#lostnord

Once between the trees he paused and tried to collect his thoughts. No point in panicking like Frithjofr. Haaki prided himself on being better than his brother-in-law, even if the thumping in his chest suggested otherwise. He forced himself to stop, and breathe, and wait.

Soon he began to get a sense of the forest around him, another skill imparted by Hjolrin many years ago. Falkreath Hold was subtly different to Riverwood. Instead of sharp and clear air, everything was muffled by moss, distant among the ferns, always sounding further away than it ought to. It was how Haaki imagined the dead viewed the living, another thought which he pushed down and ignored. More important things to focus on. He listened until he heard a scuffle and a crunch and then, crossbow cradled in his arms, he followed it, keeping tight to the thicket of weeds.

For a long time he thought he must have lost the trail, and had it not been for the idea of Frithjofr only a few steps away, about to run into a ring of belligerent necromancers, he probably would have turned back. The daylight was fading and every shadow of every tree stretched out around him, arms ready to snatch, claws ready to tear apart. There was no sign of Frithjofr. Maybe he had circled round. Maybe what they had heard was a perfectly normal animal, wandering through the forest, doing no harm to anyone. Maybe he was being ridiculous. Maybe.

Haaki crept out from a curtain of ferns and came face to face with the stag.

He assumed it was the same stag, anyway. Wolves appeared to have found it since the encounter in Riverwood, and the pack didn't perceive necromancy as a reason to abandon a hunt. Flesh, torn by multiple mouths, hung in lumps from the creature's bones, clinging on by threads of muscle, and the bones themselves were chipped and smeared with the remaining fluids in the corpse. The legs, too, were in tatters, not from wolves but from the brambles slicing at them. One foot had broken away and the stag was walking, unperturbed, on a stump of bone, giving it a horrible, lopsided stagger. It reminded Haaki of the first time he'd seen a stag shed its velvet, but this was unnatural, as if the process were an infection which had spread to the rest of the body, and unlike that time he didn't have Hjolrin here to explain what was going on.

The worst part was the jaw. Haaki had never thought about a stag's teeth much before. He'd seen deer skulls, on the walls of inns, or as decor in an especially tasteless home, and they hadn't been threatening then, other than to anyone with a sense for interior design. Now he felt differently. The skin of the muzzle had been ripped away and revealed, at the back of the jaw, behind the lower set of incisors,­ a toothy grin curling up into the skull, a grin which persisted as the creature moaned. Some of the teeth were loose. It looked strangely human, until it lowered its head, directed its antlers at Haaki, and charged.

Holding up the crossbow was instinctive, but of course firing it would be pointless. If a pack of wolves couldn't take the thing down then another bolt wouldn't do much. Haaki flung himself to the side as the beast crashed into the thicket. The magical aura trailed behind it. Trying to keep himself protected by the branches, he moved around the clearing, keeping half of his attention on the stag and half for whoever was controlling it.

'Who's there? Come out here and fight properly!'

Teeth chattered behind him as the stag lunged forwards again, mouth first this time, snapping at Haaki's sleeves. It couldn't do much damage compared to the antlers or a straightforward charge, but it could hold him in place. It gave Haaki the distinct and unpleasant sensation that someone, somewhere nearby, was laughing at him. As his foot caught a root and sent him tumbling forwards, he failed to see the joke.

A brief image, of smiling teeth against a starlit sky, bore down upon him, and he rolled away as the antlers plunged into the earth beside him. Before he could be trampled by the hooves, he swung his crossbow up and caught the monster a blow on its chest which bought him enough time to scramble towards safety.

It took a bit of digging around in the undergrowth to locate Amelie's sword, which had cleverly disguised itself as stick. She inspected it while she walked back into the open grass of the plains. Uncle Hjolrin gave it to her last Saturalia and it wasn't bad, for a starter sword. The wooden pommel was shaped like a bear, there were knots and twists carved into the wooden grip, and a fuller had been chiselled out along the length of the wooden blade. It was ready for all the mighty enemies she would no doubt slay with the oversized toothpick, just as soon as she was older.

She picked a few petals and clumps of moss from her hair with a thoughtful expression. Trond, ready and waiting for her next attempt with his shield raised, gave it a minute before he coughed and added,

'Whenever you're ready, sweetroll.'

'Pa?'

One thing Trond had learned about parenting was that there were a hundred different ways a child could say Pa, and each of them had its own meaning. This one, slow and considered, was his least favourite. It meant he was about to face a difficult question which he would much rather deflect onto Joldi, and if, like now, she wasn't here, he would not be permitted to brush it off or make up an answer. Amelie could have the persistence of Haaki's hounds once she got an idea in her head.

'Aye?' he asked, with some trepidation.

'Why do I gots to use a wood sword?'

'Because it's yours. Got to use your own sword. That's... tradition, that is. Heroes always have their own special weapon. Like Ysgramor and his axe, Wuuthrad. Have you got a name for your sword yet?'

That was cunning, Trond thought. Answering a question with a question, usually enough to send Amelie off on a much easier line of thought. Today, however, she shook her head and gave the wooden sword a few feeble waves.

'Woofad wasn't wood. No hero's got a wood sword.'

'Then you can be the first.'

'Why can't I use your sword?'

At least the sombre look was gone from her eyes. Now they glinted as she eyed up Trond's iron sword, guard issue, not to be distributed among any except those wearing the colours of Whiterun. He lifted it and, instinctively, held it back, out of Amelie's reach.

'Takes a fair bit of strength to carry a sword like this. Can you lift it?'

'Dunno. I never tried. Can I try? Please?'

Aware that if he said no, he would have to drag a crying child back into Whiterun as well as two swords and his shield, Trond glanced around helplessly. The plains were empty apart from themselves and, in the distance, a goat chewing the cud, which he deemed unlikely to report back to Joldi. He sighed.

'Fine. Come here.'

The moment of delight was, as Trond expected, short-lived. Amelie's face fell as quickly as the sword did from her hands, landing with a thud on the soft earth. She jumped back as if afraid it might bite her toes.

'It's heavy! Are all swords heavy? Is your shield heavy too?'

'Aye. And I have to carry them both around all day.'

Nothing could match the joy of seeing Amelie happy, but Trond had to admit that basking in her awe and admiration came close. She heaved up the handle of his sword again, getting it to her own shoulder height before she dropped it again, and repeated the exercise with his shield to confirm his claim. After it had fallen beside the sword she sat down abruptly on the grass and stared upwards.

'You must be really, really, really, really strong.'

'They don't call your pa Trond the Mighty for nothing.'

'Uncle Frith said they call him Frith the Brave but I seed him running away from a mudcrab. Even I'm not scared of mudcrabs!'

'That's because you're even braver than Frithjofr the Brave.'

'Amelie the Braverer.' She leapt to her feet and snatched up the sword, her sword, with its bear in the pommel and the dulled blade. 'And I'm gonna beat Trond the Mighty acubs he's lost his shield!'

'Wait, that's not--'

'Ha!'

A swipe to the knees, hard enough to bruise, caught Trond off-guard. Faced with a choice between regaining his balance and stopping the swearword spilling out over his lips, he opted for the latter, preferring the immediate pain of crashing to the ground over a tongue-lashing from Joldi later if Amelie repeaed what she heard. When he opened his eyes, Amelie's tiny form standing over him blotted out the sun, apart from the brilliant golden light caught in her hair.

'A good offence is a good defence,' she announced. 'You told me that! Silly Pa! And Auntie Arlain told me, if they're bigger'n you, go for the knees.'

The hem of the cloak was pushed back and a sullen, suspicious face, covered in a thin beard, looked out. When it saw the dog bouncing around Frithjofr's heels, it broke into a smile.

'Uncle Frith!'

''Lo. Minnel sent me up to look for you. Everything all right?'

'Just practising my carving. I'm not as good as Hjolrin.' Haaki held up the lump of wood he was working on in rough, hardened fingers, complete with a fresh scar across the knuckle. 'Um, it's supposed to be a fox.'

'Better'n anything I could do.'

'Sit down. I've got some potatoes I can cook.'

Giving Dog one last scratch behind the ears, Frithjofr settled himself on his knees beside the fire, scuffing up his leggins with soot. Haaki scraped some of the embers from the fire with his boot and dropped a couple of potatoes on them before sitting down himself. As soon as he was down Dog trotted over and rested his head in his master's lap. Haaki fondled his ears idly and asked,

'Why did Minnel send you? I'm fine. I'm not a kid any more.'

'You'll always be a kid to her.'

'Nobody ever goes looking for Hjoll, and she and Brandy're older than him, too. It's not fair.'

Haaki prodded the potatoes with a stick, and jabbed at one so hard that the skin burst. He swore under his breath, glanced guiltily around, and when Frithjofr didn't comment, did his best to poke the inside of the potato back inside. There was clearly something else on Frithjofr's mind. After picking up a stick of his own and twirling it between his fingers a few times, he said,

'Uh, 's not just about checking up on you.'

Haaki's hand stopped stroking Dog's head.

'It's about the Legion. Isn't it?'

'Uh. Aye. She wanted me to try 'n talk to you--'

'I know she did. You won’t change my mind.'

Unbidden, both of their heads turned, just for a second, to look at the cloak tent. There was an old, faded stain at one end, over where the chest would be if someone was wearing it. Haaki looked back to the fire first.

'She's worried,' said Frithjofr. Haaki concentrated all of his attention on the disembowelled potato.

'It wouldn't happen to me.'

'Could happen to anyone.'

'The war's practically over now.'

'It was practically over when--'

'You're not going to stop me. Minnel's tried and Brandy's tried and Hjolrin's tried and now you've tried, but I'm going to go anyway. It's... it's a point of honour, isn't it? You said you wanted to be in the Legion once.'

'Nah, said I respected the Legion. 'S different. I can't tell the pointy end of a sword from the other one. What good'd I be?'

'I'm trained. I'm good with a bow and better with a crossbow.'

There was a long silence, filled with Dog's sniffing and a log shifting in the fire. It wasn't until Haaki removed the potatoes and handed over the one still intact that Frithjofr said,

''M not gonna stop you. I just want to know you know what you're leaving behind. Somebody'll have to look after Dog--'

'Hjolrin will.'

'--and Finnr'll miss you. So will everyone. They've already lost one brother, one uncle. I mean, 'm not a Boar-Chaser, not properly, but I know how important you are to each other. That's obvious even to me. Minnel still keeps his shield on the wall. Hjolrin never talks to anyone since... y'know. And Brandy's always telling me he's going to sell his books, but he never does, and y'know why? Because you hold onto each other. They don't want to lose him for good and they don't want to lose you.' Frithjofr bit into the potato and mumbled around it, 'That's all I got to say.'

---------------------------------------------------

Frithjofr and Minnel deciding to leave for Cyrodiil is a pivotal point for every Boar-Chaser, so it seemed appropriate (and efficient) to use it for this prompt.

The first and most obvious result is that neither Minnel nor Finnr are killed by legionnaires, and Frithjofr doesn’t get into his various troubles. Instead he continues to help out on the Boar-Chaser farm, eventually moving into a small house of their own a little further west on the Whiterun Plains. There’s no Burd, and no nirngoats; they live a fairly humdrum and unremarkable life, raising Finnr amongst his family.

This leads to Frithjofr becoming a much calmer man. He has better control over his thoughts, and is less prone to amble into danger, but he’s also less sympathetic to people in difficult situations. His morals haven’t been challenged in the way they were during his Cyrodiil adventures. He continues to believe that Stealing Is Always Bad, never having experienced the desperation some people are forced to and with the constant presence of Trond (initially - we’ll get to that). Generally speaking, he’s not quite as sympathetic to people on the fringes of society, be they common thieves or followers of Sheogorath. He never meets a considerably number of his current friends, and if he does, the consequences may be quite, quite different - Tortulja and Luth, for example, wouldn’t find him so sympathetic, nor as endearingly stupid, and his close friendships with them would never have the chance to grow.

His cowardice is less likely to change, although the Boar-Chasers are quite insistent about what it means to be a Real Nord. Most of the time, if they will allow it, Frithjofr remains content to stay at home with Finnr while Minnel takes care of anything remotely courageous.

Having someone like Frithjofr around to compare himself to boosts Trond’s confidence further (as if it needs it). Knowing that his sister will still be around to help the family, and without the resentment the circumstances of her death fostered, Trond tries for the Legion again and this time, with the Civil War creating a constant demand for new troops, gets accepted. Unfortunately, unlike guard work, there’s no option of ducking into the nearest alley away from danger when things get rough. He’s struck down by a Stormcloak shortly after joining. His personal effects are sent home and divided among the remaining Boar-Chasers -- his shield goes to Minnel, his books go to Brandrel, his sword goes to Hjolrin and his cloak goes to Haaki.

With Minnel’s help, Brandrel survives his fight against the bear. The Boar-Chaser farm becomes his responsibility when Minnel moves out with Frithjofr, and he does a much better job at caring for it than Hjolrin, Trond and Haaki do in the real timeline. As much as Trond’s death upsets him, he tries to channel all of that emotion into his work, leaving no time to pursue his amorous interests in Rodda Cold-Tree (or anyone else, for that matter) but creating a thriving farmstead.

On the more definitively negative side, Hjolrin retreats into himself, as he does in the real timeline, but even more severely. Neither Minnel nor Brandrel are as skilled at bringing him out of himself as Trond was. Without Trond there running his mouth to fill any awkward silences, Hjolrin is even less likely to attend any social events, and he’s rarely obliged to since Minnel is still the official head of the clan. He’s never introduced to Arlain, and spends the majority of his time alone in his camp, isolating himself even from his family. Haaki is the only person who ever really talks to him, and in this world Haaki is usually busy pursuing his own independent hunting work.

Because without the same purpose Minnel’s death gave him, and not having been as close to Trond, it takes a while for Haaki’s innate passion for Vengeance!™ to manifest itself. He evidently maintains his stubbornness (and his personal belief that the world is unfairly biased against him), and his dedication to his family is just as strong, too; the difference is that this time he has more support, and from his favourite people, in dealing with the loss. He completes his apprenticeship with Hjolrin and, at his brother’s insistence on being left alone, sets up his own camp in the woods. He can be hostile to unexpected guests in case they turn out to be part of a Stormcloak scouting party, who will not find any sympathy from him.

Eventually, however, his nature gets the better of him, and his anger over losing a brother festers. This time, rather than run off to the Stormcloaks, he aims for the Legion, instead. He proves luckier than Trond. His ultimate fate would depend on the canonised outcome of the Civil War, but he is moved from infantry to archery, where he serves with honour until the war’s conclusion - not having the ulterior motive of hunting down Frithjofr means he never has any reason to desert. The psychological scars warfare leaves on him are nothing compared to his current path - in the end, it makes him a more disciplined, reasonable person, who better understands the fortunes of war and why Trond was taken from him.