I have the next chapter finalized for all you readers out there. I slashed the Whiterun bit in the end, the chapter was just getting too long. I really don't want to start a precedent of 10,000 word chapters. Those are just too long and, as an avid fanfic reader, dread the moment when I get a chapter that takes me forever to read.
So... the dreaded Helgen chapter. It had to be done. It is in every fic there is for Skyrim and few people make it interesting to read. I hope I did. It sticks to the scripted events for the first little bit but diverges greatly towards the end.
? Rain's Hand, 4E 201
Caril did not want to open his eyes. He did not want to know what horrid place he had been dragged off to. He pictured himself back home in Summerset, in Alinor. He missed the warm, balmy climate, the good food, his home. He even missed the gossipy society.
Caril was roughly reminded he was not at his home in Alinor when the carriage jerked and shuddered, part of the wooden backrest bumped into one of his not quite healed wounds on his arm. Hissing in pain, Caril knew he was fully awake now.
"Hey, elf. You're finally awake."
He didn't want to give the Stormcloak the pleasure of his acknowledgement. He opened his eyes and turned away, watching the landscape pass slowly. They were nearing a fortified village and Caril knew that it couldn't be a good sign.
The other passengers on the carriage broke into a small, petty argument over something. It only caught his attention when three words were said, "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak."
To Caril's horror, upon turning around, he found himself facing a bound and gagged Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. He wanted to tear the man's head off for what he did. His lips curled into a vicious snarl when the Nord's eyes caught his own. The man simply tightened his brow and looked away in a huff.
"General Tulius, the headsman is waiting," said an Imperial.
"Good, let's get this over with."
Caril twisted around and gazed over the top of the Stormcloak opposite him. His eyes widened and a wonderful feeling of hope flooded him. Elenwen. She was speaking with the Imperial General. She was easily within earshot if he shouted.
He opened his mouth to shout for her and get himself free of his horrible predicament, but his voice failed him at the wrong moment. All that came out was a strange, mangled squeak. Nothing was wrong with his voice, words simply didn't form in his mouth.
"Damn elves," muttered the blond Stormcloak.
"Watch your tongue," snapped Caril. He frowned. He could easily scold a Nord but he could not scream at his superior for her pardon? What kind of logic was that? Caril shook his head, his mind could not be as clear as he thought it was. Determined this time to save himself, he looked up and Elenwen was long gone, well out of earshot.
The carriage came to a halt. The other three passengers stood with a quiet remark about their imminent deaths from the blond one. The man in ragged robes panicked and started screaming and shouting about how he was not a rebel, how he should not be killed, that it was all just a big mistake. Caril rose, too, figuring he could at least make his death less painful.
"Step forward while we call your name. One at a time."
"Empire loves their damn lists."
Caril's lips tweaked into the tiniest smile. If the Stormcloak thought the Empire was obsessive, he really had no interactions with the Thalmor and their methodical categorizing of everything.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
Caril was mildly pleased as he watched his former interrogator walk off in binds to his death.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
The talkative blond Stormcloak walked off.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
Caril kept his eyes downcast but even then he knew it did not take long for the cowardly Nord to meet his death.
"Wait. You there, step forward."
Caril looked up wearily and took a single step forward.
"Who are you?" the Legionnaire asked. He looked genuinely confused and, if Caril named the other emotion right, worried.
"What does it matter?" asked Caril. He glanced at the strict, angry-looking captain at the man's side, "You are going to kill me anyway."
The man hesitated and looked Caril up and down, "You're not from the Thalmor, are you? No, that can't be right."
At this point, Caril felt that correcting the Legionnaire would only set his fate in stone. He doubted even the Legion could resist ridding the Empire of another Thalmor agent.
"Forget the list," the impatient captain said, "He goes to the block."
Caril was not shocked but found relief in that the Legionnaire with the book was. He opened his mouth as if to protest that decision but instead said, "By your orders, Captain." He glanced back at Caril and made a note in his book, "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to the Summerset Isle. Follow the captain, prisoner."
Caril turned his gaze back to the ground as he walked after the captain, stopping slightly away from the gathered men. He could not be bothered to pay attention. His life was over and what had it amounted to? He was being sent to the headsman for committing no crimes.
He hoped Elenwen paid dearly for this. She sent him on a suicide mission. In a perfect world, she would be punished by both the Thalmor and the Institute but that probably wouldn't happen. Caril felt he wasn't important enough to the Thalmor to merit anger from them. He was hardly more than the footslogger soldiers. The Institute, however, would never again trust the Thalmor.
Caril was shaken out of his thoughts when he heard a tremendous roar that shook the very earth beneath his feet. He looked up at the sky.
"There it is again…"
Nothing was there, just the clouds and the tips of ancient pines.
"I said, next prisoner," said the harsh, angry captain.
Caril realized everyone was watching him expectantly. Somewhere in the stern eyes of Ulfric Stormcloak, Caril saw a glint of pleasure. Caril stared at him as he walked forward. If by some strange—well, he would not call it a miracle—chance that they both made it out of this situation alive, Ulfric Stormcloak had made a dangerous enemy out of Caril.
The captain shoved Caril down to his knees and held him to the block with her foot. Caril squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could not watch. This was the end. He hoped he would haunt Elenwen for the rest of her life. He tried to brace himself for the moment his world would go black and silent but couldn't calm his frantic heartbeat. He did not want to die.
He felt the next roar more than he heard it. It pulsed so loudly, he could feel it's pressure in his chest. His eyes snapped open when the ground shook violently. He heard Tullius shouting distantly as an enormous black mass came down from above, landing on the tower and spreading it's great, black wings wide. For a brief moment, it's intelligent red eyes met Caril's and Caril swore it stared into his very soul.
"Dragon!"
The beast turned it's gaze towards the sky and let out another roar that sounded suspiciously like speech. The deafening roar reverberated in his chest again and a visible pulse of air was sent upwards into the sky.
The word turned red as the sky was set ablaze. Caril's vision swirled as he struggled to stand. Everyone was in a state of panic. Chaos erupted everywhere as the dragon circled the village, laying waste to the buildings and people.
"Come on, elf. Get up!" shouted the blond Stormcloak.
Caril's vision cleared enough to get a picture of his surroundings. Everything was destroyed. The gates had collapsed in on themselves and the walls, roofs, and furniture of the houses were strewn everywhere. Legionnaires, Stormcloaks and civilians lay dead all around his feet.
Coherent thought came to a shuddering halt in Caril's mind. Instinct took over. He fled after the Stormcloak, into one of the few structures that had not yet been destroyed.
"Was that really a dragon?" the Stormcloak asked breathlessly, "Could the legends be true?"
Caril slumped against the far wall. His body screamed protests. It did not want to be moving.
"Legends don't burn down villages."
How true. Caril silently agreed with Ulfric Stormcloak on that one statement. Legends were not legends if they were true.
"We need to move, now!" shouted Ulfric, "Up the stairs!"
Caril didn't move. He did not have the strength.
"Up," the blond Stormcloak hefted him up by his shouders, "On your feet."
Caril was astonished they—or at least the blond man—were making an active effort to save his life. Why?
Caril breathed deeply and began the slow, painful ascent up the stairs of the tower. His hands had yet to be unbound, he was unstable as he walked up the stairs. Mustering what concentration he could spare, he began to heal himself again. It made the climb up the stairs much less painful, though he did not dare to use any spell that would deplete his magicka considerably.
Not ten steps ahead of him, the wall burst open, crushing an unwary Stormcloak in the rubble, and the horned head of the dragon could be seen through the smoke. Again, it's roar sounded unnaturally like speech and a jet of fire a hundred times more powerful than any basic Flames spell erupted from its mouth.
The heat of the fire burned Caril's exposed skin and heated the bricks it touched to red-hot. The flames died down and the dragon's eyes met Caril's once more.
It bared it's fangs in what Caril had the strangest feeling was a smile, "Dovahkiin."
Caril blinked and the beast was gone when his eyes opened again. Caril spun around, the stairs leading further up the tower had collapsed. To his chagrin, it seemed the only other survivors of that particular attack were the blond Stormcloak, whose name escaped Caril's mind, and none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself.
The blond Nord rushed past Caril and looked out the opening left by the dragon while Ulfric simply walked up to Caril and examined him up and down.
"That attack did considerably less damage than it should have," he murmured.
Caril glanced down. His robes were burned beyond repair, as was much of his cloak, yet his skin was barely tinted pink. The aches in his body had hardly increased from the fire, as well. Strange. Had he been a Dunmer, his less than severe burns might have been explainable but he was an Altmer. Of all races, Altmer were the weakest to magic, he should have been burned to a crisp like the unfortunate Nords caught up in the inferno. Even his long hair had been spared from the inferno.
The blond Stormcloak came back into Caril's line of sight and pointed up the stairs, towards the gaping hole in the wall.
"There's an inn just outside there. Jump down and we'll follow when we can."
Those were instructions for him. Caril furrowed his brow, it was another attempt to save his life by that Stormcloak. Numbly, Caril nodded and walked up the remaining stairs and peered down through the smoke, he could see the inn and his heart raced upon thinking of jumping down there. He was going to break his legs.
"Go, idiot!" the Nord shouted.
The roar of the dragon sounded off again, it was fast approaching the tower from behind, preparing another attack on the last survivors inside. The tower shook as the dragon landed above him. The talons at the tips of the wing were as long and thick as Caril's forearm. He would be gutted instantly with one swipe from a wing of the beast.
Caril decided to take his chances in the burning inn. He screamed as he fell through the air, through the flaming, partially collapsed roof and onto the floor.
Again, his body screamed in pain. He had definitely broken something with that landing. His collarbone and a few more ribs, probably. Adrenaline was fast being pumped through his veins, the pain was fading as his whole body became numb. In his relief from the pain, he pushed himself up again and found he couldn't properly move one leg. Broken or severely sprained, he figured.
He had to get out of the building. His lungs were crying out for air that wasn't drenched with black smoke. The inn was collapsing down on top of him.
He stumbled over the body of a young, civilian woman to find she was not yet completely dead. Her sooty, burned face was stained with agonized tears. She begged Caril to save her with her eyes. He could do nothing. Wide-eyed, Caril shook his head and turned his back on her. No one was coming out of this alive, civilian or soldier.
Scrambling through the burning wreckage was difficult, nigh impossible with his still bound hands and a partially lame leg. Eventually, Caril squeezed his way out through a hole the collapsed wall and roof had not yet completely filled in.
Caril collapsed on his back and gasped for breath. The rush of oxygen through his body cleared his thoughts and allowed him to regain his grasp on reality. Adrenaline was still clouding his perception but suffocation was no longer making it worse.
Get up. Get up.
"Prisoner, with me!" It was the sympathetic Legionnaire.
Caril scrambled to his feet. He stumbled. His newfound clarity made him also realize how fully his leg was not able to hold his weight. Before he fell, he felt someone grab him around the waist.
"Come on," said the Legionnaire.
The soldier supported part of Caril's weight as he helped him limp down the road. The dragon still circled overhead appearing entirely unharmed by the hundred or so surviving Legion archers and wizards throwing all they had at the monster.
"What does it take to kill this thing!" came a shout over the chaos.
The dragon swooped down low over the soldiers, picking up half a dozen in its claws and throwing them over the fortified town walls. Then it circled back around, flying lower than the roofs had once been, those white-hot flames spouting out of its mouth.
The Legionnaire dug his shoulder into Caril's stomach and tackled him to the ground as the jet of flames passed over where they once stood.
Caril groaned when they finally stopped rolling. At this point, would it not be better to be killed now by the dragon than suffer recovering from all the wounds he was accumulating?
Strangely, a glint of gold caught Caril's eye through the smoke. He squinted at it and then, his eyes widened with realization. It was an elven sword, his sword! Caril scrambled over to it. It had partially fallen out of its scabbard and glinted in the faint light. The Imperial who took it from Ulfric was laying dead on the ground, partially crushed by rubble.
He fumbled over the buckle holding it to the body and wrenched it away. He was not sure why he was so concerned over the sword but he knew he needed it. Caril removed it from the scabbard, clamped the blade between his knees, and sawed off his bindings. Hopefully, his hands would stay free this time.
Something about finding the sword filled Caril with a new sense of determination. He stood, holding the sword and scabbard, and ran—or rather, hopped—through the massacre. He had no time to nurse his injuries until he was somewhere safe. Caril had no idea where that would be.
"Prisoner! With me, into the Keep!"
Caril turned. The friendly Legionnaire was still alive! He was clutching a wound at his side, blood seeping through his gingers, but was alive and breathing nonetheless. To Caril, the man was a sight for sore eyes.
"Out of my way, Hadvar!"
The blond Stormcloak was alive and kicking as well, it seemed.
Caril plunged the tip of the sword into the ground and leaned on it to take away the weight on his injured leg. Somehow, the Imperial and the Stormcloak managed to find time to bicker about political alignment. Only the roar of the dragon stopped their argument.
"Come on, prisoner!"
"Oy, elf!"
Caril stared at the Stormcloak in disbelief. Was the man really beckoning him? Really? He wrenched his sword from the ground and backed away from the blond man, towards the person who hopefully would not backstab him.
"Quickly, come on!" The Legionnaire, Hadvar, threw Caril's arm over his shoulders and allowed Caril to rest most of his weight on strong shoulders.
Death came on swift wings. The dragon was back. It landed on the ground directly in front of Hadvar and Caril, snapping a Stormcloak up in its jaws.
Things seemed to pass in slow motion for Caril. He was overcome by instinct again, his whole body flooded with primal fear and… aggression? The dragon turned towards Caril and Hadvar. Caril drew his sword.
"What are you doing?" shouted Hadvar. He released his grip on Caril and shoved him hard backwards, "Run!"
The urge to taste the blood of the dragon was gone as fast as it had come over him.
"Get up, elf," the blond Stormcloak wrenched Caril up and dragged him across the road, away from the dragon.
The doors to the keep were within reach. Caril no longer cared that he would be by the side of a Stormcloak, he only cared that it would be a safer place than out in the open.
"YOL-TOOR-SHUL!"
The doors to the keep clanged closed just as the flames began to spurt through the cracks. Caril stood there, breathless, his mind retracing everything that had just occurred.
"Talos save him," the Stormcloak murmured, obviously speaking of Hadvar, who had likely saved them both at the cost of his own life. The Stormcloak straightened up and looked at Caril with a critical eye, "That dragon was going after you."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," replied Caril. He glanced around the room, hoping that there was something he could use to tend to his wounds. There was nothing.
"That whole time in the courtyard it was watching you."
"Does it matter who the dragon was looking at?"
"Shh," the Stormcloak suddenly pressed a finger to his lips and crouched down by a door to Caril's side. He gestured to the door, "Imperials."
The Imperials opened the door and the Stormcloak, predictably, went berserk on them. Had Caril felt he had the slightest influence over the man, he would have suggested reasoning with them rather than fighting.
Caril carefully stayed out of the ensuing battle. He was wary of depleting his magicka frivolously before he could get to a real alchemist for medicine. The Stormcloak was a skilled warrior. Without much effort and while wielding a dull axe, he slew all the Legionnaires, including the angry captain that ordered their executions.
"Come on, let's see if we can find a way out of here," said the Stormcloak.
Caril could not agree more. He followed the man down deeper into the keep. Unlike Hadvar, he showed no indication of wishing to help Caril with his leg. Though Caril would be very reluctant to accept the Stormcloak's help after the events of the last week.
"Can't you go any faster?" he asked, annoyed.
"If I was able, I would," snapped Caril.
The Stormcloak pushed open another door, "You're an elf, you know magic, right? Can't you just heal yourself or something?"
Caril groaned both from the man's magical ignorance and a twinge of pain that came from, well, most of Caril's body, "Even if magic worked like that, had you Nords not force fed me poison, I would be healing myself now. Does it look like I am enjoying this?"
The Stormcloak muttered something under his breath, then glanced around the room. Largely empty again. Caril was growing weary of this blind wandering. His resolve, along with his strength, was fading. His adrenaline rush was wearing off, the pain was beginning to return. His leg—his ankle, more specifically—throbbed painfully, his reopened cuts stung, it hurt every time he took in a breath, and his injured shoulder was excruciating. He needed medicine, food, and, above all, rest.
"Nothing again," the Stormcloak turned and walked out the door, "Let's try this way."
"It is not going to work," said Caril, tiredly.
"I don't see you helping." The Stormcloak kicked open another door. It was just a room full of bunks. He sighed, "Isn't there some kind of spell that can get us out of here?"
"No." Caril narrowed his eyes, "Wait…" Clairvoyance. It would be a risk, "It isn't what you have in mind but it might help."
"Oh yeah? Let me see this spell, then."
Caril closed his eyes. Despite the spell itself being easy to cast, Clairvoyance was a difficult spell to use. It directed a path to one's greatest want, however if the caster did not have a very clear image of what they wanted, the path shown would constantly change and twist. What did Caril want? He took a deep breath and channeled the magicka to the tips of his fingers. Home. He wanted to go home, sleep in his own bed, walk the streets of Alinor, feel the balmy, tropical air. Going home started by getting out of Helgen.
Opening his eyes, Caril was relieved to see the faint blue path trailing down the winding hallways. He took a step forward to follow the path and stumbled, the pain in his leg was more intense than before. With his free hand, he powered up a more generous healing spell. He could not continue on in his current state.
"Where are you going?" asked the Stormcloak skeptically.
Caril frowned, "I am the one casting the spell, only I can see it."
Though the spell helped only marginally, though it made progressing through the keep much less agonizing.
"Damn, more Imperials," said the Stormcloak when they came up to a door that voices were drifting out from, "Please tell me we don't need to go through here."
Of course they needed to go through that room, of all rooms. Like the previous time, Caril decided to stay hidden while the Stormcloak fought. He was in no shape to fight and any additional wounds would be disastrous, he could hardly move as it was.
"Hey, elf, get in here! It's a store room, bet we could find some potions."
That sounded good. Potions could cover some of what his spells did not. Again, he would not be fully healed without time, but it would be a great boon.
"Find them for me," said Caril, "I need to keep this spell running."
Partially that was true and partially he did not feel like he had the strength to search, even if he did have the necessary energy, it would be a waste of it.
"Find them yourself," snapped the Stormcloak.
"This spell takes concentration and if I have to cast it again, it might get us lost. Do you want that?"
The Stormcloak sighed and began to search the cupboards and barrels. A few minutes later, he came up to Caril with half a dozen potions.
"You are kidding me," said Caril. They were weak, watered down health, magicka, and stamina potions. They would hardly make a dent in anything.
"Take it or leave it, elf."
Caril took at least half the potions for himself. The Nord took a healing potion and a few stamina potions while Caril got the magicka potions and the rest of the healing ones. He drank them all down right there, despite the horrible taste they left in his mouth, because it eased the pain some and would allow him to maintain Clairvoyance for another ten minutes or more.
"Down the stairs," instructed Caril.
"Yeah, yeah," the man walked over to the stairs and began to descend, Caril following close behind, "Oh gods, it's a torture room."
Caril raised an eyebrow. Were the Stormcloaks supposed to be against torture? A few other Stormcloaks seemed to have found their way down into the room and were battling the torturer and his assistant. The blond Stormcloak didn't wait long to join the fight and finish off even more Imperials.
"Sick," he heard one Stormcloak murmur.
Caril could not bear to walk in the room. He slumped down on the stairs and Clairvoyance flickered away. How could they think torture dishonorable and disgusting while they were quite willing to torture him? Were they immune from their own morals because they were the "true sons of Skyrim?"
"Hey, elf! Where'd you go?"
The blond Stormcloak reappeared at the base of the stairs, holding something in his hands.
"Elf? There's an elf with you, Ralof?" Ralof, that was his name. "Oh…"
"What's wrong with you now?" asked Ralof.
"Don't come any closer to me," said Caril. Lightning flared up in his hands as a warning. Ralof heeded it and took a step back.
"What's wrong with you?" Ralof asked angrily, "I was helping you!"
Caril jerked his head up and stared down Ralof, "Are you above your own morals or are you just plain stupid?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"To Oblivion with that!" shouted Caril, "You know full well what I mean!"
"I really don't."
Caril scoffed at Ralof.
"Fine." Ralof threw the object he was holding at Caril, some kind of fabric, "I guess I was wrong to think that one of your kind was halfway decent."
To say something like that? After what they had done to him? Caril was outraged. Instead of responding, he glanced down at what Ralof had meant to give him. He could feel the faint trace of magic emanating from them. Wizard robes. Caril furrowed his brow. Where had they found these?
They were a pitiful excuse for what real wizard robes could be but they were better than the ones he was wearing at the moment. The enchantments on his had almost completely faded away in the same manner that much of the cloth had been burned away.
They were not new, nor were they clean. They smelled of something awful, rotten… but they were of Nordic make. That meant they were warm and durable, something Caril needed.
"Where did these come from?" asked Caril.
"Do you really want to know?" snapped Ralof.
Caril sighed. Better than nothing, he figured. He stood slowly and discarded his singed cloak with a tiny bit of hesitance. He had owned it for years and wore it nearly everywhere, even in the summer heat. It had to go. It served no purpose to him anymore. It was worth more to him sentimentally than practically and, as he had learned thus far, Skyrim had no place for sentimentality.
He discarded his robes as well. Burned and no longer enchanted, they were firmly sentimental as well. He commissioned the robes and enchanted them himself back in Alinor. He was left standing in only his trousers and tunic, both of which he disappointedly discovered were burned severely as well. How had his clothes been charred beyond repair while his skin was barely touched by the intense flames?
Caril decided to throw away his tunic as well. They were extremely cheap, he could make five Septims in an hour to buy a new one. Replacing his trousers would be cheap as well but because his new robes would only fall to his knees rather than to his ankles, he decided to keep them, no matter how burned, until he could get a new pair.
"By Talos, what—" Ralof cut off abruptly. He grabbed Caril's arm and pulled him off the dark staircase and into the lit torture room. He looked horrified at what he saw, "What happened to you? Those are old wounds, you didn't get them today."
"No, I didn't get them today," Caril twisted his wrist out of Ralof's grasp. He felt horribly exposed under the gaze of half a dozen Stormcloaks while wearing only his trousers and boots, "I got them about a week ago, actually."
"But a week ago…"
The gears turning in the minds of the Stormcloaks were nearly audible. Caril was shocked. Were they not aware of what happened or were they just horrified by seeing the effects of torture by their own hands?
"A week ago, you were our prisoner," Ralof grabbed Caril's injured shoulder and spun Caril around. Caril let out a hiss of pain, "No…"
"Don't touch me," Caril jerked away.
Yes, he must have looked terrible. His arms, chest, back, every part of him was covered in yellowing bruises and seeping knife wounds. Had they not heard it when Ulfric made him scream and beg for mercy?
Caril did not care about giving these men the benefit of the doubt. He threw the worn robes over his head, fastened the many buckles hastily, and checked that his sword was firmly strapped to his waist before calming his mind and reactivating Clairvoyance.
He wanted out of this keep, this underground maze. He didn't know where he was going to go once he got out but at least it would be fresh air, not the dank, musty air he was breathing.
"We should follow him," said Ralof to the other Stormcloaks.
"But that way doesn't lead anywhere, it's just a cave."
Great. Caril sighed as he continued to walk. A cave. Caves did not have flat, even floors to walk on and getting to exits sometimes meant climbing though a tiny, jagged tunnel or scaling enormous cavern walls to the ceiling. Fate was not being kind on him.
Indeed, the walls of the keep soon transitioned to the weathered walls of an ancient cave. For some distance, it was still paved by the Legion, bridges with railings crossing the crevasses and such.
"Who's there?" came a voice down a dark path.
"Gods damn, how many Imperials are there down here?" whispered Ralof.
"Do not kill them," Caril turned to face the small group of Stormcloaks. He would no longer tolerate anything from him. If they were going to leech off him to get out, they damn well better follow his orders.
"They tried to kill us, elf," replied Ralof, "Execute our true High King. We can't let them live."
Idiots. This was a life or death situation. A long lost dragon, DRAGON, was ravaging the town above them, everyone was severely injured, and they were lost in a cave. If there was a better time for compromise and peace, Caril was open for hearing it.
"Oh," Caril lowered his hand and discharged Clairvoyance again, "Seems my magicka has run out."
Maybe the threat of being forever lost in the cave would shake sense into the thick skulls of these Nords.
It did not. They turned on him instead.
"You traitor!" Ralof shouted, "You led us into a trap! I knew you were with them. We never should have trusted you."
"I—" Caril could not find the words to remedy the situation. He was backed against the wall, a sword pointed at his chest. Again, death was coming for him on swift wings.
He closed his eyes, panic bubbling up in his chest. He clung desperately to the dregs of his sanity that were fast flying out of his mind. Fear was his worst enemy. He was healed enough to take a bit of physical abuse, he thought, and well enough magicka had returned to destroy the small band of Stormcloaks but his fear… his anxiety was keeping him from acting.
He did not want to die. He would not.
Aggression and bloodlust overtook Caril's common sense and even his fear. The same emotions he felt towards the dragon in the moments before he was dragged into the keep. Only the desire to kill, destroy, maim was left.
Horrifying as it was, Caril was completely at its mercy. Sparks erupted around him, cloaking him in a deadly, protective coat. He snapped his eyes open and lunged towards the first Stormcloak he saw.
His body acted like the injuries were nonexistent. He felt power in his muscles that had never existed as he toppled the terrified Stormcloak to the ground and electrocuted him with his flaring magic. The man was sent into spasms as his heart was thrown out of rhythm.
Time seemed to shudder to a near halt as the next closest Stormcloak brought his heavy, iron battleaxe down towards Caril's head. Caril twisted out of the way in time to save himself, the blade of the axe only nicked his arm. It would have, should have hurt. The hit was unnaturally strong, like the blade was not going through skin and muscle alone. However, it did not hurt. Caril's senseless mind only registered it as an annoyance. As the swing hit the bottom of its arc, the man yelped and dropped his weapon. Metal and electricity never mixed well.
Caril turned, stood up and his eyes met the horrified eyes of the only woman of the group. She blinked away her stunned look and swung at Caril with her sword. She was strong, judging by how the blade chipped off part of the wall when it collided where Caril once stood.
Their eyes still locked, Caril watched as the grim determination in her pale eyes turned rabid and she struck out at Ralof, slashing him in the stomach.
At Ralof's betrayed scream, some of Caril's mind seeped back in. He stumbled when feeling partially returned to his body. Flee. Run. He could hear the Imperials rushing down the hall.
Ralof's weapon clashed with the crazed woman's, the remaining Stormcloak was trying to pull her away from him. With the last of his insanity fading away, Caril seized the moment and flickered out of sight as he cast Invisibility.
He ran. That was all he could do and he could hardly even do that. The corridor was wide enough he slipped through the charging Legionnaires and down into the dark bowels of the cave. What had he just done? Had he lost it from only a few weeks in Skyrim?
How? How had he done what he just did?
Above the murders he had just committed without a second thought, what scared Caril the most was that what he had just done did not feel like his sanity had completely fallen away for a moment. It felt as if he was still there, just that he wanted to kill. The crazed state he had just fallen into felt irrevocably him, like some aspect of himself had just reared its ugly head for the first time and was now soothing him into a state of numbness to what he was apparently capable of.
They were going to kill him. It was defense.
Caril came into a room full of angry spiders and immediately ducked through a narrow passage where they couldn't reach. He hoped he wouldn't have to follow Clairvoyance for much longer. He was exhausted and felt that he would collapse soon. At the very least, he had to make it to the entrance of the cave before that time came.
A bear was the next thing Caril desperately tried to avoid conflict with. Thinking it was a mossy boulder, he walked too close and aggravated it. Luckily, it had not yet turned to face him when he cast another Invisibility spell and crept away.
Within the hour, Caril's heart fluttered in delight when he saw the last dregs of daylight filtering into the cave. He made it out alive and, more or less, no worse for the wear.
A truly happy grin split his bruised face as he emerged into the sunset. Alive. He was alive!
I have a bit more to say than usual, so I'll thank everybody to start with, in case you don't want to read everything else. I appreciate all the support I'm getting for this story. You don't know how much it means to me to check my email and have a new review/fave/alert waiting for me. I enjoy writing this story and it makes me feel more motivated to continue when I know others are enjoying it, too.
On with the longer comments...
So, you heard about FFN's new policy to erase fics based off content and moderate it closely from now on, I assume? If you are against it like I am, sign an e-petition (link in my profile, the site kept removing part of the link) protesting this. It's only a few days old and has 20,000 signatures. Imagine the pressure FFN is feeling and will feel in the future if this number keeps going up?
Ultimately, I understand FFN's intentions but I feel their actions will get out of hand. Instead of sticking to their own policies to begin with, why are they now suddenly returning to them? Are they unable to create an age filter like livejournal, for example? Isn't it better to adapt to a situation than suddenly think they can fix the problem they caused?
Notes on the story...
Caril's "dragon" side stirred in him as you can tell. For now, the two aspects of him are almost separate entities that do not exist together. As Caril gets closer to his Dragonborn identity, the two will meld together, ultimately becoming one in the far-flung future.
There will be no inner conversations between the dragon and Caril. I find that idea contrived and a weak excuse for angst. I haven't seen it often in Skyrim fics but far too often in others where there is a darker aspect to a particular character. The dragon is a part of Caril, not a separate sentient being living inside him.
There will be certain triggers initially for which side of Caril is dominant at for about the first half of the story. For example, a (non-spoiler) trigger is Ondolemar. Caril will revert to his "true" self when around Ondolemar.
Also, the dragon side of Caril is NOT completely bonkers, despite what it may seem. Caril was panicked, so his darker side was as well. His darker side is just willing and able to take extreme measures to ensure survival. At this point in the story, Caril possesses only the "flight" instinct and his dark side only has the "fight" instinct, this causes unbelievable irrationality within Caril for now.
Anyway, thanks again, everyone! I appreciate the support! I'll have the next chapter out soon!