Regrettably, I don't own Skyrim. Bethesda does.
This is the first story in the Blacktyde Chronicles.
WARNING: If you have any trouble with the following topics: graphic violence, homosexuality, sex in general, coarse language, or other-worldly religion, please refrain from reading this fanfic.
!NEW: There are now pictures of Wulf! You'll find the link on my profile or on the first chapter of BtS on AO3 (Archive of Our Own)- [I'm sorry, but ff does not allow me to post a direct link, otherwise I would have just done so]
01.2015: I am working on this story again with the wonderful Neshomeh as my Beta.
At last, thank you for reading. Enjoy!
Wulfryk's head banged against the hard wood of the bench he was lying on as the wagon hit another hole in the road. Ouch. He could count the number of holes by the number of bruises that were forming on his temple. It was hardly his favourite pastime, but there was little else he could do, ever since he had been captured and tossed onto the wagon four days ago, like he was some common criminal. Which he wasn't. Most of the time, anyway.
Wulfryk lay motionless, his eyes closed against the bright sunlight, listening to the creaking of the wheels and cursing the day he had set out on this venture. A few months ago it had seemed like a great idea. Start anew, build a life. What on, he wasn't quite sure. But he had left the hot sands, the azure sea and all those hauntingly beautiful emerald oases of Elsweyr and travelled north, through Cyrodiil and along the border to Hammerfell, steering towards the homeland of his ancestors. Skyrim. Although Wulf was a Nord he had never seen the country that his father used to tell him so many stories about. Maybe they had never been real; the Divines knew his father had liked to indulge in a bottle. Or half a dozen.
It had been just him and his father, who had left his birthplace over something he never told Wulf about. The one time Wulf had been brave enough to ask, his father had already been deep in his cups and he had lashed out at his son, cursing him, only to break down sobbing and begging for forgiveness. "I'm sorry," he had wailed, tears and snot running down his face. "I'm so sorry, my boy, I'm so sorry. I won't do it again, I promise, it will be alright. When we go back, everything will be alright. We will live in a castle again. I didn't mean to do it, I swear it was a mistake," he cried before promptly falling asleep. And that was all Wulf knew about his family history.
As soon as he had been old enough to travel on his own, he had run, leaving behind his old man and his drunken ramblings and their tiny shack that had smelled like sour ale, stale sweat and vomit. Wulfryk didn't look back even once.
He travelled. He learned to fight so that he could make a living as a sellsword. One day he was hired as a guard for a caravan of merchants and his journey took him to the far and exotic country of Elsweyr, where he decided to stay on a whim. He was content there, but never truly happy, an inexplicable desire compelling him to move again and his heart longing after something he could not name. Leaving his friends and the country he had come to love but could never bring himself to call home had not been easy, but it seemed the decision regarding his departure had been taken from him. He had become twitchy and irritable, taking long walks under the bright canopy of stars and often staring into the distance, until finally he could stand it no longer and set out once again.
Only to end up as a prisoner. It was a cruel joke the gods had played on him and he had laughed at first, hysterically, until both his guards and fellow captives had thrown uneasy looks his way.
He had crossed the border to Skyrim a fortnight ago and resupplied in a town that he could no longer recall the name of. The innkeeper had warned him that there were outlaws roaming the woodlands and hills nearby, telling him to not stray off the main road and to find himself some travelling companions, if possible. So he had been happy when he met a group of fellow travellers headed in the same direction as he was. Judging by their armour and weapons they were soldiers, or maybe guards, patrolling the southern border. He did not ask them any questions, seeking only protection in numbers until he was past the territory where the robbers were known to strike, and they in turn agreed for him to join their company.
For another week the journey stayed uneventful and Wulfryk allowed himself to relax and enjoy the scenery. In retrospect, he never should have let his guard down. When the ambush was sprung, he barely managed to pull out his sword, roaring "BANDITS" at the top of his lungs to warn his comrades. Then the assailants were on them and Wulf did not even have time to notice that, surprisingly, all attackers were wearing Imperial armour before he was forced to fight for his life. When archers took out one flank and cavalry charged another, the battle was over as quickly as it had begun, and Wulf was one of the few still standing. They surrendered, and there was a commotion as Wulfryk insistently tried to explain to the Imperial in charge that he really had thought they were being waylaid by robbers. The Imperials showed complete indifference towards him and, just like the bandits they claimed not to be, they relieved him of all his possessions, bound his hands, and loaded him onto a cart.
It turned out the outlaws had been the very ones with whom he had sought refuge.
Their ride did not last long. By the time everybody had been rounded up, searched, and restrained, it was afternoon. It turned out the Imperials had planned ahead and secured a shed where they could keep a close eye on the prisoners during the night. And conveniently, it had another room where the prisoners could be questioned separately. Wulfryk tried to not show any fear as a guard ushered him through the door, though his knees felt a little weak and his hands shook slightly. The red-haired legionnaire seated behind a desk was the first Nord he had seen with the Imperials. The other man looked up fleetingly before asking, "What's your name?"
"Brynjolf," Wulf answered without hesitating. Nobody would be able to call him out on the lie, because he had not told his name to anybody.
"Where do you hail from, Brynjolf?" the man enquired further. He had a calm manner and he kept his hands on a logbook in a nonthreatening way.
"Dawnstar," Wulfryk replied, choosing the only Nord town he could actually name.
The redheaded man jotted his answer down in his book and even though it was upside-down, Wulf could decipher 'Brynjolf of Dawnstar' written out in a neat script. When he finished writing the man turned his attention back to Wulf. "I am Thorald of Solitude. The soldiers tell me you thought we were bandits. Why?"
"I thought you were bandits because that's what the innkeeper warned me about. Back in the neat little town a quarter day's travel from the border." All true, that.
Thorald nodded his understanding before continuing. "Do you have any idea in whose company you were travelling?"
Wulf sighed. He did not. "No. Care to enlighten me?"
Thorald looked surprised, but he shook his head. "Regrettably, I can't tell you. Not yet." Instead, he continued his questioning.
Was it the first time Brynjolf had travelled to Skyrim? – Yes.
Why did he journey to Skyrim? – To honour the last wish of his dying father. It was a bit dramatic, but close enough to the truth for Wulfryk to pass it off as such.
Did he have any living relatives? – No.
The questions continued in a similar way and by the end of the interview Wulf was fairly certain that he had convinced Thorald that he was not involved in… whatever he was being accused of being involved in.
Finally the torrent ended, and after he had jotted down the last of 'Brynjolf's' answers, Thorald spoke. "If you are really innocent, then you have nothing to fear from us. We cannot release you just yet, however, so you will probably travel with us all the way to Helgen. Your name is not on the lists of the wanted criminals. I will try to convince the captain to let you go. Try to get some rest."
Wulfryk had gotten his rest; quite a lot of it, in fact. If Thorald was trying, then he wasn't doing so very hard. Four days he spent in that bumpy cart and on four nights he had been interrogated, always by somebody new. And when they asked him about some stormy cloaks he had answered truthfully, that no, he had no fucking idea what they were talking about and quite frankly he did not give a rat's ass; expressing his responses in much nicer terms, of course.
Today was the fifth day, and in the afternoon they were to arrive at their destination. Wulf opened his eyes and squinted up at the sky. It had always been the same driver, the same guards, and the same horse pulling the same cart with the very same four prisoners. The Imperials were nothing if not predictable. And yet he had not found an opportunity to escape. They were just too heavily guarded to risk an attempt. He had, however, unravelled the knots in the hemp rope that bound his hands, retying them in a way that would allow him to slip off his bonds in a moment. That was on the first day. On the second he managed to filch a knife from one of the soldiers on guard duty. One did not live with Khajiit and not pick up some of their sneaky tricks; lockpicking and a certain sleight of hand were useful in many situations. But that was as far as he had dared to go. Hopefully, when they arrived at Helgen an opportune moment would present itself. Somehow he was not willing to entirely trust Thorald, who had visited him once, apologising for his discomfort.
All that remained for Wulfryk to do was to lie on the bench, watch the countryside pass by and listen to his fellow convicts talk. He did not know their names, so he just dubbed them Chatty, Horse and Muffle. Horse was a thief who looked astonishingly like his namesake and Muffle had not said much around his gag, which suited Wulf just fine, since Chatty did more than enough talking for the four of them. Right now Chatty was sitting opposite him, while Muffle sat on the far side of the bench to his right side, where he had slid after Wulf had determinedly kept poking him with his foot, so that he could stretch out comfortably. The man somewhat resembled a caterpillar, wrapped as he was in enough bonds to restrain a bear. Wulf briefly wondered what he had done that made the Imperials so very nervous. Not that he did not have other things to worry about.
Wulf had been headed for Helgen, so while he appreciated a ride and a break from all the walking, he only wished that it weren't on a carriage bound for the executioner's block. That much he had been able to pick up. He was certain that Chatty had figured it out already. Horse seemed oblivious and Wulf amused himself by privately wagering how long it would take the thief to find out. There was no telling what Muffle thought.
"Hey, you! You're finally awake."
So Chatty had seen him staring up at the sky. Bollocks. Wulf had managed to avoid most of their talks, usually by pretending to be asleep, but he doubted he was getting out of this one. So, instead of trying, he turned his head to smile up at the blond man. "Morning, Sunshine," he drawled.
Chatty seemed happy to have a new victim to pester and continued unfazed. "You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
Yes, he knew that. Luckily he did not have to answer, because Horse did.
"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."
It was an argument Wulf had heard dozens of times already, and he allowed his thoughts to drift off, until Horse turned and addressed him. "You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
Yes, he had figured that one out as well.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," Chatty threw in.
They were four men on the carriage, which made Wulf wonder if Chatty was insulting somebody. "Are you trying to hint at something?" he asked the man, who looked puzzled, so Wulf added "Just wondering who's the lady."
The Stormcloak got his meaning and grinned broadly, until a loud thump interrupted them and the Imperial soldier driving the carriage shouted "Shut up back there!"
"Sorry we forgot about you, honey," Wulfryk threw back unfazed at the red-faced man.
Muffle grunted something and then started coughing quite violently, and Wulf realized after a while that the man was laughing, the first time he had seen him react to anything.
Horse pointed at Muffle and asked "And what's with him, huh?"
At once, all merriment left Chatty. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King," he declared rather frostily.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?" Horse's voice rose with fear, his eyes frantically roving over their captors.
There it went. Four and a half days. It seemed that Horse was gifted with both the looks and brains of his namesake. Wulfryk closed his eyes again.
Chatty's next pronouncement did not help to ease the tension, either. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."
"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"
"Why do you care?"
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
"Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead," said Horse before he started praying frantically.
Knowing they would never get the thief to shut up Wulf gave up on his nap and glared at Chatty. "My, you know how to cheer them up."
"Are you always this morose?"
"Only when I'm about to be executed," Wulf responded.
"Does it happen often?" A hint of a smile played around the blond Nord's mouth.
Wulf answered with a smile of his own. "I consider once to be too often."
The rest of their trip to Helgen passed in silence. When the carriage clattered over cobblestones instead of the dirt road, Wulf sat up and looked around. The walls and massive gates of Helgen were lined with Imperial soldiers. One man in particular stood out, his golden armour shining in the sun. He looked important, so Wulf turned to Chatty to ask him, "Who is that man?"
"Who? Oh, look at him. General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." The Stormcloak turned around to spit at the feet of one of their guards.
When their wagon finally came to a rumbling stop, Chatty sighed before reaching over and shaking Horse.
"Why are we stopping?"
"Why do you think? End of the line." Chatty got up from his seat. "Let's hurry. We shouldn't keep the gods waiting."
Wulf saw no reason to hurry. The gods had put him in this predicament, they could damn well wait a little longer; another few decades, if possible.
The next couple of minutes they stood around while the Imperials called on the various prisoners, confirming what they already knew, namely that none had escaped.
"Empire loves their damn lists," Chatty muttered dismally.
Finally it was Wulf's turn, and a Nord standing next to an Imperial woman and holding a roll of parchment pointed at him. "Who are you?"
"Brynjolf of Dawnstar," Wulfryk answered, as he had done so many times already.
"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman. Captain. What should we do? He's not on the list."
Before the captain could answer, however, Thorald arrived seemingly out of nowhere to vouch for Wulf's innocence. The Nord felt a slight stirring of hope, but the feeling soured when a heated argument ensued; Thorald and the other soldier, Hadvar, were of the opinion he should be freed, arguing that it was bad luck he had been captured with the Stormcloaks, and that they couldn't randomly execute innocent travellers. Sadly, the Imperial woman did not share their opinion.
Then Horse took off, believing that he could make it out while there was a distraction. He did not make it far before the archers put a stop to his breakout attempt. The captain was not amused. Rounding on her men, she yelled "Forget the list! He goes to the block!"
What a bitch. Wulfryk found the Empire's love of their damn lists to be sadly lacking.
There was a brief pause while General Tullius spoke to Ulfric and a priest of Arkay intoned a prayer – one, Wulf realized with a sudden pang, that was meant for their souls. Until now he had been able to keep the fear at bay, but he felt it keenly now, emanating from the prisoners all around him. There was not even the slightest chance of escape. Wulfryk was no stranger to fighting, but there was something dreadful and mortifying about being led to one's death like a pig for slaughter. Wulf felt his breath quicken, and he alternately began to shiver and sweat.
Finally, one of the prisoners snapped: not being able to stand the tension any longer, he barrelled past the guards, interrupting the priest. "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!"
Wulfryk had to admire the Stormcloak soldier for his guts. He was soon distracted, however, when he felt – or maybe heard something that made his hair stand on end. A deep rumble resounded across the valley, rolling down from the mountains even as a hot wind picked up. The air throbbed with energy and as if on cue, all the horses went mad. The tumult lasted a while. Some riders were thrown, while others struggled to regain control over the beasts. One soldier brought his mount to a halt not far away from where Wulfryk was standing. Looking at the animal he could see its eyes were rolled back and wide with terror as it stood frozen, nostrils flared and breathing so hard it rocked back and forth. Never in his entire life had Wulf seen another being in such mortal fear.
"What is going on?" "What's happening?" The cries were repeated back and forth as the crowd, soldiers and prisoners alike, shuffled around, casting nervous gazes towards the heavens. Ultimately, General Tullius had to bellow for order before things calmed down.
"It's nothing. Carry on!" the military governor commanded, and the first convict, the one who had stormed forward, was led to the block. The captain went up to the man, kicking him hard to make him kneel in the dirt. Her general stood only a couple of feet away. Wulfryk felt his heartbeat pick up speed while he watched the Nord laying his head on the block. He was not looking at the prisoner, however, nor at the blade of the headsman's axe as it rose slowly, but at the captain, who stood directly behind the prisoner, but did not hold him down. And when the weapon descended with a sickening thud, she looked right back at Wulfryk, and then pointed at him.
"You're next."
AN: What? Helgen? Again? Yes, Helgen. Because, believe me or not, I really like that scene. I like reading about it. I loved writing it. And, I hope you too enjoyed it.
This and the following chapter now have an AU "Nice and Easy" which pretty much deals with the question 'What would happen if Alduin was late?'