A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES, PART THREE, SEASON UNENDING
Before reading this, you should know: this text is about the civil war in Skyrim, and its consequences. There is violent and sexual themes in this text, including cursing. This series (but not this particular chapter, of course) is my first real attempt at fan-fiction. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Enjoy! And, yes. I am aware that Idolaf and Alfhild are married in game, with Idolaf being no Battle-Born by ancestry, but I prefer them being siblings, Jon the heir to their thaneship and stuff.
Cladius The Veteran
Season unending the old man mused to himself as he watched the fire. When he was a lad, he used to think it odd that the barbarians up north had given war such a name. Wars would always end, no matter what. And, in a sense, he had been right. But war never just... goes away. Lake Rumare had been beautiful when it burned, he recalled. And now my home is being fed to the flames, just because I gave food and shelter too the wrong men. The thought gave him a bitter taste in his mouth, and he did all he could not to listen to the screams of the other inhabitants. It is a ironic, really. He had been an imperial soldier most of his life, only recently retiring to Skyrim. The harshness of the land withered every man down to his true self, and that had been good for Cladius. Thirty-five years wearing a dragon on his mail, serving in the fourteenth legion, down in Anvil. If there was one thing he needed, it was some peace and quiet and then a quick sickness to carry him of to his ancestors, and he would be happy like a sleeping babe. All I need to do is to open that bloody mouth of mine, and they will let me go. The men plundering and burning the little hamlet were legionnaires, like him. It would be so easy. But he could not do it.
"If the village dies, so does I." he said to the night. As he felt pain in his tightly tied wrists and his face was licked by the warmth of flames he noticed something wet on his cheek. Bloody tears he thought as the world died around him.
Darius, Legionnare Of The Ninth Legion
Darius could hear the light tap of rain as he woke. It was a gloomy and grey day, with not a single glimpse of sun upon the sky. He prepared to get up, catching a glimpse of Janella before exiting the tent. That had almost become a custom of his. Somehow her presence made him feel calm, but it also summoned butterflies to his stomach. He recognised the feeling from Mirisha, and that scared him more than a little. When Janella spoke to him, he would occasionally find himself grasping for air and words alike, as if he was some shy maid. It had not felt like that on their first night together, he recalled. But then she had just been the inkeepers daughter, and he had only desired her bed, for one night. But since then she had saved his life and shared his bedroll at least a dozen times. She was clever and humorous, and he found himself actually wondering whether she froze or not when the storms ravaged the western Jeralls. He had not pitied someone that way for a long time. Not again.
He shock his head and donned the longbow they had found in the old inn, despite knowing the Jeralls had scarce any game at this time of the year.
Hunting will clear my head, at least. He threw the quiver over his back and jogged towards the forest.
Hayna, The Innkeeper's Widow
Hayna wondered if it had been the right choice, going to skyrim. It was being ravaged by war, and Hayna knew the prize of war more than anyone else. The things the elves had done to her during the last one... she shuddered to think of it. When she closed her eyes she could still feel their fists flying into her face, their hot irons pushed towards her skin and the way they would laugh when they were beating her. But that was not worst. The worst was what they did afterwards. They claimed their prize, leaving her weeping and despoiled, fearing that their seed had taken to grow inside her. But in that, at least, the gods had been good. She had not been with child, and that had made her escape from Cyrodiil a lot easier, she did not doubt.
Hayna knew that she was risking the same fate for her daughter, but she also knew that she had no other choice. If they stayed they were doomed, she and her daughter both. The triple-border had always been dangerous, but with the outlaws getting bolder, sword-whores plundering, imperial justice dwindling and winter approaching... Entering a land torn by war was a great risk. But better risking death than making it a certainty.
The woman switched her attention back to the camp-fire, remembering the fire she had lit for Edrik and herself, the night they had made Janella. They had been hunting for the elves that had raped her a few years before, and they had partly succeeded. One of the elves remained in the western Jeralls, the one that had hurt her the most. Edrik had overpowered the elf, whom apparently had deserted the Thalmor. Hayna had stabbed him to death herself, and that night she had let Edrik warm her. When Janella was born, with the fierce red hair of her father and the furious brown eyes of her mother, Hayna and Edrik had taken to call her "Janella Blood-Born". But they had almost immediately given up on that. It reminded them of what they had done, and Hayna felt their deeds made their hands as bloody as any thalmor dog. Edrik had never understood that, not truly. The man had been half a Nord by blood and heart, and he seemed only too love her more after they took their revenge. For that Hayna had been gratefull. She almost expected to feel his hands on her shoulders, and the warmth of his breath, forgetting his recent death. Season unending, Edrik always called it. War that does not end.
Carl Idolaf Battle-Born
Carl Idolaf gazed around the square, looking for his brother. Jon was late, as usual. Probably busy fucking that Gray-Mane whore, I would wager. Now, he knew he was being unfair. There was nothing wrong with Olfina, just... She was a Gray-Mane. Idolaf loved his brother too much to tell their father, but still, he did not in any way approve of it. Jon was the heir, the oldest, and he was dishonouring his family by bedding the daughter of their sworn enemy. Idolaf swept his long, golden hair out of his face, just as he saw his brother approaching. He would have smiled, but he was displeased with his brothers lateness.
"You are the heir to Stridborg Keep and our family fortune, start bloody acting like it!" was Idolaf's way of greating. Jon Cracked that smile that made the women melt and made Idolaf want to punch him.
"I was honing my skills with swords, dear brother"
"Which kind?"
"What do you mean?" Jon asked.
"The one in between your legs, or the one in your hand?" Idolaf had won the sparring of words, he knew. Jon's handsome face looked fearful for a moment, and then it returned to it's normal look, that hard and oddly powerful look that made Idolaf strangely happy. I guess there is still hope for our clan, after all.
"Let us go see the jarl, brother. He appears to be a bit obsessed with this "High-King's man", or whatever that bloody traitor calls himself now." Idolaf said. They both nodded grimly, knowing that former Thane Hidnurr had plundered several imperial supply-caravans. The war had hit Whiterun hold, but it was not yet here in full force. But it would be.
Season unending, Idolaf mused quietly.
They strode towards the stairs to the wind district, having to push their way through a large crowd of early market visitors. They passed the gallows, were the now-crow-food remains of two warriors, serving Hidnurr The Traitorous, hang. The market was very large, standing on the biggest plaza in Whiterun. All around them people were haggling and buying, pushing each other while they moved from stand to stand. Such was life in the large city of Whiterun, and Idolaf loved it. To his left an elf and a Redguard were arguing about the prize for a spear, and to his right a common fishwife was haggling with a city guard, the guard obviously loosing. He could smell the mix between smoke, fish, meat and foreign spices as he walked. He knew that the more diverse a markets smell were, the more money it involved. And a large chunk of that was entering the already immense Battle-Born wealth. The carl and the heir reached the stairs, finally putting the crowd behind themselves, only to reach a new one. Up her, though, the people were not as loud, and he could smell the clear scent of early autumn winds. Smoke was also present in the air, since it was the district where most folk had their homes, but the air was purer. Clearer.
"Idolaf..." Jon begun. Idolaf stared at him, realising his brother was about to say something difficult.
"Yes?"
"I... I would like to thank you for not revealing my secret to father." Jon said as they passed the Gildergreen.
"You should unmake that bloody secret. Give it up, you can never wed that lass. She is a Gray-Mane."
"Our clans were friends for years, dear brother." Jon's voice was ice, and despite himself Idolaf could feel a shudder spreading about his spine.
"But not any longer." he said bluntly. Pretty words and arguments were Jon's domain, skald that he was, but Idolaf knew how to deliver short, blunt truths.
They passed Jorrvaskr, the mead hall of the companions, and the shrine to Talos, whit its ever screaming priest, in silence. They reached the stairs to Dragonsrech and begun the ascent.