Author's Note:
Happy 10th Anniversary, Elder Scrolls V! 11/11/11 feels like a lifetime ago.
I've been working on this story for quite a while. I hope you don't mind starting in Helgen. This is going to be a very long fic, so if you're in for that, I'll be updating once a week.
PART ONE: RIVERWOOD
Morndas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E201
Her head ached. In fact, her whole body did. She attributed part of the pain to the hard, flat surface beneath her, drilling bruises into her hip and shoulder. When she opened her crusty eyelids, she attributed still more of it to the stabbing light in her eyes. She re-closed them and groaned.
"Girl's coming around," rumbled a voice.
She did not recognize this voice. Nor, she now realized, did she know where she was. Why she was there. Why she hurt all over. She pressed her forehead into the rough wood beneath her and frowned.
Someone else snorted, then spit noisily before turning his creaky voice in her direction. "Who cares."
Carefully, she cracked open her eyes just a slit, breathing through the nausea that assaulted her. When she'd adjusted sufficiently to the light, she moved her hands beneath her and pushed up onto her arms.
Trees slid past her field of vision. She was in the bottom of a rickety old wagon, slumped at the feet of three dirt-covered men as the wagon lumbered forward. She squinted at the men and tried her best to think around the throb in her head. When they simply stared back, she twisted at the waist to see the front of the wagon. A stately-looking man dressed all in red—red armor, at that—sat atop the driver's seat with the reins of two horses in his hands. As she observed this, she looked past the driver, and saw more wagons like hers all in a line, and men in red armor on horseback guarding their flanks. Soldiers?
She focused on the three men sharing her wagon. Two were fair and rather burly, the third dark and gaunt, with big bloodshot eyes sunk deep in their sockets. All three were covered head to toe in dried mud and what appeared to be blood, and yet all three were dressed differently—the one on the right in a fine fur-trimmed coat, the nearest in a blue uniform, and the dark one in crude linen. All three had their wrists bound together with rope.
The man in blue spoke first.
"All right there, girl?"
She took a moment to think on the question. No. Her head ached. She was not all right.
Why did her head ache? Who were these people? How did she get here? And why could she not remember? Did she know any of these men?
This stopped her short. Shouldn't she know if she knew them? She searched her mind for their faces and came up blank. She searched her mind for important faces, ones she should look for to orient herself. She came up blank again.
Comprehension hit like a bucket of ice water.
She didn't remember. Not just these men, not just this place. She didn't know herself.
What is my name?
She came up blank.
Her head ached.
The man in blue exchanged a glance with the man in the fine coat. She noticed that this well-dressed man, his hair a darker shade of blond than the one in blue, had a gag over his mouth. Why was he gagged, but not the others? Why was she not gagged? Who had gagged him? They looked like prisoners.
A glance around at the armored men on horseback told her they might be just that.
"You were trying to cross the border, right?"
She looked at the man in blue.
He nodded solemnly, as if her silence confirmed his answer. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there." He jerked his chin at the gaunt man.
The wagon hit a stone and jumped, the lot of them bouncing in their seats and struggling to stay upright. The gaunt man released a string of obscenities and shot the man in blue a withering glare.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," he bit out, as if to blame the stone in the road on the other man. His bound hand pointed a scraggly finger. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you—"
"You'd have been halfway to Hammerfell with that horse, I know," the man in blue sighed, slouching in his seat.
"I would have been!"
His unsettling eyes darted down to her, still crumpled in the bottom of the wagon and trying not to let the lurching send her head into one of the benches.
"You!"
She jumped. His gaze held her with unblinking ferocity. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants. Don't you think this is crazy? This isn't fair!"
The man driving their wagon bellowed, "Shut up back there!"
The gaunt man fell quiet. He eyed her with a demanding sort of scowl, lips flattening in outrage. She hunched her shoulders and lowered her head.
The gaunt man said she didn't belong there, and she was inclined to agree. But if she wasn't one of these … Stormcloaks? Then what was she doing there? Why was the Empire tying people up and putting them in wagons?
What was the Empire?
Her head ached.
Eventually she climbed up to sit on the bench seat like the others, the man in blue across from her and the gagged man on her right. A stiff breeze made her shiver; she wrapped her arms around herself. The four of them stayed that way, in silence, until their procession of wagons and horses wound down the road all the way to a city wall. Soldiers atop the ramparts called out orders and rolled up a gate for them, and she saw the man in blue and the well-dressed man trade foreboding looks.
Beyond the gate waited a building-lined roadway and more people on horseback, only these were dressed in polished steel and plumed helmets, their horses glossy-coated and clean. A red soldier directly inside the gate began making arm gestures and shouting, barking directions to get the wagons through the gate and past the shiny officials.
One of the women among these officials stood out from the rest, her horse guarded by two men in curious bronze armor. She was garbed all in black leather and had a narrow, angular face with two slanted gold eyes. An elf. An angry-looking elf.
Either this elf smelled something bad or her lip was curled for another reason as she watched them drive past. For a brief moment, her eyes met those of the girl in the wagon, and the assessing flick of her gaze seemed to say she knew everything about her down to the dirt under her fingernails, and wasn't impressed. The elf sneered and shifted her attention elsewhere.
"Thalmor agents," muttered the man in blue. He craned his neck to watch them, bitterness sharpening his glare. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."
By this time some of the aching in her head had lessened, the better to draw awareness to pains in other parts of her body. She'd discovered that her entire right side was tender to the touch, the underside of her jaw had an open scrape that curved up to her chin and stung with every swallow, and her arm muscles felt as if she'd strained to haul something far too heavy for far too long. Her gown, perhaps once a shade of green, was just as caked with mud as the men's clothes. If not worse. Her face and neck were filthy.
She noticed a particularly dark splotch coating her sleeve. It resembled a bloodstain too much to be anything else. But there was so much of it …
She pulled back the cuff all the way to her elbow and saw a rainbow of bruises, some blue, some fading into greenish-yellow, but no open cuts. The blood wasn't hers.
What had she done?
The man in blue interrupted her thoughts. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here." His gaze fell from the thatched-roof houses around them to settle on her. She tilted her head quizzically, something in his tone darker than the statement called for. He offered a weak smile. She lowered her sleeve back over her arm and hugged herself, wondering what was about to happen to this man. He seemed resigned to something, though unafraid. If he was a prisoner, then how harsh were his captors? Would they be equally as harsh with her? Was the blood on her sleeve evidence of some wrongdoing on her part?
The man in blue turned to the gaunt one in linen. "Hey. What village are you from, horse thief?"
The gaunt man squinted at him, perhaps also detecting the edge to his voice that she had. He snorted and spit off the side of the wagon. "Why do you care?"
The man in blue looked solemn. "Where do you think these Imperials are taking you, brother? A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
She froze. A chill swept through her, dragging a gasp from her lungs. The man in blue afforded her a glance. Mutely, she shook her head, asking him to contradict what she'd just heard. He grimaced.
The gaunt man seemed stunned. Realization dawned over his face and he blinked rapidly, as if the other man's meaning could be cleared away if he just focused his eyes differently. His shoulders sank as he turned to stare at his poorly-shod feet.
He swallowed. "Rorikstead," he replied at length. "I'm … I'm from Rorikstead."
Before she had time to ponder the question—Is he saying we're going to die?—she heard a child's voice pipe up behind her. She twisted in her seat to see a young boy sitting on the porch of a house, staring at her.
"Who are they, Papa?" he addressed the man behind him.
The father strode forward and grabbed his son by the arm, hoisting him to his feet. "You need to go inside, little cub."
The boy frowned up at his father and then looked back at their driver, eyes bright. "Why? I want to watch the soldiers."
But his father tugged him around and ushered him toward their open doorway, where his mother took him by the shoulders and gave her husband an urgent, imploring look. The father shook his head. "Inside the house," he insisted. He gave his child one more nudge. "Now."
The mother drew her child inside and shut the door. The girl in the wagon felt suddenly trapped. She turned back to the man in blue and wanted to ask him what was going to happen, but felt her throat close up in trepidation. They couldn't kill her. She hadn't done anything … right? Where had the blood on her sleeve come from?
"This isn't fair," muttered the gaunt man for a second time. He was shaking his head, curling and uncurling his fingers. "I'm not a Stormcloak. They can't do this to me. All I did was steal a horse."
Their wagon came to a clumsy halt. The girl's heart skipped a beat. Other wagons were stopping beside them, those ahead already unloading men and women in blue uniforms like the man sitting across from her, all being shoved and cursed at by soldiers in red. She realized now what this seemed like—war. Or perhaps the end of one.
On the heels of their procession came the shiny officials on horseback, chins held high. A broad man with a tanned face sat at their front, his helmet tucked under one arm as his eyes swept across them with calculating intensity. His hair might have been dark once, but was cut so close to his head that it hid almost none of its current peppery gray.
The man in blue growled in disgust. "Just look at him. 'General Tullius the Military Governor.' Smug bastard. Deserves to lick the Thalmor's boots."
"I thought I told you to shut up!" their driver snapped, standing in his seat to tower over them and glare. He pointed a finger. "Out of the wagon. Move. Line up."
As if out of thin air, a handful of soldiers in red surrounded them. The girl looked to see lines forming in front of other groups of wagons. Heaving a sigh, the man in blue stood, followed by the well-dressed man. The girl rose onto wobbly legs. She curled her hands against her heart and took a moment to wonder why her wrists weren't bound like the others.
The gaunt man remained seated. "Why are we stopping? Why are we getting out? What are you doing with us?"
"Get him out of there!" barked the driver. Two of the red soldiers obediently reached up to grab the gaunt man by his arms. He resisted, digging in his heels.
"I'm not a rebel!" he cried. "You can't do this!"
A third soldier stepped forward to club the man in the side of the head, effectively unbalancing him so the other two could haul him to the ground on his knees. They yanked him back to his feet and shoved him, reeling, into a growing line of men and women in blue.
The girl watched in horror, though no one else seemed surprised. What had she done to be put in this place? She wasn't a rebel either—the gaunt man had said so. Were they seriously going to hurt her? Whose side was she on?
"Let's go," said the man in blue. She turned to him wide-eyed. He looked understanding, even remorseful, as he nodded toward where the man in the fine coat was stepping out of the wagon. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
He stepped away.
Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us, she repeated. She bit back a whimper and followed him.
When the man in blue hopped off the wagon, the vehicle's weight bounced toward the front end, tilting the boards under her feet and making her stumble. A red soldier reached up and grabbed her by the elbow, not so much to steady her as to get her down quicker. The step was much higher for her than for the men, and when she hit the ground a jolt surged up her shins. She yelped and buckled. The soldier holding her laughed, jerking her up like a yo-yo toy.
"What's a little girl doing fighting with the Stormcloaks?" he asked, leaning down to smirk at her. She cringed back. "What, they run out of recruits?"
He laughed again, tossing her straight into the man in blue so she ricocheted off of his back and nearly toppled onto her backside. The man in blue spun around.
"What, you Imperials like to bully children now?"
The soldier's smile slipped off his face. His lip curled, his hand going to the sword on his belt. Another soldier grabbed him by the arm.
"Save it. He's going to the block soon enough."
The block? She rubbed her nose where it had smacked into the man in blue.
A strong female voice cut through the lower murmuring around her. "Step toward the block when we call your name! One at a time!"
The girl craned around the man in blue to see a steel-armored woman standing at the head of her line, hands on hips and chest thrust forward. A ruddy-colored man stood beside her in red leather, with a small book in one hand and an ink pen in the other. The older man from before, General Tullius, was dismounting from his horse behind them.
The man in blue shook his head. He leaned back to her and whispered, "Empire loves their damn lists. Leave it to them to make a grand affair out of anything."
She got the feeling he was trying to … lighten the mood? It didn't work. She peered back at him in confusion, and he shrugged before facing forward.
The armored woman crossed her arms. "Begin, Hadvar."
"Yes, Captain," said the ruddy man. He cleared his throat and lifted his book to read from it. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. Guilty of murder and high treason. Sentenced to death."
A cheer went up from the red soldiers around them. Soldiers guarding the other lines turned to see what all the commotion was about, and when they saw the gagged man in the fine coat step forward, they threw in their jeers to join the noise. In spite of this, the gagged man held his head high. He walked calmly to the female captain, who spit at his feet and gestured for two soldiers to come and lead him away. They guided him to a small square in front of a watchtower just a few yards from their gathering place, and brought him to a stop some feet away from a large wooden block. Just beside the block stood a heavily muscled man in a black hood. He held an axe in his hands.
The girl felt the blood drain from her face. That's what they meant by "the block."
"Quiet down! Quiet down!" cried the captain, trying to subdue the noise from her subordinates. "Let's get on with it!"
General Tullius stepped up beside the captain and lifted a hand, immediately silencing the crowd. "We're saving Ulfric for last. Let him see the men he led astray surrender to the authority of the Empire. Next name!"
Another cheer went up, and the ruddy Hadvar raised his voice to announce the next name in his book. Others like him did the same in front of their own lines, General Tullius retreating to the edge of the square. Name after name was called, summoning men and women in blue to a spot across the square from Ulfric, where they were arranged in rows for him to see. Many of them were limping.
"Lokir of Rorikstead," Hadvar said.
The gaunt man in linen moved shakily forward. "This is a mistake. I swear I'm not a rebel. I shouldn't be here."
"Lokir of Rorikstead?" Hadvar confirmed.
The gaunt man nodded. Hadvar grimaced. "Then I'm afraid you are a rebel. It says so right here. 'Stormcloak. Sentenced to death.'"
Lokir looked like he'd been kicked in the gut. He started shaking his head, lifting his bound hands in a supplicating gesture. "No! This is a mistake! I swear I—"
"Take him away!" the captain ordered, snapping her fingers at a soldier. But Lokir of Rorikstead dodged the soldier's grasping hand, stepping back and shaking his head more fervently.
"I'm not a rebel! I'm not a rebel!"
More soldiers came toward him. Lokir's eyes darted like a panicked rabbit's. He lurched out of the path of the next soldier's lunge and took off, sprinting down the road from whence they'd come.
"Archers!" screamed the captain.
Bows were drawn throughout the company, arrows nocked. The girl watched them fly straight into Lokir's retreating back. He didn't make a sound.
His body hit the ground before the girl could blink. Spots of red bloomed up underneath his linen shirt, growing like roses. She felt light-headed. So this was it. It didn't matter if she was a Stormcloak or not, if there'd been a mistake or not. She'd had a life for all of an hour, and now these "Imperials" were going to kill her.
She felt afraid.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the captain challenged, spinning to face them. No one answered.
Hadvar turned back to his book as if nothing had happened. "Next in line." He flipped a page and skimmed it with his eyes, then looked up—right at her. She stopped breathing.
Well, at least she would hear her name before she died.
Hadvar frowned. He glanced back down at his book, then back up at her, for the first time seeming confused. She kept her hands wrapped tight against her heart, as if curling into herself would make her invisible. His eyes lingered on her wrists.
The captain noticed them as well.
"Why is this prisoner not restrained?" she demanded, cutting Hadvar off just as he'd opened his mouth. She looked over at the men who'd herded them out of their wagon. The men in turn looked at each other. The captain gritted her teeth.
"Well?"
"We dunno, Captain. She was just like that."
"Idiots. Name, Hadvar?"
Hadvar seemed to brace himself. "I've already read off all the females in this group. She's not on the list."
The captain's head whipped around. Hadvar ignored her, setting his pen in the crook of his thumb so he could make a "come forward" gesture with his fingers. The girl took a step and glanced uncertainly at the man in blue, but he was busy scowling at Hadvar. No help there. As she walked toward Hadvar, she imagined the soldiers all staring at her, like wolves waiting for prey to falter.
She felt small standing in front of the two officials. Even as a female, the captain towered over her, to say nothing of Hadvar—no wonder the one soldier had called her "little girl." She'd noticed her own curves beneath her rumpled, muddy clothes, but she was a head and a half shorter than the majority of the people present and too coated in filth for her features to show her age. She probably appeared all of twelve years old.
Hadvar leaned down to speak to her at a volume that wouldn't travel to the entire company. "I need to know who you are so I can check the other lists. A given name and a birthplace will do, if you don't have a surname."
The girl stared at him. Her throat tightened. She searched her mind again, searched it frantically. She swallowed. She opened her mouth and inhaled, but nothing came out. She had nothing to offer.
"Answer the question, prisoner," the captain said. The girl chanced a look to find the captain glaring with a hate-fueled fire in her eyes. The girl shrank further into herself, clasping her fingers together as tight as they would go. She took a breath and willed herself to speak.
Hadvar still seemed patiently ready for her. She licked her lips. Why was her chest so tight? She could speak, couldn't she? Why was it so difficult to find her voice? She forced herself to suck in another deep breath, but it was pinched on the way down.
She could tell them she didn't know her name. But, glancing from the captain to the soldiers around them, thinking of Lokir's insistence that he was not a rebel, looking past Hadvar to see the body lying in the dirt, she realized they wouldn't believe her. How convenient for her to lose her memory just before sentencing at the executioner's block. Who in the world didn't know their own name?
"Your name, brat," the captain pressed, stepping forward with an arm raised. The girl cringed back.
"For Shor's sake, she's just a kid!"
The captain stopped. She and the girl turned to see the man in blue being held back by a soldier in red. He tried to jostle the soldier off to no avail.
"She's a scared kid, not a Stormcloak! That's why you don't have her name!"
The captain huffed, her arm redirecting itself to wave at Lokir's body. "Just like your cowardly friend over there 'wasn't a Stormcloak,' right?'
"He wasn't!" the man in blue retorted. "But I suppose the Empire doesn't care what innocents it crushes on the way to domination!"
"Someone shut him up!" the captain thundered. The soldier holding the man in blue accordingly punched him in the temple, another stepping up to shove him to his knees. He slumped there, eyes unfocused.
The girl felt an iron grip take hold of her arm. She whirled, coming face-to-face with the captain.
"You want to be insolent? Fine. You can go first."
She swung the girl around and forced her forward, marching her over to where General Tullius was standing with his arms crossed. The girl went cold. Her limbs felt jittery, too light to keep her balanced. Oh gods. She wasn't being insolent. She wasn't a Stormcloak.
"General, we have someone who wants first go at the block."
The captain shoved her in front of the general, who peered down at her with impassive assessment. Her pulse went wild in her veins.
The general's eyes swept over her from head to toe. "A shame to see someone so young so eager to throw her life away. What's your name, girl?"
She drew in air and tried to pass it over her vocal cords. All that came out was more air. She felt disconnected from herself, like she was nothing more than a bundle of frightened nerves cut off from control of her body. The general frowned.
"She's refusing to give it up, General. She's blatantly ignored every order to identify herself."
"Is that so."
The girl shook her head frantically. Tullius's eyes narrowed. He leaned down into her face and spoke in an iron-plated voice.
"Your stubbornness is going to get you killed, just like the rest of your rebel friends. I have no qualms about making an example of any fool stupid enough to think they're above the Empire. Last chance. Speak or die."
Her eyes stung with tears.
The next thing she knew she was walking again, dragged along this time by the general. She found herself standing, trembling and pathetic, in front of the well-dressed man who'd shared her wagon. Ulfric Stormcloak stared down at her, equally as mute with the gag in his mouth.
"Stormcloaks! I want you all to see where your rebellion has brought you!" the general cried, projecting his voice to every ear within range. He tossed the girl around so that she stumbled into the empty space between Ulfric and the rows of his defeated men. She froze, looking up at the sea of eyes trained on her. She couldn't breathe. Oh gods. Oh gods.
"In your arrogance, in your disdain for your Emperor, see what you have brought upon yourselves!" the general proclaimed. "You've led your youth into early graves! You have deprived Skyrim of her best! Screaming for the blood of the Empire that protected and fought and died for you, blinded by your own conceit, look at what you have done!"
The girl felt a grip on the back of her hair. The general twisted her around and brought her to stand in front of Ulfric again. She couldn't help the noise she made, from fear or from pain, and the tears in her eyes grew hotter. Ulfric looked murderous. His glower seared into the general with such hatred, the girl felt a pang.
"And as for you," Tullius said. The fingers in her hair forced her face back, displaying it for Ulfric, and her tears spilled over unbidden. She wished she wasn't so scared.
"Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."
The two men stared each other down, animosity tangible. After a moment, something in Ulfric's face shifted. His gaze deliberately left Tullius to focus on her. She tried to plead with him with her eyes, knowing it was in vain, but he seemed to understand. He stared back as if committing her face to memory. The thought brought no comfort.
Tullius continued, noticing Ulfric's change in attention and clearly annoyed. "You started this war. Plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now you get to watch the Empire put down this rebellion, Stormcloak by Stormcloak."
This statement was punctuated by a strange crack in the air—something distant and distorted.
Tullius paused. One of the soldiers flanking Ulfric turned his face to the sky.
"What was that?"
Tullius glanced up also, but gave a sharp shake of the head.
"It's nothing. Captain, if you would."
He released the girl and batted her toward the captain, who was standing beside the execution block. The captain saluted. "Yes, General Tullius." She grabbed the girl's arm and positioned her in front of the block. The girl heard herself hyperventilating.
The captain's hands pushed her shoulders down, forcing her to her knees. The executioner lifted his axe into both hands and planted his feet, fingers flexing around the handle as a woman appeared from behind him. She was dressed in religious robes and wore a strained expression, her eyes steadfastly avoiding the girl on the ground. She cleared her throat and held out her hands as if in supplication.
The girl's tears fell freely as the woman in robes launched into a prayer, droning tonelessly about the afterlife, the gods, and commending souls to one or the other.
She couldn't believe this was happening. Surely this must be some horrible nightmare. After the axe swung she would wake up at home, somewhere she had a name and wasn't kneeling in front of a brown-stained block of wood just waiting for her head to paint it red.
Another booming sound fell from the sky. This time everyone looked up, including her. It almost sounded like thunder, or the distant roar of a mammoth.
"There it is again!" said the same guard as before. "Did you hear that?"
"It's nothing," the captain repeated. The girl felt the press of a boot on her back, striking a previously unnoticed bruise. She gasped, easily forced to the block, head falling into a curved niche that stretched the back of her neck. Inches from her face sat a basket. A shock ran through her. She thought she might vomit.
In her peripheral vision, the headsman shifted his weight and the butt of the axe lifted out of view. She shut her eyes.
A third time the strange noise fell over the square, but now it was so close it was as if a lightning bolt had struck the tower. The ground beneath her shook like an earthquake; her eyes snapped open and she saw the headsman totter.
"What in Oblivion is THAT?"
Screams bombarded the air. The girl twisted her head and looked up at the watchtower to see a mountain of black spikes and bared teeth, screaming a monstrous cry like the tearing of the planes of Oblivion. Sensation left her body. Gravity pinned her immobile to the ground.
"DRAGON!" someone shrieked.
An impossible jet of flame erupted from the monster's jaws, lighting the world orange. Chaos broke out, bodies scrambling in every direction as the clouds above the monster roiled and writhed, as fire showered over the soldiers like rain. The girl wanted to scream but couldn't find her body to do so. The world blurred and trembled; her skin prickled from heat; her ears rang; her bones shook.
Something seized her by the wrist. She whipped around to see the gagged man no longer gagged, his wrists unbound, yanking her to her feet. His mouth moved urgently, his voice a muted warble through water.
She staggered up and let him pull her toward a stone keep on the far side of the square. He leapt over a body lying smoking in the dirt, forcing her to make a clumsy jump as well. She twisted back to catch the horrified, frozen expression on the man's charred face. Ulfric tugged her onward.
They passed under a round archway and someone slammed a heavy wooden door behind them. A handful of gasping people in blue stood around the small room in which they found themselves, wild-eyed and stricken. One woman was lying on the ground in a pool of blood, sobbing. The girl's vision wouldn't still. Muffled cacophony swam through the door to her ears, much of it rumbling, much more of it screaming.
"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?" said a familiar voice. The girl looked up and saw the first man in blue, her traveling companion, approaching the two of them with a face white as a sheet. "Could the legends be true?"
The man who had her wrist released it. He glanced at her as he spoke.
"Legends don't burn down villages."
The man in blue spotted her and blinked in surprise. A wan smile broke over his face.
"You made it!"
She had no response to that. She realized the reason for the unsteadiness of her vision was her own quivering. The man in blue stepped close and put both hands on her shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.
"It's good to see you're alive. I'm Ralof, by the way."
A great roar shook the room. Dirt rained down from the tower over their heads.
"Introductions can wait," Ulfric said.
His eyes traced the room. They settled on the stone stairs curving up the wall of the tower and narrowed. The girl followed his look, wondering if the stairs led to the wall around the city. If they could get up there, could they leave by climbing down the outside of the wall? Would the dragon be a danger if they left the city?
A blood-curdling scream sounded from the other side of the door. Ralof's hands gripped her shoulders tighter, and Ulfric's calculating gaze became steely.
"We need to get moving. Now."
The others in blue straightened at his tone, with the exception of the bleeding woman and the man crouched over her form. This man and Ulfric exchanged solemn nods, and then Ulfric was leading the rest of them up the stairs. Ralof took her hand.
"Stick close to me. Watch my back, and I'll watch yours."
She nodded once and they started after the others. No sooner had Ulfric made it halfway up the steps than the tower lurched violently, knocking Ulfric into the wall and the others off their feet. Ralof released her hand, swearing as his foot slipped out from under him and she collided with his side.
"Look out!"
She lifted her head to see an avalanche of stone and mortar careening toward them. She grabbed Ralof and threw both of them into the wall, just as a rock the size of a person flew past them down the steps—with a body caught beneath it. Pieces of stone skittered down after, bouncing off of a red smear inches from her foot.
"Gunjar!" screamed a woman on the steps. Ralof shoved off the wall, grabbing hold of the girl's forearm and helping her regain her footing. Ulfric and the other soldiers stared down at the rubble that had just crushed their comrade, varying levels of shock on their faces. The woman who'd cried out ripped off her helmet and threw it against the beaten steps.
Ulfric shook his head. "Next time that monster will knock this place down on our heads. Keep moving."
The top of the tower, however, had collapsed, blocking any further flight up the stairs. Ulfric turned to the wall itself and observed the hole that had been blasted into it. Shoving at the stone, he discovered it fell away easily. A moment later he'd widened the gap and peered out into the now-smoky air, wary in case the dragon made another pass. He caught sight of something and called back to them.
"There's a building we can jump to. Let's go."
He readied himself and leapt out into the air. Ralof led the girl past the seething woman still rooted on the steps. One by one the other men jumped after Ulfric, disappearing from view, until it was the girl's turn to step up to the hole. A gust of smoggy wind buffeted her skirt against her legs, and at the view that greeted her, she blanched. Ulfric and the others stood below them on the exposed upper floor of a two-story building, but the drop was much further than she'd thought. And the far side of the building was on fire.
Ralof stopped her from stepping back.
"Don't think, just jump."
She shook her head.
"Then I'll help."
Before he'd finished speaking, he'd lifted her off the ground. She understood too late; Ralof dipped down, launched up, and threw her. She didn't even have time to shriek. Her heart stopped, the building soared to meet her, Ulfric stepped forward—
She collided with him, making him stagger and drop to one knee, but his arms locked securely around her and didn't let her touch the ground. She clutched at his coat like a startled cat with its claws dug in.
A moment later, Ralof thumped to the floor beside them, steadying himself before looking toward her. He gave her a haggard grin.
"A little warning next time," Ulfric said. He set her on her feet and stood upright.
"Sorry. Good catch."
Author's Note:
Like it so far? Hate it? I'd love to know. Thanks for joining me for Chapter 1!
A few notes for those who may want to set their expectations by them:
1) This is going to be a slow burn. And when I say slow burn, I mean slow burn. I've tagged Dragonborn/Vilkas as well as tagging Ulfric. There will be romance, but it will take a good while to develop and there are going to be several arcs. Ulfric will not be present for the first half of the story (after Helgen, of course).
2) There will be action, but drama is the primary focus.
3) While the main plot of the game will not be totally absent, it is not the focus, I will not be following it as it happens in canon, and many minor details about the world will not match canon.
4) This fic is designed to be readable for the "fandom blind," or people who've never played Skyrim. Some fun details will only make sense to those familiar, and some plot points will be easier to guess for the fandom familiar, but I hope I've made this enjoyable for all parties in different ways.