The Pass

 

The frost had frozen the pass, turning the grey stone of the mountain slippery and slick with a flim of ice and hardened snow. A faulty step could mean a life's end, at this height. Still, the pass was the quickest way home, and none of them was apprehensive.

Least of all her.

Triskele sat back in the saddle as her grey mare loyally climbed the pass, sure-footed as always. Up in the mountains, when on horseback, it was always best to let the horse find the way, and not interfere. The less interference, the less likely you were to fall to your death. She tilted her head in her neck as an eagle cried over their heads. A few feet behind her, her brothers formed her tail, their garrons following the steps of her mare. It was always like this. When it came to leading the way, they left it either to her or to Triwold. And when Thorald would sometimes stubbornly insist, she'd simply not follow at all.

The eagle flew out of sight, and Triskele turned her blue gaze back on the thin path ahead of them. They would be fine. Before nightfall, the horses would have led them over. She had no concerns, not in this season. The snows were still gentle. Behind her, Ysengrim called out.

“You're sure quick to put yourself in charge again, Tris, as usual!”

“Shut up, Grim. You know it's the fastest this way. Creidne's step is as certain as a goat's, and Tris has better eyes than you.”

Triskele smiled thinly as she heard Triwold silence both her brothers behind her. They held her little trip against her, they usually scoffed at her strongheaded outlook and actions. But not Triwold. He understood.

She swayed slightly in the saddle when Creidne, her mare, trotted under a sole pine tree, the branches drooping under the weight of fresh snow. As she brushed against the snow-caked green, the snow fell over her shoulders. Behind her, she heard the muffled curses of her brothers sharing the same fate. Triskele did not mind Skyrim's cold kisses. It made them who they were. As her mare turned a corner, she bit her pale lip, thinking about her last three days. She had left her brothers, deciding they'd be more of an annoyance than aid in this matter. For the past years, the Grár-siblings had hunted together, gathered game, sold hides, taken on jobs to aid those who could afford some helping hands with a delivery that needed protection, a troublesome pack of bandits, whatever there was to do. But when it came to tombs, her brothers had always stayed away.

She didn't.

Triwold knew what she was doing, the other two could probably figure it out. Triskele did not fear ancient curses, if nothing else she enjoyed defying laws, old ones and new. She looked down at her hands in fingerless gloves, holding Creidne's reins. The dark leather was still dappled with dusty spots. Bone dust, it got everywhere, like that fine sand in the southern reaches of Tamriel. She hated it. Her mare snorted as they reached the summit, and Triskele held still.

“I told you it would be fast. The snows have barely touched the road. Down there, see? We'll be home before dark.”

Up here, there was room to gather. Triwold moved his garron to stand beside his sister, and gazed down into the valley of the hold they called home.

“It will be good to be home, at least for a while.”

Thorald snorted. “I will not leave again for at least a fortnight, you have all been warned. Gerthrud has missed me, I'm sure of it.”

Ysengrim ran a hand through the manes of his garron with a snort. “She hasn't. There come a dozen men like you in the tavern every day, little brother.”

“There are no men like me!”
Triskele smirked at the banter, and gently planted her heels in Creidne's flanks. They began their descent.

When the reached the lower slopes of the mountain, Triwold came to ride beside her. For a time, they both did not speak. They were the only two Grárs who could ride beside each other in utter silence and be content, something neither Ysengrim nor Thorald would ever understand. After a while, however, Triwold spoke all the same.

“So, did you find it?”

“Find what, Wold?”

“Whatever it was that made you go there.”

Triskele curled her lips slightly. “No, but I know where to look next.”

Triwold shook his head, locks of black hair much like her own dangling around his stubbly cheeks.

“This can only go terribly wrong one day, Tris. Sorcery, curses, ghosts, what do we know of that? Let us stay where we were born and belong – in the woods, not a crypt.”

She did not reply. She knew he didn't expect her to either. The sun was starting to set, and they reached even ground again. Ahead of the company lay the road that led to Falkreath. Tris had only one thing to ask of her brother.

“Just don't tell mother.”

“Of course not.”

Both of them nodded, as the horses quickened their step. They could smell their home.

Campfire

“And then she surrendered like a helpless doe and I had the best night of my life.”

Triwold smirked at the boasting of his youngest sibling as he honed the edge of his skinning knife. The flickering light of the fire in their midst reflected upon the steel as he slid his whetstone down. Thorald grinned broadly, his story now finished, and he looked from Triwold to the middle sibling, Ysengrim, who was just shaking his head to himself.
“Come on! No one ever succeeded in warming that wench, but I did. Hah. And what a warming it was.”
Thorald sat back against a treestump, his green eyes toward the nightsky as he reflected upon something that, without a doubt in his self-loving mind, was yet another tale of glory to add to his already existing legend. Ysengrim scoffed.
“Dragging yet another gullible girl into your bed doesn't make you a hero, little brother.”
“Chirpy as ever, our Ysengrim. Did the frost get to your balls last night?”
Triwold remained silent, his eyes on the honing of his knife, as his younger brothers bantered and quarreled like only brothers do. He could not help himself – the corners of his mouth curled up slightly at the trusted sound of their voices, having a talk like a thousand others they had so many times during their lives. Both Ysengrim and Thorald looked like their mother, with eyes the colour of rough emeralds and hair like melted copper. Triwold had eyes like the brooks in the mountain passes – blue, cold and clear – and hair as sooty as an old hearth. Mother always said the gods had a strange sense of humour, to inflict Thorrn Grár and an exact copy after him upon the world, before she lovingly kissed both the cheeks of her eldest and her spouse. Triwold smiled as he thought of his mother, whilst Ysengrim and Thorald across the fire had now moved on to lovingly punching each other. He did not share his brothers' colours, but they shared a heartbeat. All the Grárs did.

That thought made him look north. Ysengrim released a laughing Thorald from his iron grip as he caught Triwold's gaze.

“You know her, Wold. She's just taking her bloody time because she's following a bear's tracks. Or something.”
“Hm.”
As the younger brothers stood up to prepare the elk they had killed, he kept his gaze turned north, and his thoughts were with the only sibling he had who truly looked like him. For as far as she looks like anyone... Thorald was cutting meat into strips as he pointed the bloody tip of his knife at him.
“You were the one who let her go, Wold.”
Triwold grunted as he put his honed knife away. “It makes no matter, and you know that. Tell her she can't, and she'll do it anyway.”
They all snickered at that. It was Ysengrim, as usual, who had to be the voice of cynical reason. “You both know what I think. We shouldn't allow this. She strays further and further each time. We all know she prowls those old ruins. No good can come of it.”
Triwold threw a twig into the crackling flames. “She's a woman grown, Grim. Not a girl in swaddling clothes.”
Thorald grinned in his usual fashion as he skewered their meal. “I think she found herself a nice strong man. I bet you both, she's in some cave under a pile of furs.”
Triwold gave his youngest brother a cold glance. “You know she'd kill you for saying such nonsense.”
“Oh, I know. It's why I say it when she's away.”

The elk had been young, and the meat juicy. Hours went by, and his brothers were growing more quiet as they huddled up in their skins. It always went without saying that Triwold had the first watch. He threw another branch on the fire as his eyes flicked north once more. If she would not be there at dawn, he'd go find her. Even for her, three days was more than...

He jumped up at the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping in two under a footstep. In one movement, his sword slid from its sheath as he turned towards the pinetrees. The sound of steel being drawn woke up his brothers, as it always did. Muttering and clumsy from sleep they untangled themselves from their skins and furs and jumped up. Ysengrim stood by his side first, following Triwold's gaze.

“What is it?”

“Might be a bear, might be worse.”
Another twig broke, a branch swayed. Then a grey, dappled mare stepped into the moonlight. As one they exhaled and lowered their weapons. Thorald frowned.
“Her horse...”
Triwold set his jaw. “That's it. Something's happened. You both stay here, I'll ride n--”
“I'm right here, fools.”
The brothers turned as one, two pair of green and one pair of blue eyes widened. Triwold could not help but smirk. There she sat, at the fire, picking at the leftovers from the elk as if she'd sat there all night. The flames reflected upon her pale skin, the blue patterns around her eyes, and the cold blue of her irisses. A gust of wind made her hair, a combination of loose strands of black and messy braids, dance around her stoic face. Her self-made boiled leathers were covered in mud and something that looked an awful lot like bone dust. Ysengrim cursed.
“Damn you, Tris.”
Triwold sheathed his sword with a smile. My sweet sister.