The only thing filling Jorwen's head were thoughts of death and chaos weaving through the thumping of his headache. That, and his wife's constant pacing in front of him. She'd begun to chew her fingernails again, like she always did when she was nervous. She'd always have them bitten to the quick when he'd come back to spend his gild in town and they'd regrow the next couple days for the next chewing down. He supposed he couldn't blame her, not knowing whether or not he was alive is fraying to the nerves. After all, staring battle in the face not knowing whether or not you were going to live is just as fraying.

“Would you sit and eat your eggs?” Jorwen said, throwing a hand towards the full plate she'd cooked up for herself, opposite Jorwen's, before Ashav came and ruined breakfast, “He said 'if.'”

“If in your line of work, Red-Bear, is almost a certainty. There are snow-demons outside of the gates and a bed half-empty every night because of your leaving.” She pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes and sighed, “You were young, and strong and fierce and brave and proud, Jorwen,” Jorwen only swallowed and looked away from her, none of those things were what you called what he did, “But men aren't able to live their whole lives like that.”

“I'll know when it's time to retire, Halla.” Jorwen said, a bit more anger tainting his tongue than he wanted, but there it was. Halla only frowned.

“When? When we're patting the fresh earth over your grave like Aelfgar? Like White-Eye? Thrice-Pierced? Gristle? Steelhead? I can rattle off names of dead men until we're in the dirt ourselves, Hurrensson. They were my friends too, and it hurt to see their empty places at our hearth,” She had a sharpness to her voice then, until she sighed it all out and the years laid their hands on her again, “but I would never heal if yours was empty forever like theirs.” She nodded to Solveig's room, where she still slept, “Nor hers.”

Jorwen couldn't say anything to that, so he only ate with a frown but not much else in the way of rebuttals. There weren't many when dealing with an angry wife, much less one with some damned good points. He forked the last piece of egg into his mouth and put his fork down, chewing, all the while he stared into his wife's eyes. “I love you. You know that.”

She only nodded. Then, a great shaking to the earth as if Shor walked upon the feeble ground made their house tremble. Solveig poked her head out of her room with a heavy frown, “What in the Hells was that?” She croaked.

The tremors went on for long and when Jorwen peeked out of his door, he saw homes smashed to rubble and bloodied bodies. It was a sight he hadn't seen since the Siege of Solitude. The bleating panic of the frenzied herd was cast throughout the city as citizen ran this way and that before his scrambled and slow mind. Perhaps his wife was right. His heart beat like a joiner's hammer in his chest and he looked to Halla and Solveig, “Let's leave.”

* * *

She felt scared. There was no doubt that she was going to die. An inability to muster up any sort of feeling. She had to wonder if this was how the lamb felt moments before the wolf's jaws clamped shut around its neck. As they ran through the streets, her mother struggling to heft her bags while she was unburdened by her meager belongings. She carried nothing but the clothes on her, which included her armor. She carried her spear, its head wrapped in its oil-skin and her shield slung on her back. The weight of them made her feel sick, bringing back memories of the fight with the Kamal. A mother clutched tight as iron to her cloak and almost choked her before she stopped in her tracks. “My son! My son, he's trapped!”

She stared open-mouthed at her for a second, stuck between helping or leaving her. She looked to her father and mother, who were steadily disappearing through the crowds, then back to the woman, her eyes wet and frenzied while her child's cries were heard from under a half-fallen house. Perhaps she could do something to help in her life rather than serve herself. Maybe she could leave this mother with the joy of a living child. She swallowed. And then pushed her away hard enough to send her flailing onto her arse, squawking. Another man stepped up to her, yelling something she couldn't understand. Her head was swimming but her hand fist connected with his jaw without a thought. She turned and ran as fast as she could, moreso to run away from her fucking selfishness, her fucking cowardice, her fucking dishonor. She felt sick and had to put a hand to her mouth to keep from vomiting. Wetness was forming at the corners of her eyes as she ran and she could feel her lip quivering. Every eye that fell upon her was a chance at redemption that she had forsaken or an eye of righteous accusation burning into her black soul. Either way, give an animal a choice between another and itself, there's only ever one sure outcome.

* * *

These were animals that only looked like men. The fear in their eyes was the same fear he'd seen in lambs before their throats were opened. Even if the crowds were not parting before him and Mire and his two compatriots, he would've been pushing and shoving and punching. The city be damned, it was too late to dwell now, the only thing that mattered was that his family was alive. He'd warned them of the siege on Whiterun before it came, this city wouldn't be their end. Nothing else mattered, it would've been nice if they could all come to peace and order and march themselves out to safety. But there was no peace or order to appeal to. Shame.

He looked back at his family, Halla too exhausted to weep at the blood and sorrow around her, Solveig keeping her head down with a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of her knife. Mire strode beside him, eyes pressed to lethal slits in his face as he scanned the crowd, a hand resting easy-looking enough on the pommel of his knife, but every muscle in him were coiled springs, ready to spill red. Jorwen kept a good grip on his own knife, eyes darting about the crowd. His thoughts went to Sevine and Do'Karth and young Sagax. He yanked his mind to the present, his family mattered now, he could weep for the others later if he needed to. Tears weren't going to keep his family safe.

It was a miracle that they'd made it to the cavern. Jorwen, Halla, Solveig and the rest of their crew came across in ones or twos. As the bridge creaked more and the rocks fell from the ceiling, the others began to cross in larger groups. Jorwen grabbed a handful of Halla's shirt and put her in front of him as he hurried across the bridge, trying to get away from the terrified fools. Soon, the sound of rope snapping cut through the frenzied grunts and swearing of those trying to cross. Soon, it was replaced by the long screams of those that fell. Jorwen looked back as he, Halla, Mire and Brittle stepped on to solid ground. His breath caught in his throat and his heart stopped when he saw Solveig fall, the look on her face that of complete terror.

* * *

She gripped the rope hard enough to make her knuckles hurt. Her arms and back burned with the effort of not only holding herself up, but an old woman who was grasping onto her, one leg a vice grip on her leg, the other wrapped tight as a noose around her waist. The woman whimpered, “Climb, please, we can make it!”

Solveig didn't trust herself to be able to hold herself up with one hand, even for the split second it would take to put her right hand above her left and climb ever so slowly, inch by inch. She did not want to die. That's the only thing that echoed in her head, that filled her veins, the animal will to survive. Another man swayed next to her, his tongue lolling from his mouth and his eyes crossed. The rope had seemed to tangle him, his wrist pressed against his neck, bulging out over the makeshift noose chance had wrapped around his neck. She swallowed her nerve. Her right hand let go its grasp but she gasped and almost pissed herself as her remaining hand slipped on the rope without the assistance of the other. “I can't!”

“Try!”

“I fucking did!” She screamed. She closed her eyes and tried not to bawl like a child. The strengths in her arms was being leeched away every moment. She felt her hand start to slip with the sweat on her palms. She was not going to fucking die here, not after waking up after being near-brained by a snow-demon. She swung her body, slowly building momentum until she could wrap one leg around the corpse to her side. Soon, she was able to wrap both around the dead man's waist. She let her weight crack a few more bones in his dead neck, but otherwise hold her well enough. “I'm sorry.”

“Wha-” She was cut off by a knife in her neck. She fell without a whisper. And it was a weight off of her, of a sudden. A weight she was shamed to admit, but made her happy not to heft. As she put one hand over the other and climbed, she felt more relief. Her entire being, her entire purpose was to reach the ground on the other side of the chasm and live. Her hand slapped down on the bare rock and then her other did the same. She used them to hoist herself up onto sweet, sweet solid ground, her legs dangling down as if to mock death.

A boot came down next to her face, close enough for her to smell the worn leather of it. She looked up, fear closing her throat. Two of the meanest, dirtiest, ruthless-looking men she'd laid eyes upon stood over her. One of them offered her a hand, “You made it this far with your handiwork, little sister. I like you.”

She swallowed, looking them up and down. Her face dropped into a hard frown and she slapped the offered hand away, “I made it this far on my lonesome. You get in my way, you'll fare no better than her.” She lamely got to her feet and stared the man in the eyes. The hard eyes deep-set in a dirty face reminiscent of a skull. A thin lip smile spread across his lips.

“We've an offer, little sister.” A laugh like a crow's cry escaped him and she felt sick just by the look of him.

She spat, “Shit on it, pig.” And she stalked off, her heart beating fast and mouth dry as the distant deserts.

* * *

Dawnstar. He couldn't believe people willingly lived in such meager means this far north. Even to a Nord like him, it seemed stupid. But a chance to rest and pitch tents and warm himself by a fire was welcomed readily enough, even if it was in Dawnstar. Half a rabbit had been given to Jorwen by Do'Karth, the other half went to Leif and Sevine, the Khajiit told him. So they were alive after all, and Do'Karth too, 'less he was seeing ghosts. He snorted at that thought and spit into the fire. Brittle and Mire sat across from him, Brittle sharpening a knife and Mire on his back, staring up at the sky. Halla was asleep, which he could never blame her. She wasn't used to walking such long distances. It was Solveig that worried him most. Ever since they'd left the city and been chased past its borders, she kept herself distant, but always a trail of bottles behind her, or her waterskin filled with mead or whiskey more often than water.

“You know, I reckon I like your daughter.”

“I'll make a shield from your skin, Mire, if you ever mutter a word about her again.” Jorwen's glare itself threatened to throttle the life out of Mire. Brittle only smiled, his high-pitched laugh stretching on for a moment to cover the otherwise heavy silence.

“She's got some bones in her, got an animal thing in her,” Mire snorted, “A devil, aye, a devil in her. A little like you.”

“Pah.” Jorwen scowled, slapping at the words in the air as he stood. When he got far enough away from the fire, Cleftjaw fell in step with him, almost making him flinch.

“Hey-hey, Chief.” Cleftjaw smiled. Jorwen smiled too. Finally, someone he could trust out of all the people he knew, past family. Cleftjaw held out a horn of mead, “Drink?”

“Fucking 'course.” Jorwen snatched it out of Cleftjaw's hand and almost inhaled it. He drank so deeply that some of it caught in his throat and tried to shoot through his nose. He coughed while he handed it back to Cleftjaw, the long horn almost half-way emptied.

“That's a thirst.” Cleftjaw muttered behind him.

He only chuckled, “And a half, my boy. It's good to see you.”

“Aye, likewise. I like to keep away when I smell the stench of Sutt's men. What do they want from you?” Cleftjaw asked.

“What else does an aging warrior have to ask from another aging warrior? It's either a duel to the death so he can go to Sovngarde if I kill him or grow his name that much bigger if he kills me. Or he wants me in his shield-wall, commanding some men.” Jorwen spat and growled into the night, “I've spent long nights weighing out which is worse.”

Cleftjaw just shrugged and took a drink from his horn, “Sometimes my name's a weight to carry, Chief. Can't even begin to think of the weight on your shoulders.”

“No. Wouldn't want you hefting a name like this.” He took Cleftjaw's offered horn and took another gulp from it, handing it back, he belched and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. They found a place on a fallen tree, where they sat. “I never wanted this, any of it, Cleftjaw.”

“No one does, Chief.” Cleftjaw looked into his mead horn but a hardness he wasn't used to seeing entered his eyes. “But I can't say we don't at least deserve it, eh?”

Jorwen only nodded, solemn. There was truth in there that needed no agreeing to. A truth as solid as the sun setting soon and the moon rising after.

* * *

“Why?” A voice sobbed close to her ear, made her jerk awake. She still had the whiskey cradled tight to her like a child. Her mouth tasted like shit and was drier than anything. She took up a fistful of white snow and shoved it in her mouth, swishing the melted water around before it left her lips in a fine spray. These were the only moments her mind was quiet, but before long, memories rushed back. She waited hour after hour for someone to recognize her, to remember her forsaking the woman's child trapped in the Windhelm rubble. Remember her sticking a knife in the neck of a woman only hoping to see tomorrow, just like her. These were no killings in battle nor a duel in the circle, what she'd done was murder.

Murder in the blackest of ways. She looked at her hands, they didn't look any different, they still had the same calluses, the same scars, the same scabbed knuckles. But they would never feel the same. She'd gotten over the worst of it, the guilt. But there were still the dreams, still the quiet moments. She swallowed and hocked something up, spitting it off into her darkening surroundings. What would her mother think? Or her father? At that thought, she grimaced, spat again, “Shit on that.”

The old man had killed scores, by all accounts. His name was Red-Bear, and if you listened to the stories muttered about by old men still stuck in the past, he wasn't the Red-Bear because of the color of his mane. She was always told by the old warriors that to kill an innocent was the lowest thing you could do, the blackest deed any could imagine. So, what? Killing a man is alright once you hand him a blade and a shield? She snorted, “Shit on that.”

She swallowed her guilt and chased it with the whiskey. It wasn't a long walk back to the fire to find Mire and Brittle sitting there. Mire looked almost like he expected her to come walking out of the trees. “Little sister?”

She had a heavy frown on her face. She swallowed. [i]Just say it,[/i] she thought, [i]just fucking say it.[/i] She opened her mouth to speak, only a few words and she'd be working with Black Sutt and his men, and they had consciences the size of a tick's arse. You have to serve under a big name to get one yourself, don't you? A right fearsome one she'd earn under Black Sutt, indeed, just like her father's, and men sing praises of the blackest deeds, even. Then her father walked out of the bushes, buckling his belt. “Solveig?” He smiled, looking happy to see her around the fire finally, after a days-long absence.

She did the impossible and frowned even darker, stalking back off into the woods. Her father looked hurt when she glanced at him before she left. She cursed herself for feeling guilty, then cursed herself for being so callous. She couldn't face him knowing the things she'd did, even a man like him would shun her. Fuck her conscience, she thought, cursing it all to Oblivion. She took one last swig from the bottle before she tossed it into the snow, empty, hollow. She snorted a bitter chuckle, couldn't she fucking empathize.