CHAPTER 2
Summary: In the midst of readying his men for what may or may not be a battle, Fasendil finds himself confronted by Stormcloak soldiers accusing him of sending his sister to Windhelm in attempted espionage. "Does mother know you wear her drapes?"
A/N: A lot of the activities of the Imperials and Stormcloaks until the beginning of the actual questline events will be inventions, assumptions, and other such fictional twaddlings. Basically, fillers – but I won't write more than what will become boring, I promise.
There will also be little bits of history about Fasendil too, in this chapter and future ones to come!
[Insert the usual begging for reviews here.]
FASENDIL
If Fasendil had thought his job to be relentless before, the escape of the Stormcloaks had only made things that much more hectic. He had been assigned to The Rift as planned, but he was immediately tasked with organising his men and preparing for the very high possibility that Ulfric Stormcloak would rally his men and strike at anytime, anywhere. It didn't matter that Fasendil had already mentioned the futility of preparing the Rift for such an attack – Riften was already held by the Stormcloaks, after all. But he'd been ordered to be ready in case they would be required as reinforcements elsewhere... a task the high elf had thought would be a piece of cake.
Amidst what was, at this point, a lot of hoopla over nothing, Fasendil had plenty of time to think, worry and panic over Aralyn. Argument and conflict aside, since moving to Skyrim it had always been just the two of them, looking out for each other in a place that couldn't help but immediately suspect them as the ever-hated Thalmor.
Even if she had escaped Helgen, where had she gone, and how could he be sure she had made it somewhere safe? He had already been concerned enough with her safety that he'd brought her to Falkreath with him, and then planned to eventually take her to the Rift as well. Now she was unarmed, armour-less, and most of all she was alone – an Altmer female travelling through the mountains of Skyrim on her own. How could he manage his legion properly while under stress about his sister's survival, whereabouts and wellbeing? He should've had her married off when he had the chance, to a decent man with an honest living and enough good looks that his snobby sister wouldn't complain.
He rubbed his nose, stifling a smile at the thought. As haughty and insufferably superior as Aralyn could act, her kindness and selflessness transcended it by miles, sometimes to his surprise, despite the fact that he had been with her for almost every day of her life. Fasendil had never thought of anywhere as being his home – not the Summerset Isles, not his place of birth Cyrodiil, and not Skyrim, but Aralyn had become fond of the latter immediately. She was always the first to step up and assist their neighbours, never in too much of a rush to stop to talk to the townspeople, and even when she was insulted, she never ever said a bad thing to anyone (well, not to their face, at least).
He remembered once when she'd attempted to set him up with a pretty woman two houses down, a Nord with big green eyes and long blonde hair and a fragility about her that contradicted the typical visual qualities of her kinsmen. Vyrra was too delicate, too soft, too much a lady to yoke her to himself; a soldier who would spend most of his time away from any family he would attempt to have. And despite how much she clearly liked him and how taken he was with her, the relationship had never been allowed to progress any further than a few dates and flirting here and there, before it was severed completely once Fasendil had become a legate, able only to visit Whiterun occasionally.
His sister had scolded him for weeks afterward, much to his amusement as well as his regret. But a warrior who would hardly be there for his wife and children, constantly putting his life in danger as well as leaving his family unprotected in his absence – if he hated the thought of that for Aralyn, surely he wouldn't allow the same fate to befall Vyrra – or any other woman – just because he fancied her.
Yet now, he was very much a lone wolf, with no home and no lover, nothing but a passion for the Empire and a protective instinct over his only family whom, ironically, he had also recently lost due to his position.
His expression darkened and he pushed himself off the creaky chair. He could not be thinking of Aralyn right now. She had questioned him, defied him, and denied the Empire they'd both been protected by all this time. Anything that had happened to her was by her own doing, and he could not afford to allow himself to think anything else.
He walked toward the table to review the map laid across it once more, detailing all current Imperial camps as well as the ones soon to be erected; and all known enemy camps, as well. It seemed the Stormcloaks were spreading out and establishing their positions fast, but Fasendil knew they didn't have the numbers to attempt any sort of large-scale attack. Not yet, at least.
"Legate Fasendil," a croaked, elderly voice called to him, and he lifted his head to see who addressed him from the entrance of his tent. "How fares your cause?"
"Lord Hjorn," he replied without much enthusiasm, head bowing once more to examine the map. "It fares adequately. What brings you to our camp this morn?"
Hjorn Iron-Finger was a nobleman of the Rift – aptly named due to his influence in the region and the quality iron weaponry that provided him riches as well as authority. Although he was very much a nosy, obnoxious, over-extravagantly dressed, shrewd old busybody who nobody liked much, he was largely the reason for which they had gained so many new, young and strong recruits to the legion in the Rift recently. Thus, even if respect wasn't an option, it had to be replaced with basic politeness.
"Nothing but loyalty and a bout of curiosity. I hear that Ulfric outsmarted Tullius once again, with a dragon no less."
A dry glance was the first response Fasendil had to give him. "I'm certain that you, my lord, with all your cultured views and high education, would not believe that such a creature would be dictated by a mortal, least of all the Stormcloak usurper."
"Perhaps not, but you must admit it is rather mysterious," Hjorn said with a lazy smile, and Fasendil knew the man simply wanted to toy with him, as he did with anyone he could corner. As much as he was an Imperial supporter, the old fool could also be their biggest critic.
"My job is not to deal in mysteries," the legate replied brusquely. "I deal in facts and serve with steel. The dragon was merely a delay of the inevitable. I advise you not to get too excited, Lord Hjorn."
"I will do my utmost," the old man replied, mirth still ever-present in his tone, "but this I cannot say for the rest of Skyrim."
Fasendil opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, he heard his name being called from outside. Frowning, he excused himself from Hjorn's presence, walking around the table to leave the tent even as the old lord trailed after him. When he met the soldier near the edge of the camp, he found him faced with – of all creatures – two Stormcloak rebels.
"What is the meaning of this," Fasendil demanded with a narrowed gaze, his arms crossed over his chest as the soldier at his side kept his sword drawn. Behind him, Hjorn muttered something about interesting developments.
"We do not come in arms," one of the Stormcloaks said, though his harsh tone said he would have preferred otherwise. "We come bearing a message from Windhelm, from the true High King himself, Ulfric Stormcloak."
Hjorn eagerly jumped into the conversation, emerging from behind Fasendil. "True high king, is it?" he asked in his shrill, scratchy voice. "By whose decree; his own?"
The Stormcloak sneered at the elder, giving his bright, lavish, jewelled robes a disdainful once-over before disregarding him entirely. "Does mother know you wear her drapes?"
"Ulfric has not earned any such title yet," Fasendil spoke, ignoring the petty dialogue between the lord and the Stormcloak before him. "And neither will he ever. What message do you bear?"
"The Jarl would condemn the Imperials for their deceitful activities," the soldier said gruffly, and Fasendil frowned as he continued his rehearsed words. "He states that the attempt at espionage by the Empire, the Thalmor, or both, must result in justice being served upon the apprehended, and a gracious warning be given for similar future offences."
Fasendil stared at the Stormcloak as he fell silent after reciting the message loud and clear. Deceitful activities? Espionage? What on Nirn was the man talking about?
"I have no idea what your jarl believes us to have done," he began slowly, as calm as he could be given the strange and untrue accusations; "but no such deceitful activities have been authorised from this camp, and neither do I believe that of any of our other camps, either – though you are very welcome to visit each and every single one to hear that same truth."
The Stormcloaks looked at one another as if they had a secret, before facing Fasendil, each with an irritatingly smug smirk on their faces. "It was assumed you would deny it," the second Stormcloak said. "But it is futile. The spy herself also denied her crime, but she did identify herself. As your sister."
The words absolutely floored him, and judging by the messengers' faces, he likely displayed most flabbergasted expression he'd ever worn. "Aralyn?"
"Curiouser and curiouser," Hjorn uttered gleefully, rubbing his chin, and Fasendil only barely controlled himself from turning and knocking the man out cold.
"Something of that sort," the second Stormcloak affirmed. "She said she had abandoned the Empire as well as her brother, seeking to join our cause, but the Jarl saw through her lies and she now serves out her punishment. For you, however, we bring only this warning: never again shall you try –"
"Alright, shut up would you."
The soldier looked startled by Fasendil's sharp words, blinking and almost even taking a step back. The legate stepped forward, narrowing the distance between himself and the men, and they both placed their hands upon the hilts of their swords, though their nervous expressions betrayed them.
"That Altmer is indeed my sister," he snarled, voice low and angry. "Or she was, before I knew of this betrayal. But the Imperials do not deal in espionage, nor would I ever send my own sister into your ranks simply to discover your useless secrets. If you would punish her, I could care less." He straightened, lifting his chin, and the Stormcloaks backed up out of his space. "Now," Fasendil ordered, "get out of my camp."
Hardly spending any further time watching as the Stormcloak messengers fled the camp, Fasendil turned with thinly-veiled fury to return to his tent. Aralyn, you traitor.
Rubbing a rough palm over his face, Fasendil returned to his tent and leaned over the table once more, though his concentration was no longer on the marks pinned to the map and the lines between them.
"So," Hjorn muttered, though his tone made his interest evident, "kin turns against kin, blood turns against blood."
"This is war," the Altmer responded flatly. "We all knew what it might bring."
"The Stormcloaks have imprisoned your sister," the old lord reminded, "have you no concern for her fate?"
"As far as I'm concerned," Fasendil growled with a sharp glare. "I do not have a sister anymore."
ARALYN
She couldn't stop shivering, no matter what she tried. Sitting atop the hay pile in her corner of her cell, curled up and rubbing her hands together almost furiously wasn't helping much, and even the pathetic meals they brought her twice a day were placed too far away for her to untangle her limbs and brave the cold floor.
It had only been a few days, but she felt the strain nevertheless. Aralyn was accustomed to a warm, cosy home in Whiterun, a wide range of homemade meals by her personal cook from which to choose, and an endless supply of expensive gowns, robes and accessories to wear according to her every mood and fancy. The meager piece of eidar cheese on the plate at the door, the rags she was currently clothed in, and the cold damp surroundings of her cell was certainly not an unnoticeable change, and definitely not one she adapted to well.
The first two days she had endured well, the hours passing by slowly but hopefully as Aralyn awaited someone to come down into the block any second to pardon her and apologise for their wrongful accusation. The twelve hours of the third day had passed by even slower, and the cold had begun to seep in. She remembered how much Fasendil used to tease her about her intolerance to the cold in contrast to her adoration for Skyrim, reminding her over and over that the Altmer preferred tropical heat to frosty tundra. He was stronger, and his many travels had made him able to adapt to all climates and conditions, much to Aralyn's envy. If it were Fasendil in this cell, he probably wouldn't even sniffle.
Drawing her knees up and bowing her head to press her forehead against them, Aralyn paid gratitude to the fact that the cold at least stopped her tears from falling. Maybe she should've listened to Fasendil. Maybe she'd been too rash to condemn the Empire. Maybe personal conviction wasn't worth being stuck in prison for divines knew how long. Maybe her choices would lead her to be forgotten in here for good.
"Hey you, Thalmor bitch!"
Aralyn rolled her eyes. This wasn't the first time she'd been called by such a title in this place, and she was pretty sure it wouldn't be her last.
"Hey, I'm talking to you."
"There is no Thalmor here," she finally snapped, her head merely rolling to one side to face the direction from where the voice came. It was the prisoner in the cell next to hers, and though she couldn't see him, she figured he'd been there when she had first arrived and seen her.
"Fine. Altmer bitch, then." So much better. "What you in for?"
"Jarl thinks I'm a Thalmor spy. As does everyone in this place, apparently."
"Blame 'em?"
"...No." She rested her chin in the space between her knees, biting into her dry, cracked lower lip. "I suppose not."
"Want to know what I'm in for?"
"Not particularly," she murmured, "but I wager you're going to tell me anyway."
"Murder." The voice sounded pleased, as if he were proud of himself.
"You don't sound very remorseful."
"I'm not. Found the bastard raping my sister. He probably woulda' killed her too, had I not caught him first. Stabbed him in the face and then tried to run before I got caught. Guards found me, and they didn't believe me, of course."
"You shouldn't have run," Aralyn stated with a frown he couldn't see.
"You think staying put would've convinced them?" She heard the man scoff. "I don't care, though. I'd do it again if it meant Tamare would be safe, like she is now."
Aralyn remained silent, weighing his words in her mind, considering the self-sacrifice he claimed not to regret.
"So, are you, then?"
"Am I what?"
"A Thalmor spy."
"No, I'm not." She sighed, pressing her face against her knees again. "But that doesn't matter, either. I abandoned the Imperials and my own brother for what I thought were the protectors of Skyrim. Now I'm in prison for it."
"Good intentions don't always reap rewards."
"Thanks for the encouragement."
"And sometimes they do. But most of the time you have to content yourself with simply knowing you did the right thing."
"And how do you know it's the right thing?"
"Ask yourself."
She's about to inquire if that was what he had done, if that mindset was how he survived the dark depths of prison after doing nothing but saving his sister; when heavy footsteps and the jingling of keys had her head lifting almost immediately, the words on her lips fading away.
"Enjoying the accommodations, elf?" the guard asked once he was standing at the door of her cell.
Aralyn averted her gaze, cheek rested back atop her knees, ignoring the biting remark. Indeed, the taunts were nothing new – but damn, were they getting irritating.
And then, to her surprise, the guard lifted the keys in his hand, using one to unlock her cell and open the door wide. He didn't look happy about it, which could obviously only be a good thing for Aralyn.
"Get up," he told her, and she didn't need to be told twice. "Come with me. The Jarl wishes to see you."
They've realised I'm innocent. They're releasing me. I'm free.
She couldn't help but look back, however, at the man in the cell beside hers. A young, dirty yet kindly Breton face looked back at her, and he was grinning. She thought he might be less than sane.
"Reap the rewards," he called out to her. "And find my sister, Tamare. Tell her I'm okay."
"I – I will," Aralyn nodded, before getting pushed forward, into the familiar stairwell leading up to the hall of the Palace of the Kings.
"Hurry up, elf. Before I change my mind."
