A/N: As I mentioned in the last chapter, this is my first go at writing about Skyrim. Almost immediately after I created Ailith, I started thinking of ideas for some sort of cool back story. Those ideas eventually led to more elaborate thinking, which led to writing this.
I'm pretty positive that I'm going to make this fic pretty long, at least fifty chapters or more. But by the time that I got around to starting, I remembered that I've already played through a decently large chunk of the game, so I'm hoping that won't alter any of my motivation... Or accuracy. But enough about me, I'm sure you want to read more about Ailith.
Enjoy and thanks so much for reading!
Chapter One - Black Wings in the Cold
Ailith was unceremoniously yanked from the dreary recesses of her mind by hitting a deep rut in the ground, auburn eyes slowly flicking open, revealing themselves to the gloomy and grey atmosphere that surrounded her. The sound of horse hooves clobbering against rocky terrain cascaded through the air, along with the brief song of a bird every so often.
She soon came to her senses enough to feel splintery wood uncomfortably digging into her arm, and notice that a tight sliver of rope was forcing her wrists together. Her sturdy leather armor had been discarded, to her dismay, and replaced by a rough spun tunic with poor stitching. Thread poked through the fabric along the sleeves and pant legs, itching at her skin. She wriggled against the lumbered seat, relief flooding through her as she felt the familiar cold press of the amulet thrown around her neck.
The young elf duly noted the creaking of aged wagon wheels rolling over stones, breath catching in her throat as she saw the worn helmet of an Imperial seated at the front of the carriage that she was sprawled within. Further along, over the solider's broad shoulder, through the heavy mists that cloaked the area, she could barely make out the faint outline of another chariot. She swallowed, the unexpected realization that she wasn't alone dawning over her.
"Hey, you, you're finally awake," a heavily accented voice slurred, causing her to wearily pull herself the rest of the way up. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us," he muttered, fixing a cold glance at the thin man seated beside him. "And that thief over there."
She remained silent for more than a few lingering heartbeats, gaze coolly sweeping over the burly man's appearance.
Shaggy blonde hair fell just past his chin in wind ruffled strands, and a lazily woven braid tumbled to the side of a carefully arched brow. A pair of striking azure irises stared at her indifferently, narrowed at the pale sunlight that was washing over the scenery. Muscular arms emerged from chain mail sleeves, large wrists also firmly bound together like her own.
"Yes." Ailith murmured, not fully knowing if what she spoke was the truth. Only, a mere second later, a sudden recollection stormed through her mind, sending quakes of sadness clawing at her body that immediately began poking and prodding at her self control.
No—Rielus, Sylvana! Gods, forgive me. I could of prevented this.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," the lanky man who the blonde had referred to as a thief spat, fixing a hard, cold stare on him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could of stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!" he sneered, embedding every word with disdain.
Stormcloaks? What do I have to do with them and their quarrels? Why am I here?
The thief's gaze turned to her, sunken brown eyes blazing with resentment. "You there—you and me, we're not supposed to be here, it's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
Ailith was unable to muster the correct response to such bitterness, so her attention instead turned to the stout figure beside her, elbows rested firmly upon his knees, eyelids drawn down in aggravation.
She noticed that he was wearing rather elegant clothing, an onyx cloak trimmed with dark fur, fading to a dull gray in some areas. There was also a dirty cloth gagging him, and she found herself curious as to why the Imperials would go to such measures to assure that he couldn't speak.
When she squinted through the sunlight, past the large form next to her, she could see that there was a stocky soldier with neatly combed apricot hair seated upon a horse, slowly advancing forward just a few feet behind their rickety wagon.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the blonde Stormcloak explained scornfully.
"Shut up back there!" The Imperial seated in front of the lot of them ordered firmly, the metal that had been crafted into his armor flashing in the light.
Ailith's mouth twitched at his crude words, wrists uncomfortably rubbing together from within their restraints. There was a brief quiet that suspended over them, like the tranquil calm before a storm, until the gaunt man seated beside the light haired soldier broke the silence, tone holding an edge of slight amusement.
"What's wrong with him, huh?"
"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" the Stormcloak commanded sternly, every word he spoke sodden with thick venom.
By the Gods and Daedra, the young elf swore internally, throwing a more surprised glance at the burly individual grounded just inches from her. "Ulfric Stormcloak..." she spoke slowly, voice so faint that it was hardly audible over the racket of the vibrant forests lining either side of the pathway that they were galloping down. If they have him, then—
"Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm?" The horse thief spoke incredulously, seemingly in as much shock, if not more, than she was. "You're the leader of the rebellion," he recalled swiftly. "If they captured you..." he paused, as if he was realizing something, a haunting reality that had been looming over the four of them all along, they just hadn't known it. "Oh Gods, where are they taking us?" he sputtered shakily, fear showing through in the dark, previously malevolent orbs of his eyes.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," the blonde soldier spoke lowly, expression turning from rueful to solemn and sad within seconds.
"No, this isn't happening—this can't be happening," the scrawny horse thief stuttered shakily.
Ailith swallowed down the subtle terror that was beginning to curdle her insides, large sections of honey colored hair tumbling over her sharp cheekbones. We're going to be executed. She had suspicions of their impending death whirling through her head beforehand when it had been revealed that the Jarl of Windhelm was riding with them, but she refused to accept such things until now.
"Hey, where are you from, horse thief?" the brawny soldier's voice turned soft, head twisting at an angle to get a better look at the lean Nord.
"Why do you care?" He inquired dryly, brows furrowing uneasily.
"A person's last thoughts should be of home," the man's unevenly cropped golden hair was swept behind his shoulders by a sudden, relieving stir of the breeze, turning his slow words into a revelation that was much more heart rendering and unsettling.
"Rorikstead," he responded languidly, as if he were speaking the name of his birthplace for the first time, rolling the foreign words around on his tongue. "I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."
The gates of the steadily approaching town had been swung open just moments before, and lying just beyond those two towering entrances, was their inescapable fate.
"And you?" the blonde soldier inquired, attention turning promptly to Ailith.
"Riften," she spoke evenly, images of the near barren Hold flashing through her mind.
Vivid memories of the bleak wooden walkways scattered with dried leaves. The guards on duty grumbling useless insults directed at the Thieves Guild residing beneath the city. The fond sound of boats bobbing against the surface of clear water. The almost desperate calls of the few merchants who made an impoverished living there, eager to get some coin clinking in their pockets by the end of the day. Even if she had moved from Whiterun a measly two years ago, the lavish fishing community had quickly become her home.
"General Tullius sir, the headsman is waiting!" A nearby Imperial hollered, causing a lump to form in Ailith's throat. This was truly happening, she was going to die.
"Good, let's get this over with," the General quipped, as if the bound prisoners were merely time costing inconveniences, not actual lives.
She heard the horse thief mutter a quick prayer to the Divines, begging for help, but Ailith could hardly pay attention. Her concentration was focused solely on Tullius, who had swiftly graying hair, undoubtedly due to the stress of his position, and the Thalmor officials that were huddled close by. Something from within her shifted at the sight of the highly ranked Altmer, sending prickling chills down her spine.
"Look at him, General Tullius, the military governor, and it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this," the Stormcloak sniggered with obvious repulsion. Her stomach knotted in discomfort at his language, so openly cursing her kind. He fixed a quick apologetic glance in her direction, as if he had sensed her unease.
Ailith barely noticed the large gates swinging shut as the taut Imperial riding behind them trotted into the comfortable town. She could sense the rigid feeling that currently bathed the settlement, rolling off of the citizens in waves. I suppose this is the fabled disquiet that I've always heard of about public executions.
The deep rhythm of the level headed Stormcloak's voice wafted into her ears, something about Helgen and being sweet on a girl, but she couldn't find it in her to fully concentrate on him. She decided to tone back into his explanation at the last few moments, and she immediately regretted it as sympathy writhed at her insides.
"Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe..."
"I as well," she spoke, shocking herself with how hoarse her voice sounded as she raised it above a murmur. She swallowed, tensely stretching her fingers from within the suffocating coil of rope.
Her pointed ears twitched at the sound of a small child asking his father about who they were, just to have his guardian respond in a dark and demanding voice to get inside the house, as if they were monsters, and his son reluctantly obliged. Their wagon loudly halted in its movements, stopping so firmly that it nearly sent Ailith topping over one of the wooden sides.
"Why are we stopping?" The haggard man from Rorikstead questioned nervously, struggling to be heard over the racket of an Imperial captain barking orders to her underlings.
"Why do you think?" the blue eyed soldier retorted lowly. "End of the line. Let's go, shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us."
They all stood in unison, Ailith's legs screaming in protest at not being used for more than a few hours. An unexpected throbbing pain shot down her side as the skin there stretched, burning fits of agony lapping at her innards. She bit back weak cries, along with her pity for the scrawny thief and his meaningless rambles about the fact that the two of them weren't rebels. At this point, I doubt that would change a thing, despite the fact that it may be true.
"Face your death with some courage, thief," the Stormcloak soldier dully encouraged, the wood groaning as he shifted his position.
"You've got to tell them we weren't with you!" The burglar hollered, nearly toppling clumsily onto the dusty earth as he dropped from the chariot. "This is a mistake!"
"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!" The assertive captain who had been howling commands just moments before demanded, firmly resting her hands against her metal covered hips.
"The Empire loves their damn lists," the soldier with piercing sapphire eyes murmured, leaping down beside Ailith with a faint grunt.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," an Imperial soldier who had a quill pinched between his fingers called, glancing down at the parchment resting within his palm. With closer examination, she realized that he was the man that had been traveling behind them during the long journey to Helgen.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," the blonde Stormcloak mumbled respectfully as his leader retreated.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
Ailith watched as the soldier whom she had briefly conversed with broke off from the mass of captives destined to be brought to early deaths, head bent shamelessly towards the ground, a scowl plastered onto his gruff features.
Her gaze loitered on Ralof's back for a few moments longer, getting lost in her own thoughts, the world beginning to blur away from around her, until a firm voice hollered, "archers!" And before she had the chance to blink, the man from Rorikstead, whose name she didn't catch, was lying dead with the jagged tips of at least four arrows piercing his backside, blood already pooling beneath his limp form.
"Anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial captain questioned tauntingly, rough features silently stating that she wasn't in the mood to be tinkered with.
"Wait, you there, step forward," the soldier bearing the parchment suddenly ordered, it took her a few moments to realize he was speaking to her. She realized that up close, he had a surprisingly kind face, except it was set grimly due to the dull aura that was weighing them all down. "Who are you?"
"Ailith Dawn-Sabre," she answered numbly, russet irises clouded over in a dull haze.
"Not many Wood Elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim."
I didn't.
"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list," he angled his head towards the loud Imperial.
"Forget the list, she goes to the block."
"By your orders, Captain." He spoke, giving Ailith a sincere tug of the lips. "I'm sorry, we'll make sure your remains are returned to Valenwood. Follow the captain, prisoner."
Ailith briefly shut her eyes. No, not Valenwood. There is nothing for me there.
She made no response, instead chewing at the side of her mouth, squinting at the sunlight bouncing off of the Imperial Captain's iron helmet as they advanced towards the horde of people who were hesitantly awaiting their forced passing.
An open execution of a thief, one who tries to avoid that very thing, being noticeable. What an unbecoming death, the young elf thought gratingly, advancing towards the rocky patch of land where she was to die.
Ralof tiredly rolled his shoulders, gawking at the mass of brute muscle that made up the executioners body. He was to be brought to an end by the fine edge of the axe that he clutched in his large hand, the dark tip winking silver in the light.
The young soldier's eyes, like pallid shards of malachite, jerked to the tips of his scuffed boots. He still had so much that he wished to accomplish, dead dreams helplessly slipping through his grasp as wind would through a rickety tree branch.
He wanted to put an end to the Thalmor and their twisted ambition for power, destroy the sturdy wall that they had built between Nords and their revered God, Talos. He wanted Skyrim to be put under the control of a person whom he knew he could trust. A person that wasn't aligned with the Legion, the very organization that willingly accepted the terms of the White-Gold Concordat without so much as a single complaint. And that person was Ulfric Stormcloak, the man that was going to be executed within the hour. His only hope, Skyrim's only hope, was gone.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, some here in Helgen call you a hero," Ralof was hurled from his thoughts at the angered voice of General Tullius, who was now standing before a very stiff Ulfric. "But a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp the throne."
By Talos, it wasn't murder! Ulfric wouldn't dare commit something so shameless, he is a man of honor and dignity!
Ulfric seemed to disagree with the accusation as well, for he writhed from within his restraints. He sputtered what was bound to be insults, but his words were muffled and inaudible due to the rag that bound his mouth shut.
A flash of silver winked from the corner of his eye, dragging his attention from the Jarl to a rather large Imperial standing on the opposing end of the block. Grounded no more than a foot away from the soldier was the quiet elf who had been seated across from him during the strained ride there.
He attempted to recall what she had introduced herself as when she had been summoned to the block, he had only caught bits and pieces of it. Ailith, I believe.
Jaggedly cropped tawny hair fell just past her shoulders, matted, but still shining a deep copper in the sunlight. The knotted strands framed sharp elven cheekbones and a softly pointed chin, her expression seemed rigid, almost as if she were in pain. And when Ralof's gaze traveled back upwards, he couldn't help that his brow quizzically furrowed.
She possessed vibrant irises the color of an orange stained sunset, though they seemed distant and clouded, glazed over with a certain longing that he couldn't place.
Elven eyes had always struck him as absurd ever since he was a cub, barely out of his toddler years. They were strangely slanted, seeming to hold an unfaltering cold that could turn even the most heated flame atronach to ice.
Though, in this particular case, they didn't cause a deep rooted unease to roll his insides, they were different. That was the only way that he could describe them, they were almost... human. Something that he never seemed able to consider her kind as.
"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos," Tullius continued, his words practically dripping with what he believed to be justice. "And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!"
As if on cue, an unearthly roar echoed to the north of where the prisoners were standing, filling their ears with an odd, distant rebound.
"What was that?" An Imperial with neat apricot hair inquired, throwing an almost nervous glance over his shoulder. With closer examination he realized that this was his old friend, Hadvar. He couldn't stop the dislike that rolled through him at the thought of the name.
"It's nothing," Tullius quipped, ushering them all to continue. "Carry on."
"Yes, General Tullius!" The Imperial Captain spoke, giving the General a quick salute as he retreated. She turned towards a woman dressed from head to toe in lackluster yellow robes and spoke, "give them their last rites."
The Priestess hastily raised her arms towards the heavens and began to chant a statement in which she had undoubtedly practiced many a time, her soft, feathery voice wafting through the air. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight divines upon you— "
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" A fiery Stormcloak with unruly red hair snapped, impatiently advancing towards where the headsman was waiting to snatch his life from him. Onbjorn, you were always much too driven for your own good.
"As you wish," the Priestess murmured sourly, obviously discontented with her speech being so harshly cut short.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning!" Onbjorn howled, head stubbornly dipped towards the cobblestones beneath his feet.
The Imperial Captain rested her hand upon his back, giving the headsman a brief nod before forcing him onto his knees with a firm shove. She hardly hesitated as she planted a foot solidly on his spine and heaved him the rest of the way down, exposing the tanned skin on his neck.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials! Can you say the same?" He sneered, determined to make his final mark on the world.
The burly man bearing the axe pitched it into the air, the blade seeming wickedly sharp in the light as it prepared for its next slaughter. Ralof's gaze remained firmly trained on the spot, watching as his friend, with a stomach lurching thump, was torn from this world and into the next.
The Imperial woman gently poked his limp corpse to the side with the tip of her boot, a disgusted scowl plastered onto her gruff features. Ralof was sickened by the sight before him. A man who had fearlessly fought at his side, driven by his need to end the Empire's restraints on Skyrim, sprawled lifelessly on the dirt. Tsun's brawn, I never would of thought that I'd have to experience this first hand.
"You Imperial bastards!" A Stormcloak hollered.
"Justice!" A citizen snarled.
"Death to the Stormcloaks!" Another wailed angrily.
"As fearless in death, as he was in life." Ralof modestly spoke up over the chaos, breaking the loud streak of infuriated bellows. He felt the calculating stare of the Bosmer woman bore into his side, but he brushed it under the rug, unable to focus on such trifles over the anguish that was flooding through his body.
"Next, elf in the rags!" The Imperial Captain ordered, fixing the woman from the cart with a menacing stare.
Another ethereal cry thundered from the clouds, the faint remnants of the appalling sound spreading over the courtyard in thick echoes.
"There it is again, did you hear that?" Hadvar questioned restlessly, throwing an expectant glance at his superiors.
"I said next prisoner!" His Captain shouted indignantly, discarding his words.
Producing nothing but a small huff as a complaint, he beckoned Ailith forward. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."
Ralof watched solemnly as she pushed herself forward, defined features shrouded in deep, unreadable shadows. He couldn't seem to quench the sadness that began to take a hold of his heart. Gods, so much death in one day.
Ailith skidded to an abrupt halt in front of the jagged stone of the block, fixing a bitter glare at the Imperial who had been calling out the names of the people who were to be thoughtlessly killed, which he answered to with nothing but a look of sympathy. She nearly snorted, at that. She hated pity.
She was crudely hurled down onto the block, chest painfully slamming onto the uneven surface. The young elf gritted her teeth in a failed attempt to calm the storm of agony that began swimming beneath her skin in the exact area on her back that had throbbed when she fled the wagon.
Her tangled hair spread apart and fell to either side of her neck, fully exposing the pale skin there. The massive, looming shadow of the headsman completely swallowed her own, and she tried her best to focus on anything but his mountainous figure and the handle of the axe that was digging into the soil just a finger's length away from her nose.
Her blurred vision flicked to the crumbling tower that stood just behind the man who was to end her life, the cracked bricks falling away in some areas, leaving large, gaping holes in the walls. When her gaze began dropping back to the earthy floor, her lungs painfully constricted and she choked on her gasp.
The hefty, elongated hilt of the weapon had vanished, undoubtedly raised to the skies, brightening at the thought of more blood coating its blade. But that wasn't what had snagged her attention.
An enormous black form shot through the air, appearing from behind the craggy slope of a nearby mountain. Dark, massive wings laced with shade stretched out next to each of its spiked sides, the strange appendages swooping to catch gusts of wind to hold it afloat. It let out one last ear shattering wail before swooping down, straight towards the ground.
"What in Oblivion is that?" General Tullius swore.
"Sentries!" The Imperial Captain barked. "What do you see?"
Gods and Daedra, it can't be—
"It's in the clouds!" A soldier yowled, almost impossible to hear over the sound of the otherworldly creature crashing onto the top of the tower that she had been examining, its sharp talons breaking the stones to pieces, littering the ground with dust.
The impact of the beast's landing violently shook the ground beneath her, and the headsman toppled onto the earth, his weapon clattering uselessly off to the side. Clouds of debris swept into the air, small shards of rock painfully lodging themselves into her eyes.
"Dragon!" A terrified voice hollered, confirming her horrifying theory.
By the Nine, it is.
The dragon let out a mighty roar, resounding through the courtyard like a clap of thunder, turning the sky to a dim bowl of swirling black and red mists. Before Ailith could process what was happening, the fiend opened its large jaw, exposing two rows of razor sharp teeth, and let out a ferocious bellow that distorted the atmosphere as it flew from its mouth.
The collision of the outcry seemed to sweep the land out from underneath her, sending her sprawling sideways, shattered stones biting into her skin. She blinked the remnants of blurred residue from her eyes, repeating the action until the world became basked in pure clarity.
"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" General Tullius hollered, his command hardly distinguishable over the chaos that had suddenly erupted over Helgen.
"Hey, get up!" A familiar voice howled. She weakly pulled herself from the ground, desperately searching for the man who had hailed her.
Ailith's features immediately whitened at the scene that enclosed itself around her, it seemed to be pulled from one of the many gruesome books that explained The Great War. Pockets of smoldering fire spread across the ground, and at least three buildings had already been fully engulfed in the flames, their orange tips licking at the muggy sky.
The carriages that they had been transported in were meaningless heaps of charred wood laying in shambles and slack, lifeless bodies of Imperials and Stormcloaks alike were scattered among the rubble, singed flesh leaving blackened craters in their skin.
"Come on, the Gods won't give us another chance!" The voice wailed another time, except now, the young Wood Elf was able to pinpoint where exactly he was calling to her from. "This way!"
Ralof stood but a mere few feet away from her, frantically gesturing her forward with a dirt slathered hand. The moment she placed one foot shakily in front of the other, an array of bear sized boulders toppled onto the earth, momentarily blocking her pathway to the brawny soldier.
She attempted to continue onward once again, but a flaring pain seared through her ankle, the force of the blow knocking her to her knees. She flung herself around to see the damage. A large section of the debris had crushed the bone, severely shattering the artery.
"Gods damn it!" Ralof cursed, hurriedly scrambling to her aid. He half carried, half dragged the injured woman to a nearby citadel, flames whipping at their feet as they struggled through the wooden door, smacking it shut behind them.
The interior of the stronghold was bathed in a faint orange hue, manifesting from a lit torch hanging from its mantle. Blood stained the floor off to the side of an injured Stormcloak soldier, who was currently hunched over on one knee, palm firmly clamped over an unseen wound on his stomach. Just to the right of him was a large staircase that led to a higher point in the fortress, it was in front of this passage that Ralof carefully set Ailith down.
"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?" Ralof asked sternly. She briefly noted that the leader of the rebellion had yanked off the cloth that had been preventing him from speaking sometime within the turmoil raging outdoors. "Could the legends be true?"
"Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric corrected gravely, rubbing at his bearded jaw. Ailith was momentarily dumbfounded at the deep brogue of his voice, and briefly questioned if she had heard him correctly. She was torn from her inquiries as the burning sensation corroding her ankle flooded further along her leg, causing a weak cry to slip from her control.
Haromir's sorcery, this hurts.
"We need to move, now!" Ulfric snarled, his voice surprisingly easy to place over the loud clamors of the beast from behind the rocky walls of the keep.
"Up through the tower, let's go!" Ralof slurred, sprinting to where Ailith was slumped, hurriedly helping her to stand with a strong hand upon her forearm. The young elf gratefully accepted his support, straining to keep up with his swift pace as they ascended the long, twisting staircase.
"We just need to move!" A Stormcloak screamed once they reached the top, but not even a second had passed before the sturdy wall in front of them collapsed, burying the soldiers in a mountain of crumbled wreckage.
Ailith's eyes widened, horrified, as the dragon's gigantic body draped over the opening that it had created, its huge ebony maws spreading open. A small spark seemed to kindle from the back of its throat, a second before the whole room was engulfed in a skin melting heat.
"Get back!" The Bosmer woman hollered, retreating away just in time to save herself from becoming incinerated.
Her gaze jerked in the direction of Ralof, who had been badly burnt along his arm, and was tenderly grasping the area where the skin had been scorched, revealing the pink, fatty muscle peeking from underneath his trembling fingertips.
"See the inn on the other side?" He spoke up hoarsly, tilting the crown of his head towards a disheveled cottage grounded a decently large amount below them. "Jump through the roof and get going. Go, we'll follow when we can!"
Ailith fixed him with an incredulous stare, but he looked back at her with nothing but confidence, so she averted her sight to the lumbered floorboards of the tavern, aiming to make the unrealistic drop.
I pray to every last Aedra and Daedra that I can trust you, she thought discontentedly, squinting to see through the dense, smoky line of fog that still continued to stubbornly burn her eyes.
The Bosmer gingerly gathered up all the strength that she could muster, biting down on her tongue at the molten agony prodding at her ankle, and weakly plummeted from the brim of the tower with nothing on her mind but the long fall down if she didn't make it to the other side.
A/N: I suppose you could say that this is my take on the beginning of the game, I really wanted to have a crack at it. I've always thought that it had super inspirational detail, and had a lot of potential to be described further. I hope this has at least briefly satisfied your cravings for a decent Skyrim fic, and also sealed the deal with a few of you.
Keep an eye out for chapter two within the next few days, I'm aiming to get it out during that time. See you then!