Chapter One: It started in Helgen

~Helgen~

His mind was a haze, murky like when too much magic left the system to quickly. There was a subtle ache that squirmed beneath his skin. Deep, bone deep, digging tiny claws into the marrow and nesting there. His joints burned from it, pulsed with tainted blood, bloated by the fever and marrow deep ache.

Every shift from the roving carriage jarred him and made all surface together in a fog of murk, and ache, and poison pulsing. The swaying jumbled all of it this way and that. Mixing it all the more into a heavy pressure at the forefront of his thoughts. It felt as if all was encased in water, ebbing and flowing in waves of mind numbing intensity, swishing and thumping along his inner walls. He would have heaved if he had anything left in him to give.

He couldn't quite remember when the fever had struck him, who had poisoned him, or how long he had been traveling with it eating away at his insides. It raging against his will to continue on. All he could recall was the need to run, as far as one could, to any reach of terra firma that he could find beyond the Dominion. A daunting if near impossible feat, for the fingers of the Aldmeri spread wide, and long, and bloody, and he could only go so far so fast. Especially plagued as he was with fever.

It had been a wash of all consuming desperation to escape. Betrayal driving him far. His days and nights a blur of ever rising anxiety to the point of near hysteria. Scenery of different landscapes, hovels, and cold damp hiding spots. Yet despite all of his efforts and force of will, somewhere along the way, he lost himself. Lost and succumbed.

He fell under that all consuming numbness and drugged pressure. Heated and raving mad, stumbling blindly, half gone, through murk and wood alike without direction. He lost hours or days or weeks, but he couldn't attest to it if asked the length of any time for it was all distorted and fractured. Memory was a ragged thing now, edges of a broken mirror showing small snatches of recollections. He had not the focus to sort it.

Some scenes made sense but others were hallucinations of beasts with voices as thunderous as storms. Wide wings and taunting, almost eager eyes, speaking in a tongue he knew well and amused at the way he spoke back. They were world shattering and in their comings and goings old names came to and from them.

Each broken piece of memory would come to the fore but faded soon after under the Influence of blight within, forgotten or buried it did not matter now. It all seemed endless and mad, and his state of distress only increased with each passing hour.

It was starved and sick and madly mumbling of nothings that he was found by a being of pure fire. Well he more ran into it, solid and massive. It hissed and spit at first but he had no will to fight it and darkness took him as its arms encircled him. In his momentary waking hours following he could hear bits and pieces of garbled conversations. His visions blurred with ragged faces raced through his addled mind.

When they spoke he felt he should know the words. Like he had learned them long ago but for what he couldn't grasp rightly. It was a dialect he knew. Familiar but maybe on the other side of a battlefield. Through the fog of his mind came scenes unbidden, a flash of a bear, the smell of spiced honey and winter. Knew that smell, but it was missing something to it… A flash of silver gleaming behind eyes of bright fury. Wild dark hair singed by the electricity of the elven blade called Siealdyrn. Wild laughing, clashing of steel and will. The smell of hound, and honey spiced, and winter. Nord, Jergen. Beloved.

Nordic this smell, an old enemy, but he could not will himself to feel enough to resist. He could not fight them, allowed them to strip him, lay him bare, and wrap him in the musk of furs though he was so unbearably hot. He mumbled words in elvish, some in nordic, some were whispered conversations with the reptilian winged beasts of old says.

He spoke of escaping the Dominion, half intelligible. He told them through shaking fever-dreams of a man of silver eyes, wild hair, wolf armor, and a giant war axe. Named some forgotten name that rolled off the tongue in thick elven. Told of the Oath. Told of the glory in that battle.

He was sure that in his delusion he had begged a man, Big and Broad and Sturdy, to take the oath from him and deliver it to the children of that nord, so sure he wouldn't survive this. Knowing if he was to die he needed to find a way to complete his promise. He could not bare it to break this thing. He needed closure from the ghosts of those wars and battles. Could not rest beyond in Aetherius until this thing was done.

He clawed at Big-broad-sturdy in all that he was to do this, take this thing from him, for if fever take him and he could never fulfill his promise, he would become haunted. He would be left a wisp unable to leave the plains of this existence. Forever and unto the end of all he would be Oathbreaker then, worst of all fates. Stuck between life and death never resting, never finding home again, lost. Lost, lost, lost.

Maybe it was the sheer sincerity in his frenzy, for the man eased him with soothing words that he could not recall now. Knew them as only the shouting of the fever beast from his terrors. His grasping hands were gently pried away even as he pleaded, babbled, for the man to bear his burden should he fail. Hands much too big around his shoulders laid him back to rest. Even still, he pleaded into the wee hours of morning. Half mad, mostly dead, wholly tormented. For all he could see was moonlit eyes and wild black hair and red, so much red. Despite steely blue staring down at him in, pity?

"H...Hey listen, since I am dying you have to listen. Isn't that some rule you fancy elves have? Last words or something like that… Well I have a request, take this amulet from me and if ever you make it to Skyrim… Tell my children I… Tell them I love them, never meant to run off, never meant to die like some slaughtered beast… Tell them to go well, live well, love well, like I never did. Do this if you can elf, no sayings as to why but I just...You'll do it. Don't know how I know that but… I…"

"My word is my bond, I accept your task and words. Solemnly will I carry them until such a time as it is done. Rest my friend for I will honor you in your death and recall you in your life Silver Eyes."

"Ha!...ow… Jergen, my name not some frilly thing like a title. You really are something like some prince in those storybooks ma read late at night. Never met an elf like you, good fight yeah? Might have even… liked you once… When you get to Whiterun, find Kodlak… Talos… guide… you…"

"Talos guide you…Jergen said… he wanted. Promised to honor him. Please..." Get to the kin in a place called Whiterun for they needed to know that they were loved and not left. Tell them of the man's might in their fated battle. How he laughed in the face of death and even unto his enemy, blessed him. They needed to know… Moon eyes, wild hair, victory in death. He could not end without that man's memory avenged. Rival, Battle-lust companion, Beloved.

He must have insisted a hundred fold before those deep eyes hardened into resolve. He recalled the mouth opening, voice unleashing, washing over him with a magic from his words alone. It lulled the hysteria into his personal abyss and soothed him deep into slumber. Fever beast singing in a space where the pain of fever and ache faded into a numbed chilling swamp. The red was gone here, the silver gone, all of it gone.

He never felt such a sleep before. Being pushed so deep down into the mess of himself that nothing could touch him. He was half afraid he'd never wake again yet half relieved that at least now he couldn't be bound by his words. Hounded by an Oath not yet honored. Here there was nothing save for himself and peace but too soon he was pulled from his place. Minutes or days, but he was surfacing again to the crescendo of his blood in his own ears, cotton in his mouth, and weariness in every fiber of his being.

His brain was heavy, his mind was laced with the tendrils of fatigue and half formed anythings. A Web of incoherence. Too much poison riddled the way he felt and perceived all. The fever raging low enough now to leave him drained. Sounds were distant echoes in his ears so loud was his blood. His senses were dampened and vulnerable but even through all that instinct told him that somehow something had gone terribly wrong.

This was the first time in what seemed a terribly long while that he could make out actual words beyond the dampened hearing. He was surfacing into consciousness even as the remnants of fever ate at edges of his being. Soft gray light of day pierced him through leaving a sharpness in his temple. He came forth with it into true awareness, head pulsing, mind reeling. Awake but left to the weakness of fleeting sick.

A groan tore itself from deep within as he tried to lift his head even a moment. The effort too much for him as it was just too heavy. He tried to move his hands but found them held tight and raw from coarse rope. He tried to get his bearings but the world swam before him making him nauseous. Tried and tried but to little avail.

A body edged into his own enough that he swayed before leaning upon it. A rumble like thunder wound its way into him, recalled a command in a lullaby already forgotten. He eased back into unconsciousness. Into that deep place again where reality ceased to be. This time though there was a fever beast before him, black and large and terrible in its presence. It looked upon him with a mix of disgust and fascination. Its eyes were red, deeper than voids, but eventually it turned from him and faded into the nothingness.

When next he opened his eyes he could stand a little more light and the throbbing in his head had diminished significantly. His eyesight had improved to its usual sharpness allowing him to take in the passing scenery though, dots danced in time to his own heartbeat around the edges. His head lifted easier but his chest was tight with a soreness that ran lung deep. His throat burned and his mouth felt layered in cloth. They must have fed him a drought for he could taste it on his tongue.

Whatever the case, he could think coherently again but when he tried to recall the past days, or was it weeks?, He failed to come up with anything other than the feeling of ancient words invading within him. Lulling him far into the arms of Aetherius but not enough to never return. He was also missing something else. Energy that was usually rampant within was suddenly silent, or rather stagnant. His blood slugglish.

A magic poison. No wonder I haven't broken through my sickness faster./em The thought brought his mind into a sharper clarity and wearily he tested the bonds. They were well done with strong rope and while he could have escaped easily when he was well, he was not even fit to try as he was now. He winced at the burning of his wrists. Whoever had done this was not kind, probably expecting an escape or just bitter.

His shuffling must have caught the attention of someone because a voice pulled him from his dilemma. His gaze snapped onto the man and each took in the other. The man was an ilk that he was familiar with. A nord if ever there was one fair in skin and hair alike, sitting broad shouldered with muscles like boulders. All of him chiseled to heft axes bigger than he. A sturdy representation of man with gruff scrapings of blond hair upon his jaw. Handsome.

A nord if ever there was one. Jergen was like that too. Internally he winced at the remembrance of his final battle on the side of the Aldmeri and also for how he must look now. Most likely sickly pale, drawn tight, and greasy from lack of bath. His long hair felt sticky upon his own neck and his lips felt chapped and dry. For an elf of the Altimer, he was a disgrace right now. The only consolation to be had was that they were both of them, bound and obviously being escorted elsewhere by others. So allies of a sort. Alive.

"I see you are awake," The friendliness in that tone sunk deep into him and he could only stare blankly when the nord, Ralof he later learned, laughed lightly and oh so sweetly at his stoic surprise. He wondered if the heat of lingering fever was what commanded him in that moment to lean eagerly toward the sound. It was just so endearing and he knew in that moment what sort of man was before him. A man of loyalty and jovial pursuits, a kind and honest man. Someone so very bright in a world shaded with enemies everywhere. For an instant he knew Ralof then. Loved him fully.

Ralof didn't seem to mind that he didn't respond beyond mild acknowledgment. He just chattered of this and that, to the thief from a place called Rorikstead he spoke of Ulfric Stormcloak and the gods. He spoke of Sovngarde and what would come of them. Death. The final thoughts of home and all of it sounded beautiful. Perhaps had Ralof not been thrust into battle for the rebellion, he could have been a bard. He was social and bright and the way he spoke pulled one into a story.

He learned that he must have been found by the Stormcloaks, delusional and feverish, yet had been spared but stripped of all things save an amulet that he felt hot upon his chest. They must have at some point been ambushed by the imperial soldiers of the Empire, though he knew too little of the politics behind the struggle. He hadn't been much aware of any struggle between the human factions only the Aldmeri wars with them. Low and behold there was a civil war here in Skyrim. Fate was a brutal mistress.

He was pleased at least to know now what had transpired to some degree but it did not settle the pit of his stomach. If Ulfric Stormcloak was an enemy of the Empire and a dissident of the White Gold Concordat it could only spell disaster, especially if he was leading an uprising which he was. As he was now he could not escape this. For all his years on the battlefield and training in magic, he was useless under this influence of both residual fever and magic poison that stacked upon it.

It seemed that their captors didn't care for excuses if the Horse Thief was any indication. Dressed in rags as he was, looking as he did, they would not believe him should be say who he was and whence he came and why. To them he was just like any other found with these rebels. To them he was little more than a head to the executioners wall. No words could convince them to see beyond what he was now and more still to prove he was worth more alive than dead. The Dominion had sent a poisonous farewell and he was not one to forget that he had left them. That life was long buried now on the fields far north. He doubted the Dominion much cared to aid him now.

Every so often a guard driving the caravan would shout at them to be silent which Ralof would respond to with his giant mouth and much too giant sense of pride. It was humorous and it alleviated the tension however briefly but it was not what would aid them either. So they journeyed further into cold pines and mountains that scratched the high heavens. Every so often dizziness would overtake him and he would find himself gathered to the shoulder of he man beside him, Ulfric Stormcloak. Each time he would feel a slight swell of gratitude and whisper it gently. He got a grunt in response every time but somehow he felt the man was pleased.

As it was they soon came upon Helgen as the sun began to ascend on that day. Tense and cold and intimidating, its bastions towered over the small stone hovels. Its shadow loomed over the inhabitants casting chill in its entirety. The voices of man drifted far up the hill they descended being tossed to and fro as the cart continued its way toward the looming gates. Wooden and heavy, braced with steel rods and beams to support the weight of it.

He had always heard that Nords built for war with stone and more stone and Helgen could attest to it with sturdy mountain rock. The feel of the air was cold and the smell of the village was filled with both decay and life. The smells of oil torches and baking breads, livestock and burnt metal, the various confusing scents of clay and dirt. The colors were less vivid but the noise of shouting and clamoring of armor bright enough to cut into the senses and dig up in him the pain of sickness.

It was too much for him and he groaned as the nausea built up within him happy to know he had nothing left to lose. He felt a shoulder upon his own and he eagerly leaned upon it. Heat passed between him and the man beside him, gagged and bound unlike the rest of them. Ulfric Stormcloak if he could recall right, had the power of something called the Thu-um. A magic that came from words of power, or so he had read once long ago.

Ulfric was a dissident, the dissident if one wanted to be correct about it. Somehow it was fitting that a nord such as this would attempt to overthrow the Aldmeri hold on Skyrim. The man was stubborn, steady. He doubted there was a way to break such a will as this. He was grateful though for the stability and subtly reached out a finger to touch the man's weather worn hand. He was a kind man, despite his reputation. He got only a grunt in response and a twitch in the man's fingers.

It was like this that he missed the Thalmor's and General Tulius speaking a ways away though Ralof had something to say like with anything. Perhaps that was for the best because it seemed they did not notice him with Ulfric and Ralof as shields from their visions. He doubted it would be a good thing if they did. Considering the dosage of poison he was afflicted with, the Dominion was not pleased and if found alive well… There were always worse fates than death.

As the carts pulled into what must be a town square he recalled Ralof speaking of home being what one should envision before death. For him however, home could never be again. For him home was dead now. It had been in the image of a broad shouldered man made of muscles to heft axes bigger than he, wild silver eyes and hair black as pitch. He supposed it was as good a last memory as anything. Even if home had fled with it.

He was broken out of his daze by the firm hounding of imperials and realized the carts had stopped. They ordered all of them out yet he lacked the strength to stand alone, though stand he could with aid. He tried to tell them but rough hands gripped him without mercy and shoved him to the dirt. Pain from sickness and nausea from movement proved overwhelming and he dry heaved into the dust before him. His ears rung and in it he heard Ralof cursing at the guards.

The soldiers beside him sneered and one even spat at him. Anger should have prevailed then but he was just so very tired now and he wasn't the fool he once was. He would get them back for it. This should be the end but in his mind he remembered that thing in the deep place, Void being of red eyes, and his instinct told him this wasn't the end of this. In case it was he only hoped that he could convince one of those soldiers to gift the amulet to the Kin of Jergen. If that was done then perhaps the long sleep of death wouldn't be so daunting. Still he doubted he would die here.

"Imperials and their damned lists," Ralof growled beside him yet his eyes were upon him again. They were soft on him, filled with the want to aid him but he only minutely shook his head at the man in response.

"Do not be foolish Ralof." He pulled himself to sitting unable to move much. The imperials didn't seem to wish to bother with him in any case now that they got it out of their systems. When the leader of this set of imperials came to the fore, he was reminded of a testy cat. She was mannish, and seemed to be as foul as her face. As expected the imperial in charge barked at them like dogs as the names began to be read off.

His ears were ringing and he feared he'd miss his own so he watched instead. His long hair fell in the way but he could see enough to read what was happening. His vision pulsed every now and again as he felt the fever resurfacing slowly as the names continued. The Horse Thief, Lokir, was called but ran and in the end died without even a chance.

"Ralof of Riverwood," At this he snapped his gaze to the man beside him a feeling of despair beginning to spread in his chest. The nord however only scoffed and moved on and something in him wailed as an image of silver eyes flashed briefly before him. em Please, let me not see this again. Please let me at least go first!

There was little time to pray however when a set of boots stole his attention and he was faced with a kneeling imperial man. There were murmurs among the surrounding soldiers and the eyes he met were filled with… concern? He wondered how he looked right now, shivering from lingering fever, weak, dirtied. He was not expecting the kindness and he could feel his face contort in confusion.

"-d You are?" The words didn't all make sense at first. His fevered mind still trying hard to work and running low on energy to do so after so long a day. He wondered if this would make it back to the Summerset Isles. That his demise was not at the hand of a Justicar, or at a trial, but in the mud of Skyrim fevered and weak enough to be killed by a human. How disgraceful, it would be perfect no? For the Aldmeri Dominion to see a war hero felled like this… It would make them rife with fury.

"Laeriyel Vassent, an Altimer from the Dominion." For a moment the beings that hounded at him stalled and went pale. They glanced to him and finally took stock of his skin, a palest of golds almost fair like a nord. Had they thought him Bosmer? Halfbred? Was that why they had handled him so roughly? The man before him however winced and his brows furrowed. He stood again and faced his commander.

"What of this one? He's not on the list…" The woman commander sneered and perhaps her eyes held vindication, an old grudge against the Dominion and this… well this was a slight victory for her. Laer knew her kind, knew that she would take pleasure in his demise. Petty.

"He's with them, he goes to the block." The hounds were pleased but the man before him was not. Dark brows furrowed in a wince, knowing the injustice done and unable to stop it. His dark gaze spoke of regret and the one could only offer a slight smile of bitterness. This was a good man forced to do bad things. War did that to men.

"You heard her. Your remains will be returned to the summerset isles, for what it is worth I am sorr-"

"You needn't bother but if I could have one request it would be you take the amulet I wear and see it to the Kin of a man named Jergen in Whiterun. I made a promise to see it to his children and while I would have wished to do it myself, at least this way my oath will not be broken. He asked me to tell them that he was 'Sorry that he died like some slaughtered beast. To live well, love well, like he never did.' He said that I should see a man named Kodlak."

His own voice sounded much too soft, hoarse, so far from who he once was under the Aldmeri. Yet the order was clear and if this man was even a little honorable, he would abide this wish. The guards about him jeered at him that elves don't become companions, whatever that meant, but the man before him silenced them. With care he had not expected, the imperial reached around his neck and removed a chain of steel and a hanging pendant. It was an axe relief with a jewel encased in the hilt. A small thing but worth so much to that man.

"For what it is worth Laeriyel, I am sorry." Would that he could spare him a bitter remark but he was roughly pulled to his feet and dragged to the line of nords where one was already shoved to the side without full rights onto death. Fury burbled deep in him that they would allow such a blasphemy to occur. Denying the dying rights to Aetherius! It seemed others shared his sentiment including the man now clutching tightly the amulet. Visage pale and grim, a good man.

Silently, he continued the mantra to them. His words too soft to disturb and he felt Ralof and the guards holding him bore their gazes upon him as he read the rights himself for them. Hands bruising loosened, eyes judging softened. Ralof clenched his teeth and looked down. Probably thinking of home. Dreaming of Sovengard.

"Next, the Elf!" The guards escorted him forward. He heard Ralof's voice shout in fury when he was placed before the Legate before the headman's block. The head of the previous execution stared vacantly skyward in the basket and the stone red with the wet of his blood. Were his ancestors smiling down upon him? Was his mother proud of him where she rested in the beyond? Somehow he thought they were.

He had little time to think of it for the Legate spared him no mercy. She kicked him down onto the hay. The scent of blood, piss, and feces overtook him. His head swam with visions of red and the heat of a swift return to fever. His head was pushed into the stone by a boot and slick red coated his cheek and soaked into his hair. The smell of iron and wet stone, still warm from a man's stilled heart.

He thought he heard the commander jeer that this is what he deserved and maybe, he agreed with her but not here, not like this. No one person deserved this maltreatment. Silver eyes floated before him, haunting him now more than ever. The headman grunted, hefting the giant beast of an axe up. Before it could drop the ground trembled and a voice shouted from far off. Words broke the sky and he knew this was what he had been waiting for. The reason this was not over.

"I come!" It called and the people about floundered. Again the headsman went to raise his axe but again that voice called out, louder and then beyond that black mask there poised a king of beasts. The tower high held aloft a monstrous form of black glistening scales, its stones cracked under talons sharpened and longer that a man's arm. It gazed upon them, eyes more intelligent than some simple beast, glowing crimson like fires of old. Voids in the depths.

When it opened its maw, the world was bathed in the call of its roar, its furious words of despair. Words that wove deep into him as he was pushed away from the block by the force of great wings. For a second time that day he knew someone and this time it was this beast. In his mind a name spelled itself in long lost letters that he knew and yet didn't.

Alduin. World Eater.

He struggled to breath again, his breaths filled with the scent of power and crackling embers. This thing so very ancient beckoning to him. His soul reaching for it and it his. About him the town flew into chaos under that power, the words, the fire, the ash, and he alone… felt sane and steady. For the first time he was filled with purpose again, fire and primal energy, he was alive again! Heat poured above him, and he rolled away from the incoming words. Using momentum he sprung up from the earth and quickly evaded another torrent of that wondrous voice.

Hands gripped him and pulled him from the fray, and his eyes found the familiar face of Ralof, pale and drawn and relieved. Eyes blue and beautiful but dull compared to that beast. They didn't wait but ran through the opening into the nearest tower door. The heavy words were cut off as it was slammed shut and the din from outside ended and he came back to himself.

Within were the remaining followers of Ulfric and the man himself staring upon them. When their eyes met there was relief, and Laer longed to stand beside that man for the comfort and strength he knew would come from it. Their reprieve was short lived as their tower shook. The dragon was above them and breaking through the stone. If they stayed here they would be toasted alive.

From there on everything was a blur of motion and a game of tag with the beast that his mind told him was Alduin. His heart raced and the fire in his soul became an inferno fueled by sickness in his blood. Adrenaline pulled him forward and guided him through the annihilation of Helgen and her mountain stone walls. It pulled him passed the charred bodies and onward, still tied, with Ralof at his side.

The dragon, Alduin, swooped to and fro releasing calls of power. Exhilaration flooded him and he raised his laughter high, imagining that power in his voice too! Wanting to echo that power flying ever over. He wanted to fight it, drown in it, devour it, love it. Battle lust he knew so very well and he wanted it again. Needing the reason to drive out the ages of remorse and wells of blood that soaked his soul. To drive away the haunting visage of his dead home.

He and Ralof fought their way out of Helgen, stood against the world, and when the dusk hit they fell, grateful and bursting with life out into the soft grass beyond Helgen's burning corpse. Laer felt every minute fall back upon him then. He felt the bone deep exhaustion sink into him as he curled upon the snow drifted earth.

His fever had returned to pull at him but his body felt stronger than it had in a long while. His magic was returning it. The thick presence returning to him and filling the strange emptiness in his veins. It was with a gentle whooping cheer that he met his companion's eyes, reminded they were both alive and well.

"You are one crazy elf you know that?! Laughing at a dragon! Gutting a bear with a dagger only?! Don't think I didn't also see what you did to those Imperial torturers in the dungeons! You are crazy… Remind me to remind you to join the Stormcloaks. Fucking crazy, scary, elf." Those eyes were twinkling something fierce and that smile was perfect in that moment. He was in love yet again, so full was his heart.

"I am crazy?! We are fleeing for our lives from a dragon and you stop to fight with that Hadvar man! If I didn't already think so I would say you were thick my friend! Remind me to remind you to take a moment and think before starting a word fight in a sword battle!" He wasn't sure what prompted him to do it but he softly touched that face before him, making sure it was real. He felt Ralof give in and they both started to laugh, wondering each how they managed to survive this.

That night they slept close as if was bitterly cold despite the heat still wafting from the remains of what once was Helgen. The elf tucked soundly into the form of his companion, ear to his heart. The following morning Laeriyel found himself staring up into the most beautiful dawn he had ever seen. He nearly brought himself to madness in its study. He had always heard stories of the northern skies being made of magic and light. He had never thought any truth to it but the air of that morning was alight with it. Fire in the early cracklings of dawn.

"Fevered still friend?" Gods how good it sounded to hear a voice like this caked in sleep. To know it lived.

"Yes but it will fade soon, the poison was not enough to kill me and my magic is restoring me now. Is… Is it always like this." He waved a blood and dirt encrusted hand to the horizon.

"Is it always so… This?! There are no words to give this justice! Is this how Skyrim looks every breaking dawn?!" Maybe Ralof understood for suddenly that body was beside him in a camaraderie that could only come from surviving a dragon with someone and then living to a dawn like this. Their shoulders pressed tight together.

"Not always but, maybe the divines were kind today. If you go further north you'll see a sky that will bring even a nord to tears. So, Laeryiel, What now?" It was a valid question. What would he do now. He had no amulet to return and he wasn't sure Hadvar even survived. Still, he made a promise. With or without the amulet he would go to Whiterun, he would find this Kodlak, and he would tell those children what Jergen had wished to say.

"I must go to Whiterun… I have no amulet to return now but that does not lift me from my oath." His eyes met Ralof's briefly and they studied one another. Blue on summer green. Accessing their newfound friendship. Deeming it well earned.

"Riverwood is not far from here and lies inbetween here and Whiterun. My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill there with her husband Hodd. I need to warn them of the dragon, and to see them… To let them know I am safe. Come with me! Rest and then head to Whiterun and maybe after… Maybe then you could consider meeting me for a drink in Windhelm. I'll convince you to put that crazy to the good of Skyrim yet!"

Laeriyel found himself agreeing but only after convincing Ralof that they bathe first. He was done with being caked in the blood of dead men.

0o0

~Thalmor Embassy of Skyrim a week after Helgen~

The sword shimmered and then crackled menacingly upon the table. It had a name Siealdryn. It also had a past, it belonged to an elf with notoriety, One that had been missing for months. Rumariyn had come from the council following the trail of his long time rival, Laeriyel Vassent. The owner of this sword. A sword taken from the Stormcloacks who were escorted to Helgen. Helgen which had been decimated by a dragon, and moreover the one named on a list of prisoners which laid before him.

Laeriyel Vassent, Altimer. To be executed like a common dog! He had been furious to say the least. The general before him was looking harassed and after threat of another war with the empire the man had gathered every survivor of Helgen to this one place that they could find. Before him stood twenty men and women, all imperials and half looking guilty.

"Laeriyel Vassent... Laeriyel. Vassent. Do you have any idea just who it was you were ordering executed without the Aldmeri consent?! No? Let me tell you. Vassent single handedly handed the Dominon the last war. He is a High Champion. He is a member of our army and moreover he is worth more than a small alliance with Skyrim. You were going to kill him… He could be dead now in the mud of Helgen. Like a common DOG!" The faces before them were drawing paler, the general Tullius was looking red. He had been in Helgen, he should have been told or notified but he had not been and all eyes fell to the Legate.

"I have read from a detailed report about the mistreatment of the prisoners brought to Helgen. While I do not condone Talos worship and while traitors are to be treated with malignancy I was not aware that stripping the dead of their last rights was allowed. Even dogs deserve that much. To think Laeriyel to be sent off withou-"

"The rights were read… Sir." Eyes of twenty plus men fell on a private Hadvar. To his credit the man did not flinch, but he felt smaller then.

"The elf, Laeriyel, read the rights sir. When the Legate denied them after an outburst from an executed prisoner he read them. He also escaped Helgen sir of this I am certain. Permission to continue?" The Thalmor agent wasted no time in crossing the distance to tower before him now, menacing in black high collared cloaks. Dangerous and aged.

"Proceed."

"While evacuating ourselves in the attack I ran across Laeriyel and one Ralof of Riverwood. Earlier I had been given a request from the elf. So when I saw him again I tried to hand this amulet back to him. He told me he was bound by an oath and that if he should die his only request was that this be brought to the leader of the companions in Whiterun with a message from a deceased man named Jergen.

I saw him and Ralof escape into Helgen Keep and later when I passed through Riverwood to see my own family before coming to this summons I overheard Gerdur speaking to her husband. It was About Ralof heading back to Windhelm and how his elven friend had done them a great service by speaking with the Jarl in Whiterun. I had thought there were more guards than usual but I had not suspected that it was because the Jarl knew of Helgen already. To be honest I had not expected him to survive, he was… extremely ill in Helgen."

Relief flooded his system, Laeriyel was alive and against reports from Cerimer he had not abandoned the Dominion. He was bound by oath as he had written to the council several times for leave. Cerimer had told them the letters were forged by dissidents, but now… he had proof. If this was so then... He wondered.

"Ill?" Golden eyes raised to bore into this soldier. Ill, Laeriyel was not the type to get ill… unles-

"Poisoned sir. He was recovering with the Stormcloaks when we ambushed them but he was so far gone in fever we had thought he would die. Ulfric stopped fighting us when we took him into our custody. He was recovering and was able to stand and run when Helgen was attacked but he was half fevered when we had met again."

The thalmor turned from Hadvar then, his eyes scanning the massive reports spread before him. Cerimer had been pushing for Laeriyel's removal for a long while. There could only be one in that honored position and Cerimer wished his son within it. Many of the council agreed that Cerimer was plotting to do something drastic but to go so far as to murder one of their greatest warriors. The only consolation was that Laeriyel survived Helgen while poisoned… he would survive. Now he just needed to be found and returned home.

"You should excuse your Legate General. Turn her over for insubordination to the Dominion and I shall see about pardoning the rest. Hadvar was it? I would like a full report from you on your experience of Helgen. I want all details on Laeriyel recorded in them, down to his every twitch. Also, I hear you were the only one who questioned the methods of your Legate. Good work on being the model of the empire. You are lucky to have him Tullius. He is your only saving grace. Keep your eyes open for Laeriyel Vassent and report to the Thalmor Embassy on his location once you find him. We wish to bring him home as soon as possible and in one peace. And you... Hadvar was it? Get that amulet to the proper hands. An oath to an Altimer such as Laeriyel is worth more than the soul."

Laeriyel Vassent was alive… Why did that make him feel such relief?