Skyrim: The Unlikely Companions | By : NoLoreMaster Category: +A through F > Elder Scrolls - Skyrim Views: 3241 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: Bethesda Softworks is the creator of the The Elder Scrolls Universe, so logically, this isn't mine. This fanfiction is non-profit and fan-made. Hope that covers it. Don't eat me D= |
Skyrim: The Unlikely Companions – Chapter 1
The hobble and rumble of the wooden, horse-drawn carts had become a familiar sound and rhythm to its occupants, along with the clip-clop of the hooves of the horses. Once they were apprehended, the blue-cloaked men and two elves had been loaded onto two carts with their hands tied. Where the Imperial prison caravan was headed though, they didn’t know. They had been riding all night, through rain and snow.
Cirilonde clung to herself in a desperate attempt to get warm, but her body tingled with numbness from the cold. The thin, pathetic rag she’d been thrown to get warm offered no comfort.
“So…who are you exactly?” she asked, looking at the Dark Elf who sat across from her.
“Ganir Mathendis.” He replied, clearly sleep deprived like the others, but his eyes still looked sharp and alert.
“Great…you’re awake.” The male Nord next to Cirilonde groaned. “If you damned knife-ears hadn’t shown up we wouldn’t have gotten caught.”
“ Shut up, fool.” Said the male, bearded Nord next to Ganir. “We all walked right into the ambush those Imperial dogs had set up. At least they took some of that Thalmor filth down.”
“Who are you lot?” Ganir asked.
“We are the Stormcloaks. Jarl Ulfric’s loyal men in his fight to free Skyrim!” said the bearded Nord proudly. He was a sore sight. His blond hair and face were caked with mud. A nasty bruise had formed on his cheek.
“Shut up back there before I cut your tongue out.” The Imperial who rode the cart snapped over his shoulder.
“I’m assuming that’s him?” Ganir whispered after a brief silence, pointing at a dark-blond Nord, whose face was caged in a brutish, metal construct to prevent him from speaking. Cirilonde wondered why and kept listening.
“Show some respect.” The bearded Nord slammed down Ganir’s hands. “But yes, that is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak ,the true High King of Skyrim.”
“High…King?” Cirilonde queried and was immediately made to regret speaking up.
“Wouldn’t a filthy Thalmor like you know?” asked a Nord with a sneer.
“I’m not a Thalmor.” Cirilonde snapped. “Do you think I would’ve been here otherwise?”
“What were you even doing out there to begin with?” Ganir queried. “And what’s your name, even?”
“Cirilonde. I was heading to the College of Winterhold.” She looked down at her bound hands. “I think I made a huge mistake coming here.”
“Let your thoughts be at home with no regrets, elf.” Said the bearded Nord. “Sovngarde awaits. Our rebellion holds the death penalty. Your slaughter of the Thalmor as well.”
Though deep down, all had already known they were doomed, the mood grew grim and quiet all of a sudden. Cirilonde grew sick to the stomach to add to her misery and wished she had accepted Taurmillan’s courtship. She wanted to cry, but somehow found she couldn’t and looked at Ganir, who seemed oddly at peace.
During the remainder of the ride, it remained quiet, until around sunset, they saw a village in the distance.
“Helgen,” said the bearded Nord when the elves furrowed their brows, wondering where they were. “Used to be sweet on a girl from here.”
“Open the gates!” yelled the Imperial horseman that led the caravan. Helgen must have been a village in the past, but had now become an Imperial fortress with a tower and wooden battlements. Some of the villagers, who had been on their ways home, looked on as the caravan rode in.
“Well, well, well. Not surprised the Thalmor are involved with it.” Said the bearded Nord with narrowed eyes as they rode in the village. General Tullius broke from the caravan and guided his horse to the three Thalmor on horseback. The Thalmor in the middle was the only one clad in elaborate black and gold, leather robes and female. Cirilonde caught the brief cock of the Thalmor female’s brow but then looked back to General Tullius.
She looked at Ganir, not sure if she was looking for his comfort or answers, but as the cart came to a halt, the realization they would all die hit her hard.
“Line up!” A female Imperial captain snapped her orders like a fisherman’s wife and they all rose from their seats in the carts; sore and exhausted from the whole trip.
“When Hadvar here calls your name, line up. Wouldn’t want to keep the headsman waiting now, would we?” The Imperial captain’s lips curled in a malicious smile as they all looked at the headsman; a huge, hooded man wielding a two-handed executioner’s axe he was currently sharpening.
Hadvar was a young, Nord man with messy, short brown hair. He held a booklet, from which he read the names of the Stormcloaks. With each name, Cirilonde grew more anxious. “Ralof of Riverwood.” Cirilonde looked from Hadvar to the bearded Nord who at least been somewhat friendly to them. He walked off to the rest of his comrades; afraid, but with his head held high like the others.
Hadvar looked from the tiny booklet to the odd, elven pair that remained and then at his female superior. “Captain. These two are obviously not on the list. Who are they and what do we do?”
“They’re insurgents caught killing Thalmor near the border,” said the female captain. “To the block with them.”
Cirilonde’s brief rise of hope was immediately shattered and though her mouth moved to protest, no sound came and she and Ganir were shoved to the line-up for the execution.
The atmosphere had already been grim, but now grew eerily quiet. The villagers ushered their children inside and closed the shutters of their windows. Only a few remained to watch.
After a brief, tense moment of Ulfric and Tullius glaring each other down, the Imperial General smirked, smug. “Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm. A great many call you a true hero of Skyrim, but no hero would abuse his power by plunging his homeland in chaos by murdering their High King in an attempt to usurp the throne.
“Today, the reign of terror you and your ‘Stormcloaks’ left in their wake, comes to an end. Any last words?”
Ulfric’s face contorted with pure rage as the wicked, iron contraption around his face prevented him from speaking. All that came from him, was a muffled growl of frustration.
General Tullius took pleasure from humiliating his foe and after another self-satisfied grin, turned in the direction of the headsman, who had been joined by a priestess who had emerged from the tower. “ Let’s get started then. Priestess, you are free to give them their last rites.”
The priestess was clad in humble, hooded brown robes and fearfully glanced at the headsman and his axe before stepping forward with raised hands, looking at the miserable lot that was about to meet their demise. “May this solemn hour be filled with peace as we commend your souls-,”
“Oh, just shut it you wicked wretch!” One of the Stormcloaks snarled. “ We’re not a bunch of milk-drinkers. We are the true sons of Skyrim and we are not-,!”
The Nord’s voice was cut short as an Imperial Legionnaire impaled the Stormcloak on his sword from behind. Blood spattered from the Nord’s wound as his mouth gasped for air, which was knocked from his lungs, mixed with a morbid gurgling as blood spat from his mouth.
“Justice!” Yelled one of the villagers with a raised fist.
“You cowardly Imperial dogs!” Snarled the female Nord. Her face was tear-stained in helpless rage and sorrow over the brutal injustice while her comrades held her back.
More blood sputtered from the Nord’s mouth in his last breath before he fell to the ground. He was dead.
“Anyone else feeling talkative?” Cirilonde grew repulsed by General Tullius. He was enjoying this. She stared at the dead Nord and froze as more blood pooled in the mud and snow.
She had never seen a dead person or that much blood, let stand such a brutal murder.
A sudden strange and terrible, bone-chilling inhuman cry echoed through the skies and Ganir’s calm, contemplative stare was torn to the sky. Everyone looked from the sky to each other.
What kind of thing could possibly make such a sound?
“It’s nothing. Back to business. Get the Dark Elf on the block.” Said Tullius.
Ganir glared at the Legionnaire that had shoved him forward, causing the Legionnaire to back off right away. The two elves briefly met eyes before Ganir walked forward with an unnatural calm about him. He looked at the headsman and even gave him a nod of acknowledgement before he knelt down at the stone and rested his head on it.
The headsman was about to raise his axe to decapitate Ganir, when a sudden cry of panic erupted from everyone in the village and he too was forced to turn around to see the reason for the shocked cries and fingers pointed up.
As black as night, a wicked shadow came from the skies and swooped down on the tower that over-looked the village square. The impact of the enormous, flying lizard landing on the tower shook the ground and everyone tumbled as the wicked, red-eyed beast flapped its wings and dug its talons into the tower’s stones.
“What in the world is that?!” Tullius cried in horror, scrambling to get back on his feet as he’d been thrown back on his behind.
A dragon…Cirilonde stared in awe and fear. The beast’s hide and scales were pitch-black and its eyes were piercing red like Ganir’s. Thick, wicked spines protruded from its back. His head was enormous with and adorned with a crown of bone-white horns. Its enormous maw donned razor sharp teeth about the size of her arm.
The headsman was the first to gather himself and raised his axe to strike at the beast’s snout, who retaliated by snapping its jaws shut over the headsman and tore him in two with a jerk of his head. The dragon shook it’s head and sent the lower half of the headsman flying while gorging down the other half.
He then opened his maw and roared, “KROZ FAAL LOK!”
“Gather all the villagers!” Tullius cried as the clouds in the sky gathered and turned pitch-black.
When the Imperial Legionnaires attempted to strike at the dragon, it unfolded its wings and took off. The gust of wind knocked them all away or to the ground. Lightning struck the square three times and then the tower, sending rubble and dust flying everywhere.
Everyone that wasn’t thrown back by the impact, had taken cover somewhere and it took Cirilonde a few seconds to realize she had been thrown against the cart. “No time to waste, sera.”
Had she been sharp, she would’ve questioned how Ganir had escaped his bonds, but she was too dazed from being slammed into the cart she stumbled after the Dark Elf as he dragged her along into the tower, where most of the Stormcloaks had fled as well.
Ulfric was there as well, and it seemed that they had just managed to remove the wicked, metal contraption from his head.
“Jarl Ulfric, what in Oblivion was that? Was that a dragon? The legendary harbinger of end times?” Ralof queried as he threw the metal contraption away.
“Legends don’t burn down villages.” Said Ulfric ominously before he looked at the two elves. He briefly narrowed his eyes before regarding his own men, who were injured. “We need to get out of here, now.”
“I’ll check upstairs.” Said one of the Nords and he rushed up the stone steps.
“Igritte.” An old, bearded Nord knelt down at the female Nord’s side, who was clenching her abdomen, curled up in agony.
“I...won’t make it. Just leave me.” Igritte panted. Had she not been this injured, Cirilonde definitely wouldn’t want to meet this woman in battle. She looked fierce and terrifying with the scars across her face and her hair a wild, messy white-blonde mane.
“I can heal.” Cirilonde said. “Untie me. I can help.”
Ulfric glared at Igritte, who made to protest. He then grabbed a knife from the nearby table to cut the ropes around Cirilonde’s wrists. Once freed, Cirilonde knelt down and pulled the Igritte’s arms away to reveal she had been impaled by a splintered fragment of wood.
“Still think you can heal this, Elf?” Igritte’s voice had gone from harsh, to fearful. She was afraid to die.
“I need you to hold still.” Cirilonde had found her comfort. She was a healer and had tended to a wide variety of wounds from farmers to Thalmor. “Ralof, is it not?” Ralof nodded in acknowledgement. “I need you to slowly, and steadily pull it out. Don’t worry about her bleeding out. I’ve got it, but we’ll need to carry her.”
“It’s too risky, my Jarl,” said Igritte. “Leave me behind. I do not fear death.”
“And leave one of my fiercest fighters behind? I think not.” Ulfric nodded at Ralof and kept an eye on the door. They could hear the flap of the dragon’s wings overhead along with its roars and that of the thunder and lightning. The clatter of metal and boots from the legionnaires rushing to their posts to find order in the chaos amidst the screams of absolute terror and death.
Ralof knelt down next to Cirilonde and gripped the splintered piece of wood protruding from Igritte’s gut while his other hand gripped Igritte’s hand. “Look at me, lass. This will be over in a pinch.”
Cirilonde hovered her hands near the wound and closed her eyes as she focused on channeling the magick through her body. Tingles coursed through her fingertips as they grew warm and began to glow with golden, healing energy. “Pull. Slowly.” It took her effort to speak as she had to maintain focus on healing the wound. She guided the energies to the Nord’s flesh and weaved the flesh together as the splintered wood was slowly but surely pulled out. Igritte cried out in anguish as the culprit was removed and threw all sorts of obscenities about. But after a good few minutes, it was over and the wound perhaps had not fully healed, but she was no longer in danger of bleeding to death.
“I need a little help up here!” cried the Nord from upstairs. “If we clear the rubble away-,”
His voice was replaced by a terrified shriek when the dragon slammed its head through the stone wall of the tower and craned his head in. “No, get away from me!” They heard how the Nord had tried to scramble and get away but the dragon opened its maw and engulfed him in flame.
They all stood frozen, holding still as they could hear the dragon’s claws scrape against the exterior stone and crane its neck about the tower’s interior. They could hear it’s nose huff as if trying to catch their scent. It’s sulfuric, repulsive breath filled the tower.
After what seemed like ages, the dragon kicked off against the tower and flew off and everyone simultaneously sighed in relief.
Ganir opened the door to the tower and looked outside. “If we are quick, we can make our way out.”
“We can’t.” Ralof shook his head. “We’d need to head through the fort. It will be crawling with Imperials.”
“In this chaos, I doubt they will care.” Ganir said dryly.
“He has a point. You should go ahead with them, Ralof.” Ulfric pointed at Ganir and Cirilonde. “Wodan and I will come after you with Igritte.”
“Yes, my Jarl.” And without hesitation, Ralof, Ganir and Cirilonde headed out the tower after Ganir had peeked out to see if it was safe. They had no time to specifically register what horrible fate had befallen Helgen, but as they ran they did see the ruins of houses which stood ablaze. Charred bodies lay in the doorways or on the ground, reaching out for help before that terrible fate befell them.
The Legionnaires that were running about weren’t even paying attention to them, as they were too busy trying to reorganize and either attack the dragon, or help the survivors get out.
They had barely made it across the square to the fortress when they came across Hadvar and two other, Legionnaires.
“Ralof you damned traitor!” Hadvar snarled.
“Out of my way, Hadvar. I won’t hesitate to cut you and your friends down without a second thought.” Ralof pulled out an axe he had pulled from a log on their way to the fort. Ganir eyed the three men and Cirilonde was quite sure he would be able to handle them unarmed. She knew however, she stood little chance against them if things did go awry from here.
They all broke formation, however, when the dragon swooped over and grabbed both of the Imperial Legionnaires that had been too slow to duck to the ground like Hadvar had done when he saw his three opponents do so.
The men cried out as the dragon released them mid-air and they were sent plummeting to their demise.
Ralof was the first to gather himself and stormed to the fort with Ganir. Cirilonde hesitated, but grabbed Hadvar by the arm. “This isn’t the moment to fight.” She said to him. He looked confused, but followed nevertheless because after glancing in the direction of the dragon and his Imperial comrades, he knew it was futile and hopeless.
“Tell that to Ralof. If we survive.” She and Hadvar both rushed into the Imperial fort and slammed the heavy doors behind them, leaning against it as they caught their breath.
Ralof readied his axe when he saw that Hadvar had come too. “This is not the time to fight!” Cirilonde raised her hands and stood in front of Hadvar.
“She’s right.” Ganir said and pulled back his hood, finally revealing more of his face and his ink-black hair that was tied to a knot. She then looked at Ralof; the blond, bearded Nord with blue eyes. He had to be about her age, as was Hadvar, if not somewhat younger, with messy, brown hair and brown eyes.
“One wrong move.” Ralof swung his axe as a warning. “If you get us out of here, I won’t kill you.”
“Such the neighborly type.” Hadvar remarked sarcastically. “But fine, this way.” He gestured to the door on the other side of the room. After eying Ralof suspiciously, Hadvar led the way and opened the door.
“You might want to grab what you can.” Ralof said to the two elves. “Even if we get out of here, Skyrim is dangerous.”
Ganir didn’t need to be told as he had already gathered a pair of daggers. Cirilonde looked around as well and found a dagger under a bunk’s pillow after looking for a few minutes.
As they made their way through the fort, they found that they were not the only ones trying to get away. As they hid from a pair of guards who were trying to scrap together what they could before running as fast as their legs could carry them, Hadvar sighed. “If anyone ever finds this out, we’ll be hanged for desertion.”
“It’s no point in dying here. That dragon…they’re supposed to be extinct!” Ralof said. “Ulfric will know what to do. So let’s go.”
“I can’t.” Hadvar shook his head. “I want to help, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t.”
Ralof and Hadvar looked at each other, and it took a while for Ganir and Cirilonde to understand, but the two Nords understood each other right away as they looked at each other’s armors.
“I understand. You have your honor.” Ralof said. “Go where you will, but the next time we meet, we will fight. It is inevitable.”
“If you survive.” Said Hadvar, who then reached into his pockets and pulled a key out, which he handed to Ralof. “Look, this is all I can do. But I need to be with my comrades and hope General Tullius calls the retreat before we all get killed.”
“Talos guide you, Imperial dog.” Ralof gripped Hadvar’s arm.
Hadvar returned the gesture. “Divines guide you, Stormcloak swine.”
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