My Fanfic Stash and Favorite online quests

Words: 103k+

Link: https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/28510

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/tamrielic-dreaming-on-such-a-winters-day-a-skyrim-si.1180351/

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58209946/chapters/148222807

(A Self-Insert into Skyrim.

As someone other than the Dragonborn, of course.)

Chapter 1

~All the leaves are brown~

Mid Year, 181, Fourth Era

Rorikstead, Skyrim

Townsfolk

A child was born in Rorikstead, and promptly orphaned.

His father, a soldier serving in the Imperial armies, was slain the previous year. A nord man, tall and broad and loud. One of the men who fought to oust rebellious Jarl Ulfric from Markarth, and eventually imprison him for the military defiance of the White-Gold Concordat. He fell to arrows, a bolt striking him squarely in the eye and rupturing the brain behind it.

His mother, a young woman who the soldier had promised to marry after the battle, died in childbirth. A breton woman, dainty framed and dark-haired. Although the babe could be saved, her own will was not sufficient, and no learned priests of Kyne were available to keep her healthy. Her heart stopped beating before the child could be named.

Left bereft, the child was adopted by her immediate family. Her brother and wife helped raise the boy as one of their own. Although the babe had been unexpected, he was reported as far from troublesome. A quiet, calm baby who spent most of his time crawling about in the safe bounds of the indoors. Shortly after the child was weaned off milk, both the brother and his wife perished in unrelated accidents. In accordance with tradition, the child had yet to be named, the first year too risky.

At this point, it was widely accepted that the child must have been cursed, and that he should remain an orphan to avoid said curse. Although officially remaining so, the child was not without caretakers, often watched over by various young mothers or maids, allowed to sleep in a cot in the inn, and fed by the various grandmothers who pitied the child.

At the end of his first year of life, the child was given the traditional name for orphans in Rorikstead.

Ragnar. Dark haired and bright-eyed, tall for a Breton boy but short for a Nord. Altogether too grim and too serious for a child his age, wise beyond his years and quick in wit, cursed with bad luck and blessed with good nature.

When asked what he wished to be when he was grown, his answer was always the same. Subdued smile on his face and humor in his long-lashed blue eyes.

"I'm going to be a knight, of course."

It's still not certain where exactly the boy learned what a Knight was, they certainly weren't common in Skyrim as a whole, let alone quiet little Rorikstead.

Ragnar was perhaps the most precocious child the townsfolk of Rorikstead had ever heard of. The bulk of his activity was quite constrained and functional, especially so compared to the other children in the town, whom the boy seemed to regard with a patient humor more than anything. The early part of his morning was often spent cleaning the inn, which he negotiated a small allowance from the innkeeper for doing, said allowance kept in a little chest with a key on a length of twine kept around the boy's neck.

Once it grew warm enough, the boy would go out and begin some manner of physical activity. Games of chasing and touching with the other children, climbing, running around the town, moving items for his elders and more. Much of his time was spent helping the local smith, with weighty crates of coal and observances of the craft.

Ragnar claimed he liked to move things and move around, a most typical answer for a boy born under the Steed.

In the evening, Ragnar would seek out the tutelage of old Manette, a breton and friend of Rorik. Rorik, the owner of Rorikstead and the lands that surround it, commonly joked that the place was named after him despite being the site of a much older township by the same name. Manette, who sympathized with the orphan Breton boy, was willing to teach him his letters.

Ragnar insisted upon learning healing magics, a minor scandal at the time, but his circumstances bought much sympathy from the townsfolk. Nords had no great love of the mystic arts, but few would deny a boy the opportunity to learn magics that might've saved his mother. So it was that Manette was revealed as a former imperial battlemage to the sleepy town of Rorikstead, causing no great repercussions or calamity of note, in part thanks to the impassioned stance of the orphaned boy.

When asked if he'd like to be a healer or mage, the boy politely refused.

"Sorry gramps, I'll have to turn you down. I'm going to be a knight, you know?"

Ragnar was quite charming when he wanted to be, mostly quiet otherwise.

When the boy was about six years old, he began the curious habit of hounding the local guardsmen, soldiers sworn to the yellow-horse banner of Whiterun. Time and time again harassing the men with requests for spars and training in the arts of combat until they relented.

They relented far faster each time when Ragnar began to purchase wine and offer it in exchange for such spars and lessons, an amused smirk on his face as he waved glass bottles by the handles at the gruff and equally-amused soldiery.

The boy took to these lessons as swiftly as any other, held back mostly by his own short stature and boyish strength than anything else. It was quite impossible for him to properly defeat any of the guardsmen, too small and too weak, but that did little to deter his efforts. Spars occurred on a weekly or daily basis, bruises and cuts quickly repaired by burgeoning magical talents in restoration.

At every moment, it seemed as if the young boy was learning something, throwing himself into these efforts with a steady and steadfast approach. His time spent at the smithy was no different, crates moved and tools fetched in exchange for lessons and the gruff guidance of the old smith. It was soon that the boy was handling more basic tasks for the smithy, and sooner still it seemed that the boy was smithing himself.

Iron daggers seemed most amusing to the young Ragnar, a private joke only he knew and refused to explain, a smile on his face as he shaped and sharpened the metal. When the old man asked if he'd like to become his apprentice, and eventually a smith himself, the boy politely refused.

"Sorry pops, but I'll have to refuse. I'm going to be a knight, you see?"

The old smith stayed gruff about that for some weeks. Still, neither the boy's work at the smithy nor the lessons of the old smith slowed or stopped. The boy's dream was well-known in the town, at this point.

In the evenings, it would be time for the boy to return to the inn and work for his daily bread and stew. At first, this would be done with mere cleaning or hauling, a pittance enough to live off of paid out by the innkeeper for the tasks. The abundant meals and treats offered to the boy by the local crones ensured he was well-fed regardless of how much he worked.

Soon, the boy began to learn the songs of the bards that wandered by, and sooner still was allowed to practice with their instruments. At first under the careful eye of the bards, but soon as a pleasant accompaniment to their songs. Then, when the bards were not in town, the boy himself would sing for the entertainment of the patrons, and earn his coins in that manner.

Ragnar had a peculiar gift for songs, average at best with the instruments, but a unique knack for coming up with new tunes and lyrics. Perhaps a hundred or more songs the boy came up with, some mere rhyming couplets, some grand and longform epics. Rarely were these songs about anyone or anything real, characters and places utterly fictitious and mythologies imagined more densely than many historical records.

The boy would always deny they were his creations, claiming instead that they came to him in dreams 'or something like that'. Few of the townsfolk did the same, and the bards that Ragnar served as accompaniment would occasionally wander back into town with the sole intent of learning what new rhymes the boy had imagined.

Of course, when asked if he wanted to be a bard, by many wanderers and many minstrels, the boy politely refused. Even as they offered to pay to ship him up to the Bard's college and recommend his tutelage.

"Sorry, but I'll have to decline. I'm going to be a knight, that's all there is to it."

When he had reached thirteen years of age, Ragnar declared it time for him to leave for Whiterun. He'd since reached the limits for how good he could be sparing with the guards, or so he claimed, and it was time he started 'picking up the pace on this heroism affair'. A backpack and satchel and coinpurse on his body, warm clothes around his frame, good boots and gloves on his hands, and a handsome, too-big helmet on his head.

He carried a sword and a shield with him, both of which were sized for grown men and thus much too large for the boy. He had septims enough to afford the trip, waiting for the carriage to arrive in Rorikstead, and more than enough in his pockets to last him in the city. He had good hardtack in his bags, and a wineskin on his belt. He had good strength for a boy his age, and was learned in just about as many things as there were things in Rorikstead to learn.

Ragnar, no matter the tears of old women asking him to stay, or the gruff warnings of the old men, was firm on his path. A gentle smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

He was going to be a knight, after all.

—

~And the sky is gray~

Second Seed, 194, Fourth Era

Whiterun, Skyrim

Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions

"Kodlak?" The voice of old Vignar called out to him, faintly amused in tone. He blinked, before raising his sword up in a sign that the spar was over. The young brothers before him, Farkas and Vilkas, looked distinctly put-out by the interruption. This frustration was matched in equal measure by faint relief at the chance to rest a moment.

He lowered his sword and shield, turning to look at his fellow companion and kinsman. Vignar's fighting days were long past him, but he was too stubborn to actually retire yet, still insisting on putting on his armor and wearing his sword each day. Deeply tanned skin from a life in the field contrasting against graying hair and mustache.

Kodlak huffed once, reversing the grip on his sword and letting the tip rest on the stone of the rear courtyard, hand on the pommel. "What is it, Vignar?"

Vignar replied with an amused twinkle in his eyes, similarly using his sheathed sword as a cane. "There's a spirited boy at the gates, quite insistent on speaking to you. I thought I'd go retrieve you for him."

Kodlak reached up to scratch at his beard, which was beginning to grow quite gray itself. He was getting old himself, maybe another two decades before he'd have to think about his own retirement. He gave a mighty sniff of contemplation, before casting an eye at the brothers.

Farkas and Vilkas were doing their best to appear ready, but the heavy rise and fall to their chests and sweat on their brow told him otherwise. He hid his smile behind his beard. Eager pups weren't quite a match for this old timer, not yet at least.

"Shor smiles on you boys, you'll get some time to breathe." Kodlak called out, sheathing his sword.

"We can still tussle with ya!" Vilkas called out, banging his hilt on his shield, unable to disguise the sway in his posture. "We're not done yet, old timer!"

"Thanks." Farkas was far more honest, letting out a long exhale before letting himself tip backwards on the ground. He landed with a heavy thump, gambeson absorbing the impact of the hard ground.

"Farkas! Get your ass up! We're not done yet!" Vilkas turned to his brother and started weakly kicking at his side. Farkas ignored this, raising his arms up to cover his eyes instead.

"Old man said we have time to rest, I'm resting."

"Like hell you are!"

Kodlak shook his head, sharing an amused glance with Vignar as he approached the door. Vignar pushed it open, allowing the two men to pass into the central chamber of Jorrvaskr, mead hall of the Companions. Once one of the many ships brought from old Atmora, overturned and made into a mighty central keep. One hundred and fifteen feet in length, two stories in depth, and about as much in width.

A dozen or more of their fellows were devouring a midday meal, mostly breads and stews, but abundant in roasts and jerky as well. Rare was the day that the Companions did not have meat ripe off the bone, and even now two mighty boars were hoisted above the central fire pits and giving off the fragrance of hot pork.

Mugs were raised in his direction as he walked past, cheers from mouthfuls of food and grins from bruised men and women.

Thirteen years ago, Kodlak was chosen as Harbinger for the Companions. He had yet to find a reason to regret accepting the position save minor complaints. Most of those complaints being directed towards thanes and jarls trying to rope the Companions into some nonsense and trying to go through him to do it.

A hundred years or more the Companions have stayed out of political struggles, and a hundred years or more will they continue to do so.

"A boy is at the gates you say?" Kodlak asked as they made their way through the immense central hall.

"Oh yes, and not a young man like the brothers, this is most certainly a boy. Barely weaned off milk I'd say." Vignar responded with good humor, half-grin on his face. "I'll refrain from speaking any more, It's best you see it yourself."

Kodlak raised a brow at the elderly Companion, before shaking his head. He was fairly certain he hadn't sired any bastards in recent years, so it probably wasn't that.

…probably.

Kodlak opened the front door of the mead hall, stepping out into the front courtyard and casting his gaze out to the front gates. His eyes weren't quite what they used to be, but they were still sharp enough to pick out the short figure standing at the gates some hundred or so feet away.

It was as Vignar said, most certainly a boy. A slightly too-big helmet on his head, an overlarge shield on one arm and an adult-sized sword on his back. A few bags weighing him down, and good boots on his feet. Not a single hair on his chin.

Kodlak did his best to recall if he had known any women a good ten or fifteen years prior, he had been careful then, hadn't he? The boy was humming some unfamiliar tune, Kodlak's ears were still good enough to pick that out even from this distance.

Footsteps carried him over to the gates with a bemused look on his face, the sounds of the distant city becoming more and more clear as he approached the stone gates. The pale Gildergreen casting a shadow over the central Winds District, surrounded by the relatively small houses and temples, the crown of the tree just about eye-level with his current position. Jorrvasker, built just below the Skyforge, was quite a bit higher than any other building in Whiterun save the palace itself, which was wrought on top of the nearby hill.

There in the distance, at the base of the Gildergreen, he could see the tiny specks of many citizens, great throngs of pilgrims come to see the holy tree or the shrine of Talos that stood near to it. The central plaza of the city itself, at the foot of the many steps leading to Jorrvaskr, to him and his family.

"A warrior at the gates." Kodlak called out to the boy with a humoring patience.

The boy opened his eyes and turned to face him, most of his head obscured by the rather silly horned helmet he wore. It was tradition, sure, but the horns usually just got in the way in Kodlak's experience.

"Hardly a warrior yet, I'm thirteen." The boy called out with equal humor, bright eyes and a small smile.

Suddenly Kodlak understood exactly why Vignar wanted him to meet the boy without preparation. Thirteen years… There was that time with Greta, wasn't there?

"So what brings you to Jorrvaskr, little almost-warrior?" Kodlak was briefly worried about the answer.

"I'm not a warrior yet, but I will be, otherwise this will be quite the boring story." The boy spoke strangely, nodding his head. "I'm here for training, of course. I've learned all I can from the soldiers in my hometown, so the next step is to venture here."

Kodlak raised his hand to his chin, scratching it for a few moments. "You're a bit young to become a Companion, almost-warrior."

The boy nodded. "You misunderstand. I'm here for training, not to become a Companion."

Kodlak raised his brows, exchanging a brief glance with the stone-faced Vignar. Vignar's humor was evident in his eyes, twinkling at the conversation. Turning back to the smiling boy, he replied with a gruffness.

"You're here to receive training, but not to become a Companion?"

The boy nodded. "Of course. I'm going to become a knight, after all, not a wolf."

Vignar chuckled briefly even as Kodlak's veins chilled. He kept his face blank, staring down at the boy. The boy seemed utterly unphased, staring back up at him with bright eyes.

…He was likely referring to their armor. The mail forged by old Eorlund, affectionately referred to as 'Wolfplate' in the songs. He kept note of the word, but moved on.

Kodlak huffed, crossing his thickly-muscled arms over his chest. He shook his head and replied. "I'd recommend heading back home boy, and take a few more years to grow up first. There's little use in training up someone so little, and less use in training up someone who isn't going to join us."

The boy shook his head. "Nope."

Kodlak raised both of his eyebrows. "Nope?" He echoed questioningly.

"I didn't haul my scrawny ass all the way out here from Rorikstead to be turned away at the gates, that's not how these things are done." The boy waved a hand dismissively.

"That's not how these things are done?" Kodlak echoed again, leaning forwards slightly and ignoring the tiny chuckles escaping the stoney lips of Vignar behind him.

The boy nodded, stepping past his legs and towards the mead hall. Utterly impervious to the unimpressed look Kodlak was giving to his back. "Ragnar of Rorikstead, at your service, I'll find a cot for myself."

The boy's march towards the doors was halted as Kodlak snatched him by the collar, lifting him up into the air.

Luckily, Kodlak knew this pup wasn't his, as he had never been to Rorikstead. "You're a spirited pup, aren't you?"

"Born under the Steed, sir. More accurate to call me a colt, methinks." The boy replied, unbothered by being lifted so.

"Your parents fine with you running off like this?"

The boy shook his head. "Orphan, sir. Father died before I was born and mother died in childbirth, raised by the rest of the town after that."

…Briefly, Kodlak cursed his bleeding heart.

Gruffly he dropped the boy and leaned back, putting a hand on his hip. "If you're staying here, you're working for your daily bread, got it?"

"I'll sponsor the lad." Vignar interrupted with an amused rumble of his own. "I've coin enough in my coffers to pay for it. He's gotten this far, it'd be a shame to stop him here."

"Thank ya, thank ya, sir." The boy replied with two quick thanks spoken in the time it would normally take to say it once, nodding to the old Vignar.

"Now tell me boy, what do you know about Talos?" Vignar quickly began, leaning forwards with a hand on his chin.

"I'd say that there's more than enough room in heaven for nine divines."

"Hah! That's the spirit!"

Kodlak briefly realized the other recent recruits were going to be grumbling at him over this, probably for quite awhile. Letting a boy into Jorrvaskr…

He reached up and scratched his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

Chapter 2

~I've been for a walk~

Second Seed, 194, Fourth Era

Whiterun, Skyrim

Farkas, Scion of the Companions

"Another whelp? Weren't Jergen's brats enough?" The voice of Aine came from his side, voice filled with mild exasperation. She was talking to the Old Man, not him, so Farkas stayed quiet. Instead he took another bit of the meat on his skewer as he watched the central sandy pit of the training yard.

On one side, his brother Vilkas, currently glaring and growling at the older woman talking about them to the Old Man. Padded vest and gloves, shield on one arm, unsharpened and blunt-ended blade carried in the other. He was better with bigger weapons, the ones that used both hands, but Aine teased him about not knowing how a shield was used a few weeks back. So now he was forcing himself to learn how to use a shield.

Farkas tried to help his brother a couple times, but didn't know how to explain it. Vilkas eventually snapped at him, so he hadn't tried helping since. Farkas didn't mind, brother was testy like that.

On the other side of the sand pit was a new boy. Far younger than most recruits, maybe about ten or something like that. Most recruits, because he and Vilkas had grown up here, so they were still the youngest. His helmet was a bit too big for him, and his sword and shield were both definitely too big for him. He was using a blunt sword, but they didn't have any kid-sized blades, so it was still too big.

"Vignar's sponsoring the boy's training here, which is good enough as any reason." Kodlak responded, back straight and eyes focused on the sand circle. The Old Man was always focused like that, even if that focus was on something that wasn't present.

"There's a reason my daughter is off with her papa until she's grown, Jorrvaskr isn't a playpen." Aine grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against one of the outdoor tables. Behind her, a few other Companions were resting and watching with amused expressions.

The Old Man ignored her and instead called out. "Vilkas, remember that we're testing the lad here, not defeating him."

"I got it the first time!" His brother called back, annoyed. "Just tell us to start already!"

The new boy started humming a song, patiently waiting with shield raised and sword resting on his shoulder.

The Old Man huffed, ignoring the knowing look Aine was giving him, and called out again. "By the count of three!"

"Ten coins on the new blood!" Torvar called out, met with a round of laughter from the fellows near him, deliberately provoking Vilkas. Vilkas restrained himself this time, only throwing a harsh glare in the man's direction and frowning deeply at everyone around. The Old Man tossed a reproachful glance back, but Torvar was already too drunk to notice.

Farkas didn't really understand drinking, not this early in the day, at least. Like most things he didn't understand, he would keep quiet about it.

"One!" The Old Man called out, starting the countdown. Vilkas got into a somewhat relaxed stance, face pulled into an annoyed scowl despite him volunteering to do this in the first place. The newblood maintained his unusual stance, shield raised and sword on his shoulder. It was probably a bit too heavy for him.

"Two!" The Old Man called out, continuing the countdown. Vilkas raised his shield and tightened his guard. Taking things seriously against a kid? Torvar's joke got to him.

"Don't kill him, Vilkas!" Aine called out in an annoyed manner. Vilkas rolled his head in equal annoyance. The new boy continued his humming song, a tune Farkas wasn't familiar with.

"Three!" The start of the testing spar was slow, Vilkas serving as the obstacle and not the opponent. The newblood approached steadily, one foot in front of the other, and humming on his lips.

"Get in there!" Torvar called out. "Let's see some blood!"

"Lift that shield brat!" Aine called out. "You're open from overhead!" She was giving advice to the newblood, because his brother was a good measure taller.

The Old Man and Farkas stayed quiet. He didn't bother listening to the other cheers and jeers from further back. A bit too indistinct to make out clearly.

Vilkas waited until the kid was close enough, before stomping forwards once and chopping his sword downwards, right towards the kid's exposed shoulders. Basic swing that points out a weakspot.

The kid, rather than raising his shield, raised his sword. The blades met near the hilt of the newblood's sword.

The swords twisted, one smooth motion twisting the chopping blade away and swinging upwards in a lunge.

Vilkas leaned backwards, eyes widening as the kid's blade passed through where his head used to be. The swing was faster than he had been expecting.

The open overhead was bait for that counter. It's not something you see kids thinking of.

Vilkas brought his-

The kid smashed the side of his shield into his brother's hand, still wide from the initial blow. Farkas leaned forwards with narrow eyes. Vilkas dropped the sword, still used to having two hands on his weapons, hand recoiling briefly from the pain.

The boy twisted his swing into a thrust-

Vilkas, annoyed, smashed his shield into the boy's quickly-raised guard.

The boy, expectantly, was tossed back for several feet. Vilkas was nearly a man grown, and a Nord as well, only an Orc could match his thews. The boy flipped once, rolling across the sand before righting himself. Unfortunately, his brother was just as swift and had a much longer stride.

Vilkas snatched the boy's sword-arm, and lifted him up in the air with an annoyed glare. The kid started trying to swing his body up to kick at Vilkas' face, but the shield his brother carried made that essentially impossible.

The boy had neither the reach nor strength to contest his brother's hold, and not the length in leg to get past the roundshield.

"Good arm on you, scamp. Nearly cleaved my head there." Vilkas grumbled, holding the thrashing kid off the ground. The kid, continuing his efforts to kick at his captor's face, replied in a genial manner.

"Thank ya, thank ya, sir. I've been at it since I was six or so."

"Don't call me sir, I'm not a knight." Vilkas responded, spinning briefly and tossing the brat a dozen or so feet away, letting him roll across the sands. Boy successfully tossed, Vilkas marched over to retrieve his sword, bending low to pick it up and turning.

He raised his shield in time for the boy to crash into it, a full-body shield-first tackle that caused him to briefly stagger and step back. Kid was fast when he wanted to get moving.

The kid's feet hit the ground just in time for Vilkas' blade to hit his shield again and send him staggering to the side, tossing the kid off balance.

The boy attempted to right himself-

Vilkas tripped him casually, sending a foot forwards to kick the kid's leg out from underneath him, then reversing the direction of his sword and cleaving down.

The kick managed to block, halting the chop with his own sword, and kicking out against his brother's own legs. Predictably, Vilkas' legs were utterly unmoved by the kid's comparatively puny kick.

Slowly, Vilkas pressed his sword down, the boy straining against it the entire way, using both sword and shield to hold it back. It was not enough, and soon his own arms were touching against flesh, straining against the unstoppable weight of his brother's arm.

There was a pause.

Vilkas raised his brows, arm barely straining against the visibly-shaking arms of the kid. "You give in yet, brat?"

From underneath the steel-banded wooden shield which covered his whole upper-body, a voice called out. "I think I'm bereft of options, yes."

Vilkas snorted, drawing back and allowing the boy to extract himself from the collapsed section of sand, pulling himself to his feet and getting into stance once more. He recovered quickly for someone who just decisively lost, certainly faster than most boys would. Hurt their pride to fail.

"Not bad for a brat, ready to go again?" Vilkas asked, rolling his neck, the jeers of the onlookers utterly forgotten.

"If you'd indulge me in a second round, yes." The boy responded, a scant smile on his face. "I intend to lose many times in this ring."

Vilkas snorted, raising his sword and shield. "When do you intend to start winning?"

"If I start winning, it means I'm ready." The boy started circling Vilkas again.

"Ready for what?" Vilkas responded casually, rolling his sword over in hand.

"Questing, I'm going to be a knight, you see." The boy threw himself forwards, and their blades clashed once more.

Quietly to his side, Farkas heard Aine speak to Kodlak in a grumble. "I'll tell Tilma to get a cot ready."

"I'd appreciate it." The Old Man spoke back with an equally low grumble, staring out at the ongoing spar. Probably dreading how much longer he'd have to be out here supervising the two.

From the looks of it, Farkas estimated until sundown, the combatants were clearly having fun.

—

~On a winter's day~

Sun's Height, 194, Fourth Era

Whiterun, Skyrim

Danica Pure-Spring

"Ohh… Thank you, good lady, thank you." The soldier groaned out as the quickly-bandaged wound on his side knit itself together, her brows twitching in concentration as she held a hand over it.

"Hush child, I'm not done yet." Danica responded in a fashion that didn't suit the image of a noble priestess, a slight headache resting behind her eyes. There was an ache in her back from leaning over the sick and injured for long hours, and her hands were red and sore from the frequent scrubs in running waters.

More than anything she was tired, tired in a way that could only be corrected by a few weeks without needing to cast another restoration spell. By Oblivion, she'd settle for a few days, really. A nice few days of no new injuries to tend or pilgrims to address, simply time to tend the temple, tend the gildergreen, and tend to herself.

But of course, rare is the day free of injured in the midst of a civil war. They were starting to ship them here by the wagon, it felt. Whiterun, mighty city in the center of Skyrim, had nearly a hundred thousand living within its limits.

Danica and her attendant-priesthood numbered less than a dozen. Only herself, Acolyte Jenssen, and Acolyte Aldren were actually learned enough in the art of restoration to banish injuries, the rest could only clean and stitch and bind. If she had more than an hour a day to herself, she'd educate them further.

Soon enough the wound had knit itself together enough to be serviceable. Not completely healed, but well enough that the man was in no danger of death. She pulled back with a carefully concealed sigh, and gave quick orders. "Your injury is sealed, I want you to wait another day or two before cutting the stitchings and pulling out the strings, you understand?"

"Ah, yes priestess, I shall." The soldier quickly replied, gingerly lifting himself up from the healing altar and touching at his side. Danica reached over to tap him firmly on the back and shoulder.

"Be off, quickly now. I have many more to-"

"Lady Danica?" The voice of Acolyte Aldren called out to her, briefly forcing Danica to suppress a flinch and growl, before turning to face her.

"Yes child?" She called out, a gentle smile on her face and eyes narrowed enough to look closed. Aldren politely did not point this out, stepping to the side to let the soldier scurry past.

"There is a young boy at the doors, he says he wishes to help the Temple."

Danica let her slightly-pinched expression relax somewhat, giving a tired smile. The burden on her shoulders was as heavy as ever, but hearing something like that made it a bit easier to bear. "Oh? That's very good then, very good. Have him help the acolytes around the temple, I suppose."

Aldren hesitated, causing Danica to furrow her eyebrows, before replying. "He claims to know restoration magics, Mam."

Danica let a brief frown come to her face, walking over to the girl and gesturing for her to follow. She stepped out of the side-chamber and into the immense central chamber of the temple, which was busy with labors and not prayers. At one end the great statue of Kynareth stood, hewn from rock from Mount Hrothgar, overlooking the well-lit patterned flooring and the channels of water flowing through it. She stepped over the short bridge across one such channel and onto the central platform. "He does? How old did you say he was?"

"Ah, perhaps… twelve?" The acolyte followed after her busy steps and towards the entrance chamber.

It was entirely possible that a young boy knew enough restoration magic to be of use to others, but an unattended boy in the middle of Skyrim capable of such? That was far less likely. Apprentices should be studying at that age, not wandering up to temples and offering to help.

"I see." She replied, stepping over the next short bridge and towards the entrance-platform, pushing open the doors and into the greeting-chamber. Sure enough, among the sitting rows of injured men and women, there stood a boy no older than thirteen.

Dressed in boots and woolen clothes, with a child-sized cloak and fluffy scarf. There was a sword and a shield carried on his back, both of which were too large for his frame. The boy had fair skin and dark curly hair, which twisted into natural corkscrews at its very ends. Most of the top was tied back in a loose tail, the manner most lazy young men fashioned themselves in Skyrim.

His eyes were a bright but deep blue, and a small smile took over his face with her approach.

The eyes of the injured followed her, patiently but desperately waiting their turn to be healed. Those looks are why she preferred the privacy of the inner temple most days.

"Hello child. Acolyte Aldren said you had something to tell me?" Danica smiled gently, leaning forwards slightly and resting her hands on her knees.

The boy, proving himself to be like most boys, twitched slightly from being spoken down to in this manner. More promisingly, he pushed this aside and replied without his irritation entering his tone. "Yesma'am." He spoke with a slightly curious twinge to his voice. "I learned a bit of restoration magic back home, and I thought I'd offer my services in the big city. At least in my freer hours."

"Hmm…" Danica hummed, leaning back and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear again. "That's mighty kind of you, young man. If you do know a bit of such magic, we'd be happy to accept. Though it behooves me to ask your reasonings."

"Hmm…" The boy responded with a hum of his own. Danica felt her eye twitch. "Would you like my selfish or selfless reasons first?"

"Selfish, I suppose. It's best to confess to such things early in my experience." She nodded with a warm smile.

"Most selfishly, I'm set to be in Whiterun for a few years yet, and building a good reputation is a prudent activity." The boy responded, lowering his hands to his hips and resting them there, mostly unseen under the encompassing cloak he wore.

She nodded slowly. It was a pragmatic thing to do, although the ease of his admittance was a bit concerning.

"Second-most selfishly, I need the practice on the injured to further my mastery, and hope to badger you for brief lessons when you warm to my presence."

She stopped herself from grunting irritably, conscious of the eyes upon her.

"Most moderately, I need to fill this time with some manner of activity. My trainers are out on contracts, and I've nothing much to do at the moment. It's only prudent to spend the time productively."

She nodded, feeling nothing much about that.

"Second-most selflessly, I aspire to be a knight, you see? I'd make for a very poor knight if I wasn't helping those in need." He smiled at her, and briefly she felt something of a genuine smile ghost over her face. The need to live up to an ideal was something she could certainly empathize with.

"And your most selfless reason, little knight?" She asked, bringing her hands together before her waist.

"Why do I need a reason to help people?" He responded, spreading an arm out at the injured and half-grin on his face. The warm light of restoration filled his hand, and shone with gentle flickers.

She stared at the boy for a few moments more.

"...What is your name, little knight?" She spoke more seriously.

He nodded at her. "Ragnar of Rorikstead, at your service Lady Pure-Spring. Do I have your permission to heal these people?"

"Only should you promise to not exhaust yourself." She responded with a reproachful finger raised. "Come, into the temple, I'll need to make sure you know what you're doing before I let you attempt anything."

"Of course." He responded with a bow of his head.

She raised her gaze. "The next injured, please follow us into the temple."

Another soldier pushed himself to his feet, one raised from the ground and cane used as a crutch. An injured leg, most certainly. She moved to support his walking, as did young Ragnar, together they led the man into the doors.

"Ah, thank ye. I took a nasty gash on me leg, I'm afraid." The soldier gasped, hobbling forwards on good leg.

"The missus found out about your girlfriend, I'd imagine." Ragnar joked to the soldier, who let out a pained ring of chuckles.

"Something like that, aye." The soldier responded, going along with the story. "If you call an axe my missus and the battlefield my girlfriend."

"I've heard it described that way a time or two, methinks." Ragnar responded with a serious expression and grave nod.

The soldier laughed harder, echoing through the central chamber of the temple.

First time Danica had heard laughter here in months.

Chapter 3

~I'd be safe and warm~

Hearthfire, 194, Fourth Era

Whiterun, Skyrim

Eorlund Grey-Mane

Clang, clang, clang.

At a certain point, he loses his senses.

Clang, clang, clang. He dips the hammer in the water.

His senses of taste and smell are useless here, so they go first. All he'll smell is the ash and soot anyways, the metal and fire, the oil and leather. All good forges are the same, filled with those familiar scents. He'll only ever taste his own tongue and teeth, his own breath and whatever he has to drink.

A good swing of mead in between the steps stoked the inner-fires. Important for good smithing.

Clang, clang, clang. He draws out the length.

His sense of touch and hearing fades back, sailing away to the horizon of his mind. Not the weight of the hammer in hand nor the heat of the coals. They'll stay there, casting nets and rods out to sea and catching nothing important. They'll be out there all day, every day that he works, fishing more out of habit than anything else. When he's done and it's time to leave the forge, they'll come back to shore and he'll be able to put them to work again.

Often just to hear Fralia's sharp tongue wagging at him.

Clang, clang, clang. Working the heat out of the edges, the core needs to be hotter.

His sense of self fades out too, disappearing into the rhythm of his work. At some point he forgets his name, and he has to sit still for a good few minutes to remember it. He's forgotten many things in that manner thus far. Unimportant things he lets slip away, like why he took up smithing or grudges against long-dead men. He puts the important things under lock and key, and keeps them near the heart.

Some things you don't simply lose.

Clang, clang, clang. Shoddy work here, storm came by last night and cooled yesterday's coals.

His sense of sight always dims, but it never fades. Blinkless, his eyes remain focused on his work. The hammer rising and disappearing from view, the hot glow of the steel clutched in his tongs, the rhythm to the movements.

And the sparks.

Clang, clang, clang. The color was about right.

Sparks, sparks, sparks. The blade was ready for its next heating.

There for only instants, lingering just long enough to see before disappearing once more. In time with the rhythm, fresh coals were spilled over the hot blade. He pulled out the next work-in-progress and resumed his hammering.

He works the Skyforge because of tradition. The Skyforge has been worked by a Gray-Mane smith since his clan first arrived in Skyrim. It's been worked by his ancestors, it'll be worked by his descendents. Thorald will get his turn after he dies, and Thorald's son will get a turn after that. If Thorald gets his act together and finds a good woman to marry, that is. Worries his mother to death with his roaming.

Eorlund works the Skyforge because of tradition, yes, but he's a smith because of the sparks.

Time to swap sides. He set his hammer down as he flipped the unfinished sword, reaching for his bottle. Finding it quickly, he took a sip and reached over to set it down, before reaching for his hammer once more.

He paused for a moment.

The quench-water had been changed. The coals had been added. His drink had been handed to him.

He leaned back and turned his gaze to the side. A boy was there, currently working the bellows. His drink had been set off to the side on a small table, a fresh bag of coals had been brought up, and a barrel off to the side.

Eorlund grumbled like a bridge-troll. "Boy."

"Yessir?" The boy called out, continuing his work at the bellows but meeting his eyes. Bright blue and fair-faced. He was wearing long sleeves and leather gloves, with a child-sized worksman apron covering his front. Contrasting Eorlund, who was currently bare-chested.

The Skyforge was built atop the second-highest spot in Whiterun, the heat from the forge clashing with the cold air blowing across the valley. It was rough on little-uns to be up here.

"When did you creep up here?" Eorlund asked with a heavy brow and beard-hidden frown.

"Bout three hours ago, I've been hauling stuff up for awhile. I called out your name a few times, but I don't think you heard." The boy responded in a matter-of-fact way before ceasing at the bellows and moving over to grab a broom that wasn't here earlier. The coals were a bit too hot now, he'd have to keep an eye on that.

Eorlund rumbled briefly, thinking about the times, three hours ago was about…

He turned his gaze to the weapons he was going to sharpen, only to find them already ground to a point and polished off, now on a new rack replacing his old one. He tilted his head to see the old one currently sitting just behind the new rack, rather than carried off.

Which was good, if the boy had thrown away his rack, he'd be thrashing the whelp right now.

"I wasn't looking for an apprentice, scamper off now boy." Eorlund grunted, raising his hammer and pointing at the long winding stairs leading down from the Skyforge.

"Oh that's good, I don't intend on becoming a blacksmith." The boy responded, sweeping up the piles of metal dust and scooping them up with a tray, moving over to dump them in a wooden crate. "I'm going to be a knight."

Eorlund grunted, letting his old brows raise on his forehead. "...You're that new boy my brother's been bragging on." He had overheard something like that, Vignar talking about it at the dinner table. Mostly to Fralia, as Eorlund was too busy eating to contribute much to the conversation. Which was fine, Vignar spoke enough for the three of them.

Something about a new whelp giving the older boys a black eye a time or two, and 'getting better by the day!'. Empty praises like that, the kind Eorlund had heard a dozen times or more about half a dozen different whelps.

"Mr. Vignar? He didn't tell me he was bragging on me." The boy gave a half-grin his direction, moving back to sweep up the pile again. "I declared my intention to go find a smithy to work at, and he told me to come up and bother you. Sorry for the interruption, mister Grey-Mane."

Despite his words, the boy wasn't looking like he was in any hurry to leave.

"I'm not going to pay you, you'll have to find somewhere else to make coins." He waved his hammer again, an old stone-like glare on his face. He'd make sure to grunt and glare at his brother after forge-work was done for today, get the message across that he didn't appreciate having skeevers underfoot.

"Oh not for pay, nosir. I need to keep my own smithing-skills practiced, and if I can steal secrets from watching you work, all the better." The boy was honest, Eorlund would give him that. "I'm too young to join anyone on their jobs, Priestess Pure-Spring has already shooed me away for the week, and there's only so much I can do against a dummy."

The boy shrugged with a smile. "It's either this or another lap around Whiterun to burn the hours."

"Not gonna be a smith, but you're up here trying to steal secrets?" Eorlund grumbled questioningly.

"I'll need to get some good arms and armor for myself before I set out on my own. It's prudent to learn how rather than needing someone else to do it for me." The boy nodded, dumping the second load of steel-dust in the crate before closing it loosely, setting the broom and pan aside. "At the very least, I don't imagine I'll ever regret learning, even if I never master it."

Eorlund found himself nodding briefly to the sentiment, rolling his hammer over in his hand and glancing at the Skyforge. Then the moment passed, and he called out. "Scamper away boy, learn something else."

"I brought mead." The boy instead stated, pointing off to the side. Eorlund followed the finger over to see a wooden case, six fresh bottles sitting in the section of the forge that was always the coldest. Both windy from the rolling airs of Whiterun's plains and shadowed from the overhanging rock of the forge-stones.

Eorlund stared for a few moments more, considering the bribe for what it was. Chilled bottles of mead.

After a moment, he grunted and nodded, turning back to the metal and sheathing it in the burning coals once more. "Get to work on those bellows, boy. Be mindful, you made it a tad too hot last time."

"Yessir." The boy responded with a grin in his voice.

"Be ready to be disappointed, there's no secrets to working the metal."

"Not to you, mister, I've only been at this a few years. Not centuries."

Eorlund rumbled gruffly.

Cheeky brat.

—

~If I was far away~

Sun's Dusk, 194, Fourth Era

Whiterun, Skyrim

Aine the Huntress

"I need some air." Aine grunted, stretching her arms up to the sky and leaning back on her chair for a moment, pushing herself up from her seat. The hall was loud with the sounds of celebration and thick with the smell of mead and meat. A heady scent that curled its way up her nostrils and made her head light.

It was the twentieth of Sun's Dusk, which meant it was Warrior's Festival. One of those Imperial Holidays that came up the roads some centuries back. As far as she was aware, it was just one of those bureaucratic festivals, an excuse to have a celebration for some septim-pinching reason that she didn't care to understand.

Of course, no one in Skyrim needed much excuse to throw feasts, so some empire holiday was as good as any other reason to put hoarker on the roast and break out the barrels of vintage.

"Don't get eaten out there! Ha ha!" Ol' Vignar, deep into his drinks, laughed at her before taking another swig.

"I heard there's wolves out there, howling in the night!" Vilkas raised his hands and shook them around, holding the expression of terror only for a moment, before collapsing into laughter.

Aine tossed her empty mug, knocking against the brat's head and sending him tumbling to the ground, much to the uproar of everyone else in the hall. She snorted once, before snatching a bottle from the table and making her way outside.

"Hey, where'd my drink go!" She heard Torvar sluggishly complain as he passed through the doorway, staggering once at the door frame before composing herself.

Pushing her way outside, she lightly stepped to the outer tables, rolling her feet more out of instinct than anything else. It was snowing outside, as it always often did this far north.

She had visited Cyrodiil once, and sheer warmth had her quickly scurrying back to the homeland. It snowed only a fourth of the year that far south, and even less as you went further. Unlike Skyrim, which snowed two thirds of the year and often rained during the remainder. The cold was bracing, good for the blood, and soon she felt her head empty of thickly wafting scents and sounds.

Thunk.

Her gaze shot up to the distance, even as her body remained completely still. If she was spotted, moving wouldn't help until she knew which way to dodge. If she wasn't spotted, then moving would only give away her position.

Her eyes settled on a small back with a quiver of arrows, standing in the distant yard before the archery-targets. Thickly-wrapped and bundled up save the fingers, which had been left exposed. He was clearly doing his best to ignore the light snowfall, traced by the furrows on the white sheet from his spot and towards the target.

That Ragnar whelp was practicing while the feast was going on. Seemed to be all the scamp did, practice, practice, practice. Boy needed to learn how to have fun.

He was fiddling with arrows in his hands, setting an arrow between each of his fingers but letting them hang loosely down, and fumbling to take the last arrow between finger and thumb.

She watched with half-lidded eyes, letting her head rest in her arms as she watched the boy fiddle about.

Eventually he had the arrows in the unusual grip, nocking the correctly-held arrow, and going through a few practice-draws. Trying to prepare himself for something.

Eventually, the practice draws were done, and he had successfully motivated himself to actually shoot.

Thunk, thunk, fumble, drop.

He shot the first arrow, quickly nocking and firing the second arrow, before his grip slipped and he failed to nock the successive arrows. The arrows slipped from his fingers and fell into the snow around him, causing the boy to quietly curse.

"Godfuck." Groaning angrily, he reached down to pick up the arrows again, before marching over to the target to observe his accuracy. His eyes weren't good in the evening light.

Outer rim, both arrows. Horrible accuracy overall.

Must be that fancy trick he was trying to pull off, having the arrows ready in his fingers to shoot them off faster. Aine hadn't heard of anyone doing something like that, but she could probably do it if she tried. The boy's accuracy was better when he wasn't trying to be clever about his shooting.

"What are the archery gods again?" She heard the boy mutter to himself. "Auriel, Kyne, Hircine? I didn't do anything to piss them off, did I?"

She narrowed her eyes further, carefully watching the boy return to his spot, set his arrows down, and vigorously rub his fingers together.

He inhaled deeply, before exhaling deliberately and strongly into his cupped hands. A brief flame bloomed to life, a smokeless fire burning above his palms. He held it there, close to his face and taking in the heat. She slowly pushed herself up, rolling her feet and making her way towards the boy. He breathed into his fingers again, stoking the magical flame with his breath.

"More than Restoration I see." She called out, a few feet behind him.

He almost jumped in alarm, but controlled himself before he could flinch. Good control for a kid. He glanced her direction with the same mostly-blank face he had whenever he wasn't talking. Hard to read when he wasn't trying to make an expression.

"Aye. Battlemage back home taught me. I thought it'd be useful." He casually replied, letting the flame fade from his fingers and turning to face her more directly.

"Not for fighting, it seems." She raised a brow.

Boy shook his head. "Practicals mostly, ma'am. I don't need to carry flint and tinder anymore, even works as a light if I really need it. I'd rather have steel in a fight."

She grunted, reaching forwards and taking hold of his fingers. He raised a brow but didn't resist, letting her get a feel of them.

Cold as the grave. She clutched her fingers around them briefly, frowning, before reaching up and pulling off her own scarf and wrapping it around his hands.

"You're messing up because your fingers are cold, silly whelp. Come inside, by the fire." She scolded, reaching down and taking his bow and arrows from the ground.

"Ah, It's uhh… it's loud in there." He sheepishly replied, reaching up and scratching at his head, both hands still wrapped in the scarf. "Gives me a headache. I'd stay outside if It's the same for you."

She glowered at the boy for a few moments. She made a note to visit Ivar and Aela, to make sure he was raising their daughter to be more practical than this.

She grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling the boy over to the exterior tables under the extended roofing. Lifting him by the armpits and setting him down on her lap, she cast her cloak around the both of them and took up her pilfered bottle of mead.

"Drink. It'll warm you up." She ordered, hugging the boy to her body with a frown.

The boy was quiet for a few moments.

"...I appreciate the consideration but I really don-"

"Shut up. You're freezing stiff. Drink and focus on getting warm." She grunted, knocking him on the crown with her chin. "You're not going near the fire, so you're getting treated like the whelp you are."

"I'm drinking under protest." He grumbled, reaching up to wipe away at the bottle's lip before taking a swig. "I'm both too old and too young to be embraced by strange women."

"I'm married, brat, don't get any ideas." She teased with a false anger in her growling reply.

"I'm being preyed upon, victim to abduction and having my body used." The boy grumbled back.

"You ever do anything but practice brat?"

"Sleep, eat, drink." The boy dutifully recited, causing her to dig her chin into the top of his head for a few moments. "Gah." He sarcastically groaned.

"You're what? Seven?" She purposely undercut his age to provoke him.

"Six actually." He seamlessly lied.

"I know there's other brats running around Whiterun your age, pups should be playing too you know? Not just working."

"Eh." The boy responded, taking a sip of the drink. "I'd rather not play 'chase' over and over, training is honestly more fun."

"You need to do something other than training." She declared.

"Like what?"

"Think of something, you're a clever kid, aren't you?"

The boy sipped the drink again, smacking his lips for a few moments.

"Writing?"

She raised her brows, not that the kid could see it. "You can write?" It wasn't all that common, especially not among orphans.

"Mage back home was the one to teach me my letters." He explained. "Real problem is the paper and ink, and finding a reason to bother."

"I'll buy some stuff for you." She declared with a huff.

"I'd prefer not, that means I have to give you something in return." He tried to refuse. She rubbed her chin into his head again, quickly scolding the kid.

"I'm the adult here, brat. You don't need to do anything but be a child yet, got it? Go get into trouble or waste some days on play."

"I enjoy practicing." The boy complained.

She decided to refrain from mentioning how rarely she saw a genuine smile from the kid, and instead just hugged him into her body a bit tighter.

…She made a note to visit Ivar sooner rather than later, she was getting sappy and needed a reminder of how bratty normal kids were.