Falkreath's Hall of the Dead was a humble, somber place, nestled amidst a sea of weathered gravestones. It was a simple structure—a stone foundation with wooden walls and a thick, thatched roof, more functional than grand.
Early morning mist still clung to the ground as Torin, with Echo at his side, passed by the small shrine of Arkay on the porch and knocked firmly on the heavy wooden door.
He waited a moment, then stepped back. The door creaked open, revealing not the elderly Nord he expected, but an old Altmer. The elf had long, flowing white hair and wore the simple orange robes of a monk. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes were clear and calm.
"What can I do for you, child?" the elf asked, his voice soft and melodic.
Torin frowned, his planned greeting thrown off. "I'm looking for the Priest of Arkay. I was told he was an elderly Nord."
The Altmer shook his head gently. "I am afraid the man you are looking for is no longer with us. Illness and old age caught up to him last winter. I am Runil, his successor."
Torin's frown deepened. "Damnit," he cursed under his breath, the frustration of a long journey potentially wasted sharp in his tone.
Runil, unoffended, cleared his throat. "Perhaps I can offer my help in his stead?"
Torin sighed, the fight going out of him. "I doubt it. The old priest helped my... adoptive father, Kodlak Whitemane, bury a relative of mine here years ago. I was hoping he could guide me to the grave."
Runil paused, his head tilting in thought. "This relative... wouldn't happen to be a young Imperial woman, would she?"
Torin gave him a puzzled look. "She is. How do you know that?"
A gentle smile touched Runil's lips. "You are in luck. The old keeper of this Hall was meticulous. He kept a journal detailing many of the burials he oversaw, especially those that stood out to him. The location of your relative's grave is written within it."
He gestured out toward the sprawling, mist-shrouded graveyard. "Would you like me to show you the way?"
Torin paused, considering the offer from this unexpected High Elf priest. After a moment, he nodded. "I would really appreciate it. Thank you."
Runil returned the nod. "Then please, give me a moment." He retreated back inside, closing the door softly.
As he waited, Torin let out a thoughtful hum. He definitely hadn't expected a High Elf here, of all places. But now that he thought about it, the keeper of the Hall of the Dead in Falkreath was an Altmer in the game—this very elf, Runil.
He vaguely recalled the priest being connected to the daedric quest for Hircine, either giving a clue or triggering it. Not that it mattered. Those events were far in the future and had absolutely nothing to do with him.
After another minute, the door reopened. Runil emerged, now wrapped in a thick fur cloak against the morning chill, the old keeper's leather-bound journal held securely in his hand.
"Follow me," he said, his breath misting in the cold air.
Glancing occasionally at the journal's pages, Runil led the way through the misty, overgrown graveyard. Torin and Echo followed in his footsteps, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the frosty grass and the distant caw of a crow.
They walked for nearly ten minutes, moving toward a secluded corner of the cemetery that sat on a small hill overlooking the sleepy town below.
The headstone here was simple and unadorned, with no name carved into its surface.
"This is the place, according to the journal," Runil said softly, his voice respectful.
Torin didn't reply immediately. His eyes were locked on the object leaning against the base of the headstone: a dagger.
He knelt in the damp grass and picked it up. The leather of the grip was cracked and weathered, the pommel worn smooth by years of exposure. But Torin barely noticed the exterior. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unsheathed the blade.
It was stained with water minerals, the edge dulled by countless seasons of rain and frost. Yet, despite the neglect and the damage, there was not a single speck of rust anywhere on the steel.
The old man's Skyforge steel dagger...
A complex wave of emotions—sorrow, finality, and a strange sense of longing—washed over him.
"This is the place, alright," Torin muttered, his voice thick as he stared at the grave.
Runil noticed Torin go still, his entire focus consumed by the dagger. The priest cleared his throat gently. "Would you like me to say a few prayers for her? To ease her rest in Arkay's embrace?"
The words seemed to snap Torin out of his daze. He turned to look at the Altmer priest, shaking his head. "No... thank you. I'd rather be alone with her right now. I appreciate you showing me the way."
Runil nodded in understanding, his expression one of quiet compassion. "Of course. May Arkay's peace be with you both." With that, he turned and melted back into the mist, his form quickly disappearing among the gravestones.
Torin waited until the priest was completely gone before adjusting his posture. He sat down cross-legged in the damp grass beside the grave, the weight of the moment settling over him.
Seeing this, Echo seemed to understand they would be staying for a while. She let out a soft huff and settled down beside him, resting her head on her paws, her dark eyes watching him intently.
Torin began to dig through his backpack. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" he murmured to the silent grave. "I should have come earlier, but apparently I wasn't old enough to make the trip on my own."
A dry, self-deprecating chuckle escaped Torin's lips as his fingers finally closed around what he was looking for. He retrieved the bottle of spiced Alto wine from within.
"That's why I didn't come empty-handed. Nords usually bring ale or mead for the dead, but... I figured wine would suit your tastes better. Something from home."
He placed the bottle carefully at the base of the headstone, his sigh a plume of mist in the cold air. "There's a lot I want to tell you... but let me clean up this mess first."
His eyes scanned the grave site, taking in the overgrown weeds choking the plot and the moss and debris clinging to the nameless stone. Without another word, he pulled his hunting knife from his belt and got to work, methodically cutting away the neglect, one stubborn weed at a time.
...
"…and that's how I ended up here. Crazy, right?"
Torin sat in the now weed-free patch of earth, leaning back on his hands as he looked at the spotless headstone. The physical labor had been cathartic, a simple, tangible task in a world of complicated feelings. He let out a long, slow sigh, the sound carried away by the strengthening breeze.
"I suppose what I'm trying to say," he continued, his voice softer now, "is that I'm doing well. I'm surrounded by good—" He paused mid-sentence, a wry grin touching his lips as he pictured the faces of his shield-siblings.
Everyone in Jorrvaskr, except for maybe Kodlak, would probably stab a man for giving them a rude look. He cleared his throat and amended his statement. "Well, maybe not good people, in the traditional sense. But they're good to me."
He scratched the back of his head, the gesture awkward and young.
"Even after all those years, I'm not much of a believer in all this. But sometimes... I wonder if the Divines, or fate, or whatever it is... I wonder if they couldn't bear to let your sacrifice, and my mother's, be in vain and so sent the old man to take me in...."
As he spoke these words, a strange quiet fell, broken only by the wind rustling the pine boughs. The gust grew noticeably stronger, sweeping through the cemetery with a gentle but persistent force.
The thick fog that had clung to the ground began to churn and part, and the heavy gray clouds overhead shifted, tearing open to allow brilliant, golden rays of sunshine to spear through.
A patch of warm light fell directly upon the grave, bathing the headstone and Torin in its glow.
Feeling the sudden warmth on his skin, Torin couldn't help but smile, a genuine, unguarded expression. "It sure feels like it sometimes," he whispered, the conviction solid in his chest.
But the smile lingered for only a moment before fading. Another heavy sigh escaped his lips, this one full of a deeper, older sorrow.
"So yeah... I'm doing well, but I only wish I knew what happened to my mother," he murmured, his gaze drifting from the grave to the distant, misty peaks. "Did she die? How? Where? Did she even get a proper burial, or was she just left..."
He shook his head, unable to finish the grim thought. "I owe you both more than I could ever hope to repay."
Torin sat in silence for a few minutes longer, the sun warming his back.
Finally, he spoke again, his voice quiet but resolved. "I suppose that's all I wanted to say." He pushed himself to his feet, brushing the grass from his trousers. "And now, there's only one thing left to do."
He approached the headstone, his hunting knife feeling heavy in his hand. He wasn't a master carver, but he had steady hands and a clear purpose. Kneeling once more, he pressed the tip of the blade to the blank stone and began to carve.
The sharp scritch-scratch of metal on rock was the only sound, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wind and Echo's soft breathing.
It was slow, meticulous work. He didn't rush, ensuring each letter was deep and clear. Half an hour later, he finally sat back on his heels, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
He examined his work, nodded once in satisfaction, and then turned to leave without a backward glance, Ehco shadowing him.
The previously nameless headstone now bore a simple, heartfelt inscription:
Camilla the Valiant
A brave and selfless soul.
The best caretaker a babe could have hoped for.
May the Divines reward her kindness and courage.