It’s mid-morning by the time Freyja returns from Dragonbridge with a simple set of farmer’s clothes, and Solitude is nearly a full day’s walk. Eitri protests when he realizes where they’re headed. “The Thalmor are headquartered in Solitude – even I know that.”
Freyja shrugs. “In theory. But they don’t like sharing Castle Dour with the Legion any more than the Legion likes sharing it with them. All the times I’ve been in Solitude, I’ve seen maybe two or three justiciars. Besides, we’re not going to walk in the front gate. There’s another way in.”
His brows shoot up. “Into Solitude?”
“There’s a passage under the cliff – not hard to find if you know it’s there.”
“Don’t they know there’s a war on? Why haven’t they blocked it off?”
“That’s exactly why they haven’t blocked it off. If the city were under siege they could use it to lead a sortie out behind enemy lines, and it’s a good escape route to the harbor, if it came to that. Besides, you couldn’t bring an army through there, they’d be massacred. And whatever you care to believe about Ulfric Stormcloak, I get the impression that hired assassins aren’t his style – too subtle.” She shrugs again. “They do keep it locked, but you don’t spend ten years fetching family heirlooms out of bandit camps without learning how to pick a lock. It’ll be past nightfall by the time we make it to the city. With any luck, the only person who remembers your face will be the healer, even if the Thalmor do come searching.”
Eitri agrees, reluctantly, and they set off. Freyja steers them quickly away from the road. She’s no desire to meet any more Thalmor patrols, so they follow the steep slope of the land downhill, toward the Karth River. It's her favorite kind of traveling weather: clear and bright, with the teeth of autumn in it. There's a breeze in the river valley, but the sun is hot after a night spent in the foothills of the mountains.
“So how did you find this secret passage?” Eitri asks.
“It pays to remember old stories, now and again. High King Erling had it built for discreet business with a privateer.” Freyja grins. “What kind of business is up for debate.”
Eitri smiles, rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s a sweaty, dusty mess, filled with the grime of a forced march across miles of rough Skyrim roads, and he succeeds only in making it stand on end. But something about the motion calls up a vivid sense-memory of those fingers running over her skin. Freyja flushes.
She's no idea what made her fall into bed so readily with a man she barely knows, even now. It's true she felt his story like an exquisite ache in every bone, but she's heard a lot of sad stories in her life; everyone in Skyrim seems to have one, these days. A daughter lost in battle, a Markarth father trampled in the lord's game of greed and power, an uncle caught between two sides of a war and crushed as it grinds into motion, like a glacier marching toward the sea. Was it mere loneliness? The sudden camaraderie, the closeness within the warm ring of the fire's light? The world seems very open in the sun, and their huddle of raw emotion and clashing bodies very foolish. Yes, she was impressed by his simple courage, but she's known plenty of brave men - in far less intimate physical detail.
It had been, she reflects, a very long time. The thought prompts a twinge of guilt - she did not give herself to Indros so freely, and he was far more than a chance acquaintance - but perhaps it's as simple as that. At any rate it won't happen again. She has learned her lesson about sleeping with traveling companions.
“Right,” she says, to arrest that line of thought. “Your cousin – how did he go missing?”
Eitri drags at his hair again. “Brokkr’s a hunter by trade. We work together a lot, actually: he sells me pelts at a discount, I fix up his gear for free, that sort of thing. A few times a year he heads into the city to trade. Falkreath, usually. It’s smaller than Riften, but it’s about the same distance, and there’s less chance of losing your coin purse – plus he was sweet on a girl there. He was late getting back, but I didn’t think much of it. Good hunting between there and Ivarstead, and sometimes there are snowstorms in the pass."
"What changed your mind?"
"Helgen," he says. "You know about Helgen, right?"
Songs For Nomads 2.1
Freyja shrugs. “In theory. But they don’t like sharing Castle Dour with the Legion any more than the Legion likes sharing it with them. All the times I’ve been in Solitude, I’ve seen maybe two or three justiciars. Besides, we’re not going to walk in the front gate. There’s another way in.”
His brows shoot up. “Into Solitude?”
“There’s a passage under the cliff – not hard to find if you know it’s there.”
“Don’t they know there’s a war on? Why haven’t they blocked it off?”
“That’s exactly why they haven’t blocked it off. If the city were under siege they could use it to lead a sortie out behind enemy lines, and it’s a good escape route to the harbor, if it came to that. Besides, you couldn’t bring an army through there, they’d be massacred. And whatever you care to believe about Ulfric Stormcloak, I get the impression that hired assassins aren’t his style – too subtle.” She shrugs again. “They do keep it locked, but you don’t spend ten years fetching family heirlooms out of bandit camps without learning how to pick a lock. It’ll be past nightfall by the time we make it to the city. With any luck, the only person who remembers your face will be the healer, even if the Thalmor do come searching.”
Eitri agrees, reluctantly, and they set off. Freyja steers them quickly away from the road. She’s no desire to meet any more Thalmor patrols, so they follow the steep slope of the land downhill, toward the Karth River. It's her favorite kind of traveling weather: clear and bright, with the teeth of autumn in it. There's a breeze in the river valley, but the sun is hot after a night spent in the foothills of the mountains.
“So how did you find this secret passage?” Eitri asks.
“It pays to remember old stories, now and again. High King Erling had it built for discreet business with a privateer.” Freyja grins. “What kind of business is up for debate.”
Eitri smiles, rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s a sweaty, dusty mess, filled with the grime of a forced march across miles of rough Skyrim roads, and he succeeds only in making it stand on end. But something about the motion calls up a vivid sense-memory of those fingers running over her skin. Freyja flushes.
She's no idea what made her fall into bed so readily with a man she barely knows, even now. It's true she felt his story like an exquisite ache in every bone, but she's heard a lot of sad stories in her life; everyone in Skyrim seems to have one, these days. A daughter lost in battle, a Markarth father trampled in the lord's game of greed and power, an uncle caught between two sides of a war and crushed as it grinds into motion, like a glacier marching toward the sea. Was it mere loneliness? The sudden camaraderie, the closeness within the warm ring of the fire's light? The world seems very open in the sun, and their huddle of raw emotion and clashing bodies very foolish. Yes, she was impressed by his simple courage, but she's known plenty of brave men - in far less intimate physical detail.
It had been, she reflects, a very long time. The thought prompts a twinge of guilt - she did not give herself to Indros so freely, and he was far more than a chance acquaintance - but perhaps it's as simple as that. At any rate it won't happen again. She has learned her lesson about sleeping with traveling companions.
“Right,” she says, to arrest that line of thought. “Your cousin – how did he go missing?”
Eitri drags at his hair again. “Brokkr’s a hunter by trade. We work together a lot, actually: he sells me pelts at a discount, I fix up his gear for free, that sort of thing. A few times a year he heads into the city to trade. Falkreath, usually. It’s smaller than Riften, but it’s about the same distance, and there’s less chance of losing your coin purse – plus he was sweet on a girl there. He was late getting back, but I didn’t think much of it. Good hunting between there and Ivarstead, and sometimes there are snowstorms in the pass."
"What changed your mind?"
"Helgen," he says. "You know about Helgen, right?"