Aendril stood atop the roof of a home in Helgen, the city where his next mark was located. He stood with Imperial Bowmen, almost exclusively of the various races of Men, and fortunately, none questioned his appearance. He smiled, knowing the strings he'd pulled had been effective. One of the Thalmor agents in attendance to the execution had worked with him during the Great War, and had implanted him with the rest of the bowmen posted there. He felt uncomfortable in the studded leather armor of the Legion, much preferring his own Shrouded armor. Forced to forego his normal gear for this mission, he did, however, retain one ritual; his face was painted to show the visage of a stark white skull, the black of his eyes furthering the effect. He watched as the carts full of prisoners rolled into town. He noticed one prisoner in particular that caused a grin, Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who was single handedly, and unknowingly, handing Skyrim to the Dominion.
So the Empire finally got him, eh? He thought to himself, wondering who had made the contract, as they'd called for the executions to be finished before Aendril's arrow was to pierce his heart. He stood waiting patiently as the condemned were brought forth, one by one. A slip of a man, Lokir he'd thought he'd heard, attempted to run off, but was quickly put down by the shout of the Legate and a hail of arrows. Aendril had seen enough mass beheadings to zone out of this one, he knew it was to be a long, uninteresting ceremony, and the standard Stormcloak shouting of ancestors and honor ensued. He heard it then, like an angry, reptillian cat. Amassive, angry, reptillian cat. It came again, as a new prisoner was headed up to the block, a massive, shaggy Nord with blonde hair, one of only three prisoners who didn't wear a Stormcloak uniform. As the prisoner was forced to his knees and bent over the block, as shadow blacked out the sun, and the largest creature Aendril had ever seen landed on the tower that the block had been placed in front of. He readied his bow, as the rest around him did, seeing the executioner fall from his feet. The massive creature seemed to speak before fire erupted from hit's gaping maw to engulf the row of houses to his left, which were directly across from it. Deeming the execution over, he released his arrow fashioned from Daedric steel, a brutal, magical combination of ebony and the essence of a Daedra, pulled from one's heart. The arrow sailed through the air unnoticed, and ripped through the chainmail the executioner wore, burying itself fletching deep into the man's chest, piercing his heart, and extending out of his back. Deciding fighting the monster would just get him killed, he slipped off the roof and into out the rear gate of the city before the chaos enveloped everything. Walking down the path out of the mountains, he headeed toward his camp, finding it exactly as he'd left it, his wards all still intact. He removed the Imperial armor and placed it in his pack, removing his Shrouded gear, feeling more comfortable in it than in anything else. He strapped his swordbelt on, feeling almost gleeful as he rested his hands on the pommels of his long, curved knives, before retrieving and restringing his own bow, a gorgeous piese of craftsmanship from his home in Valenwood, made of wood imported from Elsweyr. He attached his quiver at his hip to his swordbelt. He lifted his hood, leaving his mask down as he breathed in the wonderful air of the thick, if melancholic, Falkreath wood. He smiled at a clean kill and began walking southwest, back to the Sanctuary, whistling an ironically tuned Age of Oppression as he went.
The sun had begun to fall as he reached the sanctuary door, entering and feeling the warmth of his family immediately, though the chamber was actually often chill and damp.
"Back so soon, Brother?" Veezara asked as he entered the main chamber. "I expected the ceremony to last all day."
"As did I, dear Brother," Aendril replied. "It seems that something had other plans though. A monstrous, winged beast interrupted and I had to take the shot early, lest I be caught up in fighting it."
"A great, winged beast?" Arnbjorn asked. "You didn't want that kill as well?"
"It was the size of the keep, boy, you wouldn't have fought it either."
"Are you trying to tell me you encountered a dragon?" Arnbjorn laughed at the elf. "You need to stay away from those pies that Khajiit merchant friend of yours makes, dragons haven't been around in thousands of years."
"It's true," Nazir said as he entered. "I saw it fly past Bleak Falls Barrow on my way here from Whiterun.
"You're both seeing things, dragons aren't real," Arnbjorn laughed louder this time.
"Careful Arnbjorn," Festus Krex cautioned. "Our cannabilistic brother here may make you his next meal while you're out hunting if you keep laughing at him." "Doubtful," Aendril snorted, smirking. "I don't like the taste ofdog."
"I'll show you-"
"Calm, dear husband," Astrid's ever soothing voice came from the stairs in the back of the chamber. "Neither of you will be eating any of your brothers, unless you wish to answer to me." Even as young as she was, Aendril had watched her rise to be where she was, and knew that if it came to blows, only she could make him sweat, and her Blade of Woe made it almost certain he would lose, as one cut would weaken him as much as if she tore through his belly. He smiled at the thought, as always, knowing that she was well deserved of her position, and that he'd chosen correctly by supporting her.
"I take it your mission was a success?" She asked Aendril, leveling her cold, yet strangely warm eyes at him as she placed her hand upon her husband's shoulder, which seemed to calm him instantly.
"It was, the man now serves Sithis in the Void."
"Good, I'm sure our typical arrangement will suffice for payment?"
"Aye, just leave it in my chest and take care to not trigger my wards."
"Very well. I'd like you to find out more on this dragon business while we wait for a real contract for you. Nazir's few have already been claimed."
"I could use a hunt anyway, I'm a bit hungry."
Aendril put the Imperial armor over near the armory for anyone who may need it, grabbed a tunic and pants to cover his Shrouded gear, throwing his cloak over all of it, and headed out of the sanctuary and into the Falkreath wood. Smelling rain in the air, he lifted his hood and smiled, flicking his tongue against his sharpened canines, scraping the surface of it. Aendril inhaled deeply, always enjoying the air in Falkreath, and decided to head west toward Markarth. He stumbled across a pair of Vigilants of Stendarr, hunting for a werewolf.
"You there!" The big one shouted, ignoring all sense of civility, "Who are you and what business do you have here?"
"Me? I live here, brute," Aendril replied, tinging his voice with offence. "What are you doing here?"
"There's a werewolf in the area, we've tracked it here."
"I've seen no werewolves, and I live in these woods and hunt for my food. I'm hunting right now because I'm hungry."
"Well get on with it then, we'll be watching you though."
"Good," Aendril sneered as he said it, snapping his left arm forward to launch a slender knife through the throat of the larger Vigilant, severing the carotid artery and tearing through the whole of the knife passed all the way through the man's neck, burying itself half an inch deep in the tree on the other side. A cough and sputtering sound emerged from the ban has blowed flowed from the new holes in his throat and he collapsed to the ground. "My, my, I am hungry."
"You're an abomination of the natural order!"
"Hardly," Aendril smiled as he spat his reply, slashing the man's hand as he hefted his heavy silver mace. "I actually prefer deer, or a good mammoth steak."
"The why are you doing this?"
"You were rude to me." Aendril explained, "or rather, he was. Apologize and I may let you live."
"I'm sorry, just let me go and I'll never return, andf I'll ensure my brothers know of your mercy."
"Fine, go, but don't whine so much."
The man bent down to retrieve his dead friend then, struggling with his weight.
"Did I say you could take him?" Aendril pointed his curved blade menacingly. "I did say I was hungry."
"But I thought," the Vigilant stammered.
"That I was joking?" Aendril laughed, "No, dear boy, you don't know much of my people do you? No, no, he stays, and by the time the moon is high in the sky I'll have had my fill, I do enjoy spit roasted Nord."
"How can you even tell he's a Nord?" The Vigilant inquired, trying to hide the fact that he was reaching for his mace again.
"The same way I can see that you're a Breton, and that you're trying to grab your mace and hit me with it." Aendril stepped forward, impossibly quick and slid blade of his knife up along the throat of the man, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. "I'm nearly seven hundred years old, boy. I've seen more emperors fall than you can even name. I've fought more daedra than you can imagine and been within Oblivion to keep the hordes at bay. Don't deign to tell me what an abomination I am. I've met gods and watched them fall back to mortality, seen a a man change into a dragon and shove Mehrunes Dagon back into Oblivion and then become a statue. You and your order don't even know the natural order of things, and that is why I'm letting you live. Take your friend and go, and think hard on what you believe before you go searching for 'abominations.'"
The young man had soiled himself, Aendril could smell it as he released him, a thin red line appearing where the blade had sat. He leaned back and watched him struggle with the larger body, then manage to mostly support it as he stumbled away, toward the actual city of Falkreath.
Aendril put the encounter, and his memories, out of his mind as he headed toward Markarth once again and spotted a large elk drinking from a small pond. He pulled his bow out and notched one of his wicked arrows. The barbs were designed in a way that they came out of a wound easily if you knew exactly how, otherwise they tore muscle and ripped an even bigger hole upon exit. He pulled the string back to his ear lope and let fly, one fluid motion, and watched as the arrow sailed through the air, thudding deep into the beast at the base of the skull, severing the spine with its impact. As he beagn to smile though, he noticed something wrong, the animal had fallen towards him, and he could've sworn it started to do in the instant before his arrow hit it. Stepping out toward the animal, he saw a young, red headed woman, emerge from the trees on the other side of the pond from him, a bow in her hand. The two met at the Elk and sized each other up before examining the kill.
"Good shot," she told him with a smile as she slid her arrow out of the socket that had contained the eye she'd popped with hers as it entered the brain.
"You as well," he smiled back at her as he twisted his arrow counter-clockwise to retrieve it. "I don't know that I've ever seen a human shoot so well, much less a Nord."
"Well, you'd be surprised," She sat back and removed a skinning knife from the back of her belt. He saw then how gracefully and comfortably she moved, able to discern her lithe, toned form even through her armor, primarily by her movements, though the tone in her legs showed clearly through the leather pants she wore and her arms were bare to the wrist.
"Clearly," he responded, still with a smile as he pulled his own knife from his belt and sat down next to her to work on the opposite end of the animal.
"Well, I obviously can't eat or carry all of this by myself, join me for a meal and split the rest?"
"Sounds good to me, but it is late and there are bandits aplenty. I don't fear for my own safety, but a woman alone, especially one such as you?"
She laughed at his comment, "A woman such as me? Did you not see that shot?"
"Aye, I did, but you can't shoot when you sleep, and two hunters are much less likely to be troubled at night than one."
"True enough," She acquiesced with a chuckle, "Just stay in your own tent, I know how honeyed you elves can make your words.
"Sounds to me like you've not met many elves. I find most of them to be a bit dull if I do say so myself, although my people, the wonderful Bosmer, do know how enjoy life."
"I'm sure!" She said as she began to remove the meat on her end." I'm Tali by the way, Tali Lightfoot."
"Tali Longshot more like it," he proclaimed. "Aendril is my name, the son of Dalengoth, a Bosmer Hunter who died long ago, along with my mother."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," she sad, the happiness gone from her voice.
"Oh, no," he backpedaled. "Don't be sorry, they lived long and wonderful lives, and met during the Alliance War and helped keep Nirn from being pulled into Coldharbour! They were getting up there when I was born, and I was just over 100 when they died, peacefully, and happy."
"Your parents were in the Alliance War?" She asked, her inner scholar shining through, bringing the happiness back to her face.
"Oh, aye," he replied, glad he didn't ruin the conversation with his newest friend, though he doubted they would meet again when they parted in the morning. "They fought in it and I fought during the Oblivion Crisis and in the Great War, among other things."
"You were in the Great War as well? What did you do?"
"I was a scout," he paused, unsure of where this would go if he was honest about the side he was on. "I fought for the Dominion, as my parents had a thousand years before."
"Interesting," She didn't seem to care what side he had been on in the least. "I'm sure you have plenty of fantastic stories I could never hope to find in books."
"Oh, I do, but I'll only share my adventures with someone who'll share theirs."
"Deal."
The two laughed and sang and conversed all night, swapping stories about their adventures, after only a couple turns he led the stories with her asking all sorts of questions, the two certainly becoming fast friends as they cooked their meat and ate, salting everything else to keep it from rotting on them, and then she showed him a trick with frost magic to preserve the meat that he, in his centuries of experience, had never thought of. He went to bed that night in quite a pleasant mood, the two of them opting to sleep under the canopy of trees rather than tents because of the clear skies and warmth of the evening for midsummer. He looked over and saw her fast asleep on her bedroll, her armor piled next to it as she slept in a simple tunic for comfort. He'd opted to keep his leggings on, as they were loose enough to stay comfortable, and underneath his Shrouded armor was hardly discreet. He laid back, happy to have ended the night on a positive note, and let himself fall into a world of dreams.
Aendril woke early as the sun was still gracing the horizon and noticed that his companion was still asleep. After his bags were packed and checked, he scrawled out a note thanking her for her company and attached it to a bag of a hundred septims, unsure of how badly she may need it, along with a couple of potions to cure any disease she may encounter. Aendril shook his head as he walked off toward Markarth, thinking of disease running rampant if you weren't careful. That, along with the extra speed and strength, may be the only thing he missed about his vampirism, though it wasn't nearly enough to prompt him to succumb to that particular infection again. He'd cured it during the Oblivion Crisis, with the help of Vicente Voltierre and Count Janus Hassildor of Skingrad, before he'd headed back home to Valenwood to help deal with the threat there and secure the Sanctuaries within the massive, rolling forest. It only took him a couple of hours to reach Markarth, and from there he took a carriage to Whiterun. The driver had just come from there the night before, and spun a tale to him of a massive blonde man and a fierce fiery haired woman fighting a dragon out by Western Watchtower. The end of the story is what caught Aendril's attention though, as the massive Nord had seemed to absorb the dragon's very soul, withering it to the bone in a moment, and then using a fierce power called the thu'um.
Could this be the same dragon from Helgen? Aendril thought to himself as he sat in the back of the carriage lost in thought. He doubted the dragon was the same as that which he saw, as the incredible force that was at Helgen couldn't harm the beast, while these two and a handful of guards had killed this one from the story. Even accounting for the exaggeration of the ease with which the dragon was defeated, he couldn't believe that it was the same one, meaning there were more. Everything he'd read on Dragons were mostly Nord histories and theories on the Alduin and Akatosh dichotomy, so he didn't actually know much about these creatures, except that they never actually died, that the only way to kill one permanently was for a rare "dragonborn" to slay it, or be near when it is slain, to devour the essence. The stories he read also spoke of the seemingly dead dragons rising again when called upon by Alduin the World Eater. If this Alduin was who attacked Helgen, then not only skyrim, and not even Tamriel, but potentially the whole of Nirn was at risk.
At least it was only mortals endangering the world for the last two centuries Aendril thought to himself and let a soft laugh out.
"Here we are," the carriage driver said to him, "Whiterun."
"Thank you," Aendril said to the man as he paid him the fifty drakes they'd agreed upon, just now realizing how long he'd been lost in thought. As he stepped from the carriage though, he saw an Imperial soldier, an Auxilliary by the look of him, running toward the gate, dripping with sweat and out of breath, carrying an ax, but in such a way that suggested it was more than a mere weapon. He followed the man in, and trailed him a bit, listening around for snatches of conversation, the two splitting paths when the man headed toward Dragonsreach while Aendril aimed to enter the Bannered Mare, ordering a strong mead and sitting by the fire, his cloak wrapped about him and his hood up partially obscuring his face. He looked around and saw a woman arguing with the local bard, a pair of warriors, both adorned with fresh bruises drinking heartily in the corner, Sam Guvene, a man who was more than he seemed challenging any and all to a drinking game, and of course, the local gossiping warriors.
He tried to listen to the warriors but the Bard had begun singing of "conquering" a woman, Carlotta, who he assumed was the woman he'd been fighting. She began to shout at him from afar and he began to play and sing louder. The man was beginning to give Aendril a headache. Seeing the woman become even more angry, she walked over to the bard, and attempted to slap him, but he grabbed her hand as it neared his face and continued singing as he pulled her toward him. Growing sick of the whole incident, Aendril slipped a pair of his thin knives from their pouch within his swordbelt and, with a fluid motion, shot his arm outward and then rested it back in his lap. The room grew quiet as the bard released Carlotta, slowly turning his head to the knife embedded in the neck of his lute, which had destroyed the instrument's strings, and then carefully looked at the one that had passed an inch deep into the wood right next to his eye.
"It appears that I missed," Aendril said to the man, setting his pitch black eyes to meet the frightened gaze, much like that of a deer who know's it's doomed. "Leave the girl alone, and forget that song, and I'll not have to correct my aim." He then turned to the two guards who'd been talking to anyone who'd listen. "Now, what was that about this dragon slayer?"
The guards sat with dumb looks on their faces before the bearded one composed himself. "Dragon born I said!" The man nearly shouted it. "He ate the soul of the dragon and then shouted, like the Greybeards! And then they summoned him to High Hrothgar, using the Voice!"
"Interesting," Aendril said as he looked to the front door opening, nitcing it had begun to rain and that the moon was high in the sky. He heard howling off in the distance, and the men around him were still talking, but his eyes remained trained on the soaked form that had opened the door. A lithe female form wearing a hunter's cloak and a hood stepped in, immediately removing the cloak to reveal that she'd soaked through, her deep red hair dripping as well. She moved with the grace of an elf, that and her air of cool confidence confirmed her identity before she'd brushed her hair from her face and turned toward him.
"Aendril!" She said, happy to see a familiar and friendly face.
"Longshot!" He shouted back with a rare smile on his narrow face, "What brings you all the way up here?" "Nothing pleasant, I'm afraid," her tone was darker now. "I work as a scout for the Legion when they need my skills, sort of like a free agent, because I never swore the vows and I don't wear the uniform."
"Nothing wrong with working for the Empire," he said to her. "But what is it they've got you doing here?"
She leaned in close, almost whispering it, "Ulfric has amassed forces just outside Whiterun, he plans to lay siege to the city."
"What? Now?" He asked, disbelieving it.
"Nay, in the morning. Soldiers are building barricades now. I only came here to get a bite and a room."
"Are you not going to leave the city?"
"I can't, these people need help. I'm a good shot, so I'm going to fight with them."
"I don't know if it's your honor rubbing off on me, our friendship, or your beauty that compels me, but I find myself needing to stay and fight at your side."
"My beauty eh?" Tali laughed and took a deep draw from her bottle of mead. "I was right, you are a sweet talker."
"I've only had a few centuries to learn."
"Well, you'll have to try harder if your goal is my bed, but I'll share a room, and a meal, with you for the evening."
The night dragged on and the two retired to their room, sitting on one of the beds sharing a bottle of fine Cyrodillic Brandy, while Aendril regaled her with more stories, this time he spoke of the time he nearly killed, and ended up fighting alongside, the Nerevarine.
"How have you lived so long?" She asked him, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm an Elf, love, we live quite a long time."
"Oh, I know you do, a few centuries usually, but not seven, and certainly not still looking like normal Man does at forty."
"You're a bright girl, you can work it out, I'm sure."
"Necromancy?"
"Never, I'm not much for spells and waking the dead." Aendril looked at her with a smile.
"Corprus, like the Nerevarine?"
"Oh gods no!" He laughed this time and took a swig from the bottle. "Porphyric Hemophilia."
"Vampirism? But you look so normal!" She looked shocked, and skeptical, but strangely, not frightened.
"Aye, a man I thought as a brother cursed me with it when I was but seventy, and I aged not a day until I cured it with the help of Count Hasildor of Skingrad some two hundred years ago. I've maybe got another century or so left in me without any help, but I embrace the Void when it comes, instead of fear it in my age."
"A century is quite a long time still."
"That it is, and there is plenty I can do and see in that time. Perhaps I will even return home at some point among the trees of Valenwood and finish out my life there."
"Sounds like a good plan to me, I traveled through once, it was beautiful."
"Enoy the hunting?"
"Oh yes, I wouldn't eat anything but meat, as I know your people find the plants sacred."
"That we do, but that is our pact with Y'ffre, not yours." Aendril smiled again, watching her try to stay awake to hear more stories and learn was a wonderful thing, but the moon was high, and they needed their sleep. "Lay down, Longshot, we both need our rest if we are to survive the morn."
"Aye," she agreed, signaling for him to turn as she removed her heavy gear, retrieving a cotton tunic to wear to sleep. Unable to help himself, or rather, sure of his stealth, he tried to peek at her out of the corner of his eye, but took a pillow to the face as he did.
"Not as sneaky as you think, Elf!" She smirked as she said it, her tone clearly playful. He drank the sight in, her tunic long enough to be modest, but it's fit and the whole of her exposed legs showed him where her grace came from. Even as inebriated as she was, she moved like he did, all because of her strong muscles that had been toned in a pleasant, and shapely way. Seeing her like this as she retrieved her pillow and made up her bed, he realized how fierce she was. Her strength and movements screamed predator, and he knew that she was not a woman who feared wandering the woods alone at night, no matter how beautiful she was. He'd never been attracted to a human before, but this Nord was stirring things in him he hadn't felt in the better part of a century. She stood up after finishing making her bed, mussing her hair so that it was loose as she slept, turning to him and smiling before laying down. He smiled back and lay down as well, opting to leave the room to change, as he would need to wear a set of armor he hadn't donned in a few years for the battle to come, and he couldn't hide his Shrouded gear under it.
He woke the next morning later than anticipated. She'd already partially dressed when he woke, and was retrieving her undertunic when he opened his eyes. He repectfully closed them immediately, but couldn't deny that he'd had quite a view, and told her that he was awake. Aftert she assured him she was decent, he woke, itched a scar on his chest and searched his bag. He rarely wore it, but he never went without it; a set of masterfully crafted Boiche Elder armor. The leather strips that comprised the outer layer emblazoned with a vined pattern, a reminder of the Green Pact. He also retrieved retrieved the daggers that had been crafted with it, bone handled with a blade of reinforced Moonstone. They were larger than his standard blades, but much more fit for battle, the only reason for not using them normally being his sadness at being unable to return home as of yet. The handles were carved into the shape of a tree, and felt warm to the touch. They, too, served as reminders of Valenwood and their devotion to Y'ffre. The blades were nearly two foot long each, and curved back at the last quarter, with serrated teeth running back along the rear edge. The hilts were spiked at odd angles upward from the guard, designed with the intention of turning and breaking the grip of a blade that is locked with it. They were fearsome blades indeed, and they reminded him of who he was. The armor itself surprised him, still fitting snugly after all these years, hugging his form but not restricting movement at all. He donned his helmet last, pulling the mask up and securing it to each side. He looked at Tali, who nodded in approval at him. He checked her gear, making sure it had no rents or gaps. He felt protective of her, and that's exactly what he inteded to do in the coming battle. He threw his bow acorss his shoulders and strapped his quiver to it's customary spot on his swordbelt, which also held his usual blades and his hidden throwing knives. He stretched his fingers over the pommels of his Boiche blades, ensuring his finger dexterity was as uncompromised as the rest of him. Satisfied, he nodded at Tali, who led him out and into a line of soldiers who were heading out of the gate to dig in against the Sotrmcloaks.
They received their orders and he stood with Tali atop the second gate that the Stormcloaks would have to make it through. The first had no door, only a barricade. Beyond this gate lay the drawbridge, which they could easily retreat to from their perch. A sea of blue uniforms was approaching quickly, interspersed with the captains, wearing furs, and the generals, wearing a mix of bear pelts and spiked plates.
"Archers!" A shout came from behind them, the two of them lifting their bows with the others that made their hundred up for the first barrage.
"Loose!" Came another cry and the sky darkened in front of them, arrows finding targets all across the lines of Storcloaks, who immediately began running, charging forward. A second barrage was loosed, causing more Stormcloaks to fall, this one being met with a barrage from their own archers, though it was unorganized and innaccurate, falling far short of the mark. Half of the bowmen for Whiterun put down their bows and picked up the swords and shields that lay at their feet, ready to meet the attackers once they broke through the barricade. they slammed against it, the spikes impaling several, arrows raining down upon more. Once they were through, they concentrated on the bowment who were approaching, letting the Legionnaires take care of the horde pushing forward. They continued pushing them back, both sides losing men left and right, but for every man that Whiterun lost, four Stormcloaks were cut down. They pulled back out of the gate and regrouped, giving the severely wounded time to escape back into the city, which had cut down the forces by half. An arrow flew past Tali's head, and Aendril fired one of his horrific arrows into his eye. She returned the favor by putting one into the throat of an archer who had crept up to their flank and had trained his bow on Aendril. The archers were soon the lesser problem, as the footsoldiers had found a way up to their level. Tali continued raining arrows upon the coming men, taking down one every time she fired, while Aendril met the men coming up at them head on, slashing left and right, high and low, taking out a near continuous string of warriors in what appeared as a single fluid motion. He was halted by a massive man wielding two longswords, a general by his armor, They clashed and the reach he had on Aendril, combined with Aendril's goring of any other soldier to try and pass him amking the match more even than it usually would be, the strain and sweat causing his mask to fall. Back and forth they went for several minutes before Aendril managed to lock blades with him, grinning as he did, knowing this was it.
"Time to serve Si-" he managed as he began twisting his blades from the man's hands, the Nord's face showing fear for the first time until Aendril's view was filled with red and he knew nothing but pain, releasing an inhuman scream of pain and rage. He felt a punch in his shoulder and felt the familiar sensation of steel in his hand sliding against bone as his blade exited a chest, and then a punch in his back, just over the shoulderblade on the same side as the first shot, and another in the side of his thigh as he fell below the edge of the wall. He heard a voice, and felt gentle hands shaking him, and she was screaming at him. That it was a she he was certain now. He focused on the voice, and the red in his vision faded, but the pain in his body intensified. He looked up and saw Tali standing over him, a horrified look on her face as she worked at the straps holding his armor on. Se broke the arrow shaft off and pulled the arm piece of and managed to get that arrow out, as it had passed all the way through. He tried to lean back and screamed in pain, which caused him to scream even louderas his mouth stretched, and he realized that there was a wooden shaft in his mouth, extending out either side. He looked to Tali to confirm his fears.
"Bite," she instructed, a grimace on her face as she saw the pain doing so caused. She cut away the fletching and pulled the arrow through, blood filling his mouth as she did, and the drug out pain of it causing him to lean back again, shoving the barbed arrow deeper into his shoulder. He screamed again, this time the air escaping felt relieving as it cooled his burning cheeks, their new holes ragged. She removed the straps that held his chestpiece on and broke the shaft of the arrow. She removed his armor and set it to the side, having him turn over and kneeling on his back to help keep him still. She reached down and squeezed both of his hands as the field medic worked at cleaning the wound, pouring hot wine over it. He then realized that he'd been carried back inside, and was in the temple of Kynareth. When had he lost consciousness? Had the battle been won? The priest, Danica Pure-Spring, ordered him to bite the wet rag she held in front of him, and he did, hard, letting out a long, continuous groan of pain as she cut away the torn flesh of his back to assess the damage. Though skilled in Restoration, and able to mend him as best she could to ease the pain and stop the bleeding, she still had to seperate the muscle from around the barbed arrowhead, as moving it would cut deeper and do more damage, his tensity making it that much worse. He squeezed Tali's hands that still lay in his, harder than he intended, but she neither flinched nor made a sound to indicate it had hurt. She only moved from his back to in front of him, leveling her eyes with his and attempting to sooth him as Danica took her spot and began to pull the arrow from him. They'd learned that the head had extended past the bone and had to turn it as they removed it to get it out, causing him enough agony to pass out again.
He awoke in a room with a clean bed, sweating profusely wearing nothing but a strange pair of cotton short pants and a number of bandages. He tried to move and groaned as pain shot through his back, chest, arm, and leg. At his groaning, Tali rushed into the room from where she'd stood outside talking to a Legate. She placed a cool wet rag on his forehead and checked his bandages, they seemed clean for the moment and he was, as of yet, clean from infection.
"What happened?" He asked her, removing the bandage filling that'd been stuffed into his cheeks to keep him from drowning in blood, happy to see that the bleeding had fully stopped there, though he wasn't confident if the holes would close fully or not.
"You saved my life, to an unbelievable extent. You were the most dangerous thing on that ledge, and you were keeping them from advancing, as once you were gone, they would have taken me with ease because of the numbers and multitude of directions, and potentially killed another hundred men, possibly taken the city. You're a hero.
"I'm no such thing, and what happened to me?"
"You are to me at least, even if the legion won't recognize it. The Stormcloaks saw it too, and they tried to take you out, it's lucky they're such terrible shots." She touched his cheek then, gently, tracing her finger over the wound that would certainly leave a grotesque scar. You should be able to walk easy in a couple of days, I'm staying here with you, this is our room. Jarl Balgruuf paid for it for two full weeks, and said if we need it longer to let him know, he'd like to speak with you when you're better.
"Because I'm wounded? There were hundreds wounded in the fighting."
"Not this bad. Many died, but the wounded have mostly recovered, and none of them took down five men while being filled with arrows."
"Fair enough," he laughed, then groaned. "Laughing hurts."
"That's too bad, because you need to laugh," She said with a smile, though he saw a single tear drop down her cheek.
"What's wrong?" He asked her, sitting up and ignoring the pain.
"They told me that you'd lost too much blood, that your fever was too high, that you wouldn't make it."
"Well, they've clearly never seen me before." He smiled reasurringly at her, then reached forward to embrace her, which seemed to loose another few tears. "Thank you," he said to her, a smile in his voice.
Leaning back he saw that she was smiling, had dried her cheeks and that most of the redness was gone from her eyes. "I think it's about time you tell me a tale of your adventures."
She smiled even wider, and he saw the Legate nod and walk away. She began to recount her first Dwemer ruin, which she'd come acorss on the outskirts of the Alik'r desert. In that moment, nothing else mattered; not his wounds, or the battle past, or the future, his past, not even the Brotherhood mattered; the only thing that concerned him was her warm form that had moved to sit curled next to him as he lay, her hand resting on his chest, holding his own; and her smile, of course.
