Author's Note: Ahhhh, I did not intend for this chapter to take so long to edit! All changes were actually made in only the last two days, I've just been very busy with work and getting ready to move, so it was quite delayed. Thankfully, the next two chapters require much less editing and I hope to actually release them together, ideally within the next week or so, before finally moving on to new chapters. I also didn't intend for this chapter to be so long, but hopefully it will be an enjoyable read! As always, feel free to leave reviews and comments, and let me know what you think. (And welcome to all the new readers and followers!)
Chapter Three
Frost Bitten Binds
"My Jarl, please, I ask only that you reconsider – "
"You ask that I kneel before mongrels and interlopers! That a Jarl should scrape and grovel and beg forgiveness at their feet," Ulfric snarled, snorting through clenched teeth at the very notion, "As if I am at fault in this matter!"
"Please, my liege, I am thinking only what is prudent for you and your cause. Wayrest has remained neutral in our fight, as has all of High Rock. I do not ask for you to treat the Bretons as friends, nor even to trust them, but," the Nord paused nervously at the entrance to the Jarl's tent, again choosing his words with diplomatic care, "surely if word of aggression against such courtiers were to reach Wayrest and the other kingdoms, they would see reason to question their status as bystanders. There is no shortage of wealth in Wayrest, they would only need to give aid to our enemies in order to – "
"Enough!" the beleaguered Jarl thundered as he turned to face his officer, his arms waving wildly in indignation as he lay forth his series of objections, "I tire of this festering foreign blight, these ceaseless dignitaries and soldiers crashing and parading through my country without question, whether they are from Cyrodiil or High Rock or those blasted Summer Isles I do not care! They have no business in Skyrim."
The soldier was silent, unable to meet the Jarl's now cold and piercing gaze. His lord's longstanding ire and contempt would not be quelled with pleas for mercy. With a forlorn sigh, he finally asked, "And if Wayrest decides to retaliate against the Stormcloaks? By funding our enemies or taking up arms themselves?"
Ulfric crossed his arms with a derisive snort, his prior rage calmed only by his flippancy.
"I doubt even those pompous jesters would be so foolish to fight for a single knight," the Jarl determined, resolute. For a brief moment the Nord thought he saw his Jarl waver, a hint of debate and reservation cross his face, an internal dialogue hidden within. Seemingly to assure himself more than his officer, the Jarl muttered subtly, accented with the faintest hint of uncertainty, "They will pay the bounty."
But the impression of hesitation passed as quickly as it had appeared, and with a tired sigh, the Jarl ran a calloused hand down his jaw to stroke his chin. Appearing nearly bored with the thought of an agitated Wayrest court, he rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, massaging the muscles in his neck before turning to face the dimming candle light. He lowered his hand to brush against the worn map, idly dragging his fingers along the faded parchment until falling upon one of the battalion markers for his soldiers residing in Windhelm. Lips pursed, brows crossed anxiously, he toyed with the small wooden marker, tossing it from one hand to the other, before rubbing his fingers against the coarse grain, following the details of the crudely painted blue bear, his expression now lost in contemplation.
"My liege?" the soldier finally asked, curious as to his commander's thoughts, still hopeful a more accommodating resolution could be reached in regards to the travelers. Though his promise to the Rose Knight pestered and plagued his guilt ridden thoughts without end, he kept such former agreements to himself, knowing they mattered little to the troubled Jarl.
"Hearthfire in nearly upon us and this winter shall be long and harsh. I do not have the luxury of Cyrodiil's endless fields and bountiful harvests," he answered after a moment's pause, cold determination and his usual bearish demeanor returned, "My men require provisions more than this boy and mongrel require your misplaced sympathy. A letter of bounty has already been sent to Wayrest with proof of their capture."
"Proof?" the soldier hastily queried, fearing the worst. The Bretons had been detained only an hour prior, that a letter and requisite proof of capture had already been sent in such haste left the Nord with deep concern, for both the travelers and the integrity of his Jarl's plan.
With a tired expression, already growing uninterested in the continued line of questions, the Jarl turned to set the battalion marker back to its proper place upon the map.
"A gold pin taken from the mongrel's cloak."
"Ah…that – "
"My decision has been made," the northern Jarl snapped brusquely, unwilling to engage any further in the ceaseless pestering of his officer, "there is nothing more to discuss of the matter. You are dismissed."
He ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, his lips, his gums. Though the chilled night air had long since dried the blood that coated his mouth, the sharp metallic taste tormented him still, no matter how often he tried to lick and scrub it away, his tongue now sore and coarse for his efforts. It was the only movement he allowed himself to make, the periodic attempts to wipe the taste of rank inadequacy from his mouth. Though stray strands of matted hair stuck to his face, distorting his vision and irritating his skin, the ropes bit and twisted his wrists, his joints throbbed, and the frozen Nordic air burned the back of his nose and throat with cold, it was the persistent taste that truly irritated him, settled deep into the crevices his tongue would not reach.
Though he had been restricted and immobile for nearly an hour, it was only now that he at last relented to his fatigue. Exasperated from his latest failed attempt to rid his mouth of the taste, his head lagged to the side, coming to rest lazily against his shoulder. For a moment the sight of his charge's dress came into view, the soiled and wrinkled fabric rippling in the faint breeze. Startled, fearing she would turn to face him, he straightened his head, desperate to focus his weakening vision on anything but his fellow captive. His sight blurred as he stared dully at the ground before him, his only distraction the rustling, frost bitten grass. He blinked, trying to focus his gaze, doing what little he could to stave off the overwhelming desire to sleep. For a moment, he harbored a faint, cynical smile as he mulled over his otherwise perplexing desire to remain awake.
"I am no more use to her awake than I am asleep, even if a guard should attempt to harass her, what could I do to stop them…" he thought to himself, his smile quickly contorting into a weary grimace, "I cannot even bring myself to face her."
Though his senses remained dull and unfocused from fatigue and injury, he thought he could hear a faint whimper, feel a slight tremble and pull at the ropes that bound them both. The blood rose to cheeks, now flush with shame that drove him to hunch his shoulders and pull as far away from his charge's side as he could manage without drawing attention. He still could not bring himself to respond to her discomfort despite the agony her unanswered cries brought forth, driving him to ever building despair and disgrace. He merely bit his lip, accepting the fresh burst of pain from piercing into the newly formed scabs and the intense iron tang that plagued him once more.
"Pick it up boy! On your feet!"
The knight's eyes widened with instinctual fear, jolted from his momentary stupor. The long distant commands of the baron sent a chill far sharper than even the Nordic night air coursing across his skin. His hair stood erect across his arms as a snaking trail of goose bumps caressed his tense form. He clenched his teeth as his breath caught in his throat and his heart raced, his very pulse startled. The derision, the utter disdain and contempt was unmistakable in the once familiar voice, the long distant memory now tormenting him in his fatigue induced delusions. His head swayed with languor, and for a sickening moment his vision blurred and he saw only a searing sun, the intense and sweltering rays casting a halo that swaddled a towering frame before him, rendering it as shadow.
A sudden crack of wood against flesh left the Rose Knight paralyzed with terror, for the delusions were becoming increasingly sharp and focused, he believed to feel even the wood grain itself, splintered and rough as it dragged against his skin.
"I said up!"
He intuitively flinched against the ropes, delusion and reality passing before him in equal turn as he prepared for further strikes, for the relentless bellowed commands of the baron, his state as a captive to rebellious Nords nearly forgotten. For a brief moment he was a child once again, cowering on bloodied cobblestones, his ears now ringing and a sense of nausea overwhelming him. The bygone humiliation he once felt as boy, the endless despair of enraging the baron with his inadequacy was brought forth to torment him once more through his nightmarish delusion, fueled by the shame he fostered for failing his charge, for placing her in such dangerous settings, a self-loathing string linking the shared misery of his past and present selves, a natural conduit for the unwelcomed illusions.
Though distorted and muddled, he could still hear his own past pleas for aid and mercy, the childish and shameful calls for the training to cease as he cowered from the blows of the shadowed form of the baron before him.
The memory of the pain, of the blows against his prostrate and frail body as it lay on the courtyard stone and the throbbing bruises and fresh scrapes that covered his skin gradually began to fade, the sensation of such pain dulling as his vision darkened. For a moment, the knight believed his torment finished, waning away as quickly as it had arrived.
"Is this how you will conduct yourself in the count's presence?" the baron's fuming voice suddenly appeared once again, now echoing against the dining hall's towering stone walls, reverberating off the arched ceilings and empty space, the once bright and burning sun overtaken by the dark and cloistered shadows of the great hall in which the knight's delirium now carried him, "Will you continue to plague my house and humiliate my namesake with this weakness?"
"I – "
Mordistair found himself responding to the past questions, a drive to quell the humiliating anguish his exhaustion had brought upon him.
"I will make this right. Leave me be."
"I will do what I must to make this right," he repeated again, his delusional stupor drawing to a close as he regained some semblance of his senses, remembering where he was. With a relieved sigh, the grass before him came into focus, the dark, candle lit hall disappeared, and the baron's voice was no more, disappeared into the surrounding night.
"I must make this right. I cannot fail," he again resolved, turning to catch sight once more of his shivering charge, ready to face the results of his failure, to make such lapse of his duties right once again.
The fine mist that coated the Nordic camp, the last remnant of the evening torrent that had spilled onto the southern hold had at long last ceased, though a blanket of soft and delicate droplets remained, clinging to all the rains had touched. As the moons began to appear, shining brightly from behind dissipating clouds, the night's growing chill began to freeze the sodden ground. Droplets spread and burst forth, a pale network of faint, frost spider webs emerging across pines, tents, and cloaks alike, encasing all in its wake with a crisp and biting embrace. Tinged with the faintest remnant of smoke from the distant Nord camp, the faint, but harsh and nipping winds grazed the pair of travelers bound to the great pine, the swells of frigid air racking their trembling bodies.
Helplessly quivering against the rough bark of the tree, Gwynayne's fingers and toes curled as she shivered. The inner layers of her dress still clung to her legs, no longer dripping but still damp, dry only in a few patches along the frayed and tattered edges. Even the slightest of breezes whipped the soft layers of lace, chiffon, and silk across her limbs, the fluttering fabric caressing her with fresh chills that raced across her skin. Though nearly every inch of her battered body throbbed with pain, her scalp ached and pinched fiercely, a constant and unremittent distraction, for the soldiers in their brutal haste had tied strands of her hair into their knots as they bound her. The rest hung limp across her shoulders in damp clumps and tangled knots, cascading onto the forest floor in a disheveled heap, twisted with fallen leaves and pine needles. Her once fine fur lined boots sagged sadly toward her ankles, matted with mud and soiled beyond use, the fine lacing now entirely undone.
Her nose and ears had become bright pink, burning with cold. As she exhaled her breath froze in the night, a pale mist that hovered before her before dissipating into the darkness of the forest shadows. Her thick velvet and fur lined cloak was sorely missed; thinking only of its warmth, she shivered again with cold, grimacing from the pain of her chattering teeth. Staring out to the fires with intense longing, she strained forward, wincing at the effort, for yet another lock of her hair pulled taught against her now burning scalp.
With little else to distract her from her discomfort, she sought out the Nords who guarded the tree line, the camp's natural perimeter and the makeshift prison for the young Bretons. Though the dying fires of the Nordic camp did little to aid her, she caught sight of the nearest guards, the closest leaning against a nearby tree, sighing in exasperation as he pulled a Talos amulet from beneath his mail, dully thumbing it over. The other shook his head, she thought perhaps in an attempt to remain awake, but he quickly relaxed against the low hanging branch of a nearby pine, staring off into the clear night sky as he hunched his shoulders and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.
"My lady?"
Gwynayne turned quickly in surprise, drawn immediately by the sound of her companion's voice and to the phrase she had heard now thousands of times. She strained her neck to glance upward, anticipating what more he would finally say, for her guardian had not spoken, nor even turned to face her since being bound to the tree, despite her initial pleads for recognition. His voice was low and apprehensive, she could barely hear him, even in the silence of the night. His head hung low, his chin nearly touching his breastplate and his loosened hair fell limply across his face, hiding his expression, the customary crimson ribbon that held his hair in place nearly entirely undone as one tail rested, crumpled and wrinkled across his shoulder. Turned away from her gaze, she could only make out his taut pulled lips, tense with unease and hesitation.
"Mordistair?" she eagerly whispered in reply, straining and twisting against the rough pull of the ropes as she struggled to finally catch sight of her knight's hidden features, desperate for further communication, for comfort of some means. For a moment she thought she saw him wince, perhaps in pain as she pulled against the ropes, but he merely turned further away from her, pulling against the binds himself.
"Mordistair," she cried out with hushed insistency, mindful of the guards, "stop that at once." Though her orders were resolute and tone commanding, the façade quickly faded and her shoulders began to tremble as tears built in her eyes, so unaccustomed to the situation she had found herself in, her Rose Knight so distant and detached. With little strength remaining to combat her knight's unconscionable degree of aloofness, her quivering voice was now only capable of pleading.
"Please, Mordistair, why are you playing this game with me? I don't…please, I just…I…" even through her babbling she saw no intention in the knight to further interact with her. Exasperated, she finally cried out, "Mordistair look at me."
He visibly cringed, at last giving notice of her pleads and commands. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his back as best he could and turned to face his charge, head still hung low and his cheek flush with shame and biting cold. With great effort his raised his head to meet her gaze.
The Rose Knight had never displayed such a stubborn degree of deliberate impudence, nor had he ever ignored her so completely and with such seeming callousness and disregard, not even in his rare moments of jest. Gwynayne did not know what to make of his sudden and uncharacteristic insubordination, his cold defiance. But, as his eyes met her own, she struggled not to cry out at the hallowed expression. For all the years the Rose Knight had been at her side, never had she seen him so haggard and morose, so utterly overcome and drained of his usual poise. His eyes darted from one side to the other, only able to hold her gaze for a mere moment before he broke contact, seeming eager to focus on anything beside her. His head ducked slightly, and his lips curled and pursed, forming such a display she thought he had suddenly fallen ill beside her. Blood still caked the far side of his face in thick crusted streams and clumps, staining his cheek and neck. Bruises at his temple, jaw line, and eye had come into full bloom, dull and dark purple stains edged in sickly yellow and green rims. His lips were crusted with old scabs and fresh blood, and she quickly lost count of the bite marks.
Unable to devise anything meaningful to say to console the wounded knight, to acknowledge his state without sending him further into despair, she merely whispered his name. He flinched, the pity in her voice causing him to recoil, to hide his face once again behind a curtain of fallen hair as he turned aside to stare once more at the ground before him
"It…is not enough, I know," he whispered sullenly, "but…I apologize, my lady. I should never have allowed this to happen."
Unsure of how best to respond, happy only to hear him speak, Gwynayne smiled, momentarily forgetting their predicament. Then, with a quick sigh, she blinked away the last of her tears and straightened to stare crossly at the knight.
"That is a very poor apology."
Mordistair's eyes widened in surprise, taken aback by her sudden bluntness and return to customary form, her momentary pity replaced with her usual merciless and biting tone.
"My lady, I – "
"I thought you were dead at first, or perhaps unconscious. But you moved enough to let me know you were merely being a disobedient reprobate, ignoring me entirely," she continued to sniffle through her chastisement, at times appearing to near the verge of further tears.
"I, ah – " the Rose Knight was at a loss for words, her scolding frank and harsh beyond even his expectations, "Lady Gwynayne, I…I have no excuse. I did not mean to cause you additional pain, I…I merely…" he sighed, unable to express the disappointment and shame he harbored for himself.
Gwynayne only stared on as he struggled to speak. Though confused by his previous silence, irritated at being ignored so thoroughly amidst the chaos of the evening, she was unaccustomed to such lack of composure, to the absence of the customary verbal grace and dignified manner within which the knight unremittingly carried himself.
The knight suddenly straightened, brows steeled and shoulders no longer hunched. He shook his head, revitalizing himself, no longer lost in thought and fumbling to find the appropriate words.
"I haven't the right to ask for apologies, my lady, you are right to be angry with me," he proclaimed, his voice now steady and adamant as he turned to face his charge once more, a clear sense of vigor returned to him, "I failed you, and had not the courage to admit as much."
"Mordistair," she groaned, growing mildly exasperated with her guardian.
Gwynayne had long thought her knight far too serious and droll, and for such a self-disparaging remark at any other time, she would have rebuked and teased, but the events of evening had subdued the normally irresistible yearning to taunt, and so she merely shook her head at his folly.
"Is this to become a cruel habit of yours?" she enquired, sighing airily, not entirely able to hide the faintest hint of her mocking nature as she thought to further punish the knight with his misbehavior, "A knight that abandons their charge is not a very useful knight, much less a mute one."
"Lady Gwynayne…" he pleaded, his face distraught and his cheeks again blushing as she recounted his sins.
Despite the harsh and teasing words, the tension between the travelers diminished, both accustomed to each other's manners.
With a sigh, the knight cocked his head to the side, becoming bored with the ground and idly letting his eyes rest upon his boots as he mindlessly kicked at the earth, upturning small pebbles and chilled dirt. Brows suddenly furled with growing realization, his head snapped forward and he turned quickly to his charge.
"Do you have strength enough to cast a spell?" he whispered, minding the patrolling guards at the forest's edge, though he could not entirely hide the small degree of excitement in his voice, a certain hint of pride at the prospect of becoming useful once again.
"I – "
"Bow your head," he quickly interrupted, still speaking in hushed, but desperate, tones, "turn away from me."
Perplexed at his abrupt change in mood, much less his apparent comfort at demanding her compliance, she scowled, eyeing him curiously, before eventually turning away.
"Can you manage," he asked again.
"I…I don't know. I…" she paused, a hint of fear on her voice as she whispered, "Mordistair, can't you explain me to where we are in the very least? Please, I don't understand anything that has happened since – "
"Hush!" He snarled with discreet intensity, catching sight of a nearing patrol, his presence far too close for comfort.
Gwynayne flinched at his harsh outburst, not expecting her knight to regain his calculating composure so quickly. Shivering, she bowed her head, laying it atop her drawn forth knees and curled away from the knight. She had only just finished teasing him for his failings and was neither prepared nor eager for his confidence and insistence for obedience to return so fervently.
"My lady, I am sorry," he hurriedly apologized, turning to face her, "Please forgive me, I simply…" he came to a stop and sighed. He saw her shaking, whether from cold or tears he did not know. Her gauze and silken dress ruffled in the chilling breeze and she curled tighter upon herself, the loosened ribbons along her sleeves enveloping her as they twisted in the wind. The guards had removed her fur lined cloak as they bound her, leaving his charge exposed to the frozen night. Only loose, billowing layers of thin and frayed fabric separated Gwynayne from the chill winds and creeping cold.
He glanced quickly to each of the guards, now returned to their former posts, satisfied they had become sufficiently drowsy and occupied with their own thoughts. Quickly he shuffled a few inches closer to his lady and tenderly tapped her head with his own. Sniffling, she slowly turned her head to peep between tangled locks of white hair. He smiled to her, silently pleading for forgiveness and giving what comfort he could.
"Try to come closer if you can, this night will only get colder I fear," he whispered softly, motioning to his side with a quick bow of his head. After only a moment's pause, Gwynayne nodded and began to squirm her way closer to the knight. Though she was straining against the ropes, now biting into her limbs, she welcomed the warmth of her guardian's body and lay her head against his arm.
Satisfied she had become settled, he began to apologize, "I did not intend to sound so –"
"Mean?" Gwynayne quickly asserted, glancing up to give a withering stare.
A small smile crossed the knight's lips and he nodded.
"Yes. I – " he stopped short as one of the guards glanced lazily over the prisoners. Drumming his fingers over his sheath, the Nord quickly resumed his relaxed slump against the pine and watched as his fellow companions shared the last of their mead and tales around the fires.
"My lady, speak softly. We may have little time." Facing away, he lowered his head and continued, his own voice barely a faint whisper, "My dagger is still concealed within my right boot. Can you use a telekinesis spell to draw it forth?"
Her face immediately paled, thinking only of the less then successful attempts she had made in the past to play tricks on fellow courtiers with the spell. Despite her efforts, she had brought more suffering unto her own body than any of her intended victims. Though loathe to admit it, the spell was beyond her capabilities, and her past attempts were mere childish longing to play with abilities out of her reach.
"I…" she paused, recalling the assured pain and nausea such an attempt would bring, then nodded, her brows steeled and expression determined, "I shall try."
"Be as inconspicuous as possible. If you haven't the strength, don't force yourself, you shall only draw the guards' attention. Pretend to sleep, we mustn't give them cause to draw near."
"Alright."
Gwynayne shut her eyes and settled deeper into the folds of Mordistair's sleeve, hoping to appear asleep. Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind, thinking only of the ebony dagger hidden within the knight's boot. She pictured the soft flourishing curves of the hilt, entwined with strands of pure silver and garnished with a crimson rose. She tried to imagine the feel of the cold steel against her palm, the slight curve resting neatly within her hand. Though her hands were bound behind her back, she raised her fingers in what little attempt she could to invoke the blade forward. With another breath she felt the now common warmth spread through her body that accompanied the particular spell, pooling in her palm and fingertips. She reached out to the blade, concentrating only on slipping it from its leather cocoon. Wriggling her nose in frustration, she felt resistance. Swaying her fingers from side to side, she attempted to free the dagger.
"Keep going, I can feel it moving," the knight quickly whispered, hushed but encouraging.
Steeling her mind's inner eye, she continued to focus on the blade, imagining it slide from the fold within the boot. The warmth in her fingers began to grow hot and her breath had become heavy and strained.
"I think I'm losing it," she whispered between weary pants, her face now pinched from the struggle and exertion.
"You're nearly there," he rushed to assure, "just a bit further."
Gwynayne winced as the heat in her palm and fingers turned to sharp pain, as if they had been thrust into an open flame. Suddenly she felt Mordistair jump beside her. Her eyes flew open in worry, catching sight of her knight stifling a cry as he jerked his leg forward, gritting his teeth.
One of the guards noticed the sudden movement and glanced to the prisoners, his attention piqued. Gwynayne could only stare in fearful silence as Mordistair regained his composure, his body tense against her own. Grimacing, the Nord began to rush toward the pair, his blond locks and faded blue sash whipping wildly behind him. Gwynayne ducked against Mordistair's side, nuzzling her cheek against his arm and held her breath, terrified of what was to come as the guard neared.
Agitated, taking long and determined strides, the burly Nord made his way across the edge of the clearing. With bated breath, the prisoners watched as he soundlessly stormed past, quickly making his way past the tree to which they were bound.
"Ay! Wake up you idiot!" the guard called out to his companion.
The young rebel had fallen asleep against a gnarled tree, snoring softly into the night, but jumped with a start as the angered guard grabbed his shoulder and shoved him awake.
"Get your hands off me!" the weary soldier rebuffed groggily, "Mind your own post and leave me to mine."
"You'd get us both beaten if I left you to yours. Save your sleep for after your bloody shift," the soldier muttered angrily, and turned to resume his watch.
Mordistair and Gwynayne quickly shut their eyes and pretended to sleep. The soldier gave but a glance as he returned to his pine.
Minutes passed until Mordistair began to stir, lifting his head from Gwynayne's. Cautiously, she opened her own eyes and watched as the knight began to straighten his legs, wincing from the effort.
"What happened?" she cried out in hushed tones, her head turned away, fearful the now vigilant guard would notice.
Mordistair groaned between grit teeth as he tried again to straighten his leg.
"If you can..." he began to ask, his voice strained, "please try…to remove the blade…from my calf."
Gwynayne immediately grew pale as her eyes flew to her knight's leg, her mouth open in horror.
"Mordistair! Oh, Mordistair, I didn't mean to, I-I I'm so sorry, Mordistair," she began to babble, once again on the edge of tears, despairing at her handiwork.
The guard stirred, leaning off his tree as he peered toward the two.
"My lady," Mordistair hurriedly whispered, his head strained far to the side, "please…not so loudly. I…I am fine…the blade is not deep."
"Don't move," she whispered softly, staring apologetically to her knight.
Without another word, she held her breathe and spread her fingers, staring determinedly ahead, fixating on the grass before her as she cleared her mind. Exhaling, she closed her eyes and imagined the dagger once again in the palm of her hands. The warmth quickly blossomed in her fingers, growing hotter with even greater speed, her body long ago pushed to its limits. With a trembling moan, she quickly jerked her bound wrists, wrenching the dagger clumsily from Mordistair's flesh.
He immediately gasped, cringing as blood began to freely flow down his calf, pooling at his ankle.
Gwynayne doubled over as far the ropes allowed, silently trying to catch her breath, swaying as her vision began to blur. She felt slightly nauseous, and wanted nothing more than to collapse to the ground. Such an advanced spell was still beyond her grasp.
Lightheaded and woozy, sweating and panting even in the Nordic night, Mordistair stared desperately from the corner of his eye, catching sight of the closest guard. The burly rebel paced amidst the undergrowth, casting suspicious glances and becoming increasingly wary from the sudden gasps, groans, and squirming of the pair. Though he steeled his sights upon the prisoners, he remained at his post. Relieved to see the Nord made no further movement toward them, the knight at last turned his head, grimacing at the effort, but could only watch as his lady struggled from the failed spell in silence.
With the last of her strength Gwynayne straightened herself and leaned against the tree, moaning wearily. She turned her head weakly to the side, cringing as she noticed fresh blood beginning to stain her knight's boot. Her now pale lips trembled as she struggled to whisper.
"I can…still...I…I'll heal…your – "
"Stop," Mordistair pleaded, unable to watch her further harm herself, "No more."
She parted her lips, about to refute, but only crumpled against his side, a final exhausted moan her only retort.
Mordistair tried to cradle her as best he could, and watched with bated breath as the closest guard began to move once again between the trees. Remaining still, their faces hidden and downcast, and with little further movement, the guard soon became disinterested in the pair, turned his back, and began to pace in the opposite direction, circling round to the far reaches of the clearing where the Jarl now slept.
Gwynayne remained limp against Mordistair's side, her face buried deep into his sleeve. The knight was still following the pacing guard, wearily but diligently tracking the Nord as he skulked around the edge of the camp. Suddenly, he felt a small patch of his sleeve grow wet. Concerned, he turned to see his charge trembling as she silently cried against his side.
"No, my lady," he quickly began, "please do not worry yourself – "
"This is all my fault," she softly wailed between sobs. She lifted her head, meeting the knight's eyes, her face red and coated with fresh tears, shaking uncontrollably.
Mordistair longed to brush the sticky trails of tears and matted strands of hair from the girl's cheeks, to wrap her quivering shoulders in a blanket, to provide some means of solace and comfort.
With a slight shake of his head, he consoled his charge.
"The fault is mine, my lady, I alone bear the blame for our confinement."
Glancing quickly to determine the guards' positions as they passed between trees on the far side of the camp, he continued, "I accepted their aid, I relinquished my weapon, I left your side, I…" he stopped, lowering his eyes and smiling softly, "I may not have been entirely cordial to our bearish host."
"But I am the reason we are here, and I still don't know where 'here' is!" she cried out, exasperated with her confusion, sniffling as she recalled her earlier frustration with her ignorance.
Mordistair quickly recounted the few hours his charge had missed, from his first encounter with the soldiers to his interrogation.
"But who are they?" she asked, her tears drying as she pondered over the now filled gaps in her memories, "Not bandits surely, there are far too many of them."
"Stormcloaks, I believe, the sashes alone seem to indicate as much. Their commander is Jarl Ulfric, the ruling Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the recent rebellion, or uprising I suppose, from the Empire's position."
For a moment she stared on in continued confusion, until her eyes widened in realization and surprise.
"The Jarl who killed the king?" she exclaimed, her face aghast as she remembered the manner of the now dead king's execution.
"Mhm," the knight murmured in answer, "supposedly."
"But what do they want with us?" she questioned, her voice low with anxiety as she eyed the tent of the sleeping Jarl, recounting the fear of the few moments she had been within his grasp. Thinking only of tales of the shouting Jarl, the man who killed the king, she shuffled closer to her knight, suddenly ill with unease.
"The Jarl believes we may have ties of some sort to the Imperials, politically or militarily I do not know, perhaps both. He knows we come from Wayrest, and that we are of your father's court, though he did not appear to know to what degree."
"But there must be other Bretons in Skyrim, we have already come across a handful ourselves! What does it matter if we are from Wayrest?"
"I believe most of his fury is directed at me, my lady, I was not…forthcoming with our identities or purpose. He still does not know who we are or our intentions. Though I'm sure he is curious as to why foreign courtiers were found on a riverbank, I doubt he is completely confident in his beliefs that we are spies or Imperials of some sort. As Jarl, I'm sure he is accustomed to getting the information he seeks and my insistency for our anonymity had assuredly left him quite…ah, perturbed," he could not help but smile at his gross understatement of the Jarl's reaction, though it quickly disappeared as he recalled the Jarl's other motivation for such harsh treatment.
He decided to refrain from sharing the northern Jarl's hatred for elves, of his personal distaste for his charge and Gwynayne remained silent, seeming to ponder over the recent revelations.
"Would it truly be so terrible if he knew who we were, where we travel to? It's all quite innocent and we cannot honestly be the first travelers with Winterhold as their destination. I still don't understand myself the need for all this secrecy," she queried, her voice becoming slightly embittered as she continued, turning to stare indignantly at the knight, resentful of the imbalance in knowledge, "it isn't very proper for a simple knight to know more than his master."
"Your father has demanded my silence on the matter, my lady. Such secrecy is necessary, I assure you. We do not keep you in the dark for our amusement."
Straightening, with nose upturned, she looked away from the knight in exaggerated irritation and contempt, "It's still improper. I believe you're exceeding your station, Mordistair."
The knight smiled at his charge's antics, pleased she had momentarily forgotten their predicament, now too busy pretending to be cross and playing her usual precocious games.
With a sigh, she looked to the moons, shivering in a sudden swelling breeze that coursed through the camp.
"This is still my fault, Mordistair," she whispered quietly, almost to herself, "If I hadn't lost our horses, we – "
"Losing the horses wasn't entirely your fault, my lady. I believe the weather may have had a slight hand in the matter," the knight chuckled, remembering how his charge had chased after the frightened ponies on foot for nearly a mile before he could convince her to surrender the chase.
Gwynayne stared at the knight with narrowed eyes, "You're interrupting."
"Forgive me, my lady," the knight pleaded, bowing his head in mock humility, "please continue."
Tossing her head aside, she twisted her body away from the knight, "No, I don't think I shall. I tire of your impertinence."
It had taken years for Mordistair to become accustomed to his charge's fickle tempers and quicksilver emotions, the ease within which she taunted with haughty, abusive remarks, or cried at the slightest trouble she received in turn. Only seventeen when first assigned as his lady's personal guardian, he often inadvertently worsened her moods or took her words too personally. It was only after learning of her status in her father's court and accumulating years of experience with his charge did he come to handle her harsh words and erratic states with relative ease and understanding, however still tiring exchanges with her could easily become.
Silence hung between the two as they watched the fires and circles of soldiers that huddled close for warmth. Even Mordistair, cloaked in armor, began to shiver as the night drew on, growing colder as the stars shone brighter and the moons past through the sky.
"What are we going to do," Gwynayne whimpered, once again bringing her legs close as she tried to warm herself.
"I will try and speak with the Jarl in the morning. I'm sure such a quick moving regiment would not wish to be burdened with prisoners, perhaps I can reason with him. If not…"
He paused, unsure what to say, having no plan to speak of. Gwynayne looked to him, hopeful. When he said nothing, her face fell and she turned away.
"I suppose it shall be up to me then," she sighed trying to lighten the mood with faux exasperation, "I will have to save us, as usual."
Mordistair gave a half-hearted smile, distracted, mulling over how he could possibly obtain their release, diplomatically or otherwise. With growing unease, he anxiously evaluated the nearly assured consequences that would arise should the Jarl make attempts to ransom them, a very likely scenario the knight decided to keep hidden from his charge, unable to explain the inherent dangers of such an arrangement.
Finally succumbing to exhaustion, Gwynayne gave a weary sigh, wriggling deeper into the folds of the knight's soiled sleeve as she tried to settle herself as comfortably as possible against the strain of the ropes.
Mordistair watched as the guards were relieved, eagerly trotting to the fires to collect what scraps of dinner and mead they could manage. Many of the rebels had already returned to their tents, or merely wrapped themselves in cloaks as they slept by the fires.
The throbbing in his leg had finally quieted to a dull pulsing ache and he felt the blood that coated his calf begin to dry against his boot, the blood becoming thick and tacky, aided by the frigid night air. He worried how the wound would impair his ability to fight or flee, should his attempts at diplomacy fail, as he feared they would. He longed to inspect the wound, or at least apply weight to his leg in order to better gauge how compromised he had become, desperate for any information that could better aid his formulating plans.
Despite his desire to deliberate over his machinations for escape, the weary Rose Knight was unable to fight off his exhaustion any longer, his eyes continuously fluttering shut against his will. Lured by the soft, breathy, sighs of his now sleeping charge, he laid his head atop his lady's, attempting to shuffle closer to her side in the hopes of keeping her warm.
With a last glance to the moons overhead, the knight closed his eyes, falling asleep cloaked in pale frost.