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The Islander	By : QueenoftheDream Category: +A through F > Elder Scrolls - Skyrim Views: 2399 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim/The Elder Scrolls or any associated characters, nor do I make any money from this work of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter 1
- 1
            “Papa! Papa!” I could hear just over the sound of the gentle waves and the wind brushing against my boat. I shielded my eyes to the harsh sunlight and squinted at the craggy rocks. Haphazardly hopping on top of one of the slick black rocks at the base of the cliff was Sigrid, hands waving in the air and long chestnut brown hair whipping about her face. As I came into the shadow of the cliff and approached the sharp rocks, I raised my hand in a wave.
            “Papa, come and get me!” Her tinkling laugh tripped over the glistening blue crests.
            I steered the boat just along the reefs and rocks, and as I glided past, Sigrid launched herself off of the slippery black surface and flew toward my outstretched arms. Each time she did this, it made my heart stutter in my chest for fear she slip on the stones or, even worse, I fail to secure her. But Sigrid was carefree, bordering on careless, and hurled herself into every situation her little life of six years had thrown at her.
            Nonetheless, I caught her, and the boat rocked precariously under her momentum. Sigrid smiled a wide, gap-toothed grin. She had apparently lost one of her front teeth in those five months while I was away. I set her on my pile of fishing nets and continued to steer around the island, avoiding the crags and reef outcrops I knew lurked just under the surface.
            “How are your mother and your sister?” I asked conversationally, keeping my eyes on the water.
            “Maeva is mean to me!” she exclaimed, and I turned with a faux shocked expression on my face. Her nose was scrunched up, and she had the most positively sour expression one could imagine gracing the face of a child. “She always makes me fetch the water! And she always makes me help her with the garden and feed the chickens.” Sigrid crossed her little arms over her chest. Her green dress was flecked with white and stiff with salt at the bottom. She had most likely been waiting for me all week along the coastline. “She knows those chickens hate me! They bite my fingers, Papa!” I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped my lips, and she fought back the grin that threatened to brighten her pouting expression.
            I shored the boat along one of the only small strips of sand on the island of Betony. Sigrid hopped out, and I lashed a few of the lighter sacks of supplies to her back with some cording. She danced from foot to foot in the sand, impatiently waiting for me to finish dragging the boat ashore and gathering all of the supplies and money so we could start up the narrow stone steps set into the cliff side. As soon as I was weighted down sufficiently enough to kill a pack mule, I ushered her over to the steep black steps, and we began our ascent.
            “Perhaps,” I ventured after a few minutes with my best pondering voice, “Maeva asks you to help with the garden is because she needs your help. You are her only sibling, after all.” Sigrid looked back at me with a sneaky smile that I did not even bother trying to decipher. That child always seemed to be the bearer of some great secret, and she very rarely doled them out. They were her treasure. “Maybe,” I continued, “You have to feed the chickens because you’re too small feed the pigs and care for the horse like Maeva and your mother.” I was not quite scolding her, but I could see her shoulders droop.
            “Anyway, tell me of your mother. Has she fared well?” Sigrid spun on her heel excitedly, catching herself on the cliff’s face as she nearly lost her footing. I felt the blood drain from my face, but she simply laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d seen all day.
            “Mama got sick not long after you left. She was sick for a long time.” I frowned, but she continued and started back up the last stretch of stone steps. “But she’s better now. She says that your red hair means that you’re a Nord scoundrel and that you’d best get back home soon and help her with these wayward children.” A laugh fell from my lips as I raised a hand self-consciously to my auburn hair and smoothed it back from my sweaty forehead. “Are we wayward, Papa?” she asked with a laugh.
            “I think she was referring to you, Sigrid,” I panted with a grin as we came to the top of the cliff.
            “Father!” Maeva shouted from a short distance up the path. She walked briskly in our direction. Maeva was only a little over year older than Sigrid but carried herself like a grown woman already. She would make a fine wife to a wealthy trader someday. However, she was still a child, and once she reached her sister and I, she set her basket upon the ground and wrapped her arms around my waist in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you, Father,” she murmured as I smoothed her short, wavy hair over her crown. Her tresses were glossy and dark as the string of obsidian beads her mother wore around her throat. She quickly bent to pick up the basket full of herbs and flowers before the three of us set onto the path that led inland to the house.
            “Mother sent me out to find some lemon balm for her indigestion, and I found these pretty sprigs of lavender, too! She will be so pleased,” Maeva crooned to herself as she walked. The sun was high in the sky, warming the grass and glinting off of the barely perceptible ruins of Carzog’s Demise. Once the house came just into distant view, Sigrid gave an impatient growl, hooked her thumbs under the cords holding the cargo on her back, and sprinted home, her bare feet slapping against the dirt and sending up small plumes of dust.
I missed my faraway home of Dawnstar in Skyrim. The brisk wind that blew in off of the Sea of Ghosts, the kiss of snowflakes upon bare skin: every inch of my being longed and felt the pull for my ancestral lands. However, looking to the aspen-shaded home I had built, the flagstones I had laid at the doorway, the panes of clear glass I’d bought after months after working like a dog at sea because my wife liked the touch of sunlight on her rich skin, the warmth that suffused my heart signaled that there was no place in all of Mundus that I would rather be.
“Sigrid, don’t you DARE walk in here with filthy feet like that. If you do, not even Morwha will be able to save you from what I’ll- what happened to your hair?!” I could hear my wife scolding our youngest even from fifty yards away. Sigrid then burst through the door with her mother in tow. I could see Safiiya’s brow puckered in a dissatisfied frown.
Sigrid’s energetic pointing directed her attention to me as I approached, and I could see the stern expression melt from Safiiya’s narrow features as she raised a slim hand to her lips. I hastened my step as I saw her dark eyes glisten with tears from afar. She always was an emotional one, but I was helpless to fight the broad grin that stretched across my mouth.
The sun glinted off of the thick twists she wore piled in a haphazard bun on the top of her head, and a few hung down to brush the back of her neck with their wispy ends. The heaving swell of her breasts beneath her homespun dress beckoned me. Her terra cotta skin seemed to glow in the afternoon light. She looked like an earth goddess, perfect in her gentle, stormy, radiant, fierce, welcoming manifestation; perfect in her contrary nature.
I tugged at the cords that held the mountain of packages and sacks fast to my back and let them drop to the ground without a care. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I crossed the distance. My gaze followed the movement of her arm down, and I couldn’t help but stop in my tracks as she laid a hand on what I saw to be the newly round, slight swell of her belly.
Not an earth goddess, but a fertility goddess.
With a small cry, I rushed forward as she lifted her arms to receive me.
“Welcome home, Tulvar…”
I jolted awake, then cringed as achy muscles and joints groaned at the sudden movement. I sighed and scratched wearily at my beard. So it was going to be that kind of morning, was it? My calloused fingers raked through my grey hair. Although we were nearly two months out of Stros M’Kai, the sands from that blasted island still lingered in every nook and cranny in the cabins of the ship and invariably ended up in some crevice by morning. With a grumble, I flicked the fine grains from between my toes. We would be in the port of Solitude within three weeks. There, I could have the lads do a good sweeping before departure.
Without thinking, I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and reached for the half-empty bottle of rum rolling around on the floor. As I poured the contents of the bottle down my throat, I couldn’t help but prod at the raw emotions my heart was sorting through regarding our imminent arrival in Skyrim, made even tenderer by that nightmare.
            On one hand, I hadn’t been home in close to forty years. I wondered if Vilod ever did court and marry that buxom barmaid from Helgen. Were all of my friends from childhood dead? Did they have grandchildren gathered ‘round the hearth? Great-grandchildren? I wondered who now lived in my parents’ house or if it was even still standing out in the cold wastes of Dawnstar.
            On the other hand, however, I was hesitant to spend any more time lingering in Skyrim, both physically and mentally. Over the years, I had cultivated a sense of toughness. The decades had frozen my heart, numbed it until some days I wondered if it was still there. The liquor helped most days. But some days, it managed to melt a layer of the ice, exposing my necrotized, frostbitten core. Those were bad days.
            I was unsure if I would be able to interact properly if I did by chance encounter someone from my past. How would I react? Would it dredge up the pain of family, of home, of love? I scoffed. Even if the divines saw fit to curse me with an encounter with my past, they were sure to not recognize me.
After all, Tulvar, son of Torbjorn the merchant was bright, rowdy, fiery of hair, and always had a quip or joke. He loved the sea and left home with his father at age sixteen: cocksure, headstrong, and determined to make a life for himself and find a busty maiden to warm his bed every night.
Tulvar the Ironfist was a hard, ill-tempered, grey sea captain. He shunned company and was cold at best when bedding dock girls, cruel at worst. He had an iron fist that had long worn away the velvet glove until not a shred was left. He loved nothing save drink, and even that was not love but rather a mutual agreement to consume one other. He consumed it, and in return, it consumed his emotions, his time, and his liver.
            I chuckled. No, nobody would even think I was rosy, fresh Tulvar, son of Torbjorn. It was so long ago that even I forgot it most of the time. I made myself forget. With stiff fingers, I pulled on my boots and threw on my old salt-stained jacket before plodding out the door and onto the deck.
            A small grumble made itself known in my guts. It wasn’t indigestion or, Divines forbid, seasickness. The odd sensation felt like a beast had made its lair in my ribcage and was growling softly. It was not painful per se, but rather felt like anxiety. I casually rolled my shoulders as I stepped around a wretch scrubbing the deck. It was probably my heart- no, probably my liver- throwing up warning flares that it was about out of dogged determination to keep my body alive. Finally; it was about time.
            There is a large gap in my memory, thankfully brought on by the remains of my store of Dragon’s Breath mead. It seemed like the blink of an eye, and we were sailing toward the great arch of Solitude. Our destination was the East Empire Trading Company’s docks, but I tucked a small crate of Stros M’Kai rum under my arm and proceeded to walk, making my way along the path and under the arch before prying open the old, half-rotted wood of one of the many entrances to the great city.
            I avoided meeting the gaze of any one of the cosmopolitan, noble buffoons and headed straight to the Winking Skeever. I once met the proprietor, Corpulus Vinius, when I was sixteen, traveling by ship with my father out of Skyrim. He did have a skeever for a pet at one point, and it did wink. Well, it was more that it blinked unevenly after Vinius accidentally dropped a cast iron pot on its head one day. Damned thing never was quite the same after that.
            The last I saw of Corpulus was close to twenty years ago when his boy Sorex was just an ankle biter, maybe four years old. I’d heard through the grapevine that Corpulus was in the market for some good Stros M’Kai rum, which was increasingly difficult to obtain due to the surge in piracy in the Abecean Sea. Perhaps in exchange, he would give me a room and free drink for the night.
            Despite the fact that it was broad daylight, I strode into the tavern and let the crate fall on the bar with a rattling thud. “Heard you were looking for Stros M’Kai,” I ground out, sure Corpulus wouldn’t recognize me. As my luck would have it, he identified me immediately.
            “Tulvar! By the Eight man, it’s been far too long! How have the seas treated you?” he exclaimed in a rush, reaching over the bar to clap me on the shoulder. I tried not to wince at the unexpected contact.
            “It’s been about what you’d expect. Wet. Windy. Full of pirates.”
            Corpulus shrugged with a chuckle. “I suppose you’re right. Well, normally I would hesitate to accept a bunch of bottles from someone claiming it to be authentic Stros M’Kai, but knowing you, my friend, you’d never lead me afoul like that,” he said much too chipper for my tastes. “Sorex, boy, go down to the cellar and bring up a cask of that good Black Briar Reserve. You ever had Black Briar, Tulvar? Sweetest mead you’ll ever imbibe, my friend.” I shook my head, hoping that he would just shut his mouth and fill me up with all of the alcohol I could stand.
            He slid a bottle of Nord mead toward me. “While we’re waiting,” he trailed off while I tore the cork out with my teeth. The bottle was nearly empty by the time Sorex heaved up the stairs with the keg. Without a word, Corpulus filled a mug and slid it down the bar to me. I lifted my eyes to meet his, and he nodded: an unspoken agreement. This was to be his payment for the rum. As the dinner rush started, my night of free inebriation began.
            As I raised the mug to my lips and tipped the contents down my gullet, Corpulus leaned back, popping the vertebrae in his back. “It’s been a good week,” he exclaimed to Sorex, who was standing silently nearby, filling mugs of Nord mead for the tables of Solitude residents. “Loud customers mean good cheer, and good cheer means a full till! You know, I ought to retire and leave you to run the Skeever, son!” I tapped the bar, and Corpulus refilled my mug without a word; in turn, I poured it past my lips without a sound.
            Sorex gave an awkward chuckle as he entwined his fingers through the large numbers of mugs. “I don’t know father… there’s a whole world out there I want to see.”
            A little voice came from around the fireplace, and a little girl of about eight bolted into view. “I could run the Skeever! Why not let me run it? You even said I’m almost as smart as you!” she asked eagerly, looking up at her father. The girl barely came up to the bar, yet I could already tell she was full of pluck. I could feel my heart just barely thawing as foggy memories of giggles and bright, determined ebony eyes from a different life threatened to surface.
            “Hah! Don’t be silly,” Corpulus replied glibly. “A girl running a bar? Don’t be ridiculous, Minette!” As I sloshed yet another mug of mead down, I saw out of the corner of my eye, the girl place her hands on her hips in a challenge. A familiar gesture. Too familiar.
            “What about Auntie Faida in Dragon Bridge? She runs a bar, and you said she’s one of your favorite girls!” Corpulus’s face flushed, but Minette pressed on. “And you always say you want more girls in the bar to begin with!” She obviously had little to no grasp of the meaning of her words, and I couldn’t help the strange, strangled chuckle that rose up my throat. The rest of the little family’s conversation faded into the background as I stood to relieve myself. I swayed on my feet understandably and staggered out the back to the outhouse. By the time I had readjusted my pants, I had pushed memories of energetic little girls hopping along the seashore far back into the dark corners of my mind.
            When I came back inside, the young bard girl who had been plucking away at the lute since before I first arrived was sitting at the bar next to my stool. I resumed my perch, and Corpulus refilled my mug once more.
            “I’m Lisette,” she ventured, and I grunted in response. She tried again. “I can only play three songs, and nobody here seems to particularly want to hear them tonight…”
            “I would consider a change in occupation then,” I slurred, wiping mead from my beard with the back of my hand.
            If it weren’t for the bright blush adorning her cheeks, I would not have believed the pressure of a hand pressing against the inside of my thigh. The light of the fireplace bounced off of her high cheekbones. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. I might’ve felt bad for the stirring of my loins if not for the way she chewed on her pink lower lip and the hand that inched further and further up my thigh. I fished in my pocket for a five-septim piece, which I slammed on the counter, which she quickly slid away and tucked into her pocket. Corpulus tossed one of the room keys in my direction, which I only caught because it got caught in the collar of my coat. We stumbled up the stairs, and the rest of the evening was covered by a drunken haze, peppered with brief snippets of lithe little Lisette mounting my cock and riding with surprising fierceness, tucking my tangled grey hair behind my ears while I roughly palmed her small breasts.
            That night was blessedly free of dreams, and when I awoke at dawn, Lisette was unsurprisingly gone. After pulling my pants back on, I headed downstairs into the tavern. Corpulus was awake, pulling fresh-baked loaves from the brick oven. I nodded at him and left five more septims on the counter before palming the nearest bottle of liquor and heading out the door.
            When I arrived back at the harbor, my ship was gone. It was unsurprising, considering the crew I’d cobbled together for the Brinehammer was comprised of criminals, runaways, and thieves. Hell, we were about as close to pirates as you could legally get. And the first mate: he was a right bastard. It was pretty predictable that he would lay in wait until I’d disappeared for a night. Well, the joke was on him. I had no chests of vast wealth, no jewels or glass daggers. My only treasure was what I kept in a little pouch around my neck, and no man could touch it unless he ripped it from my dead corpse.
            I consigned myself to my fate. I would have to make my way in Skyrim for a while and try and save up enough money to get back out on the water. The previous night, before I’d descended into a drunken fog, I heard someone whispering about some Alik’r men looking for a Redguard woman somewhere in Skyrim. I had only known one Alik’r warrior in my life, and he sounded like the type something so grandiose like traveling to a foreign land for one wench. I shrugged and nearly fell. Massaging my temple with stiff-jointed fingers, I headed under the Solitude arch.
            The sounds of the waves resonated all around me, bouncing off the stone and into empty space. The steady slosh of the water, the clicking of a small mudcrab a few yards down the bank, the piercing cry of a gull that cut through the air above my head… These were noises that had surrounded me for over forty years ever since I started going on small sea trips with my father as a lad. This, though… this was different. Whether or not I liked it, this was Skyrim. Everything around me, though the familiarity was dulled by the years and liquor, seemed to hum at the same frequency as I. The growl in my gut that had started a few weeks earlier had steadily risen to a noisy rumble. It grew so powerful in some moments that I occasionally feared that my eyeballs would rattle in my skull.
            It took a while, but eventually I crested the hill and stood at the path leading up to the main gate to Solitude. There was another old-timer sitting in a horse-drawn cart and flipping through an obviously worn copy of Kolb and the Dragon. As he saw my approach, he carefully marked his page with what appeared to be an old, thin piece of leather and gave me a wrinkly smile. I flipped a ten-septim coin up to him, which he deftly caught despite the patch covering his right eye.
            “Dragon Bridge,” I grunted, and he nodded. As I climbed into the back of the cart, huffing at my knees’ protests, he reached forward to take hold of the reins.
            “I’ll be about a day and a half, so we’ll stop for the night. Lucky for you, it doesn’t look like rain! So, friend, what’s in Dragon Bridge?” he asked conversationally as the horse began to slowly pull the cart along the uneven road.
            “Not sure,” I replied. Honestly, that was only half true. While I indeed did not know what I would find there, I knew what I wouldn’t find. I wouldn’t find Dawnstar. I wouldn’t find that icy old dock from which I first spotted a glimpse of warmth in the sea-beaten cold north of Skyrim. In the back of that jolting, swaying wagon, I fell asleep trying not to think of a long, bright red head scarf ripping away from almost-ebony eyes in the bitter wind of winter.
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The Islander