oo2. "Fate's Winding Path"
Had the thing been planted in his pack without the old man's knowledge, Jaric would've mistaken the heavy and dull thud, thump in his mind as being Daedric in origin. The sun still stood high, and all the world appeared as if nothing had happened.
As though Mundus were blissfully unaware that such a monstrosity had returned to it.
The beast had exhibited not one, but two hearts – the second far smaller, brighter, and clearly dead. It was this that Jaric had a mind to sell, or experiment on as a reagent; and yet… a part of his mind warned against possible calamity. Gold tracing back to thin, supple hands – or of forces unknown and better left far from one's mind and understanding.
Birdcall ruptured out above him, as the Nord stepped onto a main road. His way set towards Helgen to make some simple trades, before reaching Ivarstead and turning north. Of the authority in all the holds, Jaric knew only one man might begin to consider such a claim. Oh, he had considered making a trip to the summit – beyond the Seven Thousand Steps, and to request audience with wizened and grizzled manes. But who was he, that such an inquiry should be honored? Perhaps the Greybeards would know more, but such a threat also had need of being brought to the attention of his people's leadership.
Despite never personally knowing the man, nor fighting directly with or even near him, Jaric remembered what it was to fight under his leadership. He recalled the honor in battle, as well as Ulfiric's allegedly damning actions in Markarth, the Empire's alleged betrayal, all of that mess… which each party had so far, agreed to put behind themselves for several years. The Jarl was a contentious and busy man, in no doubt going to Windhelm would earn Jaric little but a recorded note and perhaps a voice in Ulfiric's ear. It was more likely that the old battlemage might be thrown in jail for apparent madness, and despite his dislike of the noble's choice at fostering rebellion; Jaric knew this threat he carried word of represented all too well the need for upheaval – for change.
He wasn't fool enough to consider an ex-Imperial soldier like himself could sway the man's mind, or heart. Instead, Jaric felt… open to Ulfiric's words, and more than that; he expected action of the man.
The day coursed by, a small meal traded from gold bought by reagents and potions sold. Jaric continued on, the distant beating of the heart in his pack at times more cognizant in his mind than others. The jagged, iced valley between the two holds he'd spent more than the past decade of his life whipped with frozen air and whining cries, forcing Jaric to take shelter in a cave for a brief time.
By the point he came across the bridge leading io Ivarstead proper, night had begun it's creep across the land. Still, the old man did not favor taking his rest in such a public place – and though the path down the mountain would be treacherous, he could at least begin and set up camp nearby the rocky hamlet.
When the morning's rays first touched him, Jaric held still and listened. This was a known bear country, and despite his grumbling stomach, experience had taught the man much of those animal's curiosity. There was enough time passed, and so the Nord made to move – packing his things, and concealing the magical warming lamp he'd carried along to bed.
A troll's corpse lay at the side of a rushing brook, stoney outcrops littering a shallow path across. Someone had been here, not far from his camp. Jaric only stood grateful that they'd come for the troll, rather than either it or the killer for him.
The serpentine path split, and Jaric knew he could travel true north and pass an unruly abandoned fort, or head northeast and make way by another small village. Taking the easier of the two, if for less chance of battle than a pressure on his knees, the white-haired man set on, down and down the mountain trail.
The Rift's maple and birch forests gradually gave way to spruce, pine, and oak. The trail rounded back on itself sharply, again and again. At one point, Jaric had sworn he'd heard a bladed exchange and brief shout – but upon pausing to listen, the forest grew still and then quickly back to its standard din. Waiting not more than a few seconds longer, the old man continued on towards the main road, a bridge crossing back over towards the ruin he was trying to avoid now within sight.
A clattering of hooves sounded behind him, and Jaric turned just enough to see a wiry man atop a dun horse rushing full-speed toward him. Stepping back and losing his balance, Jaric met the ground with his upper back – fearing for the heart he'd safely wrapped and padded within his leather knapsack. A sharp pained cry rang out, as the man rolled over – taking pressure off the artefact – and witnessing the dirty Nord with a thin, wooden arrow now protruding from a shoulder, forcing him from the mount. The animal bellowed and went on, fright heightened by the shouts coming behind them: "Don't move!"
The sight that came to him nearly stopped the old man's heart: an Imperial archer, three of them; bows drawn and aimed two at the thief, one to him. Immediately, Jaric raised his hands and stayed put, "I've no part in this!" His claim was ignored, and a shuffling beside him met with another loosed arrow – this kindly missing either of the men. "I said stay put!"
By now, several leather-and-iron clad soldiers were making their approach.
'By Oblivion…!'
If they found the heart, Jaric was in for trouble. And these Imperials almost certainly would. He may be tried as a necromancer, or as mad. There was little hope for anything else.
A commotion sounded from beyond their impending captors, and a blast of wind all too familiar to Jaric resounded in his eardrums – in his mind, and his heart. "Dah!" The roaring words carried further on the wind than should have been possible, and a clattering of steel and men's shouts rang out. One of their nearby archers looked back, for a moment considering reorienting his aim… only to fall back to his current objective, "They muzzled him." A scoff from another, "About time," the growl in his voice emanated from a place of true contempt, causing Jaric to wonder what might be happening just beyond the bend in the road that the Nord was certain held a significant event.
"Hey, are you going to let me bleed out!?" An incredulous voice alighted next to Jaric, "I'm dying here! And you shot me!" The old man rolled his eyes, 'As if you didn't give them reason for it,' though well-aware as Jaric was of his hypocrisy – being that the heart in his pack may lead to false conclusions on his own person – he also knew a thief when he saw one. And the old man had no respect, nor tolerance, for such cowardly boys.
It was with routine certainty that the pair were hoisted up, bound, and examined. This took time, and it came in stages: first, Jaric and the horse-thief were questioned. When his own claims were met with the statement, "We'll have the Captain speak with you. Just wait here a bit.", Jaric found his voice, "What crime is it you think I've done?" This came by silence, which only led his companion to panic.
"They can't hold us here!" Jaric held his tongue.
"We've done nothing wrong-" "I've done nothing wrong," the old man retorted, "You were clearly not the owner of that horse." He gave a steely focus towards the thief, daring the twit to lie. A childhood, family business, and long war-time effort of horse-rearing and training had taught Jaric just how to spot these things in the beautiful animals.
The boy's eyes fell away before answering, "It's not like that," his head picked up, "I only needed to get out of Blackwater, you don't know what I-" "Quiet over there!" A sharp-faced woman clad in thick, white-polished iron called out – the Captain, as it were. Her blazing eyes glanced over them for a moment, before turning back to address a rather large Nord in leathered armor.
"…They can't keep us," "Shut up!" Jaric hissed under his breath, not wanting more trouble than he'd already found himself in.
They had already taken his knapsack.
It was only a matter of time, by Oblivion, the Captain could be discussing that find already.
Was she coming to interrogate them next?
His breath held as the woman approached, her focus seemed for all creation to be singly on him. It was as if the dragon's eyes had transmigrated to her own… "Alright, what do you have to say for yourself?" The directive came out cold, but not cutting. It was impatient rather than accusatory – perhaps they hadn't discovered the heart just yet.
"I'm only travelling," Jaric held his focus calm, not challenging. "Where to?" Her tone rendered inquisitive, arms crossed. He opted for the truth, but not too much of it. "Windhelm," he answered, "I traded for some rare alchemy reagents, and heard there's an Argonian dockworker to help identify them." A brief chuckle escaped her lips, "You bought things that you don't even know about?" Jaric saw the error in his attempt, this Imperial likely would never believe him unless… "I knew a few of them, but a pair were so odd, I gave in to curiosity. I figured the lizard could earn some extra coin," he hinted towards their injustice as well as an aspect of his own people's negative prejudice, hoping the woman could believe something so convincingly familiar.
"And you," she turned from him, "that horse was a prized gift-" a pointed finger at the man, "-and meant for my daughter," venom in her words. "I-I didn't know," the boy answered her, "I'll help you get it back-" "It ran into the river," the Captain went on, "got attacked by slaughterfish, panicked, and ran over the falls."
'Well… that's some bad luck.' Jaric barely held his discontent from showing, though he was also concerned by this soldier's ferocity. "You're lucky we're taking you all to trial," she practically hissed before turning away. "Wait- what!?" "And even me!?" Jaric called after the boy first spoke, each of them earning no response.
A drawn-out cry came from his annoying neighbor, "I can't go to the Imperial City! There's-" his words caught, clearly the Nord was caught up in something he shouldn't have been. A few quiet seconds passed between them, and Jaric felt a twinge of sympathy for the would-be thief. "They'll likely take us to Solitude," he offered, "but, it could be…" He wanted to believe that wouldn't be the case. Jaric had his own faked-death to maintain, after all.
He couldn't have Dominion eyes reporting back on his very living status.
At the same time, if there was any chance to avoid Cyrodiil…
The heart entered his mind once again. Perhaps they hadn't looked too closely into the wrappings, perhaps they'd believe him for now, or wait to more thoroughly investigate their belongings upon arrival to whatever destination lay in store for them.
As his mind wandered, Jaric caught sight of something else: deep-blue hued leather, and a band of gold-and-crimson haired brethren.
'Stormcloaks,' the battlemage recognized.
'Why are they here?' Halfway through that thought, Jaric recognized the true nature of his own predicament – 'They think we're with them!?' Now, this was indeed a different kind of trouble.
Forgetting the heart for now, Jaric's mind instead pursued his options: he had his rights. The Empire couldn't detain and prosecute its citizens without significant evidence, not for a matter like this.
'They could get creative,' Jaric recognized. He'd done well to hide any signs that could me miscontrived as having to do with Talos. But being a Nord, and being wanted – and reported as dead – a Dominion agent would likely render him into just such a trap, if it meant their repossessing him. They'd likely do anything for that.
But as for the Empire…
His mind ran blank.
Recent events, and those throughout his life… He just didn't know anymore.
The man turned his head down, wary now and keeping quiet except to hush his ridiculous companion from time to time. Eventually, the thief succumbed to rest – his treated injury still causing the boy a bit of tiredness. Jaric too, found his eyes drawing heavier and heavier, until finally… sleep overcame him.
It was to the gentle, familiar swaying of a horsedrawn cart that Jaric next began to wake. His vision blurred in and out, a heavy fog clouding his mind and unforeseen tiredness pulling at him. The old Nord took in two pairs of feet in addition to his own before picking up his head – now covered by the hood which had fallen away from him earlier – and taking in the surroundings.
'This… is nearer to Falkreath hold,' Jaric noted the deep snowy pines, the mountain air that spoke of the true and mighty Jerrals, rather than those nearer the Cheydinhal basin on the border of the Rift.
"Hey, you," a bright voice came from just to his left, "You're finally awake," Jaric turned to see a blonde-haired man, his younger by about two or three decades. "You were trying to cross the border, right?" A throbbing in the center of Jaric's mind had him unwanting of company, and yet the man's heart was somewhat grateful for it. 'No,' Jaric may have answered the man, if not for the color and build of his attire. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush," his tone became slightly focused – hinting to Jaric that the man might have seen him do just that – "…same as us, and that thief over there!" His head tossed playfully, and Jaric turned to find the annoying companion right next to his new friend.
"Damn you Stormcloaks!" the boy wasted no time in complaining. "Skyrim was fine before you came along, Empire was nice and lazy," There was an uncomfortable willingness shining through the thief's words, clearly indicating nothing good or honorable in the man. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!" His words came out quieter, estranged.
Now the still dirt-covered thief set his eyes over Jaric, hazel eyes shined brilliantly for a moment - as if suspecting the opportunity to pilfer: "You there," the man directed his words to the old Nord, "You and me, we don't belong here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!" His voice had raised, and had the man been a few years younger, might have still cracked.
"Shut up back there!" Their armor-clad driver rang out, complete with a half-turn and sudden whip to the horse. A slight grimace took hold to Jaric's mouth at that.
A quiet, terse moment passed. "We're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, thief," the Stormcloak spoke hushed towards him, incensed by the audacity of this man.
Mountain air tossed around as birdsong rang out, elk lighted and ran from the three-cart caravan. Jaric hadn't much taken in his surroundings, their trek uneventful apart from the pair's bantering and a quiet man, head turned down and away from them so far.
It wasn't until the chill began to draw away that a shuffle sounded to Jaric's right, and the thief spoke again: "What's wrong with him, huh?"
The Nord had turned to see what it was this boy questioned, and found himself looking to the side of his original target's face: Ulfiric, Jarl Ulfiric had been captured.
It was as if a stone had sunk through his heart and into his stomach, drowning deeper and deeper than the earth itself. The old man's expression turned to shock, which he did not recover in time before the Jarl glanced at him and raised brows out of confusion.
"Watch your tongue!" The Stormcloak nearly yelled, "You're speaking to Ulfiric Stormcloak," by now Jaric had glanced away and shut his mouth, "…the true High King!"
At that, the man froze.
'True… High King!?' Jaric's eyes turned back, slowly, to the dissentious noble.
'What have you... done?'
A fierceness must have shown in his eyes, and a half grimace on his face, as the jarl took a perspective of near-pity on the old Nord's gaze. Even wrapped shut by navy-blue cloth as his mouth was, the jarl still could get his point across ever so clearly with or without words.
Truly, there were cons to the ex-battlemange's long isolation.
That he would not hear of this… it couldn't be true.
Just earlier that day, Jaric was prepared to heed the man's call, should his words make true sense. But now… he saw only an enemy, a monster, a betrayer.
'As if the Empire isn't weak enough!' The rage that filled his heart regarding those long and many atrocities now spilled over to this man, this should-be leader, and his unraveling of any true defense they still had.
Somewhere in the back of Jaric's mind, the beginning of a thought regarding Hammerfell sprang up; but he squandered it and moved on swift.
"Ulfiric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" The horse-thief drew on his memory, before landing the truth. "You're the leader of the rebellion," his voice had turned dark for just a moment – as if the real man in him had inadvertently stepped out. "But if they captured you... oh, gods!" The boy returned to his tone, "Where are they taking us!?"
Jaric's gaze held fast on the dishonored jarl, as sunlight filtered through the branches and blinded him momentarily. "I don't know where we're going," the old Nord turned to watch the Stormcloak, who'd turned away for a moment as the day's glory finally broke through the remnant fog, "…but Sovngarde awaits."
'…Huh,' Jaric mused, 'Is this how I'm to meet my end?'
It felt… odd. Wrong, and yet somehow acceptable all the same.
Would it be he would not be tried, after all? Another casualty to appease the elves, most likely.
His heart turned to stone, if only he could have been felled during the War. If only he could have been felled during battle!
This… this was no true end.
The entire cart had fallen silent, as the now calming path turned out before them.
"Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?" The Stormcloak took on a gentle voice. "Why do you care!?" Their youngest accomplice retorted. "A Nord's last thoughts… should be of home," with that, Jaric noticed this man's gaze had not yet faltered, and the man turned to note the stone walls and gate they were now approaching.
Helgen.
He'd just been here, and already Imperial soldiers stood above the wooden walkway, readied to receive their entourage. "Open the gates!" A familiar female's voice sounded, and their prison carts rolled in.
There was a hint of embarrassment flushed on Jaric's cheek, these were people he'd come to know over the past dozen years or so. Not by much, but enough to care that if granted an escape, he'd scarce make himself known anytime soon.
"Rorikstead… I'm, I'm from Rorikstead…" The horse-thief's heart had clearly fallen.
Another soldier called out now, as they drew ever nearer and nearer: "General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting!"
'The General?' Again, Jaric glanced back to Ulfiric – not daring to settle on him directly, but from aside. 'You really did it, didn't you?' The man let his eyes show his question, 'You killed our High King!'
How ridiculous…
The ex-battlemage had now lost more respect for the jarl than he had for this thief.
A tear drew on his bad eye as Jaric turned away, his thoughts running towards the innocence of High King Torygg in adopting the Concordat, of his wife, and of the very many people that so loved him.
He could not entirely silence the briefest of half-cries, half-grunts from his throat.
The man felt, rather than saw, Ulfiric's acknowledgment of that feeling.
As if it were… an observation, and yet held some pity… but no true hint of remorse.
As if it were…
"Shor, Mara, Kynareth, Akatosh, Divines, please help me!" The thief prayed quick and quiet as they drew into the town, and their loudest member spoke out, "Look at him, General Tullius, the military governor!" The blonde nearly spat. Jaric grit his teeth, pushing the prior emotion from himself.
"And it looks like the Thalmor are with him!" The man had raised his chin up as if to get a better view, and Jaric's heart plummeted as his mind froze. 'Don't look,' he told himself, keeping his head low and his thoughts grateful for having been in such a pose upon entering the small town. It took everything in him to keep his mind from racing, his heart from pounding too hard and too loud.
"Damn elves!" The Stormcloak quieted those words, but still kept some volume. "I bet they had something to do with this," he now leaned forward, crossing his wrists over in front of himself and making a connection by Ulfiric's sight. The jarl simply gave a brief nod and glanced aside, leaving his soldier to his own thoughts.
The carts rattled onward, as the man turned aside and took in his new surroundings. Jaric kept to his thoughts, even as this talkative if quieter-toned one went on, "...This is Helgen," he turned to take in the denizens now drawing out of their homes and away from their daily tasks. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here… Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." It seemed an odd thing to Jaric, to concern one's self with in the face of impending doom.
"Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
The words had visions of crumbling sections around the Imperial City rendered into Jaric's mind, memories contorted by trauma, sorrow, and fear.
A child's voice spoke out, "Why? I want to watch the soldiers!" "Inside the house. Now," his father answered firmly, if calm. A moment later, the boy obliged.
"Woah!" Their carriage driver turned the cart, as all three came towards a wall and to a stop. Over it's edge, Jaric noted the priestess and executioner.
There was to be no trial, after all.
They were indeed to be more casualties for the elves.
The ex-battlemage supposed there could be a worse end. He could have been spotted, singled out. Taken away and made to suffer.
"Get these prisoners out of the carts, move it!" The Captain called.
"…Why are we stopping?" Their thief questioned. "Why do you think? End of the line," the blonde coldly answered.
This wasn't so bad… This wasn't so bad.
Jaric only regretted not being able to do more. And not being able to find the truth and meaning behind his most recent adventure… perhaps, the heart would change hands. Perhaps the gods had only deigned him to be a courier. He could be at peace with that.
"Let's go," the blonde looked to Jaric with a smile that should have been only for a friend, "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." The man glanced to his jarl, gave a brief nod, and stood. Their driver now stood along the edge, sword drawn and ready to encourage them. At this, Jaric made to stand as well, jostling the thief as he tried to pretend not to have noticed.
"No, wait! We're not rebels!" The thief looked around, panicked, as he reluctantly stood up. The jarl in front of him stepped off the cart and gingerly met the pebbled ground.
"Face your death with some courage, thief!" The Stormcloak lightly shouldered Jaric in the back, causing the thief to be jostled once again. By now, their driver was coming around to the back – ready to make trouble should the thief stay reluctant.
"Go," the old man growled from under his breath, now firmly pushing the thief forward.
The young man turned back, a look of horror and betrayal on his features – though it replaced quickly by a certain determined anger. "You've got to tell them!" The horse-thief nearly spat in his face, then hotly spoke to the Stormcloak, "We weren't with you!" As soon as he sensed the Imperial about to climb up into the cart, the thief turned around. "This is a mistake!" He took a few steps forward, enough to have the soldier pause, but then took his time jumping off the cart's edge. Jaric followed, nearly taking a knee at the sudden fall. The thief was handled forward, as the Stormcloak behind the ex-battlemage nearly stepped off on top of him.
A pair of soldiers stood before them, each cart now emptied of their rebellious captives.
One, the large man in leather armor, and the other his captain. The first held a quill and parchment, ready to mark some kind of notations to create a lie of due process.
"Step towards the block when we call your name," the Captain rang out, "One at a time!"
A sigh escaped the Stormcloak beside Jaric, "Empire loves their damned lists." It was enough to make him smirk, and had their situation not been so grim, perhaps the ex-battlemage would have chuckled.
But the truth was… here the Empire was about to kill one of it's own veterans.
Truly, what had become of their once great land?
He'd tried sharing this while captive. The soldiers may not have granted him true consideration, despite Jaric's insistence of which legion and branch he'd served during so many fierce battles. But then, he understood all too well: many false veterans had emerged since the Concordat's signing, and given the unique situation, no wonder few soldiers would dare take him seriously.
"Ulfiric Stormcloak… Jarl of Windhelm," the leather-dressed Nord called out, leading the noble to step away with head high and determined. "It has been an honor," the blonde nearby called out, "Jarl Ulfiric." His tone had changed at the end, as if respecting the Empire and his jarl at once by at least announcing his true and formal title, yet still there was something of a sadness to the Stormcloak's words.
Another pair of Imperial soldiers called names from the remaining carts, each taking their turns and doing as they were bid. Helgen's rear entry had been sealed, iron bars slated over the stone aperture that Jaric had passed through so many times before.
"Ralof of Riverwood!"
The blonde paused for a moment, before stepping forward and around their thief. His gaze held firm on the Nord holding the list, as if an understanding of contempt were being communicated between them.
"Lokir, of Rorikstead."
The thief took a few steps forward, approaching the Captain and list-holder with an unexpected courage. This quickly broke as the boy spoke out, "No! I'm not a rebel!" Fear was painfully evident in his voice, and the sudden outburst at first took the Captain back – though she placed a hand near the hilt of Imperial steel at her side. "You can't do this!" The man turned and ran, passing the Captain who so clearly could have cut him down.
"Halt!" It was a fierce half-yell, as if she already knew what would happen. She gave him a moment to make a choice, as the young fool kept on the run, "You're not going to kill me!" There was a glee in his voice, the idiot actually thought he could get away. Already, a pair of archers had their bows readied and eyes upon him. "Archers!" She gave the command, and multiple arrows loosed to chase down the young life.
His cry was quick and sudden, with short rasping breaths on meeting the ground; taking in the last bit of air he'd ever know.
Already, the villagers were taking in the event, and a few of them grimaced. Still, nobody said a word. Not yet.
The Captain turned back, and Jaric thought he could see a trace of a vanished, disdainful smirk on her face as the woman's visage quickly turned to hardened steel: "Anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial challenged, to which not one soul would respond. From his list, the well-built Nord looked up, seemingly confused. Quill in hand, he commanded: "Wait… you there." The Nord seemed between calm and a touch concerned, or confused. "Step forward," his tone remained even, likely trying to keep the Captain from considering a problem in his task.
Jaric did as he was asked, throwing his head back slightly to ruffle off the last bit of hood that'd been clinging overly to one side of the back of his head.
"Who… are you?"
The battlemage blinked, confused and angry.
He'd told them many times, he'd asked to speak to this man or the Captain directly. At one point, an Imperial soldier had come by and collected all their names and a bit of background on them. Certainly, he'd remembered to write that all down? If they were to be murdering him!
'Figures, footmen incompetence!' The ex-battlemage held traces of his branch's superiority, as they typically held a closer eye on official documents than the vast swaths of front-line soldiers. He worked a moment to swallow his anger, before practically charging the Nord with his eyes, "Jaric Frostvein, retired battlemage. Sixth company, discharged in 188." The bigger Nord slightly blanched, but rendered it into a blink and short sway, with which he turned the quill to make a few marks on the paper. "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman," he spoke before turning to his Captain – whom had been holding a leveled gaze in making an assessment of Jaric for the past few seconds.
"Captain… what should we do? He's not on the list."
A brief scrawl drew across her lips before the woman decidedly turned to her charge, "Forget the list. He goes to the block." A small frown tugged at the soldier's lips, but he spoke quickly to avoid drawing too much attention to it. "By your orders, Captain," the man turned back to Jaric, rendering a truly apologetic expression to his features. "I'm sorry; at least you'll die here, in your homeland." A moment exchanged between them, until the Imperial next to him shuffled. "Follow the Captain, prisoner," the man commanded in a relatively gentle tone.
With that, the Imperial woman had stepped aside, towards the rest of the soldiers and prisoners. Her gaze shot a look of 'Don't try anything', as she made her move. With a moment's frown, Jaric exhaled irritation and made way to face his destiny.