Cold Winds Rise

The sun's face was hiding behind thick, grey clouds. The winds were spitefully cold and though most of it was caught on the heads of the tall trees that surrounded them, flakes of snow still drifted down, landing on faces and ears, stinging skin. It was as if the weather reacted to the people, feeding on their pain, exacerbating them. Kyne had little mercy.

Ralof pulled his cloak tighter around himself, his hands held out to the fire before him. He thought of warmth, any kind of warmth. The steady crackle of a hearth, the burn of strong mead in a packed tavern, the gentle heat of a woman's thighs wrapped around his waist.

He'd be lucky if he ever saw anything of the sort for a long time. A single look around the camp that had been packed into a too-small but secluded portion of the forest was enough to snuff out any desire for companionship. Women were few and far between, half had been soldiers, others were relatives of soldiers, living or not. Sisters, wives, mothers of children. The only commonality between them all were the lines of dread etched into every part of their features.

And they had good reason to dread. They were close to Windhelm, uncomfortably close. A spot chosen when some of their leaders still had fantasies of retaking the city in the name of their now-dead king. Chest-thumping was all it was, none of it worth respecting. Many of them were injured and sick. Too old, too young, too godsdamned tired. They'd never get past the bridge. They'd never make it into the city. They'd never drive out the Legion or their puppet Jarl and they'd never hold Windhelm. Not when the Imperials brought reinforcement. Not when Tullius sent him after them again.

It was bravado born of fear and desperation. They were backed into a corner. Most were here because they were unable to return home, for one reason or another. Outside of Windhelm, they were a target. They would have to move but where? How?

Ralof's ruminating was cut off by the sharp squeeze of his stomach. It had been hours since he had last eaten and they wouldn't be serving meals for a while longer. Still, Ralof stood with a grunt, his stiff joints protesting the move. He stepped away from the log and heard as a young boy promptly took his spot close to the fire. He only recognized the child because he looked so much like his father, a man Ralof had seen off to defend Riften and never again.

Ralof weaved his way around the groups of people who either kept together or moved around, anything to stay warm. Despite the activity, a pervasive quiet hung over the camp. As if they were all waiting for the axe to drop, so to speak.

He moved quickly to get the blood flowing to his legs, reaching the tent where the food was kept, guarded by two of his brothers, awake but just so. They watched as he approached. They notice his colors, his scars. Despite all this, they were prepared to stop him from going any further as they would anyone, be it a single ravenous man or a group unsatisfied with their rations. They only relax when Ralof turns away from the tent's opening and towards a barrel of fruit, put out for anyone to take. It wasn't much but it would have to hold.

He pulled on his cloak again, wondering how the air had managed to get even colder. As he left the tent, a sharp wind sent a burst of shivers through him. He turned his head upward to take in the dim, depressing sky and thought of how much he missed the sight of the sun, shining through the trees. How he missed his family, his nephew, his sister, even that husband of hers.

Not for the first time did he think of just leaving, as many have done. Abandon their dead cause, rid himself of his effects, try and return to a normal life.

Then, as always, he thought of Hadvar. How he would turn Ralof over to the Imperials in a heartbeat. Probably for a medal or even a pat on the head from that Thalmor mistress of his.

No, there was no going back home. Neither could he bring himself to leave Skyrim, as others have done; running to High Rock, where there would be nobody to know them or to Hammerfell, where the Empire would have no power over them anymore. No, he fought for these lands, lost a king on them, lost friends and continued to do so nearly every day. He'd die on it as well, if it came to that. When it came to that.

Reaching one of the smaller tents, he pushed the flapping cover aside. It was warmer within but only slightly. At least the frosty wind wasn't threatening to scratch his skin off. This tent was filled with crates, small ones while the bigger ones were kept outside. As Ralof made his way to the back, he saw that a few of them had been opened. He kept going until he spotted the familiar mop of silver-white hair. "Avulstein," he called.

The older Gray-Mane turned away from the crate he was standing over and gave him a smile that neither made it past his shaggy beard nor reached his eyes. "The men guarding the food didn't even threaten to gut me for approaching." Ralof clapped his shoulder, "The take was good then?"

"Aye. Food, weapons, medicines. It's not much but it is definitely something." Avulstein leaned away from the box and stretched his back with a groan. "And so easily taken…"

Ralof knew that tone well. The crates he was sifting through and accounting for, were being transported by merchants. They surrendered quickly and without a drop of blood shed. For the best, no trail of bodies to lead back to them. Those of them who had gone had also changed clothes and garbed themselves in a way that would pin the blame on bandits rather than rebels. All in all, as Avulstein said, it had been too easy. No soldiers or guards, not a fighter among them. What kind of merchant transported this much cargo and did so without protection? None of it made sense but they were desperate. Whatever would befall them because of this, at least they'd now have the strength to face it.

Avulstein continued to take stock of their new supplies so the elders could figure out best how to ration them. "Where's Thorold?" Ralof asked, taking a bite of his apple.

"Somewhere in camp, likely trying to bury his woes in some woman rather than help me here." Wind shook the tent and Avulstein shook like a waking bear. "Gods damn this fucking cold," he spat, vigorously rubbing the cloak over his arms.

Ralof couldn't help but agree. It was getting worse. He pushed off the crates he was leaning against and went to the entrance. Biting into the apple and holding it with his teeth, he worked to close the tent, as quickly as his numb fingers would allow. He returned to Avulstein. "Have you heard anything from the elders? Is there still talk of moving?"

"There's always talk of moving," he replied, "Then someone asks how we would be able to or where we would go. They ask for an actual plan and the talking stops."

Ralof took another bite of the apple, letting the silence pass. Then, he said, "I heard you knew him. The Dragonborn."

Avulstein's rummaging stopped. "I heard the same of you."

Ralof ground his teeth. "We escaped Helgen together and went our separate ways after reaching Riverrun. I…" He stopped. He wanted to say he barely knew the man. It would have been true, Felwinter was all but a stranger. But the anger in his heart couldn't have been born of a stranger's betrayal.

"I brought him into my sister's home. Had him meet my family. Gave him supplies from their very table so that he could journey wherever he wanted with ease. All this after the Imperials tried to wrongfully take his head. I suppose that didn't amount to much in his eyes."

"My ma approached him in Whiterun, asked him for help in saving Thorold," Avulstein said, returning to his work, albeit with rougher hands. "He found out where he was being held and we went to their hideout. I was ready to charge in with him, do whatever it took to rescue my brother but he denied me. Said if we raised the alarm, they might kill him. So he went in alone, around the back, broke his way in, killing only a few, and came back with my brother. The Thalmor never suspected a thing."

"The first thing he did when I untied his hands at Helgen was pick up a sword and skewer the Legion captain who had condemned him to death. He murdered Thalmor to save a Stormcloak soldier. Then, he joins them, begins killing for them. Set two dragons on Windhelm for them." Ralof stopped until his hands on the edge of one of the crates loosened.

"Many of our own were in Windhelm's dungeon because of those monsters. Surrendered rather than face them. It was easier when it was just other men. You can win against other men." Ralof thought it cowardly and at the same time, felt he would have done the same. The way Alduin's roar shook the ground and cracked open the sky, the heat of an entire town being burned until nothing remained standing. Images that still haunted his dreams, even years later.

Ralof sighed and clapped Avulstein's shoulder once more before leaving him to his work. He went over to a nearby barrel of water for a drink, pulling on his cloak again, feeling as if the cold was seeping through it, reaching his skin regardless. He dipped his hand in and drank from his palm, grimacing. The cold of it made his teeth sting. In his mouth, he could feel tiny and hard things that crunched under his teeth. He hunched over the barrel, bracing his hands for a closer look and saw them, the ice crystals. They were growing.

Ralof backed up and when he could finally tear his eyes off the barrel, they turned to the outside world. As soon as he opened the entrance, a cold blast of wind blew past and washed over him like a sabercat's claw to his face. The entire camp reacted. More and more people were feeling the cold, huddling together near sputtering fires, desperately adding wood to keep the weak things from dying out. Others searched out more and more clothing. Mothers called their children back into tents.

Another sharp gust. Shouts and oaths echoed about the camp. Ralof couldn't feel his ears anymore. He turned to look back at Avulstein, who had stopped taking stock. Even behind the tarp and cloth, he was leaning against the crate, holding himself. The big man was trembling like a leaf.

The blowing wind suddenly stopped. Ralof could hear the pounding of his own heart, the blood rushing in his ears. Sounds of relief emanated from some of the people but Ralof couldn't shake the sudden paranoia that lodged itself in his stomach like a blade. This sort of quiet had been burned into Ralof's mind like a brand. It reeked of the calm that came before the ringing of swords and the dying screams of men.

The feeling didn't fade with time but only worsened. His fingers twitched in the direction of his dagger, his eyes fixed on the treeline.

The first battlecry spilled out from the shadow of the trees and Ralof still found himself surprised. It was quickly joined by a second, a third, a tenth. The trees erupted into the thundering of feet, coming from all directions, closing in on every side.

"To arms!" He heard one of their elders cry, "To arms!" And panic began to spread like a pot boiling over.

He could see the Imperial red growing closer by the second, hear the shouting grow louder by the second. Ralof's mind flashed to his sister and nephew. Then, he shucked off his cloak with a growl and ripped his dagger from his sheath, prepared to meet whatever fate the gods had in store for him but their faces, from the last time he saw them, never left his mind. His sister, distracted and busy but relieved. Her son, grinning like a Khaajit, with gaps in between his teeth. Even her husband, with no words, setting him down after Helgen and handing him the drink he had clearly needed.

A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.