Work Text:
Lorika lounged on a sofa with a basket of threads and a canvas bound in an embroidery hoop, poking a border of leaves into the blank cloth in the light of the crackling hearth. Her day was done, and after her share of housework, she elected to practice her embroidery. While she wished she could fully enjoy it, her lack of depth perception resulted in many a pricked finger. The pinched cotton bolt was adorned in inconsistent leaves and poorly spaced vines, and her grip tightened with each mistake she couldn’t seem to fix. When her fingertips grew sore, her one eye would wander the room, and only in those small moments would her jaw relax.
It gave her some comfort to look at the portraits of her family hanging on the walls. Her sister, Eris, loved portraiture, and the walls of their home were adorned in candid sketches and lovingly crafted faces of those they loved most. Eris thought she had no worth, as someone who would never inherit the heirloom blade. How wrong she was. What could be more beautiful than to hold a tangible likeness of their mother and father?
The Nord woman’s smile faded as her face drifted away, drawn to the light flickering from the stone carved mantle of the hearth. Shadows from drying racks were cast against the walls, dreamcatchers and macramed produce slings, and though the craftsmanship her family made was beautiful, it was not the reason for the despondence on Lorika’s face.
The most glorious thing of all was what drew her eye. Above the mantle, twinkling against a silver plaque, was a special family heirloom above their clan motto.
“We make the unworthy fall.”
The letters twinkled in the soft bloom of moonlight through the curtained windows. Above those fearsome words rested an even more fearsome blade: Shuddersbane, the Sword of a Hundred Hands. Its pale crystal body was dark and distorted in color, shining in hues of magenta and reclining in deep midnight blue where the firelight could not reach. Most of Lorika’s life, the sword hung on the wall. But Lorika saw it in the daylight once - the day she turned nineteen.
Raelund Ice-Heart, her father, was among those some-hundred hands to pick up the blade - and the latest in their records. As the eldest daughter of their family, it was Lorika who was fated to be its next bearer. That 17th of Last Seed, now a few years behind her, he’d taken the sword off the mantle. He’d woken her up in the early hours of the morning, and asked her to join him for a walk. After donning their coats and snow shoes, they walked into the wilderness - where the city’s silhouette could not interrupt the horizon. She could remember the grave atmosphere of that morning; her father’s stoic silence, and the world muffled by snow.
As the sun had risen above the periwinkle horizon, Raelund rested the sword in her hands, and let her hold it against the new dawning sky.
“As you well know by now, Soffra Iiz-Sil was but a young lass when she took up this blade,” Raelund had told her. “She was simply an acolyte of Thuriizmaar, a girl of sixteen, when she began carving this blade - as an act of devotion to her dragon master upon the death of her parents. It took her many years to shape the stalhrim, to carve the likeness of the dragon into the blade, and make its scabbard. And when it was finally complete, she knelt before our lord Thuriizmaar - and presented the blade in their honor, and humbly asked to serve as their Champion Priestess in the midst of the Dragon War.”
While the histories fascinated her, Lorika often found herself saddened by the story of her ancestor. Soffra was often painted as a tragic and heroic figure for persevering through war and tragedy at such a young age, carving the legacy of their family for eras to come through stalhrim and blood. But Lorika knew what it was like to be sixteen — and in a sense, she knew what it was to be lonely. But not like Soffra.
The weight of legacy burdened the Ice-Heart descendents for eras, almost as if that girl’s pain echoed through the centuries. Maybe it was too romantic a picture to be true, Lorika thought. History was often trussed up in dalliances of the mind. But sometimes, it made her feel less alone.
“Isn’t it such a brilliant thing?” Raelund asked as he hovered over her. The older Nord man brandished the sword, aiming it toward the sun and letting the crystalline blade catch the sun. Lorika could see him smile through his thickening beard before he retracted the blade to both his palms, and held it out to her. She grasped it, feeling how cold the magic ice was against her palm. The ancient enchantment glowed at their touch, almost as if it was seeking their warmth. Her father stood, correcting her grip on the blade’s hilt, and had her point its end toward the white sun. The rays of light shone through the crystal, and the shadow fell long across her face. The sword was blue, and chartreuse, and gold, and violet, and all the colors of the sky at once it seemed. “To stand in Shuddersbane’s shadow?” Her father finished his statement, his eyes glowing with pride.
The love and excitement in his eyes made Lorika’s heart swell. It was more glorious than the sword to her at that moment. But she turned her face back to the horizon - the tip of the sword gleaming in white. As the stalhrim chilled her hands, she became increasingly aware of what this moment meant for her. It was as if the hundreds of people who wielded this sword were present at this moment.
“You’ll make your oath to our clan on this day,” her father reminded her. “Just as I did. And just as all those before you have done.”
Raelund must have seen the dread in her eyes. He rested his hand on her shoulder, and spoke with grave earnesty. “My dear, I would never wish war on you - or hardship - but in this world, life comes with blood, pain, and sacrifice. I only want you to make the promise that all Ice-Hearts have made, and to wield this blade honorably when the time comes for you to do so.”
“Of course,” Lorika responded heavily. “That promise will be mine.”
“Your life as a woman is beginning,” her father responded. “And I know that you would never forsake our legacy. You are the blood of my blood, my dear, and Ice-Hearts are strong, honorable, and true. But you must begin your journey, because this world will not wait for you to be ready for its challenge. We must temper ourselves in its flame, and when the time is right, I can deem you worthy as our blade’s successor. Today marks the dawn of your legacy. So… repeat after me…”
All these years later, those words echoed when Lorika sat before the fireplace, staring at Shuddersbane as it weighed over the room. While surrounded by happy memories and family memorabilia, she was haunted by the heirloom blade. And all these years later, she still did not wield it.
She was not worthy.
She joined the Companions when she was only twenty years old - the most fitting line of work she could think of to make her father proud. It was pure hell then. Kodlak White-Mane found her to be a promising warrior from the start, but proving herself to the other seniors of her circle was daunting. But no matter the challenge it was, Lorika made it through - knowing her father’s approval would be a far greater trophy than theirs.
As trials and fights and journeys passed, her muscle swelled - her reflexes sharpened - her endurance improved, and she learned the ways of a long bladed sword. Her days at Jorrvaskr nearly always ended in new bruises and scars, and her contracts took her far and wide. She’d beaten and jailed thieves and killers, and hunted mammoths and giants alongside the great warriors of the Circle.
Lorika could say she had the respect of the Companions. Jarls recognized her in many of the Holds of Skyrim now, where many warriors and respected figures could say her name with praise. She worked hard to provide for her family, she studied their histories, she traveled the harsh mountains and deep forests of their ancestral homeland, losing herself in its ruins in a desperate search for more. More knowledge, more additions to her family’s collections, more reputation. And yet, it wasn’t enough. She still did not wield Shuddersbane.
Maybe I’ll never be worthy,
she thought.
But perhaps, one day, I’ll be alright.