Chapter Nine: Tests

If the Gods had intended this as penance for her crimes, the Breton would not be in the least bit surprised. Bundled in heavy furs, the woman had climbed step after step up the mountainside for what felt like hours. She couldn't be sure how long she had been doing this. It had been about daybreak when she left Ivarstead, but as she got higher and higher up the mountain the sun kept disappearing behind the thick, white clouds. Not that it mattered, the harsh winds kept blowing blinding flurries of snow in the woman's face if she dared to lift her head to look any higher than the step directly in front of her. She knew it was still day time at least. Everything was still too white and grey for it to be sunset. Tom had lost count of the steps at least a dozen times now. The first time she had gotten to nearly two hundred before getting distracted, and she had gotten to over one hundred at least twice. She had stopped even bothering to count hours ago and had taken no breaks since starting her journey that morning. She had to be at least a quarter of the way to the top, if not even closer. If she wasn't – no, she couldn't even consider the possibility.

Still, Tom kept walking. She had come too far to stop now. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other had become the only thought in her head, if only to keep her mind off the unbearable cold. Even within her thick gloves, her fingers had stiffened into a clench, frozen in place, and she had lost all feeling in her feet. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer. Her body was too tired, too frozen, too broken. If she didn't at least rest for a minute, she was going to collapse, and then what - freeze to death right there on the steps only to be found by the next pilgrim making the journey? That wouldn't be a particularly noble end for the Dragonborn. She would have chuckled if she had the strength. She could almost hear the tale. After months of ignoring her responsibilities, Dragonborn dies on the steps to High Hrothgar. Everyone dies as dragons wreak havoc on the Nirn. Now that would be a tale to tell the grandchildren.

After awhile, Tom noticed the winds had eased up a bit, and she cautiously lifted her head. All she could see in front of her were more steps and snow and rock, but the weather had died down. Above her, she could see the sun peeking through a bit of cloud. It was roughly noon, but she couldn't tell exactly when. Grumbling, the Breton decided now was the best time to get some rest. She couldn't be certain when she would get another opportunity. Using what little strength she had left, she sat down on the steps with her back to the wind. There was bread and a couple apples in her pack. That could help a little with her strength. With her frozen fingers, she fumbled as she attempted to pull her pack out from under her cloak to no avail. Her fingers just wouldn't move. In a desperate attempt to warm them, she stuck them between her pathetic excuse for thighs. There wasn't anything she wouldn't give to be a jolly, fat Nord woman right then. At least then she might have been able to make it another thousand steps. If only she had learned a damn flames spell back when she still had Lyra to read to her. That would have come in handy at least a dozen times in her lifetime, but no, that was too convenient and useful and basic for her complicated ass. Tom would have punched herself in the face if she could move.

Still, how hard could it be to learn? Tom had learned other spells, more complex ones at that. It was worth an attempt at the very least. She pulled one of her hands from between her thighs and held it out. Tom thought of what Lyra had read to her when she was learning the other spells. The basic idea couldn't be much different. She just needed to focus her energy and conceptualize the flames, which was admittedly a lot harder than it sounded given the temperature, but if her fidgety, reckless younger self could learn a calm spell, she could remember heat while nearly freezing to death. Tom thought of bonfires outside of Anvil on holidays and all the campfires built during her years of travel. A small blue wisp of magic sparked up from her hand, but it took no form and quickly flickered out.

Tom chose to take that as a good sign. Her confidence rising, she concentrated harder. She needed a stronger memory, something that really captured the essence of fire. Fire wasn't just a source of heat. It was a force. She thought of Helgen, when the headsman's ax was halted only by an act of the Gods. The dragon had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, raining down fire on the settlement. The buildings, made of stick and straw, had quickly caught flame as if they were no more than kindling. The memory seemed powerful enough to do the trick. Immediately, a large flame burst from her hand, nearly singing the woman's face before it died down to a small ball of fire that floated just above her fingers. Smiling, Tom warmed her hands with the flame, and once she was warm enough to actually move her fingers, she extinguished the spell.

Taking a couple rags from her pack, the Breton set them down on the step below her and lit them. Fortunately, it was easier to do the second time around. She then pulled out a large, thick glass bottle from her pack. Even without opening it, she could tell that the water inside had turned completely to ice during her hike up the mountain. Tom set the bottle down next to her make-shift campfire and then retrieved a small loaf of bread to snack on while she waited for her drink to thaw. The bread was, likewise, hard and frozen, but if she bit down hard enough and ignored the pain after accidentally biting her tongue, she could break off just enough crumbs to prevent her from passing out. Tom supposed that was the one good thing about her erratic eating habits. After years of only eating when absolutely necessary, it didn't take much to sustain her. Eventually, the bottle warmed up enough that the insides vaguely resembled a liquid. Figuring it was drinkable, Tom opened the bottle and took a couple sips, only for her bottom lip to stick frozen to the glass. With great effort, she jerked the bottle from her mouth, peeling off a fair bit of skin, and closed it back up as blood trickled from her lips.

After deciding that her attempt at eating would prove to be just as perilous as the climb up the mountain, Tom put the bread and bottle back into her pack, but she did not leave immediately. Instead, the Breton let herself warm by the small fire a bit longer before continuing on. As she extinguished the flames and gathered her things, she found that the snow and winds had died down considerably, which would make the next couple hours of her journey a little more bearable. Sighing to herself, she began trekking up the steps once more. As the hours passed, the harsh weather continuously flared up and died down as Tom climbed step after unbearable step, but every time she was felt herself ready to give up, her body would not allow her to stop. She had given up too many times before. Eventually, just as the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped even lower than before, Tom saw a warm glow of fire coming from just around the corner of the mountain. Hoping that the end was in sight, she trudged up the last bit of steps at the quickest pace she could muster, nearly tripping over herself as she reached the top of the hill.

In front of her, lit only by the warm glow of torches, stood the great stone fortress of High Hrothgar, as ancient and beautiful as she could have imagined, and in a cruel twist of fate, there were still two winding, stone staircases leading up to the monastery. Exhaling in relief, Tom let out a little chuckle as her legs finally gave out and she fell to the snow-covered ground, but it didn't matter. The damn climb was finally over. While she knelt on the ground, alternating between hysterical laughter and heavy breathing, Tom found her relief short-lived as it occurred to her that though she had indeed reached the top of the mountain, this was only the beginning of what she would have to go through. Groaning, she collapsed face forward onto the ground and cradled her head in her arms. If she lived through this whole Dragonborn business, she was going somewhere warm and relatively flat, and more importantly, she was never, ever returning to this infernal winter wasteland so long as she lived.

Her fantasies of retiring to some seaside city in Hammerfell were cut short by the light sound of feet descending down the staircase in front of her. Unable to make herself move, Tom caught her breath as the steps drew closer, and even with the hood of her cloak covering her head and her face pressed against the ground, she could feel a figure looming over her. The figure cleared its throat with a cough and spoke in a rasping voice.

"Are you all right, child?"

. . .

Less than a week ago, there had been an inexplicable shift in the winds. Not the literal ones that could be heard howling outside the fortress on any given day, no, there had been an overwhelming change in the air that Arngeir could feel deep inside himself, and as he found out upon consulting with the other Graybeards, it had not only been he who had noticed it. A reckoning had come. Perhaps Alduin had gathered enough strength to fulfill his destiny as the destroyer of worlds, or perhaps it was something considerably less dramatic. Either way, a great change was on its way, and he had steeled himself for whatever was coming. What the wizened monk had not been expecting was a very small pilgrim showing up outside the settlement at dusk. Arngeir had been making the nightly rounds to light the various lamps around the settlement when he spotted the pilgrim laying there on the ground, hunched over and – laughing? A black, fur-trimmed cloak covered the stranger's entire body, but he could tell as he cautiously walked down the steps that the person underneath was scarcely any larger than a child. Clearing his throat as he approached the strange pilgrim, he asked, "Are you all right, child?"

The stranger sighed and slowly got to their feet as they brushed the snow off their body and lifted their head to look at him. A Breton woman's face, pale and scarred, could be seen under the shadow of the hood. Her nose was red from the cold, and her large eyes were sunken and weary. Her cheeks blushed slightly as she looked away and tried to smile.

"I'm sorry," the woman said. "It was a long trip."

"I understand," Arngeir replied with a hum. He motioned for the woman to follow him as he turned and led her up the stairs into the fortress. "Braving the seven-thousand steps is no small feat. Tell me, child. What brings you to High Hrothgar?"

"See I was hoping you could tell me," she said. Her tone was a little flippant, as was the nature of the young and inexperienced. Still, Arngeir reserved his judgments as she continued. "I was told you summoned me. I know I'm a little late, but –"

As he reached the top of the steps, Arngeir whisked back around to face the stranger, and her voice was immediately silenced as he examined her. Could this peculiar, young woman truly be who she claimed? It had been nearly a year since the Graybeards shouted their summons, and Arngeir had all but given up hope that the Dragonborn would answer their call. Yet, here this woman stood, claiming to be the blood of dragons. Admittedly, the old Graybeard had not been expecting a Dragonborn to be so – small. Her ill-fitted cloak dragged against the ground behind her and dwarfed her slim figure, and her large, doe-like eyes gave her an air of helplessness. Even as he looked her over, she appeared uncomfortable and insecure, but perhaps he was being too hasty in his judgment. Not all heroes were born great, but molded into greatness. If the woman was as she claimed, Dovahkiin, then it was his honor and duty as a Graybeard to aid her in her journey to find her destiny.

"So a Dragonborn finally appears," he said as he turned back around and opened the door to High Hrothgar. "Well, we will see if you truly have the gift."

"I don't get a little rest first?" she asked, japing once again, as she followed him into the fortress and lowered her hood. The Graybeard instantly recognized this seemingly innocent humor as a childish deflection, a defense mechanism for the secretly stubborn, and knew that training this woman in the way of the Voice would prove to be no easy task. Their way was not for the strong of head, whose opinions were set in stone, but the strong of mind, who allowed themselves to be malleable and open to the changing of the world. When Arngeir did not voice any approval or disapproval at her frivolity, the woman sheepishly diverted her gaze toward the architecture and hung her head like a dog who had been scolded. As he lead her into the main room, the other Graybeards took notice and gathered around. Arngeir turned to the alleged Dragonborn.

"Show us, Dragonborn," he said to her. "Let us taste of your Voice."

The others watched her with great anticipation as the little Breton ran her hand through the back of her hair and exhaled. Her face uncertain, her eyes darted around the room, but Arngeir waited patiently as she tried to let herself relax. Finally, the woman took in a deep breath and exhaled an ear-splitting Thu'um.

"Fus!"

In all his years, Arngeir had never seen such a thing. An untrained woman Shouting with the same force of one of their own. The room shook and a few pots scattered. Even Wulfgar, who had been standing a little too close to her line of fire, stumbled backwards and silently stared over at Arngeir, his old eyes full of amazement and shock. The woman was, indeed, as she claimed, Dovahkiin, and yet, she appeared to be just as taken aback by her own Thu'um as the rest of them. Collecting himself, Arngeir straightened himself and pressed his hands together as he addressed the newly discovered Dragonborn. "It is you, Dragonborn. Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Graybeards."

"Jeanne," she replied, warily. There was dishonesty in the woman's voice, but Arngeir didn't pay it much mind. She did not yet realize that the Graybeards were not bound by the laws of the outside world and whatever she had done that would lead her to lie about her own name did not concern them. Still, if she allowed herself, she would grow to trust them. Until then, he would respect her desire for privacy.

"Tell me, Dragonborn," he said. "After all this time, why have you come here?"

"Like I said, I figured I should answer your summons," she answered. "Figure out what all this Dragonborn business means."

"And we are honored to have you among us," Arngeir replied, choosing to ignore her cheekiness. "We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny."

"Destiny," the Breton repeated, suddenly deep in thought. "You mean to defeat the dragons?"

"While it can be no coincidence that the appearance of a Dragonborn coincides with the return of the dragons," Arngeir began, "I cannot tell you for certain that it is your destiny. That is for you alone to discover. We can show you the Way, but not your destination."

The Dragonborn – Jeanne, as she called herself – did not seem satisfied with his answer. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, but still she held her tongue. Perhaps she would be an easier pupil than Arngeir had suspected. Crossing her arms, she shrugged off her discontent and said, "In that case, I guess I better start learning."

Arngeir smiled softly. "You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have an inborn gift for the Voice, but do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you?" He paused. "That remains to be seen. Even without training, you have already taken the steps to projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout."

"Yeah, I know what the Thu'um is," she said, and Arngeir held his tongue, reminding himself to be patient with the girl.

"Then let us see if you are willing and able to learn," he replied. "I assume then you already know that when you Shout, you're using the tongue of the dragons and that your Dragon-Blood allows you to learn Words of Power more quickly than others?"

Jeanne made a sour face and pushed her dark bangs out of her eyes. "No. I just know what the Thu'um is and that being able to do it makes me important or something."

"Ah, well then, I should tell you that there are three Words of Power in each Shout," Arngeir replied as he turned toward the other Graybeards. "As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you 'Ro,' the second Word in Unrelenting Force." He motioned to Einarth, and the other Graybeard stepped into the middle of the room as Arngeir continued on. "It means balance in the dragon language. Combine it with 'Fus' – force – and it will focus your Thu'um more sharply."

As Arngeir finished speaking, Master Einarth let out a relatively quiet Shout and projected the Word onto the ground. Cautiously, Jeanne approached the burning Word, and the light from the etching quickly began to fade out. Shivering, the Dragonborn stood up straight and held her head before turning her gaze back toward Arngeir. "I got it. Now what?"

"You learn new Words like a master," Arngeir replied, "but learning the Words is only the first step. In order to use it as a Shout, you must unlock its meaning through constant practice, or at least, that is how it is for the rest of us. As Dragonborn, you can learn it directly by absorbing a slain dragon's life force and knowledge. As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of 'Ro.'"

The Dragonborn gave him a sharp, understanding nod. For all her flippancy, she was capable of being serious when it came down to it, and Arngeir found himself admiring her fire. Einarth raised his arms as lights began to swirl around him before being sucked into Jeanne's body. Tense and rigid, Arngeir could tell the woman was resisting the knowledge – out of fear, perhaps, or maybe it was her stubborn nature getting the better of her. Once it was over, she exhaled in a grunt and shook herself furiously.

"I'm never getting used to that," the Dragonborn said, smiling.

"I believe you will," Arngeir replied. "Now let us see how quickly you master your new Thu'um."

Quirking an eyebrow, Jeanne eyed the old master over as he motioned to the other Graybeards. Realizing there was something going on, she spun around as Wulfgar projected a shadowy target for her with his Voice. She caught on to the exercise immediately and Shouted it away. Arngeir smiled as the woman quickly finished off each of the targets given to her. It was like nothing he had seen before. Her Shouts were shaky and not as focused as he would prefer them to be. She especially faltered with Ro, giving Arngeir the impression that balance was not in her nature. However, what she lacked in precision, she made up for in sheer power, which the Graybeard found a little ironic given her size. Once the exercise was over, the girl spun back around, grinning from ear to ear.

"Well done, Dragonborn," Arngeir said as he approached her. "You show great promise."

"Is that it?" she said, her confidence shaking. "I can just go out and kill dragons now? Save the world and all?"

"No, no," he answered. "You still have much to learn, but I think we can call it a night. I do believe you mentioned wanting some rest, earlier? There should be a spare bed down the hall if you wish to sleep and a cooking spit not far off if you need food. Find Master Borri and I in the morning when you are ready to resume your training."

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "I'll be sure to do that."

Without much else to say, the woman scurried off as Arngeir looked to Borri, who raised his eyebrows and smiled, clearly just as impressed by the girl's talents as Arngeir was. There was no denying that the Dragonborn was a peculiar, thickheaded young woman with a quick tongue and much to learn before she was ready to be facing any sort of destiny. However as he had noted earlier, she had raw talent and more importantly, a certain fire in her once she got past her own insecurities, and like fire, she would have to learn to control herself, but in mastering her weakness, she would be all the stronger for it. The path to training her may be rocky, but Arngeir knew in his heart that this would be rewarding or at the very least be a chance to try his patience.

. . .

"Become a guard," her father had told her. The old Nord had taken his then sixteen-year-old daughter aside and given her this fateful advice, and since he had been both soldier and guard, the young girl had naturally assumed he knew what he was talking about. "A soldier's life is too unpredictable. As a guard, you'll have both excitement and stability. Yes, yes, I know, my dear, security doesn't mean much too you now, but you'll thank me later."

Being the dutiful daughter she had been, Lydia had heeded her father's advice. The woman had taken a job with the Whiterun guard and trained every day in order to be the best damn swordsman in the hold. Then, after nearly a decade of apprehending criminals and hunting out bandits and blood and sweat, it seemed as if all her work had finally paid off. The captain of the guard, Commander Caius, had personally recommended her to be appointed as the housecarl for Whiterun's new thane. Now, under normal circumstances, Lydia would have been offended that her talents were being reassigned to a position that was essentially a glorified watchdog, but Whiterun's new thane was no ordinary politician, whose most ferocious enemies would be paper cuts and other politicians. No she had been assigned as housecarl for the Dragonborn, flesh of Akatosh and destined savior of the Nirn. Instead of guarding some stuffy house for a pompous twit with more coin than sense, Lydia would be fighting dragons and draugr. It had been more than the woman had hoped for – if that had been the way it had turned out.

It had been nearly a year since the Dragonborn had been seen in Whiterun. The very night of her battle with the dragon outside Whiterun and subsequent appointment as thane, the mysterious woman had left for High Hrothgar, and she had not been spotted in the city since. Given that dragons were still terrorizing the countryside, raining down fire and terror upon the citizens of Skyrim, Lydia found it safe to say the Dragonborn, whomever she was, had not been doing her job, and worse, Lydia had been left to guard a couple chairs in Dragonsreach for the past several months. It was a horridly boring life. The other guards were off patrolling the hold, fighting off beasts and keeping the hold safe, and what was she doing? Sitting in Dragonsreach counting the stones in the wall as she came to the painful realization that had she ignored her father's advice, she would probably have died in some meaningless battle by now, but at least she would have been doing something.

It was a particularly boring Sundas afternoon as she sat in the corner of Dragonsreach ignoring the furtive glances of a certain castle guard whom Lydia had contemptuously dubbed "Lover Boy" and who had made it his personal life mission to harass her at every opportunity all in hopes of getting his hands under her tassets and into her trousers. In response to his quest, Lydia had taken it upon herself to make it her personal life mission to glare and scowl at him all in hopes that if she hated him enough, his head would spontaneously burst into flames. Unfortunately, this seething hatred did nothing to dissuade him his goal and quite possibly had made him more interested in getting into her knickers. In all honesty, it wouldn't surprise Lydia in the slightest if her obvious disgust for him had piqued his interest even further. Most of the castle guards were of a particularly revolting breed. Though some were older or at the very least more experienced guards, who had worked hard and earned a more dignified post, most of them were lazy sons of rich men who had bought their way to the position. No more than glorified watch dogs, they lounged around Dragonsreach snatching sweet rolls and fondling the serving girls. Worse yet, Lydia knew that given that she wasn't off saving Skyrim from dragons, she might as well be one of them.

As Lydia was engaging in her daily battle of glares with – Gods, what was his real name? Hagvar, Hanvir, Heaver? – Lover Boy, she did happen to notice what appeared to be a child entering Dragonsreach. Taking a moment from her busy day of doing jack all, Lydia allowed herself to be taken in by her curiosity and studied this unexpected guest. The girl, who upon second glance appeared to be much older than Lydia had first thought, walked straight through Dragonsreach like a ghost, completely undetected by all the other guards, and for a split-second, Lydia thought she may have finally gone mad from the monotony and hallucinated the woman. Her fear was unfounded though as the woman approached Jarl Bulgruuf's throne and the jarl immediately got to his feet and greeted her. Lydia playfully mused that perhaps the girl was another of the jarl's bastards. Balgruuf was well regarded as a good man and beloved by his people, rightfully so in Lydia's opinion, but his lack of self-control when it came to his personal life was no secret in the hold, especially in Dragonsreach. Still, Lydia was positive that she would have heard the rumors had one of the jarl's bastards been expected for a visit, even if they were visiting under a false identity as they often were, and if one had shown up unannounced, well, Balgruuf certainly wouldn't have greeted them as cheerfully as his did for the young woman.

The two spoke for awhile, and Lydia strained herself to listen in on the conversation to no avail. The girl spoke so quietly that Lydia wouldn't have even known she was talking if not for her lips moving, and although Balgruuf's booming voice could be heard even on the other side of the fortress, Lydia couldn't make out his words. At one point in the conversation, Balgruuf looked straight at Lydia and motioned to her as the stranger looked over her shoulder at the guardswoman as well and eyed her over with careful inspection, the same way a rider would a potential horse. Naturally, this ominous examination did not sit particularly well with Lydia, but if this woman needed muscle, at least it would be a chance to get out of Dragonsreach. It had been so long since she had done anything of use no matter what this woman wanted it had to be better than sitting around. The girl nodded her head at the Jarl and said something else to him, and he called over his steward. The three then spoke for a little while still before the Jarl dismissed the steward and lead the girl in Lydia's direction. The guardswoman could feel her heart rate quicken as she shot a smug smirk towards Lover Boy. Dragonborn or not, she was getting out of this damn place for at least a little while. As the two approached her, Lydia stood up respectfully and bowed to the Jarl.

"My jarl," she greeted them and snuck a glance to inspect the girl better. Admittedly, she felt a bit foolish for having thought the woman a child or even a youth. Despite her waifish figure and small stature, it was evident from her thin, expressionless face that the Breton couldn't be much younger in age than Lydia herself.

"Lydia, is it?" Jarl Balgruuf asked, and the Nord woman nodded. "I would like to introduce you to the thane you've been assigned to, the Dragonborn."

Lydia chuckled at the joke but quickly stopped when the jarl furrowed his brow in confusion. Horrified by her indiscretion, the housecarl clenched her jaw and stared down at the woman, who if she had indeed been offended by Lydia's careless actions, was hiding it pretty damn well behind her stony face. "I'm so sorry, my thane."

"It's all right," the alleged Dragonborn said, her tone as unreadable as her face. There was a small twang in her unfamiliar accent that marked her as a woman who had not grown up in luxury, and Lydia felt a little relieved that not only had she not offended the woman – maybe – but also that she wouldn't have to be traveling with some haughty, clean-nailed Breton who probably couldn't even lift a sword. Instead, Lydia would be traveling with a modest, dirt-caked Breton who probably still couldn't even lift a sword. Nonetheless, the thane turned to Balgruuf and said to him in a tone curter than most who spoke to the jarl, "This will do. Thank you."

"It's the least we can do for the woman who saved the city," the jarl replied. He nodded at the both of them and returned to his throne. Without so much as a simple greeting, the Dragonborn motioned for Lydia to follow her, and she obliged, following the Breton woman out of Dragonsreach and into the sunny streets of Whiterun. Lydia couldn't help but watch the little thane as she quickly headed from the Cloud District down the steps to the Wind District. Though she held her shoulders forward and walked with all the purpose and drive of a disciplined soldier, the woman made no noise when she walked, and Lydia wasn't entirely certain which unnerved her more – her silent steps or her silent tongue. It wasn't until they reached the marketplace that the thane spoke again. She suddenly stopped in the middle of the square and inspected the area carefully.

"You were expecting someone taller," the Dragonborn said in a way that sounded both like a question and a statement. Scratching at her jaw line uncomfortably, Lydia carefully thought over her answer, in hopes to keep from possibly offending the woman again. Lydia had known the Dragonborn was a woman. Everyone in Whiterun knew that. Balgruuf himself had made it a point to issue a public statement after the incident with the Falkreath pretender, but her race had always been a bit of a vague topic. Even in Dragonsreach, there were those who had sworn they had seen her face, but each one differed in their description of her appearance. Most agreed that she was on the lither side, but Lydia had dismissed that as men's desire for the delicate, like paintings of historical women of war who had soft faces and dainty hands. The image Lydia had personally concocted had been a little, dexterous, red-haired Nord woman who looked suspiciously like the huntress of Jorrvaskr.

"Not necessarily taller," Lydia replied. "Just – bigger."

The Dragonborn remained mostly facing away from Lydia, but the Nord could still see a sliver of the woman's face pause and consider – no, calculate her reply. Fortunately, she decided not to continue that line of conversation. "Are you good with a sword?"

"Best in the hold that doesn't drink and die for the Companions," Lydia answered. "Maybe even better than some of the younger members."

Lydia didn't even bother to feign modesty about her skill. As her former guard captain had explained to her the day following the battle with the dragon, a battle Lydia had missed due to being assigned to guard the Wind District, she had been his first choice for the position. In the other main holds – Solitude, Markarth, Windhelm, and even the damnable Riften – the housecarls who were appointed to thanes were appointed from the nobility's chosen warriors, but in a hold like Whiterun, where all those who would normally be vying for the rather dignified position of housecarl either joined up with the Companions or ended up like Uthgerd, jaded and drinking their life away in the Bannered Mare, they didn't have the luxury of having a plethora of spirited, gallant swordsmen at their disposal, all willing to swear their life and allegiance to the latest crony of the jarl. No, Whiterun didn't have that when every child in the hold had all grown up with dreams of something greater. So the jarl naturally drew from the guards, especially the castle guardsmen seeing as, despite how much Lydia hated to admit it, they were often better trained than those who patrolled the city or hold if only because of their wealthy fathers. Typically this system worked well since with most thanes the job of housecarl was often no different than guarding Dragonsreach.

However, when the Dragonborn, savior of the Nirn, had rolled into town and saved the city, even Balgruuf had known he needed someone worthy of helping her, and when the Commander Caius had nearly immediately chosen her, it was something to be proud of. Fortunately, the Dragonborn did not appear displeased by the boldness of Lydia's words. Instead, she cracked a small, strange smile and gave a small nod.

"Good. I'll be needing that." She finally turned her gaze toward Lydia. "How's your armor? Do you need anything?"

Her armor, compliments of the jarl, was brand new and never used in battle, but that wasn't what concerned Lydia. She glanced down at her sword. The old blade could still cut, certainly, but it was getting on in years. Back when she was a guardswoman, she had been saving up to buy a better sword from Avenicci at Warmaiden's, but that plan went to the wolves when she had become a housecarl. The unfortunate thing about her new job was that it was an honorary position not a paid profession. They had kept her boarded and fed in Dragonsreach since she'd accepted the position, but her own coin had run out roughly two months ago. She wasn't certain if she was comfortable telling the thane she wanted a new sword.

"My armor's fine," Lydia replied. "The blade, well, it's getting on in years. It'll still cut through a man's head, no problem, but not as clean as it used to."

The Breton dug through her pack and pulled out a rather hefty coin purse. Tossing the bag to Lydia, who fumbled to catch it, the thane said to her, "Go get yourself anything you need. I have some business to take care of. Meet me outside the old Honningbrew Meadery when you're done, and we'll be heading out."

"As you say, my thane."

Without another word, the Dragonborn headed off for the alchemist shop, leaving Lydia alone in the street. She went through the purse to find there was a considerable amount of coin in there, at least two hundred if she had counted correctly. It was certainly more than enough for a new sword. After closing the bag back up and pocketing it, Lydia made her way down to Warmaiden's where a grime-covered Adrianne Avenicci was, as always, tiring over her forge. As Lydia approached the forge, the Imperial blacksmith stuck down a final blow of her hammer against the metal she was working and wiped the sweat from her brow. Upon spotting Lydia, Adrianne stood up straight and greeted the Nord woman with a friendly smile.

"Ah, Lydia, it's been awhile since I've seen you stumbling out of the Huntsman," she said. "Nearly thought you died until Valdis told me about your new job. I suppose there's some congratulations in order."

"Thanks," Lydia replied. "How have you been?"

Brushing the hair from her face, Adrianne exhaled and rolled her eyes. "Busy. With the war and dragons, it seems everyone needs a new sword or shield these days. I can't complain too much. The coin's never been better, but I don't really have time any more to stand and chat like this."

"Oh, sorry," Lydia said. "I'll go see Uthbert inside then."

Smiling, Adrianne turned back to her forge and began working again. "It's fine. We can still talk. I just need to be working while we do. So what brings you down to the Plains District?"

"Same reason I'm at your shop of all places," Lydia said. "I need a sword."

"Well, there's a couple swords over there on that table you can look at if you're in the market. A few aren't for general sale, though. So run it by me before you take it inside."

"I'll make sure to do that," Lydia said. Making her way over to the table, she picked up a steel sword and tested the weight. "How is the old girl? Valdis, I mean."

"Well, I suppose," Adrianne replied. "Doesn't come around these parts nearly as much since Ivarr left the city."

Lydia nearly dropped the sword she'd been holding. The three of them – Valdis, Ivarr, and Lydia, herself – had been somewhat of a team. They had gone through training together and come out of as thick as thieves. Not a night went by where the trio couldn't be found in the Drunken Huntsman, having to drag at least one of them off the floor and back to the barracks. It had been a smart match, too. Valdis, stocky and hard of face, was born in Riften and had no illusions about what her job might force her to do. Ivarr, on the other hand, was from a small farming settlement just a days trip from Whiterun, and his world view was a tad bit too much on the rosy side. Positioned somewhere between Val's practicality and cynicism and Ivarr's compassion and ideals, Lydia often found herself mediating between the two. Still, given Ivarr's dedication to his work and seemingly unbreakable optimism, something truly terrible must have happened for him to leave the guard.

"Ivarr left?"

"You didn't hear?" Adrianne asked. Her face was genuinely surprised as she looked over her shoulder at Lydia. Lydia shook her head, and Adrianne's demeanor sunk as she focused her gaze back down on the metal in front of her. "A dragon attacked Goldbrook about four months back. Razed the whole settlement to the ground in a matter of minutes. Poor folks didn't even stand a chance."

Lydia's eyes widened. "By the Nine."

"After the news came," the smith continued solemnly, "he immediately volunteered to patrol the hold, and no one's really heard from him since. At least, that's what Val told me. You would have to ask her yourself if you want the whole story. I haven't seen either of them in months."

Lydia contemplated taking Adrianne's advice. She could go find Val and find out what she had missed while she was living the high life in Dragonsreach, but while seeing her old friend was a tempting thought, Lydia knew her priorities. She was to find a sword and meet the Dragonborn outside the meadery. The thane, while peculiar, did not appear to be unreasonable. Eventually, she would most likely give Lydia some time off when there weren't dragons to fight. Placing the steel sword back down on the table, Lydia grabbed for a Dwemer battleaxe and gave it a few quick, controlled swings. The weapon held well, heavy enough to give a powerful swing but light enough not to feel unruly in her hands.

"How much for the battleaxe?" she asked.

"That one's not for sale," Adrianne replied, "but the Dwemer sword is. Since I like you, it's two-hundred and twenty and I'll have Uthbert throw in a new shield as well."

It was more than a fair deal. Lydia picked up the golden metal sword and took it inside for purchase. Upon walking into the store, Uthbert, the great bear of a man, greeted Lydia with a warm grin and a loud holler of congratulations on her new assignment. It didn't take long for the two to catch up as Lydia paid for her purchase and Uthbert found the shield just as his wife had promised. Once everything was settled, Lydia packed up her things and waved goodbye before setting back out to the roads of Whiterun to meet up with the thane. The meadery had been a strange choice for a rendezvous. Lydia mused to herself that perhaps the Dragonborn had a weakness for the spirits. To be honest, it wouldn't surprise Lydia in the slightest if it were true, and it would certainly explain a lot.

The late spring sun blazed above her and light breeze swept past her as Lydia exited the city and meandered down the gravel road to the former Honnigbrew meadery. It didn't take her long to arrive. As she approached the fence, she glanced around curiously, but the thane was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the Dragonborn was still at the alchemist or she had gone off to another shop. Figuring it could take awhile yet, Lydia leaned against the post and waited with her eyes fixed over the hill in anticipation for the little Breton to come wandering down the road at any second. Several minutes passed, and Lydia became impatient. Sourly puckering her lips, she crossed her arms and glanced around again. Had the Dragonborn said to meet her at the meadery or in the meadery? Maybe the thane was inside, waiting just as impatiently as Lydia was outside. Shrugging her shoulders, the housecarl decided it couldn't hurt to check and headed inside.

As Lydia entered into the meadery, she caught the faint sound of a conversation coming from inside. However, the place was seemingly empty as the woman closed the door behind her. She stepped up to the counter in search any sort of note that would explain where the salesman had gone off to or at the very least a sign of where her new thane was. Lydia had heard Sabjorn had been taken in a couple months ago for trying to poison to guard captain, but she had also heard that the Black-Briars of Riften had made a quick bid for the property and they were not known for their leniency with idle workers. Unable to find any answers at the counter, she noticed that the voices appeared to be coming from behind a slightly ajar door that lead to the next room. She took a couple steps closer to the door in hopes of overhearing something useful.

"That sounds more than fair," a woman's voice said. Lydia identified it as possibly the Dragonborn's, if only due to the brisk, cold tone. "And I am sorry about all this. I just left in such a hurry. I didn't even think–"

"Ah, don't mention it." This voice was immediately recognized by Lydia as that of Mallus Maccius. She knew the man all too well and had personally escorted the oily-haired Imperial into a jail cell many times for drunk and disorderly conduct, always for him to be bailed out the next morning by an irate Sabjorn. The guardswoman had certainly pitied the man for the utterly degrading treatment he had suffered under Sabjorn's employ – if it could even be called that – but Mallus had this side-mouthed way of talking that set Lydia's teeth on edge. The Imperial didn't deserve Sabjorn's abuse, but there wasn't a doubt in Lydia's mind that he wasn't a degenerate through and through. Lydia took a couple more steps toward the door and considered opening it. The thane was inside, and Lydia was supposed to meet her there, but curiosity got the better of the housecarl and she listened in.

"Besides," Mallus continued, "I do owe you one, Skinny. You come by any time, and I'll still do business with you. Brinn won't even have to know. I'll say it came from that damned Breton. You know the one, I'm sure. Goin' grey round the edges, broken nose, thinks he's real funny." Lydia heard the Dragonborn chuckle at the description, and even though the housecarl's thoughts were all a flutter with what kind of business the thane could have with a man like Maccius, she did take a moment to appreciate the first time she had witnessed the Breton react in a way that was even remotely human. Under her laughter, the Dragonborn said a name that Lydia couldn't make out, but Mallus must have recognized it because he immediately replied, "Yeah that's the one. Anyway, he always sells by the bulk, so I'm sure no one's going to notice if I tack on your sales to his."

"I doubt I'll be coming back," the thane replied, "but I appreciate the offer."

"Suit yourself. The door's always open."

Lydia could sense that was the end of the conversation and footsteps heading towards the door confirmed her fears. With all the grace of a horker flopping about on the shore, the housecarl stumbled back a few steps and hastily turned toward the counter as the door to the stockroom opened and out stepped the thane and Maccius. Lydia innocently turned her head to face them. Mallus crinkled his nose and stared suspiciously at the Nord woman, and Lydia got the sneaking suspicion that he was remembering that time she dropped him down the steps to the Wind District while "escorting" him to the cells. Likewise, the Dragonborn didn't appear to be all too thrilled to see her housecarl standing there. Fighting the blood rushing to her cheeks, Lydia did her best not to give herself away.

"Oh, there you are, my thane," Lydia said a little too loudly. "I was looking for you."

The little Breton woman crossed her arms and pursed her lips before replying in an authoritative voice that could have rivaled Commander Caius's, "I thought I told you to meet me outside the meadery."

"Yeah, well, I waited around for awhile, and you never showed up so I thought I'd check in here."

It was honest to an extent, but Lydia could tell that the thane wasn't buying it. Fortunately, before the Dragonborn could respond, Lydia's salvation came in the form of Mallus Maccius, who was clearly just as uncomfortable as she was, shuffling past the vexed Breton and heading toward the counter.

"So could I interest you two ladies in a drink for the road?" he asked. It wasn't enough to truly break the tension, but it did make the air a little easier to bear as the thane's lips twitched and she uncrossed her arms. Mallus ducked behind the counter and returned with two bottles. "Black-Briar Reserve, best in the province."

"I think I could go for that, yeah," the Dragonborn replied, and Lydia had to restrain herself from audibly sighing in relief. The thane then proceeded to order several more bottles of mead than Lydia could have expected a woman her size to be able to drink in one sitting, and with no more than a brusque farewell to the salesman and a sharp nod to Lydia, the thane stuffed the drinks in her pack and exited the meadery.

. . .

The majority of the first day of the trip to Ustengrav was fairly uneventful, apart from a couple wolves that had chosen the pair as prey just as the two women had been traveling across the rocky plains of the Whiterun hold. Luckily, they had been quickly blown away by the Thu'um and been caused the women trouble at all. It was a useful ability, to say the least, but Tom doubted she would be willing to employ it in more populated area, but she would get to that later. For now, she was – as she had curtly explained to Lydia after leaving the meadery – to retrieve the horn of some dead Nord and bring it back to the Graybeards as part of her final trial of initiation or whatever it was Arngeir had gone on about back atop High Hrothgar. To be perfectly honest, Tom wasn't particularly clear on the importance of this task and she didn't particularly care to be either. If this got her a step closer to getting everything over with, than so be it. She had more important things to worry about, like how in Oblivion her scrawny self was going to be able to take on dragons when the time came.

On the bright side, Lydia had proven to be an agreeable traveling companion, despite her initial flops of their first hour together and the nagging worry in Tom's head that the Nord had overheard her dealings with Mallus. Whatever she had or hadn't overheard, Lydia appeared to be perfectly fine with not bringing it up, a trait that the Breton appreciated greatly. Other than that, she had shown to have other pleasant traits, such as her ability to quickly pick up on the fact Tom was not the talkative type. Interestingly enough, Lydia had seemed a bit relieved by the fact, though it was possibly less due to Tom being a terrible conversationalist – as it usually was – and more due to the Nord woman having the unrivaled ability to put her foot in her mouth. It was almost endearing. Tom had fully expected for a housecarl, the type of person who would willingly swear away her life to some noble they had never met without promise of any type of payment, to be a stuffy, proper, overly subservient sort of person, and Lydia was anything but that. She rolled her eyes when talking her thane. She grumbled and made smart remarks under her breath. She had chuckled when the wolves attacked. It was strange, certainly, but oddly comforting to the Breton at the same time. Though Tom was surely not planning on ever revealing absolutely anything about her past to the woman, Lydia's informal, somewhat rough nature eased Tom's worries of how she would react to it were it to ever come up.

Unfortunately, the second day of the trip turned out to be a lot more difficult than the first. Tom had stayed up all night watching guard while Lydia slept. The housecarl had offered for them to take shifts, but Tom knew the only way she would be able to get any sleep is if she drank herself into oblivion and even then, she wouldn't be able to function in the morning if she had. After explaining this to Lydia, the housecarl had replied with a wry "well, that sounds healthy" and claimed it was "your loss", before curling up in her bed roll and retiring for the night. The next morning, Tom had woken her companion at dawn, and the two had packed up camp and headed on their way. They had just entered into the marshes outside of Morthal when Lydia held her hand up, stopping the Breton in her tracks.

"There's a camp up there," Lydia said, curtly and quietly. For the first time since Tom had met the woman, there was not even the slightest bit of flippancy to her. Every muscle in her body tensed up as she stared into the forest in front of them. "You smell that? It's a fire, and it's still burning."

"Wha–"

"Shh!" Lydia clenched her jaw and raised her head as if to listen for something. Listening in as well, Tom quickly heard it – voices, and they weren't far off. Her mind ran wild with fear of bandits and thugs, and adrenaline rushed through her body as she was overwhelmed with a desire to flee. Instinctively taking a step back, the Breton turned her head toward Lydia.

"We should go another way," Tom whispered, but Lydia shook her head. She held up her finger as if to motion for the thane to listen harder and Tom reluctantly did. Footsteps, they were in the distance, but still coming toward them.

"They've already heard us, my thane," Lydia replied quietly as she drew her sword.

"Then we've got to get out of here," Tom growled. Cocking her head at the Breton, Lydia stared down at her.

"With all due respect, my thane, I'm sure the Dragonborn and a trained warrior can take a couple of bandits," she said incredulously, "if they're even that. For all we know, we could be running from a Khajiit caravan. Where's your courage, sir?"

Tom found herself at a loss for words. Lydia was right, of course. In the heat of the moment, Tom had forgotten she was no longer a little Breton with a few spells and a mediocre proficiency with a bow, or at least, that's not how the world saw her now. Still, nature got the better of her, and she frantically turned her gaze back in the direction of the footsteps.

"We don't know how many of them there are," Tom said, "and I'm no good on a head on fight. It's better if we set up an ambush until we identify them."

Lydia pursed her lips thoughtfully and smiled. "You go ahead. Set up an ambush. I'll keep them busy."

"They could shoot you down in a second," the Dragonborn argued, but Lydia merely scoffed away her concern.

"Have a little faith in me," she replied quietly. "Besides, I'm no sneak. I'll only give away your position. Now go, they'll be on us soon enough."

Scowling at the woman's hardheadedness, Tom begrudging turned around and scouted out the area. There was a particularly bushy tree not two yards off with a high, sturdy-looking branch that could easily be climbed on to and used as cover. Making her way over to it hastily, Tom jumped up and caught the lowest branch in her grip. She expertly pulled herself up and climbed into place. Nuzzling herself into the gap between the trunk and branch, she readied her bow and watched at the bushes where the unknown assailants would be coming through. Down on the ground, Lydia appeared to be swinging her new sword around in cocky anticipation. Tom shook her head. The woman was going to get herself killed.

Finally, three Nord men in sturdy armor adorned with blue trimmings emerged from the bush. Even from her spot, Tom could see the anger on their faces, and she gripped her bow firmly, ready to fire at a moment's notice, but Lydia did not appear threatened at all. Instead, she immediately lowered her sword and swore, "Oh for the love of Talos!"

The men appeared to be just as confused as Tom as the housecarl gruffly sheathed her sword and shouted up into the trees. "You can come down, my thane!" Her voice became bitter. "They're just Stormcloaks."

Tom felt the strong urge to kick herself. While a formidable force in their own right, Stormcloaks had no business with her and would probably welcome her with open arms if they knew the trouble she had caused the Legion in her past – not that she had any desire to join them. Putting away her bow, she quickly maneuvered her way down the tree and jumped to the ground. As she rose up, the Breton got a better look at the three soldiers standing only a few feet from Lydia, who had crossed her arms by this point and appeared to be waiting rather impatiently for her thane to explain herself to the men. Each of them were large and burly. The smallest of the three was roughly the size of Lydia. As Tom approached her housecarl, the Stormcloaks seemed surprised by her, a reaction Tom was getting used to at an alarming rate.

"What's your business here?" the man in the middle growled. He was a red-haired man with an impressive beard and wore a hat made of bearskin, marking him as some sort of barbarian officer. "You spies?"

"Of course not," Lydia replied. "This is the–"

"Cosette Beaumont, thane of the Pale," Tom quickly interrupted, trying to sound as important as possible. Lydia looked over her shoulder at the little thane and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as the Breton pushed past her. "We're on important business for the jarls so if you three fine gentleman will please excuse us, we'll be on our way. Come, Lydia."

Lydia obeyed, but just as Tom was about to slip her way through the men. The officer stepped forward grabbed her by the arm. "Not so fast," he said and looked over at the man on his right. "'Ey, Wave-Breaker, aren't you from Dawnstar?"

Wave-Breaker, who was by far the largest of the lot with his giant pot-belly and bulging arm muscles, crossed his giant arms and tilted his head back. He grinned, and Tom could see he was missing a couple teeth. "That I am, Torgor," the man said, "and I've never heard of no thane by that name. Oblivion take me, I don't think I've ever even heard of a Breton thane in the proper cities of Skyrim."

"I'm new," she spat. "I came in from High Rock about a month ago to help the city with a very delicate problem that I'm sure the jarl wouldn't appreciate me discussing with the likes of you."

Tom knew the last bit would most likely only make the men angrier, but she had to stay in character no matter the cost and no proper Breton noble would ever let these savages talk to her in the way they were. Fortunately or perhaps unfortunately, Wind-Breaker just snorted, more amused by her antics than insulted.

"Yeah, if you're so chummy with him, then what's the jarl's name?"

"Well, I like to call him Peaches," she replied with a smug smirk before attempting to jerk her arm away from Torgor to no avail. "Now unhand me!"

Gripping her arm even more tightly, Torgor looked back at the two men. "I think maybe we should take the thane to Arrald, just until we get it her story straight, don't you think?"

Torgor nodded, and behind her, Tom heard Lydia unsheathe her sword again. The smallest man – if he could even be called that, he looked no older than seventeen – jumped back in visible surprise. Likewise, the other two suddenly turned their attention towards Lydia, though they were more threatened than fearful. Either way, the officer's grip loosened, and Tom took the opportunity to break free, quickly retreating behind Lydia, who stood with her sword at point, ready to skewer the first man who stepped forward.

"The thane isn't going anywhere," Lydia said firmly. "Now, the thane and I have some very important business that must be attended to. If you gentlemen try to stop us again, I will not hesitate to kill every last one of you, and if you do, by chance, happen to survive – well, given that Jarl Skald isn't exactly a man known for his patience, I'm sure he'll be more than pleased to pass along the information to High King Ulfric about how three Stormcloak soldiers threatened his thane."

Tom was honestly impressed by Lydia's ability to lie through her teeth and be not only convincing but genuinely threatening as well. The three men all stared at the housecarl as they mulled over whether this was worth pursuing any further, until the young man finally broke the silence.

"Maybe we should let them go," he said. "I mean, she did freely invoke the name of Talos when she saw us. Maybe she isn't an Imperial."

"Bah, that means nothing," Torgor replied. "Even those milk-drinking traitors in the Legion still know their god, even if they won't die for him."

Inspecting her fingernails in the prissiest manner she could muster, Tom spoke up, "Since I would hate to see this explode into a diplomatic incident, may I propose a compromise? If it will get us on our way any faster, then I suppose we could see this Captain – Arrald, did you call him? Let him weigh in on the subject. Hmm?"

Wind-Breaker immediately burst out with a booming laugh at her words, and Lydia could scarcely hide her mortification. Furrowing her brow, Tom tilted her head as the big bear of a Nord wiped his eyes and said, "Ah, you really are from High Rock, aren't you?"

"What?" Tom asked.

Lydia buried her face in her free hand in embarrassment. "My thane, Stormcloaks don't call their leaders captains. Everybody knows that."

"I didn't."

Torgor grinned. "That won't be necessary, ma'am. If you are spies, I'd prefer not to have been the one who lead you directly to camp, but I doubt a spy would know so little about the people they were gathering information on."

"So we can go?" Tom asked, crossing her arms.

"Just don't let me catch you two around these parts again."

With that, the officer stepped aside for the women allowing them to pass. Once the two were finally out of earshot of the soldiers, Lydia succumbed to a small fit of giggles. As Tom stared up at her waiting for some sort of explanation, Lydia waved her hand and tried to regain her composure. "I'm sorry. I thought after all that work, your 'captain' thing was going to get us killed. I mean, I actually had them scared and ready to turn around and march back to their little camp and then you come in with 'Captain Arrald.' By the Nine."

Tom puckered her lips sourly at the ribbing, but she took no offense. "I didn't know, and it worked out, didn't it?"

"Only because you were so damn prissy about it," Lydia said with a chuckle.

"Well, at least I didn't call him a praefect. Gods know how that would've gone."

"Praefect, huh?" Lydia replied. Her mouth twisted into a teasing grin. "Don't know rank in the Stormcloaks, but you do know the Legion's. Maybe you are an Imperial spy."

The woman's accusation was made entirely in jest, but struck by a sudden curiosity, Tom pursued the topic in hopes to know a little more about the woman she was traveling with. "Would that bother you?"

"Not particularly," Lydia said. "Like a lot of old Nords, my father was a Legion man. They aren't all bad people. They're just fighting for their ruler, same as the Stormcloaks."

"But you sympathize more with the Stormcloaks?"

"I know why they fight," Lydia replied, "and it's honorable goal, I guess, but it never really mattered who I preferred. Before you, I served Whiterun and only Whiterun, and now–" She paused and looked down at the Breton, before exhaling what sounded like a small chuckle. "Now, I go wherever you go, for better or worse. Even if it means having to threaten soldiers just to save your hide."

Tom grinned to herself. "About that, I've been meaning to ask where you learned to lie like that? I thought if anything you were going to be the one to give me away, but no, you immediately fell in line. So where'd a woman like you learn think so quickly?"

"Right, because all Nords are all brawn and no brain."

Now it was Tom's turn to put her foot in her mouth. "I didn't mean it like that. You're just – a housecarl. I expected you to be all noble and moral, you know?"

"Well I wasn't always a housecarl," Lydia replied, smirking. "I used to be a guard, and one of the things you learn as a guard is how to spot a weak link and badger them into telling you what they know or in this case, getting them out of your way. That usually works better if you aren't entirely honest. What I can't figure out is why you lied to them in the first place. With all due respect, my thane, if you'd just told them you were the Dragonborn, we could've avoided all that."

Tom paused. "I dedicated a great deal of my life to being invisible, you know, not being noticed by people. I'd hate to let that go to waste just because it turns out I can absorb dragon souls. The fewer people who can identify me as the Dragonborn the better. I'm sure years down the road, someone will claim they were the Dragonborn and they can have the title. I don't want it."

"So you're really not interested in the glory?" Lydia asked and Tom shook her head. "That's – surprisingly noble."

"It really isn't," Tom muttered, ending the conversation. It had occurred to her that if she did reveal herself as the Dragonborn, save the Nirn from dragons, all that hero business, then maybe she wouldn't have to live as an outlaw any more. Maybe the Empire would officially pardon her and she could go visit that farm outside Chorrol and make amends with the only person still living that she could call family. Maybe she could even call herself Lucille Adair again and live out the rest of her days in one of the beautiful manors in Anvil that she had admired so much as a child, but that wouldn't be fair to a lot of people and that guilt would probably haunt her for the rest of her life. It was better this way, and if she did happen to survive this mess, then maybe she would one day return to that farm and make amends, years down the road when no one would remember her name, but she would do it as the criminal she was.

The pair walked in silence for another hour, stopping only because Lydia rather teasingly mentioned that Tom had neglected to allow her time for breakfast and it was now well past noon. As they ate, or rather Lydia ate while Tom took a few bites of an apple and stared blankly out into the forest, Lydia had apparently taken to the idea that their little misadventure with the Stormcloaks meant they had become friends and tried once again to start up a conversation with the Breton.

"So was that actually your name?" she asked, still chewing on her food. Tom quirked her eyebrow and looked over her shoulder at the Nord, who swallowed and elaborated her question while gesturing. "Back there you told the soldiers your name was Cosette. Is it?"

"No," Tom replied and turned her gaze back towards the forest.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said. Tom could almost hear Lydia's eyes rolling as she spoke. "I didn't mean to offend you, my thane."

"You can stop calling me that," Tom said. "It sounds so proper."

"Then what would I call you instead, my thane?" Lydia asked. Tom could tell the housecarl had added that on just to be flippant, but it didn't particularly bother her. The woman had a point. She had never given a name to the people of Whiterun for a reason, but if she didn't give Lydia a name, then she might as well get used to the "my thane"s, as strange as it sounded in her ears. Before she could reply, Lydia chimed in with an alternative, "Perhaps your Eminence, my thane, or your Supreme Grace, or is that a step in the wrong direction?"

Tom couldn't help but grin. "It's Jeanne."

It was the name she had given Arngeir and a personal favorite alias of hers. There were at least a thousand Breton women with the name, and she might as well keep her story straight so long as she was doing this Dragonborn business. Lydia hummed and said, "Yeah, that sounds about right. So if you don't mind me asking, who were you before all this?"

"I was a farmwife," the Breton replied, quietly. "My husband and I had just moved here with the kids from High Rock. We had fallen on troubled times, and he had family in the area so we set ourselves up a little stead just outside of Falkreath."

"You're a mother?" Lydia asked skeptically.

"Yes, three times over," Tom answered. She looked down, feigning wistfulness. "There was Antony and Merrett and of course, Cecilia, my little darling. She was no more than two years old when I – I went into town one day and came home to find the place burned to the ground. Not one survived."

"I'm – I'm so sorry," Lydia stuttered. "I can't imagine the pain of – I'm just. Was it bandits?"

"No," Tom deadpanned. "Bears. Big, black bears with pointy teeth. They walked on two legs, they did, and breathed fire." She turned back to Lydia, who sat there completely dumbstruck, her mouth slightly agape and her brow furrowed questioningly, much to Tom's amusement. "Lydia, I'm lying."

"Yeah I got that," Lydia spat. " So none of that was true? The children, the husband, the farm? Just one big joke? With all due respect, my thane, you're a horrible person."

Tom chuckled. "I'm sorry. I really couldn't help it. If it's any consolation, it wasn't completely untrue. I was married once, but no children. No, these hips weren't really made for birthing even one babe. Three would have certainly killed me."

Still a little put off, Lydia pursed her lips and looked down at her lunch. "So what happened with your husband?"

"I'm afraid it's a lot less dramatic than being eaten by fire-breathing bears," Tom replied with a small smile. "No, what happened with us is all too common. We lived in Anvil. It's a little city by the sea in Cyrodiil. He was a sailor. I worked as a barmaid at an inn by the docks. Match made by the Divines as it were. Well, after four years of nothing but dedication on my part – oh and what dedication it was. Do you have any idea what it's like being married to a sailor? They're gone most of the year and when they are there – ugh, dealing with the smell alone should have warranted being given a medal from the Emperor himself."

Tom feigned disgust for the sake of the story, but she remembered his scent with great fondness. The stench of fish and sweat was always gone after he bathed and she always made him bathe as soon as he got back, but the fresh scent of sea salt always remained on his person and stained the sheets, lingering on the bed long after he had shipped out on his latest trip. Tom shook her head and continued, "Anyway, one day I get a letter from him. 'My dear Jeanne, I regret to inform you that I have fallen in love with someone else. We are very happy together. You can keep the house. Please never try to find me.' Hah, as if I was going to let him get away that easily."

"So what did you do?" Lydia asked, grinning.

"I tracked him down, of course. Found out he's found himself some little trollop in Solitude. Well, I head up to Skyrim first chance I get. Of course, as you can see, that didn't work out as planned. I happen to get up here just as dragons are flying about and turns out I'm the only one who can stop them. Still haven't forgotten about my dear husband though. We ever come across him, and oh, I'll get my revenge, I will. Think I'll have you hold him down, while I bring down the sword on that neck of his." Tom imitated a chopping motion as Lydia made an uncomfortable face.

"You're lying again, aren't you?" the Nord asked with a clear uncertainty in her tone.

"You're catching on," Tom replied. She sighed and stood up. "Look, Lydia, I like you so I'll let you in on a little secret. If you ask me about my past, I'm going to make up a story. It's as simple as that."

"You know," the housecarl replied, wryly, "you could've just said that you didn't want to talk about it. "

"That's not how it works," Tom replied with a broken grin. She wrung her hands and stared out into the forest. "I make things up. It's what I do. Along with fighting dragons, apparently."

Her mouth twitching, the Breton picked up her pack and started out on the road before Lydia could reply. One day, Tom would learn how to talk to people without coming across as the most sullen person alive, but for now, the best way she knew how to end a conversation was make it as evident as possible that she didn't want to talk about it. A ways behind her, Lydia quickly packed up her things and followed after her thane, grumbling as she did. The two women walked in complete silence for another couple hours until they came upon a small clearing in the marsh. In the middle of the clearing there was a great stone circle, with steps that spiraled down into a fairly deep hole. Tom stopped and stared down the unfamiliar markings along the top of the stone. The deep scratches appeared as if might have been a language, but even if it was, there was no way Tom would know what it said. Exhaling sharply through her nose, the Breton stood up straight and faced her companion.

"You suppose this is it?" Tom asked. The Nord woman knelt down and examined the markings carefully.

"It says this is Ustengrav," Lydia replied as she got back on her feet. "So yes, I do suppose this is it, sir."

Tom took a deep breath and allowing a moment to compose herself. There were bound to be skeletons and draugr waiting for her inside, and Divines knew what other sorts of nasty creatures lurked down there, but Tom tried to push that from her mind. She had fought this all before, but this time it felt different. As Lydia waited behind her for some sort of command, Tom knew there was no turning back now, no running back to the Guild, no heading west to High Rock and leaving this all behind. All she had was what lay before her, a final test before being sent off out into the world as the true Dragonborn.

"All right, let's head out," she said. Lydia nodded sharply and followed Tom as the Breton slowly descended down the spiraling steps.

Author's Notes: Good news guys! This chapter's technically been chopped into two parts. The first couple POVs from the next one were supposed to be in this one, but I didn't like the pacing/how it fit together so I made it into two different ones, a Tom chapter and a Guild chapter, meaning chapter ten will be running concurrent with this. (All chapters that follow chapter ten until Tom rejoins the Guild will alternate between being Tom heavy and Guild heavy, but you will see the Guild/Tom.) The good news is that means the next chapter will probably be up soon! Wooo! (Honestly this one would have been up much, much sooner if it hadn't been for finals and if I hadn't been out of town for the majority of December and the first week of January.) Also: wow, it's been a year since I started writing this and this story is officially over 100k words. Thanks for continuing to follow me even though I'm lazy and terrible. You guys are the best. So great. Wow.