Whitney Writes…

Arya nibbled at her slice of sweet bread as she watched Onmund packing up their camp. First the roasting spit had gone into his pack, followed by the cooking pot and eating dishes. Then he neatly folded their two bedrolls and furs and slid them in. Onmund wasn’t forcing or stuffing any of it in, either. He moved to take down the hide tent then and began to pull out the thick wooden beams supporting the patchwork hide.

“There is no way those are fitting,” Arya finally said.

“What makes you say that?” Onmund asked cheerfully. “Has anything else not fit?”

“Well… no, but, that’s my point. That pack has to be near bursting,” Arya pointed out. “Did you not bring another with you? You really shouldn’t be jamming it all into one.”

Onmund chuckled softly, eyeing Arya keenly. “There is more to this pack than meets the eye, Arya Aren. So, where are we headed?”

Arya watched in disbelief as Onmund easily slid the beams that came up to his shoulders into his pack. She snapped her mouth shut when she realized it had been hanging open, and bit her lip, hoping he hadn’t seen her looking so foolish.

“Amoo said to go to Riften,” she sighed, allowing him to change the subject. “So… I guess that’s where we go, we go south.”

“Amoo is the Arch Mage, er, your uncle, uh, Savos – Divines, that still feels strange – right?” Onmund asked, “Paba is Tolfdir?” Arya nodded, pleased he was attempting to learn her world, however shattered it now may be. “I’m catching on,” he added with a wink. “What’s in Riften, anyway?” Onmund asked again as he rolled up the hide.

“I’ve no idea,” Arya sighed with a shrug. “I’ve never even been there”. She tapped her chin idly as her uncle’s additional words echoed in her head: she will know what to do. Who was she?

“My father took Mathies and me once when we were boys. It was an incredibly dirty city then, I can only imagine it has gotten worse in the years since,” Onmund said. He pushed the tent into his pack, latched it closed, and stood up.

Arya raised an eyebrow as he bent to pick it up. “It’s going to be too heavy,” she proclaimed.

“Are you certain?” Onmund asked with a grin. Arya nodded. He nudged the leather pack with his booted foot. “Here,” he said slyly, “have the honors, then.” She rolled her eyes at him and reached down and took the shoulder strap in her hand. Arya planted her feet firmly in the snow and pulled up with all her might.

She let out a startled yelp as the pack flew easily up into the air, proceeding to fly over her head and slipping from her grasp. Ommund was roaring with laughter as she stumbled around, spinning to see his pack soaring through the air and then land with a soft poof into the snow bank behind her.

“What did you do to it?” Arya demanded, though unable to keep the amazement from her voice. “It should have weighed a ton!”

“I think a ton is a wee bit of an exaggeration,” Onmund chuckled with a wink.

“You know what I meant,” she said, jabbing him in the arm with her finger. “What did you do to the pack?” she asked again, unwilling to let it go.

“Technically,” Onmund said slowly, “I didn’t do anything to it.” His mischievous grin was the likes of which Sheogorath would have been proud of. He laughed at Arya’s scowl and quickly continued on before she could tell him off again. “It’s a combination of things,” he said, walking around her to retrieve it. “And Tolfdir technically made it, though he explained it to me in case I have to repair it or re-enchant it. But there is an illusion spell on it, an enchantment to increase the amount it can carry, and… oh, what was the third,” he murmured the last bit to himself as he ticked them off on his fingers.

Onmund reached down for his pack and slung it effortlessly over a shoulder. “Hmm, or perhaps there were only the two. No, no, it had to be three because Masters Sergius and Drevis also helped, so perhaps it’s an alteration spell I’m missing.”

“So, how much can it carry?” Arya cut in, interrupting Onmund’s argument with himself.

“Oh… probably three times my body weight, at least, I would think.”

“So, I could climb in there when I get tired of walking and you could just carry me to Riften?”

He furrowed his brow. “Well, that would be a bit awkward, Arya, but I suppose it would be possible.” He caught sight of her grin then. “Oh! You were joking! Well done!” he exclaimed.

“I was trying to,” she laughed, “but you’ve kind of ruined it for me.”

“I’m not used to others joking with me,” he said quietly. “Usually it’s ‘Now is not the time, Onmund,’” he said in a mock-serious voice. “‘Can’t you just be serious for one minute, Onmund?’ No one ever got my jokes, let alone joked with me.” He sounded mildly in awe, then cleared his throat, as though he were caught off-guard. “So, um, I was thinking… we travel to Windhelm on foot, stay for a day or so, buy some horses, then continue south towards Riften?”

Arya registered the slight shift in the atmosphere; something had changed between them just then, and she could not quite put her finger on it. They had been laughing and giggling together, and then, suddenly, it felt as though Nirn had tipped upon it’s axis. “That sounds reasonable,” she said slowly, hoping she did not sound as awkward as she suddenly felt. “Travel by road or cross-country?”

“The roads, definitely,” Onmund said quickly, grateful she had taken the hint to change the subject. “If a storm pops up, it will be easier not to lose ourselves on the roads.”

The two set off up the remaining hill to the road above them. Arya was expecting the road to be bustling with traffic. People traveling, merchants and traders going from town to town. She was greatly disappointed. The road was deserted. There was not a single traveler coming along in either direction. And the weather was clear for once, so she could see, unobstructed, for leagues and leagues, it seemed.

“Where is everyone?” she demanded with a frown, placing one hand upon her hip as she shielded her eyes from the morning sun with the other.

“What d’you mean?” Onmund asked.

“This is part of the Imperial Highway, is it not? Shouldn’t there be travelers? Traders? Anyone?”

Onmund laughed heartily. “Our college sits on the edge of a tiny village in the northern-most part of Skyrim. There’s the inn, a small trade post, the Jarl’s longhouse, and dozens of ruined houses. It’s not exactly a bustling, trade-thirsty metropolis.”

“I know that,” Arya said shortly, “the size of Winterhold, I mean. But, surely the College has some requirements…”

“The mages of Winterhold have largely alienated themselves from the rest of Skyrim,” Onmund explained. “They get their necessities from other ventures and by other means.”

“But-“

“Honestly, are you sure you’re the Arch Mage’s niece?” His tone was joking, but the question stung.

“I beg your pardon,” Arya said haughtily, “I detest the insinuation you are beginning to make here…”

Onmund stopped in front of her, turning to look at Arya, sensing things were about to get out of hand. “I am not trying to insinuate anything, Arya, I apologize if that sounded as though I were. I chose my words poorly.” He took a breath and started again, “I only meant that Master Savos was always worrying about that type of stuff, whether the portals would be able to handle the deliveries and such. Whether or not our allies abroad would stick to their promises. But, you are his family, you got a different side of him than the rest of us did. Perhaps he had his own worries at home that he didn’t burden his homelife with his College-based worries.”

I was one of those worries, Arya thought.

“I am sorry,” Onmund said again. “I should have thought more carefully about what I was saying. I promise to do so in the future. I did not mean to insinuate you did not know your uncle.”

“Perhaps I didn’t,” she said, “not really, anyway.” Arya side-stepped Onmund and continued walking down the cobbled roadway. After a moment, she could hear the metallic rattling of the pack, signaling Onmund was hurrying to catch up.

“While we walk,” Onmund ventured after a length of silence, “what if you share some family-based stories about your uncle with me, and I’ll share some college-based stories about him with you. Perhaps it will help us both get a more rounded portrait of the man that I think we both greatly admired.”

Arya gave a nod. “I would like that. Though… perhaps not just yet.”

“Of course,” Onmund inclined his hooded head towards her. “I’ve stuck my boot in my mouth enough times already this morning, I’ll take your lead on the socializing for a while.”

Arya couldn’t help but giggle and then allowed them to lapse into a peaceful silence. At least, she thought it was peaceful, but after a time, she began to worry on if Onmund was struggling with it. Did she need to fill it? Arya had never encountered this feeling before, she had always lived peacefully in silences, but this one left her mind racing. How long could she leave it?

“I know I said I would be quiet for a while,” Onmund finally said, “but… I feel like I can hear the wheels of your mind turning.”

“Was it too much?” Arya blurted, “The silence, I mean?”

“I am capable of being quiet,” Onmund said with another one of his laughs. Arya felt her heart flutter strangely. He continued with a wink: “It pains me, but I am capable of it.” He cleared his throat. “It feels to me like you would like conversation, but don’t quite know how to get it going. So, I’m going to babble. Chime in whenever you’d like, or throw a snowball at me to be quiet.”

“Acceptable,” Arya said, looking away so he didn’t see the smile that was threatening to emerge.

“There are not any travelers on this road, as the only place it goes is Winterhold. And the only ones who go to Winterhold these days are mages. And you lived in the college, you saw how many new faces we got.” He noticed the slightly disappointed look that was growing evermore sour on Arya’s face. “I’m sure once we get further south, past some additional settlements, we’ll start seeing folks on the road, headed to Windhelm, as well,” he added.

Arya gave a small nod. She wasn’t certain why she was looking forward to seeing travelers on the road. It wasn’t like she planned to say hello to them or socialize with them in any manner. Perhaps it was because of all the stories she had read as a child, the worlds were always alive. And this… she gazed around at the empty snow fields, where there was not even much wildlife roaming around… felt quite… dead. Especially following the attack on the College, Arya was very much wanting to feel alive.

She watched Meeko as he was hopping about, snapping at the fat snowflakes that blew around them. He clearly felt happy and alive. So, why couldn’t Arya? “How far is Windhelm?” she finally asked.

“I’m guessing we’ll arrive mid-afternoon tomorrow or so,” Onmund said thoughtfully, after holding his hands up in a framing box towards the horizon. “Providing the weather behaves itself.”

“Isn’t all of Skyrim’s weather like this,” she asked, “cold and full of snow?” Even she could hear the dip in her voice.

Onmund laughed unexpectedly. Arya turned a curious gaze upon him. She hadn’t been trying to be funny.

“No; actually it is not all like this,” Onmund said with another small chuckle. “Only the holds of the north are snow-locked: Eastmarch, where Windhelm is; Haafinger, where Solitude is; the Pale, where Dawnstar is; and parts of Hjaalmarch, where Morthal is.” He grinned, “And, of course, obviously Winterhold.” He studied Arya more seriously. “You’ve really never left Winterhold, have you?”

“Not since I came here from Blacklight as a child,” she confirmed.

“Wait,” Onmund exclaimed, “as in Morrowind?”

“I do not believe there is any other,” Arya said with a chuckle of her own. “Is it really so exotic, to be from Morrowind?”

Onmund gave a small shrug. “You just don’t seem as… Dunmer-esque… as the other Morrowind natives.”

Arya snorted with laughter; he was politely saying she was not as stuck-up as every other Dunmer he had ever met. “Well, I did leave as a child, remember.”

“That’ll be why,” Onmund said with a laugh. His tone grew more serious: “Did you show an early interest in magic, also?”

Arya gave this some thought. How to answer… It seemed as though he was looking to connect with her. But, she had not come to Skyrim for magic. She had come… well, she wasn’t entirely certain on all the reasons. She could just remember the absence of her mother, and that burning, lingering hatred of her father as he had spiraled. Perhaps Onmund could have a bit of all the answers…

“It’s a bit of a complicated answer,” she said slowly. “While I did show magical talent at a young age, that’s not why I came here. My mother disappeared, was taken, when I was only seven.” She squinted, trying to remember. “I don’t remember what happened after, just that once she was gone, after my father worked through his shock and grief, he became angry.” His burning, red eyes appeared behind Arya’s eyelids when she blinked. She shuddered. “I’ve been remembering more of it lately, and while I’m not certain what exactly happened, I’ve been remembering the fear I felt of my father after my mother was gone. Amoo, my father’s older brother, came to collect me after a while, and brought me back here to Winterhold where he and Paba raised me.”

“And… your father didn’t object to that?” Onmund asked, raising a brow. “Though, it sounds like, based on whatever state he was in, perhaps it was for the best…”

“I haven’t heard from my father since I left,” Arya said simply. “And, honestly, before the last few weeks, I could not tell you the last time I thought of him.” She knew she should feel saddened by that, but there had been something about the way that her uncles had raised her, she honestly had not been aware of what was missing. She had thought of her mother on occasion, but she had not felt as though she had a hole within herself. She had not thought on how it had felt to be rejected by her father, worried why he had been so angry with her in the end. Surely… surely her mother’s disappearance had not been her fault…?

“Do you think your mother is what is in Riften?” Onmund was asking.

Arya had not considered this. “No,” she said after some thought, “I do not think my uncles would have kept that from me. I do not think any of them, my father included, know where she is.”

“Do you think she’s still… out there, somewhere?”

“I hope she is,” Arya said dreamily. “Although, I’m not certain how delusional I’m being to hope that. Nor if anyone else has really held out hope. I cannot remember Paba and Amoo ever talking about hoping to find her.”

Their footsteps crunched quietly in the snow as the pair walked along. Arya didn’t know how any of this information would land with Onmund. Perhaps he would wish to turn back, to part ways.

Onmund scratched his head thoughtfully, and then said: “I know you said you were just starting to remember things – which, in itself is an interesting thing to say, we’ll have to retouch on that later – but, do you have any sort of theory as to what happened regarding your mother?”

Arya looked at him in surprise. “Well,” she said slowly, cautiously, “I don’t have any proof, but I am beginning to wonder if my mother was tied up with the Thalmor some how.”

“By the Nine,” Onmund murmured, “I hope it’s nothing to do with those bastards, they’re a nasty lot.” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait a minute, Tolfdir said something about Ancano in the college…” his finger was tracing something in the air, as though he were literally connecting the dots, “do you… do you think Ancano was after you?”

She swallowed, surprised at the relief she felt at Onmund reaching the same conclusion she had on his own. It didn’t seem so crazy if he made the same connection. “I, I think so. Amoo thought so, also,” she said softly, looking back at him.

“Well, that’s bloody terrifying,” Onmund said, appearing to be shaken for the first time in their conversation. But it only lasted a moment before he shook it off. “So,” he said, “the plot thickens!” He gave her a wink and half a smile and Arya found, for some inexplicable reason, she felt better. He had solved nothing. Discovered nothing. Onmund had done literally nothing, save for listen to her drivel, and she some how felt better for it. As though now she could conquer it. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Arya was beginning to think she could enjoy traveling with Onmund Snow-Crest.

As the sun was descending in the sky, the Imperial highway was descending into a heavily wooded valley. Onmund pointed out they were likely crossing into Eastmarch Hold. “We are in the lands of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” he said with admiration. Arya looked at Onmund curiously, he spoke of this Jarl as though she should recognize his name. “You… don’t know who Ulfric Stormcloak is,” Onmund said flatly.

“He has an odd name,” Arya offered.

“He does not!” Onmund cried, “It’s a perfectly respectable Nordic name!”

“So… who is this perfectably respectably named Nord?” Arya prompted when Onmund did not go on.

“He’s the Jarl of Eastmarch Hold and the Lord of Windhelm,” Onmund stated. “Though, lately he has been stirring up a bit of trouble by calling out the High King to follow-up on his promise to free Skyrim from Imperial rule.”

Arya made a face of confusion. “Can he do that?” she asked.

“He shouldn’t,” Onmund said with a shake of his head, “not in public, anyway. Being a Jarl, and one of the higher ranking ones at that, he could go to the High King in private. All this public disagreement is going to cause trouble.” He gave a little shrug before continuing: “I’m not certain how the rest of Skyrim feels, but I think he just wishes us to return to our roots, our heritage.”

“But… that includes being a part of the Empire, does it not?”

“Well, technically,” Onmund gave a shrug again, “but I think it’s the loss of the worship of the Talos people struggle with the most.”

“Ah, yes, your mortal god,” Arya sighed. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and when Onmund changed the subject by announcing they had found a decent place to set up camp, she heartily agreed.

She began prepping their evening meal as Onmund stamped down the snow and began pulling out the various pieces of the tent. Arya hid her grin as she watched him pull the wooden beams out. She remembered the ease with which she existed in her family apartments with Paba and Amoo, it had felt like this. Different, but like this. She had never felt it with anyone else before, not even Brelyna. It felt comforting, familiar, like home.

When Arya awoke, hours later, it was the darkest hour of night. She sat bolt upright, her heart racing. Neither Meeko at her feet, nor Onmund on the other side of the tent, had stirred. What did I hear? she wondered. Then, she noticed the light; there was a bobbing, eerie blue light just outside the tent. It bobbed and weaved in the air, too irregular to be human.

Slowly, Arya rose from her bedding, pausing to see if Meeko stirred, he did not; then she stepped cautiously past Onmund’s sleeping form and out of the tent.

The light moved into the trees. It looked like a person, a woman perhaps, meandering through the woods. Arya followed, mesmerized by it. There was something about the lit figure that drew her towards it, seemed to be calling to her. She weaved in and out of the trees, her bare feet crunching through the snow. And yet, the cold did not reach her.

After what felt like an eternity, and yet as though no time had passed, Arya found herself in a clearing. Her lungs stung, the air felt thin. She blinked, realizing she was on a cliff on a mountainside. The rocky mountain face before her created a wall, a dead end. The glowing, blue woman was moving towards the rocky wall, she turned and looked back at Arya over her shoulder.

“Daal het,” the figure said in a rumbling whisper, come. Arya did not recognize the words, but she knew she was being told to follow. She started up the sloping path, the way the figure had gone, the wind beginning to whip at her long, black braid and loosening her hair from it. The blue figure turned into a ball of flames, swirling in on itself, before thinning to a smoke and being drawn into the stone wall.

Arya stopped abruptly, gasping. The spell had been broken. She turned and looked back the way she had come; to the southeast, she could see the road she and Onmund were traveling to Windhelm. She imagined she could see a whisp of smoke rising from their camp far below; but she knew that was absurd, he had been fast asleep when she left.

There was a sound behind her then that made Arya’s skin crawl. It was like steel scrapping against stone. Her blood ran cold when she noticed the scent of sulfur on the cold air. Slowly, she turned, dreading what she knew she was about to see. The stone wall, where the ball of light had vanished into, the top of it was rolling in on itself, unfurling. As it scaled down the stone, it’s scales glinted in the light of the twin moons, like rubies and garnets. It’s talons screeched across the stone, it’s tail whipped. As it landed on the same bit of ground as Arya, the creature unfurled itself to it’s full size. It had to be the size of Birna’s Oddments back in Winterhold. It’s wings unfurled, it’s neck stretched up elegantly toward the star-studded sky, and it’s thick, spiked tail wrapped around the clearing in which they stood. It tilted it’s head, regarding Arya with its gigantic, amber-colored eyes.

Slowly, the dragon unfurled it’s massive wings, threw back it’s head and roared to the point that the pebbles vibrated around Arya’s bare feet and she could feel it in her bones. She could feel her hair and clothing humming with the power of the red dragon’s voice. She knew she should run, to flee from this scaly terror. But there was something about it’s eyes, in it’s voice, like it was trying to convey a message to her. Despite her inner voice yelling ‘Run, you fool,’ Arya moved slowly toward the dragon.

As Arya approached the dragon, she noticed some markings on the wall behind it beginning to glow in a vivid blue. She realized it was the wall she was drawn to, not just the dragon. There was a gurgling sound coming from deep within the beast’s chest as it positioned it’s head to face Arya. It spread it’s jaws wide, barring it’s long, jagged teeth. A light began to glimmer deep in the beast’s throat as the dragon began to roar once more. The glowing light built, just as the dragon’s scream rose in pitch. Suddenly, golden, white-hot flames burst from the dragon’s mouth and engulfed Arya where she stood.

Flames enveloped her body; Arya let out a scream in surprise, and presumably pain, but after a moment, she realized the flames were not actually touching her. She looked down, watching the way the ribbons of fire wriggled and warped away from her. She spread her arms in wonder, watching as the flame moved with her to envelope her arms.

The flames vanished just as quickly as they had appeared. The dragon had been moving while she had been enveloped, it’s jaws were now within reach of Arya. She could reach out and touch it’s snout, if she had felt so inclined. But Arya knew danger lurked there, despite how much she was drawn to it.

The beast screamed in fury and snapped at her. Arya jumped back in bewilderment. The dragon raised one of it’s taloned claws and slammed her to the side.

“Arya!” Onmund screamed as the beast charged toward him.

Arya lifted her head at the sound of her name to watch through her disheveled hair as Onmund threw lightning spells at the red dragon.

“No,” she whispered. Don’t hurt it, she thought. Suddenly Meeko was beside her, nudging her to get up. Instead of rising, she pulled herself across the ground, away from the massive, furious dragon.

She glanced behind her to see what was going on. The dragon had Onmund cornered and he was pulling at something that appeared to be strapped to his back. A moment later, he was wielding a massive, green blade. The dragon lunged at him again, jaws snapping. Onmund spun away from the beast, raised his arms over his head, and then swung the mighty great sword down into the dragon’s neck. He let out a bone chilling battle cry as he swung again, severing the dragon’s head.

The body of the creature dropped to the ground, with a stomach-churning thump, lifeless. The head lolled across the rocky ground. Blood was seeping across stone in slow, tide-like procession. Arya stared around her in bewilderment, from the lifeless dragon to Onmund and back again, she could feel her jaw hanging slack. She could feel the tears burning her eyes, the burning, freezing sensation as they slid down her cheeks. Onmund dropped his sword besides the now headless dragon and was running towards Arya where she lay.

“Are you alright?” he cried. “What the bloody hell were you thinking? You could have been killed! By a damned dragon!! By the Nine,” he swore, as he fell to his knees beside her, “those are bloody extinct, Arya!” He reached his hands out towards her, then halted, his hands hovering mid-air as he hesitated. He realized he did not know where they stood, was touching her in a crisis presumptuous of him?

Arya swallowed; her head was swimming. And you killed it, she thought sorrowfully. She blinked rapidly, it was far too bright out; it was as bright as four noontime suns boring down upon her. She glanced up, but only sawa the twin moons in the dark, night sky.

“I… I thought I saw something,” she offered dumbly, rubbing her temples and squeezing shut her eyes. She didn’t feel right.

When she opened her eyes again, there were ribbons of color flowing around her, as though she were standing in the night sky auroras. She reached out to touch them and they swirled majestically around her arms. Arya was vaguely aware of the bewildered look Onmund was giving her and that he was speaking to her. She concentrated on these new sensations instead, feeling light as air.

Arya felt at peace, like she was flying high above the mountains. There was joy in new hatchings, comfort in family, contentment filled her. Then there was confusion, followed by fear, then anger, a raging, burning anger. An overwhelming feeling of sorrow and loneliness washed over her.

She was freezing, snow and ice were swirling around her. A voice rumbled inside her own head: Iiz, it said. Ice.