Prelude 1 – The Beginning of the End
Mull and two others are sitting around a sputtering campfire, brooding in oppressive silence. On all sides, the demoralized remainder of their fellow brigands are sleeping fitfully in bedrolls or swaddled in furs. A few are keeping watch from the trees and bushes nearby with motionless vigilance, undetectable to the eyes of the uninitiated. The contrast between their former refuge in the sheltered cantons of the northern Cyrodiilic highlands – their defensible stronghold from which they could raid the adjacent valleys with impunity, a place that they'd begun to think of as home – and now this, their less than ideal current circumstances, couldn't be more painfully apparent.
They've lost a lot of people in the last few weeks and their numbers have dwindled drastically, not only due to death in battle but also from desertion and disease. The Stone-Breaker's gang was once equally feared and respected in these mountains, but now it's a shadow of its former self. All it took was a few poor decisions and an unavoidable string of bad luck.
"The raid on that village near Horunn was a mistake," Joren Stone-Breaker mumbles. The flickering firelight makes the wrinkles on his pale face stand out more than usual. "No question about it."
Mull visualizes the faces of everyone they lost in that confrontation. They deserve that much remembrance at least. "…Yeah, it was."
"I should've seen the signs," the older man continues in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard by the rank-and-file. "Of course the Blackbird Gang was lying in wait for us, just waiting to launch their ambush once we were distracted with the loot. They've been competing with us in that area for years, swiping caravans out from under our noses, so I don't know why I thought they'd do any different this time. But I guess that meeting at the ruined fortress a few months back with the ole' Blackbird himself went well enough to make me lax. He managed to convince me that he was being serious about wanting a truce. He made a fool out of me – out of all of us. Damn him to Oblivion."
"Enough with the blubbering," Lotosk interjects in the overbearingly gruff tone unique to his race, the Orcs. "This ain't the time for that, boss. What happened is what happened and that's that. Right now we should be asking ourselves what we're gonna do next."
The big Orc is a hell of a fighter, but he's never been much of a leader. Mull could say the same about himself. Followers to the bone, both of them.
They both look to Joren, but the older man doesn't return the favor. He stares sightlessly into the fire, playing out all sorts of scenarios in his head faster than most men can form a single sentence. This talent is one of the things that makes him such a good leader. Even well into his fifties, his mind is still as sharp as a knife.
"…We head further into the mountains," he says at length. "It's our only option. We might be able to cross over into Skyrim and take advantage of the Civil War to cover our tracks. I hear the Imperial administration has already started to fall apart over there."
Lotosk snorts. "I ain't lookin' to get involved in a damn war."
Mull nods, wholeheartedly agreeing with the sentiment.
"We won't," Joren assures them. "We just need to disappear for a while, and a province in rebellion would be a good place to do that. The Stormcloaks are causing all sorts of chaos up there and that's exactly what we need to get ourselves out of this mess. Ole' Blackbird isn't going to let us off the hook unless we can put some distance between him and us. He isn't known for showing mercy to his enemies."
The Orc contemplates for a moment before grunting affirmatively.
Joren finally turns away from the fire and gazes at Mull from beneath his bushy white eyebrows. "What do you think, boy?"
He shrugs. "I think it's as good a plan as any. We don't have many options, so it doesn't matter what we do as long as we do something. We just need to keep our distance from the war," he adds.
The older man nods to himself a few times. "Good, good. I agree. It's decided then. In the morning we'll continue north. The high passes will be treacherous but they shouldn't be impassible with the right gear. We're lucky winter is nearing its end."
"M'not sure luck's got much to do with it, boss. Ours has been going from bad to worse lately with no signs of slowing down. Malacath, Sai, and whoever the hell else must've given up on our sorry asses."
"Aye," Joren quietly admits to Lotosk. "It pains me to say it, but… aye."
Mull exhales heavily and gets to his feet as silence descends over the makeshift campground once more. He can't stand seeing the chieftain of his gang, the titular Stone-Breaker himself, so gloomy and reserved like this. There's good reason for him to be, but still. This isn't like him.
That more than anything is what makes him understand just how screwed they are. Joren doesn't balk at anything, ever. He's always been a pillar of strength and responsibility for the gang, making the toughest decisions and refusing the falter when times get tough.
Except now, he is beginning to falter. And that's a terrifying realization.
"You off for the night?" Lotosk asks while gnawing on a cut of dried jerky.
"Yeah."
"Then be sure to tell your girl hello for me while you're fuckin' her brains out."
Joren coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like laughter despite the morose atmosphere.
In the past, Mull would've sneered or feigned outrage at the Orc's ridiculous comments while secretly thinking something along the lines of 'yeah I do get to fuck her brains out, haha, joke's on you.' It's hard to stay angry for too long when you have a beautiful yet strongheaded girl to spend your time with.
But tonight, he can't bring himself to find humor in the usual coarse banter. He picks up his waterskin, brushes the dirt from his trousers, and walks away without a word. He returns to his simple tent of waterproofed hides and wooden stakes near the edge of the encampment, where the gang's communal snoring isn't as loud. Inviting orange candlelight is flickering inside.
He pushes open the flaps to find Morven lying on her side atop his bedroll with her limbs splayed at odd angles. She snuffles in her sleep and a dribble of saliva leaks from her mouth.
"Already out like a light," he mutters.
He changes into a pair of clean trousers, takes off his shirt, and rinses out his mouth before tying shut the flaps for the night. He upends a few of Morven's blankets to make a spot for himself next to her.
The unannounced disturbance causes her to roll over and scowl at him with bleary blue eyes. "Why'd you wake me up?" she slurs.
"Why'd you take over the entire bedroll?" he retorts.
"Cuz I like it."
"You like being a nuisance, is what you mean."
"Mhh… yeah. You got me."
He releases a long-suffering sigh, sweeps a few tangled strands of flaxen hair away from her forehead, and leans over to plant a kiss between her thin brows. "It's your own fault, so stop complaining. You won't get any sympathy from me. Now go back to sleep."
"Ng-gha." She mumbles something indecipherable, rolls back over, and is snoring again less than a minute later. He stifles a chuckle at her endearing ridiculousness before blowing out the candle and lying down.
After a while, she shifts around and unconsciously snuggles against him, wrapping her arms around his stomach and pressing her breasts into his ribs just below his heart. Heat flares inside his chest as he gathers her up in his arms. She mutters contently in her sleep and nuzzles closer, happy to be sharing his body's warmth. She lays her cheek on his chest next to the pendant of Kyne that she gave to him.
As he lies in the darkness while struggling to fall asleep, his mind inevitably drifts back to the conversation with Joren and Lotosk around the fire. Things are looking bad right now and he gets the feeling that won't change anytime soon. The gang's future is bleak, but however this plays out, there's one thing he knows for certain.
"Whatever happens next, I'll make sure it works out for us," he whispers as he softly threads his fingers through Morven's hair. "We'll get through this. Someday soon we'll become the king and queen of our own gang, and we won't have to work a day in our lives ever again. Just you wait. You'll love it.
"I promise."
-x-
It isn't long before the thrice-damned Blackbirds catch up to them.
Mull and the rest of the gang venture deep into the Jerall Mountains under Joren's leadership, where they hike for days along serpentine paths among stony bluffs. Blossoming trees are everywhere with the beginning of spring. It's frigidly cold up in these mountains, but Joren was right. Most of the passes at these somewhat lower altitudes are already starting to open up and the seasonal blizzards are over. It looks like they might make it to the Skyrim border without any major issues.
That turns out to be wishful thinking.
The battle begins with an arrow fired by an unseen sniper from the treeline that impales Lywel through the side of his neck, not even giving him enough time to realize what happened before he's dead. The greenhorns and less experienced bandits in the gang all flinch and hesitate, but the veterans instantly spring into action as they dive for cover and yell for the rest to do the same. Mull, Morven, and a few others scramble into the shadow of a boulder on the edge of the twisting alpine trail while Joren and Lotosk shout commands in an attempt to maintain order. More arrows follow, mostly in twos or threes, but none of them find a mark.
"Mull, take some swords and get into those trees! Clear them out! We'll cover you!" Joren hurriedly strings his bow, a massive recurved affair crafted from supple ibex horn, and starts sending arrows downrange along with the rest of the gang's dedicated archers.
"Got it! All of you, stay on my ass!" In the lull that follows Joren's volley, Mull rips his sword from its sheath and decamps from the boulder to charge towards the treeline thirty yards away. He only stays out in the open for a few seconds at a time before sliding back into cover, whether it be behind fallen logs or into undulations of the terrain. The other fighters that joined him next to the boulder, Morven included, follow after him while employing the same tactics. Arrows occasionally whizz above their heads with a deadly hiss that frightens even the hardiest of warriors.
By the time Mull reaches the treeline, the archers have already withdrawn and the mountains have fallen still. His rapid advance must've scared them off. An anticlimactic end to half a minute of hair-raising tension.
But he doubts they'll stay away for long.
"Alright, back to the trail! Back! They're gone!" Once he's sure there isn't anyone concealed among the foliage, he whirls around and points back to the main group. "Keep your heads on a swivel! Watch out for more of 'em!"
Only a few seconds later, Lotosk yells at them all the way from the road. "There's a big group coming up right behind us! Everyone regroup and get ready to move!"
Mull curses and redoubles his pace. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Morven is keeping up. Her lips tighten anxiously as she runs alongside him. "I'm with you," she assures him.
They rejoin the rest of the gang on the trail and start ascending further into the mountains at a steady jog, but they can't move fast enough to retain cohesion while breaking away from their pursuers. Jalmar and Rosalyn are cut off from the main group and fall behind. Nobody knows their fate, but hopefully they manage to slip away somehow.
They trek through the mountains for nearly an hour, doing everything Joren can think of to get away from their pursuers, but to no avail. Ultimately the gang is hemmed into a narrow valley that protects their flanks with sheer cliffs and dense foliage, but the same defensive features cut off any avenue for escape. They can't get away. All that's left to do now is to turn and fight.
Their enemies are bandits much like themselves, meaning they don't have an advantage in skill or equipment. They aren't legionaries. But their sheer numbers are more than enough to cause worry, as they outnumber the Stone-Breakers nearly three times over.
Lotosk leads a preemptive charge and slams into the enemy shield-wall in a whirling storm of orichalcum and steel. He brings down several of their opponents before being slain by a spear through his heart.
Arges and Villea use his distraction to jump out from their hidden positions behind natural rock outcroppings on either side of the ravine. They kill most of the archers before being killed themselves.
While their deaths buy valuable time, Joren and Mull organize the rest of the gang into a solid line across the width of the gorge to defend against their advancing enemies. Arrows are unleashed, spears are thrown, axes are heaved overhead, and slings whirl in blurred circles before releasing their deadly payloads. A man standing less than three feet to the left of Mull is killed instantly by a slingstone to the forehead.
Then the two lines of combatants crash together in a discordant symphony of steel and the real battle begins.
It's a bloodbath. With nowhere for the defenders to run and the assurance of superior numbers for the attackers, neither side is willing to do things halfway. Both gangs commit their full forces all at once, turning the once-tranquil mountainside into a seething lake of vicious humanity.
Mull is quickly enveloped in the chaos of war and loses track of everything and everyone else, even Morven, in his desperate struggle to stay alive. He shoots down two men with well-placed arrows in their center of mass before tossing aside his bow and drawing his sword again. The shieldwall crumbles under the onslaught of rival bandits and before he knows it, he's caught up in the middle of murderous anarchy.
A Redguard accosts him with a mace and nearly shatters his skull, but he slices open the man's stomach and spills his steaming entrails onto the cold earth. A backhanded swipe relieves him of both his head and his suffering.
A brunette woman with a spear and wild eyes lunges from behind a shield-bearing Colovian and tries to kill him in the same manner as Lotosk, but he bats aside the long weapon, darts forward, and severs one of her arms at the elbow with a two-handed slash. She retreats while clutching the bloody stump and screaming like a banshee, prompting the shieldman to come at Mull with a one-handed axe in his main hand. Mull sidesteps a downward swing of the axe, backtracks to avoid being bashed by the shield, and manages to skewer the man's face while he's still off-balance. The man collapses and breathes his last.
A female Dark Elf gets the drop on Mull and almost stabs him through the ribs with a cruel curve-bladed sword. He barely evades it thanks to a shouted warning from a comrade, although the tip of the blade still leaves an angry red line across his pectoral and upper arm. The Elf snarls and thrusts out her left hand, generating a flame spell before his very eyes. He swears savagely and dives to the side. The Elf's firebolt screams past his head with only inches to spare and impacts into an ally behind him, blasting a charred hole through the unfortunate man's torso and killing him instantly. Mull pivots without any grace whatsoever and swings his sword in a brutal uppercut that slams into the Dark Elf's temple with all the finesse of a club, sinking deeply into her skull and splattering her brains in every direction.
For several intense minutes, there's nothing but fighting and killing and surviving.
Until suddenly, it ends. The fighting stops almost as abruptly as it began, not having lasting very long at all. Five minutes at most.
Soon enough, all that's left is to finish off the last of them – those who didn't run, anyhow. They were the smart ones. The dumb ones are lying in snow-slush puddles of their own spurting blood and rancid viscera. That's how these things usually go.
Mull withdraws his crimson-bladed sword from the back of a dying man with a wet squelch and wearily scans his surroundings. This valley is littered with the slain. Dozens of bodies are strewn between tree trunks and fallen stones, and the earth is soaked with gore. Their enemies are all either slain or ran away. Somehow they've won despite being badly outnumbered. Somehow he's still alive when so many others aren't.
A few of his comrades are navigating the field of corpses as they execute injured enemies or stoop to search for valuables. Some are treating their own wounds or receiving treatment from others. His stomach drops into his boots when he realizes there are only seven or eight of them. So few of us left…
Not even Joren made it through alive. During the worst of the fighting, he saw his leader's eviscerated corpse with his own eyes. There's no chance of him coming back from wounds like that. Godsdamn it.
The closest survivors are that pair of arrogant Nibenean brothers, whatever the hell their names are. One of them looks like he got stabbed in the shoulder, but he doesn't care about them at the moment. Not in the slightest.
"Morven." Her name escapes from his lips, low and breathless. "Morven, I… I gotta find her. She has to be here somewhere. Where in Oblivion did she go?"
He hasn't seen her since the shield-walls clashed and the battle began in earnest, when they were separated by the intensity of the fighting. He tries not to worry, unsuccessfully. She's always taken good care of herself before and today is no different. That's what he insists to himself.
Another quick scan reveals Morven isn't among the survivors that are picking through the bodies. A wave of abject fear washes over him, causing chills to ripple through his flesh. He stumbles across the valley of corpses while examining crimson faces and rolling over the sprawled remains of the deceased. He recognizes many, but none are Morven.
"Hey!" he calls loudly to the Nibeneans. His voice cracks from fatigue and stress. "Where's Morven? Have you seen her?!"
The uninjured brother shakes his head and calls back. "No sign! D'you have any potions?"
"Shit." He clenches his trembling fingers into a fist. He doesn't register the man's question. He needs to find her, but there are so many bodies. The icy grip of terror takes hold of him. Where could she be?!
Footsteps crunch through the churned snow behind him. "Mull," another man's voice croaks in greeting.
He turns to see one of the younger boys, some brash idiot from Bruma with bloody linen swathed across his forehead. His blonde hair is stained red.
"I-I heard what you asked. I saw your girl fighting earlier," he hoarsely mutters. "Back away, over there." He waves vaguely towards one side of the valley, where the forest is much thicker. "Can't say if she's okay or not. S'a lotta dead in those trees."
Mull spares a curt nod before marshaling his strength and setting off in that direction as quickly as his legs can still carry him, leaving behind the Nibeneans and the boy from Bruma and everyone else. Joren is gone and the gang is finished, that much is already clear. Lotosk is dead along with so many others. After this disaster, all that's left is for the survivors to go their separate ways. Only Morven matters to him now.
"I'll find her… and get her patched up if she needs it," he huffs. "And we'll find our way out of here. Go down into the Great Forest or to the Weald. Nobody would find us there. Or maybe we'll keep on going through the mountains until we reach Skyrim. Heh. I think she'd like that. She always talked about seeing her homeland again."
He's half-delirious. His adrenaline ran out when the worst of the fighting ended. He can barely keep his thoughts straight.
He reaches the treeline and stumbles into the soft grey bark of a gnarled pine. He leans heavily against it as he regains his bearings. His sword dangles loosely at his side, dripping beads of blood onto his boots and the muddy snow.
Still nothing! He shoves himself away from the trunk and stumbles onwards, plunging into the deep gloom beneath the boughs of snow-laden trees.
The kid from Bruma was right. There are a lot of bodies here, bunched up among the bushes and draped across mossy logs. Some are still struggling for life against their wounds, breathing their last. Yet none of them are people he cares about.
Until something catches his eye. It's difficult to make out in the shadows, but there's a flash of pale gold that looks achingly familiar in the corner of his eye. He steps closer and sees a silhouette propped up against a raised stone, possibly the eroded remains of a menhir or some other monument.
The spot of gold is actually a head of flaxen hair. Hair just like Morven's.
His pace quickens as he approaches the blood-smeared stone. His eyes widen as he takes in the fair skin and familiar gambeson, now dyed red and torn in many places.
"No!" he shouts as he breaks into a sprint towards her.
Morven lifts her head slightly at the sound of his voice. "Rui…"
He skids onto his knees and starts tearing at her clothing to examine the extent of the damage. Morven winces heavily, making him grit his teeth, but she doesn't stop him.
"Took you… long enough," she murmurs.
He gets frustrated with his progress and unsheathes his knife to cut through the tough material faster. He saws her undershirt vertically in half and peels away the soaked fabric, revealing the front of her torso.
His vision turns misty. Everything from collarbone to pelvis is a ruined, lacerated mess.
"Morven," he chokes. His supply of potions ran dry a long time ago. He's pretty sure everyone who can use Restoration magic – even just a little bit – is now a corpse cooling in the mountain air somewhere in the vicinity. He doesn't have enough clean rags to even attempt to staunch this catastrophic bleeding. She looks bad. Really, really bad.
He frantically looks around, sees her fallen blade next to her leg, and snatches it up. He presses its blood-soaked grip into her hand and wedges the blade into the earth so she won't lose hold of it. She once told him that Kyne's servants will only escort warriors who died with a blade in their hand to Sovngarde. He refuses to believe that she could die here, but just in case…
She chuckles softly at his desperation, as if she's reading his thoughts. It's the same kind yet sardonic sound as whenever he's done something stupid.
"It's not about… actually holding a sword… you idiot. Breathing your last… with a sword in your hand… means facing your death… with courage." Her voice is scratchy and her teeth are flecked with blood. She struggles to enounce each word.
Her free hand reaches towards his neck and feeble fingers grasp the pendant resting against his sternum – the hawk of Kyne that she carved for him. He gently envelops the hand with both of his own.
Her unfocused gaze locks onto him. "I-I'm sorry, Rui. I don't think… this is something a healer… can fix."
"Don't say that," he snarls. "This is nothing. You'll be okay, but I just need you to stay awake for a while. Focus on my eyes. Can you do that for me?"
"Rui. Shut up… and listen to me. There are things… I want… to say."
Something in her tone makes him freeze in place.
"You have to… survive. I want… you… to live. Don't you dare die here. And… don't… let this…"
She subsides into a fit of wet phlegmy coughing. That isn't a good sign. At all.
He finds his voice again. "I'm fine, Morven. Don't worry about me. You need to be worrying about yourself right now."
"Listen to me," she repeats. "I regret… a lot of… things. But not you. Never you. You make me… so happy… when we're together. You're a good man… but the world… will never see you… the way… I do. But Rui, I know… you can be greater… than this… this… dying… for nothing. I know you can. I want you… to be better. Be a hero… like I never could. For me."
She gasps and her eyes begin to glaze over.
"I'll see you… again… in Sovngarde."
"Hey, none of that. Look at me. Keeping looking right here. You're gonna be just fine." He's lying, but that's all he can do. There's just too much blood for anything else. "Don't give up. Please. Please. Please don't give up."
Her voice hitches. "I… I love you."
He grasps her hands with his own. "Stop talking like you're going to die! These isn't your godsdamn final eulogy. You're not dying. You'll be… just… you're gonna be…"
He can't bring himself to finish, and it's already too late for his empty assurances.
Her beautiful blue eyes are staring vacantly at an uncertain point behind his right ear. The only sign that she's still alive are the labored breaths puffing gently from her crimson lips. He tightens his grip around her hand. "Don't…"
After a few moments longer, she releases a shuttering wheeze, her head lolls slightly to the side, and she's gone.
He sits and stares at her motionless face, waiting for her to shift her eyes or say something else. But she doesn't. Minutes pass and she still hasn't stirred at all.
This can't be real. She isn't actually dead… right? That's impossible. It could happen to Lotosk and Joren and the others, but it couldn't happen to her. It couldn't. It doesn't make any sense. Morven can't die.
Something wet trickles down his nose. It isn't blood – he can tell from the lack of viscosity.
A droplet of water falls from his face. Then another. And another. He briefly tears his gaze away from Morven to look at the sky. It isn't raining, so he… he's crying?
Why is he crying? He shouldn't be. This isn't right.
Men like him simply don't cry.
Something snaps inside his head.
"Morven, please don't be dead," he mutters. "Don't be dead. Don't be dead! You can't die! What about everything we've made it through since the day we met? We survived those things together! But how can I survive anything if you're gone?!"
He squeezes her bloodstained hand much more tightly than he ever would under normal circumstances for fear of hurting her, but she doesn't react to the bone-creaking pressure. Not even a little.
He lifts her hand and presses it against his cracked lips, not caring that he's smearing her blood across his beard. "Please!" he sobs into her palm. "Please don't leave me! I can't do this without you I need you with me!"
He reaches forward and wraps his arms around her, just as he's done hundreds of times.
But when he touches her shoulders, he passes through her as if she's an illusion. Not expecting the sudden lack of resistance, he topples forward and falls through her mangled torso, through the ground, and all the way into a black void beneath the earth.
He falls. He keeps falling, tumbling weightlessly, unable to see what lies at the bottom of his uncontrolled descend beyond the impenetrable darkness. Shadows writhe at the edges of his vision, grasping for him with tendrils of smoke and making his heart race with fear.
He falls faster, and faster, and faster, and faster, and…!
-x-
He opens his eyes to a familiar ceiling of crisscrossed timber beams.
His room in the barracks. Whiterun. It's early spring.
He doesn't leap out of his bed after being overcome with shock at the dream's sudden conclusion. He doesn't shout aloud or start weeping or fly into a fit of rage.
He just lies there silently in his sweaty cotton sheets. Unblinking. Unmoving. Painfully processing everything that happened in the final weeks of the old gang's existence, all over again for the nth time, still staring blankly at the ceiling.
Sometimes he thinks he'll never be rid of the anger no matter how much time passes. Reliving these things makes him so indescribably furious that he wouldn't be surprised if he popped a vessel and died on the spot. Even now he can feel his lungs constricting tightly as they blaze with white-hot unadulterated rage.
The nice thing about being angry at somebody else is that you always have the option of slitting their throat, gouging out their eyes, cutting off their fingers, tearing away their scalp, carving out their tongue, filleting their ribs, or doing whatever else is needed to pay them back for causing that anger in the first place. In his experience, copious bloodshed can be an unexpectedly pleasant way to unwind.
But what can he do when that anger is directed squarely at himself?
The problem with regret – real regret – is that it never goes away. Its origin lies in his own actions, decisions, and words. "If only I had done things differently," he could gripe and groan. But what's the point of that? He can't take back what he did or didn't do. The past can never be unwound. All he can do now is languish in his sorrow and fantasize about what his world could've been if only he hadn't failed the love of his life in the moment that she needed him most.
If only he hadn't failed Joren and the others. If only he hadn't failed the rest of the gang. If only he hadn't failed himself and the man he wanted to be.
He'd never lost someone like Morven before. In the entirely of his adult life, he never had anybody quite like her… but now he's condemned to live with the consequences of his regrets.
He grasps Morven's pendant of Kyne and squeezes, wanting so badly to tear it away from his neck. The shame of still wearing this gift that she gave to him while her blood is practically staining his hands… it's unbearable. He can't stand it anymore.
After enduring a long moment of indescribable mind-numbing fury, the boiling rage gradually reduces to a bubbling simmer and he slowly relaxes, releasing the amulet from his white-knuckled grip. It's a close-run thing.
He scoffs to himself. Arngeir had no clue what he was talking about when he told me to let go of this. He doesn't understand. He said himself that he's never led the sort of life I have. You don't just decide one day that you'll stop feeling the way you do and go back to being normal.
He raises his hand and turns it over, examining the familiar patchwork of scars crisscrossing his tanned flesh in the watery moonlight.
There is no 'normal' anymore.