Hroar took a sip of ale, then stared into the silver goblet in his hand. He fingered his thick mustache and goatee, then ran his finger tips over five pinkish lines that crossed his face diagonally from left to right, forehead to chin. After six years, he hardly ever thought about them—except when new students showed up at the College. Hroar chuckled. Inevitably, new students that were put under his tutelage stared until he nudged them to ask whatever concerned them. And invariably, they'd stammer out something about hearing he'd been a werewolf fighter before he came to the College and had received the scars from a vicious werewolf he'd fought from evening until morning, coming out the victor. He always countered the tales, saying no such thing had occurred and in truth he had not had the strength to fight off the werewolf. He was saved by someone else. And then the student would ask who, and he would go on with the lesson. Sometimes they believed his story and sometimes they thought he spoke only in humility.

Hroar set the goblet on the table and glanced once more at the door to the inn. He'd been waiting at least three hours for his visitors. He would have traveled to see them himself, but they wandered too much to guarantee he could find them at any given time. So instead he'd sent a courier with the unenviable job of tracking them down. He'd received an answer two weeks later that they would come to Winterhold in a month's time. They named a day and time; he had already named the place. Hroar drummed his fingers on his table. He had seen them numerous times over the years, but today was momentous. His study had finally paid off.

When he'd parted from Francois, Hroar had wandered for about a month, and more than once someone who noticed his robes suggested he check out the mages college in Winterhold. He began to wonder if he dedicated himself to the study of magic, could he find a way to undo what he had done? So he made his way to Winterhold through snow and sleet and dispatching of snowy sabre cats. He'd arrived on the College's doorstep half-starved and shivering to death and that earned him entry as he chattered out his desire to study there.

He didn't remain a student for long, mainly because he buried himself in books and became ridiculously knowledgeable in a short period of time. He even managed to impress Urag, the elderly and crotchety librarian of The Arcanaeum; the Orc took to bringing him meals when he neglected to eat, his nose buried in another tome. Urag joked that if ever he had the misfortune to die, Hroar would be able to step in and no one would notice a difference. Hroar smiled and laughed, but never explained why he was so studious. Although he digested every piece of information he studied, only one desire motivated him: to discover how to free his friend from a curse he had saddled him with. And now he had succeeded. He could finally make up for what he had done.

As Hroar waited, he pulled out a letter that had arrived as he'd made the trek down to Winterhold proper. A courier had hailed him as he entered the town's main road, handing over a letter. Instead of leaving, the courier had stood gazing on him. Hroar assumed his scars had ensnared another. "Long story," he'd said. The courier stammered, "Oh, no. I wasn't...uh...sorry" and moved off, but glanced over his shoulder as he did so. Hroar had stared back and the courier looked away, walking back down the lane. He almost seemed familiar. Hroar turned his attention to the letter, throwing curious couriers out of his mind. It was addressed to "His Honorable Master of Alchemy and Never-ending Study, College of Winterhold." Hroar laughed aloud. Perhaps that explained the courier's stare. The townspeople must have told him to look for the mage with five scars crossing his face. Leave it to Lucia to tease him and taunt the courier.

Hroar now opened the letter a second time, perusing the contents. He received correspondence from Lucia now and then. Their experience with the werewolves had demolished old grudges and brought them a camaraderie neither had expected. Hroar recalled the day he saw Lucia for the first time after the werewolf incident. He'd lived at the College two years when a fellow student interrupted his experimenting to tell him that Faralda requested his presence as she was holding off an incensed woman who was demanding she be let in to see him. Hroar didn't know many people these days, mostly fellow mages at the College and he'd traversed the bridges down to Winterhold with curiosity. When he'd spied a woman with a long braid, a sour expression and a scarred right eye socket, he'd been dumbfounded and a bit apprehensive. He told Faralda to let her by and for a few seconds, he and Lucia simply eyeballed each other, until Lucia marched up to him and stated, "So, it's true. You're alive." He'd confirmed so and escorted her to his quarters.

Turned out Lucia had spent quite a bit of time trying to find him. He apologized for not informing her he had survived. She wasn't angry, only relieved to have found him. "I couldn't think that I'd let her own flesh and blood..." She'd cut her statement short. Hroar understood. She felt she owed it to Dimia. She had finally found him when a new book fell across her path, A Mage's Guide to Unexpected Remedies for Common Maladies. Hroar had written it the year before and was surprised a copy had made it as far as the Hall of the Vigilant. Lucia next expressed concern over his scars and Hroar had related what happened after he left the river. He mentioned Francois saving him, but didn't reveal that he'd lived with his family for a time healing. Lucia had raised her eyebrows in surprise at a werewolf savior and an awkward silence had descended. They would never see eye to eye on abominations. Lucia broke the silence to say something he'd never heard come out of her mouth, "Thank you." She expressed her gratitude for what he had done and told him that she had informed the Vigil that he had saved her; she had neglected to mention Francois.

Hroar reread the letter:

Hroar the Lion, I assume this letter finds you ensconced in your library or buried under ingredients. We still rely on your books here with some regularity. I write not only to assure you are well, but at the behest of Janshai. He is not sure about page 234 in your newest book. He insists you have mixed up Bleeding Crown for Blisterwort as he has not achieved the same results as you. Please clarify this so the old Elf will stop chewing my ear off over it! Also, I plan to be near Winterhold in three months time. I will attempt to visit and I would appreciate it if you would warn your guard dog who glares at me every time I come. Lucia.

Hroar smiled at her calling Faralda a guard dog. The door to the inn swung open, crashing into the wall. A female voice chastised, "Tristan! Not so wild now!" at the same time a boy's voice cried out, "Uncle Hroar!" Hroar stuffed the letter back into his robes and grinned when he felt an assault, someone jumping onto his back. He reached behind his shoulders and flipped the attacker over his head, laughing and setting a boy of nine next to him on the bench. He hadn't seen the boy in six months.

He tousled the boy's hair. "Can't be you. You've..."

"Grown too much," the boy cut in. "Yeah, yeah. You always say that."

"Manners!" the female called out again. She had reached the table and was settling in across from Hroar. Her ginger hair was secured high on her head and cascaded down her back. Her eyes twinkled. "I suppose one can't expect much when he spends most of his days gallivanting around outdoors." The woman removed her cloak and set it beside her as Hroar greeted her.

"It's good to see you again."

"And you."

"What about me?" A man came into view, Francois, a friend he knew as well now as he had as a child.

Hroar gestured across the table. "And perhaps you as well." He grinned. Francois sat down next to his wife. He shifted a dozing bundle he carried, Juliana, the youngest Beaufort at two years, and reached across the table to shake hands with Hroar.

"How is she?" Hroar asked, indicating the toddler. Cedany's labor had been difficult and the infant weak for a time. Francois and his wife had lost two other children before her.

"She's strong now. But calmer. Unlike her brother."

"I want to be a mage!" Tristan suddenly declared, paying no heed to the topic of conversation.

Hroar raised his eyebrows. "Now?"

"When I grow up. Father said I could."

Hroar looked to Francois. "Oh did he?"

"If he wants," Francois said. "But he changes his mind almost every day."

"Not this time!" Tristan declared indignantly. "I want to be a mage."

Hroar patted the boy on his back. "I will have an apprenticeship waiting whenever you want it."

The boy crossed his arms over his chest and held his chin up proudly. "See. Told you uncle would take me."

"I didn't doubt it," Francois returned.

"Alright. Enough talk," Cedany brought a halt to the current discussion. "I thought you said you were starving. So let's eat."

"I am starving!" Tristan insisted. "We walked for days."

"We didn't walk the whole way."

"Well, enough then."

Hroar gestured to the inn keeper who sent over four meals. As he handed Tristan a bowl, he eyed him suspiciously and leaned in close to his ear. "If you want to be a mage, what about the moon blood?"

Tristan shrugged and whispered back. "I'll be both."

Hroar spooned his own meal into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. A werewolf mage. He'd never heard of one, but then again, with all his study at the College of Winterhold, he'd learned a lot of things were possible that he'd never even dreamed of.

The happy group ate and chatted. Through vague language and coded speech, Hroar learned that Francois' pack had grown by two since last they'd met. Over the last six years, Francois had become an alpha himself. As he and his family wandered throughout Skyrim, they met people who had been outcast when they'd become lycanthropes. Some exiled themselves and some were forced to flee under threats of death. Francois took pity on them and offered them training and freedom from the fear of their beastly powers. Right now he led a pack of twelve; the number tended to vary. Some were too restless to stick with a pack for long.

When they finished their meal and their bowls and plates had been collected, Francois leaned across the table and spoke softly. "Is it ready?"

"There's nothing to prepare," Hroar told him. "We only need my skill. I rented a room. Come with me." He rose from the bench, followed by Tristan, then his mother and finally Francois carrying Juliana. Hroar pulled aside a curtain, stepping aside to let the family enter. The room was narrow and sparse, though cozy, containing a bed, a chair, and a dresser. Tristan bounded for the bed, but Hroar interjected. "Your father will need that."

"Aw..." Tristan objected.

"Go look in my satchel. Top drawer of the dresser."

Tristan's eyes lit up eagerly as he ran to the dresser.

Cedany sat in the chair and Francois passed Juliana over to her. The toddler stirred slightly, then settled down in her mother's arms, back to her comfortable sleep. Francois approached the bed nervously. "The bed, huh? Is it that bad?"

"For you, I'm not sure. But the skeevers certainly didn't approve."

Francois laid back on the bed.

"Papa! Papa! Uncle Hroar! Really?"

Hroar looked over at Tristan bouncing up and down holding a purplish stone. "Is it for me? Really?"

Cedany sent a disapproving look at Hroar. "Is that...did you really give him what he wanted?"

Hroar raised his hands in defense. "It's not. Not really. It's just a fragment."

"Look at it, mama!" Tristan held the soul gem fragment up to the candlelight.

"It is beautiful."

"If you have a whole one, you can..." Tristan went off, everything he knew about soul gems pouring out of his mouth and meant to inform his mother who looked like she often had to put up with a boy who talked a mile a minute.

Hroar turned his attention to Francois. "So, it's not too complicated, at least the process of removing it. I worked out the spell, but..."

Francois knit his brow. "But..."

"It does involve some intense magic."

"So it might hurt a lot."

"Yes."

"Get on with it."

"You'll have to be wolf."

"Ah. Alright." Francois sucked in a breath and then changed. Hroar hadn't seen him in his werewolf form in at least three years. When the Beaufort family came to visit, they always came as human.

Hroar surveyed Francois' left shoulder. The mark gleamed yellow as always. He studied the unique pattern, then held up a cupped hand. Energy began to swirl, a bluish haze coalescing in his palm. He took a breath. He pressed the energy into Francois' werewolf shoulder. Francois clenched his jaw, then he began to tremble and a whimper escaped through his teeth. Tristan had gone silent, Hroar assumed watching as he worked on his father. The yellow faded slightly. Hroar pushed harder into the shoulder. Now Francois whined and gripped the bed with his clawed hands. Hroar concentrated, moving his palm up and down. Then, abruptly, the yellow gleam faded out of existence. A burden lifted from Hroar's soul. He pulled his hand back. "It's gone."

Francois relaxed his hold on the bed. He took some time to recover, then the werewolf shrunk and the human emerged. Hroar pulled a blanket over his friend and scrutinized the shoulder. A residual mass of white scarring remained. Francois looked down at his shoulder and rubbed it gently with his right hand. "Aches."

"It probably will for a while. The scarring is permanent."

"But no tracking?"

"No. You cannot be found that way anymore." At least once a year Hroar knew the family had had to flee Vigilants. He sighed. "I'm sorry I..."

"Don't do that," Francois scolded angrily. "You've apologized enough over the years. I don't want to hear it anymore."

Hroar inclined his head and swallowed his apology. "Will you stay?" he asked instead.

Francois pulled himself up on the bed. He put a hand to his forehead and swayed. Hroar placed a steadying hand behind his back. "Take it easy."

Francois coughed and spoke regretfully. "We can't. The pack isn't far and one of our new members is struggling to adapt."

Hroar felt disappointed, but didn't let it show. "Then let me know when you come back this way again."

"Of course we will," Cedany promised. She bounced the little girl on her lap whose eyes had opened. The toddler squealed and smiled at Hroar.

The family waited until Francois could walk unaided, then left the room and headed to the entrance. Hroar shook each hand after they'd bundled up for the weather. The time had gone too quickly. Every time they left after a visit he felt empty. When he was with them he felt like he was a Beaufort, like he belonged. He felt the same at the College, but to a lesser degree. There was something different between a school and a family and he preferred the family.

Hroar followed them out into the street. Francois clapped him on the back one more time. Heavy snow had begun to fall. His friend leaned into his ear. "Thank you. I know you came to the College for me. Thank you."

Hroar didn't feel he deserved such gratitude since he'd been the reason for the mark in the first place, but he nodded to acknowledge his friend's gratefulness. He had come to the College to figure out how to help Francois, but in the process learned that being a mage was his calling.

Hroar watched the family walk down the road and out of sight, Tristan looking back to wave every few seconds. He sighed heavily and headed back to the College, traversing its long bridges. He paced through the courtyard and back to his quarters. He had a lecture to deliver in an hour. He sat down at a table, pulling Lucia's letter out of his pocket and setting it on the table. He stared at the form of address. Hroar the Lion. She'd once mocked his name, deriding him for his lack of lion-like attributes, but now her use was one of respect.

"Excuse me? Master?"

Hroar looked up. A young face peered through his doorway. A new arrival to the college, hardly more than a youth at seventeen. "Yes?"

"I wondered...maybe you could watch this spell...I'm not sure...It keeps coming out wrong." Hroar gestured the student inside. The student sat down. He kept staring and Hroar sighed. "I was never a werewolf-hunter and I did not fight one all day and win."

"Oh. Oh. Sorry. No. I...I actually was thinking about...never mind."

Hroar was curious. "Thinking about what? You don't have to hide anything from me. I'm not harsh."

"Well, they say you're called Hroar the Lion."

Hroar smiled at the coincidence as he'd just been thinking about it himself. "Not formally."

"Well, someone told me it's because you're a warrior, or were, and you went to Hammerfell and hunted lions so long you think like one."

Hroar kept himself from laughing aloud. So, now he was a lion hunter. "It's not true. I've never been to Hammerfell. And truthfully, I do not think much like a lion. I am no warrior."

"I-I'm sorry I mentioned it, sir."

Hroar waved the apology away. "Just show me the spell."

As the student complied, Hroar ruminated. He'd failed at being the king of beasts he'd imagined all his life and here rumor kept assigning lion-like qualities to him. The student stood in front of his wardrobe and Hroar's eye fell on a set of robes visible through a crack in the door. Lucia had brought them to him when she'd first come to the College. "I saw you kept them," she explained. "I thought you might want them." He'd taken them gingerly out of her hands and held them close to his face, breathing in his aunt's earthy scent. He still missed her to this day.

As the student explained his trouble, Hroar only heard his aunt's voice speaking in his mind, a memory from the past: You do have strength, my lion. You were aptly named. You have your own strength in your own way. He'd always assumed a lion's strength lied in vicious battle, but his aunt had attributed the height of courage to the man she loved, his father when he had chosen to die. "You're a strong man, Hroar," Lucia had said when she thanked him. "I was wrong not to see it before." Hroar fingered his goatee. Perhaps strength could be found in more than battle. Perhaps it was also found in courage to do what was right no matter the cost, whether that was dying to spare others or rescuing a nemesis or setting an abomination free. Was Dimia right? Had he been a lion all along? Hroar chuckled quietly. If so, he was a lion orphaned because of a vampire, beaten by a hagraven, rescued by a warrior, and close friends with a wolf. I wonder if my strange tale will someday make the storybooks.

"Master?"

Hroar looked up from his reverie. "Oh. I was thinking. Show me again."

The student performed the spell again and Hroar settled back into his seat. His tale had been a strange one and although it was filled with pain and danger, it also contained elements of courage and love and loyalty. And he found himself suddenly content to be who he was and what he was. Hroar the Lion, indeed.