This story could go in any direction. It stays somewhat true to plot in the beginning, but I have a knack for going absolutely crazy with my ideas. Bear with me and you'll survive. Thanks for reading!
She was tired, worn down from the mix of fighting and running she'd had to do on her way back to Whiterun. She'd lost track of how many missions she'd done for the Companions now. She'd recognized that they'd begun to get softer on her a few weeks ago, when Aela had stopped her before she'd left on a troll extermination task. She'd hesitated before saying, "I've heard you might actually be stronger than you look…we should hunt together sometime."
She'd felt warm at the near compliment. She'd been trying so hard to prove herself, throwing herself around at every whim and fancy any companion gave her. The only person she'd felt comfortable with before that instance was Eorlund Grey-Mane. He had been the one to advise her that all companions were independent equals, and that orders weren't given, necessarily. You just followed the guidance of the circle, specifically Kodlak—the eldest member of the Companions.
Isabela was desperate. After hearing the Companions described as wondrous warriors who carved out their own fame, glory, and destiny in the world, she'd been excited. Recent events had been scaring her. She was a tiny Breton, raised by her father in some unfathomable parts of the woods. She'd had a relatively average life, however. He gave her what she asked, producing any toy or trinket on call. As an adult, she wondered where he'd gotten his supplies when she hadn't seen a single city until she was fifteen years and on her own.
Yet she'd never held power. Nor any kind of special ability. As a Breton, she was small, lithe, and worked well with magic. These abilities had never made her "special", simply average. She was not the first, nor the last, with a natural ability in the arcane arts, or talent with a bow.
But she had crossed the wrong border. A wagon with prisoners had shot from a small alcove, apparently on its way to some unknown destination. She'd been ignorant to the law, but due to civil unrest, the borders of Skyrim were closed to outsiders…like her. She'd been shackled and sent on with the rest, assumed to be in league with a group called the Stormcloaks. If she knew what those were, she might have been able to confirm her innocence or her guilt. However, she stayed quiet and listened to the conversations of the guards instead, honestly terrified. She'd trapped many animals—trolls, bears, sabres, wolves. But never had she been the trapped animal. She was terrified.
The events that followed after were still a haze. She could recite them clearly—the haze wasn't from loss of memory. She could perfectly recall the dragon attack, the escape, the aid of the Jarl, the second dragon, the absorption of its soul. However, she had failed to process it all, and thinking back on it could be overwhelming.
So the free, weightless life of a Companion had called to her. She'd remembered helping them with a stray, angry giant just in front of the city of Whiterun. Their cold faces during battle had melted into a calm acceptance as Aela, who she hadn't known at the time, thanked her coolly and told her to come to Jorrvaskr to see if the Companion way was for her. She had agreed, planning to ignore the offer, but then hearing of them and their freedom had called to her like a starving wolf to fresh meat. Kodlak's instant liking of her spirit had been a wonderful relief.
Yet now was one of the small moments where she felt feeble and weak and wished she'd never gone to the Companions. Was all of this pain worth it? She'd done countless missions, passed dozens of tests, but their acceptance of her still showed very little. How much longer would it take to rise past the rank of a whelp? She understood why someone like, say, Torvar, still held such a title. He did nothing, only drank mead and helped in the largest, most fierce battles, where his presence was all but mandatory. Yet if a fellow Companion asked her to shine his boots, she'd do it to her fullest. How was it fair?
She had begun to wonder of Vilkas's influence in the group. Was his opinion as influential as Kodlak's? If so, she was doomed. She knew he distrusted her, though she was unsure of why. At first it had been a matter of proving herself, but she was sure she'd done that to a degree…so what drove his ongoing distaste for her? She'd assume it was racism, her being a Breton, but his twin felt none of that same hate. Isn't racism passed into families? So no, it couldn't be that. Farkas was one of the nicest to her so far. So she bit her tongue and continued doing his tasks.
This time around, it had been Frostbite spiders, deep in the heart of a cave in the mountains to the north east. She limped into the city, clutching a deep wound to her arm. Shards of iron stuck out oddly from the gash, making it a terribly grisly sight. To be honest, she usually preferred lighter armor, like leather or simple hide, but the amount of time she planned to spend in the snowy peaks had made her strap on an available set of heavy armor. Yet on her way back, the unthinkable had happened—a dragon had swooped in front of her. In that moment, she wished she'd called upon the housecarl assigned to her—Lydia—yet she never did, because she felt odd, being in complete charge of someone. And it was strange to her, that Lydia was willing to do anything Isabela asked with no questions. Was there any freedom, any glory, in her work? So Isabela allowed her to roam the streets of Whiterun, travel, sleep in her unused house. She would not have a slave.
But all of this aside, she was alone when the beast had set its eyes hungrily upon her. It shrieked, opening its jowls and shooting a frosty mist at her. It crackled all over her skin, burning her with its low temperature while also freezing her armor. It was much harder to move, and she just missed the wide, angry swing of his head. Frustrated, he shot into the air, hanging above her to shoot more of the mist before swooping away.
Isabela was not dumb, and she knew that this was a battle she was not going to win. The small dagger and simple long bow she'd grabbed would not be enough to take down the massive, wagon-sized monster in enough time. She would be dead twice over…if she was lucky.
It came and hung over her again, opening its mouth with the intention to shoot more of its spray. With a sudden jolt of speed, she grabbed her bow and notched an arrow. The mist slowed her as it crept over her already chilled skin, but she managed to shoot the arrow in its direction. She'd hoped to get inside its mouth, but the arrow nestled into a troublesome spot in its belly instead. Not even close to being deadly, but she knew it might be uncomfortable enough to buy her the time needed to flee.
However, the dragon became enraged, and it fell to the ground right in front of her. It sprayed a heavy, icy mist, covering her body in a layer of ice and snow. She was utterly paralyzed for three valuable seconds, and that's when it wrapped its jaws around her. It hadn't been close enough to get her fully into its mouth, but his tooth went straight through her left arm, cracking the iron armor and pushing the shards deep into her tissue. Pain radiated everywhere, and it swung her up into the air only by her arm.
Tears were falling from her eyes, blood from her wound, but she found enough clarity to realize that he was about to get a better, much more deadly grip on her. The dagger was suddenly in her hand, and she stabbed him through the cheek twice. With a shriek and a growl, he let her go, circling into the air and away. She knew he'd be back, but adrenaline and fear gushed into her blood and carried her toward Whiterun. It was about an hour walk away, but she didn't intend to stop sprinting until she arrived or collapsed. Whichever took place first.
The dragon shrieked at her as she ducked into a thicket of trees. No longer able to see her, it circled high above, surveying the land. She tried to avoid any clear patches, running under large pines with thick trunks. Finally, it seemed to set its sights on better prey. She heard it screaming in the distance, not fully gone, but distracted. Mammoths wailed somewhere far away.
Though this was a relief, Isabela dared not stop even once. Her intent was on Whiterun—if she could get into the walls, she could get to the temple. She wanted to go straight to Jorrvaskr, but she knew that the grateful Danica Pure-Spring would be much better suited to tend to her wounds, and she could be healed.
To distract herself on the run back, she'd contemplated if this would be it, if this would prove her dedication. She sure hoped so. "Open the gate!" was the shout that interrupted her thoughts.
The guards worked in unison to lower the bridge. Normally it was down, to allow merchants in and out, but Isabela could only assume her dragon friend had something to do with this extra precaution.
"By the nine," a guard commented at the sight of her. It was, admittedly, pretty terrible. Her carved up arm hung by mere ligaments next to her, flopping with each step like wet string. Blood dripped from the gash, trickling down her arm to drip off her limp fingertips. Lacerations swirled down the arm, chain mail dug deep into her flesh. Any untouched skin was red and inflamed, or a purplish bruise—from blood clotting or from frostbite, she didn't know. It made the guard wince.
She ignored him, and the others like him, making her way to the temple. It wasn't far now. She'd made it…but why was it on the other side of the city? Her heart was pumping much too fast, her body slowing its pace at an alarming rate. She still felt winded, as if she was sprinting, but she'd slowed to a crawl on the cobbled streets of Whiterun. Finally, it was a hopeless endeavor, and she fell to her knees on the ground. For a moment, she could stay that way, held upright. But a glance at the sky proved to be too much, sending her off balance. She collapsed onto the mauled arm, and bit back a scream. She hated to look so weak, but the pain was terrible.
It was fuzzy when the guards swarmed her. They immediately took her to the temple. It was warm inside, and the warmth bit into her chilled skin, but it felt good at the same time. She was left on a small stone bed, and she stared into the boards on the ceiling as hooded figures hovered over her. She only hoped she was not known enough by the townsfolk for word to spread to her shield-brothers and sisters. They couldn't know of this weakness from any source besides her.