No longer a child

As Tural looked through the arrows, Indes herself knelt down to pick one up and examine it herself, while Aela looked over her shoulder. When they checked the straightness of it, the red-haired Nord actually let an almost amused-sounding snort escape from under her breath as she muttered something along the lines of “what kind of amateur made this.” Indes remained silent, however, until the other Bosmer spoke again.

“Amateurish. I have to agree, Elrindir would never sell these in his shop. And I’m fairly certain any of us who have ever used a bow would also agree that we would never consider putting these in with our own arrows if we had the choice.” She glanced to Aela first, who nodded, then to Skjor, and finally between the twins. “What do you think?”

Vilkas was quiet, eyes turned downward towards the arrows sitting on the floor, as if in deep thought. He gave a heavy sigh before shrugging, arms tightly crossed in front of his chest. “Seems to check out, though I’m still not sure what to make of it all yet. Something needs to be done. Maybe see what Kodla—”

“That might be something we need to talk about later,” came Skjor’s voice from closer to the door. “We may be almost out of time now. Brill running to get the healers didn’t go unnoticed, I’m sure. The guard may be on their way right now.”

“We don’t need him going to Dragonsreach,” said Indes, taking her chance before anyone else tried to speak up. “Especially while we’re still deciding on how to look at this. There are going to be rumors regardless of how we handle this, but I don’t want the knowledge that one of our own was locked up to be out there unless we are absolutely certain he deserved it.” Both of the twins began to open their mouths before Indes then stated “And I think there is enough evidence right now to warrant at least a little caution.”

“I don’t want him to be locked up either,” Nidhel said afterwards, her voice quiet and hesitant, but a little desperate. “Please.”

“Whatever we’re doing, we don’t have time to waste.” Skjor turned to Tural one last time with a stone-like expression. “Unless he has anything else to say.”

As they waited for his answer, Nidhel leaned down to whisper, “Do you feel like you can stand?”

Whatever relief might have come of their agreeing with him on the arrows washed away at the mention of the guards. Dragonsreach was far from what he wanted, but... he had attacked his fellow Companions. Citizens of Whiterun. Trickery or not, it had been him who loosed the arrows. Half of him was prepared to accept whatever sentence was decided for him, while the other half agreed with Indes and Nidhel. He didn’t want to be locked up.

Skjor’s last statement got Tural’s attention, and the Bosmer opened his mouth to speak before he stopped at Nidhel’s whisper. Giving a slight nod, Tural drew in his legs under him and pushed himself up. Aside from the aching of his jaw, and the slight soreness at the back of his head, he didn’t feel any other injuries. His body was in decent condition. His mind, on the other hand, was still struggling to process.

Nidhel wasted little time in moving and kneeling by his side to look over the place he had been holding a moment before. A magelight spell was cast in one hand to help her see in the dim light, while the other gingerly began to press on his shoulder, an instinctive move to keep him still while she looked. Though it was hard to see, there was a faint impression of the bruising, clearly almost healed.

Nidhel looked up briefly to see not only Vilkas peering over Tural’s shoulder from where he stood, but also the rest of the Circle staring at her expectantly. She would have been worried about their reaction, but she was much more concerned about the possibility that some of the bones at the base of his skull could have cracked. So instead, she turned her attention back to Tural.

“Well?” Vilkas asked, interrupting her thoughts. “You see anything?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice more solid than it had been before. “I see the swelling from the punch your brother gave him. But I also do see a bit of bruising right here. You can even come see for yourself if you don’t believe me.” The hand that was not lit with the magelight came up to touch him on the jaw, as if encouraging him to turn his head some so that Vilkas could see. But she also let a light healing spell come through her fingers in hopes that it would relieve some of the fresher pain without getting rid of the “evidence” they had. “I’m actually a bit concerned and I want to—”

“Got the arrows,” came Aela’s voice from the door. She moved through the others and laid the quiver down within Tural’s reach where they all could see, then stepped back next to Indes. “Can you compare them to the ones you got from the Huntsman?”

Tural was as still as he could be while Nidhel examined him, staring at the floor. The conflicting feelings intensified, only holding him in place all the stronger. His thoughts turned to the moment outside the fort, when that gut feeling had warned him of a trap. If he had listened...

It was’t until Aela’s voice interrupted that the Bosmer’s attention returned to the present. Gently, he lifted the quiver, and removed an arrow, brows furrowing as he gave a cursory glance. The head wasn’t the same shape. Setting the quiver down, he drew his fingers along it. The wood wasn’t sanded very well. He turned the arrow, holding it in both hands, and looking down it.

“Ain’t even straight,” he muttered, placing the arrow down, and drawing another one. He examined it in a similar manner, then placed it down, drawing another. After six or seven arrows, he leaned back against the wall, looking up at Aela and Indes. “They’re not from th’ ‘Untsman,” he concluded, glancing at Nidhel briefly before returning his attention to the other Circle members. “Th’ ‘eads ‘r cheap an’ ‘alf of ‘em aren’ straight.” No wonder I couldn’t kill anyone. The comment floated at the back of his mind, but never made it so far as his mouth.

There was a pause as some of the Circle glanced between each other. Farkas mouthed a “how long has it been?” in his brother’s direction from behind Nidhel while she took another step forward, getting a closer look at his face.

“You were gone for weeks, Tural,” she started again, concern laced in her words. “Over a month, at least.”

“When we realized you were late getting back, we set out to go find you,” Indes added, “figuring you either happened across an opportunity too good to let slip by or you needed some help. When we got to the place you were supposedly at, we found the place abandoned and your tracks just… ended. We searched every corner of that place and the area around it. Even got Nidhel over there to check for any magic that might have been hiding something, but there was nothing. It was just ruins that looked like they hadn’t been touched by anyone at all in months, and you just disappeared when you got too close to it.”

“We were… we were afraid you had been killed.” It was becoming more obvious now that Nidhel was having to hold back tears again, as her voice became more shaky and strained. “But we had no proof either way.” Her sister’s hand found its way to her shoulder, while Vilkas folded his arms. 

“So, are we going to see if we can sense any magic on him or not?”

Nidhel took a breath to steady herself before turning to the Nord. “I don’t think I can, unless he’s still under its effects. And he seems… himself right now.” She turned back to him. “But you said they injured you? Could I see where, please? I feel like we might find proof of that more than finding proof of a spell…”

“A... month?” Tural parroted as he continued to stare, his confusion plastered on his face. His head began to hurt from his brain twisting to remember how long had passed. It couldn’t have been a month. He had run through the game... well, he didn’t know how many times, but it couldn’t have taken more than a day or two? But what did he know, the world had faded every time, and he had no sense of day or night. A month still didn’t seem right. How had he been gone that long?

The Circle members listened in silence, each with varying expressions of thoughtfulness or even wariness. Indes wanted to believe him, but knew just how hard it was to deal with illusion magic in situations like this. She took note of the mention of arrows while he spoke, then began to think as he started to describe how everything went down. If he was still under the influence of the spell as he was walking through Whiterun, the maybe…

Her thoughts were interrupted when she realized he was speaking directly to her. At the request, her expression fell just slightly, and she shook her head. “No one is getting killed today. Besides, I don’t think I would make it out of here myself if you got hurt.”

“Don’t protect him just because of your sister.”

“Shut up, Vilkas. I wasn’t talking about her.” She paused. “Though, that does give me an idea.” She turned to Aela, ignoring his huffs of disapproval. “Can you go get his weapons from where you put them? That is one thing we can go ahead and check. And while you’re out there, if you see Nidhel nearby can you ask her to come? She might be able to help with this.”

With a shrug and a muttered “fine,” Aela turned toward the door as Skjor opened it. Both of them paused as a light gasp and the sound of feet scrambling away came from the other side. “Well, looks like she may have heard you anyway,” the red-haired Nord said as she slipped through, turning down the hall. The healer’s face appeared in the open space now, though she seemed hesitant to step in.

“Don’t bring her into this,” Vilkas started again. “She might lie to protect him.”

“She knows more about magic than we do. Enough to maybe give us some insight on whether or not his story checks out. And possibly to see if he might still have some sort of… trace of magic. I don’t know.”

Nidhel began to step in, and almost said something, but Skjor stopped her before she could get a single word out, closing the opening enough that she couldn’t get in without completely closing the door. “If he’s still under this spell, what if he snaps again and starts attacking?”

“I think he can resist. Just let her in for a minute.”

Though he didn’t seem too happy about it, Skjor opened the door to let the other mer in. He left it open for the time being, however. Just in case. Nidhel took a few steps forward before stopping a few feet in front of him, almost afraid to try passing the twins and her sister. She wasn’t in her usual attire, but was instead in a nightgown with dressing robe pulled over it. If it were not for the blood stains that were present, she would look like she were about to go to bed.

“Before I answer any questions, can I ask something?” Her voice was quiet, almost timid. She kept her hands held together in front of her as she looked between the others who were in there before letting her gaze fall on Tural. When she spoke again, one could almost hear how tired she was. “Tural? Are you hurt? Were you injured when… when…”

“I punched him,” Farkas stated.

“B-before that. I meant did you get hurt when you… when you disappeared?”

Indes’ reassurance was... a small comfort, if anything in the moment could be called a comfort. Tural continued to watch the group of his shield siblings, aware that they were still arguing, but not hearing any of the words. They all seemed to blend into an indeterminate murmur as his thoughts tore his attention to the arguing within his mind. A swaying rush of finality swung between the acceptance that it was all over, and trust that Indes wouldn’t let them kill him. All the while, a vague, small voice in the back of his mind asked if it really mattered, if anything made a difference anymore. He had done what he never dreamed he would do, he could do, and part of him ignored the current discussion of his trustworthiness and fate as it tried and failed to imagine how he could move past what he had done.

His blank stare turned to Nidhel as she entered the room. He simultaneously wanted to get up, to stand closer to her, and to shrink away until she couldn’t see him. Caught between the conflicting feelings, he sat dead still, looking up at her.

It took a moment for her question to process. “I don’ think so,” he answered quietly, calmly. “Only time I remember bein’ ‘urt was when I first got there.” As he spoke, his hand moved towards the back of his head, where the blow had knocked him unconscious. “When I got ‘it in--” he stopped speaking suddenly as his fingers touched the base of his skull, and his blank expression broke to furrowing brows and confusion. If there was one thing that he was unquestionably experienced with, it was being injured. He knew how long it took for his broken bones to heal, how long for the sharpness of a stab to fade, and how long for a deep bruise to subside. There was a small ache at the place where his fingers touched, that much was clear, but compared to the fresh bruise from the Nord’s fist, it was hardly noticeable. Far too unnoticeable to have been from the week or so ago that he felt like it had been. Knockout blows were hardly gentle, and left an impression for quite a while.

From the back of the room, the barely audible voice of Aela could be heard whispering to Skjor, “Wait, is he talking about the Silver Hand rumors? Didn’t we go check the place after he disappeared and found it empty?” But the older Nord was unable to answer before another voice rose up.

“That sounds like a load of shit to me,” Vilkas growled. “If you had been shooting illusions before, I think you would have realized it when the first one non-illusiuon whelp you shot didn’t disappear. You had plenty of time to come up with that excuse, didn’t you? Bet you thought Indes would be on your side because of her—Oof!”

He was silenced by a fist in his diaphragm and a wordless glare from the Bosmer. After he got the message, Indes turned back to Tural, arms crossed. “To answer your question: no. Everyone is alive and breathing. Some are not in the best condition, but we were able to get Nidhel and another healer in here to patch the worst up. Consider yourself lucky for now.” Some were in much more critical condition than what she gave away, but it would do them no good for Tural to close himself off out of guilt any more than he already probably was due to the circumstances. “Can’t say the same about their trust in you right now.”

“Or ours,” chimed in Farkas, voice low and dark as he snarled down at him.

“But back to these illusions,” Indes started again, eyebrows furrowing as she watched him closely. “Do you have any proof at all?”

“Don’t be naive,” Vilkas said, stepping up. “He could just keep claiming that he never saw anything because he was always in the illusion. Or he could say that they took away his memory, something like that. I still don’t believe him. Have you ever seen an illusion spell that lasted more than… what, a day? Indes paused to think, then shook her head. “Then why trust him at all? His story already doesn’t make any sense.”

“Because I also still don’t believe anyone who knew us like he did would be foolish enough to just walk in and start attacking while everyone was around.” Before Vilkas could interrupt again, she turned back to the other Bosmer. “You said those rumors from before were a trap. What happened? How did you get caught?”

They didn’t believe him. These people, who he had spent most of his life with, who he had fought beside, some of whom he had helped train, didn’t believe him a bit. And why would they? It sounded ridiculous, even to him. But that they would think that he would do this on purpose, that he would betray them... the rushing panic that had been building inside of him fell away suddenly to a numbness that seemed to spread across his whole body in an instant. They would kill him. Or at the very least run him out of Whiterun. After beating him to within an inch of his life. Another home, another family, lost because he was an idiot.

Tural looked back at Indes again, face devoid of the torrent of expressions from before. Devoid of any expression, really. “... Proof?” he echoed in an empty tone, still quiet. “Proof of images someone put in m’ ‘ead?” He looked away, trying to think. It was difficult through the sudden fog in his mind, which had apparently given up. But there was... the bow had felt real. He knew the feeling of a bow and arrow in his hands, the feeling of the string’s tension, the bucking of the bow when the shot was fired... That had been real from the start. He had actually been shooting arrows the whole time, and arrows broke on impact. As many times as he had fired, maybe...

“Arrows,” he said, voice the same. “Th’... th’ images weren’ real, but I was usin’ real arrows. I left with a full quiver ‘a arrows from th’ ‘Untsman. They ‘ad ta replace th’ arrows I used b’tween...” There was a pause as he swallowed. “... b’tween sessions. My quiver’d be full ‘a different arrows.”

To him, it was a lot. He had dabbled in fletching before, and he knew from years of experience that arrows made by different fletchers were usually easily distinguishable. But at the same time, it didn’t feel like enough, nearly enough to be proof. But it was all that he could think of.

He gave a small nod at Indes’ question, continuing slowly. Even as he did, the thought that it didn’t matter, that he was dead anyway ran through his head. “I got there,” he said, “wasn’ anyone ‘round but one guard at th’ door. I waited for a few hours. They changed out with someone else, another shift, but I didn’t see anyone b’sides th’ two. It didn’ feel right, but I went closer. I was careful, but... somethin’ ‘it me in th’ back ‘a th’ ‘ead. I never ‘eard anyone b’hind me. Just... out. Black.”

He shook his head, burying his forehead in his palm. “I don’ remember bein’ taken anywhere else. Th’ first... times, when the images were... faded... I could see rock through th’ walls ‘a th’ hall, like cave walls. I think I remember a cell, but... I don’ know if tha’s real. I can’na remember anythin’ else except tha’ bastards’ game.” He looked at Indes again, the shaking in his hands somewhat subsided as an acceptance of defeat seemed to calm him. “I don’ even remember travellin’ back ta Whiterun. Jus’ Tilma’s ‘and on m’ shoulder. ‘Er sayin’ ‘Ya look weary from th’ road, dear’. Tha’s ‘ow it always started.”

The lower hall had been chaotic. Aela, Skjor, and Vilkas were constantly going between checking on injured whelps and arguing with each other about what to do with the one responsible for all of it. Farkas remained planted at the door to the room he dragged Tural into, while at the other end of the hall, Njada took to guarding the now closed door to Kodlak’s room, shield up and at the ready. However, once things calmed down enough and the wounded were either patched up or resting, the rest of the Circle joined Farkas, muttering and trying to come up with a plan of action.

Eventually, the faintest sound caught the attention of the werewolves, and they fell silent. It was Vilkas who moved first.

“It’s my turn to give him what he deserves,” the Nord growled under her breath as he bolted to the door, shoving it open in anger. Indes could hear a light, familiar gasp from behind her as some of the healing supplies they had out clattered to the floor. Shoving past some of the other Circle members, she rushed forward to grab the larger man by the first thing she could reach - a sleeve.

“Ai. Watch it. If you hurt him, I won’t be the one to stop Nidhel when she tries to fry you alive. Besides, we need him awake if we want answers.”

A few seconds later, the rest of the Circle followed them in, with Skjor in the rear to close the door behind them. There was silence at first, with none of them entirely sure they wanted to be the first to speak. But after a moment, Indes was the one to step forward. She held out the part of her tunic that was now torn from the arrow and coated in her own blood. The stained bandages beneath it showed clearly between the tears in the fabric.

“What in Oblivion is going on?” she started, jaw clenched as her voice slowly rose in volume. “Why would you do this to us? To the whelps?”

“You’d better have a good answer, too, Amring,” Skjor’s voice chimed in from behind. “Or else we’ll just assume you have a death wish.”

Tural didn’t look up at them at first, only continuing to stare with unfocused eyes towards the floor, still shaking. It wasn’t until Indes spoke that his gaze flicked up towards her, taking in the red of her blood in the instant before he was staring at the floor again. He couldn’t look at them. They wanted to understand what happened, and even he didn’t really understand. He didn’t know where to start, and his jumbled, panicking, aching mind wasn’t doing him any favors.

His mouth opened, and he struggled to get words out past what felt like his throat collapsing. “I...” There was a prolonged pause. “I didn’... mean...” He trailed off, hopelessly searching for what to say. He didn’t mean to what? Nearly kill his shield-siblings? Nearly kill Indes? The thought that he might have aimed just a bit truer caused him to swallow hard, jaw clenching despite the massive bruise that was forming.

“Th’ rumors were... a trap,” he started again slowly, almost whispering, trying to start from the beginning. “I w-- I walked inta it. Got captured. There was... a mage. Or somethin’. Never saw ‘im. ‘E... made... illusions. Looked like everyone ‘ere.” His chest tightened more, and he stopped to take a couple shaky, shallow breaths. “Did somethin’ ta m’ head. It...” He would have looked ashamed if his expression hadn’t still been entirely shock  despair. “... I couldn’ stand th’ pain. ‘E said either I ‘ad ta shoot... th’ illusions, ‘r... th’ pain would get worse an’ kill me.”

There was another long pause as he tried to form the next sentence, mouth hanging open slightly. He looked at Indes, almost pleading between shaking breaths. “It wasn’ real. They weren’ real. They weren’ real... Illusions, th-- they disappeared, like smoke, when I hit ‘em. They weren’ real, so I played along. I thought I could get out.” There was a very subtle shake of his head. “When it was... done, it... started over. Everythin’ back at th’ start. Th’ pain again. It...” He looked at the floor again. “I couldn’ get out of it. It jus’ kept happenin’, over an’ over. But it was never real. It was never real, it was always illusions, I wasn’ goin’ ta--” His voice sounded more desperate. The more he went on, the less believable he sounded to himself. “I didn’--”

It had been a long day. Though working for Elrindir itself was rarely stressful, the customers sometimes would be. It had been one of those days where a particularly ornery hunter had come in with a demanding, pushy attitude. Nidhel figured it may have been the result of a bad hunt earlier in the morning, but she was just glad to have it over with.

As she took the path down from the Huntsman, the mage looked up just in time to see Tural waiting nearby. Just seeing him made all of her previous frustrations disappear. She came up to him, beaming. “Hello there, stranger. Are you waiting for someone, or do you just like to come here to think?”

Tural was just glancing up at the door as it opened, and as he spotted the approaching Bosmer, a smile made its way to his face as well. He straightened up from leaning on the wall, and gave a slight chuckle at the greeting.