Frostbite - a TES:V Skyrim Fanfiction Series

8 - Dragons

Shhhhf. Shhhhf. Shhhhf. Riverwood awoke to a golden sun peaking through mountain haze and dew-dropped treetops. Alvor was always the first to be up - at the crack of the rosy dawn to stoke the embers, press the tanning hides and wash his face in the fresh river water.

Shortly after, Gerdur would appear, followed by Hod nursing a rough head from a night spent drinking. The creaking and groaning of the water wheel would be joined with the scraping of bark as the log pile was loaded, ready for sawing.

Once Sigrid had taken care of the children, her boots would find the mud of the inn's allotment, its soil hardened by the early morning frost. Leeks and potatoes and carrots, pulled from the earth and loaded in wicker baskets, would be later distributed to the inn for Orgnar's bubbling stews and soups; something for the adventurers to look forward to.

Not that there were many adventurers to serve.

Some time after the Riverwood Trader's door was unlocked, and Stump had begun terrorising Embrys, and the guards had switched their shifts, she surfaced from the dream. With aching limbs, stiff from prolonged tension; with raw feet, tucked into animal skin bed covers, she moaned against the cold air beyond her safety cocoon, knowing she'd eventually have to leave. Knowing that she'd have to stand those feet into weather-worn boots once more. The day had already begun, and she was on borrowed time. Every minute that passed was an opportunity for hellfire and death.

And yet her mind remained oddly silent. No disturbing dreams to report. At least, none that she could remember.

The Dragonstone lay hidden in her pouch, which leant against the wall next to the bed. She craned her neck to look at the battered leather bag – an echo of spiderwebs and blood. Next to the pouch lay the shining metal dragon claw, clumsily discarded on the stone floor. It looked out of place next to its rustic surroundings. She'd clutched the thing in her hands, all the way home.

All she had to do was make the trip to Whiterun without dying.

--

Naturally, news of the group's adventure to Bleak Falls Barrow had spread through the tiny community, but what of the results? Breakfast was a tough goat steak that she chewed while sat at the inn's counter. Orgnar watched her with what seemed to be concern. Sigurd, carrying two baskets full of potatoes, didn't offer her a greeting as she limped against blisters out of the inn and towards the trader. Lucan's eyes lit up as she entered and he rose out of his seat, shaking off a dreary-eyed look.

"You're back... You're back! Do you have it? The claw?"

She held the heavy golden artifact out to the shopkeeper. He took it into shaking hands and cast his eyes from gleaming tip to gleaming wrist. Some deranged voice in the back of her mind challenged her – did you get the right one?

Wide eyes looked up to her. "Hah! Hahah! You found it!" Golden joy dripped from Lucan before flowing into a river. "I- I'm going to put this right back where it belongs," he said, already turning to look at the shelves behind him. "Camilla! Camilla, come look! You- you've done a great thing for me and my sister, you know?"

She smiled, but her cheeks felt like stone.

She left the trader with the siblings' blessing and a rather large sack of gold – 500 pieces, which Lucan informed her with a hysterical laugh could buy her ten new pairs of boots.

The building next to the trader was the house Sven shared with his mother. Unlike usual, she wasn't sat on her chair on the porch. Had she stayed up all night, waiting for her son to return?

She bit back tears.

Across the small street was the figure of Hadvar – back to wearing that brown tunic already. The polished hard leather shone under the afternoon sun; its buckles and bearings glinting. It was clean of any blood splatter or web, as though the memories of the previous night's expedition had been washed away.