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[tes-trash-blog]

For seven days did the spectre of death haunt the keep of Windhelm, and with death came the Ghosts. The wind carried their howls and the chill of unnatural winter, and Atmorans of Old and Nords of New alike huddled in their homes. Hundreds of hearths heard hundreds of rumors, but these nights the words all rhymed.

“His time grows near,” as the log crackled in the hearth. “I must admit, I thought the man immortal,” when the fire breached the damp surface. Smoke plumed and masked the smell of an untouched dinner. “Death himself is afeared, I reckon,” and the heartwood blackened.

Ylgar paid no mind to the gossip in the palace. For seven days his sleep was interrupted by the moaning of the winds. It was indeed the wind, for no man could wail in such a way. He poured a stein of hot mead and took a careful sip. The taste was mild, not so sweet as to cause a weak stomach to reject it, and the scent was not of spices but of herbs. The mead made his lips tingle and throat numb, and made him sorely wish for his bed. Instead, he placed the steaming mead, fresh bread, and gruel on a tray and without a word to the gossiping cooks, retreated into the eastern wing of the Palace. He passed a scullery maid with covered hair on his way to the king’s quarters; she gave him a weary smile. Ylgar merely nodded. The maid hasn’t had a night’s rest, he thought. He ventured down the hall, and the wailing of the winds grew stronger, louder. I shall ensure she is well cared for, once this is finished.

He reached the end of the hall, the heavy oaken door of the King’s privatemost quarters, and the Ghostwails reached a fever pitch. Ylgar did not knock.

The Harbinger of All had torn the furs off his bed, and the Atmoran linens were shreds. The heavy oaken table was turned on its side, and one of the ceramic incense burners were cracked; sage and diamondbrush ash scattered on the stone floor. Ysgramor was to his armory, rummaging and ranting. Ylgar had his true armor taken away weeks ago, and the pieces that remained were of dyed leather and lightweight metal. The nightstand at his bed was tossed into a corner. Ylgar picked it up, thankful it was not broken, and set it upright before placing the Harbinger’s meal to rest away from the ruckus. When Ylgar cleared his throat to make himself known, Ysgramor finally straightened and turned. He was not looking at his son, but behind him, as if there was an enemy lying in wait to assassinate them both.

“There’s one! Right there! Bring me my axe, damn you!” Wuuthrad was hidden away ever since Ysgramor struck down the old scullery maid. She was elderly, her hair white, and the Harbinger mistook her hair for that of an Elf’s. Ylgar did not want to explain this again.

“Harbinger, there is no one but me,” he said in a soothing voice, but Ysgramor did not listen. He went to the fireplace, half limping, and searched for the poker near the hearth; it was also removed, and the manservants who stoked the fire had to make do with prodding the log with their foot. Ylgar was to him in a half-moment, and took him by the arm. “Harbinger, come rest your bones. I swear to you as son and honored soldier, there are no Elves in this keep.”

Ysgramor turned to him with wide eyes. His mouth slacked, aged brows raised, and for a moment Ylgar saw the soot from Saarthal steak across his father’s face. And the Ghosts outside wailed.

“The walls.. They’re bleeding! What Elven trick is this?” Ysgramor tripped, no doubt from a grabbing hand of an Elf and not the weakness of his knees. Ylgar put him on the bed and collected the tossed furs.

“Father..” Ylgar paused and corrected himself. “Beloved Harbinger, these walls are solid stone as you have built them. They are as watertight as our longboats, remember our voyage? How you commanded us all through the wretched storm?” Ylgar prayed his words would reach him, for the first king of Skyrim to find solace, for his father to pass on peaceful, but Ysgramor had never met any foe without a fight. Prayers unanswered, Ylgar instead recounted the voyage from Atmora-of-Old as he led his father back to his bed. “The sails threatened to tear under the gnashing teeth of the Ghosts, but with mighty Wuuthrad you shore the fangs from their very heads, and we roared our victory..” Ylgar pulled a stool bedside, not missing a breath. “And Hygge, honored in death and life, when the hull threatened to breach she set her hands upon the planks, and held them fast until we would come ashore.” He found the clutching hand of the Harbinger and stroked it, as to remind the age-addled mind that his son was here. “And when we finally did find land, you and I mourned for seven days and seven more upon the loss of most beloved and most mourned Yngol..”

Ylgar did not think often of his brother, and in many ways envied him. This night his envy grew dark, for Yngol did not have to witness the decline of their father. His elder brother was always stronger than he, in mind and spirit and body, and surely would know what to do to soothe what ailed the dying man before him. A darker part wished he volunteered to command the Harakk instead of doomed Yngol, for then he would not have to suffer and witness this.

“Yngol, Yngol my son, where are you? We found the planks of Harakk, but where are you..”

“His spirit rests easy, father.. Harbinger. You have buried him in an opulent barrow, with sword and shield and his share of spoils from the Elven vanquishing.” Ylgar adjusted himself to sit on the Harbinger’s bedside and wrapped his arms around him. He never knew Ysgramor to be old until he felt the bones on his back, the looseness of his skin and the weakness of his body. Ysgramor was a warrior and leader, and without his guidance the Companions would have broken with the shore. The Harbinger was a king who guided with a firm and steady hand, so long as you did not enrage him. His father was strong, sure, and carried his weeping children from the razed city that was their home.

This weak thing was not his father. Thinking no more of dead brothers and dying fathers, Ylgar recalled and recounted the scalping of his first Elf, in the detail his father so relished. This night Ysgramor had no laughter, and his wails only worsened. In a sudden burst of strength, Ysgramor wrenched himself away from Ylgar’s embrace. A trembling hand pointed at a plain wall, and the Ghosts howled with him, “You! You damned Elf! You murdered my son! You murdered my most beloved son!”

Ylgar coughed. When his throat became clear of sobs and his heart became hardened, he grasped the hand of his father. “I am right here, Father,” he lied. “I am right here.”

For seven days, the Ghosts wailed, as Ysgramor was not so weak as to wail like a woman. On the seventh night, the howling in the streets silenced, and the spectre of death found his courage, and the wild eyes of Ysgramor softened. He smiled, and his eyes became wet with tears, and slumped back into his bed.

Again, Ylgar lied. “I am right here, Father. You spent so long looking for me, and here I am.” He rose to collect the mead, now cold, and brought it to the corrected nightstand. Next he rolled a fur up and propped it behind his father. He picked up the stein and offered it. “You must be thirsty, Father. Won’t you drink in my honor?”

Ysgramor gladly took the stein and drank deep. The effect was instant: the wildness in his eyes was gone completely, and he smiled contentedly. The sedative was strong, the painkiller stronger. It was not a poison, such methods they used only towards Elves during the fall of their City-In-The-Wood, but Ylgar could not shake the feeling that this sleep would be the Harbinger’s last. When the mead was finished, Ylgar set the stein away and sat alongside him. There he recounted the victorious battles in Winters Hold, the treachery of Fal-Kreth and the execution of the traitors. He embellished on how much the gods favored them in the Elven forest of the Rift, and only faltered when recounting their victory at the Moesring. His father listened, content, unaware that his fallen son died before they knew victory. It was a fantasy Ylgar could not bear, but did if only for a night. His throat was dry when he finished, and Ysgramor nearly asleep. His rant had become mumbles, and his talk of Elves and bleeding walls finally ceased.

“Do you need anything, Father?” Ylgar asked. Ysgramor nodded, eyes closed.

“Yngol, my son, bring me Wuuthrad,” then nothing more.

Ylgar stayed until the Harbinger was cold, and the fires dimmed to embers. When he did rise, it was to meet with the mourners of Windhelm and lie once more. The Harbinger passed on in peace, he said, with clear eyes and heart, and the wails that haunted the days after was merely the wind.

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