, as if to say, “It’s okay.” This only drew a sigh from the tired Dragonborn. She resumed scratching the wolf.

“I saw Ulfric Stormcloak,” she continued. “I haven’t seen him since that night – I can’t really count that dragon attack in Helgen, can I?” Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them on the sleeve of her nightgown, sniffing. “I was so scared, am scared, that he’ll discover who I am, what I was. What I did. That he’ll kill me.” More tears sprang up. She draped her arm over her face, chest heaving. Karnwyr whined. “He was so nice, though. He saved me from Alec’s ridiculous dinner invitation. I wanted to eat with Ulfric, I did – after what I did to him, now I want to know him, too. Isn’t that sick?”

Karnwyr laid his head across her shoulder. Leara dropped her arm from her face to wrap it around the wolf’s shoulders. “Sometimes I don’t know myself. Blade, Thalmor, Dragonborn. That’s some kind of unholy trinity. They all contradict each other horribly.” Her chest hurt. “I think I’m a monster.”

(*)(*)(*)

The door to her room opened. Air caught in her throat.

“Get down from there, you rascal!” came Bishop’s voice.

She was thankful for the dark. She didn’t want him to see her tears.

“Down, you,” Bishop’s voice was closer. With a grunt, Karnwyr lumbered off the bed.

At the same time, Leara sat up. “What are you doing in here?” she asked.

“You don’t wanna spend the night alone, do you?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her bed. He reeked of mead.

Was that too much to ask for anymore, a night alone? “Why?"

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, husky. His hand was on her knee. “You’ve seen me looking at you, and what’s more I’ve seen you stealing glances at me! I’m not going to sit here and play your games. You can’t lie to yourself, and neither can I."

What in the ever-loving name of Akatosh? “You’re delusional,” she said, drawing her leg from under his hand to fold against her chest; she wrapped her arms around her knees. “I keep looking at you because you keep talking to me.” Like an over insistent child with none of the redeeming cuteness.

Bishop laughed. “You are funny. And despite – or perhaps because of your sharp tongue, I find you quite irresistible.”

Fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end. She didn’t need a light to feel his close presence. Why was he doing this, tonight of all nights when her head and heart were already in a dizzying whirlwind? Why did he have to intrude with his own wild emotions when hers were still in turmoil? “I’m not in the mood, Bishop,” she murmured. Nor would she be, she decided. Ever.

He hummed, his hand trailing up her shin and around the hem of her nightgown, the blanket having fallen away when she drew her feet up. “I really do want to see what’s under your clothes.” He toyed with her hem. “What sweet, tempting surprises you hold. I want to rip it off you. Has anyone else ever wanted to do that to you, sweet lady?’

Anxiety and tension lined her lungs, weighing them down like lead so she couldn’t breathe. It was only by the breath of Kynareth that she was able to draw air in. It cut through her throat, flowing in a stagnant stream. Her hand shot out, gripping Bishop’s fingers on her skin in a vice grip. She dragged them away from her and the next breath came easier. “That’s none of your business,” she hissed.

He jerked his hand from hers with a growl. “All right, enough toying around! I want to claim you as my own! I want you to be mine and mine alone! If I see someone else so much as look at you wrong—"

Rage and fire consumed her, flaring through her veins. “Get out, Bishop. Now!”

“I want you—”

“What I want is for you to go sleep off this bloody stupor, because you must be roaring drunk if you’re trying to proposition me!” Leara was on her feet. Grabbing the protesting idiot by the arm, she hauled him from her room and slammed the door in his face.

“C’mon, sweetheart, quit playing hard to get!” he cried through the barrier.

Leara wedged a chair under the doorhandle. Then she pushed her nightstand and the trunk at the end of the bed against the door for good measure.

Bishop knocked on the door.

Leara fell back into the bed, her head pounding as new tears welled under her cinched eyelids. One after another escaped down her cheeks until she was crying, a silent stream in the dark. With a grunt, Karnwyr leapt back on the bed. He licked her tears. Hiccupping, Leara wrapped her arms around the wolf and buried her face in his fur.

And that was how she fell asleep.

(*)(*)(*)

·•★•·

A knock on the door woke her.

Bleary eyed, Leara lifted her head from her pillow – Karnwyr’s shoulder. Carefully, so as not to wake the slumbering wolf, she pulled her arm from under his ribs and crawled to the end of the bed. It didn’t occur to her until she was in front of the door that it could be Bishop, back for round two. What time was it, anyway?

“Hello?” she called out, wiping the sleep and tearstains from her face.

“It’s Elda,” the tinny voice of the inn’s proprietor came through the door. “I have a letter for you.”

In a mad scramble, Leara cleared the furniture away from the door. She snatched a spare blanket from the wardrobe, wrapping it around her shoulders, before opening the door.

Elda stared at her.

“Good morning,” Leara greeted, leaning into the door. “You said I have a letter?”

The innkeeper held up a light vellum envelope. “Jarl’s man dropped if off not ten minutes ago,” she said, handing it over.

Leara turned it over in her hands. ‘To the Dragonborn’ was scrawled in sloping jagged letters on one side; on the other was a wax seal, deep blue and imprinted with the Bear sigil. “Did he say what it’s for?” she asked, her mind sprinting in a dozen directions: a dragon sighting or giant attack, to the Civil War, or . . . dinner. She dismissed that idea almost before it formed. This letter bore the Jarl’s seal; it must be official business.

“No, just to make sure I got it to you myself,” Elda said. “Is it about . . . the dragons?”

“I’m sure,” Leara said, lowering the letter. Elda seemed almost disappointed, as if she’d expected Leara to open the letter and share its contents with her. Leara quirked an eyebrow at the woman.

“Breakfast is in ten minutes,” Elda said, coloring.

“Thank you,” Leara called after her as the woman hurried down the hall. Leara snorted, closing the door. Letter in hand, she paced back toward the bed.

Karnwyr blinked a lazy eye up at her.

“He sent me a letter,” she told the wolf, absently giving his ears a good scratch before returning to the letter. Karnwyr yawned. “You’re right, I think it’s probably a bounty or something for the war or—” she slipped her finger un the lip, her nail cutting into the wax.

The door opened and Leara whirled around, clutching the blanket tighter around her chest.

Bishop looked like something spat out of Oblivion: his hair was tussled more than usual and his eyes bloodshot. His face was pinched into a wince. Hungover, but probably stone cold sober, too. He blinked at her, “Why are there two of you?”

“You’re hungover,” Leara said, slow and deliberate. “Do you remember anything from last night?” Because she did. All too well.

Bishop pressed a hand to his forehead, his mouth pulled down in a grimace. Not a damn thing once we left the palace. Still remember that bard’s shrieking, though.”

“That’s a shame,” Leara said, relief easing her shoulders. He didn’t remember visiting her. Thank the Nine. She gave him a sly smile, “You were so drunk when we got back here that you sang a love ballad to the barmaid. You got down on your knees to propose at one point, but passed out before you could.”

“I – what?” He squinted at her, shaking his head in vague denial. “You’re screwing with me.”

“You make it easy, pulling stunts like that.”

Bishop only groaned.

Leara smothered a laugh as she went about the room, gathering her things. It wasn’t revenge if he did this to himself, was it? Jokes at his expense were, he decided. She also decided that she didn’t care. “Breakfast is in a few minutes,” she told him, her back to him as she laid her armor out on the bed. “You should get your things together. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“Taskmaster.”

He left, shutting the door behind him, and Leara pulled her nightgown over her. “He’s such an idiot,” she told Karnwyr as she pulled her leggings on.

Karnwyr woofed in agreement.

It didn’t take her long to dress. The silver placed settled into place like a second, much harder skin. Her blue silk and chiffon dress hung on the wardrobe door, a bittersweet reminder of the night before. Sighing, she took it down and wrapped it in its parcel. In minutes, her bag was packed, and the room set back to rights.

Exiting, she found Bishop leaning against the wall across from her room, his knapsack slung over one shoulder. “Can’t say I didn’t miss that armor last night.”

“I can,” Leara rolled her eyes.

·•★•·

Leara ran her fingers over the soft leather. The hood was dyed a deep cerulean only a few shades darker than her eyes, and she couldn’t help but be drawn to the color. Lined with white rabbit fur, there was a dark blue cowl sewn into the neck with silver stitching. It was beautiful. And out of her price range, even after selling the dragonscales.

She set the hood back on the top tier of the display table with a pang of longing and picked up a different one from the neighboring table. This one was a dull brown, its stitching plain, and the attached cowl a thick grey. Serviceable and utilitarian. She stole another glance at the blue hood, displayed with other high-end crafted items. By the time she could afford an artisan piece like that, that hood would be long since sold.

“Are you done yet, or are you going to spend another half hour on the same two hoods?”

“No, I’m coming.” Plain hood in hand, Leara made her way to the counter, Bishop’s exasperated eye roll not lost on her. She set the hood on counter alongside the insulated under clothes and small sewing kit. “This is everything,” she told the clerk. The young Breton nodded and began tallying her total.

“What’s the thread and needle for?” Bishop asked as Leara began to count out the correct number of septims. “Are you going to darn my socks?”

“Darn them yourself,” Leara sneered as she packed her purchases into her bag. “This is in case someone rips you a new one and I have to stuff your guts back inside you and sew you together.”

Behind the counter, the clerk snorted. Bishop scowled at her, and the girl’s ears turned red. He faced Leara, who made no effort to hide the amusement on her pale golden face. “Laugh now, sweetness, but we’ll see whose getting stuffed later.”

“No one, if you miss another rabbit and we have to go hungry again,” she wagged her fingers at him, dancing around his innuendo. “Now, quit scaring the shop girl.”

Outside the shop, the air was clear and bracing, humming with the bustle of the market stalls and the ringing of hammers from the blacksmith’s quarters. As they walked, Leara pulled the hood over her head, her hair pinned in preparation of such a purchase. Fixing the cowl in place over her nose, the chill in her skin retreated.

“You look like one of those Thieves Guild rats,” Bishop said.

“Maybe, but I’m warmer than you.”

Bishop twirled a finger at the sky around them. “You think this is cold? Summer in Windhelm is nothing, ladyship. Try hunting along the Sea of Ghosts during the dead of winter. If that doesn’t freeze your blood, nothing will.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Leara said as they left the market and started down the main street toward the gate.

They were passing the inn when a voice cried out Leara’s name. Or rather, title. Dragonborn.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bishop groaned.

Alec hurried across the street, clutching his plumed hat to his had as he dodged pedestrians and the occasional wagon in his mad dash to reach Leara’s side. She was thankful for the cowl, then: it hid her downturned mouth from the sycophantic bard. “Alec.”

“Good morning, my goddess! So lovely to see you again!” His eyes darted to the open gates several yards behind Leara. “Are you leaving? So soon?”

“Yes, I have a great deal of work to take care of,” she explained. “Thank you for inviting me to your performance, but I need to get back you there. Dragons to subdue, you know.”

The bard looked ready to swoon over her. “You flatter me beyond words, my lady!” He winked at her – again. He needed to see a temple healer for that. “Though I will try! If you would permit me, I would travel with you, devoting myself to writing the song of your legend! The memories we could make together would charm your heart!”

“Ha! Don’t make me laugh,” said Bishop. “The only thing she’ll remember of you this morning is the sight of you retreating as we leave.”

She resisted the urge to pinch her nose and smack her forehead. “Boys—"

“Think of what we could accomplish if we travelled together!” Alec cried, beseeching. “Let me join you, and your name will be sung from every rooftop in Skyrim until the end of time.”

“So, we’re playing the ignoring game now?” Bishop shouldered passed Leara and jabbed his finger at Alec’s face. “Let me tell you something, bard: only a savage wolf can truly appreciate a woman like her.”

Karnwyr whined. He was clearly just as embarrassed as Leara.

Alec tried to bat the ranger’s hand away. Failing that, he sidestepped Bishop to meet Leara’s eyes again. “So, you like wild and free men, my lady? Oh, I can show you a wild and free man right here. We could live and love together. Free.”

The only freedom Leara wanted was an escape from this measuring contest.

“Wild? Free? Pfft!” Bishop was pure contempt. “What are you going to do if you get attacked by a dragon? Pull out your lute and bore it to sleep?”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Leara said, stepping between the two idiots. They were attracting stares. Again. If Bishop wanted to protect her from the Thalmor, as he kept claiming, then he was doing a rotten job at it! They couldn’t go anywhere without him drawing attention to them. “Let’s go,” she told him. Bishop nodded.

“Leaving so soon?” Alec laughed. His laugh lines were just as stiff as every other facial expression he tried to make. It Occurred to Leara then why that was: at some point, he’d had a face sculptor take scalpel and spell to his face and the results were anything but natural. “We’re just having some fun. We wouldn’t want the savage to get jealous now, would we, my lady?”

“Goodbye, Alec,” was all she said as she made her way toward the gate, Karnwyr at her heels. Bishop let loose a loud laugh at whatever botched facial expression Alec must have made at Leara’s abrupt dismissal.

“We will meet again, my beautiful muse!” the bard called after her. “This will not be the last you see if Alec, Prince of Song!”

“We’ll see about that,” Bishop scoffed under his breath.

Leara only shook her head.

·•★•·

Green and gold auroras chased each other across the star-studded sky as they made their camp below a cliff face, hidden from the road. The night air was bitter, stirred by only the occasional gust, allowing Leara to light a fire with a small flame spell. The closer they travelled to the Sea of Ghosts, the worse the winds would get and the more difficult it would be to maintain a fire without shelter. She was thankful for her hood and the ear protection. There was more than one horror story of an elf who lost an ear to frostbite, and Skyrim’s biting cold was blistering enough to bring those tales to life.

On the other side of the fire, Bishop was fletching arrows. In the shadow play of the firelight, she half imagined him watching her. Every time she stole a peek to see, his eyes were focused on trimming the feathers of shaving the shaft of his arrows. Near the fire, Karnwyr was curled in a ball, faint snores blowing from his nose.

In the quiet of the boreal lights, Leara’s mind wandered back to the letter from Ulfric. Whatever its contents, she hoped they weren’t too pressing that the Jarl would be offended at her not answering while still in the city. Divines, what if they were a court summons?

Rummaging through her bag, Leara’s heartbeat quickened. She took out her clothes and journals, but she didn’t see the letter. Soon the entire contents of her bag were strewn across her bedroll, no letter to be found. Delphine’s note from Ustengrav, a handful of bounties she carried out Balgruuf the Greater in Whiterun, her map, and some other papers, but no letter seal with blue wax and the Bear of Eastmarch. It was gone.

“What are you doing now?” Bishop demanded as Leara frantically stacked everything to the side and pulled back the cover of her bedroll. “Don’t tell me you’ve got snow madness.”

“I can’t fin it!”

“Can’t find what?”

“The letter!” Leara cried, searching through her belt. Disturbed from his sleep, Karnwyr looked up at her.

Bishop sighed, “You’ll have to be more specific, darling. Use you’re words. You’re normally so good with those.”

“I received a letter from the Jarl of Windhelm this morning,” she said, flipping through the journals to see if the letter was stuck between the pages. “And now I can’t find it! I haven’t read it, so I don’t know how important it was!”

“Is that it?” Bishop scoffed. He pointed his whittling knife at her. “It ever occur to you that it was a gimmick to get you into his war effort?”

“Regardless, I can’t leave a Jarl unanswered1” she snapped.

“Woah there, sweetness! I’m not the bad guy here! Don’t bite my head off!” Bishop set his fetching down. “What are you going to do, really? Go back to Windhelm, march up to his throne, and say, ‘oh, I’m sorry, sir! I got your letter, but I lost it without bothering to read it!’ Like that would go over well!”

Leara sank down on her disheveled bedroll, surrounded by all her worldly possessions. “Maybe I left it at the inn.”

“Then it’s been trashed,” Bishop said. “Look, it’s gone and there’s no way it’s coming back. Forget about it! You don’t want to get mixed up with a man like Ulfric Stormcloak.” Scowling, Bishop spit off to the side. “He’ll use you and then get you killed. Damned fool that I am, I’d try to protect you and get gutted in the process. It’d be suicide.”

Shoulders sagging, Leara didn’t respond as she repacked her bag. Bishop was probably right. Ulfric would likely be the death of her, one way or another. A pang of regret shot through her at the thought.

“I’m going to bed,” she whispered. Bishop shrugged in answer. Karnwyr snored.

Burrowing into her bedroll, familiar discomfort from her armor cradled her. Her hip pinched, but she ignored it, thoughts far away in a dungeon where she watches a young man shatter, his storm blue eyes caught in a whirl of lightning his screams like thunder bouncing off the walls. Leara slept fitfully that night.

Miles behind on the road, the Jarl’s letter fluttered down the embankment of the White River, pushed along by a slight night wind from the place a ranger tossed it while his lady was distracted speaking with a lying cat man. The wind pushed it on to a piece of river ice, and left it balanced precariously on the edge. In the rush of the river, the ice bumped into another sheet, and the letter slipped into the water, lost in the current.

#oc: leara roseblade #dovahkiin #bishop #anti bishop #alec the prince of song #ulfric stormcloak #karnwyr #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #fanfic #i didn't know you were keeping count #mod poat #content warning #last dragonborn

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