They were leagues from anywhere, set out to camp in a patch of dirt high above a forest, with the sun warming their backs and the smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air. Breakfast was stale bread, salted beef, and mead, heated over the coals of a dying fire. Lydia stretched her legs while she ate. It was a good day.
The Thane of Whiterun seemed not to notice. He was sitting hunched over with a tin cup of mead cooling in his hand, staring ahead, at nothing, as though the life had been carved out of him.
Lydia kicked his boot, and he glanced at her like he'd forgotten she was there. "You can't sit here like this all day. My Thane," she added. They had been traveling together for nearly a month; her Thanes had faded into infrequency. He never indicated that he cared.
He looked deep into his cup, as if some answer were hiding in the bottom. "Will you go back to Whiterun and wait for me?"
With Whiterun came hot baths, fresh food, and lively company. As pleasant as it was to slay bandits and conquer mountaintops, ending each day covered in gore and glory, Lydia didn't need time to think. "Of course."
"Good." Her Thane poured the contents of his cup out on the ground. He started to rise, but hesitated, and leaned over to rest his blond head against hers for a moment, and then stood, tall and serious. Lydia felt a wave of affection for him. No one could call him warm - he hardly smiled and rarely spoke - but he had quiet ways of showing his thanks.
"I won't be long," he said, turning away.
"Be careful," Lydia answered, though the Dragonborn had little to fear, which was a good part of why she respected him. She packed her bedroll, collected her weapons, and left the camp.
Within a day she was nearly back to Whiterun. The plains stretched out below her; Dragonsreach was a shimmer on the horizon. She could hardly wait to drink with the guards, laugh at the Jarl's children, brag to Irileth of the things she had seen and the thieves she had slain. She was going down the mountain as fast as she could without breaking her neck, sliding on pine needles and pebbles.
Halfway down, a pale branch tripped her. There was nothing to catch; no desperate handholds to grab. She felt weightless for a moment, anchored to nothing, and then slammed face-first into the ground. A jutting boulder stopped her from smashing every bone in her body on the way down the mountain. She spat pine needles and dirt when she got up, rubbing her chin: she'd scraped it on something, though her armor had protected her from any other scratches.
And where was the damned thing that had done it to her? She stomped back up the slope, raking a hand through leaf-tangled hair - and there it was. A pale branch, she thought again; but now she saw that she was wrong. This branch was pale pink. Strips of wet red hung from the end, stringy muscle trailing over the dirt. A foot in a rough leather shoe was twisted at an unnatural angle.
She could not tell, coming closer, whether it was a man's or a woman's. The shoe was plain brown, the kind you could get for one or two gold. A farmer's shoe. As she was wondering where it had come from, and why it was there, she looked up.
A dark gaping mouth in the rock answered her.
The cave opening was narrow, but tall: many things could slide through it, dragging bloody trophies.
The Dragonborn would never shy from this. A true Nord would not run from this. She wrapped her hand around the hilt of her sword, suddenly aware that her palm was cold with sweat, and pulled it from its scabbard.
The darkness closed around her, and the sounds of the wind behind her became quiet and muffled. Her nose adjusted faster than her eyes: the cave smelled like wet rock and something else, something foul, a humid rot that stuck in her throat and hung there, making her want to gag.
There was a pale blue light ahead. She moved forward.
A few steps in she put her foot down on an edge she couldn't see. The feeling of rocks sliding out and dragging her boot with them nearly made her drop her sword, and she inhaled sharply and pulled back. Had she been going faster, she would have fallen, and she couldn't tell how far the drop was.
Tunneldown 1/??
The Thane of Whiterun seemed not to notice. He was sitting hunched over with a tin cup of mead cooling in his hand, staring ahead, at nothing, as though the life had been carved out of him.
Lydia kicked his boot, and he glanced at her like he'd forgotten she was there. "You can't sit here like this all day. My Thane," she added. They had been traveling together for nearly a month; her Thanes had faded into infrequency. He never indicated that he cared.
He looked deep into his cup, as if some answer were hiding in the bottom. "Will you go back to Whiterun and wait for me?"
With Whiterun came hot baths, fresh food, and lively company. As pleasant as it was to slay bandits and conquer mountaintops, ending each day covered in gore and glory, Lydia didn't need time to think. "Of course."
"Good." Her Thane poured the contents of his cup out on the ground. He started to rise, but hesitated, and leaned over to rest his blond head against hers for a moment, and then stood, tall and serious. Lydia felt a wave of affection for him. No one could call him warm - he hardly smiled and rarely spoke - but he had quiet ways of showing his thanks.
"I won't be long," he said, turning away.
"Be careful," Lydia answered, though the Dragonborn had little to fear, which was a good part of why she respected him. She packed her bedroll, collected her weapons, and left the camp.
Within a day she was nearly back to Whiterun. The plains stretched out below her; Dragonsreach was a shimmer on the horizon. She could hardly wait to drink with the guards, laugh at the Jarl's children, brag to Irileth of the things she had seen and the thieves she had slain. She was going down the mountain as fast as she could without breaking her neck, sliding on pine needles and pebbles.
Halfway down, a pale branch tripped her. There was nothing to catch; no desperate handholds to grab. She felt weightless for a moment, anchored to nothing, and then slammed face-first into the ground. A jutting boulder stopped her from smashing every bone in her body on the way down the mountain. She spat pine needles and dirt when she got up, rubbing her chin: she'd scraped it on something, though her armor had protected her from any other scratches.
And where was the damned thing that had done it to her? She stomped back up the slope, raking a hand through leaf-tangled hair - and there it was. A pale branch, she thought again; but now she saw that she was wrong. This branch was pale pink. Strips of wet red hung from the end, stringy muscle trailing over the dirt. A foot in a rough leather shoe was twisted at an unnatural angle.
She could not tell, coming closer, whether it was a man's or a woman's. The shoe was plain brown, the kind you could get for one or two gold. A farmer's shoe. As she was wondering where it had come from, and why it was there, she looked up.
A dark gaping mouth in the rock answered her.
The cave opening was narrow, but tall: many things could slide through it, dragging bloody trophies.
The Dragonborn would never shy from this. A true Nord would not run from this. She wrapped her hand around the hilt of her sword, suddenly aware that her palm was cold with sweat, and pulled it from its scabbard.
The darkness closed around her, and the sounds of the wind behind her became quiet and muffled. Her nose adjusted faster than her eyes: the cave smelled like wet rock and something else, something foul, a humid rot that stuck in her throat and hung there, making her want to gag.
There was a pale blue light ahead. She moved forward.
A few steps in she put her foot down on an edge she couldn't see. The feeling of rocks sliding out and dragging her boot with them nearly made her drop her sword, and she inhaled sharply and pulled back. Had she been going faster, she would have fallen, and she couldn't tell how far the drop was.