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What is a child so small doing on the dim, frigid stone streets of Windhelm alone? Already this was unacceptable, but with a killer roaming the streets targeting young women? There should be no reason why she was out here in the cold dusk all by herself. He was notified of the killings by no less than three Stormcloaks within moments of entering the gates, yet this child has not been taken in? Vébjorn feels a foul curling in his stomach, like when he had foolishly eaten the poisonous berries that grew by the riverside as a child.
Her eyes are big, curious like the child she is. Behind it is suspicion, and he understands. The light catches on something small and silver amongst the flowers in her basket that is clutched tightly to her body, and he prays that she has never been afraid to do what she must.
“Who are you?”
He is brought back to that Gods-damned day in Helgen when the Imperial soldier asked him the same question. He remembers the taste of fire and blood and ash in the air. He remembers how bitterly Hadvar and Ralof had fought while the three were escaping the destruction. He remembers how desperately they had embraced upon escaping and seeing their village on the horizon. He remembers how they had kissed through their sobs once the beast was finally satisfied and flew away. He remembers how they stood pressed against each other when sending him off to warn Whiterun, in borrowed plainclothes and with fingers tightly intertwined. He hopes they are happy, finally away from this war that had torn them apart.
“I am Vébjorn of Clan Sky-Bearer, from Rorikstead. Who are you?
“Sofie.”
She doesn’t offer more.
“Where is your family?” He asks softly, aware of his appearance and how that may intimidate a child as young as she must be.
A blink, then her eyes shifted away. Her small shoulders quivered with a chill; the blanket pulled around her did not seem to be doing much. He could cup both of her red-tinged hands in only one of his. The curdling in his stomach gets a bit worse.
“My pa’s a Stormcloak. He’s away right now.” Her eyes keep darting around, as if she’s cataloguing her escapes. Vébjorn has done the same in fights, but never in conversation.
His waning eagerness to join up with his countrymen putters out like a weak flame at the end of a melted old candle– he can feel it down to his very bones. He should’ve seen his faith was misplaced before, and he feels ashamed for it. The Stormcloaks cannot care for Tamriel. Ulfric Stormcloak cannot even care for his people. The Empire is not good for Skyrim, the Thalmor even worse, but so too are the Stormcloaks; it is a dull revelation, already known to the shadowed parts of his mind, but this encounter had broken the dam keeping them to the back. The curdling has stopped– now he just feels cold, and aged, and tired. He feels all of his scars and his still injured knee and his recently dislocated-then-relocated shoulder and the still-healing stitches in his side. He is so tired.
“Where is your home?”
Big eyes get even bigger. They continue to tumble like performers to avoid his gaze. “Sometimes the dock workers can sneak me in. Most of the dark elves let me in, too.”
The unspoken was understood. Vébjorn decided that his quest to offer his thu’um in service of Ulfric Stormcloak was over; even if it was not, this one that he has come across was far more important. Undoing his cloak – a fine cloak, thick and warm and weighed down by fur, soft and expensive. Fit for the hero he was now supposed to be, and he again feels the burning pinch of shame at his failure – he wraps the child in it tightly.
He thought of the leader of the Companions, a skinny Dunmer warrior with a battleaxe twice his size. He thought of the man’s status in Whiterun, of his fearsome and proud Nord husband, of their little warm home in the center of town, of their daughter Farkas had plucked from the streets like a stray long before their marriage. “I can take you somewhere safe, but it is a long journey.”
The offer stood still in the air, frozen like the ice that hung from the rooftops above.
“I… I think I would like to go there.” Finally, her eyes face him. They are wide, and wary, and so tired.
He aches with the desire to bundle her to his chest like his grandmother once did to him, but instead holds out his hand. “Let’s get some supplies. I was not exaggerating when I said it is a long journey, and I will need a new cloak for it. Even a Nord can get cold,” he says softly.
“Even a Nord can get cold,” she repeats in a murmur, and takes his hand; hers barely spans the size of his palm.
He hums a song from his childhood as they traverse the stone of Windhelm to the shop in the run-down Dunmer district, the only place that will be open by this time. She begins to clumsily hum along once she starts to recognize the melody. She gets louder the farther they traipse into the area, and he is warmed that maybe she has begun to trust him enough to show some of the personality behind those fawn eyes. Or perhaps it is the familiar surroundings that can attribute to her confidence. She did mention that she often finds shelter here. He wonders who gives her room most often, and how he will tell them of his plans. He wonders if they will want to write. He wonders if she knows how.
He notices her beginning to take a lead, and he follows her dutifully. He attempts to ignore the biting wind and focuses on scanning the streets. He hopes that his bulk and his scars and his greatsword would be deterrent enough to any seeking to do harm, but he will never be able to ignore his surroundings and his fear, however contrary it may seem to the strong and carefree appearance he normally attempts.
She leads him further down the winding streets until they reach a building with lit windows. It is larger than the surrounding ones, but just as dilapidated as the others. A sign hangs beside the door that declares the building “Sadri’s Used Wares”. He opens the door for her just as she reaches to do it, and he feels a flare of fondness. She is a very sweet little thing, like a newborn pup. He can now understand what the village women would mean when they talked about “baby fever” while they hung out their laundry together.
She points a tiny grin in his direction and walks in, stomping the snow off her boots on the mat inside the door.
“Just a moment!” A masculine voice calls from somewhere further in, but Vébjorn is too preoccupied with making his way to the crackling fire to mind. He sees out of the corner of his eye that Sofie has disappeared into a room off to the side of the shop, and he hears soft murmuring that he refuses to listen in on, deciding instead to focus on regaining warmth in his fingers and arms.
Sofie eventually emerges with a youthful Dunmer in tow behind her, and then she leaves back to the other room while Vébjorn stands to greet him. The elf is of average stature but slight, and Vébjorn relaxes his posture so as to not tower as he would have. He has short, pushed back hair a few shades darker than his skin with high cheekbones and the narrow red eyes unique to Dunmer. They narrow further in suspicion upon seeing him, and Vébjorn takes notice that that the glare makes his cheekbones appear sharper. The elf is attractive in the non-human way that Mer are, and Vébjorn feels his cheeks heat and hopes that if noticed, it will be attributed to the fire.
Vébjorn offers a boyish and carefree grin, although he himself has grown out of those qualities. The glare does not recede, and Vébjorn makes note that there is at least one person Sofie can write to in this city once she settles in Whiterun.
“Hello,” he greets the elf, and tries to make his voice as comforting and warm as the fire.
“Who are you to take her? And where would you take her? Who would you be taking her to?” The Dunmer fires off his questions one after another, and manages to glare disdainfully down his nose at Vébjorn while having to look up into his eyes. It’s not as intimidating to him as he’s sure it would be for others, but he feels a giddy blooming of fondness for the elf within his gut.
“I am Vébjorn of Clan Sky-Bearer, from Rorikstead. I am a friend to the Companions and a Thane of Whiterun. I plan to put her in the care of my friend Mirmir, who is also a Thane of Whiterun and Harbinger of the Companions. He and his husband have a child around Sofie’s age. They wouldn’t mind another,” he spoke softly, keeping his eyes on the elf’s and hoping his sincerity is conveyed. He does not mention the first title he ever received– Dragonborn doesn’t mean much to non-Nords until they witness what it means.
The elf deflated somewhat, but his thin lips were still pursed and his distrust still evident.
“I understand your distrust. I am grateful she has someone who is wary for her. If you wish, I will send for a letter from Jarl Balgruuf to prove my character and my intentions to you,” he offered.
“Do that.” It was an order, short but firm.
“I will,” and he lowered his head in deference.
The elf stared him down. “Mirmir… is not a Nordic name,” he noted tightly, barely a question.
“He is not. He is a Dunmer. His husband is Nordic, though.”
The elf’s eyebrows raised almost unnoticeably. “And he holds those positions?”
“With all the due honor and respect to accompany them.”
“Lucky elf. I should’ve known Windhelm was the worst city to land in.”
A peal of laughter forced itself out of Vébjorn’s throat before he could wrestle it down, and he saw a smirk spread over the Dunmer’s lips. Mara, he’s charming, with his soft voice and sharp tongue.
“It is quite disagreeable here,” Vébjorn agreed delicately.
A huff. “Disagreeable for Nords, which means it’s a shithole for every other race.”
Vébjorn winced. “Yes you’re right. It’s… disappointing to finally see.”
A silence scratches between them, before it is surprisingly broken by the elf.
“So, Thane of Whiterun. I’m not sure if the quality of my dinner will satisfy your delicate and refined palette, but I have a stew on the fire that’s almost ready if you’d like to join us,” the Dunmer offered, still tense but an olive branch nonetheless.
“I wasn’t always a Thane, despite how well I wear the title,” Vébjorn teased as forwardly as he dared without stepping on his host’s toes.
“And you do wear it well,” the Dunmer lightly agreed with a firm grip on Vébjorn’s bared arm.
Vébjorn felt his cheeks bloom the same color as the Dunmer’s eyes, and his head tipped forward with a shyness he never quite grew out of despite his feats, his blonde hair curtaining around his face.
“Oh. Thank you…”
“Revyn,” his host replied with a sharp scythe of a smile. “Revyn Sadri. Stew’s in the other room. I’ll show you what cloaks I have while we wait.”
Vébjorn felt the shorter man place a hand lightly on the small of his back to lead him, and he hoped he would be able to eat his stew with the butterflies fluttering about within him.