Chapter 2: Unbroken Road

Several weeks later, Monica stood in front of North Country Stables, her pack of belongings on her back and her heavy woolen cloak over her arm. It wasn't even eight o'clock, but the sun was already scorching, and as time wore on, its rays began to beat down upon the paving stones, sending waves of heat shimmering upward. It would be a downright miserable day to spend in a carriage, bumping along in the dust for hours with no escape from the tyranny of the sun. But unfortunately enough for her, that was her plan for the day.

After weeks of planning, she and Guinevere had finally gotten the arrangements in order. Avik had hitched up one of the older mares and driven her down from Battlehorn that morning, and today she would take a carriage to Bruma. Tomorrow, she would begin the actual journey to Skyrim, a trip that would take her across the Jerall Mountains and end in the Skyrim city of Whiterun. From there, she would go on to a city called Riften, where Honorhall, the orphanage caring for Aventus, was located.

She shifted her cloak from one arm to another, grimacing at the sweat-dampened sleeve of her dress. She'd protested that she didn't need to bring the cloak along, but her mother had insisted that the pass would be cold, even in the summertime. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she turned to gaze at the Jeralls, noting the whiteness at the peaks. Hard to believe that tomorrow, she would be up among them.

She turned her head at the sound of a creaking hinge to see a figure exiting the stables. He headed toward the corral, pausing when he caught sight of her. "Here for the nine o'clock to Bruma?" he asked. At her nod, he smiled. "I'm getting the horses ready now. Shouldn't be too much longer. We may even get an early start." He turned back to the corral, but then paused again. "Oh, and it's a twenty septim fare. Just in case you wanted to go ahead and get that ready."

Her hand immediately flew to her belt, where the coinpurse resided, along with the pouch containing her identification papers and the letter from the steward. She'd been anxiously reaching for them all morning, afraid that they'd somehow been lost—either fallen off or stolen. To her relief, they were still in their place, but she still glanced around nervously as she tugged the coinpurse free. Handling coin always made her nervous—especially out in the open like this and in these amounts—and besides, several other passengers had begun drifting over in her direction. The majority of her mother's life savings glittered back at her when she opened the coinpurse—it would be just enough to cover the costs of the trip, but she had every intention of bringing as much of it back as she could. Travel and inn costs were set in stone, but she was hoping to save on food. She'd raided the kitchen last night, and had managed to cram at least a day or two's worth of provisions into her pack.

"All right, folks!" The driver's voice finally rang out, breaking through her thoughts. "We're all set to get on the road. Please line up in an orderly fashion and have your payment ready as you climb in. Larena here," he indicated toward the burly woman in armor at his side, "will be our guard today."

"The guard's just a precaution," someone muttered as they filed toward the carriage. "Attacks have gone down since drivers stopped carrying the payment with them." Actually, Monica noted as she handed her fare over, touching the coinpurse once again as she took her seat, their danger would be minimal today because it wasn't raiding season. In the height of summer, food was plentiful, but come autumn, bandit tribes would begin stocking up for the winter, and they would be hungry again come spring.

As predicted, the journey was uneventful. She was pleasantly surprised, however, that most of the Orange Road was heavily shaded, making the day far less uncomfortable than anticipated. She had seen the expanse of the Great Forest from the battlements at home, of course, but the distance failed to capture the full scope of it. They stopped around noon to let the horses drink, but the constant jolting motion and being crushed in with the other passengers still wore on her, a fact that was only made worse when they made the turn onto the Silver Road. But as the carriage approached Wildeye Stables, her throbbing head and aching body were quickly forgotten as she stared around in wonder. Everything about the land here was different—colors, textures, flora, smells—and when she glanced to the north, the white peaks of the Jeralls seemed to be looming directly overhead. It suddenly struck her how high up they really were—and just how much further she had to go.

"First time in Bruma?" the elderly woman seated beside her ventured with a smile, which she tentatively returned.

"Yes, ma'am." She glanced around at their surroundings again, then back to the woman. "It's amazing, it's…" She shook her head and the woman chuckled.

"Ah, I remember leaving my home hold for the first time," she laughed. "Of course that was quite a long time ago." For a moment, a flicker of nostalgia drifted across her face. "Are you staying here long?"

Monica shook her head. "Just for the night," she said quickly. "Then I'm off to Skyrim in the morning."

"Ah." The woman nodded. "Not a lot of time to see the sights, then." She squinted up at the sun. "You still have some time to explore, though. I'd recommend saving the Akaviri museum for another time, but the statue of the Champion of Cyrodiil is up by the north gate, and the Chapel of the Eight is right in the center of town." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Although it used to be the Great Chapel of Talos," she hissed, and Monica cringed at the mention of the false god, although she forced herself to nod politely. The venom that had crept into the woman's otherwise-kindly demeanor also sent a chill down her spine, but then the woman's smile returned as she changed the subject.

"Do you know where you're staying?" she asked, and Monica reached for her belt, where the itinerary Guinevere had written for her was tucked alongside her other papers.

"Elle's Tap and Tack," she read, but the woman frowned.

"Are you dead set on that?" she asked. "For five septims more you could go up the hill to the Three-Eyed Raven. It's rumored to be haunted, if you believe in that sort of thing, but for what it's worth, it's probably your better option. I know Elle, and she's a good woman, but the place caters mostly to mercenary types. It's pretty rough." The woman grimaced. "Actually, the entire south side of the city is rough. I'd stay away from it if I were you." It did sound like a better idea, and five septims more wasn't much, but Guinevere was already twenty septims poorer than she could afford to be.

"I think I'll stick with my plans," Monica said, touching the coinpurse for what was probably the fiftieth time that day, "but thank you. For the advice, and for the recommendations." The carriage had rolled to a stop, and the driver was calling for passengers to disembark.

"Of course, dear," the woman said as they began collecting their belongings. "Enjoy your stay." As she stood, her cloak shifted, and Monica caught sight of a flash of steel at her side. Her eyes widened, her stare following the woman as she hurried over toward a man with a heavy beard shot with silver who was calling her "Ma." She shook her head as she climbed down from the carriage herself, shouldering her pack and joining the throng of other passengers drifting in the direction of the city gates. Less than a day since she left home, and she'd already met a Talos-worshiper—who was also a little old lady toting a massive sword, no less. What a strange place this was.

As soon as she stepped inside the city gates, she once again felt the breath sucked from her lungs. It lacked the quaint, picturesque beauty of Chorrol, but Bruma was downright impressive. Built into the mountainside, it was structured so that several stone tiers ran the length of the city, with the buildings lining the edges. In a way, the imposing stone walls reminded her of home, but the resemblance ended there. The rugged logs that made up the buildings were nothing like Battlehorn's even stone and neat timbers.

According to the maps Guinevere had packed for her, Elle's Tap and Tack was just inside the gates. She spotted it almost immediately, but as she approached, the door was abruptly flung open, and a cluster of figures stumbled out, laughing loudly and clearly drunk. She froze in her tracks, staring at the spectacle the woman in the carriage had warned her about. Five septims… She touched the coinpurse. But then one of the drunks vomited, his friends shouting and hooting louder than ever. Shuddering, she turned and headed up the hill. At this point, the price would be worth it.

The Three-Eyed Raven, according to the map, was on the first ledge, down at the end of the street. But multiple sets of stone stairs providing access to the street below had been cut into the ledge, and she was forced to carefully pick her way around them. She vaguely wondered if that was even safe, thinking of how icy the stairs to the battlements at home got in the winter. But she arrived at the door soon enough, swinging it open on soundless hinges and stepping into the cool dimness.

The publican took her coin and showed her to a spacious room on the lower underground level before pointing her in the direction of the Champion of Cyrodiil's statue. However, as she stood gazing up at the stone likeness, Monica was not particularly impressed by it. It was located on the highest level, overlooking the rooftops of the city. It was the quietest area of the city so far, and she wondered if it was due to the fact that the gates to the castle loomed just down the street. But it wasn't just the eerie desertion—it was the Champion's likeness itself, austere and unyielding as it stared coldly over the city. The unease was sending shivers down her spine, and she nervously backed away, turning south down the street. She'd passed the chapel on her way to the inn, but it couldn't hurt to take a closer look.

But the sense of disquiet that had settled over her didn't fade away as she approached the Chapel of the Eight. Maybe it was due to the surprisingly chilly breeze blowing through the city, or maybe it was the words of the woman from the carriage. Talos. She silently repeated the name to herself. The Emperor who had united all of Tamriel, but upon death had been revered as a god, due to mankind's folly and hubris. She had read The Talos Mistake in her lessons a child. Every young person in Battlehorn had. Her parents had simply nodded when she mentioned it, and urged her to finish her homework.

There was something else, though, something prickling at the corners of her memory. She'd been in bed, trying to sleep, but all the while hearing her father's angry voice from the kitchen. There'd been her mother's hushed whispers as she tried to quiet him down, and his voice would drop, only to flare back up again. And during the peaks of the crescendos, she was certain she'd heard the name "Talos."

But it'd been a long time ago. She shook her head as she turned to retreat to the Three-Eyed Raven. She'd been planning on going into the chapel and saying a prayer for safety on her journey, but the sun had nearly disappeared, and it really was downright cold now. She shivered as she skittered along the hazardous street, thinking of the Jeralls' white peaks. Perhaps her mother had been right about the cloak.


Monica wasn't sure she believed in ghosts. At home, the fact that raiding season occurred twice a year meant that people died sometimes, she had certainly never seen any of them lurking around the castle. But even though she was doubtful of the woman's claims that the Three-Eyed Raven was haunted, she still found it surprisingly difficult to sleep. The inn was full of unfamiliar sounds, from footsteps clattering overhead to the hum of voices out in the hallway, and often these would occur just as she was teetering on the edge wakefulness, startling her from her almost-slumber and leaving her to toss and turn and punch her pillow for the next hour. And when sleep found her at last, her dreams were filled with shadowy not-quite deities and voices from the past.

When she finally awoke, she was disoriented by the pitch blackness. Since their quarters were underground, Guinevere always left a torch burning low out in the hall so they'd at least have a faint light to rise by in the morning; she'd never let it go out. Then she remembered where she was, and reached out to light her bedside candle, hands fumbling in the dark. As the candle flared to life, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and leaned across the nightstand to squint at the clock sitting there. As her foggy brain registered the placement of the hands, she let out a gasp, eyes springing wide with panic as she leapt out of bed.

Quarter to eight. It was a quarter to eight, and the carriage across the Jeralls was leaving in fifteen minutes. She grabbed for yesterday's dress, yanking it over her head as she jammed her feet into her shoes. Her hair was a wild tangle sticking up in every direction, but that would have to wait. Sweeping the rest of her belongings into her pack, she slung it over her shoulder and raced upstairs, calling something to the innkeeper about leaving the candle burning as she stumbled out the front door.

Bruma's morning air was brisk, and she shivered slightly as she hurried along. She could still make it, she thought desperately. She could. She had to. As she approached the gates, her hand went to her belt—an increasingly habitual gesture. The coinpurse, and—

Her heart froze with a jolt, and she immediately spun around in her tracks, spitting out a string of curses the likes of which she'd never before uttered, the kind she'd only ever heard Dunmeri sailors use. The pouch containing her travel documents was gone—she'd left it on top of the dresser back at the inn. She broke into a run, sprinting along faster than she ever had in her life. As she skittered around the stair breaks, pedestrians dodged out of her way, muttering curses of their own. The innkeeper let out a gasp as she barreled through the doors of the Three-Eyed Raven, sending one bouncing off the wall. She shouted an apology as she dashed down the stairs, bursting into the now-dark room she'd occupied the night before and groping along the top of the dresser. When her hand closed around leather, she snagged it and sprinted back out.

But as she ran along, the chapel bells began to toll, marking the hour. She'd now officially missed the carriage. But it could be running late, though, she thought, picking up speed. Her legs pounded out a furious rhythm, her chest burning and her lungs screaming for air. Miraculously, the guard already had the gates open for a traveler entering the city, and she hurtled past him through the gap.

Her vision began to swim as she closed the distance to the stables, but as she approached, she managed to make out a wagon filled with passengers, the driver just about to climb up into his seat. Relief coursed through her veins, and she let out a breathless laugh as she staggered up to it. "Wait!" she cried out desperately, and the driver paused.

"Yeah?" He frowned as she stumbled to a stop, doubling over and planting her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath.

"I'm not too late, am I?" she wheezed. "I have my fare—I have it right here." She grasped at her coinpurse, but when she glanced up at the driver, he was staring at her doubtfully.

"The fare?" he asked. "You must be looking for the eight o'clock to Whiterun." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Already left."

Her spasming lungs forgotten, she jerked up to full height. "Seriously?" She could feel tears of frustration springing to her eyes as the driver nodded. "When will the next one be?" she asked shakily, trying very hard to keep her tone even. Crying wouldn't solve anything. She had to stay calm, find a solution.

The driver only shrugged. "Beats me. Another week?" he ventured. "I don't work for public transportation. I was only hired to take these good folks to their summer trapping grounds." He pointed to the wagon, and for the first time she took a good look at its occupants. Rough-looking men and women in worn leather and ragged fur stared back at her—some of which, she realized with a sinking feeling, she'd seen outside Elle's Tap and Tack last night.

"Throat of the World, darlin'!" one of them shouted out, and the others chuckled. "Only place in Tamriel where the good pelts start coming in by Hearthfire." A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she turned to the driver.

"You're crossing the Jeralls, then?" she asked eagerly.

"That's right." He nodded, and she swallowed hard as she gathered her courage.

"Can I come with you?" she asked. The driver's eyebrows shot up, his expression as indignant as if she'd asked for his firstborn child.

"Can you come with us?" he repeated. "This isn't public transportation—what part of that don't you understand?" The trappers burst into uproarious laughter, and Monica's face flamed in embarrassment. She could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again, but she doggedly persisted. For Aventus.

"I can pay," she said quickly. "I have the money." She held out her coinpurse, but the driver's eyes narrowed.

"Thing is, I made a contract with these good folks to drop them in Ivarstead. And that's not anywhere near Whiterun. I'd have to go out of my way. Wouldn't be good for business, you see." He shook his head as she blinked back the tears, but one of the trappers suddenly spoke up.

"Eh, come on, Eran," he shouted. "Just drop her at Helgen. She can find her way from there."

"Yeah, come on, can we just get going?" another added in.

The driver sighed. "Look I can't let just anyone on," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but I do know the penalty for transporting fugitives across borders."

"I have my papers," she insisted, tugging open the pouch she still clutched and handing the papers over. "I'm an Imperial citizen. I have no bounty. It's perfectly legal for me to travel between provinces."

The driver skimmed over them for a moment, his eyes flashing over the lines of the Imperial scribe's neat handwriting. Then he handed them back, heaving another long sigh. "Fine," he relented, and she felt herself breaking into a small smile of triumph. "A hundred septims."

Her smile fell, and for the first time she felt a flash of irritation. "A hundred?" she asked incredulously. "But the standard fare's only seventy-five!"

The driver crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm doing you a favor here," he said sharply. "Besides, you're going to use up supplies—supplies I hadn't counted on losing. Supplies I'll have to replace." He raised his eyebrows. "Or you can wait until next week. Your choice." Another week of inn and food costs, and she wouldn't be able to afford to make it to Riften and back.

"Fine." Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she quietly fished out the amount and handed it over. The driver jabbed a finger at the wagon as he swung into his seat.

"Hurry up and get in," he ordered. "We've wasted enough time already."


The trappers' stares were intent on her as the wagon slowly lurched up the mountain, relentless even as she self-consciously sat staring at her folded hands in her lap. They were probably harmless, but they still put her in mind of bandits—a fact that made her exceptionally nervous. On top of it, she had a knot of guilt gnawing at her stomach as she thought about how much money she'd wasted in the past two days. If only she had just stayed at Elle's. That single lapse in judgment had ultimately cost her thirty septims, and now she was stuck for three days with the very people she'd been trying to avoid. Even as they joked amongst themselves, their eyes never left her, and the journey quickly turned into a test of nerves as she willed herself not to squirm beneath their gaze.

That night, the driver loaned her an extra bedroll, and she was crowded into a tent along with two other women—one who snored loudly and another who talked and thrashed about in her sleep. In addition, the ground was hard and it was cold. At dawn, she crawled out of the tent into the bone-chilling air, bundled in her cloak. Every muscle in her body ached as she dragged herself across the campsite to the fire, where she tried in vain to warm her numb, purple fingertips. As the trappers disassembled the camp, she gnawed on a stale piece of the bread she'd swiped from the Battlehorn kitchens, and then they were on the road again.

They hadn't been travelling for long—perhaps only an hour or two—when the driver suddenly let out a curse, slowing the wagon to a stop. The trappers were instantly on their feet and leaning out of the wagon, attention captured by something in the road ahead. Monica remained seated but craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening through several bodies' worth of armor. "Is there a problem here?" the driver was asking. Glancing upward, she saw several dark plumes of smoke staining the pale blue sky. An encampment of some sort—were they being robbed? She suddenly remembered the driver pocketing her coin, and her heart began to race. If they'd been stopped by bandits…

But although the reply the driver was receiving bore a hint of menace, it was entirely civil. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to turn this wagon around right now," a commanding voice ordered.

"Why?" the driver demanded, his tone quickly developing an edge. "What's going on here?"

"I'm sorry, but the pass is closed. Please turn the wagon around and return to Cyrodiil." This time there was a warning in the voice. A grumble of dissent rose up from the trappers, and Monica twisted around in her seat, leaning as far out as she dared in attempt to see past them.

"Closed?" the driver demanded in a rising voice. "I have a contract to fulfill, dammit!"

"Sir." There was a rasp of metal. "I'm giving you five minute to get turned around and start heading down this mountain, or there will be repercussions." The trappers' murmurs erupted into a cacophony of shouts, and there was a rippling in the pack of them as one suddenly broke free and charged past Monica, leaping off the back of the wagon.

"Hey!" he roared. "I have a livelihood to make, godsdammit! I got three kids and a fourth on the way—how am I supposed to feed them?" His face was scarlet, throbbing veins standing out.

"Stand down, civilian!" Monica drew in a breath as the figure giving the order came into view. She'd know Legion armor anywhere. Her father's set still stood on a mannequin beside her mother's bed.

"He's right!"

"Same here!"

"Imperial bastards!"

The rest of the trappers joined in, the wagon jostling violently as they all charged out of it to stand beside their companion. Several other soldiers came running to stand beside their leader. "Stand down, civilians!" he shouted, and there was a sudden metallic chorus as the rest of the soldiers also drew their weapons. "Or I swear, you'll all be under arrest!"

At that Monica dove off the seat, hunkering down beneath the opposite row. Her view of the scene unfolding beside the wagon was blocked, but she could still hear everything: the trappers arguing, the soldiers threatening to arrest them, the driver screaming for them to get back in their seats. This was bad, she realized, this was very bad. In a matter of minutes, at best they'd be in the wagon headed back to Bruma, at worst the confrontation would turn violent. Terror welled up in her, but she struggled to think, to organize her thoughts into something coherent.

If the pass was closed, she'd have to find some other way into Skyrim, and that would likely mean going through Morrowind. By the time she made it back to Battlehorn, there'd be just a little over half of Guinevere's savings remaining—not enough for a whole other trip. And while they were saving up the difference—however long that would take—Aventus would be growing up in that orphanage, feeling abandoned, thinking his only family had forgotten him…

The Legion officer was still screaming, but the shouts of the trappers were dying down. She sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back against the edge of the seat. There'd be no turning back from what she was about to do. Divines help her.

She lightly sprang from the back of the wagon, keeping low as she dashed toward an outcropping of rock, the hem of her cloak brushing along the ground. Darting around it, she pressed her back against the cold stone, trying to slow her breathing as the sounds of the conflict continued. Crossing the Jeralls on foot was a decidedly foolhardy idea, but it was the height of summer. If ever there were a time for it, it would be now. She had enough food to last a day or two—three if she really rationed it. As long as she held a brisk pace and kept moving, she could make it to that town the driver had mentioned—Helgen—within a few days.

This was illegal, though, she reminded herself, not to mention incredibly stupid. For half an instant, some protective impulse of cowardice reared its head, and she considered darting back to the wagon. But her thoughts turned back to Aventus, and her resolve hardened. She quietly pushed off the rock and began to weave through the gaps, never looking back once.


The sounds of the conflict faded behind her as she slowly made her way up the mountain. The landscape was rugged, jagged spires of earth, but she found the way through cold, unthawed valleys of stone, areas where the sunlight could never manage to entirely reach. Her ears were attentive, constantly listening for sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing. The silence was downright eerie: there were no birds or animals, only the occasional gust of wind whistling past and the quiet crunch of her footsteps.

She'd hit the snow no more than an hour after she'd left the checkpoint behind. When she'd first caught sight of it, she'd actually stopped in her tracks and stared in amazement. Snow in Last Seed! Despite her now-soaked shoes and socks, a grin made its way across her face as she trekked forward. She'd always loved snow. When she was young, she and Heidmir would spill out into the courtyard at the first snow of the year, making forts and starting snowball fights with the other children.

As dusk approached and vegetation began to reappear, she found the road again. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she hurried forward toward it. The fear that she'd end up lost on the mountain and end up freezing or starving to death had begun nagging at the back of her mind several hours back. But when she saw the wagon tracks cutting through the otherwise pristine snow, she retreated back into the trees. Someone had been through here recently, and she wasn't about to get caught crossing a border illegally.

But she was curious about the source of the tracks. Had the trappers' wagon been let through after all? Had it somehow gotten ahead of her as she'd clambered across the crags? But then she remembered the carriage she'd missed. With stronger horses and a lighter load, they could have easily gotten far ahead of the trappers—which meant the pass had to have just been closed. Once again, she cursed her decision to stay at the Three-Eyed Raven as she hurried through the trees, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.

She slept under a massive pine that night, in a tiny bare area of space where the snow had been unable to filter through the boughs. The wind's whistles continued through the night, and she was constantly stirring, only to bury her head back inside her cloak and try desperately to think of something warm.

When dawn finally arrived, she awoke with the sun, shaking a coating of frost from the folds of her cloak before resuming her trek down the mountainside. When she looked behind her, she could already see the massive peaks towering high in the distance. She'd made some significant progress the day before, she noted with a tinge of pride. She was slower on foot, but maybe she was closer than she thought. Perhaps she'd even make it to that town—Helgen, the driver had called it—before the day was up.

"Hold it right there."

The sound of a human voice, entirely unexpected after so many hours of isolation, shocked her to the core, eliciting a gasp of fear as she whipped around, searching for the source. She caught sight of a flash of blue—right as she came face to face with the jagged barb of a readied arrow.