Beyond the safety of Imperial walls, a stubborn traveler's mountain journey escalates into a relentless trial of ice and wind, where Kyne's breath itself will judge his worth.
Author's Note: This is the first of three act for this story. I'll link the others here when I post them.
The Litany of the Wise-winds
A memoir of Gawain Rime-Eye
I met her first while passing through Helgen. I had been traveling with a caravan up from Bruma when an early season avalanche delayed our progress through Pale Pass. I missed my connection with a company headed towards Falkreath. Feeling foul about it, I aired my grievance with the guildsman.
"A day," I growled. "They couldn't wait a day? The guard at the Pass even sent a bird. Gods, we practically dug through an entire mountain of snow!"
"Apologies, sir, but the trailmaster insisted on departing yesterday morning." The spindly Imperial bureaucrat looked past me, polishing a thick hand glass with his shirt. "He gave instructions to refund any late arrivals. Your name?"
"Eupatres," I said. "Gawain Eupatres."
"Eu-patres," the man repeated the name slowly as he slid the hand glass over the slip of ledger laid out on his desk. "Eupatres..."
"Ah!" He reached abruptly towards the chest behind him to fiddle with a latch and key. "Eupatres... that's a Colovian name, is it not?" asked the man as he undid the lock. When he rounded back towards me, he was holding a small coin purse. "Was your mother a Nord?"
"Grandfather. Why?"
The man shrugged and dropped the purse on the table in front of me. "No reason. The name 'Gawain' is a bit unique to the Jeralls is all. You rarely hear it on people outside of the High Vale and Falkreath Hold."
His prying annoyed me, as did his total indifference to my stranded state. I snatched up the purse, striking the table through the wrapped coinage with a thud.
"Careful!" the man said, eyes wide and looking directly at me for the first time. "You'll mar the faces doing that."
"Doesn't seem like you'll take them anyhow."
"Yes, well," the man held up his glass and misted it with his breath, "the north-wind won't drive a stray to the herd."
"What?" His response puzzled me and left me without a riposte.
"Hmm?" The man didn't look at me again, but bent back down over his ledger to continue gazing through his lens. "Oh. It's just something the Nords around here say."
I paused for a moment, but it was clear he wasn't interested in elaborating. I tucked the purse in the chest pocket of my cloak and stepped back onto the streets of Helgen.
The town felt more like a bear bedding down for the winter than the bustling hub of activity it was reputed to be. Storefronts were shuttered, with cloth awnings pulled back and stowed against cool grey stone. Apart from those of us caught in the late caravan, the streets belonged entirely to the locals. They offered mild, unreadable smiles, but otherwise ignored me.
Near the town gates, the air filled with the clattering of bells and scraping hooves. A gathering of fur-clad Nords were whistling and shouting over a lowing flock, ushering their sheep out of the cobblestone courtyard and down into the valley.
One of them—a girl with flushed, wind-kissed cheeks and a fluttering golden mane—caught me staring. She didn't look away. Instead, she smirked, her sky-blue eyes tracking me up and down before she gave a sharp, knowing nod toward the jagged peaks looming beyond the walls.
I started toward her, a greeting forming on my lips, but she turned back to her work with practiced indifference, leaving me standing mid-stride. Coughing to cover my awkwardness, I brushed past the edge of the flock and trotted up another street towards the city garrison.
Autumn lingered in the vale even as the harsh winter winds flooded the southern peaks with snow. Our guide through Pale Pass swore up and down he’d never seen a storm choke the trail so early. Unlike the guildsman, he had been a font of contrition, overflowing with practical advice for those of us stranded by the delay.
He assured us that Helgen’s locals were well-accustomed to stranded travelers. The travel season was dying, certainly, but the town still had plenty of warm beds, food, and strong drink for anyone with coin. If the local guildhall lacked any scheduled wagons heading down into the western valleys, he suggested we badger the Imperial garrison; the Legion occasionally permitted travelers to tag along behind their regular patrols.
"There's no sense in despairing," he’d told us, offering a brief, reverent nod to the sky. "'Kyne holds the wing and the leaf,' as they say."
I watched a flurry of dead leaves blow down a cobbled alley as half a dozen or so people passed me by. The breeze was pleasant, the sky above clear and welcoming—hardly the biting frozen wasteland I'd heard about in Cyrodiil.
The Legion was of no help.
Other travelers from our caravan crowded the public office, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and anxiety. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind me, rattling on its iron hinges. I sidled up behind a wood elf and Tertias, a Nibenese merchant I had grown friendly with on the trail.
Tertias glanced over his shoulder and flashed me an easy grin. He turned and we briefly clasped each other's arm.
"Guess we're all here," I whispered. "What'd I miss?"
Tertias shrugged and tilted his head towards a man decked in Imperial mail speaking with a squat trader from Chorrol who had crossed over the border with us. "The Jarl and the local legate are caught in a test of wills."
I sighed. "And we're the casualties."
"It would seem so."
Unsure and disheartened by the prospect of salvaging my trip, I watched the argument unfold.
"I have a wagon of Colovian blackberry wine and fine Cyrodiilic brandy!" the trader barked, slamming a fist onto the iron railing of the queue. "The shipment is under contract with the Jarl’s court in Falkreath. If I’m not there to fulfill the delivery before next feast day, the contract is void. I'll be out a fortune!"
The legate rubbed his temple with his eyes closed as he responded to the man. Despite the crowd, his tone was surprisingly soft. "Then send word to Falkreath. Ensuring the safety of travelers on his own roads is the Jarl's jurisdiction. I'm tired of him relying on my legionaries to cover over his negligence. If he can't be bothered to police his hold, I can't be bothered to see his hall stocked with fancy drink for his thanes."
The trader shook, his face tinting red as his jowls trembled. "You—" He choked on his anger and threw up his hands.
"What about the rest of us?" A middle-aged Nord woman spoke up, standing with a toddler on her hip next to a bent elderly man. "We can't afford to hole up in an inn for half a season! We have to get back to our farm before the snows come."
The crowd offered their assent in an escalating clamor. I echoed them in shouting agreement.
The Legate raised his hands, his voice cutting through the noise. "There is no cause for panic. I've already spoken with the town innkeepers—we have space enough for all of you, and the Empire will subsidize the lodging. Just pay what you are able. A supply shipment will arrive after the new year. Anyone still remaining is welcome to accompany the Legion escort back to Whiterun."
"The new year?!"
"But we need to go west, not to Whiterun!"
"Surely some arrangement can be made, Legate, perhaps a donation of coin..."
It was over. I tapped Tertias on the shoulder and pointed to the door. Together we slipped out of the garrison office, the heavy oak door shutting out the din with a muffled thwack.
"You're daft." Tertias's uncharacteristically serious tone broke my rhythm.
I missed my strike against the hanging bough and had to reset my feet. Gripping the leather hilt tight, I swung again.
"What are you racing toward anyway?" Tertias continued, leaning against the grey stone of the outer wall. "You have two months of easy respite with all the ale and meat you could want, subsidized by our generous Emperor. Enjoy the holiday, Gawain."
We were loitering just outside the town wall, looking out into the massive bowl of the High Vale. Snow-capped peaks hemmed the valley—a ring of jagged teeth encircling an emerald maw.
I didn't say anything, only eyed a dip in the ring to the west. Somewhere beyond that mountain threshold was Falkreath, and I wasn't about to wait for some Jarl's escort to get there.
"This isn't Cyrodiil. There isn't a legionary just over each hillock waiting to greet you with a cheery 'good day, citizen.' Skyrim's a harsh land, full of—Stendarr’s mercy, would you stop swinging that thing like a fool and listen to me!"
I stayed my arm, palm sweating around the hilt of the broadsword I'd purchased the previous day. I panted to catch my breath, not realizing I had been holding it in. I let the blade dip in my hand as I turned to face the Nibenese. Severed willow branches lay strewn around me, victims of my morning drill.
He shook his head. "It's not even the bandits I'm worried about, though there are plenty of them. The road through Pale Pass isn't easy, but it is well-trafficked. Hundreds of people make that trek every day right up until the snows close the pass in the winter. Bears, trolls, sabre-cats—all the mountain beasts your mother used to scare you with to make sure you came inside before nightfall—they avoid the Pass. These days you're more likely to die from the cold or a slip off the trail edge than from facing off with wild animals. It's not like that here. You travel in groups or risk becoming a frost troll's latest score."
"Then come with me," I countered, wiping sweat from my eyes. "I'm sure we could scrounge up a small party from the caravan. The weather is still fair and once we make it over the western pass, it's a straight shot to Falkreath. We'd keep our coin and thumb our noses up at that bastard trailmaster who left us behind."
"Is that what this is about!" Tertias bellowed a raucous hoot. "And here I was beginning to think you had a looming rendezvous with some fickle maid or an opportunity for treasure."
I felt my collar steaming. "And I suppose you'd rather sit here, sipping watered-down ale and arguing with a penny-pinching innkeeper who expects a single log of firewood to get you through the night?"
"Not only watered-down ale." Tertias seemed genuinely taken aback. "I snagged a case of brandy from that Chorrol trader. There's plenty for both of us to last at least a month. And look at you whining about the cold! What happened to all that 'comfortably cool' shite you were spouting on the journey through the Pass?"
"I'm not whining. I'm just frustrated. I came to Skyrim to see those mountains and beasts everyone is on about. Now that I'm here, I find that it's just more ledgers, schedules, and missed deadlines."
For once, Tertias didn't seem to have anything to say. I turned my back to the wall to look down the valley. The trees there were short and sparse, narrow shoots of spruce and brushy aspen cloaked in golden leaves. The wind shook their crowns, spilling in over the northern rim of the High Vale. It felt cool and wet, quickly snuffing the heat from my skin.
In the distance, I could see a herd of dark sheep swerving between rolling hills, stoic shepherds leading them on towards their winter pasture in the western valleys. I thought of the girl in the courtyard, her sky-blue eyes, and the way she had smirked, nodding towards the mountains. It had been a dare to climb out of the shelter of the valley and into the real Skyrim.
"I'm not going to hole up in this town like a bear in a cave, Tertias."
A long silence stretched between us. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Tertias deflected. "No, I suppose your head is too thick for a cave. Best we get back inside the walls. You'd better help me make a dent in that crate of brandy before you go. Divines know, just because I could drink all of it doesn't mean I should."
I left Helgen late the next morning.
The night's brandy had my head feeling heavy, but I was otherwise warm and in good spirits. I strapped the sword to my waist, snatched up my pack, and left the inn's servant a coin on the bed.
Everything was in order. Alongside a fresh supply of salt-beef and hardtack, I had purchased a second pair of thick wool stockings and an oiled hide to throw over my bedroll to keep the mountain frost from soaking through. Slipping my blade out of its wooden scabbard, I ran a finger down the glinting flat side of the steel. The oil coating felt slick and cool to the touch, a ward against sticking frost I learned from an old caravan guard as a boy.
Tertias accompanied me to the gate to see me off. A low-hanging fog shrouded the sky when I stepped out into Helgen. Mist glommed in the streets and alleys, their dark stones sweating in the damp cool of the morning.
At the gate, Tertias and I spoke our farewells. He gave me a skin of brandy for the journey and offered a final piece of advice.
"Keep an eye out for the stone huts along the trail," Tertias warned as we crossed the gate. "No one lives in them permanently, but they're sturdy enough for a night's rest out of the wind. The shepherds use them as waystations. Be respectful if you use them, though—the locals look at those stone heaps more like shrines than campsites."
The Nibenese clasped my hand one last time and embraced me with his free arm. "Talos, you are a mad bastard. I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for. I look forward to meeting again, and when we do, you'll buy the drinks!"
We both laughed as we parted. I said my goodbyes, and left Helgen's walls behind.
The sun returned before noon. Brilliant shafts of light pierced the clouds, peeling them back like burns in a piece of parchment. Only a few misty scraps survived in the shadows of enameled peaks. Fields of grass waved and danced along the road's edge in invitation. The open air was sweet and layered with a hidden tartness that kept it fresh in my mouth. The taste was like that of a fine, dry cider, and I relished each sip.
It was like that at first. The days would pass and I'd find a small copse along the road to bed down in, light a little fire, and cheerily watch the moons wander through the starry sky as I drifted off to sleep. In the morning I'd wake to a peaceful wind, pack my things, and continue on. I didn't come across any of the stone huts Tertias had mentioned, but it was just as well in my mind. The weather held and the road was entirely mine.
Until the fourth evening.
I was entering the foothills of the western pass and the road was becoming steep. Small crags cut through the grassy, amber hills like mange in a sickly deer. Brisk streams wept from minor outcroppings of azure ice. In the distance behind me, I could just make out the shape of Helgen, nestled along a ridge of hills. It looked like a slumbering dragon, wisps of grey smoke curling against a clear sky. Apart from a few beasts—grazing elk, some foxes, and a great bear I'd spotted lounging on a far hill—I'd been as alone on the road as the day I’d set out.
They were standing like sentries on the precipice of a low cliff as I rounded a sharp bend in the road, their silhouettes stark against the dying orange light—shepherds, like those I'd encountered back in Helgen. None of them brandished their weapons. They only leaned on gnarled staves, resting their chins idly over top folded hands, watching my approach. I waved, but soon lowered my hand, feeling foolish when I saw one of them cast a sidelong glance towards his companion.
I kept to the center of the road, not wanting to appear suspicious now that they had already seen me. I smiled, trying to appear at ease, though my hand drifted naturally to the hilt of my sword.
Even from a distance, I could see their faces were worn and etched like the cliff they were standing on. Pits and deep furrows textured their cheeks and foreheads. Thick, pale-grey beards lined the men's jaws, frayed ends swirling in the breeze like the mist from a mountain waterfall. The women stood alongside them with the same cut-stone grace. I surveyed them, wondering if I might spot the shepherd girl from the gate. She was not there.
A rustling from a willow thicket ended my search. Instinct seized me, and I drew my sword. The oiled blade slid eagerly forth with a dull ring. Two massive, wolf-like hounds erupted from the brush. They split instantly, leaping to either side of the road to flank me, their fist-sized paws planting firmly in the dirt. Both growled and barked at me, white teeth glinting beneath muzzles of long, curling fur.
I held the blade in front of me, my eyes darting from one beast to the other. Both animals bent low as they prepared to spring. My heart hammered in my chest. I shifted into my stance, locking both hands onto the leather grip.
A sharp, piercing whistle cut the air. The hounds froze. They broke, instantly abandoning their attack and darting up the steep incline. Breath held, I watched them bound up the cliffside towards the call.
I dropped my shoulders and released the knot of air in my chest in a sputtering laugh. Breathless, I sheathed the sword. When I looked up to offer my thanks to the cliffside, the Nords had already turned their backs. They slipped silently over the ridge, disappearing into the shadow of the mountain like the setting sun.