Author's Note: Aaauugghh! I apologize for the ridiculous length of time it's been since I last posted a chapter! I have been (again) incredibly busy up until recently, and I finally found some time to write again. But this is an entirely new chapter, so perhaps the wait hasn't been entirely in vain? (It's also very long, I nearly split this one in two.) I still intend to rewrite the last two remaining chapters, but in terms of the plot, they are consistent with the story as it now stands, so there isn't a huge rush to finish the rewrites. In any event I hope you enjoy the sparkly, shiny, brand new, hot-off-the-presses chapter! A new character has finally been introduced, and we have at last come to the dreaded rehashing of the opening cart scene (I think the knowledge that I would have to retell the opening scene, which has been so thoroughly beaten to death at this point, has kept me from buckling down and finishing this chapter). I tried to remain faithful to the dialogue and series of events as best I could, with only minor tweaks to fit the nature of the story thus far. From the very first time I played through Skyrim I couldn't help but imagine your avatar was either being sought out or was seeking out a fellow companion of some sort, and that was more or less the initial sprout for this story. Let me know what you think (especially in terms of chapter length, I know this one is a bit long) and let me know what you'd like to read next! Enjoy!

Chapter Seven

The Cabin and Cart

It was the pungent smells that first roused him, driving him from his cold and hollow sleep. The air was thick with the smell of rot and decay, of damp and molding wood. The noxious wafts of old blood and moldering meat was strongest, tempered only by the faint perfume of drying elves ear and frost mirriam.

Then there were the sounds, muddled and hazy at first, obscure to him as he drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to decipher their source or meaning. The clinking of chimes, but duller, crude and simple, not the pleasant twinkle of properly shaped metal craftsmanship he was accustomed to. There was a great deal of shuffling and bustling, with a regular clattering and dull thudding of objects being moved about. And as he came further to, he began to recognize hushed murmurs and mutters, though the words were unrecognizable, for he could only note pitch and tone.

For brief moments there was silence, as if the world around him had come to rest, the smells grew fainter, and a calming sense of weightlessness consumed him, where even his thoughts came to vanish.

Such moments were growing farther apart, interrupted with sudden sensations of feeling, of soft wood, worn and rough, beneath his fingertips. His body no longer felt weightless, but grew heavy, he became aware of his limbs. A faint glow emerged from the darkness, of to the corner, soft and warm. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the flow of air through his lungs and against his throat. But then came the pain, and with every pulse and breath his arm and leg began to grow hot, his core even hotter. He could feel rough bandages and moist poultices that clung to and irritated his skin. His joints ached and his head felt unbearably burdened, as though weights had been placed upon his temple.

Suddenly, he was touched, prodded and lifted, inspected by unknown hands. Fingers ran delicately over his exposed skin and his roused instincts were sent snarling from within, viciously urging him to awaken, his sense of danger consumed with urgency. As the bandages on his lower leg were being peeled back, exposing his aching flesh, he moaned, desperate to shake the prying fingers from his wound. But his leg would not respond, it only shifted sluggishly in place despite his repeated attempts to escape the intrusive examination.

Hands continued to peel back layers of clothing, his limbs continued to ache and his head throbbed, sickened by the overwhelming perfume of rot that hung above him. Unable to further ignore his discomfort and the sure danger that surrounded him, the weary knight knew he had no choice but to wake. The comfort and peace the darkness offered had tempted him for far too long, and with a twitch of his head, his eyes opened.

Eyes wide, his awareness and the last of his senses had finally returned, though their initial arrival overwhelmed him. His mouth was achingly dry, his throat parched and sore. His clothing and hair stuck to his skin, adhered with layers of dried blood, mud, and sweat. It was dark, save for the light of a small collection of flickering candles somewhere to his side, and for a moment he was transfixed by the dancing shadows on the ceiling above him, cradling a nearly endless assortment of dried and drying carcass remains and skins, displaced only rarely by the odd bundle of herbs. Odd shapes took form and for a moment he thought he had slipped once more from consciousness.

His vision still as blurred and muddled as his thoughts, he struggled to gain his bearings, desperate for knowledge of his whereabouts.

"Ah, at last I shall discover whether my efforts have been in vain," a voice rang out, low and resonating, yet light and amused, the speaker laughing as he continued, "and if I shall be richer or poorer for them!"

Mordistair blinked, weakly shaking his head in a languid search as he tried to discern the source of the voice.

"On the one hand, if you had died, I would have wasted my last potion. Not that it was of any real value of course," at this the stranger chuckled, "it probably worsened your condition more than helped. But when a restorative potion costs a mere thirty six Septims, you don't stop to ask about less than desirable side effects, now do you?"

The stranger laughed again, pausing as he examined the knight's wounds. Many of the words were lost to him, and he could only just distinguish the faint and muddled figure of what could only be a man in the shadows at his feet.

"Then again, if you had died I don't believe I would be hurting for gold. That armor alone could buy me all the worthless, watered down potions I could ever desire! And that blade of yours! I know nothing of weaponry and even I know what a price that could fetch."

"Where…"

Mordistair tried to speak, but only managed a mere strangled whisper, rough and coarse. He cringed in distress as the man continued to finish rebinding the loosened bandages around his calf, able only to grit his teeth and scratch his nails against the wood planks beneath him in order to alleviate his pain.

"Truly awake now, eh?" the man teased, lightly patting the knight's other leg in jest.

"What…happened?" He strained his neck, trying to pull his head off the table to look about the dwelling. As his torso rose, he seized and fell back against the wood, gritting his teeth, a hiss of pain escaping as he tried to clutch his side.

"I'm not so sure you're ready to hear the grand tale of your own misadventure just yet. Keep moving about and I might just get to keep that armor after all."

"Where am I?" the knight hissed through still clenched teeth. He stared dully above through squinted, nearly closed eyes, his face still contorted and pinched in anguish, using whatever strength he possessed to steel his voice. Though only truly awake for but a few moments, he had already lost his patience.

"What…happened to me? Where –"

His breath caught and his eyes widened in fear, his pain momentarily forgotten as his last minutes of consciousness flooded back to him, a string of images emblazoned in his reemerging memory. He saw her eyes, spilling with tears, her quivering form as she shook her head, the flash of her tattered white dress disappear behind the bough of a pine. For but a passing moment he recalled even the feel of her tangled and matted hair, his fingers twitching in response to the memory of holding her close to him before she fled.

"Where is she?" he suddenly yelled, struggling to produce more than an unintelligible rasping wheeze, and again tried desperately to lift himself off the table. His eyes darted, as if his charge could possibly be hidden with the small and deteriorated shack that now sheltered him.

"Ay, settle down. You'll only open your wounds if you keep moving about like this. There is no 'she' here…unfortunately," the stranger chuckled again, unremittingly amused with himself.

Infuriated, Mordistair sat up, gripping the edges of the table as he heaved, out of breath from the exertion.

"Take me…take me back…to wherever you found me."

As the first waves of pain ricocheted through his body, he groaned and clutched his side, sagging limply as he struggled to stay upright, already reeling from burgeoning waves of nausea. He impatiently pushed the sweat and stray strands of hair from is eyes, then looked up to catch the first clear glimpse of his jocular host.

"What on Nirn…"

His breathing labored, the knight stared for a moment, taken aback by the clearly unique appearance of the young man towering before him.

Mordistair could only guess as to all the potential aspects of the stranger's heritage, but it was the beast and mer races that most clearly demarcated themselves. Though the candlelight was faint, he could still make out the fair and sickly tone of the stranger's skin color, pale and dirty green, like grass just as it began to dry and die in the midst of autumn. The man gave an uncomfortable and tepid smile, showcasing an awkwardly housed a pair of small jutting bottom teeth within his mouth, like an orsimer yet to mature. His ears were long, far longer than most merkind, but were thin and pointed downward, the lobes lined with piercings of small gold hoops and bone charms. His eyebrows were thick and untamed, spilling out wildly to frame the edges of his dark eyes. But the knight's eyes were drawn immediately to the wild mane that haloed the stranger's peculiar face. The hair was dark and auburn liked muddy wine, unkempt and thick, spreading out and down his shoulders and back, decorated with small braids and intertwined feathers and beads, kept only at bay by a threadbare cloth wrapped about his temple. His cheekbones were high and pointed, but his nose stout and upturned. Though for as odd as his face appeared, his body, his towering build, was even stranger, a mismatched combination of thick and muscular limbs with dainty and nimble joints. Though Mordistair's sense of space and distance was still muddled, he reasoned the man was at least two, perhaps three heads taller than himself.

Realizing he was staring, he quickly looked away.

The stranger laughed, seemingly finding a degree of humor at the knight's perplexed stares, and with a last chuckle came to stand beside him to ruffle the embarrassed boy's hair.

"I know I must look like quite the young stallion, but – "

Mordistair jerked his head aside and struggled to push himself across the table, trying to sluggishly dart away from the man's reach, his eyes wide with a fleeting, but visceral fear.

"Oh! Come now! No need to get so excited," the stranger attempted to pacify, waving his hand playfully at the grim and defensive warrior, "I meant no harm. You were so…transfixed is all!"

Pulse still racing and with increasingly labored breaths, Mordistair held up his hand cautiously, unable to have found any viable weapon or shield upon the table in which to place between him and his odd savior.

"Just…stay away from me," he threatened, weakly, beginning to sway as he stammered, "I…I need to get…to get back to her…"

"I don't doubt it, but I believe that'll have to wait."

The odd stranger sighed in unnecessary melodramatic fashion, shaking his head, aggrieved at the state of his increasingly difficult patient, and turned to reach for a pile of bandages at the far end of the table.

"You've gone and ruined all my hard work."

Confused, Mordistair only stared, continuing to sweat and pant. It took a moment to feel the sudden rush of warm blood slipping down his side, to feel the bloom of fresh pain as the remaining crusts of dried blood and pus cracked and fell from the edges of his torn flesh. A sickening nausea that had been growing within him since awakening now pulsated in his gut as he weakly gazed at his exposed skin. Though witnessing his own blood caused him no great alarm or fright, its increasing loss left him woozy. He began to feel truly lightheaded, further exhausted by the excitement and confusion in his weakened state.

"I am a poor nurse at the best of times," the stranger explained, no longer flippant and teasing, but increasingly weary with the required amount of reprimanding and explanation, "and though I'm sure you have quite a tale to tell and quite an adventure to return to, you truly shall meet the divines early if you continue to muck about like this."

With a forceful tear of the thin gauze, he ignored the warrior's startled groans of protest at being subjected to further more poking and prodding and began to slip the fresh bandage under his back, further disregarding the wary, nearly frightened recoiling of the warrior as he momentarily wrapped his arms across his exposed torso in order to properly situate the bindings.

"I realize your memories may be a bit foggy, but that arrow you took was barbed, and what a nasty little bit of business that was. For all we know, it was smeared in piss or dung. I've given you what few helpful antidotes and remedies I possess, but my charity only goes so far. You look only a few steps from death's door as it stands and I haven't the means to rebind all of your wounds," he finally continued to chastise, wrapping the bandage against the freshly opened wound with a hint of annoyance as he spoke through grit teeth, "so if you seek to awaken in the morn, you'll stop all this thrashing about. If this woman of yours truly exists and is not some sickly, hallucinatory babbling from a dying man, then she must wait. You can barely raise your head from the table, you will not even make it past the door."

With a satisfied grunt, the stranger ripped the last of the gauze, splitting it in half in order to tie the frayed ends into a simple knot at the young knight's side. Though the fresh blood had stained the bandages, the stain had at last halted its advanced, remaining merely a small patch, already drying into the thin fabric. The warrior's breathing was heavy, his face contorted in pain and anxiety as every lungful stressed his wounds. But he remained upon the table, sweating and struggling to breathe, but at rest with no further resistance.

With a bemused shake of his head, the stranger paced to the only other small table within the cabin, quickly dunking a tattered cloth into a bucket of chilled water. With a quick ring, he folded the scrap of cloth and returned to the warrior's side, methodically dabbing at the pooling sweat on the boy's face and neck.

Mordistair sighed in relief, tilting his head toward the cool cloth, eager for what little comfort it offered him. The nausea was becoming increasingly unbearable and he wanted nothing more than to drift off into the darkness from whence he came.

"Try to sleep, now," the stranger urged, though his patient had already begun to drift without his direction, his eyes fluttering and his breathing softening as he further relaxed.

But it was not long till the warrior began to fidget for a moment, his eyes blinking rapidly as he briefly resumed his struggle to stay awake.

"Hmm?"

The stranger pondered the warrior's efforts as he continued to sop the sweat from his brow, confused as to why the boy would seek to feel his pain and not slip into the peace and relative comfort of sleep.

With a great shudder of effort, the warrior cringed in pain and glanced to his caretaker.

"Please…" he whispered, nearly inaudible, "find…her."

With a final pained sigh, he at last relented to the pull of his exhaustion, a final plead slipping past his lips in despair and desperation.

"Please…"

The stranger sighed, content that his patient had at last fallen asleep, yet anxious at the potential string of troubles the boy could have so easily brought with him.

It had been a rash, impulsive decision to bring what was clearly a stranger from a strange land to his cabin. His morning tracking had been upset quickly with the discovery of Imperial soldiers within his woods, and the Nordic rebels they hunted. Nearly discovered by soldiers himself, caught unaware in what was an otherwise routine hunting expedition and with but moments to conceal himself, he managed to climb a nearby pine. Hidden in his perch, he had fortuitously avoided the Imperial ambush and the resulting slaughter that desecrated the forest. Impatient for the battle to draw to a close, he had nearly grown bored as he watched various groups of leather bound soldiers scuttle about beneath him.

And then the black armored warrior appeared. Though the air was frigid, it was the strange warrior's brutal expertise and finesse that had initially sent chills down his spine when he first caught sight of his skirmish. Clad in ornate ebony armor, finely detailed with delicate roses, the warrior, short in stature, seemingly so out of place in the depths of Skyrim's woods, could not help but intrigue and allure him.

He did not know the boy's purpose, nor did he understand the nature of his relationship with the Imperials. He could only surmise he was anything but a Nord, his slender frame and dark, delicate features so at odds with the usual hulking and sturdy build of the natives.

The stranger stroked his chin, cocking his head to the side as he pondered what rambling curious threads of speculation he could conjure as he stood over his patient, his mind eager for intriguing distraction.

"Perhaps you are a mercenary? You must be something more than a Stormcloak, yes? Hmm, and what of this woman? A lover perhaps?" He smiled, becoming transfixed with his own speculations as he began to craft his tale of choice, "Ah, perhaps she is the Stormcloak! A buxom beauty capable of stealing even the most merciless of sell swords hearts! And you've only agreed to fight for such poor employers out of charity for her cause. You have been trying to woo her with your talents, forgoing the pay entirely!"

He was crying out now, waving his hand above him as he imagined such romantic imagery of a swashbuckling mercenary and a doe eyed Nord. For a moment he became lost in lustful visions of a Nordic beauty, golden hair flowing in the chill air and her voluptuous figure wrapped in only the blue sash of her compatriots. But with an exaggerated sigh, he brought his hand to his heart and gazed sadly upon the sleeping warrior.

"And she is lost on the battlefield now, separated from you. Captured or killed, her state is unknown, and you long only to seek her out."

The stranger smiled, satisfied with his tale, assured he must certainly be quite close to discovering the true nature of his fallen warrior's plight.

"And yet, though a golden damsel may await my search, I'm afraid battlefields do not suit me, irritated Imperials and nettled Nords even less so."

He sighed, stretching his arms before him as he strolled to the small makeshift shelf above the crumbling fireplace in the cabin. Plucking the last remains of a stale roll from the mantle, he absentmindedly began to pop small tears of bread into his mouth, gazing out the single window as he leaned against the rough bark of the cabin wall.

"You present quite the perplexing situation, you know?" the stranger continued, conversing normally with the unresponsive body, "You obviously have all the wrong enemies and if I was smart, I would drag you right back to where I found you. But you are just a bit too much of an oddity for me to simply abandon. And even though you, quite regrettably, mind you, have not a coin to be found on your broken little body, something tells me you have a little nest egg wherever you came from."

He contemplated the possible rewards his patient would bestow upon him, golden coins, trinkets, and fineries from whatever land he hailed from.

With a heave, he pushed himself off the cabin wall, striding over to the sleeping warrior, hands on his hips as he looked him over once more, shaking his head at the fine stitching and leather detailing he had missed before.

"Just how much did this sleeve alone cost?" he muttered, daring to wonder just how opulent the warrior's residence could possibly be.

Suddenly, the warrior seized, gasping as he tossed his head aside, a momentary fit as he continued to sleep. The stranger could only surmise he was plagued by dreams and hallucinations, when the boy groaned a single word. Barely audible, but strained with grief and despair, the stranger frowned at the sudden utterance.

"Gwyn…ayne?" He replied, puzzled at the odd sound, bending over the body as if further inspection would reveal the meaning of the word.

"Hmm," he contemplated, "I fear you are dismantling my little tale."

With a beleaguered sigh, the stranger straightened and crossed his arms.

"'Gwynayne' is no Nordic name."

"Mhm…"

Gwynayne felt her body sway, her head bobbed and her shivering frame rattled as the seat beneath her jostled. Strands of hair tickled her nose and cheeks as they slid across her nipped skin in the relentless chill breeze.

"Ahh…"

With a sudden jostle, she became further pulled from her restless slumber. Her senses arousing, she grew aware of her surroundings, not yet entirely awake, but able to feel the intensifying sting of her binds at her wrists and smell the harsh and pungent sweat of surrounding bodies. With a faint groan, she at last opened her eyes, ducking her head as the morning light was too strong. Her vision hazy, she stared only at the wooden boards that her feet dangled above, noticing passing dirt and pebbles through the large cracks in the seams, the cause for the rough jostling and sudden heaves illuminated to her at last.

"A…cart?" She pondered, daring to raise her head once more to gaze upon her surroundings.

Breath hitched in her throat, her pulse nervously hastened in alarm upon noting the unfamiliar environment. With quick and panicked glances she noted she was not alone, but in the company of grim and reeking strangers, the dirt, blood, and sweat that cloaked their forms nearly choking the mountain air. With an uneasy sway, she felt her stomach lurch, queasy from the lack of proper food and the relentless perfume of her fellow travelers. She wanted desperately to lay down, but with little room, she was forced to remain upright, left with only the strangers to distract her thoughts.

Directly before her was one of the many rebels, bound in chainmail and a blue sash, stained with dirt and traces of dried blood. He stared off over his shoulder at the path before them, taking in the towering pines that lined the road. Though she did not recognize his face, and was simply one of the many blonde and hulking barbarians that had participated in her undignified imprisonment, an emerging acrimony began to rise within her, and though she held no proof she quickly imagined he had been one of the rebels that struck and beat her knight so cruelly the night before.

"Mordistair!" She suddenly recalled, nearly calling out his name with a cry.

In a panic, she quickly sought out the faces and forms of the remaining two prisoners. Across from her, sitting aside the Nord was a grimy and wretched looking peasant, with hallowed eyes and tattered rags, shivering in the cold and twitching nervously. But she paid him no mind, forgetting him almost instantaneously as she came to notice the monstrous man that sat beside her.

Hunched, his great form draped in blood stained furs, with a gag wrapped tightly across his mouth, digging into the corners of his lips to create a permanent scowl, and binds wrapped around thick armored wrists, was the very source of her recent anguish and despair. The barbarous, foul man who had brought a blade against her throat, retained her Rose Knight and kept them imprisoned, tied to a tree, helpless to the battle that followed, now sat calmly beside her.

The ire she fostered for the unknown Nord was quickly overcome by a fearsome and seething hatred for the Jarl. She noticed her breath had quickened and her pulse raced with near bloodlust as she continued to stare at the contemplative Jarl, so unaware of her presence entirely, oblivious of the misery he had so needlessly placed her in. For a moment her thoughts were overcome with desires for vengeance, a passionate longing to toss the northern Jarl from the cart, to grind his thick and disgusting throat beneath her foot and have him scream desperately for mercy against his gag, to have her fill of his mangled, smothered squeals. She wanted to see him writhe beneath her, to know what a poor choice of enemy he had picked when he had so insulted and wounded her. She wanted to feel his spine snap under her boot.

But what malice she harbored in her first moments of realizing his identity were swiftly replaced with mounting fear. He shifted in his seat, sitting straighter, his hulking form rising even higher above her own, the shadows shifting on his face in the morning light to darken his brows and eyes, deep shadows that seemed to stare down upon her, and with such imagery she could not help but recall the brutality he had unleashed before her on the battlefield, his bearish war cry and rebounding laugh at the death that surrounded him. She could not help but cower and recoil.

Despite the fear instilled by the Jarl, a sense of grief soon followed, for nowhere on the simple, ramshackle cart was her guardian to be found, and she winced in despair at the realization, gritting her teeth as she wished desperately for the Rose Knight's presence.

"Finally awake?"

Gwynayne jolted in surprise, startled by the Nord's harsh accent and sudden acknowledgement of her presence. Brows crossed and lips pursed, nearly sneering in contempt, she took a moment only to stare at the wretch before her, longing to do unto the Nord as she had wished for the Jarl bedside her. He asked the question half-heartedly, with an indifferent air as if she were merely a fellow traveler on a dull, but otherwise, uneventful carriage ride, and his casual irreverence to her state incensed her.

"I'm surprised you were caught up in all of this," he continued to dully muse, glancing between her and the surrounding woods, until finally nodding his head to the peasant at his side, "like that thief over there."

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the accused thief interjected, with biting grit, "Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

"You there," he suddenly proclaimed with a wild look, staring her down and causing her shrink away. She was unaccustomed to someone, so lowly as he, speaking with her in such a direct manner, with not a thought nor care for her station, but simply spitting whatever crude thoughts came to his mind, "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

He continued to glare at her, expecting a response. Disgusted and thoroughly repulsed by his appearance, she refused to speak with an apparent criminal and quickly became lost in her anxious thoughts. An endless torrent of new and emerging questions and worries left her nearly dizzy, overcome with anguish and concern. She struggled to remember how she came to be bound in the cart, surrounded by a regiment of Imperial soldiers, traveling along an unfamiliar road deep in the boughs of some secluded forest path.

A pulsing, throbbing welt at the base of her neck quickly illuminated the last few moments of consciousness for her, and she winced as the pain began to plague her, increasing with an aching intensity as her initial surge of adrenaline upon waking dissipated. She could remember her panicked last moments, pleading with a female soldier, desperate for someone to realize her plight and the blow that followed.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Nord came to reply, a wistful tone to his simple acknowledgement of their predicament.

With a sudden thud of his heel against the front of the cart, the carriage driver derisively called out to the prisoners, impatient and harsh.

"Shut up back there!"

For a moment no one spoke, and the thief stared awkwardly at the Jarl, cowering but curious.

"What's wrong with him?" he finally questioned, his voice low so as to not further irritate his captors.

"Watch your tongue!" the Nord rushed to chastise, snarling with nearly pious zeal, "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

"Ulfric?" the thief repeated, the pitch in his voice increasing with sudden realization, "The Jarl of Windhelm?" He turned to look once again upon the hunched and brawny form of the fearsome Nord, his face aghast as he came to further understand the peril of his predicament, "You're the leader of the rebellion… But if they captured you… Oh gods where are they taking us?"

The peasant began to panic, his sunken eyes widening as he imagined what tortuous fates awaited them.

"I don't know where we're going…" the Nord took it upon himself to answer, a faint and hopeless sigh, "but Sovngarde awaits."

"Mordistair!" Gwynayne again exclaimed in silent thought to herself. She thought only of his face as she had abandoned him, fled into the forest as he lay against the base of the pine, gripping his wound, pained and exhausted.

"Oh, Mordistair!" She wanted to cry out for the knight, and at the thought of his motionless corpse, lying lost, broken and bleeding somewhere in the frost covered undergrowth of the woods, she began to silently weep, her shoulders trembling as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I left him!" she continued to cry out in her thoughts, plagued with the final sight of his smile as he plead with her to leave him to the Imperials. So lost in her last moments with the Rose Knight, she was only barely aware of the Nord's assertions of certain death for the prisoners. Her own predicament momentarily forgotten, she thought only of her abandoned companion, simultaneously imagining his gruesome fate and willing passionately for his survival.

The Nord saw only a crying girl, naturally surmising his words had left her distraught, having forgotten entirely of her black armored guardian.

The rebel and thief continued to share an uncomfortable banter, speaking of their impending fates at the hands of the Imperials, but the young Breton caught only snippets. So consumed with despair over the unknown state of her knight, she continued only to silently cry as she brought her clasped hands, still bound, to her lips, pleading and praying for his safety. Her trembling grew into violent shudders as her tears increased, for she could only imagine him defeated, lost forever to rot into the frozen loam of the mountainside.

"General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting," a distant soldier called out.

The sudden interjection of the soldier and the mention of a headsman proved sufficient to at last pull Gwynayne from her despairing thoughts and her head raised with a start, alarmed by the seemingly sudden change of scenery and of town entrance the procession had at last reached. The snow covered boughs of the pines had been replaced with stone towers and thatched cottages and the dirt of the decrepit path had evolved into a roughly cobbled road.

"Good, let's get this over with," the General tersely replied.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh!" the thief cried out in horror and desperation, "Divines, please, help me!"

"Look at him," the Nordic rebel sneered, his lips pulled back into a harsh scowl as he stared at the distant mounted commanders, "General Tullius the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves," he spat, nose wrinkling in disgust, "I bet they had something to do with this."

Gwynayne cowered further into a reclusive hunch at the Nord's harsh words, recalling the past and dismissed warnings from her guardian as they first neared the border, soft but adamant statements of preparations for less than pleasant receptions of mer kind within the Nordic homeland. Though she knew the Nordic rebel posed the least amount of threat out of the possible dangers that awaited her, still she ducked her head in a half-hearted attempt to shuffle her tangled tresses over the tips of her chill bitten ears.

But the Nord was either ignorant or ambivalent to his fellow prisoner and continued to stare wistfully, nearly trance-like at his surroundings, eyes peeled to the cobblestone and wooden beams.

"This is Helgen," he murmured, his earlier anger stymied by arisen nostalgia and blissful memories, "I used to be sweet on a girl from here… I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

"Funny," he continued, turning his gaze the battlements and the soldiers mounted upon them, "when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Though she had never come across the small and simple village in her travels, her tears began to subside as she gazed about her, such homely surroundings had brought her an odd sort of peace, and she distracted her thoughts with nearby chickens, following their movements as they pecked and scraped at the ground, clucking and strutting about with little care for the procession that passed them by. A hound napped peacefully in the morning sun, and families stood in their doorways, fathers with grim expressions and mothers clutching children to their skirts.

"Who are they papa?" a boy cried out, watching from a simple porch, a wooden toy in hand, turning expectantly to his father at his side, "Where are they going?"

"You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why?" the child pouted, glancing back to the procession, eyes wide and beaming as he noted the array of arms and armaments, "I want to watch the soldiers!"

"Inside the house, now," his father commanded, pointing to the open doorway.

"Yes papa," the boy sulked, turning sadly to follow his father's commands, sneaking a final peak at the Imperials before disappearing into the cottage.

Her tears now only sticky trails upon her cheeks, drying in the breeze, Gwynayne swayed as the cart came at last to a halt, her attention drawn from the simple details of the village as she turned to face the display of soldiers awaiting her, and the means of their prisoners' dispatch.

"Why are we stopping?" the thief cried out in alarm, glancing wildly from one fellow prisoner to another.

"Move it!" an Imperial cried out to a collection of prisoners on the earlier arrived cart.

"Why do you think?" the rebel retorted, nearly mocking in tone. With a heave, he stood, rounding his shoulders in preparation, and glanced down to the trembling girl, her skin drained of all color and struggling to breathe. As his towering form cloaked her in shadow she fearfully lifted her head upwards to see him glancing down upon her, muttering his final response, "End of the line."

"You…are alone today?"

Mordistair sat the simple stool down at the boy's bedside, smiling fondly toward the swaddled and cocooned child as he took his seat. It was a bit too tall for his needs, and the sheepish knight felt awkward towering over the resting prince below. He remedied the arrangement as best he could with hunched shoulders and a causal, if not inelegantly pitched lean onto his raised knees, but continued to smile all the same.

"Your sister is engaged in a fitting at the moment, a task I am hopelessly unqualified to assist with," he blithely explained, unable to stifle a small bit of tittering at the thought of his irate and vexed charge he had quite eagerly abandoned, alone to face the whims of her nursemaid and royal dressmaker, "I hope not to be too much of a disappointment, though, your highness. I simply heard you were awake and thought to take advantage of this good fortune."

"Ah!" the young prince exclaimed, though his voice was weak and emerged merely as an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head weakly in protest before continuing, "N-n-no! You could never be a disappointment, Sir Ashwing! I…I merely thought it unusual, the two of you…separate."

Mordistair could not help but smile affectionately at the boy's flustered state, enamored with the vibrant blush that crossed the young prince's cheeks. Just as his sister, he was quick to misinterpret simple teasing as legitimate complaint and disappointment.

"Surely the both of us have seen you privately," the Rose Knight pondered, his head cocked to the side in thought, "it cannot be so odd an occurrence?"

The young boy took but a moment to think over the many visits he had received and quickly came to his conclusion, removing his arms from the binding blankets that covered his frail form to smooth the topmost quilt in contemplation.

"Only when Gwynii was ill with fever, and you visited alone to tell me such, so I would not worry over her absence."

He nodded his head resolutely, his twisted curls of mouse brown tresses swaying above his cheeks as he bobbed.

Mordistair raised his brows in faint surprise, though it was ultimately of little concern to him, he was curious.

"And she has never visited you alone?"

The prince laughed feebly, his hand raised to clutch his chest at the effort, sending the knight into a near panic as he straightened in his seat ready to leap to his side, "You have never let her! She has tried to visit me past dark when the nurse and servants were asleep, but you always were so quick to catch her!" He smiled at the memories of his sister's many plans gone awry, of all her failed attempts to steal a mere hour of private conversation with her brother, and of the irritable and somnolent knight that was always soon to follow, the two hopelessly cross with the other and bickering over his bedside, debating what was and what was never to be reasonable and appropriate hours for visits.

"Ah…yes, I suppose you are right," Mordistair acknowledged self-consciously, unsure of what to make of the revelation.

"Father says you are thick!" The prince boldly proclaimed, clutching his quilt as he beamed at the young knight, apparently proud to have such a seeming abundance of knowledge concerning the matter passed on from his father.

It was a sudden declaration and for a brief moment, Mordistair hadn't the faintest notion on how to reply to such a peculiar claim.

"Ah…I beg your pardon, your highness?" Mordistair responded, confused and unable to imagine the king insulting him in such crude terms, resorting to laugh softly, nervously at what must have been a miscommunication.

"Oh…um, thick, ahh…thick, hmm…" the prince struggled to continue, his eyes darting side to side in his embarrassment over his botched statement, the familiar blush returning once more to his cheeks, vibrant and deep, which he attempted to hide with his curls.

"Thieves!" he suddenly proclaimed, turning once again to smile at the knight, "Yes, father laughs and says you two are 'thick as thieves'." With a determined nod, his meaning at last revealed, the young prince struggled to lift his resting frame higher into a seated position on the bed, eager to truly see and speak with the Rose Knight on far more equal terms.

"Ah!" Mordistair was quick to jump from his stool, reaching out with nervous and grasping hands for the boy, "Your highness! Please, do not strain yourself, you've only just recovered –"

Though flush from the exertion, his head weakly sagging to rest on his shoulder and out of breath, the boy raised a quivering hand to halt the knight's worried advance as he struggled to regain a sense of composure.

"I…I am fine…Sir Ashwing. Please…give me only…a small moment...please."

The prince seemed adamant to sit as such, enduring what was clearly a painful position and difficulty in breathing in order to do so. Mordistair remained standing at the boy's side, hovering with arms still raised in concerned fright for the prince's failing health, ready to catch him should he slump or seize, his faint whimpers of discomfort growing unbearable to listen to.

"What did he mean?" the prince eventually asked, voice still breathy, but at last recovered from his trial, "Father had so much to say, I hadn't the opportunity to ask."

"You've never heard the saying?" Mordistair asked, resuming his seat with hesitation, hands still at the ready to collect and straighten the boy if necessary.

The prince only shook his head.

"Well, it is simply used to distinguish those who spend a good deal of time with one another," he could not help but laugh, the simplicity of the question was an unexpected departure from the norm, so used was he too complicated discussions on the inner workings of ballistae and siege warfare, or the history of various sword fighting techniques posed by the ever curious prince, "it only means two people are very good friends."

"I…I see."

The boy looked wistfully ahead, toward the tapestry that covered the far wall, a thread born tale of a long dead Rose Knight of Wayrest, one of his few possessions he regarded as precious. What little sun that spilt through the window became caught in the single silver thread that bordered the knight's sword, so that for a moment it glimmered and shone, raised valiantly above the knight's head.

The prince sighed and his posture sagged.

Mordistair wondered as to the context of the possible conversation that would require terming the time spent with his charge in such a manner, but thought not to pester the young boy with such a needless line of questions as he seemed to be growing fatigued.

"Have you grown tired, your highness? Shall I leave you to rest?"

"No, please don't leave just yet!" the boy was quick to assuage, a momentary flash of fear crossing his features as he reached out weakly for the knight at his side. "You have only just arrived…and I am not tired at all! Ah…see," he broke into a wide toothed grin, smiling from cheek to cheek as he attempted to prove his strength.

Entirely charmed by the effort, the Rose Knight simply laughed, nodding his head as he relented to the prince's pleas.

"Very well, I have no possible means of countering such an adamant retort."

For a moment there was only contented silence as the young prince smiled, but the peaceful hush quickly reminded the boy of his absent companion, whom he was still expecting to rush through the doors at any moment, perhaps only half dressed, pins sticking out of her hemline and eager to share the ordeals of her great escape.

"You said Gwynii was having a fitting?"

"Hmm," Mordistair lazily responded, caught lost in his own thoughts, only barley registering the question, "oh, yes. She has done her very best to postpone such prodding and poking, but her procrastination could no longer be suffered by our poor, old Morgolda. The great feast is but a week from yesterday now, and the nursemaid has been at her wit's ends in attempting to finish her preparations. And the dressmaker," he began to shake his head in sympathy, "the poor old man seemed near tears at the mention of the deadline."

"Shall you attend?"

"Of course!" he chuckled in response, "I couldn't very well disrespect your father nor my order by avoiding such an event. I shall have to be present at the great hunt as well, for your sister has made it quite clear she will be participating…to what effect and purpose I haven't the slightest clue," he mused, shaking his head in preparatory anxiety for the coming challenge, "I imagine most everyone will be in attendance though, a great many lords and ladies from the neighboring kingdoms have been invited to attend as well, not merely our own court."

The prince looked increasingly pained as the knight explained, his eyes downcast and lips pressed in disappointment.

"I shall not be present," he stated plainly, tersely, clutching his quilt as he contemplated the grand banquet and following dances, the colorful guests and music that was sure to delight all. The mere thought of honeyed treats and colored sugar was enough to make him sink further into his pillows in a depressed stupor.

Mordistair realized too late how long he had spoken of the grand event, and desperately sought another topic to distract the prince.

He chuckled nervously, trying his best to keep the mood light and his diversion natural, "If your sister has her way she shall not be in attendance for very long, either. I have no doubt she will steal away at some point, very likely she will make her way to you, to mock the guests and courtiers."

"No…" the disheartened child sighed, "She will wish to pull her pranks on the guests…and she will wish to taunt Agroryan. She has been devising such a scheme for him," he added despondently, still wistful and morose.

Mordistair sighed in distress, rubbing his temple in exasperation at the notion, groaning internally at the possibilities his lady could have devised for her eldest brother, attempts that were sure to backfire and bring misery unto her tenfold.

"I think Agroryan knows," the boy continued, twiddling the fabric between his fingers, quiet and hesitant to speak.

"Hmm?"

Mordistair's interest was immediately piqued and he grew alarmed.

"How would you know that?" he asked suspiciously, apprehensive for the response.

"He…" the prince paused, nervously, further continuing to avoid eye contact with the knight as he twisted his quilt about his finger, "he told me. He said Gwynii had something planned for him at the feast, but that he had a much better trick prepared, one that the guests would be speaking of for years to come."

Mordistair nearly broke out into a cold sweat at the boy's reply, and he struggled to keep a calm composure as he sought for further information.

"Prince Agroryan has spoken to you?"

"Mhm. He has visited me three times now over the past few weeks. I almost did not recognize him the first time, it had been so long –"

"Why have you said nothing of this?" Mordistair demanded, the latest revelation wracking his thoughts with distress.

The boy grew frightened at the sudden outburst from the knight, and shrunk against his many pillows, a timid blush returning to his cheeks and nose.

"He…he said not to speak of his visits. He…he sits on my legs…when he tells me not to speak of his time here, even if I tell him how much it hurts. He bends down to look at me, and…" the prince was nearly at the edge of tears as Mordistair could only stare on in horror at the recounting of the eldest prince's visits. An old and lingering memory of fear that resided deep within beginning to resurface as the prince provided further details, "…he holds my chin in his hand, but too tightly...he always digs his nails –"

He stopped abruptly, his small frame trembling, and turned to look timidly at the Rose Knight.

"He frightens me."

Mordistair did not know how best to respond, not desiring to further terrorize the prince with another exclamation.

"Please watch over Gwynii," the boy finally pleaded, "I don't know what Agroryan has planned, but I'm sure it isn't nice. She will not listen to me."

Mordistair nearly snorted in contempt for his charge's pigheadedness, shaking his head as he continued to mull over the admissions of the prince's secret visitor.

"My lady takes great pride in discounting every remark of advice I have every felt necessary to provide," he sighed in exasperation, "if she will not listen to one as wise as you, I'm not sure I shall fare much better."

Though the knight had intended to compliment the boy and bring a touch of levity to their conversation, the boy only grew more distressed, gripping his quilt ever closer.

"I shall not allow her to leave my sight during the festivities, your highness, I promise you," the knight sought quickly to assure upon noting the boy's increased agitation, "You need not worry for her safety."

The prince nodded tentatively, not entirely convinced.

"And…your highness?" the knight hesitantly continued, placing a hand gingerly at the boy's side, careful not to touch him, but seeking to give what comfort he could, "Though he may frighten you, and convince you not to do so…you must tell me if he visits you again. Please promise me you will?"

The boy bit his lip in contemplation, thinking only of the softly cooed threats and firm grip of his eldest sibling.

"What if Agroryan finds out?" he whispered, frightened, eyes wide as he imagined the possible reactions to such betrayal.

"Then he shall have me to deal with," Mordistair guaranteed, stern, his voice unwavering.

Though he spoke confidently, smiling assuredly and strongly for the young prince, the knight knew his promise of protection could only go so far. To make accusations against the heir to his King's throne, much less to take up arms against him, would only end poorly for both he and the siblings he sought to protect. His own charge's countless bruises and broken bones could never be avenged, but merely tolerated. Despite his desire to draw his blade and provide true defense, Mordistair could only ever take a blow meant for his lady, a momentary pause for the following blow that would find its mark.

He wondered if the prince realized this, as he stared off into the distance, transfixed, his thoughts hidden.

"Is something the matter, your highness?"

"What a ridiculous question."

The Rose Knight's breathe quickened in his sleep. He cried out hesitantly as he tossed his head on the worn wooden table, desperate for aid. His hand twitched, eager for his ebony sword as his memory began to darken, twisting shape into a merciless nightmare.

"I am dead, what more could be the matter? Is that not enough suffering? I died with no thick thief at my side. Just as Gwynii will. You failed to protect me and you failed to protect Gwynii."

The prince's chamber was suddenly empty, save for the boy in his bed. Mordistair was on his feet standing over the child, the stool disappeared. Though the voice was the same, light and airy, it somehow also rang sharp and biting.

"Your…highness," he pleaded, dropping to his knees, staring at the cold stone floor, his voice nearly a whisper as his worst fears and harshest criticisms were espoused by the tender and innocent prince, a boy with nary a harsh word to speak in life. Tears came to his eyes as he dared to gaze up at the child, but only the remains of a rotting corpse now sat in the prince's bed, staring down at him with putrid, unblinking eyes.

Mordistair cried out, unable to further tolerate facing such direct evidence of his failings. He continued to thrash about on the table, his breathing ragged and desperate. But no relief was to be had and the twisted image of the rotting prince disappeared into a yet more chilling visage of the battlefield.

There was only a faint crescent moon, and little light was to be had, though it seemed to collect in the center of the clearing to a lone form, hidden in the grass. Mordistair called out, turning about in place as he took in his surroundings. Shadows seemed to draw nearer and he could not help but stumble toward the faint light illuminating the hidden figure.

It lay unmoving, though other bodies, long dead, lay strewn in haphazard fashion in paths leading to the illuminated form. The air was thick with the smell of death and the young knight feared stepping further into the center of the woodland clearing. He had noted the array of blue sashes and fur cloaks, of red horsehair and leather armor that swathed the rotting corpses and he broke out in a chilling sweat, stumbling forward and doing his best to dodge the bodies. At last in the nearly lightless night he spotted the fluttering white fabric, gauzy and ethereal in the faint chill breeze.

He nearly halted, so overcome with dread, his breath hitched in his throat. It was only when a sudden gust of winter wind blew through the clearing pulling thin tresses of pale white hair into the sky that he broke into a desperate dash, though still unable to give a name to his fear.

He pumped his armored limbs across the grassy clearing, leaping over the few remaining bodies that littered his path until at last he arrived at her side.

His breathe and pulse alike quickened. Sweat pooled at his brow and slid down his temples, he managed a series of faint groans and his head tossed from side to side as he writhed.

Falling to his knees, he remained silent, still yet to affirm the single name he could not help but think ceaselessly. The body was small and face down in the frozen earth, covered only in the remains of the tattered and bloody dress. Wild, white hair was tangled about the limbs and stray strands danced on the circling breeze. With a nearly endless moment of hesitation, Mordistair finally reached out to turn the body about, cradling it gently in his arms.

"Just how many times shall you fail, Sir Ashwing?" the voice of the prince suddenly called out, no longer soft and timid, but growling and twisted.

With mounting terror, the knight lifted his head, shaking and still clutching the yet unrevealed form, only partially lifted from the ground.

The prince's corpse stood directly before him, his decaying eyes still staring down at him, unblinking and expressionless.

Tears spilling over, sliding down his cheeks and neck, he watched in horror as the shambling remains of the boy knelt beside the body. With a small and frail hand he gently smoothed the tangled tresses of pale hair, a fleeting moment of tender adoration. Mordistair stared on silently, unable to move, capable only of shedding tears in silence.

The prince's head suddenly snapped forward, mere inches form Mordistair's own. To see such corrosion, such putrefaction brought to the once gentle and youthful, caused the knight's stomach to lurch and he struggled to breathe.

With silent horror, he could only watch as the small hands of the rotting prince reached for the body still in his arms.

"You fail even to acknowledge your failure."

And with no further debate, the boy, with strength he never possessed in life, turned the corpse about, flipping the hair away from the pale and lifeless face of his sister.

Mordistair's weak groans and cries erupted suddenly into a truly tortured, howling wail, a strangled plea that quelled only as fever consumed him and his visions were lost darkness.