TITLE: The Long March Home

CHARACTERS: Aralyn (OC), Ulfric Stormcloak, Legate Fasendil, Dragonborn (OC).

PAIRING: Aralyn / Ulfric

RATING/THEMES/WARNINGS: T (may change later). Romance, drama, family, adventure. May contain sexual references and/or themes, racial discrimination, violence. Will contain non-explicit sexual content – ergo, everything will be implied and not described, just like in any teen drama. Please keep in mind, however, that the rating may be subject to change later on.

CHAPTER 1

Summary: When she'd turned her back on her people, on the Empire and even on her own brother, Aralyn had thought it was the beginning of a new life. She'd definitely never imagined ending up in a prison cell. "Even old Tiber Septim took for himself an elven wench."

A/N: Aralyn is in her thirties, but please keep in mind that Mer tend to live two (or sometimes even three) times longer than humans; so appearance-wise, thirty-eight years old would be early twenties. In regards to the Civil War, since Ulfric is a main character, events will obviously favour the Stormcloaks, but I will do my best to keep this fic mostly impartial. And now without further ado, chapter one! As always, please leave a review, its great encouragement and always helps to motivate my writing.

FASENDIL

"What in Oblivion are they doing here?"

"Keep it down, Ara."

"Let go of my wrist and answer the question."

Receiving a glare from his younger sister was hardly something to shiver over, but Fasendil let go of her wrist anyway, watching her step closer toward the road with some apprehension. "Aralyn," he tried, changing the subject to something more important – "I will be reassigned to the camp in The Rift. Very soon, in fact, and I want you to come with me. Do you understand?"

She is silent, and it infuriates him, though he lets it boil down. "Aralyn –"

"I thought you said this was an Imperial operation," she said without looking back at him.

"It is." He stood next to her, watching as the carriages rolled past them, down into Helgen's main square.

She snorted, before tilting her head toward the group standing behind them. "So why are they here?"

Fasendil glanced back, watching as General Tullius, two of his men and three Thalmor operatives stood there talking, undoubtedly about the impending execution, and he turned to face his sister, taking her by the shoulders. Her beautiful face, filled with defiance and anger, was as much a testament to her Altmer heritage as it was to their sibling relationship – both of them had possessed that same rebellious, headstrong nature that had led to their alignment with the Empire rather than the Thalmor. Somewhere in the midst of relocating due to Fasendil's position in the legion, Aralyn had fallen in love with Skyrim, even more than she had adored their birthplace of Cyrodiil.

And yet, he could only watch anxiously as the state of the land seemed to cause Aralyn to become more and more restless by the day, showing the same signs of resentment toward the Imperials that she had shown to the governing force of her own kind.

"Listen to me," he whispered sternly. "Our time will come, but it is not now."

"Not now, when the Dominion is weak?" she demanded, her tiny, slender hands wrapping around his forearms in turn, and he knew that for all her strength and solidarity, she was still fragile, still the little sister he had to protect. "Not now, when the treaty helps them more than it helps us? When will the time come, then? When they regain all their strength and crush us for good?"

"Soon," he hissed viciously, losing his patience. "You're being impertinent and reckless, keep your voice down."

It was evident on Aralyn's face that she wasn't shaken by his reprimands like she had used to be when she was younger, and she let go of him, looking at the carriages once more, which had reached the end of their trip. Fasendil stared at her, knowing that despite her disrespectful attitude toward her elder that he resented, she spoke of the same doubts he did. His allegiance to the Empire was largely founded on his hate for the supremacist movement his people had created. Who was he fighting now, when the Thalmor and the Imperials were holding hands like long-time friends?

Standing in front of him, her back turned, in her long pale silk dress robes and the black hair that she'd pinned up and decorated with fancy jewelled chains to speak of her highborn heritage, Fasendil might've thought she was a mere girl of eighteen, not a woman of thirty-eight years. She was not the warrior he was, but she was clever, observant, calculating. Fasendil remembered the many times she'd begged him to let her help with the war efforts, and how he had denied her every time. He had not set up a nice home for her, complete with belongings and a job to keep her happy and occupied, only to let her jump headfirst into a war. Whiterun was safe, and that meant Aralyn would be safe there, too.

"You and I both know what we are – who we are."

Fasendil frowned at Aralyn. Her voice had finally softened, yet it was full of foreboding.

"Our people are strong. They are resourceful, ruthless and intelligent. They are long-living. Time isn't on the Empire's side, Fasendil. It's on theirs."

But was she really safe? Was his position as a legate going to mean much when his sister grew to despise everything he fought for?

"Where are you going?" Fasendil demanded as Aralyn gathered her skirts to head down toward the town centre.

"To make sure I know who the protectors of Skyrim are," she said icily. "And whether I'm on the right side or not."

ARALYN

Aralyn couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten, slept, or even simply stopped to rest, but despite the shackles around her wrists and the narrow walls trapping her, she was glad to be in a safe, isolated place; to lay her head and even eat a slice of cheese without turning her head or worrying about what might happen to her if she let her guard down in favour of sleeping.

Simple luxuries aside, she could not remember how she had ended up here, and she was more than a little worried about being stuck in a prison cell for reasons she were certain did not exist.

Her layered cream dress were torn, tattered and terrible; the hem long ripped off after she had continuously tripped over it, and her hair was a tangled mess of knots, dirt, and damaged hair pieces, the delicate chains broken and several jewels missing. It wasn't all a huge loss, she thought to herself optimistically. It was one of her simpler garments – she was lucky she hadn't opted to wear the beautiful emerald green gown Fasendil had given her for her birth celebration, a gorgeous item he had imported with great difficulty all the way from their native Cyrodiil.

And, as immediately as the memory had come to her, so did those of Helgen, of their argument, of the dragon attack which had prompted her desperate journey; and the tears began to well in her eyes at the thought of her brother. Her first instinct was to fear he might have – Arkay have mercy – perished in the flames, but she knew her brother better than that. He was strong, smart, and steadfast. As well as he would've saved others, he would've been able to save himself just as easily, and if she were to journey to his new camp in the Rift, she was certain she would find him there.

If she would ever dare face him again after their argument in Helgen, that is. Or after what she planned to do.

The sound of footsteps in the stairwell had Aralyn raising her head, eyes searching for the newcomer. The other prisoners made noises as a guard appeared, most of them throwing angry insults, others begging to be released, or have their complaints heard. Aralyn wasn't sure what she should plea, being utterly unaware of why she'd been captured or thrown into prison in the first place. She did, however, recognise the guard's uniform, and a sudden burst of hope ignited in her. At least she'd made it to the right place.

"Come on, elf," the guard said rather condescendingly, and Aralyn held back the long train of words she wanted to retort with – she was a prisoner in dirt and rags, not a respectable Altmer in silks, and her haughty comments would likely not impress the guard, so she obediently left the cell in silence. Another guard had come into the prison block, seemingly waiting for her, too.

The other prisoners began to jeer at her, whether they had noticed the colour of her skin, the point of her ears, or the telltale angles of her face; they held nothing back as they cursed her and told her in less than friendly terms to return to where she'd come from – but this was nothing new, and neither was it something that she had not steeled her ears against long time ago. Even in Whiterun, where the townspeople respected her and even befriended her, there were the odd few men who remained stuck in their ways, insisting that her heritage defined her intentions, and taking any chance to try to make her feel unwelcome. It wasn't as if a few men trapped behind bars with their wrists shackled together were going to get anywhere near affecting her feelings.

"Get moving," the second guard ordered, giving her a push, and she almost tripped up the steps.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked once she'd adjusted her pace to satisfy the guard's demand, but she received no clue.

"Shut up and keep walking, they won't wait forever."

"Who won't?"

"You'll see soon enough."

"I swear," she grit out as she stumbled for the third time; "if you shove me one more time I'll –"

One of the guards swung the door open while the other gave her one final push, sending her stumbling into a new room. A large room – a hall. More specifically, a palace hall.

The entire hall was made of cold gray stone, the floors decorated in vibrant blue and the ceiling lined with banners of the same colour, a long dining table stretching down the centre with four lit candelabras hanging directly above it, and a fierce profile of some sort of bird of prey protruded from each of the wall columns standing all around the hall.

And at the very end of this grand hall, flanked by blue banners bearing the sigil of a bear and seated upon a large throne, was the Jarl of Windhelm himself. Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Make tracks, elf," the guard behind her hissed, and the threat of another shove in his tone was enough to have Aralyn walking. The guards had her arms in tight grip – as if she would actually try to run? – but she paid the restriction no mind, her eyes still wide and trained upon the man on the throne, staring at her with the same level of regard as the men at her sides did. Probably less, she noted as she got closer.

Now this was a big turn of events. When she'd begun travelling toward Eastmarch, her intention had been to speak to a soldier, maybe even a commander or best case scenario, the general; never had she considered gaining an audience with the jarl himself, the leader of the rebellion she had sought to join. The guards forced her to kneel, and she did so with all the grace she could muster, and tried to blow a wisp of black hair out of her face as she looked up at the stern figure seated a mere five or six steps away from her.

Aralyn knew she was smart. She was a gifted conversationalist, a sly manipulator, and had a knack for being convincing, which was what she had hoped her recruitment into the Stormcloaks would entail. But now, finding herself in a situation she hadn't foreseen even before being thrown into a dungeon, Aralyn realised she needed a moment to gather herself before making a case.

"State your name."

Aralyn looked to the right – the man who had spoken was dressed in good clothing, a hat atop his head and an inked pen in his hand, ready to write. The jarl's steward, she figured.

"Lost your tongue have you, elf?" a low, gruff voice demanded, and this time the owner of the voice stood at the left of the throne, clad in strong armor and a chunky bear pelt – as if he didn't already look like a bear himself – scowling at her like she had just burned down the entire city.

"Galmar." It was a reprimand, and it came from Ulfric Stormcloak himself, though his stare never departed from her. "Answer Jorleif's question, prisoner."

"Name, please," the steward – Jorleif – repeated. He seemed like a kindly man, or at least kinder than the men beside him.

"Aralyn," she finally replied. Her voice came steady and confident, her gaze unwavering. Nords could be stubborn, but they weren't impossible to get through to. These three wouldn't be that difficult a nut to crack – given they realised that they had wrongly imprisoned her.

"And what is your reason for your presence in Windhelm, Aralyn?" Jorleif inquired, and Aralyn turned her calm gaze upon him, speaking carefully – clearly the issue here was trust, and she certainly didn't have to lie about her trustworthiness.

"I seek to pledge my allegiance."

"To whom?"

"Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," she responded, her tone even and her words slow. "And his rebellion against the Empire."

The guards by her sides snorted, and joining in was the bear beside Ulfric named Galmar, who chortled like it was the funniest thing he'd heard in years (he also sounded much like he hadn't laughed at a single thing in years).

"Surely you cannot be serious," Jorleif asked, gentle and kind but clearly not believing her any more than the guards and the bear-man.

"I would not jest about such a thing," Aralyn replied, though she heard the unintentional snap in her voice. "I despise the Dominion, and the Empire now receives the same measure of loathing since they have sought to lay with the Thalmor."

"You are an Altmer yourself," Ulfric's low voice reverberated, very nearly interrupting her. "Why should you have cause to despise an alliance made by your own kind, for the benefit of your own kind."

The man's face was lined with wrinkles that came with age, but they did not dare take away from the handsomeness of his features. The severe angles of his nose, cheeks and jaw accentuated his stern expression, thick locks of dark blonde hair hung around his face, two braids woven through it, and his eyes were hard and unrelenting, rich in colour like sapphires; deep yet piercing, full of suspicion and thoughtful scrutiny. Aralyn met them without pause, blue against gold; resolute against the clear lack of trust in his stare.

"I was born in Cyrodiil," she answered. "My parents were travelling merchants. I moved to Skyrim several years ago, and I have come to love it more than Cyrodiil, more than the Summerset Isles that I have never known – nor that do I wish to know. My support has always been with the Empire until now, but if the Empire will not oppose the Thalmor, I chose to find the people who would, and my search ends here, if you would care to cease this unfounded mistrust of my intentions."

"Unfounded mistrust, is it?" Ulfric repeated, which Aralyn responded to with a slight frown and a narrowed gaze. "This is not the first time we cross paths, Altmer. Several of my men recognised you from Helgen, on the day we were to be executed; in the same garb you currently wear, no less."

Realisation slowly dawned on Aralyn, and apprehension followed quick on its tail. Fasendil.

"They stated that they had seen you speaking closely with an Altmer legate, not far from where the bastard Tullius himself stood with several of his Thalmor friends." Ulfric stood from his throne, and just as she had been when she had first been dragged into the hall, Aralyn found herself lost for words. "For someone who claims such powerful distaste for the Thalmor and the Empire, it seems you did not possess any aversion to rubbing shoulders with them."

"That was my brother," Aralyn argued, struggling against her binds. "I already told you – I supported the Empire for a long time along with my brother, until I decided I would no longer stand by an Empire who let Thalmor reign in the lands! He did not agree with me, and so we went our separate ways."

"Filthy elven lies," Galmar spat.

"You made up your mind rather swiftly," Ulfric noted, his stare having changed into a glare, judgment clouding the blue of his eyes. "I'm sure I'm not alone in finding that suspicious."

"The events of Helgen were exactly what prompted me to make a decision I had long been contemplating!" Aralyn snapped. "What was I to do? Make a public declaration?"

"I have no suggestions for what you should've done," Ulfric replied with deathly calm. "I only know what I should do when faced with an Imperial spy in my city."

"Pardon me?"

The guards dragged Aralyn up onto her feet as she stared at the jarl in shock. A spy? You have got to be kidding me.

"Maybe you should accept her pledge, Ulfric," Galmar suggested, his voice full of mockery. "Even old Tiber Septim himself took for himself an elven wench."

Aralyn threw Galmar a dark glare, but she had no room to spit her venom as she was dragged away back through the stairwells leading to the prison block, thrown back into her cell and locked up with nothing more than a clean set of ugly brown rags and the taunts and insults of the prisoners to make her realise that coming to Windhelm had probably been a huge mistake.