To Bide With the Knife Maiden

To Bide With the Knife Maiden

 

1.

 

The wind whipped Erik the Slayer’s back, driving wisps of red hair into his eyes and he to journey’s end.  Gratefully, he ascended the steep road from the valley below.  The stony bluffs of Rorikstead’s northern bounds rose grey and stern before him, yet he welcomed them as steadfast old friends.  He would reach them very soon now, and his weary step grew lighter.

 

Erik had toiled the summer and more amongst the winding roads and jagged peaks of the Reach, guarding caravans against wild Forsworn with faces painted with blood and fury. His honor he had kept, drawing blade only when righteousness demanded it, yet the taste of the contract lingered like ash.  There had been moments he was forced to tread a razor's edge betwixt protector and hired ruffian.  Coin won in the service of grasping lords like the Silver-Bloods, no matter how heavy the purse, bore no mark of pride.  It left a shadow upon the soul.

 

He turned up the winding path that climbed the hill.  There, crouched against the slope stood the cottage he had come to think of as his second home.  Smoke threaded thinly from its chimney, putting his heart to rest.  He drew near the weathered door with rising spirit and knocked thrice.

 

Silence.

 

“Ho there!” he called, voice warmer than he himself was. “’Tis I, Erik, returned from the stone halls of the west. Open if thou wilt, or I shall stand sentinel freezing beard off.”

 

 

The door creaked open a sliver. A small face peered forth, bearing pale blue eyes that ever seemed older than her eight winters.   Kahira Snow-Fell regarded him with wary caution, as though she knew him not.  After so long an absence, it pricked his heart where once they had been so close.

 

“Wise art thou, little oracle,” he said gently, crouching that their eyes might meet. “Hear then a tale. We gave thee reign over Broken Tusk Redoubt when thou were but seven summers. We played at ruling Windhelm, and thy mother did rave of blood and marauding pirates, but when thou didst tumble down the stairs, we near wept.”

 

Recognition kindled in her eyes like breaking dawn. The door flew wide.

 

“Uncle Erik!” she cried, flinging herself forward with joyful abandon, arms wrapping about his neck as though she would never loose hold again.

 

Yet even in that embrace there lingered first a shadow.  Erik rose, one hand resting protectively upon her crown.

 

“What ails thee, my heart?   Thou lookest as though the world hath grown heavier while I was afar.”

 

“Naught, Uncle. Only…the pantry is thin. Mother provided as she may, but there is no good left in it.”   She trailed off, leaving the heavy truth hanging in the air.

 

The cottage itself lay in sorry state.  Bowls scattered, furs tossed about, and a half-empty bottle of mead lying upon its side like a fallen soldier. The place was a state, such as he had seen it after one of Karin’s deep carouses.

 

“Then we shall mend it. Where is thy dam?”

 

“Sleeping,” Kahira said simply, pointing toward the heap upon Karin’s bed. “She said the world would wait, and hath been so since yestereve.”

 

Karin lay sprawled across the bed, a jumble of clothing and hair.  The reek of strong drink clung to her still.

 

“Rise now Karin,” he murmured, prodding her shoulder with gentle insistence.  Her light snore erupted into foul nonsense.

 

“Piss upon thy silver-bearded ancestors and their goat-fucking silver, ye whoreson of a wind…”  She muttered, then her fists lashed out blindly.

 

Erik caught both wrists in his steady grip, as he had done a dozen times before.

 

Her eyes snapped open, widening in recognition. The tension shattered into thunderous laughter.

 

“Erik! Thou great ox!  Thou’rt back at last!”

 

She surged upright, still half-caught in his hands, and clapped him upon the shoulder with force enough to rattle plate and bone.

 

“What hast thou brought me, then?  Gifts, aye?  A woman needs a bright bauble after months chained to this drowsy patch with none worth conversing with save mine own daughter!”

 

Erik smiled, reaching into his pack first for Kahira.

 

“Here, lass.” He pressed a well-crafted doll into her hands, a little wooden hound with clever jointed legs and a painted red collar. “For thee. I spied it in Markarth and thought how thou spoke of keeping a pup one day.”

 

Kahira turned it over once, twice. Disappointment flickered across her face. 

 

“I am eight winters now, Uncle. I have outgrown dolls.”

 

“Aye,” Erik answered ruefully. “I suppose I yet think of thee as thou wert when smaller. Forgive an old fool his fond memories.”

 

Yet he had more. He brought forth a volume of heroic tales, brightly illustrated, and another of fine art, bearing landscapes and wondrous beasts rendered in careful ink.  Kahira’s eyes brightened like stars.

 

“Oh!” she breathed, clutching them to her chest. “These are fine!  Thank thee, Uncle Erik.”

 

He ruffled her hair again, the ache in his heart softening.  Karin watched, brow arched in impatience, but smile warm.

 

“And for me? Or hast thou forgotten the woman that yet holds this hearth from crumbling into ruin?”

 

To the mother Erik offered her a thicker tome, bound in leather, its pages filled with quite lurid adventures of highwaymen, illicit lovers, bloody murder, and daring escapes. ‘Twas as spiced as he could find to seize her mind, yet not so twisted as to invite wonder at his intent.

 

Karin snatched it, flipping pages with a lopsided grin.

 

“A tome for me of all people?  What, dost thou think I need softening?  Next thou’lt have me reciting poetry whilst I gut a man.”

 

Erik chuckled fondly.  He could near predict her now.  He delved once more into his pouch and withdrew a ring, stripped from a fallen raider. ‘Twas a cheap silver thing, carved with runes that meant naught but seemed ancient and solemn.

 

“Ah, but attend!” he proclaimed, sinking to one knee in grand, mocking ceremony, voice swelling into the playful ritual they had long shared.

 

“This ring, my Lady of the Fallen Snow, was forged in the molten heart of Oblivion by a Daedric prince, who wagered his very essence against a Nord shield-maiden and lost! It bears power to…” He fumbled at the edges of the tale. “…to turn milk into the sweetest mead, and mead into glorious victory in battle! Or so the dying raider swore ere I sent him back to his ancestors!  Wear it, and know thou art shielded from boredom!”

 

Karin took the trinket with uncharacteristic grace, sliding the silver upon her finger and turning it slowly in admiration, as if it truly were some magic relic.

 

“One of thy better tales, and gifts,” she said, smile turning near tender. “I shall treasure it.”

 

They fell to talk, the awkwardness of long absence melting away as they reacquainted themselves.  Kahira curled nearby with her new books, listening as she idly turned pages. Erik spoke of the long road, the Silver-Bloods, the skirmishes. Karin spoke of their own small rovings, of trifling gossip and bawdy jests.  Rorikstead seldom changed, a mixed blessing, in its way.  Of the empty pantry, naught was said, save Erik’s quiet vow to see it filled.

 

The hearth crackled as the wind moaned without, and it settled in Erik’s chest that he did not want to leave them again.  They were alive and breathing and gloriously flawed, yet he felt the hole he had carved in their days as large as the one in his own soul.  The wanderlust that had once called him to dragons and glory now felt hollow beside the two of them.

 

On the morrow he would greet his father at the Frostfruit Inn and pay due respects to the village.  For tonight at least, he’d bide with them upon their steep hill, content beside his crooked little family.

 

 

2.

 

Erik pushed open the door of the Frostfruit Inn, the familiar scents of ale and hearth-smoke washing over him.  All taverns bear such smells, ‘tis true, yet each hath their own distinct character.   He had only come to know this after roving the breadth of Skyrim at the Dragonborn’s side.

 

Mralki stood behind the bar, polishing tankards with the same stubborn vigor Erik had known since boyhood.  At the sight of his son his father’s face lit with a fleeting relief, though it swiftly settled into its accustomed lines.

 

“Erik! Thou'rt back whole at last. The Nine be praised for small mercies. I half expected to hear some bard sing of thy doom, gallivanting with savages.”

 

Erik offered a humble smile and clasped his father’s forearm in greeting.

 

“Aye, Father. Safe and whole. The Silver-Bloods’ coin sits heavy in my purse, and mine honor remains unblemished, though the taste of such labor lingers ill upon the tongue.”

 

Mralki gave a single nod.

 

“Thou art well, my son, and so I am well.”

 

“No tidings, then?  What news of the village?” Erik asked.  His father smiled despite his stern custom.

 

“For this quiet corner of the world, much hath changed since thou departed.  Ennis wed his maid from Whiterun but a few months past.  He prospers in his mad scheme of selling soil, sacks of it carried off by farmers and merchants who swear it richer than gold.  Thou mightest ponder such a course for thyself. Whiterun is not the only city within thy reach.”

 

He tapped his temple, raising a meaningful brow at his son.

 

“Sissel hath been welcomed to the College of Winterhold.  She departed a fortnight past, tomes and all. Her sister remains…difficult, but give Britte her due, the maiden prospers well enough in her trade.”

 

Erik’s heart warmed at the tidings. He begrudged no one their success.

 

“And what of the Snow-Fells?”

 

Mralki’s polishing slowed. He loosed a weary breath.

 

“They have frequented the inn more oft of late.  Kahira is clever as a fox, yet she is withdrawn, her eyes forever upon some distant thing.  As for Karin, she hath repelled many wayfarers with her ribald jests and bellowing.  She hath run up a tally of five hundred septims for meat and drink in thine absence.”

 

Erik’s brow knit in disbelief.

 

“Five hundred, sayest thou?  Father, thou wouldst extend such boundless credit?  To her?”

 

Mralki met his gaze squarely.

 

“I would not begrudge the child a meal, nay.  I do it as a sort of charm.  If Karin leaves such a clutter in her path, then my son, my wayward, headstrong boy, shall surely return in safety to sweep it clear.  For so he hath ever done.”

 

Erik reached into his purse without hesitation, counting out the five hundred to clear the Snow-Fells’ debt, and laying another five hundred beside it from his own hard-won spoils.

 

 “For the tally,” he said simply, “and for the grey hairs I have given thee.”

 

Mralki accepted the coin with a grudging grunt, though his hand lingered a moment upon Erik’s in silent, loving acknowledgment.

 

“When wilt thou leave thy poor father again, eh?” Mralki asked. “To worry and wonder while thou risks thy neck about the land chasing glory and blood-soaked coin?”

 

Erik hesitated, the weight of his absence still upon his shoulders.

 

“I may tarry awhile, Father.”

 

“Tarry? Thou?  Who forever crows of the next adventure?”

 

“Aye.  At least for a time.  I have been too long from family and the road grows weary.”

 

Mralki nodded, taking up another tankard to polish thoughtfully.  Erik could see the softening of his father’s jaw, yet suspicion soon crept back into his tone.

 

“’Tis well said. Yet I suspect the Snow-Fells are the true anchor that keeps thee moored.”

 

 “They too are family to me,” Erik conceded.

 

Mralki set the tankard down with finality.  His gaze held Erik’s.

 

“I understand thou favor her, though Stendarr only know why.  Thou hast raised Kahira alongside the woman, a great merit to you both. Yet mark me well, Erik.  That doth not make her thy wife.”

 

“I deny not the truth of it,” Erik replied humbly, though the reminder pricked him like a thorn. “Such thoughts are mere folly, nor do I entertain them.”

 

Mralki let the silence speak for him, the quiet stretch heavier than any rebuke.  Erik had not been raised a liar, and he wore the falsehood poorly.

 

“Thou wilt want to greet the rest of Rorikstead, methinks,” his father said at length. “Return when thou hast settled thine accounts, and we shall speak of the old days.”

 

His father returned to his tankards, polishing with renewed vigor, and a softer, sorrowful light within his eyes.

 

 

3.

 

Fresh plough-lines scored the earth, and upon Rorikstead’s southern outskirts a new dwelling had begun to rise, stout timbers half-framed against the sky.  For a hamlet so small, the settling of a new family felt a grand swell of progress, its borders at last encroaching upon the empty wilds.

 

Erik’s gaze fell upon the stall set beside the inn’s yard.  Britte stood behind, arranging her wares briskly.  He had known her all her life, and now she was wed.  Married to one of the newcomers, an older, reserved, yet pleasant enough man named Hilstaag.

 

Her sire, Lemki, must surely rejoice to have another pair of hands for his fields, and both his daughters at last swept from beneath his roof.  Sissel’s departure for Winterhold had left Britte’s famed temper free to turn itself upon matters of commerce…and, one sensed, upon her new husband as well.

 

Britte looked up as he drew near, her face breaking into a sharp smile.

 

“Well met, Erik the Slayer! Back from thy wanderings at last!  Come look upon proper provisions.   None of thy father’s endless ale and bread here.”

 

Erik returned the smile, suffering the barb. ‘Twas ever her way, even as a child.

 

“It is a fine thing thou hast wrought, Britte. The village hath need of more than crops alone. What dost thou offer?”

 

“Preserves, herbs, trinkets. Even heirlooms that Hilstaag brought from his old holdings,” she declared, gesturing proudly. “Folk already speak of my wares. Even the eternal scandal of the Snow-Fells hath lost its savour, now that the village hath something new to buy.”

 

She leaned closer, voice dropping in conspiracy.

 

“Though that one, Karin, still drags her whelp hither often enough, stirring up troubles and leaving her jests behind like foul winds. The child is quiet as a shadow.  One wonders what manner of life they lead upon that hill.”

 

Erik’s jaw tightened, the edge of her words brushing too near what he would suffer.

 

“They are my family as well,” he said quietly. “I shall see to them.  Let us speak no more of it.”

 

Britte waved a hand, her smirk softening into something warm and deniable.

 

“Of course, of course. Thou art ever the honorable warrior; all know this.”

 

She tilted her head, eyes lingering upon a fresh scar visible above his breastplate, as though he were some novelty she might wish to acquire.

 

“Hast thou slain any great beasts or villains of late? Or hath the road grown dull enough that thou mightest finally bide in Rorikstead?  A man of thy wild adventures, one wonders if the quiet life could truly hold thee. Mayhap there is something else I keep here that might…interest thee?”

 

The flirtation in her tone was light, yet ‘twas ill-suited for a maid but newly-wedded. She smiled as though it were naught at all.  Erik felt the flush of discomfort rise, yet held steady.

 

“I may tarry a time. Thy stall shall surely draw folk from farther afield than mine old tales ever could. I wish thee and Hilstaag every prosperity.”

 

She laughed, a measure too loudly, and turned back to stocking her wares.

 

A little farther down his stroll he came upon Jouane and old Rorik seated upon a bench outside their home.   Erik greeted them with a respectful nod.

 

“How fare ye both?” he asked.  Jouane smiled vaguely.

 

“Well enough, Erik. And thyself? Hast thou seen any grand adventures since last we laid eyes upon thee?”

 

“Naught so grand as days past,” Erik replied with humility. “Guarding caravans for the Silver-Bloods. ‘Twas no glorious labor.”

 

Rorik looked up at that, eyes cloudy with a gentle fog that had begun to settle upon his mind.

 

“Ah, Erik, my lad! Hast thou and the Dragonborn no greater work to manage?  Those cursed dragons still plague the skies, do they not?”

 

Nine winters had passed since those days of danger and folly, yet Erik was too gentle a soul to correct the old man.

 

“All is quiet upon that front, good Rorik,” he spake simply. “Naught that we could not master.”

 

Jouane caught Erik’s eye and gave the barest shake of his head.  Rorik’s memory was slipping ever further into the mist, and there was naught to be gained by arguing the passage of time.  It would but confuse the elder the more.

 

He bid them farewell and had taken no more than three strides when shadow fell across his path. Bramm Enronson planted himself before Erik like a boulder loosed from the bluff, fists clenched at his sides. Erik thought briefly of simply smiling and passing the man by, but ‘twas plain Bramm wanted words.

 

“Erik the ‘Slayer’,” Bramm sneered, as though speaking of a field pest. “Thou hast been gone for a season, yet the thievery ceases not! Thy woman Karin hath been at my crops again!  Rows stripped clean as a beggar’s purse! I will have her hide for it!”

 

Erik met his glare calmly.

 

“It could as easily have been the rabbits or the foxes, Bramm. The wilds grow hungry in this season. I was a farmer too, once.”

 

Bramm’s lip curled at the dismissal.

 

“She cannot keep a grasp upon her own coin, so she rips my livelihood from the soil to feed herself and her little weed!  Foxes ne’er left my fields so ravaged!”

 

Erik stroked his beard, as if weighing the matter in deep thought.

 

“So thou hast caught her at this work, then? With thine own eyes?”

 

The farmer sputtered at this.

 

“Dost thou know what else the witch hath done? She trod through my field not three nights past, bellowing a fearful din for my wife and children to hear!”

 

He drew a breath and recited the verse in a voice thick with outrage and disgust:

 

“Come ye near my hearth, ye pig-fucking clods,
I’ll slit thy throats and boil thee to the gods!
Dance I will, upon thy graves with a grin so wide,
And feed thy babes to wolves ere eventide!”

 

Erik nodded, thought for a moment, and finished the lurid verse for Bramm, words falling from memory.

 

“‘And when the soil drinks deep of thy scarlet tide,

I’ll laugh and piss upon thy severed hide.’”

 

He gave a single, weary shake of his head at the farmer’s bewildered stare.

 

“She ever sings that song, Bramm. I shall speak with her, but fret thou not. No harm shall fall upon thy house. Mark me, Karin is a contrary soul. The more thou showest she troubles thee, the more she shall persist, if only to watch thy blood boil.”

 

Bramm’s face darkened further.

 

“And the whelp? That strange creature brings naught but a dismal harvest! The other children bring me tales, and I half believe them! My own son vows she hath cast an enchantment upon him!”

 

Erik’s tone remained polite, yet iron ran beneath it.

 

“A child’s sport, if truth be told. I have ne’er seen the maid cast aught but paint upon a canvas. She is a child, who I have nurtured these eight years. I know her heart as well as I know the temper of mine own blade.  Speak no more malice upon her head.”

 

Bramm reared a thick finger, yet had the wit to seal his lips.  He was burly, aye, plough-strong and broad, but Erik had crossed steel with sturdier, and the fires of battle had tempered him.  Bramm lowered hand and gave way in silence.

 

4.

 

The days followed in quietude, a welcome respite.  Yet, having cleared Karin’s debts and rendered his sire his due, Erik found his purse grown exceedingly lean.  He had ever given what coin he earned to those he held dear, so the toil was not wasted, yet now but a few hundred septims remained.  He could not help wondering, in the small hours, what the true end of all his wandering had been?

 

His father, moved more by stubborn pride than hope of gain, paid a lad to tend the ghost of their old fields.  Though the inn was their true pillar, Erik lent his own back to the labor.  He heaved casks, mending splintered stools, and drove the ploughshare deep where the lad’s green hand faltered.  The rest of his hours he gave to the Snow-Fells.

 

His long absence had bred a stiffness of spirit betwixt them, yet ere long they slipped back into the familiar cadence of rough kin.  Kahira took to her paints whenever the fit seized her, conjuring strange visions that made little sense to Erik.  As Karin remained a stranger to aught a man might call honest labor, it fell to the maid’s brush to draw coin when Erik’s blade slept in its scabbard. Her mastery remained a thing uncanny, requiring no master’s hand to guide it.  Then, one eve, a familiar face emerged upon the canvas.

 

'Twas the Dragonborn. His ravaged visage and solitary ruby eye gleamed with a rare avarice, his hands clutching a tome bound in what bore the likeness of stitched flesh. A profane light bled from its pages, weighing upon the very air of the hovel somehow.

 

Kahira touched the painted point of the Dragonborn’s ear, her voice low.

 

“Uncle Erik…wherefore did the Dragonborn slay the elven folk to seize this book?  Were they not of his own blood?  Why would a great hero barter lives for yet more power?”

 

Erik beheld the cursed image, his brow deeply furrowed.

 

“I know naught of such bloody deeds, lass, save what thou showest me now. I marched within his shadow and shared the heat of his perils, yet his history was a locked door to me.”

 

“None amongst us knew the Dragonborn’s full tale,” Karin added smoothly. “One must weigh the good he wrought in the world, not the shadows that trailed his heels.”

 

Erik caught her gaze. Though her smile was nimble and careless, her eyes shifted to the child with sharp intent. He understood it well. This was the pose she donned for her own life. Or, at the least, the tale she spun for others. He knew the hints she let fall, her crass rhymes, her ready hand upon a dagger’s hilt.  He had long suspected her a highway-thief, or mayhap something worse, from that first day he had found her famished and heavy with child. 

 

Yet he had never pressed her to confess past, offering only a willing ear should she ever wish to unburden her soul.  She never did, leaving him to wander a dark maze of his own speculation.  Was it a wrong to brush such vile dross beneath the furniture, rather than confront it with an open eye?   Ought not a soul render account for their deeds bygone?  Yet, for the sweet sake of Kahira, the choice sat light upon the heart.  Since none in Rorikstead knew the true measure of Karin’s past infamy, he would not be the man to darken her name further.

 

He wavered, then offered a solemn nod.

 

“Aye… perchance ‘tis so. The Dragonborn contended with such evils would have broken thy mother or myself.  To seek out such terrible power may have served the greater good in the end. Yet a man must ever strive to tread the path of honor, though the stones be sharp and the way prove grievous. If he but can.”

 

Kahira looked from his earnest face to her mother’s cynical smile.

 

“Is this the lesson, then? That the end washes clean the filth of the means?”

 

Karin offered a loose, careless shrug.

 

“Thy uncle is the truest man I know.   Yet if it will win the fight, and keep thy breath in thy lungs, seize every advantage thou canst lay hands on, say I.”

 

Erik added softly, “If thou canst find a nobler way, lass, then embrace it, and let it never slip from thy grasp.”

 

Later, as Kahira bent once more to her paints and Karin muttered over her mead, Erik sat in the firelight and pondered.  Upon the Dragonborn, who didst lift him from the mire and set him upon this path, yet who had walked in deeper shades than ever met his eye.  What other evil deeds remained unknown to him? 

 

Which led his mind, by natural course, to fall upon Karin Snow-Fell.  In the frayed edges of her, he so oft glimpsed a darker wildness that pulled at the seams of his own honor. When he was afar from Rorikstead, his waking thoughts bent only upon returning. Yet when he sat here, wrapped in the warmth of their shabby hearth, he sometimes wondered in his secret heart if he were ever meant to stay at all.

 

 

5.

 

Erik settled upon the worn rug, the Nine Holds board laid open betwixt them like a kingdom carved in miniature. The wood was smooth, its surface painted with mock mountains, narrow holds, and winding rivers that gleamed faintly in the firelight. He had carried it back from a contract in Whiterun years ago, a gift meant to pass their idle hours when words failed.  The stone pieces stood in their ranks, jarls and housecarls, thanes and the high king, save for one missing jarl. In its stead sat a wine cork Kahira had painted with careful stroke, for Karin had lost the original piece some years past.

 

The last time they had played, Erik held back his might, going easy upon the child.  No longer.  Move by move, the girl was slowly, mercilessly dismantling his best efforts. Her small hand guided a housecarl across a chokepoint river with precision.

 

“How hast thou grown so swift and cunning at this, lass?” he asked, marveling at how quickly she had mastered the board.

 

Kahira did not lift her eyes from the kingdom of wood.

 

“There was little else to do for a passing long while.”

 

Karin, sprawled upon her bed with bottle in hand, gave a groan.

 

“Aye, ‘twas a wet and dreary season. I favor not this game,” Karin added, waving a dismissive hand at the board. “Too many rules, too many cursed pieces!  Give me the dice, or Hound Fetches Stick, and I am content. This game takes an age and a half.”

 

Kahira’s mouth twitched in the phantom of a smile, and she leaned close to whisper to Erik.

 

“Once I had bested her but a single time, I was forced to sharpen my strategies against myself.  She believes only in moving the stones as her moods dictate in the moment.”

 

The game continued apace, whilst Karin’s heavy lids did sink as she sought to follow, until her snore echoed from the bed.  The morning sun ne’er found favor in her sight.  Kahira’s mind for strategy did already outstrip his own, leaving Erik to defend two breaches while she pressed a third. Between moves they spoke of the month spent apart.  Betwixt moves, they spoke softly of the long months spent apart.

 

“Thou hast been most shy since my return,” he spake gently, sliding a thane forward.

 

“I had grown nigh accustomed to thine absence,” Kahira confessed quietly. “We endured it.  Mother fancies we have need of none, and most certainly none from the village. Yet the truth on’t is, ‘tis not the life we crave. With thee, Uncle, we find security. I pray thou wilt not wander the wilds again so soon.”

 

He was struck dumb by her grave speech, and for her part, she seized moment to fell another of his thanes.

 

“Though Mother hath bartered many a painting,” she added, “her sharp tongue and demands oft drive the patrons from our door.”

 

Erik studied the wood a moment longer, trapped in a snare of his own making.

 

“I shall aid thee in selling a few, if thou wilt permit it. We shall start with the Dragonborn. Perchance Jouane might purchase it at fairer price, and keep the secret of its tale. ‘Tis the best I may proffer my old comrade, without appearing a complete hypocrite in thine eyes.”

 

She smiled then, a small, secret thing, and moved her final piece.  While Erik had been occupied with her frontal assault upon the western hold, she had quietly promoted her Jarl to High King behind his lines. The cork-crowned piece sat now upon the central mount, supreme and unassailable.

 

Erik stared. Kahira blinked, as if marveling at the totality of her own triumph.

 

“I have bested thee,” she breathed.  At this exclamation, Karin snorted herself awake, bottle clattering to the floor.

 

“’Tis my own blood in her!  Well struck, daughter!”

 

“Aye, lass. Thou hast won indeed,” Erik yielded with a chuckle. “Thou art more fit to lead an army than the pair of us.” He leaned o’er the board and gently righted his fallen men.

 

Karin laughed and rose, stretching her limbs.

 

“Speak for thyself, thou brawny breastplate!  There be other deeds we are yet fit for.  I have a plot to line our lean purses and ease this dullness. Moving little stones upon wood, fie! ’Tis no sport for a Slayer.  Watch the lass till evening! I shall return ere the stars come forth.  Keep thy wits till nightfall, or sleep if thou must.”

 

So saying, she donned her boots, snatched up her favored dagger, and vanished through the door without so much as running a comb through her tangled tresses.

 

Kahira looked upon him with a quizzical, tilted eye, a strange echo of the mother.

 

“Another game, Uncle?”

 

 

6.

 

Erik stood at the threshold as the sun bled its last across the highlands.  Karin slipped through the door, eyes alight with that feral glee he knew too well.  She was aglow from her scout, her cheeks flushed.

 

“Let Mralki tend the lass this night,” she declared. “We shall have sport, thee and me.  This very night!”

 

“Tonight?” Erik knit his brow. “The moons are full, Karin. The skies conspire against stealth, shining so brightly.”

 

“’Tis the perfect night for it,” she replied, voice dropping low as a lover’s vow. “Walk with me, my gallant. It hath been too long since I looked upon the river!”

 

This was her code, for when she craved blood and plunder.  Rorikstead’s western cliffs were steep and unassailable save by long detours north or south.  They ever drew bandits and Reachmen as carrion draws crows.  The ancient ruins perched aloft offered shelter, high ground and easy picking of the road below.  She gave no further word to Kahira, save the promise of some grand bauble upon her return, and breathed naught of her design to him.  Mralki had little interest in such errands, yet at last agreed to watch their child, in exchange for Erik’s promised aid about the tavern and Karin’s dubious vow to guard her tongue and jests at the inn thereafter. 

 

The night was ill-suited for ambush. Masser and Secunda hung like coins in the heavens, and the auroras painted the world in calm, ethereal blue. Yet Karin moved as though the light were her ally.

 

They hiked the ridge toward Bleakwind Bluff in a companionable silence that soon gave way to easy banter.  She was glad, in her way, that the pests had regained their courage and claimed the ruins anew.

 

“More to massacre,” she said with a depraved grin.

 

“What manner of foes await us?” Erik asked.

 

“Forsworn,” she answered, blithely. “Five of the bastards. No hagravens, if that eases mind.”

 

He pressed her for the strategy, but she merely shrugged.

 

“Thou wilt see. ‘Tis nothing of heavy labor.”

 

The sky and moons cast her in a fetching light, though it was ever the fire within her that drew him most.  She looked like a destructive child anticipating her mischief, glowing as though half her age again. One felt both amusement and a quiet shame for her. 

 

He drank her in. The raven hair stirred by the breeze, those strange faded-blue eyes like wisps, the lithe frame stamped with faded scars.  Age and the bottle were beginning their slow siege on her now that she stood in her thirties. Mayhap it lived only in his eyes, but she remained fair enow, though she would never be a courtly beauty, and her habits oft left her barely presentable.

 

She ceased abruptly, then looked upon him oddly in the cool light.

 

“Thou aren’t frightened of hagravens, art thou? Not thee!”

 

He caught himself and laughed fondly.

 

“Thou art beautiful before battle.”

 

“Oh?” She preened her snarled hair with mocking grace. “Thou hast finally noticed.” She regarded him with a provocative gleam and grinned anew.

 

“Thy huge sword impresses as well. Truly, it must take a large lad like thee two hands to wield it.  I fear ‘twould be too much for a slight woman such as I to handle. I expect men flee from it in terror, but thou must be wary of the man that runs towards it!”

 

He chuckled, showing he was not put out.  Her raucous ways were habit to him.  These nights of blood were the closest they ever came to courtship. She ever met his heartfelt praises with diversion, or  jests that grew ever fouler the more he pressed.  Thus, he had with patience learned to accept her as she was.

 

“It shall not be long now,” she whispered, pointing ahead.

 

Bleakwind Bluff stood upon its rocky peak, an excellent defensive perch ascended only by one narrow, winding path.  The tower itself had once been proud, but now sat in ruin, worn to a stony nub by storms and time. Still, room enough remained for a nest of maniacs.

 

Torchlight flickered at the tower’s base, two pinpricks of fire moving like fireflies up and down the tor.

 

“Wait for my signal,” she grinned, showing teeth like a wolf. “Thou wilt know thy cue.”

 

Without pause she broke from the trench and dashed to the base of the bluff, loosing a blood-curdling shriek. She began to dance and tear at the air like one possessed.

 

Clamour rose at once. Torches swung wildly. Angry voices rang out. “Enemies! Who goes?!”

 

“Bees!” Karin screamed. “Moon bees! The agony!  How my nipples doth twitch and ache!”

 

“You there! Come no further!”

 

“Their queen pursues me! She would wear my fair skin!  I pray thee, aid me!”

 

Her theatrics swelled to a frenzy.  She beat at empty air with such fervor that even Erik was half-convinced.  A predatory laugh drifted down from the bluff.

 

“We will aid thee, fair maiden. Come hither!”

 

“Nay! NAY! I must rouse the guard! Moon bees in the guise of men!”

 

With that she scurried around the base of the bluff, drawing three pursuers after her at a dead sprint. Three gone. Two remained for him. He suspected her stratagem was born more of her own amusement than any tactical wit.

 

Erik stepped from the shadow.

 

“Hail!” he called firmly. “I am Erik the Slayer! Cast down thy arms and yield, and I shall grant thee mercy!”

 

The two Forsworn scoffed and charged. It never worked.  Mayhap one of these days.

 

He met the first with a precise slash of his great blade, the edge catching the man’s guard and opening his flank. The second he smote with a mighty overhead stroke the Reachman had no hope of parrying.  The wounded man sought to rise, and Erik ran him through without ceremony.

 

He advanced into the ruin to clear the rest. A shadow tore itself from the keep, a Briarheart, silent as the grave as he struck.  Erik’s sword was knocked spinning from his grasp. He cursed Karin silently, snatched up one of the fallen Forsworn’s axes, then another, and sought to fend off the barbed blades that flew at his head. He was unused to such weapons, and the fanatic’s blade slipped past guard, biting into his side.

 

He fell to his knees. The Briarheart loomed, heart pulsing grotesquely upon his chest.

 

“I know of thee, Slayer,” he hissed. “Of thy sire. Thy drunken strumpet. Thy accursed urchin.  I shall offer their entrails to Hircine ere the moons do set.”

 

Erik looked up, his breath heavy.

 

“I thank thee for the warning,” he said, calm as the stars overhead.

 

Then he surged upward at the man with his bare hands. 

 

The Briarheart lurched back, but Erik was already inside his guard. He drove his fist straight into the beating, exposed heart, and tore it free in one wet, final heave.

 

Erik stood there, breathing hard, the blood steaming in the cold air.  From the far side of the bluff came the sound of Karin returning, singing a jaunty tune.

 

“Come ye bastards, come ye whores,
I’ll carve thy livers for the boars!
I’ll piss upon thy graves while thy sons weep,
And fuck thy wives' ghosts ere they find their sleep!
With blood for wine and guts for bread,
I’ll dance my dance upon thy severed head!”

 

Karin strode back as the auroras wove their silent blue tapestry above, steeped from crown to heel in dark gore.  Erik, having retrieved his blade, wiped it upon a fallen foe. 

 

“There were six, it seems,” he noted, a mild chiding in his tone.

 

Karin threw back her head and laughed, completely unrepentant.

 

“Mine eyes are not what they were!  Besides, if thou canst not dispatch three puny Forsworn, thou hast no right to boast thou once rode with the Dragonborn.”

 

He gestured to the gore that painted her.

 

“And all that blood?”

 

“I cast the first from the cliff, thou shouldst have heard the squeal! YEEEEEAARH!” She flapped her arms mockingly. “I heard his skull crack as an egg upon the stones below!  I scarce could breathe for laughing, so much so the second near took my head.  Him I unseamed from the navel to the chops.  The third I needed to wrestle in the muck to untangle his innards proper.  Messy, red labor, but most sweet.”

 

The only other time she seemed so radiantly joyful as she did with Kahira was when she had indulged this bloodlust. This, he feared, was her truest self.  How such villainy could dwell within the mother of his Kahira and walk beside him still, he knew not. Nor what it said of his own soul that he loved her all the more for the contradiction.  She sauntered closer, still dripping.

 

“A pity I was not here to see thee swing that great blade like a hero of old, Erik. ‘Tis a sight to make a woman’s blood run hotter than these poor bastards' did this night.” She clapped his arm, leaving a blood print. “Come, let us loot them ere the maggots claim their due.”

 

They fell to it together. The bodies yielded respectable coin, and within the half-ruined tower they pried open a chest of greater spoils. Inside lay rings, brooches, and cut gemstones, no doubt stripped from travelers, alongside a mace that glowed with faint enchantment. Neither favored such a weapon, yet it would fetch a handsome purse all the same.

 

Karin gasped, reached deeper and drew forth a dazzling necklace of gold and diamonds.  She held it aloft, then draped it about her own throat with flair, turning this way and that in the moonlight.

 

“Doth it suit me, gallant?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

 

Erik’s voice softened despite himself.

 

“It becomes thee as starlight becomes the night sky, rare and perilous in its beauty, Karin. Thou art a flame no jewel could ever outshine.”

 

She blushed, then laughed too loudly.

 

“Then I shall hawk it for coin.”

 

“Why? It looks passing fair upon thee.”

 

“I am no such fool to wear a ransom upon my throat, where any cutpurse might spy it and draw a blade across it,” she said, already unclasping the piece. “Besides, where would I wear it? About Rorikstead? ‘Tis a wearisome hamlet fit only for ugly women.”

 

“Then ‘tis no place for the Snow-Fells,” he replied. “Let us barter it for coin and procure thee something less boastful. We shall save the remainder for Kahira.”

 

“Aye. Fair enough.”

 

She pocketed the necklace and leaned against the ruined wall, eyes gleaming.

 

“’Tis good to have thee back.  How I have yearned for these rovings!  When next may we slaughter such as these, I wonder?  I have a mind to do it stark naked next time!  Just to see the look on their faces ere I open them up.”

 

Erik flushed slightly, unsure if she still jested.

 

“I…should find great joy in seeing that,” he ventured, but half in jest.

 

Karin barked a laugh and wagged a bloody finger at him.

 

“Who would not, thou great lusty hypocrite?”

 

 

7.

 

It seemed his head had scarce met the pillow ere Karin roused him.  She had already washed and changed, and now hovered over him in the dim hovel, grinning as the cat that hath cornered a sparrow.

 

“Come with me,” she whispered, voice hot and trembling with a fierce mirth.  She threw open the door and stepped out into the night.

 

He followed. She stood upon the ridge already, waving him onward with impatient delight.

 

“Come with me then, to Bleakwind!”

 

She laughed, and skipped from sight like a maid at play.

 

“Should I not fetch mine armor?” Erik called after her.

 

“Thou shalt have no need of it!”

 

The trek to Bleakwind Bluff seemed to pass in the span of a single heartbeat.  He crested the rise and found the ruin framed against the still starry sky.  Karin laughed again, and beckoned him within.

 

A part of Erik found the whole matter passing strange. He wondered, distantly, why he thought to bear no sword, yet the thought drifted away like smoke.  He crossed the threshold and stepped into a chamber of impossible luxury. Canopies of silk draped from the high stones, oil lamps cast a warm and golden hue, and a great bed sat piled high with downy cushions.

 

Karin stepped from behind a tapestry, garbed in the fashion of an Alik'r dancer.  Sleeves of gossamer blue clung to her arms, and a veil of like hue covered her mouth and nose, leaving naught but her pale eyes to the light.  The raiment bared her pale stomach and the long curve of one thigh.  Her form, though marked by old battles, was taut and maddeningly erotic in the lantern’s glow.

 

“What is this, Karin?” Erik breathed, his voice hushed with wonder.

 

She laughed, a sound musical, low, and inviting, then began to dance. Her hips swayed enticingly, rolling in slow, alluring circles.  She danced about him, graceful as a candle's flame, then drew a length of silk about his throat and gently led him to the bed. With sudden, unnatural strength, she pressed him down and bound his wrists to the posts with the silken cord.

 

She draped herself upon him, her lips brushing his own. He marveled at their softness, for a woman of such hard living.  She kissed him again, and he yielded to it.

 

“I have loved thee ever,” she murmured.  “Thou who art my shield, my very heart. Thou whose eyes shine so bright, whose devotion burns hotter than the dragon's own breath.”

 

She breathed more sweet and honeyed vows with a sincerity that made his heart stutter and his passion rise to attention, until the strangeness of it grew too great, and he pulled away.

 

“Who art thou?”

 

Karin smiled. “I am thy unquenched flame, my love.”

 

“Thou art not Karin,” he said, doubt sharpening. “Who art thou?”

 

She laughed, the sound turning jagged.  Erik strove to rise, but the delicate veil held him fast as iron bands.  Her voice became cultured, softer, yet heavy with power all the same, like velvet drawn across naked blade.

 

“Even in the realm of dreams, thou knowest I would never kiss thee thus, nor freely give such sweet affection. Yet still thou hunger for me.” 

 

“‘Tis not lust alone,” he answered, head spinning as he strained against his bonds.  The phantom smirked, her eyes darting in mockery toward the rise in his breeches.  ‘Twas a passing fair imitation of Karin.

 

“Release me.”

 

“In due time.”

 

“What is thy game? Who art thou?”

 

The apparition smiled in concession.

 

“I am Vaermina.  Mistress of Dreams, Nightmares, and Memory.  Wouldst thou take offense should I slip into something more…dignified?”

 

“I pray that thou wouldst,” he answered warily.

 

She spun upon her heel. The dancer’s guise melted into mist.  In its stead stood a towering, unearthly woman of distant and alien beauty.  She had skin of deep violet, a crown of flowing cloth wrapped about her head, and grand robes that drifted as kelp in some unseen, ghostly tide. Two great serpents coiled in lazy, maddening knots about her shoulders. Her eyes were bottomless, piercing amethyst, her black lips pursed in amusement.

 

“Doth this shape please thee?” she asked. Then, with a languorous and dark smile, “Thy predicament pleases me.  Despite our rude beginnings, I still offer thee a night of casual bedsport, Erik of Rorikstead.  “It would be…an experience for thee.”

 

“I must most respectfully and regretfully decline,”  He answered with his most earnest courteousness.  Vaermina scoffed.

 

“Thou wilt not stray from such a creature as Karin, even in a dream? Even with such as I? Thou dost insult me.”

 

“I crave thy pardon, my lady,” he said, weighing every syllable with care.

 

His simple plea seemed to amuse her somewhat.  She appeared to gather her grand weight, a strange, mortal posture for a being of such magnitude, her voice silken in its reproach.

 

“Thou dost insult me.   Thou aidest a wretch, who hath offended me yet more, compounding thy trespass.”

 

“How hath she caused offense?”

 

“That is not for such as thee to question,” Vaermina proclaimed, cold and imperious. “My word as the Mistress of Quagmire must suffice. She is a vile pestilence who spake grave blasphemies in her youth, and thou hast coddled her since the hour ye met.”

 

“Then I ask pardon on her behalf as well,” Erik said, biting down the urge to champion his love before a power who held his life in her grasp. “Yet thou canst not fault me for aiding a woman with child.”

 

“I do fault thee. Thou also richly deserve my wrath. Yet instead of breaking thee, I shall offer thee the grandest mercy. Myself. Worship me. Yield thy life unto my service, and thou shalt dream as few mortals ever dare.”

 

“I am no mumbling mystic,” Erik answered, “nor have I any longing to waste my days within a temple.”

 

“Nor shalt thou. I have uses for so stout a warrior. I know thou art shackled by thy…honor.” She spoke the word with quiet scorn. “Yet I will find labors that suit thy delicate heart. In time, thou may even come to relish my designs. Be my consort, Erik of Rorikstead.  Serve me true, and I shall dance through thy dreams unto the end of thy days.”

 

She let fall her grand robes. Beneath lay garments scantier than the dancer’s.  Her gleaming skin and curves were bound only by the most delicate threads of woven gold, her thighs and breasts a perfection only a dream could devise.  She cast off her head-wrap and dark purple hair tumbled forth, glittering like drowned stars in midnight waters.

 

She danced then, as Karin had, shimmering, hypnotic, spinning again and again. She became a powerfully built Nord maid with naught but a loincloth and golden hair to preserve her modesty; then a lithe Dunmer maiden, ruby eyes peering from behind a Dragon Priest’s mask; an Orsimer queen wrapped in a gown stitched from a hundred beasts.  Even a Khajiit, with midnight fur and glowing yellow eyes, her back arched as if to pounce upon him with a predator’s lust.  At last, she settled into Karin’s shape once more.

 

“I shall even wear this flesh, if it please thee,” she promised. Karin’s familiar crooked grin softened into a look that promised tenderness as well as release.

 

“‘Tis the closest thou shalt ever come to having her. Wilt thou bind thyself to such as she?  A broken calamity, who thou cannot repair and knowest can never love thee as thou desirest?  Wilt thou not worship at my altar?  Am I not more than any and every woman?  Surely one prize outshines the other.”

 

“So thou biddest me…forsake Karin for thee?”

 

“Thou canst not serve two loves, my sweet slayer of life.  Thou must choose the one or the other, with a whole and undivided heart.”

 

Erik met her fathomless gaze.  He had never been renowned for wisdom, he conceded.

 

“I understand thy grandeur, fair Vaermina.  Thy power is majestic and boundless, and I am honored for the rarity of thy grace.  But Karin I have known these many years, and thee I have only just met. ‘Tis as simple as that.”

 

Vaermina’s face, still wearing Karin’s visage, turned black as thunder. The tower seemed to hum, ready to shake its stones to dust. Her countenance twisted into a mask of ghastly wrath.  The true terror was how natural such fury sat upon Karin's face. All things began to fade. The bed, the silks, even his very garments. He hung naked and suspended in endless, starry void, and though it was a fool's errand before a Daedric Prince, he covered his modesty by pure instinct.

 

Vaermina’s vast eyes loomed in the dark, her voice echoing down with a cool mirth.

 

“There are ever others. I shall not ask thee twice. I do but marvel at thy fierce devotion to thine own ruin. It is no slander to name thee a fool, for thou knowest it thyself.  I read the shadows of thy mind like tragic verses, even those pages thou canst not bear to read. Thou knowest thou art doomed, and yet thou wouldst rather serve a wretch than accept my grace, until thy folly brings the very roof upon thy head.  Very well. ‘Tis a grander torture thou inflict upon thyself than any I could devise.”

 

The eyes rose further above him, even wanting a face, they seemed to smile.

 

“Listen well.  We have met before, and we shall meet again, though I doubt thou shalt remember it.  But thou wilt remember this.  Thou spurned the affections of a dark goddess for a base villainess who holds thee at distance.  Ponder that insanity in thy solitary moments.” 

 

She chuckled lightly, a dismissive sound.  Erik fell then, his heart leaping to his throat, blind terror rising with the rushing wind as he plummeted ever faster into the abyss.

 

With a heavy thud, he struck the floorboards, his skull rapping against the wood.

 

“Didst thou enjoy the fall?” Karin cackled from above.  “I favor summer.”

 

It was nigh noon.  She and Kahira puttered about their cramped kitchen, the savory smoke of late breakfast wafting through the hovel.  Erik spoke naught of the dream.  He rose, settling into tales of the night’s butchery, and spoke of simple plans for the day ahead with his family.  After breakfast, the dream receded to half-remembered haze.  Once he had washed, it lingered only as the pleasant ghost of Karin’s lips upon his own, and mayhap…some other woman’s.  Had she been a Dunmer? A Khajiit, even?

 

By the time he had finished his labors about his father’s inn, he could scarce recall that aught was amiss at all.

 

The dream faded.

 

Yet the seeds it had sown in the darkest soil of his mind remained.

 

 

8.

 

Kahira walked at Erik’s side, her small hand tucked in his, whilst Karin strode with loose and satisfied swagger.  With the day’s labors behind and the weight of last night’s spoils heavy in his purse, Erik felt he had bought a measure of time to ponder his fate. ‘Twas passing strange that he should feel his spirit wavering upon such a day.

 

Mralki greeted his son and young Kahira with a glad heart, though his visage turned to flint when his gaze fell upon Karin.  Still, he gave a grudging welcome, and they sat to a hot meal to celebrate their good fortune. 

 

He slid a plate before Kahira first, and with sly grace, slipped a fresh sweetroll to the child whilst Karin’s back was turned. The lass’s eyes danced with delight.

 

Yet Karin, whose own eyes missed no such sleight of hand, spoke of it at once, a jest walking narrow edge of complaint, and she would not cease until Erik had bought another to sweeten her own mouth.  Save for this, Karin kept the peace, and called for two bottles of bloodwine to bear home with them.

 

“We shall toast triumph as loud as we please, away from prying eyes, like civilized folk,” she declared.

 

Mralki fetched the bottles, disapproval carved deep into his brow.  They were costly spirits, but it was her coin, and he could say naught against it.  If naught else, his tavern would never run to ruin whilst she drew breath.  Erik offered a word here and there, but his mind still wandered in a haze of silken veils and bewitching eyes.  He ate little and spoke less.

 

The meal done, they rose and crossed to Britte’s stall.  The merchant looked up warily as Karin wasted no time, drawing forth the necklace of gold and diamond.

 

“Seven hundred septims for this prize, Britte! Haggle not with me!  I know a jewel fit for a queen when I see it! ‘Tis finer than aught thou hast ever peddled, I’ll warrant!”

 

Britte turned the piece in her hands.  Quick to argue though she was, she could find no fault in the gold.

 

“It would take a long time to move such a thing. I sell to tillers and wayfarers, as thou well knowest.  And I have not seven hundred coins to spare, in any case.”

 

Karin leaned close, voice dripping with honey.

 

“Come now, ‘tis a thing of wondrous beauty. When wilt thou look upon its like again? See how it catches the sun! Might it not draw the eye of some passing lord or grand lady?”

 

“Aye, ‘tis fair work, but I have not the ready coin, as I said plainly.”

 

“Then bid thy husband buy it for thee proper. ‘Twould be a fair price for thee to grant him a hard plowing or two, I’d wager.”

 

Britte’s face flushed hot with wrath at Karin’s oily smile.  The merchant looked to Erik, willing him to bridle his wench, but his thoughts were far afield.  Insult hovered upon Britte’s tongue, yet she swallowed it at the last.

 

“Mind thy tongue before the child,” she hissed to Karin.

 

Kahira’s brow knit in innocent confusion.

 

“Why must Britte allow her husband to plow? Is he not a farmer?”

 

Karin threw back her head and barked a laugh.

 

“Nay, little bird!  I meant only that she wears the breeches in her house. Naught more!”

 

“Well, then,” Britte said, her jaw set. “Seven hundred in credit, for the child’s paints or whatever thou wilt? That much I can bear, so long as thou dost not act the drunken fool about my stall.”

 

“Credit it is, then! Mark it well in thy ledger.”

 

Erik was woolgathering still, his thoughts adrift.  Both women marked it. Karin cast him a sidelong, daggered glance.

 

“Erik,” she snapped, her voice sharpening. “Hast thou spied aught thy heart desires? Speak, or must I shit upon thy boots to rouse thee?”

 

He started, blinking away the fog.

 

“Naught for me,” he answered quickly. “Only the credit for Kahira’s supplies. That shall serve.” He thought, at the least, this might staunch the bleeding of Karin’s spendthrift ways. Then, a thought struck him.

 

“Britte, what jewelry hast thou? Karin favors simpler wares than that heavy yoke of diamonds. I shall pay the coin.”

 

With simmering patience, Britte drew forth several pieces, trifles, in truth. The grandest was a small golden amulet, alongside a few thin rings.  The rest were simple works of silver, fit for a farmer’s wife or a careless traveler.

 

Karin gave them but a passing glance ere she plucked a modest silver chain from amongst Britte’s finer wares and held it aloft.

 

“This as well, in trade.”

 

Erik’s brow lifted in mild wonder; ‘twas most unlike her to spare another’s purse when generosity was offered.

 

At last, they retired to the hovel upon the hill, with the stars wheeling bright above.  The fire burned low upon the hearth, whilst Kahira, curled upon her bed like a small golden cat, begged for the old tales once more. How Erik had quested with the Dragonborn.  Her own first words.  How Erik had first met her mother upon the road to Karthwasten.  Though Karin, as ever, grew slippery when asked what had left her in so wretched a state that fateful day.

 

Erik spun the tales gladly, whilst Karin lounged against the wall, bottle in fist, adding profane flourishes wherever it pleased her.  At length, Kahira’s eyelids grew heavy.  Her head nodded, and she slipped into slumber with the quiet trust of a soul that knows itself safe.

 

Karin cast a glance at the child, then to Erik.

 

“She sleeps,” she murmured. “Come, share this bottle with me.”

 

He hesitated. “‘Tis costly drink, and I am no man for strong spirits.”

 

“Aye, but ‘tis a sight better than the horse-water thy father dares to call ale.  Knowest thou of the spirits that dwell in bottles?”

 

“I do.  Therein dwells the spirit of Argonian bloodwine.”

 

“Nay,” she said, her voice dropping as though to impart some grand secret. “The otherkind. The wish-granting kind.”

 

“I have heard such tales.”

 

“Well, the spirit within this bottle knows but one wish to grant, and that is to get over thyself. Drink with me.” She thrust the bottle toward his chest. “A shadow sits upon thee, I see it plain. ‘Tis surely not those Forsworn we carved to pieces yestereve.”

 

Erik took the bottle, drank, and felt the fire bloom at once.

 

“‘Tis only strange,” he spoke at last, “being back.  All is so still here. So…unchanging.”

 

Karin chuckled, a rare and soft sound.

 

“What, doth even slaughter at my side fail to stir thy blood?”

 

He looked upon her across the dying embers, and felt the old ache rise. The longer he bided with her, the deeper the wound grew, and this day the emptiness of it stung like salt.

 

He had never asked how a woman who favored only the beds of women came to bear a child.  Should she ever wish to speak of it, she would.  She seemed no stranger to every folly the world could muster, so he could well guess. He had raised Kahira beside her, tended them both these long years, leaving their side to sell his sword only when he knew them to be secure. It was the height of pride, he knew, to deem himself the only man in all the world fit for such as Karin. Yet, had he not borne her further than any soul thought possible?  Who else knew the dark corners of her mind as he did?

 

There were moments he swore she felt the same. They stood but a single embrace from all that would bring him peace in this life.  Yet betwixt them lay walls more impassable than the iron of any dungeon, and it lay with her alone to turn the key.  At length, he spoke.

 

“I had a dream of thee.”

 

“A merry one, I hope?” Her grin turned wicked. “And what did I do in this vision of thine?”

 

He flushed.

 

“Things thou wouldst never do. I remember little but that.”

 

“Ah. I see.” She took another deep drink, then, never one to be boring, shoved the bottle back to him, brooking no refusal. “Another! But one more! To the High King! To any at all!”

 

He sighed, taking another deep sip.

 

“Come without.  Let us look upon the stars,” she entreated, swaying as she walked.

 

They sat upon the weathered, pitiful porch, she draining the dregs whilst he leaned against the wall. For a long while, neither spoke a word.

 

She had been as a wild, cursing snared beast in those early years.  Distrustful, suffering his aid only because she must. This past year or two had proven difficult in a wholly new fashion. He knew not the hour it had shifted. For the longest time, Kahira had been their foundation, and Karin as taxing as an unruly child herself.  Then, one day, in a quiet, fleeting moment of the strange family they had sown together, he looked upon her and saw something more.  Glimpses of a mother, grateful for her new life, and for him.

 

Karin had grown in steps so small a man scarce knew the distance traveled until he looked back upon the road.   She had not blossomed.  That was the wrong word for her in any world.  She had become…mayhap more the woman she might have been, had life not dealt with her so rudely.  He had played his part in that mending, and perhaps he felt bound by honor to see the quest to its end.

 

At last, she spoke, for he would not.

 

“‘Tis well enough for thee to do as thou please with me in thy dreams.  It only means my charms hath not fled.  But in the waking world, I still favor only women.”

 

“I know it,” he said quietly. “I seek not to change thy nature.”

 

She scoffed into her almost empty bottle.

 

“Then why the solemn face? Thou lookst as though someone important hath died.”

 

“I warrant thou bade me drink that I might speak true. I hold affection for thee, Karin.  More than a brother-in-arms.”

 

She choked on her wine, then stayed him with a raised hand.

 

“I know thou art my comrade and pillar.  The very oak this family leans upon. But I can offer naught beyond that. I will not feed thee lies, not thee, at least.”

 

He pressed gently.

 

“I love thee more than a comrade. Do not say thou hast not known it.”

 

“Enough.” Her voice cracked like a lash, yet beneath lay something remarkably fragile. “I would not drive thee from us, but ours is a strange and thorny matter, and I must chew upon it.”

 

“Kahira is near grown,” he said. “Mayhap there is a wider world waiting for us all. I give thanks for every hour we have shared, yet I know not if I am still needed here.”

 

Karin turned, with familiar, mocking lilt.

 

“But I do need thee, Erik! I need thee now!” Her tone was hot, heavy, and so thickly painted with jest that no man could take it for truth.  Yet fear flickered that sat as ill upon her face as a noblewoman’s paint.

 

Despite her ways, he felt a prick of offense, and perhaps she marked it.

 

“Dost thou truly wish to wander the roads again?” she asked.

 

“Mayhap,” he answered. “Why not quit Rorikstead together, if only for a time? To see the world.”

 

She chewed her lip, tilting the barren bottle.

 

“I would give a toe to quit this mud-hole. Yet I sound like thy father when I say it: I fear to risk Kahira upon the open road.”

 

“Surely Erik the Slayer and dread Karin Snow-Fell, twin tempests of Rorikstead, could keep one lass from harm.”

 

“Aye, but I am even less beloved beyond these borders, mark thou that.” She took a final pull to finish the bottle. “A bargain, then. What sayest thou to a picnic at Gjukar’s Monument? We shall speak of these heavy woes there, when we are less deep in our cups.”

 

“I cannot tomorrow.  Ennis returns, and I am bound to greet him.”

 

She looked visibly relieved by the day’s reprieve.

 

“The next day then.”  Then, with sudden, strange formality, she said: “My shoulder aches fiercely since we fought the Forsworn. I would have thee work the knot from it.”

 

“Truly?” He had never laid hands upon her, save in their rough fellowship.

 

“I am not the spring maid I once was. I would piss blood to be as young as thou art!  Mephala’s thighs, I well might, if I suffer another night like this!  So fall to it, or wilt thou gape at me like some cabbage-knight who hast never seen a real woman?”

 

So saying, she turned her back to him and fixed her gaze upon the dark horizon.

 

She bristled when his hands settled upon her, yet he knew her ways, and kept his touch purely practical, seeking only the knotted flesh.  After a minute’s fumbling, she commanded him how to knead, how to drive the heel of his forearm upon her back without crushing her.  Ever so slowly, she settled beneath his hands.  It was not the embrace he hungered for, yet he enjoyed the warmth of her skin, the sinuous coil of her muscles beneath his fingers.  He thought to press a kiss to the crown of her head, as one might to loved ones, but thought better of it.  That she suffered this touch at all was victory enough for one night.

 

“Karin,” he asked, after she had sat silent and yielding for a time, “dost thou enjoy it?”

 

She answered with a soft, rumbling snore. The heavy scent of wine clung to her breath.

 

Erik smiled despite himself.  He gathered her up, limp with drink, and bore her gently within to her bed. Then he laid his massive frame upon the narrow settle, scarce large enough to hold him, and let sleep claim him.

 

9.

 

Erik greeted Ennis at his father’s inn, a most welcome balm to weary eyes. He appeared cheery and hale, as much at ease in his new life as he had been in his old, still bearing image of the man who had once broken the same stubborn earth as Erik himself.

 

Of all the souls that drew breath in Rorikstead, Ennis was cast in a mold most like his own, Erik mused. Both were farmers’ sons, near in age, raised by a single parent whose love for them burned fierce as the summer sun.  Both had felt the restless urge to rove beyond the village bounds, defying every caution their elders could utter. The sole divide betwixt them lay in duty.  Ennis had remained steadfast to his adopted mother Reldith, and anchored his dreams to the honest earth rather than the bloody clash of steel.

 

“Well met, Ennis,” Erik called, crossing the tavern to clasp his forearm in hearty greeting. His eye caught the glint of a gold band upon Ennis's finger. “Thou lookest passing well! My father spoke truly, then.  I hear thou hast wed at last.”

 

Ennis rose with a broad grin, returning the clasp.

 

“Erik the Slayer himself, returned to the fold! Sit, I pray thee, sit.  Aye, I have taken a wife. Livia is her name, a sharp-eyed lass.  Already we keep a small holding upon the city’s skirts. The bustle of the capital is a far cry from the sleepy quiet of these hills. Folk scurry about the cobbles like ants upon a kicked mound, yet there is endless coin to be made, if a man but has the will.”

 

Erik settled across from his old friend, calling for a simple midday meal for himself and a plate of roast meat for Ennis.

 

“My father counseled that I should join thee in thy trade of selling earth. He claims the hills and plains of Rorikstead shall run dry ere thy customers do.”

 

Ennis laughed aloud, the sound hearty and unburdened.

 

“Mralki speaks true enough. The soil here is far richer than any in the Hold, and my Livia hath a head for commerce sharper than even Britte’s barbed tongue.  The farmers of Whiterun are of a different breed than Rorikstead men. They possess coin aplenty to hire hands, and to seed their fields with our rich earth.  We could scarce keep pace with their demands if we tried. If it be no insult to thy standing, I could offer thee two hundred septims a jaunt to stand as my guard upon the road.  I know thy sword is worth far more, but our coffers are not yet so deep. A stout arm like thine is ever welcome.”

 

Erik smiled faintly.

 

“I shall ponder upon it. If only to walk the road and share words with thee.  Mine own adventures have left me somewhat listless of late, wandering this village with naught but quiet fields and petty gossip to fill the hours.”

 

“Mayhap thou couldst proffer me some advice of survival in trade. I have taken up the bow of late, though I confess, I can scarce strike a fat and dazed rabbit at twenty paces.”

 

“Thou hast the makings of a fine archer,” Erik said, earnest in his praise. “Steady hands and a farmer’s eye for the wind shall serve thee better than thou think.”

 

“And how fares thy little flock upon the hill?” Ennis asked, taking a draught of ale. “The child grows tall, I warrant?”

 

“Aye, Kahira thrives,” Erik answered, striving to paint their days in the brightest hues. “Her skill with the brush is a marvel to behold, and we passed yestereve in joyous sport.  We celebrated my return with a fine feast.  And Karin…well, Karin provides for the house as she may.”

 

Ennis leaned upon the table, seeing through the hollow cheer as easily as a man reads clear water.

 

“Thou paintest a pretty canvas, my friend, yet I know the artist.  What fresh woes doth the tempest on her hill bring thee now?”

 

Erik exhaled, the heavy weight pressing down upon him.

 

“When I look upon her, Ennis, ‘tis not merely the features of her face I see, nor the wildness of her hair. ‘Tis the heavy sum of a thousand shared moments, moments a man can scarce put to words. I knowest her answer ere any question is framed upon my tongue. Yet this knowing avails me naught.  I hold deep affections for Karin. And Karin is…herself.”

 

Ennis leaned back, his countenance sympathetic yet entirely unflinching.

 

“That is plain to any with eyes to see, and understandable besides. Yet with such a woman, a man must expect to bleed upon the thorns. Speak thy heart plain to her, and abide whatever harvest follows. But mark me, Erik, thou canst no more expect a wolf to forsake its nature, no matter how lovingly thou tendest it, than thou canst reshape the east wind with sweet words of adoration.”

 

Erik chewed upon the counsel, turning the words over in his mind like a blade he might find use for.

 

“And what other wisdom hast thou gleaned from the marriage bed?”  Ennis smiled, a touch rueful.

 

“‘Tis not so different from the days of courting, save that the quarrels kindle much swifter. Thou abidest so long with one soul that thou begin to expect her to divine thy very thoughts without a word spoken. ‘Tis unjust, yet such is the bond. Thou dost not swear such an oath with an eye toward retreat. Mayhap thou canst understand such devotion.”

 

“Mayhap I truly do,” Erik murmured. “Yet I wonder if I should not uproot myself entirely. I have ever longed to see the red sands of Hammerfell.”

 

Ennis laughed outright at that.

 

“Hammerfell!  Aye, and I as well!  Yet everyone wishes thee to tarry here, Erik, worry not upon that!  From myself, even unto Bramm Enronson. He would sooner swallow hot coals than admit it, but Bramm knows the she-tempest blows less viciously when Erik the Slayer stands as her windbreak.  Yet thou must choose for thyself what thy heart desires, not what this village would demand of thee.”

 

Erik fell quiet, pondering the truth of it. Ennis refilled his tankard and urged his friend to better cheer.

 

“Thou needst not choose the one path and forsake the other though.  Why not split thy time betwixt Rorikstead and Whiterun, as I do? There is sellsword work aplenty in the city, and maids enough to turn a man’s head. Speaking with a few other women might help thee see thy heart more clearly.”

 

“Mayhaps.  How fares Reldith?”

 

“Well enough,” Ennis answered warmly, “though she weds herself too fiercely to her toil. I pray she finds a suitor in time.  It is not good for her to be without family here for any length of time, even among friendly faces.  She is not so old yet, and she boasts a most enterprising son to her credit!  In truth, I marvel none in Rorikstead hath courted her already.”

 

Erik finished his meal thoughtfully.  He was neither a green youth nor an elder yet, and there was still time enough to change his path, should he so choose. The open road still called to him, even as the hovel upon the hill tugged at him as if ‘twas a jealous lover.

 

10.

 

The day hung grey and windswept as they made their way toward Gjukar’s Monument.  ‘Twas a solid two days walk to Whiterun along a winding road, with little else of consequence upon it, save if a man wished to hazard the rugged mountains proper.  Forts Sungard and Greymoor largely kept the King’s peace along the stretch, though there remained opportunity where an enterprising or perhaps, brazen, highwayman might set upon the unwary. 

 

As they descended from Rorikstead, the road opened into vast, sweeping plains, offering an unbroken view of the snowy peaks in the distance. There was no true civilization to be found ere the gates of Whiterun. ‘Twas a formidable trek, yet less than a quarter of the way along the path rose Gjukar’s Monument.  It stood as a welcome beacon for weary wayfarers, and a fine refuge in the impossible event that one grew weary of Rorikstead’s thundering nightlife.  It thrust upward from the plains, falling within the long shadow of Fort Sungard.  A tall carved pillar of ancient stone, its ragged banner whipped in the breeze.  It had been raised to honor a battle so lost to the mists of time that even Jouane the healer could speak little of it.

 

Erik had once heard tale of a ghostly maiden who wandered the stones, forever seeking her departed lover, yet in all his years he had ne'er laid eyes upon such a phantom.  It was a fine thing to amuse the Snow-Fells, but they came not for spirits, but the stark beauty of the place.

 

To a man who had roved beyond the bounds of Rorikstead, the pillar itself was naught to steal the breath. Yet there hung profound emptiness about it, and oft, a deep and settling peace. ‘Twas no strange sight to see great stags bounding across the steppe, their fear of the hunter’s arrow near forgotten in the vast solitude.

 

A short walk from the monument lay the shattered bones of what might once have been a temple. Now, they were but tumbled slabs of stone for Kahira to clamber upon. A small shrine to Zenithar lay within what might charitably be called the remains of a chamber.   Karin, heretic and blasphemer though she oft proved to be, made it her solemn business to pray fervently whenever they visited.

 

 

Her idea of an answered prayer from Zenithar was not a reward for honest sweat, but rather to stumble upon a heavy chest, or perchance the bloated corpse of a traveling noble in the brush, that she might strip him of his gold and retire at last from her current arduous life of drinking and pestering villagers.

 

The weather could have proven fairer, yet it was not cold or wet, and the grey clouds bore their own bleak majesty.  First, they enjoyed their fare, the silent monument presiding over their feast.  They shared their basket of lavender dumplings, a cold roasted pheasant, a heavy apple pie, and bottles of jazbay juice for Erik and the lass.  Karin brought a single bottle of mead for herself.  They spoke of trifles as they ate, and Karin, with ravenous intent, laid waste to the greater share of the pie ere Erik could scarce try a slice.

 

When the meal was done, Erik smiled and drew from his pack and drew forth a gift: a finely carved wooden sword, well balanced for a child’s hand.  He offered it to Kahira.

 

The lass took it with muted enthusiasm, her brow furrowing as she weighed it.

 

“A toy sword?”

 

“It may only serve to smite juvenile mudcrabs, little warrior,” Erik said warmly, “yet every master first hefts the wood ere he is fit to draw the steel.  Even I did.  Learn what it means to strike true, build the strength of thine arms, and thou shalt have the means to bear true weapons.”

 

Karin wiped a crust of crumbs from her chin.

 

“A proper dagger serves a maid far better!  Yet hear thy uncle, Kahira! Show us thou canst heave that timber about without plucking out thine own eye, and I shall put cold steel in thy hand ere next autumn!”

 

Kahira warmed swiftly to the promise, and together they walked toward the ruined temple. The maid soon ran ahead, swinging her wooden blade, shouting fierce oaths she had learned at the knee of warriors.

 

“Take that, ye whoreson!” she cried, slashing at invisible foes. Then she gestured grandly at the empty sky. “Come down and meet thy end, thou great worm!”

 

“Flank the beast!” Erik called in return. “Keep thy feet swift, and bide well clear of the snapping jaws and the sweeping tail!”

 

Kahira nodded fiercely, charging a broken pillar.

 

“Come, false Emperor!” she shouted. “The Night Mother hath decreed thy doom!”

 

Erik blinked, turning a questioning eye upon Karin.

 

“By the Nine.  Whence doth she learn of such dark and bloody fancies?”

 

Karin waved her mead bottle airily.

 

“I read to her from the tomes, thou great worrying maid!  She loves a thrilling tale!”

 

Erik wondered quietly if ‘twas merely vivid sport of a child’s mind, or another of Kahira’s uncanny glimpses into the hidden past.

 

“Keep thine eyes sharp for mudcrabs and sabrecats, little terror!” Karin bellowed after her daughter.   She turned to Erik, offering a genuine smile.

 

“’Twas a fine gift, thou crimson haired gallant.  We must school her proper ere long, so we might enjoy these ramblings without worrying over her.”

 

“Aye…so we should.”

 

They spoke lightly of how they would go about it.  Karin seemed perfectly content, offering no sign she meant to speak at all of the awkward confession Erik had laid bare but nights before.

 

At length Erik asked, “Hast thou found the time to ponder my words?”

 

Karin loosed a heavy sigh, tipping her head back to catch the breeze.

 

“Look about thee. ‘Tis a beautiful day. The steppe is wide, the wind whips at our hair.  When thy fiery mane tosses so, I can nigh pretend thou art but a towering, muscular maiden, bearing beautiful eyes, in sore need of both a shave and hot bath.”

 

Erik offered a half-hearted laugh.

 

“Were I a woman, perchance this road would lie smoother for us both.”

 

“Were thou a woman,” Karin countered swiftly, “I should be forced to compete for thine affections with every farmer and wooer in the Hold!”

 

“Then I should seek a woman who appreciates both my soul and my form,” Erik replied.

 

Karin laughed, but it was a slightly bitter sound.

 

“Be not so certain such a pairing would hold, sweet Erik. I possess a most rare and terrible talent for burning bridges to ash.”

 

They walked on apace. Kahira was now clambering atop the highest tumbled stones of the ruin. Karin bawled out to her that she and her uncle meant to walk about for a time and she should stay within their sight.

 

“A patrol, then?” Erik asked, offering his large hand to her.

 

Karin looked upon his open palm, considered a moment, and slapped him fiercely upon the shoulder instead with a grin.  Erik stifled a sigh. I should not expect more, he chided himself.

 

They described a slow circle about the temple remains.

 

“’Tis better to face an enemy than to run and pray it grows weary,” he said.  “Let us face it together.”

 

“‘Tis not the same,” Karin argued, kicking a loose stone. “To gut Forsworn is simple labor. But to not shatter something as that which we hold?  I know naught of such matters, I know only the dagger.  I do not even know how I managed to keep thee this long.  I am wretched at all things soft and fragile, and thou shouldst not expect me to discover talent for it after a mere two days' pondering!  Why must we speak of such things at all? I favor what we have. Kahira thrives with us. Wherefore must we change it?”

 

“Because we both deserve more,” Erik answered firmly. “Surely thou canst apprehend that. Why not gamble for grander prize? The Karin I know would gladly throw a few septims down upon a wager.”

 

“Because thou art worth far more to me than a handful of septims!” Karin shot back. “A soul may dearly love the gamble, and yet know she is a poor gambler!”

 

She slapped his shoulder anew, companionably, as if to force him not to take her intimacy to heart.

 

Erik fell to quiet pondering. Part of his soul insisted no one else could ever serve as a hearth to contain her raging fire and be content with the burns. Yet another voice, cool, insistent, and oddly familiar, murmured that he had given all the blood and sweat a man could give to this hopeless cause, and the only true wisdom lay in knowing when to walk away.

 

Karin sighed heavily at his silence.

 

“I wish I had brought more mead.  Hearken to me, Erik.  This was ten or eleven summers past. There are shipwrecks aplenty off the freezing coast of Winterhold. We heard tell of one such prize, though 'twas the Argonians who profited best. There I stood, knee-deep in water colder than a hagraven’s tit.  I looked down into the brine, and there it lay!  A beautiful, jewel-encrusted crown!  A prize to change even the course of a skooma-washed swillbowl like me!  I looked upon it for but a single moment, I swear it. Then I reached into the surf to claim it…and that cock quaffing ocean dragged it away as the tide rushed out!  I wasted the rest of the day searching for it.  Did it sink forever beneath the black waves?  Did it wash upon some other shore for another to find? I know not. The lesson be that thou canst not hesitate, for life gives and snatches away.”

 

Erik weighed the tale.

 

“Doth the moral not dictate we should reach for more while we can?”

 

Karin bit her lip.

 

“To me, ‘tis a tale of holding fast to that which thou already cherish, lest the tide steal it away.”

 

“Where doth this road lead us, Karin?” he asked.

 

“It leads where it hath always led,” she said, turning defensive. “Are we not better than we were? I know thou longest to see Kahira grow.  These days, these precious hours where she is yet our little child, are slipping through our fingers.”

 

“She shall ever be my child, where ever I wander,” Erik answered softly.

 

“Aye. But not as she is today. We must grasp this time and cherish it with all our might, for as long as we can.  I should not ask more of thy friendship, when thou hast bled more for me than any soul I know.  Yet I confess it, the lessons I teach Kahira are not always those a maid should learn.  She would not be the lass she is today without her uncle.” 

 

“I am not certain I am meant to stay here.  What if…what if I wanted something more than this?” Erik asked.

 

“Then,” She spread her hands.  “I am not thy mother.  I am not the one to bide with if thou desire a wife to keep the hearth.  Thou knowest that.” 

 

As if she realized her words had bitten too harshly, she added: “I know thy father would weep with joy wert thou to stay.  If I were to anchor thee here, perchance Mralki would begrudge me less.  And Rorikstead?  Wouldst thou truly leave the defense of it in my hands alone?  Fine.  I do desire thee to bide with us.  The child needs her steadfast uncle, and her mother, someone to rouse her ere sunset.  Dost thou truly still wish to wander the wilds?”

 

“I am not sure now.”

 

“Horse shit!” Karin spat. “All thy jumping about!  Thou knowest as well as any man what thy heart desires and what it dreads! Thou merely sought to force an answer from me. Even I have the wit to see that much!”

 

“Mayhap some part of me did,” Erik yielded, “though I have never spoken lies to thee.”

 

“And again I ask, why now? We have fared so well as we are for years!”

 

“I had a dream.”

 

Karin rolled her own stormy eyes to the sky.

 

“Ah, yes! The fabled dream!  Wherein I did prance about in silks, whispering sweet sonnets ere I sat upon thy face!  Had I known a simple dream would breed such heavy woes, I would ne'er have suffered thee to eat so late in the evening!”

 

She nearly unmanned him.  ’Twas not, he thought, her true ire, but he remembered her old talent, to weave webs of clamor that she might slip from subjects she did not want to dwell on.  The dream was but a faded haze to him now, yet despite her crude, mocking description, she had struck near enough to the spirit of it.

 

“Thou didst make me promises of a happier end,” Erik pushed on, “yet I knew, even in slumber’s grip, that thou couldst ne'er keep them, nor wouldst thou ever speak so freely.”

 

“I like things as they are,” Karin said, her voice dropping its bravado. “I know ‘tis not the grand poetry thou longest to hear, but I shall tell thee why.  Because I like having thee in my life, Erik. However I may get thee. I will not throw the dice with that, or thee, when I have already won.”

 

“Hast thou ever thought to at least quit this place with me then?  Thou, Kahira, and I, upon the road for a time?”

 

Karin shook her head.

 

“Thou dost not pluck such a bloom as Kahira from where she sprouted. Waste thy days in frolic, and the cruel winter shall demand an accounting of what thou hast done with the summer.”

 

It sounded a passing wise proverb, though Erik reflected that Karin knew more of frolic than any, and could not coax a simple potato to grow.

 

“So I must only bide here, or wander alone?” he asked.

 

“Yes.” She answered hesitantly. The mocking jocularity faded, leaving her looking nakedly desperate. “Mayhaps.  Take naught the wrong way. Thou wilt make me speak it aloud.”

 

“Speak it,” Erik urged gently. “Would the words make thee weak?”

 

“Nay!  Stupid!” she cried, voice cracking. “To speak the words aloud is to dare the very world to steal it from thee!  Even the other person! ‘Look at this great treasure I have! Look upon this proud, crowing fop who shall never tumble from her peak! Come, stick me with knives, beat me with rods, and roll me in a ditch, hurry! I am far too content, and shall forever be so!’”

 

They were gaining no ground. Worse, Erik feared they were walking backward, unraveling what understanding they had forged.  He thought back to Ennis’s counsel.

 

“Well, then I shall simply say them,” Erik spake, his voice steady. “I love thee, and only thee. As a woman.”

 

Karin shook her head violently, as if he were being entirely impossible. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and stared out over the vast, empty steppe. In the distance, Kahira played loudly, blissfully ignorant of the tempest breaking betwixt them.

 

“Why me?” Karin asked, her voice dropping to bewildered whisper. “Why must it be me?”

 

“I love whom I love,” Erik answered. “Because thou deservest happiness. Thou shouldst be with me and no other, because only I appreciate thee as thou art. Thou mayest be no damsel, Karin, but thou art real.”

 

She turned slowly, walked up to him, and looked him dead in the eye. She raised her hands to either side of his large frame. For a breathless moment, he knew not if she meant to kiss him or throw her arms about his neck.  But instead, with profound seriousness, she tapped both hands lightly upon his shoulders, offered the most womanly smile he had ever seen upon her lips, and took a single step back.

 

“I will not say those words to thee, thou great oaf,” she said. “Because I am naught but a simple, drunken ruffian, and a lover of women, when thou takest my family from me. It is far too tangled a matter for my mind. But I will say this much.  I could not bear a morrow wherein I did not look upon thy face.”

 

Erik breathed as if pained, and this time Karin’s hand lingered upon his shoulder.

 

“Could it not ever work thus?” she asked, her brow furrowed in thought. “It is not to your tastes, but…perchance thou couldst find some willing maiden abroad to satisfy thy flesh, and return to me when thou cravest fellowship and wit.  It would not be my place to be jealous, though I may struggle.”

 

He exhaled once more. She truly did not understand. As if bedding every willing woman in Skyrim could serve as a substitute for Karin looking upon him with the desire he craved.

 

“Give it more time.  I shall try to be better, and think upon it for the both of us, then,” she declared quickly. “It is a slow process, sometimes. And I am easily distracted.” She fluttered her hand in the air betwixt them as if it were a passing butterfly, before reaching to swat it.

 

“Do not take it so heavily. ‘Tis naught at all against thee. I am the luckiest woman in the village, and I know it well. Who is my true competition?  If some other lovely maiden comes to town, we shall simply find ourselves in fierce competition to bed her!”

 

Erik smiled ruefully, the jest breaking the darkest edge of the tension.

 

“And where, pray tell, shall I find a woman who is a match for Karin Snow-Fell?”

 

“It would prove a passing long search, I am sure of it,” she grinned. “But shouldst thou find better than I, I would expect she must understand thy ties to our daughter.”

 

“Such a rare patience would render the search longer still.”

 

“Aye,” Karin nodded sagely. “A very long search for thee.  But fret not thy pretty head over melancholies, thou great bear!   We are no weeping bards or driveling scholars!  We have our fine camaraderie, our years tending to Kahira, and still more days to look toward.  She grows like a weed and casts aside her childhood.  Blink, and thou shalt miss it entirely. Enjoy the day.  Enjoy thy family.  For we shall always be thine.”

 

Kahira’s bright voice shattered the quiet.

 

“Mother, uncle!  I have found something!”

 

“What is it?”  Erik called concerned.

 

“A great chest, hidden here atop the ruins! I swear it so! Come, I cannot open the lock!”

 

“I know these matters far better than thee!” Karin called back, her old grin returning in full force.

 

As she turned, Erik noticed for the first time she wore the rune-inscribed ring he had gifted her about her neck, threaded upon silver chain.

 

“Why dost thou wear it so?”

 

Karin paused, glancing down, abashed for a moment ere the grin reemerged.

 

“Because it shall slip from my finger otherwise. I am careless in these delicate things. Come, come! Let us see what grand spoils our daughter hath found!”

 

She dashed away, whilst Erik merely stood and stared after her, feeling drained.  She turned back, wind whipping raven hair, and laughed a bright, ringing laugh.

 

“Come and catch me!  Or dost thou wait for every enemy to encircle thee ere thou move?”

 

For moment more, the melancholy tugged at Erik.  He knew he should know better.   Bravery, stupidity, and sheer insanity were but three borders of the same kingdom, and which a man stood within was only a matter of blind luck.

 

She called his name again. Erik shook his head, a foolish smile emerging upon his lips, before trudging after her and Kahira at speed.

 

He was still hale and yet in his prime.

 

But Karin Snow-Fell was very, very fleet.

 

 

Author Notes:

Phew, this story, I almost wasn’t going to finish it because it was dragging.  Here we are again, 5000 words over my preferred limit.  The problem with prequels is you already know how things turn out, you have to change your way of reading, its not about suspense, its about filling in blanks.  I really enjoyed Her Best Work in Red but I wanted to plug some holes while thee-ing and thou-ing was still fresh for me, particularly Mralki, Ennis, even Vaermina, and while I think I set a good pace with Erik in HWBIR, I TRIED to explain the Erik/Karin dynamic, I figure if I failed in this many words, there’s no doing it.  I’ll add to this gallery more later, but if you’d like a bit of illustration to it:

    

https://imgur.com/a/UflHJ0u

 

Hope everyone enjoyed!