Chapter One

An Escort

Hello all~! Yes, another Skyrim fic. Thanks for stumbling onto it, by the way.

What can I say, I'm on winter break! Anyways, this will serve as my foreword. Please note the rating is M. This is due to language, violence, and sexual situations that will appear in this story. Any chapter that is marked with three asterisks in the chapter heading (***) will indicate explicit sexual content for that chapter.

I hope you all enjoy!

~ Fluff

A High Elf? Captured with a band of Stormcloaks? Surely not. The Aldmeri Dominion worked with the Empire in Skyrim. Hadvar did not at all agree with their banning the worship of Talos or many other actions the Dominions had taken, but he knew the Empire was the only thing keeping the elves out of Skyrim. Evens so, surely one of their numbers would not ally themselves with the preposterous, racist rebels, would they? The Stormcloaks were known to brutalize elves on sight, particularly if they were of the Altmer variety.

"You," he said, drawing her strange orange eyes to him. "Who are you?"

"My name is Y'lara, sir," she stated politely enough, though the tone hardly touched her gaze.

Hadvar grimaced, "You picked a poor time to visit Skyrim, friend." He pitied this woman, this elf. She stood tall and strong, shoulders squared, arms limp and docile, even in binds, and her eyes wide, shining, and alert. Perhaps he imagined it – being full of Nord pride as he was – but for all her proud stature, she seemed truly and totally frightened. Not that he could blame her. She was at a chopping block, after all.

She cast him a look fit to freeze a volcano. "Sir, we are hardly friends," she stated, her tone deceitfully diplomatic.

He took a step back, despite himself and hurriedly glanced back to his parchment full of names and places. "Captain, she's not on the list."

"I don't care!" The Captain snarled. "She goes with the rest."

Hadvar returned an apologetic gaze to Y'lara. "I'm sorry, prisoner. I'll make sure your remains are sent back to your homeland."

"I thank you for your kindness," she stated with a nod, dipping her head and easing the frigid look in her gaze. "It is good to see that some decent humans remain." This last bit was directed toward the Captain.

The woman raised her hand and struck a harsh blow across Y'lara's face. "You've some nerve being smart with me, elf! You'll die first!"

Hadvar still could not believe the chaos that had unfolded that day at Helgen. The dragon, the escape of Ulfric Stormcloak, the severe blow the Legion had taken. It was still shocking to think that he and the prisoner – er…Y'lara were the only survivors (at least that he knew of). He had lead her to Riverwood, introduced her to his family until such a time as they recouperated from their travels.

His uncle, Alvor, had been hesitant around an Altmer, which was not surprising in the least considering the elves' history with the Nords, but softened his guard – if only a little – when Y'lara used her magic to ease Hadvar's burns and wounds.

"You're a mage, then?" Hadvar inquired, feeling rather awkward at being positioned on his back with an elf pressing against his muscles and skin to determine what was broken and what needed healing.

Pain flared violently through his arm as she gently gripped his wrist and extended his limb in such a way that, he assumed, would expedited the healing process. "Of course I'm a mage, idiot," she snapped, warmth beginning to radiate from her palm as she spoke a few words of restoration. "I'm an Altmer, aren't I?"

Hadvar was not discouraged. If he were in her position, having nearly been executed by the Legion and stranded in a strange place, he would be terse and callous as well. "So what got you involved with the Stormcloaks?"

She did not answer at first. She simply remained silent, holding her hand over his wound and tilting her brows together slightly as the warmth grew. She did not speak until she'd released his arm and slowly peeled the scalded leather from his lower body. "I'm not involved with the Stormcloaks," she stated simply, her hands surprisingly strong as she clamped down and held him in place while she worked. "And I am no story-teller, Nord."

Hadvar clenched his teeth and resigned himself to the helpful torture she was extending to him.

"Finished," she stated once the final warmth had dissipated from him. "There should be minimal scarring."

Hadvar stood and rotated his arms and put weight on his legs, marveling at his lack of pain when performing the actions. "Thank you," he said, peering at her as she plucked a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread from the shelves and stuffed it into her pack. "Where are you going?"

She cast a haughty glance over her shoulder. "To Whiterun, like you Aunt asked of me. She's right. Riverwood has no walls. The Jarl needs to know about the dragon."

"You just got here," he argued. "Stay and eat dinner. Rest a bit before you continue. You need it after what you've gone through today." He gave a once-over of her clothing,little more than rags with a hemp rope around her hips to help keep her drawers up. "And you'll be wanting better clothing if you're to be presenting yourself to a Jarl."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. He thought for a moment she was going to undo her healing work and incinerate him with whatever inferno spells she posessed.

"You and your family would accept the company of a High Elf?" She scoffed. "I know my kind's reputation around Skyrim - not that I can really fault you after what the Dominion has done. But news in a town smalls as this travels quickly. With the Stormcloaks so close, would you risk your family's livlihood for frivolous displays of hospitality?"

Hadvar stood and gestured for her to make her way upstairs with his aunt Sigrid. "This is Imperial territory. The Stormcloaks wouldn't dare staging an attack with the Jarl of Whiterun remaining neutral. Besides, my family as me to defend their livelihood." He smiled at her, determined to amend the experience she'd had in Helgen. "I insist you stay for dinner and rest the night. Sigrid has some suitable clothing, I'm sure."

Y'lara frowned, her full lips purshing and her eyes assessing him astutely from head to toe. He simply held his ground, standing straight and tall as though he had returned to morning line-up ind recruit training.

"Very well," she stated, climbing up the stairs.

Y'lara truly did not understand these Nords and their obsession with honor, bluntness, and tradition. But she held her tongue. Best to keep quiet around these sorts of folk. She already walked precariously on eggshells when traveling about the small towns of Skyrim...best not to question the rationale behind their actions and cause a riot.

Hadvar had indeed surprised her with his kindness and respect. Even in Helgen, he'd gone against his commanding officer's order that she be executed when she'd followed him to Riverwood. The Altmer questioned his intentions behind such actions, as no actions the elves took were ever done out of selflessness. There was always something to be gained. Folk had to watch their speech, their glances, they way she walked. It was not so with the Nords. Here, action spoke loudest and…she rather preferred it that way.

Sigrid gave her new clothing, simple blue robes and knee-high boots for her journey.

"Thank you," Y'lara said after she'd rid herself of her prisoner's attire. "I'll find some way to repay you."

Sigrid gave her a skeptical once over. "You want to repay me? Deliver that message to the Jarl and then begone."

Y'lara was taken aback by her words, simple and straightforward with no offense meant.

"It's a simple matter, elf," Sigrid continued with a shrug, her tone and stature nonchalant, as though she were simply reporting facts rather than personal opinion. "The Nords don't like the elves after the war. You'd best leave for the Aldmeri Dominion before a group of Stormcloak sympathizers brutalize you in the name of Skyrim."

She nodded. "Thank you for the warning, Missus." Y'lara could handle herself. Even if she was of the Dominion she did not plan upon enlisting in the Thalmor ranks. Their supremacist attitudes thoroughly irritated her and, even if they were her own kind, she could not stand them. She had come to Skyrim for a purpose and she was intent on seeing it through. Her scuffle with the Stormcloaks had been an unfortunate event.

Y'lara helped silently with dinner, refraining from using her magicka to speed the heating of the fire or alter the atmosphere such that the pressure gradient changed and the meat cooked faster. The Nords were skeptical about the ways of mages, even if they did particularly enjoy the enchantments that could be placed on weapons.

Hadvar was seeing to Dorthe and regaling her with stories of his explorations in the Imperial Legion when the food was announced and the family sat about their simple wooden table, conversing with Hadvar about the dragon attack on Helgen, the status of Ulfric Stormcloak, and the sights he'd seen while away from home. The Nord man seemed all to happy to report what he'd experienced and Y'lara was grateful for the time to herself. The food was delicious, but she ate sparsely, not wanting to take more than was absolutely necessary. After all, she'd lost all of her funds when the Imperials had stripped her of armor and given her rags.

None of them spoke to her – they were too afraid. An Altmer was sitting in their presence, so foreign and exotic to them. She saw little Dorthe staring intently at her pointed ears, her slanted eyes, and the strange coloration she possessed. She was plain to her own people and blended in easily. Here, such was not the case. She was a golden being among a sea of white and as tall as most of the men.

"Will you be staying the night, Y'lara?" Hadvar inquired as he passed her the bottle of mead.

She accepted it delicately and passed it on to Alvor. "I think not," she replied, gazing at him defiantly. He'd ordered her to rest the night, despite the obvious discomfort she brought to his family. He would find that she could not be commanded so easily. "I will continue to Whiterun and tell the Jarl of the dragon attack. I have business to attend to, afterward."

"Thank you for delivering the message-"

"What sort of business?" Hadvar interrupted his aunt, his pale eyes piercing in their intensity.

"Hadvar," his uncle scolded. "The elf's -…Y'lara's…business is her own."

"I must agree with Mister Alvor," Y'lara stated without looking away from Hadvar's open challenge. "Believe that I will deliver you message and be content in that knowledge."

The young Imperial soldier nodded solemnly before standing from the table. "Well, I'll accompany you to Whiterun, then."

"You'll do what?" Sigird demanded before Y'lara had the opportunity.

Hadvar removed his common tunic and pulled on the attire of the Imperial Legion. "High Elves wandering the landscape of Skyrim are liable to get into trouble," he stated simply. "I'll serve as her escort."

He glanced back at her, his eyes matching the mischievous smile on his lips. Y'lara raised a brow but made no comment. If he wanted to accompany her, she would not stop him. But that did not mean she would make no attempt to break from his company.

"I appreciate that very much," she stated and stood from the table, not needing to clad herself in heavy armors, bracers, or boots. She turned to Alvor and Sigrid. "I thank you for your hospitality."

Dorthe, broken from the reserve she'd been in all evening, spoke suddenly. "Can you show me a spell before you go?"

Y'lara glanced up to Alvor, the head of the house, to ensure permission for the request the child made. Upon seeing his nod, she cast her eyes down to the child and snapped her longest finger against her thumb. Flames ignited in her hand and Y'lara smiled, despite herself, as the child's eyes widened in wonder. After a moment, she closed her open palm into a fist and smothered the flames.

"Ready then, Mage?" Hadvar inquired, sheathing his Imperial blade at his hip.

"Ready indeed," she responded.