(Not yet updated.)
Chapter Six
Sputtering Sparks
"I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"
With each proclamation, she beat her small fists against his ebony armor, struggling in his grasp. Her bare feet scraped across the worn wood floor as she pushed against his arms, continuing to thrash about and tussle. She reached for his cravat with clawed fingers and a matching snarl only to have the knight calmly force her arms to her sides. She immediately began to squirm, angry tears pouring down her cheeks, pooling at her trembling bottom lip. Saying nothing, he spun her about and wrapped his arms about her waist, making sure to keep her struggling arms pinned. As he lifted her in the air she began to fiercely kick at his shins, straining her neck to face the knight and overcome his grip.
"Stop it!" she shrieked, thrashing from side to side, "Let me go! You can't do this!"
Mordistair held her tight, and she buried her face against his neck. She could feel his pulse racing beneath the cravat, nearly as fast as her own. He brushed his thumb against the base of her neck and pressed his cheek against the crown of her head.
The knight took a moment to brace and steady himself, his willful charge was utilizing all her strength, continuously striking his thighs and shins, straining her back to pop from his grasp. She cried and grunted in frustration as she began to beat the back of her head against his chest.
"You're evil! YOU'RE EVIL!" she screeched, twisting from side to side, trying to slip her arms from the knight's firm hold.
Her guardian was silent as he maneuvered around the simple wooden furnishing of the small cottage, sidestepping the thick braided rug and accompanying rocking chair. Books of all kinds, from advanced spellbooks to old historical tomes littered the floor, some in piles, others left wide open. He calmly pushed them aside as he continued, taking care not to shift the pages.
Hearthfire's evening light flowed through the windows in soft, honey golden streams. The plain ceramic table ware shone in the warm light, waiting expectantly for the evening meal. Tender shadows danced on the wooden floor as a breeze rustled the flowers growing outside, trellising up the window frames. Simple tapestries and rustic paintings were hung about the walls in a quaint, happenstance fashion. Handmade quilts and cushions lined the chairs, soft candles flickered on the sills, and herbs hung from the rafters. A perfume of drying flowers, old wood, and bubbling stew filled the cottage. Though thoroughly planned and constructed by the most accomplished craftsmen, it was the very embodiment of picturesque charm and idyllic country comfort.
"You traitor! LET ME GO!"
Gwynayne kicked out in protest, sending a side table toppling. Fresh sunflowers flew to the ground, their vase crashing to the floor soon after.
"How dare you!" she cried out, "You disobedient, awful, insubordinate, vile…WRETCH!"
Mordistair huffed as he adjusted his grip around her waist, shifting her weight as he began to climb the stairs. Gwynayne reached out to grip the banister with her toes, trying in vain to wrap her ankles around the ornately carved beam. As her feet merely slipped from the polished wood she bawled in defeat and began to hang limply in her knight's arms, her strength exhausted.
The knight tenderly lifted her head to meet his, caressing her jaw as he implored her to run, to leave him behind.
"I hate you," she feebly moaned, letting her head rest against his breastplate. Her voice was no longer venomous, rather, she stated it as a fact, undeniable.
The knight only continued down the hall, shuffling past piles of laundry, shoes, and trails of simple craft supplies. He grunted, shifting Gwynayne in his arms, hesitating as he loosened his hold to open the bedroom door. But she remained still, head limp, arms and legs lifelessly dangling.
She refused, shaking her head vehemently. Mordistair pulled her to her feet and cradled her cheek in his palm. He promised to follow, smiled, as if everything was so simple, so certain. She could hear the approaching footfalls and shuffles of the Imperials as they neared the base of hill and he spun her about, prodding her forward.
Mordistair felt resistance as he tried to open the door. He leaned his shoulder against the wood panels, pulling Gwynayne to his side, resting her on his hip. As he rammed his body against the door again, he slowly managed to push it aside. Blankets and undergarments were caught up underneath the rail, and he heard a pile of books topple to the ground as he gave a final shove. With a sigh, he squeezed through the opening, quickly hopping into the room as the door swung closed behind him, succumbing to the weight of more falling books.
He set his charge to the floor, gently unwrapping his arms as he stepped back. He watched for a moment, readying himself should she attempt another attack, but she only stared at the floor, her shoulders sagging and her head downcast.
She stumbled forward, immediately spinning to face the cringing knight, doubled over to clutch his leg. Her tears hastened, spilling down her cheeks and she called out to him, refusing to abandon him.
"I do not – "
"Do not speak to me," Gwynayne spat, turning her head aside, showing lips curled in disgust.
Her long tresses shielded her face, hiding the tears that fell freely to the floor.
"My lady, this is – "
"Go!" he screamed to her, his eyes wrought with fear and worry. He sensed her stubborn apprehension, and his face fell as she again shook her head, again ignoring his pleas.
"Go away!" she screamed, spinning on her heels to face him, "Don't ever speak to me again! I don't want you in my presence, EVER! I LOATHE YOU!"
Her chest heaved as she bawled between her harsh screams. Her teeth were grit and her fists balled at her side as she stared down the knight.
Again, bellowing with terrified rage, he commanded her leave, to flee.
He had lowered his eyes, his face bore no expression but a quiet withdrawal. For a moment he did nothing, only stared coldly at the floor before him, his thoughts distant. His lips quivered as if about to speak, but he simply bowed his head and slipped from the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Her raging anger not yet satisfied, having felt no opposition from the silent knight, she rushed toward the door and screamed as loud as her voice could manage.
"I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE A TRAITOR'S DEATH YOU WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A KNIGHT!"
For a moment, his footsteps stopped. Gwynayne's tears welled anew, and she began to sob and gasp, her vile emotions still not satisfied.
After short pause, she could hear him continue to make his way down the corridor, and the sound of his steps disappeared as he descended the stairs.
Mordistair looked to her with pleading eyes. He gripped the rough bark of the pine, still clutching his leg, struggling not to reveal the extent of the pain he felt. With a slow sigh, soft and desperate, he begged for the last time.
"Go."
Her vision was clouded, her eyes blurred with spilling tears, but she thought he smiled, his last attempt of assurance that all would be well.
She turned and ran.
She tried to keep her mind clear, to focus purely on the forest before her, to seek a path of little resistance between the thick bramble patches and rocky terrain. But the memories would not be denied. They scrambled for prominence, every fight, every scream, every struggle, every cruel joke, every harsh word pushed to the forefront of her thoughts. She found it hard to breathe as ran through the trees sobbing.
"I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE A TRAITOR'S DEATH YOU WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A KNIGHT!"
She cringed, shaking her head from side to side, pumping her arms as she ran, flying across the forest floor, trying to outpace even her memories.
The pines were beginning to blend together, none of them distinguishable from the next. They towered in their frost cloaks above the small Breton, seeming to draw closer as she spun about the forest floor, turning her head frantically, eyes darting as she sought a path. The hills had become steeper, lined with jutting rocks and covered in slippery frost. The foliage was thick and tangled upon itself, spilling over fallen logs and stumps rotting with mora tapinella.
With hesitant steps, she backed away, timidly glancing from side to side. Though she could no longer hear the cries of war, she feared a bloodthirsty soldier or rebel around every turn, and for a moment she simply shuffled her feet, uncertain and afraid.
A lone sparrow chirped overhead, hidden in the bushy boughs of a towering pine. She snapped her head upward, eager to find the creature. With a quick flick of its tail feathers, it launched from the tree and spiraled through the forest, easily twisting around trees and ducking under branches laden with old snow. Naively, she immediately trailed after the bird, hopping over decaying logs and pushing her way past a clump of prickly thistles. She was ready to cling to any guidance, even that shown by a simple songbird, and blindly followed it through the wood, believing it could only lead her to safety.
She stumbled, her foot catching on one of her sagging boots, already coming apart at the seams and the tattered ribbons trailing behind her. The intricate lace of her dress would catch and cling to nearly any bramble she brushed against, but still she pushed forward, straining to keep the sparrow in her sights.
It was not long till she began to recognize certain trees, certain boulders, and with growing trepidation, she began to slow. Glancing worriedly about her surroundings she caught sight of a fallen body, its limbs bent and pulled unnaturally to one side, a trail of blood smeared across the ground. With a small cry, she fell back against a pine, jumping with fright as she felt its rough bark. Whimpering she pushed around it, scrambling to flee the body. She began to run, sliding on the frost covered boulders. She raised her arms to shield her face as she pushed through low hanging branches, an immediate rush of sappy pine clouding her sense of smell.
And then she came upon them.
She came to a halt as she stared with horror at the mass of Imperials before her. They surrounded a pair of Stormcloaks, blood drenched Nords fighting desperately to hold the soldiers at bay. Just beyond them was the clearing, desecrated with the dead and dying. For all her wandering, she had arrived back to the source of all her struggles.
One of the rebels managed to push through the Imperial ranks, stumbling from the circle and toward the tree line. Now cowering against the closest tree, Gwynayne recognized the wounded Nord. Mordistair had seemed familiar with the man when he'd cut their bonds.
His face was pasty and pale, covered in sweat and streaks of drying blood. He sagged to one side, weakly holding his sword in front of him. He drew deep and ragged breaths, ready to collapse. An Imperial quickly followed as he fell back, tripping on his lagging feet against one of the pines. With a weak grunt, he raised his bloody sword, trying to block the downward swing of the Imperial, eager to finish with the weakening rebel.
The Imperial knocked the sword from the Nord's grasp and it toppled into the clearing, carving a path through the tall grass. His legs buckled and he slid down the trunk of the tree, staring up at the soldier as he accepted his fate. With a harsh cry, the Imperial raised his sword.
"N-no!"
Gwynayne raised her hands instinctively. With a sputtering fizzle and snap, an arc of lightning, wild and reaching, coursed from her hands, the electric tendrils plunging deep into the Imperial's body. He seized as the lighting circled his body, caressing him in violet sparks. His sword dropped to the ground as his hand twisted and pulsed. His head was pulled back and he gagged.
It was only a moment, but upon seeing the terror of her spell, Gwynayne dropped her hands, falling to her knees. She wrapped her arms about herself, as if it would stop the lightning from wracking the soldier's body. She could only watch in terror.
Before the spell could dissipate the Stormcloak jumped to his feet and rammed his shoulder against the incapacitated Imperial, tossing him to the ground without resistance. He charged into the clearing and recovered his blade, turning to face his opponent with renewed strength.
The magical display had not gone unnoticed by the remaining Imperials, still at odds with the last Stormcloak. Two broke from the group and charged the girl, still trembling on the forest floor. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the clearing.
Her short strides were quickly overcome by the charging soldiers, and in a desperate attempt to dodge their attack she leapt into the glade, falling in a heap at the base of a tree. She curled into a ball, wrapping her hands around her head, the only armor she had at her disposal, sobbing, crying out as she heard their nearing footsteps.
The Nord wasted no time in rushing toward the Imperials, only just managing to halt their assault on the terrified girl. With a roar, he thrust his sword toward the nearest soldier, taking care not to step on Gwynayne, still curled up in the roots of the tree. He quickly placed himself between her and the Imperials, blocking a soldier's staggering blow with his gauntlet as he held off the thrust of the other with his sword. The blade dug deep into the leather and cut through his flesh. He jerked his arm back as he cried out, but continued to parry with his remaining strength.
Gwynayne peeked through her fingers, confused as to why she was untouched. She shrieked upon seeing the Nord, almost on top of her, fighting off the Imperial soldiers. Scrambling up the trunk of the tree, scraping her hands on the rough bark, she watched, breathless with fear as the Nord was quickly succumbing to his fresh wounds.
Suddenly, a beastly roar erupted from the fight in the forest, and a handful of Imperials fell to the ground. The bearish Jarl revealed himself and cried out with furious ecstasy as he charged from the circle of soldiers. He was drenched in blood, and from the way he proclaimed his victory, displayed his barbaric zeal, it was clearly not his own. He barred his teeth as his lips curled back in a twisted smile, whipping his war axe into the skull of a charging Imperial, sending the now dead boy careening to the ground. He backed toward the edge of the clearing, laughing, a sword raised as he adjusted his grip on the axe.
"Our path to Sovngarde will be lined with the corpses of Imperials, brother!" he cried out to the rebel, laughing as he readied his weapons, digging his feet deep into the blood softened earth.
It was a display he would not soon forget. The ebony clad warrior nearly danced as he spun about the Imperials, so bumbling and incompetent by comparison. The wound on his leg seemed to have little effect on his ability. With a cringe, he watched as the warrior plunged his dagger through the throat, up into the skull of one of the soldiers, withdrawing with a flourish, emotionless save for the fierce determination in his eyes.
He settled into a more comfortable position on the branch, eager to see how long the elegant fighter would last against so many opponents. He had never been adept at discerning the races of those he came across, but the boy was clearly no Nord. His moves were tight and controlled, his attacks precise and studied, almost romantic with subtle flourish.
Finally, the warrior was struck, a bloom of fresh blood stained his sleeve and he stumbled in pain. He was finally beginning to weaken. But he carried on, striking at the soldiers, bringing another down with a thrown dagger to the eye, so certain in his ability he needn't even confirm his mark.
He chuckled at such an audacious display of skill. He shifted in his perch, twiddling an arrow in his fingers, shaking his head with glee, amused as the final soldier succumbed to the superior skills of the warrior.
Quickly tiring, the boy trudged to one of the fallen Imperials, pulling his dagger from the body, straightening with obvious pain. Suddenly, an arrow shot through his side and he fell against the tree, his strength sapped.
Just as startled as the weakening warrior, the observer's eyes darted to the source of the arrow. An Imperial archer poised on a nearby hill reached for another arrow, clearly displeased at his poor first shot.
"Now that doesn't seem very fair," he laughed, and quickly strung his own bow.
In a moment, the soldier was in his sights. With a low breath, he smiled and let his arrow fly.
The Nord had managed to fell one of the soldiers, but even the ferocity of his resolve could not stay his ebbing strength, and he succumbed to blows of the second, eager to revenge his companion and finish with the rebel. Paralyzed with fear, Gwynayne clutched the base of the tree, fearing her own death was only moments away as the Imperial turned to face her. But as he raised his sword his head bobbed and shuddered, then slumped against his shoulder. An axe handle jutted from the back of his skull, the head burrowed deep within, hidden almost entirely from view. The Jarl emerged around the side of the tree, grunting with pleasure as he ripped his weapon from the crumpled soldier.
He rose to his full height. His hulking shadow easily eclipsed her small, trembling body, and she stared up in horror, fearing she'd only traded one attacker for another. But the Jarl merely turned and gazed about the clearing, the wild and brutal gleam in his eye now sullen and brooding, wretchedly tamed. Fresh Imperials had made their way to the despoiled glade, emerging quickly from the forest on all sides. Swords aloft and arrows drawn, they quickly surrounded the pair.
She knew not whether to be relieved or terrified. The gruesome fighting, the killing, the screaming, had finally stopped. But her heart raced.
With tear filled eyes she looked to the dead Nord before her, his right forearm severed and a gaping wound now disfiguring the side of his head, his nose collapsed and crushed. With his one remaining eye he stared at her, unblinking, cold and void. With swelling nausea, she blinked back tears and looked aside, trying to steady her breath.
Suddenly, riders on horseback trotted into the clearing, bound in glistening steel armor and gilded leather, pristine and untouched. They slowed as they neared the circle of soldiers, the leader nodding to those on his flanks as he came to stop. A Redguard woman eagerly dismounted, followed by an Imperial, and marched through the ring of soldiers.
With a dark smile, she stopped in front of the Jarl.
"Ulfric Stormcloak," she proclaimed, her voice dripping with pride, "seems you've swung your last axe."
He merely sneered, holding his tongue.
With that, she motioned to a handful of the closest soldiers, and they rushed to subdue and bind both Jarl and Breton.
Ulfric resisted as a soldier wrapped a gag around his mouth. Snorting with hate and looking to the now smirking Redguard with frost cold eyes, he shook off the hands that sought to guide him, and marched, parting the ring of soldiers.
Gwynayne pushed back further into the roots of the pine, crying as she shielded herself with her trembling hands. As the young Imperial woman knelt to grab her arms, she began to weakly resist, curling further into a tight ball.
"No! Please, no!"
She was nearly convulsing now, tears pouring down her cheeks as she pled and sobbed.
"Quiet!" the Imperial ordered, roughly grabbing the girl's wrists, dragging her harshly across the roots as she bound them in thick ropes.
"Get her with the rest of the prisoners!" the Redguard shouted, following a small detachment that broke off to lead the subdued Jarl through the clearing. With the superior prize in hand, she cared little for the cowering girl.
Those who remained on horseback turned and began to ride alongside the procession, the foremost commander's head held aloft with pride and triumph. Gwynayne still struggled against the young Imperial woman as she was hulled to her feet and again she pleaded.
"I'm not one of them! Stop this! Please!"
"I said, quiet!" the woman harshly replied, and shoved the girl forward.
Stumbling, Gwynayne turned to face her, reaching out with bound hands. "I'm not a Stormcloak!" she began to bawl, shaking her head wildly, "I was taken – "
Having heard enough, the Imperial raised her sword and struck the young Breton with the butt of the hilt, propelling her to the ground. With a final whimper, Gwynayne lay still, unable to feel the hands now dragging her limp body across the blood soaked field.