Chapter 2: Nordic Healing

Almost like he was a dog, Gharrok shook the thawing ice shards from his long blonde locks, turning to the mage that cast the spell in his direction. The sight that filled his eyes was one that would stay in his memories to his last breath. A young woman, probably not older than twenty-three. Her skin was the tone of an Altmer's, yet her body shape was not. She was small and lithe, with long, flowing, pale golden brown hair. Instead of having a long and pointed head and face, hers was rounded and attractive. Thin yet full lips were pulled back to show a full row of perfect teeth, bared ferociously in combat. The High Elf woman's iris' shone a hundred hues of the sun, and her pupils were black as ebony.

'Dibella, she's beautiful…' Gharrok thought, stunned by the woman. Then she started to move, Gharrok's world resuming from its slowed state. She wielded a dagger of refined malachite in a backwards fashion, hacking and slashing wildly at his Stormcloak comrades. In her free hand was a constantly changing cycle of spells: Healing, ice spike, flames and sparks, and conjuring atronach and familiars. This mysterious woman planted her knife into the chest of one of his squad, yet all he could think was how beautiful she was. The other Stormcloaks backed away cautiously from her, seeing how she had already brought down some of their comrades. She turned towards Gharrok, their eyes meeting for the first time. The Nord felt as if his heart was going to leap out of his chest. The snowflakes seemed to reflect every speckle of sunlight, making her look even more radiant than she was. His cheeks went red, and a grin started to grow on his face. Tucking his axe into his belt, he waved at her.

"What in Oblivion is he doing?" someone hissed, many eyes on the pair, All the other Thalmor were either dead or had yielded, yet this lioness fought on. The woman also smiled meekly, waving slightly.
"Are they-?" A woman asked, watching the She-Elf sheath her dagger. Gharrok was about to drop his shield and say hello, when her smile turned to a snarl, and launched a storm of lightning bolts at him. Gharrok barely had time to raise his shield before his face became a charred mess. The she-elf was too focused on trying to kill Gharrok that she didn't notice Ralof sneaking up behind her and smash her the back of her skull with the pommel of his axe.

"Got the bitch!" he roared in delight as she collapsed limply to the ground. Gharrok couldn't help but wince in sympathy, looking over his shield.

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There were seven of their enemy remaining by the end of the fight. The three wagons the Nightblades had ambushed contained greater loot than they'd hoped. Advanced spell tomes, weapons, high quality steel, and more importantly, reports on Thalmor movements in Skyrim.

"Turns out that these pale-skins were going to set up a base in Whiterun," Ralof grunted, dumping a crate of ingots onto one of the wagons.

"We lost a wagon though," Gharrok nodded to the side of the path. One of the wagon drivers tried to escape and was run of the road. All was well for the caravan, except for a broken wheel. "What about casualties?" Gharrok asked, passing a sack of potatoes to a comrade packing the loot onto their horses.

"Seven," Ralof answered sadly. "Lost a lot of good men today. Mostly to that bitch, too!" The Nord glowered at the female Justiciar, now tied up and gagged. She was only beginning to regain consciousness.

"That's war, Snow-Hammer." Gharrok counseled, kneeling down next to the fallen soldiers. It pained him to even think of such a thing to say. These were good friends of his, lying dead in front of him. Most of them weren't even soldiers. One was an ex-Imperial soldier, and another a mercenary, but the others? They were farmers. Stablemen. Hunters. This was what this Rebellion was doing. Forcing regular civilians into battle, just to protect their way of life, and it disgusted Gharrok. "Pray for them, but do not mourn yet." He put his hand on Ralof's shoulder, seeing the tears of anger well up in his eyes. "Look at the men. Yes, they cry. But we can not."

"And why's that!?" Ralof hissed. "We're people too!"

"The only time a leader can cry is when it's all over." Another one of the many lessons Gharrok's father had taught him. "Until then, we have to keep a smile on our faces to inspire the men." It took a few moments for that to settle in the Riverwood man's head, but he instantly understood. If they cried now, in front of their men and their enemies, they'd look weak. Not an image they'd want to portray. "Think only of how many lives we are we going to save with these supplies. The men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice here will not in vain!" Gharrok almost shouted the last two sentences so that the Nightblades could hear him. "I've no doubt that they're already in Sovengarde, their songs being sung in it's halls, drinking with the likes of Talos and Ysgramor, waiting for us to join them!" The men and women cheered, encouraged by his words. "Put our fallen in bags, we're taking them home." Almost immediately, a couple of women set to placing the bodies on huge sacks they'd brought for taking home casualties. Ralof was the official leader of the team, but it was Gharrok who ran the operation: he was the one who planned the strategies, communicated with spies, led the men into battle. The Nightblades considered him the true leader.

"Thank you, Broken-Blade." Ralof slapped his friend on the shoulder. "On the double, we should be out of here and in Windhelm by sundown!"

"Leave the spare body bags," Gharrok put in, only to receive looks of confusion from all sides, Thalmor and Stormcloak alike. "I'll deal with the remaining Elves, you all get going."

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Gharrok waited until all of the Nightblades were out of sight, the body bags laying at the feet of the bound and gagged Thalmor. Gharrok waited for a few moments, deciding to take of their gags.

"If you're going to kill us already, snow back!" Gharrok took the racist slur in stride, counting the number of bags they had and dead Thalmor.

"Who's wounded here?" The Elves remained silent, glaring at him venomously, wanting to tear him limb from limb. One of them, a foot soldier, looked like already had one foot in the grave. Pale and shivering, Gharrok spotted him almost instantly, looking at his bleeding shoulder.

"Let me see your wound," Gharrok said in a calming tone, approaching the Mer. The elf reeled back and cursed at him in his native tongue. Gharrok tried again, Slower, gingerly removing the chest and shoulder plates of his leather armour to inspect the wound. The shattered remains of an arrow's shaft protruded out of the cold body, a the skin around the hole turning blue, as well as the blood trailing out. Gharrok grimaced, opening a small pack tied to his side. The captain and second in command of squads were given

first-aid kits. Though they were to be used only of their own kind, if he didn't help the lad he'd die. Selecting a small pair of tongs, he heated them up in a ball of flame he conjured, and looked at the injured Elf.

"S-s-stay back, Nord scum!" The soldier squeaked, his eyes darting for an escape route.

"Please be calm. If that arrowhead stays in there, it'll get infected and kill you. Try to be still..." Gharrok, knowing that this wasn't going to be an easy process, kicked his knees from under him and straddled the squirming elf. Gharrok opened the wound with his fingers, causing the elf to grimace in pain.

"You don't look like an Altmer," Gharrok said, obviously trying to distract him. "Where you from?"

"I'm not, I'm Bosmer. And I'm from Val-Valenwood. From Elden Wood, to the south."

"The capitol? You're a long way from home, friend," Gharrok nodded, finding the head of the arrow. "I'm going to pull the arrowhead out now. This will be painful." The Bosmer's screams filled the cold Middas air, much to the torment of his Thalmor friends.

"...Got it!" Gharrok panted, discarding the whole head and placed it in the snow. Gharrok took of one of his gloves and wiped up the trail of blood oozing from the puncture. It was cold, freezing even. He put his tongue to the liquid, before spitting it out. The Bosmer used this opportunity to wriggle out of the hold and roll away.

"Don't touch me again, filthy Nord!" He growled, much to the pleasure of his comrades. The young woman looked on in silence, quietly observing the Nord's actions. "I'll have you know that I'm-"

"I don't give two shits who you are." Gharrok snapped. "That arrow was dipped in frostbite venom. I need to treat it now or you're going to freeze to death from the inside out, either that or your heart explodes..." Despite the fact that Wood Elves had a natural resistance to poison, the venom was already taking affect, the Bosmer could feel it. He had no choice.

"Do what you must..." The Bosmer sighed, submitting to the 'punishment' of a Nord's help. Gharrok pulled a small bottle from his pack, and rubbed it into the wound, before handing it to him.

"Drink this. It's an antivenin that'll fix you up good." Gharrok took off his other glove and cupped his hands, a small light appearing in his hands. Pressing the light into the wound, the soldier groaned in both pain and pleasure. "Divines, that feels good!"

"You… know healing magic?" An old Altmer Justiciar asked. It was a rare sight to see a Nord who knew magic. Most of their kind detested the arcane arts.

"Not all of us are as barbaric as you think," Gharrok flashed him a toothy grin. "Now how's about we get those binds off and we can send you home?"