A.N. I edited a bit - sooooooooooo many mistakes. Also, I don't own anything Bethesda does, just a few/lot original characters.
The Long Way Home
I.
"I don't have the faintest idea as to where the fuck I am." It was a chant that she had been saying under her breath for the better part of an hour. A chant because it was easy to focus on. Under her breath because she was pretty sure she was being tracked. A glance over her shoulder into the night verified this - faint torchlight, three tiny embers in the distance floating about light lazy fireflies. They were cautious and all too impatient. She was surprised at their resilience - she didn't think they would have the resolve to follow her for a fortnight, much less to the Skyrim border.
Biting the inside of her cheek in minor annoyance, Myalca looked ahead. There was a faint breeze...it carried something...familiar? Ducking back down low to the grass, the feathery tops of the heather brushing under her tunic, she crept a bit to the West, into a small clearing. Pale eyes dart overhead, praying the cloud cover lasted long enough to prevent the moon from casting her shadow into the attention of those that followed.
Satisfied with her position, Myalca sat back on her haunches and bent her head, eyes closed, ears open. One breath passed. Then two. Sounds come first. Nearby there were deer watching her, sniffling and pawing the ground nervously but quietly, unsure of what to make of the crouched guest in their grove. A bit higher were resting birds of prey and squirrels, their tiny quick breaths giving the trees around her a resonance that swayed with their own organic life. Further were the prickling crackle of the guard torches - and their agitated deep-throated mumbles. Distinct words weren't there, but they were clearly none too pleased about the outcome of their trek. Dissonance...harsh response...someone must have suggested turning back and the answer was negative - but commanding.
Daxus. No, he wouldn't turn back. He couldn't. Their steps were clumsy and shuffling, probably to their commander's annoyance. He knew his prey. He knew she was listening. He was undoubtedly well-suited to command, though. She heard no fear in their voices. No doubt. Just exhaustion.
And, ah, finally, there were scents. Luckily, the wind was in her favour and came from the North. There was a bite in it - cold. There was a freshness under that - pine. Two more breaths - and then there was rain? A faint humidity that settled in the back of her throat. Heavily. Death. Falkreath and its infamous cemetery. That's where she was. That's what was familiar. The trade of Arkay. The blessings of that red, red sun. Opening her eyes slowly, she extended her legs and rose up slowly, attempting to reconcile her sight with where she smelled she was located. Unfortunately, as before, "I don't have the faintest idea as to where the fuck I am."
Except now it was a lie.
She was near Falkreath.
And Skyrim.
Daxus wouldn't cross the border. At least, she was banking on him not crossing the border. If she successfully slips out of Cyrodiil, she'll be under Tullius' jurisdiction. His problem. And from what she had heard, the Legion would be in no condition to track down one woman, much less cart her back to Cyrodiil. If anything else, if she is caught, she can only hope they decide to execute her there instead of shipping her back...home? Is that what it was?
Myalca looked back South, from whence she came. The sky seemed significantly darker. The stars seemed to dim in the face of her pained searching. The clouds moved slower, dredging across the sky as one dredges a net in a river to fish out dead soldiers.
A crack , a curse, a slap on the back of the head.
That was a morbid thought.
They're getting closer.
She turned north and continued to follow the faint smell of rain and graves.