Author's Note: Augh, I wanted to be faster with my updates, sorry again for the delay. Thankfully, the opening scene is nearly done with, so it won't feel like pulling teeth for much longer now. I really don't care much for the opening script, but I tried to stay as faithful as possible. For the next update I really am going to attempt to rewrite at least one if not both of the remaining chapters and try to write a new chapter as well, I have a bit of extra time on my hands now, so I may actually be able to come through on that promise. In any event, I want to thank everyone who has followed/faved and reviewed so far, it really means a lot! Please continue to let me know what you think, good or bad, so I can improve (especially in terms of chapter length, I know this is longest one so far).
Chapter Eight
To the Block, Through the Keep
The cart began to jostle as the prisoners rose to their feet, splintering boards crackling and sagging under their weight as they prepared to dismount. Eyes glazed, dull and vacant, and breath still, the trembling Breton stared at the backs of the Nords that filed out before her. Still seated, she swayed, nauseous and faint, unable to contemplate the ensuing absurdity that surrounded her. She could not even come to think of being executed so simply, in an unheard of, squalid, little village, for equally unheard of, squalid, little people. The thought, the very notion of such and undignified conclusion, would not form, and her mind was blank, the sights and sounds around her faint and unrecognizable, nothing more than simple colors and tones. She knew, for all her pain and discomfort that plagued her, she was not merely dreaming, but she remained disconnected from her body, her limbs unimaginably heavy with dread and anxious trepidation.
It was only a day ago that she and her knight were traveling freely through the southern holds, tired and missing their horses and what supplies they bore, but otherwise at peace, making their way through the hush forests and mountain trails of the borderland. They spoke of what they envisioned of Falkreath and Whiterun, of the grand halls and winding streets, shouting vendors and unique treats. The Rose Knight concerned himself with their funds, yet unseen bandits and dangers on the roads ahead and in the abandoned towers that dotted the landscape, and their inescapable misfortune in regards to locating safe, much less comfortable lodgings on any regular basis, endlessly musing over which path, which direction was sure to lead them to their destination. And she, gleefully, merrily even, ignored his ceaseless anxiety. Concerned only with the scenery and pleasant vistas that surrounded them, and for the fresh air that filled her lungs, she nearly skipped across the forest paths, humming the latest songs of the bards she had recently taken too, despite their quaint simplicity.
Now the Rose Knight was forever lost to her, sacrificed for her want of honeyed treats and tavern songs.
As the northern Jarl moved to leap from the cart, she had no choice but to rise herself, so as to follow. Her pulse beat wildly as she came to stand, she could feel the nearly incapacitating rush of blood from her head as she stood unsteadily from her seat. The fierce throbbing of her pulse quickly overwhelmed her ability to think, to consider any thoughts beyond shuffling her feet forward and staying upright, however unable she was to stop her nearly violent trembling and strangled, gasping breath. Startled by the sudden commands of the surrounding soldiers, irritated at the slow pace of the dismounting prisoners, Gwynayne whimpered, nearly reaching out for the thief before her, quivering nearly as frantically as she. He turned about, seeking out aid and mercy that was never to arrive, a wild look in his eyes like a caged animal, ready to employ any means necessary to be free of its cage.
Waving his arms in exclamation, he cried out to any who would listen, "You've got to tell them we weren't with you! This is a mistake!" But with no response to his plea, he had no choice but to leap from the cart, hunched and cowering, his eyes darting as he trembled nervously.
Gwynayne nearly tripped from the cart as she first caught sight of the executioner and the block through the growing throng of pooling prisoners, a simple and innocent basket lying in wait. Her legs buckled as she grew increasingly faint with panic, still unable to comprehend the manner and means of her impending fate, her breath erratic as she attempted to straighten from her inelegant landing to the cobblestone road. She felt a rush of air as the bulky Nord landed beside her, brushing wordlessly past to stand behind the thief.
The prisoners now finally assembled, the female captain stepped forward, whom Gwynayne could not help but quickly recognize as the proud Redguard that had boasted over the Jarl upon his surrender. It was the voice she recalled first, the echoing, rebounding command and seeping pride, a voice demanding to be heard and obeyed.
"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!"
The Nord sneered, his blonde tresses swaying as he mocked the Imperials before him, "Empire loves their damned lists." Though he appeared openly, brazenly irritated with the state of affairs, the Nord seemed otherwise at ease, accepting of the situation, as did nearly all of his comrades. Gwynayne could only stare in increasing alarm and unmitigated bewilderment at the calm and collected manner of her fellow prisoners, and felt only further pulled into a backwards and dreamlike state.
The legionnaires ignored the remark, unhindered by the Stormcloak's artless jeer. Without unnecessary pause so as to further rankle his commanders, an auburn Nord stepped forth with a small ream of rough parchment, looking out sternly over the collection of prisoners as he readied to begin calling the first of the names.
His voice steady and stern, unaffected by the infamous reputation of his first prisoner, he called forth the rebellious bear of the northern hold, "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
The Jarl took no pause before joining his fellow comrades in the growing array of prisoners before the block, his steps sure as they began to part around him. All were silent, save for the brawny Nord that traveled with him. With a reverent nod, he murmured his parting to his Jarl.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."
Unimpressed by the prestige of the affair, the soldier continued, eyes trailing further down the list as he dully called out the last remaining prisoners to accompany Gwynayne on the cart ride.
"Ralof of Riverwood, Lokir of Rorikstead."
"No!" The thief's cries of injustice were immediate upon hearing his name, spinning about in a frenetic panic as he once more waved his arms in alarm to plead his case, "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"
Nearly tripping over his bandaged feet as he continued to spin in place, seeking aid of any kind from imprisoned or imprisoners alike, he gave a final cry of desperation before he bolted past the captain and her Nordic comrade. He ran awkwardly, arms moving stiffly from side to side as his hands were still bound and he clumsily sprinted across the cobblestone, his erratic and panicked breath a mist that formed in the cold winter air behind him.
"Halt!" the Redguard called out, adamant, but ultimately disinterested in whether her order was obeyed by the insignificant peasant.
The thief was panting now, his limbs stiff from the ride and he struggled to cry out.
"You're not going to kill me!" he exclaimed, nearly confident, nearly excited at the thought of possible escape.
"Archers!" the captain commanded, harsh and domineering, but with ultimate dispassion for such a meaningless distraction.
With no desire to offer a second warning, the captain raised her arm to solicit those under her command, eager to be done with matter. Without wasting a moment, the first soldier released his volley, only paces from his target, and the thief fell to the road with a cry, his body scraping against the rough stone from his inertia before coming to rest awkwardly at the base of the road's single turn, only a handful of simple homes passed in his attempt to flee.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the captain called out, muscles tense and taut as she clenched her fists, her patience nearly exhausted from the unnecessary displays of the rabble.
The townspeople who remained in the doorways watched in silence, the Nordic prisoners made no movements and gave no retaliation. No soldiers left their positions to collect the thief, and his body remained, isolated upon the simple cobbled road.
Standing alone, trembling ceaselessly in the chill breeze as she pressed clasped hands close to her chest, Gwynayne struggled to weep in silence, her eyes and nose wet and dripping. The legionnaires once again turned back to face the remaining Breton. Though the Redguard stared tiresomely upon the girl, the auburn Nord tilted his head, a single brow cocked in growing confusion. For a moment he simply stared at her, his eyes darting quickly over her small form.
Though she had the ears of merfolk, the pointed tips just barley poking through the tangled mess of white hair, her features were Breton, delicate and small. Her eyes were dark and round, and her skin pale. Her hair was wild and unkempt, hopelessly tangled and matted with mud and blood. The tips of pine needs and dead leaves were adhered to her tresses and strands began to cling to the tears running down her cheeks. What must have once been a fine dress, pale and delicate, now lay in shredded and sullied tatters upon her form, as caked in blood and dirt as her hair. Bruises and welts could be seen where the fabric lay torn.
Though he had come to hear of a mage's attack on his comrade, the soldier could not help but stare, perplexed and sympathetic to what he was coming to believe was a mistake of some sort. The girl before him was barley standing, clearly a traveler of some sort, and with crossed brows of concern, he began to wonder of her age.
"You there," he called out at last, soft but firm in his directive, "Step forward. Who are you?"
Gwynayne felt increasingly faint as she shuffled forward, her eyes continued to swell with tears and she could not help but feel weak in the knees. She hadn't a voice to reply nor the mind to come up with a response. Sniffling, pale tresses falling over her shoulders as she began to cower in panic, she recalled the knight's repetitive warnings, unendingly reinforced as they had first neared the Markarth hold.
"There should be no need for names, my lady, not yours in any case, until we reach the college. I can't imagine we shall run into any familiar faces here, nor any Bretons of Wayrest, but remain cautious when speaking in larger cities and holds. Do not give your name and do not speak of Wayrest. We are simply travelers and nothing more. If a conversation must be had, then I shall speak."
Struggling to breathe steadily through her tears, she at last turned to gaze upon the Imperials, shaking her head in fear as she continued to weep.
"Your name!" the Redguard called out, quickly growing irritated.
"M-m-Mor-Morse-Morsephona," she timidly mumbled, startled at the soldier's outrage. With no time to contemplate an alias, she gave her mother's name. It was not a name that often surfaced in her thoughts, but it was all that would emerge in her fright.
The legionnaire's brows furled deeper in confusion as he repeatedly dragged his finger along the list of names. Lips parting as his hesitation grew, he finally turned to the captain at his side, his voice earnest, nearly airy in relief, as he sought to make right what was clearly a mistake.
"Captain, she's not on the list."
"Forget the list," the Redguard ordered, waving her hand impatiently, her irritable mood and impatience only increasing as the demands for protocol carried on, "She goes to the block."
Though unable to question his superior's directive, the soldier clenched the list as he gazed down upon the trembling figure before him, watching as her red and swollen eyes darted from his captain to him, sniffling ceaselessly to quell an unending torrent of tears. Sighing quietly only to himself, his lips pressed taught in acceptance, struggling to relinquish his concerns, he was unwilling to think more of sending a young girl to an executioner's block.
"By your orders, Captain," he nodded, his expression grim but compliant, before turning to face the trembling Breton once more, nearly whispering his condolences, "I'm sorry."
"We'll make sure…" he attempted to give some assurance that her remains would be returned to High Rock, but could not bring himself to speak of death to the girl before him, his thoughts continuously turning as he sought desperately to ignore her tears and cease his contemplations of her age. For a moment he caught sight of one of the village children, peeking out from the safety of their mother's skirts as they tried for only a moment to catch sight of the coming execution. Eyes open with wonder, they stared upon the girl, scarcely taller than they, until shooed from the doorway, scolded and harassed until they disappeared once more into the simple hut.
"Please," the Breton came to whisper at last, barely audible, merely a desperate gasp as she wiped her nose and eyes with back of her hand. She could still feel the throbbing ache of her reward for pleading for mercy earlier, and could now only bring herself to whimper, afraid of further cruel retaliation, but unable to merely comply in silence.
"P-p-please," she cried out softly again, blinking back fresh tears and nearly falling to her knees. She shut her eyes, hunched as she called out desperately to those who would aid her.
"Papa! Please, Papa, I want to go home! Oh, Mordistair, please, take me home! Please, please, please, please…" she continued to shake with each plead, her silent cries unheard. For a moment she sought to ease her terror with thoughts of where she would give most anything to be now, perhaps wrapped in a tavern's blankets, at peace sleeping with her knight nearby, the smell of freshly cooked sausage and warm, buttered rolls filling the inn. She wished to see the stone walls, tapestry covered and warm with candlelight, of Wayrest's castle, to hear the calls of her father, her brother, to hear any familiar voice, even that of her nursemaid. She held herself as she wept, unable to come to terms with the realization she would never hear their voices, nor see their faces ever again.
"Enough of this," the Redguard spat, entirely finished with waiting for her comrade to direct the final prisoner to the block, and with a harsh shove she wrenched the girl forward, sending her nearly toppling to the ground as she thrust her into the waiting horde of Nords.
Gwynayne could not bring herself to look upon the black cloaked executioner, nor his block, and stared only at the ground through hazy, tear filled eyes as she struggled not to vomit, taking short gasping breathes as she swayed, returned to her hunched position as she continued to further panic.
The Imperials called out to their prisoners, but she could not focus on their voices and simply noted the abstract tones and notes of their shouts, of the replying shouts of the Nords that surrounded her. For a moment she believed to feel a great tremble in the air, soaking into the very ground she stood upon, but the moment was fleeting and the unfocused shouts and retaliations of those around her returned.
Shadows shifted before her as one of the prisoners strode forth. Curling further upon herself, her hands awkwardly clutching her chest as she struggled to breathe, she could not help but note the sickening thud of the executioner's axe as it made contact with the wood of the block, followed by the soft shuffle of the basket.
"Next, the Breton!" the cruel Redguard called out, impatient and growing ever more irritated with the pace of the execution.
Gwynayne couldn't be sure, but she thought through the fog of her mounting terror and now galloping pulse, throbbing in her ears and pulsating behind her eyes, she heard the call for a Breton. Struggling to stay upright and hold back her nausea, she felt the gaze of her fellow prisoners and at last brought herself to look upon the wooden block before her.
Never had she seen such a horrifying sight, not even upon the battlefield she had found herself only hours before. In the midst of a grim silence stood a waiting headsman, swathed in black and grim furs, brandishing his tool, still glistening and soiled from its previous task. Beneath him, a simple wooden block, it too soiled with the blood of the first Nord, who now lay headless and disgracefully slumped, hands still bound, shoved only just aside her waiting place. In the panic of the morning battle, she had only caught fleeting glimpses, however terrifying, of the glaring wounds and exposed flesh of the fallen, seeping with blood still freshly beating. But the beheaded Nord was exposed in nearly peaceful exhibition, on display for all to see and contemplate.
She had lost count of the moments she spent staring at the exposed flesh, unaware of the nearly asphyxiated, gagging, gasps that escaped her throat as she struggled to breathe. With her first timid step she again began to weep, coming to understand there was no further delay or rebuttal to be had, and with her second the very air again shuddered with a distant, unnatural cry.
"There it is again, did you hear that?" the auburn Nord called out, his nervous panic becoming more insistent.
His captain grit her teeth, appearing ready to begin dragging bodies to the block herself.
"I said," she seethed, clenching her fists, "next prisoner!"
With a last regretful, nearly ashamed glance to the girl that stood trembling now just beneath him, the soldier turned his head, ushering her forward with a raised hand, his instruction soft, nearly a sigh.
"To the block prisoner, nice and easy."
Once again, all was silent as the Breton began to shuffle forth, only faint sniffles and hiccups to be heard by the headsman and guards closest to her. Dust was kicked into the air as her dress, tattered and blood soaked, trailed behind her in torn strips along the cobblestone road, what was left of the lace now only mangled and twisted threads barley attached to her hemline snaking past the feet of the remaining Nordic prisoners as she passed them on her final march.
With every step closer to the block her shoulders quaked furthermore, until finally, between the headsman and his first victim, she was shaking uncontrollably, her cries now heard by all. The sight was becoming increasingly difficult for the auburn soldier to bear witness too, and as his captain forced the girl to her knees with her boot, he turned aside and grimaced.
Though every fiber of her being wanted to keep her neck from ever making contact with the cold, drying blood of the previous Nord, Gwynayne cried out in fright as she felt the heel of a soldier's leather boot shove her neck downward, the impact bringing her to choke as she continued to cry. As she noted to shifting shadows of the headsman, preparing the axe, she could only think of the names of those she longed for. In nothing less than a prayer, she repeated their names, crying out for her father, her brother, and her lost knight.
With a final shift in his stance as the headsman raised his axe, a great black form emerged from the high tree line of the mountain range above them. So great was its size, that for a moment it blotted out the sun and a shadow was cast upon the small village. The sudden shift in light caught the Breton's attention, despite her former overwhelming fear, and she turned to look to the skies above.
Unable to give name to the back intruder for all her shattered nerves and fresh rush of adrenaline, Gwynayne merely stared, dumbfounded, her tears brought to momentary pause.
Exclaiming what was assuredly passing through the thoughts of all, the auburn Nord gripped the hilt of his sword, his previous nervousness finally proven necessary, as he cried out, "What in Oblivion is that?"
"Sentries!" the captain commanded, circling about to follow the astounded gazes of her comrades, "What do you see?"
Those under her command were eager to supply such information, both those near her, stationed on the roadway and those on the walls pointed to the sky, a cacophony of panicked shouts echoing through the village.
"It's in the clouds!" one sentry shouted, reaching for his weapon as he pointed above, "Dragon!" another called out, reaching for hers, notching a bow.
With no further display of its aerial might, the great black beast spread forth its wings to slow its descent. With a thunderous clap that shook the village and sent birds screaming for the skies, it landed on the tallest keep tower, bricks and stones sent tumbling to the roadside as a fresh plume of dust rose in the creature's wake. Its claws dug into the tower, its wings wrapped around the structure nearly in embrace as it purveyed its surroundings, taking only a moment to observe the now scattering townsfolk and shouting soldiers, mere specks beneath its great form.
The creature reared its head, the thick scales snapping and cracking as they shifted, and it lifted itself high above the tower. Gwynayne could hardly breathe as it began to open its mouth, rows of thick and pointed teeth visible to all below, but it was with its first great, thunderous roar that she became truly paralyzed. The air around her seemed nearly electric, a feeling akin to the sensation her shock spells would often leave and the very skies above became violent with thickening, swirling clouds. She was overcome by intense waves of the beast's breath, hot and rank with the smell of long decayed flesh and blood. It was sulfuric and overwhelming, and again she thought she would faint. The creature roared once more, directing its cry to the town and no longer the skies, and the headsman, shouting in terror, was forced back, stumbling with his axe out of her view as she remained motionless, fixated helplessly on the great beast.
Her pulse throbbing in her ears, unable to focus on anything but the horned creature above her, she could only faintly recognize the cries of the soldiers, shepherding the villagers away from the beast. Head still resting on the block, she struggled to breathe as the scaled creature turned its gaze upon her. Though it was for only a moment, it seemed to regard her, its eye narrowing before it opened its jaws once more to roar, the full force of its keel rolling directly upon her in successive waves of great sulfuric assaults that sent her tumbling from her prostate position, rolling helplessly to the feet of a nearby prisoner.
With a sudden heave, her bound arms were nearly wrenched from her shoulders as a Nord lifted her from the ground, pulling her seamlessly into a run, yelling out as she began to struggle, "Come on, the gods won't give us another chance! This way!"
She could barely keep pace with the prisoner, and she cried out in pain and fright as she was pulled along by her wrists, tripping ceaselessly on the frayed hem of her dress. But her cries grew into shrieks as torrents of fire, blistering and wild, began to rain down from above. In only a matter of seconds, the village was consumed by fresh flames, a steady deluge of crackling fire pouring onto the stone walls and wooden huts amidst thunderous cries from the beast that now soared above. It was as if a contingent of battle mages had suddenly attacked, for a seemingly endless barrage of fireballs pelted the already desecrated town, originating from all directions as they withered homes and shattered stone walls. The air had become nearly unbreathable, sweltering and thick with the smell of ash and molten brimstone. Gwynayne's eyes began to water in pain, rather than fear, and she continued to stumble behind the Nord, unable to see, breathe, or understand what had befallen her.
With a last sudden heave, she was led into a watch tower, one of the few structures left standing. The Nord pulled her forward and roughly shoved her into the small throng of escaped prisoners as he turned to bolt the door behind them.
Running his hand over his face, smearing the sweat and fresh ash down to his neck as he attempt to catch his breath, he turned to take in his surroundings, attempting to come to terms with the outlandish situation he and his comrades now found themselves forced to face. His commander stood to his side, his binds already cut and pulling the gag from his mouth in contempt, balling it in his hands and throwing it to the ground. A handful of Nords were huddled against the far wall by the base of the tower stairs, some dead, others tending to their wounds as they stared in awe and worry at the thunderous roars from outside the tower walls.
"Jarl Ulfric," he at last called out nervously, his gaze drifting from the Jarl to the simple wooden door, stepping back as it rattled from the force of the creature's landing on a nearby structure, "what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"
What few Stormcloaks remaining that were able to move glanced apprehensively to their Jarl, holding ragged strips of cloth to their wounds, torn from their tunics and sashes. A single woman cried silently over a body, tucked farthest away in a corner by a ramshackle table.
"Legends don't burn down villages," the Jarl rubbed at his wrists, soothing his irritated flesh from the bruises and sores left from his bindings before answering simply, his voice distant as he pondered all that had occurred. With a final roll of his shoulders he turned to look at the survivors, deciding wordlessly on their options for escape. Brows immediately furrowing, he noted the trembling Breton, standing amidst his men. Though her shoulders quaked and her knees seemed near to buckling under her, she stared him down, teeth grit and lips pulled back into a snarl, hands clenched despite her binds. Though she remained silent, her erratic breathing unheard for all the shouts and cries of beast and men alike, the Jarl bristled at her presence, becoming irritated with the mongrel's unblinking gaze. Once his own prisoner, he contemplated what to do with girl once more in his presence, balancing the price he demanded for her bounty versus the potential costs of protecting her from both the Imperials and the black horned beast.
With another violent tremor and raucous cry from the creature that shook the very tower, raining dust and bits of loosened stone from above down onto the Nords, the Jarl had no further time to debate his options. Looking to his men he clenched his fists.
"We need to move, now!"
With a nod to his fellow Stormcloak, the Jarl glanced to the girl as he began to move for the men struggling to their feet, muttering simply but sternly, "She comes with us."
A complacent nod in reply, the Nord grabbed the girl by her arm once more, despite her protests and began leading her to the winding tower stairs as his Jarl began aiding one of his wounded men. With a single rough shove he forced her to the front and she nearly fell onto the hard stone of the first step, struggling to retain her balance as she spun to stare bitterly at the barbaric Nord.
"Up through the tower," he commanded, pointing up the stairs, unwilling to wait further for her compliance, "let's go!"
Gwynayne seethed. Since the first moment she was bound to the tree with her knight she had wanted nothing more than to kick, beat, scratch, nay: impale the vulgar brutes that had mistreated her so, Imperial and Nord alike. But her protests brought only further mistreatment, and so she loathed the Stormcloak in silence, turning her gaze toward the heights of the tower stairs as she made ready to climb.
With grit teeth, she began to make her way, her steps hesitant and difficult, her dress, torn and shred beyond possible repair, constantly getting underfoot. She watched with a withering stare as the Nords began to ascend behind her, the wounded being borne on the backs of their comrades, everyone's attention focused on the nearing rumblings of the great beast and the screams of those consumed by its flames.
Suddenly, as she passed the second torchlight, the tower wall crumbled, shattered, mortar and stone alike bursting in all directions as debris was thrust down to the tower floor below, falling in a heap on the abandoned bodies and rolling to block the single door. Screaming in terror, Gwynayne clung to the remaining wall, backed up against her captors as they watched in horror at the returned beast. Its claws dug into the sides of the breach, its scales rippling and snapping as it violently shoved its snout through the rubble, then reared its head. Crying out once more in debilitating fear, Gwynayne could only cower as she watched fresh flames spew from the monster's throat, coating the debris and opposite wall in blistering fire. It nearly screamed as it unleashed its flames upon the tower, but was unable to reach the few hidden inside, pressed against the wall. With a final thundering shudder, it leapt from its perch into the skies once more, and the stone continued to smoke with molten fire.
Their escape now compromised, unable to further climb the tower stairs, the Nords began to gather at the smoking hole, confident the beast had flown off to torment some other unlucky group of soldiers. Pushed to the front, Gwynayne stared out onto the destruction of the village below, so completely transformed by the fire and ruin by what was now confidently being hailed by those still fighting as a dragon. Smoke, floating ash and embers choked the air, and she could make out little beyond a thick plume of brown smoke, the sun no longer visible.
"See the inn on the other side?" the Nord beside her managed to cough out, struggling to clear his throat and speak through the overwhelming smoke, pointing to what was once a building below, "Jump through the roof and keep going! It's our only escape, now!"
With a look of rising dismay, unable to fathom such a reckless means of escape, Gwynayne merely stared, dumbfounded at the rebel.
"Go!" he prodded her, nearly pushing her from the tower, "We'll follow after."
Still unable to jump, she nervously watched the skies, fearing a return of the black beast at any moment. She could make out the shouts of Imperials fighting the creature, but could still see nothing beyond the outline of the inn through the smoke and flames the crept along the base of the tower.
Knowing the Nords would not abandon their prisoner, she turned to plead with her captors, unable to move beyond the edge of the remaining tower wall, unable to leap into a smoldering hut only to surely and soundly break her neck.
"I…I can't!" she cried out in despair, fearing any action she took, whether complying or not, would only lead to her death.
As his comrades bled onto the stone stairs, the girl stood motionless. Growling with impatience, the Nord shoved her from the tower, unwilling to waste further time in debate over an escape that had but one path available to them.
With a piercing shriek, Gwynayne tumbled from the tower, blinded by smoke and hands still bound, unable to grasp for a handhold. Pushed so bluntly, she fell awkwardly, landing on her side as she fell to the smoldering remains of the inn's attic, only just missing a still burning corner at her feet. Crying out in shock and pain, her head ringing as it slammed against the floorboards, she struggled to her feet, swaying as she rose in hopes of outpacing her captors. She rushed through the attic, coughing through the ash and avoiding the spreading fires, shoving barrels and chairs aside in her haste as she struggled to find a means to the floor below. Her shoulder and hip was beginning to hurt, bruised from the landing and she whimpered as she made her way to the opposite end of the inn. With no ladder to the first floor, she stared in increasing dismay at the hole in the damaged floor before her, her only route for escape. The floor boards creaked as the first of the Stormcloaks leapt to follow after her and with a panicked cry, she dropped on hands and knees. She struggled to swing her legs over the side of the hole, shimmying her body as she tried to keep hold of the edge with her hands. But with no strength remaining, she fell gracelessly to the floor below, shrieking once more as she landed painfully on an overturned chair, the arm rests digging into her side and bruising her ribs. Crying once more from the endless barrage of pain and ceaseless causes for fright, she stumbled to her feet, fearing the following Nords and rushed from the building into the town.
The winds had at last shifted and the smoke, though thick and profuse, was beginning to clear. With unsteady steps, fearing both the Nords that shouted after her and the roaring of the beast overhead, she pushed through a patch of waist high grasses that lined what was once the inn's wall, panting as she ran, noting the ever nearing Nords behind her.
There was little left of the village now. Most of the homes were left smoldering, engulfed in flames and in utter ruin, the stone walls had been brought down and few structures remained. A single Imperial banner fluttered in the wind, torn and nearly unidentifiable. As Gwynayne stumbled forward, she could at last make out figures not swathed in blue cloaks.
"Haming!" a voice cried out, further ahead along a path where she still could not see through the smoke, "You need to get over here, now!"
Suddenly two figures rushed from the plume, running to join her as she made her way to the side of the closest hut, a portion of its walls still standing to provide some degree of protection and concealment from the beast. While an elderly man struggled to quicken his pace, a young boy rushed forward, his face covered in the very ash the elder choked, eager to crouch beside her in the tall grasses.
Glancing nervously back to the inn, Gwynayne caught side of the beast's shadow, appearing suddenly on the cobblestone road as it soared, hidden above, momentarily silent save for the slap of its thick, black wings as it circled.
The ground trembled, pebbles and dirt thrown to the air in agitated leaps as Gwynayne peered through the ruined remains of the hut to catch sight of the landing beast. A final figure, a coughing soldier, emerged from the smoke as the ground shook with the dragon's footfalls as it settled. He ran to join the boy and elder whom he shepherded to safety, now hiding along the smoldering building with Gwynayne as the dragon spewed forth a stream of fire where they once stood.
"Gods!" he shouted in alarm, nearly stumbling back from the intense heat, his arm raised protectively to shield those behind him, "Everyone get back!"
With a quick glance to check on the safety of the boy and his grandfather, the legionnaire blinked in surprise at the cowering and trembling girl hidden behind them, her form momentarily hidden by tall grasses.
"Still alive, prisoner?" he asked in surprise, turning back once more to check the roadway for the beast, sword held aloft in defense, "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way."
Though she had only a few moments before he turned to face the road, she recognized the auburn Nord from earlier at the block, and whilst she sought to be rid of soldiers and rebels alike, she worriedly glanced back to the inn, eyeing the gathering Nords that watched her in return. The Jarl had an irritated grimace, but with a wave of his hand and a nod to his comrades he and his men stepped back into the shadows, eager to avoid another brush with soldiers as they escaped through another break in the inn's walls.
"Gunnar, take care of the boy," the soldier demanded of the elder, his resonating voice startling Gwynayne as she returned her focus to the matter at hand, at last seemingly out of reach and free of the brutish rebels. He peered cautiously from what remained of the hut's corner beam, sword gripped tight as he readied his stance, fearing the dragon was still near, "I have to find General Tulius and join the defense."
"Gods guide you," the elderly man struggled to encourage, coughing through the smoke as he held his grandchild close, nodding in appreciation to the departing soldier.
"Come girl, let's go," the auburn legionnaire called out with a quick glance over his shoulder. Without waiting for her reply, he made for the closest standing tower that remained, dashing across the street with eyes peeled to the skies above. Gwynayne cried out in alarm, quickly straightening to follow suit, fearing to be left alone to deal with the return of the great beast. She was nearly at the soldier's side when a shadow once more crossed over the cobblestone road, circling over her now trembling form as she struggled to lift the tattered hemline of her dress.
"Stay close to the wall!" he frantically called out to her, noting her appearance beside him as they passed the tower. With desperate breathes, they ducked into the shadows of the small alleyway and pressed themselves against the stone wall. Only a moment later did the dragon land with another shuddering quake, its claws digging into wall above them as it settled, shuffling earlier loosened stone and debris in his wake. With a menacing roar it screamed to the skies, its wings slamming into the ground on either side of them as it straddled the wall. With a further stream of molten fire, Gwynayne screamed in terror as the creature lit what little remained of the distant huts on fire, her feet only inches from the claws that edged its black wings.
Seemingly satisfied with the destruction it wrought, the beast flew off to chase what few stragglers and soldiers remained. Gwynayne and the soldier remained against the wall, catching their breaths from the terror of the moment before the soldier readied to run once more.
"Quickly!" he ordered, grabbing for her arm, urging her along despite her shattered nerves and fresh tears, "Follow me!"
With no ability to protest and no desire to be left behind, Gwynayne followed wordlessly, chasing after the soldier as they ran up a simple flight of stairs into a separate alleyway. Though the fires here were beginning to smolder and burn out, they had begun to stumble upon the bodies, left behind in the dragon's wake. A lone Imperial, body twisted and pulled into an unnatural position, half charred, barred the entrance to a ruined hut. Though the auburn Nord continued forth, seemingly unaffected by the sight, Gwynayne struggled to shuffle her way past the desecrated form, fearing she would vomit at the smell of burnt flesh. With a final cry, growing further overwhelmed by the state of the corpse, she rushed into the hut, eager to be once more by someone's side to lead her from the madness.
She struggled to find footing on the floorboards, as most of the wood was still smoldering and laced with patches of embers. Pushing past overturned furniture she came across further more burnt corpses, and she cried out in alarm, her voice growing harsh as she struggled against the thick ash and dust that continued to cloud the air. Though all features and details had been burned away in the searing fire, the bodies were of various sizes, and she knew it was a family. Reaching out desperately for the soldier who stormed ahead, she cried, eager to be free of the hut and free of piercing smell of burning flesh.
Stumbling behind as she struggled to keep up, she nearly tripped into the Nordic soldier as he paused, rejoined at last with his comrades that had gathered to take a stand against the beast that circled above, hidden now in the rising smoke and clouds. Nervous at what such a gathering of soldiers meant for her, she peered cautiously from behind, whimpering at the sudden screams and keels of the beast above.
While soldiers shot into the sky, struggling to find a target in the falling ash as the beast's shadow twisted amidst the smoke, and a commander stepped forth, pointing further ahead as he addressed the legionnaire.
"Soldier! Into the keep," he commanded over the shouts of his men, crying out in alarm at their successive failures to strike the creature, "we're leaving!"
His directive made clear, the commander turned to rejoin his men, and the soldier turned about to face the cowering girl.
"It's you and me prisoner," he confirmed, his tone between a command and a consolation, "just stay close!"
Without further discussion, he ran off down the sloping road, checking after a handful of paces to make sure the girl was still following before returning his eyes to the sky, noting the last of the sentries who still remained, miraculously, atop the last remaining battlement to continue firing at the beast. Turning once more to check, he could see the girl seemed out of breath and struggling to run, though she managed to follow, eyes and cheeks red and bloated as she continued to weep.
Nearly to the keep, he caught sight of a handful of rebels, escaping with their Jarl as they attempted to cross his path. They had emerged from the crumbled section of a distant wall, some struggling to carry wounded on their backs. Though he could hear the nearing roars of the dragon above, he grew irate at the image of the fleeing prisoners and brandished his sword.
"Ralof!" he called out, seething as he took a defensive stance when the rebel stopped before him, "You damned traitor!"
The Jarl and remaining rebels paid the lone soldier no heed and made their way for an entrance to the keep, soft moans escaping from the wounded as they bounced along on the shoulders of their comrades.
"We're escaping Hadvar," the rebel addressed as Ralof answered calmly, waiting for his fellow men to pass by safely into the keep before turning to follow after, "you're not stopping us this time."
Unable to fight or detain them alone, he noticed the quivering girl as she came to stop beside him, panting, another prisoner he had yet to deal with, and the auburn soldier merely cursed, sneering as he watched the last of the rebels disappear into the keep.
"Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" he called out pointlessly, furiously sheathing his sword as he turned to face the girl, pulling at her arm as he continued to make for the barracks, seeking to avoid the keep entrance the rebels had previously taken. He ran forward, hoping the doorway had not been blocked with debris, when the dragon landed once more on the stone wall behind them. Though he was nearly at the door, the girl had lagged behind and now shrieked in terror as the dragon reared behind her.
"The barracks is through here! Come on! We've got to get inside!" he called out desperately, waving his arm as he urged her on, hoping she would not become so paralyzed with fear as to stand alone on open ground for the dragon to finish.
As the creature began to roar, lighting the air once more with an electric sensation, Gwynayne wept as she ran, nearly stumbling in her haste to rejoin the soldier. Unable to gaze back to the beast, she could only feel the shudders and tremors as it shifted its position, readying to set both she and the ground she ran upon on fire as it sought to destroy the last of what was once Helgen.
With a great cry of exertion, the soldier grabbed her arm and pulled her through the door to the keep, ramming his body against the beams to rush through. Gwynayne stumbled forward, gasping, as he rushed to close the great wooden door, grunting as he bolted it closed. The screams and monstrous cries of the dragon and its searing flames were immediately quelled, leaving only the desperate gasps for breath and the timid crackle of torches to be heard. Still reeling from his frantic dash to the barracks, the soldier began to finally back away from the door, his hand still outstretched, waiting, expecting the great beast to crash through the petty beams the moment he relinquished his guard. It wasn't till he had slowly backed his way to the Breton, noting her quivering, unsteady breath on his skin that he turned to take in his surroundings, his nerves calmed enough to think of more than the fearsome beast.
Shaking his head to straighten his thoughts, still yet to come to terms with the presence of a creature such as the dragon that rained fire upon the stones of the keep, he turned about in place, running a hand through his hair as his breath calmed and pulse began to settle.
"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he murmured, gazing about the dark chamber, stopping only to stare at the bolted door as it began to rattle and dust fell from the rafters above, whispering in awe, "Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the end times?"
He heard only a strained whimper in reply, his attention caught by the sight of the girl struggling in vain to remove her binds, sniffling and coughing as she attempted to wriggle her wrists from the ropes.
"We should keep moving," he quickly confirmed, uneager to discover if the doors would hold against a dragon, but for a moment his look softened and he quickly drew his sword, starring with pity down at the small Breton. "Come here," he coaxed, offering a hand of aid as he caught her timid, frightened stare, "Let me see if I can get those bindings off."
It was a hesitant moment before the girl lifted her arms in offering to the Imperial. Holding her breath, staring only at his drawn sword, she trembled, thoughts of the block still fresh in her mind. But with no allies and none to trust, she relented to his offer, shuffling close as he nodded at her efforts.
"There you go," the soldier consoled, sliding his blade through the bindings and softly pulling at the unraveling ropes. Upon gaining her freedom, she darted back against the chamber's central post, rubbing her wrists wordlessly to soothe her skin of the ropes marks and bruises, her eyes never leaving the soldier as he slowly returned his sword to its sheath.
Unsure of what to say, he sighed, glancing once more across the chamber before his eyes returned to gaze dully upon the cowering prisoner, "Set your mind at ease, girl, I don't intend to cut you down. I don't know how you came to be mixed up with those rebels, but I care more to escape that beast then finish the executioners work –"
"I am not a Stormcloak."
He raised a brow in surprise, halting his advance to begin searching through the shelves that lined the keep's walls for anything that could be of use to him.
"So you can speak?" he nearly mocked, taken aback by the harsh tone that emerged from the otherwise frail figure.
"I can do more than speak," the girl quickly seethed, her previous trembling and quivering replaced with grit teeth and clawed hands, her stance firm as she stepped away from the post. Before he could reach for his sword, the Breton raised her wide stretched palms before her, fingers harshly curled as spitting, spilling fire began to burst forth, crackling and eager to reach for tinder to burn. Her tears had nearly ceased and she stared fiercely at the soldier, nearly snarling as she displayed her spellcraft, ignoring the excited sparks that fell to her feet.
For all his worries concerning the dragon, and his sympathies concerning the girl, he had forgotten that it had been a mage's attacks that the small prisoner had been charged with, and he took a half-hearted defensive stance, still not entirely willing to strike down one so young as the Breton before him.
"There has been enough blood spilt today, child. I've already told you, I haven't a care for your alliances –"
"I am not a child," the Breton growled, "I am not one of those barbarians, and I will not be spoken to in this manner any longer, especially not by a lowly foot soldier such as yourself!"
The Nord was further taken aback at the sudden transformation of the girl, and began to question his decision to remove her binds, wondering if he had indeed been too soft, unwilling to relinquish his hold on his weapon as she continued to grow further enraged. He seemed to have only traded the dragon's fire for the prisoner's.
"Why don't you calm that spell of yours, girl, before –"
"No!" she shrieked, the pooling fire in her hands sprouting to the rafters above as she became all the more incensed at the soldier's disrespect, "It is 'lady', not 'girl', and certainly not 'child'! You will address me properly! An-and my knight! You will tell me what has become of my knight this very moment!"
The legionnaire began to realize he had not simply freed, but unleashed the mage before him, and slowly removed his hand from his sword's grip, raising both hands, palms forward to emphasize his unwillingness to engage in a fight as he sought to quell the Breton before him.
"We have enough fire in Helgen as it stands. I mean only to make my escape from this divine-forsaken place…miss," he awkwardly concluded, not entirely comfortable or convinced addressing such an odd waif with a title was called for. "I know nothing of a knight, only that a dragon lay outside these walls."
He stared, resolute at the girl, noting her stance began to weaken and her face began to soften, her fierce scowl turning to a pained grimace. The fire in her palms began to quiver and weaken along with her posture and resolve, until her arms fell to her sides and her shoulders began to shake as she shed fresh tears. Her spell no more than a faint trace of smoke and ash, she stared up at the soldier, eyes clouded with tears as she began to sniffle once more, what fury she once spewed now vanished with the fire.
"You…you do not know where he is…what has become of my…" her voice trembled weakly until she could no longer speak, struggling to simply wipe the fresh torrent of tears from her cheeks as she coughed and wept.
"I'm…sorry," the soldier awkwardly apologized, uncomfortable with the notion of apologizing to one who only moments before sought to set him ablaze, "but I know nothing of a knight. I know only that beyond that door lies death and beyond that door," he paused to raise a finger in the direction of the small wooden door that led further into the keep at the back of the chamber, "perhaps lies a path to safety."
"If you wish to return to wherever you came from, and find whomever you seek, then it would be best to direct your energies to escaping this keep and avoiding that beast.," he straightened his belt, adjusting his sword and made his way further into the chamber to begin his scavenge.
"I will overlook that which led you to Helgen, so long as that fire of yours is directed at whatever enemies we may come across. If you want to live, I suggest you take a moment to find what supplies you can," he waved his arm quickly to the yet unopened chests and untouched shelves of dry goods and sundries, "There should be plenty of gear for you to choose from, a weapon even, if you know how to use it. I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns."
The legionnaire continued his search, no longer fearing the girl, her former state returned as a crying urchin, her cheeks red and her eyes bloated, her nose sticky and glistening as she continued to meekly sniffle.
The little Breton turned about in place, unsure of what to do, what to say. The soldier no longer heeded her presence, and she again felt alone and abandoned. To have no shepherding hand to guide her, or stringent voice to limit her, she quickly became overwhelmed with the immediate freedom and the burdens it bore.
Roughly shoving stray tresses behind her ears, she wiped her nose and eyes with the edge of her tattered sleeve, coming at last to accept the presence of foreign blood at the hem and took her first hesitant steps toward the edge of the barracks, a line of beds and chests yet untouched by the wandering soldier. Her hiccups and sniffles growing quiet, she cautiously lifted the lid of the nearest chest, glancing nervously to the Imperial, expecting instruction of some sort. Consumed with his own affairs he paid her no mind, and with a budding sense of wonder she turned her own attentions to the contents of the chest, throwing the lid onto the simple baseboard of the bed that lay behind it, eyes opened wide as her small hands delved into the shadows of its contents.
Only a simple set of leather armor, worn and well used, lay at the base of the chest, smelling of sweat and must, the red cloth tunic wrinkled and stained. Biting her lip, she pulled the armor from the chest, surprised at its unwieldy weight. She grimaced at the smell and struggled to hold it up to the light. Unable to bear its weight any longer, she grunted, setting it to the cold stone floor in dismay. With a worried glance she noted the disastrous state of her dress, nearly falling from her frame in tatters and soiled with layers of blood and muck. Cringing at the realization, she timidly began to hoist the foul armor into her lap, gasping as she wriggled the leather over her head, her body shuddering as it fell effortlessly down her back and chest landing harshly onto her unsuspecting shoulders. Shivering in disgust, she struggled to her feet, swaying as she grew accustomed to the weight.
Very little of the armor touched her form, only the shoulder braces made contact as the remaining plate swayed lazily, far too large for the girl struggling within its leather cocoon. She grunted again, trying to lift the belt to her own natural waist, groaning in exasperation as she noted the belt loop was already fastened to its smallest point. Her neck began to ache as the collar shifted in place, one edge nearly falling from her shoulder as she moved about, the dangling strips meant to guard her thighs reaching her knees, impeding her ability to walk competently. She snorted, kicking at the matching leather boots she had previously discovered, unwilling to further embarrass herself with boots three times too large. She wobbled in place as she attempted to lift the hem of her dress, grunting and huffing in exasperation as she shuffled awkwardly forward in the foreign garb.
So infuriated and overwhelmed with her inability to take even simple steps or straighten her back, her thoughts muddled with irritation, she absentmindedly began to make her way to the soldier's side, forgoing any further exploration for further infuriating finds.
Distracted by the odd grunts and huffing of the girl, the soldier turned to catch her struggling toward him, trying simultaneously to hold her dress and keep the comically oversized leather armor from sliding wildly out of place across her body. With a fierce pout and furled brows, she turned to gaze up to him, out of breath and clearly displeased with her discovery.
"That…is…" he struggled to make a worthwhile comment to such a ridiculous display. It was as if a child had found their father's equipment and sought to play soldier.
The Breton only scowled, hitching her dress further up as she began to brush past him toward the chamber door.
"Now, wait here, girl, let's try and see if something can be done," he attempted to propose, placing a hand on the struggling girl's shoulder as he crouched beside her. She immediately spun about, nearly collapsing to the floor in her shock as the loose armor swayed about her. She fell back against the wall, eyes wide with momentary fear, until her snarling scowl returned.
"Don't you lay a hand on me," she seethed, "and don't you dare address me like that again. If my knight was here with –"
"It's Morsephona, right?" the soldier interrupted, his soothing glance sincere, as he once again held up his palms in earnest surrender.
The Breton blinked in surprise, her scowl calmed as she began to relax her firm stance against the wall. But as she straightened, her displeased grimace returned, and she awkwardly crossed her arms as she stared down the Nord.
"Lady M-Morsephona," she corrected, emphasizing her title, but nearly stumbling over the name she was so unaccustomed to hearing.
Unwilling to needlessly argue over her insistence for a title he wondered if she had any right to claim, he simply nodded in acceptance, giving in to her precocious vanity.
"Lady Morsephona, then," he agreed, lifting a hand before her, thick and taunt, "Hadvar of Riverwood, soldier of the Imperial army and servant to his Majesty, Emperor Titus Mede II."
Taken aback by his response, Gwynayne merely stared at the soldier, arms falling to her sides, suspicious of his sincerity for polite and reasonable introductions.
Hand still aloft, waiting for her own, he gave a quick smile, "I suppose the situation is less than ideal, but I am pleased to make your acquaintance."
Eyes wide, staring in awe, and her cheeks all but glowing in appreciative and growing delight at the return to calm and dignified civility, nearly in a daze at the soldier's new manners, she airily raised her hand to his, her fingers gracefully poised to accept a kiss.
Taken aback by her sudden shift in appearance and the odd fashion in which she presented her hand, the soldier chuckled nervously, lightly taking hold of her outstretched fingers, afraid to grab her too tightly, and awkwardly shook hands with the curious waif before him. Her eyes darted to their hands, confused, perhaps even irritated and he thought he caught the faintest sign of a pout.
"I…ah, I hope we can work together now," he continued, raising from his crouch as he released her hand, still bemused and perplexed by the odd companion he seemed to have made a loose alliance with at long last. He nodded to her armor once more before continuing.
"That doesn't look especially comfortable, much less useful. May I?" he posed, pointing to the various buckles and lacing, his voice still wavering between tones of ordering and questioning, attempting to discern how best to handle the girl.
She gave him a cautious stare in return, brows lightly crossed as she looked across his figure, as if to gauge him for an impending brawl. But with a timid nod she raised her arms, cheeks again flushed as she glanced aside in embarrassment.
"It is too big," she plainly muttered.
Hadvar could not help but chuckle at the declaration, so laughably obvious but so seriously stated.
"Yes, that much I have gathered," he laughed and knelt once more to begin doing what little he could to straighten and tighten the leather armor, pleased they had finally come to some peaceful arrangement.
After a few minutes of fiddling with the various straps and cording, Hadvar sighed at his lack of accomplishment. The armor still hung loosely off the Breton's figure, and he seemed to only have made the armor buckle and pucker oddly in a few spots as her sides for all his attempts.
"Well…" he offered, cocking his head as he sighed in defeat.
Gwynayne only stared glumly at the armor, swinging her arms at her sides as she struggled to notice any difference in fit.
"Just try to stay close, hopefully we won't have any great need for armor," he halfheartedly hoped, unconvinced by his own optimism, "it'll still offer some protection, at least."
He rose to his feet once more, truly ready to set off further into the keep, grabbing the hilt of his sword in preparation when he noted her expectant, but anxious gaze. She stared wide eyed upon him, eager for some sense of direction.
"I don't suppose you know how to handle a sword, do you?"
She scowled immediately at the notion, shaking her head in disgust.
He sighed, coming to realize he was going to be escorting the girl, and began to wonder just how useful her spellcraft would be to him.
"Are you ready to go?" he asked, unease quickly setting in at the additional burden he had created for himself.
For a moment his thoughts softened, as the formerly fierce mage began to tremble once more, biting her bottom lip in concern as she cautiously situated herself behind him, waddling comically in her ill-fitting armor and looking up to him for guidance, hands clenched in anxiety and brought forth to her chin as she took one last glance at her surroundings, seeming to struggle to come to grips with the situation herself.
With a cringe of fear, she nodded, remaining silent as she edged close to his side, for a moment he thought she would reach out to hold his hand, as a child to its father would, but she merely stared ahead with quivering breathes, preparing herself for what lay beyond the door.
"Alright, let's keep moving, then," he proclaimed, and with another shudder of the rafters above, and a new wave of dust that fell to the floor, he gripped his hilt ever tighter, his knuckles white, warning as he reached for the bolt wish hushed insistency.
"That thing is still out there."