Chapter One: Far From Home
Elanniea rewarded anyone who looked at her with a harsh glare as the cramped cart made its way towards the village. She had long since gotten used to the rough jostling, and had instead focused her attention on the humiliating nature of her situation.
I don't deserve to be here, she told herself. All of this is his fault. He said I could trust him. She let out a barely audible sigh and shifted a little bit. Beside her, a gruff man gave her an annoyed look. His hands were bound, as hers were, but there was a gag tied tightly around his mouth as well. He wore nicer clothing than Elanniea was allowed, then again, anything would be.
The rough shift the Imperial guards had thrown her chaffed her golden skin, leaving behind thin, red lines. Never in her life had she imagined that she would be forced to wear something like it, but she supposed it was her punishment for forcing the very same garment on to so many others.
She shuddered to think of her rather messy arrest. The Markarth guards always were a rough bunch and took pleasure in tossing the Altmer woman around a little bit before throwing her into a cell for an undetermined amount of time. That part was her fault, perhaps she shouldn't have put on her high and mighty attitude before her position as a Justiciar was set.
Still, she paraded around Understone Keep, casting flirtatious glances at Ondolemar, the man who had been her fiancé, and ultimately, her undoing. She should never have believed that he would not betray her trust. He looked at her with scorn. She assumed she could confide in her future husband. Now, it had become painfully clear that she had been mistaken.
"You've been awfully quiet, Elf." Elanniea winced as the blonde soldier that sat opposite to her spoke. She set her mouth into a thin line as she looked up at the Nord. His navy blue armor was frayed from the Imperial ambush, his chain mail was dull and she looked at him with disgust as he taunted her. "You sure you're in the right place? I thought all of your kind was in the pocket of the damn Thalmor." She winced again, but she remained silent.
"You're really with them, then?" Another voice spoke, and she turned to see that another Nord was talking to her. His face was dirty and his eyes were sunken in. Instead of blonde hair, greasy brown locks framed his thin face. There was no malice in his words, only fear and the hope of gaining favor with the enemy. Elanniea thought for a moment and then shook her head, not saying a word. The man's fear intensified as he looked away.
"Goes to show how loyal those damn Elves are to their own kind." Her eyes snapped back to the blonde and for a moment, she could have sworn that the Stormcloak rebel was afraid of the intense hatred burning there. It was not like her eyes were difficult to fear; there once was that stereotypical haughty Altmer pride in her green orbs, but that had recently been put out.
Despite his cruel phrasing, Elanniea had to admit that she had been betrayed. She wanted to strike the idiot Nord for making her feel so useless and expendable, but when she jerked her hands, she recalled their position. The fabric rubbed her wrists raw and kept them where they were.
She glared at him, but kept her mouth shut. She would not dignify his accusation with an answer. She scorned the Nords for being as foolish as they were, for thinking that they of all races could stand against the Aldmeri Dominion. They had no chance, she knew that, but evidently they didn't.
All of their tendencies aside, Elanniea could not deny them an honorable mention to their bravery. They were a strong race, but the Altmer were stronger. Mer were superior to all, but Nordic pride rivalled that of the rightly named High Elves. Elanniea doubted that the common name of her race was meant to be respectful. High Elves were just that, but the Imperials held distrust and loathing in their voices when they spoke it.
The eyes of the man sitting next to her held similar feelings. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm and the root of all the Altmer female's troubles. His rebellion was the real reason why she was sitting in cramped cart with her hands bound in front of her. If he had surrendered to the higher power, Skyrim would not be soaked in the blood of its sons and daughters.
She did like his use of slogans, however. "Skyrim Belongs to the Nords!" Was the phrase that was inscribed on the tattered fliers that littered the streets, and it had always made her laugh. There was never a time when the harsh wasteland belonged to anybody but the Elves. The Altmer and Snow Elves were here first, and while she understood what a twisted race the Falmer had become, Skyrim was still theirs.
A cold wind blew on the air, stinging her golden cheeks and turning them a light pink. Elanniea supposed that it was Skyrim's cruel way of reminding her that she would not be surrounded by her loved ones when her blonde head would be cleaved from her shoulders, and her blood would stain the village streets. She was certain she would be able to face her death with dignity, but being executed in Skyrim only added insult to injury. Still, she held her head above the rest, refusing to be reduced to a weeping wretch.
She wondered what her mother would think when her remains would be delivered to their doorstep. No doubt she would wrinkle her nose in disgust and order them to be burned. Her father would look at her lifeless and no doubt headless body with disappointment in his eyes. He was more likely to have a shred of sadness within them as well, more likely than her mother, but both knew of her treachery. Both knew she deserved no other sentence. She had shamed her family greatly by what she had done. They were cast out of their elite social circle and would not be allowed back in until their only daughter's head was on a spike. Deep down, Elanniea knew that her family would rejoice at their return to power rather than waste their time mourning.
"Scared to face the chopping block, Elf?" She rolled her eyes. That damn Nord rebel was talking again, and she really wished that he would stop. Couldn't he let her prepare for her fate in peace? It seemed not.
Again, Elanniea was struck with the urge to speak, but her pride held her back. She bit her lip discretely and thought for a moment. While replying to rebel before her would not be the finest was of speaking her last, she did not want her final words to be "Let me go!" as she was dragged towards the Markarth dungeon.
"There are worse things than death," she replied. Her voice was stony, but her Summerset Isle accent was warm. The mouths of the two Nords across from her almost fell open in shock. She knew that neither of them expected her to reply.
Oh well, she thought. Small victories are the sweetest, after all. She straightened her back slightly, trying to live up to her pristine heritage. She would not slouch on the way to her death.
"What could possibly be worse?" Her smouldering eyes were alight with mischief as she looked to the horse thief. Psychological torture was a specialty of Elanniea's, and she relished in it. They were both going to die this day, so she might as well have a bit of fun before they did.
"The Thalmor have spent decades perfecting their torture methods," she began, noting the increase of fear in his dull brown eyes. "They are the best. I had never seen a prisoner beg for death until I witnessed that. It was almost sad, if it were not so funny." She looked to the Stormcloak rebel, who had grit his teeth.
"They... they wouldn't!" The horse thief stammered and Elanniea's eyes gleamed. She spared a glance towards Jarl Ulfric, who had a grim look set into his aging face. It almost gave her pause. It was not filled with rage, but with knowing. She opened her mouth to frighten the poor Nord a little bit more, but was silenced.
"Quiet back there, Elf." The driver of the cart called back, and Elanniea wished that her hands were free so that she could strike him with a lightning bolt. That would teach him for robbing her of her last pleasurable experience. She turned her head to the left and her heart sank as she realized that they had finally reached the destination of Helgen's gates.
Elanniea's stomach rolled as she thought of dying here, so far from home. All of the meticulous and elaborate escape plans that she had cooked up in her cell had gone to waste. She had hoped to finally break free of her chains, both Altmer and Thalmor alike. She wanted to be free, to see Skyrim and to meet its people. She wanted to travel and live off the land. Now, at barely seventy, Elanniea's dreams were to be cut short.
As the gates opened, Elanniea caught sight of someone she hoped to forget. Sitting straight-backed on a dark horse was a female she knew all too well. The woman was Altmer, same as her, with a beautiful face and golden hair. It was Elenwen, First Emissary to the Thalmor. The sight of her was unwelcome to say the least. The Emissary was old, just reaching six-hundred years, but it was not her age that threatened the younger of the two.
Elenwen was beautiful, yes, and she had a high stature within the Dominion. She was also incredibly high born and took it upon herself to look at Ondolemar whenever she came from an inquiry. Elanniea understood the necessity of making eye contact, but the way that Thalmor bitch's lashes would flutter made her blood boil.
Elanniea was a relatively new Justiciar, but was perhaps even higher born than Elenwen, as was Ondolemar. He had breached a hundred years a few weeks before their arrangement, and Elanniea's parents were all too happy to push their young daughter into his lap. It would have been an insult to decline, and so he did not.
It pained the young Justiciar to know that he had not come to care for her as she had done him, that he would not respect her. To like one's arranged partner was a blessing that she supposed was given only to her. He thought Elanniea improper and naive. Both were true, but he had agreed to this and could not escape.
Elanniea proved herself to be quite foolish when she came to him, wishing to speak about private matters in her chamber. He complied with a bored expression that faded into one of feigned surprise and sincerity as she whispered to him her dirty little secret.
He wasted no time in reporting her. He saw no problem with that. His future wife obviously did not have what it took to move up the ranks after doing such a thing, but then to tell a fine, upstanding and ultimately loyal member of the Dominion about such a crime was the final straw. He felt nothing as they clamped her in irons and took her away. He visited her once in the Markarth jail, and that was to ask for his ring back.
He had never seen an Altmer girl cry before, and as he left the long row of cells, ring in hand; he told himself that he never wished to again.
Elanniea cursed herself for being so stupid, she wished she could turn back time and make it so that nobody would ever have to know her secret. She would still do what she did, but not a soul would know but her.
You live and you learn, she thought grimly. However, It seems as though my time is up. A few moments later, the cart jerked to a halt, sending her crashing into Ulfric Stormcloak, who gave her another harsh glare. The Redguard captain ordered them out of their seats. All complied quietly except for the horse thief.
"No! I'm not a rebel, you can't do this!" he shouted and Elanniea stopped wishing to turn back time and instead prayed for him to stop.
Is this man an example of Nords under the Empire's rule? she asked herself. It seems almost wasteful. The horse thief lacked any and all courage, which was arguably the best trait of their entire race. The Altmer shook her head and jumped down from the cart behind the rebel as an Imperial Legate that the captain had called Hadvar began to call out their names.
He was also a Nord, she noticed, making a thought cross her mind, a thought that perhaps not all Nords are merely looking to make trouble. Maybe some had brains as well as brawn, enough to realize that it was easier to kill a sleeping bear than an alert one ready for battle.
The Aldmeri Dominion was a hungry animal, always looking for more power to gobble up. Elanniea had been seduced by it in the form of a very handsome Altmer mage, but she found that it was hardly worth getting her head lobbed off.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The Nord called, crossing the name off of his list.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." The rebel said, before his name was called.
"Ralof of Riverwood." Now Elanniea knew the rebel's name. Ralof. She turned it over in her mind and decided that it fit his stereotypical Nord exterior.
"Move towards the block." The Redguard said harshly and he complied with a nod.
"Lokir of Rorikstead." She finally knew the coward's name.
"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" He cried, shifting his weight.
"You're a Nord!" Elanniea finally shouted. "Face your death with the courage I've heard so much about!" Lokir looked to her with wide eyes as the courtyard fell silent. The thief saw his chance and took it.
"You're not going to kill me!" he shouted, sprinting towards the upper gate. All eyes followed him as the Imperial archers drew their bows and fired, stopping him in his tracks.
"Feel like running, Elf?" The captain asked and Elanniea shook her head. Finally, Hadvar called her name.
"Elanniea Graythar, of Summerset Isle," he said and she stepped forward. His eyes widened slightly. "Are you with the Thalmor?" he asked and Elanniea looked up the path to see Elenwen glaring down at her.
"I am not affiliated with them," she replied, noticing how cold and dead her voice sounded. Then again, she was preparing for the end.
"Very well," Hadvar said, scratching her name off of the list. "I'll make sure your remains are returned to you homeland." She gave him another grim nod in thanks and moved to stand behind Ralof.
Jarl Ulfric stood face-to-face with another man wearing intricate red and gold armor. She knew him, but had never spoken to him. The man was General Tullius, an Imperial with short, white hair and tan skin. His arms were folded over his chest and while height was not in his favor, he spoke with authority.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Elanniea had heard of the murder of the High King from the guards that patrolled the jail. She had sat beside a kingslayer and had not even known it. Not all could say that.
She wondered what the 'Voice' was, and if that was why he was gagged. She watched with big eyes as the Jarl let out a few muffled grunts. This seemed to make Tullius angry.
"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" He then turned to captain. "Give them their last rights," he commanded to the priest in orange robes and a yellow hood. She nodded and raised her arms. She began to speak in a dull voice, her speech obviously memorized. Elanniea was glad when it was over.
With the threat of death imminent, she looked up from the ground and forced herself to give Ralof a small smile. He blinked once and then returned it. Surprisingly, she felt a little bit more at ease. Unfortunately, it was short lived. The first nameless rebel was called to the chopping block. He was brave, Elanniea had to give him that, and he showed no fear when the burly executioner sliced his head off.
A woman in Stormcloak garb wailed and fell to her knees. Elanniea did not know what she was whispering to herself as she sobbed on the ground, but it sounded like the dead rebel meant a lot to her. Once the Nord woman was back on her feet, eyes bleary, and feet unsteady, the captain surveyed the crowd of people and the grieving rebel all but volunteered.
It seemed that the Redguard enjoyed seeing people in misery much more than Elanniea thought, as instead of choosing her to join her fallen friend, the captain's eyes landed on her.
"Next, the Elf in the rags." Elanniea felt fear grip her as she shuffled towards the block. About halfway to her death, a faint but inhuman roar was heard just beyond the mountain range. The Altmer couldn't stop shaking, no matter how much she tried.
"Captain?" Hadvar asked. There was a nervous uncertainty in his voice.
"I said next prisoner!" she all but shouted and Elanniea flinched away when she was pushed down on the block. Another roar was heard.
"What in Oblivion is that?!" General Tullius shouted as a black shape flew behind a mountain.
"What do you see?" the captain called to the lookouts. Their faces were pale as the black shape returned.
"It's in the clouds!" they yelled back, but the shape did not stay there for long. It had claws, fangs and big black wings. Elanniea had a great view of the hulking beast as the headsman raised his axe. She squeezed her eyes shut tight but the blade never met her exposed neck. She opened her lids and screamed when a black dragon landed on the roof of the tower.
She stood, with her breathing heavy as she noticed the headsman lay dead at her feet. The Altmer screamed again as she felt something grab her around her waist, but it was lost amongst the distressed cries and battle orders. She turned to find Ralof, who had been cut free, looking at her with urgent eyes.
"Come on, Elf!" He said to her. "The gods won't give us another chance!" It seemed as though giving him a smile was enough to make her worth saving, and without another word, she left him lead her towards the only tower that wasn't burning... yet.
A/N: So yeah, that's the first chapter! indismero did BETA this one, and so all good grammar props can go to her.