Lone Wolves

3. Shadows of the Past

“The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.” 

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Fire of Drift-wood"

Äne quickly learned that Fenrir wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed long conversations. Seeing as she had enough issues of her own to deal with, it normally wouldn’t have bothered her. Except he was clearly in possession of skills that a normal woodsman, even a Bosmer, would not posses. The Harbinger couldn’t help but be curious about her new companion, if not still suspicious.

There were any number of lunatics in Tamriel, but as the three of them made their way through the Rift and into the Eastmarch, it became increasingly clear that Fenrir wasn’t one of them. There was definitely a logical meaning behind his habits, even if it escaped her. Being elfkind, Fenrir’s age was impossible to guess, but she couldn’t imagine he was more than a hundred years old, since he lacked the radicalism of most older mer. He moved through the woods with an unbelievable finesse; and even with the heightened awareness of her beastblood Äne never heard more than the shadow of an echo of his footfalls. They never went hungry, either, as he proved to be uncannily resourceful when it came to finding food. 

Very quickly, Fenrir also began to display a number of peculiar habits. Like insisting upon eating raw everything he managed to forage, and stopping in his tracks each time a breeze ran through the birches to listen as the leaves shuddered together. More bizarre was the fact that he would frequently trade screeches and howls with whatever animals happened to cross their path in the woods, even cave bears. Most quirks Äne was happy to ignore. These weren’t among them.

The Harbinger knew more about the wolf that she was traveling with than the mer. Sköll definitely seemed to view the trip more favorably than his elf brother. He frequently amused himself by chasing down birds, squirrels, and foxes, only to let them go again after he’d had his fun. And he ate bugs. Frequently. In all, Sköll reminded Äne more of a kitten than the fearsome, rabid animals that she had hunted across the wilds of Skyrim. If she hadn’t already seen him rip the throat out of a Thalmor wizard, she might have thought he was completely tame. 

After three days of rigorous cross-country trekking, they reached the Darkwater River. It ran north from Lake Geir straight to the heart of Eastmarch, where it merged with the White River and flowed past Windhelm. The sound of it’s steady current would accompany them all the way to the ancient stone city. The distant echo of waterfalls signaled to Äne that they had also reached the far boundaries of Riften Hold. By unspoken consent, the trio stopped by the bank to set up camp until morning. 

Sköll busied himself with grooming as Fenrir went off in search of fresh meat. Änwin began to hunt down firewood. She wondered morbidly where the Thalmor patrol was, noting that the Dominion’s marauders had been heading almost completely in the opposite direction. It felt wrong somehow, like she was running away. Äne pushed the thought back quickly

Fenrir returned soon with a brace of conies and a handful of gourds. He divided the rabbits equally among them, saving Äne the pleasure of skinning and gutting her share. Her injured shoulder prevented her from performing the task quickly. Though the wound was almost two-thirds knit back together, it was still sore and resistant to any kind of stretching motion. She wasn’t about to let the elf see her display weakness, so Äne didn’t ask for help.

They ate without speaking. Nights spent with her fellow shield-siblings were never so cold. The Harbinger couldn’t help but remember the many feasts she had shared before a roaring fire with the rest of the Companions; meals with hearty laughter and good-natured boasting. And brotherhood. All of the warriors who called Jorrvaskr their home had sworn to defend each other and bring honor to their guild.