A Tale of Could-be Heroes Book 1: Hero, Dragon, Elf

Splitting Roads, Merging Souls; Balgruuf

{AN: I wanted to take a moment to explain the purpose of this chapter, which was added after the fact. At the end of the previous chapter, we saw hints of an unknown entity quietly shadowing our heroes on their journey to Winterhold. While their identity remains shrouded in mystery and won't be revealed for some time, I felt it was important to include this chapter as a reflective interlude. This moment offers a window into how Aeyrie's interactions have deeply affected Balgruuf, who is still grappling with the devastating loss of his wife, Lady Frysia. Through his grief, we glimpse the emotional aftermath of traumatic events that have shaped his current state.

Please be advised that this chapter contains themes of loss, including mentions of blood loss, a traumatic childbirth, and death. I hope you find meaning and connection in this addition to the story, and as always, thank you for continuing this journey with me.}

As the great wooden doors of Dragonsreach closed behind Lady Aeyrie, her form disappearing down the grand steps, Jarl Balgruuf remained standing at the foot of his throne. His gaze lingered on the place where she had last been, though she was no longer there. Her presence had stirred something within him—a feeling he hadn't experienced in so long that it had nearly been forgotten, buried beneath the weight of duty and sorrow. It was longing.

Longing to hold someone close. Longing for the comfort of a shared life. Longing for the one person he had lost far too soon. Frysia. Her name resonated in his mind, unbidden but relentless, carrying with it memories that struck like arrows to his heart. She had been the light of his life, the woman who had given him his children, his partner in ruling Whiterun. And it had been over a year now since she was taken from him.

Balgruuf closed his eyes as the memories rushed in, despite his efforts to banish them. He could see her as she had been on that final night, lying in their bedchamber, her golden hair matted to her sweat-slicked face, her thighs smeared with blood and gore. Frysia had always been strong, unshakable even in the face of pain or fear, but that night... that night, her strength had failed her.

The memory of her pale, trembling hands clutching his own was as vivid as if it had happened just yesterday. Her lips had moved, but no words came—only a labored, rattling breath as her body betrayed her. He had begged her to hold on, begged her to fight, but his pleas had fallen on ears too weak to hear. Her chest rose and fell one last time, and then she was gone.

Balgruuf felt his jaw clench as he gripped the edge of his throne for support, the phantom ache of that night cutting through him as sharply as ever. He had cried then—cried as he had never cried before, not even in the bloodiest battles or darkest hours of his life. He had held her lifeless hand against his chest and cursed the Nine, cursed Arkay for the unrelenting march of life and death, cursed Akatosh for the passage of time that refused to stop for anyone, not even her. He had cursed them all, though in his heart he knew there was no one to blame.

Childbirth had always been a dangerous gamble, even with magicka and the best healers in all of Skyrim. Some injuries were too severe, too irreversible, for any mortal hands to mend. Such was Frysia's fate—to be taken from him on the very night their third child, Nelkir, was born.

The boy had survived, though Balgruuf could not say the same of his own heart. He had loved his son, of course, but he had struggled to look at him without seeing the cost of his existence. Nelkir's cries in the night were a reminder of the silence that now filled his bedchamber. The child's eyes, so much like his mother's, were a dagger to the soul each time they met his own. Balgruuf had cared for the boy, seen to his needs, but his time with Nelkir had been sparse, and the guilt of it gnawed at him like an unhealed wound.

Since that night, Balgruuf had resigned himself to the life of a man widowed too soon, his heart sealed away in the ashes of his beloved Frysia, scattered to the winds on the night she burned on her funeral pyre. He had vowed never to love another as he had loved her, for the pain of losing her was too great, the void she had left behind too vast to ever fill.