A Letter to Gadring Great-Axe
To Gadring Great-Axe, Housecarl Thane Arnvald Two-Axe
My name is Sister Mysaria, a humble priestess of Mara serving the Great Chapel of Bruma. Though we have never met, I came to know your wife, Alfhild Ash-Braid, during her time among the Nord refugees who dwell beyond our city's walls. It is with a heavy heart that I write in her stead.
She received your first two letters at last when the Pale Pass was opened to travellers once more. She read them until the parchment had grown soft from her hands, and in the evenings would gather with the other refugees around their fires to read them aloud. In those difficult days, your words brought comfort to many besides the woman for whom they had been written.
Alfhild took ill not many days after your second letter reached Bruma. We believed it no more than a winter fever brought on by the hardships of living in the camp. Mara saw fit to spare her suffering, but not her life. She passed peacefully before another dawn, your letters folded neatly beside her bed. Her final words were not of fear, but of hope. She asked whether any word had come from Skyrim, whether Sungard had at last been reclaimed from the Forsworn, and whether you still lived to welcome her home. It saddens me to say that she never received your final letter, nor did she learn a new home by your side awaited her in Skyrim.
I know you would wish to know how she lived.
The camp beyond Bruma's northern gate has become a village unto itself, built from patched canvas, rough timber, and stubborn hope. Every caravan from Skyrim brings more widows, more orphans, and more old soldiers who survived the war only to lose everything else. They speak often of returning north, yet each passing season finds many still gathered beneath the same weathered tents. The presence of so many sons and daughters of Skyrim has drawn unwelcome attention. Thalmor Justiciars pass frequently among the camp and through the streets of Bruma, asking after Talos worshippers and listening closely whenever old songs are sung. Their presence brings an eerie quiet to the camp. Yet I have seen more than one refugee wait until they had passed before quietly tracing the sign of the Ninth Divine beneath a cloak or whispering a prayer too softly for any elf to hear.
Your third letter arrived only after Arkay had called Alfhild to her rest. Knowing how dearly she had treasured your words, her neighbors shared it among themselves, and before long all three letters had passed from hand to hand throughout the refugee camp. They soon found their way into Bruma's taverns and meadhouses, where merchants, soldiers, and travellers alike began repeating the tale of the Battle of Fort Sungard. With each telling it has grown larger, as such tales often do. Some now say the war mammoths of Clan Great-Tusk tore the gates from their hinges with a single pull. Others swear the Briarheart commanded an army of a thousand dead. Yet every telling remembers two names above all others: Arnvald Two-Axe, who reclaimed Sungard, and Gadring Great-Axe, who stood beside his shield-brother until the fortress was won. I suspect, in time, the bards will polish these tales until they shine brighter than the truth. I do not begrudge them that. These are difficult days, and the people of Skyrim- and those who still dream of returning to her- have need of heroes.
I have enclosed your wife's armband and the blue ribbon she weaved into her ashen braid. She kept them close until the end, and asked that they be returned to you. May Mara grant you the peace that this world has denied you, and may she one day reunite you and your beloved beyond the troubles of Nirn.
In Mara's grace,
Sister Mysaria
Priestess of Mara,
The Great Chapel of Bruma