Third chapter, up and running. I'd really love to say something witty, or at least mildly entertaining, but it's late. I'm tired. And I'd really love some sleep. So, without further ado: Enjoy!
CHAPTER 3
I awake to the sound of a sharp, intrusive rapping at my front door. I groan internally at the sound, and push the covers off of my body with a sluggish acceptance of the imminent annoyance. I sit on the edge of the mattress, just for a few seconds, regenerating the icy shield around my consciousness. The same shield that had shattered last night. I exhale heavily. The knocking sounds again, even more assertive this time, and I growl.
"Alright!" I call out, only slightly aggressively. I sigh, sufficiently satisfied with my current level of emotional detachment, and heave myself up off the bed. It's colder than yesterday; and I decide to throw on a shirt for once. I pull the blue fabric over my head, and just as I do, the infernal knocking sounds again, with the rapping lasting twice as long this time.
"Yes, I hear you, I'm coming!" I yell, the annoyance in my voice definitely clear at this point. I roll up the sleeves on the shirt, and stalk out of the room, pacing quickly through the hallway and into the kitchen. Just as I'm five steps away from the door, the gods-damned sound permeates my ears again. I clench my teeth, striding forward, and throw open the door with a vicious swing.
"What?!" I snarl, my words accentuated by the sharp crack of the door slamming into the outer wall of the house.
In front of me stands a man dressed in black leather pants, and a rough, sleeveless brown tunic. His body seems small and thin at first glance, but his arms indicate a far more wiry build. A runner's frame. His face is flinty and windburned, indicating a large amount of time spent out doors. Overall, he has a slightly dirty appearance. A courier. I guess, completing my analysis. My suspicions are confirmed when the man hefts a medium-sized leather satchel, emblazoned with the logo of the Skyrim Courier's Guild: an envelope, stamped with red wax, with a pair of white wings extending from it's back.
My eyes travel back up to my visitor's face, eyes narrowing at his expression. He doesn't seem the slightest bit taken aback at my anger, which leaves me feeling annoyed and pacified at the same time.
"Yes?" I demand, in a calmer tone this time.
"I've been looking for you. I've got a letter from Castle Dour, your hands only." The courier responds, reaching into his bag, and retrieving a smooth, brown envelope. He hands it to me, and I accept it. As soon as the parcel touches my palm, he whips around, and sprints out of the clearing, back towards Solitude.
I'm left standing in my doorway, unsure of what to make of the man's atypical reaction. I mean, most people confronted with a furious warrior would have been left trembling in their boots. But not him. Oh well. I shrug. Maybe he doesn't know who I am.
I turn my attention to the envelope, absentmindedly turning it over and over in my hands. I rub my thumb over the thick, sandy-brown paper, that's indicative of the legion. Tullius had implemented it's use after a set of Imperial orders had become so weather damaged, that they had resulted in a shipment of weapons being delivered to Windhelm itself instead of to Winterhold. I snort derisively at the thought. The new paper was much thicker, and ultimately proved to be weather-resistant, compared to the thin white parchment that it replaced.
Finally, I turn my gaze to the red wax seal, stamped with the Imperial Dragon. I break it without a second thought, suddenly eager to read the contents of the letter. I pull it out, and crumple the envelope into a ball, tossing it carelessly to the side as my eyes scan Tullius's impeccable handwriting. I step forward as I read, absentmindedly making my way through the clearing.
Dragonborn. As you know, neither Ulfric Stormcloak nor I has so far attempted to take military action against the other. With the situation the way it is, tensions in Skyrim are growing by the day. Armed clashes are inevitable at this point. So, I have decided to be the first to attack. The Legion is not content to sit and wait while it's enemies build their strength.
You are, to say the least, a very valuable resource to me. Not only are you a peerless warrior, but a symbol to rally those in Skyrim who still stay true to the Empire. I intend to utilize you and your qualities to my advantage. Report to Castle Dour by sundown, soldier. We're going to war.
I look up from the letter, and realize that I'm at the edge of the clearing, right where the rough path begins it's steep slope down the mountainside. I stay there, staring pensively out across Skyrim's landscape, watching nature as it awakes by the early morning light. My eyes linger on Solitude, barely visible in the distance, as I ponder the letter. Clipped and concise, just like the man himself.
"So." A voice says from behind me. I don't look over; I sense Amaril's presence as he walks forward to stand beside me, his footsteps completely inaudible. His gaze follows mine, as he continues. "You're going to war." He doesn't face me.
I nod thoughtfully, crumpling the letter into a ball, just as I had the envelope.
"It seems so."
The elf sighs. "Do you think that's a good idea?" He asks, still not looking at me.
I let out a bark of laughter at his words, and shake my head. "I don't care, Amaril." I respond, still chuckling slightly.
The elf turns his gaze to me, and glares, his expression one of loathing. "Do you have any idea how many people will die by your hand before this is over?" He snarls, visibly furious for the first time I can remember. "How much blood must flow before your insatiable hunger is satisfied?" I say nothing, and he adds, "Avenging Gabriella won't bring her back to life. And when you do succeed, what will you do afterward? What will you be left with?!"
His words, his tone, they barely register with me. All I can think of is the image of Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist, laying in a bloody heap, impaled by two glistening daedric blades. A grin slowly stretches it's way across my face, an expression of undeniable bloodlust. I look up at Amaril, and when he sees me, his face twists, and he whirls around, stalking back through the clearing and into the cabin.
A twinge of something shoots through my stomach at his reaction, but I suppress it viciously. After a few minutes, I turn around as well, and walk back to the house to begin packing.
My leather boots crunch in the frost-covered grass I make my way towards Solitude's gates. A cold breeze blows my hair back, and I shiver. The days had been slowly getting warmer, signifying that winter was coming to a close, but in Skyrim, that doesn't mean much. In most cases, spring ended up being a less frostbitten extension of winter.
After receiving General Tullius's letter, I had tried to pack, but soon realized that there wasn't anything that I really needed that I couldn't buy in the city. For the most part, anyway. In the end, I'd simply thrown on my armor, slid my blades into their respective sheathes, and grabbed a heavy coin purse, just in case.
I flex my arms, feeling the leather creak slightly under the strain. I'd crafted the armor myself, out of the hides of saber-cats. It didn't differ much from the standard version sold in most shops, except that it was a bit more comprehensive, replacing the tunic with leather pants and so forth, for added protection. The sleeves, however, I left as two sections, namely the pauldrons and the bracers, to allow for maximum mobility. Essentially, it ended up being a combination between nordic leather, and the Brotherhood issue armor. Additionally, I added a detachable hood and cloak to insulate myself from the cold. The entire ensemble is rather menacing.
The city gate comes into sight at the top of a sloping hill, and I speed up my pace slightly. My cloak rustles in the breeze, and as I pass the first pair of guards, their conversation stops. I can feel their eyes on me, but I take no notice of them, and continue walking. The same happens with the second pair I pass; they sink into a dead silence, gazes tracking me as I move through their midst. As I approach the gate itself, the last two soldiers stiffen, and grip their weapons tightly, not sure what to make of my appearance. There is a moment of silence, where nobody moves, nobody speaks. We just stare back at each other, I at them, and they at me, startled and confused at the same time. Finally, I throw off my hood. I hear an intake of breath from behind me.
"Dragonborn…" One of the guards whispers. His voice is a mixture of awe and fear.
One of the two men in front of me grunts in affirmation, but doesn't ease his grip on his war axe. "It's been two years, sir." He begins, haltingly. "There were rumors that you'd died, or gone mad." The man continues, a distrustful tone in his voice, apparently recovered from his initial shock.
I fix the soldier with my unwavering gaze, dark blue eyes boring into his brown ones. "As you can see, I am not dead." I state, calmly and quietly. "And," I continue, never moving my piercing eyes from his, "From what you can tell, I am quite sane."
The guards shift nervously, as if unsure of what to make of my response. After a few seconds, I grin wolfishly, and add, "But, well, you'll have to decide that second point for yourself, won't you?" My expression drops suddenly, back to the piercing look I'd worn before, and I push past the men, heaving open the double doors to the city that would usually have taken two men to budge. Not a single one of the soldiers lifts a hand to stop me.
I stride into Solitude with a purpose, and head straight up the chiseled stone staircase to Castle Dour. Not everyone recognizes me at first; I see quite a few people do a double take at my passing. I pay them no attention, and continue on, my long hair swinging as I move. I leave a trail of murmured exclamations as I go, and I'm strangely relieved when the sharp sound of the castle's doors slamming shut cuts off the rabble from outside.
I step forward slightly, looking around the anteroom of the castle. The silence presses on me like a blanket, and I hurry through the stone-walled structure, feeling uneasy. I walk out of the anteroom, and through a hallway, vaguely remembering where Tullius's war-room was located. I stop moving, as I hear murmuring from several yards in front of me. I prick my ears, and eventually make out two voices.
"Tell me again why I'm wasting my men chasing after a fairy tale?" A male voice asks, the speaker not bothering to hide his condescension.
"If Ulfric gets his hands on that crown, it won't be a fairy tale, it'll be a problem." A female voice responds. It comes across as strained, as if trying very hard to be polite in the face of an enemy.
"Don't you nords put any stock in your own traditions?" The male speaker asks, derisively. "I thought the Moot chose the king. We're backing Elisif. When the Moot meets, they'll do the sensible thing."
"Not everyone's agreed to the Moot. You've been here long enough to know that nords aren't always sensible." The female responds, her tone dangerously close to hostility. "We follow our hearts." She adds, as if denying the man his passion. My eyebrows raise. That means quite a bit, coming from a nord. Passion is essentially equal to honor in Skyrim, and insulting a nord's honor is more likely to get you killed than calling an orc ugly.
"Perhaps…I'm entrusting you with the resources I can spare." The man continues, taking a proverbial step back. "But I'm warning you, if this turns out to be a waste of time and men…"
"It won't be a waste."
I clench my jaw in annoyance at the incompetence of the two. To not be able to look past their differences in the midst of the war…I shake my head to myself, and, satisfied that it's worth a shot, I push open the door in front of me, and enter another room.
I look around. The space feels small, and cramped; an elusion given to it by the dark gray stones that it's constructed out of. In the center of the room stands a long table holding a detailed map of the nine holds of Skyrim, as well as little red and blue flags representing Imperial and Stormcloak troop movements. Two figures are standing on either side of the table. One is that of a woman, tall, broad, and rough looking. The other is that of the General himself. He is a short man, with a lean, tough build, that looks like it has the consistency of frozen jerky. His gray hair is cut short, just like the rest of him: his height, his lips, his speech, everything about the man seems clipped and precise.
"Ah, Dragonborn." He greets me, extending his hand. I shake it, watching the muscles in his arm coil like knotted ropes. "We've been waiting." He gestures towards himself and the woman. I look over in her direction, and she offers me a nod. When Tullius doesn't include her name, I decide to do the introductions myself.
I walk around the table, and reach my hand out towards her. She grips my forearm in the traditional nordic greeting, and I return the gesture, keeping solid eye-contact the entire time. Before I can open my mouth, she answers my unasked question.
"I'm legate Rikke, sir." She states, voice short and business-like. It's not entirely unlike Tullius's. "No need to tell me your name." She continues. "I know who you are." I frown; she's wearing the same unreadable expression that many of the guards had shared. I mentally file the thought away for analyzation at a better time, as the General begins speaking.
"In any other case, I'd put a new recruit like you through a training mission. However…" He stops, looking me up and down, the continues, "I don't think that'll be necessary." Legate Rikke snorts at his words.
Ah…Discord in the ranks. I think, taking note of the Legate's near-derision. I decide not to pry into the issue, however. "What are my orders, sir?" I ask, flatly. I remain where I am, leaning against the wall.
Tullius studies me again, brow furrowed, obviously expecting me to stand at attention when addressing him. His gaze remains fixed, but I can tell that his opinion of me has already shifted.
Legate Rikke breaks the silence, apparently unaware of the tension in the room. "Have you ever heard of something called the Jagged Crown?" She asks, from behind the table. Tullius looks up at her. I examine his face as he does so; his lips are pressed thin, and his lower jaw moves with the ever so slight indication of teeth-grinding.
No, he definitely doesn't like her. And the feeling clearly goes both ways.
"I have." I respond, not giving any indication that I'd perceived more than the obvious. "It's an old nordic legend, about a headdress made of the teeth and scales of fallen dragons, I believe." The legate nods, and opens her mouth to continue, but Tullius quickly cuts her off.
"Yes, it's an old legend." He reiterates, putting just the slightest emphasis on the last word. "It was passed down from High King to High King, and to the people of Skyrim, it symbolizes the concept of rightful succession. And the Legate here thinks she's found it." He adds, with just the smallest hint of scorn in his voice. Unchallengeable, yet undeniably present and purposeful.
Rikke shoots the General a furious glare. "Yes, I've found it." She states, her voice leaving no doubt as to whether she believed her own words or not. Before Tullius can interject, she continues, "Your orders are to rendezvous with the rest of your team at the ancient ruin of Korvanjund."
I nod, and, sick to death of the pair's petty squabbling, I turn around, cloak flapping, and stride out of the castle.
I make my way towards Korvanjund on foot, deciding that those camped there can wait a day or two for me. By the time night falls, I'm just a bit over halfway there. As the sun sets, I hear a growl from behind me. I whirl around, and draw my swords just in time to impale a leaping saber-cat on their crimson lengths. The animal jerks once, twice, then goes limp. I pull my swords out of it's carcass, and wipe them on the ground, staining the virgin snow dark red.
I look around to see where the beast had come from, and notice a small orverhang in a rock formation about a hundred yards to my right. I walk over to it, and sit down against the back wall, deciding that this is as good a place as any to spend the night. I lay my blades down next to me, and pull half a loaf of bread and some jerky out of various pockets in my cloak. I eat the food slowly, blankly, staring straight into the mind-numbing white expanse of the snow.
When I finish, I lay down on the ground, and wrap my cloak around me. I decide not to light a fire, in case any bandits were within view distance. Not that I couldn't take them; I just want a full night's sleep before tomorrow's mission.
I look up at the stars for a second, just a quick glance. But my gaze drops as as fast as it had risen, however, and I turn to face the wall of the cave, jaw clenched.
I dream again, that night. Of course I do. I always do, now. I dream of cold nights spent stargazing with Gabriella, and I feel like the world isn't worth living in anymore. But then, my dreams turn to Ulfric, and Korvanjund, and blue-clad bodies drenched in their own blood strewn in my wake. I grasp onto that image, clutching it, pulling myself up form the mire of my grief. I can hear Amaril's voice in the back of my mind, whispering, pleading. Let go, Daanik. Let go…
But, I can't. I won't. A small smile flickers across my lips, as I let the bloody scene take me over. The cold of my surroundings suddenly seems to flood through me, and for once, I sleep peacefully.
As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. They encourage me to write more :) But, I'm about to drop, so, goodnight Fanfiction. I wish you better sleep than Daanik's been getting. Oh, also, I'd like another review or too before I post the next chapter.