Chapter 6: Fragments

It took three days to reach Windhelm. The survivors could have reached it in half that time, but with the injured and the devastation of previous events fresh in everyone's minds, it only made sense that the journey had taken longer.

Tristan was seen as some sort of a hero, and he reluctantly helped the guards keep the survivors in line. Despite his reluctance, he bit back his unwillingness and helped, otherwise he'd only see the job of keeping everyone safe half done; and out of the many things his late parents had taught him, it was to never leave a job half-finished.

They'd make camp every night, and they'd pack up every morning, but the going was slow. Some of the City Guard along with the surviving Companions would form hunting parties every night and scout for food for the following day. Under the Commander's instruction, Tristan was accepted into a hunting party and taught the basics of marksmanship. Tristan's reluctance seemed to be matched by his teacher: one of the common guards who (aside from the Companions) was the best shot with a bow among the company. But the Commander's insistence was coated with finality, broaching no room for other discussion.

"It would be good to have another trained archer among the company," the Commander said. "Besides, why would you wait for an enemy to reach you when you could pin them down with an arrow?"

In Tristan's less than humble opinion, the Commander's view on the matter was rather tunnel-visioned, but he didn't argue. In some ways it was a blessing to be free of the straggling survivors and out in the freedom of the wilderness. Tristan had been given a fairly standard hunting bow and a few dozen arrows. As it turned out, Tristan had a natural grasp of archery, or at least the principles behind it. On the second night of hunting Tristan had successfully shot and killed his first deer, and he'd been ecstatic at the achievement. The guard had said he'd picked up on the skill "unnaturally fast".

But then the hunt would end, and hunting parties would return to feed the throng of hungry survivors. Every time Tristan returned to the survivors the devastation would hit him afresh. The once buzzing and enthusiastic citizens of Whiterun – formally standing at a respectable fifteen hundred people strong – had been reduced to only a few hundred people. Tristan had learned the names of most of the survivors, and it came as a source of some sorrow and grief to learn that Hulda was not among them. Tristan didn't know whether it was legitimate or whether it was the unfortunate mix of exhaustion and alcohol, but he'd taken quite a liking to the friendly barmaid.

Regardless of the feelings he had or hadn't felt towards her, Tristan would always dump his kill (should there be one) at one of the cooking fires before slinking to the edges of the group and taking a seat, cross-legged, and closing his eyes, focussing with all of his might to reach into the depths of Oblivion with his mind.

The way Tristan saw it, he could summon a sword and a dagger from Oblivion, there was no reason why he couldn't summon a bow. And so he sat, every night, focussing, searching the different Planes of Oblivion for the Bound Bow.

Early in the morning of the second day he found it, and grasping at it with his fingers, he performed his instinctive plucking and pulled the bow from Oblivion. The effort had nigh on exhausted him, and black spots danced in front of his eyes. But he was determined to master the spell, so when he wasn't watching over the survivors from the back of the line or hunting with one of the hunting parties, he was practicing pulling the Bound Bow from Oblivion and shooting.

By the time the survivors had reached Windhelm Tristan was an adept archer, and he could loose a dozen Spectral Arrows from the Bound Bow before depleting his magicka completely.

The city of Ysgramor rose up, black and grey into the sky. The sight of the city was majestic at the very least, with large, impenetrable walls and the white snow dancing about the peaks of the Palace of Kings.

A shout went up from the Stromcloaks patrolling the walls as the straggle of survivors limped slowly towards the city.

"Come," the Commander said to Tristan, gesturing for him to move to the front of the mass of people. Tristan did so.

A squad of a dozen guards had been dispatched from the city to meet with the survivors. Their hands were ready on the hilts of their swords, and at close inspection Tristan could see the archers on the walls were ready to shoot on command.

Tristan couldn't help but shake his head.

Another paranoid leader…

"Why do you bring these people here?" One of the Stormcloaks of Windhelm asked.

"We are survivors from Whiterun," the Commander replied, obviously having rehearsed what he was to say upon arriving. "Our city was plagued by an unknown evil. A battle for survival have thinned our numbers. We are all cold, hungry, and some of us sick and injured. If you would be so kind as to accommodate us in this time of need, we would be eternally grateful."

Tristan and the assembled guards waited expectantly for the Stormcloak's reply.

The Stormcloak could sense this, and looked uneasily to the guards behind him.

"I'm sure," he said at length. "Our king would be honoured to see you protected behind our walls."

"Thank you," the Commander said, bowing.

"If you would bring your people into the gates, we can arrange for their healing and recuperation."

"Again, I thank you. But there is one other thing."

The Stormcloak raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be."

"I demand an audience with our High King, Ulfric Stormcloak."


Tristan thought the Palace of Kings was magnificent on the outside, but to him the inside was even more so.

The stone walls were polished and glistening, and reached skyward to a roof that would have stood high among the clouds. The floor was also stone, and again was polished so that it shone in the torchlight that the palace was thrown under.

A long table adorned the middle of the main hall, and Tristan felt his stomach rumble as he saw the meats, breads and cheeses that were placed there. At the back of the hall on a raised flat of stone sat a throne, and on that throne sat the High King of Skyrim: Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

Being raised in the Stormcloak controlled city of Riften, Tristan had heard stories of the legendary feats Ulfric and his rebellion had accomplished during the recently passed Skyrim civil war. The fact that the Nords of Skyrim had faced down the Empire and had won – therefore winning their own independence – had inspired thousands of people not just within Skyrim, but also throughout all of Tamriel.

It had been with great reluctance that Tristan had agreed to be present during the meeting with Ulfric. Part of him simply wanted to rest and recuperate before he left Windhelm, but another part of him wanted to see the Palace of Kings, and the High King all the jarls in Skyrim swore fealty to. And now he was here, he was glad he'd been pestered into coming.

Ulfric Stormcloak sat casually on his throne. The man was thick muscled and intimidating. His storm-grey eyes surveyed the scene before him with concern. His robes were blue with metal plates of armour at the shoulders, and his salty white flecks were present in his once dark auburn hair.

The Commander, along with Tristan, Eorlund Gray-Mane and Aela the Huntress, bowed respectfully.

"Rise," the High King said, his voice thick with a tone of authority.

The gathering did so.

"So Whiterun seeks aid?" Ulfric asked, almost smugly. "Why?"

"We were attacked, your Highness," the Commander said respectfully. "Attacked by enemies from another world."

"Oblivion?"

"Nay, these enemies were like none I've ever seen. They appeared from blackness, nothingness, they spoke not a word, merely slaughtered and killed all that they saw. Their bodies were their weapons," the Commander took a shaky breath. "I can still remember those eyes… those burning… red eyes…"

The Commander trailed off, leaving the large room in a vile, looming silence.

It was the High King who broke the silence.

"Well, whoever these enemies are, they would think twice before attacking Windhelm," Ulfric said, cocksure. "This is the most defendable city in all of Skyrim. Their chances of taking it are close to nothing."

Tristan's mind flashed back to the carnage that had occurred some days prior, and anger swelled up inside of him. He opened his mouth to speak out.

Aela sensed Tristan was about to do something drastic, and softly placed a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to the Huntress, who only shook her head.

He looked to the Commander, whose eyes were showing the anger that his body hid. He bowed tartly.

"Thank you, your Highness," he said simply, before turning and leaving.

Tristan and the rest followed him out.


It was the following day when Tristan donned his pack and made his way to the gates of Windhelm. After the encounter with Ulfric Stormcloak, Tristan was more willing to leave the massive walled city. The High King may be strong, and clever, but his arrogance would be his death.

Tristan made some final adjustments to the pack so that it didn't dig into his back, and heaved on the gates.

"Leaving so soon?" The Commander asked from where he was leaning outside the gate.

"I don't belong here," Tristan said simply. "I have other business to attend to."

The Commander spat on the cobblestone. "Listen, Tristan," he started. "Without you, we would have lost at least another dozen people back in Whiterun. At least. Regardless of what you say, the Guard, and the citizens, respect you. You do belong here. You're a hero to some of us."

Tristan sighed. "Thank you, Commander," he said, bowing politely.

The Commander took his hand and shook it firmly. "It's an honour."

Tristan turned and piled himself onto the cart that would take him south.

"You ready?" The driver called.

"Aye," Tristan confirmed.

As the cart rolled away, the Commander watched it go.

"Remember, Tristan," he shouted after the carriage. "A hero!"

Tristan waved, then turned to the road ahead of him.

That's exactly why I'm leaving…


Riften was just as peaceful – maybe even more so – than it was when Tristan had planned his arrack on Maven Black-Briar all those days ago.

Days? Weeks? Tristan shook his head at the thought. Time was a funny thing, a thing Tristan couldn't bother to understand.

When the guards let Tristan in without a word, he was almost insulted. Almost.

I make an attempt on the life of Riften's Jarl and they just let me in like any other person?

But then he remembered the Dark Brotherhood assassin, and how – even though Tristan made it out alive – the assassin would have told her superiors that he was dead. He didn't blame her, that's just how the odds tipped the scale.

And it made his getting into Riften much easier.

Tristan stuck to the backstreets of the city on the lake, trying his hardest to keep out of sight. The morning sun still wasn't so high in the sky, so shadows were cast by all buildings, making Tristan's task of invisibility all the more simple.

As Tristan prowled through the streets of Riften, he cast his mind to the reason he'd risked everything to return. The reason wasn't clear. It most certainly wasn't to make a second attempt on Black-Briar's life. It wasn't to catch up with old friends, or share a drink at the Bee and Barb. Maybe it was… Yes… That must be it…

Tristan rounded what had to be the final bend, and in front of him he saw exactly what he realised he'd come to Riften to see.

It used to be a house. Small, humble, comfortable, a home if ever there was one. Now it was just a burnt out husk. No one had bought the property, no one had bothered to rebuild it, because it was a reminder. A reminder of what happened to those who rivalled Maven Black-Briar's power.

Tristan slowly and absently walked towards the wreckage. His feet crunched on the floor, occasionally snapping the weakened wood that had been sitting there for years. He felt as if he was walking through a shadow, for as he walked he could see the house as it was – as it used to be.

He came to the part of the house where his parents used to sleep, and he could imagine the double bed, he could imagine his father snoring and his mother trying to fall back to sleep with no luck, his tiny toddler feet bounding across the floor and leaping onto the bed, and they all laughed and smiled and play-fought as all three of them tucked themselves in for a late-morning nap. The memory was beautiful.

The scene shifted and Tristan recalled his very earliest memory. Himself, but a small child, at his mothers' hip, bouncing up and down as she ran. His father was in front of them, standing at a cart, waving at them to hurry. All Tristan heard as he was piled on board was his father say: "We have to get out of here."

The scene changed again, with Tristan, his mother, and his father, setting up the furniture in their new house, in this new city, as far as they could get from whatever they were running from. Tristan remembered his fathers' smile.

"This Maven person is dangerous," Tristan's mother said as they sat around a table one night for dinner. "You shouldn't be competing with her."

"I always liked a challenge," Tristan's father replied. "Besides, I've seen what she's doing to this town. I know I can do better. If I just keep doing what I'm doing the people will force her out."

"If you keep doing what you're doing you could put your entire family in danger."

His father leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. "I know what I'm doing. I need you to trust me."

Months later and there was a knock on the door. Tristan heard the muffled yells of his father as he scorned whoever had come to their door. The argument went only for a few minutes, and when the door slammed shut Tristan's father came to his room and held him in a hug for a long time. All Tristan remembered was feeling confused.

More time passed and Tristan's father returned to their home, beaten and bruised.

"Who did this to you?" His mother demanded, immediately putting the kettle on to heat some water and taking a wet cloth to dab at his wounds.

"Some of Maven's thugs," his father laughed weakly. "Don't worry yourself too much. It will take more than a beating to put me out of action."

"Why do you continue to do this?"

"Because Skyrim has given us so much," his father said determinedly. "I've seen how the people here live. I know I can give something back if I just try." He locked eyes with Tristan, and the words were burned into his mind.

The scene changed again, Tristan woke up to screaming. He ran from his room into his parents, and saw the black-clad people standing over the dead shape of his father. He locked eyes with his mother, who was crying, held at the throat with the tip of a blade digging into her skin.

"Tristan…" she tried. "Run…"

And he did.

He ran.

He turned and fled, the assassins attempting to follow him. But as he left the house it was caught in an almighty fire, a mystical blaze that Tristan would come to learn to be a Fire Storm. Magic that could only have been cast by his mother.

Whether or not the assassins survived, Tristan was unsure, but they didn't follow.

He kept running.

The memories evaporated and now Tristan stood, seeing the house as it was. A pile of blackened wood, a memory in itself.

He cast his mind back to the events of the previous days. Enemies attacked, people died, and now they were scared and alone.

The echoes of his father lived inside Tristan, and his father would have done the brave thing and stood with those people. Tristan had run from the responsibility of caring for them.

Give something back.

He'd run when he was a child.

He'd run just days before.

It just wasn't in his blood to run.

And he didn't want to run anymore.