The old woman’s face fractures along a thousand tiny fault lines, like a Colovian fresco. “Aye,” she says, sounding small now. “My Thorald left to fight with the Stormcloaks, but he’s been missing these three months. Captured by the Legion and he just – disappeared. Everyone says he’s dead, but I know in my heart that my son is alive. Those Battle-Borns, they know it too. Yet they lie to my very face!”
“How do you know that they’re lying?”
“Idolaf grew up with my boys,” she says, more softly. “And he can’t look me in the eye, any more than he could when they snatched my snowberry tarts from the sill.”
Eitri opens his mouth to speak, but Freyja cuts him off. “Maybe we could help,” she says.
Fralia looks like she could cry with gratitude, but she gathers herself quickly. With a glance around, she scoops the last few pieces of jewelry into a basket looped over her arm. “Come with me,” she murmurs.
The instant the door to House Grey-Mane closes behind them, Eitri speaks. “We have a message from your son.”
“You’ve seen Thorald?” gasps Fralia. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
Freyja hears the telltale clink of steel before the bedroom door opens. Even so, she’s unprepared for the burly warrior who bursts into the room, battleaxe already drawn. Swiftly she scrambles back, ripping her sword from its sheath, and puts the firepit between herself and the gleaming double-bladed axe head. “Avulstein!” barks Fralia, in the tones of a Legion drillmaster – or a mother. Freyja remembers the name of the eldest Grey-Mane sibling, but even if she didn’t, it would be all too clear who she’s facing. Though his cheeks are fuller, unstamped by the gaunt lines of captivity, he looks so much like Thorald that he can only be his brother. “What are you thinking, mother? Who is this?” the man hisses.
“Please!” cries Lady Grey-Mane. “Put down your blades – they’re here to help!”
“And how do we know they aren’t Battle-Born spies? This was foolish! If they find me here—”
“I don’t care a silver septim about your damned clan-feud,” Freyja says, temper getting the better of her. She has traveled halfway across Skyrim, killed Thalmor assassins, and fought a giant flying lizard to deliver this message, and now she wants strong mead and a soft bed, not another fight. “Thorald sent us to—”
“She’s lying,” Avulstein growls.
“She’s not,” Eitri counters. The other man tightens his grip on the axe.
“Avulstein Grey-Mane,” Fralia says, quiet but steely. “You are under my roof – as are they. I invited them here, and I won’t have weapons drawn on guests in my home. Put it away.”
He does, looking shame-faced, although his anxiety is still evident in his clenched fists and the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s afraid, Freyja realizes. She wonders what he is doing in Whiterun. Even visiting his family is a risk, when he could be grabbed by a Legion patrol as soon as he sets foot outside the gates. “Fine,” says Avulstein. “You say you’ve seen my brother? Let’s hear it. Where is he, and why did he disappear from the Legion’s prisoner records?”
Freyja hesitates. It’s a lot to explain, especially to a worried mother. “Have you ever heard of Northwatch Keep?” she finally asks.
Lady Grey-Mane shakes her head, but Avulstein immediately looks so appalled that he forgets to be suspicious. “The Thalmor?” he gasps. Closes his eyes, steeling himself. “That’s worse than – oh, gods. At least we know where to hit them.” Fralia doesn’t speak, but her face has gone parchment-white.
Freyja shakes her head. “You don’t—”
“He’s my brother!” the man shouts, and no longer in a mock-whisper. Sinks down onto a wooden bench. “He’s my little brother.”
“Your brother’s alive,” Eitri says. His voice wavers slightly. Freyja glances up, sees a flash of raw envy and grief cross his face before his jaw works and the expression disappears. “That’s what she’s trying to tell you, if you’d listen.”
“How can you possibly—”
“Because we broke him out of Northwatch Keep three weeks ago,” says Freyja. “He's at a hidden pass near the road to Eastmarch, a few miles above White River Gorge - he didn't think it was safe for him inside the city walls."
Songs for Nomads 9.5/9
“How do you know that they’re lying?”
“Idolaf grew up with my boys,” she says, more softly. “And he can’t look me in the eye, any more than he could when they snatched my snowberry tarts from the sill.”
Eitri opens his mouth to speak, but Freyja cuts him off. “Maybe we could help,” she says.
Fralia looks like she could cry with gratitude, but she gathers herself quickly. With a glance around, she scoops the last few pieces of jewelry into a basket looped over her arm. “Come with me,” she murmurs.
The instant the door to House Grey-Mane closes behind them, Eitri speaks. “We have a message from your son.”
“You’ve seen Thorald?” gasps Fralia. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
Freyja hears the telltale clink of steel before the bedroom door opens. Even so, she’s unprepared for the burly warrior who bursts into the room, battleaxe already drawn. Swiftly she scrambles back, ripping her sword from its sheath, and puts the firepit between herself and the gleaming double-bladed axe head. “Avulstein!” barks Fralia, in the tones of a Legion drillmaster – or a mother. Freyja remembers the name of the eldest Grey-Mane sibling, but even if she didn’t, it would be all too clear who she’s facing. Though his cheeks are fuller, unstamped by the gaunt lines of captivity, he looks so much like Thorald that he can only be his brother. “What are you thinking, mother? Who is this?” the man hisses.
“Please!” cries Lady Grey-Mane. “Put down your blades – they’re here to help!”
“And how do we know they aren’t Battle-Born spies? This was foolish! If they find me here—”
“I don’t care a silver septim about your damned clan-feud,” Freyja says, temper getting the better of her. She has traveled halfway across Skyrim, killed Thalmor assassins, and fought a giant flying lizard to deliver this message, and now she wants strong mead and a soft bed, not another fight. “Thorald sent us to—”
“She’s lying,” Avulstein growls.
“She’s not,” Eitri counters. The other man tightens his grip on the axe.
“Avulstein Grey-Mane,” Fralia says, quiet but steely. “You are under my roof – as are they. I invited them here, and I won’t have weapons drawn on guests in my home. Put it away.”
He does, looking shame-faced, although his anxiety is still evident in his clenched fists and the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s afraid, Freyja realizes. She wonders what he is doing in Whiterun. Even visiting his family is a risk, when he could be grabbed by a Legion patrol as soon as he sets foot outside the gates. “Fine,” says Avulstein. “You say you’ve seen my brother? Let’s hear it. Where is he, and why did he disappear from the Legion’s prisoner records?”
Freyja hesitates. It’s a lot to explain, especially to a worried mother. “Have you ever heard of Northwatch Keep?” she finally asks.
Lady Grey-Mane shakes her head, but Avulstein immediately looks so appalled that he forgets to be suspicious. “The Thalmor?” he gasps. Closes his eyes, steeling himself. “That’s worse than – oh, gods. At least we know where to hit them.” Fralia doesn’t speak, but her face has gone parchment-white.
Freyja shakes her head. “You don’t—”
“He’s my brother!” the man shouts, and no longer in a mock-whisper. Sinks down onto a wooden bench. “He’s my little brother.”
“Your brother’s alive,” Eitri says. His voice wavers slightly. Freyja glances up, sees a flash of raw envy and grief cross his face before his jaw works and the expression disappears. “That’s what she’s trying to tell you, if you’d listen.”
“How can you possibly—”
“Because we broke him out of Northwatch Keep three weeks ago,” says Freyja. “He's at a hidden pass near the road to Eastmarch, a few miles above White River Gorge - he didn't think it was safe for him inside the city walls."