As Eitri predicted, they soon leave the Anthors behind them, trading the switchbacks of the mountain road for a more gently sloping track. When it grows broader and better maintained, it also grows less deserted. A farmer named Loreius even offers them a ride in the bed of his wagon, glad for the protection of three armed travelers; he’s returning from a late-season trading run to Dawnstar, where the thin soil and harsh weather guarantee a good price for his vegetables, and apparently had a narrow escape with the bandits in Dunstad Pass. Thorald asks eagerly after any news from Whiterun, but Freyja sits silently amongst the mended tools and baskets of smoked fish, watching the countryside roll by. She knows this land. On his longest hunting trips her father sometimes ranged as far as Giant’s Gap, and once or twice she camped with him nearby. When she was seventeen she killed her ice wraith at the Weynon Stones and left its teeth as an offering at the shrine to Talos. Not far from the shrine the road curves east, slipping away to tryst with the slender Yorgrim valley; but near due south, yet hidden beyond the jumbled swells of the Heljarchen Hills, lies the windswept heath of Whiterun hold. Already she spies familiar landmarks. To the southeast Freyja can see the sharkstooth crown of Shearpoint. If they keep that mountain to their left they will strike the White River – and then the city to which the river has given its name.
Loreius’ farm turns out to be a small homestead atop a hill, with winter wheat planted in one field and chickens pecking amongst the fallow rows of another. Like a day laborer the sun is starting its homeward trudge, and the farmer invites them in. They’ve barely crossed the threshold when Thorald freezes. Seeing that her husband brought guests, Lorieus’ wife has laid the table with bread, meat and mead according to Nordic custom. But the woman isn’t a Nord. She’s not even an Imperial, like her husband. Though she wears the simple dress and work-roughened hands of every other homestead farmer’s wife in Skyrim, she has the golden skin and slanted eyes of an Altmer.
The farmer narrows his eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Eitri says, laying a hand on Thorald’s shoulder when the other man’s throat works without forming any words. “There’s no problem.”
“Won’t you stay?” asks the wife, but she looks uncertain.
“We can’t impose,” Eitri says. “Kynareth’s blessing on you for your hospitality, truly. But you’ve just gotten your husband back from a long journey, and we’ve still many miles to travel.” With that he steps firmly back through the door with Thorald in tow. Freyja, fairly certain she can’t improve on his courtesy, simply nods her thanks and follow them out.
They’ve barely made it down the hill before Thorald sits down hard and puts his head between his knees. Freyja can hear the air whistling through his teeth. “Breathe,” she advises; she’s seen this sort of reaction before, in war veterans and kidnap victims. Eitri offers a hand, and Thorald grips it so hard that the former smith actually winces.
Finally Thorald surfaces, white-faced and sweaty. “Sorry,” he manages.
“Not all Altmer are Thalmor,” Freyja reminds him, quietly.
“I know.” His tone is startlingly vicious, but the anger evaporates as quickly as it appears, leaving only exhaustion. “Just took me off guard.” Freyja wonders if the woman’s appearance was truly enough to panic him so, or if this is a delayed response to the other night’s attack – or to the orders their attackers carried. If the Thalmor knew her by name and wanted her dead gods know she’d be nervous, and her reasons to fear them don’t go nearly as deep as Thorald’s.
Weary in several senses, they slog halfway up the next rise before letting their packs fall amongst the rocks in an old mammoth boneyard. An odd place to camp, but a natural spring – the same that attracted the dying mammoths, no doubt – wells up from the ground there, and a few winterkilled trees nearby make for excellent firewood. Still, it’s an eerie spot to sleep. Great granite boulders ring them in like faceless sentinels. Elk bugle in the nearby forest while moonlight glints off the old ivory. The three of them huddle together round the fire, not yet willing to go to their bedrolls.
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timeasmymeasure
Songs for Nomads 8.4
Date: 2014-09-14 05:50 pm (UTC)Loreius’ farm turns out to be a small homestead atop a hill, with winter wheat planted in one field and chickens pecking amongst the fallow rows of another. Like a day laborer the sun is starting its homeward trudge, and the farmer invites them in. They’ve barely crossed the threshold when Thorald freezes. Seeing that her husband brought guests, Lorieus’ wife has laid the table with bread, meat and mead according to Nordic custom. But the woman isn’t a Nord. She’s not even an Imperial, like her husband. Though she wears the simple dress and work-roughened hands of every other homestead farmer’s wife in Skyrim, she has the golden skin and slanted eyes of an Altmer.
The farmer narrows his eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Eitri says, laying a hand on Thorald’s shoulder when the other man’s throat works without forming any words. “There’s no problem.”
“Won’t you stay?” asks the wife, but she looks uncertain.
“We can’t impose,” Eitri says. “Kynareth’s blessing on you for your hospitality, truly. But you’ve just gotten your husband back from a long journey, and we’ve still many miles to travel.” With that he steps firmly back through the door with Thorald in tow. Freyja, fairly certain she can’t improve on his courtesy, simply nods her thanks and follow them out.
They’ve barely made it down the hill before Thorald sits down hard and puts his head between his knees. Freyja can hear the air whistling through his teeth. “Breathe,” she advises; she’s seen this sort of reaction before, in war veterans and kidnap victims. Eitri offers a hand, and Thorald grips it so hard that the former smith actually winces.
Finally Thorald surfaces, white-faced and sweaty. “Sorry,” he manages.
“Not all Altmer are Thalmor,” Freyja reminds him, quietly.
“I know.” His tone is startlingly vicious, but the anger evaporates as quickly as it appears, leaving only exhaustion. “Just took me off guard.” Freyja wonders if the woman’s appearance was truly enough to panic him so, or if this is a delayed response to the other night’s attack – or to the orders their attackers carried. If the Thalmor knew her by name and wanted her dead gods know she’d be nervous, and her reasons to fear them don’t go nearly as deep as Thorald’s.
Weary in several senses, they slog halfway up the next rise before letting their packs fall amongst the rocks in an old mammoth boneyard. An odd place to camp, but a natural spring – the same that attracted the dying mammoths, no doubt – wells up from the ground there, and a few winterkilled trees nearby make for excellent firewood. Still, it’s an eerie spot to sleep. Great granite boulders ring them in like faceless sentinels. Elk bugle in the nearby forest while moonlight glints off the old ivory. The three of them huddle together round the fire, not yet willing to go to their bedrolls.