The escape

His breath shuddered as he drew in the murky air around him. His heart hammering in his chest. Had that actually happened, has a dragon just caused that. Swallowing he looked at his companion, they seemed to be in just as much disbelief. His eyes widened and fearful, but his stance hardly falling, not allowing his nerve to overtake him, a stark contrast to the quaking teen behind him. Leaning against the wall the younger male let his eyes rest, he had little sleep over the last few days, with everything that had happened, it was a miracle he could still breathe.

It had started innocently enough, he had wandered down what seemed to be a main trail, the cobbled stone provided a welcome change to the harsh terrain of the land. Each step being harder than the last, the ice that had plagued him since the moment he first washed ashore still clawed at him. The blizzard had passed the snowfall still cloaked the surroundings, along with the ambush. He had found himself stuck between two waring groups. A blade pressed against his neck as he froze in shock, he had been bound and hauled into a cart with several others. One dressed in rags, another in what seemed to be a fur armour set with a blue sash. The third was one of importance, their captors had seemed to sneer in his general direction whenever they got the chance.

He had leaned, while caught in the rickety cart, that his name was Ulfric Stormcloak, some sort of rebel in a civil war. His stomach had dropped when he heard this, despite his cushioned upbringing he knew the fate of traitors, death would be inevitable… and a mercy. Despite being dressed in torn clothes he, and the other man in rags, had been mistaken for rebels. As they passed through a stone gateway, its grey stone would have been an interesting sight had Gascon not been in shock, he had hoped they would at least realise their mistake.

His hope had been shattered however, when the other man, Lokir, had ran yelling incoherently about not being a rebel. He had been shot down without a second thought, the arrow hitting his back with enough force to knock him over. Letting out a scream of pain as he fell, he landed with a slid thud before lying still. A scream threatened to rush out the young boy's throat, strangled only by the ice that had settled, the chill in the air not being the cause. Shaking on the spot, breath both caught in his throat, the wold seemed to fall apart on the spot. Heart hammering in his chest, the young man looked towards his captors when the challenge was uttered.

'Anyone else feel like running', the female commander had shouted, any hope of living left him with those words. The soldier (or so he assumed) stood next to her, looked towards the quaking boy. Squinting he seemed to be looking for something in the face of the young man.

'Who are you' he questioned the young boy, seeming to be confused with the youth's presence.

Shaking the violet eyed stared at the man in shock, he had felt this fear many times before but never to this degree. The man spoke with authority but soft enough that it masks any aggression, he had heard that tone of voice many times before… many times before.

'G-Gascon' the young boy replied obediently, recalling that the consequences of acting out in front of his father seemed petty compared to the punishments that these soldiers gave out. The body of Lokir being an example of one. Watching, the young man thoughts raced, swallowing nervously, his attention not wavering from the soldiers in front of him. The seemed to converse between one and other, before the younger of the two turned his attention back to the quaking teen.

'I'm sorry, I'll see that our remains are returned to your family' he spoke with pity in his voice, everything seemed to stop at that point, his body acting on its own, he followed. His thoughts vividly drifted towards home, his brother. The younger siblings smile when he got a spell right, cheering his elder brother on when testing and designing new mechanisms, these thoughts passed as the axe fell upon the neck of one rebel soldier… and he was called to the block.

Thinking of how Marcassin and him would sit by the fire during winter the orange flames flickering mesmerizingly, sharing stories as their father worked late day after day. He kneeled before the block, the chill of the stone beneath his knees not disturbing his thoughts.

How his brother would look at him worryingly after the elder of the two had fought with his father on some petty reason, his brother's cyan eyes searched his brothers face as he asked him to tell a story, in the hopes of distracting the pained teen. The wood of the block pricked at Gascons skin as the blood of the former occupant soaked is skin.

This was it, in an attempt to find his place in the world he had fallen victim to a war he had never heard of, in a land of which he didn't even now by name. He had let his family down, he was cowardly, couldn't even fight against his attackers, couldn't even explain their mistake. His father's disapproving gaze came to mind as the headsman lifted the axe into his arms.

The young teen shut his eyes, shame overwhelming him. The glare of his father being replaced with the pained gaze of his younger brother, tears in his eyes as he held a sword… nearly twice his height, it weighed heavy in the child's hands. He had failed his brother, the brother that supported him through everything, who never judged him no matter what, his biggest supporter.

And he abandoned him, his chest tightened in guilt.

The youth waited for the axe to fall, hearing the rustling of metal chains beside him and the whirling of wind he held his breath and counted to three…

'One'…

'Two'…

'Thr-'

*CRASH*

The crumbling of rocks and the battering of the bitter wind surrounded him, replacing the illusion of a falling axe, looking up abruptly he scanned his surroundings, pleased to have strangely survived the headsman's axe, thanking every deity he had be lectured on in this youth, to be alive.

That relief had lasted little longer than seconds as the shadow above him made its presence known. Atop one of the stone towers stood a towering beast. Scales darker than the midnight smog of Hamelin, eyes a bright, bloody red, it stared down upon the people before it, clawed wings griping the shattered grey rock. Time seemed to freeze as the mighty beast glared at the people beneath it.

Then it shattered the air with a bellowed screech. The sound stuck a chord within the young boy, the piecing rage sounding almost like a word. His stomach churned as he heard the cry, his hair stood on end as he stared, unblinking at the blood like eyes of the monster before him, his blood turning to ice.

The sky darkened, turning into a reddish spiral, flames falling from the wisps of clouds circling the now bloodstained heavens. As the fames fell, cracking and exploding on whatever surface they landed, the dark creature yet out another yell, blowing everything back. As his body was ripped from the chopping block he felt the rush of adrenalin fuel his veins, and he could move once again. Escaping through narrow winding paths and burning buildings, he ran with one set of people to another, avoiding numerous attacks from the dragon. In the end he had ran inside the castle looking structure with the first person he saw… that person happened to be the soldier from before.

Shaking his head, the former prince opened his eyes, the cold of the stone wall was seeping into his skin. Not doing much in a way of helping his racing heart, he moved himself upright back onto his feet and looked around the murky chamber. Lit by a few all cones its interior left much to be desired, at least they were safe.

A voice drew him sharply from the stillness of his daze, "looks like we're the only ones that made it" the soldier began, relief evident in his tone. He turned to the younger of the two, "was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?" he asked, as if the boy knew the answer.

Gascon looked at him, not sure how to respond, he knew of the existence of dragons, hell, they were practically domesticated in some society's. How this man had not heard of them was beyond him. "I've heard of dragons, but I've not heard of them doing… that" he replied almost breathlessly, the running earlier still taking its toll on his lungs.

The elder man cast a quizzical look towards the brown-haired teen, "how could you not… never mind" he started, stopping abruptly before continuing. "We should keep moving, come here let me see if I can get those bindings off" he gestured the teens wrists, which had been tightly bound with a dirty cloth. Gascon was more than happy to oblige, walking towards the older man lifting his hands forwards to allow him to start cutting. Wearing the bandage down with a dagger, the younger of the two was freed shortly after. Rubbing his wrists, reddened from the friction, he looked back towards the soldier as he spoke, "there you go, take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to chose from" with that he turned, muttering about his burns.

Looking from the armour-clad man to his surroundings, the young prince first noticed a small desk, atop it lay a book with a worn green cover, next to it lay a small pile of gold, flat disks. This must be this lands currency, picking up one of gilded objects, he twisted it in the light, examining the marking. It looked similar to the guilders he used back home, as far as he knew they were used worldwide, so how could these differ from what was so commonly used.

His thoughts were interrupted by his companion, "take them, you may need them". The teen turned to look at the soldier, but he was already walking back to the barred gate at the other end of the room. Looking back to the desk, he collected the small pile of coins, counting out five as he did so. Placing them in a pouch in his side bag, he looked back to the worn book, deciding to take it with him he placed it in his satchel.

Finishing with the desk, the young boy turned to the beds at the dimmed side of the room, the wooden frames adorned with straw overlaid with the pelts of numerous animals. The browns and creams looked soft compared to the ground, but rugged compared to the luxuries he had back home.

Turning his attention to the chests residing at the bottom of the beds. He sifted through their contents. The aging wooden containers yielded leather braces, boots and a smallish tunic, perhaps it would fit him. Removing his satchel and his now soaked over shirt, he slipped the restricting, but protective garment over his shoulders, it finally settling reaching just above the hem of his dress like shirt. The ties of the apparel lined both sides of the dark brown garment, tightening and tying the strings the young man felt shortened of breath for a moment before growing used to the restricting material hugging his torso.

Replacing the torn and soaked boots with the sturdy leather ones that reached to his knees, he added the sturdy braces to his wrists, these would provide adequate protection, at least, to prevent his hands being severed at the point, he wasn't too sure how they would stand against the force behind the blade.

Sighing he hooked his bag over his shoulder again and looping his fur cloak over his back, looking back into the chest to see if there was anything else to retrieve. As luck would have it, another seven coins were stuffed into a bag into the corner of the wooden cheat, placing the previous five coins in the pouch, he placed it in his sactual. Smiling at his new attire and addition to his coin purse, he turned to look around the room noticing a weapon rack at the other side of the room.

Walking past his companion as he advanced to the holder, he noticed they only held swords, not his preferred choice of close range weapon, but he still had some experience with them thanks to royal training. Shaking his head, hoping to come across a spear or two on his travels he took what appeared to be the sharper of the two swords, laying its blade gently in his palm observing it. Despite its supposed superiority to its twin, it was chipped and looked as if it hadn't been sharpened in ages. Pulling a face, the teen hooked its sheath onto his belt, before sheathing the weapon itself.

Looking back at his companion, he noticed that the older man was looking at him with an expression of pity. He scanned the younger man's face, worried eyes searching for any negative emotion. "how are you holding up" he eventually uttered.

Blinking at him in shock, the younger man stared at the man who just addressed him, he opened his mouth several times, attempting to convey his thoughts on the situation… but with no success. Sighing, the younger man looked at his feet, he finally replied, "…It's been a hectic day".

The elder seemed to consider this, then nodding, he addressed the young man. "Ok, just try to stay calm, we may meet some other survivors" he said sympathetically. Turning back to the gate he pulled the chain at the side of the door, raising the gate. The two advanced through the short corridor the end barred with another gate.

Hadvar stopped, putting an arm out to prevent the young man from advancing, he whispered "Look Stormcloaks, maybe we can reason with them" with an optimistic tone. Somehow, the young former prince disagreed, even he knew that the rage of war would not be quenched from something like that. The wizard wars had wiped more than half the country's off the map, Hamelin's shores showed the fates of at least two of them, obliterated long before his great-grandfather was even born. The rage that tore the land apart was the same that tore through this land, the same that plagued these men's hearts. This would end bloodily.

Raising the gate, the elder of the two spoke cautiously, "hold up, we only want t-". However, he was cut off by the blue clad soldiers before him. Regrettably, Gascon had been right about them, they wanted to finish the war that was started. Drawing a blade and axe respectively, they advanced. Hadvar reacted immediately, drawing his blade, the teen followed suit pulling the battered blade from its sheath. As the older man approached the axe wielding rebel, the other advanced towards the younger boy, rage flaring in his eyes.

An icy cold chill washed down the former prices spine as panic struck him hard in the chest. Ducking to one side to avoid a vicious slash to the side of the head. Nausea crept into his stomach as his throat tightened, threatening to spill the remains of yesterday's meagre meal. Before his body could react on the thought, his assailant turned to face him, anger flaring in his expression. Swinging his sword at the teen once again. The clatter of metal and the shouts behind them was thundered out by blood rushing through the boy's ears. A sting lay itself across Gascons cheek as the blade grazed its target slightly, the beads of blood welling slowly through the flare of pain. A good sign, at least it wasn't deep.

Through his panic, the teen felt a familiar tug of muscles, before noticing what he was doing, a clang of metal was heard above him. Adjusting his wavering vision, he was startled to see the blade of his attacker being blocked by a battel worn sword, realising at once it was his. Muscle memory must have been triggered, he considered, shaking as he did so. Jumping back, he focused on the movement of the rebel, dodging and blocking as he did so. Watching each swing and movement of his opponent, he imagined his former mentor in their place. Scolding him for each failed block, applauding him every successful strike, teaching the art of royal swordplay until it felt as easy as dancing to the young prince. Then the near tearful expression of his younger brother appeared in his mind, sword in hand his eyes pleaded him to stay. But all he got was a promise to return. Thinking of that brought a vigour to the teens muscles, burning away the stiffening fear replacing it with a searing resolve.

He would win this fight.

No matter what it took, he would return to his brother.

Crying out in rage, the young teen swung his scarred sword. Landing blow after blow, beating his assailant back with each strike, very few of them cutting into the rebel, but the ground still being sprayed with droplets of blood. The pained gasps of his opponent were soon extinguished by their own enraged howl. The clash of steel against iron echoed off the cold stone walls as the two danced around each other, swinging violently at each other every few seconds. The brash harshness of the rebel contrasted against the grace and fluidity of the former prince's royal swordplay, each swing wore the assailant down. Despite the finance of the teens art, his inexperience with real fights caught up to him, coupled with the fact that his weapon was battered and weaker compared to his opponent's, he soon found himself on the losing side of the battle.

Stumbling the teen left himself open, roaring in triumph the rebel went to deliver the last strike, darting towards the young man, blade held above his head. Gasping, the teen darted to one side blade held forward ready to strike the back of his aggressor's head, ending the fight.

His legs buckled, the blood providing a slick surface.…

He fell to the side of his opponent…

…and felt the impact of the ground cushioned by a large object.

Opening his eyes, he saw the armoured body of the rebel beneath him, eyes still, rage immortalised on his frozen face. And the grey broken blade of a sword embedded in his chest, blood coating his chest as it soaked through the wound to the floor. Its scarlet a stark contrast against the light greys of the stone, the flickering candle light reflecting off of its surface. The flames of rage that griped him before were extinguished, replaced by a sickening chill that seemed to seer him harsher than their predecessor. Looking back towards the face of his former aggressor, he saw the vacant eyes boring into him, slowly glazing as the process of death took its toll on the fallen body. Feeling his stomach drop even further, the guilt weighing on him. 'This is not what I wanted' he thought painfully, the blood seeped further along the floor. Despite the attack made against him, he felt he could have acted differently.

If he held his ground better…

If he hadn't slipped…

The scolding of is former mentor came to mind.

Feeling a hand slap down on his shoulder, he looked up to see the concerned eyes of Hadvar, his face splattered with the blood of the other Stormcloak. He searched the younger boys face, pit in his gaze. "Are you alright, you don't look too good" he eventually muttered, gently he helped the teen to his feet.

Considering his companions concern, Gascon looked back to the body. Guilt weighed in his chest and the blood on his hands begun to dry. Gulping as he noticed himself shaking harder than before, staring at the vacant eyes of his former attacker.

"…It's the first time I've killed someone" he admitted eventual, his voice taking a solemn tone.

The air stood still as he waited for a response, something scolding he assumed. "I see… so, I assume you really weren't with the rebels before" his companion inquired gently. Shaking his head to answer, the older man continued at the teens gesture. "He would have killed you, you had no choice. Regardless… we need to keep moving, we will likely run into more further in". The rumbling of the dragon over heads confirmed this.

Moving throughout the hold numbly, the younger had followed the elder. Collecting better weapons had been necessary, a fairly sturdy steel sword lay heavy on Gascon's belt, and a sharpened steel accompanied it. Along with a bow and several arrows to spare his bullets. He collected small stores of preservable foods and some of the ale that was left on the tables and cupboards, due to there being a seemingly large lack of drinking water. Hadvar had recommended taking some small vials of healing potions, apparently this country's version of the healing tonics back home.

At one point they had arrived at what appeared to be a torture room at one point, finishing off an attack from more rebels. After looting, again at Hadvar's suggestion and Gascon's disgust, what appeared to be a mage outfit from a corpse inside one of the locked cages. 'It'll sell well', Gascon had tried to justify to himself as revulsion sided alongside the numbing guilt. Despite the legal and moral discrepancies he was committing, the former prince still chose to find other necessities to take, the weren't going to be used here again any time soon anyway. Some gold coins from behind the wooden counter and an interesting black book with a strange dragon-looking symbol on the front, it would make for an interesting read later he had justified.

Moving forward they had encountered several other enemy soldiers, striking them down as they had done to the first, the actions only adding to numbing guilt the teen was burdened with. What would his little brother think of him acting with such bloodthirst, cutting down his opponents rather than incapacitating them. His guilt only further increased at the thought, one look at Hadvar told him the older of the two had felt the same way at their actions.

Walking further into the winding caves had seen them up against monstrous creatures, the former prince let lose a high-pitched scream when he saw the eight-legged creatures fall from the ceiling. 'There's no way spiders can grow so big, surely' he had thought in terror after cutting the beast down, living in Hamelin had limited the number of animals he had chances to see, the wastelands being occupied mostly by rogue machines and haunted husks from the mass graves by the tombstone trail. His companion had mentioned his reaction jokingly while stating that he was just as surprised as the younger boy at the creatures before them, before leading the way through even more winding tunnels.

Walking through what appeared to be another cave, the two looked around for any signs of danger. Seeing a mass of brown fur laying in a beam of chilled sunlight stopped him dead in his tracks, his companion saw too and quickly crouched behind some rocks, the boy following suit. "Look a bear" his companion had exclaimed, "I'd rather not tangle with her right now, let's try to sneak by". Agreeing, the two had snuck past rocks and fallen dried branches to avoid the sleeping beast, careful not to wake it. However, attempting to sneak past the bear had been harder than first thought, which was made evident when the younger of the two saw a shadow rise up quickly on the ground, barely having enough time to warn Hadvar with a shout before ducking out of the way of a vicious swipe.

Drawing their blades, they had forgot the beast, their blades dashing across the coated body of their assailant. A few hits had landed on them, nothing serious enough to warrant immediate healing but still stung fiercely as the fight had raged on. Eventual, through tremendous effort, they had fell the beast, a small trickle of triumph had replaced the sickening guilt from before and Gascon wasn't too sure what to make of it.

Hadvar had returned to the body to skin it for its pelt, surprising the former prince. The difference in how these people lived compared to Hamelin's citizens was striking. Hunting was unheard of, skinning the animal, even more so. Sure, the higher classes in Hamelin society often brought furs, but they were all imported, this was the first time he had ever considered such a thing necessary. But then again, it was cold outside, the fur that made his own borrowed cloak helped starve off the ice's effect. Blinking at his companion once he had finished, they moved onwards.

Perhaps he could grow to live he thought as the darks browns and greys of the earth and stone gave way to a flurry of green and blue.