It was still early in the morning when Chip approached the north gate of Riften. He’d spent some hours at his cabin, resting and getting organized, and was pondering exactly what he wanted to say to his family. It wasn’t as though he saw them every day any more, but he’d left for Solstheim without letting anyone know where he was going.
I want to talk to Da. Maybe he can shed a little light on this situation. But how in the world can I bring it up? It’s not going to be any easier now than it was with Uncle Dar and Uncle Roggi.
I wonder if he’ll be pleased for me, if I tell him about this bow and what it means.
I don’t even know how to begin talking to Ma.
I wonder…
He glanced idly at the Khajiit caravan camped in its accustomed spot just outside the gates. People distrusted these traders from Elsweyr, for reasons Chip had never quite understood and which made very little sense to him, and refused to allow them to lodge within the major cities. It had always seemed to him that they were simply acting out of hidebound prejudice with no real, rational logic behind it. After all, his father and his Guild did business with the Khajiit all the time. They certainly had no problems with that. On the other hand, the Guild did seem to be made up of people who had no problems with a great many things and who were, more than anything else, focused on business.
An enormous roar interrupted his train of thought. A blast of wind tossed leaves and dirt into the air and sent the Khajiit scurrying into their tents. Chip ducked reflexively and looked up just in time to see a huge, brownish-green dragon slow and hover in front of the gates. It turned just slightly, to face the stables and the guards around them, and roared again. A wide blast of green energy burst from its maw.
Forest dragon. Now there’s game worthy of Hircine!
He drew his bow and lobbed an arrow that seemed to bury itself in the dragon’s hide but do very little damage. The beast flew up past the city walls, only to bank and turn back over the tents. One of the horses, acting in self-defense as those well-trained beasts always did, nearly bowled him over in its haste to move down the road and out of the line of fire. Chip watched in awe as the dragon returned to the same spot it had been, still hovering. For a moment he thought it was going to shout directly at him; but at the last second it turned to its left, once more breathing its foul magic down toward the city’s defenders and the stables. He managed two more shots before the dragon flew off, over the city walls.
Chip ran up the road, alongside a Bosmer dashing for cover. He’d intended to skirt the city and follow the dragon; but just as he reached the gates the beast reappeared from behind the eastern walls and stopped where it had before. This time it was nearly overhead. Chip hurriedly backed several paces down the road and took two more shots at it, the second of which missed badly as the dragon flew over the city again. It spiraled up and then toward the west, out over the lake.
Qara’s house is out there!
There were many things along the shoreline of Lake Honrich, including farms, the Riften Fishery, and the docks holding the city’s official warehouse. A great many people might be out there, and open to attack. But Chip’s mind had flown directly to the danger in which his younger sister might have found herself. He lowered his bow and sprinted uphill, glancing at the horses to reassure himself that all was well before dashing around the far side of the stables. The dragon passed close overhead once more, rattling things in its passage. He reached an open vantage point just as it flew over the docks. Chip spared a quick look toward the small cottage where his sister lived, and the farm just beyond; seeing nobody outside in the beast’s line of fire he found it with his gaze, once more, and chanced a couple of very long shots at it.
He couldn’t tell at all whether his arrows were landing or not, but he knew that just below the place where the dragon hovered there were, at a minimum, two guards whose arrows undoubtedly were. The dragon roared its green fire at them, then turned directly toward Chip and flew back across the water, sending another attack over the city walls. Chip ran back toward the Khajiit tents, trying to keep the dragon in his sights, swiveling back toward the water when it banked and came around to attack something directly in front of his sister’s home.
“No! Get over here, you bastard!” he yelled, firing as fast as he could draw the bow. This time, Chip’s arrow clearly struck the dragon; it staggered in mid-air and fought to regain balance as Chip ran forward looking for another clear shot. The dragon rose, and circled around only to drop to the ground in the road directly below the caravan’s tents. Chip could hear the Khajiit scurrying out of the way and calling to each other; but he couldn’t make out what they were saying over the thunderous sound of the creature landing.
He drew back his bowstring and took two steps to the left, out from behind the Khajiit tents, and fired. The dragon threw its head up to the skies and then crashed to earth, dead.
Chip uttered a cry of victory and dashed to the dragon’s carcass. As he had expected, there were city guards as well as the heavily-armored Khajiit bodyguard all clustered around it. He obviously hadn’t killed the dragon by himself; far from it. But it had been his arrow that had sealed the beast’s fate; and as he wrestled as many of his arrows out of his hide as he could, he couldn’t help but grin.
There you go, Hircine. Another beast slain. And a large one at that.
He couldn’t stop smiling to himself as he followed one of the returning dappled horses back up the road toward the gates. He was proud of himself. He had a feeling his Da would be proud of him as well.
He pushed open the gates, grinning at the guards. They knew him well, and knew whose son he was; so they never bothered him. But Chip knew that if they didn’t recognize a person, these guards would stop them and try to bilk them out of a few hundred coins on behalf of his father. It was a stupid scam, but it had been in place for many years now and managed to snare a few clueless victims every season.
The marketplace was busy on this bright day. Chip found himself dodging beggars and nobles alike as he pushed his way down the street and past the Bee and Barb. He could hear his father’s distinctive voice before he could actually see the man, and he broke out into a smile once he saw the familiar form in its accustomed fancy green outfit, his eyes in constant motion as he searched the crowd for potential customers or for anything happening that was new or unusual.
“Da!” he called out as he neared the kiosk where Brynjolf offered large red flasks promising miracles to the passerby. Brynjolf’s gaze flickered over him, and Chip saw when he recognized his son, but he never stopped calling out his spiel.
Chip got closer. “Da, I just killed a dragon! Can you believe it? Did you hear it?”
Brynjolf lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Of course I heard it. The thing made enough noise to raise the dead. Nice of you to stop by for a change, lad, but what were you thinking? Can you imagine what your mother would do if you got yourself killed?”
Chip’s face – and his mood – fell as though he’d been slapped across the face. He had to fight the urge to simply turn and walk away in his anger.
“I thought you might at least be pleased that I kept it from burning Qara’s house to the ground,” he muttered. “I didn’t see her out there, but there were others; and they might have been killed. But they weren’t. The dragon is dead.”
Brynjolf had had his mouth open to say something more, but he closed it abruptly and stared at his son. Chip waited, expecting to have his existence criticized in some additional way. To his surprise, though, Brynjolf heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head with a rueful expression.
“I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t mean it like that. It was a good thing that you did, killing the beast. Listen, give me half an hour and meet me down in the Flagon. I don’t need to be out here all the time and it’ll be good to talk.”
Once more Chip wrestled with the urge to say something angry and walk away. He’d come here to talk to this man, though. It would be stupid of him not to take advantage of an offer to do just that.
“Sure, Da. Right. I’ll meet you there.”
He turned away just as a furiously-blushing woman approached the kiosk to buy a refill of whatever it was his father was selling that day. It was just a miracle, she said, speaking with a giggle in her voice. He heard his father chuckle, and tell her that was a good thing, and thank her for her continuing business. He wandered over toward the smithy, his sharp ears picking up the sounds of flasks clinking and coin purses jingling, even over the loud hiss of white-hot steel being dipped into the water trough.
It had not been the welcome he’d hoped for. And yet, sadly, it had been the one he’d expected.
When Chip emerged from the Ratway into the Ragged Flagon, he immediately spotted his father’s faded red hair across the water-filled central space. Brynjolf had changed into his favorite dark armor and was speaking to someone standing next to the dividers between the main bar area and the upper section where Galathil, the Bosmer “face-changer,” had sat for as long as he could remember. He worked his way around the bar, waiting until the man Brynjolf was conferring with moved away, and then took the man’s place. He’d been rehearsing what he was going to say in his mind, and decided to say it, right then and there, before he lost his nerve.
“You know, Da,” he said, hoping his face did not look as icy as his mood felt, “it would be really nice, just once, if the first thing you said to me wasn’t a criticism. Just once.”
Chip braced himself for the reaction. Brynjolf had never hit him, the way some people’s fathers had; but he had always been a hard person to please and his tongue could be sharp and abrasive if he was angry. It seemed to Chip that he had always had a talent for making his father angry, even without trying very hard.
Brynjolf’s eyebrows rose. He leaned back, just slightly, put his hands on his hips, and stared at Chip, saying nothing. Finally, he sighed.
“Go get the table, lad,” he said quietly. “I’ll get us a drink and be right there.”
“Sure, Da.” Chip moved quickly to the table he knew was his father’s favorite, not wanting to reveal how relieved he was to be able to sit down. It had taken more internal fortitude to say that, to stand up for himself to his father, than it had to face down the dragon outside the gates. His knees were weak and his legs wanted to betray him; so when he claimed the table and sat down he blew out a huge sigh. He watched his father gather up two tankards from the bar and approach, and mentally collected himself yet again.
“Now then,” Brynjolf said, easing himself into the chair to Chip’s right. “It seems I owe you an apology.”
Chip had to fight to keep his mouth from sagging open. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“It’s always easier to speak first than to think first. That’s something I’ve always been good at, lad, speaking. Running my mouth off.” He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “But I usually do better sensing the lay of the land.”
Chip couldn’t help himself; he grinned. “You’re not nearly as good at that as Uncle Roggi is,” he said. “The talking part, I mean.”
Brynjolf’s eyes twinkled. “Heh. Yes, Roggi is a talker. But back to the subject. I’m sorry, Chip. I wasn’t expecting to see you, and right after the dragon at that. All I could think of was that you might have been killed out there, and then what could I tell your mother?” He shook his head and grinned. “My life wouldn’t have been worth a plug septim.”
Chip snickered. This wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared for a few moments.
“So you killed the dragon, did you?” Brynjolf prompted.
Chip grinned widely and nodded. “I did! Well, me and the guards, and the Khajiit. But I had the last arrow, the one that brought him down.” He couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice; it had been a huge kill for him.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Brynjolf said quietly. “You’re not a little boy any more, you’re a grown man doing things on your own, and I’m proud of you. And I’m sorry I don’t tell you that more often. I really am. I just…”
“You just criticize me every time you see me, Da,” Chip answered. “You really do. I know you just want me to do well, but sometimes it would be nice not to have to work around something negative to get to the positive.”
“I know.” Brynjolf sighed, running a hand down his face for a moment. “I didn’t exactly have a good example to fall back on for how to be a father. At least I learned enough from him to know not to hit my children.” He frowned and shook his head. “I ran away from the old bastard when I was just a boy myself, and came here. Karliah was my parent, more than anyone else. But never mind that. How’ve you been? Where have you been?”
Chip looked at his father’s face in wonder. It was so odd to have him just sit, and listen, and actually ask him about things. But he took advantage of the situation, chattering away for a few minutes about his trip to Markarth.
“That was kind of what got me headed back this way,” he said, trying to ease into the subject and not exactly sure in what order he should present the information. “I was just so… restless. I did some hunting. OK, a lot of hunting. But when I got back to Falkreath I got sidetracked. You see, out on the plains, between Falkreath and Rorikstead, I ran across a camp.”
“A camp? What kind of camp?”
“Imperials. Legionnaires. At least I am pretty sure that’s what they were.” He went on to describe what he’d seen, leaving out his part in making it that way. “And then when I went to see Uncle Dar and Uncle Roggi – well, they were pretty convinced it was a werewolf. Probably the one that killed a little girl in Falkreath.” He found his heart beating harder as he uttered that statement. That was, of course, the truth. The uncles had assumed it had been Sinding who killed the Imperials. He felt no need – at least not yet – to divulge the fact that they’d been wrong.
“What? By the Eight. That’s not good at all. I hadn’t heard any rumors of troops moving. Or werewolves. I wonder if…”
“Ulfric knows?” Chip grinned. “Uncle Roggi’s going to tell him.”
Brynjolf chuckled. “Why does that not surprise me? Ah well. As long as he knows. He’s been telling us for decades that it would be the Thalmor who would attack next, not the Empire, but I wouldn’t put anything past them.”
“Well,” Chip said with butterflies beating their wings in his gut, “we got to talking about that werewolf and they said there were werewolves on Solstheim. Roggi seemed nervous about them maybe coming south, so I went there. And, uh… I killed three werebears.”
Brynjolf’s mouth sagged open for a moment and his brows nearly met in a frown. “You did what?”
Chip sighed. Before he could say anything, though, his father shook his head. “There, I’m doing it again. Someday, lad, I will remember that you’re not a child any longer. I guess everyone needs an adventure now and then.”
Yes. And now may be the time. How can I ask him…
“Da. I… wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“You used to say that sometimes all you really wanted to do was to run.”
Brynjolf nodded slowly, clearly considering how to respond. “Aye. For a few years, I could move so fast.” He paused for a moment with a far-away smile on his face, and sighed. “It was special. I can’t do that anymore, but I’ll never forget what it was like.”
Chip took a deep breath. If I don’t ask him now I never will. He made his voice as low as he could make it and still be understood.
“Like a werewolf? Are you… Were you…” He swallowed hard, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s a dumb thing to ask, isn’t it. Just really, really dumb.” He felt his face turning red, as red as his hair, no doubt, with the anxiety of broaching this subject in any way at all.
Brynjolf visibly twitched in surprise. His eyes widened, and he stared at Chip for a long moment before laughing.
“No, Chip. Not like a werewolf.” He looked off to the side, his gaze far away and his mind obviously somewhere that wasn’t the Ragged Flagon. He smiled a bit and shook his head. “That would have been the very last thing. The very last.” He reached for his tankard and took a drink before putting it down slowly and then meeting Chip’s gaze.
“Well, I suppose it’s time. There’s something you need to know. I’d hoped I could put it off for a while longer, but life is catching up with me after all these years, isn’t it? No matter how much I’d like to pretend I’m still a young man.” Chip watched his father’s face take on a look of nostalgia, mixed with something like sadness or regret, and didn’t know what to make of it.
Brynjolf gave a weak, lopsided grin and continued. “There are enough people who know it that it’s only a matter of time before you find out, and I’d rather you found out from me. Come for a walk with me.”
Brynjolf pushed back his chair and rose, heading for the door out of the Flagon. Chip swallowed. He’d been uneasy before this, worried that his very clever father would suss out the reason he’d asked about running right after speaking of werewolves. He’d imagined, as he had thought about it, that perhaps he’d gotten his condition from his father. It would have made sense: they were so much alike in so many ways. This, though, was something very different than he’d anticipated. And he was nervous. Almost frightened.
He followed his father outside, into the city, and they walked down to the docks. Neither of them said anything during the walk, and the longer that went by, the more on edge Chip became. He couldn’t imagine what would have been so mysterious that they would have needed to be so far out of anyone’s earshot. Finally, once they’d reached a suitably remote spot, Chip cleared his throat.
“OK. Here we are, and I can’t stand it any longer. What… are you talking about, Da?”
Brynjolf leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Thank you for coming out here with me. The fewer ears there are in the area, the better, even though this is information long since old news.” He paused for a moment; and Chip watched emotions flit across his face. “You see… for some time, son, for a couple of years in fact around the time you were born, your mother and I were, well… apart from each other.”
Chip frowned. He’d heard whispers about this, from time to time. Once or twice he’d caught Roggi cutting Dardeh off, or vice versa, when they’d been reminiscing about the time before and during the civil war; they would change the subject and give him a sideways glance. In spite of those moments, Chip had never been able to confirm that it had in fact been the case that his parents had been separated; and in the long run it didn’t matter. They clearly loved each other, and were together now, and that had always been all that mattered to Chip. But here was the confirmation.
“The reasons and so forth aren’t important anymore,” Brynjolf said. “I can barely remember them all. We were apart, though, and I didn’t even know whether she was alive or dead. We were looking for her,” he added when Chip inhaled sharply at those words. “All of us were. Me, your two uncles, even Delvin. Obviously we found her.”
He hesitated for a moment, and Chip wanted to groan. Finally, after so long, he was on the verge of getting some truth out of his father, and he was hesitating.
“But?” he said, hoping to prompt further discussion. “I sense a ‘but.’ What does that have to do with being a werewolf?”
Brynjolf looked up at him, his fading green eyes scanning Chip’s face.
Oh gods. This is serious, isn’t it.
“Not a werewolf. I was a vampire, lad,” Brynjolf breathed, just barely audibly. “For a couple of years. It seemed like something I could do, maybe the best way for me to protect the Guild. That’s what I thought at the time, anyway, though I’m not so sure looking back at it that I was thinking very clearly.” He shrugged. “I was a vampire, a very, very strong vampire; and I lived with… someone else. And then I was cured. As it happened, I was cured the same day we found your mother again. And you.” He smiled. “You noticed that I had ‘lello’ eyes, just before the cure happened. I don’t know whether you’d remember that or not. I would expect not. You were just a wee thing still. I didn’t even know you existed, before that.”
Chip stared at his father in disbelief, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he was able to shut it. His mind raced.
What was I thinking, after all? If he was a werewolf, he would have known that I am one. He’d have been able to smell it on me, the same way Sinding and I recognized each other as werewolves. But he didn’t, and I didn’t smell it on him.
But I also don’t smell vampire on him. How in the world would I ever have been prepared for something like this?
Brynjolf reached across the space and grasped Chip’s arm. “Are you alright, lad? You look a little pale.”
Chip nodded, slowly. “Yes, yes, I’m… Yes. Shocked, obviously. And no, I can’t remember that far back. But…” But I’m still left with no answers. If it wasn’t from Da… why am I a werewolf? How? Did Hircine somehow seek me out as a child? Before I was old enough to remember? I’ve never known anything else than being a hunter; is that what happened?
It must be. That must be it.
“But?”
He looked at his father’s expression – deadly serious, and very concerned. He had to say something. And thus, the single most incongruous thing ever passed through his mind and across his lips.
“You’re very warm, Da. Your hands, I mean. It’s one of the things I’ve always noticed most about you. Obviously you’re not a … one of those … anymore.” And you don’t smell of death. I would have noticed.
Brynjolf nodded, slowly. “It’s been a long, long time since then.” He stared out over the lake and sighed. “I was in a position to lead one of the most powerful clans of vampires in the world. Instead, I chose to be cured, because I wanted to be with your mother, and you, and Qara.”
Chip struggled to make sense of all of it. He looked at his father’s face, lined and weathered but still not looking like the face of a sixty-year-old man; and he tried to envision what it would have looked like with fangs and the bright eyes he’d seen on the few vampires he’d encountered. Shudders of revulsion ran up his spine at the thought that his father had lived on blood. Then he was angry at himself. And what do I do as a werewolf, he thought, if not tear people apart and consume them? I even eat more than just their blood. What gives me the right to judge him, especially when he did what he needed to do in order to become human again?
“But that’s why I’ve always told you how much I loved to run,” Brynjolf continued. “Vampires can move very, very quickly. It’s exciting. I ran more in those two years than I did in my entire youth.” A small grin cracked the serious mask he’d been wearing. “Well, except for a couple of last-minute getaways that made me glad I was pretty nimble. I’m afraid I wasn’t as good a lad as you’ve been.”
This sudden return to familiar topics brought Chip out of the detached, surreal place his mind had occupied for a few moments and back to a semblance of normalcy. This was his father, the thief, speaking. Chip snickered, and feigned shock. “Why Da. Are you trying to tell me you did things that you had to run from?”
“I might have done,” Brynjolf said with a smirk, running a hand down his scarred left cheek. “Ah but I’m an old man now.”
“But you don’t look old,” Chip murmured, sensing that this was an important observation he’d made.
“That’s true. And it’s because of those years. At least that’s what we’ve all decided, talking about it over time. Something about the changes, they made me look younger at first, and kept me from aging so quickly after I was cured.”
Things simultaneously made much more sense to Chip, and no sense at all. All of it, this conversation with his father, explained things about him that Chip had always wondered about, idly. Why was it that his mother – who was the younger of them – had so much more gray in her hair than his father did? If his entire body had changed, twice even, it obviously had slowed down the aging process. Vampires didn’t age much, if at all; at least that’s what he’d always heard. So that was clearer now.
What wasn’t clear at all, still, was why he’d become a werewolf. He frowned, pondering the question. There wasn’t a good way to ask.
“Are you alright with all of this, lad?” Brynjolf asked quietly. “I know it’s not the kind of thing you expect your father to tell you. At least I imagine that it’s not. I didn’t live with mine long enough to know what’s normal and what isn’t. I hadn’t ever intended to say anything unless it was absolutely necessary; but with you bringing up supernatural things while we were sitting there in the Flagon, where there are ears in every inch of the place…” He paused, and shrugged. “Better that you learn the truth from me.”
Chip nodded slowly. “You’re right, of course.” He smiled at Brynjolf. “You usually are right, Da, and I don’t ever give you credit for that. I won’t lie, it’s an idea that’s going to take some getting used to. But I suppose it’s no stranger than being friends with a guy whose dad can Shout, or having the Dragonborn for an uncle.”
“That’s the truth. And I’m not always right, son. I’ve made a few very bad mistakes in my life. Usually they’re things about myself that I’m the last one to see. But thank you for the vote of confidence, anyway.” He sighed heavily. “Now I suppose it’s time for me to go back in. I have some business to take care of before I can call an end to this day.” He started back toward the stairs up to the city, and then paused, turning back to Chip and peering at him closely.
“You didn’t get scratched or bitten by one of the werebears or werewolves, did you?” His eyebrows nearly touched in the middle, his frown was so deep.
Uh oh. He really is one of the smartest men I’ve ever known. I’d best tread carefully.
“No, not at all. I was really careful to stay up out of their reach. You know, the way I always do. Use my bow, and fire from the high ground.” That at least is true. There’s not a whiff of untruth about it. The werebears never touched me, and neither did Sinding.
Brynjolf stared at him a moment longer, studying his face, weighing his words for truth. Finally he nodded.
“Alright. I just wondered why this suddenly came up. If it was important enough for me to have to tell you about… Well, never mind.” He waved a hand in the air. “I suppose finding a camp full of mauled soldiers would be enough to raise all sorts of questions in a person’s mind.”
Chip shook his head vigorously, agreeing. “It sure did. I don’t mind telling you that I was really rattled. I’ve never seen a battlefield before. And it rattled Uncle Dardeh and Uncle Roggi, too, when I told them about it. I had a lot of time to think about things while I was away.” There. Maybe the question will go back to sleep, where it needs to be.
“Alright then. Are you heading back home? Or will you go to see your Ma?”
Chip sighed. He knew his mother would want to see him, but he really was too distressed to visit her right then. And she could see through him better than anyone else alive. He’d never make it away without revealing himself, at least in this condition. Besides that, he felt the bow pulling him away, out into the wilds. More. It wants more.
“I’m heading home for now, Da. I’ll be sure to stop in soon, but I have some things to take care of right now.” He started to turn down the opposite direction, but stopped. “Thank you, Da. I still feel pretty weird about the whole thing, but I am happy you trusted me enough to tell me.”
Brynjolf smiled. “Chip, you’re my son. Of course I trust you. I’ve always intended to tell you, eventually. I just needed to wait until the time was right and I was sure you were old enough to understand that sometimes life takes you down paths you never would have expected to travel.”
That’s about the truest thing he’s ever said.
“Thanks, Da. I’ll be seeing you soon. Both of you.”