Hahnu Do Keizal

By Toasted Panic

Chapter Seven

Diist Oblaansul

(First Sunset)

That's funny. My straw bed's never felt this warm and soft.

Erik breathed in deeply, sure that he was dreaming of a bower made of flowers. He was surrounded by a heady fragrance, the scent caressing him like the tender silk petals of a thousand spring blossoms, pale and pink like the touch of ...

That feels wonderful.

He thought he heard a pleasant sigh fluttering in the wind. The voice was all around him, a gentle murmur that flowed in dreamlike tones, euphoric waves that washed over his body as he slept on clouds of fragrant blossoms. Warm air danced across his neck, as if someone's velvet lips were hovering a hair's breath away from the surface of his skin.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips when delicate fingers ran through his hair, caressing his temples, his jaw, the slope of his neck connecting to the collarbone. He heard an airy, warm laugh against his ear, the hot breath of a woman's voice.

Erik wanted to see her face, but feared that opening his eyes would make her disappear. He thought of asking for her name, but his mouth couldn't answer to his whims and stayed silent.

She lingered over his body, her silken touch almost indistinguishable from the bed of petals underneath them. Her womanly sighs fluttered with the breeze as her fingertips danced across his bare chest.

He thought she asked him for his name. But how was he supposed to speak when his mouth refused to open? She knelt over him, the lavender scent of her hair overwhelming his senses. Erik would have been glad to drown in her, this mysterious enchantress without a name.

She whispered to him, words he was supposed to remember. But her tongue was foreign and distant despite his ears straining to hear and understand. The moment her satin lips touched the pulsing vein on his neck, a cry of ecstasy freed itself from his throat.

He opened his eyes.

Erik stared up at a dim sloped ceiling, wide awake in the stillness of dawn. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, half-formed thoughts of ploughing the fields and sowing seeds for the next season swirling in his muddled brain.

"Have to get up," he grunted, blindly grasping for the edge of his bed. Except where there was supposed to be straw and rough linen, his fingertips met with the softest wool he'd ever touched.

Blinking and squinting, he realized he wasn't in his bed at all. For a moment, Erik racked his brain frantically for any memory of the night before, struggling to recall where exactly he was. The fragrant lavender scent of the sheets and pillows filled his nostrils, helpfully reminding him in whose bed he was currently tangled up.

Heat crept up his neck as Erik realized that the thane, in all likelihood, had slept on this very same bed more than a few times.

"Gods. Now I'm awake."

He untangled his legs from the blankets, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his boots, realizing belatedly that he'd slept in the fine clothes he found last night. Now they were all wrinkled. Sighing in dismay, Erik got up, only to hear something very large and heavy hitting the floor.

Looking down, he saw the thick red book sprawled open at his feet. Erik blushed fit to rival a beet. He hurriedly picked up the tome and set it on its rightful place on the dining table.

Memories from the night before came back to him in a dismal stream of horrid reminders. The journey to Whiterun, meeting with Jarl Balgruuf, the new bargain attached to his oath. The next year of his life hanging perilously by a thread, swinging closer and closer to judgement with each sunset.

Hovering over the table, he splashed his face over the washbasin, cold water jolting the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

"By the Nine," he moaned into a washcloth as he dried himself off. "I've never worried so much. I have a year until the jarl dismisses me. Then there are my duties as pageboy to think about." Erik set the washcloth down on the back of a chair, glancing around the dim room. "What in Sovngarde does a pageboy do? And what in fathomless Oblivion am I going to do about my one great deed?" He frowned, feeling his fingers clenching into fists. "And Lady Solveig is the Dragonborn—which she hasn't admitted to, but I'm sure of it, she is."

His stream of distressed ramblings was interrupted by the complaints of his ill-tempered stomach.

Erik groaned. "I missed dinner last night."

Quietly, he opened the doors to his room to head downstairs where the house was empty. It seemed as if Lydia was still asleep. Erik set to work over the fire pit to get rid of the chill that set in overnight. When the small sparks grew into tongues of flame, he stood and observed the lit interior of Breezhome, finding a sense of comfort in its warmth. He could almost hear the faint memories of quiet laughter and gentle conversation as he looked at the chairs and bookshelves surrounding the merry fire. He carefully lit candles around the space, watching as the blue-grey light of dawn was swallowed in the orange glow.

Moving toward the back, he spotted two more doors underneath the stairs. The one to the side of the house was almost invisible behind stacks of wooden boxes and barrels. Erik tried to pry it open only to find it locked. The other door opened easily, and Erik found that it led to the latrines and a bath.

He ventured inside, examining the large stone tub in the centre. It was spacious enough for three people to sit comfortably. The wall in front of it had shelves filled with various clay jars, each packed with dried herbs, soaps, blossoms, fragrant oils, and bath salts. There were short wooden chairs and a side table bearing washcloths, and grates to the side of the room where the bath could be drained.

Erik marvelled at the luxury that even a home could afford. They had nothing quite like this at Rorikstead, only a cramped room at the back of the inn with a stool and a bucket. He remembered having to rush through every single bath during early winter mornings, fearing that the boiled water would grow cold—and it grew cold fast.

Touching his fingertips to the cool stone of the tub, he sighed quietly, "I suppose I won't have to deal with those sorts of things now."

He stepped out of the bath, shutting the door gently behind him. Intent on looking for breakfast, Erik approached the wide wooden table laden with bread, cheese, and dried strips of spiced beef. It was then when he heard the sound of the front door being unlocked. He looked up to see Lanre stepping into the house quietly. She had changed out of her travelling clothes into a long white tunic and dark blue breeches.

When she turned around to see him, she looked almost startled but then eased upon seeing his face.

"Erik," she cleared her throat, speaking softly. "Good morning. I didn't think you'd be up this early."

"Good morning, m'lady," Erik greeted. "I'm afraid I'm quite used to waking before dawn."

Lanre nodded with a small smile. As she approached him, Erik noticed that she looked far wearier than she did yesterday. The shadows underneath her eyes were almost purple.

"If you keep country hours here in the city, you'll find quite a lot of time to yourself in the mornings," Lanre spoke as she sat down in front of the fire. "Most don't get out of their beds until well after dawn."

Erik nodded, thinking to himself that he would much like to have the quieter hours of the morning to himself.

"Did you sleep well, m'lady?"

Lanre gave him a pointed look.

Erik blushed, remembering what she told him the other day. "Pardon me, I forgot—"

"It's fine," she waved him off, slouching in her chair, which Erik found unusual. "I was up most of the night, bent over ledgers and reports. It was absolutely riveting."

"It doesn't sound like it."

Lanre looked over her shoulder at him, the beginnings of a tired laugh showing itself on her lips. "You're right. It was dreadfully dull. I almost fell asleep at my desk."

"Have you had breakfast yet?" Erik asked, attempting to be of some use.

"I'm afraid I haven't."

Erik seized his opportunity, beaming widely. "Allow me to fix a plate for you, m'lady. You must be hungry."

Lanre smiled. "Thank you, Erik. Will you dine with me?"

Standing over the table, Erik hesitated at the invitation for a moment but nodded as he placed rolls of bread and slices of cheese on two plates. "If m'lady wishes me to."

"I would like that very much."

Carrying the two plates to the small table in front of the fire pit, Erik set them down and took the seat beside Lanre. He took care to sit upright in her presence, despite her own worn out posture.

"Did you sleep well?" Lanre asked as she picked at her roll.

Erik realized belatedly that this was the first time he ever saw her eat anything.

"I had a restful sleep," Erik said before taking a bite of bread and cheese. Swallowing, he continued, "I've never slept on a bed quite as soft as yours. I mean—that is," he stammered, coming aware of how that must have sounded. "That is, a bed that you own, not that we—I meant that the lodgings you've provided are wonderful."

Erik wished to bite down on his tongue.

Dreading the thane's reaction, he turned to see her hand placed over her mouth to cover a smile. He had no clue whether to take it as a good or bad thing that she was laughing at him.

"You're quite funny," Lanre remarked, beaming widely.

Erik bristled. "I wasn't trying to be."

"I know. That's what I find so amusing."

Lanre smiled gently when she saw him so disgruntled. "It's not a bad thing. People don't usually go out of their way to make me laugh."

That surprised him. "Really? How come? You're always surrounded by your friends."

Lanre paused for a moment, looking at Erik with a contemplative expression. Taking a bite of bread, she muttered quietly, "If you meant my guards, then you're mistaken. They're not my friends."

"That's an awful thing to say."

When Lanre looked up at him, surprise clear in her amber eyes, Erik scrambled to correct himself.

"That is," he grasped for the right words, "I'm sure any one of them would be glad to call you friend, m'lady."

Lanre stared at him for a few seconds, looking as if she'd just found something extraordinarily bewildering to the eye. When she decided to speak, Erik heard hesitation in her voice.

"I don't suppose I have anyone I could call my friend."

Erik's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's terrible."

Lanre shrugged, her gaze drifting to the fire. "One would think so, but I've gotten by just fine all these years."

"But living your life like that must be lonely," Erik exclaimed, unable to restrain his tongue. "Isn't it?"

"I suppose."

Unable to comprehend such a thing, he ventured further despite Lanre's silence. "There must be at least one person. What about Lydia?"

The thane shifted uncomfortably. "She has pledged her service to me. That is entirely different."

"But I don't see why it has to be that way."

Lanre sighed, staring down at her lap. "Erik, things are far more complicated than that."

He noticed that her voice had grown muted and sad. She stopped picking at her food altogether and continued to gaze into the distance as if she were somewhere far away and long ago. The crackling of the fire grew louder as words escaped him, the understanding of such a lonely life causing pity to stir in his chest. How ludicrous was it to feel such a thing for a woman who seemed to have everything.

"Then ... could you call me your friend, m'lady?"

Amber eyes looked up at him, wide with incredulity. The prospect of a reply must have seemed daunting to Lanre, since all she did for a few strained seconds was look at Erik mutely, as if he'd suggested that they run across the city together, naked as the day they were born.

"I suppose we hardly know each other," Erik rambled, feeling increasingly ill at ease under Lanre's gaze. "But I see no harm in becoming better acquainted. I mean, that is, it's just a suggestion, m'lady. You don't have to listen to me—at all. I just thought I'd be, erm, helpful. Really, that's all I meant by it."

Her face took on a thoughtful expression when Erik gave up on his muddled speech. He was starting to think that he'd said something terribly wrong when the silence persisted like a frigid winter refusing to make room for spring.

"You want to be my friend?" Lanre finally asked, managing to sound amazed despite her flat tone.

"Yes," Erik said.

"You mean it?"

"I do, m'lady." As he spoke, he was surprised to find that he truly did.

Lanre's expression softened. It would have been generous to call the slight upturn of her lips a smile, but it wasn't a frown, and for that, Erik was relieved.

"Do you know," she began in a whisper just loud enough for him to hear, "I believe that the first time I met you was also the first time I've spoken to someone my age in a long while." Lanre smiled, leaning her head against the back of her chair. "Rhonwen is the youngest among my guard, and even she is half a decade older. Most of them are well over thirty. I often feel like an old woman."

"You certainly don't look like one," Erik laughed.

Lanre cleared her throat and he thought, for a fleeting moment, that he saw a touch of colour on her pale cheeks before she spoke again, "Then I suppose I won't have to act like an ancient crone around you."

"Not at all, m'lady," Erik shook his head, feeling the mood lightening.

The thane scowled, and he could have sworn that she might have rolled her eyes. "Haven't I already told you to drop the formality when we're alone? Day in and day out, I'm surrounded by constant rigid politeness. It would be refreshing if you reminded me that I have a name every once in a while. I promise, Erik, I won't mind as long as we're in each others' private company."

"But," he protested, "I mean, with all due respect, you're the thane."

She shrugged as if the weight of the title could slide off her shoulders. "What's rank between friends?"

Erik thought about it for a second. Perhaps in secluded moments like this, he could grow used to it.

"Alright." He hesitated. "Lanre."

She laughed, her voice like silver bells. "My, you look uncomfortable. Shall I change my name to 'm'lady' then? Perhaps that'll be easier."

Erik scoffed before he could catch himself. "You'd like that just as much as I would."

"Which would be not at all," Lanre chuckled. "I guess we're in agreement then."

For a few moments they sat side by side, the silence between them renewed with warmth. Erik chewed on his bread, thinking about how bizarre the situation must have seemed—he a farmer from a small settlement and she a titled lady whose wealth likely exceeded his wildest fantasies. Here they were, attempting a friendship over breakfast. And given that they hardly knew each other, Erik decided to muster up the courage to start.

"D'you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Lanre shrugged after swallowing a mouthful of bread. "Go ahead."

When he paused for too long, his face scrunched up in strenuous deliberation, she sighed and ate the rest of her breakfast in a few bites. "I won't set a limit to the number of questions you can ask me, so just say whatever comes to mind."

There was only one question that sat on his tongue like feverish hot coals. Erik hesitated only a moment longer before muttering in a low voice.

"About yesterday ... during our ride to Whiterun." His words dropped to a whisper. "You are the Dragonborn."

Lanre went completely still, her eyes clouded over with a surreal mist. She didn't look at him as silence settled over her inch by inch from her head to her toes. The words had an effect on her like a cryptic trance, making the world appear to stand still in the wake of such a name.

For a moment, Erik regretted even the thought of asking her, but as the fire pit evoked memories of an impassioned alien tongue that conjured hell before his eyes, he knew that he could never abandon his curiosity. So he waited patiently, imploring in silence with as steady a gaze as he could muster, willing an answer, any kind of answer, to slip forth.

When Lanre spoke it was sudden, with a haste to her speech that made Erik strain to listen as her murmurs mingled with the stillness of dawn.

"I am."

She looked at him, the gold of her eyes molten and scalding in the firelight.

"Please forgive me. What you saw yesterday—you weren't meant to know, at least not so soon." She ran her hand through her hair, pulling slightly at the roots. "I have vouched for you, and I believe you to be honourable and kind by your very nature. I know I can trust you. But," the cadence of her voice turned melancholy, almost unbearably so, "not only am I ... that, I am also a thane of Whiterun. Given my responsibilities, discretion and secrecy are necessary. I am required to uphold appearances and act according to my station. I can't afford blunders. There are those who seek to quell the rise of legends and would do so at any cost. And there are those who would see me stripped of power. If my enemies knew that the thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn are one and the same, it could mean the death of me. But there are worse things.

"The path I've walked until this day has been paved with blood, and not always from those who sought to oppose me. What lies ahead promises to be even more perilous."

She hesitated before placing her hand on top of his. Her grasp was firm and warm, the skin of her palm surprisingly callused.

"I swore to protect you within my service and I plan to keep that oath for as long as you remain with me," Lanre murmured gently. "But you are now under the scrutiny of unseen eyes. And once you join my guard, the number of eyes on you will increase tenfold. These are the risks, Erik. I wish no harm to come to you, and while I know that my side is not the safest place to stand, I wouldn't send you away dishonourably, not when you have yet to prove yourself. But I won't put you in harm's way either."

A tepid mist like sadness settled over Erik as a dewdrop of understanding dawned on him. Turning his palm upright to hold Lanre's hand in his, he returned her grasp.

"I'll do my very best." His voice didn't falter and he hoped his actions would be the same. "I'll work hard and learn all I can. I'll make you proud."

The sombre grey that blanketed Lanre's features lifted as if his words were a gentle summer breeze, blowing away the crease between her brows and the ashy mist of sadness from her eyes. Her lips curved into a gentle smile, warming the room more than the merry flames. Long fingers wrapped around his palm in a soothing grasp, the heat of something like camaraderie passing between them.

"I know you'll do me proud, Erik." Lanre's eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile broadened. "One day you'll achieve greatness beyond imagining, and I hope I'll be there to see that moment come alive."

He felt a lump rise in his throat.

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so."

She said it with such unwavering certainty that Erik felt cold fear stirring in his gut. The possibility of failure and dishonour loomed like the shade of death over his back.

"Rhonwen said that it's possible to read the future in the stars," Erik said. "She told me that it's a gift from the gods, given to wise sages and crones. But it can also be learned with years of practice."

Without the need to ask, Lanre knew what he implied. She shook her head and withdrew her hand from his.

"She's right. But I can't say I've met anyone wise." Her eyes filled with a small, almost imperceptible, spark of anger. "I have been to Cyrodiil, High Rock, Hammerfell, even the Summerset Isles. I've met beings who've hailed from every corner of Nirn. And none of them were wise. Oh, yes, some could see visions of time swirling in painted cups, charted in the skies, written in our palms—but the gods are fickle. What they give us to see isn't always from the future, and what they give us of the future is as murky as the bogs of Black Marsh. A blind, deaf, mute could see better."

Erik's heart sank. Since he spoke to Rhonwen, he had faint hope that somewhere in the vastness of the world, someone held the key to knowing his fate, and regardless of whether or not glory was meant for him, he itched to seek answers. But now any promise of certainty vanished and all he was left with was the echo of "I know so."

"What makes a wise man?" It was a far-reaching question that struggled for an elusive, fragile thread of solace.

Lanre gave him a rueful smile that told him the answer before she spoke.

"If I knew, I'd be the wisest person in all of Nirn."

"Then how can you tell if someone is unwise?" Erik asked dubiously.

There was a faint trace of disappointment lingering in the downturn of the thane's lips as she said, "The person who has seen the knowledge of the stars would be far removed from the rest of us. They would know no sorrow or happiness, nor desire. Alas, each and every one of us is born into this world squalling and wanting, grasping for our mother's breast. And you don't need a sage or crone to tell you that is our fate."

Erik wasn't sure he understood. He thought better than to ask and instead mulled the words over in his head, wondering and searching for something clearer. Lanre didn't look as if she was eager to elaborate on her strange philosophies. The long pause told him she was content to leave it at that.

When she spoke again, it was to turn the conversation in a different direction and after a long enough silence to allow for forgetfulness.

"Let me guess. You were born in the spring."

Giving himself a moment to accommodate the sudden shift, Erik replied, "In the summer actually, nearing the end of Last Seed."

"Under the sign of the Warrior," Lanre acknowledged.

He nodded. "What about you?"

"I was born at the end of winter on First Seed. I'm not that much older than you, it seems."

"Were you born here in Skyrim?"

She shook her head. "No. I came to Skyrim a mere seven years ago. I was born in a white stone hall by the sea in Stros M'kai. I left when I was six years old ... I hardly remember it now."

"Stros M'kai?" Erik gaped. "But ... that means you were there when the Thalmor occupied the southern coastline of Hammerfell."

Lanre pressed her lips tightly together. "Yes. Which is why I didn't stay there for long."

Sensing her discomfort, Erik chose to tread lightly, picking his words deliberately. "I never would have guessed you were born in Hammerfell. It seems a world away from here. It makes me wonder, how did you go about becoming the thane of Whiterun?"

She paused as if to think about how to begin her story, but when she spoke, it was clear from the firmness of her voice that she knew exactly where to start.

"When my mother and father perished in the Great War, I was left with my guardian. Rudo."

Erik thought of the strange Redguard man and what he had said just the other night.

"He knew that my mother was a distant cousin of Jarl Balgruuf's late wife, so we journeyed to Skyrim hoping that he would take me in. In the tumult of the Thalmor occupation and having lost everything, we were left with very little choice. The south wasn't safe." She sighed, struggling through the weight of time like wading through a black bog. "As luck would have it, I look much more like his late wife than we'd hoped, so convincing him wasn't too difficult. It helped that I had the upbringing of a noble. So he adopted me as his niece. I worked long and hard these past years to prove myself."

She gave him a small smile that failed to hide the darkness underneath her eyes, the small, almost imperceptible lines across her forehead, and the way her breath quickened at the touch of memory.

"It's taken me most of my life to prove my worth and restore honour to my mother's name. I continue to do it to this day—proving your worth is a task that will never end. Some would say I have everything, but others would just as quickly dismiss me as an upstart foreigner's bastard."

Lanre pursed her lips, her brows furrowing as she caught Erik's shocked expression. "No, my father never married my mother. She was the rich, beautiful daughter of a Nord merchant who thought himself a lord, and my father was a young Imperial nobleman who ran off. All of them had power and promise, lands and riches. And all of them left me with nothing."

Her eyes were piercing, her voice as hard as steel.

"So you see, Erik. Anything is possible. The great will fall and the lesser will rise above them. It happens all the time."

Her curt reassurance fell short of giving him any comfort. She must have seen it in the solemness of his face because she glanced away, almost like she felt a twinge of regret, but said nothing.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" he asked, as if he didn't already know. But he wanted an answer, a clear answer, straight from her mouth.

Lanre looked at him, holding his gaze for longer than he was comfortable. He thought he saw a thousand pleas of forgiveness behind her golden stare, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why it bred so much fear. It stirred ice in his belly, bolted his feet to the earth, and made him realize yet again that when he swore his oath, he had failed to see any of this in his future.

"I'm telling you this because anything is possible," Lanre said gently, her voice losing its cutting edge. "And because I understand what it's like to have everything one moment and then nothing in the blink of an eye."

Erik had no idea what he was supposed to say. He understood that she meant to make him understand, to pull him from his worry and despair. But her words only managed to fill him with a sense of dread and uncertainty. Erik couldn't help but think that Lanre ultimately meant to caution him against the fickleness of fate, and any illusion of security he might have had before that day.

Eventually, he settled for murmuring, "It took you how many years to earn your title?"

She hesitated before answering, "I've been the thane for five years. Up until I was four and ten years of age, the title was merely honorary. Before I could do anything as thane, I had to be schooled in many areas like languages, philosophy, politics, war, numbers, etiquette, and history."

"How many years did that take you?"

Lanre caught the bitterness in his subdued whisper but withheld nothing when she answered.

"All my life."

Erik felt like screaming at the sky.

"And yet you proposed to the jarl that if I don't perform one great deed within the year, I must be dismissed."

He fought to calm his breathing. She'd condemned him to shame, and that was all he could think of.

"Erik ..."

"Why didn't you just dismiss me."

The words came out before he could think twice.

"You knew I was nothing but a farmer." He wasn't aware that his voice had grown louder. "I'm nothing but a stupid boy whose head is full of nothing but stupid dreams—everyone has seen fit to remind me of that ever since I pledged myself to you. Everyone else seems to have the good sense to see that I'm nothing more than a simpleton. How can I possibly accomplish a quarter of what you've managed these past five years. You say anything is possible and yet ..."

He felt his voice crack.

"Why haven't you dismissed me?"

The walls seemed to ring with his final whisper of defeat.

When she did nothing but stare at him, her face wiped clean of any emotion, Erik thought for a moment that she would turn into the cold, lordly entity who had bound him to her only a few mornings ago. He waited for her, the thane of Whiterun, to command that he remember his place, his duties, his oath.

Instead, Lanre simply stood from her seat and quietly gathered their plates. He watched her back as she set them down on the wooden table, drowning in her silence as morning light spilled in from the windows and the crowing of roosters was heard all over the city.

Erik thought he would get no answer from her.

Resting his elbows against his knees, he let his head fall into his hands. He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to be anywhere else. For what seemed to be the thousandth time in the past few days, he cursed his foolishness.

He looked up when he felt a gentle touch rest on his cheek.

Lanre was bent on one knee before him. Her lips seemed filled with regret as the press of her fingertips swayed him to look her in the eye. Erik felt a painful throb in his chest when she urged him closer, with nothing more than the ghost of her palm against his neck.

Her embrace was soft and warm, the scent of lavender on her skin filling his nose.

"You ask me why I haven't dismissed you." Lanre's whisper was as gentle as her touch. "And yet you don't ask me to send you away."

His arms were limp at his sides.

"That isn't the honourable way."

The words pained him.

"Then you understand."

Erik shut his eyes tight. "I understand nothing. Nothing at all. I don't understand how you can believe in me."

"Do you trust me, Erik?"

She pulled away to look him in the eye. Lanre must have seen his hesitation, the blatant "no" that surely lit his pale blue irises. And yet she waited for his answer, as if all the patience in the world could have changed his heart.

Erik thought he had no choice.

"I do."

Lanre gave him a look brimming with pity.

"One day I hope that becomes true," she murmured with no real touch of confidence, removing her hands from his shoulders. "Until then, I only ask that you try and understand that I always do things for a reason. Always." She stood and looked down at him. Erik had yet to catch the pleading look that painted sorrow on his face, painful evidence of his want for a clearer answer, something more than her callous "take my word for it."

He didn't expect Lanre to capitulate with a weary sigh.

"Honour is rarely ever the reason why most people do things," she said. "Often it comes second to many other whims and wants. But you chose to remain with me for honour first and foremost, and I believe that. As to why I won't dismiss you ..." Her rueful smile hinted to more truth than she'd ever given him. "I confess, I'm 'most people' in that regard."

Erik frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I uphold my oath out of honour second, and selfish desire first." She turned to walk away from him, but hesitated and said, "I need you by my side, Erik. More than you'll ever know."

"But why me?"

"Because you are as you say you are. In time you'll come to understand how rare that is."

"I think I already do," Erik said bitterly.

He knew that Lanre understood when she gave him a sad smile.

"Make sure you're ready within the hour. We're meeting with someone very important soon."

Without another word, she retired into the locked room at the back of the house, leaving Erik to think by himself.

When Lanre reemerged an hour later, she looked years younger and healthier, her cheeks pink, the shadows absent from underneath her eyes, black hair brushed and braided. She had changed into a bright silver tunic that flowed to her knees and dark blue calfskin leggings that looked as soft and supple as her fur lined leather boots.

She appeared at the door to Erik's room where Lydia was assisting him into a borrowed set of steel armour.

"There you go," the housecarl muttered as she fastened the last of the clasps on his chest piece. "How's the fit?"

Erik looked down at himself, moving his arms and legs, testing the heaviness of the gear. The sheen of the metal gave him courage as the lining underneath held him in a tight embrace.

"It just feels right somehow," he breathed out. He noticed Lanre standing in the open doorway, observing him. She nodded approvingly.

"Good," Lydia said as she handed him a steel short sword in its sheathe. "It looks good. Enough to start. Perhaps you won't need a fitting after all."

He took the weapon from her and fastened it to his side by the belt loops. The handle was simple with a worn leather grip, much lighter than the iron sword he had practised with back at Rorikstead. Erik drew the blade, holding it up against the light. It looked well used, but its edge was freshly sharpened. He ran his fingertips lightly over the flat of the blade, feeling its cold dents and scratches.

Lydia was watching him with raised brows. "Is this the first time you've held a real sword?"

"Not the first time," Erik muttered as he sheathed the blade.

"Do you know how to use one?"

"I know well enough," he bluffed.

She looked unconvinced but said nothing more as she strode to the chest at the foot of the bed. Lydia hauled it open without much effort, despite the bulk of the lid, and reached inside to pull out Lanre's thick silver wolf coat.

As she approached Lanre and fastened the garment around her shoulders, the thane spoke without looking at Erik.

"We'll be meeting with the Harbinger of the Companions," she informed him brusquely. "Kodlak Whitemane. So I'll be accompanying you to Jorrvaskr and help make introductions. The rest shall be up to you."

Erik nodded and tried not to stare down at the tips of his boots. "Yes, m'lady."

After tugging on her coat to make sure it was secure, Lanre led the way out of the room. Lydia and Erik followed silently behind her as they headed out into the city.

Whiterun was bustling with activity. The moment Erik stepped foot beyond Breezhome, he heard the clanging of steel from the forge next door, the hawking of merchants selling their wares, the low murmur of the guards on patrol, and the laughter of children as they ran through the streets. The world was bathed in pale sunlight as morning lifted sleep from the air.

Lanre made her way through the city, her gait purposeful and quick. People made way for her, stepping aside with shallow bows, quick nods, or merry exclamations of "Good day to you, thane!" She nodded and smiled in return, but made no move to slow her steps.

They received enquiring glances wherever they went, curious faces lingering on Erik. He felt acutely aware of all the murmurs that he caught along the street, wondering dimly if perhaps people were talking about him, asking each other why some lowly peasant boy was accompanying the thane.

He suddenly couldn't walk fast enough. Then he felt a light tap on his arm.

"See how she moves?"

Turning to Lydia, Erik raised his brows. "The thane?"

She nodded. "Shoulders back. Straight spine. Long strides. Gaze directly ahead. You find that you don't mind the stares as much that way."

Deciding to take her word for it, Erik stood at his full height. He kept his eyes from the ground and stared purposefully ahead, despite a niggling fear that he would trip if he didn't watch his feet. It took a moment for the change in his bearing to fully flow and sink into his bones, but when it did, he found that Lydia was right. Although he could hear hushed whispers as he walked past, the sounds only seemed to graze him before fluttering away to join morning bird song.

When they ascended the steps of Jorrvaskr and Lydia pulled back the intricately carved wooden doors, a rush of warm air greeted them from inside the hall. The light of the morning faded into the hearth fire glow as they crossed the threshold and Erik caught his first glimpse off the legendary heroes of Whiterun.

Or he would have, if Lanre hadn't slammed him against the wall.

The world spun and a wooden chair broke into splinters as it crashed into where he'd been standing moments before. Erik glanced above Lanre's head to peer at the riot taking place by the fire pit.

A Dunmer and a blond Nord woman were engaged in a heated brawl, their fists flying as they grunted and staggered, blood and sweat mingling on their brows. Surrounding them were hollering onlookers, spurring on the fight. Erik winced when he heard a crack as the Nord's fist sailed straight and crashed into the elf's face. The man howled and stumbled back, blood dribbling down his chin. Seizing her opportunity, the Nord pounced, bringing them both down to the floor with an almighty leap. The room thundered in riotous cheers, a crowd circling the struggle. Before they closed the gap, the last that Erik saw of the fight was the Nord woman pummelling madly downward as the Dunmer tried to shield his face.

Lydia sighed as if she'd seen this sight more than once.

"There they go again."

"After Njada lost to Athis last time, it's no wonder she's furious," Lanre grunted. She scanned the room until her eyes rested upon someone sitting removed from the chaos, a tall Nord woman with dark hair, her face painted across with three dark blue slashes, eyes as pale and cold as steel. Their gazes met and the Companion frowned and held still for a moment longer before rising from her seat to approach them. To Erik's surprise, Lanre moved across the room to meet her halfway.

"Lanre Solveig," the warrior woman nodded, her tone unreadable. "I see you've returned in one piece. What brings you to our hall?"

"As always, it's a pleasure to see you, Aela," Lanre said courteously. "I have business with Kodlak, but I'm afraid I won't stay long."

"Oh? I'm sure he's looking forward to speaking with you," Aela frowned. "Especially after how your last meeting ended."

The thane exhibited an expression of vague discomfort. "I was under the impression that our conversation had been confidential, but I suppose that's too much to ask of the thin walls of Jorrvaskr." Under her breath, she added, "Which is no wonder why I prefer the stone cold privacy of Dragonsreach."

Above the rabble in the hall, Erik barely caught her muttering, but by the look of sheepishness on Aela's face, it seemed that she'd heard the thane loud and clear.

"Kodlak's down in his room with Vilkas. Good day to you, Solveig," the Companion grunted as she turned on her heel. Over her shoulder, Aela addressed Lydia, "It's a pleasure to see you again. I hope your sword and shield won't rust—I don't know how much battle they see with you working as a noble's squire."

"Housecarl," Lydia corrected without batting an eyelash. "And my sword is as sharp as it's ever been."

Aela held her steely gaze, pale silver eyes unreadable. Something must have passed between them, because the Companion nodded before walking away, and once she did, Erik saw that Lydia had relaxed in visible relief.

Lanre placed a hand on her housecarl's shoulder.

"Let's keep moving."

They descended a staircase into the lower level of the hall, where it was quieter, and the air was cool, scented with the aroma of sweet wood. Lanre must have been here before because she navigated the hall with ease and familiarity until they arrived at a set of large wooden doors at the end of the corridor. Erik could hear voices from inside, muffled and secretive.

"I will speak to Kodlak first," Lanre murmured. "I'll introduce you as my new pageboy. Then I suppose he'll assess you."

"A-Assess?" Erik felt the blood drain from his face. "You never mentioned a test."

"That could be a possibility."

Before Erik could say any more, Lanre placed her palm on the door. "Whatever happens, Erik, I have faith in you. You have yet to let me down, and I suspect you never will. You will do fine."

Lanre pushed the door open before Erik could brace himself.

Author's note: Sorry for the super late update. This past year has been crazy!

I'd just like to extend a thank you to the people who are still reading up to this point. I hope this chapter was good. I'll be working studiously on the next one.

Until next time!