Chapter Fifteen
The bright morning star

It was spring when Runa and Francois moved to Whiterun. Runa had decided her days of travelling were done, and Belethor, of Belethor's General Goods, had died. He had left the place to his apprentice, but that boy decided to sell it and work a farm instead. Francois had bought it from him, and with that, the decision to move to Whiterun was final. For the time being, Runa and Francois would live above the shop, in the living quarters, just until they became pregnant, or there was a well-priced house in Whiterun that went on the market.

I had thought to offer them Breezehome, but I'd felt a twinge of pain in my chest, and the feeling of nausea and dread, which reassured me that it was not something I was willing to part with. I did, however, offer to help the newlyweds with their relocation. Thus, in early Rain's Hand, I found myself back in Whiterun.

It had been many years since the last time I'd stepped foot in Whiterun, but what I'd come to learn was that simplicity is timeless and boring is consistent. So when I walked through the groaning gates of Whiterun, I was welcomed with all the familiarity it had never failed to offer. Only once had these elements of Whiterun failed me, and I felt myself stiffen when I remembered that silence it had screamed when I'd left.

But now, many years later, the smell of people and wind and food lingered in the air, and all the noises of Whiterun—the faint beat of the anvil which ran from both ends of the city; the buzz of laughter and light conversation from the market stalls, and the children playing tag nearby—they were the same as the days I had lived there.

There was not much to be done, since their new home had come with all the furniture and appliances they might need. Therefore, there were only trinkets and clothes, linens and precious items which needed to be transferred into their new place.

"Where do you want these?" I asked, shifting the heavy wooden box in my arms.

"What's in it?" Francois called, setting down another crate with a grunt.

"I'm not sure, there's a lid," I responded, shifting once again.

"Just set it by the stairs," Runa instructed from above. "Is that all of it?"

"There's a few more boxes by the gates," I said, dreading the thought of lugging them all the way again. Already my arms and shoulders ached, my muscles strained and my stamina drained.

"You look beat, Loralei," Francois said with a concerned frown.

"Ah, she's fine," said Runa. "Pain is nothing."

I shot her a glare and she stuck her tongue out at me. How childish.

"Obviously though," began Runa, sighing theatrically; "you can take a break. Francois and I can do the rest." I sent them both a thankful glance before moving to sit on a chair nearby.

"No, no," Runa said, descending. "You'll get in our way here. Go to the inn, it's like a second away."

"You just like being difficult," I scolded, but felt no resentment as I retreated into the bright sunny afternoon.

The inn was mostly empty, since most folk were busy doing their day's work. It was hours until the inn would start to fill up. Though I knew this, it was a little disappointing. The room was bright, and through the glass panes of windows and skylights placed sporadically around the inn, the sun shone, dust floating in its midst. It seemed like a haze; some sort of place one might find in a dream or a novel. The image was there; of wood floors and sunlight, of a burnt out fire and the clunk of shoes hitting the floor. But overall, the details were diluted, foggy.

I reached for the once-been details that had once been clear. The sounds I remembered first: like the rough scratch of the broom brushing against the ground. Tankards used to clink and spill and fall all around the room, to the rough beat of a lute or many voices or other. Throughout the inn, people spoke softly as well as obnoxiously, and the music of voices would become both imposing and lulling. Next, the scent: the inn smelled like dust and air now, whereas in my memories it had smelled of stew and sweat and ale.

Walking forward, I felt like I was visiting a ruin—abandoned, empty, somehow clean from neglect.

I knew that the inn was still active, that at night the citizens of Whiterun did come and sing and sweat, but the anti-climax of stepping into such an empty once-been home felt like a weight on my heart. No, I thought, not anti-climax…conclusion, one I am not ready to face. Is this some sort of closure? The thought tasted bitter.

"Is someone here? I'll be out there in a minute!" a voice called, startling me. I turned towards it just on time to see a woman, swollen with child, emerging—or rather, waddling—from the kitchen. Her face brightened when she saw me. I recognised Ysolda from just foggy memory, but smiled back brightly anyway.

"Ysolda!" I cried, and strode over to hug her. It was awkward and somewhat crooked, but the affection was there. "You're pregnant," I noted.

"Yes, with the second," she informed, placing a gentle hand on her belly. "Can I get you anything—a drink—some soup?"

"No, no," I replied. "Just sit down; I'll get us some milk."

"I'd rather wine," she said.

"It's bad for the child," I said, helping her onto the bench.

"That's just Bosmer talk."

"Better safe than sorry." I brought over two tankards of milk and took my seat next to her. "So tell me what you've been doing these past seven years. You were off following some caravan or another when I left."

"Ah, yes. Well I came back shortly afterward at the request of your mother. I'd gotten enough experience and training anyway, and had made enough gold to last three lifetimes. I'd also planned to either sell my part of the inn, or try and buy it off you or your mother. Anyhow, I did neither and came back.

"Soon enough, I got married and had a kid and got pregnant again, as you can see. It's a lovely life, and I plan to keep it like this for a while, but I miss travelling. Once my kids are older, I'd like to show them Tamriel and all the lessons that could be learned around it. I'm babbling now, but I'm sure you get what I'm saying.

"What about you?" she asked. "What's your story?" I have no story, I almost said.

"I have two children. My daughter is six and my son is four now. We've been living in Falkreath, at the manor my father built. I worked as a priestess until recently, but now I'm not sure what I'll do."

"Well, what brought you to Whiterun?" she asked, taking a sip of milk.

"Runa, actually. She's my friend of many years and she and her husband decided to move here. I was just helping them set up before," I explained.

"Hm," Ysolda said, pensive. "Maybe you should stay?" I blinked.

"Pardon?" I felt my temperature rise, and the urge to jump up and down or run away.

"Well if you're no longer working at Falkreath, why not move back here? The temple is still open, and your divines know I could use help around here. I'm sure you know the exhaustion of caring for an infant and a toddler."

"It's just that I—I—I'd never... considered it."

I had missed Whiterun for a long time. Riften would always be my home, the city where I'd always turn to look back and remember. It was my home in the sense that no other place could ever make me feel safe the same way. That place was bees and friendships and neglect. But where Riften was my lost home, Whiterun was the place where I was changed, molded and created. It was the city where everything became real. It was pure white and red, it was angst and love and bastards. It was where I found Kynareth and the health and the winds which she offered me. Whiterun was the place where I'd first seen death and first made life.

How could I not miss it? Here I had loved and watched love fall apart all around me. I had had a sister, a mother, a father, a friend, a lover, and a story. It was a boring story—novelesque and romantic; tragedy mixed with childhood—but it was mine: a story which I might have been proud to tell.

Whiterun had been all these things, but what was it now? I had thought it could only be this childhood and these memories, but could it be my future, my present? Maybe. And that thought gave me a rush like no other. I smiled widely and wildly like never before, and I took Ysolda's warm and sweaty palms.

"So..." She smiled.

"Whiterun... that sounds so right."

Runa jumped and clapped and cried when I told her. And it was just the next day that I went back to Falkreath to bring my children.

"All my girls are leaving me," Lydia said. Perhaps I was resentful and vindictive, but I only said goodbye, remembering when she had left me.

"I'll keep your homestead as always, Loralei," Adelaissa promised. I kissed her and said thank you, and told her she'd see us next summer.

"What's there for you?" Kust asked, when I'd found the courage to see him. I didn't kiss him. Instead I said, "Everything," and I told him he could visit the children whenever. He smiled sadly and said he would. "We'll visit next summer," I promised, and then he did kiss me. It made me sad and broken, and part of me wanted to stay. But when he pulled back, I realised it was a goodbye kiss, and I walked away sullenly, holding onto just another conclusion I didn't want.

"Where's that?" Vittoria asked, her legs dangling into the water.

"Northeast of here; where Auntie Runa lives now." Her face brightened at that and she clapped her hands.

"Auntie Runa?" was what Nelkir responded, smiling. I nodded and the three of us ate taffy while we watched the sun set.

It took another week to restore Breezehome, and another few days to move all our stuff, but by the first days of summer, the three of us were happily settled in Whiterun, in a little home which finally felt like it belonged to me.

When I'd first walked through the gates of Whiterun, Runa had run to me, crying and laughing. "Reunited for real now," she'd sung. I'd cried again too, and around us, citizens had turned to watch our loud and obnoxious commotion. Adrianne, from the blacksmith, all sweaty and sooty had called over to us, "Welcome back!"

Old lady Olava the Feeble, who had told me my future, my present, I guess, had waved from her bench.

"Home at last!" Had called another.

"The Thane's daughter has returned!"

"The Dragonborn's daughter!"

"Loralei!"

Soon enough, the whole city, who had aged without my permission, had encircled me, cheered for me, hugged my children, kissed me, pet my dog. I'd felt loved and welcomed, and despite thoughts of grey skies, I'd finally felt home.

It had been almost an hour later when we reached Breezehome, even though it was so close to the city gates.

Even the plain and tiny house had encased me with love and warmth, and I felt whole. "It's small," Vittoria had noted, not begrudged. Bran had barked and ran around excitedly. Laughing, Nelkir had chased him.

Many years ago, I had envisioned watching Lucia playing in the road outside in the day, making stew with Runa in the evening, and making love with Lars in the night. But now that seemed so far away. It seemed like a different time, when my grasp at life, at people, at myself, and at all my belongings had been so weak.

Still, I blushed when I looked at the floor, and I couldn't help but remember papers and letters and notes which did not belong to me, when I looked at the long wooden table. Even the tiny room behind the stairs reminded me of suffocation and of I love yous and of Belrand who had brought me tea and had left the door open. All around me were pieces of the growing up which had occurred—all the illness and the early morning winter wake up calls; all the could-be's and should-be's and wants. And all around me—the memories and the books, the wood and the floors—it all belonged to me. Mother had signed a sheet and it had felt like nothing, but I had lived a life here, and right then, it felt like everything.

The evening of our arrival, Ysolda, still awaiting the arrival of her son, threw a large celebration for our welcome. A large cake that Runa had made was the main attraction. She also wrote me a song, and when she sang it I didn't cry, because it wasn't sad or happy, it was fun and light and somehow that made my heart soar. My children danced and made friends with the citizens, and I laughed and drank and reunited with those I had known, conversed with those I didn't, and I waited for that boy who had once sat by the door, waiting for ale and sweetrolls.

I hadn't thought too much about him, but I had gotten word from someone that Lars had returned with Mila last fall, after the war. She was never seen much, but lived in the House of Clan Battle-Born, with Lars and his mother. His grandparents were dead, and his father was temporarily in Solitude, acting for the High Queen Elisif (the moot would meet at the end of the year). Lars was seen, but rumour had it that he was a serious man now, with scars and stories. That saddened me. I remembered the boy who loved himself and rich things and rich girls. I remembered his naive heart that was so full and light and simplicity. I wondered if he still played chess, if he and Mila still held hands in that childish, lovish kind of way. I prayed to my divines that he would recover and become loving and rich, unforgiving and stubborn once again. But was that possible? Was it even good? Once I had been passive and thoughtful, neglected and neglectful. But now I was some altered, changed, different version of that, and I was better.

Maybe it was different for both of us though. Lars had had war. I had just had children.

No matter if he was changed now though, I still looked for him. I waited for him that night of the celebration, and in the days proceeding, I looked for him in the corners of the city, to see if he conversed or to see if he kissed or just to see him. But I didn't find him, and I hoped it wasn't because he was avoiding me. I was not a fool to think we could live together, but I had hoped that we could live amongst each other.

For the first week, I'd hoped for a letter, but Lars hadn't written one since before end of the war. I'd become so desperate though, that I had almost written one to him. Instead, I sent it to Dagny, and I had lost all my courage then. I'd passed the House of Clan Battle-Born once; I had even paused and held my breath. There was no movement, though; nothing of particular interest but a big house where I knew a wall of lutes hung, and the people who'd told me to leave had once lived.

It took me that long to finally step foot in the Temple of Kynareth. When the door shut behind me and I entered, I felt my self-snap back into place. My bones had shifted slowly after so many years away, and my soul had begun to thin. But with the walls of Life and Wind surrounding me, I felt it all shift like a soft sigh that meant home sweet home.

Danica was older, maybe even frailer. She said nothing as a warm smile stretched across her face, and she led me to the centre of the temple. Jenssen joined us thereafter, and the three of us knelt. We joined our hands and prayed. The winds, the waters, all the fires and all the earth around us joined, and our spirits soared.

I wonder now what I prayed for. I can't remember if it was for serious Lars or for broken Mila—if even it was for my mother who I tried not to miss. Perhaps I prayed for myself, and for all the good and bad parts of my life to finally join together and create equilibrium. Maybe I didn't pray for anything. Maybe I just thanked Kynareth and all the rest for the neglect, the heartbreak, the nothing, and the love, the friendships, and for all that made me.

Danica and Jenssen kissed me on the cheek and left eventually, but I stayed. Alone in the temple, I felt safe, surrounded by grace and wind. And even when my knees began to ache, I stayed, and touched my chest, where my amulet once lay.

I knelt there, for hours and hours until a voice broke my prayer.

"Loralei," Lars called. At the sound of his voice, my eyes snapped open, and I looked behind me.

"Lars," I said, surprisingly calm. I stood and dropped my hands. I glanced to his, and I saw that he held something.

"I, um, I brought this for you. It belongs to you, I thought you should have it back," he explained, holding it out to me. It was my amulet. I took a step towards him, and swore I saw him flinch. I ignored it though, and took the amulet from his hand.

My heart thumped and my skin burned, but somehow I managed to speak. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry I didn't come to your welcome back party," he blurted, blushing too. He seemed broader, stronger. When I'd seen Lars last, I had not had the time to notice what war and growing up had done to him.

"It's okay," I said. "I didn't expect you to."

"Oh," he said, looking to the floor. "So you came with your family… your daughter… and son." My heart stopped, and I felt not like something shattered, but the after part, trying to catch all the pieces, grasping helplessly as they slipped through fingers.

"Yes, they're here. We're in Breezehome, where I—"

"Yeah, I know. Your son, he—"

"Nelkir." There was a moment of extreme confusion that passed over Lars' face and I blushed, realizing my mistake. "That's his name," I corrected. Lars laughed a little, and I smiled.

"But his father—who's his father?"

"You're his father by blood," I said, remembering all the times Nelkir had called Kust papa. I wondered who I was betraying. Lars' face contorted into something almost angry, almost sad, almost understanding.

"And you didn't tell me?" I shot my eyes to the ground, and folded my hands around the amulet. The last time we'd stood in this temple, alone together, he had blamed me and I had not apologized. Do I apologize now? "It's been four years. I've written you, and you never wrote back. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I—"

"Was there someone else? You said 'father by blood'. Were you with another man?" he demanded, his voice straining.

"Yes, a good man," I said.

"Did you… did—" He blushed now, reddened and frowning. It took me a moment to realise what he was asking.

"Oh. No, we didn't have—"

"That's not what I mean. Did you love him? Did our children love him?" I paused, wondering if the truth was necessary. Would Lars be hurt? Had he loved another? Had he lain with another woman? Did I care? It was strange how I had never fathomed the possibility that he might be engaged or in love, or that he might even have bastards other than mine. Five years was a long time, seven even longer.

"Yes," I finally confessed. "We all loved him. We were going to be married."

He looked up, into my eyes suddenly. They seemed young and hopeful and I wondered why.

"Were? Why didn't you go through with it?" He stepped forward. He seemed impossibly tall. "Why did you come back here?"

"It wasn't for you," I blurted, and I almost felt him falter, shatter even. Maybe this was the breaking part, before the panic. He clenched his fist, and took a step back, but gently, I grabbed his arm, my amulet clattering to the ground in the process. He watched it fall before looking back at me. "But never mind all that, okay?"

"I can't just… not think about it," he whispered.

"One day we'll talk… about the last seven years, and the war, and the people we've loved, okay? Just, not yet."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, it just doesn't seem like the right time," I confessed. He seemed to sigh.

"Okay, I'll wait," he promised. I blinked, letting go of his arm.

"You will?"

"Of course," he said, smiling. I almost cried at the sight of his cheeky little dimple, the happy and almost arrogant, almost greedy eyes. "Do I get to meet our kids?"

I nodded, and picked up my amulet. We walked together back to Breezehome, where we found two mischievous children, and a dog sleeping lazily by the fire. Is this home?

That summer was a dream. Runa and I saw each other every day; in the morning while we ran errands, in afternoon for tea at Dragonsreach with our families and Lars Battle-Born. In the evenings, she helped cook and she sang at the inn and I watched and served. Some nights I would join her and pick up my lute, and we would make song again, but mostly I preferred to do the other work.

When we weren't together, I was at the temple, tending to the sick citizens and the wounded travelers. Once in a while an injured guard or military man would come and seek healing, but that summer, no soldiers fighting any war came for our services.

I wrote a lot too, and received many letters from Dagny and Evesa. Dagny was pregnant again, and forever happy with her husband, her wealth, and their fertility. Evesa, who would turn seventeen in Last Seed, was on her way to the Imperial City, ready to learn and study and teach. Her sister was getting older too, and had found a nice boy from a good family that she might marry someday.

I saw Lars frequently; at tea with the Jarl and Runa, and the times in between. Sometimes he would not come for me, but for Nelkir and Vittoria. They were fond of him, but he didn't tell them of their parentage. I think Vittoria knew though. Perhaps it was strange and naive intuition. Perhaps Runa told her.

There were times when Lars and I found ourselves alone too. We went riding frequently, until Bam Bam died and then Birdie followed. We all cried, Runa the hardest, and we buried them near the river. After that, I couldn't find it in me to find another horse to buy or even ride. We took walks instead, around Battle-Born farm or around the Wind District.

Once, I asked Lars if we were friends now, wondering if that was what I wanted. But he frowned and scoffed and kissed me and that was that.

I saw Mila sometime in the middle of summer. She looked tired and old, but she still made jokes and tried to teach me chess. Soon, she started coming to tea, and dancing at the inn. She joined the Companions by the end of summer, and though I saw less of her after that, she seemed happy and hopeful and devilishly bloodthirsty.

All summer long, I wondered where my mother was, how she was doing. I hoped she was happy, that she was free and young and wild. If that red-haired man with the funny accent was with her, I hoped he was happy too.

Sometimes I thought about Balimund, though those thoughts were few and far between. I wondered if he missed me like I sometimes missed him. Was he still handsome; was his laugh still deep and throaty? Did he think of my mother and what she had done, of me and all the things he did not even realise he'd taught me? I wondered what my life would be like if we had stayed with him, my second father.

I even thought of my third father, who had died with my sister. Would he be dead now anyway? Or would he be as alive and timeless as he was when we'd first met and the world beneath me had shifted. Would I be the same? Would he and my mother have been there to guide me, to give me all the lessons I'd only learned from mistakes? Or would I just be back where I am today, only with a husband and unbloodied hands?

When I reached far enough, I found thoughts about my first father. I never forgot a thing, and all the moments between us were still vivid in my mind. But it had been eighteen years, and the memories since outnumbered all those I'd had with him. Was he still important? Or did he only change me by dying? I thought of the lessons he'd given me: how to be a sister and a daughter. That seemed useless now, without a father or a mother or even a brother or sister. He taught me my first words, whatever they might have been… but I spoke so little in this life of mine that those words seemed to have been no use to me. My father, who I'd thought had given me all the lessons I'd ever need, was nothing but a dead man in a box.

Those thoughts brought me a silent despair, but I shelved it that summer in 4E 219, because the things and the people that did matter were the ones who surrounded me. My mother and those fathers who always changed and left, they were nothing but the events which threw my simple little life into action. Really, it was Runa, who danced with me, and Lars who kissed me; my children who took hold of the largest space in my heart; it was Evesa and Dagny who were so far away, but loved me still; Kust who loved my children, and Mila whose nose I envied—they were the ones that mattered that summer, and all the summers before. The despair was incorrigible, but what did it change in the end?

I received a letter in early fall, from a man I'd known long ago. I had not spoken to him since I'd left Solitude, and my heart and hands had trembled with excitement.

16th of Heart-Fire, 4E 219

Loralei,

It's been six years! Can you even believe it? I sent a letter to Falkreath at first, but your steward returned my letter and told me your new address.

I'm sorry I waited so long to write to you, but I've never been a good speller, and to say the required materials were sparse is an understatement. I don't really have a true reason for writing to you, but you were the first person I thought of when I got this parchment.

I got a job down at the docks for the East Empire Trading Company a few years ago. I'm surprisingly high up, and now I have myself a nice house inside Solitude. It's nothing like the one you used to live in, but it's decent.

My wife is Erdi, who works as a maid in the Blue Palace. She is beautiful and fun, and has a tangent for adventure. Unfortunately she doesn't get the opportunity to go adventuring much, but she's happy nonetheless.

How have you been? Sometimes I think of you and your daughter. I wonder what she looks like, what you look like now. I'm sure she's as pretty as you are though. How are the horses? They must be pretty old by now, but it's hard to imagine Bam Bam and Birdie as anything but the lively and always hungry beats they were.

I have lots of parchment and lots of ink now, so feel free to write me whenever you feel like it. Perhaps you and your daughter might come back up and visit. Erdi isn't great with children, but she wouldn't mind, I'm sure.

Best of luck,
Blaise

I wrote him back immediately, and when Lars asked who he was, I spent hours telling him of how he was my friend when I'd felt the loneliest in my life. Lars seemed hurt by that, perhaps he felt guilty, but my vindictive heart could only believe that was good.

On the old emperor's birthday, Lars brought me to the House of Clan Battle-Born.

"This could be ours," he said. I didn't care for the big house, or all the riches within, or even all its history. But Lars thought he was offering the world, a world he could make with me, for our children, for our lives together. "What do you think, Loralei?"

"What are you asking?" I said as he held my hands.

"I'm asking you to live here, to be my wife," he explained. His eyes were hopeful, bright, and through them I could almost see the dreams and visions of richness and beauty and me flash before his eyes.

"Then of course," I said, my mind aflutter with dreams and visions of simplicity and love and us.

"Together, then?" He smiled, and my heart bloomed like it had the spring before he broke it.

"Together."

We wed the spring of 4E 220, in Dragonsreach, and I was surrounded by the love I had earned and lost and given throughout my life. Maramal married us, and his daughters and their mother held hands and cried together. Dagny brought her beautiful firstborn, Lorgren, who told Vittoria she was pretty. Mila cried and smiled and she and Dagny embraced when they saw each other. Blaise and his beautiful wife brought us trinkets and wines from the East Empire Company.

The wedding itself, I can make out in smiles and familiar faces; in voices which I had not realised I'd longed to hear. My wedding was Lars and his wide blue eyes, his wide proud grin. It was Runa who did not write me a song, but danced to the one which wove between our skins and made our souls and our friendship one.

And after, on our way to our House of Clan Battle-Born, once all the celebrations of love and life had ended, the moon was high in the sky and the bright stars twinkled. While the crickets chirped, and Lars dreamed of pretty things and pretty girls, I picked a blue flower from its stem and tucked it behind my ear, dreaming of a pretty girl with red hair, pale lips, and a crown of blue flowers.

EPILOGUE
~ 4E 225 ~

"By the divines, I can't believe he can walk already," I cooed, watching as the small boy waddled around the floor. He was fat, even for a child of less than one, but he seemed strong as well. Runa and Francois' son looked like neither of them. He had dark, inky hair, and an almost sickly complexion. They had found him as an infant, with only the blanket around him and the strange rock in his hand. The rock had been round and heavy, with strange and non-identifiable markings. They'd named him Rune, and had loved him like their own. But ever since the pair had found him in a shipwreck on the shores near Solitude, they had feared for his seemingly weakly health.

Leila, his sister, sat nearby, on the bench beside her mother. She had flaxen hair, and gentle brown eyes, but even at just two, she sat tall and proudly. She seemed almost the mirror image of her mother, her eyes being the only sign she belonged also to her father. Her name belonged to me, and when she was born in 4E 223 and Runa squeezed my hand and muttered, "I named her Loralei. It's a rich girl name," I'd cried and laughed and held Runa's beautiful girl in my arms.

"They grow up so fast," Runa agreed, looking over at my children, who were eating some snacks at the other end of the room.

My heart twanged, and I moved to my hand to my belly. I was far along in my third pregnancy, and would be due any day now. The discomfort was immense, and my largeness made it almost hard for me to do anything without struggle, but part of me was anxious. It had been a long time since I'd had an infant.

The children were excited though. Vittoria, who had turned twelve earlier that year, was happy for this child, grateful that our family was growing. Nelkir, who was ten, was ecstatic. "I've wanted to be a big brother for so long now," he'd explained to me. But it was Lars who was most excited of all. I hoped it was more happiness than guilt, but he'd made sure to dote on me and our whole family throughout. At times his attention annoyed me, but I knew he meant well. I supposed I just was not used to it—having someone else there for it all.

"I've been working on a new song." Runa shifted, handing Leila a long string of yellow taffy.

"Oh yeah? What's it about?" I asked.

"Riften, actually. Evesa wrote about being a little homesick, and she went on this long tangent about Riften and all its history and blah blah. It just made me miss it."

"I've been having dreams about it lately," I confessed. They had started before I knew I was pregnant, becoming more and more vivid, lasting longer and longer. I dreamt of grey skies and a wooden world. I dreamt of scary old men, throaty laughs and red hair. The dreams were my childhood in Riften, all the music and the leaving and the bees—only it was different. I would see my father in the garden, with his apothecary satchel, gathering herbs amongst the bees. Sometimes he'd make us dinner or kiss mother hello. "Welcome home, dear," I'd hear him say, his voice real and loud and true.

Hroar would be there too, clapping along to mine and Runa's songs. Sometimes he would join me up on my barrel, and tell me of the fish he'd caught at the fishery down below, or how he'd snuck a taste of Black-Briar mead. We would talk about our mother and her adventures, of Lydia, so gallant with her grey sword. We would listen to our father's stories, memorize the songs. The routine of Riften would be us holding hands in the market stalls, sharing prayers at temple, doing chores and bickering later.

These dreams were my childhood, only less lonely and less broken. The neglect was nonexistent, the grey was no longer my foreground, but my background: unnoticeable and unchanging. It was a beautiful dream, one where I could remember my father's voice, and I could hold my brother's sweaty hand. But when I woke, I would be left deaf and crying, my hands empty and cold.

"Me too…" Runa said, not asking any further. I wanted to ask what she dreamt, but I didn't, because it was Hroar who asked the questions. I only listened, and waited, and waited, waiting forever and melting into the grey.

The pain was excruciating, it was pain which I had not experienced with my first two children. I felt as though I was being ripped apart, my body being torn in two. Runa and Lars held my hands, and didn't flinch when I squeezed theirs unmercifully. Runa remained somewhat calm, even through all the screaming and the blood. Over and over again, she reassured me, "It's okay, lovely Loralei, just push." Lars' face was drained of blood, and he didn't manage to say much, unless it was to shout at Danica, "What are you doing?!" If he said other things, I did not notice.

It seemed like years before the child was out, and I heard the small, shrill scream of a baby. My body began to sigh, and I smiled up at Lars when Danica said, "It's a boy!" But that moment was short-lived, for the pain only roared up again once more. "By the divines, there's another one!" Quickly, Danica cut the cord and passed the squealing infant over to Runa. "Clean him," she demanded. Danica returned to end of the bed, and I let out a whimper. "It's almost done, Loralei. Just one more to go, you can do this."

And so I screamed and pushed, and another baby boy emerged from my body. I cried when Danica laid him in my arms, still un-cleaned. He was red-faced and beautiful, and screamed with the lungs of a singer, and it was almost like I could hear my father's voice again, almost like my hand was no longer cold, nor empty.

Lars held the other child now (Runa having gone to wake the other children), and I made room for them next to me while Danica and Lars' mother scurried around cleaning up.

"They're amazing," Lars breathed, looking bewilderedly at the son in his arms. He looked up and frowned a little. "Are you still in pain?" he asked, almost frantic.

I shook my head. The pain between my legs still lingered, but I could only concentrate on the boy in my arms, the boys next to me. "This is Hroar," I said, and I found understanding in Lars' face.

"This is Jon," he said, and I understood.

Lars' mother took the baby from my arms and proceeded to clean him and swaddle him. But before long, both Jon and Hroar were in my arms again, and Vittoria and Nelkir knelt by the bedside.

"There's two," Vittoria remarked, gently touching Hroar's nose with the pink tip of her finger.

"One for each of us." Nelkir smiled, his dimple unforgivable. Lars chuckled softly beside me.

"What are their names?" Vittoria asked.

"Jon," I indicated, nodding to the infant on the left, "and Hroar."

"Those are good names," said Nelkir, putting his hand on my arm.

"Yeah," I said, feeling almost complete. These names, I thought, these names are everything.

It was exactly three months later, on the 3rd of Sun's Dusk, once all was settled and simple and nice again, that I received a letter. The courier came up to our door in the early morning, wearing an ugly hat and thick-soled shoes.

"Good morning, ma'am," he greeted. "Are you Loralei?"

"Yes," I said, taking the letter from his dirty hands. He said good day and was off. I shut the door behind me, and went to sit by the fire.

I'd assumed it was a letter from Dagny or Evesa, but as I sat, and held the paper in my hands, I felt my heart lurch. The parchment was heavy, thick, a little off-white. It smelled faintly of rain and dust, and the all-too familiar musk of blood and mischief.

That's not right, I thought, feeling a lump in my throat. I toyed with the thought that it might not be from her, that there were many rich people with fine parchment. She's not even rich anymore, I reminded myself, she left it all to me. Yet, I knew in my heart that though Elaira would always be flaky, always be moving and changing, I knew there were the consistencies, the habits that never faltered. The way she said my name was one. "Loralei," she'd say, and it would be almost breathy, almost caring, almost condescending, almost loving, almost. The way she breathed never changed either. She did not breathe from her mouth like Runa, but her breaths were steady and composed. It seemed as though breathing was not natural for her—it was like she controlled it; every intake and every outtake.

She also loved this parchment; this thick, off-white parchment that smelled like battle and elegance.

There was no denying that this seemingly innocent piece of thick, off-white parchment belonged to Elaira.

My hands shook, and my breaths seemed to come harder, when I made that conclusion. I didn't know if I wanted to tear it open or tear it apart. I did neither. Instead, I stared at it, shaking in my hands until Lars spoke.

"What's that?" It startled me. My hands stopped shaking and I looked up to see him descending the stairs with Hroar in his arm.

"It's… a letter."

"Oh, was it the courier who knocked?" he asked, sitting down next to me. I nodded. "Who's it from?"

"I think it's… it's from my mother." Lars frowned and glanced at the paper.

"Are you going to open it?"

"I don't think I can," I admitted.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, his frown lightening slightly.

"Yeah, actually," I said, feeling somewhat more relieved. He took the letter in his free hand, and when I took Hroar from him, he unfolded the parchment.

I looked away as he studied it, changing my focus instead to Hroar. His eyes were a strange colour, neither blue nor green or hazel. They were dark, with brown lining the iris, and a strange wash of taupe and ecru closer to the pupil. His twin's eyes were bright green, like his older sister's, but Hroar's eyes were his own. They were calming though, and from looking at them my heart seemed to steady. We stared at each other, both wide-eyed and blinking for what seemed like a long moment. It was Lars who interrupted once more.

"That's strange," he said. I looked up, and he turned the letter so I could see.

Before I really saw what he showed, I felt a strange hopefulness grow within me. Perhaps I wanted to hear from my mother, maybe even see her again. A million thoughts raced through my mind about what she might have to say; if she would apologize or catch me up on all the past years' adventures. Maybe she would say she loved me over and over, promise me that all those lessons had been a lie, promise me she'd come back and teach me all the beautiful truths, and love me some more, love me properly.

For that moment of hope, I imagined her return, and I imagined her goodbye. I had wanted our last goodbye to be truly our last; I had believed it would be. But that moment told me that that wanting was false, and that belief was wrong. Mothers and daughters never say goodbye, not truly, was what I believed in that moment.

But that whole feeling, that entity of comfort and of grace was very quickly killed, for what I read on that paper was nothing at all. I did not see apologies or sadness or hope. What I saw were unfamiliar markings etched in blue ink across the page. I could recognise my mother's quick and messy scrawl, but the symbols or words she scrawled were alien to me.

That's not fair, was my first thought. How can she do this? This letter, this note, is nothing. I don't deserve this.

"What…" I breathed, grabbing the sheet with one hand. "Is this a jest?"

"I… I didn't expect that," Lars said.

"Well, of course not! Who writes to their daughter, after more than half a decade, in a pagan language?!"

"Well… I'm pretty sure that's dragon language," Lars informed.

"How would you know dragon language?" I scoffed.

"I just recognise some of the markings from a songbook Dagny showed me once," he explained.

"Could you translate?" I said, almost panicked. I felt hysteria now; a confusion of anger and amusement and betrayal.

"No, I couldn't," he said. "But I know who could." He smirked, and I sneered, my heart thumping in adrenaline and anticipation.

"Well, on with it! Who?"

"The greybeards, dearie," he revealed.

My bones tightened, and I felt my blood evaporate. The Greybeards, I thought. What use are they to me all the way up in High Hrothgar?

"Oh," I said, feeling the starts of frustration bubble in my chest and water in my eyes. Lars placed his hand on my back and sighed.

"Don't look so down. I'll go for you."

"No," I objected. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You know I can do it," he said.

"Okay, but it's not worth it."

"Don't you want to know what it says?" Lars asked, frowning at the paper.

"No," I found myself saying. I wondered if it was true. "Elaira just wants to be mysterious—cryptic, I don't know. Romantic." I scoffed. "I won't have it."

"But what if these are her last words to you?" I seethed, trying to blink away the hot frustration in my eyes. I couldn't understand any of it. Why would she bother writing at all? I had thought I'd found peace without her, without any of those who'd left me. But this was not fair, it wasn't right, it wasn't supposed to be this way.

I breathed, placed Hroar on his father's lap, and stood up. "I have to go," I croaked, trembling, seething.

"What? Where?" Lars said, eyes wide.

"I'll be back," I muttered, wiping wetness from my face, and striding to the door.

The wind bit and snapped bitterly, and I would have cursed myself for forgetting my cloak, but I couldn't think straight, my thoughts and heart raced incoherently and unsteadily. I made my way through the early morning winds, and finally up into Belethor's General Goods. A small bell chimed as I pushed through the door.

"Hi, Lo—" Francois greeted before I pressed past him and the children. I climbed up the stairs, my slippered feet clanking against the creaking wood.

The tears warmed my face, and my heart still thumped erratically. My thoughts were everywhere, but they were everywhere where she had been.

I was hyperventilating, grasping for air by the time I nearly collapsed beside Runa on her bed. She woke now; fear, then muffled comprehension on her face. I couldn't make out her features though and the more I tried to, her face blurred further.

"Loralei," she said. "Loralei, wha—" She took my shoulders, trying to steady me. "What's wrong, Lorie? Breathe, slow down, what's going on?" I could barely hear Runa's words. Instead, I got a glimpse of my mother standing to in armour, then of her miserable form draping over the big, black, death box. "Shhh, calm down, tell me what's wrong." Now I saw her laughing with a handsome man, and glancing secretly at another. I remembered another laugh too—some wild laugh which had made her so beautiful. "Lorie…" Runa embraced me now, rubbing my back, doing all she could to soothe me. Tears flew from my eyes, and my throat felt dry and stuffy, and I could only see more of her—her tears; when her family died the first time, the second, when she'd broken a handsome man's heart. "Shh," Runa whispered once more. But my thoughts could not be lulled, could not be quieted; not when my life passed through my brain, and I could see all its own consistencies. All my memories are of grey skies and blue flowers and her choices. My life is more her than me.

My body felt bitter, brittle, and breakable, and even later, when I was dried of tears and my heart and my breathing slowed, I felt like I was crumbling to pieces. Runa stopped asking what happened, resuming in just holding me while I tried to calm down.

"I got a letter from Elaira," I explained anyway, when my words were no longer sobs. It seemed almost ridiculous now, to have made such a scene for nothing, but it still felt terrible and uncontrollable, even if my body had finished its scene.

"Oh," Runa replied. "What did it say?" I laughed bitterly.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Lars opened it since I couldn't, but it was written in dragon!" She chuckled and made a face.

"That's stupid," she scoffed.

"Truly," I said. "Lars says the Greybeards can translate it for me though."

"Are you going to do it?" she asked, almost excited.

"No," I said.

"How come?"

"She's not worth it," I admitted, frowning.

"Then why are you so upset about it?" Runa asked, tucking my hair behind my ear. "She doesn't deserve this angst either."

"You're right," I admitted. "I just feel like…" What do I feel?

"Like what?" Runa inquired.

"Like everything explodes every time she pops into my life. I feel like all my life has ever been was her, and the things she's done, the people she's been, the person she made me." I sighed shakily, feeling unwanted heat rise to my eyes.

"But you're not her. You're Loralei."

"No," I said. "I'm the Dragonborn's daughter."

I thought she might laugh, or cry, or stay silent. Instead, she closed her eyes and snuggled closer. "Don't be so dramatic," she murmured. I laughed, and closed my eyes, thinking of colours and dragons and me.

"Sing for me?" I whispered, calm, and broken, and peaceful. Questions and visions, memories and thoughts danced in my mind, but in my way of ways, I let the curtain drop, shielding them from my brain. It was a strange thing, to live so many years, in so many lives, in so many shadows, and still feel nothing but a song which made it all okay again.

Oh! There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red…

Author's Note: I'd planned to post this on the 28th, for reasons I'm sure you can all figured out, but I finished this a couple days ago, and could wait no longer. I really appreciate anyone who has read this story. Your time and your own appreciation has meant the world to me over the past year. All your comments have been read, considered, and are so important to me. I hope this story had some sort of effect on you, as it has on me, even if just for a second you enjoyed it.

It's been fun, and like always, reviews are better than taffy and sweetrolls. Thank you & Godspeed (*heart*)

Published on 20/04/2015

Edited on 16/07/2015