Greetings everyone. I've never published anything before, and honestly I probably should just stick to being an overworked and over imaginative grad student. But...this plot bunny would NOT GO AWAY. So here we are. This hasn't been proof read, so tell me if you catch any mistakes. Or have any questions. Or just want to chat.

*I don't own anything in this story but my O.C.*

"Bold"= Speech
"Normal"= Ophelia's POV
"Italics"= Ophelia's memories

*The bits at the beginning and end are the story as recorded in the Accords of Madness, Volume XVII

The Meeting in the Woods

Once, long ago, a young Altmer left her home in the Summerset Isles and traveled without rest into the wild and dangerous lands of Skyrim. Not long after her arrival she was captured, mistaken for a spy in the war that raged through the country, and sentenced to death. Death, however, was not what found her.

The wagon rattled all around her as it moved toward Helgen. It was a grim and hopeless sound, but then again, she was well familiar with despair by now. It seemed to follow wherever she went nowadays, from the silent ruin of her family home to the bleak wilderness of Skyrim. And now, finally, to this empty stretch of road that carried her to death. The Nord, Ralof, had told her of their destination as soon as she had woken, of their shared fate, and she could do not but give a tired laugh in response. Her reaction garnered looks of confusion from her fellow prisoners and a few of the surrounding guards. They knew nothing of her life, of her suffering, and she couldn't tell them even if she wanted. Speech had never been her strength, and even if it had been, what words could describe such horrors as she had seen? Such pain?

"You've never been a good storyteller. And probably never will be, unless you learn to say more than a handful of words at a time."

Her mother stood tall in the herb garden, basket in hand as she wiped the sweat from her brow. It was late spring, and the world around their sturdy home was painted in delicate gossamer greens, soft and new and beautiful. The flowers bloomed in riotous colors, dotted with soft pastels, glowing with the early morning dew. She frowned, stung by the careless words. It was an unkind thing to say to a child who was already so self-conscious about her own oddities. The other children in the village teased her about her silent nature often enough, second only to remarks about the uncommon shade of her eyes. Gray was not a pretty color, they said, only suitable for storm clouds and dirty dishwater. Only fit for the daughter of a lowborn human and a disgraced noble. Tears were burning in her eyes, though she held them back with admirable restraint born of years of practice. Crying would only make her feel worse, and her mother still had more to say.

The gates were coming closer, and the horse thief Lokir had finally begun to understand that prison was not what awaited them at their destination. His yells did nothing to slow the march of the horses as they pulled onward toward the execution grounds. She and the others were silent, knowing the futility of such outbursts, and prepared for the inevitable with varying degrees of regret. She wondered, vaguely, what her parents would think of her situation. Her parents were dead though, and by the Maker, she was ready to be dead too. She was so tired, so brokenhearted, that it seemed utterly miraculous that she even gathered enough of her tattered will to flee the Summerset Isles. In retrospect, she couldn't quite remember where the strength to run had come from. Only the vague memory of heat and rage and survival at all costs. But all of that had disappeared and left nothing but ash and grim acceptance in its wake. They were being pulled out of the wagon now, first Ulfric Stormcloak, then the sobbing Lokir, followed by Ralof and herself. The General (Tullius? Was that his name? It was unimportant at this point) dismounted his horse and stood next to an impatient looking imperial captain and a group of Thalmor who eyed her with obvious disgust. They talked amongst themselves before the captain stepped forward.

"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time." She ordered as a guard from their journey opened a small scroll. It was him who called out the order of their demise.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."He read over the calls and jeers of the villagers. "And Ralof of Riverwood."

Both men walked forward with heads high. She had to admit that even gagged and bound for execution, Ulfric Stormcloak looked as calm and in control as any Jarl. Ralof, too, strode on with his head held high. It was rare to see such conviction in the face of ultimate sacrifice, she thought to herself. At least she would have decent company to travel to the other life with. Or, at least, mostly decent…..

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

The man in question lost all of his fragile composure and screamed out.

"No, I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!"

They all watched in silence as the frightened man made a desperate bid for freedom on foot.

"HALT!" Screamed the captain, face alive with fury.

"You're not going to kill me!"

She wondered if Lokir would make it to the gates before he was killed. The captain answered that question fairly quickly.

"Archers!"

A single arrow pierced Lokir's chest. He fell into the mud, free at last. She mouthed a quick prayer for his soul, and gave thanks that he did not have to anticipate death any longer.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The captain queried, a trace of smug satisfaction on her face.

Nobody else moved. The remainder of her motley group is either too proud or too weary to try. The imperial guard turned back to the wagon and saw her, standing exactly where she landed when she jumped down. A look of confusion crossed his face as he looked from her to his scroll.

"Wait. You there. Step forward. Who are you?" He called out, puzzlement evident in his voice.

She walked calmly to him, stopping at a large enough distance away that the archers don't become defensive. He was handsome, she noted without true interest, and there was kindness in the lines of his face.

"My name is….."

"Ophelia," her mother started, turning to face her only child. "Look at me."

Ophelia swallowed the brunt of her tears and looked up into the fair face of her mother. She was everything an Altmer was supposed to be. Golden as the sun, graceful as the clouds, and noble to her bones despite her worn work clothes. It was times like this, with such perfection staring her in the face, that Ophelia felt most like an ill-born twist of nature.

"My little bird, you must listen to me. Listen closely, for what I tell you now, you must carry with you always. Even when I am gone, remember these words."Mother continued, bending down to lock eyes with her daughter. There was seriousness in her countenance that Ophelia seldom saw, and she was shocked into attention by the strangeness of it. Her mother leaned close and whispered, as if the words were a secret that couldn't be shared with anyone else."Your silence is neither a defect nor a curse. You think well on your words before you say them, and that gives them power that others do not have. One day, when you have grown strong, you will find people who will need and appreciate that gift. People who understand that if you choose to speak, they should choose to listen, and listen well. You are more rare and wonderful than any treasure, more clever than any thief, and strong enough to change the world. Always remember this, my little bird. And remember that your father and I love you more than anything else."

The tears came without resistance that time, and she buried her face into her mother's neck sobbing. Her mother strokes her hair and let her cry, holding her close among the plants in the bright sun of springtime.

"You're not with the Thalmor Embassy, are you High Elf? No, that can't be right..."the guard mumbled, before issuing a louder "Captain. What should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list. She goes to the block."Came the immediate and remorseless reply.

"By your orders, Captain." He acquiesced, giving Ophelia a look of pity before whispering a quick "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Summerset Isle."

"No need for that," she whispered back."Bury me somewhere peaceful."

He looks into her face, into her eyes, and she knew that he would grant that last mercy. "He really is a good man." she thinks fuzzily. Such a pity meeting him in these unfortunate circumstances.

"Follow the Captain, prisoner." He says gently, motioning her to the left.

She moved stiffly to the chopping block, everything fading into a buzz of hazy sound and blurred movement. She hardly noticed as she was forced to her knees. A strange calm had taken over, giving her the courage to close her eyes and wait for the end. She felt peaceful. She felt ready.

Abruptly, a shiver worked it's way down her spine. The words of the people around her are still far-away and dim, but another noise catches her ears and makes everything in her body tense. She's never heard it before, this noise, this omen of ill intent, but she knows it will bring nothing but evil. It's a shrieking roar, distant now but coming closer every second. The flame that kindled when she fled her homeland flared hot again, burning brighter, screaming at her to fight. Fight to kill, fight to live. She hears the rush of wings and the thunderous sound of something enormous hitting the wall of the keep before raising her head. Soldiers and prisoners alike scramble for cover around her as she looks up into the gaping maw of the dragon, and for a brief moment Ophelia stands in perfect stillness. In those few seconds, she feels her soul shift and then rearrange into something dangerous. She thinks, hears, sees, tastes the words that come next, and makes them her own.

It is time to fight.

The dragon looked at her then, all gleaming scales and awful glowering eyes. She barely manages to move before a jet of white hot flame scorches the ground where she previously stood.

It seems like hours later when she emerged with the guard, Hadvar, from the ruins of Helgen. The sheer amount of slaughter she has seen made her feel centuries older she actually is, and not all of it was caused by the great serpent. In her bid for freedom, she had been forced to end the lives of several Stormcloak soldiers. She had never killed anyone before, and the experience was more horrifying than she ever could have imagined. The looks on their faces…..she would never forget the terror. But it was a necessary evil, one that bought her a sword and armor. Her younger self would have been appalled by such thoughts. In the time before The Burning, she would never have saved her own life at the cost of another. Gentle hearted, her father had called her, as she mended the leg of an injured rabbit. But that was a different time, and she was now a different person.

In the midst of all this destruction, something had emerged within her. The will to survive. And she had every intention of surviving.

"It's probably best if we split up." Hadvar said lowly, once they are clear of the cave mouth. "If the dragon is still watching, it'll be harder to track two separate paths."

She nodded firmly, looking to the sky and then down to her stolen armor. He must have been able to sense her unease about wearing it, because he suddenly spoke again.

"Closest town from here is Riverwood. My uncle's the blacksmith there. I'm sure he'd help you out."

She looked down at him in surprise, and then smiled. She had been right about him. Hadvar was truly a noble man, and she felt justified in her decision to follow him. Her approval showed in her expression, and he blushed slightly before holding out a hand.

"Good luck. I wouldn't have made it without your help today."

"Yes," she murmured, firmly shaking his proffered hand."Good Luck."

She had been walking on her own for approximately 30 minutes before she got the creeping sensation of being watched. The feeling stayed with her, and she grew increasingly paranoid, stopping at intervals to glance around while pretending to catch her breath. She never could never see anything out of the ordinary, but the feeling persisted until she could no longer walk with her weapon sheathed. Sword at the ready, she turned in a circle, growling under her breath. A twig snapped to her left, and she whirled into motion…..

"Ah! Easy lass, no need to get so defensive!" The stranger shouts vociferously.

...Only to stop her sword inches from cutting the neck of the most out-of-place man she had ever seen in her life. He was taller than her, she noticed with surprise. Half-born as she was, she still had the height of a full blooded high-elf, and this man looked to be more Nord than anything else. His eyes, though, were unlike any Nord's she has ever met. They appeared golden in the late afternoon sun, and bright as if back-lit by a fire. Perhaps he himself was of mixed heritage, for other than his unusual size and eye color he looked like any ordinary human. He was quite handsome too, in her opinion, with a young face and rakishly styled auburn hair. Dressed in a finely cut green vest, dark pants, and polished riding boots, it was immediately apparent to her that she was in the presence of a man of leisure. One who decided to walk though the deep woods….. with nothing but a cane and a smirk. How odd.

"You've been following me." She hisses, adrenaline still pumping in her veins. The part of her that burned, the inferno that now drove her, urged her not to drop her guard. This man was not as harmless as he looked. In fact, she feels threatened down to her bones just being near him. Something is off about this encounter.

His answering smile is all teeth. She suddenly felt the insane urge to giggle, and repressed it with well concealed horror. As if sensing her momentary weakness, he replies her question in that strange, lilting accent that she can't place.

"Just making sure that a fair lass such as yourself stays safe in this bandit ridden wood. I AM a gentleman, after all."

He all but purrs the last sentence, and it does embarrassing things to her stomach hearing him. That voice….there is something about it. She needs to be far away from this man, and soon. The notion occurred to her that she may have been better off facing the dragon. As if hearing her thoughts, he smirked again and she felt heat rush to her face. Yes, retreat is the best option she has .

"I'm fine. Go about your business." She grumbled brusquely, before sheathing her sword and turning to walk away as quickly as her legs would allow. She made it all of ten paces before the end of his cane is stabbed firmly into the tree she was about to pass. It embeds at face level, and she stares at the splintered bark before moving her gaze past hand, arm, and chest until she's looking into the stranger's lovely face. He looks mildly insulted, though she could swear she hear humor in his voice when he speaks.

"How rude! Can't be bothered to exchange a few paltry words with a concerned passerby! And I was planning on offering you some of my cheese, you impolite beastie. But since you seem to be in such a hurry, I'll keep it all to myself. Hafrumph!"

She is grinning by the time his short tirade is done and, by The Maker, she has no clue why. She is being lectured on manners by a strange man in the middle of the woods, hours after escaping both execution and dragon attack. This, without a doubt, is the most peculiar encounter she's ever experienced.

"Apologies." She answered still smiling. "My day has been…difficult."

He removes his cane from the tree and brings it to his side in a fluid motion, leaning his weight on it while casually perusing her appearance. Taking in her ill-fitting (and slightly burnt) armor and weary face without expression, he reaches into the small pouch at his side (Had it been there this whole time? How did she not notice?) and removes a palm-sized item wrapped in linen. He begins to uncover the object, holding it between them so that she could see without obstruction. It turns out to be a small yellow wedge of cheese, sitting perfectly in his hand like an offering. He proceeded to break it jaggedly in half, offering her the bigger half with a small sincere smile.

"Difficult days are an understandable reason to be churlish, lass. Sadly, everyone must suffer a few every now and again. But don't be downhearted, dearie. After darkness comes the dawn. With cheese. And Darjeeling tea!" He declares with solemnity, before letting out a slightly manic bout of laughter and taking a bite out of his own cheese.

Ophelia took the gift carefully, holding it in both hands with a profound sense of wonder. It was strange, but she suddenly felt much more optimistic about her circumstances. She would survive, as the blaze in her soul demanded. Perhaps, though, she can learn to be happy again too.

"Thank you, Sir." She utters, trying to convey the depth of her gratitude with her eyes. She can't articulate how much his words have helped her on this dark day. He gives her a winning grin, an elaborate bow, and bids her a safe journey before strolling off whistling a cheerful tune. Within minutes, he has disappeared into the trees like an apparition. The only evidence of his passing is the cheese she still clutches in both hands. Ophelia brought it slowly to her mouth, taking a small bite and chewing carefully. It's was delicious, and her stomach suddenly decided to remind her that it had not been filled in some time. She polished off the rest of the wedge hastily, noting the odd flavor that permeates every bite. It's not quite spicy, not quite sweet, but entirely wonderful. She departs from the forest in the opposite direction, toward Riverwood, feeling better than she could remember feeling in a long while. So good was her mood, that it entirely escaped her notice that she was being closely followed by a large fox with unusually colored irises.

The Altmer was instead discovered by The Mad One, who looked upon her soul and at once became captivated by its strange and quiet brilliance. Knowing that such a soul wouldn't remain undiscovered by the other deities indefinitely, he offered her a gift that would keep them at bay while he plotted how to best steal her for himself. Thus, the Altmer unknowingly set in motion the events that would lead her into inescapable madness.