Chapter 4: Impasse
I disembarked with the other travellers at the gates to Falkreath, collecting my pack from the coach's hold. Shouldering it, I glanced over what I could see of the township. The shadows of night had already gathered. I had never been to Falkreath, but I recalled that it was said to have a sombre air about it. It contained one of the largest and oldest cemeteries in all of Skyrim after all, and that could not fail to affect its foundations.
I shuddered, glad that I did not have to remain in the uninviting place for long. Hastening to the two burly guards in the indigo mail of Falkreath, I dipped my head respectfully.
"Good evening," I sounded merry but wished that I could see the man's eyes. It was impossible under his full-faced helm. "Where might I catch the adjoining coach for Cyrodiil?"
"Cyrodiil?" the thick Nord accent was muffled, but there was no mistaking the discomfort to his tone. The guard shook his head. "There won't be any coaches bound for Cyrodiil for a while, lass."
To his credit, he sounded apologetic, but my heart plummeted.
"The last three that attempted the border crossing were turned back."
"But," I stammered, "my grandparents are expecting me. I have to-"
"I'm afraid you're too late," he cut me off, though still not unkindly. "Head back where you came from, in the morning. Dead Man's Drink is that way," he motioned toward a wood and thatch cottage with his shield arm. My eyes drifted from the sprawling verandah with its sense of oppression, back to the blue shield bearing the white stag painted in its centre. I was stuck here?
"Valga will put you up for the night, for a small fee. Make for Whiterun in the morning, and you can catch a coach to take you north from there."
Walk to Whiterun?
I nodded my thanks, as it was expected of me, and there was no point in arguing with the messenger. Shaking a little, I stepped through the gate. I felt dizzy with nausea. How could I have been so stupid? Of course there were no coaches travelling over the border. Why hadn't I checked before I had left Solitude?
Solitude.
With a pang weighed down by chagrin, I halted in the middle of the street and barely stopped myself from groaning out loud. Closing my eyes, I tried to come to terms with the prospect of going home, where I would have to face both Ataf, and my music, so soon.
Stop sulking, and think, I commanded.
Yes. There would be a way. There had to be a way. I resumed walking through the township, bypassing the inn for the moment. I would return to it, but I wanted to walk for a bit, after being cooped up all day on the coach. Besides, the silence would allow me the space to figure out what I could do.
I passed an empty blacksmith's; not abandoned, merely closed. The forge glowed orange and cast an ominous hue over the empty workbenches and grindstone.
I turned away. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I approached the Jarl's Longhouse. It was twice the size of the other structures of town, but still made out of wood and thatch like every other building. Beside its entrance stood a pair of large indigo banners, fluttering eerily in the breeze.
I kept walking. Had my father lived, as a daughter of a Thane of Haafingar I would have been within my rights to request accommodation for the night at the longhouse. Now? I was an orphan in an uncertain Skyrim, and was not so sure how far the generosity of the Jarls would extend, regardless of their allegiance.
No coaches to Cyrodiil, I reminded myself before I became consumed by melancholy. How will you get there?
No coaches surely, simply meant that the Legionnaires patrolling the road weren't allowing registered transport to cross. They couldn't risk the Stormcloaks sending spies into Cyrodiil.
But I was clearly not a Stormcloak spy. The Passero family's loyalty to the Empire was well known and documented, spanning eras. All I would need to do was approach the border guards, show them the Passero seal, and I could be on my way.
Looping back around the longhouse, I did what I should have done before I had left Solitude; planned a path forward. I would spend a night at the inn, and in the morning, enquire about a horse. I didn't want to have to walk to the Imperial City, after all.
Right. First stage of the plan; Dead Man's Drink.
–
It was a dank and cheerless place and a damp smell hovered around the door way. I nodded a brief hello to the resident bard, relieved to see that he was a man of about forty who could not possibly know me to strike up conversation about the going-ons back at the College. He seemed confused by my acknowledgement and didn't return it, and his eyes followed me as I made my way to the bar.
I glanced around the large, open common room. The inn's quiet patrons were old, male, and all carried grim, bleary countenances. Perhaps they have all had a hard day?
It didn't matter. I trained my eyes on the bar and pressed on, though I somewhat wished that I had gone to the Jarl's Longhouse after all.
There were two women at the back of the inn, and the sight of them kept me moving forward. The publican - at least, I assumed that was who she was - was a pretty Imperial who seemed younger than her bard, which made me wonder just how long she had been publican here for. She was positioned behind the bar and leaning across it, smiling with her serving girl; a tall, thin Nord woman clad in a skimpy green and yellow dress cinched in the middle by a leather corset with an ornamental-looking dagger at her hip. She had straight red hair, and wore too much eye makeup and jewellery.
The pair were in quiet, but clearly amused conversation with one another; the only people smiling in the whole dreary place. I positioned myself close to the serving girl.
"Oh!" the woman – Valga, I remembered that the guard had called her – stood and looked pleasantly surprised. "What's this? A new face in Falkreath!"
"Hello," my relief at her show of geniality was obvious. "Just a temporary new face, I'm afraid."
"Pity," the Nord girl drawled in a mild accent; her eyes raking over me.
I blinked back at her, bemused, as heat rose to my cheeks.
"Leave her alone Norri, and get back to work," Valga replied with laughter in her tone. "I've got a customer."
"Slave-driver," the brash woman rolled her eyes and addressed me with a smirk. "Don't let the boys scare you away," she gave a sideways nod into the common area. "They look like a miserable bunch, but they are easy enough to wrap around your finger with a little gentle persuasion."
Norri flounced away before I fully understood what she meant.
"Cheeky," Valga muttered under her breath. "And all talk, I'll have you know," she added cheerily. "She's just bored. Likes getting a rise out of people."
I turned back to the publican in wonderment.
She was shaking her head with an indulgent smile playing on her lips. "Valga Vinicia, at your service," she introduced. "What can I get you? Need a drink on your way to a better, brighter place, or can I interest you in a room for the night? It's only ten septims - twelve, if you want breakfast. Nice shipment of bacon came in just this afternoon."
"Then...I'll have a room and breakfast, please," I retrieved some money from the small satchel on my hip.
Valga smiled pleasantly and retrieved a log book and quill from under the bar.
"And, some advice," I added, made more confident by her helpful manner. "I'm in need of a horse on the morrow, but I didn't see stables on my way through town. Could you direct me to them? I have a map-" I swung my backpack around, meaning to locate it.
Valga glanced up and hesitated in the process of inking her quill, shaking her head regretfully. "No stables in Falkreath, dear. Town's too small for one. Your closest stables are Whiterun."
My stomach lurched. Looks like you're walking to Cyrodiil, after all.
"Where are you bound anyway?" she asked, but in the tone that told me she was now fishing for gossip. "There are supply carts that go 'tween here and Rorikstead once a week. You could hitch a ride, for a fee. That would get you most of the way to Whiterun for your horse."
"I'm..." I hesitated, then shook my head, placing the money on the counter. "Actually, it doesn't matter. I'll figure something else out."
Valga showed me to my room - a tiny chamber no larger than my closet in Proudspire. It contained a single bed against one wall and a storage closet on the other. Valga spoke just as cheerily as earlier and I nodded and reacted in all the appropriate places, only vaguely listening to her.
When she closed the door, I stared at the stained panels for a heartbeat, then darted back and locked it.
Did you expect every town Skyrim to be like Solitude, I mocked myself?
In truth, I had, and I felt a bit ashamed at my naivety. I had rarely travelled outside of Solitude, and when I had it had been with my parents to the more metropolitan regions of Tamriel. What I had seen in Falkreath so starkly contrasted to all that I had ever known that it brought a harsh light of reality to my largely improvised decision to travel to the Imperial City.
Yet still, I was committed to continuing. If I did not wish to remain in Falkreath, I would need to either walk to Whiterun for a horse, or set out for the border on foot.
I wrapped my cloak around me as I lay on the cold, hard bed in my travelling clothes – for I had brought nothing else to wear. Staring up at the dark, wood-panelled ceiling, I traced the grain as I ran through my options again, weighing which might bring me faster to my destination. Slinking home with my tail between my legs was unacceptable - because I did not truly want to go home. I wanted to hug my grandparents, and feel the warm sun on my face as I shopped in the Market district. I wanted to research the Way of the Voice using the wealth of knowledge available there, out of sight of whatever was about to erupt in Skyrim. And I wanted to have the best in the business repair my beloved lute, so that when my music filled me again, my instrument would be ready for me.
Sighing to the roof, I let my exhaustion overcome me. I would walk to the border, I decided as I drifted off. When I encountered the Legionnaires turning coaches back into Skyrim, one of them might loan me a horse.
–
"Are you sure about this, lass?" Norri called out from the verandah.
I leaped down the steps of the inn with a spring to my step. The sun was warm and a quarter of the way across the sky, and the day was bright and clear. Turning as my boots met the dirt road, I nodded and waved cheerily to the woman.
"Of course!" I affirmed merrily.
"It will be a grand adventure, if nothing else," Norri sounded jealous, but her smile was true. "Lucky for some!"
I bade her farewell and ambled through town, bound for the eastern gate.
I had woken feeling refreshed, and my mood had gotten better as the day had progressed. Determining a course of action that relied on nobody but myself and my own resources had lifted a weight off my shoulders, and I felt positive that I would encounter no further setbacks.
In the light of day, or perhaps in light of my mood, Falkreath did not seem so sinister. The smithy was at his workbench, hammering away, and the red light glowing in the forge was no match for the bright sun. The Jarl's banners still fluttered in the breeze but they no longer seemed ghostly, and the guards flanking the front door acknowledged my wave with curt nods as I passed them.
I hadn't bothered to put my cloak on yet, as the walk would only make me warmer, so I made the journey through the heavily-wooded paths east of Falkreath in the dress I had chosen to travel to Cyrodiil in. It was a simple, traditional, comfortable pale-blue number with straight arms and a round neckline, edged in brown at its seams. My hair was swept back into a braid, though the morning breeze seemed to have something against it, and playfully battered the strands it freed around my face. The very sight of me would have offended my prim sister.
I smiled at the thought. How was she faring in Wayrest? She would have arrived days ago. Perhaps she had already enrolled for the next semester with the Mages' Guild? Whatever she was doing, I hoped she would find happiness.
The road was busier than I had thought it would be. I passed farmers and hunters aplenty travelling to Falkreath on foot laden with overflowing backpacks and their quarries. As I neared what looked like an even smaller settlement than Falkreath, I caught a flash of activity in the distance. Reaching a junction in the road, the signpost on the corner told me that the township was Helgen. As there would be no horses between here and Whiterun, I did not bother taking the road into it.
I took the road away instead, signed as the direction to Riften, and then the next right, which criss-crossed into the mountains. This was the start of the Pale Pass, that would lead me all the way into Cyrodiil. The road inclined steadily, and the air began to cool at once, though the pace I maintained kept me from feeling the chill.
While the road out of Falkreath had been busy, the road leading into the Jerall ranges was completely deserted.
As the sun sank toward the horizon, the air grew even cooler, and I had still passed nobody. How much longer to the border? Why hadn't I bypassed any Legionnaires yet? Had I taken a wrong turn?
A low growl from the side of the road knocked me out of my musings.
Glancing swiftly to my left for the owner of the snarl, I saw nothing unordinary. But I was neither armed nor capable of taking out anything larger than a rabbit (and perhaps not even that), so I hurried to the other side of the road and waited, pressing my back to the rocky wall, reasoning that by doing so, nothing could sneak up on me.
I waited and watched for signs of movement - but none came. My breath puffed in front of me in little white clouds as the skies darkened above me. I had not imagined the growl.
You really didn't think this through, did you, I berated, attempting to exercise patience. You will be eaten by a bear, and nobody will ever know what became of you.
I shook my head. No, I hadn't thought of wildlife, because I assumed I would be travelling to Cyrodiil by coach.
Movement caught my attention, but it was not a bear, or any other creature that hunted at night.
It was two men walking along the road. They were deep in murmured conversation – but I knew they would see me soon enough. There was simply no cover on the mountain pass, only a few scant snowberry bushes, and tall, rocky, snow-capped crags.
My heart leapt when I made our their colours; they wore the Windhelm blue. There were white bears painted on their shields. They were Stormcloaks, Ulfric's men. My blood boiled, trapping me between anger and fear.
Calm down, I commanded. They are not Ulfric. Ulfric is far from here, hiding in his castle and giving orders. They don't know you or care who you are. Walk, smile, wave hello, and keep walking. Don't say anything stupid.
I hurried back onto the road and slowed to a casual stroll. To them, I would be a wandering bard traversing the wilds of Skyrim for inspiration. I didn't think it wise to tell Stormcloaks I was bound for Cyrodiil.
The distance between us shrank, and I glanced over the crags either side of the pass, feigning distraction and introversion.
"You there!"
I turned calmly to face the Stormcloaks. They were five paces from me.
Blinking easily, I welcomed them with a smile and the practised pageantry of a bard. "Good afternoon! Merry evening, is it not?" I bowed low and flamboyantly.
Silence met my greeting. When I rose, haltingly glancing up, I found assessment in their gazes. The big blonde one with his arms crossed was wearing a frown, but seemed more confused than calculating. The other, with a mass of bushy red hair poking out from under his hide helmet, narrowed his eyes. It was a glare that pierced through my facade.
I had started this, so I had to maintain it, despite the fluttering of my heart. I rose to my full height. "I am Aleine," I gave my mother's name on a whim, "a wandering bard. I would offer to sing you a song but I'm afraid my lute is-"
"Did we ask who you were? You shouldn't be on this road," the ginger Stormcloak shook his head, cutting me off. The blonde one glanced to his fellow, but said nothing.
I stared between them and took a step back – I couldn't help myself. "Oh - really? I'm sorry, I must have - my map-" my nerves bubbled.
"That was a lot of free information you offered us," the blonde Stormcloak spoke finally, giving a brief nod to his fellow.
"I - what-?"
The fives paces were closed in two, and the Stormcloaks were beside me. Each grabbed an arm.
"Hey!" I cried, struggling for a moment, but I was no match for their combined strength. "Unhand me - what is this-?" I spluttered.
"If you are a wandering bard," the ginger one, holding my arm in a vice-like grip that clenched tigher as he spoke, cut me off, "then you are about to be given all the inspiration you'll ever need for your ballads, and we'll have you on your merry way before sun-up. But, if you are not," he left his sentence hanging.
"Please!" I winced. My years of training encouraged me to talk my way out of this. "I am a bard!" I managed. "I have no reason to lie to you!"
"Lay off, Ramdir," the blonde one spoke. Without any more passing between them, they moved, towing me along the road. "And Aleine – calm down. We're taking you back to camp. Standard procedure, lass."
I closed my eyes. Why did it have to be Stormcloaks at the Empire's border? Why hadn't I asked?
The soldiers towed me between them in silence, and I drifted between them at double the pace to keep up from being dragged.
Come on! Don't give up! You have been training to perform all these years. Perform!
"As you wish," I conceded quietly. "Though I have told you everything already."
"It's not us you need to convince," the blonde shrugged. "Jarl Stormcloak will decide whether you are what you say you are," he added.
I stumbled on nothing as the blood drained from my face.
"Jarl...Jarl Stormcloak?" I stuttered. The soldiers righted me on my feet.
The one named Ramdir spoke with a twist to the corner of his mouth that might have been an attempt at a smile. "Already wet with awe. Like I said, lass, you'll be set for a lifetime. You're about to meet the man who fights for the sons and daughters of Skyrim with the courage and strength no king before him has carried. You can thank us later for bringing you to him."
I swallowed and nodded dimly. My shock had been interpreted as reverence.
My mind reeled. Ulfric Stormcloak was here?
If you say you're a bard, he will recognise you – remember you, from the Blue Palace. Won't he?
As the soldiers led me, their grips loosened enough that I might have broken free. But there was nowhere to hide - and no way to outrun them if I tried.
You can't take back your story. What other reason could you have for being here that won't reveal your intentions?
The soldiers spoke idly, but I didn't hear any of what they said; I was too terrified to notice anything but my own panicked thoughts. Eventually we left the road and began forging a descent between the mountains. Soon, the rocks flattened and we entered a wooded area, though quite a few of the trees were merely stumps. Through what remained of the trees, I made out flashes of blue material – tents? - and then heard the whinny and snicker of nearby horses.
The sound brought me back to myself; my predicament. If I could get to the horses, I could escape.
The thought died as we turned and I was brought to a shabby-looking wooden gate made of logs sharpened at one end. One half was pushed back, and through the opening I saw crowds of blue-clad soldiers.
"Who's this then, Ralof?" a woman asked with warm amusement.
I startled at the voice; glanced up to face a Stormcloak manning the gate. I hadn't even noticed she was there.
"Just a little bird wandering the roads seeking inspiration," the blonde guard - Ralof, I supposed - replied with nonchalance.
A guard on the opposite side of the gate huffed as Ralof and Ramdir led me through. "I was wondering when Jarl Stormcloak's courage would bring the bards flocking to his side."
Courage?! Seething within, all of my effort was put into maintaining a neutral expression. The monster wants us to write songs about him? I would sooner die.
Row upon row of Stormcloak soldiers littered the encampment. I slowed, unable to stop myself from gaping at this enormous force Ulfric had rallied to his cause. There were hundreds of soldiers here. They were all so casual about their betrayal of the Empire. Many were standing around fire pits, preparing their dinners, repairing armour, and sharpening weapons. Though night had fallen, it was impossible to feel the cold with so many bodies and fire pits around us.
Ralof and Ramdir hurried me along, and I stumbled again under their momentum.
Perform, I reminded myself in panic. They will let you go if you promise to sing their song to the rest of Skyrim.
I felt ill at the prospect of praising Ulfric Stormcloak; the man responsible for the destruction of my family. But if I was being taken to him, I had little choice if I wanted to live.
Remember your promise, I tried to placate the anger bubbling within me. Learn the Way of the Voice, first. Use his words against him. You can't win if you engage him now.
I nodded, resolved, and took in a deep, shuddering breath of air. I can do this.
The Stormcloaks flanking me relaxed their holds as we approached a large tent near the centre of the encampment. It was three times the size of the other tents littering the borders and was made of darker hide than the rest of them. Either side of the entryway stood tall, blue standards, each of which bore the Windhelm bear.
"I'll take her," Ralof spoke. When I glanced to him, his focus was on Ramdir. "Your watch ended hours ago – go to the fire pits and have an ale."
The ginger Stormcloak didn't seem happy about Ralof's dismissal, but he didn't speak against it. The blonde Nord must have outranked him.
With a bit of a shove, Ramdir released my left arm. "Right you are, Ralof."
Once Ramdir was gone, Ralof turned me to face him, regarding me with a hard look. His grip on my arm tightened in warning.
"Now is the time for truths, Aleine," his low, thick accent, murmured; his tone somewhat imploring. "You are about to stand before Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim. He will not be kind if you are to be found lying to us."
I stared at the burly Nord and made an attempt to twist my arm out of his grip. "You do not need to hold me so tightly," I managed through clenched teeth. "There is no reason for me to run."
Great. My words were fine; my tone was not. I had all but condemned myself to this soldier.
Ralof's mouth flattened into a grim line as he accepted my response and released my arm, only to grab both of my wrists and close them together in one meaty fist. He shouldered past me and stepped into the tent.
It was dark within. My eyes darted around the tent, straining through the gloom to catch a glimpse of Ulfric Stormcloak, but Ralof was blocking my view. I made out maps pinned to the hide walls either side of us, and the occasional table and empty chair.
Ralof stopped near the rear of the tent and brought me up to stand beside him. We stood before a table, on which lay a large map of the provinces of Skyrim. The map was littered with pins of various colours, positioned around the holds.
My eyes widened at the map. Whatever else the Stormcloaks were; I could not deny that they were organised.
"My Jarl, we have found an Imperial spy wandering the Pale Pass heading for Cyrodiil-" Ralof spoke.
Glancing sideways, I flashed Ralof an incredulous look.
"I'm not a spy!" I spluttered.
Ralof glanced down at me with a calm expression and lifted his eyebrows.
With a huff, I realised he'd only said it to gauge my reaction. I flushed and turned away from his look of victory, setting my focus on the man across the table; the one who was as large as a bear, whose blonde hair drifted around his chiselled face like a wild mane. He was leant over the table with his elbows on it, but was still taller than me. His eyes knew me, and they were like ice, slicing through my white-hot indignation to leave a fear so potent that I wavered.
Ralof's grip on my wrist tightened and he held me upright as my knees buckled.
With a sickening pang, I was certain that he recognised me.
"You have brought a spy into our midst?" Ulfric's baritone rumbled.
The blonde Nord righted me, and then nodded. "She says her name is Aleine, and that she is a wandering bard – but I don't see any instruments to speak of-"
"I told you, it's broken," I closed my eyes in panic. "My lute – it was smashed when the – several days ago," I swallowed thickly. "I am journeying to Riften. I heard there's a maker there who might repair it."
Heavy silence met my explanation. After a deep, what I told myself was steadying breath, I opened my eyes and made myself look at him.
"You are a long way from Riften, Aleine," Ulfric murmured in a bored way, then lazily nodded at Ralof. "Search her."
Ralof let go of my wrists and I slammed my eyes shut. His hands fell to my pack and lifted it from my shoulders. I remained perfectly still and tried to breath steadily - to breathe my calming pre-performance breaths. Large hands patted down either side of my body, perfunctory and fleeting.
When they find your broken lute, all will be well, I told myself, over and over.
"She's unarmed, my Jarl."
"Her possessions, then," Ulfric prompted.
I opened my eyes with a sigh of relief, and turned to Ralof as he unlaced my pack.
"The hide on the front," I encouraged. "What remains of my lute is wrapped there."
Ralof ignored my suggestion and reached into my pack, withdrawing the journal on top.
"A spy trying to disguise herself as a bard might carry an instrument unable to be played," Ulfric Stormcloak sighed.
I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to face him. I pinked during the silence that followed. A different fear took hold of my senses; sudden, frantic and desperate. It knocked the wind out of me and my eyes widened as I stared at the journal Ralof was holding. It was the journal I had written the account of the High King's murder in, on the night my parents had died.
No.
"It's - one of my song books," I spoke quickly – too quickly. Ralof's furrowed glance cut through me like a knife.
"Give it to me," Ulfric demanded swiftly in a tone that would not tolerate refusal.
Ralof cast me a look of disappointment, and passed my journal to the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion.
