Whitney Writes…

The early morning sunlight dappled through the wooden shutters across the windows, making soft golden swirls dance across Arya’s eyelids. She began to stir, swatting at unseen, flitting attackers. Meeko lifted his head, quirking it to the side, watching his companion. He perked his ears and whined, laying his head upon Onmund’s knee. The young Nord looked up from the book he had been studying and saw Arya’s hands flailing.

He abandoned the book on magickal statistics of altering metallic properties of armor and rushed to the bedside. He gently caught Arya’s hands, rubbing her forearms until they stilled and rested once more on the bed. He laid a hand gently against her cheek, she felt much cooler to the touch today; the fever had finally broken.

“Arya?” he asked softly, his voice hitching with hope.

Her lids fluttered open and Onmund felt his chest warming at the sight of her thistle blossom eyes.

“Welcome back,” he said with relief and a warm smile. The knots in his stomach began loosening as relief continued to flood through him. Onmund then noticed that her eyes were unfocused, the lavender irises looking through him.

Onmund’s heart sank once more; so she was not awake. What on Nirn was happening to her? Meeko whined mournfully and sank down onto the rug once more.

“Arya,” Onmund said after a moment, “can you hear me?” She moaned softly and swatted lightly at Onmund’s face. He sighed heavily. “Ah well,” he murmured, “perhaps not today, then.”

He rose from the bed and returned to his book still resting on the small table. Slumping into the chair, Onmund flipped through the pages, not seeing any of the words. After nearly half an hour of unabsorbed reading, he slammed the cover shut and placed his head in his hands. He ran his fingers down his face, pulling the skin at his eyelids grotesquely down in frustration, much as he and his brother had done as children to terrorize their mother. A growl of rare irritation rumbled out of Onmund, and his stomach growled back in hunger.

Perhaps some breakfast will clear my head, he thought.

He rose once more, moving wearily to the door of their room, this dance getting quite old. “You’re on guard duty,” Onmund said, turning back to Meeko. The dog sighed heavily. “Don’t let anyone in, except me, obviously,” he added. “I’ll bring you a steak back, that’s how you’ll know it’s me.”

Onmund shook his head. “I’m talking to a dog,” he murmured. “Not that you aren’t excellent company, Meek, things are just feeling a bit… one sided lately.” He sighed, glancing at Arya once more, making certain she had not risen; she had not, and he closed the door behind him. In the hall, he nearly collided with an Argonian.

“Watch it,” hissed the deep-green scaled man. Onmund shrank back against the door until the other passed; he hated it, but Argonians made his skin crawl ever since he was a boy.

He continued downstairs to the tavern portion of Candlehearth Hall; the large room was empty, save for the resident author, Adonato Leotelli, whom had tried multiple times to tell Onmund his life story; the Dunmer bard, Luaffyn, who sang so beautifully she had moved Onmund to tears on multiple occasions; and the blonde serving girl, Susanna, who lifted Onmund’s spirits every mealtime. Susanna smiled warmly when she saw Onmund come up to the bar and take a seat.

“How is your wife feeling this morning?” Susanna asked warmly, her blue eyes twinkling as she poured a honeyed mead for him.

Onmund smiled weakly in return, he did not feel much like chatting today. “Same as yesterday, I’m afraid,” he murmured. “And the day before that.”

Susanna reached across the counter and took Onmund’s hand and gave him yet another smile, this one some how reassuring. “Don’t you worry, Liam. She’ll be better in a day or two; women are made for this, after all.”

He flushed at the tale he’d given upon he and Arya’s curious arrival. “I know,” Onmund said glumly, hating himself for lying to this sweet girl. What if Susanna really could help? “I’ve just never seen anything like this before, I don’t know how to help her,” he added after a lengthy silence. It was a partial truth, at least. He had never seen a woman pregnant before, nor had he seen a seemingly perfectly healthy woman drop unconscious for nearly three days with no explanation or illness.

She laughed, “Well, I have a few tricks for you,” she said with a sly smile. Susanna held up a finger for Onmund to wait, and then hurried back into the kitchen. Onmund drummed his fingers upon the wooden counter as he became uncomfortably aware of Adonato staring at him. Was he going to make another attempt at his life story?

When Susanna returned, she offered Onmund a small leather pouch. “Take these,” she said quietly, “grind them up and mix them into a mug of tea next time she is awake-” Onmund’s heart fell, because obviously, Susanna just thought Arya was sleeping “-it will smell terrible, especially for her, the poor thing, but she’ll keep it down and it should help her feel better immediately.”

“Oh, thank you,” Onmund said, praying to the Nine that his voice hitched with what sounded like gratitude and hope, not disheartened defeat. “Do you dabble in alchemy?” he asked hopefully.

Susanna flushed and laughed. “Oh, no! This pretty little head has no room for all that,” she exclaimed. She gave an embarrassed laugh, clearly used to having been told that frequently. “My sister has two of her own, I just remember her telling me about it and my making it, as she was always so sick in the beginning.”

“Oh,” Onmund’s heart sank further. He didn’t know if alchemy would help whatever was happening with Arya, but he knew it would be better than what he was attempting, which was nothing. “Well, I thank you, Susanna. And my wife thanks you.” He got up and turned away from the bar as though to go.

“Hey, Liam?” she called with the hint of a laugh. “Didn’t you come down here for something? I know my conversation is riveting, but…”

Onmund turned back to her, “That’s right” he said slowly, his voice taken on an awestruck tone, “breakfast.”

“I have some fresh baked sweet rolls,” Susanna offered.

“One of those, for certain, and do you have any of those crostatas or dumplings?”

“Snowberry or jazbay grape crostatas, and apple or lavender dumplings; I’d go for the snowberry crostata and apple dumpling, myself,” she suggested.

“One of each, then,” Onmund said in agreement.

Susanna nodded and went into the back again. Onmund sipped at his honeyed mead as he sat at the bar, listening to the sound of Luaffyn’s lute. His skin was already crawling at the thought of returning to their room and being drowned by the silence once more. Onmund felt as though he desperately needed a change of scenery, but he did not dare leave the Candlehearth. Coming down to the tavern for a bite to eat and a bit of conversation was one thing, but leaving the premises… he didn’t dare. Not again.

Susanna finally returned and held out a small wooden crate to Onmund. “There are a couple of bottles of mead in there, on the house of course, and the steak for your pup.”

“By the Nine,” Onmund groaned, slapping his own forehead with his palm, “I already forgot. He would have disowned me.”

“We wouldn’t want him ripping your tunic again, now would we?” she laughed.

“Ah, yes,” Onmund said, rummaging in his pockets for a few extra Septims to slide her. “Thank you, Susanna, your hospitality is always astounding.”

Onmund managed one more forced smile to the barmaid, took his crate, and returned to his room. Immediately upon opening the door, Meeko’s nose was attempting to cram into Onmund’s pockets.

“Yes, yes, I brought your steak,” Onmund said with a tired laugh. “You can thank Susanna next you see her, as I would have forgotten it. Again.” He unboxed the food and sat back down at the small table. As he chewed, his gaze slid around the room, brushing over his discarded book, the rumpled bed with Arya still motionless within, the window where the sunlight was glaring off the snow and ice of the rooves of Windhelm.

He passed the day by reading, yet again, studying various magickal arts. He checked on Arya hourly, always with the same result: no change. Onmund began to wonder if he should consult with an alchemist in town, or the priests even. One more day, he thought, I’ll give her one more day.

As he climbed into bed that evening, he had a self-conscious feeling as he climbed beneath the emerald blankets beside Arya. He glanced at her, lying peacefully beside him, and wondered if she would think he presumptuous for sharing the bed with her. Or if she would understand the circumstances in which he was faced. He had a feeling she would understand, but likely only after he pointed out the cultural nuances.

He sighed, rolling over so his back was to her. Over the past few days, Onmund had often found his attention drawn from his book by her. She had a calm, ethereal beauty to her. The kind that stilled his normally racing heart. The way he often felt when he watched calm waters. As though he were being steadied by her. He had found he could just sit and gaze at her for an unimaginable amount of time; and he found that disconcerting, as though he were violating her in some manner. Arya would quite likely tell him off for gaping at her like a science experiment, were she awake to do so. It was unchivalrous to take advantage.

Meeko whined from his place on the rug near the hearth. “Well, get up here then,” Onmund said, giving the bed a gentle pat. Meeko leapt effortlessly onto the bed and nestled down into the blankets between Onmund and Arya’s legs.

That night, Onmund dreamt of a little girl dancing in the moonlight; her skin was washed in a pale blue light from the moon, her long chestnut brown hair falling in waves down her back, and when she turned to him, she had wide, almond shaped eyes that were twinkling like amethysts. She hugged him tightly and the two went inside the large house that had been looming amongst the trees behind them. He realized then that it hadn’t been the moonlight at all, the little girl’s skin was a pale blue.

Onmund woke the next morning to find the bed beside him empty. Onmund sat up frantically, blankets flying. Where is she, he thought in a panic, about to peer over the edge of the bed to see if she was on the floor, when he spotted her folded into the window seat beside the fireplace. His breath deflated out of him in relief. Meeko was curled into her and she had her forehead pressed against the leaded glass panes. Her long, dark curls tumbled wildly down around her shoulders. Arya had wrapped herself in a long, trailing robe trimmed in thick, warm fur, and he was struck by how small and fragile she looked sitting there, her knees folded up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. He could see her fingers twining themselves into Meeko’s long, grey fur.

Slowly, Onmund rose from the bed; he didn’t want to startle her. “You’re awake,” he stated quietly, keeping himself restrained from shouting in elation.

“Where are we?” Arya asked, her voice was barely more than a whisper and she did not even turn to look at him.

“We’re in Candlehearth Hall, in Windhelm,” he answered. When she did not respond, he added: “You’ve been… unconscious for four days.”

Her gaze whipped towards him as she pulled herself from the window. “Four days?!” Arya demanded, her voice cracking. “How… how did I get here?”

“I carried you,” Onmund said simply with a shrug. She continued to stare, agape at him. So, he did what he was best at and babbled on. “I brought you back down the mountain to the tent, hoping you would be better by the time the sun rose. You were not. I spent a full day on the mountainside, letting you rest, hoping you would recover. After that I packed up camp and headed here, to Windhelm.”

“You carried me all the way to Windhelm?” There was wonder in her voice.

“Well, I did briefly consider putting you in the backpack,” Onmund said with a shrug.

The pair of them remained silent, staring at one another, each waiting for the other to crack. Onmund’s cheeks burned as he resisted the rising urge to grin at her. But Arya was the first to break, her lips twitching into the start of a smile.

“You’re joking,” she said in wonder.

Onmund’s laughter finally broke free and he cackled giddily. “Of course I’m joking,” he chuckled heartily. “Though, I must say, that would have eased the awkward conversation with the barmaid when we arrived.”

“What did you tell her?” Arya asked curiously.

Onmund could instantly feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He cursed, he had walked himself right into that. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease his discomfort. “First,” he began slowly, “I would like to preface this with I panicked in the moment. Originally, I thought I would burst into the city and demand a… a….. I wasn’t even certain. A healer, a priest, an alchemist, the Jarl’s Court Wizard, I don’t know.” He moved towards the window seat, leaning against the cabinet opposite Arya and gazing down at her. “When I was in the main square, the way people were already looking at me walking in with you, I knew stating the truth, aloud, to strangers, would be a mistake.” He sighed, having finally gotten to the part he knew she would have a field day with. “So… I panicked and told her that you were my wife, newly with child, and quite ill. And you had taken a sleeping drought, that worked a little too well, to assist with our cross-country travel.”

When he looked back up at Arya, he could tell she was biting her lip to keep from smiling. “That explains why you were so snuggled up to me this morning,” she said. She studied him, for what felt like the first time in years. His brown hair was disheveled from sleep, his bright blue eyes weary with exhaustion, and she swore there were more lines around his eyes and mouth than there had been a few days ago. “You were really worried, weren’t you?” she added softly.

“I really was,” he conceded easily. “I didn’t – Divines, I still don’t – understand what was happening to you. It felt like I was losing you.” She continued gazing up at him, her lavender eyes were soft, probing. He felt as though she could see every thought racing through his head, the way she made him feel, how she made him smile, and the dream… “But I most certainly was not snuggled up to you,” he added finally, stretching to ease the rising tension in his body.

Arya laughed. It was loud, boisterous. A way she had not laughed before and Onmund felt the growing anxiety drain from his body in a flood. “It’s alright if you were,” she said once she had caught her breath. “I don’t think I minded.”

“Noted,” Onmund said, immediately regretting the singular thought. He rubbed his hands down his face. “Right,” he said with a heavy sigh, “shall we get some breakfast?”

“I would love some,” Arya said, her voice breathy. He couldn’t read her tone. “I’m famished. Not to mention…” she turned a sly smile to him “…I am eating for two, apparently.” She rubbed her belly as she rose from the window bench. Onmund realized how close he was to her and he hastened to back out of the way. In his panic to get out of her way, he missed the way Arya lingered, how she very nearly reached for him.

“I really am sorry about that,” Onmund murmured, blushing furiously. “I panicked, and it was the only thing I could think of, as it happened to Mathies’ wife the one time they came to visit me in Winterhold. Oh, you’re Rhaenys, I’m Liam here.”

“Rhaenys, hmm, I like it; she sounds mysterious,” Arya said, flexing her fingers idly before wrapping her arms around her middle , squeezing her arms tightly to dispel the awkwardness she suddenly felt. “I, um, couldn’t find my clothes I was wearing before we got here,” she said finally.

Onmund laughed loudly, his own anxiety being washed away by the memory of when he had seen Arya trailing through the trees on the mountain. “Well, when you fled the tent back on Mount Anthor, you didn’t dress first. You were only wearing an incredibly thin tunic, which you should probably consider replacing, it’s, umm,” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere in the room but at Arya, “rather see-through, I fear. But you left with no boots, no cloak, you’re lucky you didn’t catch hypothermia.” He fought to keep from chuckling at the lovely flush that was spreading up Arya’s neck and across her high cheek bones, along with the mortified look on her face. “I got rid of our College robes, I figured word would travel of what happened there, and we did not need any easy targets on our backs. I traded them with a farmer and his wife for these,” Onmund handed Arya a soft bundle of cloth. “At least for while we’re in town, anyway. We can buy others later.”

Arya shook out the bundle; it was a long, simple dress the color of a thistle blossom with a white petticoat. The long sleeves had soft, white rabbit hair around the cuffs, as well as along the scooping neckline. “It’s lovely,” she whispered. “My uncles were more practical men, I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this fine.” She looked up at him, her lavender eyes sparkling in the morning light. Onmund smiled to himself, noting the way they matched the dress, just as he had imagined they would. Suddenly, Arya was hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Onmund,” she whispered against his chest. He let his smile spread across his lip as he returned the embrace, sensing he was being thanked for far more than the dress. He leaned into her, catching the scent of her hair; she smelled of mountain flowers, snowberries, crushed pearls, and magick.

“You are more than welcome,” he said softly. He was about to release her so she could change, but her arms tightened slightly around him and he waited.

Arya did not wish to let go of him. Why? She could not precisely put her finger on. Partly because she did not wish him to see that her eyes were filled with tears that were threatening to spill down her face. Partly because he was all she had now. All that remained of her old life. Without her uncles, she no longer knew who she was and she felt as though she would spiral out of control, and existence, if there were nothing to tether her. And here was Onmund Snow-Crest, not backing down from the chaos that she was unfurling, but instead, leaning in. Leaning into her. Catching her. Holding her here.

When she finally pulled away to disappear behind the silk partition to change, Onmund pretended not to notice the tears slipping down her cheeks. Nor that there was a wet patch on the front of his tunic. He simply shifted folds in the garment to hide it.

“I can’t believe I went running through the snow in this,” Arya said from behind the partition as she tossed the robe she had been wearing up to drape across the top of the partition. He imagined her staring down at her threadbare tunic in disbelief and turned to look out the window to draw his focus away from her.

“You and me both,” he agreed with a sigh. “Like I said, it’s a miracle that you didn’t come down with hypothermia, it’s why I went tearing after you.” He watched horses and wagons clattering past on the street below. Windhelm residents going about their daily lives. “What made you go out, anyway?” he asked after a moment.

“I woke thinking I had heard something,” Arya answered, “and then there was a strange light outside the tent.”

“A light?”

“Yes; it was blue, and… in the shape of a woman.” She emerged from behind the partition, buttoning the pearl buttons up the bodice of the petticoat. “It was like I was being drawn to her, like a moth to a flame.”

“Sounds like magick,” Onmund murmured, noticing Arya’s reflection in the pewter plate on the wall to his left. It took his breath away, but he quickly glanced away when she looked up. “What kind of magick, I have no idea, but definitely magick”

Arya paused to think for a moment before she began pulling on the lavender overdress over her head. “But she spoke to me,” she said, smoothing the woolen fabric down over her. The inside was lined with a soft fleece that hugged her arms warmly.

Onmund turned to look at her now. “The light… spoke to you? What did it say?”

She came over to him, turning away and sweeping her mess of curls forward over a shoulder. She pointed to the buttons down her back. “Will you?” she asked as her long fingers began deftly taming her curls into a braid. “She said ‘daal het’; I have no idea what it meant, but it felt like she was… calling me? That feels too weak, because it was almost like I didn’t have a choice. Even though I did wish to follow her. It was like she was summoning me.”

“Daal het,” Onmund repeated the foreign words on his tongue as his finger tips grazed Arya’s bare neck, sending a shiver through her, as he started on the long trail of buttons. “I’ve never heard anything like that before,” he said, mystified. His fingers grew stiffer with each button as he reached her waist and lower back. “There,” he said, his mouth dry, finally managing the final button just above her tailbone.

Arya cleared her throat, stepping away from him and turning to face him, the skirts swirling out like a bell. “Well, what do you think?” She held her arms out as she spun around once more before him, and Onmund shoved his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to grab her hand and twirl her.

“Stunning,” he said softly, before he could catch himself. He offered her a grey cloak with white fur trim. She took the cloak and swirled it about her shoulders, clasping it. Onmund cleared his throat and held out an arm to Arya. “Shall we head down?” She gave a nod and took his arm.

As they exited their room, Meeko on their heels, refusing to be left behind, Onmund pulled Arya a little closer and leaned his head closer to hers so he could whisper in her ear. “Remember the cover story;” he whispered, “the baby, you’ve been terribly ill with morning sickness for the past few weeks, but the herbs from Susanna, the barmaid, have made you feel tremendously better, we’ve been married for three years and are on our way to visit my family in the south.”

“My, you’ve been busy building us a life,” she teased softly as they descended the stairs, still arm-in-arm.

“I fear my imagination runs away on me when I am left to my own devices for too long,” he said. Immediately after he finished the thought, Onmund realized how it implied all he had been thinking of since the mountains was Arya and the life they could have together. His cheeks burned. “Wait until you hear the hobbies I’ve dreamt up for you,” he said quickly, adding a chuckle and hoping it didn’t come off as… whatever he felt he was coming off as at the moment.

As they entered the large dining area, Onmund was acutely aware of Susanna’s eyes instantly on them. He steered Arya towards a table in a corner, sandwiched between the warm hearth and a lightly frosted window. He pulled the chair out for Arya, his hand lightly on her back as she lowered herself into the wooden seat.

Her skin prickled with warmth at the place where Onmund’s hand touched her. Arya felt her world tilting with the headiness of the sensation. She bit her lip and let her breath out slowly through her nose. When she met Onmund’s gaze across the table, there was a fluttering within her.

Onmund was settling into his own chair as Susanna was striding over with his typical mug of honeyed mead. She smiled broadly at Onmund as she set the mug down before him. Her smile turned to Arya and Onmund watched her face falter slightly beneath the gaze of the other woman. He had purposefully forgotten to mention that his wife was a Dunmer. Arya was looking up at her with a veiled expression of curiosity on her face, her eyes flicking back to Onmund on occasion.

“Good morning, Liam!” Susanna exclaimed, “This must be your beautiful wife! Rhaena, was it?”

“Rhaenys,” Arya corrected.

“You must be feeling much better this morning,” the barmaid went on as though Arya hadn’t spoken.

“Much better, actually,” Arya interjected as the girl was clearly turning towards Onmund to speak more to him. “Those herbs you gave my darling Liam certainly helped.” The Nordic girl glowed with pride at the compliment.

“How about the usual tray, Susanna?” Onmund said with Arya ordering a spiceberry chai tea before the barmaid scurried away, sensing the couple wished to be alone.

Onmund studied Arya for a moment, the way in which she gazed out the window to the street below, wondering why she still hadn’t mentioned the dragon. He had thought it would have been the first thing she mentioned. The way she had gone to it…

“Do you remember anything about after the blue light… woman?” he ventured, his voice a low whisper as he leaned closer toward Arya, cupping his mug of honeyed mead.

Arya turned to look at him, her eyes flashed and her serious face became something Onmund could not read. “I wish I could forget it, actually,” she murmured, looking back to the window.

“What happened?” he tried again. Still, she remained silent, her lips twitching subtly as she drew a spiral in the frost on the leaded glass. “Arya,” he said gently, “you can trust me. With anything,” he added earnestly.

“The dragon…” Arya whispered, her eyes losing focus, “it was… it was speaking to me. I couldn’t tell you what it said, or how I understood, it was just… in my head.” She swallowed, glancing over towards Onmund, her eyes were rimming with tears. She blinked, spilling them, and turning quickly back to the window. “She, rather; I believe it was a female.”

Onmund reached across the table for her, catching one of her hands in his. “Why do you think it was a female?”

Susanna came back then with their tray of food. She smiled at their clasped hands, the way he comforted and reassured his wife; poor thing was obviously worried over the baby. Susanna found herself whimsically wishing for a love like that as she returned to her post behind the bar.

Arya slid her hand out of Onmund’s. “The way she spoke to me. She was… gentle,” Arya said quietly, “like a mother.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Her name, what her family called her-” Onmund noted she did not say what it was. “-and what it was like to fly. How happy her first clutch of eggs made her,” Arya smiled at the memory of the dragon’s joy. “Their precious little faces and how fast they grew.” She paused, wiping her hands on a linen napkin. “How the Nords came and started slaughtering them; driving them further and further into the mountains. All her babies were killed, Onmund, their heads mounted in Jarls’ palaces. She was heartbroken at the loss of them, her babies; she felt lost and broken… already dead. Her species was brought to an almost certain extinction by the time she fled.”

Onmund stared at Arya in disbelief; she was telling it as though she had lived through it all, and he could see the heartbreak in her face. Her eyes were burning fiercely when she looked back up at him.

“And then you killed her,” she whispered.

He understood then. She had been made to feel and live the life of this dragon by some strange magick. They had been connected in some manner… and then he had savagely severed it.

His voice broke when he spoke again: “Arya, I had to do that,” he said, his voice pleading as he reached for her hand again. She let him have both. “You know I had to, don’t you?” Her gaze slid from his face, down to the table, and he ducked down to force her eye contact. “Hey,” he said gently, prodding.

Arya bit her lip. “I know,” she sighed, “at least… I think I do. She would have killed you, otherwise.”

“And you,” Onmund pointed out, the relief in his voice was audible.

“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “Why would she tell me all of those things if she was just going to kill me? Why bother? They need someone on their side, Onmund.”

“They?!” he asked, incredulously.

“There had to be more than just her,” Arya said wistfully.

Onmund couldn’t help but smile; for all their differences, they were exactly the same. She was of fire; untrusting, impossible to get to know, always serious, wary of betrayal, and a pessimist. Onmund was of ice; trusting in the good of man and mer, warm to everyone, happy and full of jokes, an eternal optimist. And yet, they were both dreamers.

“If we find more on the road to Riften, I swear I shall not slay them. Unless you, or I apparently, are in mortal danger. Deal?”

Arya smiled, “Deal.” She eyed his hand, still holding hers, and after a moment she gave it a gentle squeeze.

“We should go and see the city,” Onmund said suddenly.

“Tired of staring at the same four walls?” Arya quipped with an arched brow. “That does sound nice, though, a bit of fresh air. I’ve never been in a real city before,” she mused. They finished the last bites of their crostatas and dumplings and headed out the side door of the tavern.

Arya’s eyes were dazzled by the late morning sunlight; she held up a hand to shade her face and took in the sights around her. Onmund grinned at the expression of awe and wonderment as her gaze traveled across the stone plaza. And the way she continued to tip her head back to gaze upwards at the city’s rising skyline.

“This,” Onmund began, “is the Stone Quarter. It houses the market place and the inns of Windhelm.”

“Very creatively named,” Arya said dryly.

He led Arya to the eastern portion of the city. “That way leads to the graveyard and Windhelm’s Hall of the Dead,” Onmund motioned off to their right.

There were so many tombstones; Arya paused to take them all in. Humans, she thought in wonder, so very temporary. Arya could feel Onmund gazing at her and turned to look at him. Such a sad waste. His warm smile was a reassurance, as though he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

They rounded the corner and came upon the city’s blacksmith forge. The middle-aged Nord looked up and smiled at the pair.

“Good day to you, Sir Liam,” the blacksmith said to them.

“Morning, Oengul; how are the fires this fine morn?” Onmund asked warmly. Arya got the sense the two of them had exchanged pleasantries multiple times while she had been… unwell.

“Steady as always, sir. This must be her, your lovely wife.” The blacksmith’s gaze turned to Arya.

“It is; Rhaenys is finally feeling better this morning.”

The blacksmith smiled apprehensively at Arya, but inclined his head in a small bow as Onmund cleared his throat.

“Pleasure to meet you, miss,” Oengul forced himself to say politely. He turned back to Onmund, “I presume you came to check on your order?”

Onmund nodded, “Indeed, I would like Rhaenys’ opinion on it.”

“Very well, sir.” He turned to his shop’s door, “Mir! Get out here, girl,” he shouted gruffly, “And bring Master Liam’s bow!”

A moment later, a young Nordic woman appeared at the door, carrying a parcel wrapped in leather.

“Here it is,” she said brightly, offering the item to Onmund.

“May I present my apprentice, Hermir Strong-Heart?” Oengul said with a weary motion towards the eager girl.

Onmund nodded absent mindedly as he unwrapped the leather from around the bow. Arya watched him admire the bow; it was a shimmering green with golden accents. It looked as though it were lit from within by the way it shimmered. She reached out to touch it; it was cool as Moonstone.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“It’s exquisite, Oengul,” Onmund breathed. “Better than I ever could have imagined. Try it, my love,” he said, handing it to Arya. Her lips quirked into a smile at the ease of which he fell into this storied life he had woven for them. She did not blame him, it was becoming easier and easier for Arya to imagine. “Go on,” he said encouragingly at her hesitation, “I had it made for you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she slowly reached for the bow, taking it from the cradled position in Onmund’s arms. The bow was cool as stone, yet light as a feather.

“What is it made of?” she asked in wonder.

“T’s a glass bow, m’lady,” the girl named Hermir piped up.

Onmund touched Arya’s arm gently, “Not literally glass,” he whispered in her ear as he repositioned her arms so she was holding it properly, “Malachite and Moonstone smelted together.” It took every ounce of Arya’s willpower and self control to not melt into Onmund’s touch.

“I just have to string it and smooth out a few places, and she’ll be all yours,” Oengul said. Arya noticed the apprentice deflate noticeably. She thought she had noticed it when Onmund had praised Oengul’s workmanship before, but this time it had been unmistakable.

“Hermir, was it?” Arya asked, cutting over whatever Oengul was about to prattle on about. The girl looked up, startled, and nodded. “Did you make this?”

The girl grinned from ear to ear and began to glow. “I did, m’lady,” she said eagerly, bobbing her head.

“You must be very talented in your craft,” Arya said, “this bow is magnificent.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you, m’lady, I have been fortunate to have good teachers.”

Onmund was looking at Arya curiously. “I am glad to hear it is nearly ready,” he said, “we’re leaving tomorrow, mid-morning, so I will be by to collect it first thing. He handed the bow back to the smith and led Arya away from the forge to see more of the market place. “What was that all about?” he asked, with a coy look out of the corner of his eye. As they paused to admire a vendor selling fabrics the shade of jewels.

“He was taking credit for her hard work,” Arya said simply. “She deserved the praise you gave him. Why was he… odd… towards me?”

Onmund rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, you picked up on that,” he said rather awkwardly. “I was hoping you wouldn’t. Nords of Windhelm have a… strange relationship with Dunmers.”

“That’s an interesting way to say they’re racist,” Arya said. “And after the barmaid at the inn….”

“You’re right,” Onmund sighed. “I’m sorry, it’s a part of my culture I am incredibly embarrassed by,” he continued. “I do not understand it, I do not condone it, I just wish to be differently than they are.”

“You are,” Arya said quietly, “in every way, Onmund Snow-Crest.”

As they continued through the market, Arya marveled at the stalls and their wares; she had never seen so many people bustling about in one place before. She had never seen so many varieties of things before. It seemed as though anything one could desire could be found. Onmund then brought her into the White Phial and showed her the glass shelves of glistening potions and elixirs.

“I know these,” Arya said with a smile as though she were speaking to an old friend, “my uncle used to show me how to make these.”

After the alchemist’s shop, Onmund took Arya down another back alley, through the graveyard once more, and into an area of the city where the streets were lined with massive stone houses. Each multiple stories tall and imposing on the narrow street below.

“Does your Jarl live in one of these?” she asked.

Onmund chuckled, “No, these are the homes of the elite families of Windhelm. This is the illustrious Valunstrad.”

“And the non-elite families of Windhelm? Where do they live?” Arya asked pointedly.

“There are some smaller homes on the eastern side of town, and smaller flats above shops for those not of the noble class,” Onmund said. “They’re sprinkled throughout the cities, it’s primarily the wealthy families that get their place of honor.”

Arya made a sour face. “Valunstrad,” she repeated the strange word.

“‘Avenue of Valor’ it means. It’s the oldest part of the city, but not the oldest,” Onmund said as he lead Arya around a corner.

A huge stone building came majestically into view and Arya’s breath caught in her throat.

“Now this,” Onmund said gleefully, “is where my Jarl lives; the Palace of the Kings.”

“But he is no king,” Arya stated, her brow furrowed.

“Well, no, but kings did live here once. You know who built the Palace of the Kings, don’t you?”

She scrunched up her face in thought. “Mmm… wasn’t it Yngol?”

“Oh, my dearest,” Onmund chuckled, “I forget you were not raised with Nordic tales woven into the very fiber of your being. You were close; it was built by Ysgramor himself. It is one of the last surviving buildings of the First Empire. I trust you do not know its history, then?”

Arya had read quite a bit about the First Empire in her years in the library at the College, but she could see the eagerness and pure glee on Onmund’s face. “Enlighten me, Master Liam,” she said with the gleam of a smile and offering him a small curtsy.

“Well,” Onmund began, his chest puffing out in eagerness, “during the Merethic Era, Ysgramor’s son, Yngol – see, you were close – got separated from his father’s fleet. It was in the midst of a raging sea storm and Yngol’s ship, the Harakk, was tragically wrecked upon the ice. Yngol and all his crew perished either in the wreck, or on the ice. Legend says that actual Sea Ghosts rose from the icy waters and slew them all.

“Ysgramor was consumed with grief,” Onmund continued, “and he couldn’t bring himself to leave the place his beloved son had fallen. Eventually, he proclaimed a great city would be built upon the shores of the White River, where it meets the sea. Ysgramor had it built in the fashion of his homeland of Atmora as a ‘monument of mankind.’ The Palace of Kings was his unofficial memorial to his son. It is the only building in the city that survived the War of Succession in the First Era.”

“It is beautiful,” Arya breathed, “if not imposing. The harsh, brutal lines seem like they would echo a father’s grief. Imagine, to have a father that loved you so.” She sighed. “It’s nothing like the organic architecture of Morrowind,” Arya mused. Arya bit her lip in consternation; how did she know that?

Abruptly, she pointed to another alleyway on the opposite side of the courtyard from which they had entered. “What’s that way?”

“Oh… the, uh, Gray Quarter,” Onmund stammered. “You wouldn’t want to see that.”

“Why not?” She peered around Onmund’s shoulder, trying to see what he was attempting to block from her view. “What’s down there?”

“It’s dirty,” Onmund said finally. “It takes you to the shipyard.”

“Ships?!” Arya’s face lit up like a candle, “I’ve always wanted to see a ship in person!”

Onmund sighed reluctantly, “Very well,” he said, “we’ll go, but we leave when I say so.” She nodded like an eager child, grinning madly and practically buzzing with excitement. He offered Arya his arm again as they descended the stone steps, hoping to keep her close and from wandering too far into the slum. As quickly as Arya would allow, Onmund half tugged her through the Gray Quarter, skimming past the blatant racism that ran through the city. He was quite certain that Arya had noticed the impoverished living conditions of Windhelm’s small Dunmer population.

She realized then why Onmund had been apprehensive about bringing her down here. It was seeing the destruction of her people, her race, her culture. Arya yearned to ask Onmund if his Jarl sanctioned this, but she noticed the deep shadow of shame upon his face as they neared the massive stone doors leading to the shipyards.

Onmund tugged one open and the pair descended more steps. He pulled her a little closer, she could feel the heat of his body beside hers. “When we get to the docks, stay close to me,” he said in a low voice. “You thought it was bad for the Dunmer of Windhelm; the Argonians have it even worse, and they can be… desperate… at times.”

Arya nodded, allowing him to guide her around the corner into the bustling dock area. She had met very few Argonians while growing up in Winterhold, perhaps two at most. It was often said when an Argonian showed magickal abilities, it was often linked to their Hist Tree, thus the College would be of little use to them. Their scales had always fascinated her, the way they gleamed like gems. It dawned on her that they were like tiny dragons.

Once she had her fill of being mesmerized by Argonians, Arya turned her sights to the towering, majestic ships. The Katariah was painted in gold lettering on the bow of one of them. There was a golden woman carved into the prow; she appeared to be Elven, causing Arya to wonder if this was the ship named for the ancient Empress, wife of Pelagius.

When she turned to ask Onmund, he was nowhere to be seen. When had his arm slipped from hers? She swallowed, trying to keep the panic from rising. He should stick out like a sabre cat in an elk herd, she thought. How does one lose a young Nordic man in a crowd of Argonians? Panic began to tighten in her chest as Arya began to wish they had not left Meeko behind at Candlehearth.

There was a hand at her waist then, and Arya breathed a sigh of relief until she realized the grip was far too heavy to belong to Onmund. “Don’t you dare scream,” hissed a male voice in her ear. Then she felt the tip of a dagger in her side.