I do not own Skyrim (clearly) or any of the characters therein (except the concept and personality behind my PC); all I own is the idea of this story and the writing itself.

Bosmer were frowned upon, in this frigid northern land of Skyrim; the people she passed on her way through Riverwood, and along the road to Whiterun, had avoided her as though she bore an illness. But when she had stumbled headlong into an unexpected fray, three Nords battling a long-limbed, grunting Giant, the fighters had barely spared her a glance. They had only laughed as she clumsily swung her axe, the hardy iron biting into the lumbering creature's flesh as she ducked beneath the huge arcs of its crude club. When finally it collapsed in death, she wobbled only slightly, then braced her legs and stuffed the axe into the loop of leather at her hip, dark eyes leveling a questioning look at the warriors - two women and a man - who stood before her.

Immediately, his appearance struck her; he was so.. so.. not a Mer. He was bulky, more muscled than males of her kind were, not uncommon for a Nord, and the pale skin of his broad jaw was covered with coarse stubble. But it was something about his eyes, surrounded by darkened flesh, strikingly light-colored, yet carrying a burden she knew not of, that seemed to draw her. He was silent, not speaking a word as one of his female companions boasted of the prowess of those she called family - The Companions, they were, their home made at the mead hall of Jorrvaskr, in the city of Whiterun.

For the first time since leaving Riverwood, Emara spoke, her quiet voice different from that of the other woman's in every way. "Perhaps I will see you there." Although the words were spoken to the woman, hardly had they left her lips before her gaze darted to the man. He gazed at her coolly, but spoke not a word, simply followed his compatriots as they departed the scene of the battle.

She watched them go, then ventured toward the nearby river, lifting the dented iron helm from her head and setting it atop a nearby rock as she knelt. Her gauntlets were similarly removed, fingers flexing to dispel the unfamiliar ache of gripping the wooden haft of her new weapon, then ruffled her dark hair, matted with sweat, and cupped her hands in the water before her. Splashing the cool liquid on her face, she stared into the rapids, wondering why the image of him returned to her mind. For several long moments, she did little more than half-crouch there, bewildered at herself. Males had held little interest for her, in her homeland of Valenwood; they were strange, confusing creatures, trying to woo her with trinkets and pretty words, quick to anger when she refused their advances. Was that, then, why this quiet Nord had so stuck out in her mind?

It was of little consequence. She shrugged the thought aside, and shook the water from her hands, before quickly tugging her simple armor back on. The most important thing right now was that she see this Jarl, whatever that was, and then she could be on her way. Her reasons for coming to Skyrim, which once felt so vital, were.. somehow lesser, after being arrested simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and surviving a dragon attack. She decided, as she talked her way past the guards and moved quickly through the streets, that she would give her news to the Jarl and be on her way back to Valenwood.

As she passed the mead hall, she told herself that she didn't glance at it, and wouldn't go inside.

-x-

That resolve lasted all of two days.

There would be no return to Valenwood. There would be no departure from these cold northern lands. The soul of the Dragon had bubbled within her, an unwanted, uncomfortable vitality that left a bizarre taste on her tongue - something like ash and cold air. And that was nothing when compared to the Shout. She could still feel it, days after the first, and only, time she had used it; an unnatural power that fought its way up out of her lungs, conquered her throat, and erupted from her mouth with a life all its own.

Even worse was the way the guards, the citizens, of Whiterun now looked at her - a mix of awe and fear; unable to believe the mythical Dragonborn, even as they looked like they expected her to follow in the footsteps of the infamous rebel king Ulfric and Shout them all into little more than body parts. Their gazes hounded her, seemed to follow her into the meager safety of her new house. More like a cage, it was; they loitered outside, trying to be inconspicuous, but scattered like rats whenever she opened her door.

It was too much. All she wanted was to be alone. But part of her balked at the thought of venturing beyond the city's walls, rebelling at the mere notion of being ordered about by these Greybeards the Jarl spoke of so reverently. She would go to their blasted snowy mountain when she was good and ready, and not a moment before. But she was restless; she bristled as she roamed the streets, casting hard looks at every person who so much as glanced her way, until finally, she sought refuge in the one place she had sworn she wouldn't go.

Jorrvaskr was not remotely similar to anything she was accustomed to. It was enclosed, but for all its confining walls, it seemed spacious; the warmth of the fire was a welcome respite from the perpetually chilled air outside, and not overbearing; the clutter which abounded on every flat surface was somehow organized, and fit the atmosphere perfectly; the noise of conversation and friendly sparring was a comfort, and not the annoyance she'd always thought such a thing would be. Said conversation and sparring came to an abrupt halt as the door swung shut behind her, the resounding impact of wood against wood acting almost as some kind of signal. All eyes turned to her.

"So, Bosmer.. you have decided to venture inside our humble hall after all." It was the woman from the field; she approached Emara with a swagger that the Mer was coming to identify as a measure of her confidence, and not the drunkenness she had first assumed. Her pale eyes stood out from the green slashes of warpaint across her features, their cold gleam clearly sweeping the Mer from head to foot, before a grin broke out on her lips, and she turned to her comrades with a laugh. "This is the one I told you lot about - she hardly knew how to hold that axe she bears, but she swung it at that Giant as though she were twice her size."

The murmur of speech was much quieter, this time, but it resumed; they were clearly discussing her, and Emara shifted beneath the seeming inspection, only to jump in startled surprise as the woman slung a casual arm about her shoulders. "I am Aela the Huntress, and I welcome you to Jorrvaskr. What is your name, Bosmer?"

She hesitated before replying, unsure why she suddenly felt so hot inside her armor; it had little to do with the fire, and everything to do with a sudden itching in her spine. "..Emara."

"A woman of few words. You will get along well with Farkas, I think; he finds words insufficient, and lets his blade speak for him." Releasing her, Aela turned instead to a man nearby, his back to them; it bore a great broadsword, formed of shining steel, its hilt rising above his head of long, dark hair. As Aela spoke, she clapped the man on the shoulder, and he turned to face them. Emara found herself staring into the face of the male who had so captivated her the day she arrived, barely hearing the words that passed Aela's lips. "Farkas, you remember the Mer from the other day; she calls herself Emara. And if rumor is correct, she is the Dragonborn."

Farkas grunted, his lips pursing into a thin line, before his voice - rough, deep, reminiscent of the grey stone of the mountains themselves - was heard. "Dragonborn or not, she won't survive Skyrim long if she doesn't learn how to wield that axe properly."

Aela's eyes rolled, and she gave her a look, as if to say, 'Do you see what I mean?' It was tempered with fondness, though, like that of a sister for her brother, and followed with a small smirk. "You'll not be the one to teach her, Farkas, what with that great monster of a sword you carry. I will see to it Athis instructs her."

Stifling a smile was difficult, and proved entirely futile when Aela gave her a wink that was nigh-on conspiratorial. She put up no resistance as the other woman gently grasped her arm, guiding her away from Farkas toward a nearby Dunmer; but even as they went, she glanced once over her shoulder at the stoic Nord.

He turned away.

-x-

"No no no." Athis' voice was harsh, irritable, as he groused from the edges of the training room. He wasn't there long, as he stalked across the cold stone to stand beside her; one hand grasped her wrist, the other repositioned her fingers on the haft of the axe. "You still hold it as though you fear it will turn and bite you, woman. The weapon must be part of you, a mere extension of your hand, like so."

"Give her some credit, Athis; she's clearly not used to a weapon this heavy. At least she's not dropped it." Aela's gentle censure earned her little more than an annoyed glance from Athis, who grumbled and moved back to the sidelines beside his battle sister. Aela looked away from him and back to Emara, who was steadily ignoring the blisters she could feel forming on her palm and fingers. "Did you fight in Valenwood?" At her hesitant nod, she pressed; "What sort of weapon did you use?"

"Daggers." The quiet response earned a look of understanding from Aela, and an exasperated sigh from Athis.

"No wonder! Well why didn't you keep them when you came here?" His question bespoke yet more annoyance, and Emara felt her proverbial hackles rising in response.

All she could do was snap at him. "They were taken from me when I was arrested by the Imperials; I assume they were meant to be returned to Valenwood with my body after I was executed simply for being there, and unfortunately, I was unable to find them while I was fleeing from a bloody Dragon. I picked up what I could grab without being set ablaze, and I ran."

It was the most any of them had heard out of the quiet, even-tempered Bosmer, and the first time she'd raised her voice above a normal speaking tone. Athis jerked back in surprise, and Aela arched a single copper-colored brow. They all started at the sound of leather scuffing against stone nearby, and three heads swung as one to look at the intruder. Farkas stepped forward, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Emara, and she felt an embarrassed flush enter her features, which only deepened as he spoke. "So, the little Mer has a backbone after all; I was starting to wonder."

Little Mer? It was not an insult, she knew, but Emara couldn't help straightening as much as she could; she was small, she knew, smaller even than Aela, and Farkas dwarfed her easily as he approached. His arms unfolded, and for a moment, she thought he meant to grab her, which made her stiffen unconsciously. Her head tilted back, and she looked up into his eyes, wondering what he was about.

"You sounded angry. Hold onto that. If it gives you strength, use it." He waited a beat, to see if she understood, and when all she did was blink at him in apparent confusion, he huffed a sound of frustration, then grumbled. "Hit me."

"Farkas, what-"

"Shut up, Aela." He didn't even look at the Huntress; the eyes that bored into hers were cold as snow, and she shivered. "Hit me. Or is the little Mer too weak to throw a punch?"

Something inside her howled in protest at his words; rage darkened her vision, and before she could even contemplate what she was doing, her hands tightened. The right, gripping her axe, twitched; the left balled into a fist, and she swung at his face. He easily caught her wrist, but wasn't expecting her axe to suddenly flash up, aiming for his head. Farkas ducked the swing, and was forced to release her as she advanced. She might have been small and lacking in the strength that he made such use of, but she was swift; he was hard pressed to backstep away from her darting slashes, and when the back of one boot scraped against a wall of the training room, he reached for his sword.

The hands of Aela and Athis dragging her back quickly penetrated the haze which had wrapped her mind, and she dropped her axe, pulling free from their grasp and letting her hands hang idly at her sides. Part of her was sickened at what she'd done - these people had taken her in, provided a comfort she hadn't realized she'd needed, were trying to help her improve her abilities. And she'd tried to attack one of them. It hadn't been unprovoked, true, but it bothered her. What bothered her even more was that another part of her, a small, dark part, had enjoyed watching him retreat from her.

Aela was watching her closely, waiting to see what she would do next, while Athis picked up her axe. Farkas had recovered, and crossed his arms once more. "When you can learn to use that will without the anger, you'll be ready."

The remaining three were silent as he left the room, leaving a heavy pall in his wake. Finally, Aela cleared her throat and nudged Athis, who handed the axe back to Emara with an assessing gaze. "I think that's enough practice for one day. Let's go get some mead."