Thank you to those that have read this story thus far. When it comes to posting, I shall be doing a chapter a week on Fridays or Saturdays.
I know that certain events are either out of order or not at all addressed. That is done with purpose. As of right now, Helgen is not burned. Ulfric was not captured at the border.
This may upset some people and I can not help that. This fanfic is first and foremost for me. It's to get the creative gears flowing again. If I pick up fans on the way, that would make me happy, but it is not why I am writing it. Thank you for understanding and happy reading.
Sweat dripped in rivulets down Rendarion's face and neck as he stood stripped from the waist up, his glistening skin reflecting the heat of the forge. With each swing of the hammer, a cloud of icy breath escaped his lips. In the open marketplace, only the familiar rhythmic sound of the pounding hammer resonated, while the sun timidly peeked over the old, weathered walls.
Pausing for a moment, Rendarion brushed the sweat-soaked hair off the linen patch that wrapped his head. He longed to rip off the itchy material and feed it to the forge's flames, but he knew that if Jora caught him without it again, she would scold him fiercely. Absentmindedly scratching one of the scabs beneath the bandage, he gazed at the quicksilver chest piece he was working on.
"You're up early this morning," Quintus greeted, taking a seat at the grinder.
Setting the hammer down, Rendarion flashed a sheepish grin. "Sorry if I woke you and Master Nurelion up. I'd go mad with one more hour in bed with Wuunferth or Jora fussing over me."
"You didn't wake me. I've been awake for a few hours already, mixing Master's medicine," Quintus replied, nodding towards the chest piece. "Are you almost finished with it?"
Rendarion picked up the chest piece, his muscles straining as he held it up for Quintus to see. "I've got a few more things to iron out, and of course, I need the old skeever brain here to size it. Do you think he'll like it?"
Quintus hummed in approval, crossing his arms while his left foot tapped on the ground. "How are you going to explain your decision to join the Storm Cloaks to him?"
Rendarion set the piece down, his fingers caressing the cool metal. The question didn't catch him off guard; Galmor had asked him the same thing before he left for Serpentstone Isle. "Not much has changed, really, if you think about it. It's like being in the guards, except my patrols are a bit further away." Even to his own ears, the explanation sounded feeble.
"Except now, instead of dealing with a few bandits, petty thieves, and drunken brawls, you'll be fighting against trained Imperial soldiers. You'll be fighting for the very cause that Gallyn spoke out against, the cause that got him expelled from the guard," Quintus remarked.
Rendarion spun around. "Look, we all know that Jorleif had it out for him from the day Gallyn arrived from Roscrea."
Quintus raised an eyebrow, and Rendarion ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know what everyone expects from me. I believe in the cause I'm fighting for, and Gallyn loves me. Even if it takes time, he'll understand."
Quintus stood up. "I better get back inside before Master Nurelion wakes up. Don't forget to stop by when the shop's open to pick up your order. I should have it ready before noon."
Rendarion watched Quintus retreat into The White Phial. As the lock clicked, he slumped, his gaze falling upon the chest plate, his reflection glaring back at him. A scowl formed on Rendarion's face. "Everything will be fine. He'll be home any day now, and we'll talk about it. He hates the Thalmor just as much as I do." Determined, he picked up the hammer and resumed his work.
"Balgruuf continues to ignore the missives you send," Galmor paced in front of Ulfric's throne.
"He'll come around; he's a true Nord," Ulfric assured, slouching on the throne. Rendarion couldn't help but notice how old both his uncle and the Jarl appeared, from the bags under their eyes to the sallow color of their faces.
"What if he doesn't? Laila and Skald have pledged their loyalty. Even that old dog Korir came around," Galmor expressed his concerns.
Ulfric pushed himself off the throne, walking down the stairs and entering the adjoining room where they often strategized. Galmor followed closely behind. "Balgruuf is allowing Legionnaires to man Helgen. Our scouts report an increasing number pouring into the city. If that isn't a clear indication of which side he's on—"
"Ouch," Rendarion winced, sucking in a breath.
Nilsine Shatter-Shield glanced up momentarily from the bandage she was wrapping around his wrist. "Maybe if you spent less time at the forge and more time resting in bed, you wouldn't need to be bound up again." She purposefully tugged on the bandage, causing him more discomfort.
"You know I can't stay in bed for more than a day without going crazy. And Galmor wouldn't have let me stay there much longer anyway," Rendarion responded.
Nilsine snorted. "All done." She began packing her supplies back into her basket.
Rendarion rolled down the sleeve of his tunic. "How are your mother and father? Is there anything I can do...?"
"Mother spends her time in front of the fire, clutching Friga's miniature, while father drowns himself in his cups at the Candlehearth," Nilsine replied, balancing the basket on her arm. "They seem to forget they still have one daughter alive who misses her sister dearly. Try to stay away from the forge and rest that arm. Next time, it'll be Jora you'll answer to."
"You need to send a stronger message. One that he can't ignore," Galmor pressed Ulfric as they returned.
Nilsine offered a small curtsy to Ulfric, who nodded in acknowledgment, before heading for the doors leading out of the Palace of Kings. Ulfric stopped at the long table, pouring a drink and downing it with force.
"Very well, Galmor. If you want a stronger message, then I'll send one," Ulfric declared.
"Now you're talking," Galmor responded.
"Boy," Ulfric called out, and Rendarion jumped to his feet, accidentally knocking over a platter of salmon steaks and cheese wedges with his elbow. "Sir?"
"I need you to deliver a message to Whiterun," Ulfric said, moving back to his throne and picking up the double-headed battle-axe leaning against it.
Galmor's smile faded. "You can't be serious. The boy isn't fully healed yet."
"There aren't many people I trust with such a task," Ulfric replied, holding the weapon out to Rendarion.
Rendarion glanced between Galmor and Ulfric, then reached out to take the axe. "Sir?"
"I want you to take my axe to Balgruuf."
"An axe, Sir?" Rendarion grasped the weapon with both hands, his right wrist protesting under the weight. He concealed the pain on his face.
"Yes, my axe, boy!" Ulfric snapped, settling back onto the throne. "If he keeps it, I'll wait. If he returns it to you, then it means war."
"Understood, my Jarl. I'll depart at first light."
"Good. And keep your wits about you. Jarl Balgruuf is known for his temper," Ulfric cautioned.
Rendarion met his uncle's worried gaze, his determination growing stronger.
