ACT I
CHAPTER V
THE RED DIAMOND
{ASTRID'S POINT OF VIEW}
I was ten years old when I followed my father into the forests of Cyrodiil.
I remember how small I was, tiny for a girl my age. I grew large in the coming years, taller than my sisters, taller than my mother, but never taller than my father, for he was the largest man I'd ever seen. I remember it - vividly, in fact - the days where my tiny, ten year old neck would crane, crane back to see a big, blond man, in his big, blond entirety — a symbol of all I wanted to be.
There was nothing my father couldn't do when I was ten, or when I was nine, eight, seven, six, and way, way back. He stood with his shoulders straight, deep blue eyes filled with pride, and wore his golden hair long to match his beard. He was a king, a god, a lord, a strong man with an even stronger ambition. I bowed to him like I would bow to the emperor, and I followed him like a soldier followed his captain into battle. My father used his bare hands to create works of art. Steel swords that shined in the moonlight, daggers so cold they felt like ice on our skin, a set of iron armor to shelter us from the ways of the world...
He was my hero.
I watched him come home everyday... everyday carrying a deer, a wolf, some fallen creature, to feed our family. We lived on the chilly outskirts of Bruma, the snow-capped shadow of the Jerall Mountains where the heartland of Cyrodiil merged with the wasteland of Skyrim, the place where the child within me was forced to grow up...
He ventured into the forest on a frozen Sun's Dawn day, deep into the heart of winter when snow was a blanket and demons found shelter in our heads. I was curious — a curious child with curious eyes and an even curiouser heart — so I took my small bow made of sticks and twine and followed his footsteps into the trees.
His trail was lost to me when the sun began to fall, and I hadn't seen my father since the afternoon he kissed me goodbye. There was a darkness in the woods, he always told me, when the stars made the snow glisten like diamonds, and the moon painted faces in the pines...
I was ten years old when I heard a snarl in its depths, and I was ten years old when a soft blue gaze met hazy gold Septims, the eyes of a wolf with a curled upper lip...
And, soon, the creature had chased me until I'd fallen...
Fallen,
and let it sink its fangs,
into pale and tender flesh...
"We should get going."
A gentle voice cuts into my thoughts, and my aching spine stiffens in alarm.
What a time to remember that.
It is Hadvar, anxiously pacing about the chamber as I rest my head on a damp, mildewy rock that adds even more grime to a greasy head. Sitting up straighter, I nod as I uncork the virescent glass bottle in my lap, place it to my lips, and grimace as the sharp, gooey taste of stamina potion slides down a dry and scratchy throat. They used too much Netch jelly.
Within seconds, the goal of the elixir fulfilled, the dreariness that pulls at my eyelids is alleviated, and I am suddenly wide awake. The tonic — gelatinous and rotten — smells of the ocean, and I can hardly contain my discontent. A little rancid seafood in the belly never killed anyone — quickly, at least.
I hope this was worth it, I think as I toss the empty bottle into moist, wet earth. Because that was disgusting.
Helping me up, Hadvar outstretches a pale, firm hand, and I grasp it as he pulls me to my feet. At first, I wonder why he isn't weak like me. Then I remember my four night stint in the Cyrodilic wilderness, and the question evaporates like my honor and good health. I've always been stupid.
Onward, we trek, to our destinies of endless mildew and humid pathways. Mud squishes beneath a pair of aching feet, but the sound lulls me into autonomy.
Beside us, there is a fast running, crystal-white stream that we follow like the word of our gods — comforting and shallow, symbolic of religion enough — and I pray to the Divines for a safe way out.
A gentle breeze caresses my left cheek, and I thank Kynareth for her reassurance.
If only that breeze came from somewhere outside.
"You should think about joining the Legion," says Hadvar.
I wasn't expecting that.
"I doubt I would be of much use there," I say back. My words come out shaky from the taste of memories on my tongue. Nor wanted.
Breathing heavier, the List Man replies, "I know today wasn't the best introduction to the Legion." You think? "But I hope you'll give us another chance." He pushes a log to the side to clear our path, and I pause to clutch my ankle. Like everything else in life, healing potion is not eternal. "We could really use someone like you. Especially now. And if the rebels have themselves a dragon..."
Is he a recruiter or a soldier?
My tired eyes roll as we stride up an incline, and I grab a boulder for support.
"What about General Tullius?" I ask, wiping a thick layer of sweat from a dirt-smeared brow. "What's his angle on this?"
Atop the new elevation, Hadvar purses his lips.
"I'm certain he knows nothing of the attack on Helgen, if that's what you're suggesting," he defends. We'll see. "Not yet, anyway. After all, a dragon... something out of old tales and legends..." He pauses to shake his head, breathing from the workout. "No one could have anticipated that. But you can bet he'll be trying to figure it out. Honestly..." he says, looking me in the face, "this could shift the whole balance of the war. If you really want to help stop that dragon, your best bet is to go to Solitude and join up with the Legion."
I don't offer a response. It is the first time I have ever been presented with the prospect of a choice in my life, but it is not one that I am so certain to make.
What will become of me, if we are able to find shelter from the storm?
Will I go home? (Likely not.)
Will I travel the mountains of Skyrim and make a name for myself as a sellsword and adventurer?
Or will I go to this Solitude, a place I remember as the capital, and become a leather-bound soldier, like Hadvar and the Torturer's Assistant?
What will - what can - I be, when there are so many things for me to become?
For once, I do not know.
And for once, I am terrified of what the future may hold.
My mind shakes its head as my body kicks away a pebble. No more self doubt, Astrid. No more. You have a life out there, I think. Somewhere... but it's out there, just waiting for your grasp.
I clear my throat.
"Well, I suppose it's worth considering." Just look past the present... "Where do you think the dragon came from?"
Stiff limbs pounding, I hop across a puddle. Squish.
"Those Stormcloaks," he says, sounding matter-of-fact. I admire his loyalty. "Hard to believe it was mere coincidence that the first dragon anyone's seen for centuries attacks just as Ulfric was about to be executed."
"Reasonable."
But is it true?
We walk side by side into a dark, muddy expanse, but, walking further, I see that it is hardly anything but dark. There is a hazy green alcove at the farthest right corner, lit by rays of white sunshine that set the moss aglow.
It is a skylight, I notice. And, if there's a skylight, made entirely of natural white light, then the outside world is close. And if the outside world is close, then so is our safety. And if our safety is close...
The running water.
"Hadvar!" I say, nudging him frantically as we steadily cross a land bridge. His copper-colored eyes meet mine when he turns in my direction, and a rare smile stretches across my pale and mucky face. The cut on my cheek, burning dully like a drone of background noise, stings with the expression, but I'm far too animated to regard it. "We're almost out of here."
I look to the stream, and it travels to my north. "This water has to be going somewhere," I say. I'm not too good at directions, but my father taught me the basics after getting lost a few times on my own. Sensibly, shouldn't an underground river lead to somewhere above ground? Rushed by a new sense of hope, I fix my gaze to the skylight, and Hadvar's eyes follow my hand as I gesture to the right. "We're almost to the surface!"
The Nord looks surprised by my aptitude, and frankly, so am I. I've never been too good at reasoning like that, but I like myself a whole lot better when I act smart. (Notice how I say 'act'.)
I stifle a grin.
"Good point," he says back. His words, apathetic in their delivery, make me think he isn't quite impressed by my observations; he likely already realized them himself. All my pride stripped, I silently berate my vacuous conceit. Stupid. Wasn't that obvious? "Let's keep moving, and see if you're right."
Almost in pity, he gives me a small smile until I notice that he has dimples in his cheeks, and rashly I find myself wanting to look just a little longer when he turns back around. Double stupid.
We walk forward into the mud, and seconds go by when he stops.
"Prisoner," he whispers.
Tired blue eyes lift from leather brown boots, and I am blinded by a glowing white diamond of pure brilliance yards in front of me. Zig-zags drawn in lustrous pale ivory appear like cracks in the rocks, and I crane, crane, crane my tiny, tiny neck back, back, back to see the largest exit I have ever seen - the only thing that has ever been taller than my father, and the only thing that has ever been taller than me.
A combination of daunted and dazzled, I close my eyes.
Kynareth, thank you...
I step forward. The light stings my weary eyes, but I like the feeling of it. It is a fine sting, the kind when you arise from a good night's sleep, ready for an even better day's work, or when you walk into the sunshine, a friend by your side, after weathering a week long blizzard by the dying fire's glow.
This time, I refuse to shield my face from the warmness of my new life. I embrace it; I set my ghost pale skin ablaze and I forget about the darkness of all those missed opportunities. They are nothing to me now - only sneering, twisted faces at my unorthodox dreams, a grey-faced boy in the periphery of my love, and a tall, tall father that has become short with his greed.
My frozen body melts, and I am no longer an ice sculpture of my family's own creation.
If I am alive, I know it, I know it, I know it.
And forever, even in my darkest, cruelest death and beyond, I will remain... shining brightly, unopposed.
"Call me Astrid."
My blissful thoughts are shaken when a firm pale hand tugs at an aching arm.
This is not what startles me the most.
It is Hadvar, looking to the alcove we once noted before, and my heart stops when I see it.
There is a beast there, a big, furry brown one that sleeps with its head cradled on two giant paws. I hadn't noticed it before; it must have been because of the angle at which we stood observing the skylight.
It's all I can do to hold back my snort.
It's really quite amazing.
I, the huntress of almost eight long years, had missed the bear that rests as an impediment to the white-diamond face of chances to be taken. I was taught, in face to face training, the ways of hunting by the best in my family, and I was forced to kill, in eye to eye combat, countless wolves in a feeble attempt to quell me of my fear, and this - a 600 pound abomination curled into a solid dark mound - is the only thing I forget to see in this gods-forsaken hell-hole.
The creature could kill us - rather savagely at that - if I were to awaken it. Forget about any maleficent black dragons or hungry grey wolves. This bear is the real threat, and it, looking so peaceful in the moments before it slaughters, has stolen my elation, and replaced it with cold, candid reality.
Shaken, all I can ask, with our escape route feet away and the beast much closer, is:
Why?
"Hold up," the soldier says, keeping me back with his arm. As if I were to walk forward, with the prospect of death staring me straight in the face. "There's a bear just ahead. See her?" He points to the beast, but I close my eyes. "I'd rather not tangle with her now. We might be able to sneak by. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step."
I swallow hard. There are many feet of mud and rocks between the exit and I, and a greater many possibilities of making noise. Hadvar, I trust. He should know how to be stealthy, when he is likely a master at the art of the ambush. Me, however, I am not. My hunting skills are poor. My sneaking skills are worse. Dare I call myself a huntress, when all I can catch is an annual case of Ataxia, and all I can kill is potential suitors with my unprepossessing looks.
Security always comes with an impediment.
"Or..." he says. Or. "If you're feeling lucky, you can take this bow. Might take her by surprise."
He passes me a wooden longbow, and although the material is characteristically light, it weighs heavy in my pale and weathered hands. It is yet another thing I do not want, and it is yet another thing I cannot have, but I aim it despite myself.
"Go ahead," he says, patting my shoulder. "I'll follow your lead and watch your back."
In that moment, my bow of sticks and twine has turned into a weapon of maple and string, and there are a hundred different voices telling me to put the arrow down.
The sound of my mother permeates my thoughts, and she coaxes me to take mercy on the majestic creature. With an ataraxy and grace of only Aemeliana Cold-Dagger, she urges me to find beauty in its closed eyes, curled body, and the way the light dances on the surface of its shiny, rosewood coat.
My youngest sister, Thora, begs I don't fight something so ferocious, hands on small hips as she says there's not a chance I could beat it anyway. The middle child, Aurelia, says she could write a song about the grapple, a ballad of my fallen corpse and the way she can finally be our father's favorite child.
Da... he is the one that whispers that I am not a true Nord as I lower the bow. He is the man that says I would be better off slaughtered by the thing, as that is the way a Cold-Dagger should die. Like a fool. Like a stubborn, wild-eyed lunatic with a lust for blood and an even greater lust for a brave, crazy, and altogether stupid death.
This is not dying for a purpose. Not killing for a purpose. Not wasting my energy for a purpose.
It's just
plain
wrong.
And, by everything good left that's inside of me, I will always do what's right.
I give Hadvar the bow and sneak onward.
It is the only good thing to do.
I am convincing myself that I am hiking the fair path when there is a sudden deafening crack beneath my aching feet. Although I wear shoes, I can feel the dagger-like sticks stab me in the toes, the place where I am at my weakest, and I swear to all the Divines the inner soles of my brown leather boots have become slick with my own blood. The sound makes my heart pound in my chest, or maybe it is the sound of Hadvar's, but one of us - both of us - is overflowing with pure, uncapped adrenaline that we simply cannot contain.
I am afraid, but my eyes travel to the bear. She stirs, and I hold my breath, but for the life of me, nothing else happens, and we are in the clear.
A walking, talking apostasy - that is what I am. A shot in the dark at something supposed to be life changing, a whisper in a sequence of caverns with no foreseeable end. I have made it, I decide. Whether literally or not, I have made it. This is Skyrim, the open world at my fingertips, the destiny I have prayed for since a wolf, with eyes like Septims and a curled upper lip, ravaged me in a forest of my own solitary confusion.
Things are different now, I decide. From this moment on, things will always be different.
And by all the good left in my heart, I cannot hide my triumph as I strut into the morning light.
~♦~♦~♦~
The start of a trail is carved out of melting snow before us as we stand at the entrance of our sepulchral lang syne. Trees and rocks outline our path, and there is a coldness in the air that envelops every inch of me, the way smoke fills my lungs in a deep, lasting inhalation.
I still smell it, I realize - the thick, ashen scent of a flaming bush, the houses all ablaze, and the helpless villagers set to burn. Unwanted, it all seems to follow me, even as I inspire the sharpness of dark green pines and breathe in the crispness of a gelid, wintry morn, and I'd do anything to replace my hard, grey memories with ones of a brighter yesterday.
Ralof is dead, I tell myself. The Stormcloak - the tall one with the long blond hair, the grave one who I promised I'd never trust, the loyal one with soft blue eyes that are a cloudless sky I cannot look into... He, with his three different faces all flashing through my head, was my friend. Whether I knew him or not, he helped me, if only for a moment, to escape Helgen.
And in thanks, I left him there.
Left him there to die.
I cannot decide how to forgive myself when a call resonates within me.
It is the dragon again. The dragon. The symbol of the apocalypse. The only thing I cannot control. He is Oblivion, I tell myself. He is the spirit of Daedra, fused into physical form. Entirely black, his red eyes shine against his ebony scales, and in a periwinkle sky dotted with fleecy white clouds, his cold, dark cruelty has eaten the world.
"Wait," says Hadvar, holding me back.
My vision is locked to the sky.
I feel a tug at my arm, and suddenly I'm being guided behind a rock. The creature has laid eyes on me.
He never will again.
All at once, the clouds are moved with big, broad wing strokes, and the monster finally vanishes.
"Looks like he's gone for good this time," the soldier says, standing up straight. "But I don't think we should stick around to see if he comes back."
I nod faithfully and follow his lead. Whether we're alone together in the morning light or not, I would much rather be stranded with someone I barely know - albeit physically capable, fairly intelligent, and good-hearted - than be stuck behind a rock with a malevolent dragon on my scent. Or, even worse, be forced to suffer through the first four days of marriage with a man I can hardly even glance at.
Consider what's important.
"Closest town from here is Riverwood," Hadvar says, interrupting my thoughts. "My uncle's a blacksmith there. I'm sure he could help us out."
My sagging heart lifts when I imagine being near a forge again. Next to critical words and tactical thinking, my father raised me on hot steel and strong leather, sharp axes and shining blades, and hard, heavy hammers to crush any who dare oppose me. Besides my youngest sister, of course, I can count nothing I miss more from Bruma than my father's outdoor workshop, the place where Jondlfar Cold-Dagger himself taught me to pound hard, craft carefully, and never, under any circumstances, handle the equipment under the ready age of twelve.
Which, of course, was a rule I broke almost daily starting on my seventh birthday, where I burnt my hand so terribly, the shape of a smooth, red diamond is present on my palm to this day.
My left thumb strokes the burn idly as I follow my companion along the path. I will let this scar become a keepsake, I decide, just like the necklace I wear that matches it. A memento, from the days of being a brainless little girl, unaffected by the cruel politics at home and a legendary massacre abroad.
Someday, I pray, I may return to an easy life like that.
Once again pausing my reflective thinking, Hadvar slows until he is by my side, and I raise a curious brow in response.
"Listen, Astrid," he says. He seems hesitant to use my real name - a far change of course from 'Prisoner' - although his accent makes it sound much nicer than it really is. I tilt my head in intrigue, signaling for him to continue, and he does. "As far as I'm concerned, you've already earned your pardon." There is a silence. "But until I get that confirmed with General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, alright? You should get a letter by courier soon enough."
Great, I think, weary eyes rolling. So there's a chance I could be apprehended by the Empire again until I get my official amnesty. Just what I need.
Distracting from the premise, I clear my throat. Ahem. "I suppose Ulfric won't receive the same treatment," I voice. "If he made it out, of course."
"For starting a war and creating divisions in all of Skyrim?" Hadvar chuckles wryly, and I scold myself for stating the obvious. "You aren't from around here. The better half of the country wants to see his head roll. But I'd be surprised if he wasn't out of Helgen by now. The man has a high tolerance for pain."
I bite my lip until copper slides on my tongue.
"I can imagine."
"Just catching him was a masterstroke by General Tullius," he says.
I find it funny how the man seems to look up to his superior so much, when Tullius was the one who left Hadvar behind while all the other soldiers were making a mad dash out of Helgen. That would be enough to make me angry, at least, if being assailed with the words 'Run, you idiot!' during a time of need wasn't enough already.
The warrior continues, "He's only been in charge a few months," he says, hands clutching his side. I forgot about his stab wound. "But... he's turned things around for the Empire. We've been trying to catch Ulfric since the war started, but he always seemed to slip through our fingers... like he knew we were coming.
"This time, the General turned the tables on him. Ulfric rode right into our ambush with only a few bodyguards. He surrendered pretty meekly, too. So much for his death-or-glory reputation," he snorts.
But now, he's either dead or gotten away...
Maybe sardonic, but that is what I want to say when a noise in the brush ceases me, and once again I feel the firm, iron grip of strong Hadvar-hands on my upper arm.
Hadvar: "Stop."
I move forward involuntarily.
Fight or flight.
He holds me back.
"Did you hear that?"
I want to say yes, but I know the sound all too well. A terrible familiarity. It is something deep, thick, and snarly, like brambles getting twisted within each other and savagely ripped from the ground. Something feral, gnashing, guttural, threatening. I close my eyes and nod stiffly, and that is when I realize my cold hands are ashake.
Even worse, Hadvar notices too.
"Stay here," he says, patting my back. The gesture is not forceful, but it startles me anyway. "Probably just some old dog. Let me see..."
Staring at my feet is not safe, I decide. At least, that is what my father would always say during our drills. I look up to see that Hadvar has drawn his sword, and I finally notice that his hands have left my arm, their warm, gentle touch still clinging to my battered skin. My own hand replaces his, and I see that he is drinking a health tonic as he ventures into taller grass. He'll need stitches if he wants to stay cured for long.
I resist the urge to close my eyes when I unsheathe my iron blade. Like the blood-stained edge of my weapon, I have to stay sharp, minus the lurid coating of red slicking the outside of it. If anything, I can't allow myself to succumb to this fate again. There are plenty of bad things that could happen right now - another dragon attack, a hungry band of cannibals looking to eat their fill, rain - but I feel almost clairvoyant with the way that I only recovered my worst memory an hour ago, and it seems to be repeating itself today.
At least now I have a weapon.
And I'm not talking about the cheap iron sword.
Hadvar disappears behind a rock, and I am alarmed by the sound of a snarl in his direction. Then a slash: the cool, crisp sound of metal hitting air, greeted by the thick, grisly slice of blade hitting blood, muscle, and bone. Sweat fills the crevices of my palms until the sword sticks tight to a shaking right hand, and gashes and growls are all I can hear until my face goes slam into soft, wet earth.
On my stomach, I swiftly lay on my back.
Its eyes are all I can see. Those brassy, ravenous eyes burning through my head like a gold Elven battleaxe, blazing to life in the flames of a smoldering hot forge. I see myself in soulless black pits in the center of bright yellow rings, and I pray to the Divines intently that I can finally use my Voice.
My sword fell with me, and I do not have the time to reach for it. My hand is propelled to the dagger at my hip, and I rip it from its sheath as I thrust myself backward, slamming the side of the weapon into the mouth of my assailant, stopping its infernal bite.
The creature barks - loudly, sharply, deafeningly - and I push the blade further back until its gums leak red unto my armor. It bites, shaking its head so my sweaty grip comes free, and spits the knife back in my face with another harsh woof.
My hands grapple with its fur as I push the animal back. Panicked, I resort to punching it, hard on the side of its snout, and it whimpers, if only for a second, before lunging at me once more, for a taste of my face and neck.
I reach for my dagger.
It is nowhere.
Shout, I tell myself. Scream. Do what you did before. There has to be a way to remember, a system of muscle memory, a call to the Divines for the power of the dragons - a blare that sends fire from my tongue or a way to send the creature soaring down the path like the dark one parted every cloud in the sky. There must be a reason I feel a force when my eyes light up, a call when the dragon comes near.
It cannot fail me now.
I raise my arm in a last cry of defense. It shakes in front of my eyes.
I close them.
"Let me..." I breathe.
And as its cold, sharp fangs enter pale and tender flesh, not a single word escapes my quivering lips.
I feel only a sting in my arm and a weight on my chest when I open my eyes. There is an arrow in its head, an iron one with a soft red fletching three shades lighter than the creature's blood, and my injured arm has punctures in it - not as deep as when I was a child, but they seep quickly of crimson and the skin burns in the cool air.
I lay motionless with the dead beast on top of me.
I simply don't care.
Gawking, Hadvar looms overhead.
"Astrid," he says, carrying his bow. "I didn't know there were two of them out there... I thought for sure you were-"
"Going to die?" I say, grabbing his hand for support. As I arrive to my feet, the beast slides off of me, landing with a grizzly swish. "Me too."
A wry smile teases at my lips, but there's nothing funny about the truth. I have that feeling inside again, the light, dizzy one you get after you puke your guts. My body's still shaking, but there's a sickly satisfaction in me, the taste of panic still lingering in my throat as cold, fresh tears well up in weary eyes. One slides down my cheek, even, but I hurt too much to try and wipe it away.
"Allow me a minute..." I croak.
I don't wait for a response.
There is a river behind the rock where Hadvar was attacked. My father taught me to promptly wash any animal bites to prevent an infection; wolves can give one Rockjoint if allowed, and Father says that's what my uncle died from when I was just a baby girl. It stiffens the arms and legs until one is paralyzed, and eventually the heart and brain will go with them.
As if that information served to mitigate my phobia in any way.
I sit at the water's edge after retrieving my sword and dagger from the path, the river flowing at a relaxing pace that I could get lost in if my heart allows, and I am almost wanting to gaze at my reflection, a sight I have yet to see in what feels like weeks at the least. Besides that, a distant part of me wishes my mother was here, if not to feed me and tell me everything's going to be alright, but to sing to me, the way she once did when I was ten years old, as my father hid ragefully in the depths of our cellar forge.
The water alone will have to suffice, I tell myself. The sound is enough to lull me, and the ripples distorting my tear-streaked face are enough for me to crack a smile. I wonder if I'd be pretty if I was underwater - everyone is beautiful when they are submerged. My hair would float away from my skin, cascading in waves as the water would lift it up and down and up and down, and my icy eyes would shine undaunted amidst the hazy blue backwash.
Maybe then, I would be enough.
I wince as the bitter, sharp coldness splashes against my arm. Steadily, I lower my wound into the mass of cool cerulean, and it takes but a moment to get used to its shiny, raw embrace. Everything stings at first - and I mean everything, from the slash on my knuckles to the punctures in my arm to even the bites on my ravaged fingernails - but soon, I am pacified, and the serenity is enough for me to conjure a resplendent gold orb in the palm of my right hand.
I shine it carefully on my immersed, throbbing injuries, marveling at the way the liberty blue of the river mixes with the crimson cloud of blood, and how only a small slice of magic seems to take the pain away.
Slowly, the bite begins to close.
Call me the Wolf Queen.
"Astrid," says a voice from behind.
All at once, the golden sphere vanishes, and I am left empty handed once again.
"Yes?" I say, turning only slightly to see it is Hadvar, of course.
"Is everything alright?"
"Um, yes," I breathe, clumsily rising to my feet. My swollen arm drips of freezing water, but I do nothing to help the cause. Nothing but shiver. "Let us keep moving."
Further, to our doom...
I listen to morbid thoughts and look at a skeptical expression as I uncork a starchy bottle of healing potion along the path. My limp lessens with every drink, and the punctures, seeming more and more like scar tissue as the seconds drag past, do not sting as they faintly did before. Health tonic, I decide, is something to be admired - if not just for the way it heals as required, but because the change within is palpable as it dances through a weathered system.
Moments transcend us when Hadvar, slowing, points to a mountain between the trees. Taking in what is tall, grey, and faded under a pale blue sky, my thick brows raise as I observe a building on the right of it, something dismal and dolorous that evokes 'haunted crypt' with even the quickest of glance.
The structure, almost, is in layers, made of a towering stone arch near the peak of the mountain, followed by three more descending triangle shapes below it, each serving as guidance to the inevitable entrance at the top. The final one, however, is crowned with a pillar that points skyward, and silently I hunt the deepest crevices of my mind for where I've seen that symbol before.
Ancient Nord architecture, I decide. The triangles give it away.
Hadvar clears his throat.
"See that ruin up there?" he says. "Bleak Falls Barrow."
I feel a chill despite myself.
"When I was a boy," he says, "the place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that kind of thing. I admit, I still don't much like the look of it."
Neither do I, I wish to say back.
But the words do not come free.
We walk hurriedly from the Barrow, as if the Draugr were to reach out and snatch us at that very moment. I've never actually seen one of them, but my father says he's fought his fair share, mostly in Nordic ruins along the Jerall Mountain tops as he looked for ancient smithing secrets or rare materials for his current projects. He always said the skeletons were easy to beat if handled properly, but the more honored Nordic dead, like nobles and great warriors, could be devastating to a neophyte like me. 'Draugr Scourges', he liked to call them. Or, the worst kind, if the name itself doesn't scare you: 'Draugr Deathlords'.
Just the thought of it sends a shiver up my spine.
I'd like to fight one myself.
Despite the sudden pump of adrenaline at the idea, I am becoming dreadfully tired. Then something important happens.
We curve around a winding path until Hadvar stops us again at a different apparatus, although this one is much closer. I try to stifle the somewhat amusing thought that he is now my unofficial tour guide when he points to three stone pillars, arranged carefully on a mossy grey mound, elevated by the riverside. They are eerily beautiful, I decide, however I am not too sure why the word 'eerie' was the first to come into my head. Perhaps it is because of the single holes carved into the face of them - in their unwavering structure, there is strength, but in their apertures, there is emptiness.
"These are the Guardian Stones," my faithful escort says. "They are just three of the 13 ancient Standing Stones dotting Skyrim's landscape."
It's almost becoming comical. Enjoy your stay at the renowned Skyrim Inn. Complementary executioners and dragons absolutely included. And for entertainment, step right up, ladies and gentlebears, and you can be attacked by a real, live wolf!
Right.
I raise my brows at him, my face doing flips to stop the chuckle from slipping free. I must be doing my best jester impression, because he gives me an odd look in response. No matter. "What is their significance?"
He takes a deep breath, and I prepare for the dissertation. "In Cyrodiil, you have birthsigns," he states. "Right?"
I nod.
"Depending on the month a child was born, many believe that they may have greater aptitudes for certain skills." He runs a big hand through light brown hair, then steps into the center of the mound. At first, I fear something magnificent may happen, like an explosion or Akatosh descending onto Nirn, but I am sorely disappointed. He just stands there, sniffing the grassy air, marveling. I wait.
"But in Skyrim," he says after awhile, "you can choose your own fate." He smiles, pointing to the pillar farthest to the left. "Thief." He moves to the center. "Mage." To the right. "Warrior."
Excitement rushes over me.
"Go ahead," he says, hopping off the platform. "See for yourself."
I turned a new age four days before today, on the 13th of Last Seed, under the sign of the Warrior. Everyone in my family differs from me, except my father. He was born on the 27th, and shares the same tenacity for life that I am supposed to. Although I never enjoyed my place in the world being dictated at birth, my sign was something I strove to live up to as a child, albeit silly in the eyes of realists and disproved by the research of scholars. Maybe, if I had been a Tower like my youngest sister - good at lockpicking - or a Lover like my mother - good at everything - it would have been different. Perhaps I wouldn't have cared.
But the Warrior has been my biggest challenge of all, dangling in my face like a scrap of meat just out of reach for a hungry dog. It is like the exit, back in the cave, bright and pure and real and uninhibited, withheld by a savage in a glossy outer coat.
All of me wants to change that.
My heart says yes,
and autonomy courses through me as I am guided to the rise.
There are figures, carved into the bottom of every Stone. The Thief has a hooded character, a dagger in one hand and riches in the other. The Mage is of a bearded wizard, standing tall and proud with a skyward stave. He thinks his Stone is the best of all.
My favorite is on the other side. A warrior man, bare-chested, with a giant ax. Focused, his dark, determined eyes are just visible under a horned helmet, the kind worn by old Nord heroes in those beloved mythological tales, and his ready stance denotes a lust for battle not found among most.
I wish to emulate him, in almost every sense, and I feel myself let go as I place both hands on the carving, the bumpy texture rough under sweating palms.
I am stuck waiting for a moment before I decide something must happen soon. Something, or I have made the wrong choice. Something, or I should question what I believe. Something, or-
Is this truly what you seek?
An unknown voice permeates my thoughts, and I am startled because I know it is not Hadvar. It is old and strained and nothing but a wisp, as if the words themselves could move mountains, but the speaker is doing everything they can to hold their power back. Fear smacks my ribs in pangs, so I try to swivel, but my hands are locked tightly to the Stone, and for the life of all that is good, I am stuck impossibly still.
Who are you? I try to scream. A shout into the wind, perhaps. A call into the vast oblivion. My question goes unanswered, but the stranger makes its shaky return.
It is all I can do not to rip this Stone down with me.
If this is what you want, do not be afraid.
It is a struggle, but something makes me lose tension. I float lifelessly, as I did climbing out of the wagon, and I feel nothing, as I convinced myself I was unafraid. This is what she meant when my town priestess mentioned out of body experiences. Spirit walking. Seeing myself attached to the pillar as I rise, a pulseless being, into pale blue heavens.
Satisfaction fills me when I land, and I am able to move from the place that once bound me. A column of red orange light, starting in the opening, shoots into the clouds as it illuminates the warrior etched into the pillar's firm base, drawing him in lines as if he were nothing but a lonely constellation in a black night sky. The afternoon mist is shaded in dreamy garnet dust, and I cannot hide my wonder as I stare into sweet vermilion clouds - a symphony of passion and bliss, mingling for the very first time.
I gawk, mesmerized, clutching my red diamond necklace in the same color of the sky, for what seems like hours when Hadvar appears beside me.
"The Warrior," he says, shaking his head. "Me too. Although, I don't think I ever got a light show." He chuckles. "It was more like a sensation. Maybe, that I had something important I needed to accomplish."
Moments pass when I whisper, "Me too," and I feel him pat me gently on the back.
Soon, the colors wane, but my fulfillment does not. The taste of copper lingers in my mouth, but it is not reminiscent of blood. Rather, it feels like contentment on my tongue, and the scent of red hot metal fuels me to keep moving forward.
In fact, despite all the brutality I've endured,
I'm glad that I am.
__________
Hey~! As always, thanks so much for reading my fanfiction :) If you liked it, vote~! If you have any opinions or suggestions, comment~! Also, feel free to listen to the song, "Escape Route" by Paramore, linked with this chapter. I find that it really describes Astrid's place in the story right now and may provide a bit more insight on her character. Happy reading~! <3