Chapter 5: Staadnau
The massive stone walls of the keep instantly muffled the noise of the carnage outside. The quiet should have been a blessed relief, but instead, it was jarring. The room appeared to be barracks of some kind, filled with a low, cool darkness. But the world of blood and flames she'd just fled from lingered like a nightmare upon waking.
Hadvar was barring the door, slamming it shut and swinging down a heavy wooden bar into place across it. He planted his back against it, his panting ragged as he caught his breath. "Looks like it's just us." He dragged a hand across his forehead, pushing sweaty hair out of his face, and for the first time, he met her eyes. "Was that really a dragon?" His voice dropped in volume, suddenly earnest. "I grew up hearing stories about them—the bringers of the end times. And now, to actually see one, in person…"
He cleared his throat, and the fervored look faded from his face. "We should keep moving." His tone was once again crisp, a Legionnaire's stoic demeanor creeping back in the dim quiet of the keep. "Let me see if I can get those bindings off."
The rasp of his dagger was a warning sign, electrifying her every nerve, but it was the sudden movement as he grabbed for her hands that sent her cowering away. He frowned, lowering the dagger. "Come here," he said, his Legion voice wavering for the briefest second. "You need your hands free."
Fear was still fluttering in her throat, but he was absolutely right. She stepped forward on quivering legs and tentatively offered her bound hands. The dagger quickly sang through her bonds, and she winced as blood flowed back into her now-tingling hands. "There you go," he muttered as she flexed her fingers. "Now let me see if I can find something for those burns."
He began rummaging through cabinets, throwing objects to the ground in his haste. The ringing in her ears was slowly fading, leaving her to become more aware of all her aches and pains—both old and fresh. And of course, the memory of the dragon: its horrible maw, that voice. That was a voice that could bring entire cities to their knees.
She gave an involuntary shiver, but Hadvar had turned back to her, a neat roll of bandages in each hand. "I can't find any potions, but at least this should help." This time, his movements were slow as he reached for her hand. "Some of these look infected," he murmured, more to himself than to her as he quickly bandaged the wounds covering her arms. The pain flared up at the pressure, and she pressed her tongue against her teeth, bracing against it.
"There." He finally finished, and she inhaled, blinking away the pain. "Put this on." He thrust a bundle of leather in her direction, and she held it out, letting it unfurl. Legion armor. It seemed almost a sacrilege, but she pulled it on over the rags she wore regardless. It had been made for a much larger man, but despite her clumsy fingers, she managed to adjust it. Giovanni had always preferred a set of steel plates between himself and his enemy, but the fastenings were similar enough to her father's set.
Hadvar stepped forward as she finished up, helping with the last few sets of hard-to-reach buckles. "Ready?" At her nod, he turned toward the gate at the far end of the room. "Let's go."
The keep was far bigger than she'd realized, she quickly discovered. As she plodded along after Hadvar in too-large Legion boots, he led her through a twisting maze along corridors and down spiraling staircases into what she realized was a rather expansive system of underground levels. He clearly knew the place well, as he moved along at a brisk and steady pace, but as they were descending one of the staircases, he abruptly paused and turned back to her.
"The torture room." He motioned behind him. "I…" He wasn't meeting her eyes, she noticed vaguely, instead staring at her bandaged arms. "Gods, I wish we didn't need these…"
Before she could ask him what he was talking about, a series of shouts rang out from below, interspersed with clashing metal. "Dammit." Hadvar whirled around and dashed down the stairs. She followed, but at the bottom she skidded to a stop, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before her.
A dead Stormcloak lay sprawled across the floor, blood-spattered face staring blankly upward, while Hadvar and another Legionnaire were engaging another. The Stormcloak struck at Hadvar, staggering with the force of his own blow, and the other Legionnaire raised his weapon. She looked away just in time.
As the muffled rasps of weapons being sheathed sounded, a low chuckle filled the room. "Looks like you happened along just in time." Monica flinched as a third Legionnaire suddenly stepped forward from the shadows. "These boys seemed a bit upset at how I've been entertaining their comrades." He laughed again, unpleasantly, and Monica skittered forward around the bodies and the blood to Hadvar's side.
"Don't you know what's going on?" Hadvar's Legion voice had returned. "A dragon is attacking the keep."
"A dragon?" The old man snorted. "Don't make up nonsense." Hadvar drew in a breath, his hand balling into a fist.
"We don't have time for this. We need to get out of here."
"You have no authority over me, boy," the other Legionnaire snarled back, but as the exchange continued, Monica began to glance around the room. The walls were lined with narrow cells, but it was the racks of evil-looking tools and suspicious rust-colored stains that made her heart catch in her throat as she remembered what Hadvar had said about a torture room.
She actually took half a step away from Hadvar, struggling to control her breathing. This wasn't right. This wasn't what the Empire stood for. Giovanni would be horrified to see this; any Legionnaire with a shred of honor would be ashamed.
She had nearly grown used to the fire, but the fear was an icy shock as it slid along her spine, her pulse quickening. The Stormcloak who had rescued her—Ralof—suddenly popped into her thoughts, and she wondered if she'd made a major mistake.
"Is that a prisoner?" Her attention was recaptured by the argument going on beside her as Hadvar's voice abruptly rose.
"Don't bother with that," the old man protested, but Hadvar stormed across the room to the far row of cells, checking the other Legionnaire with his shoulder as he did so. Monica hesitantly stepped closer, her breath catching as she caught sight of the grey-faced figure propped in the corner.
"Ah." The old man gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. "Lost the key ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for weeks."
"You sick bastard." Hadvar's arm shot out, snatching the old man up by the collar, and with a surprising strength, sent him sprawling across the table. "And you call yourself an Imperial Legionnaire." His words were warped with barely-suppressed rage as he forced them through clenched teeth. There was the rasp of a dagger, and Monica felt the breath sucked from her lungs as it flashed at the man's throat.
"Hadvar!" she shrieked, her voice returning to her as the Legionnaire from Ulfric's camp and the headless Stormcloak swam before her eyes. Hadvar's head whipped in her direction, and a quiver of fear ran through her, her gaze zooming in on the blade in his hand.
But Hadvar released the man, and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief as his dagger was clipped back in its sheath. He turned away, bowing his head as he gripped the cell bars, and the old man scoffed.
"You'll pay for that, boy," he growled, his eyes spitting sparks.
Without warning, Hadvar wheeled and punched the other man square in the face. There was a crunch, and the man staggered, hands coming away from his face bright red as blood poured from his nose.
"I don't care." He stomped toward a low doorway in the corner of the room, pausing to sneer back at the old man, and she had no choice but to tentatively hurry after him. "We're getting out of here."
Anger was rising from him in waves, setting the tiny hairs on the back of her neck on end as she followed him down a narrow row of cells. The cell bars were like fangs framing dark maws, only the stench giving any indication of the horrors that lay within. But as they neared the end, the heavy light of the flickering torch revealed the ghastly outlines of skeletal remains.
Hadvar glanced over his shoulder at her gasp of horror, but with his face cast in shadow, she was unable to make out his expression. He merely stepped to the side and motioned for her to duck through an opening in the crumbling brick. "Let's go, Aretino." He glanced behind them, and when he spoke again, his tone was tinged with sadness. "There's nothing we can do for them now."
The main chamber of the cave they emerged in was spacious, the murky darkness interrupted here and there by faint patches of sunlight from overhead. But they were only travelling deeper beneath the ground as they made their way through, and the darkness became heavier as the way grew narrow—not to mention the treacherous terrain. By the time the light of day finally appeared up ahead, Monica's knees were scraped bloody, and Hadvar was limping painfully.
After the dense blackness of the cave, the sun's glare was blinding. Shielding her stinging eyes, she stumbled out into the open, gulping in deep breaths of the crisp, clean air. "Wait!"
Without warning, Hadvar shoved her, sending her sprawling across a scattering of pine needles and pebbles. Before she could even react, there was a sound from above like rhythmic gusts of wind, and a massive shadow engulfed them.
Hadvar crouched mere inches away, watching as the dragon soared overhead, wings beating steadily as it sailed higher and higher, until it was just a speck on the northern horizon.
"It's gone." There was uncertainty in his words, as though he were trying to convince himself as well as her. "Gods, I hope it's for good." He stood, offering her a hand, but she scrambled to her feet on her own. He was carefully watching her, wearing the same expression he had when the captain had ordered her to the block. "Look, I don't know—" He began to speak, but cut his words off abruptly, tightly pursing his lips. "Do you know where you're headed?"
Headed? She didn't even know where she was. She hadn't had a plan in place since the carriage had rolled up to Bruma, a moment that now felt like part of a different lifetime. She shook her head, staring down at her boots as Hadvar gave a sigh.
"The closest town is Riverwood," he finally said. "My uncle's the blacksmith there. That's where I'm headed." He paused, and even through the haze of her aching body and shredded nerves, she got the sense he was making a decision. "You're welcome to come along if you'd like. I'm sure he'll help you out."
She thought back to the torture room, a shudder crawling up her spine at the thought of skeletal hands reaching out from the bars of their final resting place, the sagging flesh of the dead prisoner's face, the torturer's light easy laugh as he spoke of his victims. Of her own death sentence, handed down without a moment's thought. After today, she would never again trust the Imperial Legion. But her belongings were gone, her injuries were severe, and she had no way of knowing how far she was from civilization. And once again, this Legionnaire was offering her only way out.
She began to nod, and he cleared his throat. "Well then," he said, more to himself than to her. "We've got a ways to go. No sense in wasting time standing around. If you're ready, that is."
As they set off down the path, she looked out over the valley, catching her first real sight of Skyrim. The sun was hanging low in the western sky, its pink glow illuminating the jagged edges of the mountain ranges visible on all horizons. The trees here weren't nearly as dense as they'd been up on the mountainside, and sparse, low scrub filled the spaces in between. The purity of the air was a refreshing change after the dense smoke of Helgen and the staleness of the cave, but her chest still burned as she drew in breaths, and every few minutes either she or Hadvar would find themselves doubled over with a coughing fit.
They travelled in relative silence, aside from the coughing and Hadvar's occasional quiet comments on their surroundings or the conflict with the Stormcloaks. The light slowly faded as the hours wore on, and as they staggered through a deepening twilight, Monica became certain that each step she took would be her last.
Everything hurt: her injuries stung, her very bones ached, and she could feel blisters forming as her feet slid around in the too-large boots. With every step, her body screamed at her to stop—which she might have done, were it not for Hadvar hobbling beside her, mumbling every so often that Riverwood was "not much further," just as he'd been saying for hours.
But when they rounded a corner and the town's watchtowers came into sight, she nearly cried with relief. Low and wooden, the towers were shabby with disrepair, yet they sat there staunchly at the edge of town, a tangible end to this nightmarish journey finally in sight.
The town was quiet and nearly empty, the darkness broken here and there by the glow of lighted windows. As her ears picked up the sound of clanging metal, Hadvar pointed to the left, veering off toward one of the many low, wooden buildings. "Uncle Alvor!" he called out.
The clanging stopped, and a tall, bearded figure emerged from the shadows of the side porch, silhouetted against the growing darkness by the light of the forge behind him. "Hadvar?" His tone bore a note of surprise, and although it was not unpleasant, she could make out the shrewdness of his features as they stepped forward into the light. "Wasn't expecting to see you for some time. Are you on leave or…" His words trailed off, and his gaze slowly scanned over them as he took in their ragged appearance. "Shor's bones, boy, what happened?" His alarm was evident now, but Hadvar quickly shushed him.
"Keep your voice down, uncle," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the road. "We shouldn't talk here."
Alvor sighed, but miraculously didn't ask any more questions. "Come on inside, then," he said. "Sigrid will get you something to eat, and you can tell us what happened." Motioning for them to follow, he made his way down the length of the porch and swung open the door. "We've got company, Sigrid!"
An auburn-haired woman turned from the fire as they stepped inside, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Hadvar. "Hadvar! This is a surprise, we didn't think…" Much like Alvor, her voice faded as she noticed the state they were in. Her eyes grew sharp as she exchanged a look with her husband, and when she spoke again, her tone was brisk. "Sit down, you two." She marched over to a cabinet in the corner and took out a stack of bowls. "Alvor, there's a stew on the fire," she announced. "I'll set out some fresh clothing, but first I expect you'll be needing baths." She turned to the far corner of the room. "Dorthe!" she called.
Monica jumped as something touched her, but it was only Hadvar. "You can sit down, you know," he murmured. He gestured toward the table, where Alvor had already taken a seat. She moved stiffly toward the nearest chair, nearly sighing with relief when the weight was taken off her aching legs. "Dorthe!" Sigrid was shouting again, and with a clatter, a small blond figure appeared in the corner.
"Hadvar!" she cried excitedly, hurtling forward with such force that the burly Legionnaire teetered in his chair for a moment. "I didn't know you were coming! What's it like in Helgen? Do you like it there?" She suddenly seemed to notice Monica. "Who's your friend?"
"Dorthe," Sigrid interrupted, "don't pester your cousin. Come with me; we're going to get water."
"But I want to talk to Hadvar," she objected, a furrow appearing between her brows. Sigrid's eyes narrowed.
"Now, Dorthe." Her tone left no room for argument. Hadvar smiled, a real smile that briefly erased the weariness from his face.
"Do as your ma says," he agreed, ruffling the girl's hair. "There'll be plenty of time for you and I to talk later."
Dorthe sighed, resignedly following her mother toward the door. "But it'll take forever," she muttered. "Can't I at least ask Frodnar to help?" It might have been Monica's imagination, but she thought she saw Hadvar's face freeze at the mention of the name.
"No," Sigrid said, her gaze once again flickering to Alvor's. "No, we're doing this together," she continued, her words somehow sounding forced and overly bright. "It'll be fun."
"But Ma…" Dorthe's protests disappeared out the door, and Alvor leaned forward, a deep frown settling across his face.
"Now, then, boy," he said, "What's going on here?" When there was no response, Monica glanced up from the scarred surface of the tabletop to see Hadvar glancing uneasily between her and his uncle. "What are you doing here?" Alvor repeated. "The two of you look like you lost an argument with a cave bear. What happened?"
Hadvar sighed. "I don't know where to start," he admitted. "You know I was assigned to General Tullius' guard. We were stopped in Helgen, and…" He paused, glancing at Monica, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw a hint of guilt flicker across his face.
"And?" Alvor pressed.
"And we were attacked." Hadvar's eyes slid shut. "By a dragon."
There was a silence that followed, and when she finally looked at Alvor, his concern had been replaced by misgiving. "A dragon?" he repeated, doubt creasing his brow. He turned abruptly to Monica. "Is he drunk?" he demanded sharply.
She shrank away from the flare of anger, quickly shaking her head as Hadvar interjected.
"I know it sounds…well, unbelievable," he admitted. "But there it was just the same, big as a mammoth and blacker than night, like something out of nightmare. Flew over and just tore the place apart." He let out a weary sigh and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "Helgen is completely destroyed," he said bitterly. "I don't know if anyone else made it. I barely did myself."
The outrage had faded from Alvor's face, his expression growing solemn as he watched his nephew. Finally, he began to nod. "What do you need?" he asked quietly.
"Food, supplies, a place to stay." Hadvar shrugged. "I need to get back to Solitude, but as you can see," he gestured toward Monica, "we're really in no shape to travel."
"Of course." Alvor nodded. "I'm glad to help however I can." He then turned to Monica. "Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend is a friend of mine. You're welcome to stay as well. Were you also part of General Tullius' guard?"
"She's a civilian," Hadvar cut in quickly—too quickly, but if Alvor noticed, he didn't say anything. "There was mass confusion in Helgen. It was everyone for themselves, so Monica and I escaped together." It was jarring to hear him say her name—but no more so than anything else about this entire experience. She dropped her gaze back down to the surface of the table as Alvor leaned back in his chair and gave a long, ragged sigh.
"A dragon," he repeated, the words now hanging heavy in his tone. "A dragon, here in Skyrim. Could it really mean…"
The door crashed open and Monica shot upright, her heart continuing to thunder even as she realized it was only Dorthe, lugging a bucket of water. "Dragon?" she demanded. "Hadvar, did you fight a dragon?"
"Hush, child." Sigrid appeared behind her, also bearing buckets. She pulled the door shut firmly behind her, then paused to survey the table. "Alvor, you didn't feed them?" she exclaimed, hurrying to the fire.
But Dorthe wasn't finished. "What did it look like?" she pressed. "Did it have big teeth?"
"Dorthe!" Sigrid spun from the fire. "Go get the rest of the water," she ordered sharply. "Now."
"It did have big teeth." Hadvar suddenly spoke up. "Big wings, too."
Monica missed the glare Sigrid must have shot Alvor, but he sat up abruptly, clearing his throat. "Now Dorthe," he said patiently, "listen to your mother."
Dorthe groaned. "Fine," she muttered, slipping back outside with a long-suffering sigh. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sigrid spoke.
"A dragon?" Her voice was tense, her features frozen, and as Hadvar and Alvor both nodded, her expression fell into one of horror.
"Helgen's gone." The dread in Alvor's tone now matched Hadvar's. "These two escaped alone, and we don't know if there are any other survivors."
"Oh gods." Sigrid clapped a hand over her mouth, sinking into a nearby chair. "Helgen isn't far—what if it comes here?"
"It was headed north, last we saw of it. It's long gone by now." Hadvar's words were meant to be reassuring, but even he sounded unconvinced.
"And who's to say it won't return?" Sigrid snapped, but then her expression wavered. "I'm sorry, Hadvar," she whispered. "But if there's a dragon out there…" She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. Monica was already intimately acquainted with the same fear shining in the woman's eyes.
"I wounded it." Hadvar's voice was low, and when she glanced over at him, she saw that fear reflected in his face. But when he spoke again, his words crackled with defiance. "It was wounded when I struck it." He met Sigrid's gaze. "It can die." The final word was tinged with wonder, as though he'd stumbled across a grand realization. But she thought of the ear-splitting crack as the stone wall of Helgen's watchtower had shattered, and her stomach dropped even lower.
"Before we get ahead of ourselves with talk of dragon-slaying," Alvor cut in, "perhaps we ought to get the two of you fed and cleaned up." He hid it well, she realized, but the strained, deliberate quality of his voice gave away the fact that his terror was equal to his wife's. He had risen to his feet, and was inching toward the door. "I'd better check on Dorthe," he mumbled, and then he was gone.
After a moment, Sigrid rose to her feet and swept over to the fire, wordless as she filled bowls of stew. Monica barely blinked as one was set in front of her, too tired to make any movement towards it. It'd been days since she'd eaten, though, and the clawing in her stomach finally took over, her fingers weak and clumsy as she gripped the spoon. But it only took a few bites for her to discover the motion was too painful, and she ended up silently staring into the bowl as Alvor and Dorthe hurried in and out with the buckets of water.
As she sat warm and secure among friendly faces, though, she could feel an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, a whisper of a warning at the faint reaches of her consciousness. But despite it, the fire that had boiled beneath her skin was in her head now, replaced in her veins by ice. Whether it was the heat or just pure exhaustion, she didn't know, but she could feel her senses slowly dulling, her awareness growing muffled. And even as she drooped from her chair toward the floor, she held the sobering knowledge that it would be a long time before she ever felt safe again.
