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Chapter Five

A Withered Rose

It was the first Nordic battle cries that awoke them. The sun had only just crept over the tallest pines, the frost covered ground not yet touched by the first tendrils of cold light. Mordistair gasped as he awoke, chilled to the bone and startled by the sudden shouts. Desperately shaking his head to clear his vision, he watched as the rebels swarmed from their tents and smoldering fire pits into the forest, axes and swords held aloft in barbaric fury.

Heart racing with increasing panic at the unfolding chaos, his erratic gaze shifting from soldier to soldier, he caught sight of the bearish Jarl as he stepped calmly from his tent. Though his face was drawn in displeasure, brows pinched and lips pressed, the Jarl tightened his belt with steady hands, eyeing the scene before him with a discordantly calm composure. Striding forth, eyes narrowing with fulminating suspicion and further loathing, Ulfric glanced to the anxious knight, as if to suggest the bound Breton had played some role in the sudden ambush.

It was then that the first of the Imperials burst through the tree line and the blood began to spill.

With a passing sneer to the knight, the Jarl rounded his shoulders and reached for his weapons, readying himself, taking calm but long and deliberate steps toward his nearing adversaries, appearing no more than merely perturbed by their presence.

Gwynayne stared, mesmerized with disbelief and horror. Her pulse raced as she held her breath, unable to comprehend what she saw before her as the clearing, only moments before a secluded campsite, became the grounds for merciless carnage. Her life had been one of seclusion until this point. Separated from the world beyond the stone walls of her father's court had sheltered her from such displays of brutality, this apparent ease with which human life was so quickly severed, so disregarded. Though she had heard stories and seen tapestries depicting the mighty battles of kings and ages past, she had only ever witnessed Mordistair and his fellow Rose Knights sparing, mere practice to upkeep their skills. Rarely did they wound each other beyond mere scratches or slight cuts.

She couldn't hear herself gagging on her own breath as the blood rushed through her head, now dizzy and somehow feeling unconnected to her own body. She could only stare as one of the Stormcloak soldiers crumpled to the forest floor, his skull crushed and slit from temple to jaw. Ragged shards of bone jutted from soft pockets of muscle, the blood only just beginning to slither down his nose and cheek. His eyes stared dully ahead, their gaze never leaving her own. Suddenly, a fellow rebel tripped over the fresh corpse, trying to fend off an attacking Imperial. He reached out to steady his fall with his free hand, gripping the remains of the fallen soldier's face. His finger dug into the pink flesh and scraped against the bone. Unfazed, he raised his sword again to block an Imperial blow, digging deeper into the now crushed skull as he pushed himself off the ground to attack. His hand was dripping with blood. Pale lumps of milky flesh and small splinters of bone clung to his fingers, slowly sliding down the slick trails of blood. He pushed the Imperial back, with little concern for his fallen companion, or the flesh that clung to him. With a barbaric cry, the rebel parried and thrust his blade into the Imperial's throat, just above the collarbone. With an upward wrench that snapped the soldier's head back, he freed his blade and turn to drive further into the thrall, his sights already set on the nearest Imperial. He did not stay to watch as his victim slumped to the ground, now ungracefully poised against a decaying stump.

The rebel had only taken a few quick steps before an arrow pierced his side. Before he could react, another rushed to his leg and he cried out from shock and pain. Clutching his thigh and side, the Stormcloak fell to his knees. An Imperial emerged from behind a nearby tree, rushed behind the fallen Nord and drove a war axe into the back of his skull. Strands of pale blonde hair slid across the blue sash and to the ground in a tight curl.

The sudden rush of the clatter of wood and steel, the thick, sharp smell of blood, crisp as rust and iron overcame Gwynayne with violent, sudden clarity. The agonizing, beastly war cries rebounded through the trees and she felt them shudder through her body.

"GWYNAYNE!"

Slowly she turned her head, not entirely sure she had heard a voice, for a moment her name sounded foreign, not her own.

"Lady Gwynayne!"

Mordistair was frantically screaming her name, and had been doing so since she witnessed the first body fall.

The last of the faint mist that had seemed to shield her senses from the ongoing slaughter finally dissipated. Slowly becoming further aware of her surroundings, she began to heave and gasp as she twisted her head from side to side, catching glimpses of rendered limps and fallen corpses, final blows and death moans. She pushed against her binds, clawing at the ground with her feet hysterically, like a freshly trapped animal. She began to cry out between strangled breaths as she struggled, unable to budge, only capable of scrapping her body against the rough bark of the pine.

"Lady Gwynayne, stop!" Mordistair cried out, his face twisted in terror over his charge's growing instability. She continued to scrape against the ground, hyperventilating and violently thrusting her body against the ropes to free herself, crying out as she failed.

"GWYNAYNE STOP!" he screamed again, straining against his own binds to reach her.

She turned to stare at him, her dark eyes wide with absolute horror. She seemed to finally recognize his voice.

"Do not watch, just look at me," he hurriedly ordered, afraid to lose her once again, "Just…" he paused, unable to continue.

With quick, frantic glances he watched the sprawling battle that surrounded them. Most of the Imperials had fought their way to the clearing now, destroying the few Stormcloak tents and tossing over the now cool fire pits in their struggle. His fluttering glances came across the Jarl, adeptly fighting a small, but growing group of Imperials that began to push him into the tree line. His eyes were wild and his lips curled back in animalistic pleasure as he struck down his opponents, his bear cloak now stained and matted with human blood.

The sound of scraping metal and shuffling footfalls began to near as Mordistair watched the Jarl's escalating battle at the far side of the clearing. Snapping his head around, he strained to discern the nearing combatants, struggling against his binds as his charge had, desperate to free himself. Within moments a Stormcloak and Imperial burst from behind the tree they were bound to, circling round the trunk, now a mere few feet away as they continued to deflect each other's' blows. The soldiers pushed against each other with their shields, readying the swords at their sides, stealing a few quick breaths as they steadied themselves.

As quickly as they had appeared, the fight was over. The Stormcloak struck with deadly precision, shoving a blow aside with his shield then swinging his own blade cleanly across the Imperial's neck. Blood immediately spurted into the air in fine streams and a soft spray, coating the rebel's face and further soling the edge of Gwynayne's dress and boots. The Imperial's head dangled from a small piece of flesh, almost completely severed, and with a sway the body fell. The head bounced as it landed then rolled next the shoulder, pulling at the bit of flesh and skin that connected it to the soldier's neck.

Staring, frozen in terror and unable to look away, Gwynayne began to scream. She kicked at the ground in a desperate attempt to distance herself from the freshly fallen corpse, pushing against the base of the tree and the binding ropes, scraping her back brutishly against the rough and peeling bark of the pine. As the head finally settled, lips parted, staring dully to the sky above, her shrieks were overcome with sobs and she began to cry, shaking her head mindlessly as she sagged against the ropes, overwhelmed and exhausted from the sudden wrenching swell of panic.

Though not nearly as distraught as his hysterical charge, Mordistair too stared at the fallen Imperial in distress, his breath catching in his throat as the body fell, splayed gracelessly upon the ground before him. With a slight grimace, he noted the fallen warrior was a young woman, appearing no older than himself, perhaps even younger, what skin was visible still fresh and free from past wounds. Though a knight of Wayrest, ready at any moment to serve the calls of his king, Mordistair had yet to see a true battlefield, a truly undignified slaughter. Though no stranger to the dead and dying, his blade's virginity long lost, his station within the court had by and large been blissfully peaceful, with few calls to violence.

Terrified at what would follow, wide eyed and barely breathing, he lifted his gaze to stare at the Nordic rebel.

He was catching his breath, and he too stared at the body. Mordistair could see no emotion on his face. He turned to face the young knight, his face smothered in blood, sweat, and strands of his hay colored hair. With a look to the crying Gwynayne, still trying to frantically squirm away from the body, he shifted his grip on his sword, leveling it at the bonded pair.

The sudden movement snapped Mordistair from his momentary daze. He lunged futilely against the ropes, trying with all his strength to place himself in front of his charge, his teeth grit and his eyes wild as he stared down the Stormcloak.

With little attention given to the knight's sudden struggling, the rebel calmly walked to the far side of the tree, kneeling inches from the knight's side, sending him into a further flurry of squirming against his binds. Lifting the ropes, he slid his sword underneath, taking only a moment to wordlessly saw through the chilled ropes before tossing them aside, loosening their grip on the captives as they unfurled and sagged to the ground.

With a small gasp of relief, able to better breathe and straighten his back, his limbs no longer pinched by the thick ropes, the Rose Knight stared in disbelief as the Nord continued to calmly tug at ropes, unfurling the last of the loops that still loosely clung to the pine. Though his initial panic had not calmed, the lack of aggression confused him.

Mordistair stared at the rebel, recognition dawning on him as the man wearily pushed his hair aside and wiped the blood from his face. The eloquent Stormcloak who had taken his ebony blade the night before crouched beside the knight, reaching for the binds around his wrists without a word.

"Why are you doing this?" Mordistair asked, incredulous, recalling the broken vow the Stormcloak had given him so earnestly only the night before.

Gwynayne began to kick the fallen ropes from her lap, eager to be free of them, crying out with each shove as she continued to sob.

"The Imperials will finish with us soon, lad," the rebel tiredly cautioned, "You and your lady should flee with all haste."

Grunting, Mordistair wrenched his now freed arms apart, and the loose ropes fell from his wrists.

"Make for the border to the south, to Cyrodiil. I do not know why you travel our lands, but Skyrim is no place for visitors now."

The soldier finished cutting through the ropes that bound Mordistair's legs and moved toward Gwynayne, quietly weeping as she lay curled in the nook of the pine's roots, her face buried deep into the long ago dead and fallen leaves.

She recoiled as the rebel reached out for her wrists and tried to scoot further into the roots to escape his grip. He paused only for a moment, staring sadly at the frightened girl, then quickly slid his blade against the ropes. Hands and legs now free, Gywnayne scuttled across the roots to Mordistair's side, pressing against him and reaching for his arm as she turned to bury her face in his sleeve, shoulders shaking as she continued to cry.

Mordistair immediately reached for his charge, holding her close and smoothing her hair to comfort her. She violently quivered, her hands desperately reaching for the folds of his tunic, as if she could never be close enough, held tight enough.

"Your blade is in my Jarl's tent."

Mordistair glanced up to the risen Stormcloak, who seemed to be growing ever more tired. It wasn't until the Nord cringed and grabbed his side that the knight noticed the trail of blood staining his blue cloak and dirty trousers. With a final nod, the rebel repeated his warning. "Do not stay in Skyrim."

Mordistair watched the rebel rejoin his comrades in the battle, disappearing quickly amidst the frost covered pines.

Gwynayne began to hiccup, making small inaudible sounds and moans as she buried her face deeper into Mordistair's side, trying to escape the escalating screams and battle cries.

Quickly rubbing her back, Mordistair drew them both to their feet. They swayed as they regained feeling in their limbs and he leaned against the tree as he gained his bearings.

The majority of the fight had returned to the forest, even the Jarl had disappeared from the far side of the clearing. Only a handful of men remained on the fringes of the tree line, and a single pair struggled near a fire pit, kicking up burned wood chips and logs in their wake.

Eyeing the large tent on the opposite side of the clearing, Mordistair patted Gwynayne's back and began to lead her forward, still holding her close to his side and shielding her vision as they passed bodies and limbs. She had begun to settle and her grip lessened as she silently followed her knight's direction. They slowly curled their way around the edge of the clearing, Mordistair scanning the clearing with constant vigilance, should a brawl draw near.

"Careful," he cautioned, trying to gingerly sidestep the trail of entrails that littered their path. With a heave, he hoisted Gwynayne from the ground and quickly passed the dismembered body, setting her down only after he had cleared the remains.

His leg was beginning to burn and ache from the strain, and he could feel fresh blood begin to pulse past the dried crust that had formed over his wound. He quickened his pace, fearing a confrontation with any of the combatants should he linger.

Coming to the edge of the tent, Mordistair tenderly pried his charge from his side. The weathered fabric sagged on the beams it had been stretched across, flapping in the cool morning breeze. One side had completely sunken in, collapsed on itself and shredded, another victim from one of the many clashes. Appearing unstable, ready to collapse from even the slightest disturbance, he drew Gwynayne aside and clasped her hands, bringing her to her knees as he crouched outside the tent.

"I'll be right inside, my lady. Don't move, I shall only be a moment."

Before he could even begin to straighten, his young charge held firm to his arm and leapt to his side, shaking her head as her eyes began to well with fresh tears, wide with fear.

"No…no, don't leave me. Please, please…don't leave me," she began to frantically babble.

Sighing, the knight nodded and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, lifting the back tent flap as he drew them inside. There were few belongings within the tent, the only table had been flipped onto its side, the map and regiment markers scattered. He quickly knelt to grab the map and shoved it under his breastplate, their own map lost on one of the long since frightened off ponies.

It took only a moment to locate his ebony blade resting next to an overturned bedroll in the corner of the tent. He drew the blade from its sheath to check its condition, and with a satisfied sigh, slid his sword through his belt, back into its proper place at his side.

"Please," Gwynayne softly whispered, no longer crying, but still shaking, "please Mordistair, can we leave? Please?"

The Rose Knight had never seen his charge so utterly defeated. Though her grip was strong against his shirt sleeve, her arms were limp and her shoulders hunched. Her hair was beyond taming with any brush and thoroughly knotted, lined with dead leaves and covered in dirt and traces of blood. Her wrists and legs bore thick, red welts from the ropes and small scratches and bruises covered her limbs from scraping and struggling against the tree bark. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks and neck covered in sticky tear trails and loose strands of hair. Her dress hung askew, torn, wrinkled and no longer crisp white, but covered in grime and mud. The hemline was stained crimson with drying blood and all of the ribbons were frayed and undone, hanging sadly at her side. Lace trim trailed on the ground behind her, only a few threads holding fast. She continuously shook and shivered, whether from fear or the bitter morning cold, Mordistair did not know.

She sniffled and stared forlornly at the ground in front of her. She appeared in a daze, slipping further into her own thoughts. Mordistair could only imagine what images, what sounds, what smells her mind was repeating for her in surely perfect, gruesome detail.

Tightening his belt with a last tug, he tenderly loosened her hands from his sleeve and held them in his own.

"This very moment," he answered, bending down to look her in the eye, trying to smile for her. She noticed, but gave no response, only turning her eyes away and biting her lip, slipping further into the recesses of her own mind.

He was beginning to limp.

The fresh blood that flowed from his calf was seeping through the sole of his boot, circling his ankle and slipping through his toes as it stained the ground. He struggled to refrain from favoring his other leg, unwilling to show the extent of the damage Gwynayne had caused.

They had fled the clearing without a second glance, and were now pushing through the frozen undergrowth of the forest. Gwynayne trailed behind the knight, holding onto his outstretched hand. She stared only at his ornate armor, losing herself in the silver flourishes and crimson petals. With every Nordic scream and Imperial cry she rushed forward, hovering only just behind the knight and stared intently at a single rose, lips trembling and eyes welling with fear as she circled the concentric petals.

"Careful, my lady, the growth is thick here."

Gwynayne only nodded, her eyes never straying, and stumbled on.

Mordistair stopped and looked to the sky, catching his breath as he rested his leg. The dawn's rays had finally touched the forest floor, and the bright pinks and yellow of the morn were beginning to settle to cold, faint blue. Though he saw no bodies, neither alive nor dead, the sounds of battle were not far off, he could only guess how widespread the fighting had become, how deep into the forest the soldiers had been pushed. It was becoming harder to focus, the thudding pulse of blood trickling from his leg was consuming his attention. He turned about, trying to quickly determine what path best to take, which direction would lead them out of the slaughter they had escaped.

A sudden twang of striking metal reverberated through the trees, and Mordistair spun, trying to determine its origins, cringing as he pulled on his leg. Gwynayne reflexively shrunk to his side, whimpering and gazing wildly about, as if an entire swarm were about to fall upon them. In quick succession sword and sword clashed again, followed by yelps and grunts. The combatants were drawing near.

Needing no further provocation, Mordistair tightened his grip on his lady's hand and plunged further into the forest, frantically weaving through trees and growth as best he could as his leg grew heavier with pain. Within moments, the shouting escalated. The sounds of barraging shields and clashing swords quickly grew louder, suddenly surrounding the pair. The two spun anxiously, fearing to see an onslaught of soldiers at any moment. It was Gwynayne who caught the first glimpse of red horsehair and leather plate through the trees, crying out. A small collection of Imperials were giving chase to a single Stormcloak on the steep hill above them. They moved quickly, overcoming the rebel with ease.

As one of the Imperials wrenched a great sword from the fallen Nord, another pointed to the Rose Knight, his ebony armor easily seen in the frost covered woods. Wasting no time, one of the soldiers quickly notched an arrow and fired as the others descended the hill. Mordistair wrapped his arms around his small charge and pulled her to the ground, shielding her with his body as the arrow brushed past. Adrenaline now souring through his veins, he flung himself and his charge behind the nearest tree.

He held her close, his hands wrapped around her neck and back. Biting his lip, he took only a moment to stare at his leg and the small trail of blood that he had been leaving in his wake, faint, but ultimately noticeable. He could hear the soldiers nearing the base of the hill now, their shuffling leather armor and clanking metal studs easily distinguishable. Gritting his teeth, he held his charge close for one last moment, then released his hold, lifting her head in cupped hands.

"My lady, there is no time to argue. I will stay to hold them off. Run," he commanded, "run and don't stop!"

"No…no, Mordistair, I – " she shook her head feverishly, "No! No!"

He hoisted her to her feet as she began to cry, gripping her shoulder tightly and cradling the side of her head in his palm.

"Fly as fast you can, I won't be far behind!" he lied, and with a sudden thrust, he spun her about and pushed her ahead, "Now go!"

She took a hesitant step and turned to watch her knight lean against the tree, clutching his leg, his face contorted in pain, blood flowing freely to the frozen ground.

She shook her head again, her tears now spilling over. "No, Mordistair – "

"Go!" He screamed, his eyes desperate and pleading.

She paused, staring at the Rose Knight and shaking her head, ignoring the sounds of the Imperials growing ever closer.

"GO!" he finally bellowed, voice raw, gripping the tree for support. He held her gaze as she continued to stare, unmoving. With weaning strength he sighed.

"Go."

And she fled.

The knight could only spare a moment to watch his charge flee into the trees. With a small smile, he saw the last flutter of her once white dress disappear behind a thick, sprawling bramble patch and he straightened against the tree trunk, groaning as he placed weight back onto his leg. He could hear the first of the soldiers only a few paces from where he hid, and he quickly took a handful of focused breaths, clenching his fingers in anticipation. The Imperials would not pass.

A twig snapped underfoot as an Imperial neared the tree. In one tight, fluid motion, the Rose Knight drew his ebony blade from his side and swung his body round the tree, sword aloft and high. It dragged through the first Imperial's throat, sending a thin stream of blood down the shaft, shining against the polished steel. The soldier dropped, his partially severed head sagging to one side. Ducking beneath the eager thrust of the soldier's companion, Mordistair drew forth the dagger from his boot, ignoring the slick blood that coated the handle, and swung his blade again, flicking his wrist as he slashed the backs of the soldier's thighs. The soldier immediately succumbed to his wounds and crumpled to the forest floor, gripping the backs of his legs as he writhed. Though his honor called to end the soldier's suffering, the knight had little time, and he continued off towards the base of the hill to meet the last of the soldiers. He came to a halt as the soldiers circled round him, now aware of his capabilities, they paced waiting to strike, rather than run forth, plunging to their deaths as their companions had. He held his blade aside and his dagger poised in front of his face, his fingers circling tightly around the hilt as he altered his grip. He turned slowly to face his aggressors, trying to discern the strongest and weakest of the group before him.

One of the Imperials noticed the blood trailing on the ground surrounding the ebony clad warrior, seeping from some hidden wound under his boot. Without hesitation, the soldier hoisted his battle axe to strike when the knight's back was turned. Almost instantaneously, the boy circled, evading the sweeping lunge of the axe and spun to bring his blade down on the soldier's exposed arm. With no mail or even simple cloth to impair the cut, the ebony blade slid cleanly through the bone and muscle, and the arm dropped to the ground, the fingers still gripping to the axe handle for a moment before finally relinquishing their hold. The soldier's screams were muffled as Mordistair thrust his dagger into the soldier's throat, digging quickly, but deeply into the base of his skull. Without pause, he wrenched the dagger free and spun to face his remaining opponents, struggling to steady his breath and ignore the now agonizing, throbbing, pumping blood in his calf.

The remaining soldiers quickly shared a glance and then they were upon him. Mordistair groaned as he struggled to hold back the downward thrust of one soldier's swords with his dagger, then swung with his blade to collide with the mace of another. Pushing against the mace wielding soldier, he avoided the attack of the third, and managed to whip his blade across the attacker's upper arm, sliding off the leather plating on his chest. As the soldier fell back, gripping the fresh wound on his arm, Mordistair cried out in agony. The mace ripped through the flesh along his lower back, five deep, tearing cuts pulling at his skin. With a roar, he turned and circled round the soldier, raising his dagger again to fend off the attack of the sword bearer. With a quick parry as the mace sought to wound him again, he shoved it aside with his blade and sunk the metal deep into the chest of the Imperial.

Suddenly the formerly wounded soldier struck at Mordistair's arm with his sword. He could only just stumble back from the sweeping cut, and the blade merely sliced skin. Cringing as he bore weight upon his wounded leg, he swayed and the soldier stole the moment to land another successful blow at the knight. A deep cut slid through the previous flesh wound, from the edge of his breast plate to his elbow, and he cried out, stumbling further back along the base of the hill. His arm, and the dagger it held, hung limp at his side as he struggled to stay upright. As one of the soldiers lunged again, he managed to sidestep the thrust and sloppily pushed his blade into the soldier's thigh, just above the knee, trying in vain to strike anything not covered with leather or mail. With a howl, the soldier fell back, awkwardly stumbling as he brushed against a tree trunk. Gritting his teeth, Mordistair ignored the flaring pain in his arm and flung his dagger toward the tree, unable to waste even a moment to see if it struck true as he quickly turned to hold off the final attacks of the last Imperial.

Within moments it was over. Gasping for breath and doubled over, Mordistair weakly pried his blade from the soldier's side. Stumbling, ignoring the sweat that trickled down his cheek and temple, he made his way to the closest tree, an Imperial slumped across its roots, an ebony dagger embedded deep within his eye socket. Mordistair winced, from both pain and disgust as he wiggled the dagger free, grimacing as the majority of the eyeball clung to the blade, slowly creeping down the steel as it succumbed to gravity. With a quick flick of his wrist, he flung the remaining milky residue from the dagger and turned to sheath his blade when a sudden pain blossomed at his side.

Choking on his breath, Mordistair fell against the tree as he saw the arrow. It had pierced his torso just below the ribcage, partially passing through, the arrowhead and part of the shaft poking through his lower back.

"The archer…" he weakly murmured with realization as he slowly slid down the rough sap covered bark of the pine.

With a glance, he looked to the top of the hill. Now in plain sight he saw the Imperial notch another arrow and draw. Mordistair had only enough strength to close his eyes and lean his head back against the tree.

The archer would not give chase, would not waste precious time on his charge, now hopefully hidden deep within the woods, but would rejoin his regiment to finish off the Stormcloaks. Mordistair refused to believe otherwise and sighed, content, ready for death.