I wake to a commotion, people rolling out of their beds as there's shouting somewhere nearby. A boy's broken voice shouting, men yelling, and more voices jeering. I scramble out of bed, snatching up my sword and bow as if expecting a fight, and see Andrinius barrel down the stairs, steps still unsteady as he catches himself on the railing. A glance at the light outside tells me it's just past sunrise, and as I charge after Thelessa and Zakarus, the latter also still unsteady on his feet, a cheer sounds from downstairs.
People are already shoving their way out of the hall when we get down there, visibly excited despite most still having the stability of a six-month-old. I hear snatches of conversation as I try to push through the group, getting swept up and carried out the door as we spill out into the clearing, people moving to form a ring around Skjoren and Hadvar.
I realise I've never seen Hadvar truly angry before. Certainly, I saw it last night, but this is worse – this is more like rage, like the same fury that I know when the dragons combine their strength with her. A cold darkness that I think is unknown by most; but I see it in the glare Hadvar is directing at Skjoren, as the Stormcloak picks himself up from the ground. Surprisingly, he's still in his armour, but his axe isn't on his hip – it's in Hadvar's other hand.
"Skjoren Ember-Gaze, you stand accused of the murder of fifteen civilians at Whitereach, and the attempted murder of sixteen more in Lastspell Falls."
Hadvar's voice rings out on the cold morning air as Skjoren rubs his face, clearly still waking up. I wonder how Hadvar manages to look so alert, so awake, when I know he stayed up on watch last night well after I went to bed. Maybe it's the same adrenaline that seems to be pushing him to pace back and forth in front of Skjoren – stalking, like a predator.
I've never seen him like this, and it's a little... frightening, if I'm being honest. Despite everything over the past few days, the reconnecting, the soft moments, I remind myself that he is an Imperial Captain, and this is probably him enacting Imperial justice.
"By Imperial law, you're found guilty until proven innocent," Hadvar continues, prowling his end of the loose ring that's now formed. "But we all know how that'll go, and I think you'd prefer something you consider fair."
He throws Skjoren's axe down in front of him, the steel making a harsh clang against the stony ground. Skjoren, on one knee, looks from it to Hadvar.
"By Nordic tradition you prove yourself under Tsun, by rite of combat."
People are shouting, jeering at Skjoren as he hesitates, looking up at Hadvar. There's a flash of fear in his expression as Hadvar stops his pacing, turning to face Skjoren front-on, sword hanging by his side but clearly still at the ready. I want to leap in. I know I probably should; we're so close to being free, the path so close to being done, and Hadvar is risking his stupid life against this guy for what? Avenge the soldiers killed in the skirmish? Validate the anger of the locals? Why not simply arrest him, drag him into Castle Dour and let... let whatever happens there, happen to him?
The dragons are stirring, rising, watching through my own eyes as they soak in the energy. And yet, my feet remain planted in place, frozen as if by some greater power. This is not my fight. Let them battle. Let them resolve it. This is justice.
"Pick up your axe, or forfeit your life,"
There's something in the way he says it, something so dark and chilling, that I stare at Hadvar. His eyes, usually a light green, look unnaturally dark as he glares at Skjoren – like a saber cat watches a newblood hunter. The weak morning sunlight leaves his face unnaturally shadowed, and the utter hatred he directs towards Skjoren is almost palpable. This is not the man I know; this is the man that kills his enemies swiftly and decisively.
The tremor in Skjoren's hand is barely perceptible as he reaches for his axe. I sense one of the dragons, the elder one, crowing with delight – as soon as he lays a hand on his weapon, the trial begins. He's at a disadvantage, on one knee with his axe on the ground, in heavy armour that will slow him if he tries to get up. I sense someone at my shoulder and look up to see Skorm, pale, stricken, standing unsteadily as he watches his father.
"Can't you stop them?" He asks me, though his eyes stay on the fight. I shake my head.
"It's for the gods to decide." I hear myself say, my voice breathy and almost unlike my own. Skorm bites his shaking lip, but I can see tears in his eyes.
Skjoren's hand drops onto the handle, and he pitches into a roll as Hadvar dashes forwards, faster than I've ever seen him move. Steel scrapes armour as Skjoren rolls to his feet, staggering with his own momentum while Hadvar pivots fluidly, light on his feet like a dancer as he moves again. Skjoren bellows in rage as he swings, the blade barely touching against Hadvars armour as steel strikes steel again.
"Face me like a true Nord, you bastard!" Skjoren snarls, recovering his pose as he grips his axe. Hadvar has moved back, out of Skjoren's reach, and raises both arms.
"You're the one in plate; all I've got's leathers."
Someone cheers, and others join in, but Skjoren charges again and Hadvar shifts aside, grabbing Skjoren's free arm and locking it as he flings Skjoren around full-circle, throwing him onto the ground. Skjoren rolls to his feet, shaking himself off, but Hadvar darts in and his sword cuts across the chain protecting Skjoren's abdomen, slicing through his mantle as he passes him, pivoting with almost unnatural grace as he shifts to another pose. Skjoren staggers, but throws himself at Hadvar again, his movements slow and sluggish as he swings. He's wearing out already, and I have to wonder what Hadvar meant when he said the guy was a skilled fighter. At this rate, even I could probably outmatch him.
"You know you're better than this," Hadvar says, oddly calm as he begins to pace the edge of the ring. "Get up, prove your innocence – unless you know you're not."
"Why's he giving him a chance?" Munskr hisses beside me. "He could have damn well killed all of us, and not given two shits! Kill him! Put him down!"
He shouts the last two comments, and I realise almost everyone is echoing the sentiment. I look around the circle, seeing only anger, hatred etched into the faces of the people I've come to know as kind, gentle folk. War changes even the best people.
Skjoren is almost growling through gritted teeth as he glares at Hadvar, who is pacing the edge of the ring. Skjoren stands slowly, drawing himself to an almost unnatural height and drawing a deep breath. He roars, but it's a sound that I haven't heard before – an almost animal sound that makes the civilians flinch, stagger back as some of them turn away, fearful. He charges, swinging down heavily, and Hadvar catches the blow, locking Skjoren's axe centimetres from his own skull. He's gritting his teeth, straining, and I see the block slip ever so slightly, the axe shift towards his face as Skjoren pushes down with both hands.
Hadvar wrests the block aside, throwing his own body into Skjoren, staggering him – Skjoren's arm wraps around Hadvar's waist, grappling as he headbutts Hadvar in the nose. There's a shout of pain as Hadvar breaks out of the hold, hand flying to his nose as it begins to bleed. I feel my own hand covering my mouth, hear my own shocked gasp as Hadvar reels back, trying to disengage – but Skjoren's apparently woken up now, and he's ready to fight back.
Hadvar barely dodges the next two swings, pivoting past one and ducking under the other, bringing his sword up and slashing at Skjoren's exposed arm. He doesn't yell, doesn't cry out, but the blade slices diagonally across his right forearm and blood splatters across the stone as he spins, switching his axe to his left hand. Hadvar is facing him with a bloody face, sword angled defensively as he moves slower now, assessing his opponent more cautiously.
Skjoren moves again, quick cross-slashes with the axe as he forces Hadvar back, but he catches the sword in a lock and with his bloodied arm reaches out, grabbing Hadvar by the throat, fingers flexing as he squeezes. The sword, caught between the hook of the axe's blade and handle, is wrested from his grip and tossed aside as Skjoren pushes down, forcing Hadvar to his knees. There's silence from the people as Skjoren raises his axe—
A handful of dirt flies into Skjoren's eyes and he shouts, staggering back as he shakes his head, blinded by the tiny granules. Hadvar rolls as the older man tries to swing at him, collecting up his sword and turning. People are cheering, despite the dirty move he just pulled. Skjoren sees him, snarling like an animal as he wipes the last of the dirt from his eyes. Hadvar is holding a guard position as he mirrors Skjorens steps around the ring, caution now etched into every movement he makes.
It already occurred to me, but it's starting to feel real that this might not go how everyone expects it to. There is a very real chance Hadvar could die in this fight, and what then? What happens to everyone without him here? He's the only one really brave enough, capable enough to stand up to Skjoren.
Not the only one.
Hadvar dives, and Skjoren switches his hold at the last moment, dropping the axe low and swinging up. I hear shocked cries, soft screams, sharp gasps as everyone sees it – the tip of Hadvar's sword punches through the chain mail as the tip of the axe rakes upward, slicing through the leather armour, cutting deep into flesh as Hadvar twists to the side – but his momentum still carries him forward, his own blade slicing through flesh even as he throws himself off-centre.
I start forward as Skjoren also drops to his knees, hand pressed to the slash across his stomach. Hadvar is on his side, fighting for breath through gritted teeth as I see the mark Skjoren carved from his hip to his shoulder. I need to help him, I can't let him die like this!
"Stay where you are!" Brand calls, his voice unnaturally authoritative again. "If you enter the ring it invalidates the trial!"
Skorm is moving as well, and I grab him – there's something in Brand's voice that screams danger, as if entering the ring does more than invalidate the trial. Skorm is crying out to his father, urging him to stand, to live; I know, for his sake, I should be feeling the same way, but my eyes are on Hadvar, silently willing the same for him.
Skjoren is struggling to stay upright, and lists dangerously to the side, planting a hand on the ground to try and keep himself stable. Hadvar, with great effort, is pulling himself to his feet and, hand clutching the wound that would kill lesser men, staggers over and grabs Skjoren by the front of his breastplate, pulling him up.
I don't hear what he says. Too many people are shouting, cheering, jeering; but I see his lips move, see Skjoren's eyes widen in fear again before Hadvar drops him, driving his knee into the side of Skjoren's head.
No sooner is Skjoren laid out flat, unconscious, than Hadvar is also on his knees, still clutching the wound. Hilde is at his side as quickly as she can move, and I feel that invisible barrier keeping me in place, suddenly disappear as I rush over to him.
"I'll be fine," Hadvar gasps as I catch him on his other side. "It wasn't deep."
"Bullshit, your insides were nearly outsides," I snap at him, slinging his arm over my shoulder as I see Hilde's hands bathed in that golden glow, finding the laceration and pressing the restorative energy into it. He shudders, groaning painfully at her touch as his arm tightens around me. He buries his face in my shoulder as I see Hilde moving her hands along the wound. The whole thing is glowing now, but I see as the glow fades, the skin healing back together. Hadvar's hold on me relaxes, and he lifts up his head, looking at Hilde as she hesitantly pulls her hands away.
"Let me get your nose—"
"Heal him," he says, jerking his head at Skjoren. Skorm is clinging to him, trying to treat the wound as Jorell numbly watches, not reacting to anything Skorm tries to tell him. Hilde stares at Hadvar as if he's lost his mind, but he nods slowly. "If he dies from combat, he goes to Sovngarde. Don't let him have that."
Hilde and I both stare at him as he sits up properly, but she nods, rocking back, standing, moving over to Skjoren. I look at him as he watches her, feeling a cold numbness in my chest.
"You're not a spiteful person," I tell him, "Why deny him that?"
"Because he hasn't earned it," Hadvar replies, looking at me. His eyes are still a touch darker than I'm used to, and there's something about him that just feels... hollow, but he forces a weak smile. "Trust me, Brighid. It's not spite – it's a second chance."
"He failed in trial, he wouldn't get access to the Halls of Valor. You're more merciful than I would have been."
Brand is standing beside us, watching as Hilde works her magic on Skjoren now. He glances at Hadvar, offering a hand.
"I figure his sons will want to meet him there one day," Hadvar tells us, moving to stand. He staggers, and Brand and I both catch him.
"You need a rinse," Brand chuckles, "He messed up your face pretty good."
"Ah, it'll be fine," Hadvar replies, managing a smile. Others are starting to move in now, congratulating Hadvar or thanking him, but I hear a soft cry of relief as someone groans nearby. People move aside and I can see Skjoren is also having the same painful healing experience Hadvar got – but he's not on death's door, at least.
I suppose that's something.
Skjoren is coughing, choking up blood as his insides heal, and rolls onto his side as Hilde finishes her work, moving back quickly. Blood splatters across the ground as people groan in disgust, and he seems to collapse in on himself, laying on the hard stone. Hadvar, now more surefooted, nudges people aside as he moves towards Skjoren, who is gasping for breath now. He crouches beside the old man, in his line of sight, as people move to step back again. Skjoren looks up at him, and as I move to stand behind Hadvar, I see his eyes widen in fear.
"I didn't have to spare your life," Hadvar tells him softly, "But something you Stormcloaks seem to have forgotten – if you die by trial, you never gain entry to Shor's hall. Consider this your turning point; choose right, and you'll see that hall. If not... Sovngarde can be a lonely place."
Skjoren is staring at him in obvious fear as he stands. Jorell is next to him and I notice him put a hand on Jorell's shoulder, giving him a meaningful look, before he turns and moves off through the rest of the group.