As the endless, snowy jagged terrain finally gave way to patches of mud and then to stubborn, lush greenery, I couldn't help but sigh. Or at least, I wanted to. I'm not sure my infantile lungs and vocal cords were properly equipped for a sigh of that much profound relief.
Seriously, the constant, blinding whiteness of the snow had started to haunt my eyes, searing itself onto the back of my eyelids every time I blinked.
Another seven days had trudged past. I'd naturally put this time to productive use.
And that was a complete and utter lie.
Other than lying around like a sack of potatoes, occasionally crapping myself and feeding on a bottle of what I could only call "mystery milk" (seriously, where was she getting it?), only to sometimes spectacularly puke it back up, my time was spent napping, looking around, and, well, deliberating.
My mind, the only part of me that felt like my own, was a prisoner in a fleshy, useless cell.
The journey we were on was still a profound mystery to me. Camilla's muttered words were still mostly gibberish, but I was catching more. I was a sponge in a sea of an unfamiliar language, desperately trying to absorb meaning.
All I knew for sure was that a few days ago, we'd passed by a town—or a city—that looked like your typical medieval settlement with high stone walls and big, imposing gates.
The architecture was what I'd expected. The thing that genuinely surprised me were the soldiers patrolling the walls.
They were dressed like ancient Romans: segmented armor, large shields, plumed helmets. The whole nine yards. It was bizarre and fascinating.
There, my caretaker had placed me in what I could only assume was an inn's room—a small, smoky space with a single rough-hewn bed. She'd then taken a handful of jewelry and gems from a hidden pouch, her hands trembling, and left.
She returned a while later with a heavy, jingling leather purse, her expression a mix of relief and grim resolve.
We spent a single night there, and early the next morning, she'd hired a carriage and one surly-looking mercenary type—a big guy with a scarred face and a well-used sword at his belt, probably for protection.
And we were on our way again.
From there, the road began to climb, and the air grew thin and cold again. They kept saying two words that stood out: "Jerall Mountains." I heard it from the driver and the mercenary, always accompanied by a wary glance at the high passes.
Since we did, in fact, pass through a massive, mountain-ish area filled with winding, treacherous paths, I put two and two together. We'd crossed the Jerall Mountains.
And now, with the snow behind us and the air warming, it was clear we had left one province and entered another. The question was, where were we now? And more importantly, where were we going?
I found my mind wandering back to these questions ever so often, a silent, obsessive loop in the rattling quiet of the carriage. But beside the practical mysteries of geography and destination, another, heavier thought kept intruding: the woman who gave birth to me.
The more time passed, the more the ghost of her memory solidified in my mind. The brief, violent flashes of that night—her pained groans, her iron resolve, the finality in her eyes as she shoved me into Camilla's arms—were burned into me.
And honestly, I still didn't know what to think of her.
First and foremost, there was no doubt about the sheer, awe-struck admiration and respect I held for her.
It was a clean, simple emotion.
A woman, moments after the most physically taxing experience a human body can endure, willed herself to her feet, picked up two axes, and prepared to face down golden-armored intruders to buy her child a few more seconds of life.
That was… monumental. It was the stuff of legends and songs. In my old life, I'd never met anyone with a fraction of that raw, selfless courage, and probably never would have.
But layered on top of that admiration was a heavier, more complicated feeling, one I couldn't quite place. It was a dull, persistent ache in a heart I wasn't sure was entirely my own.
Was this something instinctive? The primal, biological loss of a babe who had lost his mother, a connection severed before it could even truly form? Was my tiny, underdeveloped brain chemistry firing off distress signals for a presence it was hardwired to need?
Or was it guilt? The gnawing, intellectual guilt of knowing that the woman—Helga, I remembered her name was Helga—had given her life to protect someone who wasn't really her son. She died for a tiny vessel that now housed… what?
A wandering spirit? Some kind of cosmic accident? An overworked engineer from a world she could never have conceived of? I was an imposter, a stranger benefiting from a sacrifice meant for another.
I honestly didn't know. I was no spirit medium or a shrink, just a guy who used to stress over project deadlines and municipal code compliance.
This whole situation was a more bizarre and terrifying experience than that one time I'd tried shrooms in college and spent four hours convinced the pattern on the dorm room carpet was the true meaning of the universe.
At least that had worn off. This, the reality of two moons, of a warrior mother lost, and of a body that wasn't my own, showed no signs of being a temporary trip.
...
Holding Torin tightly against her chest, Camilla couldn't help but let her eyes dart nervously around the passing woods. The wilderness of Falkreath Hold wasn't that different from the great forests surrounding Chorrol, yet the greenery here seemed even thicker, more ancient.
The pines stood like silent sentinels, and the undergrowth was a tangled wall of shadow. It felt eerie, as if something was watching from behind every gnarled trunk and beneath every leafy bush.
She glanced at the man sitting opposite her in the carriage, and her nerves eased a fraction. Marcus was a veteran of the Legion, a solid wall of a man still clad in his well-maintained, if slightly outdated, steel armor.
A heavy sword and shield were propped beside him. Despite being past his prime, his face a roadmap of old scars and hard years, he had a sterling reputation in Bruma.
She'd found him in the Oak and Crosier, and the tavern keeper had sworn there was no one more reliable for safe passage. Supposedly, he'd been doing mercenary work for years after his official service, a man who knew how to handle trouble.
Now, the dangerous Jerall Mountains were behind them. The real threats—the wandering trolls, the opportunistic Orc raiding parties—were, Gods willing, a memory.
They just needed to get to the town of Falkreath itself, and from there, they could stick to the most heavily used and patrolled roads to get to Helga's kin. They were so close.
Just as this reassuring thought settled in her mind, the carriage suddenly came to a jolting halt. The driver shouted a curse, and the horses neighed loudly in protest.
A second later, there was a heavy, jarring thud from ahead, as if a great weight had been dropped on the road.
Panicked, Camilla leaned forward to peer past the driver's seat. Her blood ran cold. A large, freshly cut log lay across the narrow path, completely blocking their way.
Before she could even gasp, figures emerged from the bushes on both sides of the road. Several of them, men and women, dressed in thick, practical leathers and armed with an assortment of axes, bows, and rusty swords.
Their faces were hard, their eyes fixed on the carriage with predatory intent.
Marcus's assuring voice came from beside her, low and calm. "Stay here. I'll deal with this."
Camilla's eyes widened, her grip on Torin tightening instinctively. "But… there are so many of them."
Marcus gave a dismissive wave of his hand as he stood, his armor creaking. "They're nothing more than hungry villagers playing at being bandits. Desperate, not dangerous. I'll just give them some coin and send them on their way. It's cheaper than sharpening my sword."
Camilla opened her mouth to protest further, but quickly swallowed her words. He was the veteran, the professional. He had to know what he was doing.
Sure enough, the man gave her a confident nod and jumped down from the carriage with a solid thud, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword as he walked toward the group blocking the road.
Even then, a cold knot of anxiety remained tight in Camilla's stomach. Trust was one thing; blind faith was another. She glanced down at Torin, his intelligent, watchful eyes seeming to take in the situation with an understanding far beyond his weeks.
She couldn't just sit here, a target in a box. Moving quickly, she climbed down the opposite side of the carriage, keeping the bulky vehicle between her and the bandits.
She had no intention of following Marcus or getting in his way, but should the worst come to pass, she would be ready to flee into the thick woods, not trapped inside.
Huddled behind the large rear wheel, she peered around the corner. She watched Marcus stand before the bandits, his posture relaxed but authoritative.
He was talking, his voice a low, steady rumble she couldn't quite make out. The bandits listened, their initial aggressive stances softening. Judging by the expressions on their grimy faces, things seemed to be going smoothly.
After a minute, Marcus retrieved a leather coin pouch from his belt and placed it in the outstretched hand of the man who seemed to be their leader.
The faces of all the bandits lit up with greedy satisfaction, and the leader gave a curt nod, looking as if he was about to wave them on.
It seemed the situation would be resolved just like that.
Then, one of the other bandits, a younger man with a weaselly face, gestured pointedly toward the carriage—directly at where Camilla had been sitting.
A strange, leering grin spread across his face as he said something to Marcus.
Whatever the weasel-faced man had said, it was clearly so obscene, so personally offensive, that it sent Marcus into an instant, cold rage. The Legionary veteran didn't hesitate. His sword was in his hand in a flash of steel, and he slashed it across the man's face, drawing a deep, bloody gash from his temple down over his left eye.
The leering grin vanished, replaced by a mask of blood and a shrill, pained scream.
For a moment, everyone stood frozen, the sudden violence shocking the tense calm.
Then, one of the other bandits, a burly woman with a rusted axe, roared and charged at Marcus with an outraged expression. Again, the mercenary didn't hesitate.
As she swung, his own sword arced in a practiced, brutal riposte, slicing clean through her throat. There was no negotiation now. He was clearly out to kill.
Another bandit, a young man with wild eyes, rushed Marcus with a woodcutter's axe. The mercenary deflected the clumsy, heavy blow with his shield, the impact ringing out, and before the boy could recover, Marcus buried his sword deep into his gut.
The leader of the bandits, the one holding the coin pouch, seemed to panic at this swift, brutal turn. He took a stumbling step back, his face pale, and shouted, "Now! Everyone, out!"
At his command, more bandits began to emerge from the thick bushes on either side of the road—far more than Camilla had initially seen. They swarmed Marcus like ants, their numbers overwhelming his skill and armor.
The veteran fought valiantly, his shield a blur, his sword a extension of his will, cutting down two more. But he was simply outnumbered. A spear found a gap in his defense, piercing his thigh. He grunted, his stance faltering.
It was then that an arrow, fired from the tree line, thudded into his back, right between the plates of his armor. Marcus cried out, his legs buckling, forcing him to his knees.
The bandits rushed him then, a frenzy of steel and hatred, and made short, brutal work of the exhausted and injured warrior.
Camilla watched the scene unfold with mounting horror, her hand clamped over her mouth to stifle a scream. She was paralyzed, her feet rooted to the spot as she witnessed her protector be slaughtered.
She only snapped out of her daze when the carriage driver, with a terrified yelp, suddenly jumped down from his seat and sprinted headlong into the woods on the side of the road, abandoning them completely.
Realizing that any further hesitation would mean a fate worse than death, Camilla gripped Torin tightly against her chest, the baby's unusual silence both a blessing and a terror.
She turned and ran, not after the driver, but in the opposite direction, plunging off the road and into the deep, shadowy thickets of the forest. Her only desperate hope was to divide the number of pursuers and lose them in the dense undergrowth.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she scrambled over roots and through grasping brambles. The sounds of the bandits looting the carriage and Marcus's body grew fainter, and for a single, fleeting moment, she dared to hope.
That hope shattered like glass.
An exclamation, loud and clear, cut through the woods behind her, its meaning chillingly obvious even through her limited understanding of the language. It was one of the bandits, his voice sharp with command.
"Leave the driver! Forget him! After the woman! She's the one with the coin!"
The brief, desperate gamble had failed. They weren't interested in the fleeing driver. They were after her.
...
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