A Gift from a Stranger

Falkreath. Early in the year. A middle-aged woman in a cloak is standing thoughtfully in front of a gravestone. It's raining. It always seems to rain in Falkreath these days. Probably always has seemed that way. Hell, probably always actually has rained in Falkreath.

The woman has wizened features. She may be a Breton, or perhaps a Nord. The first signs of silver are creeping into her hair. She has scars on her face, betraying a violent past. She works here, every day. The cemetery just keeps growing. The town is one big cemetery, honestly. The people just live in amongst the headstones and mausoleums and think nothing of it.

Runil used to tend to the graves and inter the dead, but Runil isn't with us any more. "None of them are.", she thinks. All of her old friends, dead and gone. Arngeir. Balgruuf. Esbern. All the rest. Too many names and too many faces. Sometimes she forgets one. She's getting older now. She doesn't notice the stranger, at first. Hell, so many people walk through here every day that the presence of another human being isn't cause for alarm. The old warrior's sword arm is losing its lack of trust in humanity. Mostly, it wields a shovel these days.

"Is this the grave of a friend?" asks the kindly old crone, wrapped in a shawl. The grave tender starts, surprised to see that someone is standing so close, previously unnoticed. The former warrior thinks, then speaks. "My best friend. Meeko. He was at my side for many years. Too many years. More than most dogs gets. He's finally reached the clearing at the end of his path."

It continues to rain. Someone pushes a cart of cabbages past the two women. A young farmer. A Bosmer. Lots of Bosmer in Skyrim these days. They wanted to get away. Away from the horrible, terrible things that happened down in Valenwood. The old warrior knows better. You never really get away from war. That's why she serves Arkay now. Death - an inevitability - comes to us all.

The crone speaks, as if she hears the grave tender's thoughts. "You were a soldier, yes?" The younger woman chooses her words. "I was. What gave it away?" The crone smiles. "You move like a warrior. I was in the war, too. The big one, that is." Recognition moves across the grave tender's face. "Oh. I see. That must have been awful. What side were you on?"

The crone laughs. "Ideally, I'd not be in a war at all. I'm a healer, not a killer. I accompanied my Lord and Lady. They fought under the banner of the Dragon. The enemy, under the banner of the Eagle. Does that answer your question?" There was something unique about the old crone's eyes. They shone with the light of youth, in sharp contrast to the wizened features of her face. "I believe I recognize you, for that matter. Big hero. Fought in a war, too."

The grave tender's face darkens, and she turns away. "All that killing doesn't make a person great. You should know that. You've seen war. I live a simple life here, now. I serve Arkay. I tend to the dead and listen to the living they leave behind. I comfort them. You might say I'm a healer, too." At that, the old crone's smile softened. "Indeed. Indeed. A fair comparison. I respect that."

The grave tender takes a few steps, as if to leave, but stops, turning to face the old woman again. "Did anything I did when I was young even matter, old mother? I tried so hard. I spilled so much blood. I struggled. I lost friends. I faced my fears, personified in other people - and worse. Sometimes my fears had wings. Sometimes they had fangs. If only these people knew what I've been through. I never tell anybody about this. I feel strangely compelled to share it with you, though. I should shut up. I've said too much already. I should be going."

A hand grasps her wrist. It is gentle, but unbelievably strong. The old warrior couldn't fathom how the crone had silently moved the distance - a good 30 feet - in the blink of an eye. "It does matter, young lady. It matters very much. You did all of the things you did out of Love, and a sense of duty. I loved my Lord and Lady. I had to watch as the foreign captain tore out his very heart and laughed. I guess that captain thought he was doing the right thing, too. Maybe there's somebody he loved back home. I don't know. I've never been more sad than when I looked down at his gaping chest and knew that there was nothing in my healing arts that could save him. You cannot fathom the Lady's sadness. Her tears filled the land. I, who can only serve, could do nothing. Almost nothing. We made a thing together. A precious thing to remember our Lord by. It couldn't replace his Heart or bring him back to us, but when I see it worn by worthy people, it still brings me joy. I came here because I wanted to give you this. I don't get out much any more, and the journey was taxing. It's likely this will be the last time I show myself in Falkreath, so please humor an old spirit. I feel older than the Earthbones, and I need to see you wearing this."

The old warrior took the bundled package from the much older woman and carefully unwrapped it. A red gem it was, cut into the shape of a diamond, laid in a stunningly beautiful golden base surrounded by eight smaller stones of varying colors. The amulet was attached to a beautiful chain of silver and mithril. The grave tender's eyes widened. "But..this is.." She looked up and she was alone in the rain again. The sun had set and only lamp lights illuminated the spot where she stood.

The years came and went. She kept the Amulet close to her heart, and never told a soul about it. Somehow it comforted her. Despite all of the horrible things going on in Hammerfell, Cyrodiil and other places, she somehow felt blessed. Eventually, silver hair turned gray, then white, and the old soldier was laid to rest beside her faithful canine companion. It was raining that day. The Amulet she always wore was held against her breast, and as the dirt went over it, it was never seen again on Nirn, for some things must end. All things do, except for Love. Late that night, when all of Falkreath slept, a single figure appeared. Impossibly old and hunched over a cane, a crone wrapped in a shawl bent over and laid a flower between the two gravestones. "It mattered. It always mattered. Rest well, and be with your friend again."

The gravestones still stand there, even in the Seventh Era. The names are worn and faded, and though great catastrophes have befallen the land and great hardships have befallen the people, the children still speak of this place in hopeful whispers, for in this now-dead land that flower still stands, alive and vibrant, a whole world within itself, sustained by the very memory of a woman's love for her dog. Sometimes, that is enough. Love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.