Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #21
🕑 Added 2025-11-03 00:11:09 +0000 UTCThe great wooden gates of Whiterun loomed before them, a familiar barrier between the wilds and the city's ordered life. Torin’s back was laden with their spoils—bundled weapons and the small chest of coin—and nestled carefully against his chest, swaddled in a spare cloak, was the still-sleeping bear cub.
He reached a hand out to push the gate open, but his movement faltered halfway, his palm resting against the rough wood as if it were a wall of solid iron.
He stood frozen like that for several long moments, his breathing shallow.
Aela’s voice cut through his hesitation, sharp and impatient. "What are you so afraid of?"
Torin winced, turning his head to look at her. "Of what I'll see inside," he admitted, his voice low. "I know we haven't been gone long, but... I feel like a lot has changed."
Aela crossed her arms, her gaze piercing. "In you, or in the city?"
Torin froze again, the question striking a chord. A bitter smile touched his lips. "Me, I suppose. I'm afraid the way I see the people in there... has changed."
He turned back to the gate, his hand still hovering, the simple act of pushing it open feeling like an insurmountable task.
Before his internal debate could continue, he felt Aela's calloused hands close firmly around his cheeks, forcing him to turn and face her. She leaned in, her face dangerously close to his, her hunter's eyes boring into his soul.
"And how," she demanded, her voice low and intense, "do you see me?"
Torin blinked slowly, the intensity of her gaze holding him captive. "As annoying as ever," he answered, the words coming out with a surprising lack of heat, almost fond.
Aela released his face and stepped back, a grunt of satisfaction escaping her. "There you go. Now stop whining and get in there already. We don't have all day."
Torin scoffed, rubbing his cheeks. "This and that are different. I've known you for years! You're fa—"
That was as far as he got before Aela's boot connected squarely with his backside. The kick wasn't gentle; it was a firm, decisive shove that sent him stumbling forward.
The gate swung open under his weight, and he spilled into the city.
He braced himself, his face instinctively scrunching up as if expecting a physical blow, his mind flashing with images of blood-soaked bandits and cold, dead eyes. His vision whited out for a split second, his senses bracing for a world painted in shades of threat and corruption.
And then... nothing.
Just the familiar, bustling sight of the Wind District. The steady clang from Warmaiden's, the smell of baking bread from the market, citizens going about their morning business. The world was exactly as he had left it.
The horror was not in the city, but in the lens through which he had feared to view it. He stood there, catching his breath, the normalcy of it all washing over him like a cool, cleansing wave.
Torin just stood there and took it all for a moment before Aela walked past him.
She offered him a grin. "Stop dawdling. The twins will be eager to hear about your first contract."
He smiled, and this time it was both warm and genuine as he followed behind her.
...
Two days later, in the training yard of Jorrvaskr, Torin emerged from the mead hall carrying a small wooden bowl. It was filled with a mixture of fresh goat's milk and finely chopped raw meat. His attention was fixed on a small, crudely built wooden shelter tucked against the side of the forge, out of the main thoroughfare.
He approached the little house carefully, his steps measured. Placing the bowl a respectful distance from the entrance, he knelt down.
"Come on out, little one," he called, his voice low and even. "It's time for your meal."
After a moment, a small, furry head cautiously poked out from the dark interior. The bear cub's dark eyes scanned the yard warily before landing on the bowl. A spark of recognition, and then hunger, lit them up.
Slowly, with a gait that was still a bit unsteady, she crept out and approached the food, sniffing at it intently.
Watching her, a wave of affection washed over Torin. The sight of her, safe and eating, was a balm to the memory of finding her in that filth. Almost without thinking, his hand drifted from his knee, reaching out to gently stroke the soft fur between her ears.
He was a mere inch away when she detected the movement. Her head snapped up, and she let out a sharp, surprisingly loud roar of warning, swiping a paw at his hand. Her tiny claws, though not fully grown, were sharp.
"Ouch!" Torin grumbled, snatching his hand back. A thin red line welled up on his knuckles. The cub glared at him, a low growl rumbling in her chest, her body tense and defensive.
Torin smiled helplessly, a mix of frustration and understanding on his face. He slowly rose to his feet, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. He took several deliberate steps backward, putting a good ten feet between them.
Only when he was a safe distance away did the cub's posture relax. The warning growl ceased, and she turned her attention back to the bowl, beginning to eat with quiet, focused gusto.
Shaking his head in exasperation, Torin made his way to a bench on the porch. He pulled a book on basic enchanting from his satchel and sat down to read, but his focus was divided.
Every few moments, his eyes would drift from the page to the small, determined figure of the bear cub.
The quiet scene continued until the small creature finished her meal and retreated back into the safety of her little house. A peaceful silence settled over the yard, broken only by the turning of a page as Torin delved deeper into his book.
The tranquility was shattered by a deafening CRASH from inside Jorrvaskr.
Torin’s head snapped up, his gaze flying to the open doors of the mead hall. Inside, Vignar Gray-Mane was a storm of fury. His face was a mottled crimson, his eyes wild as he upended a heavy wooden chair and sent it skidding across the floor.
Plates and tankards followed, shattering against the stone walls.
"That goddamned milk-drinking Emperor!" Vignar roared, his voice trembling with rage. "It was us! The Nords and the Redguards who bled the most so he could keep his gilded throne! And how does the coward repay our sacrifice?!"
His anger surged, and he brought his fists down on the long central table with the force of a battering ram. The thick wood splintered and snapped in two. "By banning the worship of Talos! Our very ancestor! And ceding the very lands of Hammerfell to those Thalmor filth!"
Vilkas and Farkas were at his side, trying to placate him with low, urgent words, but the old legionary’s fury was a fire that could not be quenched.
Torin sighed, the sound lost in the chaos.
'So, they finally concluded the White-Gold Concordat,' he mused, a heavy weight settling in his chest. 'I'd hoped my speech would at least soften the blow, but I guess not.'
He was just about to retreat back into his book, to let the storm rage itself out, when Vignar’s blazing eyes swept across the yard and locked directly onto him.
"Uh-oh," Torin muttered under his breath.
"You!" Vignar bellowed, striding out of the hall with purposeful, angry steps. "You, boy! You predicted this would happen! I need a few words with you!"
Torin let out another, deeper sigh. He carefully folded a corner of the page to mark his place and set the book down on the bench. He straightened his posture as Vignar reached him, the older man's chest heaving, with a concerned Vilkas and Farkas close on his heels.
"What can I do for you, Old Vignar?" Torin asked, his voice deliberately calm.
Vignar jabbed a thick finger toward Torin. "You! You're the clever one, aren't you?! The one who sees things coming! So tell me, by Talos, what in Oblivion are we supposed to do about this Imperial treachery?!"
Torin raised a single, calm eyebrow. It was clear the old warrior wasn't seeking a real strategy; he was a boiling pot looking for a lid to blow off, and Torin had just been nominated. He cleared his throat, choosing his words with care.
"It's not my place to tell you, or anyone, what to do," Torin began, his voice level. "But I can definitely tell you what is most likely about to happen next."
Vignar's furious posture eased by a fraction. He uncrossed his arms, his scowl deepening but his attention fully captured. "Do enlighten me, boy," he grumbled.
Vilkas and Farkas exchanged a look of profound relief, taking a subtle step back. They were more than happy to let the resident "little freak" handle this particular crisis.
Torin gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Well, the Redguards, for one, will definitively not accept these terms. They're united for the first time in generations, and the taste of driving the Thalmor back is still fresh on their tongues. To them, this treaty is a betrayal of their victory."
He shook his head, a grim certainty in his eyes. "With the Emperor's blessing or without it, they will keep fighting. And sooner or later, they will chase the Thalmor out of Hammerfell for good."
A grim, satisfied grunt escaped Vignar. The idea of the proud Redguards spitting in the face of the Concordat was a balm to his wounded pride. "Aye, that sounds right. They've got more spine than the whole Imperial court put together. And the Empire? How do you think Titus Mede's lapdogs will react to that?"
Torin offered a noncommittal shrug. "Officially? They will renounce Hammerfell, cut them loose to maintain their precious 'peace' with the Dominion."
He paused, letting the distasteful idea hang in the air. "Unofficially? Who knows? Perhaps a ship laden with 'lost' Imperial arms will find its way to Sentinel's docks. Maybe the Emperor's spymaster is already drafting a letter of encouragement, telling them to fight the war he no longer can. It's the kind of dirty politics that keeps empires afloat. I really couldn't tell you for sure."
Vignar seemed to have completely calmed down, the initial explosion of rage giving way to a grim, calculating focus. He muttered, "That Emperor did seem more clever than we gave him credit for, playing both sides..."
He let out a long, weary breath and fixed Torin with an intent stare. "What about Skyrim? Tell me the old fox has another sly plan to right this mess for his own people!"
Torin shook his head slowly. "This is where it gets complicated, and there are no easy answers. There is no clever way to bypass the ban on Talos worship. The Thalmor will see to that. Soon enough, you'll find their 'Justiciars' roaming our cities, demanding to search homes and interrogating citizens to enforce it."
He held up a hand to forestall another outburst. "Of course, they can't stop anyone from worshipping in secret. A quiet prayer in the dead of night, a hidden shrine... that might be what the Emperor is counting on—a slow, simmering resentment kept just below the surface."
Vignar's face darkened like a thunderhead. "And you think our High King will just... let it happen? Let these elves desecrate our traditions?"
Torin offered a helpless shrug. "I wouldn't know the High King's mind. But in the end, it may not be his decision to make. He is... not a young man, and his successor is untested. The true power will lie with the Jarls."
"What does that mean?" Vignar demanded, his voice a low growl.
"It means the fate of Skyrim will depend on the stances of the Jarls," Torin explained, his tone that of a scholar outlining a troubling historical precedent.
"Most value our traditions and won't be pleased with the ban. But a good number of Holds are deeply reliant on Imperial trade. Cutting ties with the Empire would mean economic ruin for their people. It's very likely this will split Skyrim in two. And that," he concluded grimly, "is exactly what the Thalmor want—a divided, weakened province."
Vignar's anger returned in a hot flash. "What then?! You want us to just sit on our hands and sharpen our axes while those pointy-eared bastards spit on our ancestors?!"
"No," Torin said, his voice firm but calm, cutting through the fury. "I'm saying there are no right or wrong answers here. Only choices, each with a terrible cost. It depends on what you believe is better for Skyrim in the long run."
He leaned forward slightly. "A quick, swift rebellion, seizing independence before the Empire can react, could be beneficial. It would allow Skyrim to rule itself, and a wise new leader might even strike a new, more favorable deal with the Empire as an ally, not a subject."
He then shook his head, the grim reality settling back in. "But if that rebellion drags on, and it will, becoming a bloody civil war... then the Empire will have no choice but to step in. Countless Nords and Imperials would die needlessly, softening the Empire and Skyrim both for another Thalmor invasion."
Dazed, Vignar slowly rubbed his temple as the weight of it all settled upon him. He sank onto a nearby bench, the fight gone out of him, replaced by a weary despair. "So we're doomed if we fight, and doomed if we don't," he muttered, staring at the ground. "What in Shor's name has the world come to?"
Torin shook his head, offering a sliver of cold comfort. "I didn't say that. Don't think of this as an end. Think of it as the Thalmor's preparation for the next war. They're weakening us, dividing us."
"If the Emperor isn't an idiot—and he has proven he is not—then he is making his own preparations in the shadows, rebuilding his legions, forging new alliances. And who knows what might happen in the meantime?"
He gave Vignar a sudden, impish grin, a flash of his usual self breaking through the political gloom. "The dragons might even return and eat everyone before any of it matters."
Vignar looked up, giving Torin a long, utterly blank stare. He was clearly trying to decipher whether this was a badly timed joke or another one of the boy's terrifyingly accurate predictions.
Torin just rolled his eyes, dispelling the tension. "I'm joking, of course. But my point stands. Who besides the gods can truly tell the future? I'm just making educated guesses here."
With that, he stood and began to stretch his legs, the conversation clearly over in his mind. "Anyway, all this talk of empires and doom is cutting into my training time. It's time for my run. Do excuse me."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began a light jog toward the training yard, leaving Vignar to his bitter deliberations.
Once again, Vilkas and Farkas exchanged a silent look. The furious storm had passed. Vignar was now sullen and contemplative, which was a significant improvement over a rampaging veteran intent on reducing Jorrvaskr to kindling. It wasn't a solution, but for now, it was peace.
