Prologue...
4E 181
The air was cold in Whiterun on that cloudy autumn morn. The smallest of snowflakes floated infrequently down to the soil, melting very quickly upon contact. Smoke rose from the chimneys and forges of Whiterun as hearths burned to keep the cold at bay. But none of this, not the snow, or the smoke or the biting air was given much heed by the group standing outside of the Longstride Manor, one of the more prominent buildings in Whiterun’s Wind District.
Having seen his forty-seventh winter, Targon was starting to truly show his age. His hair and beard were more grey than brown now, the lines in his face more prominent, his height slightly diminished. The only thing that remained unravaged by time where his eyes. He had been born in the dead of winter, and he had the eyes to match; cool, stormy grey. But the weight behind them suggested that they had seen great horrors and much, much death. Their focused gaze lay upon the man before him.
Unlike Targon, who wore the colours of his house – a grey surcoat and darker grey cloak with a heavy fur mantle – the young man wore the red of the Legion, his tunic slightly exposed under the dull glint of his plate and mail. It had been many years since a Longstride had worn Legion red. It was a sight that despite himself, Targon never thought he would see.
He could still remember the humility that had entered Jon’s eyes when he gave him possession of Sunstrike, their most precious family heirloom, the sense of responsibility. The blade had been wielded by Targon’s father, and his father before him, and so on right to the first Longstride, who’s deeds were long forgotten, but who’s body still lay within the catacombs of the Longstride Crypt. Targon had seen it; something about his son had changed in that moment. No longer was he the defiant youth he had once been. At seventeen years of age, and now baring the family blade, he was now a man, a man who looked back at him now as almost an entirely different person.
Few words were spoken. Targon tracked his eldest son’s gaze, and he knew when he was looking at Ned, who at sixteen years of age, would be joining the Legion in a year’s time. He was the quietest of the Longstride boys. Or at Bjorn, Targon’s brother, who stood a little further back, similarly weathered as Targon. To these two he gave a reaffirming nod, and the pair returned in kind. Then Targon saw his gaze fall upon Aedan, the youngest brother, looking up at Jon with teary eyes, but trying to keep a brave face like the rest of his family. Jon cracked a kind smile and ruffled his little brother’s hair, a small grunt of amusemant escaping his lips. The young boy of ten managed to return with a fleeting smile of his own.
It was then that he locked his gaze with Targon’s. Jon was just taller than Targon, though the older Nord had once been as tall in his younger days. With braids in his lengthy hair and a beard forming around his jaw, he looked the part of a young warrior. Even though Targon’s face remained stern he felt a massive swell of pride at the sight of his eldest son.
“May I have your blessing, father?” Jon asked, also trying to remain stoic. At this, Targon’s eyes softened, and he took a few steps toward his son and placed his hands on strong shoulders.
“You will always have my blessing, my son.” he said quietly so that only Jon could hear him. His eldest son returned with a smile before turning back towards his heavy coal steed, the young wood elf Vanion passing it into Jon’s care as he swung up into the saddle. Beyond them, further away were other legionnaires on horse; more of Whiterun’s young lads recently signed up in the Legion, off to their first deployment. Jon acknowledged them for a moment before looking back at his family.
“See you in a year Ned.” he said, looking at the middle brother. “I’ll try to leave some enemies for you.”
He winked before nudging his steed into a trot to join the other legionnaires. Targon watched as his son rode away with Sunstrike sheathed at his back. That blade had been to Cyrodiil and back many times, always in a different hand. Now it would be making the same journey again. He watched as Jon was slowly obscured by smoke, until he disappeared from view as he turned a corner and was gone.
Nothing was given away in Targon’s expression; not the immense pride for his son, the sinking feeling in his gut, the pain that Freya – his wife, Jon’s mother – was not there to witness it, nor the horrifying memories of war that flashed before him. None of that shone through bar perhaps a glint in his eye. Targon placed a hand on the shoulders of his two remaining sons who stood either side of him, though whether it was to comfort them or comfort himself, he didn’t know. All he knew was that they placed their hands over his own, and for a long moment the three stood there, still as sentinels in the smoky dawn.
***
It was night time when Targon entered the study. The room featured a large bookcase, a comfortable armchair in one corner and a writing desk opposite it. Though it was a good room Targon didn’t like its placement; he felt it would make a better servant’s quarters, and that most of the items could be moved downstairs to the war room, which still had plenty of space. Rather than build upwards, the Longstride manor was composed of a grand hall above and then two levels of rooms below ground. The lowest level of the manor contained the war room, armoury and treasury as well as storage. The second level, nicknamed “the Den”, was partially above ground, the rooms featuring narrow windows just below the ceiling, though from the outside they appeared to be just above ground level. The Den featured rooms for the Longstride family, their servants and their household guard, as well as the study.
Immediately, Targon took note of a few books sitting on the floor – Aedan’s work to be sure, as he was prone to leaving them there – and bent down to pick them up. As he did a piece of parchment slipped out of the pages of one of the books. Targon placed the books upon the writing desk, not taking his eyes off the parchment. Slowly, he stooped over and held it at arm’s length; his eyes were still quite sharp and he had no trouble seeing the image.
Scrawled and shaded, the sketch depicted a group of men and mer, standing together in their armour. Each one was unique, their likenesses captured perfectly, and he recognised every one of them. Slowly, Targon moved to the armchair and sat down, continuing to survey the drawing. It was an image that he hadn’t gazed upon in years.
It was then that he felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon him, and he turned to see his youngest son peering around the door frame. He recoiled slightly when Targon’s gaze fell upon him, but he then emerged entirely and faced his father.
“Hello, father.” Aedan replied sheepishly.
“It’s late.” Targon said “Why aren’t you in your bed?” Aedan only replied with the shrug children give when they don’t want to lie but are forced to offer an answer. Targon simply sighed, before his face softened and he motioned with his head to come in. Aedan slowly entered the room and clambered up into his father’s lap.
“That’s you!” he exclaimed, pointing at the image.
“That’s right.” Targon nodded, moving his gaze and matching with the young drawn Targon, who met it with stern determination. It was at the same time harder and more innocent than what Targon’s gaze had become. “That’s me when I was younger.”
“You haven’t changed much.” Aedan observed. That drew a chuckle from the aging Nord, though as quickly as it appeared it was gone.
“And who are they?” Aedan asked, gesturing at the others. He heard the trepidation in his youngest son’s question.
He knew that the servants said, what the household guard said, what Jon and Ned had said; Don’t ask Targon about the war. While it was not something he was keen on discussing with any regularity, apparently people had interpreted this as some sort of internal struggle. Targon knew the war had changed him, there was no doubt, but he wasn’t entirely sure how. Whatever their reasons, the topic had been made off limits, even though Targon had made no such command.
“They’re part of a unit I served with.” Targon replied “During the war.”
“They were legionnaires?” Aedan asked. Targon placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“They were more than that.” he stated “They were heroes.”
“And you knew them?” Aedan’s eyes were aglow with fascination. Targon looked back at the drawing, seeing the faces of those he’d served with, faces of those who had gone through Oblivion with him. And some who never came back.
“I trained them...”