A/N: I didn't plan on getting this chapter out so fast, but my muse wouldn't let me stop typing, and here's the result! I have up to chapter six planned out, and this portion and a little of the next segment is all a sort of "build up" to the main plot of the story. (Don't skip past them, they're important ;) But anyway, without further ado...
[DISCLAIMER: 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 Four - A Time Long Past
Ailith's fingers twitched indignantly as she half listened to Mercer Frey speak, gaze moving along the myriad of trophies the Guild has collected over the years. An old map of the shipping routes of the East Empire company was settled against the back of a lumbered shelf, an intricate model ship firmly holding the parchment in place. Above that was an extravagant candlestick made from gold that seemed to rival that of Dwemer make, the yellow tinted metal glinting brighter in some areas due to the scattered sources of light in the Cistern.
"Hey, kid, are you listening?" came the Guildmaster's impatient voice, sending her spiraling back into the musky air of reality.
"Yes," she blurted irritably, her eyes dragging across the massive, tall room, avoiding his expectant stare.
Four wide bridges crafted with bricks of dense rock extended inward from the outermost portion of the room, and pale light filtering through an opening in the ceiling outlined dust particles as the radiant beam hit a circular plate in the center. The constant thump of Niruin's arrows lodging into targets mingled with splashes of water being drained from Riften's pipes. The fresh liquid mixed with the remnants of sewage and the other grimy, sloshing fluids flowing beneath them.
"You think I should listen to Tullius' summons?" Ailith inquired mockingly, resting her hands against her hips.
"No, I don't think that," Mercer started from atop his desk, shifting his position in an attempt to get his backside to stop aching. "I know that. The only reason Tullius would be calling you there is because he thinks you'd be an advantage to the Legion."
"Why?"
"I don't know, and, frankly, I don't care. It would be extremely beneficial to the Guild if you could walk into Castle Dour whenever you see fit without so much as a second glance," he explained grouchily. "No one would notice if, say, a handful of septims or a few expensive jewels go missing."
"Look, I know we're stuck in a bad way down here, but no matter how favorable it would be for me to aid the Imperials, I'm not joining the army," she muttered, swallowing down the bud of unease beginning to sprout in her gut. "I'm hardly cut out for the work of a soldier."
"That's not truly the reason you won't take up arms with them, is it?" Mercer sighed, a brief exhale of breath through his mouth. "I know the Imperials must have killed—"
"No, don't say it. Don't say their names," Ailith snapped harshly, fists clenching at her sides.
"Them the day that Helgen was destroyed, it's the only explanation for their absence here. That, or they were killed by the Gods damned dragon," the Breton continued, sliding from the top of his desk.
"They weren't killed by the dragon."
Much to Ailith's surprise, Mercer didn't press the issue, instead reaching forward with one hand to gently squeeze her upper arm.
"No one here would want you running off with the Legion anyway, you'd never have the time to be here," he murmured. "Vex would be seething without someone to carry out her jobs."
"Don't get soft on me, Mercer," the Wood Elf teased, giving him a playful shove.
"When have you ever known me to get soft?" he snorted, rolling his eyes in frustration. "You should still go and see what Tullius wants, even if you refuse whatever it is he puts on the table."
"Oh, I'll be refusing anything he offers," she grumbled. "But, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see what he might say. I'll set out at dawn."
Tullius scraped his hand over his shortly cropped gray hair, staring at the large map of Skyrim spread out across the surface of a long wooden table within the war room of Castle Dour. Many of the flags pegged into the aging paper still remained red, marking Imperial territory, much to his relief. But that didn't change the fact that the Stormcloaks remained in control of four major Holds.
As of now, Whiterun was his main concern. Jarl Balgruuf claimed to be neutral, siding with neither the Legion nor the Rebellion. And soon enough, he knew that Ulfric would make his move to conquer the city. Surely Balgruuf must realize it's impossible to remain neutral throughout the entire course of this war?
The Jarl of Windhelm was also skilled at keeping he and his General Galmar's upcoming schemes well hidden, Tullius and Rikke haven't gotten any clues as to what might be rapidly coming their way. He would never admit it aloud, but this realization was beginning to put him on edge, being utterly ignorant in the face of what he had thought was going to be an easily quelled threat. Oh, how wrong he had been about that.
"Are you sure you're making the right move, laying so much trust on this girl's shoulders?" Legate Rikke broke the thick silence that had settled between them, her assertive voice snapping him from his stupor. "It's been nearly two days since you've hailed her."
"Endor was one of our best soldiers, he spoke of Ailith after a few rounds of mead on some nights while he was stationed here. He thought of her as his own," Tullius started slowly, leaning his hands against the map, using the table for support. "She's still our best option at getting a look at what the Stormcloaks are planning from the inside, even if we don't know if we can trust her."
"I understand that, sir," she started respectfully, yanking her metal helmet from her head and steadily holding it between the crook of her elbow and her side. "But Aranath has informed us of her rumored ties with the Thieves Guild, and if there's one thing I know about their organization, it's that they're sly, ruthless, and not ones to blindly put your faith in."
"That damned Thalmor is of no concern to us," Tullius snapped sourly, the word "Thalmor" rolling off of his tongue in such a manner that it faintly reminded Rikke of biting into a foul mouthful of venison. "We can't afford to aid him anymore, despite how simple his requests were. We need to focus solely on the rebellion, they're becoming a serious threat. I don't want to give Ulfric the time to get cheeky."
Their discussion was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the heavy door leading into the building slamming shut and soft, padded footsteps hissing against the rug leading into the war room. The repetitive noise belonged to a slight figure clad from head to toe in snug armor with multiple pouches hanging from it, drooping from the weight of unseen objects. The tight brown leather clung to a small frame, accenting a narrow waist and wide hips, informing the two of them that she was female.
As she approached, Tullius could make out that the scratched shoulder pads and complex straps and buckles connected to the odd outfit could belong to only that of a thief. Her thick, sloppily patched hood obscured most of her face from view, save for sharp cheekbones and thin, menacingly slanted lips. He also couldn't help that his gaze unintentionally dropped to the amulet hanging from her neck, a vibrant crimson gem connected to a silver chain.
"You must be Ailith Dawn-Sabre," Tullius spoke up uneasily, the foreboding aura that clung to the Bosmer was enough to make even the bravest soldier queasy.
"Yes," a gravelly but distinctly feminine voice responded. "And you're obviously General Tullius," she yanked her hood down, revealing tangled honey colored hair and unkind eyes. The sunset hue of her irises reminded him of the spark just before a kindling flame erupts, and the warning tread carefully instantly belted through his skull.
"With all due respect, General, I can't say it's an honor," her gritty brogue jeered, folding her thin arms over her chest.
She has nerve, Tullius thought bitterly, all too aware of the shocked stare of Rikke boring into the young thief.
"And why is that?" He asked thoughtfully, forcing himself to remain calm.
"Because you were about to cleave off my head back in Helgen for a nonexistent crime," she fired back tartly, the parting of her mouth suggested that she was going to add more to that, but she apparently thought better of it and snapped her lips shut.
"Ah, that must have been a..." He cleared his throat. "A horrible misinterpretation, I apologize."
"Thank you," she retorted curtly, the small braid she had woven into her hair tumbling loose from its place tucked behind her pointed ear as she angled her head downward. "Why, exactly, did you call me here? That letter you delivered was quite the shock, it was very..." she paused for a few heartbeats, considering the correct description. "Straightforward."
"It needed to be. The matters we need to discuss with you are nothing if not urgent."
"What could you possibly want from me?" She inquired again, her tone unmasking the true statement hiding behind her words. I'm a thief, there is nothing I could do for you. Unless perhaps you have an inkling for a certain expensive object that you aren't capable of getting your hands on.
"As General Tullius has already made clear, he doesn't beat around the bush," a previously silent Legate Rikke stated sternly. "Neither of us do."
"Good, right to the point, then. We'll be done here quickly," Ailith remarked quietly. "I'm sure we all have much more important things on our minds."
"Hardly," Tullius intervened, peeling his palms from the table so that he could properly speak to the elf. "For twenty eight years you resided in Whiterun with one of the best soldiers I've ever had under my command, I trusted him with the lives of countless men and women," he started. "You know who it is that I'm speaking of, don't you?"
Ailith barely angled her head, the gesture hinting at a nod. She seemed to have lost the ability to speak snidely, all the energy that had been coursing through her withering away at the thought of the Imperial soldier. So he had struck a chord, good.
"Endor Tremaine, he was a good man," Tullius continued when she didn't respond, somewhat cautiously. "He spoke highly of you, too. Based on what he's told me over the years, I'm assuming that we can trust you."
"Well, you are sorely mistaken, General Tullius," Ailith commented, shadows dancing across the dips and curves on her face under the pale lighting. "I would hardly be an asset to the Legion, if that's what you had in mind."
"Something like that..." He murmured, silently bracing himself for his next admission. "We need someone who can gain Ulfric's trust, see the rebellion from the inside. We need an undercover soldier out there, sending us reports, preparing us for what the Stormcloaks are planning."
Ailith's frame went rigid, her unexpected anger clear in the pursing of her lips and the fire that had burst to life within her molten gaze. "You have heart, General, to ask me to put my life on the line for an organization that I hardly appreciate nor care for," she started, all of the cold vengeance and resolute hate for the Legion that had welled up within her since the events at Helgen jerking free from her restraints. "How could you ask something like that of me after your men killed—"
Her voice failed her, then, cracked and faltered into nothing. "I harbor no love for the Stormcloaks or the Legion," she finished, all of the rage and pain flushing out from her body, leaving only tiredness and impatience in their wake.
"I don't understand," Legate Rikke mumbled stonily, the hand that had instinctively flown to the hilt of her sword hesitantly sliding back to her side.
"Without going into great detail," Ailith regarded Rikke warily. "Both sides of this war have taken people I cared about from me. I'm not one to hold onto resentment, it'll get you killed in the long run. I just haven't been able to... forgive and forget," she explained softly. It was evident that some of these emotional wounds that she was burdened with had recently been split open, and had yet to heal. "I won't do what you're asking of me."
"I appreciate your explanation," the General vocalized stiffly, folding his arms behind his back. "But we simply cannot accept your refusal at such troubles times."
There was an unsettling, restless silence that washed over the war room after that, pressing relentlessly down upon them, corroding the small amount of confidence that Tullius was desperately clinging to.
"I see," Ailith gulped, pointing her chin upwards and straightening her spine. "You've gotten my answer," she spun around on her heel and began sauntering off in the direction from whence she came. Neither he or Rikke made any move to stop her.
"I kindly suggest you don't waste anymore of your time on me," she said from the threshold that led out into the bustling walkways of Solitude, and with the loud bang of the hefty door swinging shut, she was gone.
Nestled between Ivarstead and Shor's Stone, the Rift encampment was merely a bundle of thick tents made from pelts of multiple shapes and sizes hiding behind a towering, craggy hillside. A pile of stones had been arranged in a large ring in the center of the area, and the ashes left behind by last night's fire were piled within the makeshift hearth. Even at the early time of day, the heavy winds of Frostfall whipped through the scattered forest, chilling and rattling Ralof's bones.
He expected things would be different after he returned from Windhelm, perhaps see the camp in a new light, as a safe haven rather than a hideout. Only, he found the fact that should Gonnar be killed, the command of the Rift would fall onto his shoulders did nothing but deepen the craters of worry caving out his innards.
Ralof was thankful that he still remained approachable, even after his promotion. Many of his comrades weren't the least bit hesitant when they would playfully give him a shove on their way past, or a brief slap on his armored shoulder. Gretta and Engar, two of his long time friends that he had met when he had first taken up arms with the rebels, were merciless, as always.
He knew exactly who to turn to with an accusatory look plastered to his features should a pile of fox dung find its way beside his cot when he slowly blinks his way into reality on some mornings, or when his cuirass would disappear from the riverbank after he was finished scrubbing the layers of mud and grime from his skin and scalp.
Things were lighthearted within the verdant field in which they resided, the turmoil bathing the land seemed to cease here. The war that was piercing fear in the hearts of the people, the threat of the Thalmor constantly resting in the back of their minds, nothing could penetrate the wall of peace that they had built for themselves. (Save for the occasional Imperial patrol, but that was easily dealt with.)
Ralof sat curled outside of his small man made tent with his elbows resting lazily upon his knees, which were propped up over his chest as if to ward off the inescapable gusts of bitter air closing in on them. Rhoust the Merciful, the camp's Quartermaster, nodded in a silent hello as he slipped past the second in command.
Rhoust was a healer of sorts, a man that preferred to stay true to the old methods of repairing wounds rather than Restoration spells. He's what Ralof liked to call a gentle giant, intimidating at first glance, but kind and caring underneath all that dense brawn, hence his title, merciful. He was well respected by them all, despite the few hardheaded brutes that would grumble incredulously to others about his ways.
"Caelel, do try to catch something that isn't rabbit this time," Engar was teasing the Bosmer woman fondly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a friendly grin.
"If you're so picky, then by Y'ffre, I insist you do the hunting," Caelel snorted, meticulously adjusting her bowstring. The young Wood Elf had become an archer of sorts for the camp, begrudgingly fetching them dinner every night. They figured it was beneficial that she take on that task, what with her skill at firing arrows.
"I think he's completely content sitting on his arse all day," Gretta's smooth voice intervened from atop the log that she and Ralof had dragged in front of the stone hearth a long while ago. Her lengthy hair spilled over her shoulders, the thick brown strands still moist from when she had rinsed off in the nearby river a few hours ago.
"Oh, more than content," he retorted sarcastically, absently fiddling with where his unkempt red locks were wrenched away from his face by a loose ponytail. "I'd rather be out there ridding Skyrim of those Imperial bastards," he continued with a pointed look at Gonnar, hinting at his desire for a patrol along the camp borders.
The Commander stiffly rolled his shoulders, back still aching from the odd angle in which he had slept during the night. He threw an assertive glance at Engar, jaw noticeably clenching.
"Bah, shut it, boy," he grumbled moodily, but his gruff exterior had a small fault and cracked, and a wide smirk stretched across his lips.
The camp broke out into a wave of laughter, all smiles and airy chortles and snickers. Ralof's chest rumbled as quiet chuckles thoughtlessly drifted past his lips, blue eyes brightening in amusement.
Their brief moment of cackles swiftly subsided at the irritable groan that drifted through the flaps of a larger tent, and the string of impressive curses followed by a loud bang and the shattering of glass.
"Looks as if we've awakened the beast," Engar muttered and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand as a very tired and flustered Fenrir stepped out towards the unlit fire, midnight stained hair askew.
"Knocked over that nightstand again," he seethed through gritted teeth, plopping down next to Ralof. "I don't know how many times I have to tell Engar—" he halted in speaking for a moment to raise his voice. "Not to leave his damned mead there!"
"I'll leave my alcohol wherever I think it'll feel most comfortable," the Stormcloak jeered in return, fixing a hard glare on his accuser.
"It's inanimate," the grouchy man snapped, adding a nearly inaudible, "childish bastard."
Fenrir was the short fuse of the lot of them, a firebrand, plain and simple. He was closer to Ralof in age as apposed to a much older Gonnar and a slightly younger Engar, Gretta and Caelel. He was a hard man to get along with, but he had a strong arm. He, impressively enough, wielded a great sword as if it weighed no more than a dagger.
Caelel sniffed from her place seated on the leaf blanketed dirt, knitting her golden hair into a tight braid. "I'm heading out, I'll make sure to get you some extra rabbit for tonight, Engar," she gave the Nord a quick pat on the crown of his head as she traipsed past, slinging her intricate wooden bow and quiver of arrows over her shoulders.
Ralof sniggered at the exasperation that befell Engar's unmistakably Nordic features, and he hoisted himself from the ground to find some twigs that could possibly serve as firewood.
The crystalline ground crunched beneath her boots as she walked, leaving dirt stained footprints imprinted in the snow. A comfortable silence stretched on between the three of them, the only thing that filled the air was the swooshing of the wind and the sound of their swords clanking against their scabbards.
"Traveling along the border is likely not the smartest route to take," one of them was saying, and she couldn't stop the swell of comfort that washed through her at the masculine voice. "I've heard the patrols are getting rather—"
Suddenly, the outlines of at least a dozen soldiers appeared from what seemed like thin air, blades raised as they charged toward them, stark silver against white. They screamed, wailed, threatened, it was deafening.
She struggled to process what had happened after that. The ear shattering hisses and clashes of swords meeting, grunts of effort, howls of pain, and red, so much red. A red that washed over the snow, absorbed into it, consumed it. And then the pained shriek of anguish that tore from her throat.
Ailith bolted upright, a terrified wail threatening to escape from her control. She desperately swallowed it down, frantically raking her clammy hands through her sweat dampened hair, breathlessly gasping. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. It's not real, it was just a nightmare.
She forced herself to calm down, the adrenaline and alarm coursing through her veins eventually settling enough for her to notice where she was. Seated within her rented room at The Winking Skeever, an opened letter that had been delivered to her by a lanky Courier after she had left Castle Dour resting beneath one of her palms.
The wooden desk that she was currently draped over had left imprints on the bottom sides of her arms, and there was an irritable crick in her neck from the manner in which she had unintentionally fallen asleep. Ailith rubbed the final few tendrils of fatigue from her vision, attempting to recall what the note had said. Ah, right. Jarl Balgruuf.
He had sent his apologies for what had played out at Helgen, it was the polite thing to say to someone who had been through such a traumatic event. And, besides, how was the Jarl to know that she despised receiving amends and pity from things that had already passed and can't be taken back?
Balgruuf had also requested that she make her way to Whiterun when she has the time. Apparently Farengar, his court wizard, had made some incredible discovery about the return of the dragons, and specifically asked for Ailith to come by and speak to him about it. She figured it was likely because he wished for her to carry out another daunting and dangerous task, as she often used to back when she lived in the city.
The young thief dazedly pushed the written message away from her, allowing her eyes to drift to the night sky peeking through the window that swallowed a small portion of the wall. She could barely make out the formless shapes of blue-green auroras and pale clusters of stars, and she couldn't stop the familiar feeling of ease that washed over her at the sight.
A/N: So, I feel like I need to do a bit of explaining for this chapter...
First off, as I started thinking about the Stormcloaks in the Rift camp, I realized that I couldn't just leave them as empty characters. (You'll see why.) Plus, I think I'm having a little too much fun writing out all of their personalities and appearances. And believe it or not, Gretta and Engar aren't OCs. If you listen to Galmar during The Jagged Crown quest, he tells two Stormcloaks with their names to stand guard at the front of Korvanjund.
Second, you pronounce Caelel like "Kie-lell", if you're curious. And the "Y'ffre" that she refers to is an extremely important God to Bosmers. (He's sort of like their Talos... sort of.)
Keep an eye out for the next chapter, it should be out in a few days, possibly sooner. :)