Author's Note:
I am assuming it is the norm for people to be referenced by their first name (you don't hear people referencing Ulfric as his last name, Stormcloak). The only exception would be for some, most notably Bretons, to call young women miss or Ms. (insert last name here) or men Mr., Sir (if they are a knight), or sir.
Also, since the execution happens right when you enter Solitude...
Chapter Seven
The rays of the falling sun painted the sky orange and purple and red, like a storm in the desert. Metal clashing against metal and grunts and cries of fury raged across the courtyard of Castle Dour. The new recruits trained and bled beneath the watchful eye of the Prefect. Samuel parried Haming's thrust and slammed the pommel of his blade onto his opponent's hand.
"Ow," The other boy dropped his blade and held his hand close to his chest. He narrowed his eyes, shooting a glare at Samuel. The fourteen year old lifted his blade to strike the boy, but Haming cried out, "I yield!"
Rolling his eyes, Samuel shook his head. He was tired of sparring, if you could call it that, with the Nord. Every scratch, bump, and minor injury he inflicted, Haming would jump back and would not rearm himself until at least five minutes had passed and he "recovered". Samuel had little choice, however, as the other recruits refused to fight against the youngest members of the bunch. The only exception was Cyrus, but Samuel did not want to repeat his previous experience; he remembered the way his forehead ached from the blow he received on the first day.
"Wild boy," the Prefect's voice called out across the courtyard. He lifted his chin, indicating for the boy to stand before him. Samuel obliged and jogged up to the man, wondering what he was about to get reprimanded for now. Nevertheless, Samuel stood up straight and stared at something a few inches above the Prefect's shoulder. "Haming seems to be getting a beating, yet you do not seem to have a single scratch on you!"
"No sir!" Samuel tried to keep himself from smiling, knowing he would just get an earful.
The Prefect looked hard at the boy. "And why is that!?"
"Sir, I best him in combat!"
"You 'best' him in combat?" The Prefect almost chuckled.
"Yes sir!"
"Are you saying you would like a challenge, wild boy!?"
The twinkle in the officer's eyes made Samuel uneasy, but Samuel knew he would have to give a reply almost instantly. "Yes sir!" The boy prayed he would not be paired with Cyrus again.
Smiling widely, the Prefect ran his eyes over the other fresh recruits. Haming cringed in fear and shied away from the Orc's gaze. The Argonian and Dark Elf were locked in combat, the Elf's daggers slashed with a wild fury and yet he could only seem to hit air. A few meters away, the Nord was having similar luck against the Wood Elf, though where the Argonian seemed to almost jump from position to position, the Elf seemed to dance.
The pompous Imperial from the first day cowered beneath the Breton woman. The sixteen year old knelt above the twenty-something year-old and continued to smash her mace into the man's armored forearms covering his face. He was obviously beaten, though he was too imperious to yield.
"Ana! Get your ass over here!" The Prefect bellowed.
The young Breton jumped to her feet, a small smirk playing at her lips, while the Imperial stumbled to his feet. Dusting himself off, the man glowered at the woman.
"Today, Sint-ass!" the Imperial officer growled, purposefully butchering the younger man's name.
Strutting up to the Prefect, Anarath saluted and stood proudly, not even sparing Samuel a glance. "Yes sir?"
"You and wild boy." The Prefect nodded.
"Sir, I must strongly object." Anarath protested.
The officer raised his eyebrows, a smile forming on his face. "Oh, really now?"
"Yes sir."
Turning to the senior recruits, the Prefect yelled, "Cyrus!" The Redguard immediately ceased his actions and began to sprint towards his commanding officer.
"Oh, so you send your pupil to face me," the bombastic Imperial spat. "Are you that much of a coward?"
Samuel's eyes widened in surprise. The Prefect simply blinked once as the Redguard arrived. "Very well. Cyrus, you and Sint-ass will pair up against me."
Face blanching, the Redguard stammered, "A-are you sure, sir?"
"Did I stutter, recruit!?"
"No sir!"
"Then get your asses to the other side of the courtyard and prepare for combat!"
Scrambling over their own feet, Cyrus and Anarath dashed to the opposite end of the courtyard. The commotion attracted the attention of the remaining recruits and the sixteen year-old Breton stood beside Samuel to get a better view of the upcoming bout.
The Nord stood on Samuel's other side, his arms folded across his chest. "Well, that pompous arse is about to make a fool of himself." he snorted.
"Serves him right," the girl folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. "That mangy cur. Throughout our duels, he has done nothing save make unsubtle advances and attempt to move his hands to unvirtuous places." Her lip curled up in disgust.
The Dark Elf on the Nord's other side leaned in to speak. "He has not desisted? I would assume after two full days of getting his arse handed to him, he would understand."
"Especially since the one giving him the throttling is the recipient of said advances." The Nord shook his head.
"One would think." the girl grumbled.
"I apologize, miss," Samuel decided to say, "Some men do not have the capacity to understand when a woman has no interest in them."
The Breton turned to the boy her height and smiled. "I suppose not." She seemed to assess the boy for a moment and she opened her mouth to say something; but whatever it was, she quickly thought better than to speak and instead diverted her attention to the impending match.
Much to Samuel's surprise, the officer unbelted his sword from his waist.
"What is he doing?" the Nord asked, his eyes wide.
"I do believe he is removing his sword." the Wood Elf muttered as the Prefect threw his belt, sword, and sheath to the side.
The Nord growled, "I realize that, woman."
Shaking her head, the woman snorted. "Then for what reason did you ask?"
Anarath threw his hand dismissively at the older man. "Do you believe yourself to be so talented, you can take Anarath Sintav, son of Audeius, wielder of the -"
The Redguard punched the Imperial in the shoulder, cutting him off and eliciting an outcry of pain from his victim.
"Unlike some," the Prefect stated, "I let my prowess in combat speak for itself."
As the Redguard hefted his longsword and shield, Samuel saw the fear in the man's eyes and the boy began to wonder how skillful the Prefect was. In contrast, the Imperial looked to be quite proud of himself.
When neither replied, the officer stated, "Then I suppose we are ready to begin." Keeping his fists elevated, the man began to walk forward. The recruits inched towards the man and, despite Anarath's previous confidence, even he demonstrated a level of caution... until seconds became moments and impatience flashed through the Imperial's eyes.
Anarath darted forward, sword raised and shield at his side. He reached the Prefect in an instant, but the older man was not surprised. The officer grabbed the man's sword-wrist and brought up his own elbow, hitting the younger man in the jaw. Before Samuel could blink, the Prefect slung his right arm over the other's back, almost as if he sought to throw him to the ground. Instead, he pushed the butt of his hand against Anarath's elbow and snapped it in two. He then proceeded to push the screaming man forward, catching his other arm and breaking it as well. The recruit fell to the ground, his shoulders hitting the stone.
A glint of steel flashed before the Prefect. Cyrus had raised his shield to block any incoming attacks and thrusted his longsword forward, aiming straight into the officer's side. Pivoting on his left foot, the Orc managed to sidestep out of the way and closed his left hand on the Redguard's shield-elbow. He smashed the pinky-side of his hand against his pupil's neck and wrapped both arms around the dazed man's waist.
With a mighty heave, the officer swung the Redguard backwards, over his head and bending so far back, Samuel would not have believed such a stunt was possible. The Redguard's head smashed into Anarath's knee with enough force, it broke the inexperienced recruit's leg and knocked the other unconscious.
"That is enough fun for today," the Prefect almost laughed as he wiped his hands against each other. "Time for dinner!" As the man called for a mage for the two incapacitated recruits, the others fell in line before the slop cauldron.
The bowl of slop made Grelod's cooking look appetizing. Samuel was not sure what was in the actual dish, but he knew it tasted awful. The night before, he thought he tasted beef, whereas this morning he swore it was chicken. Still, he did not have a choice in the matter and all he could do was eat it, whatever it was.
He sat beside the other recruits he had arrived with. The seven of them sat around a small fire pit and ate in silence, just as they had the night before. Anarath was still whining to the restoration mages. As Samuel ate the slop, he realized he did not know anything about any of them... save for Anarath's name and Haming as the boy from Helgen who had looked down his nose at the orphans not even a few months ago.
Gathering his courage, Samuel started, "You know, none of us have been properly introduced..."
Lifting her spoon and watching the liquid fall back into her bowl, the Breton replied, "No, I suppose we have not." She turned to Samuel and smiled. "I am called Selene Kingston, and I am from Skyrim."
Samuel nodded. "I am Samuel, and I am from Skyrim as well."
The Argonian to Samuel's immediate left spoke next, and the boy noted each recruit was introducing themselves after the recruit to their right. "I am Okan-Ru, and I hail from Morrowind."
"I am Fadril Valaai, and I am also from Morrowind." The Dark Elf smiled at the Argonian.
Raising his head from the bowl, the Nord simply stated, "Godrel, Skyrim." before continuing his meal.
Haming cleared his throat and said, "I am Haming, from Skyrim."
"Cirwen, from Cyrodiil." The Wood Elf had barely touched her food yesterday, but she must have realized there was nothing else present for sustenance because she now swallowed down the slop.
In that moment, Anarath began to trudge sheepishly towards the circle, his bowl of food in his hands. As he approached, Cyrus roughly bumped into the Imperial and snarled, "Oh, I apologize, I cannot feel anything in this arm!" He strode off to his own circle of recruits, not waiting for a response. Samuel managed to hear the Redguard mutter, "That hurt."
Both Samuel and Cirwen snickered at the comment.
"Is something amusing?" Selene asked.
The teenager was about to reply, when a sudden silence fell over the courtyard. Looking up, Samuel realized all eyes were on a dark-haired, bearded Nord garbed in scale armor over chainmail. The blood red of his sash marked him as a Solitude guard. Samuel had seen the man before and identified him as Captain Aldis, the Captain of the guards of Solitude. In tow was a Nord with short, light brown hair; he wore ragged clothes and his hands were bound: he was a prisoner. Following the pair was a strong Redguard, armed with a greataxe longer than its wielder.
Samuel's blood ran cold as he understood what was about to happen.
A hand closed over Samuel's forearm and Selene whispered, "Come." She darted away, making her way out of Castle Dour. The boy hesitated. He had already witnessed one execution more than what he had hoped to see in his lifetime, and he was satisfied with never seeing another again.
The others stood and followed the Breton, their bowls of food forgotten. Godrel, however, did not forget them. The Nord gathered up all the dishes and scurried after the group, moving quickly enough to catch up, yet slow enough to not splash any slop onto the ground. Even Anarath managed to hobble out of the courtyard.
Selene waved Samuel over as the other groups of recruits stood and followed. Sighing in resignation, the boy stood and jogged after the group, heart sinking in his chest. He followed the men and women out of Castle Dour and through Solitude. As the sun drifted beneath the horizon, the city residents began to turn in for the day, locking up their shops and conversing outside of their homes. They were oblivious to what was about to occur within the walls of their city. The recruits stopped before the city gates, their eyes focused to the south, to a raised platform with nothing on it but a wooden headsman's block.
Samuel took his place beside Selene, and he could not hide his discomfort. The girl noticed and she asked, "What is it?"
The boy shook his head and lied, "It is nothing." His eyes looked around at the scene before him.
Word had spread like dragon fire throughout the city and it seemed that the men and women, who had been preparing for the night only moments before, had congregated to view the execution. Even the Jarl of Solitude herself was present, complete with a contingent of guards. The young widow stood proud in a blood red tunic, and an embroidered cloak draped over her shoulders. Samuel noted the coloring of the guards' sashes and the Jarl's tunic were appropriate for the matter at hand. The woman stared hard at the platform, her head held high. Her face was cold and emotionless, yet Samuel saw a silent ferocity in her eyes. She smiled at her people as they passed by and exchanged a few words, but her focus was on the headsman's block. A Nord dressed in fine robes stood next to her, turning occasionally to whisper in her ear.
The city gates opened for a moment, and a Nord with dark hair sprinted into the city. Seeing the procession, he halted in his tracks and looked around. Samuel thought he recognized the man, but he could not quite put a finger on his identity.
The man sucked in a breath and screamed, "WHAT IS HAPPENING!?"
Samuel sighed and realized who the man was.
"They cannot hurt Uncle Roggvir," Samuel heard a girl protest, "Tell them he did not do it!"
"WHAT DID HE DO!?"
Sneers and jeers called out and Samuel turned to see the trio stepping onto the raised platform. Turning to the two behind him, the Captain said something Samuel could not catch. The prisoner stood behind the block with the executioner to his left and the Captain to his right.
"Svari," a man whispered, "You need to go home. Go home and stay there until your mother comes."
"Lock the city gate!" the Captain called out over the crowd.
"You should tell her that her uncle is scum that betrayed the High King," a woman spat at the man. "Best she know now, Addvar."
"You are all heart, Vivienne." the man murmured.
Raising a hand for silence, the Captain waited for the crowd before he spoke. "Roggvir. You helped Ulfric Stormcloak escape this city after he murdered High King Torygg." Samuel's eyes widened and he discerned the reason why Ulfric was to be executed the day Helgen was destroyed. "By opening that gate for Ulfric, you betrayed the people of Solitude."
"OH!"
Several people cried out, most notable were the phrases, "Traitor!" and "He does not deserve to speak!"
Roggvir announced to the crowd, "There was no murder! Ulfric challenged Torygg. He beat the High King in fair combat." Samuel turned to glance at the Jarl, but the crowd had closed in around him and he could not find her.
"Liar!" a woman screamed.
"Such is our way," the prisoner continued, "Such is the ancient custom of Skyrim, and all Nords!" The boy straightened his shoulders; the prisoner spoke the truth, anyone could challenge the High King, and if he won, he was the rightful ruler of Skyrim. Then why was Ulfric not here? Why was he not made High King?
The crowd booed around Samuel and his eyes darted to the Breton beside him. She said nothing, her face was neutral, she simply observed. The other recruits had similar expressions on their faces.
The woman who had called Roggvir scum screeched, "Cut him down!" Others cried out in approval. Samuel grimaced in disgust at the assembly. While he had no love for the Stormcloaks, he did not wish for blood to be needlessly spilt... especially in front of children. His eyes ran over the crowd once again and he suddenly froze.
He recognized the reddish brown hair on the teenage boy, and the brunette standing beside him. Samuel wanted to move towards his friends, but as quickly as he saw them, they disappeared once again behind the surging crowd. He tore his eyes away and prevented himself from looking at them again; he could not afford to be distracted.
Straightening up, the Captain said, "Guard, prepare the prisoner."
"I do not need your help." the Nord snarled.
"Very well," Captain Aldis nodded, "Roggvir. Bow your head."
Samuel shifted his stance, uneasy. The prisoner was not read his rights; even the men and women present at Helgen had the opportunity to commune with their gods and makers.
The Nord settled himself onto the block and the executioner raised his axe. As the crowd cheered and jeered, Samuel read the prisoner's lips. "On this day, I go to Sovngarde." The axe swung down onto the man's neck, and Samuel wondered whether or not the man's soul would truly be present beside Shor in the Hall of Valor.
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