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Chapter Text

It was First Seed before Rikke found the time to visit Whiterun again, and it wasn’t until she stepped through its gates that winter truly seemed to pass. She’d always liked it there – it was widely agreed that Balgruuf’s hold was among the most beautiful places in Skyrim – but within the last few months, it had gotten a little bit lovelier.

She’d just raised her fist to knock on Breezehome’s weathered door when the shriek rang out. It was muffled, but definitely feminine, and Rikke’s stomach lurched. She yanked on the handle, but the door was locked; something big thumped inside, like furniture being overturned, and she decided that locks were irrelevant. This lock in particular. It snapped when she kicked the door open.

“Rhiannon!”

“Rikke!” Rhiannon was standing on the armchair, shielding herself with the lid to the saucepot as a pair of brooms battered at her, frantically trying to sweep her off her feet and into the pile of clutter crowding the hearth. The rest of the chairs and one of the bookcases were overturned, books strewn every which way. “A little help, please?”

A gallant rescue was a gallant rescue. Rikke drew her sword. One of the brooms did manage to send her into a sneezing fit by flinging dust into her face, but she reduced them to kindling with a few well-placed swings. Rhiannon lowered the lid, waving dust away, and Rikke wiped her eyes and held out her hand.

“Thank Mara. I was running out of things to fend them off with.” Rhiannon took it and hopped down, trying in vain to smooth her hair. “I thought you weren’t coming until next week?”

I wanted to see you, she almost said, but it seemed pathetically eager. “We finished early. Are you alright?” She looked around. “What in Oblivion happened here?”

Rhiannon fidgeted. “Well, Lydia and Jak left on a hunting trip, and I decided to do some spring cleaning, but then I tried fixing the wobbly table leg, and… well.”

“Where is the table, anyway?”

Rhiannon pointed to the stack of cheese wheels taking up the dining area. At least, Rikke thought they were cheese wheels. They had a distinctly wooden look about them.

“How did you…?”

“I got hungry partway through.”

“Right. And the brooms?”

“I thought it might get done faster if I enchanted them to help out, but then they went a bit mad with the sweeping.” Rhiannon sighed. “I got all the bedding washed and on the line, at least, but then the kitchen – “

A flurry of clatter and song drowned out the rest of her sentence. Rikke strode across the room and stuck her head into the kitchen. Then looked at Rhiannon. Then back into the kitchen.

“Your plates are flying.”

“I know,” Rhiannon said miserably. One of the plates had its tail feathers stuck in the cupboard, wings flapping as it strained against the door, and she went to free it. Rikke ducked as a cup zoomed overhead. “Originally I was just trying to get them to wash themselves, but the spell backfired and turned them into birds. I tried reversing it, but you can see how that worked out.”

“Ah,” said Rikke, who had no idea how she was supposed to respond.

“It’ll wear off eventually. I hope.” The floor was covered with suds, and Rhiannon splashed her way to the window, peering out into the yard. “Oh, look,” she said. “Braith’s dog is running away with my new sheets.”

One of the smaller plates landed on Rikke’s shoulder, feathers tickling her cheek. She shooed it away. “Is this normally how spring cleaning goes for you?”

“More or less.”

“Mm.”

“The thing in the cellar is new, though.”

“The thing in the cellar,” Rikke repeated. From below their feet, something groaned, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck all prickled at once. She looked at Rhiannon, who looked back, eyes wide and morose. “And the exact nature of the thing is…”

“Inconclusive.” Rhiannon maneuvered her way out of the kitchen and back into the living room, where the trap door sat next to the hearth, padlocked and bolted. She unlocked it, and together they peered into the shrouded depths of the cellar. Another gurgling moan echoed forth, accompanied by the scraping of metal on stone. A hint of sulfur wafted past.

“I don’t suppose that’s your forge.”

“Well,” Rhiannon said, “it was.”

Rikke kicked the trap door shut and put an arm around Rhiannon’s shoulders, drawing her close. There were feathers in her hair. “Next time,” she said, “wait for me. Please. I’ll help you clean.”

Rhiannon put her head in her hands. “This is why I stick to Restoration.”

Chapter Text

Lydia woke up to someone banging on the door. This was hardly an uncommon occurrence, as someone always needed her Thane for something or other. The problem, in this case, was twofold: they were in Markarth, where almost nobody knew they’d gone, and she was hungover. Incredibly, painfully, monstrously hungover. The person at the door didn’t know or care about either of these facts, and the pounding continued. Lydia rolled out of bed, head throbbing, and attempted to stand up straight. The room went sideways with an unpleasant lurch. In the other bed, Rhiannon stirred, mumbling nonsense. Lydia made sure she wasn’t going to vomit, then dragged herself over to the door and yanked it open, squinting as light flooded the room. “What.”

A girl blinked up at her, petrified. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or so, with a round face and a mop of blonde curls, and she wore the burnt orange robes of a temple acolyte. “S-sorry,” she stammered, backing away. “The Dragonborn, they said t-this was her room…”

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to gather the remaining shreds of her composure. It felt like someone was using the inside of her skull to tan leather. “It is. What do you want?”

“She needs to come to the temple.” The girl shifted from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact. “There’s a problem.”

“Of course there is.” She turned around. “My Thane. Wake up.” Incoherent muttering came from beneath the pillow on the far bed. “My Thane.” No response. Lydia gritted her teeth. “Rhiannon!”

“Huh?!” Rhiannon bolted upright, eyes half-open and hair frizzing every which way. There was dried saliva crusted on her cheek. “Wuzzat.”

“Time to get up. There’s a problem.”

“What?”

“Someone named Jak,” the girl added through the door. “Yours was the only name Mother Hamal could get out of him?”

There was a pause as the two of them digested the news. Rhiannon’s eyes flew open.

“They didn’t.”

They did.

“I cannot believe you,” Rhiannon said as she and Lydia stood in the doorway, watching a half-dressed Jak give futile chase to a chicken. More specifically, one of the twenty-odd chickens filling the room, clucking and pecking at the offering plates. Feathers and shit littered the temple floor.

“I’m actually relieved,” Lydia said. “I was expecting something different, with all the shouting about cocks.”

“Well, you could at least help,” Jak huffed, out of breath. They had a priestess’s robe belted loosely over their breeches, and makeup was smudged all over their face. Rhiannon scowled at them.

“Absolutely not. This is your mess, you deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Mother Hamal snapped as she came striding around the corner, pink-cheeked with fury. “Just get him out of here!”

“I’m not a man,” Jak said indignantly. Lydia grabbed their arm and dragged them through a sea of squawking, flapping chickens to the stairs, poultry scattering every which way at their feet.

“I am so sorry about this,” Rhiannon started, only to have the golden doors slam in her face with a resounding crash. She turned on Jak. “Explain. Now.”

“What are you, our mother?”

“Explain yourself,” Rhiannon said, a mad gleam in her eye. There was an audible hiss to her words. She’d gotten a lot less timid over the last couple of years. Something about absorbing all those dragon souls, probably.

Lydia and Jak both edged away from her, Jak raising both hands in surrender. “Can I at least explain back at the inn?”

Rhiannon’s lips thinned. Lydia could practically see the smoke curling from her nostrils. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes and a Cure Poison brew later, Jak attempted to relate the story of the previous night while scrubbing cosmetics off their face. ‘Attempted’ being the operative word. “So, there we were in the forest, bottles in hand, and… really, after the thing with the skeevers and the swimming hole, it all gets a bit fuzzy. Does lip paint ever come off?”

“Just to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Rhiannon said from her spot on the bed. The mad spark in her eye was back, and getting madder by the second. “A Breton named Sam Something-or-Other challenged you to a drinking contest with some liquor you’ve never heard of, and you decided that sounded like a good idea.”

“Well, not so much ‘good’ as ‘fun’, but – “

“Next thing you remember, you’re wandering around the marshes with skeevers and goats, and then you wake up in the Temple of Dibella’s inner sanctum to a bunch of angry priestesses. Does that about cover it?”

“Don’t forget the chickens,” Lydia said.

Jak slapped their hand against their knee, eyes lighting up. “I’ve got it!”

“Got what?”

“The chickens were there for the wedding reception!” They paused, then frowned. “Wait.”

“What wedding reception?”

“I’m… not sure. It seemed important at the time.” They scratched their head. A bit of gold glinted on their finger, and Rhiannon and Lydia exchanged glances. Jak looked between them. “You both went quiet just now. What is it?”

“Jak,” Lydia said, in the strangled tone of one desperately trying not to laugh. “Look at your hand.” They looked. “Your other hand.”

The screech Jak let out could have shattered glass, were there any present. “What the fuck is that?!” A thin gold band was nestled there, studded with chips of ruby. They tried to yank it free, but it refused to budge. “It won’t come off!”

“Looks like congratulations are in order.”

“Fuck you, Lydia!”

“And Mum always thought you’d never marry,” Rhiannon said.

Chapter Text

The cave is dark and damp and slick; the cave whispers, frigid air scraping her cheeks, and Rhiannon shudders. Her cloak is woolen, thick, but it only offers so much in the way of protection. She tugs it fruitlessly around her shoulders, breath escaping her numb lips in bursts of white. In the distance, something skitters. It could be anywhere, the way the cave amplifies and distorts noise, and the thought that it might be nearby has her shrinking back into the alcove until her back hits solid rock. Stupid, she tells herself, stupid, stupid in time with her hammering heart. Stupid to come alone, but it was supposed to be a simple job – clear out the nest of frostbite spiders hunting the people of Rockridge settlement – and she’d only wanted to prove that she could do it on her own for once, instead of always needing someone to swoop in and protect her –

The same something chitters, clicking, and oh gods it’s right on top of her, the noise ricocheting in her skull. Rhiannon slides into a crouch, dizzy, one hand clasped over her mouth and nose. An acrid rush of fear makes her throat burn. She forces it back before she’s sick all down her front.

In the gloom, the spider is little more than a hulking shape as it prowls past, spindly sharp-furred legs rustling. Clusters of glowing mushrooms line the walls, and their eerie blue light glints off too many eyes and dripping mandibles. Frostbite spider. Venomous, prefers cool damp climates and dislikes excessive light and heat, she recites in her head, trembling hands folded over the lower half of her face. Glands can be harvested to produce a low-grade venom favored by bandits and game hunters. Best fought with fire. Over and over again, focusing on the facts until the spider scuttles over the ledge and disappears below, leaving her alone in the dark. She fumbles in the neck of her robes until she finds her amulet of Mara, its back worn smooth from years of rubbing it with her thumb to soothe her nerves. She breathes deep, air stinging her lungs.

Just beyond her hiding spot, the tunnel abruptly drops off into a series of plateaus, each one further down than the last, before spiraling down into massive cavern, rockface streaked with limestone. “They make their nest at the bottom,” the hetman had told her, his pockmarked face twisted with revulsion. “Nasty climb for a human. Less so for a spider.” Its walls are glossy with webbing. They stink like old meat. Rhiannon gags a little, but forces herself upright, palm braced against the stone. Below her, the darkness shifts and rustles, seething. She doesn’t have to see it to picture the dozens of shapes crawling all over each other as they grow hungrier.

She almost turns back.

The spell is hot in her hands as her atronach materializes, suspended in mid-air. She binds it, and it twists, sinuous, searching for the enemy. Even from lengths away she can feel the heat radiating off its body, firelight filling the tunnel, and the skittering grows frantic. “Go,” she whispers, and it glides towards the plateau, hands full of whirling flame.

She follows.

Chapter Text

“Really? This is where you picked for us to meet?”

A shrug. Snow clung to the peak, falling steadily. Everything was monochrome, jagged black rocks jutting up from fresh white snow. “It seemed appropriate. Atmospheric, even.”

Rhiannon huffed, breath gusting out in thick white clouds. “It’s cold.”

“It’s Skyrim.” Pause. “Well, you asked for me, and here I am. What did you want to say?”

“You already know,” she shot back. “Don’t you?”

“Not always. That’s what I like about you. You keep me guessing.”

A sudden burst of wind blew her hood away from her face, and she pulled it back up with a shiver. Silence followed.

“Why me?” she finally asked.

“Because I think your story is worth telling.”

“But why? I had a life! I knew who I was, and then you ripped it all away and forced me into something I never – “ She broke off, eyes stinging in the cold. “How could you do this to me?”

“Rhiannon – “

“Why?”

Silence.

“Tell me,” she said, sniffling. “You owe me that much.”

“None of this is without purpose, I promise. I know you probably think I’m lying, but everything that happens has a reason behind it. I’m not trying to hurt you just to hurt you.”

“You’re right. I do think you’re lying.”

“That’s okay. I don’t expect you to believe me. Not this early on, anyway.” A hand squeezed her shoulder. “Your story means something to people, Rhiannon. How many of us can say that?”

“I don’t care.” It sounded petulant, even to her ears. “And I do not sound petulant!”

“You absolutely do, but I still love you.”

“Well, you have a funny way of showing it.”

“So they tell me.”

The wind whistled. Rhiannon braced her feet and peered out, over the edge of the plateau. She couldn’t see anything below the peak, obscured as it was by clouds of icy fog, but she could picture it – Skyrim, laid out like a rumpled patchwork quilt, and Ivarstead so small at the base of the mountain that she could have cupped it in her hands.

“What happens to me?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. Besides.” The smile gave her pause, all teeth. “Do you really want to know?”

“Fine, fine.” She took a step back, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Can I make a request?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you at least get to the part where Rikke and I kiss already?”

A bark of laughter echoed off the side of the mountain. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” She looked up. “So… what now?”

“Now, it’s time for us to go. You won’t remember this, but I can at least do one thing for you.”  Arms enveloped her, and with the, a sense of peace so complete and overwhelming that her eyes began to well up. “It’ll linger, for a while. Hold onto it.”

Rhiannon would have replied, but even as she opened her mouth, the words were stolen from her tongue, and everything went blurry at the edges as the fog rolled in. The arms around her tightened, then let go, replaced by the cold caress of the wind. The ground fell away, and she drifted into a vast sea of white, soft and endless.

Am I dying?

No, kid. Dreaming. A hand stroked her hair. You’re just dreaming.

She woke with a jolt, buried beneath a pile of quilts as thick as a snowdrift. Outside, the winter winds cried and clawed at the walls, but inside Breezehome it was warm, embers still smoldering in the hearth. She sunk back into the pillows, and beside her, Rikke stirred, half-awake.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” A image lingered in the back of Rhiannon’s mind – slippery black rocks, blanketed in white – only to dart away when she reached for it, dissolving into haze. “I think I was dreaming.”

“Another nightmare?”

“No, I… I don’t think so.” If anything, she felt oddly serene, and sleep was beckoning her to return, her eyelids growing heavy once more. She yawned and rolled over, burrowing into Rikke’s arms. “Just a dream.”

Chapter Text

“My Thane?” Lydia took a tentative step forward. The hunched form in the chair gave no indication of having heard her. “Are you feeling alright?”

Wordlessly, Rhiannon held out the bundle she’d been cradling on her lap. Lydia took it, running her fingers over brittle paper and warped leather. The compendium, she realized – or what was left of it after Lake Honrich.

“There’s nothing I can do to fix it, is there?” Rhiannon said. She sounded strange, her voice lifeless. Lydia almost preferred the crying. “Be honest.”

“No, my Thane,” Lydia said, and handed the book back, gently as she could. “There isn’t.”

Chapter Text

Jak’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, and whenever they tried to speak, their breath escaped in thick white plumes, whisked away on the frigid air. “I don’t know how you stand it here,” they ground out, huddling into Rhiannon’s side beneath the fur cloak they shared. “This is no way to live.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that on,” Lydia said, reaching out to stoke the fire. “Let everyone know the last several centuries were a mistake.”

Rhiannon’s teeth chattered too, but she’d stopped noticing it as much. She glanced around the camp as Jak and Lydia continued to bicker, all the surrounding noise and bustle familiar now rather than frightening. Familiar faces caught her eye – Soren and Mirri arguing in front of one of the tents, Ortha cleaning fish into a bucket next to the mess tent. Further down, Rikke stood talking to one of her lieutenants, her helmet tucked under her arm and the winter sun in her hair. She caught Rhiannon looking and gave her a slight nod, chin raised. Jak nudged her.

“Seriously, you can’t tell me you prefer this to home!”

Rhiannon shrugged, trying to hide her smile. “I guess I just like it better here.”