A/N: Just wanted to let everyone know that NaNoWriMo starts on Saturday, and I will once again be participating. However, I've been working ahead on this story, and updates will be proceeding as usual. An early Happy Halloween to you all, and hope you enjoy this chapter!


Chapter 3: Bear Country

For a moment, Monica was too petrified by the arrow in her face to even think of its wielder. Then it registered that there was someone standing behind the bow about to release the string—yet hadn't done so yet.

"Please don't shoot me." Her voice was husky with fear as she slowly lifted her trembling hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please don't."

"What are you doing here?" At the sound of her assailant's voice, her gaze flickered to the man behind the bow. His hair was grimy and his face was streaked with dirt, but although his armor was worn, the wide blue sash across it seemed to indicate a uniform of some sort. He clearly wasn't a bandit, and at that, she relaxed slightly.

"Are you a guard?" she asked. "Is Helgen nearby?" She began to lower her hands, but there was a soft scraping sound, and she let out a strangled gasp of terror as her head was roughly yanked back and she felt the cold bite of steel at her throat.

"Best answer the question." The voice in her ear was low and dangerous, and she quickly choked out a reply.

"Helgen! I'm just trying to get to Helgen!" she yelped, trying to remain perfectly still. "They said I could get to Whiterun from there!"

"'They?'" The voice grew sharper. "Who's 'they?'"

"The trappers." Her throat suddenly felt incredibly dry, but she didn't dare swallow. "The trappers I crossed the mountain with."

"Igor?" the woman asked.

"There's a set of wagon tracks, a couple days old." Another figure appeared to the left of her field of vision, and she instinctively turned her head in that direction—only to let out a hiss of pain as the blade at her throat broke through flesh. "Other than that, nothing."

"Figured as much." The pain at her neck worsened as the woman pressed the blade deeper. "You've got about thirty seconds to give the real reason you're up here, or I send you straight to Sovngarde."

She was serious, Monica realized. She was actually serious. As the dread began to pump through her veins, she miserably realized that she was caught. How could she have been so stupid, as to think that she could actually just slip across the border and get away with it? If she confessed, she'd be arrested, and there'd be no hope for reclaiming Aventus. But if she didn't…

"I...the trappers, we…" She nervously licked her lips. Her mother was going to be so angry—and disappointed.

"Spit it out," snarled the archer.

"They never made it over the mountain," she blurted out. "The pass was closed, and when they challenged the soldiers, I…I snuck through on foot." She braced herself, but was met only with silence.

"The pass is closed?" The woman holding the blade to her neck repeated the words, astonishment creeping through her tone. The blade suddenly disappeared, and the woman grabbed her arm, yanking her around to face her. "Why?" she demanded.

Monica blinked. "I don't know," she admitted. There was something about the woman's reaction that was distinctly unsettling. Maybe it was the glint in her eye, or maybe the fact that she hadn't said a word about her illegal border crossing. Either way, it made her skin crawl.

"Jyta?" Igor asked. Jyta's gaze didn't move from Monica's as she pursed her lips.

"You might be useful," she said finally. She nodded, and Igor stepped forward and pulled Monica's pack from her shoulders, tugging open the top and glancing inside. Monica opened her mouth to protest, but Jyta brandished her dagger, and she shrank back. "Turn around and start walking. Try anything, and I will kill you. Understand?"

Monica could only nod, her head bobbing helplessly as Igor and the archer whose name she still didn't know moved up to flank her on either side. She lifted trembling fingers to neck, staring as they came away slick with blood.

"Hey." And she froze as she felt a prick, just to the right of her spine. "I said move."

Her legs quivered as she stumbled forward, her stomach lurching at the thought of the blade piercing her spine. Jyta would bury the dagger in her back if she made a single wrong move, she just knew it. The knowledge had calcified along her bones, leaving them brittle with fear. And a tiny, wise voice she hadn't known she possessed whispered inside her head, informing her of the truth she wasn't ready to face: that these soldiers were not operating under Imperial law. Whatever fears she'd had about setting out on her own, this was much, much worse.


They walked on. Somehow she managed to keep herself upright and moving forward, and Jyta's blade hadn't plunged into her back—yet. She felt numb, though; all her senses were dulled as though her fear were a great lake she was drowning in. Every ounce of her energy was entirely devoted to keeping slow and steady as possible. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her consciousness, it vaguely occurred to her to pray—to Stendarr, that these soldiers would show mercy; to Mara, that they would feel even the faintest hint of compassion; to Zenithar, that she could somehow make them understand she bore no threat; to Julianos, that she would have the wits to make it through this situation. But if her attention wavered—even for a moment—she knew she would falter, and Jyta would kill her. So she remained silent, gravely focusing on each next step.

Presently, a whiff of wood smoke wafted through her fog, and her gaze rose from the ground in front of her to catch a flutter of movement through the trees. As they emerged into a clearing, she realized that they were in a camp of some sort, filled with weary-looking men and women outfitted in the same armor as her captors. She jumped as Jyta grumbled something out, but quickly realized it was an order of some kind as the unnamed archer took a firm grip on her arm, while Jyta stalked forward to meet a figure by the fire.

"Found something for you," she called out. The other woman rose to her feet, staring suspiciously in Monica's direction.

"What's this?" she asked sharply. Jyta, too, turned to stare at her.

"Found her up in the mountains. Claims she crossed over with some trappers, but…" Jyta suddenly leaned in closer, and her voice dropped too low to understand. The other woman continued to stare, her deepening frown giving Monica a sick feeling in her stomach. Jyta finally finished, and the woman stepped towards Monica, her gaze never once faltering.

"You're right," she said, lips pursed in a thin line. "I don't like it." She sighed, and finally turned back to Jyta. "Put her somewhere I can keep an eye on her. Not all the scouts are back yet, and he's going to want to deal with this himself." Jyta nodded.

"Yes, ma'am." She strode back over, producing a length of rope, and before Monica could react, grabbed hold of her hands and wound the rope around them.

"You—you don't have to, there's really no need…" Monica began desperately, but Jyta silenced her with a look.

"Be quiet." She yanked the knot taut, and Monica winced, stumbling as Jyta hauled her towards a nearby tree. "Stay here," she ordered, pushing her down beneath it. Kneeling beside her, she set to work on her feet. "Don't move and don't say a word. She'll be watching you," she pointed toward the woman she'd spoken to, "and believe me when I say this." She leaned forward menacingly. "No one in this camp will hesitate to kill you if you try to make a run for it. Understand?"

No, Monica wanted to protest. She didn't understand at all. None of this made any sense and she was terrified out of her wits and she just wanted to go home. But Jyta was staring at her, awaiting a response, so she meekly nodded, slipping her gaze down into her lap.

"Good." Jyta abruptly stood. "Remember: don't move," she warned, and then her boots trod out of sight.


Hours passed, and Monica didn't move. The bark of the tree behind her was rough, jabbing her through the fabric of her dress, and with her hands bound it was nearly impossible to maneuver into a more comfortable position—at least without looking like she was trying to make a break for it. They really were always watching her, she noticed when she finally dared to look up and cautiously glance around the camp. There were no blatant stares, like there'd been from the trappers, but still, there was always someone with an eye on her.

As the sun moved across the sky and her sheer terror from earlier faded to a heavy sense of dread, she wracked her brain for all possible reasons why they might have taken her. It wasn't the border crossing—that much she'd figured out a long while ago. The soldiers had been wary—hostile, even—but even through her fright, she'd noticed something change in Jyta's demeanor when she'd mention the pass. She sighed and leaned her head back against the tree. Who were these soldiers, anyway? Locals, clearly—they definitely weren't Legion, and she didn't recognize the blue sashes they wore as a uniform. They appeared to be mostly Nords, as far as she could tell, although she'd thought she spotted a Redguard a while back. But something was off about them—not just that they'd kidnapped her, but how shabby and on-edge they seemed. And as she watched them, she began to recognize certain mannerisms—ones she herself kept catching herself falling into. Their postures, their heads snapping up at even the slightest of sounds, their hands constantly on their weapons: these people were afraid. But why? She sighed again, bracing against the tree as she dragged her legs up under her. That, she realized grimly, was the real question here.

The archer brought her a cup of water late in the afternoon, but other than that, activity in the camp gradually slowed to a lull. It was late in the evening, after the sky had gone black when her ears finally picked up the sound of voices again. There seemed to be a flicker of torchlight at the far end of the camp, and she sat up straighter, straining to see. Several figures were assembled there at the other campfire, their voices carrying across the clearing, but not their words. After a few moments, the gathering broke apart, some dispersing into the tents but others heading in the direction of her tree. As they drew nearer, she recognized more of the now-familiar blue sashes—but the figure in the middle was dressed in civilian clothing, his hands bound together as hers were.

She stared as they brought him closer, but her attention wasn't necessarily captured by the fact that he, too, was a prisoner. It was the sharp features, the elongated ears, the shadowy skin: the new arrival was a Dunmer. Her gaze dropped to her lap as they reached the tree, but she stole another quick glance up. Lord Adlen had been a Dunmer, and so had several of the sailors on that long-ago journey as a child, but elves of any kind were rare in Battlehorn these days.

One of the soldiers shoved the Dunmer down beside her, looming above him while the other bound his feet. With his back to the fire, Monica couldn't make out his face, but his grin was practically radiating off of him. "Don't try anything now, grey-skin," he taunted, then paused. "Or better yet. Go ahead and make my day." He chuckled as he sauntered back to the fire, and the prisoner spat something at him in Dunmeri—a phrase she recognized, and for a brief moment a smile twitched across her lips.

Alone in the darkness with a stranger, however, the fear that had been fading to an ache over the past several hours began to sharpen again. She could feel his eyes on her as she stared down at her hands. It suddenly occurred to her that he might not have been mistakenly seized—what if he really was some kind of criminal?

"So." There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and she jumped, her head whipping in his direction. He was staring at her, and by the dim distant light of the fire, she could just make out his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Pale skin. Snotty expression," he said thoughtfully. She met his stare with a blank face, bewildered, and his frown deepened. Then his expression smoothed out, his lips curling up into a smile. "You're a Breton," he said triumphantly.

It was her turn for her brow to crease into a frown. His thoughtful expression returned, and without warning, he shifted closer. She inadvertently shrank away, but his head was still inches from her ear. "Got any parlor tricks that might get us out of this?" he muttered.

Parlor tricks? Like magic? She shifted guiltily at that. She was no mage by any means, but there had been quite a few hedgewitches at Battlehorn—all of them more than willing to share some of their knowledge with an overeager twelve-year-old. She flexed her fingers at the memory, but her hands had long since lost circulation, and she didn't even feel the power coursing through them until it was too late. Even she jumped as the flash of sparks ignited between her fingers, jerking back and cracking her head against the tree.

"Hey!" The angry voice came from the direction of the fire, and her head snapped up to see the soldiers watching, one of them rising from his place. "What's going on over there?"

"Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over." Her tongue had glued itself to the roof of her mouth, but to her surprise, the Dunmer shouted back. "We're having ourselves a real wonderful time over here."

The soldier muttered a muffled curse. "Don't make me come over there, grey-skin," he warned, but he sat back down again, turning to his companions once more.

Monica exhaled a shaky breath of relief at the close call, but the Dunmer was poorly attempting to hold back his chuckles. "Now there's an idea; burning the whole place to the ground. Although it might be nice if we weren't at the center of it." She finally turned to face him, and his face widened into a broad grin. "Name's Romlyn Dreth, by the way."

He certainly seemed harmless enough. At any rate, they were in the same boat, and it couldn't hurt to have someone to talk to. She tentatively returned the smile. "Monica Aretino," she finally replied. "And I'm not a Breton."

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose. "You're no Nord, that's for certain. Imperial, then?" At her nod, he chuckled, breaking into another grin.

"But you were partially right," she suddenly blurted out. "My grandfather was a Breton." She paused, glancing upwards at the night sky, but when she glanced back to Romlyn, he was still watching her, an intent expression on his face. "I never met him, though," she continued, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She hadn't meant to start babbling about her family history to a total stranger, but it was such a trite conversation, and at the moment, trite was good. Trite was normal. "He died in the war. A lot of people did, I suppose, but still…" She shrugged—a difficult gesture with her hands bound in her lap.

Romlyn exhaled, tilting his head back against the tree. "I knew a few who did," he remarked. "I doubt you're old enough to remember, but not many were untouched by the war. Everybody lost somebody." His frown returned. "Something this lot can't seem to remember," he added sourly.

At that comment, it was her turn to shift forward curiously. "Romlyn," she asked in a low voice, glancing nervously toward the fire. "Who are they anyway?"

His expression morphed into one of surprise. "The Stormcloaks?" he asked dubiously. His confusion had turned wary. "Formerly the guard force of Windhelm, but becoming more of an army every day. They say Ulfric Stormcloak is looking for war, and if things keep going the way they have been, he just might find it."

That was a name she recognized. The letter informing them of Naalia's death had been written on his behalf. Her confusion must have been evident, as Romlyn clarified further. "You know that the High King was killed?" The courier had mentioned it to Guinevere: political troubles, a dead king…

For the first time, tension filled Romlyn's face as he, too, glanced toward the fire. "It was Ulfric that killed him," he whispered. "Some folks say it was an honorable duel, other say it was murder. Whatever the case, near everyone's choosing a side. Like I said. War's coming." He sighed, scuffling his bound feet in the dirt. "'Course, the Legion outnumbers them in a major way, and they've gotten real jumpy as a result. This is the third time they've held me up in the past couple months," he added disgustedly. "It's a sad day when providing honest folks with mead for cheap gets you treated like a criminal."

"They captured you for selling cheap mead?" That sounded almost as ludicrous as her own situation. But Romlyn sat up straighter, indignation flashing across his face.

"Not cheap mead!" he protested hotly. "I'm selling good mead for cheap!"

"Shut up over there!" yelled one of the soldiers. Romlyn rolled his eyes, but dropped his volume.

"I work for Black-Briar Meadery, you see," he continued in a half-whisper. "A word of advice: don't ever pay for it outright. It's good, but not that good. Horribly overpriced." He shook his head ruefully. "So I sell cases of it for half of what inns and taverns pay through the Meadery." His tone brightened. "Everybody wins."

"And that's why they took you?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No, they took me because I crossed paths with their patrols. Like I said. They're jumpy, and it happens. Third delivery I've lost, though." His gaze turned scrutinizing, as he began to look her over for the first time. "What about you? Same problem, I'm guessing?"

She hesitated. "I…I don't know," she admitted in a whisper. "I…did something stupid, and I thought they were arresting me for it, only…" She quickly relayed the details of her impromptu border crossing, but by the time she finished, Romlyn was shaking his head, once again quietly snickering to himself.

"They don't care. Trust me, anything short of killing or stealing from one of their own don't matter to them. It was the notion of having their location given away that got to them."

"Well, I know now," she protested. "They could have just sent me on my way and I'd have never known. What if they don't let us go?"

Romlyn sighed. "Here's how this works," he stated, finality ringing in his tone. "In the morning they'll blindfold us and march us out of the camp, and then they'll leave us somewhere on the road. By noon, we'll both be out of here and on our separate ways." He settled back against the tree. "Might as well try and sleep as best you can," he suggested, shifting his gaze sideways to her. "Staying awake won't make the wait go by any faster."

But morning came and went, and by the time the sun was solidly in the west, Monica and Romlyn were still tied beneath the tree in the Stormcloak camp. And as she grew more nervous, Romlyn seemed to grow more impatient. "Stop that," he hissed, as Monica once again began straining against her bonds. Her wrists were already chafed and raw beneath them, but the urge to break free of them was only growing stronger, boiling just below her skin.

"You said they'd let us go," she whispered back, dropping her hands back down to her lap in defeat. "Why are we still here?"

Romlyn rolled his eyes. "I don't know," he growled through gritted teeth. "They will, though. They always do." She sighed, once more eyeing her hands. "Hey." He nudged her with a foot. "Tell me about this cousin of yours again. You sure you can handle him?"

"What?" Momentarily distracted, she shifted her gaze over to Romlyn.

"You sure you can handle him?" he repeated. "You said he was ten, right? Ten-year-olds are little monsters, you know. You think he'll take kindly to a long-lost relative showing up and dragging him off to another province? He'll be leaving everything he's ever known."

"But he already left it all months ago," she protested. "He's in an orphanage, remember? I'd imagine that anything would be better than that." She chewed on her lip, suddenly worried. "Besides, he seemed nice enough in his letters. And Aunt Naalia would have raised him right. I'm sure of it." She was halfway through reiterating every piece of information she had on Aventus when she realized she hadn't been tugging at her bonds the entire time. She paused as she glanced down at her hands, briefest hint of a grim smile flickering across her face. Divines bless Romlyn. But he was recounting all the mischief he'd gotten into behind his parents' backs when he was a child, and she quickly jumped to counter the argument.


By the time dusk arrived, they had both fallen silent. She barely even had the energy to be afraid anymore—much less carry on a conversation. She hadn't eaten since the morning before, and despite Romlyn's advice, she'd been unable to manage sleep. Every muscle in her body was stiff and aching, her wrists stung, and her head felt liked it'd been wrapped in cotton. Romlyn, too, was slumped against the tree, head bowed. She couldn't tell if his eyes were closed, but she hoped he'd fallen asleep again. At least one of them should get some rest. But despite her heightened nerves, her exhaustion began to overtake her, and her head finally drooped toward her chest. She was just grasping at the faintest reaches of sleep when the shouts unceremoniously wrenched her back.

She sat bolt upright, heart thundering as the volume reached the roar of a mob. Romlyn had sat up, too, motionless as he stared across the campsite at the gathering. "Shut up!" someone was bellowing, voice rising above the rest as the command was repeated. The crowd died down to an angry murmur, and then abruptly parted, several figures jostling their way through.

"Azura preserve us." Romlyn's low murmur was barely audible above the noise of the soldiers, but when she turned to him, he was staring straight ahead, his facial muscles gone as stiff as stone.

"What is it?" she hissed, but Romlyn didn't look at her. The fading light may have been playing tricks on her eyes, but his face seemed to have blanched several shades paler.

"It's Ulfric." He was staring at the approaching figures, and her gaze quickly flitted over to them as well.

"The jarl?" One of them, she noted, lacked the typical Stormcloak armor, instead clad all in black. Was it really the ruler of Eastmarch? But Romlyn sucked in a sharp breath, and she turned back to him.

"If he's here…" Romlyn had been so unperturbed by the ordeal, but for the first time, his certainty seemed to waver. "Listen," he whispered hoarsely as the soldiers drew nearer. "Don't say a word. Don't even look at them. Just sit tight and keep quiet, all right?" She couldn't voice her agreement, however, as the soldiers were upon them, stopping merely yards away.

"You swore an oath," the jarl growled, shoving another figure to the ground—a figure wearing Legion armor.

"I had no choice!" the Legion soldier snapped, glaring up at the jarl. "What did you expect? This has gone too far, Ulfric. Even you have to see that."

"All I see is a man without honor," the jarl replied coldly. "You're a traitor, Torbik. And I only regret that I can't give you the traitor's death you deserve." He had drawn a dagger, and as Monica looked on in horror, he yanked the fallen soldier up and slashed it across his throat.

She didn't scream. Not exactly. It was more as though every breath of air in her body had suddenly been forced out, dragging sound along with it. She stared, aghast, as the body crumpled to the ground, eyes popped wide open, dark blood spurting from the grisly opening. The world was spinning, bile rising in her throat. When they'd brought Giovanni Aretino home, he'd been cold and still: features blank, eyes closed, and fatal wounds concealed by the shroud that draped him. But this man's face was frozen in an expression of horror, as if he were still locked in combat with the world he'd just been violently ripped from.

"You killed him!"

"Monica." Romlyn's voice sounded as though it were coming from underwater, but she paid it no mind. The man had sprawled at the jarl's feet, dead; his unseeing eyes blankly fixed on her.

"You killed him," she repeated, wrestling free of the dead man's gaze and looking up at the jarl. "You murdered a Legion soldier."

"Monica, shut up." She felt the impact against her ankle as Romlyn kicked her, his voice gone low and terse. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from the jarl's. She couldn't even breathe.

"I can't believe you killed him," she whispered, her cheeks suddenly wet.

"She's the one." The soldier Jyta had brought her to when they'd first arrived had stepped up beside the jarl. "The spy."

Spy? Something deep inside her head twitched at that; it wasn't right, she wasn't a spy…

"Has she been interrogated?" the jarl was asking.

The woman shook her head. "I thought you'd want to handle it."

The jarl sighed. "You were right to wait." He motioned to another solider, who knelt and quickly sliced through the bonds at her feet. She was hauled to her feet, her legs collapsing beneath her as blood suddenly rushed back through them. Only the soldier's grip on her arm kept her from falling flat out on the forest floor.

"She's just a kid." Romlyn bitterly spat the words out, and with a twinge, she realized he was referring to her. "You've got it all wrong."

"Shut up." One of them delivered a swift kick to Romlyn's ribs. There was a hollow thud of impact, and she gasped as the Dunmer was knocked sideways to the ground. The haze that had been building around her suddenly shattered, and as a strength she hadn't known she possessed surged through her, she yanked free of the soldier's grasp and hurled herself at Romlyn's assailant.

"Leave him alone!" She slammed into him, shoving with all her might, and caught off guard, he staggered.

"Fus!"

The stinging pain filling her lungs came as shock. Force. The thought washed across her consciousness along with the dizziness, the trees that suddenly filled her vision spinning overhead. She'd fallen. Somehow, she'd fallen, but for the life of her she couldn't place how.

The trees' spinning began to slow, and the jarl's face appeared in her vision. "You and I need to have a talk." The soldiers once again hauled her up from the ground, their grips threatening to snap her arms, and the jarl turned to his lieutenant. "I want to find out everything she knows."