[AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, to start off, I just want to say that this is technically the very first Skyrim fanfiction idea I ever had. It would follow the main quest and other major story lines if I wanted to take it beyond chapter one, but I never got around to ever actually writing it. And you'll see I have certain recurring themes in all my works lol What can I say, I like the trope of the small, or otherwise incapable, being capable. And the unrelated becoming family. Helps me work through my own childhood traumas, I guess lmao. But yeah. Enjoy basically the prototype of certain other characters of my other works?]

Chapter One: Embers of Sorrow

Valur huddled beside the crackling campfire, his gray eyes fixed on the large slab of sizzling meat upon the makeshift spit roast. The scent of the charred flesh filled his nostrils, only serving as morbid reminder of the cruel loneliness that had befallen him once again.

He was but a Nord boy, only nine winters old, yet already too familiar with the frailties of life. He drew his small legs to his chest, burying his head upon his knees, uncaring of the uncomfortable press of his boney caps against his freckled cheeks. His scruffy honey brown hair caught the icy howl of the wind, but it was the horrid howl of his companion that still rang his ears.

The memory of the Spriggan's attack still seared his mind like the flames seared the meat…

The way Meeko's eyes, once full of warmth and loyalty in the scraggly wolfhound, had turned cold and feral under the twisted magic. Valur's grip on his knife tightened as he fought back further tears. He had been forced to make an impossible choice – slay the beast that Meeko had become or succumb to his once loyal friend.

As the meat cooked, over the wood that had been the Spriggan, Valur's thoughts drifted to Hjemly, the kind Nord who found him stuck in a snare in the woods. Valur had been all alone, surviving the wilderness for two months after losing the only living relative he had. A sickly grandmother, too feeble to make it out of the house fire…

Valur had managed to use the resourcefulness and knowledge she had taught him to live off the bounties of the woods, when he had grown lost trying to find the road to help. But he had been slowly starving, slowly succumbing to the elements. It was a blessing to have gotten his foot caught in the rabbit snare Hjemly had set.

It was Meeko who had come upon him first, ready to sink his teeth into the neck of an ensnared rabbit for his master. Instead, the warm dog found Valur and playfully pounced the unexpected prey until a laughing Hjemly shooed him off and untied the boy from the bind.

Hjemly took him in. Shared his home with him. It may have been but a small shack, but it had been Valur's home for nearly three years. Hjemly had been his home.

A disease had stolen Hjemly away…

Valur's memories fresh from that night it started just weeks ago.

[ Valur's small hands grasped the worn wooden foot post of the bed frame, his eyes fixed on Hjemly struggling to pull himself to sit up. Hjemly's strong arms seemed uselessly rigid, but he managed with groaning effort to sit up against the headboard and fling the blanket off his feverish form. Valur's eyes drifted to the wolf bite bandaged upon Hjemly's leg, the boy knowing it to be the culprit of his adopter's festering ailment. Valur's eyes drifted back up to Hjemly's. The man's once vibrantly green eyes now dull as the grass on a winter's day. Sweat glistened on his brow, pooling in the gauntness already taking root under his eyes. His receding dark hair, usually combed neatly into a ponytail, sat around his head like a matted mane, some strands stuck to the sweat of his face, some clung in his beard.

"Valur, lad…," Hjemly's voice, weak but warm, beckoned the boy, "Come closer, little rabbit."

Valur's freckled nose scrunched, his stomach sinking at the weakness in Hjemly's voice. He stepped near, seeing the rigidness even in the slight turn of Hjemly's head. The man's arm slowly lifted, struggling but determined to cup the boy's chin in a calloused hand.

Valur leaned slightly to meet him, feeling the effort it was taking for Hjemly to unfurl his fingers.

"Rockjoint's got me, Valur…," Hjemly spoke, "Already it locks my bones…"

"What do we do?" Valur asked. His grandmother had warned him of such of the many diseases one could contract, but he had no memory if she had told him a remedy. There was much in his memories of edible flora and fauna, of salves and minor remedies, but he struggled to recall a specific remedy for this condition.

Hjemly's dull eyes halted Valur's search before it even began.

"There's nothing we can do…I'm sorry--"

"No!" Valur pulled back, stomping his foot, "No, Hjemly! Don't say that! There's something! There's always something! There's got to be something!"

"Lad…"

"My mormor, she would…She would make a cream for her pain with primrose, and valerian, and um, and ginger, and--"

"Valur…"

"Wait! A town!" Valur continued, "Morthal! We can go to Morthal! I know we don't have the coin, Hjemly, but surely the apothecary will give you one of those, um, miracle potions and let you work it back--"

"Valur," Hjemly spoke firmly, ceasing Valur's rambling. With the boy's silence and eyes focused on him, Hjemly continued more softly. "I can't make the journey, lad. And before you say you'll go and bring it back…It's too late."

Valur could only stare, for what felt like an eternity, before finally the words carefully stepped from his lips.

"But…that means…"

"I'm sorry, little rabbit…"

"NO!" Valur cried, dropping to his knees beside the bed. He clutched the sheet beneath Hjemly and buried his face upon it. "Hjemly, you can't! You can't!"

"It'll be okay, Valur."

"It'll be okay?! How can you say that! How can it be okay!"

"You'll be okay…"

Valur jerked his head up, tears steadily falling.

"How will I be okay!" he shook, "Hjemly! You can't go! What am I going to do?! You can't leave me all alone!"

"You fought these woods, all by yourself," Hjemly spoke, "when you were just a lad of seven."

"And I would have died had you not come along!"

"But, you survived until I did, " Hjemly replied, "You are strong, Valur. Stronger than you know. You will survive until you find your people again--"

"I don't want to find anyone! You found me! Hjemly, please! You can't leave me alone!"

"You won't be alone, Valur," Hjemly said, "Right, Meeko?"

Meeko, who was lain beside the bed, stood and whined. He nuzzled Hjemly's stiff arm, before nuzzling the side of Valur's head, giving the boy's short scruffy hair a couple of licks.

Valur roughly put his hand against Meeko's neck, as if to shove him away in this grief, but instead, Valur quickly turned towards him and pulled the dog into a hug. He buried his face into the animal's fur, unable to hold back his sobs any longer.

Meeko, the ever friend, simply wagged his tail and shouldered his little master's sorrow. Hjemly stiffly reached out, petting the faithful companion, before resting his hand on the boy's arm.

Valur unburied his face.

"What are we going to do?" the boy whispered.

"You'll know what to do," Hjemly assured, "You're a fast learner, you are. But first…when the time comes…You'll take from here what you can carry, but only what's important. The dried meats, the canteens--"

"Hjemly, not yet. You're still here--"

"Listen to me, boy. Don't forget the map, and remember how I taught you to find north. Gods know you get turned around…" Hjemly actually chuckled, but Valur found nothing about any of this to be light.

"Take the silver bits in my drawer," Hjemly continued, "You can sell those once you get to Morthal. You'll figure out things from there, I know it. Head to Solitude. Or Whiterun…just…Look at me, little rabbit."

Valur released Meeko and gloomily turned back towards Hjemly, taking hold of his offered hand. Hjemly struggled to clasp his fingers with his own control around Valur's small hand, but he managed it.

"Promise me," Hjemly said, his grip tightening, "Promise me you'll keep moving forward, no matter what happens. Find your place in this world. Make a name for yourself. Prove the worthiness of your name, …Valur… Can you promise me this?"

Valur's eyes grew tearful again. He hesitated, wanting to shake his head, but nodded resolutely.

"…I promise." ]

So quickly did Hjemly deteriorate after. Despite its quick hold on him, he had told Valur how the worst part was how slow it killed. His joints locked, the horrid pain of even the slightest movement, all of that wasn't enough to kill him itself. It would be the slow starvation. The quickest hope would be from the dehydration, but Hjemly admitted himself not patient enough, nor did he want to die like a shriveled dried fish. He convinced Valur to make him a tea, while Hjemly's mouth could still sip it. One that would lull him to a sleep from which he'd not wake again.

Hjemly's last sip was a fortnight ago, leaving Valur alone once more. Aside from Meeko…until…

Valur's grandmother had taught Valur to be resourceful. The wilderness had taught Valur to be resourceful. Hjemly taught Valur to be resourceful…and how to properly skin and butcher beasts bigger than the rabbits and foxes Valur was used to with his grandmother.

He had his dried meats, just as Hjemly had told him to take, and what jars he could carry unburdened of their pickled vegetables, but he also couldn't afford to forego fresh bounties. He had to preserve the non-perishables.

For, as Hjemly would have guessed it, …Valur was utterly lost.

And besides…

Valur couldn't leave Meeko to rot. Not like he did Hjemly. He couldn't do it again. He just couldn't.

Valur turned the meat, the sizzle and pop of the flames echoing through the stillness, hissing loudly, mockingly, of his loss. He ate, not because he was hungry, but because he had to keep moving forward. The darkness closing in around him seemed to whisper a haunting truth-- in Skyrim, even the strongest could fall, and only the most resilient would endure.

Gods be damned. He was going to live to spite them.

But what if living was exactly what they wanted him to do? To keep living, only to watch others fall?

Already his young heart felt as barren as the frozen tundras. He wondered if he would ever find solace, or if the land would continue to demand sacrifices in exchange for his existence.

Valur curled up near the fire, unsure if the blackness encroaching his vision was sleep or his own demise. Right now, he cared not which one.

The pale morning light, and the subdued tweeting of birds, proved the dark that had claimed him had merely been sleep. Valur sat up, taking in the soft glow of the smoldering wood, and of the spit roast that had collapsed during the night, taking with it the remainder of the meat, now ruined. Valur stared, until an angry burst overtook him and he kicked at the smoldering logs and ashes and meat, a grief stricken growl pushing through his clenched teeth. Not until he felt a hot ember burning through his pants leg and upon his skin did he stop.

He fell upon his back, holding his small hands to his face, wanting to sob until the void of sleep claimed him again. But instead, he peeked through his fingers at the clouded sky, the dawning light making the visibility of which more defined. He saw a running dog…

Were the Gods mocking him? He pressed upon his eyes with the heels of his palms, as if forcing his tears to stay at bay. With another growl, he sat back up and gaged his surroundings, trying to muster any sense of direction he could manage. He usually used the sun as a way of reference, but midday and cloud cover always worked against him. However, this was dawn, and even despite the cloud cover, he could tell where it was rising at least. Hjemly had taught him, when lacking a compass, that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. "Together, WE find north" is what he'd say, meaning that the first letters of "west" and "east" spelled "WE" when facing north. The only issue now…was his map.

During the Spriggan attack, Valur had been looking at his map just before the ambush. When the malevolent forest monster had twisted Meeko against him, Valur had swung the paper at him first, desperately hoping to swat away the magic clouding his companion's mind without having to draw his knife. Meeko tore that paper to shreds before seeking to sink his teeth into Valur.

Valur can remember every terrible second of Meeko's demise, but he can't remember just how he slayed the Spriggan. Only that he is glad it is nothing but kindling now. He hoped wherever those forest spirits go upon death was eternally fiery.

For now though, he had to turn all hopes he had to remembering whether Morthal was north or south. Maybe even east? Or was it west of… He had traveled there with Hjemly times before, but admittedly, despite Hjemly's lessons of direction, Valur only half paid attention, being too relaxed in knowing his caretaker knew where to go.

South. Hjemly would say "South is the mouth of…"

…wait, what did he say?

South is the mouth of…Morthal?

No, Valur doubted it was that. What was it? South was the mouth of…

Valur sighed. He would just head south. Surely something was south.

Time blurred, as Valur became increasingly lost as days, weeks, uncertainty went on. Somehow, someway, he kept managing to live just by the skin of his teeth. Unaware of how many times he came close to civilizations, just to miss it when growing flustered with his lost path. His rations nearly depleted. His will nearly depleted. His tenth birthday had come and gone, he knew it. Hjemly had talked about the great hunting trip they would have done to celebrate. Here Valur was now, snatching minnows out of the creek by hand, desperate to stretch what remained of his pickled cabbage. So close he was to admitting he had not even spite left in him to continue on, when a voice gave him a start.

"Are you okay, lad?"

Valur whipped around to see an older Nord man, stringy shoulder length blond hair, blue eyes, dressed in hide and holding a wicker hand basket in one hand…and an iron dagger in the other. Valur stumbled in his attempt to stand in defense, falling partially into the creek. The man looked surprised, then glanced at his dagger and began chuckling.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, sheathing it on his hip, "That's only for trouble, and the occasional skeever. I thought I heard one over here, but you're no skeever. You're not trouble either, are you?"

Valur didn't speak. He simply stood and stared. He ran into one other person not long after Meeko. One that seemed friendly at first, only to be a lone bandit with more ill intentions than to rob him of his silver pieces. Luckily, the already drunken bandit, in his attempt to get Valur to partake in losing inhibitions, kept downing more and more of the wine himself, until he riddled himself unconscious. Valur ran in whatever direction his feet took him away from that man, but he wouldn't run this time. No. He decided he'd plunge his knife into this man's gut, if he wanted to be strange or threatening.

However, this man only held out his basket.

"I'm just out and about picking juniper berries," he said, "Want some? You look a little hungry."

Again, Valur did not speak. Actually, he looked a little more guarded towards the offer. The man took notice and carefully set the basket down in a mutual space between him and Valur, stepping back to provide Valur a safe distance to retrieve the berries. Valur stared for a moment longer, before glancing at the berry basket. Carefully, while darting his eyes from basket to man, he inched closer. The basket was indeed brimming full with juniper berries. He snatched two handfuls, shoveling them in his mouth, practically swallowing them without chewing. He snatched a couple more handfuls, and shoveled them in as well, but this time savoring them a little longer.

"My name's Vilod," the man said, "I'm from the town of Helgen, just a short walk that way. You live somewhere out here? I've not seen you in these parts before."

Valur yet again didn't speak. Vilod didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to be hearing all the unspoken words he needed to.

"…," he nodded, "…I can spare you a few coin, if you're needing a place to stay and little food in that lack of gut of yours. The inn in Helgen has clean rooms and warm beds, and the food ain't bad. They got a kid there, too, so I'm sure them folks can help you figure out where to go."

Valur still eyed him cautiously, before carefully slinging his bag from his back, and taking from it the silver pieces, showing them in his hand at Vilod.

"Aye," he said, "Someone there will buy that off you, I'm sure. I've no need for them. If you follow me back to town, carry my basket, would ya? You can consider my spare coin as payment for delivery."

Valur kept his stare on him again, still silent. Vilod nodded and turned away, starting his trek back, but leaving his basket where it was. Perhaps to egg Valur along or simply leaving him a little food should Valur choose not to follow. However, Vilod soon heard the small steps beside him. He looked down to see the boy walking next to him, toting the basket in hand and taking another few of the bounty into his mouth.

Finally, Vilod heard the boy's voice, though slightly muffled from his chewing. "...my name's Valur..."

Helgen had impressed Valur, even if he didn't say it. He was struck by its imposing stone walls, even from a distance. Having only ever seen the humble town of Morthal before, he was, truthfully, easily impressed. Yet, Helgen was still an impressive keep town, by any means. He took in every detail, mesmerized by the way the sunlight danced across the walls surrounding the town, the moss clinging to the stone, and the sturdy wooden gate door. Above it, a patrol guard paced along the wooden walkway, his footsteps thudding across the planks. As the gate creaked open, the loud groan would forever imprint upon Valur's memory, but his wonder grew. The town within was bubbling with activity. Townsfolk setting about their busy paces, home and shop doors opening and closing with activity. Imperial soldiers treaded alongside the townsfolk as they patrolled the streets, their steel armor gleaming from the sunlight, hints of red in the leather underneath. Morthal, in comparison, seemed so lifeless now. Valur remembered its slow movement, its perpetual cloud, dull colors, and the quietness.

He started to smile, not realizing how much he craves being amongst life, people.

Before he realized it, Valur found himself standing on the inn's porch alongside Vilod, who was deep in conversation with a stranger named Torolf. As Vilod introduced them, explaining the situation to Torolf, Valur's attention began to wane – until Vilod's words cut too close to the bone. "Finding this little minnow" echoed the endearments of Hjemly, who had called him "little rabbit". Valur's face fell, his grief and anger resurfacing. "Don't call me that," he growled.

Vilod's apologetic words were cut short as Valur's anger boiled over. "Just don't," he spat. The men regarded him for a moment, their expressions unreadable. Then, without a word, Vilod handed Torolf a generous sum of septims, settling Valur's room and board. He nodded at Valur and turned to leave, ignoring the basket Valur held out for him to reclaim. Valur scrunched his face, stubbornly wanting to remain angry, despite the generosities being shown. Whether he understood he was thinking about it or not, Valur felt the need to remain distant. How long until this, too, was snatched away?

Valur spent the next week under the roof of Torolf and Matlara, settling into their inn. They provided for his needs, but gave him space. However, their son Haming, a boy of the same age, was a different story. Haming's constant barrage of questions and requests to play wore Valur down. Valur might have eagerly joined in were circumstances different, but grief and conflicting emotions still swirled inside him. The comfort and safety of the inn somehow felt empty. It shouldn't have, but it did. And Haming's carefree nature only highlighted Valur's pain. The boy's innocence, his lack of survival, his loving family – it all grated on Valur in a way he hadn't expected. And the affectionate nickname of "little cub" from Haming's father sparked resentment in Valur. He scoffed inwardly each time he heard Torolf dub Haming with it.

He was surprised the parents hadn't rebuked him yet, but Valur heard the parents' whispers of contacting an orphanage in Riften, or putting him to work in the inn or garden in exchange for shelter. Valur never felt so uncertain before, unaware this was a blissful ignorance of just how much more uncertain he'd become. And just when he thought to be grateful of Helgen, he awoke this morning to a break in the routine he was only just starting to know.

Instead of Matlara's knock upon his door with a call to breakfast, he awoke to Torolf's insistent voice just outside his room.

"Yes, I'm sure!" his muffled voice carried through the door, "I overheard it from the guards gathering at the gate. And I can hear the carts approaching, Matlara. They got him."

"But why are they bringing him here?" Matlara replied.

"I'm…I'm not sure. Perhaps a supply stop on their way to wherever they're going…"

Valur had opened his door by this point, looking out upon the rushed conversation. Torolf turned his head to him, about to say something, but Haming suddenly appeared directly in front of Valur's face.

"Soldiers are coming, Valur!" the boy spoke excitedly, "Stormcloak soldiers! The Imperials caught them in a cart!"

"Haming, settle down," Torolf cut in, "Valur, we're going to be a bit behind on a fresh breakfast, but you can grab a bowl of stew from the pot, if you're not in the mood to wai--"

"Daddy, can we go see? I want to see the soldiers!" Haming bounced.

"Hold on, Haming," the father replied, "We can go outside, but just on the porch, okay? Valur, that means you too. We're not to meddle."

Valur had not even a moment to form a syllable before Haming grabbed his arm and pulled him along. "C'mon, Valur! Let's go see!"

Out on the porch, the sun was just starting to peek its rays inside the walls of the town. Morning dew frost glistened off the thatched roofs and the surrounding stone walls. Valur sat down next to Haming on the porch steps, while Torolf and Matlara leaned upon the rails on either side. There was an even heavier presence of Imperial guard in the town. Some with uniforms that Valur, even with no militant knowledge, could tell were more important than the others. There were also…yellow elves?

Valur stared at them until he remembered these must be the "Altmer" he has read about in books, and of what Hjemly has taught him of the world beyond their shack and Morthal. Valur couldn't help but continue to stare. He's met a wood elf and dark elf before, but never has he seen one with such golden skin.

It wasn't until he heard a voice calling out from the walkway over the gate down the road, that his attention snapped away.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"…headsman?" Matlara whispered to Torolf. Torolf said nothing, but Valur glanced over his shoulder to see a furrowed brow of confusion upon the man's face. The gates down the road swung open, the loud groan imbedding upon Valur's mind again. The trotting of hooves and creaks of wagons soon drowned it out. Valur watched as the carts pulled closer. He could almost hear the murmurs of someone speaking within.

But across the way, the stone tower that faced the inn opened its door to a man stepping out, grabbing the family and Valur's attention. The man's head was adorned with a fully closed black hood and his hand held a long and large axe. Behind him trailed an Imperial woman, dressed in a golden robe and hood. She carried some sort of concaved wooden block.

"Who are they, Daddy?" Haming asked, "Where are they going?"

Torolf suddenly pushed himself off the rail, his tone growing serious.

"You need to go inside, little cub," he said.

Haming, as well as Valur, looked over their shoulders curiously at Torolf.

"Why?" Haming asked innocently, "…I want to watch the soldiers."

"Inside the house!" Torolf ordered urgently, his stern tone warning against argument, "Now."

Haming's shoulders dropped and he childishly pouted, but he gave no further protest. "Yes, papa…"

Haming trudged inside, defeated, but Valur lingered, his gaze drifting back to the scene. However, Torolf's deliberate throat-clearing snapped his attention back to the man. "You should head in too," he said. Yet, the paternal concern finally on him only sparked an overwhelming urge to resist in Valur. He shot Torolf a scathing look, his eyes screaming "you're not my father." With a quiet sneer, he added, "Is your name Hjemly?"

Torolf's eyebrow arched at the remark, but he understood the expression upon Valur's face quite clearly. "…Suit yourself," Torolf said, "Just remember, I tried to spare you from witnessing this."

"Get these prisoners out the carts!" an Imperial guard woman demanded, "Move it!"

The horses halted and the wagons stopped. Valur could gear one of the men seated in one of the wagons speak up nervously.

"W-Why are we stopping?"

Valur could hear another murmuring, but couldn't quite make out what he said until the last bit of "shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us…"

That was when the nervous sounding one spoke even louder, "No! Wait, we're not rebels!" "Face your death with some courage, thief!" the other replied.

Valur's eyes widened. What was he about to witness? He wanted to turn his head back to Torolf, but instead, he held his ground, knowing he made his choice to sit here, and that is exactly what he was going to do. He watched as the men on the carts began stepping down one by one.

"You got to tell them!" Valur heard the thief saying to that man, "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

The Imperial woman interrupted his pleas by both ignoring and speaking over him.

"Step towards the block when we call your name," she sternly ordered, "One at a time!"

Valur heard a hissing sigh from the man who had rebuked the thief. "Urgh, Empire loves their damn lists…"

The boy kept watching in wonder as an auburn headed Nord man, dressed in Imperial armor, looked upon that supposed list and called out a name.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he said, "Jarl of Windhelm."

Suddenly, Valur jolted. He did know that name. Hjemly had studied him some at least. They weren't much concerned with political strife out there in their little shack in the wilderness, but Hjemly still knew of whispers of rebellion. Valur admittedly would drift in and out of lessons, but he recalled Hjemly's sympathy towards a man who hadn't gotten to properly bid his own father a proper farewell.

Valur watched as that large man marched ahead, the black fur cloak still donning his shoulders swaying with each step. His back held straight, his head high, unburdened he seemed, even with his wrists so tightly bound together in front of him. Stoic, his demeanor screamed. Though, the gag in his mouth perhaps held in any complaint.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," the man beside the thief said, watching the imposing man step away.

"Ralof of Riverwood," the one with the list read off next, finally giving a name to that brave prisoner.

Ralof did not hesitate to join beside Ulfric.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," the man with the list read next, giving the thief a startle.

"NO, I'm not a rebel!" he pleaded, "You can't do this!"

Though seeing he'd gain no ear, the thief suddenly bolted, taking the cobble path leading towards the inn. "HALT!" the Imperial woman shouted.

The thief's bare feet slapped upon the cold stones, his bound hands held to his chest as he ran. Valur could see the utter terror in the man's eyes as they momentarily locked on to his, before scanning around for any possible escape. "You're not going to kill me!" Lokir cried.

"ARCHERS!" the woman called. Immediately arrows whistled through the air. Valur had not even seen from where they flew, only seeing instead, the thief skewered through his head and ribs, falling dead to the ground with a sickening thud. The sound melding together with the man's death moan, the sound all to familiar to Hjemly's groans of rigid pain.

Valur's heart pounded, his ears rang, and his face hot, aghast with confusion. But he stayed put, not hearing Torolf's whispers urging him again to go inside, though managing to hear instead:

"Anyone else feel like running?" the Imperial woman asked the prisoners mockingly.

"Wait! You there. Step forward," the man with the list beckoned the lone and last prisoner of the thief's cart, looking from the paper to the man with obvious confusion, "…Who…are you?"