So, with Claire and Courtney at my side, I limped into my daddy's mansion. And there, waiting like a gargoyle, stood Lydia. Oh, yes—our lovely, so kind and gracious housecarl, wrapped in duty, gliming with steel, and looking at me as if I had just spat in her mead.

  They put me on a soft bed, in a room with clean linen and suffused with the fragrance of a strange Dunmer incense. Then Courtney and her friend left, and I was left behind—oh, that's what I felt in those confusing moments. I should have been grateful, I know that, yet my body was weak and my mind even weaker—Alduin had scorched me, not with fire but with His presence and will. And above all, Leif, in his boundless wisdom, appointed Lydia as my caretaker. Lydia! The same Lydia who could barely tolerate me breathing the same air. And yet, to her credit, she did not fail: she brought me broth, kept the hearth burning, and bathed my brow like a dutiful sister of mercy. Only, her every kindness was accompanied by a glare sharp enough to pierce steel, and my every word, no matter how sweetly spoken, was taken as an insult. Soon, we were like two cats trapped in one basket—claws out, tails lashing.

  Days passed, and strength returned to my limbs. Yet I did not show it—I claimed to be still very ill. I liked it there—except for Lydia's glowering presence, of course—and I also wished to remain hidden for a while. All that fuss about "the woman who spoke with the Black Dragon" worried me terribly, and I had no desire to draw the authorities' gaze upon myself. Perhaps Danica, who visited me constantly and checked my condition, saw through my little play, but said nothing. Aye, a woman of the utmost discretion she is; yet this is mostly required in her profession, I dare to say.

  Leif, however, grew more and more concerned by my prolonged "illness." He would often come into my room to see me, to take my temperature by hand—though I rather think he simply began to enjoy touching me, especially my hair. Sometimes, I feigned a heavy sleep, and I felt his fingers combing gently through the strands; I liked that... but I was swiftly punished for my felinity. For it brought back memories of the old days, when, hurt and weary, I lay in my small bed from Shaira's house, and Rasha would play with my hair too.

  But Rasha was a matter of the past, I knew that. My beloved brother was as dead as dead could be—slain by my own will, through my firm command, and I strived hard to forget him... or rather, to set him among the dearest relics of my former days, beside the holy icons of Kiersten, Shaira, and Alisanne. Still, memories gnaw at me, and this was a hard thing to endure, for Rasha haunted my thoughts many times each day. And so, trying to get rid of remorse, regrets, and feelings of guilt, in the silence and peace of my chamber in Leif's house, where I was playing the wounded feline, I drifted back and remembered our first days in Skyrim—that time before the Helgen affair was set aflame.

  * * *

  At last, after all the long days spent on the high, barren plateau, we stepped onto the rugged soil of Skyrim. Ah, the tall firs, the biting air, the uncanny stillness—and, above all, the cold! The first nights were hard to endure, the northern versants harsher still; snow fell in cruel veils, the dark pines whispered sad tales in the bitter wind sweeping from the Sea of Ghosts, and every shadow seemed a dangerous beast whose only purpose in life was to eat us. Cicero muttered to his Mother in her coffin, Courtney pretended to be unafraid— yet I knew her heart beat like a trapped bird's. And I? I lied, as always. I talked about the warmth that awaited us in some welcoming inn, about good, abundant food, and about my Mistress watching us—as if She had nothing better to do! But lies are soft, warm blankets for our demoralized followers in such times. Please remember that, my friends, whenever you are in a situation like this!

  The cold affected me and Courtney more than we dared admit; too long had we dwelt in Bravil, beneath the tropical sun, wrapped in the heavy perfumes rising from Her temple. There, warmth and noise were a constant; here, silence and frost were merciless companions.

  The beasts of Skyrim were larger, wilder, and more aggressive than those of Cyrodiil. They prowled everywhere: in the woods, upon the roads, even at the gates of towns. Wolves and bears in particular—oh, the bears here are not like their southern kin! They rule the forests as if by birthright, and they fight savagely for every path and glade. We would have been in grave peril had it not been for Courtney. She had strange ways of taming them, and more than once we sought out a bear only to win for ourselves a furious, lumbering guardian for a while.

  But our new and temporary companion was usually slow and capricious. It did not trail after us like some freshly hired mercenary, but stopped often to sniff at blackberry thickets or to find a suitable tree for marking its domain, so often in fact, that I am certain every bear that ever joined us became a great lord in its world, with vast estates. If only they could patrol and defend them, that is!

  So we had to be patient. And patience taught us something vital: in Skyrim, time flows differently than in Cyrodiil. Life here unfolds at another pace—harsher in one sense, yet strangely more forgiving in another. And in the end, we became content and even lingered, savoring the tall, solemn forests like the naves of a cathedral, the soothing silence, and the pristine air.

  Delightful, yes... but our Keeper soon shrieked that we had duties, that our Mother was displeased with her idle children. I laughed till I wept at that, and for a fleeting moment, even Cicero seemed more normal, as he was breathing the fresh Skyrim air. His blue eyes gleamed with love when they rested on me—though never on Courtney, whom he mistrusted deeply. She ignored him as best she could, and I was their balance, their axis mundi, keeping them from flying apart. Oh, the quarrels! Cicero came often to complain of "the harlot," and I scolded him fiercely, demanding he call her by her name. Courtney. Such a beautiful, melodious name, like the music of her being! He would glare, ugly and silent, and turn away. She, for her part, gave him nothing—no support, no warmth, no attention.

  After a while of merry, near-careless wandering through the fir forests and along the winding roads, we made our last camp together on the outskirts of Helgen. Deep in the weald we hid, for we had spotted many Imperial soldiers about the city gates. At dusk, I crept forth to reckon their strength and judged it to be that of a full cohort—veterans of the Great War, scarred and seasoned. So a cunning stratagem was needed if our Mother's sacred vessel was to pass through their ranks. And that stratagem we found, in the chill and stillness of dawn.

  Then, the Helgen event happened, but my daddy had already composed a thorough and most accurate chronicle of that day, so I shan't cross him. I'll only tell you what followed, after I parted from Lord Ulfric—whom I hadn't the faintest idea was Lord Ulfric—there, on the grassy shores of Lake Ilinalta.

  Well, since the few wolves I met failed to make supper of me, I eventually stumbled into Riverwood late in the afternoon.

  Alone, and without a single copper in my small pockets. Riverwood is something like a small town by Skyrim's measure; more than a village, at any rate, and half-walled—if you can believe such a thing. Yet once you've lived a while in Skyrim, you begin to understand: those walls are built less against men than against beasts of the weald, or the restless dwellers of ancient tombs. Bandits, soldiers—bah, they are not the true menace for Nords! For no man with a sound head would dare assault a seemingly peaceful Nordic settlement; there, women and even children can turn fearsome warriors when the need arises. I myself beheld a little girl, the blacksmith's daughter, loosing arrows at wolves with a bow larger than her own body at the very moment of my arrival!

  Oh, but you may think an Imperial regiment might sweep such places aside with ease. Wrong, my friends—utterly wrong. Regiments must first drag themselves along Skyrim's winding roads, and word of their coming spreads long before they arrive. Thus, the earl's war-band has all the time in the world to prepare an ambush: the legion caught in narrow ravines, arrows and stones raining from the cliffs, and what remains but a heap of corpses and twisted steel... And besides, many in those ranks are Nords themselves, and their hearts beat not wholly for the Empire. That much I know now, and their generals know it too.

  Even in the so-called "loyal" holds, Imperial commanders must respectfully ask an earl's consent before they may deploy troops—even for mere training maneuvers. Usually, the "loyal" earls grant permission after some whims and pretenses, and will even send along a "guide" as a token of their boundless benevolence. This "guide," however, is nothing of the kind; rather, he is an observer—or, to be plain, a spy. He watches closely how the legion marches, drills, cooks its food, and how many healers and priests it keeps. Then he reports back to his earl, who may, if it suits him, pass such intelligence on to a "disloyal" neighbor.

  Now, what is an earl in these northern realms? To speak in terms more familiar to Imperial citizens: he is more than a count, less than a duke—yet, in truth, something of a king in his own right, so long as Skyrim has no High King (or High Queen, for that matter). And at the time of my arrival, Skyrim had no such sovereign at all.

  Well, I could not even imagine all those great and grave matters that plagued Skyrim, not on that peaceful evening when I first came to Riverwood. My thoughts were simple: to find Whiterun, that big town where I was to meet Courtney and Cicero. And where dwelt a rich and very well-connected fence named Leif, of whom I had heard so many wondrous tales among the thieves of Bravil.

  From the very beginning, I was struck by the strange order and quiet diligence that ruled over this small settlement named Riverwood. Everyone seemed so terribly busy, working with zeal and with a careful skill I had never seen in the southern lands. The fields were neat, the rows straight, the tools sharp and well kept; even as dusk was falling, people, mostly women, still toiled with tireless resolve, just like bees in a hive! I felt like some lazy good-for-nothing from the South, stumbling into a place where every hand, every breath, was weighed and measured by work. Oh, even the children lent their hands, and they worked with the same earnest gravity as their mothers, as if the fate of the whole village rested upon their shoulders!

  Among the small gardens lay a smithy and a mill. Not a grain mill, no—but one that cut logs! There was also a general store, kept by an Imperial miser, always snapping at and quarreling with his sister, Camilla. In time, I must speak more about these two. But for now, let me only tell you of the local inn, owned by an old harpy named Delphine.

  This tavern was truly peculiar: as a patron, you were not allowed to make noise—only the bard could do that! His name was Sven, an infatuated, noisy young man who thought himself irresistible. Ah, these bards of the icy realm of Skyrim! A strange lot indeed. Apart from their usual repertoire of old ballads and drinking songs, they laced their music with politics in the oddest way. One moment, they sang of the Empire's eternal glory, and the next, they praised Lord Ulfric as if he were already High King! They shouted rebellion into the rafters, then urged loyalty to the Emperor without even a pause between. Madness! But I did not have much time to witness this folly that evening.

  For no sooner had I perched myself upon a stool than a grim, middle-aged witch stalked over and demanded to know what I wanted. I told her, sweetly enough, that I was merely resting a bit. At which she snapped that "resting costs money" in her tavern. We began to quarrel, and I was ready to keep at it until morning—for I had decided I would sit there as long as I pleased—when in walked a tall, broad man named Hod, the miller, one of Riverwood's notabilities.

  Another curious thing about these northern folk: they have no mayor, no shire-reeve, none of that. They rule themselves and, when counsel is needed, they turn to their prominent craftsmen—like Hod here—for guidance. Strange, but oddly effective.

  Hod came to us and, after listening for a while to our screams and insults, placed his hulking hand firmly on one of Delphine's shoulders and said:

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "Delphine, it seems you have yet to learn our ways, though you lived here among us for years! This fayre maiden is a traveller, weary and surely hungry; for that, she has the right to our sacred hospitality, long upheld by our ancestors since the old times! So, please, let her be and attend to your affairs—the patrons are arriving!"

  Then, turning to me, "My lady, if you wish, you may find shelter in my home; it is always open to newcomers and pilgrims."

  I took a long, careful look at him and saw a big, muscular man, golden-haired, like myself, with honest, sky-blue eyes. He was a simple soul, I read it instantly in his gaze, and I didn't want to pry deeper into his mind. What I saw was enough for now; it reminded me that I had been alone for a long time, so when he asked if I would like a drink before we left, I eagerly accepted an ale. Only that the Nordic brew was far too strong, and came served in pints; so, after gulping down half of it, I candidly asked Delphine if rats had taken to pissing in her barrels—ah, only a joke, for the ale was divine: thick, bitter, and wonderfully nourishing!

  The hag merely smiled, mockingly, and looked away. Curious, because a sudden hush had fallen over the hall, I turned to see everyone staring at me. Astonishment, and perhaps a hint of pity, shone in their eyes. I understood that I had crossed a line, mayhap a dangerous one, and they were offended by my harmless jest. In Bravil, nobody would have minded such antics! Only Bravil was far away, and those Nords were clearly a breed apart.

  Yet Hod was a gentle man, and after chuckling softly, he drained his vodka and simply asked:

  "Shall we take our leave, my lady?"

  I gladly accepted his offer, and together we stepped into the starry night, leaving behind all those stern faces. Oh, let them glare as long as they please at that dreadful, ugly harpy behind the counter!

  To my disappointment, I soon discovered that Hod was married; his wife was a tall, severe woman named Gerdur. They had a son—a restless brat—forever boasting of his silly pranks and proudly dragging into the house a flea-ridden cur that instantly started to bark at me. Ah, how I longed to give that mangy beast a good punch! But I restrained myself and smiled sweetly, for the parents—and especially Hod—looked utterly enchanted by their son's idiotic antics.

  Gerdur, though, proved to be a remarkable woman. She was, in truth, a figure to be admired, though in a rather unsettling way. She struck me as a Valkyrie—broad-shouldered, fair-haired, with the air of one born to command. Only instead of bearing a spear and shield, she carried ledgers and wax tablets, keeping strict account of the villagers' dues. In that office, Gerdur was well acquainted with Earl Balgruf, who ruled the hold from his capital city, Whiterun. A strange transformation indeed: the seemingly warrior-maid of legend turned into a domestic steward, ruling not from a hall of heroes but from her timber house, with chickens pecking about the yard. I confess, from my southern eyes, it was bewildering to see such strength bound to domestic cares. In Bravil, women of her stature would have sought Her Temple or courts, striding in robes and jewels, not splitting firewood or bargaining over taxes of grain and hides. And yet—there was a dignity about her, a quiet assurance that no velvet gown could ever match. If only she had applied the same iron hand to her brat of a son!

  They invited me to dine with them, so we sat down at the table, while the mutt stumbled ceaselessly beneath it, brushing against our legs and from time to time shoving his foul muzzle toward our plates. The food itself was hearty and quite tasty, though rather strange to me; the spices I had grown accustomed to in Bravil were nowhere to be found. Still, hunger knows no refinement, and I ate with good appetite.

  Afterward, Hod brought up from the cellar a big earthen jar of ale. Yet I declined, for Delphine's strong brew already made my head spin, and my body has never borne alcohol with grace. So I simply lingered with them, telling in passing that I journeyed to Whiterun to meet an old acquaintance. They pressed me no further, only remarked that Whiterun lay very near and that the road was safe. Hod even offered to send Frodnar as my guide in the morning—but as the brat was insufferable, and I guessed the mutt would follow as well, I refused with polite firmness. Then they gave me the boy's room for the night, while the three of them lay down together in the common hall.

  After midnight, the mutt's yapping awoke me. The clamor soon turned into a pitiful whine—music to my ears, I confess. Yet then came whispers, low voices threading through the night air. And amidst them, clear as a bell, I heard the unsettling words: "My king." Spoken with great reverence!

  That really worried me! Once again, I was about to be mixed in the dirty, foul-smelling affairs of the nobility! And I didn't even guess the hard truth behind, because there were many more complicated matters: rebellion, treason, and so on... Anyway, I lay still as a stone, scarcely daring to breathe, and when Gerdur's heavy steps came to my door and she peered inside, I feigned the sleep of the innocent.

  I waited, holding my breath, till the creaks of the old house settled into silence and the snores of its dwellers rose. Then I slipped from the bed, bare feet soft on the floorboards, and went to see what secrets the night brought.

  In the common room, by the dim glow of embers, I saw a sight most curious. In the big bed lay the gagged man from Helgen—the very one I had unbound in that cursed scorched yard. His chest rose and fell, calm, and Hod, the golden-haired giant, lay across the threshold like a faithful hound, his axe resting on the boards beside him. Yet of Gerdur and the brat there was no sign; they had melted into the shadows of the night, perchance to confer with ghosts or gods.

  I stood a while, watching. My hand even reached toward the gagged man's hair, as I wondered what strange tale I had stumbled into. But then the mutt growled from under the table, and I thought it better to return to my room, and there I fell into uneasy sleep.

  Morning came sharp and cold. I wished to vanish quietly, but fate, that cruel mistress, had other plans. The former gagged man was now awake, seated at the table, and drinking milk from a big jar. The family was busy around him, bringing food and taking care of all his wishes. The man greeted me with steady eyes—blue-grey, like storm clouds over the sea, and he spoke with a weight I did not like:

  "This is she who freed me at Helgen. Without her hand, I would not stand here. Remember her face, for she is a friend to us all."

  The words fell heavy upon Gerdur and Hod, and they nodded as though before a thane. Then he turned to Gerdur:

  "Fetch parchment. I shall grant her right of passage to Windhelm and to the Palace of Kings. Day or night, she shall be welcome at my door."

  I nearly laughed—what need had I for palaces? I just ran away, as far as possible from one's gates! Still, I kept my tongue, and when the seal was pressed and the parchment placed in my hands, I curtsied low and smiled sweetly, masking my intent to leave them all behind as swiftly as my legs would carry me. For Ulfric—though I did not yet know his name—waited for his warriors, and I had no wish to linger near such a violent man!

  So, after enduring the firm handshake of Ulfric and Hod's deep bows, I slipped away down the road to Whiterun, with the rising sun painting the mountains pale gold. My heart grew light until I stumbled upon the strangest sight yet: three hotheads, locked in combat with a towering giant.

  That giant was the first I ever saw in my life; the creature was magnificent—taller than two men, with limbs like tree trunks and skin weathered by sun and storm. He carried no malice that I could see, only the indifference of a peaceful being tending his herd of mammoths. Yet the reckless fools had fallen upon him like hounds on a stag, their blades flashing, their cries filling the air, and arrows flying everywhere.

  I stood aside, arms folded, watching. The giant swung his club, sending one of them sprawling in the dirt, but he did not pursue; he simply roared and turned back to his grazing beasts. Only when harried did he strike again. I was amazed by what I saw as madness, and kept watching the fight.

  When the dust settled, one of the warriors—a red-haired woman with wolf's eyes—rounded on me.

  "You stood idle while we fought! Have you no courage? Are you the usual milk drinker?" she spat.

  I laughed in her face. "Courage? To meddle in a fight I had no part in? Nay, what I saw was three fools tormenting a creature that wished only to be left in peace. If that is bravery, then may cowardice be my crown!"

  Her lips curled with fury, and I was sure she would strike me. But I turned my back on her, for I was weary of loud warriors and their empty pride. And I knew that her spirit of "honor" would stop her from attacking me from behind. 'Such fools!' I thought! 'That is the best moment to kill someone!' and I chuckled. I liked her fire, though, and when she called me, I turned back.

  "You are not a coward, since you dared to turn your back on me..." she said, puzzled. Her eyes had softened now, and I saw that she was beautiful—rugged, yes, but with a kind of wild allure that stirred something in me. Above all, her flame-red hair tempted me. I've always liked gingers, perchance because I'd met so few before coming to Skyrim.

  "No, I'm not," I replied. "I am merely a foreigner—and, at heart, a rather peaceful creature."

  "So, perchance you would not mind a friendly brawl right now?" she pressed, eager, with that particular sparkle I would later learn to recognize in Nords whenever they smelled a fight.

  Ah, that did it! I burst into laughter so hard I thought I'd faint right there, before the three hotheads staring at me in amazement.

  The redhead's face darkened with anger, but the man, a dark-haired fellow, cut in with an even voice: "Aela, let her be! You are thrice her weight. Or do you hunt weaker prey these days?"

  The word prey amused me—how could a predator such as I ever be prey? Yet there was something about both him and the ginger that gave me pause, a raw strength and a strange aura I could not dismiss. I needed to know more.

  She continued to glance at me sideways, like a wolf, refusing my gaze, but the man—he was honest, unguarded. His eyes met mine, and in that instant, I slid, unseen, into the folds of his mind. His will wrapped softly within mine, pliant as wax under warm fingers. What I saw there unsettled me, and suddenly I wished to cease our quarrel and learn far more about these two.

  So, with his thoughts gently chained to my own, I said aloud, all innocence: "I'm not looking for trouble, you know..."

  "Aela wants only to befriend you; she likes you, lady!" the man said with a broad smile. "Usually, she doesn't speak this much—not with strangers, anyway."

  "Farkas, you are such an idiot!" Aela snapped. But in that fleeting moment, her guard faltered—and I slipped into her mind with ease.

  Ah, what a vision greeted me there! Wild, untamed, proud beyond measure—she was a magnificent beast in her very soul, fierce and glorious in her raw nature.

  "Look, girl, mayhap the idiot is you! Why fight, when we could share an ale in town?" I said sweetly, though my true voice was painting inside her thoughts.

  Her eyes flashed with fury, but I had her now. And so I wove for her a scene she could not resist: beneath the ghostly light of Secunda, a black panther—slender, sleek, muscles rippling with grace—ran side by side with a massive she-wolf. The panther's amber eyes gleamed, the wolf's gaze burned red as coals. They circled, sniffed, played in the tall grass, a dance of tooth and claw yet full of joy. Then they dashed together beneath the star-vaulted sky, the wolf's howl echoing like a hymn until the coming dawn.

  I laid these visions before her mind's eye and waited, smiling softly, alluringly. Aela trembled, rage and desire warring within her, until at last she yielded—as all do, when faced with such a bond. Slowly, almost against her will, she extended her hand.

  "I'm Aela. The Huntress. And you?"

  "Elsie. Just Elsie," I said, taking her hand in mine.

  And that was all. Farkas came to me, shook my hand, and said, "I'm Farkas, Aela's... brother. And the other one is Ria, our little sister-to-be."

  Then we entered together through the Whiterun's gates, the guards saluting with great respect Aela and Farkas, the werewolves... Ah, so that's how I met them!

  We drank some ale at the Drunken Huntsman, where I stumbled upon Courtney. After spending the night in her room, the next morning, I finally met Leif in the city—just as I had planned from the very beginning.

  * * *

  With Lydia always hanging around and grumbling in the background, I soon grew tired of the charade, so one sunny day, I finally dragged myself out of bed. Oh, Leif was delighted to see me walking about the house like a proper lady when he returned from his errands! But I did not reward his joy; instead, I put on the mask of the na?ve, frightened girl. Toward Lydia, especially, I played meek, even fearful. And, like a hound sniffing out weakness, she instantly turned impertinent—hinting more and more openly that perhaps a certain guest had overstayed her welcome.

  After a few days, when Lydia was not around, I went to Leif. I thanked him with all the warmth I could muster and told him I was leaving, not wishing to disturb the peace of his house any longer. Immediately, he took my hand, eyes bright, and said the earl was still looking for me, so it would be safer—wiser—for me to stay. I feigned reluctance, protested a little, and let him coax me with gentle words. And only then, after a few more theatrical hesitations, I began to bargain, always shy on the outside, yet calculating within.

  "All right, Ser Leif. Let's settle accounts: those five thousand septims I owe you. I shall pay them. Here and now. I offer myself, body and soul, as your daughter of choice. That is the only coin I possess."

  He stared at me—first bewildered, then amused, and at last moved. I smiled. Sweetly. Like a little thief at prayer in church.

  "But Lydia goes. Back to the earl's barracks, where she belongs. I don't want to see her anymore. At least, not for a while. In her place, you shall take Courtney, my friend. She is loyal, fearless, and far less likely to gut me in my sleep. That is my bargain. Take it, Daddy, or let me wither away and haunt your dreams."

  And oh, how he sighed! But he agreed—for who can resist a na?ve girl's plea, wrapped in velvet words and nightshade smiles?

  Thus, I became Elsie Leifsdotter—daughter of choice, heir to nothing, claimant to everything. And ere long, I slipped like quicksilver through the streets of Whiterun, eager to pluck the secrets the city kept hidden from careless eyes.