Ultimately, I rewrote the entirety of this chapter from scratch. I decided to expand on Caril's recovery and tried to flesh out some of the characters some more than I originally had written. This chapter has a significantly lighter mood than the others so far, although this is about as light as the story will get.

? Rain's Hand, 4E 201

Caril groaned as a throb of pain surged through his body. He could not… he did not remember. His eyes fluttered open. Where was he? A house? He did not know the house from anywhere.

"Finally awake, then?"

Caril jolted up upon hearing the accented Nordic. He almost immediately fell back over, his head swimming with pain from every resisting muscle.

"Yeah, you're awake."

Caril blinked away the water clouding his vision and looked around wearily. A Bosmer man was watching him from a chair. He tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows, "I have to ask what in Oblivion happened to you, you know. I found you passed out in the middle of the road halfway between here and Falkreath."

"I—" Caril's voice wavered slightly, "Stormcloaks attacked my horse and…"

"And?" the Bosmer's expression turned more serious than it had been.

Caril gazed up at the thatched ceiling. Had all that really happened? It seemed so surreal. The torture was still fresh in his mind but the dragon? The dragon had to be a hallucination of his panicked mind.

"You know what, I think your body speaks for yourself," he stood up and crossed the tightly packed room to the fireplace, where he tossed another log in, "You have a name?"

Caril sat up slowly this time, careful not to agitate anything, "It's… Tiralyn."

The Bosmer stood and walked up to Caril, crouching down beside him and holding is hand out, "Faendal." Cautiously, Caril shook Faendal's hand, "How did you end up in the middle of nowhere, anyway? There aren't any Stormcloak camps nearby."

"It's a long story." In truth, Caril did not really want to retell the story to anyone, least of all someone he didn't know.

"Are you planning to go somewhere?" asked Faendal. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Caril a smug look, "I'd frankly be impressed if you could stand of your own volition right now."

Caril outwardly flinched at the stinging truth. He was going nowhere for a long time. Sore muscles, remedially patched wounds, and broken bones would keep him firmly planted where he was.

Silence fell over the tiny house as Faendal seemed to catch the hint that Caril did not wish to speak. Caril was relieved, he was allowed to simply stare down into his lap and think. A long time passed and Caril felt he had gotten nothing accomplished with thinking. Most of the time he was simply staring, his mind oddly blank. Maybe that was more a blessing than anything.

Eventually, it seemed that the Bosmer could no longer keep his mouth shut about anything. He was soon sitting cross-legged on the floor by Caril and rambling about his most recent hunting trip. It was not helping Caril soothe his mind in the least. Faendal's voice simply did not fade into the background as the voices of so many others did when Caril lost interest in the conversation. At some point, Faendal even slipped back into Bosmeris while recounting a tale where he was nearly eaten by a bear, Caril could only pick out bits and pieces of the one-way conversation. It seemed Faendal was originally from a part of Valenwood that had an extremely regionalized version of the language that was hard to understand for even Caril, where Bosmeris was his second most spoken language.

He was growing tired again, his body was demanding rest from a mind that did not want to give it. Long since Faendal had started rattling off stories, Caril laid down on his back again rather than straining himself any longer. This was going to be a long recovery.

"Not to mention that stupid old bat mother of Sven's was shouting about seeing a dragon. Stark raving mad, that one—" That caught Caril's attention. He sat up again and stared at Faendal, who shut his mouth and gave Caril a confused look at Caril's serious demeanor, "Was it something I said?"

"The dragon, someone saw it?"

Faendal raised his eyebrows, "Excuse me?"

"The dragon, what about the dragon?" Caril repeated.

"Someone was raving about seeing one, 'big as a mountain and black as night' she said, I think. She said it flew over a ruin nearby. Do you believe that nonsense?"

Caril did not immediately reply. He knew he had not hallucinated the dragon attack but how would he approach the subject without sounding like a madman? "What would you say if I told you I was there when the dragon attacked?"

"I would say you were crazy." Faendal stood up and walked across the room and back, a steady rhythm forming out of his pacing, "But… but your injuries aren't from Stormcloaks, at least not all of them." Faendal looked pointedly at the parts of Caril's skin that were not covered in bandages, the parts that showed the strangely even, red burns, "So I really don't know what I'd say."

"It attacked and destroyed Helgen," said Caril. He clenched his hands into fists to prevent them from shaking upon recounting the memory, "I got out through a cave that was connected to the keep."

"Why were you in Helgen? I thought you said you were captured by Stormcloaks. Helgen is Imperial." Faendal watched Caril carefully.

"I was in Helgen because the Stormcloak camp I was held at was raided by Imperials. They didn't seem to care that I am not a Stormcloak."

Faendal shrugged and whispered, "Probably thought you were some Thalmor agent."

"What?"

"The Imperials probably thought you were a Thalmor agent. I don't think the Empire would be able to resist being able to wash their hands of another one."

Caril simply stared. The audacity of the Empire!

"You aren't one, right? A Thalmor?"

"N-no, I am not."

A weight seemed to lift of Faendal's shoulders, he appeared much more relaxed, "Good."

"Good?" asked Caril.

"Valenwood isn't the happiest place anymore, I'll have you know," he answered, with another shrug, "Empire's in worse shape, though. I would go back but…" he drifted off, looking wistful. Shaking his head, he turned back to Caril, "So you claim there was a dragon that attacked and destroyed Helgen?"

Caril nodded once.

"I don't know. They've been dead since—when? The First Era or something? Seems like a stretch for them to come back thousands of years later and destroy Helgen, of all places. It's bit far-fetched, don't you think?"

"More than a little," agreed Caril.

21 Rain's Hand, 4E 201

Caril spent a few days mostly sleeping. He was drained from the events of the previous week, emotionally and physically. He was unsure why Faendal was being so hospitable towards him but he did not dwell on it much, having food and a roof over his head was enough for Caril not to care.

Soon, he was strong enough to walk, though only short distances. His leg was not broken after all, a fact for which Caril was immensely grateful, and was quickly healing. The bruises and burns were fast on their way out as well. Only a few injuries were severe, Caril noted: the stab in his leg from the first day being held by the Stormcloaks, the gash on his arm from the Stormcloak's battleaxe in Helgen, and his shoulder injury, also from Helgen.

Thankfully, none of those injuries were terribly painful after they were left for a few days to heal. Caril determined he did break his collarbone, though only mildly. To some extent, Caril wished he had broken his wrist or arm over his collarbone. He had the injury once when he was a child and it had been a long process to heal and return his arm to normal. A broken wrist meant he could at least use the arm to some extent before it repaired itself. His current arm, kept in a sling, was nearly useless for everything. The break was not on his dominant side, though. He was still able to write those reports for Elenwen, gods forbid.

Speaking of which, what was he going to do? He had nothing to report to Elenwen. He was quite sure he did not want to tell Elenwen of his experience at Helgen, or his capture by the Stormcloaks, for that matter.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare all day?" asked Faendal. He appeared at Caril's side by the bank of the river with his hands on his hips.

"As opposed to what? Sit and stare all day inside?" said Caril.

Maybe what he said was a bit harsh because Faendal went stomping off after that, but Caril was hardly in the mood to talk. For all he cared, Faendal could go and try to woo the woman he spoke about so often.

Caril dropped his hand into the river's icy water and his fingers went numb within seconds. He wished his worries would do the same, go numb. The thoughts about what he would tell Elenwen would not leave his mind. He could say he encountered unexpected hardship on the way to the Rift and did not make it in time. That was true but what would Elenwen care? It seemed all that mattered in her mind was what would aid her operation in Skyrim and what would not. That information would not.

He did not want to tell her he had let slip all the information about the Thalmor in Skyrim. He could be killed for that. Not that his execution on Elenwen's orders would be probable, but it was at least legal and plausible, and that worried Caril.

Elenwen did not need to know the circumstances that led him to be stuck in Whiterun Hold for an extended period of time. She would never know.

"You made it!"

Caril snapped out of his thoughts. It sounded like it was directed at him but why would anyone have anything to say to him? He didn't know anyone but Faendal.

Caril looked around his shoulder and hated it when he saw the blond Stormcloak, Ralof, limping towards him. Anyone but him. Why could it not have been the friendly Legionnaire who genuinely tried to help Caril through?

"I thought for sure you were going die," he said.

Caril tried his best to ignore Ralof. He was unsure whether he could take anything the man could say to him. He needed to be alone right now, to dwell in his own thoughts, not hear those of others.

"Why did you attack us?" Ralof asked. He sounded tired but not tired enough to hide his accusatory tone, "We were helping you, you know."

Caril pressed his knees to his chest. He was haunted by what he did. Not that he regretted defending himself or killing the one Nord, he was frightened of what Skyrim was doing to him. Was he going to end up like Ancano soon? Spied on by his own because they doubted his sanity? With the sword pointed at him, in the dark haze of fear, he was consumed by… by…

"You were going to kill me," said Caril.

"We were going to do no such thing. You were our only way out of there—"

"—Obviously not your only way."

Ralof ignored the comment, "We were panicked, yeah? It isn't unreasonable to think we were worried you were some Legionnaire."

"Idiot."

"Well excuse me for trying to figure out what happened to you."

Caril snorted with indignation. What could the stupid, ignorant, backstabbing human want to learn from him? What reason did he have to care? It was just some new form of tormenting him, surely. Caril stood up and tried not to show he was still limping on his injured leg as he stormed off, "I don't understand what more you want out of me. I'm just some evil High Elf, right? You are just going to stick a knife in my stomach the second I get too close."

"Are you kidding me? Why in Oblivion would y—"

Caril's positively vicious glare stopped Ralof dead in his tracks, "Why do I think that? What reason have you given me not to think that?"

"Get out of here, Ralof."

Faendal to the rescue. Caril was unsure whether he was relieved someone else was taking over the argument or annoyed that Faendal, who was even more talkative than Ralof could ever hope to be, was back.

"I was just trying to—"

"—I don't care what you were trying to do, just leave."

"But—"

"—Don't care."

"He was—"

"—Go away, Ralof."

"Helgen—"

"—Leave."

"The dragon…" Upon looking at Faendal's unimpressed, angry expression, Ralof let out a loud groan and walked off, muttering a string of curses as he left.

Faendal sighed, some of the tension ebbed away from him, "You okay?"

Caril nodded curtly, "Fine."

He was not fine but he would be. In time, the memories would fade just like his physical wounds. For now, though, he woke up in a cold sweat from reliving the pain in his dreams just as often as his wounds.

"I would be a lot more sympathetic to their cause if stories like yours didn't keep cropping up every few months," said Faendal disappointedly.

"Stories like mine?" asked Caril.

Faendal nodded, "Word gets around that the Stormcloaks grab someone every so often, most commonly an Altmer, and extort information from them by any means necessary, even if they don't know anything."

"I—" Caril choked on his own words. How long had this been going on? Was it even a relief to know that he was not the only one?

"I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, Tiralyn, but I can't help but worry about the day Whiterun allies itself with the Stormcloaks."

"Why?" asked Caril. He pressed his lips in a thin line and watched Faendal intently.

"It's inevitable, most people know it. Jarl Balgruuf is a good man, keeping us out of the war so far but Whiterun isn't in the same situation as any of the other Imperial Holds. Whiterun is one of the wealthiest Holds in Skyrim, so we don't rely on the Empire's money or food like Haafingar and Falkreath, and we don't have the political pressure of the Markarth Incident forcing us to ally with the Empire, either. The war has been calm for a long time and it's only a matter of time before Ulfric asks for Balgruuf's allegiance or takes it by force…" Faendal trailed off for a moment and glanced regretfully at his tiny house, "It's hard to make ends meet now and if the Stormcloaks take over, it's only going to get harder."

"What about the Stormcloaks makes it harder?" Caril could imagine some aspects, like the damage done from a battle itself, but Faendal sounded like there was more to it than just that.

"You really haven't been here long, have you?"

Caril shook his head.

"They make it ridiculously hard for anyone who isn't a Nord to make money. It's an uphill battle for anyone to keep a shop open, you're constantly fighting with the new Jarl and guards from what I've heard. Riften used to be pretty rich from what I hear, but now they're struggling to keep half their economy going after the Stormcloaks took over. Not to mention what's happened to Windhelm," he shuddered quietly as if a bucket of icy water was dumped over him, "I give meat and fur to a good chunk of this town and it seems like it'll be nearly impossible with an untrusting Stormcloak presence."

Caril could sympathize with that. He could see Stormcloaks being resistant to a mer hunter trying to feed their new charges. They would not like it one bit. The lengths Faendal probably went through to earn the small town's trust, being only one of three non-Nords, let alone the only mer, would have to be done all over again if the Stormcloaks took over.

"Why are you helping me if you can't take care of yourself?" asked Caril as the thought drifted to his mind. Faendal was probably one of the poorest residents in the town, always wearing ill-fitting, ragged clothes, and hoarding everything he had the slightest chance of selling to someone in his tiny home.

"Because you were going to be eaten by the wolves if I left you there and I thought, I don't know, seeing a different face for once would be a relief," he shrugged, attempting to make the conversation more casual.

Caril had tenfold more respect for Faendal at that moment. He was grating at times and too talkative for Caril's liking but he was the first honest person he'd met so far in Skyrim, "Why a relief?"

"Because I have to face the facts at some point, the only reason half this town tolerates my presence is because they'd go hungry without me. Nords don't understand that hunting with an axe doesn't work and there's a finesse to it that they just don't, or won't, understand," said Faendal. He shrugged again, "A few people are nice like the blacksmith and his nephew, before he went off to join the Legion, and the Valerius siblings, even Ralof is halfway decent but still…"

"Were you poor even before you came here?" asked Caril. He found it hard to believe that, unless under extreme circumstances, anyone would chose to come and live under such conditions.

"Yes, but not to this extent. My family worked at a vineyard, a big one, and we were given everything we needed if we worked there for less pay. It was comfortable." Faendal sat down on the ground at long last, it didn't take Caril long to mimic the movement and sit opposite him, "Were you?"

"Was I poor?" asked Caril. With Faendal's nod, Caril shook his head, "No. I wasn't. It was hard for anyone who lived in Alinor to be poor."

"You lived in Alinor?" Faendal's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline, "The capital city? No way! You must've… I don't even know… How rich were you, anyway?"

Very. A good deal of family inheritance and a well-paying job at the Institute left him in one of the wealthiest brackets of the city, "Somewhat, I suppose. I had some money from my family and my job paid well."

"What did you do?"

"I was a scholar at the Institute," answered Caril. He did not need to say that he was among the twenty most well-respected magic scholars in the Dominion, top hundred in Tamriel.

Faendal laughed and shook his head. There was some resentment in his voice but it was mostly amused, "A scholar," he snorted, "That kind of thing doesn't pay here. It's a bit ridiculous, all you do is read books and you would probably get paid in a month ten times what my family would make in a year at that vineyard."

Caril could not help but agree with Faendal. He enjoyed the money he made but thought that maybe some of it could have been given to a person who actually needed it. He had hundreds of thousands of Septims worth of gold, jewels, and other valuable things lying in vaults in the banks and in his home that he never thought twice about using, let alone for charity. He was not alone. Every member of Ondolemar's family was in the same situation as Caril, very few members of the Institute could say did not have more money than they needed, Alinor was one of, if not the richest city in the world.

"I've been fine without books my whole life. I just don't get why you were basically paid because you could read."

"You're illiterate?"

"Does that surprise you?"

Not particularly, if Caril was brutally honest to himself. An unsightly amount of people were illiterate in Summerset, speak nothing of the rest of Tamriel. Places like Skyrim, Elsweyr, and Black Marsh were the worst in terms of literacy, their society worked around the day to day survival while education, especially the difficult task of reading, took a back seat, but the rest of the world suffered from it as well. Valenwood was no exception.

"I don't have the money to spend on books as it is, so why would I bother trying to learn at this point?"

Faendal made a decent point, there was no way to make a book cheap and affordable for someone like him.

24 Rain's Hand, 4E 201

There was nothing Caril could do, he liked Faendal. After talking more personally with him, Caril did not see Faendal as the chatty elf who could not take a hint so much as the chatty elf who could not take a hint but was at least amiable.

Caril found himself following Faendal around while he ran his day to day errands, much to Faendal's annoyance. That annoyance turned into seething anger when they bumped into Camilla Valerius, the woman Faendal was disgustingly infatuated with.

She was pretty—for a human. Caril gave her that much.

The world's deadliest snake could not have been more poisonous than the looks Faendal was giving Caril when Camilla promptly started doting all over his injuries. Caril had no interest in turning a love-triangle into a love-whatever but an unusual sense of wanting to tease Faendal let him entertain the human woman for nearly an hour.

"Camilla, I think he will be fine," said Faendal.

Caril was wearing an utterly bored look on his face as the woman tended to the gash on his arm. He was completely shirtless and that fact very clearly upset Faendal. Caril wondered why, in truth. The only reason his ungainly skinny body had not grown fat was because of the amazing metabolism in all Altmer. He was not particularly fit or muscled, the woman had really nothing to look at, though Faendal did not seem to care.

"It can't hurt, Faendal. I'll be done in a moment," she replied.

"Look, it's healing! How much more medicine does he need?" Faendal pointed to some of the cuts on Caril's chest that were clearly healing over.

"Some, actually," corrected Caril. He glanced over the shelves of items in the shop, "I need an antidote for magicka poison."

"I can see what we have in stock," said Camilla. She stood up briefly and shouted up the stairs of their home for her brother, who came stumbling down the stairs a moment later, wiping his hand on a grubby rag, "Check our stock to see if we have an antidote for magicka poison."

"I doubt you would have the strength I need," said Caril.

"'I doubt you have the strength…'" mocked Faendal under his breath, "What, Tiralyn? Do you expect me to pay for that, too? Magicka poison my ass."

"Stop it, Faendal," said Camilla warningly, "If you two can't afford anything we have, we'll figure out something to pay it off later. How does that sound?"

Faendal did not try to hide his sarcasm, "Wonderful."

"Again, I highly doubt you will have what I need."

"Nonsense," she waved her hand dismissively, then started to bandage his arm with new linens, "We have good stock here, get shipments from Arcadia in Whiterun. She's as good an alchemist as any."

"I highly doubt you have what I need," Caril was growing tired of repeating himself. A tiny store in a tiny town would not have an antidote that would cost customers easily over a hundred Septims a dose.

The poison was wearing off on its own, slowly. He felt his magicka was about a third restored but that was not nearly enough. He would not feel safe and confident until he felt all of it flowing through him properly again.

"If you don't have any confidence in what we're selling, fine," she finished bandaging his arm, shoved the old mage robes back in his arms, and gave a huff, "Then you are welcome to leave."

"No, Camilla," Faendal sighed, "He didn't mean it like that!"

"I did," Caril corrected. Maybe the next few days he would not follow Faendal around. Too much social interaction with rather uncivilized people left him on his last nerve, "Someone like me does not get left with only a sliver of their normal magicka for weeks because of anything but the most virulent poisons."

Camilla raised an eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest, "Who do you think you are? Arch-Mage of Winterhold?"

"Might as well be," muttered Caril in his native tongue.

Faendal understood him, "Oh, you arrogant bastard."

26 Rain's Hand, 4E 201

Caril and Faendal got over their argument with Camilla rather quickly. Faendal was too lovesick not to stumble back into the shop and apologize profusely for Caril's behavior, Camilla was too forgiving not to take the insult to heart, and Caril was too stubborn to admit he had done any wrong and simply acted like nothing had ever happened from that point on. The incident may have left a dark smudge on their growing relationship, but neither Caril nor Faendal seemed to care after that day passed.

"Where are you going?" asked Faendal.

Caril stood up and walked to the door, a frown set deeply on his face, "How far is it to Whiterun from here?"

"A week."

Caril was shocked. Everyone spoke of the city like it was around the corner. A week away? That was absurd. He seriously had to rethink going there.

"In your condition at least," said Faendal, "I could make it in a day and a half."

Caril pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, "How long does it take if you have a horse?"

"We don't have a horse."

"With a horse?" repeated Caril.

"Less than a day."

Caril needed a horse. That was the only way he would be able to travel anywhere for some time. If he had a horse, he would be able to travel to that alchemist in Whiterun, maybe find something stronger there. But… a horse. There were a total of three horses in the entire village, making Caril's chances of getting one without thieving very low. One belonged to the blacksmith, Alvor, one horse to the owner of the mill, Hod, and one to the innkeeper, Delphine.

"We don't have a horse, idiot," said Faendal, following Caril out the door and into the early morning light.

"We?" said Caril, suddenly. Faendal had been referring to them in the plural?

Faendal looked a bit affronted, "You wouldn't last one minute out on the plains. If you're going to Whiterun, I'm going with you."

"Then we are finding ourselves a horse," said Caril. He would admit it only to himself, Faendal might prove helpful if they got into a tight situation.

"Where?" Faendal continued to trail him down the street, "You think Delphine is going to give you her horse? Dorthe loves Alvor's old mare too much for us to have her. You might as well throw Hod right out before you even ask. There is just no way."

"We will work something out, lease out the beast if we have to," Caril approached the blacksmith's house. This man was the most likely to give them anything.

"Lease it with what money?" Faendal shouted, "You said you lost all the money you were carrying! I don't have any, if that's what you're suggesting."

Caril ignored him as he trudged up the steps to the blacksmith's. Even early in the morning, most of the town was already hard at work.

"How can I help you?" he asked, glancing between Faendal and Caril.

Faendal sighed, "Don't listen to him, sir. He—"

"—We need to borrow your horse," Caril cut straight to the chase.

"Pardon?" Alvor stopped pounding on a sword and simply stared at them, "My horse?"

"We need to get to Whiterun and I cannot with my leg," he gestured at his splinted ankle.

"We don't need to go to Whiterun—"

"—Would you rather have me living off you for another few weeks, Faendal?"

Faendal groaned and covered his face with his hands, "Fine. We do need to get to Whiterun. It'll only be for a few days, we'll bring her right back, sir."

"I'm sorry," Alvor shook his head apologetically, "I can't let you have her."

"You might not know him," Faendal pointed at Caril, "But you know me. I won't let anything happen to her."

"It has nothing to do with trust, Faendal. I trust you completely. It's just too much of a liability," he said. He sounded genuinely sorry for rejecting them, "We were planning to take her to market next month to sell her. We just can't risk that kind of money right now, I'm sorry."

Sighing, Faendal turned to leave. Caril grabbed his shoulder to stop him, "Wait a moment." Faendal looked at him, confused. Caril turned back to the blacksmith, "I don't know how much your horse is worth but…" he drew the elven blade at his hip and held it out to the blacksmith, biting his lip as he did so, "You may keep the sword if we do not return with your horse."

Alvor took the sword from Caril and examined it carefully, testing it's weight, feeling the blade with his thumb. The last thing Caril wished to give up was the sword, it was all that stayed with him through the last few weeks, but he needed to get to the city.

"It is brand new, never once been used, made in Alinor, I believe," said Caril.

"Where did you get something like this?" Alvor scrutinized Caril, obviously looking for any traces that he had stolen it.

"It was a gift from a friend of mine," answered Caril sincerely. He hoped the sword would convince Alvor, "It is all I have left, it's the last thing I want to lose. I swear the horse will be brought back if you will return my sword when the horse has been brought back."

For a moment, everything was silent other than the flow of the river behind the house. Alvor again scrutinized both Faendal and Caril.

Reluctantly, he nodded, "Very well, on one condition."

"What's that?" asked Faendal.

"You tell the Jarl about all these dragon rumors and get some guards sent down to Riverwood. If it's true, we're wide open for an attack."

"Fine," said Faendal.

Caril unfastened the scabbard from his belt and handed it over to Alvor as well, who sheathed the weapon and stowed it against the wall of the house.

"You will have your sword back when I have my horse," said Alvor with a nod, confirming their deal.

"Good, let's get going, Tiralyn. Might as well, we have nothing better to do today," Faendal trotted down the stairs, towards where the horse was tethered.

Caril followed him, giving a quiet word of thanks to the blacksmith. He noticed Faendal standing there in front of the horse, the top of his head only came up to it's chin, and looking up at it dumbstruck. The equipment for the horse was in a neat pile nearby but Faendal was too entranced by the enormous beast. With a shaking hand, he reached out to pet its nose.

"Don't do that," said Caril.

Faendal jerked away and looked at Caril, a tiny bit of fear on his face, "Why?"

"You'll scare her. She cannot see you right there, stand a bit to one side and you will be fine." Caril reached the horse and gently stroked its neck, "Have you never been around horses?"

"No," said Faendal after a moment of hesitation, "Not much use in Valenwood and I've… I've kept my distance since. A bit too big, really."

"Very well," Caril turned to the stack of equipment, "I will need your help saddling her, you need two hands to do it."

"What?"

It was a long process, convincing Faendal that the horse was not going to hurt him while it was tied up. Maybe if Caril had not been taller than the horse he was about to ride and had only come up to its withers, he would be more frightened of it. The horse was at least two hands smaller than the one he was given upon leaving the Embassy. Eventually, the horse was ready to go except for its bridle.

Faendal adamantly refused to put it on, sure the wizened, old mare would bite off one of his fingers. This left Caril to wrestle the horse into the bit with only one and a half hands while Faendal ran off to gather his bow and arrows. He would have called his injured arm a hindrance to getting the horse into the bit if it would not have been almost entirely impossible with only one hand.

When Faendal came back, Caril had to be smug about getting the horse in its bridle with his one and a half hands, losing no fingers while he was at it.

"Get on now," said Caril, jerking his head towards the saddle.

Faendal glanced at the horse and back at Caril, and back at the horse once more for good measure, "What? You've got to be kidding me, Tiralyn."

"What was the point of getting the horse if we are not going to use it to make the trip faster?" asked Caril. He led the horse down the street a few paces and stopped it by the stairs to the blacksmith's, "Get on."

"Fine," said Faendal through clenched teeth. He stomped up the steps of the blacksmith's and clambered onto the horse from there. He looked awkwardly small on top of the still enormous draft horse. He glanced down at his dangling legs, "I can't reach the… the…" he pointed down.

"Stirrups?" Caril raised his eyebrows, "You aren't supposed to. We are speeding up this trip, remember? Move forward in the saddle as far as you can."

Faendal did, "What is the point of—hey, what are you doing?"

Caril swung his leg over the body of the horse behind Faendal and grabbed the reins of the horse.

"This does not work, get off."

"Stop whining. You volunteered to go to Whiterun with me. If you no longer wish to accompany me, you may get off." After making the proper adjustments to the Caril steered the horse into the road and headed north, in the direction of the city.

People were gawking at them as they went down the street. Even Alvor smirked and turned back to his work chuckling. Sven, the bard competing with Faendal for Camilla Valerius's attention, wolf-whistled and shouted, "Found your true love, eh, Faendal? This mean you're leaving Camilla to me like you always should've?"

"Shut up, Sven! Shut up!" screeched Faendal, his face flushed profusely red.

Caril was completely unfazed by the comments and stares. Yes, Faendal and he were sitting uncomfortably close on the horse, Faendal's back pressed flush against Caril's chest, but he could care less. The scandals that came from Alinor's circles were a dozen times worse, often more profane, too.

"Calm down."

Faendal writhed in the seat, trying to move away from Caril, "I will not calm down, this is not going to work."

"Fine, you are welcome to get off," said Caril, "I am the one that needs the horse."

"I will."

Faendal slid off the horse with ease and Caril wondered why he was so reluctant to get on in the first place. Bosmer had always been known for their strength and balance, the two things needed to aggressively ride horses.

Caril had to slow the horse to let Faendal keep up on foot. The old horse was not as strong as the one he previously rode, he would not have dared to run it from Riverwood to Whiterun but holding a faster pace would have been nice.

As they descended out of the protective mountains and pine forests that contained Riverwood, they were met with a bitter wind on the plains. It was no wonder why not many people chose to live out in the open. Whiterun was seemingly placed for convenience, being nearly in the dead center of Skyrim, rather than livability.

"There's a reason why I never hunt out here," said Faendal. He wrapped his arms around his body and ducked his head down, "Gods, it's cold."

Caril was shivering himself, even his warmer robes gave him no protection from the wind, "Are you absolutely certain you will not ride with me? We will not see anyone for some time."

"I'm starting to have second guesses," he said.

Faendal tolerated the wind for about an hour.

"I'm glad it's still winter." Caril raised an eyebrow at the comment. Still winter? It was late Rain's Hand, well into spring. Faendal shook his head and grabbed the saddle blanket, "Move over."

Caril moved back as far as he could on the crude saddle without falling off and Faendal jumped on again, "Hold on somewhere, these horses run less than smoothly."

Faendal nodded and knotted his hands in the horse's mane as Caril nudged her steadily faster. Riding together on the horse did nothing to ease the chill but it was encouraging to know they would have to weather it out for less time.

Whiterun grew closer and closer on the horizon and the far reaches of its farmland was beginning to pass by quickly. It would not be long before they were within the walls of the city.

He slowed the horse down to an easier pace as they entered the village-like clusters of houses surrounding the walls. A group of heavily armed warriors dashed past them with their weapons drawn, ran down the street, turned a corner, and vanished, leaving a group of bewildered people in the street staring after them.

"Companions," muttered Faendal.

"Companions?" Caril pushed the horse forward again, the city gates were in sight.

"Warrior guild based in Whiterun. Not sure what to think of them. They say they're all for honor but then just act like mercenaries, doing jobs where the pay is highest," answered Faendal.

The gates loomed over them before they knew it and Faendal hopped off the horse, staring up at the enormous wooden doors, "Why are they closed? I've never seen the gates closed."

"City's closed with these rumors of dragons," answered one of the guards, "Residents only."

"Closed?" said Caril, "How can you close a city?"

"But I'm a resident," shouted Faendal, "I live in Riverwood, I should have access to the city like everyone else!"

"No exceptions, they're the orders of the steward." The guard shrugged, then waved at them dismissively, "Turn around now and don't cause any problems."

"Don't cause problems?" Caril had lost his temper. This was ridiculous. Rumors were enough to put an entire city on high alert? Yes, the rumors were true, but how would walls protect against a dragon? Dragons flew and it was not like anyone had a high chance of smuggling one through the gates no matter how well they disguised it, "You are the one causing problems by putting the city under lock and key. I need to get into the city for medicine, am I going to be forced to go all the way to Falkreath or Riften?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just following orders."

"Orders? How is a gods damned dragon being kept out of your city by a wooden gate?"

Faendal shot Caril a dirty look, "Tiralyn, stop it." Then, he turned to the guard, "Is there nothing we can say to get into the city? He came from Helgen, the town destroyed by the dragon, he needs a real healer and real medicine."

"You survived Helgen?" the guard gasped. Caril could guess quite easily the guard was gaping at him underneath his face-covering helmet, "I heard there were no survivors, town's completely destroyed, we could see the smoke from here."

"I know of one other who survived," answered Caril, "He is still in Riverwood, in better shape than I am, in fact."

"Maybe…" the guard spun around in circles a few times, looking between Caril, Faendal, the gate, and the other guards, "Maybe…"

"Yes?" asked Faendal.

"Sorry about the confusion," the guard finally said, straightening himself up and walking confidently to the gate, "Never seen your faces before. You're cleared to go in."

Faendal nodded his thanks to the guard and jogged through the cracked gates, followed closely by Caril on the horse. Whiterun was even bigger than Falkreath and Markarth, the streets were crowded and loud. It was utter chaos. Not the panicked kind, just the kind one sees in the streets of what was probably one of the most populous cities in the province.

"Stay close to me," said Faendal. He had to raise his voice to reach Caril's ears, "We should go see the Jarl first, maybe we can get something out of visiting him."

Caril nodded and drew the horse to flank Faendal, who grabbed hold of part of the saddle for good measure. As street after street passed, Caril could see Faendal's point about the city being wealthier than the others. It surely looked more affluent than Falkreath, the people were well-dressed, the houses were not falling to the weather, and the streets were cleanly paved. As they rose in altitude, though, Caril could see the change of classes. Manual laborers were lucky to live within the city walls, craftsman and shop-owners lived in the lower tier, businessmen and nobility lived surrounding the Jarl's palace.

"Dragonsreach," Faendal pointed just up the hill from them, "People say it was built as a prison for a dragon rather than a palace."

Caril vaguely wondered why it was made out of wood. If dragons breathed fire, wood burned, and the building was made from wood… Maybe those who built it simply did not want the extra work of bringing stone up to the top of the large hill it was situated on. Even so, that extra work would have been put to good use bringing rocks up the hill.

"We'll have to walk up from here," said Faendal, upon reaching a railing where several other horses were tied.

Caril tied the mare and departed with Faendal up the enormous flight of stairs up to Dragonsreach. He was gasping in pain as he reached the top. His body was not interested in walking against the forces of gravity.

"Halt!"

Oh, not again. Caril barely stifled an outburst at the guard. Whiterun was not improving his mood in the least. He hoped that getting the medicine he needed would help. That would at least take the edge off his nerves. Maybe he could even use his magicka to quicken the pace of his healing.

"We need to speak with the Jarl. He survived Helgen." Faendal pointed at Caril, "We really need this, sir."

"Very well, on your way," the guard reluctantly pushed the door to the palace open.

Caril was pleasantly surprised to find the inside of Dragonsreach was warm, comfortably so. He no longer felt the need to shiver in the bitter wind.

"Whoa, I've never been in here." Faendal trotted up the large staircase, gazing straight up at the arched ceiling as he did so.

Caril's limp had become pronounced when he reached the top of the stairs. He winced every time he put his injured foot on the floor. He would have rather hopped all the way up had he not still felt the immense fatigue Helgen left him with.

"State your business for approaching the Jarl."

Again!

This time, Caril did not hear Faendal respond. Caril glanced up and nearly laughed at the sight in front of him. Faendal had gone white as a sheet when a Dunmer woman held the tip of a sword to his chest. Faendal looked as if he were about to faint.

He might have done just that had Caril not managed to speak in time, "I'm from Helgen…" he winced, "The dragon."

"And who is he?" the Dunmer turned back to Faendal, examining him up and down.

"He helped me get here."

A third voice broke the tension immediately, "Let them come, Irileth."

Surprised, she sheathed her sword and beckoned to both Faendal and Caril, "Very well, I've got my eyes on you."

Faendal let out a long, slow breath and trotted over to Caril, taking some of Caril's weight off his injured leg. As they walked after the Dunmer woman, Caril noticed Faendal was using him as if he were a shield to face the Jarl. He was staring pointedly downwards and the way his shoulders were hunched over as he held onto Caril's waist gave away his nervousness. Had Caril been an unimportant, impoverished manual worker his entire life, he may have sympathized with Faendal. However, with his schedule of regularly speaking to important and powerful people made Faendal looked ridiculous.

"Is it true, that you survived Helgen?" asked the Jarl.

Caril hesitated as he watched the Jarl on his throne. Despite his laid-back posture, he looked uneasy, stressed, and tired. Were the dragons really that worrying? They were not undefeatable, as proved in the distant past.

"Yes."

"And was there really a dragon?"

"Yes."

"And you saw it with your own eyes, then?"

How many times did Caril have to repeat himself?

"Yes."

The Jarl slumped in his chair and stifled a sigh, "If these rumors are true, then I've left most of my hold unprotected."

"Sir, if I may," the man off to the side of the Jarl—who Caril figured to be the steward—interrupted, "I advise you to exert caution before sending any men out to the hold. Others might see it as provocation. Jarl Siddgeir, especially so."

"And Siddgeir will be the most understanding. After all, he just lost Helgen to a dragon. Send a courier if you must, I will not stand idly by while a dragon threatens my people." The Jarl was standing by the end of his speech, towering over his steward. He was tall for a Nord, he could look Caril more eye-to-eye than anyone he had met so far.

The steward bowed his head again, "Y-yes, sir. I will send couriers to Jarl Igmund and Jarl Siddgeir at once."

"Good," the Jarl turned his attention back to the Dunmer woman, "Irileth, send out your men at once. Have them leave by dawn tomorrow."

"Yes, my Jarl."

With his orders given, the Jarl turned once again to look at Caril and Faendal, "You two sought me out on your own initiatives—" Alvor's initiative, rather, but Caril was not going to say otherwise, "—You have done Whiterun a great service, I won't soon forget that."

"Thank you, sir," said Faendal. He tightened his hold on Caril's waist ever so slightly and took a small step backwards, indicating to Caril that he wanted nothing more than to leave.

"No, thank you. What are your names?"

"It's Tiralyn and—"

"—Faendal, sir."

"Well, what would you two ask of me? It is only fair that I repay you on behalf of Whiterun, for your services." Caril noticed the Jarl's eyes carefully trailing over him.

"We don't require anything, sir," said Faendal.

"Nonsense." The Jarl approached them, almost casually, making Faendal tense up even more, "At the very least, it looks like you could use a decent healer, Tiralyn."

Caril nodded. He would ask the healer if he had the necessary potions, although he doubted there would be someone who had greater capabilities in Restoration magic than he in the city.

"Proventus, send for Danica Pure-Spring," said the Jarl.

"Right away, sir."

"How about we have you two fitted for armor? It can never hurt to own a set."

"I won't speak for Faendal," said Caril. He glanced down at his worn robes, "If you wish to go down that path, I would prefer a new set of wizard robes. These… well, I had to use what I could find at the time."

"So be it. And what of you, Faendal?"

It was somewhat amusing to Caril to see Faendal, who never knew when to stop taking, was staring at the Jarl, wide-eyed and speechless. Giving no answer in this situation would be rude, contrary to the thoughts that might be going through Faendal's head.

Caril elbowed him hard in the chest. Faendal shook himself out of his stupor, "Whatever you wish, sir. The armor is fine."

I hope I made the idea of followers realistic. I understand hirelings and the Housecarls but some of the other followers... not so much. Why would Faendal chose to drop his whole life to follow you around if all you did was deliver a letter for him? Either way, he is not going to stick around for much longer, I just can't realistically expect him to want to follow Caril around all the time.

Also, I went back and re-edited the previous chapters. I am not always so good at noticing tiny mistakes and awkward wordings. I tend to notice one sentence that could be rephrased or a missing comma or such each time I reread previous chapters. I think I'll do this periodically, because each time I read my story, I notice things I previously overlooked. No major changes were made, though.

Moving on, thanks again to all of you who have chosen to read this story, I'm really grateful. I'll have the next chapter out soon.