Grave Concoctions

4E 201 | Mid Hearthfire | Days 1–5 in Skyrim

Fever took the first night.

Tsukihana drifted between the inn room and her childhood courtyard. Snow became white linen. Her mother's voice became Zaria ordering someone to hold her still. Each time the dream reached the masked figures, pain dragged her back.

Zaria cleaned the arrow wound, stitched torn flesh, and treated the bruising from the wreck. When Tsukihana tried to rise the following morning, the alchemist pushed her back with two fingers.

"You lost enough blood to make bad decisions seem intelligent. Lie down."

"I can walk."

"So can people who walk off cliffs. Capability is not permission."

The strangers from the road remained in Falkreath longer than expected. Lucien brought books she did not request. Inigo brought food and ate half of it while explaining that sharing improved flavor. Kaidan said little, which made him the easiest company. Remiel visited with increasingly elaborate arguments about why accepting help was not a moral failure.

Tsukihana trusted none of them.

She began to expect them anyway.

On the fifth morning, Zaria removed the final bandage and inspected the wound. "You may move around. No fighting."

"Define fighting."

"If you need a definition, the answer is no."

That afternoon Tsukihana stepped outside for the first time since the ambush. Falkreath smelled of rain, pine, and turned soil. The town was smaller than she imagined, clustered around the inn, blacksmith, general store, longhouse, and the Hall of the Dead.

Death was not hidden here. It lived beside the road, carved into stone and spoken of by name.

For reasons she could not explain, that made the town easier to breathe in.