The day that Ulfric Stormcloak was beheaded at Helgen was the day that changed Frodnar's life forever.

Thinking back on the days that followed—when he and his family left Riverwood—he would always get a pinch in his stomach. There was no physical confrontation between his parents and the villagers, but tensions were high as Riverwood's citizens had gathered around and regarded his family with hard, stony, stares.

He had known them his whole life and they all had looked at him like he was a just another bothersome skeever—all because his family refused to give up worship of Talos. His family had to relinquish ownership of the wood mill which had been in their family for generations. Even though his mother insisted they were moving by choice—to a mill outside of Windhelm that needed workers—he could tell that his family would rather stay.

As he grew older, he came to understand why they had to leave. It wasn't safe for them nor the rest of the village since the Legion had taken Whiterun, already held Falkreath to the south, and the Thalmor were allowed to freely wander and persecute in the area without opposition.

He asked his best friend Dorthe, the blacksmith's daughter, to come with him that day but her father had quickly ushered her inside their home. Dorthe hadn't looked at him like the others—never as a pest, a nuisance, or scamp—instead she had tears in her eyes. He had never seen her cry in his young life until then; not for any bruises or bumps they accumulated through play. She had often told him crying was useless and only babies did it. Yet, that day she had done it freely because no matter how much she begged him to stay, he was still leaving.

Stump had chased after her, the mutt thinking it were all a game, but Frodnar's father called after the hound and they quietly rolled out of the village with their cart of belongings. No longer welcome. That was the last time he had seen her.

Until now.

Now he was a soldier, and almost seven years had grown between them.

He had to wonder which of the Gods to thank for delivering his message to her, it had been plenty long years without any contact, but one day not too long ago he decided to write to her—to see how she was, to ask her for some tips on smithing if nothing else. She had always been good at it and he assumed her father had taught her even more skills as she grew. Zenithar only knew how much the girl loved the forge. Frodnar would have never expected her to actually come to the camp though; how did she even find him?

Time seemed to slow as his eyes lingered over every detail of her face. Parts of it he remembered and yet some features seemed new. No trace of a smile was on her when there had always seemed to be one dancing at the corners of her mouth when they were young. A spread of freckles dotted across her cheeks and nose and had only grown sharper as she aged. Her long blonde hair was messy and loose just as it had always been after she would leave the forge and join him in play.

What was new, was the scowl of pure loathing—and it concerned him that she was so very upset, but his concern couldn't contain the smile that erupted across his face from cheek to cheek at seeing her again.

Dorthe

He figured he was a bit harder to discern for her, as he now had significant facial stubble and his hair had grown longer—enough to pull back and be gathered into a knot.

At the sight of his smile, her scowl transformed to something of recognition, surprise, and then relief, as she realized who it was that stood before her.

As much as he would have liked to sit down and catch up with his old friend, he finally noticed that he had interrupted something important and the reality of the situation he had walked into came crashing around them. They were in his Stormcloak camp and the last he knew, she and her family opposed the Stormcloaks—always had. He saw that her hands were shackled, her dress was torn, and she was worse for wear.

He loosened his grip at once—wondering how she came to be in such a state, and before he could ask how she had managed to find him, a fellow soldier approached and roughly yanked her away by her shoulder.

Her cry of resistance spurred the man who had grabbed her to raise his hand—presumably to cuff her into silence. Frodnar at once, lifted his sword threateningly at his Stormcloak brethren, causing the imminent strike to dissipate.

"What in the Oblivion is going on?" Frodnar bit out in question, all the playfulness gone from his usual tone of voice. There must have been a misunderstanding, she was no enemy.

"She attacked me, she has involvement with the Thalmor, and she'll be under restraint until she explains herself!"

Frodnar stepped forward with a half-incredulous and half-outraged stare at hearing the answer, but didn't lower his weapon. Another fellow soldier blocked him from advancing and from making a mistake he would later regret as Frodnar stepped forward to release her himself. However, the detainment was enough of a delay that it allowed the first Stormcloak to put distance between them.

"You know we don't take civilian prisoners," Frodnar tried elbowing through the soldier that had stopped him—Hroar the Honor-Bound—but the man stood his ground.

Frodnar helplessly watched as Dorthe was dragged through the entrance to the primary war tent.

Nothing about the situation made sense to Frodnar and it only made him angrier.

"That pig-shit is in charge of the camp now. The Head-Smasher returned to Windhelm for new orders," The Honor-Bound explained in a low tone. "You can't just bloody your brothers of Skyrim—you took an oath, Frost-Dodger."

Of course the Honor-Bound would bring up the oath—he was honorable to a fault, but Frodnar could detect as much disdain in Honor-Bound's tone saying that fact as Fronar felt at hearing the news. He threw his sword to the ground in frustration and paced a bit before picking it up again and heading to grab a bite to eat. He had been out patrolling all day and he knew he shouldn't be stewing on an empty stomach.

"How do you know her?"

"Come again?" Frodnar twisted around to see Hroar following him. He didn't think anyone had noticed his brief smile of recognition toward Dorthe.

"How do you know the lass?"

Frodnar didn't answer right away, and only picked off a piece of pheasant breast that was done roasting on the spit over the fire and took a bite, considering a reply while chewing. His heart lifted somewhat at the taste; he was sure glad something else was for dinner that night than rabbit. They seemed to have rabbit the last four months straight.

"We grew up together in Riverwood," he finally answered after swallowing. He didn't feel the need to lie to the Honor-Bound about it.

If only he could somehow get her out of that tent and out of the camp. He wondered if he could plead with the temporary charge? Though, after many months knowing the man, he doubted the rascal would be persuaded.

"What is her name?"

"Why are you so concerned?" Frodnar snapped. His mind was racing of ways he could get Dorthe out of the camp and all the Honor-Bound seemed to do was interrupt that process.

The Honor-Bound looked away and back at the tent she was being kept in. Frodnar joined his gaze, hating to think of what might be happening to her in there. The Charge had let down the flap of skin to cover the entrance that would have otherwise been in plain view. Dorthe was in a nest of soldiers that hadn't felt a lover's touch for months on end, and he knew some of the less-honorable would desperately do anything to feel that way again just to take their mind off the war.

The evening was settling on them and Frodnar ripped further into the bird with his teeth, and glared into the fire. He was feeling torn. He had to help Dorthe, but he couldn't engage in combat with his brother-at-arms, no less the one now giving orders in camp and they surely would fight him if he made an attempt to free her. He also wanted to know how she was involved with the Thalmor—that just didn't make any sense to him at all.

"I mustn't linger, I have evening patrol," The Honor-Bound mentioned with a sigh and moved along.

"Honor-Bound, wait—" Frodnar stopped him.

He didn't know why Hroar the Honor-Bound had such an interest in Dorthe, but out of all the soldiers at camp, he trusted the Honor-Bound to have the least questionable intentions toward her, "I need your help."

"With what?"

"Getting her out of here," he made a nod back toward the tent.

"How do you suppose we do that?"

"You distract the Charge and I will slip in and take her out. It'll be dark soon so I shouldn't be seen."

Frodnar knew he had a slim chance of succeeding on his own, but at least with two it was possible to free her.

Honor-Bound hesitated, "If you're caught though, you'll be in a lot of trouble—and who knows what he'll do to her then."

Frodnar did give it consideration—thinking back to how he had been forced to abandon Dorthe those years ago. He wouldn't do that to her again.

Couldn't.

Oath be damned.

Finally he responded, "I have to try."

The Honor-Bound nodded tentatively, seeming to accept his reasoning, "I'll distract him then."

Along with the sunset, another day was gone—some Stormcloaks left to start evening watch in areas near the camp and others came back to eat. Some started preparing for sleep and one or two sharpened their swords that had been slowly dulled after killing so many mudcrabs.

After dusk had settled into dark, Frodnar watched as the Honor-Bound approached the tent Dorthe was kept in. It was hard to see from a distance but he could tell that when the Charge came out he was not happy at being interrupted.

Frodnar quickly crept around the back of the Charge's tent and pushed on the patchwork animal skin that made up the tent's cover, making sure nothing was on the other side. It moved freely to his delight. He grabbed his dagger from his belt and ripped through the material enough to peel it back and poke his head in. He saw Dorthe sitting on the ground and staring back at him with initial terror and confusion, but her expression melted to that of consolation once she saw it was only him.

"Your dag—!" she began to exclaim, but he shushed her, lest the Charge hear.

"I'm helping you escape," he whispered and gave a grin, just like he used to after telling her one of his new pranks. "Can you manage to move over this way?"

Her hands were still shackled together and it only made him angry that the charge had restrained her. Angrier still, imagining the reason why. He placed his dagger back in his belt and reached out to her.

She nodded and maneuvered herself near the cut in the material on her elbows. He looped his arms around her and pulled back, extracting her from the tent. They fell backward together and she landed on top of him—she let out a groan of pain.

They could clearly hear the Charge inquire about that noise, signaling the window of time for an escape was closing fast.

"Did I hurt you?" Frodnar asked with concern and to his relief she shook her head, however, she was holding her ribs as if they ached. He gathered her up and they walked around the back of the tent.

"One of them gave me a potion earlier, healing..." she explained with quiet urgency and winced, then stumbled so that Frodnar had to tighten his hold and catch her weight, "But it mustn't been enough...or just temporary, the pain is returning."

This changed his plan. He was just going to put her on a horse and send her riding back to Riverwood but if her health was declining, it would be too far before she could get help. She needed a proper healing mage.

Their time had run out, as they heard the Charge shout expletives and more inquiries regarding the missing captive. They were still hidden behind the tent but not for long. The horses were tied to posts a few strides away, but they would be in full view of the rest of the camp if he attempted to go there.

"Please don't let him take me again," Dorthe pleaded so quietly Frodnar strained to hear her.

"He won't touch you," he swore furiously.

They could hear multiple pairs of boots start to shuffle around in urgent paces, searching for her.

Honor-Bound was the first to find them, his eyes wide and signaling for them to make a run for it. Before Frodnar could kick up any dust though, the Charge was right behind Hroar looking absolutely furious.

"Frost-Dodger, you traitor!" the Charge bellowed at Frodnar and drew his sword.

Whilst aiding in holding Dorthe upright, he couldn't reach for his own, so he merely scowled in defiance.

Hroar seemed to reluctantly draw his sword as well. It was action on par with Honor-Bound, but surprising to Frodnar nonetheless, since Hroar was supposed to be aiding in the escape. He cared too much about his damn honor and the oath that went with it to actually break it—even when doing so was the right thing to do.

There was no more doubts in Frodnar of his where his loyalty belonged. He was Dorthe's friend long before he was a Stormcloak.

"Take her and restrain him," the Charge ordered Hroar. Other soldiers descended upon him, holding his arms solidly in place, lest he should grab for his weapons.

"She's injured! You can't keep her here!" Frodnar cried in desperation as he could do nothing but be forced to surrender Dorthe to Honor-Bound at sword-point. He could see tears in her eyes, and knowing her, she hated that everyone could see them. He turned his pleading toward his brother-at-arms, "You know this is wrong."

A look of regret passed through Honor-Bound's features and Frodnar's hopes dropped.

Before Frodnar fully grasped what was happening, his accomplice had launched the sword toward him and yelled "Catch!"

Frodnar ripped through restraining arms and caught the weapon by the hilt, swinging it up in defense as the Charge's came crashing down. The soldiers that had been restraining him moved out of the way now that he had a sword in hand.

Honor-Bound made a dash toward one of the horses and quickly mounted it, placing Dorthe in front of him.

Frodnar fought with the charge, blocking every strike that was aimed at him. He was aware his fellow Stormcloaks were gathered around but not about to fight him. He knew them, they respected each other and had watched each other's' backs for years. Also, everyone new he could best any of them in swordplay which was why they stayed away.

He pushed back and pinned the Charge's sword beneath his, only to lift his leg and kick the man back before making his own frenzied strides to mount the remaining horse. The charge quickly grabbed Frodnar's belt, managed to unsheathe Frodnar's dagger and promptly slashed at his the back of his legs. The blade hit his left calf and he nearly fell into the horse before climbing it, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

"After him!" The Charge ordered and scrambled to his feet.

Frodnar urged the beast forward and snapped the reigns, while giving it a quick dig with his heels. Pain seared up his leg. The Horse reared and whinnied before taking off, nearly trampling a Stormcloak in its path.

Frodnar was not a seasoned rider and clenched onto the leather strips for dear life as they jumped over rocks at a downhill angle. He was not but moments behind Honor-Bound's mount; he could hear the hoof-beats ahead of him. The others wouldn't be able to catch them even if they did try. The camp had no extra horses and it was useless to chase the two fugitive Stormcloaks that already had a head start.

His horse jumped another rock and Frodnar felt his stomach hit his throat. He groaned in discomfort but kept a hold of the reigns like they were his lifelines, trying his best to guide the horse to follow the one in front of it, instead of running it's own path into the wilderness. He bent forward to keep his gut contained and to diminish the amount of bouncing his body was being put through.

Honor-Bound must have reigned in his horse because the galloping ahead of him slowed. Frodnar's mount trotted past, all the while he was trying to slow his horse as well, hissing "Woah! Woah! Woah!" and pulling in on the reigns.

They were on a road now, as a definitive 'clopping' sound could be heard from beneath them which could have only been horseshoe on cobble. A few minutes went by and Hroar's horse fell into step next to Frodnar's.

Frodnar looked to Honor-Bound and could see his form through the dark, outlined by the moons, and staring ahead.

"Thank you," Frodnar said at last, then made an intake of breath that told of pain as he adjusted his left leg. It was bleeding for sure but he had no idea how deep the blade had cut him. He noticed Dorthe was quiet and dread filled him.

"We can never go back, you know," Hroar replied evenly, but Frodnar could hear a definite somberness in the tone.

They had risked everything in order to free Dorthe. They had forsaken their oaths, they would be wanted men before daybreak. Was Dorthe even going to be all right? Frodnar squinted at her through the darkness. She seemed to be passed out against Honor-Bound's chest for the time-being.

"What happened to her?" Frodnar had to ask but knew he would hate the answer, and waited for it. He assumed the Charge had beaten her during an interrogation.

"I don't know the full story, but I found her on the shore of the river this afternoon, nearly drowned. She was already shackled and with Elvin chains no less. She wouldn't explain her situation so I had to bring her to be questioned. Perhaps when she wakes she'll be willing to tell you since you know each other."

So that must have been why everyone assumed she was involved with the Thalmor and why Hroar was so curious about her. Frodnar's stare darkened and anger rose in his chest, "Do you mean to tell me that you brought her into the camp? How could you?"

Honor-Bound reigned in his horse to a full stop, "She would have died if I hadn't."

"Still, you could have taken her to Windhelm for healing," Frodnar's stare was a dark as ever. Anyone who thought it wise to bring a young civilian woman to a soldier's camp was being foolish.

Hroar raised his voice, "It wasn't my duty to take her to Windhelm. My orders were to patrol and report suspicious activity."

"As ever, the obedient soldier," Frodnar snarled with contempt.

"Not anymore, no thanks to both of you," The Honor-Bound bit back and then sighed, snapping the reigns and continuing forward.

Frodnar followed suit, the height of his ire prickling his nerves into silence. He noticed they were both biting their tongues to let it off. If they were to survive the coming days, they would need each other's help. It had been an intense evening for both, in fact it was the most action they had seen all month long, not counting fighting the mudcrabs.

Frodnar still hadn't told him her name, but supposed The Honor-Bound should know since he had become involved with her escape.

"Her name is Dorthe."

The Honor-Bound repeated her name with consideration and nodded, "We should go to Whiterun; it is the closest place that has healers that can help her and where we won't be arrested on sight."

Frodnar wondered how they would accomplish that since Whiterun was now guarded by the Legion, but at the moment, he was in too much pain, and his mind filled with too much worry and exhaustion to contest the Honor-Bound's plan