A/N: Just a fair warning, Helgen does play a big role in this chapter. I tried to keep it as interesting as possible, so just bear with me; it'll be over soon :) Enjoy!
Chapter 4: Stars' Truth
When the gods first made Mundus, they gave of themselves to create it. They gave until there was nothing left of them, and when the rest saw what had come to pass, they fled the newly-formed Mundus, tearing straight through the sky in their haste. The holes left behind in the veil of Oblivion became the stars, and ever since, those stars had kept their vigil over Nirn.
Monica lay beneath them, awash in their cold light. As the darkness soaked into her, she could nearly hear the voices of the stars. We are here, they seemed to say. We have always been here. We were forged in sorrow and grief, and we are slowly dying. We are death incarnate, and we will one day fade away. It was her truth now, too, and her entire being throbbed with it as the stars whispered above.
But there was an echo beneath it; a foreign presence, like the rumble of the sea. She winced away from it, tried to block it out and seep into the night. Only the stars mattered now; their silent truths were her only need. But the sky around them brightened, swallowing them whole as their father himself appeared, and when his glare grew too fierce for her to bear, she was forced to turn her head away and face the source of the voice.
"You're alive." Romlyn loomed above her, crimson eyes glimmering with some unreadable emotion—surprise? Fear? "Praise Azura." The relief was heavy in his words, but his voice was garbled by the pain as waves of it thrashed through her.
"They wouldn't let me use magic," he muttered. Her vision was swimming, but his grey face appeared to have blanched nearly the color of bone, his eyes somehow too wide, his words too deliberate. "I'm not a healer, but I know a little. I could've done something…" His still-bound hands reached toward her, and she flinched away when his fingers probed at the swelling beneath her eye. But it was nothing compared to the fire.
An inferno blistered across her skin, coils of heat roaring upward and leeching into her core. Her lungs were seized by it; even the fluttering of her heart felt weakened. She tried to sit up, wincing as a new pain spurted across her ribs, but Romlyn lunged forward, nearly toppling over as he blocked her movement.
"Don't," he ordered. He smile thinly, but even through her foggy vision, she could see the crinkle of worry across his brow.
Is it that bad? She wanted to ask the question, but her lips were cracked, dryer than the walls of Battlehorn in the summer sun, and her tongue felt parched and limp in her mouth.
"No, no. Don't cry," Romlyn sighed. His clumsy fingers bumped against her temple as he attempted to wipe away the tears that were now spilling freely down the sides of her face. "It's going to be all right. You're all right."
But it wasn't all right. Not even close. The tears only flowed faster as recollections of the previous night forced their way through her memory. There'd been questions; questions she didn't understand, questions she couldn't have possibly known the answers to: names, places, events. And when she'd asserted that she didn't know, pain had followed. Pain had continued, even after she'd given up trying to protest, even after her voice had failed her.
Her feet, she noted as she weakly tested them, had been bound again, but her hands were free, her arms slung out to the sides. The bruising covering her ribs—along with Romlyn's interference—made it impossible to sit up, but when she twisted her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of blistered flesh.
As her stomach churned over on itself, she once again fought to find her voice. This time, the words came to her, and she forced them from her lips. "Romlyn," she gasped out in a croaking whisper. "Romlyn, kill me."
"What?" When she rolled her gaze back to him, his mouth was slightly gaped open as he stared at her, aghast. "Don't say that."
"Please kill me," she repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Make it stop; I can't…I can't…"
Romlyn mumbled something she didn't understand, his fingers catching in her hair as he idly stroked it. "Don't say that," he muttered, his words flat as he repeated himself. "It'll be all right, Monica. Just…" He sighed. "Just lie still. Try not to talk."
She wanted to object, to insist that he carry out her request. But it was too difficult to argue. Her body could no longer contain the heat; it had turned her thoughts molten, sending them dripping from her leaden tongue before they could become words. So she turned her face back to the blinding gleam of the sun, the heat slowly overtaking her. From out of sight far overhead, she could still hear the stars' whispers.
She was lost for some time after that. Or perhaps not for so long, as her sense of time was slowly frayed ragged by the pain. But when her thoughts began to sharpen again, the sun no longer met her gaze. The sky overhead was a dark blue, the fading glow reminding her of firelight. She closed her eyes against it; she didn't want to think of fire. I touched the fire, she thought dizzily. I touched the heat itself and it screamed, it begged for mercy… Only, she suddenly realized, she had been the one to scream. She set her teeth against the memory, but the flames didn't disappear; how could they, when they still danced beneath her skin?
Something touched her shoulder, and her eyes snapped open as she flinched away. Romlyn appeared above her, raising his bound hands to press a single finger to his lips. Panic immediately rushed through her, with such force that it momentarily washed away the pain. Ulfric, she thought hysterically, Ulfric was coming back for her. Dread was a fist to her stomach, but Romlyn was speaking, his lips barely moving. "Can you move?"
She stared back at in silence, petrified, and his eyes narrowed. "This is our chance," he hissed. "You have to move."
Move? They couldn't move, they'd be killed on the spot… Her confusion growing, she opened her mouth to reply when it happened. A shout, a clash of metal—and then an explosion of sound erupted from the near-silent camp.
Despite the tenderness along her side, she sat bolt upright, her jaw dropping at the sight before her. In a flurry of swords, the camp had been transformed into a battlefield. The noise was deafening: grunts of effort, shouts of command…and screams of pain.
She should have been frightened out of her wits. She should have been horrified as she saw a Stormcloak dropped to his knees, hands dripping with red as he tried to staunch the bleeding at his abdomen. But she sat numbly, staring in frozen shock. This wasn't happening. No, these kinds of things happened far away, to battle-hardened fighters among warring bandit tribes. She was imagining this. She was dreaming. The pain had driven her mad, and now she was hallucinating.
"Monica, move!" She was roughly jostled from her stupor as Romlyn half-fell across her legs as he crawled past, dragging himself forward on his forearms as his bound feet scrabbled at the ground. "Come on!" he yelled over his shoulder.
But the pain had returned along with her clarity. There'd be no way she'd be able to pull herself along on her arms. She drew in a shaky breath—and then remembered that her hands were unbound.
She heaved herself to the side, taking the brunt of the impact on her elbow. For a moment her balance wavered, and she nearly crashed to the forest floor before catching herself with her opposite hand, twisting her legs around. She scuttled forward unsteadily, her arms shaking so badly she nearly collapsed. She had just managed to stabilize herself, moving along at a halting but steady pace, when her feet caught on a root. Caught off balance, she crashed to the ground, her damaged arms brushing against it. A whimper of pain escaped, but she bit it back, her teeth digging into her tongue so sharply she tasted blood.
Ahead of her, Romlyn had paused. "You all right?" he asked sharply. She was blinking back tears, but she nodded, grimly hauling herself up and pushing forward. Every muscle in her body cried out in protest, but she doggedly persisted, keeping Romlyn's feet just out of her line of vision. And then something clamped down on her leg.
There was a boot in her ribs before she could even register what had happened, and suddenly she was sprawled across the forest floor again, the shadowy trees filling her vision. The stars had returned, she noted, before they were blocked out by the form of her assailant. "Surrender," a voice demanded, and it was then that she recognized Legion armor. No words came to her as she stared up at the Legionnaire in shock, but he seemed to take her silence as an agreement. The sword pointed at her throat disappeared, and he reached down—and grabbed hold of her arm.
The pain was something out of a nightmare as it fractured outward, splinters of it fraying the nerves as it surged along them. Her stomach was boiling, her vision was warping, and a shuddering wave of vertigo had overtaken her. The stars' whispering suddenly grew louder, and then the darkness mercifully took pity, heavily enveloping her and smothering the noise and the heat.
When she awoke several hours later, she was a prisoner of the Empire, alongside the Stormcloaks. And when she realized that they were all about to be executed, the news hardly even fazed her. She was so tired: tired of fear, tired of pain, tired of burning. And as frightening as the prospect was, death would be a release. But it was the thought of Ulfric's impending demise that soothed the tendrils of fear wisping through her. A dark new emotion was rising in the pit of her stomach, and as she stood clustered with the other prisoners as a Legionnaire read off a list of their names, she finally put a name to it: hatred.
She'd never hated a single soul in her entire life. Not really. But now, her very blood seemed to scream Ulfric's name as it pumped through her veins, calling for his death. Soon, though. Soon enough. Somehow, the thought still brought tears to her eyes. Deep down, she knew it wouldn't make this better. Nothing could.
"Hey. You there." Something jostled her shoulder, and she gave a start, looking up to see the Legionnaire who'd been reading the names standing directly in front of her, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Who are you?"
Her throat felt as thought she'd swallowed sand, but somehow she found the words. "Monica Aretino," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Of Battlehorn." She glanced down at the ground again, but not before she caught sight of the Legionnaire's puzzled frown.
"Battlehorn?" he repeated. "Never heard of it. Is that somewhere in the Reach?"
She shook her head. "County Chorrol."
"Cyrodiil, eh?" He made a small sound of some unidentifiable emotion—surprise? disapproval?—and she heard the rustling of parchment as he flipped through the pages of his list. "Hmm," he muttered, and then there was a pause. "I don't think I see your name here…"
Because I'm not one of them. She didn't bother trying to explain. She'd heard the shouts as the stranger from the wagon had made a break for it, and she had no doubt that his demise had immediately followed. There was no point in protesting. It wouldn't solve anything, and besides, she realized, her papers were gone. She had no way of proving anything.
"Captain!" the Legionnaire suddenly shouted, and she flinched at the sudden sound. "She's not on the list. What do we do?"
"Just forget the list," a voice barked in reply. "She goes to the block." And that, she thought grimly, was why it wouldn't have mattered if she'd tried to explain herself.
"By your orders, Captain." His voice lowered in volume. "I'm sorry," he said. "We'll get your remains back to Battlehorn." He sighed. "Follow the Captain."
She glanced back up at him then, and to her surprise, his face wore an expression of something strangely akin to sympathy. "Wait," she suddenly blurted out, and his eyebrows rose.
"Yes?" His expression had shifted to one of wariness, and she knew he thought she was about to declare her innocence.
"When you send…send me back," she said, stumbling over the words as she referred to her own corpse, "please make sure it's addressed to Aidan Vantinius." The thought of Guinevere opening up a crate to discover her daughter's headless body tore at her heart in the worst way imaginable. The hardened captain of Battlehorn's guard would be much better suited to the grisly task.
The Legionnaire frowned, but he began to nod. "Aidan Vantinius," he repeated. "Sure thing."
She could only hope he'd keep his word, but she whispered her thanks regardless, and turned to follow the impatient captain.
But as they approached the gathered Stormcloaks, her heart sped up as the knowledge of what was about to happen finally sank in. What did it feel like to die? She wondered this desperately as she silently fell in among the Stormcloaks. Would it hurt horribly? How did one know they were dead, if they knew anything at all? The face of the Legionnaire Ulfric had murdered suddenly popped up in her consciousness, and she began to feel sick. A faint comfort, however, came in the familiar priests' robes as a priestess stepped forward. The tension in Monica's breathing eased, albeit only slightly. At least she would end up in Aetherius. Maybe she'd even see Giovanni again. She took a deep breath as the priestess began the rites.
"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you," she began, but before she could get any further, a brash voice cut her off.
"For the love of Talos, shut up!" A Stormcloak suddenly stalked forward, headed straight for the block. "Let's get this over with."
"As you wish," the priestess replied, clearly miffed as she stepped away. Monica stared at the Stormcloak in indignation, her long-dry eyes suddenly filling with tears again. These Stormcloaks had robbed her of everything, even this one small final comfort.
The Stormcloak knelt at the block, and Monica's heart gave a quick flutter. Oh Divines, this was happening, this was really happening. As the headsman raised his axe, she looked away. Even so, she heard the wet squelch, as well as the shouts of rage from the Stormcloaks.
"Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!" With a start, Monica realized that the sharp-voiced captain from before was referring to her. Her pulse quickened, her palms going slick with sweat as her knees began to tremble. She'd been longing for death—she'd even asked Romlyn to do it for her, she remembered. But this…this was really the end. After this…well, there'd be no after. "I said, next prisoner," the captain snapped.
"To the block, prisoner." The other voice came from the Legionnaire, the one who'd promised to make sure her remains went to Captain Vantinius. "Nice and easy."
She took a deep breath as she stepped forward, her legs shaking so badly it was a wonder they could support her. The space between the assembled prisoners and the block seemed so far; she could feel all eyes on her as she drifted across it. She eyed the headsman's axe as she drew closer, still slick with the blood of the first Stormcloak, and a sick feeling washed over her. She swallowed hard. How badly would it hurt? Would she feel it as it cleaved through skin, through muscle? Through sinew, through bone? Oh Mara, Stendarr, Arkay… She tightened her jaw, but inwardly, she pled as desperately as the thief had.
The Stormcloak's body was still sprawled before the block, forcing her to pick her way around it as she stepped up to the block. She stared numbly at it for a moment, until the Captain's sudden grip on her neck forced her to her knees. The Legionnaire from before stood beside the block, and he briefly met her gaze with a curiously pained expression before a boot against her back forced her head down.
They hadn't bothered to remove the Stormcloak's severed head. It gazed up at her, eyes as soulless as that Legionnaire Ulfric had murdered. She couldn't look at it. She turned her head away, feeling the warm stickiness of his blood on her neck. And Monica Aretino came face to face with Death himself.
The vast creature had alighted atop the tower, scales black as the dead of night, colossal wings like a great ship's sail. A dragon. A creature of myth, straight out of legend.
If she was seeing one, then she was dead. She hadn't felt a thing, hadn't even realized it was happening. But the dragon was the avatar of Akatosh, not Arkay… Then she heard a voice gasping out, "What in Oblivion is that?" In that same moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the headsman begin to hoist up his axe. And then the creature screamed.
The explosion of noise and light that followed left her dazed. For a moment, she thought the headsman's axe really had closed down on her neck: her vision blurred, her ears rang, and her body had gone numb. But as the buzzing faded and her vision cleared, she began to pick up on the screams—and the flames.
The sheer weight of the creature's voice seemed to have knocked her several feet from the headsman's block. From where she had fallen, she could see the sky above had turned a deep, swirling purple, raining fire down upon the town. This was the end, she realized sickly, this was how it ended. Not with a single, methodical stroke—but with the sky itself turning to blood and the earth dissolving.
A sudden presence loomed over her, and she struggled to scramble away, thinking it was the creature. The quick sizzle of fear when she saw it was merely a Stormcloak surprised her, though: if the world was ending, why was she afraid anymore?
He was screaming at her, and she stared up him darkly. Was he going to kill her? Would he even bother? After everything, couldn't he just let her die in peace? A shadow suddenly engulfed them, and passed in the blink of an eye as the dragon soared overhead. The Stormcloak abruptly lunged for her, and she closed her eyes, wincing away from the blow sure to follow, but instead, her center of gravity shifted and warped.
Opening her eyes, she saw the debris-littered street passing underneath, along with flashes of the Stormcloak's heels. A musty darkness suddenly enclosed them, and then she was being lowered to the floor. The floor of the watchtower, she realized, her sharpening vision making out the shapes of Stormcloaks crowding inside, seeking shelter from the growing firestorm.
Another figure was curled up on the floor beside her, and with a flash of recognition, she realized it was Jyta. The other woman had a trickle of blood dripping down her temple, eyes glassy and disoriented as she stared through space.
"Hey." A hand closed on her shoulder, and she jerked away in alarm. But it was only the Stormcloak from the wagon—the one who'd carried her inside. "Get up," he said, glancing frantically toward the door as another shriek echoed from overhead. "Come on. Up the stairs."
Her legs had turned to jelly, though; she could scarcely remember how to use them. The Stormcloak's grip shifted, and he grasped hold of the back of her shirt collar, hauling her to her feet. "Up the stairs," he repeated, pushing her up ahead of him. Her feet seemed to kick into motion, and she numbly pushed forward, methodically treading up the stairs.
Without warning, the wall of the tower up ahead suddenly exploded inward, sending a shower of stone against the opposite wall. The impact threw her feet out from under her, but as she crashed down across the steps, she looked up in time to see a glimmer of black scales just before the flames came blasting through the opening.
In the aftermath, somehow that Stormcloak was still screaming at her. He'd crawled past her over the debris, and was now standing up by the opening, jabbing a finger in its direction. She shakily clambered to her feet, the surge of dizziness that followed nearly knocking her back down. She'd luckily taken the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, but her raw flesh had still scraped painfully against the stone, and her head was swimming with pain once again.
But she wasn't going to let herself pass out this time. She set her teeth and doggedly stumbled the rest of the way up the stairs. Her shins were stinging, and she was fairly certain she could feel fresh blood trickling down them, but that was the least of her concerns.
The Stormcloak quickly beckoned to her as she reached him, but her attention was immediately jarred away from whatever he was trying to tell her. One of his companions had been right next to the wall when it had blown open, his corpse smashed beneath the rubble. Bones were visible, and blood was everywhere.
The Stormcloak shifted into her field of vision, mercifully blocking her view of the crushed man, and she forced herself to focus on whatever it was he was trying to say. "The inn," he shouted next to her ear, arm trembling with his frenzied pointing. "You have to jump." Through the haze of smoke, she could just make out the shell of a building, roof torn away with flames licking along the edges.
She stared at him, uncomprehending. Was this a roundabout attempt to kill her? There was a dragon circling overhead, a nightmare creature straight out of myth. Why was he even attempting to bother? "You'll be fine," he shouted, as if sensing her apprehension."Just go!"
He pushed her toward the opening, and she teetered for a moment before regaining her balance. The ruins of the inn seemed so far away. But then the dragon screamed from somewhere overhead, and she took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She pushed off as hard as she could, kicking away from the ledge. She seemed to hang suspended in the air, but the skeleton of the inn was rushing at her so damn fast…
She cried out as the impact reverberated through her shins, pitching forward and rolling only to crack her head on a support pillar. She sucked in a breath, but immediately began choking as the thick smoke filling the room entered her lungs. Overhead, the roof was being quickly swallowed by the flames, tiny embers spitting down and stinging her skin.
She staggered to her feet, struggling to claw them away with her bound hands. The fire was everywhere she turned; there was no escaping it. She couldn't stand it, oh Divines, she couldn't burn anymore…
Still coughing, she lurched through the ruined building, searching for an exit. Surely there were stairs, a ladder—something. But a portion of the floor had been blasted away, the floorboards splintered and the entire structure sagging. Unless she wanted this disintegrating ruin to become her tomb, she'd have to jump down through the opening.
She scrambled over to it, peering down to the surface below. It looked clear enough, but it was a long drop. She crouched beside it and gingerly twisted about so she was sitting on the edge. She'd already jumped from the watchtower, she reminded herself—how much worse could this be? Pitching her weight forward, she was suddenly surrounded by nothingness—and then the floor of the inn abruptly met her.
Groaning, she struggled to her feet. She could still stand; that was good at least. Nothing appeared to be broken. The door was nearby, hanging crooked off its hinges, and she hurried toward it and darted out into the street—only to come face to face with the creature.
For a moment she stood frozen in horror, but then its maw cracked open, and she skittered out of the way just before it unleashed a stream of flame. She barreled into something solid and was nearly knocked off her feet, but a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Startled, she looked up into the face of the Legionnaire with the list.
"Get out of the way!" he bellowed, shoving her behind a pile of debris where an old man and a little boy were already cowering. A split second later, another blast of flame washed through the street.
"Gunnar, take care of the boy," the Legionnaire panted once the glow had faded. "I need to find General Tullius and join the defense." His gaze shifted to Monica, and he jabbed a finger in her direction. "You. Keep close to me if you want to stay alive."
So he could be sure to have her executed as soon as this nightmare was over? She stood frozen still where she was as the Legionnaire took off across the town, but when she heard another shriek from the creature, she impulsively sprang into action, dashing after him. Impending execution or not, he had a sword, and she couldn't bear to face any more flames.
The Legionnaire obviously knew this town well, she noted as she followed him on a twisting maze between buildings and down cramped alleyways. His speed never faltered as he wove his way through debris, and it was all she could do to keep up with him. As they passed through a narrow gap, there was a sudden whoosh of wings as the creature passed overhead, and the Legionnaire just had time to gasp out a warning. "Stay close to the wall!" And then what appeared to be a massive flap of black leather stretched over a skeletal frame slammed down right in front of her.
She pressed flat against the wall, eyes widened in horror as she stared at the creature's wing. If her arms were free—and she had the courage—she could have reached out and brushed her fingertips against it. The wing shuddered as the creature roared again, and she quaked with terror as she heard the crackle of flames overhead. She helplessly met the Legionnaire's gaze as he stepped forward from the opposite wall. His lips tightening into a firm line, he lifted his sword and swung.
The creature made a guttural grunt of pain, and Monica felt several hot droplets of blood spatter across her face. The wounded wing flexed, and she instinctively ducked—just in time, as it snapped upward, and with a gale-force gust, the creature sailed away.
The Legionnaire was already moving again, and she hurried after him, still shaking with fear. This side of town seemed to have been hit harder, and the creature's most recent attack had only made things worse. Now they were flanked by fire on all sides as they stormed through the destroyed husks of building. The smoke burned her eyes horribly, and the coals' heat was leaching through the thin wrappings on her feet.
As they were weaving through a nearly-decimated house, her foot suddenly caught on something and she fell heavily. But it was neither dirt, wood, or smoldering debris that she fell against—this was something else entirely. Lifting her head, she saw it was a corpse.
Burned beyond recognition, its empty sockets were more haunting than the murdered Legionnaire's eyes, or the decapitated Stormcloaks'. Letting out a gasp of horror, she instantly scrambled away, her skin still crawling with the feeling of its crisp, leathery flesh against hers. As she fled out after the Legionnaire, she noticed her eyes were dripping with moisture, although she was unsure whether it was from the smoke or from weeping.
She hung back as the Legionnaire approached a group of soldiers, but hurried back up to his side as she realized they were all scattering anyhow. "Into the keep!" she heard someone shout. "We're leaving!"
The Legionnaire turned to her then. "It's you and me," he called. "Quickly. Follow me."
She had no choice but to hurry after him, an ill feeling spreading throughout her entire body as she did so. Somehow, it was beginning to feel as though she would never escape this nightmare. She was tired, so tired. All she wanted was to be free of the flames. All she wanted was to stop running.
Curiously enough, though, she got her wish as the Legionnaire skidded to a stop so abruptly she nearly crashed into him for the second time in the past fifteen minutes. "Ralof!" he shouted, addressing someone who had appeared out of the smoke up ahead—someone clothed in Stormcloak blue. "You damned traitor. Out of my way!"
"You're not stopping us this time, Hadvar," came Ralof's sneering reply. That voice—she knew that voice. Why did it sound so damn familiar? She craned her neck to peer around the Legionnaire—Hadvar—and let out a silent gasp. The Stormcloak who had carried her inside the watchtower—the one who had helped her escape—stood there, scowling at Hadvar. His attention briefly shifted to her, and she saw the recognition spread across his face as well. "You. Come with us. We're escaping." The last word, she noted, was directed at Hadvar, and the Legionnaire let out a low growl.
"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" He abruptly turned back to Monica. "With me, prisoner. Let's go!"
Monica stood helplessly, unsure of who to follow. Even the sight of Ralof's Stormcloak sash made bile rise in her throat. But the Legion—the Empire itself—had failed her—failed her miserably, and this Stormcloak, of all people, had risen to the occasion and saved her.
But then the dragon roared overhead, and she knew she had to make her choice—and do so quickly. No matter which she chose, death would eventually follow: whether by an Imperial beheading or by Stormcloak interrogation. It was an inevitability. She was a hole torn through Mundus—but when it came down to it, she would rather burn out than fade away. At least with the Imperials, her death would be swift. She turned on her heel and followed Hadvar into the keep.
