As I pondered these thoughts, however, I questioned my notion of ‘love’ in its primal sense. I had not heretofore experienced it – at least the love that all the bards sing of – and thus, what could I know of it? That is, what do I feel for Aela; is it love, or merely lust? What of Vilja? I am deeply attracted to the blonde Nord, but is it only a physical longing for something that is, for the nonce, beyond my grasp? Did I love her as I did Aela, or was it something different? How could I even know, as a beast?
Once more, I cast my mind back a few nights.
“Aela.” We lay beside one another in the tent, no longer touching, on our fur sleeping pallets. The Skyrim wind whipped the omnipresent snow about our tent in the darkness; the chilly draughts soon cooled our ardour. I had regained most of my breath from the latest of my climaxes. “What… do you know of love?”
She emitted that snort-laugh of hers, pulled on her bottled of Colovian, as did I on mine. “Overrated.”
“But, have you ever loved anyone?”
“Are you asking me if I’m in love with you?”
“No.” I downed another gulp or two. For some reason I did not want to know her answer. “I just… I only want to know if I – if we, as beasts, I mean – can know love.”
A moment ere she responded, “I’m not the one to ask.” She finished her brandy, tossed the empty aside.
“Why—I mean, who should I ask, then?”
“Not me.” The Huntress turned away, faced the rippling tent wall. I studied her nude form in the brazier light: muscled back and shoulders; slim waist; strong, round buttocks; firm thighs and calves; goose bumps beginning to rise in the chill. I tried to ignore my rekindling desire. Clearly, she would not discuss the subject.
I could thus only speculate that perhaps something in her past had soured her on ‘love’; perchance, this was the reason she would be content as a werewolf. On the other hand, mayhap the rumour that she and Skjor had been more than friends was accurate, and the Huntress was not – would never be – over him. Whatever the case, she certainly seemed sincere in her veneration of Hircine, as I knew I could never be; as I have mentioned, I have no use for deities and their manipulations of us ‘mortals’.
Which was another reason for my ambivalence; I had been brooding on the rest of the Circle’s decision to remove the ‘taint’ of lycanthropy so they could anticipate their vision of the afterlife. To what could I look forward? As a Redguard, though orphaned young and raised in a tavern, I knew that Tu’whacca Yokudan, god of souls, would guide me as the other gods set a series of trials before me on the way to the Far Shores. If I failed, I would find myself banished to the Dreamsleeve, whence I could either languish for an eternity or, perhaps, be reborn for another opportunity at life, as some races believed (Imperials, for one). Yet, did I wish to sit at the knee of some daedric prince, or take my chances with trials and perhaps move on to a new life? After all, I have proven myself reasonably competent in this short existence thus far.
As I revealed, I never knew my parents, and I spent my childhood in a tavern. I will not speak of it herein, other than to say I disliked my life, and sought to better my lot. I availed myself of every opportunity to learn: to read and write, for example. An old Imperial merchant – notice I did not say ‘kindly’, as he was not; he used me for his own purposes – taught me my letters and numbers. Thus did I learn how to get what I wanted – using guile, sometimes stealth, and both aspects of my physicality, including sex and, later on, my formidable strength. I also learned of the greater world from travellers, and developed a yearning to see and experience it – as if getting away from my virtual enslavement were not incentive enow.
“Should we return?” Aela asked abruptly.
For an instant, I thought she meant to whence I came, which provoked a violent reaction within me; but I answered, “Yes.” I needs must ponder my reaction more closely sometime anon.
I return to the present crossroads.
Even Aela, it seemed, was not unaffected by this war. “Damn shame,” she murmured.
Corpses littered the slopes amidst rocks and scrub; guts, limbs, a head or two liberally strewn; blood soaked virtually every speck of snowy ground. This time, I felt no poignancy, only sadness.
Vilja, apparently, thought I had other things on my mind. “If we meet someone when you’re a werewolf,” she proposed, “we could just pretend that you’re a dog. I’m sure they would believe us.”
Her comment did not sink in until I heard Aela snickering behind me, apparently unsure if she ought to be laughing, considering the scene.
Trying to hold the mirth inside, I did not turn around; instead heeled my mount, continued westward.
Some weeks later, intending to return to the hot spring near Eldergleam Sanctuary for a little rest and recreation, we happened upon yet another Stormcloak-Imperial battle. This time, however, a giant had somehow gotten embroiled in the conflict, and – by all the gods, again! – another dragon joined the fray. Even so, combatants would not set aside their differences to confront either, greater threat; everywhere small pockets of soldiers battled one another, whilst a dragon circled overhead breathing fire down upon them and a giant indiscriminately knocked them flying. I was appalled, and incredulous. Withal, I entered the fight myself, albeit only to battle the dragon.
When it was over, the dragon carcass lay atop several soldiers. I had not delivered the final blow, and thus it did not disintegrate, and I was unable to absorb its soul. This was a minor annoyance, however, compared to the stupidity of the entire conflict.
Vilja was not happy when I immediately cancelled our relaxation trip, and instead headed toward Windhelm. I barely stopped – and then only in respect of Vilja and our horses, who still needed rest – until we arrived in Solitude, whence lay Castle Dour and the Imperial Legion’s headquarters.
XV Decisions
I am still unsure what finally prompted my decision to join the Legion – Vilja will not stop pestering me about it – but I suppose I see it as my best chance to help end a pointless war. I also think that Ulfric Stormcloak is naught but a regicide with his own self-interest in being High King. Furthermore, I detest the way most Nords mistreat other races; ‘Skyrim belongs to the Nords!’ indeed. Once again, do not misunderstand; I am not enamoured with the Empire, either, kneeling as they did to the Aldmeri Dominion and signing the so-called White-Gold Concordat, which forbade the worship of Talos – a sacred figure to the Nords, if no one else. Not to mention how the Dominion’s Thalmor representatives poke their fingers into every pie in Skyrim by sending their ‘advisors’ to virtually every court in the land, and presuming to arrest and torture anyone they suspect might be guilty of Talos worship. Thus have I developed an abiding hatred for the Thalmor as great as or more so than what I feel for bandits; and I may tell you the story of how I stormed their embassy and freed a prisoner some time anon. Now is not that time, however.
I spent the following few days (was it weeks?) in chaotic activity, moving back and forth across Skyrim, trying to do my duty as a new Legionary soldier as well as follow up various rumours and solve peoples’ problems. This brought me some fame, I am immodest enow to say, including becoming Thane of several Holds (I have lost count: Whiterun, Falkreath, Haafingar, The Pale, and Markarth, I think). In turn, I acquired the pleasant but time-eating chore to try to build or at least furnish a home in each hold – even if most are homes where no one lives, save a steward, for the nonce.
Withal, most relevant to this tale is how I rejoined with Serana – or she with me. I had travelled to Riften for some un-recalled reason, arriving just in time to intervene in a vampire attack upon the citizenry. Whilst we had little trouble despatching the nightstalker and one or two of his thralls – my chief difficulty lay in trying not to hit guards or citizens who got in the way – when it was over, we discovered that Aerin, Mjoll the Lioness’ one-time saviour and purported lover, was a victim.
“NNNOOOOoooo!” Glass greatsword clattering to the cobbles, the iron-clad warrior dropped to her knees in the street beside the body; no wounds were apparent, but that was a bad thing. “Why?” she wailed; I did not have to know the lanky fighter well to perceive her anguish. “How could he deserve this?” She suddenly sprang to her feet – quite a graceful move for such a big woman in heavy armour – snatched up her weapon, started hacking apart the enemy bodies. Everyone fled, save Vilja, Aela, and I. Once the street was awash with blood and body parts, she fell once more, this time prostrate over the corpse of her lover. Great, heaving sobs wracked the tall Nord’s gore-splattered frame, though she emitted hardly a sound.
After a moment, I gently approached. Fortunately, I knew her well enow – I had retrieved her sword from whence she had lost it in a dwarven ruin and, but for Aerin, nearly died – or I may not have dared. I touched the flared epaulet of her iron breastplate; she probably did not feel it. “Mjoll… Mjoll, I am sorry.”
“Leave me,” she intoned dully.
“Mjoll, I cannot.” My hand moved from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, left bare with no helm or camail; brushed aside the bloody, straw-coloured pleats. “He… Aerin was bitten… drained of blood. I am sorry, Mjoll. You know what must be done.” I dared rub lightly with the tips of my fingers, having pulled off my gauntlets.
She did not respond for another moment. Then, “No. I”
“Let me help.”
“No.” She gradually stopped shaking, looked up; tanned features mottled; soft brown eyes reddened; broad purple stripe of warpaint down the left side of her face shiny, streaked with blood and tears. “Yes, I… I know. Yes. Th-thank you.”
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