Thaegoth's horse died just after he crossed the border into Skyrim. He recognised the impending collapse seconds before it happened and managed to roll clear with a hair's breadth to spare. He came to his feet in the snow and dusted off his scuffed leather armour. Despite his gloves, the feeling was starting to go in his fingers and he looked northward down the mountain pass, hoping there was not too far to go until he reached the new land. Somewhere to hide, to begin anew.
He crouched beside the animal that had borne him all the way from the Imperial City. A furious pace that had taken a heavy toll. He rested his hand on the horse's neck and felt its ragged breaths. The single thought of flight that had taken control of his mind gradually eased its grip. So blinkered that he'd never considered—no. He had known exactly what he was doing, throughout every step he had taken on his way north, through every desperate measure. He'd seen enough years by this point that he couldn't delude himself on that score.
Though still in his prime, he conceded, stretching his limbs. He retrieved his elven longsword from where he had strapped it to the saddle and belted it on. The pack that had contained his food was crushed between horseflesh and snow and he decided Falkreath couldn't be far enough away for that to be a problem—certainly not worth the effort of trying to shift the horse.
But as the horse's ribcage rose and fell, he retrieved, from where he had dropped it in the snow on his jump, the hide-wrapped package that had made his desperate flight a necessity. It was about the length of his forearm, half that in width and height, and he had packed it with some old shirts to make the shape less obvious. Bulky now, but ambiguously so, and certainly the lightest thing he had with him. He tucked it under one arm and saw the horse's breathing cease.
Thaegoth turned northwards and saw the outlines of several figures heading his way. Crooked cliffs on both sides and he wasn't going to leave the road so close to his destination, especially in unknown territory. He walked calmly to meet the figures, who he saw now were three Imperial legionnaires. Light armour, all Imperial men, with short swords and bows. Scouts then, he thought, patrolling the border for miscreants. For people just like him.
He raised a hand in greeting, sure to keep from looking like he was going anywhere near his sword, and tried not to frown at the familiar mocking looks he could see forming on the legionnaires' faces.
"What's a little wood elf like you doing all the way up here?" asked the scout in the centre. There was something slightly different about his uniform, so Thaegoth picked him for the officer. He couldn't be too high a rank, to be stuck on this beat. He had dark hair and half of one his front teeth was chipped away. He kept poking small sections of his tongue through the hole in a way that made Thaegoth feel ill.
"Just passing through," he said. He was only an inch or so shorter than the scouts, really, but for them the single stereotype was more important than the diverse reality. The scout officer leaned and looked past Thaegoth down at the dead horse.
"Had ourselves a little fall, have we?" he asked.
Thaegoth tried to plot out the next few beats of the encounter in his head. He couldn't take three legionnaires on his own—not without the benefit of surprise and some other less-than-honourable tricks, anyway—so that left him with only a few options.
"Been moving faster than I should've," Thaegoth said, trying not to sigh.
"Running from something, are we?" asked the officer. His subordinates seemed content to stand and smirk.
"A spurned lover," said Thaegoth. It had been true at one point or another, it just wasn't this time. Still, the officer grinned wider and ran his tongue through his chipped tooth again.
"So spurned you had to kill your horse trying to get to Skyrim," said the officer. "And didn't stop in, say, Bruma, to buy yourself some nice warm furs. A man—or an elf—could freeze to death up here without them."
Thaegoth jerked his head northwards. "How far to Falkreath?" he asked.
"Not far," said the officer. His hand was curling around his sword-hilt. "What've you got in the packet there?"
"Clothes," said Thaegoth. Technically true, given his packing. And if you counted the stolen boots he carried as clothes. Boots with enough power to let him run circles around any number of Imperial scouts. Putting them on had seemed . . . too easy. He hadn't seen anybody coming after him for a while now, though, even with that concession. But his tracks were as wide as a wagon train's, he knew.
"Anything else?" asked the officer, taking a step forward. Thaegoth shook his head. "You're not a courier, are you? Got some special orders regarding couriers."
"If I say I am, will you get out of my way?" asked Thaegoth.
The officer's grin flickered for a moment. "Course," he said. "We got nothing but respect for such a noble profession." This brought a round of laughter from the other scouts. "But you're no courier, not with that armour and sword, are you?"
Thaegoth didn't see any point in lying this time, so he shook his head again.
"So," said the officer, "I'll ask again. You got anything in that package we ought to be concerned about? Can't have you bringing anything dangerous into Skyrim, after all. Place's got enough problems as it is."
Thaegoth looked up at the high peaks. He had no aversion to travelling at night, but wondered if he'd make it into Falkreath before the moons rose. He didn't think he'd stop there—too close to the border. Better to make it further into Skyrim before he took stock of things, before he could maybe have a drink and start thinking about what in Oblivion he was going to do with his life next. He let himself sigh.
"We boring you?" asked the officer.
"Alright," said Thaegoth, reaching for his coin pouch. "How much to let me through without looking at anything I've got?"
The officer leaned back on his heels for a moment. There was too long a delay before he said, "I'm offended you'd even ask."
Thaegoth counted out enough coins for a few drinks and a room for the night, somewhere, before tossing the rest of the pouch over. The officer took it and quickly flicked through its contents. Like a professional, thought Thaegoth.
"You let me past with everything else I have," he said. "And don't mention to anyone that you saw me. Not your superior officers, not in your reports, nothing."
The officer hefted the pouch in his hand a few times. "Afraid you don't have enough for that second part," he said. "This buys safety. Silence is expensive."
Thaegoth nodded. It'd have to do. He could disappear well enough on his own, he hoped. Though it'd only be a matter of time before his pursuers discovered he'd come this way. He gestured at the scouts expectantly. They moved, slowly, with much theatricality, to the side of the road. Thaegoth moved past them, never letting them out of his sight.
Once he was past, he halted and pointed to the dead horse. "There's some food under there. If you can get it out, you're welcome to it," he said.
The officer snorted. "You're a true gentleman of the road," he said. "I'll be sure to remember your face—if I can stop confusing it with all those other elves."
"And I'll be sure to remember yours," said Thaegoth. "If I can stop confusing it with all those other humans." He turned and headed north through the snow. The cold tried to make him shiver, though he ignored it. He kept walking, into Skyrim.