Roland and Razig managed to grab a few things to help them survive the trip through the Reach: some warm clothes, a bit of food, and some flint and steel. Razig discarded his splintered kite shield in favor of a smaller buckler shield. They had no spare clothes, no medicine, no means to set up a tent at night… nor the time to find such things. As the Orsimer quickly went through all their things one last time, Roland suddenly seemed to be full of questions.
"What will happen to my father?"
"He's a man of importance. House Blackthorn will likely want to capture him for ransom. Killing him would give them little benefit."
"And my siblings? Queen Josephine?"
"Knowing your father, he'll get Vivian or someone else he trusts to spirit them away so they can't be used as hostages against him."
"What will happen to House Durand? What will happen to us?"
No answer. The Orc stopped and scowled down at the contents of the backpack laid on Roland's bed. Roland reached over and touched his shoulder. "Razig?"
"I don't know." House Durand's venerable Battlemaster seemed to deflate as he shook his head. His voice was a solemn, sullen rumble. "I don't know. Let's just take this one step at a time, cub. Put on your pack so we can start climbing down. Survival comes first."
Razig took the lead, stiffly swinging his leg over the windowsill before slowly climbing down. After a few minutes, the Orc made it to the bottom with few difficulties and beckoned him to follow suit. Roland didn't remember the last time he'd felt so nervous climbing down his bedroom window. He'd done it dozens of times, sneaking out to visit Evermore or sneaking back in after staying out too late. But there was the danger of being caught by a Blackthorn soldier ever present at the back of his mind to shake him. His hands trembled, his legs felt weak without the adrenaline of battle in him, but he managed to descend until his boots hit solid ground.
They heard rapid footsteps approaching. Both of them turned to see a tall, armored silhouette appear in the shadow of the keep. The figure stepped out from the shadows, and the moonlight illuminated a scarred High Elven face, black plate and chainmail overlaid with a Blackthorn jupon, and a longsword that gleamed silver.
While Roland was reeling from shock, Razig was moving to stand between him and the Altmer. Drawing his orichalcum mace, he growled over his shoulder at the Breton, "Stay back, boy, she's dangerous. I'll handle this."
"You will do no such thing." Ethenriel's voice was cold and grim. The moonlight fell upon her in such a way that half her features were cast in shadow. "Fight me, and you'll draw the attention of the nearest Blackthorn knights. Your deaths will be slow and painful."
The old Battlemaster bared his tusks with a bestial growl. "What do you want? To offer us the mercy of a swift death?" His knuckles went white as he gripped his weapon's haft.
"Battlemaster, can't you calm your damnable Orcish rage for just a moment and realize I'm trying to help you?" Ethenriel hissed, her eyes blazing amber in the low light.
An uneasy silence grew. Further beyond, in the keep's courtyard, the tumult of combat rumbled like distant thunder - steel clashing, commanders shouting, troops screaming in death. Fires burned, throwing thick plumes of smoke into the night sky.
"Why would you help us?" Roland stepped forth around Razig's broad form. His hand was closed tight around the hilt of his sword, still sheathed at his hip. He felt rage simmering deep within him; his voice came out in a growl through gritted teeth. "Here you are, leading Blackthorn men to kill my family - to destroy my House! Just like the rest of them. Why would you want to help?"
Tears ran down his cheeks, hot and bitter. Ethenriel bowed her head suddenly, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't want this. Any of it. I tried to convince King Ganelon to not resort to such measures. I did what I could to avoid this bloodshed."
"You carried out King Ganelon's bidding all the same," Razig uttered. "And now, when House Durand lies broken and bleeding… Now is when you choose to defy him?"
The hulkynd's smoldering gaze pinned them in place. "My defiance will be enough to give you two a chance to flee with your lives. And perhaps it may even save King Dorian himself. I can offer nothing better."
Razig glared stubbornly. Roland scowled as hot tears ran down his cheeks. Ethenriel stood immobile, sword in hand but lowered to her side. Somewhere in the distance, the blast of a war horn echoed into the night. The beleaguered keep shuddered at the impact of spellfire.
Roland's hand reached for Razig's wrist, lowering the mace. "We have no choice, Razig. We need to trust her."
A grumbling sigh emerged from the Orc. He relaxed his stance grudgingly. "You're right. I still don't like it."
Ethenriel turned and pointed to the east. "Your best bet is going that way. Our men were instructed to watch for Durand stragglers fleeing to the south and west of here. I convinced young William that you would not chance a crossing through Reachfolk territory."
Razig snarled, "That prick is here? Of course he is. And you've left him to run amok."
"I came here to restrain him. The sooner you two run off, the sooner I can get back to him before he can get out of hand."
The Orc growled softly. "Come on, cub. We're leaving."
They strode past the Altmer. She did not lift her gaze as they drew near, keeping her eyes downcast. Roland felt the urge to say something, but nothing came to mind. Here was this woman he'd seen as a kindred spirit, in part responsible for the death of his family and the violent destruction of his home. Remorse and sorrow was easily read, even through her stoic demeanor. A complicated heart lurked somewhere under the Altmer's dark armor and Blackthorn jupon.
Roland turned and ran with Razig. There would be a long night ahead of them. But nothing could compare to the cold, distant numbness that stood where his heart should have been.
Ethenriel waited until her sharp elven hearing could no longer catch the sound of Razig and Roland. Then, she lifted her head. Her gaze fell upon the widow from which the men had escaped - the same one, she recalled, that Roland had shown her and that she'd used to carry out Ganelon's orders. Perhaps this time, she could use the knowledge to save lives instead of doom them.
Scaling the wall was more easily accomplished this time. When she was in the bedchamber again, she set off at a brisk jog toward the heart of the keep. Though she half-expected there to be a few Durand household troops lingering in these floors, none appeared before her. They all must have been engaged - fighting to the death alongside their king, most likely.
She hastened through the keep, running downstairs and turning corners until she found herself standing at the entrance to the throne room. The situation was a dire one: King Dorian and his surviving household troops had chosen to make their stand here. While Durand and Blackthorn footmen clashed, William stood alone against the Dragon, surrounded by a ring of Blackthorn troops. The men dueled fiercely; William's imposing size and strength were pitted against Dorian's experience and speed. The Blackthorn knight's meteoric iron greatsword whirled, keen and deadly. King Dorian answered him, deflecting the blow off his poleaxe's shaft and countering with a sharp thrust. William parried it; Shear's tip flew at his foe's chest, shattering Dorian's shimmering shield spell and scraping hard against the breastplate as the king twisted out of its way.
The young knight had overextended, leaving himself exposed. Dorian delivered a jab with the butt end of his poleaxe into William's face. The Blackthorn's shield spell shimmered at the impact, and he staggered back a step, off-balance. Then Dorian stepped into his foe's side and swung his poleaxe. William jerked away, too slow to avoid the strike; the axe blow simultaneously shattered his shield spell in a flash of blue light and ripped the hinge of William's visor. Dorian raised his weapon for a killing blow, and the young Blackthorn turned, eyes blazing with fury, as he readied his sword to receive it.
"King Dorian!"
Ethenriel's voice echoed in the chamber. Magicka shuddered through the air, and the cyan shimmer of a shield spell enveloped her as she drew her long blade. With all the force of an experienced battlefield veteran, she projected her voice through the tumult in the hall. "Cease this combat! Your stronghold has fallen - the battle is over. Lay down your arms and yield."
William and Dorian both came to an abrupt halt. The sounds of battle in the room tapered off into silence. What remained of the Durand household troops recoiled from their opponents, clutching bloody wounds but standing in defiance around their king. Dorian suddenly faced Ethenriel with a scowl. He looked her over, sizing her up as if wondering whether he could cut her down before anybody could react. Blood stained his face and his sky-blue jupon; he had looked much the same back in Cyrodiil, she recalled, during the Battle of the Red Ring.
There is still a chance for mercy, she thought desperately. Yield, damn you, yield! If not for yourself, then for your people!
King Dorian was an honorable man. Ethenriel counted on that fact, and the fact that he was a man who cared more about those who served him than most other noblemen. Of all the knights in High Rock, few were those who exemplified the virtues of Bretonic chivalry more than the Dragon. In this, even now, King Dorian did not disappoint. He held his hand out to the side, motioning to his household troops. "Lay down your arms, men. I will not ask you to die when there is no need for it." He waited for his troops to obey. Then, he bobbed his head at Ethenriel once, shallowly. His expression was flat and somber. "We will yield."
Ethenriel relaxed. The surrounding House Blackthorn troops looked at each other before slowly lowering their weapons. But William's eyes burned with fury. By the time the hulkynd noticed, it was already too late.
William rushed forward with a battle cry. One hand on the blade, gripping Shear like a spear, the Blackthorn knight thrusted with all his might. A loud crunching noise filled the room as the point of his meteoric iron blade pierced the junction of two of Dorian's armor plates. Dorian, half-turned, uttered a choked scream of pain and fell to his knees. The nearby House Durand troops yelled in outrage and charged at him, only for several other Blackthorn men-at-arms to bar their way with spears.
"William, stop!" screeched Ethenriel, stomping over toward him. "He has yielded! Stop, damn you!"
"M-Mercy!" Dorian managed to choke out. "Mercy, please!"
Against expectations, William did stop. He lifted his gaze. Ethenriel saw the murder in his eyes and in the cruel snarl that split his features. The hulkynd shook her head. "William—!"
The Blackthorn knight gripped King Dorian's shoulder with one hand. Then he drove Shear further into his victim's body with an exultant roar. Dorian's scream of pain was cut short, and his head lolled to one side, glassy eyes staring sightlessly. Dark red blood pooled on the floor, running down his armored form in rivulets. Finally, William ripped Shear free, and the corpse went tumbling to the floor.
An awful silence fell over the throne room. One of the nearby House Durand men-at-arms began to weep. Ethenriel turned on William with an incandescent glower. In contrast, her voice was a harsh, strained whisper. "What have you done, William?"
The Blackthorn knight only had a smug grin for her. "I have grown quite frustrated as of late with you, Ethie, always ruining my fun. I couldn't let you take this glory away from me, as well." He motioned down at the warm corpse of King Dorian.
Anger flashed across Ethenriel's face. It was quickly replaced with the stoic, implacable coldness that she had long been known for. "You slew a man who'd lowered his arms, struck him down while he had his back turned. There is no glory in that."
William just laughed. "It was his mistake to turn his back on his enemy - all I did was exploit the opening."
"It was backstabbing, William."
He turned back to his troops gathered in the throne room. "Well, men - seems to me that I've slain myself a Dragon, eh? What do you all think? Yea or nay?"
There were assorted sounds of yeas and ayes that rose among the throng of armored Blackthorn troops. William turned back to the Altmer with a smirk. "See, Ethie? They can vouch for me. I think William the Dragonslayer has a nice ring to it, does it not?"
Then, louder: "Finish sweeping the stronghold, men! No Durand leaves this place alive without chains around their wrists!"
In short order, the few remaining House Durand troops were chained and escorted out of the throne room. They put up little resistance - seeing their king slain before them had broken their will. Ethenriel watched the rest of the Blackthorn troops exit the chamber. A few of the men-at-arms eyed King Dorian's corpse, no doubt hoping to loot it - Ethenriel standing over it like a herald of death persuaded them not to chance it.
All of a sudden, the room was empty. Only the distant sounds of conflict, now growing sparse as the last of House Durand's forces were dealt with, could be heard. The Altmer buried her face into her hand, feeling a deep melancholy where she'd long thought that such feelings could no longer affect her. I've done wrong. This is all wrong, and I had a part in it. No matter what happens here, my honor is left in shambles.
She looked over at the corpse of King Dorian. The pool of blood grew steadily around him, staining his sky-blue jupon a deep, dark crimson. After a moment's hesitation, Ethenriel stepped over and knelt before him, studying his glassy steel-blue eyes. Then, she drew her fingertips over his eyelids to close them, shutting her own solemnly as she did. I'm sorry, King Dorian. I hope that you find peace in Aetherius.
That night was the first she'd felt the urge to shed tears in many, many years.
To the east of the embattled stronghold stood a crumbling, derelict tower. Even a thousand years ago, it had stood as a ruin, one of many that marked the landscape from an age of war long since past. It was from the shadow of this tower that Divellon watched Durand Stronghold fall to its besiegers.
His employers' plan was working masterfully. King Ganelon had been easy to seduce with the temptation of destroying his rival and the Iliac League in the process. But with such a shocking turn of events as this - the utter destruction of an entire House - the other dukes and kings of High Rock would surely be thrown into disarray. Perhaps this event shall be the spark for a civil war after all…
Movement caught his eye. The Altmer followed it. A pair of figures were running out from the shadow of the beleaguered keep. The pale moonlight was just enough for his sharp elven eyes to catch sight of sky blue jupons. Ahh. We have survivors, it seems.
The figures were headed toward the Reach. Divellon knew that realm only from his studies of High Rock prior to arriving for his mission here - it was an unforgiving land that only the Reachfolk truly knew how to survive in. But if there was any chance at all for House Durand to return later and become an issue, he would see the problem nipped in the bud.
Divellon turned. Behind him, his fellow Thalmor agents hid in the shadows, clad in long, dark cloaks with golden accents. He pointed at the fleeing figures and flashed a white grin. "A pair of King Dorian's men have slipped the grasp of the Blackthorn fist. Get after them, make sure they do not escape with their lives. I need to report the downfall of House Durand."
His mer gave short nods before vanishing into the night. Not even Divellon's sharp eyes could follow them into the shadows. When they were gone, he turned back to watch the keep. The sounds of battle were beginning to die down. Before long, it had faded entirely. Victorious Blackthorn troops began to march out of the first gatehouse, dragging chained prisoners along with them - but only a few. He could only wonder at the untold casualties that remained in the keep.
Further beyond, the distant lights of Evermore shone. There would surely be an alarm raised in the city by now, but no reinforcements would reach the fallen stronghold before the Blackthorns got back into their rowboats. Assuming, of course, that they did not have portals ready to whisk them back to a safe place.
Divellon smiled. Everything was going splendidly.
The Reach was a foreboding realm of flinty crags, dangerous wildlife, and - as Roland came to quickly learn - thick, rolling banks of fog that filled the valleys and gorges until you couldn't see beyond a quarter mile. He and Razig fled through the Druadach Pass as if they had Hircine's hounds on their heels. The old Orc had not forgotten how to handle rough living since his old days in Dushnikh Yal, but for Roland, it was an uncomfortable and exhausting series of survival lessons.
They stopped only to catch their breaths and eat their meager supply of rations. They slept uncomfortably, hidden from view in the shadow of a rocky outcropping or in a small cave. Neither of them spoke much, wary of how their voices would travel through the maze of crags and valleys.
Sometimes, they heard the distant howl of wolves. Cormac had told them once that some tribes of the Reach in western Skyrim had domesticated giant ice wolves and bred them for size and endurance to serve as mounts. Tall tales, Razig had said to Roland when he'd brought it up. But when the howls began again, they always found themselves looking over their shoulders, wondering if they would see pairs of glowing eyes looming from the fog or atop the rocky ridgelines.
"This place is a nightmare," Roland murmured, shivering under his ragged cloak as he and Razig sat to rest for a time. They'd found shelter beneath a rocky outcropping that shielded them from the worst of the wind. Thick fog had rolled in not long beforehand.
Razig gave a dour nod as he snapped a stale piece of bread in half and gave one piece to Roland. It was the last of their food. "Markarth cannot be far. I've traveled this path once with your lord father."
The reminder of his father made the young man sink further into himself. Razig saw it and scooted over to bring a comforting arm around the Breton's shoulders. "He'll survive. A nobleman is too valuable a prisoner for even the bloodthirsty Blackthorns to give up."
"I hope you're right." Roland chewed on his bread slowly, finding no appetite despite barely having eaten the past couple of days. "What happens when we reach Markarth?"
Razig rubbed his jaw. "There's a significant Thalmor presence in Markarth, which stopped Dorian from growing too close to the Jarl there. We will stay only long enough to resupply before making our exit."
The Orsimer took a long stick and began to draw something in the dirt: a rough map of the area. "Here is Markarth. We're only a day away, by my estimate. Once we finish our business there, we'll swing south. My old stronghold of Dushnikh Yal lies around here, if memory serves."
Roland nodded thoughtfully. Razig had already mentioned how he had little hope that his old stronghold would give sanctuary to them. "And then what? Go north? Further east?"
"East," confirmed the old Battlemaster. "And south. On the other side of the country lies the city where Vivian's sister lives: Riften. While it has an unsavory reputation, Viv seemed to think it was a good place to hide out."
"Will her sister give us sanctuary?"
"Perhaps, but I would not count on it." Razig sighed. "It may not be comfortable living for a while, cub. But our story does not end in Skyrim."
The young man rubbed warmth into his hands. "I've heard the country is being torn apart by a civil war."
"Aye, it is. But they shouldn't bother us. We just need to avoid—"
He fell silent. Roland perked up, scowling. "Raz—?"
"Shh!" the Orc hissed. "Be silent. We are being hunted."
Roland's eyes widened. The Orc motioned for him to stay put and rose into a half-crouch, seizing his mace and gripping his buckler before moving to the periphery of their shelter. He poked his head out cautiously, looking left and right. The young man, sensing danger, slowly rose from his seat and reached for his sword.
A shape moved beyond the mist. Razig spun around sharply, then suddenly staggered back when a bolt of lightning shot past him. It crashed into the mountainside and shattered stone with a loud hiss.
Three figures appeared from the swirling mists, clad darkly from head to toe, wearing padded black gambesons with golden accentuation. Nothing could be seen of their faces from behind their masks, but the eagles sewn onto their breasts were unmistakable: Thalmor assassins. As one, the trio drew long moonstone blades and advanced, magicka shimmering into a shield spell around their bodies.
Razig brought his buckler up to deflect one sword, then smashed the small shield into the mask of another. While the elf reeled, another swung at the Orc. His buckler caught the longsword, and his mace swung for the elf's head, only for the killer to nimbly dance away.
Roland rose to his feet to help, but he found himself suddenly face to face with a fourth assassin. He barely turned aside in time to avoid the dagger from stabbing him in the belly, then drove a fist into his attacker's throat. His arming sword came free from its sheath, but when he slashed at his reeling foe, the Altmer grabbed him at the wrist. Before he even knew what was happening, the Thalmor had disarmed him, twisted his arm, and pinned him. Roland snarled in pain as his face was driven into the ground; he turned his head to see the Altmer raising his dagger for a killing blow.
A battle cry resounded, shortly before the Orc came to his rescue and kicked the assassin off him. The old battlemaster brought his mace down on the killer, shattering his shield spell and his skull both at once. He had to quickly turn to deflect another assassin's throwing dagger, and then the thrower's moonstone longsword. The Orc roared over his shoulder, "Run, cub!"
"R-run?" Roland gasped in pain as he climbed to his feet. "But Razig—!"
"Mauloch's tusks, just go! I'll fend them off!" The Orc bound one mer's weapon with his buckler and shoved him into the path of his fellow, shortly before the third struck him across the back. His blade scraped hard against the Battlemaster's brigandine, and Razig turned sharply with a riposte from his mace to fend him off.
Roland wanted to stay and fight, but the assassin's disarming maneuver earlier had strained his sword arm; it hurt to even flex it. He knew no offensive magic, didn't have the chance to even grab a dagger before they'd made their escape from Durand Stronghold. Seeing no other option, the young man turned and fled, darting into the rolling banks of fog. A Thalmor assassin saw him and tried to give chase, but Razig swung his mace low and shattered the mer's leg. Roland heard the elf's broken scream of pain echo into the Reach as he plunged further into the fog.
He ran until he could no longer run. He ran until his breath came in broken gasps, until his lungs burned and his legs felt like they would buckle at any moment. The man was reduced to a desperate, hobbling stagger by the time the Druadach Pass opened up and Markarth came into view.
At the gate, the Nordic guards gave him odd looks but let him through. He asked for directions to the nearest tavern - an establishment owned by the influential Silver-Blood Clan - and hobbled inside. A few of the precious gold coins he'd brought with him got him his first proper meal and drink in three days.
There was nothing to do but wait.
Hours passed, and Razig did not come. The day waned, and the light fell to the darkness of night. Roland got himself a room for the night in the inn, but the nerves and fear of seeing a Thalmor assassin entering his room while he slept kept him awake most of the night. By the time the sun had arisen, Razig still hadn't come. He asked around the common room, but none of the locals had even seen an Orc by Razig's description wander through the gates.
Roland could not stay here. He'd seen Thalmor walking through the marketplace that morning. Perhaps in Dushnikh Yal it would be safer. He left a message for Razig with the innkeeper, paid him perhaps a few gold coins too many to ensure his silence if anybody else came asking after his whereabouts, and set off for the Orc stronghold in the mountains after getting directions.
He found Dushnikh Yal after a few hours of walking. The Orcs living there, however, did not grant him any succor. Razig gro-Dushnikh was blood kin, yes, but he was not. Still, they pitied him, and he was sent away with a bit of food to help fortify him for the road.
Roland found himself wandering east. Part of him wondered if he should return to Markarth, but then he remembered the Thalmor assassins who'd fallen upon him and Razig. Fear drove him further away from Markarth and the Reach. He followed the mountains south and east. There was a roadside inn at a place called Old Hroldan where he spent a night before asking for directions to the nearest city.
Eight days after leaving Markarth, after the cliffs and gorges of the Reach disappeared far behind him, he arrived in Falkreath. The wilds were thick with tangled undergrowth here, and the city was surrounded on all sides by massive evergreens that reminded him of the oaks of Bangkorai. His money was running low by this point. It required the rest of his gold to purchase more supplies and leave another message with the innkeeper of the establishment where he'd stayed the night, hoping that Razig would be able to find him.
Riften, he learned, was still leagues away. He could reach the city through a mountain pass. Roland was fueled by hope and fear in equal measure as he forged onward, feeling every footstep taking him further from home than he'd ever been before. The lush, green woods of Falkreath disappeared in swirling frost and ice as the path to Riften climbed up into the highlands. This was near the Jerall mountains, on the border of Cyrodiil; the wind cut through his chainmail more deeply than any blade, and his cheeks were lashed by frost until they turned red.
A small town by the name of Helgen greeted him. It was militarily-run, dotted with towers and featuring only a meager civilian population. Roland felt some comfort at the sight of the Imperial banners, until he saw the Thalmor soldiers riding through town. Instinctive fear curled up within his breast, and he decided to avoid the town altogether, instead going north in hopes of finding a path around the mountains toward Riften. He didn't even stop for supplies - not like he had gold to spend anyway.
This is the existence of a hunted man, he again thought one night, while huddling in a cave north of Helgen with a pitiful fire to keep himself warm. His stomach growled and gnawed, yearning for food that was more substantial than the pitiful few bright red berries he'd found growing on a nearby bush - sadly, he was not a skilled hunter to catch his own dinner. His knees pained him; he'd been walking almost nonstop. He was exhausted down to his soul. But he clung to hope, for it was all he had left. Even if Razig cannot follow the trail I've left, he might find me in Riften. That's where he said we would go.
Greenery once again began to creep into the frost-kissed tundra, until he was once again tramping through forests and negotiating the thickets. He skirted around another village, Riverwood, on his way north from Helgen, and by the day's end he'd managed to reach another city called Whiterun. The city itself rose above the tundra plains, surrounded on all sides by wide tracts of sprawling farmland dotted with cottages. Roland succumbed to desperation and passed by a farmer's cottage, offering up his battered and battle-ruined armor in exchange for a bed for the night, some food for the road, and a swaybacked horse to help speed his journey to Riften. He kept his sword, but all he had left was his ragged gambeson to wear.
The horse wasn't particularly fast. Or friendly. Or healthy, for that matter. But it was better than walking to exhaustion every day. Roland avoided the big city of Whiterun and took the path around the mountain. The farmer had told him there was a settlement on the way to Riften where he could rest - Darkwater Crossing, a mining village. He would be able to make the journey in two days with the horse.
When he decided to stop for the night on the second day of travel, he found himself a small clearing in the woods to make his camp. Darkwater Crossing couldn't be far - the river that the farmer had told him to follow to get him there was a slow-flowing thing, but it would be easy to use it as a guide when the sun rose.
From Darkwater Crossing, it should be another two days of riding to reach Riften, he thought to himself. Perhaps three, if the horse decides to be obstinate again.
When the Breton knelt to strike a fire, the wind shifted. His horse suddenly perked its ears up, grunting softly. Roland ignored its reaction. He didn't think anything of it until he heard the undergrowth rustling. By then, however, it was too late.
Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. Roland's hand reflexively reached for his sword. He turned, expecting to find Thalmor assassins bearing down on him, only to see a stranger gripping the reins of his horse. The grouchy old beast grunted and pulled away, resisting the stranger's tugging. The horse thief uttered hissing curses. "Damn you, just— hold still!"
"Hey!" Roland barked, brandishing his sword. "That's my horse!"
The horse thief spat at him. "Scram! I need this more than you do!"
"Like Oblivion you do. Get away before I spill your guts all over the ground." Roland brandished his sword menacingly. Though weak and tired, he could still swing the blade well.
The horse thief's resolve wavered, his face growing pale. Before either of them could say anything more, the undergrowth rustled again. Roland looked to see a group of Nordic warriors emerging from the woods, clad in boiled leathers overlaying chainmail tunics. Dark blue sashes were wrapped around their torsos, and those who wore open faced helms revealed war painted faces.
It seemed that the men hadn't expected to find Roland there, either. When the Breton gasped and turned his sword on them, the Nordic warband raised their weapons in response. A tense silence gripped the two sides. They stood apart by only a couple dozen feet with nothing between them. Even the horse thief was frozen in place by fear.
One of the Nords grunted, snarling in a thick brogue. "Who might you be, eh? An Imperial courier, perhaps?"
This must be the rebel faction fighting against the Empire, thought Roland. He felt a cold stab of fear ripple through his body; he'd often heard tales of the prowess of Nords in battle, and he had no desire to face these ones in his wretched state. The Breton cleared his throat and tentatively raised his hands. "I'm not a courier. Horse thief over there's probably not, either. I'm just passing through to…"
He stopped. Was it safe to say where he was bound for? To these men? He also noticed that more of the blue-sashed Stormcloaks were appearing; he could see them coming into sight behind the trio who'd discovered him. There seemed to be a whole army of them in the woods!
One of the Nords, a woman, scowled and hefted a warhammer. "A man who had nothing to hide wouldn't hesitate to speak about his business. Maybe we ought to search him."
Another of the Nord warriors, a blond man with a braid in his hair, shook his head. "We don't have time. Leave the poor man be, we need to keep moving."
"Leave him be?" asked the first Nord. "And let a potential Imperial spy slip past? We march with Ulfric himself, Ralof, remember? I think we should—"
An arrow plunged into the man's throat. Chaos unfolded in an instant. The forest suddenly came alive with Imperial soldiers; light infantry, heavy infantry, even battlemages. On the other side, the undergrowth churned as the ambushed Stormcloak army found itself under attack by the Imperials. Arrows and spells began to fly. Roland shot to his feet and tried to run.
The pommel of an Imperial sword struck him in the back of his head. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Hadvar rode at the rear of the convoy, his gaze fixed ahead on the looming gates of Helgen. The wagons before him creaked and groaned under the weight of their grim cargo – captured Stormcloak rebels, bound at the wrists, their faces grim and defiant despite their captivity. The morning autumn air was refreshingly crisp, and birdsong trilled from the surrounding woodland. A shame that such a nice day must be sullied with blood.
The wagons rumbled into Helgen. Townspeople came out to watch the grim procession with interest. A few of the people yelled taunts at the Stormcloaks. One of them spat at the carts in passing. None of it fazed the rebels.
As they neared the town square, Hadvar could see the headsman standing at the ready, his axe gleaming in the pale morning sunlight. The sight sent a shiver down his spine, though he tried to push aside the feeling of unease. This was war, and these were the consequences of rebellion. Holding executions without a trial still disturbed him, however, even if the command came from General Tullius himself.
"Hold the convoy, and get these prisoners accounted for," Captain Adriana commanded, her voice steady; she had no such reservations about what they were about to do here.
Hadvar dismounted his horse and took his place by Captain Adriana's side, who stood waiting with a stoic expression by the last of the prisoner carts. She glanced at him and jerked her chin up in his direction. "Ready for the executions, Hadvar?"
"Aye, it must be done. The law is clear."
The prisoners began to file out of their wagons. Hadvar could see the fear and defiance in their eyes, but he hardened his heart against it. This was his duty, and he would see it through to the end, no matter how distasteful it was.
As luck would have it, he had the honor of checking off Ulfric Stormcloak's name from his list. The Jarl of Windhelm, gagged and bound at the wrists, held his head high and glared at them as he was checked off and sent toward the chopping block. Ralof came next – Hadvar avoided the deathly murder in his childhood friend's gaze, fixedly keeping his attention on the checklist. Then he called for Lokir of Rorikstead, the horse thief they'd caught. The Nord's resolve broke within moments of hearing his name called, and he made a break for it. Seconds later, he faceplanted on the street with three arrows in his back, courtesy of the Imperial archers nearby.
"Anyone else feel like running?" snapped Captain Adriana, glaring at the other prisoners. When she was met with silence, she turned to Hadvar. "Continue."
"Right. Next prisoner, please."
Hadvar turned to the final prisoner. The shivering young man who stood before him was no Nord. He stood a head shorter than the other Stormcloak men, and the tips of his ears were ever so faintly pointed like a mer's. The Breton had dark, messy hair and a short, unkempt beard. Soft hazel eyes, wide with fright and incomprehension, flickered back and forth as he timidly approached him and the captain. Don't lose your nerve, man – don't end up like the horse thief.
There was no name on Hadvar's checklist – all the other prisoners had been accounted for. He dimly recalled that this young man had been knocked out when they'd put him on the cart with the other prisoners. Clearing his throat, Hadvar asked him, "Who are you?"
No answer. The Breton stared blankly at them, bewildered. Captain Adriana growled, "You deaf? Answer him!"
The prisoner flinched. He swallowed, licking his chapped lips. In a cracking, halting voice, he answered: "I… I don't know."
Captain Adriana scowled and marched up to the man. He shrank away, only for the captain to drive her mailed fist into his stomach. The Breton crumpled at her feet with a groan. "Your name, imbecile!"
"I don't know!" The man coughed hoarsely as he struggled to find his feet.
Captain Adriana looked like she was about to hit him again when Hadvar intervened. "Captain, wait! For pity's sake, give the lad a moment!"
She gave him a hard, flinty look; the captain was not a woman to be trifled with, and part of Hadvar wondered if she would mark him down for discipline later. However, she did back down. Counting his blessings, Hadvar returned his attention to the prisoner as he rose to stand once more. "Come on, lad. Give us your name and we'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."
The prisoner met his gaze, panting heavily and cringing away from them. In the depths of his eyes, Hadvar could see no comprehension. He'd heard stories of people forgetting things after getting head injuries – entire swathes of their life, sometimes. The lad was out for most of the two days it had taken them to reach Helgen. Perhaps that is what's wrong with him.
But something in the lad's eyes cleared up at the mention of High Rock. Another few moments of silence passed, before his eyebrows knitted together. He straightened, swallowing hard and clearing his throat. "Roland. M-my name is… Roland." He sounded unsure of himself.
Hadvar turned to Captain Adriana. "He's not on the list. Maybe we should let him go…"
"Let him go?" She turned on Hadvar, narrowing her eyes. "The general's orders were clear. All the prisoners were to be executed."
It had been worth a shot. Hadvar sighed and turned a pitying frown on the young Breton. "I'm sorry, prisoner. Follow the captain to the block." Meet your end with dignity.
Roland hesitated, and for that Captain Adriana grabbed him roughly by the arm and frogmarched him to stand among the crowd of Stormcloaks awaiting execution. With all the prisoners accounted for, Hadvar filled in Roland's name on his checklist before following them.
Having no taste for executions, Hadvar stayed at the back of the crowd and watched as the proceedings began. His attention lingered on the poor Breton lad, however; Roland looked absolutely terrified as he watched the first Stormcloak prisoner march up to the headsman's block. When the axe fell and the Nord's head came rolling off with blood fountaining from the man's neck in twin jets, Roland turned away and expelled what little remained in his stomach. The Stormcloaks surrounding the lad shot him looks of disdain. One of them shook his head with a mutter of "milk drinker…"
And then the prisoner's name was called up next. Roland's face went white as a sheet, and for a moment it seemed like he might bolt again. Captain Adriana, at the end of her patience, approached the lad and punched him in the stomach again. She caught him before he collapsed, then dragged him over to the headsman's block. All the while, the lad begged for his life in between sputtering coughs. There was little pity to be found in the watching Stormcloaks; many of them wrinkled their noses at the pitiful display. One of them snapped, "Enough with the sniveling! Die with dignity, man!"
The lad was forced to kneel before the headsman's block. Captain Adriana put her armored boot against his back to make sure he wouldn't bolt. Roland's eyes were wide with fright as he knelt, breathing quickly. Hadvar sighed and bowed his head, unable to keep watching. In a few moments, it would be over. The lad would be dead, innocent or not. Under his breath, the soldier muttered a solemn prayer. Akatosh, take pity on this man. Don't let him suffer.
That was when the sky went dark, and the dragon attacked.
End A/N: And that's a wrap, folks! I don't think I'll be writing a story about Roland's Dragonborn journey to defeat Alduin (you never know though!) buuut I will hint that Roland's story doesn't end here. I have a proper sequel planned, yes, one which gives some closure to Roland's story and that of the other main characters in this fic. I can't give any release date for the sequel because it's barely written at this point, but I can certainly share the working title: Ballad of House Durand.
I'd like to give a big thank you to everyone who's read the story! And to my beloved reviewers, you definitely have helped encourage me to keep writing. I hope you all enjoyed this Dragonborn origin story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
