As he reached the top of the hill, Camilla's gravestone became fully visible through the fog.
Torin stopped for a moment, letting K'hila's small hand rest in his, letting the silence settle around them. The stone was exactly as he remembered it—grey and weathered, standing slightly crooked after years of frost and thaw, the words he'd carved into it still sharp despite the seasons.
Camilla the Valiant.
He'd chosen that epithet carefully, back when he was young and angry and still learning how to grieve. Not Camilla the Faithful, though she'd been faithful. Not Camilla the Kind, though kindness had been her nature.
Camilla the Valiant.
Because she'd carried a squalling infant through bandit-infested woods, because she'd shielded when monsters chased, because she'd died so that he might live. Valiant was the word that fit.
The dagger Kodlak had left here all those years ago was still there, stuck point-first into the earth beside the headstone. The blade was even more worn now—he could see it even from here, the edge dulled by weather and time—but it hadn't rusted.
It never rusted. Eorlund's work was too good for that.
Beside the dagger, scattered across the grave's base, were the trinkets Torin had brought on his first visit. The troll fur he'd draped over the stone was still there, faded and patchy now, half covered in leaves that clung to it.
The gem fragments—amethyst and garnet, pretty baubles he picked up from a bandit lair and thought she'd like—still caught the faint light, winking from the soil like buried treasure.
There was even a little wolf he'd carved from wood one winter when the snow was too thick to do anything, and his hands needed something to keep him busy.
But there was more.
Flowers. Fresh mountain flowers, their blue petals still bright despite the cold, arranged in a careful bundle at the base of the stone. And beside them, a bottle of Cyrodilic brandy, unopened, its amber contents glowing in the dim light.
Those weren't his doing.
Torin let out a slow breath, something warm and unexpected settling in his chest. He leaned his axe against a nearby tree—the blade biting into the bark with a soft thunk—and shrugged off his pack.
K'hila's hand slipped from his the moment the axe hit the ground.
She darted toward it like a cat spotting a mouse, her grey dress flapping around her legs, her tail straight up behind her.
She crouched beside the weapon, her yellow eyes wide, her small hands hovering over the blade without quite touching.
"So heavy," she breathed, peering at the runes etched along the flat of the blade. "And so sharp. K'hila can tell. This is a warrior's axe. A real warrior's axe."
Torin smiled—a small thing, barely there—but didn't answer. He turned back to the grave and lowered himself to the ground beside it, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened earth, his back against the stone.
He'd done this many times already. The first time, he'd come alone, still raw with complicated emotions, still figuring out how to say goodbye to someone who'd died before he could speak.
The second time, he'd brought flowers of his own and sat here for an hour, saying nothing, just being present.
It was on the third visit that Runil had finally worked up the courage to ask.
Torin remembered the old Altmer's face that day—hesitant, uncertain, like he was afraid of trespassing on something sacred.
I've seen you come here, he'd said, time and time again. And I've tended the grave as you asked, kept it clean, kept the weeds from choking it. But I find myself wondering... who was she? Who do you visit, year after year, when you come to Falkreath?
Torin didn't hesitate. He told him of the woman who'd carried him through the snow, who'd hidden him when the bandits came, who'd died with his name on her lips. About her dedication. Her sacrifice. The way she'd given everything for a baby that wasn't even hers.
Runil had listened in silence. When Torin finished, the old priest had just nodded, his pale eyes bright with something that might have been tears or might have been understanding.
Such courage, he'd said quietly. Such courage, in one so young, so unprepared for what the world asked of her. The Nords have a word for that, I think. A word for dying well.
Valor, Torin had said.
Valor, Runil had repeated, tasting it. Yes. And she was valiant.
After that, Torin started finding things on Camilla's grave when he came to visit. Mountain flowers in the spring. Snowberries in the winter. A bottle of mead, once, cheap stuff but well-meant.
When Torin had asked Runil about it, the old priest had looked almost embarrassed.
It wasn't my doing, he'd said quickly. Not entirely. I told the story, yes—to a few people, the ones who asked. The ones who saw me tending the grave and wondered. And they... He'd spread his hands helplessly. They started coming. Leaving things. Not because I asked them to. Because they wanted to.
Torin had been quiet for a long moment after that. Thinking about what Runil was really saying.
The people of Falkreath—Nords, mostly, the kind who lived hard lives and died harder ones—had heard the story of a woman who died protecting a child, and they'd decided she deserved remembering.
It wasn't because they knew her. Or because they'd ever met her. To them, honor was honor, and sacrifice was sacrifice, and no true Nord could look at a grave like this and walk away without offering something.
For all their faults—for all their stubborn nature, their willful ignorance on certain matters, their tendency to dismiss anything they couldn't swing an axe at—the Nords were some of the most honest, warm people you could meet.
Granted, they were raised right. Granted, they didn't consider you a milk-drinker. Granted, you'd proven yourself in some way that mattered to them.
But once you were in? Once they called you brother, or sister, or shield-sibling? There was no warmer hearth in all of Tamriel.
Those were his people. Had been since he witnessed Helga split an Aldmeri soldier's head with her axe mere minutes after giving birth to him. And sitting here, on this hill, with the fog curling around the gravestones and a Khajiit child playing with his axe, Torin felt something in his chest loosen.
His eyes closed. His mind began to drift.
He thought of Jorrvaskr's hall, the fire always burning, the smell of mead and roasted meat. He thought of Farkas's laugh, rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. He thought of Kodlak's voice, solemn but warm, offering words of wisdom from when he was barely able to lift the hammer, and even after he began to crush bandit heads with it.
He thought of Echo, the weight of her against his side on cold nights, the rumble of her growls...
Pleasant memories. Warm memories. The kind that pushed back against the darkness, that reminded him why he fought, why he hunted, why he kept getting up every morning when it would be so much easier to just... stop.
The rage, already dulled by a bold little Khajiit's antics, faded further. Slipped back into whatever dark corner it had crawled out of. Not gone—he knew better than to think it was gone—but suppressed.
When he opened his eyes, K'hila was lying on her back in front of him, her small body stretched out on the frost-hardened grass, her yellow eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that was almost unnerving.
Her tail curled and uncurled lazily beside her, the only part of her that seemed relaxed.
Torin smiled.
"Did you grow bored with my axe already?" He nodded toward the weapon, still leaning against the tree where he'd left it. "I thought you'd be looking at it for another hour at least."
K'hila shook her head, her ears flopping slightly with the motion.
"No. This one only grew more curious." She propped herself up on her elbows, studying him with those strange, catlike eyes. Her head tilted, the way it did when she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Say. What is your name?"
Torin chuckled, the sound low and warm.
"I was wondering when you'd ask. I've been calling you K'hila for the better part of an hour, and you've just been calling me... what? Tall one? Big scary Nord?"
K'hila's ears flicked. "This one was waiting to see if you were someone whose name was worth remembering."
"Ah." Torin nodded solemnly. "And have I passed the test?"
She considered this, her whiskers twitching.
"Maybe," she said. "K'hila is still deciding. Perhaps this one will remember it if it's a good name."
Torin laughed again, and this time it felt good—real. The kind of laugh that came from somewhere genuine, that pushed back the cold and the fog and the memories of scars carved into young flesh.
"It's Torin," he said. "My name is Torin."
K'hila hummed, a low, thoughtful sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. She said the name slowly, tasting it, rolling it around on her tongue like a new flavor.
"Torin," she murmured. "Tor-in. Torin."
Her gaze drifted to the axe, then back to his face. Her eyes traveled down his body, then up again, measuring. Assessing. The way a merchant might appraise a particularly interesting piece of merchandise, trying to decide its value.
"This one is curious," she said, and her voice had gone cautious now. Careful. Like she was stepping onto ice and wasn't sure if it would hold. "Shouldn't you be accompanied by a great bear?"
Torin stared at her.
For a moment, the world went very quiet. The fog seemed to press closer. The gravestones stood silent witness. And Torin, who had faced down Thalmor assassins and Forsworn briarhearts and at least one Daedric prince, found himself completely at a loss for words.
Then he smiled. A weary smile, but genuine.
"I did garner some fame," he said slowly, "but I didn't think even a child like you would know about me and Echo."
K'hila gave Torin a look that seemed to question his intelligence—the kind of look an exasperated teacher might give a particularly slow student, or a cat might give a dog that had just done something spectacularly stupid.
"What is there to be surprised about?" She planted her small hands on her hips, her tail curling behind her. "The caravans get around. They hear things. See things. Learn things."
She tapped her ear with one finger, her claws making a soft clicking sound against the fur. "And this one's ears are especially keen. K'hila hears everything. The traders, they talked about you. The tall Nord with the bear. The one who slays monsters. The big one who is without fear."
She pointed at him, her yellow eyes sharp.
"In fact, you should be pleased. This one only had a feeling that you might match the monster." She grinned, a flash of small white teeth. "Now, this one knows it."
Torin shook his head, exasperation warring with amusement. The audacity of this little girl. The absolute, unshakeable confidence of her. She'd been living gods know where and eating gods know what for gods know how long and here she was, sizing him up like she was doing him a favor by deciding he was worthy.
Then the smile slowly faded from his face.
He crouched down again, bringing himself to her level, his grey eyes meeting her yellow ones.
"I'm glad you think so," he said quietly. "Now. Why don't you tell me about this monster? And its servant. Anything and everything you remember. Even the small things. Especially the small things. They might help more than you know."
K'hila shook her head, her ears flattening slightly.
"This one already told you all she knows of the monster." Her voice had lost some of its bravado. "It's out there. Somewhere. And it's after this one. That's all K'hila knows. She's never seen it. Never heard it. Only felt it." She shivered, her fur ruffling. "Like cold breath on the back of the neck. Like eyes in the dark."
She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground.
"As for its servant..."
The words stopped in her throat.
The mist around them shifted.
Torin felt it before he saw it—a change in the air, a weight that hadn't been there a moment before. The fog thickened, rolling in from the trees like a tide, and with it came a cold that had nothing to do with winter.
The kind of cold that seeped into bones, that made the breath catch in the chest, that whispered of places where the sun never reached.
His hand shot out. His axe flew from where it leaned against the tree, the haft slapping into his palm with a crack of displaced air. He brandished it in a wide arc, the blade cutting through the fog, and for a moment the mist recoiled, giving him a clear view of the hill, the grave, the trees beyond.
Nothing. Nothing he could see.
But the cold pressed closer. The fog thickened again. And somewhere in the darkness, something was watching.
K'hila's voice cut through the silence, high and sharp and terrified.
"No!" She scrambled backward, her small hands scrabbling at the frost-hardened grass. "The monster comes! This one knows it! This one feels it!" She was breathing fast now, her chest heaving, her yellow eyes wide and fixed on something Torin couldn't see. "K'hila must run! Must hide! Must—"
She bolted.
Fast. Faster than he would have thought possible for someone so small, so thin, so worn down by two months of hiding and hunger. She was gone before Torin could even reach for her, a flash of grey dress and black fur swallowed by the fog.
"K'hila!"
Torin lunged after her, his hand closing on empty air. The fog closed around him like a curtain, thick and cold and blinding. He couldn't see three feet in front of his face. Couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat and the rasp of his breath.
Gods damn it.
He ran.
...
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