Author's Note: So this story was started quite a while back, but I simply was too busy to continue working on it at the time. I really enjoy the characters (some that were yet to be originally published), and so I decided to try and actually bother finishing the darn thing. The chapters I originally published will be re-written to better suit the new chapters (mostly aesthetic changes or additions), and I'll just replace the old chapters as I go. For now, just this first chapter has been rewritten (I'll add a quick little "author's note" before each chapter that has been re-written). I hope you enjoy the story! Feel free to comment and review, I'd love to hear what you think, for constructive criticism is always helpful and it gives me motivation to continue. I'd also like to post some illustrations of the main characters, maybe if the story collects 25-50 or so followers, I'll go about making that happen, they're very fun to draw.
Chapter One
The Deluge
"I insist we turn west at once, my lady. I believe you and your sightseeing venture have been indulged long enough. We will not be able to cross."
The swollen river convulsed, heaving and lurching in erratic pulses as the turbulent waters beat against the bank. Wind and rain alike were ever willing partners that pulled and parted the waterway with ease, sending waves of muddy froth crashing against the bank, claiming what little shoreline remained. A faint stench of decay and upturned sediment had begun to choke the air as the waters clawed at the twisted growth that lined the shores, tearing sodden ground into its depths with every ebb. Raw earth and clay now lined the banks, fresh and frail roots exposed as the harsh waters pulled all that grew along its edges into the turning swell. Branches and deadwood were mercilessly pulled along the current, violently bobbing along, crushed and forced against the rocks, scraping further more of the bank into the river.
Once shallow crystal waters, the bloated river now turned with debris and upturned mud, black and opaque, clouded and thick, just as the skies above. The rains, first a fine soft mist cooled by the winter chill had begun to coat the travelers only an hour prior, the distant and still faint cracks of thunder far off in the distance over yet untraveled land, but it now fell from the sky in a torrent, assaulting and harsh, turning the ground to bog and muck.
The rushing waters and pelting rain had drowned out the Rose Knight's entreaty to his young charge, and she remained motionless at the river's edge, seemingly indifferent to the violent storm overhead and the grasping waves of the water below. Her fine cloak, lined with thick fur and embroidered with silk thread, shed rainwater in thick sheets, drenched and utterly seeping. But still the winds twisted the soaked cloth about her small frame, billowing and folding upon itself in the harsh and relentless gale that stirred the waters below and brought down weakened branches from the forest above, the resulting cacophony competing with nearing claps of thunder.
"We are soaked through and there is no bridge in sight," the young knight again called out to his charge, "We perhaps have but an hour of what dismal light there is, I insist we turn back at once to find lodgings."
She gave no response, instead remaining ever fixated on the turning waters. Adjusting the hood of his crimson mantle, he stepped out from the tree line and into the downpour, grimacing as his feet sunk further into the boggy undergrowth, squelching water in awkward pulses as he trod forth. Water had long since flooded his boots and his patience was wearing thin.
Their map long ago lost, he knew only that they had been stumbling through the wilds in the outer territory of the Falkreath Hold, with only a squalid little inn nearly half a day's trek to the west from whence they had spent the previous night to serve as any meaningful indication of their location. For all their wanderings in the mist and pines that claimed the region, they had only seen a deteriorating tower guarded by a handful of hapless bandits, a distressingly common sight they were coming to understand as they traveled further into the foreign, frost covered land. The constant degree of vigilance and caution required to trek through the mismanaged holds was growing increasingly exhausting, and given his lady's propensity to fulfill her naïve curiosity for sightseeing, stumbling unawares upon a group of bandits and undesirables was a near constant threat, plaguing the young knight with constant stress. For hours, they traveled in hopeless circles, disorientated from unintelligible directions given by the rube managing the simple establishment. They had sought out the single road that ran between the border of Falkreath and Cyrodiil, the only manageable means of traversing the territory held by the southernmost holds, whilst hoping to maneuver around what difficult terrain and beast ridden locales they could, a tiring task even in the previously fair weather.
Though his charge had taken the egregious series of setbacks in uncharacteristic stride, nonchalance even, the Rose Knight was only growing further perturbed by the additional hindrances beset upon them, longing to simply locate suitable lodgings. He grimaced at the thought of returning to the hovel and its incompetent proprietor, but with Falkreath, the only patch of humanity in the region resembling a degree of worthwhile civility out of their reach, he resigned himself, taking the last few strides to close the distance between he and his charge.
"Please, my lady," he started as he came to her side, "we must – "
A small hand shot out from underneath the thick crimson cloak, coming to rest poised just above his lips.
"Hush!" the young woman demanded, snapping her head to the side to show brows furled and lips pursed under her sopping fur trimmed hood, clearly displeased. "You're being insipid, Mordistair. And what's more, you've broken my concentration!"
With an exasperated sigh, she placed her hands on her hips and stared intently at the river, its waters creeping and swelling ever closer to the bank shore she stood upon. The Rose Knight scowled as he turned to glance at the darkening sky, charcoal grey and deep slate blue with ever building storm clouds. What little light remained from the evening sun was nearly consumed by the thunderous clouds above.
"The light is fading quickly, as is my patience," he warned, "We are returning west at once, now come away from the edge before this whole bank is consumed."
"The weather sours your mood, it is most unbecoming," the young woman dismissed with an upturned nose, "and I refuse to concern myself with your incessant fretting."
Pausing only a moment for a sudden fervent chuckle she turned her attention once again to the river and with dramatic enthusiasm she threw back her cloak, raising her arms with a look of euphoria in her eyes. Her chuckle turned into a devious cackle, and with joy she proclaimed to her knight, as if to assuage his concerns, "But soon we shall be gazing upon the mead halls and sweet rolls of Whiterun!"
With pale porcelain palms spread wide before her, she shot forth a thick stream of ice into the turning waters. Tendrils immediately spread and crackled across the pulsing waves, colliding with the thrashing waters as they reached and stretched for the far bank. With another raucous laugh, the ice emerged thicker and spread haphazardly across the riverside. A solid frozen mass inelegantly connected the banks in only a matter of moments and the young woman beamed as tendrils further spread and curled upon themselves to grasp for the opposite shore.
"My lady, stop!" the knight cried out, taken aback by his charge's sudden actions, arms instinctively raised as he questioned whether to use force, "this is foolishness!"
She only laughed in wild excitement, grinning from ear to ear as she became consumed by the ecstasy her power brought. The ice continued to fight against the river and slowly spread in thicker and thicker streams, sending the murky water crashing in every direction as it built behind the emerging bridge. Shards of ice churned in the water along with the accumulating debris. Logs and thick mud slammed against the ice and bank, desperate to push past the barrier as the river quickly swelled.
"No more!" the knight commanded as he reached for the arms of his charge, finally overwhelmed with a sense of impending danger. As he turned on his heel to strive forth the ground beneath him shuddered. For a sickening moment the bank titled then abruptly plunged into the river, pulling him down into the frothy swell of branches and mud.
It only took a moment for her guardian's body to disappear beneath the turning debris that coated the surface and the young woman watched helplessly, her face aghast with shock and alarm as the river swallowed him whole.
"Mordistair!"
As disbelief wracked her mind, dissolving her focus, her arms fell to her sides, limp, and the spell dissipated. No longer buttressed by a continuous stream of ice, the frost bridge cracked, the edges shattering, spraying thin shards and crystals into the air. The swollen waters immediately surged to push past the emerging fissures, and with a sudden reverberating crack, the river shot through the weakest point. Barely a moment passed before the bridge collapsed upon itself entirely, succumbing to the ravenous pull of the river and with a violent wrench, the ground beneath the girl's feet was sucked into the sudden rush.
As she screamed her mouth filled with the muddy and rotten water. Weighed down by her cloak, she was eagerly pulled into the depths of the twisting river, unable to see the oncoming barrage in the blackened waters that now enveloped her.
She had no control over her small frame, and it was twisted and turned about along the rocky riverbed. Again and again her struggling arms and legs careened into the rocks and thick, fallen branches that were tossed about as she. Terrified she would be knocked unconscious, she fought in vain to curl upon herself and cover her exposed head. Eyes closed tight from fear, she suddenly gasped as her body was slammed against what she could only assume was one of the many fallen logs cluttering the river. Silt water rushed to fill her lungs and her body began to seize, desperate for breath. Clawing for the surface, her hands became entwined in algae and the riverside growth that had been pulled in with her. Her body shuddered and she continued to choke, taking in more water and silt that coated her mouth and throat. Her lungs burning and convulsing, she thrashed her head from side to side, desperately trying to make what movements she could to reach the surface, consumed with the overwhelming fear that accompanied the familiar sensation of drowning. Amidst her panicked thrashing her head struck against a riverside boulder as her body was carried in a sudden swell against the bank. As back spots took over her vision and she began to lose consciousness, she felt her body encircled in an inexplicable embrace before a spreading weightlessness finally consumed her.
Mordistair's eyes grew wide with shock as he felt the ground loosen beneath him. He saw his charge's smile fade, twisting into a horrified scream and suddenly his body was engulfed in mud and rushing water. He immediately felt the anchoring pull of his armor and thick cloak and his back dragged along the bottom of the riverbed as he was thrust into the crashing, fitful undertows. Trying to stay clearheaded, he sought out the barely visible light above in his attempts to center himself amidst the heaving currents. Kicking, he struggled to the surface, clawing his way through the twigs and debris. As he strained his head above the rising waters, he desperately sucked in a quick, unsatisfying gasp of air before a crashing wave of shattered ice forced him under. Feeling his strength diminish under the relentless force of the river, he made one last attempt to break through the surface. Just barely managing to catch a faint glimpse of the outline of a fallen log, he desperately grasped for the few submerged branches and clung onto the rotting bark with his little remaining strength. His lips parted, groaning in agony as his muscles shuddered, weighed down intolerably by his armor and soaked cloak, and he heaved himself out of the river, coughing up the muddy water and gasping for breath. His fingers dug deep into the decaying wood as he swung his legs out of the river and straddled the log. He turned his head to face the now shattered ice bridge, only a few snaking tendrils still trailing in faint patchwork fashion along the far bank, and panicked as he saw his charge nowhere in sight. Only raw earth and mangled roots remained where she had stood, a sizeable chunk of bankside clearly torn asunder.
"Lady Gwynayne!" he cried out desperately, pushing his torso up off the log. His eyes darted wildly from one bank to the next, scouring the turbulent waters for any sign of the girl. With frantic breaths, he looked along the length of the log he straddled and caught a glimpse of small, pale fingers brushing lifelessly against the surface, only just visible through twisted clumps of riverside weeds. Without hesitation he flung himself into the river. Though the water was sullied with turning mud and uprooted riverside growth he spotted the quickly disappearing wisps of his charge's white hair suspended in the water before him. His strength exhausted, he tried merely to steady his course towards the girl as the river pulled him along. As the faint outline of her body came into sight, he dove forward, pushing against the rocky riverbed and grabbed hold of her small, limp body. Pulling her close, he strained to lift her head above water, despairing at the vast distance between them and the surface as he struggled against the excessive weight of another cloaked body. His muscles and lungs screamed in protest for competing sensations of burgeoning lethargy, of utter exhaustion, and unyielding instinctual desperation consumed him. Yet as the river coursed through a tight bend, forcing the currents into a frenzy he could only manage to hold her close, and with growing terror realized they were at the mercy of the river.
The waters were nearly black with loam now, and what little light had managed to pierce the surface had disappeared, whether due to evening's closure or thickening storm clouds the knight did not know. Rotting cattail grasses and thick river weeds were continuously ensnaring themselves onto his armor, only further dragging him and his charge towards the riverbed. His eyes were burning as they searched for a means of salvation, a foggy form in the waters he could cling to, and as he grit his teeth, forcing himself not to breathe, he caught sight of a large riverside boulder. He awkwardly turned his back in an attempt to brace himself, shielding Gwynayne from the force of the sudden impact and he shuddered in pain as his body was brutally careened into the stone. Though he could not see such detail, he quickly realized the submerged rock side was covered in slick river moss and algae as his desperate grasps repeatedly slipped along the surface. Knowing his lungs were about to give way, he dug his feet along the riverbed and clawed at the boulder. Just as his vision began to blur, his fingers caught on a small divot in the stone, his muscles now burning, roaring in protest as the river fought to pull him further along. With a heave he clutched Gwynayne to his chest and finding a footfall, scaled up the boulder until finally their heads broke the surface.
Gasping for breath, choking up what grit and muddy water had filled his mouth and lungs, the knight sought out a stronger foothold and struggled to pull both he and his charge further up the boulder and out of the river. It wasn't until he collapsed against her body that he noticed she made no movements and her chest lay still.
"My lady?" He managed to gasp in between ragged breathes.
Her skin was nearly as white as her hair and her rosebud lips, normally so plump and pink, were pale and lifeless. Reeds and grass entwined her body and she was drenched in mud and filth. Again he gasped with desperation, "Lady Gwynayne?" and strained to lift himself off her side.
A familiar sense of dread arose from deep within the knight, the young girl's prostrate and pale body, soaked and lifeless, could not help but remind him of distant memories of a similarly frozen night, and the sickening panic within him only grew.
The rain continued to pelt the two as the river swelled, the ever rising waters creeping up the side of the boulder, pulling at their legs. Again Mordistair attempted to drag both he and his charge further up the boulder in hopes of reaching the bank, a tangled mess of roots only just above their heads. Slipping on the slick coating of algae he nearly slid off the rock side, and the two lurched further down into the water.
Growing ever paler and still without breath, Gwynayne's head lolled to the side as she slid alongside the knight back into the rushing waters. Realizing he had little time, Mordistair used what strength he could muster to keep them from falling any further back into the river. With trembling hands he parted the girl's lips and weakly gave what breath he had to her. Pulling away he coughed and gasped for air. Again and again he brought his lips to hers as he tried to revive her, giving what fresh air he could. Suddenly he felt her body seize and pulled away as she began to cough up river water. Turning her on her side, he gripped her arm to keep her from falling off the boulder as she finished expelling the seemingly endless stream of gray water. With a small groan between hurried breaths, she fell back onto the rock side and dully stared into the distant sky above, letting the rain beat against her face.
"Lady Gwynayne?" Mordistair pleaded, "Can you hear me?"
Still faintly panting, she closed her eyes and weakly nodded her head. Exhausted, her body went limp against his.
Suddenly, a distant crash reverberated through the rocks and tree line as something fell into the turning waters upriver, and the young knight gripped the rock in terror as he saw the last of the ice encrusted bank being ripped into the grasp of the convulsing river. The wedge of frozen earth hurtled down the river, slamming against the shoreline, pulling along logs and riverside debris in its wake.
With mere moments to act, the knight used what small amount of strength his fresh panic offered to him and heaved the body of his charge across his back, frantically clawing his way up the boulder, desperately reaching out to grasp just one of the overhanging roots. As he pulled his body off the rock side to lunge for the roots, the first sheets of ice shattered against the boulder. Muscles seizing, he roared with pain as he thrust Gwynayne off his back onto the nest of roots above them, only capable of hoping she would not fall back into the river. The thrust disrupted his footing on the slick stone and he clumsily lunged for the roots himself, knowing a fall at this point would result in his death. As the first of the disrupting waves from the crashing frozen bankside hit, he pulled himself aground next to his young charge, his neck straining from the pull of his drenched cloak that flopped lazily in the wind.
The frozen bankside slammed against the boulder they had only just clung to, spraying the air with shards of ice. Raising a forearm to his face to shield himself, Mordistair watched as the remaining ice and bankside continued down the river, further disintegrating as it turned a distant bend.
With the ordeal seemingly over, the Rose Knight collapsed onto his forearms, squeezing fresh mud and grass in his leather clad hands, concentrating on simply breathing. Never had his armor nor sword nor crest adorned cloak, the marks of his station and duty, normally sources of immense pride felt like such immense burdens, and yet they weighed heavily on his quivering form, chilled, beaten, bruised, and strained to the point of imminent collapse.
His sight was beginning to blur and a low, dull ringing plagued his ears, but they pricked at the sound of shuffling undergrowth and snapping twigs and his head snapped forward toward the tree line before him, alert and focused instincts called forth.
Imagining every manner of beast, the knight thrust himself in front of his unmoving charge and drew his blade limply at his side, swaying as he grew faint. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his knees and leveled his sword towards the trees, still panting for breath, realizing he could pose no threat until he rose to his feet.
Slowly, a handful of men, cloaked in furs and blue sashes broke through the tree line. Coming to a halt in front of the young knight, they reached for their swords, startled at the sight of the drenched and wild eyed warrior.
Mordistair's fingers dug deep into the boggy mud as he struggled to stay upright. His lungs still ached for air and his body shuddered as he fought to catch his breath. Unable to keep both his body and sword aloft, his arms shaking as they grew ever weaker, he started lowering to ground, all the while looking with fierce determination toward the men staring him down, giving what warning he could. His eyes met with those of the foremost soldier and for a moment the two regarded one another. Catching a glimpse of the young girl behind him, the soldier nodded to his fellow men and released the hilt of his sword.
"Let's escort these two back to the camp."
Mordistair's vision started to fade, a hazy fog thickening and dissipating in weak pulses before his eyes, blurring the boot trampled ground before him. His head hung limply onto his chest, bobbing as it rose and fell with short, stifled breaths. Though the storm clouds had begun to dissipate with the same abruptness in which they arrived, with only stranglers remaining to dispense a fine drizzling mist onto the regiment, the skies continued to grow ever darker as evening gave way to night. The forest was quickly cloaked with impenetrable shadows, kept at bay only by the weak torches of the surrounding soldiers. Though the seeping darkness made obvious the passage of time, the young Rose Knight could not recall how long he had been trudging alongside the Nordic warriors, for he measured the passing moments by the steady, throbbing pulse in his ears, the dull beat a continuous distraction from the foreign banter that surrounded him. He could no longer feel his limbs, neither his legs as they trudged along the decaying forest path, nor his arms as they clung to Gwynayne, carried on his back. The growing chill of the evening air met with his building body heat, fresh sweat mixed with the now trickling rainfall that showered his face, and the opposing forces resulted in further lack of sensation, just increasing, aching discomfort. Swaying, he stumbled and fell against one of the many soldiers who had found him and his charge earlier in the evening.
"Eh! Perhaps now you'll stop this foolishness, boy!" the soldier chided as the knight righted himself, "Let's have her here."
The gruff Nord began to reach for the girl in an attempt to relieve the struggling knight, but Mordistair only sidestepped the soldier's advances and grunted as he readjusted his grip on his charge. Curled over, pausing for a breath, he stared at the ground beneath him, trying to steady himself.
"She…she is…my…responsibility," he murmured determinedly between pants. Without waiting for a reply, he started again, following the remaining soldiers.
"Oafish lad…" the soldier muttered as he began off after him. The soldier next to him chuckled and clapped a hand on his friend's fur and mail covered back.
"Ah, let the boy keep his pride! He can collapse soon enough."
The sopping Nord spoke true, and not more than a quarter hour had passed before the overgrown trail opened into a clearing in the darkened woods, lit only by a patchwork of small fires. The soldiers surrounding the Rose Knight began to disperse as they headed to various campsites, eager to claim their seats by the fires and indulge in what little mead and food was available. The soldier who seemed to lead the small regiment parted for one of the few tents on the outskirts of the clearing, muttering to those near him to lead the boy to a fire. Mordistair eagerly lifted his head as the wafting smell of pine smoke and roasting meat consumed him and using the last of his strength, took long strides to close the gap between himself and comfort. It wasn't until the smoke burned the back of his throat and wafted eagerly across his salivating tongue, having been subtly flavored with tantalizing hints of roasted meat drippings, that he realized just how desperately hungry he had become, for the ache in his despairing limbs and lungs had claimed what little focus he had left to spare. The sight of spitted meat, of the fat coating the Nords lips as they picked through their freshly charred suppers, was simply an additional torment for the knight, and the emptiness in his stomach was only made more palpable.
He collapsed at the edge of smallest fire, with just barely space enough for his charge, much less himself, and his knees sunk eagerly into the sodden ground. Though exhausted to the point of nearing delirium he tenderly slipped Gwynayne off his back and cradled her in his arm against his breastplate, ripping the crimson cloak from his armor, the once finely stitched rose crest now covered in mud. He threw it to the ground, quickly smoothing the creases and folds, then gently lay his charge atop it, shifting her own cloak to cover her from the chilling night air. She stirred from the transition, mumbling something inaudible in her sleep. In what simple gesture he could attempt to soothe her, he softly brushed the few stray hairs aside that clung to her cheeks and lips. Soldiers that surrounded the fire watched in silence as he brought a knee to his chest and rested his head, eyes closed, at long last able to catch his breath.
Many throughout the camp could not help but stare at the young knight and his lady, decorated in relative finery as they were. Though disheveled and thoroughly soiled, the Rose Knight's armor and attire emanated rank and sophistication, and the foreign design easily stood out amidst the ramshackle appearance of the fur swaddled soldiers. He was clad in a finely crafted ebony breastplate, the attention to artistic detail and ostentatious flourish clear signs of its Breton origins, where superior blacksmithing techniques resulted in armaments of nearly sculptural quality. The breastplate, plackart, and pauldrons were soft and smooth, following closely the curvature of his natural form, adorned with silver edging and decorated with sculpted black and crimson roses. It shone in the light of the fire, gleaming after being polished by the recent downpour. Though stained with mud and the filth of the river, his clothing, a finally crafted white tunic and cravat, with leather gloves and tailored black pants stood in stark contrast to the matted fur and well-worn chain and tunics of the soldiers sharing the fire. Their leather armaments showed obvious wear and many of their helmets and gauntlets were dull and beaten in appearance. Undoubtedly Breton, with his small frame, pale complexion, sleek, bister colored hair and dark eyes, he looked out of place amidst the hulking, muscular builds, messy blonde hair and pale eyes of the Nordic soldiers that surrounded him.
An uncomfortable silence hung over the camp as the soldiers continued to take in the pair of Bretons who had so suddenly been thrust upon them. Few began to mutter of the young, unconscious girl and her evident elfish features. Those close enough to take note of her light hair, white as the frost and snow that adorned their own country, pointed ears, and slight frame that were clear indicators of her muddled pedigree, began to share hushed slurs and glares, beginning chains of breathy speculations and rumors that spread from fire to fire, leaving fellow troops with only more concern. Though the young Rose Knight kept his eyes downcast, trying to recover his strength, he listened intently to the soft spoken discussion around him, growing ever more apprehensive about their arrival to the rebellion encampment.
He fingers itched, desperate to search through the folds of his tunic for the precious parchment he had borne even before his haphazard journey east with his lady had formally begun. Sealed with royal wax and cocooned in thin leather, he could only hope it had survived the deluge and consequential tussle through the river, and that it remained with him and was not but a soiled lump of pulp, the ink forever washed away. The young knight had received few orders as direct and ardent as his order to keep such parchment safe and secure with him and with a weary sigh, his eyes trailed to check upon the sleeping figure of his charge, the object of the only order of protection and safekeeping given in even more urgency than his scrap of royal parchment. Color had at long last begun to return to the young girl's face, induced by the warmth of the fire, and her sleep appeared to have settled peacefully. He smiled softly, further tucking her in with her cloak, allowing his fingers to brush lightly over her own as he adjusted the fabric.
Though the sight of his charge sleeping safely and soundly beside him gave him momentary comfort, his eyes could not help but wander and catch the sneering grimace of the Nord sitting beside her, a gruff man, older than his companions, gripping his tankard of ale tightly, his dirt stained fingers digging deeply into the grain of the wood. Such a glare was shared by those sitting around the fire, all watching with narrowed eyes while Mordistair had idly been tending to his charge, suspicious of the strangers upsetting their evening routine. The hostility was beginning to choke the very air, and Mordistair longed further more to simply take his lady in his arms and flee into the surrounding woods, hidden and protected by the thick shadows and moon-hidden night.
Even the most contemptuous and abominable of those in the high court, sirs and ladies, knights and officials alike, did not make Mordistair feel as small and vulnerable as he did kneeling in front of the fire, unable to utilize either the silver in his tongue or sword to defend against the rebellious Nords. He could only watch the crackling flames and puckering pine before him, allowing the faint warmth of the fire quell and soothe what mounting anxiety he had, what eagerness he fostered to speak to the encampment's yet unknown leader to obtain the freedom he had not yet lost.