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Dawn
The sunrise beamed gold across the plains of Whiterun hold. Towering Dragonsreach and its vast wood walls met it first, but there were many eyes waiting for the coming day. Farmers stirred from sleep while the dark still blanketed the cold lands of Skyrim. Old Heimskr had risen before even them and preached to the stars, distant and departed though they were from this world.
But it was quiet in the long hall of Jorrvaskr. Its warriors slept, worn from war and drink and revelry. Even its new Harbinger had not managed to rise just yet. All slept, save for Tilma. Haggard, they called her. Most of the pups didn’t know her story, not that she cared to tell it. She listened more than spoke, these days.
Right now she listened to the quiet. The stifled, drunken snores. The content sighs of Jorrvaskr itself as its hefty walls settled. If she listened closely, she could just barely hear the low rumblings of the Skyforge. Eorlund Gray-Mane did not rise as early as Tilma herself, but the man was getting old. Not like Tilma. She was already old. She felt she had always been old.
A door opened somewhere below deck. Tilma cocked her head and lingered, broom frozen mid-sweep. Footsteps on the stairs— creak, creak, creak —signaled to Tilma that today was unusual. She had not expected to see anyone so early.
It was young Ria, still buckling on a thin cloak of fur. The wolf’s fur hung awkwardly from the girl’s shoulders and Tilma couldn’t help but stare at it. Tilma caught Ria’s eye. “Oh, good morning, Tilma. Have you been up longer?” Ria said, smile wide and eager.
“Oh, not so long, dear,” Tilma said, still eying the girl’s tilted cloak. “What assignment has you leaving the hall so early? You haven’t even eaten.”
“Reports of a troll in Cold Rock Pass. I’ll be meeting a local guide before noon.”
“A troll? My, how fearsome. Is it safe to go without one of your Shield-Siblings?”
“I’ll be fine, Tilma. The court wizard supplied me with a couple of poisons that should wear it down.”
“Don’t forget fire. Oh, but do be safe, dear.”
Ria smiled. “Of course, Tilma. I’ll be back in a few days.”
Tilma nodded as the girl stepped away, poorly-hung cloak billowing as the door opened to the cold air. “Hold one moment, dear,” Tilma said, following Ria’s steps. Ria had stopped and turned, curious. Tilma straightened the cloak and redid the lace. Stepping back, she eyed her handiwork. The cloak hung steady now. Ria gave one last smile and stepped out into the cold morning.
Morning
The hall felt with a steady trickle, but already the sparks of conflict rose and fell. Morning was not peaceful in Jorrvaskr. So few greeted the morning in the same manner. Many awoke, tired and with great reluctance. Some awoke with eagerness, like Ria not hours ago. Others awoke with frayed tempers and often clashed with the former groups.
All gave a greeting to Tilma. Aela, despite her rank among the Companions, often helped Tilma in her duties, despite her insistence to do otherwise. But Tilma appreciated the woman’s company. Aela, the Huntress they called her, was one of the few that knew Tilma’s story, though they seldom spoke of it. No, they each preferred the silence, or rather, what passed for silence in the late morning of Jorrvaskr Hall. But sometimes, voices must be heard.
“The Dragonborn sent us a message,” Aela said. Plates clinked together where she set them for Tilma to clean.
“How nice. It’s been some time since he visited us, hasn’t it? I recall you two taking a liking to each other.”
Aela smiled, eyebrows raised. A rather strong liking then, Tilma thought with a chuckle. “Sadly not the manner of his message and I believe he’s spoken for these days,” Aela said. She took a seat on an old bench facing where Tilma sat. “We’ll be hunting a dragon. A rather fierce one, by his letter.”
“I wouldn’t think the Dragonborn would need help slaying dragons.”
“He doesn’t, but he wants to teach people throughout Skyrim how to defend against dragon attacks. He’s starting with those he trusts and thinks are capable.”
“High praise from a man like him.” Aela said nothing. Tilma scrubbed at a particularly resilient stain. “Didn’t you challenge him to a duel once?”
“I did.”
“What was the result? I don’t believe I ever heard.”
“I believe we both won,” Aela said after a moment of thought.
Tilma looked up to see the mischievous glint in the Huntress’s eye. “Mind in the gutters, girl, just like your mother.”
“My restraint is legendary. You have a tumble with the Dragonborn, I believe you’re entitled to shout it from the Throat of the World.” Aela shrugged. “But he likes his privacy.”
“I’m sure he appreciates your… restraint .”
Aela smiled. “Now whose mind is in the gutter, old hag?”
“What’s that, did I say something crass? Oh, I’d never.” Tilma had never been good at lying. In truth, she’d never found it worth the effort. Sarcasm suited her much better.
“Well,” Aela said, standing, “I should be off. The dragon is somewhere in the Reach. Hardly a short walk.”
Tilma bid her off, finding no need to readjust her cloak or armor—what passed for her armor, rather. Tilma did, however, check her bow out of habit. One didn’t forget decades’ old tradition, especially when one was meeting the Dragonborn. Satisfied with the bow’s flexibility and strength, Tilma watched Aela the Huntress disappear around the corner, the sun slowly reaching its apex.
Noon
Tilma the Haggard worked through the morning. The Companions trickled out, deployed on various jobs of varying import. Some she sent off with few words, others a great deal more words. But none left with Tilma silent. Silence only returned to Jorrvaskr when the doors closed on the last departing Shield-Sibling.
Tilma cleaned the last plate—finally vanquishing that stubborn stain, made sure the weapon racks weren’t harboring any weapons of poorer quality, and delivered a late breakfast to Eorlund by the Skyforge. The old bear of a man took it with a grunt of gratitude and ate it with one hand, the other pumping the bellows of the forge.
Finally, Tilma found a moment of solitude, bereft of responsibilities for the time being. Blanket under one arm, she went out into the cold. There was a patch of grass at the base of the stairs leading up to the Skyforge. The spot was shielded from most of the sea-swept air, but what little breeze did sweep through carried the comforting heat of the Skyforge. The low wall even blocked sight from the street so few would see the Companions’ servant sleeping out in the grass.
She settled onto her blanket and drifted off into memory. At Tilma’s age, it would be easy to drown in memories. Of so-called better days. Tilma never thought like that. True, she had fond memories.
There was Aela’s own mother, Hrotti, named for their ancient ancestor. Disease took her while Aela was still young, but Tilma and her got along well, though the Harbinger of the time may have said otherwise. He saw their brawls and their rivalry. Their fiery arguments of who could kill the most bears while out in the Rift—Tilma was the answer—or who could shoot the furthest target in a storm—Hrotti, in this case.
What the Harbinger didn’t see were their quiet conversations in the night, of Tilma fearing how she’d be remembered or Hrotti confiding in Tilma of her pregnancy. He didn’t see Tilma promise on the Nine Divines, on the old totems, on any God that cared to listen that Tilma would see her child happy and free. More free than the wind, Tilma said. Hrotti smiled at that.
Tilma remembered her most dangerous assignment so many decades ago. A powerful draugr escaped from its tomb, wandering the countryside with a roving band of its undead servants. Tilma was not alone and truthfully was not all too integral to the job, though she carried her weight. What she remembered most was a man she met. Sifnar.
Sifnar was quiet and dismissive, a fine Nord that had taken up his own defense of the land and set out with the Companions. She could only imagine what he was like now, if he still lived. But Tilma and he found their ways into each other’s arms on the road. Battle and death had a way of intensifying elements of love and life. Intensity born of contrast. Tilma certainly did not complain in those days. Sifnar’s warmth amid the cold night air was another contrast a young woman could appreciate.
These were mere memories, felt through dreams that could be shattered by a whisper. But they are not dreams themselves. They would not be so easily dismissed. They lived on, in a way, through Tilma herself and Tilma herself wasn’t going anywhere.
Except perhaps inside, for Eorlund just quenched the forge for cleaning and the wind would grow cold soon.
Evening
A few Shield-Siblings returned in time for supper, those on local jobs no doubt. Others, such as Ria or Aela, would not return for some time. But Tilma could not let such thoughts distract her. A hearty meal was in order. No true feast, too many Shield-Siblings were away, but a proper, Nordic meal at least.
Njada had brought down an elk during her archery training. The girl was good with her fists, better with a shield. But not just anyone could fight a giant or a mammoth with shield and axe, even made of Skyforge steel.
The venison sizzled in the hot pan. As a reward for killing the beast, Njada didn’t have to help with its preparation, but she stuck close to the cooking. Mainly to jeer at the man forced to help Tilma, the dark elf Athis. He and Njada often found something to fight.
“Try not to burn my elk, Athis,” Njada would say.
Tilma hummed to herself. Rivalries within the Companions were healthy. Stendarr knows she had scores of rivals in her youth. Some became life-long friends, others simply dwindled into detached tolerance. She supposed there were a few that went too far, but even those found their end, one way or another.
There was the sound of bodies hitting the stone floor, but Tilma didn’t look. She eyed the bubbling stew. By its scent, the flavors were ready. It simply needed a few more minutes. Finally, she turned to watch as Athis, cooking duties complete, had tackled Njada to the ground, where they now wrestled for control. Tilma didn’t hear what insult finally set the man off, but more likely he was simply waiting for his chance.
Most of the Companions shouted encouragement, but Tilma herself watched quietly as Njada gained control and landed two solid blows on Athis’s ribs. To the man’s credit, he didn’t yield yet.
A flash of red across the room. Tilma cocked her, gaze hovering in that direction. Aela wouldn’t be back soon, she thought. Simmering stew forgotten, Tilma strode across the room. Almost through a haze, she saw a red-haired woman at the top of the steps. The woman looked very much like their beloved Huntress, but she was shorter and… older.
“Hrotti?” Tilma said. If anyone around her had heard, they didn’t react. Or perhaps Tilma simply didn’t notice as she followed the specter of her old friend down into the basement level.
Tilma threw open the double doors at the bottom of the steps, almost startling herself with the force she applied. She caught only a glimpse of Hrotti as she entered the Circle quarters. Tilma followed, sensing rather than seeing Hrotti enter Aela’s quarters.
The Huntress kept her quarters neat, an easy task given how little she owned. Hrotti herself was, of course, nowhere to be seen, but hung at level was her friend’s old shield. Battered, beaten but strong. It hung at eye level in a glass case. Tilma saw herself in the reflection. But the Tilma she saw was different. Younger, fiercer. A fighter.
Next to the shield of her lost friend, the reflection looked right.
But it wasn’t. As Tilma stepped closer, the illusion faded. Weathered, worn, and wrinkled. That was Tilma. She has more days in her past than in her future. Far more, in truth. But could she complain? Had she wasted days or even years? Certainly. Yet if the wearing on this shield were proof of its quality, then she supposed she could endure a few wrinkles and aching joints.
“That stew is probably ready by now,” Tilma said, looking down at the shield. “I’ll see you in Sovngarde one day, sister.”
Tilma left the shield behind her and ascended the steps to the sound of brawling.
Sunset
Njada had won her bout shortly before dinner, which did not surprise Tilma. She wasn’t expecting to see so strong a bruise on the side of the girl’s face. Athis, in spite of his loss, had landed a heavy blow. Tilma would bet he still had more bruises by the end, but they were hard to see at a glance on his dark gray skin. Perhaps that would serve as some sort of moral victory for the next few days.
Tilma cleaned the dining area after dinner along with Vignar’s servant, a man named Brill. Tilma was tired and not in the mood to talk, so they worked in silence till it was done. Or so the plan went until the doors opened.
A woman well into her middle-ages, perhaps the oldest woman in Jorrvaskr aside from Tilma, though still shy several decades. Faded blonde hair, like fresh hay-straw, fell to her shoulders. She wore a bulky cuirass of Skyforge sheet, pauldrons and neck-guard fashioned into wolf heads, and at her side was a large, thick-headed mace.
“Harbinger,” Tilma said, lowering the last set of dishes into the soapy water at her feet. “I hadn’t seen you all day. I was beginning to worry.”
The Harbinger, whose true name was Betna War-Anvil, nodded with a deep sigh. “I’ve been out for most of it. Believe I slipped out just before you woke up.”
Tilma blinked. No one ever woke up before she did. “Well, where have you been?”
Betna beckoned for Tilma to follow, though she wasn’t done with duties. But Brill gave her a nod. There was little left to be done, so Tilma followed the Harbinger through the halls and out of the front of Jorrvaskr. The air was especially cold now.
“Come,” Betna said. “We’ll talk by the Skyforge. It’ll be warm and Eorlund is done for the day.”
Tilma followed without a word. She had no idea what Betna wanted, but she respected the younger woman. Betna was not the greatest warrior among the Companions nor even its greatest tactical mind, but the woman had faced great tragedies. Her son had joined the Stormcloaks and died in battle against the Imperial Legion. From what little Betna spoke of her past, she was a former legionnaire during the Great War and saw many friends fall.
When Kodlak Whitemane had named her the Harbinger, none of the Circle spoke out against it. Because the Harbinger didn’t need to be the strongest of arm or quickest with the blade. They needed to be the strongest of heart. They needed to be able to unite when the storm fell with no end in sight.
The Skyforge platform was hot, even in the early night. The forge was never fully dead. It was always burned and during the night, it merely rested. From here, one could see across the eastern plains of Whiterun hold, towered over by the Throat of the World where many moons ago the Greybeards called the Dragonborn to attendance.
Betna stood at the eastern edge. “Tilma, I’m afraid I’ve inherited the same fearful thoughts that plagued Whitemane at the end of his life.”
“Ah, death? Or rather, what comes after?”
Betna nodded. “He is in Sovngarde now. The Dragonborn himself told me he saw Whitemane approaching Shor’s Hall when he battled the World-Eater.”
“But you still hold the wolf’s blood. You will not see Sovngarde unless you rid yourself of it, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. Truthfully, I did not feel worthy of Sovngarde before I accepted lycanthropy,” Betna said. Tilma blinked at that. “But I want to be. I am unsure of my son’s path of life, but I know he died a true Nord. I know he died worthy of Sovngarde and I want to see him again.”
“Then cure yourself and you’ll see him one day.”
“And if my fears are true—if I have been unworthy all along? What fate awaits one that no longer holds the wolf’s blood but has no place in Sovngarde?”
“I think you’re asking some rather impossible questions, dear. Your Shield-Siblings believe you worthy to lead them. I believe that is a stronger reassurance than any I could give.”
Betna said nothing for a time. The winds were strong this high up, but neither woman budged. Finally, the Harbinger spoke. “It feels strange,” she said, “to know I’ll leave this world behind one day.”
“You won’t. Not entirely.” Betna turned. “Oh, we’ll be gone, I suppose, but there will be signs that we lived. People that remember us, bones in the field, things that changed because of us.”
“But none of that will last forever. People are forgotten.”
“Hrotti.”
Betna raised an eyebrow. “Who is Hrotti?”
“A friend. Aela’s mother. She is long dead, but I remember her and now so do you.”
“That’s not the same. It’s only a name. I did not know her.”
“And do we know the names of the whales whose bones rest in the fields of Skyrim? Are bones not worthy of respect because we did not know them in life? Are names not worthy because we don't know the person behind it?”
“I don’t know…”
“Do you need the answer tonight? Or tomorrow? I think you’ll have the answer.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t. We’ll call that a bit of faith.”
“Unlike everything else you’ve said.”
“Exactly. Everything I’ve said before was the purest truth.”
Betna smiled. “I shouldn’t keep you from your duties.”
“These are my duties, Harbinger.” Tilma yawned. “But I should make sure Brill did those last few dishes properly.”
“Allow me. You can take a moment to rest,” Betna said, walking ahead of Tilma. “It will take me back to before all this.”
Tilma accepted that. It was easy to forget that their Harbinger was a mother and farmer not long ago. Strange times, but what times aren’t? Tilma lingered by the Skyforge only a little while longer before heading for Jorrvaskr again.
Twilight
Jorrvaskr was quiet again. Some nights, Jorrvaskr was alive and rowdy into the deep night, but there was no great cause for celebration, so its denizens, its vaunted warriors, slept early. Tilma walked the quiet halls alone, feeling the slumbering of Jorrvaskr in her own tired bones.
“You’ve been waiting to speak all day, haven’t you, old friend?” she said, placing a wrinkled hand on a pillar near the door. “What the Harbinger said was true. Men forget. There are many Companions whose names did not go into legend, whose names are not known.
“But you remember them, don’t you? And when you are gone, the land will remember you. On and on, this will pass. I suppose none of us can see where that ends. Unless you’ve been holding out on me…?”
The roof creaked under the wind and rain began to platter against its wooden hull. “Thank you for sheltering us, Jorrvaskr,” she said, patting the old pillar once and heading for her own bed. “Don’t forget to get some sleep yourself.”
And the hall was empty, save for all the memories of those that had walked it, had drank and eaten within its wall, memories it would hold for as long as it stood