A/N: I've been trying to get chapters written faster lately, hopefully it pays off. I'm also on a week long break from school, so I'll try to get a bunch done!
[DISCLAIMER: (I figured I'd put this here.) I do not own Skyrim or any of the characters in the game, but Ailith Dawn-Sabre was created by me and I own her.]
Chapter Three - Beckoning
Over the thirty years that Ailith has lived bundled within the freezing climate and towering pines that make up the whole of Skyrim, she's come to realize that the night sky is by far her favorite feature of the region. It was never only one color, there were always some sort of swirling aurora painted in vivid blues and greens, eventually twisting into bright reds and purples. Surrounding these curling and waving slices of light that stretch over the landscape were millions upon millions of flickering stars, and if someone were to allow their eyes to stray just off to the side, the enormous outlines of the twin moons, Masser and Secunda, would stare back at them from their places high above their heads.
This sharp picture spread across the wide canvas of the young Bosmer's vision as she galloped along a beaten and battered pathway, her fingers subconsciously tightening on the reigns of Skjol, a large brute of a horse named after Gerdur's father, Skjoldr. She had graciously lent him to Ailith for her journey back to Riften the day that Helgen was destroyed two months ago, but over the time that she's owned him, she's come to think of him as her own.
The cold, unforgiving wind whipped through her tumbleweed of tawny hair, formed crystals of ice on her cheeks, stung and jabbed at her eyes. The sound of Skjol's huge hooves thundered against the stones burrowed in the dirt, the clobbering racket was the only thing keeping her planted in reality, steering her forward, focused. That, and how her thighs were beginning to ache from where they would repeatedly slap against the saddle every few seconds. The scarce forest lining either side of them blurred past in an unclear mural of dull yellows and oranges, but her focused gaze never faltered from the endless, twinkling depths lying above her.
It made Ailith feel alive somehow, the sky, like the desolate and bleak depths of her soul were suddenly threading and lurching through her veins, strengthening her heartbeat, causing her blood to thump through her ears in a surging, adrenaline induced roar.
She wasn't sure how long she remained that way, staring upwards as Skjol's reliable sturdiness guided them forward. Ailith didn't notice the rocky barriers that surrounded Riften quickly approaching, didn't notice the guards sauntering past carrying blazing torches. She had to yank on Skjol's reigns with all the strength she possessed in order to get the massive horse to skitter to a trot only a fraction of a second before they would have rammed directly into the city walls. He briefly lifted his front legs as if in protest, but almost immediately obliged to her silent command.
She slid from his leather saddle, grateful to escape the throbs that had been spreading through her upper legs. Her palm gently dragged across his mane, eventually settling against the short brown hairs on his thick neck. Ailith's lips twitched as she laid eyes upon a lanky Redguard leaning against one of the wooden beams of the stables, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow to muffle a large yawn.
"Shadr," Ailith greeted hoarsely, acknowledging him with a terse nod.
"Ailith," his usually kind voice returned her words with a deep, weighted tiredness.
"Tie him up for me, will you?" She held out Skjol's reigns, hardly paying attention as she half turned towards the gates.
"He's a beauty," Shadr murmured, speaking more to himself than to Ailith as he tugged the massive horse along.
She didn't respond, instead stalking towards the large wooden entrances leading into Riften, her scuffed leather boots making light padding noises as she went. She shoved her way into the city, the old iron bound entrance slowly creaking open as she stepped through. The earthy terrain beneath the soles of her shoes steadily shifted to the squeaking and groaning of wood as she continued into the fishing community, eyes steady and alert.
The market area and the rest of the lumbered, leaf scattered walkways of Dryside were practically desolate, everyone had undoubtedly retired to the warmth and comfort of their homes, considering the time. Ailith made her way past the empty stalls where merchants would usually be desperately chanting in a weak attempt to gather customers. Not even Balimund was at his forge, hammering away at some sizzling piece of metal.
The elf was beginning to faintly hear the sound of water splashing against the docks that lined the underbelly of Riften, catching the whistles of heavy wind hurling through the timbered beams that held the upper levels together. She made her way down an unsteady flight of stairs, drifting past the multiple ramshackle homes of the residents living along Plankside. Ailith finally skittered to a stop before a familiar rusted door crafted with strong iron bars, yanking on one of the rods to open the entrance.
The moment that she stepped foot in the Ratway, the common smell of sewage and decay immediately overwhelmed her. It was an odor that still caused her to cringe, despite the amount of times that she's traveled through the sloped arches and winding, slimy hallways here. Eventually, as she stumbled through the threshold that would lead her to the Ragged Flagon, her lightweight right boot nearly smashed directly into a clump of Skeever feces. She let out an irritated breath and sidestepped the foul pile. Home, sweet home.
It had been just over two days since she had left for the Heist job that she had requested from Vex, asking her to retrieve a valuable pendant from Radiant Raiment in Solitude. And despite the brief time that she was away, the sight of the Flagon never failed to bring her the unwavering, comforting sense of belonging somewhere. She had memorized every detail of the place, all the way from the enormous, waist deep bowl of water that engulfed the center of the room to the slanted stone beams that supported the ceiling.
"Ah, lass, you're back! We were starting to think the guards had finally gotten the drop on you," a teasing voice jeered from atop the wooden platform leading into the North side of the tavern.
"Oh, Bryn," Ailith murmured sourly, stepping into the faint candlelight that brightened the lodge. "You have little faith," she brushed past the smirking Nord, pulling an expensive looking sapphire necklace from one of the various pouches strapped to her armor and tossing it to Vex.
"There's Skeever dung outside," she spoke blankly, snagging a bottle of Black-Briar Mead from the scratched up and aged counter top of the bar. She ignored the mildly annoyed stare of Vekel from beside her, cracking open the lid.
"Consider it a welcome home present," Vex retorted smugly from her usual place against a duet of stacked crates, inspecting the vivid blue gem that hung off of the silver chain of the necklace Ailith had stealthily snagged.
"How charitable of you," Ailith responded halfheartedly, her gaze nonchalantly sweeping over the inhabitants nearby.
Brynjolf's rambunctious laughter was now ricocheting off of the stone constructed ceiling of the Flagon, fiery hair obscuring his reddened face from her view as he hunched over himself, shoulders quivering. Delvin sat across from the second in command, vigorously scrubbing tears from his eyes, cackling along with him at an inaudible joke that he had cracked. Dirge lazily stood guard from nonexistent foes, veins in his arms bulging as he crossed his arms. Tonilia was picking dirt from her nails, the expression on her face screaming "bored", and Vekel was sweeping the floor in vain, scowling as the muck that lined the ground stubbornly stuck there.
"Anything interesting happen while I was gone, Vekel?" Ailith inquired, twisting around so that she was facing him.
"No, no. Nothing I'd like to speak about, anyway. Go ask Brynjolf, he doesn't seem too busy," the barkeep responded tartly, handsome face wincing as he watched the aftermath of he and Delvin's fit of wheezing laughter. Ailith pretended to ignore how Vekel's gaze slowly gravitated towards Tonilia, lingering there for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Ailith swallowed the last few dregs of ale and pulled up a chair to where the two senior members were seated, resting her elbows on the unsanitary surface of the table.
"Welcome back," Delvin's aging face brightened as he smiled, dimples hollowing out in his cheeks.
Ailith flashed him a short grin, attention promptly switching over to Brynjolf. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Nothing other than the usual tension between Tonilia and Vekel," he slurred, dragging a hand through his long, tangled red locks. "Oh, and you got a rather interesting note from a little Imperial lad, a Courier, delivered it here earlier on this morning. Remember the look on his face, Del? He looked like he was about to wet his smalls," his mouth split into a wide grin, and Delvin nodded enthusiastically, ready for another round of obnoxious chortles.
Ailith swallowed tensely, attempting to wash away the foul taste that suddenly rinsed through her mouth. "What could the Legion possibly want with someone of the likes of me?"
"Read it, see for yourself. Seems you've made a name for yourself out there," Brynjolf slid a folded slip of yellowed parchment towards the young Bosmer, and she couldn't help but notice that the crimson wax that had sealed the letter shut had been snapped in half.
"You opened it, didn't you?!" Ailith asked incredulously, her words outlined in a thick, loud irritation. "Bastard," she growled, attempting to cover her growing unease as she unraveled the message.
Ailith Dawn-Sabre,
I request your presence in Castle Dour immediately, it is of utmost importance that we meet, for the benefit of the Imperials and all of Skyrim.
General Tullius, Military Governor.
Ailith felt her lungs constrict at the requisition scrawled in the neat, orderly handwriting of the General, trying to find her voice from somewhere within the shock embedded depths of her throat.
"General Tullius requests my presence in Castle Dour immediately..." she sputtered, her grip on the letter tightening, crinkling the frayed paper. "Why?"
"Beats me, lass."
"For the Gods damned benefit of all of Skyrim?" She managed to croak out, frantically throwing the note away from her, stomach writhing and curdling.
"You mentioned being close to an Imperial soldier a few years back. He 'ad rank, didn't 'e?" Delvin questioned, racking his brain for the recollections of when Ailith had briefly described where she had been before she joined up with the Guild. It had been months upon months since the last time she had breathed a word about her past.
Endor.
Ailith's chest heaved at the thought of the name, at the happy memories of he and her mother while they had resided in Whiterun. She cleared her throat, the lumbered chair she was slumped within whining as she restlessly shifted.
"Yes," she responded tersely, rapidly losing the drive that she had previously possessed to have her inquiries answered.
"Well, then. That's likely the reason why Tullius thought to ask for your 'elp," Delvin shrugged, deciding to lose interest in the conversation.
"Are you planning on listening to him?" Brynjolf lazily slouched back, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
Ailith pondered over his statement for a few long heartbeats, growing angered at how difficult it was to answer such a simple question. "I don't know," she spat out honestly, digging her heels more firmly into the ground and shoving her chair away from the table.
The sound of wood scratching against stone echoed through the tavern, drawing the attention of the whole den of thieves. Thinking nothing of it, and without a word, she sauntered off through the hallway that would lead her into the Cistern.
Ralof stared absently at the cold stone features of the Palace of Kings, the sound of his light footsteps shuffling against a U shaped azure rug mingling with those of the huddle of soldiers surrounding him, all led by their Commander, Gonnar Oath-Giver. The furnishings and overall appearance of the hall was familiar to him, but it still remained unwelcoming and empty all the same.
Intricate patterns swirled across a high, unreachable ceiling, the impressive craftsmanship bathed in a pallid orange hue from the candlelight of chandeliers illuminating the room. Royal blue banners lined the upper walls, so still and precise that they seemed to be frozen in an unmovable thatch of time. Ulfric was seated dutifully upon the throne, an elbow resting against one of the armrests, and Ralof couldn't stop the swell of pride in his chest. He truly looked the part of a king.
Ulfric and Galmar were currently caught up in the throes of a tense conversation about the likes of Whiterun and Jarl Balgruuf's impertinence towards the Stormcloaks. The expression on the Jarl's face suggested that he was reassuring the General about something, the statement accompanied by an apathetic wave of his large hand.
"Don't be so sure of that," Galmar was saying. "We've intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire's putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun."
"And what would you have me do?" Ulfric responded tightly, resting his chin upon his knuckles.
"If he's not with us, he's against us," Galmar slurred gravely, undoubtedly referring to Balgruuf. He swiftly beckoned Ralof and the bundle of soldiers towards them.
"He knows that, they all know that," the Jarl pushed himself off of the throne with a heavy breath through his lips, stepping down the craggy stairs that lead to the towering chair.
"How long are you going to wait?" the General huffed impatiently, frustration edging his words.
"You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message," Ulfric spoke matter of factly, he seemed the slightest bit amused by Galmar's irritation.
"If by message you mean shoving a sword through his gullet," the other man growled, and Ralof managed to sputter out a feigned cough to mask his chuckles.
"Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement, don't you think?"
Galmar's deep rumble of laughter was more than enough proof to say that he agreed. And as Stone-Fist's next words scraped from his throat, a combined burst of both fear and anticipation rolled through Ralof's body.
"So we're ready to start this war in earnest, then?"
"Soon," Ulfric answered curtly, turning his full attention to Ralof and the Stormcloaks. "Gonnar," he greeted, dipping his head in greeting.
"Jarl Ulfric," the burly Commander bowed down onto one knee, resting a tight fist over his heart.
"Status report on the Rift encampment," Ulfric ordered firmly, his tone twisting into one of natural authority.
"Everything is running smoothly, minimal Imperial patrols have been spotted. And those that have had the misfortune of crossing paths with us were spared no mercy, I assure you."
Galmar grunted his approval of that.
"Good," Ulfric spoke, the almost unnaturally deep brogue of his voice booming through the main room of the palace. "I need you to begin preparations for our siege on Whiterun. It is a long way away from now, but it's best to be ready for it when the time comes. And please, stand."
"Consider it done," Gonnar angled his head towards the floor beneath his spiked boots before pulling himself upwards, back straight, tanned face haggard and ruthless. Ralof used to be intimidated by his malicious complexion, but he had realized soon after being stationed in the Rift that the animosity he wore seemed to be his default expression.
"I will also be instating a second in command to the camps across Skyrim," The Jarl explained dutifully, yanking the furred edges of his bearskin cloak more tightly around his wide shoulders. "I've been calling each group here separately, the men stationed in Whiterun were hailed first, of course."
"Those damned Imperial milk-drinkers are finally beginning to take the rebellion seriously," Galmar cut in, his lips curling in a satisfactory grin.
"I'm more than aware that the Commanders are not always able to remain at their posts for reasons that I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on," Ulfric continued, ignoring his friend's interruption. "There is a large possibility..." He rubbed at his bearded jaw thoughtfully, his brows furrowing together in what looked to be sadness. "That many of you may not live as well. We must have replacements at the ready, should one of the Commanders be killed."
Gonnar's heavily muscled frame visibly stiffened at that, his stubble adorned cheeks and chin clenching rigidly. Ralof's gut also churned at the thought of his own death, blue eyes becoming engulfed and clouded by an impenetrable misery for a short moment. Gods, that would ruin Gerdur. What would she tell little Frodnar, the truth? That's hardly appropriate for a boy at such a young age to hear. It would likely be something along the lines of, "He's in a better place now," not, "He was thoughtlessly murdered by a horde of Imperial soldiers."
"Ralof of Riverwood, step forward," the sound of his name being said by a low, faintly accented voice tore him from his demeaning thoughts, gaze locking sturdily on Ulfric. His legs felt numb as he advanced forward, and he hoped his seemingly obvious shock wasn't as evident as he was predicting.
"I am making you the second in command of the Stormcloaks stationed in the Rift," Ulfric told him, straightforward, as always. "Do you accept?" He inquired, the Jarl would be damned if he was going to force such a heavy burden on an unwilling man.
"I do," Ralof declared, surprised at the smoothness of his statement.
"Then get down on one knee, soldier," His leader muttered, and Ralof was sure he wasn't imagining the softening of Ulfric's expression.
He hastily bent his leg at the middle, the opposing shin serving as support as he collectedly collapsed onto the cold flooring. He curled his fingers into a solid, inflexible fist, placing the hand over his steadily beating heart. The action served as a seal of sorts, one that would ultimately ensure that he accepted the responsibilities and turmoil of an unmistakably important role such as this. Even if I won't have the rank and cooperation that Gonnar has, this is still an honor, nonetheless. He is a good man, anyway, he deserves the respect. I'll have to send word to the Mill when I have the time.
"And now, stand as the second in command of the Stormcloak Rebellion in the Rift," Ulfric ordered with a committed wave of his hand.
Ralof couldn't quell the joy and self importance he felt as he heaved himself off of the cracked and aged ground, his lips curving into a broad smile that he was unable to hold back. He met the gratified eyes of Gonnar, who returned his glance with a tilt of his shaved head.
The lot of them all loitered around for a few extended minutes, the deep, throaty laughter of men breaking the normally eerie quiet that basked The Palace of Kings. Jorleif was seated at a long wooden table that stretched down the center of the hall, picking at a loaf of bread while trying to block out the distracting racket of repetitive cackles and the occasional padded smack of a hand on the shoulder of the newly promoted soldier.
He bit back the sigh of relief that he felt teetering at the edge of his throat when Ulfric finally dismissed the rowdy bunch, he was already missing the silent and bleak tranquility that he was so fond of. The steward was about to hurl himself from the bench he was slouched within and ask Ulfric if he requested anything, but the voice of Ralof shattered his eagerness.
"Jarl Ulfric," Ralof hollered over the sound of the massive bronze doors clanking shut behind his comrades. "If you don't mind me asking..." he cleared his throat at the undivided attention that the Bear of Markarth suddenly fixed upon him. "Why me?"
"I expected such a question," Ulfric admitted quietly, his voice lowering to a conversational level. "I've read the written reports that Gonnar has sent me, he's pointed out your dedication to our cause and your bravery many a time. And, from what I've seen personally..."
Ralof nearly choked at the Jarl's next words.
"You're not only a damn good soldier, but a damn good man."
A/N: I hardly blame you for being shocked, Ralof. I would be too. Feel free to drop a review, they make my day! :)