Blood in the Ice
This is a tragic fan fiction of the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim game. I warn you there will be violence, blood, and death. There will not be, however, yaoi. Ulfric and Sildriel have no romantic relationship; it is more of a friendship relationship.
In order to make this less confusing, Sildriel is my character from Skyrim. He is a three-century-old Bosmer (Wood Elf), who is the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold.
This story is fake. The Dragonborn (at least in my story) did not die this way. This is simply an experiment. Enjoy!
Humans are such curious creatures.
After the challenging dragon had been felled and its soul devoured rightfully by the Dragonborn, the Bosmer turned to smile triumphantly at Ulfric, High King of Skyrim, who was renowned for his confidence of Elves' frailness.
But Sildriel saw no aggravated or unenthusiastic scowl, no usual jealously or venom on the Nordic king's features. Instead, his pale blue eyes were riddled with apprehension and dread and he ran towards the Wood Elf in panic.
Frowning, Sildriel turned behind him to scour the icy terrain in search of the source of Ulfric's sudden terror. He discovered nothing but the remains of the dragon's confrontation—patches of melted snow mixed with burning mud, scorched and fallen trees, and occasional patches of ashes from whatever the dragon's breath of fire had managed to completely smolder-and the dragon itself, or at least what was left of it. Regardless, it did not seem that anything was amiss or remotely dangerous. His frown deepened and the Wood Elf wondered if the High King of Skyrim saw something he did not; which was outlandish, for a Human's eyes could not possibly see past an Elf's. Determined to end his own confusion, the Dragonborn willed his feet forward to scan the mountains.
His legs quivered like leaves in the wind and suddenly he was falling, falling harshly onto his knees and the jagged rocks beneath him. He grunted as the shock traveled swiftly to his chest, robbing him of air.
He paused, wondering how on Nirn did he fall and why the pain had yet to leave his chest. He blinked; his eyelids felt heavy, unnaturally heavy for the current time. Weariness washed over the Bosmer that he had not expected, weighing down his limbs and causing them to feel like boneless flesh. He swayed to the right, then to the left for perhaps too long. He was falling again, before his torso collapsed into something soft and warm.
How odd; Sildriel did not recall snow to feel so unbelievingly comfortable. Head swimming, Sildriel struggled turn his head to the side. Very odd indeed, for when did snow sway in the breeze and brush across his nose, irritating it? The ground near his head was rising and falling rapidly—was he in an earthquake?
Then something firm clasped onto both of his arms and Sildriel's body was shifted. He caught sight of a grey tunic and an oddly diamond-shaped belt, along with a cloak lined with grey furs. The clothing was familiar, was it not? He had seen such garments on a certain Nord but—Ah, by Auri-El, he could not remember!
Sildriel wished dearly to move, but a cold wave brushed over the Wood Elf and he was numbed—frozen—no, paralyzed! What was this folly? Had someone caught his unawares as he fought the dragon and assaulted him? His mind was in knots, twisting, spinning, flipping—it was as difficult to grasp onto a thought as it was to catch a fish with oiled hands. Had Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness, finally managed to take hold of his mind and toy with it?
"Sildriel!" The sudden, loud voice entered his consciousness, and Sildriel felt as if opaque glass had suddenly been shattered, revealing the world around him. His eyes opened—when had he shut them?—and saw wide blue eyes, framed with pale wrinkled skin, meet him. The face was bordered with dark blonde hair—two small bundles braided while the rest flowed freely to the shoulders—streamed with patches of grey. His chin was unshaven, but held a tidiness to it that was uncustomary to most Nords. His face was filled with deep worry, but Sildriel felt a natural authority radiate from the man.
The Nord was hauntingly familiar, and the Bosmer felt he should know him. But as soon as a name was made clear, it faded from his head. It grew increasingly frustrating.
Sildriel opened his mouth to simply ask, but two happenings halted him. Firstly, a river of blood poured from his lips the moment they were opened, and the Nord's face paled at the sight. Secondly, a searing pain exploded into his chest, making his eyes water. As a result, his question transformed into a bubbled gasp, and he felt his entire body tremble with agony.
"Sildriel!" cried the Nord again, and the Dragonborn wondered in irritation how the human had come to know his name. "Hang on, Elf! We are near Windhelm! There are healers there."
Great pressure was applied to his chest, and his head exploded, the corners of his vision turning dark. He moaned in pain, gasping for more air. He weakly grappled at his chest, and discovered a hand on it, coated in a warm, sticky substance. "I'm sorry," whispered the voice in a firm tone, sounding much too close. "I have to stop the bleeding." The sear volume of the Nord's voice echoed in the Elf's head, and he felt his mind spinning again. Panic entered, and his body turned to ice again, quivering slightly.
Blood? What blood? Who was bleeding, for it certainly could not be him; the Bosmer was skilled with Restoration, and he would have healed himself immediately.
He felt himself being lifted and a great, fresh breeze swept across his face. His mind ceased spinning for only a moment, but it was just enough time for him to recall…
Ah, yes. The dragon. It had come from the southern mountains, charging Windhelm with blood-thirst in its golden eyes. Times of peace after Alduin's defeat had hungered it, and it craved destruction.
Lady Nocturnal had not blessed the dragon that day, for the Dragonborn happened to visit his purchased property within Windhelm. Once the mighty roar of the dragon pierced the sky, the Bosmer flew to his bow, and the battle began.
It was thought to be a quick skirmish; Sildriel, along with Ulfric Stormcloak who arrived soon after, had brought the dragon farther north from the city. Their Thu'ums clashed, but there was no reservation as to whose was stronger. The dragon was pounded senselessly by the Elf's voice, before hurtling into the mountains with a sickening crack. It fell to the ground, unmoving.
It was thought they had won. Ulfric strode confidently towards the dragon's seemingly broken body, simply for examination ("Never have I seen a dragon so close!" he said). Sildriel waited…and waited. But no dragon soul came to him; no vibrant stream of warm lights encased him. That was when the dragon stirred, opening its maw with a terrible velocity, its teeth gleaming menacingly at the High King.
It was instinct, really, or perhaps a fleeting moment of panic. With all the renounced speed of a Bosmer, he used his own lithe body to shove Ulfric away, out of danger and death. And then the jaw was upon him. The teeth sank past his Arch-Mage robes, through the flesh and bone, and into his lung. He could not hold back a piercing cry, in such volume that rivaled the dragon's own. He turned and saw the dragon's mouth encasing the left side of his torso, along with his shoulder and arm. The heat and stench of rotten flesh of the dragon's breath wafted over Sildriel, and he could feel the wet muscle of its tongue sliding over him, tasting mortal flesh. He screeched as the jaw tightened, crushing his ribs, his insides.
He wanted the pain to stop, for it to be gone! Lightning fizzed in his palm, growing larger and larger. It crackled with intensity, sending stray bolts thundering into trees, splintering them. The dragon clenched harder onto his chest and Sildriel threw his hand into the face of the dragon. It shrieked as the bolt struck, burning through its scales and into its flesh. Releasing the Arch-Mage, it threw its head back in effort to keep away from the treacherous lighting. But the spell had done the damage, singeing the dragon's eyes, robbing it of sight. It wailed blindly, throwing its head to and fro, tumbling trees and smashing rock.
Sildriel reached into the power roiling within his chest, tasting the Word upon his tongue. He opened his mouth and the Thu'um flew from his lips. The earth rumbled in its wake as it sped towards the infernal beast, throwing massive clouds of snow aside. And once the Unrelenting Force had struck it, the dragon could not make a sound, for its neck snapped to a wicked angle, and it tumbled lifelessly to the ground.
Sildriel could not smile at the memory, for a fresh wave of searing pain seized him, and he shuttered in agony in Ulfric's embrace. He released his grip from the High King's wrist and let it dangle below him, like a windless flag hung from a crumbling tower, defeated.
Ulfric's hardened eyes glared at him, not in anger but in fear. "Keep breathing, Elf. And don't you dare close those eyes." His voice was firm, demanding, and for the first time, Sildriel was too fearful to disobey him.
The Nord started in a trot, which Sildriel did not appreciate, for the bouncing felt like a giant continuously pounded at his chest and head. At this point, the Arch-Mage half-heartily wished a fellow mer had seized him, for they were much more graceful than humans.
In order to distract himself from the pounding headache, he focused on breathing, which was a struggle due to the red sticky liquid that continuously flowed into his precious lungs. And so he compromised by breathing in and coughing out great amounts of blood, which his mind told him he surely needed that inside his body, not out.
Ulfric's breathing was almost as rapid and unsteady as Sildriel's, which was odd since the Bosmer did not see him gain any injury. His pale blue eyes continued to dart at the Elf in his arms, and after each time, his pace quickened. He snarled every time the Dragonborn lowered his eyelids, tightening his hold to an almost painful extent.
Sildriel's mind grew hazy again, but it did not spin or tumble in painful jolts. Instead, as he reached further, it was warm and welcoming—as black as night, but comfortable, like a soft blanket. It felt as if he had traveled back to Valenwood, relaxing upon a thick branch of Falinesti, sitting with his uncle as he recalled fascinating tales of massive spiders and monstrous beasts. He thought he heard Ulfric snarl once again, but how could the High King be here, in Valenwood?
The Nord shouted at him, desperately calling his name, but Sildriel could no longer hear it. He reached into the darkness; feeling its embrace encase him, warm him. It felt relaxing, calming. The pain was removed and replaced by tender warmth. He delved deeper, worries and fear departing from him.
"Blast it, Sildriel! OPEN. YOUR. EYES."
On command, Sildriel gasped, his stiff lungs burning with unworldly agony. Blinding light burst into his eyes and the Elf jolted once the pain enveloped him. His insides were aflame and he opened his mouth to scream, but a horse, weak moan escaped his lips instead. Then his vision turned dark again, and he could hardly distinguish the silhouette above him.
Feeling incomprehensively weak and melting in the agony, Sildriel barely managed to whisper, "W-where…?"
"Candlehearth Hall," came the reply. The voice belonged to Ulfric, though the Elf did not recall it being so unsteady.
"Windhelm…" the Bosmer croaked, more blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. He coughed unevenly, body shuddering with each movement. Immediately, he felt a hand on his back and he was raised. It became a little easier to breath. Not that it entirely made a great difference.
"Ah, s-such an…unfitting place…t-to die…least for an Elf…"
"Nonsense!" the deep voice growled. "The healers shall arrive any moment. Do not submit to death so easily."
Sildriel attempted to laugh humorlessly, but it came more as a raspy wheeze. "You…w-would not be s-so eager…to live after what…centuries bring you, Y-young King."
There was a long pause, as if Ulfric was struggling to reply correctly to such a statement.
Sildriel gave a trembling sigh, and his eyelids lowered once again. It made no difference whether they were closed; the room was growing darker all the same.
"Do you not remember what I said? Keep your eyes open! Look into the light."
Sildriel frowned as he unknowingly stared at Ulfric blindly. "There is no light," he unintentionally whispered in his native tongue.
Instead of deliberately reaching towards the shadows, they came to him. He was grateful for this, for he had no more strength to reach. He was exhausted…so very tired…
"Elf! Hey, Bosmer! SILDRIEL!"
And before the darkness embraced him once again, this time for eternity, the Arch-Mage realized that today had been the first time Ulfric regarded him by name.
Humans are such curious creatures.