Strangers on the Road

4E 201 | Mid Hearthfire | Day 1 in Skyrim

The road to Falkreath became a contest between Tsukihana's will and the blood leaving her body.

Inigo tried conversation first.

"You have not told us your name. This makes rescue paperwork difficult."

"I did not ask to be rescued."

"Excellent. Then no paperwork."

Remiel rode beside him with the unused bandage across one hand. "At least wrap the wound."

Tsukihana kept walking.

"That is not a response," Remiel said.

"It was the response you received."

Kaidan hid a brief smile behind one gauntlet. Lucien attempted to ask about the construction of her sword, received a look sharp enough to cut parchment, and decided research could wait.

Falkreath appeared at dusk beneath a wall of dark pines. Lanterns glimmered near the gate. Smoke rose from low roofs. Beyond the town, grave markers stood among the trees like pale teeth.

The guards saw the blood before they saw her face.

"What happened?"

"Bandits," Remiel called.

Tsukihana crossed the threshold under her own power. That mattered until the ground rolled beneath her.

Her knee struck first.

A guard caught her before her head met the road.

Someone shouted for a healer. Another voice, female and commanding, cut through the confusion from the doorway of the inn.

"Bring her inside. If she dies in the street, the Jarl will make me answer questions."

They carried Tsukihana into Dead Man's Drink and laid her across a table. Warmth, smoke, stew, and startled faces blurred together.

The inn worker pressed cloth against the wound. "Get Zaria."

A guard hesitated. "The alchemist?"

"No, the local dragon. Yes, the alchemist."

Tsukihana would have laughed if breathing had not become work.

Remiel leaned over her. "You know, there was a bandage available."

Tsukihana forced one eye open. "You were right."

Everyone nearby went quiet.

Inigo's ears lifted. "Historic."

The door opened hard enough to strike the wall. A dark-skinned woman entered carrying a leather satchel filled with bottles, wrapped herbs, and instruments that looked less comforting than the bandit axes.

She examined Tsukihana once.

"Good," she said.

Tsukihana frowned.

The woman opened her satchel. "You are not dead. That simplifies treatment."

This was Zaria of Grave Concoctions, and before the night ended Tsukihana learned that an alchemist's mercy could smell like bitterroot, sting like fire, and arrive with no patience at all.