Before the Storm

Well, here's the next one. Sorry it's so long, but I couldn't really find a good stopping point. I hope you enjoy!

The air is ice cold, piercing through my layers of clothing. The thin covering of snow reflects the light from the white sky, making me squint. The fir trees rustle in the faint breeze. Huge, snow-covered mountains loom all around.

We stumble out of the cave, our clothing ragged and torn, faces dirty, blood dripping from wounds.

“Wait!” Ralof suddenly orders, crouching down.

Shayn puts up no protest, slumping down against a rock at the mouth of the cave. A distant roar echoes, bouncing off the mountains. I peer over the rock to see the dragon flying past, disappearing into the mountain.

“There it goes,” Ralof stands again. “Looks like he's gone for good this time. But I don't want to stick around to see if he comes back.”

I nod, taking a deep breath. All the strength drains from my limbs, and I sway on my feet. “What now?” I ask. “The Imperials are going to be after us.”

Ralof nods, “Better clear out of here.” He rubs his hand against his face, “We're going to have to lie low.”

“What about the others?” Shayn looks up at us, eyelids drooping.

Ralof looks back toward the cave, “No way to know how many of them made it out alive. But I am going to wait to see if the others can catch up. I need to know if Jarl Ulfric survived.”

“I'll get him to safety,” I glance at Shayn.

A faint smile spreads across Ralof's face, “My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road. I'm sure she'd help you two out.” After a moment, he asks, “Do you know where that is?”

I snort, “Of course.” Then I say, “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” is his reply as he grips my hand. “I wouldn't have made it without your help today.”

“Talos guide you,” my voice is soft.

Shayn grabs a thick stick off the ground, using it to slowly haul himself upright.

Ralof turns to him, “Make sure that the Jarl of Whiterun gets a detachment to Riverwood. That village isn't safe if there is a dragon on the loose.”

Shayn nods, smiling faintly, “By your orders.”

I move over to him, and he puts his arm around my shoulders. But he leans against the stick for support, holding onto me more for balance. We begin making our way down the slope. Snow crunches beneath us. Progress is painfully slow – my limbs are stiff, and he limps heavily. The silence is strange. It feels like the whole world should be in turmoil after what had happened.

Shayn looks over at me, his twisted, “How did you get involved in all this.”

I shrug, “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He nods, “We all were, it would seem.”

The snow disappears as we go down farther. Ragged blades of grass sprout from the rocky soil. Ferns curl up between the fir trees. After what seems like an eternity, we come to a cobblestone road. Beyond that is a narrow river. Clear water flows through it, rushing softly.

“See that ruin up there?” Shayn points.

I look up at the mountain opposite the river. Near the top on one side I see an assortment of towering structures, crooked and not even quite symmetrical. Black pillars form crooked arches and strange buildings.

“When I was a boy places like that always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that kind of thing.” His shoulders lift.

“Huh,” I shrug, looking down at the road. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” his lips twist.

My brow furrows, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“The Dunmer deal with all that dark stuff better than the Nords,” he grins. “Yeah, I know what you are.”

Anger courses beneath my cheeks, making my voice soft, “You know nothing.”

“If you say so,” he shrugs.

An awkward silence passes over us. As time drags by, the sun becomes low in the sky. The light falls in yellow rays between the mountains. Shayn's face begins to go deathly white, and he cringes with every step.

“Almost there,” I say.

His voice sounds strained, “I could do this all day.”

As we round a corner, I see the town ahead, nestled in the trees. On a small island in the river is a sawmill, stacked with logs. At the front of the town, above the gate, is a wooden platform like a small watchtower. But no guards pace back and forth across it. I breathe a sigh of relief. If there were guards, they stop us for sure.

I hear a clanking from the blacksmith working beneath his shelter. Candles are lit inside the small, wooden houses. The sound of a lute comes from what must be the inn. A dog runs across the cobblestones, barking with its tongue hanging out. When I close my eyes, I see the houses aflame, collapsing as they had in Helgen into piles of ash.

 

We cross a small bridge across the narrow river over to the mill. The saw grinds back and forth. Men cut the logs up, moving about nimbly. When they see us, they stop to stare.

“There,” Shayn points toward a woman writing on a piece of paper resting on a table.

Her light hair is pulled back away from her kind face. She looks at us and frowns.

For lack of a better opening, I pant, “Ralof said you could help us out.”

She looks at us a long moment, eyes roving from my dirty face to Shayn's. Her voice holds a thick accent, “Ralof. How do you know him?”

“I think it would be better if we didn't talk out in the open,” I glance around.

“Answer my question first,” her arms fold.

My voice is a whisper, “A dragon attacked Helgen and destroyed it. Ralof and I escaped together.”

A look of disbelief spreads across her face. She shakes her head. “You better come inside.”

I nod.

She leads the way back across the river and down the road. Behind houses, small gardens produce bright, strong vegetables. She comes to the door of a large house opposite the blacksmith's workshop and lets us in. On one side, a large fire is built up on the hearth. Shelves hold books and vegetables that must have been harvested recently. Dishes are already set out on the table. A large pot is mounted over the fire, filling the house with a delectable smell that nearly makes me swoon. It must have the same effect one Shayn because he sways next to me.

Gerdur must notice it because she orders, “Onto the bed.”

“I'm fine,” he mumbles, hair hanging into his face.

She points at it, staring at him.

He limps over to the bed, grumbling, and practically collapses on it. The warmth makes the tension leave my limbs. I take off my shield and the weaponry weighing me down, dropping them by the door.

She gestures toward the pot, “Please, get yourself something to eat.”

“Thank you,” I grab a bowl of the table and ladle stew into it, slurping ravenously.

Gerdur grabs several towels and a bottle on the shelf, then seats herself beside Shayn. “Remove your armor,” she says.

He frowns at her, “Do what?

Her lips twist, “Don't flatter yourself, soldier boy. Now remove your armor so I can fix you up.”

Slowly, his eyes flitting about with suspicion, he removes his armor. His thin, cotton garments are in tatters. Several holes are scorched in the cloth. Under that, I see where his chain mail was burned into his flesh from the fire. But she examines the nasty wound in his leg first, beginning to clean it.

He makes no sound, lying there obediently.

“Now,” Gerdur glances at me. “Tell me what happened at Helgen.”

I give her a short account between mouthfuls of stew, my memory of it a little foggy with exhaustion.

“A dragon?” she shakes her head once I've finished. “It...It can't be. They've been gone for so many years. Although it would explain what I saw earlier flying down the valley from the south. I thought I must have just been seeing things.”

Shayn chuckles, “So did I until it just about set me on fire.”

“It was a dragon,” I insist. “Ralof will tell you the same thing.”

She glances at me, “Where is he? Did he make it out safely?”

“Yes,” I nod, pulling up a chair from the table. “He was waiting to see if anyone else made it out.”

She is silent for a long moment, focusing on the task of bandaging Shayn's leg. “I believe you,” her voice is soft. “You two have the look of someone who's seen a dragon.” She rolls her eyes, “Things just go from bad to worse. First the war, now dragons. What's this world coming to? The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless. We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can.”

Shayn sits up, “We should go now. Do you have a horse for me to borrow?”

She attempts to push him down. “Slow down. Morning will come soon enough.” Then she walks over to a table at the other end of the room. “Now I know I have a health potion here somewhere.”

Shayn leans back against the wall. He already looks a little better.

I walk over to Gerdur to refill my bowl in time to see her put a pinch of something into a small vial. “What's that?” I ask.

“Nothing,” is her soft reply. “Just something to make him sleep.”

I nod, taking another spoonful of stew. “I'll go to Whiterun tomorrow. Will you wake me at dawn?”

“Of course. You can sleep by the hearth,” she walks back over to Shayn. “I'll find you a blanket.”

He takes the vial and drinks from it without hesitation. Gerdur goes outside after handing me a blanket. I remove my armor from my sore body, feeling suddenly weightless.

“Hey, elf,” Shayn's voice is a bit slurred, his eyes only half open. “What's your name?'

I fold my arms, offering a wry smile, “I'll tell you so long as you stop calling me that.”

He nods.

“Myra,” I shrug, settling down next to the fire.

His head falls back against the pillow, eyes closing.

I lie down beside the hearth, drawing the thick blanket around my shoulders. The sound of Gerdur entering again to build up the fire sounds so distant. So distant...

It seems like only seconds later when I feel a hand on my shoulder, giving me a firm shake. My body feels stuck to the floor. The blanket is tangled around me. Surely it's not morning yet.

“Wake up,” Gerdur's voice is soft. “The sun is rising.”

I heave myself upright. “Okay,” my voice is thick with sleep.

Her footsteps thud over to the other end of the room, “I've packed you a breakfast to eat on your journey. Whiterun is nearby, but there is no time to lose.”

“Right,” I stagger to my feet, rubbing my eyes. The chain mail feels like ice, even through my shirt. Outside the window, the streets are dark and still. But there is a pink tinge on the horizon. Gerdur stirs something on the hearth, humming softly to herself. A piece of cloth is wrapped up on the table, bound with a small string. The home is silent except for Shayn's heavy breathing. He lies asleep on the bed, lips parted.

Gerdur glances back at him, “He's much better. The health potion did the trick.”

I nod, “Good.” After strapping my bow and quiver to my back, I take the small package on the table. “I best be off,” my words still sound a little slurred. “Thank you for your help.”

“Get a detachment of soldiers here and your debt will be paid,” she nods to me, her voice kind.

“I will,” I promise before heading out the door and into the chilling air. The mill and smithy is silent now. High above, a cloud shrouds the mountaintops, giving them an air of mystery. My clothing rustles, making it feel as if a thousand prodding gazes are fixed on me from the shadows. The horizon is lighter now, making the sky a deep shade of blue instead of black.

I make my way down the cobblestone path to the north. A stone bridge leads out of the village, providing safe passage across the narrow river. The water travels in a smooth stream, faint and dark. At the end of the bridge, the path forks. One follows the river going toward the north and the other leads up the mountain. I take the first one, following the sounds of the river. Rocks jut up beside the path. The air smells clean and wet, like the moss growing in the caverns beneath Helgen. I unwrap the bundle she had given me to find several thick slices of bread and an apple. The food settles in my stomach quickly, making my eyelids droop.

My legs ache as I make my way along the path. I shake them as I go along, trying to regain the circulation. My armor rattles against the weaponry strapped to me. As the wind howls through the high peaks, I glance up, half expecting the dragon to come flying down from the mountain.

The minutes drag by in the stillness.

Dew beads up on the scrubby blades of grass and drips from the fir trees. The path slopes to the left, heading downward. As the trees around me thin, I see a fork ahead going in three directions – west, north, and east. Through the hanging branches, I can make out the huge walls of Whiterun in the distance. I breathe a relieved sigh.

Thank the Divines it is so close to Riverwood.

The river changes from a swift trickle to roaring rapids. Several Imperial soldiers walk up the road toward me. I put my head down, hoping beyond hope that they will not recognize me. They pass slowly, conversing in low tones. I hold my breath, my heart pounding, until they are safely passed.

When I reach the fork, I turn to the west. The land around is barren of trees. Farms surround the city, separated from the grassy land by short fences. Whiterun looms up from the ground, the gates on the outside shorter than the towers and enormous palace inside. The grays of the stone walls and wood roofs blend together. Guards make their rounds on the streets around the city, faces covered with large helmets.

After passing the fragrant farms, I enter through the stone arch and make my way toward the gate. Guards stand behind the walls and on platforms around it, keeping a bored, relaxed watch. As I near the strong, wood gate, a guard starts forward, drawing his sword.

I tense, one hand going for my weapons.

“Halt!” he barks. “City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only.”

I swallow hard and speak with confidence, “I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack.”

The guard falters a moment, his grip tightening. Then he growls, “Fine. But I'll be keeping an eye on you.”

He bellows an order, and, after a moment, the gate creaks open. I enter the city, my footsteps clattering on the cobblestones. Inside the gate, guards drill soldiers, shouting orders. A woman to the left of the gate tans leather on a rack. Small homes on either side of the street are fashioned from aged wood, carved with intricate patterns. My breath comes in sharply at the beauty of the place. Ahead, carts line the road, vendors calling out over one another.

“Fresh meat!”

“Fine jewelry for sale!”

“Apples, two septims for three!”

Music drifts through the air from the inn beyond. A sign mounted out front reads “The Bannered Mare”. For a moment, I am not sure where to go. But when I look up, I see the palace, Dragonsreach, looming above the city. I hurry up the steps to the next level of the city. This must be the rich district. The homes are painted and carved with massive bulkheads, sitting high above the street. The people meandering about the street are dressed in fine clothes. A small stream runs through the city, carefully controlled by a trench dug into the stone. In front of Dragonsreach, a gnarled tree grows surrounded by trellises. Just beyond that is a statue of Talos, the hero-god that was outlawed by the Thalmor, the god that the Stormcloaks worship.

 

 

I pass by these and walk up the staircase to the palace. A circular courtyard surrounds it. Though the palace is built out of simple wood and stone, it is decorated with intricate pillars and arches. After I manage to get the guard to let me in, I walk into the cavernous hall.

Two large tables are set for several dozen people. In the center of the hall is a huge hearth. Orange flames blaze up from it. The room smells of a succulent breakfast, of bread baking and warm honey. Apple pies and perhaps sweet, glazed ham. Beyond the hearth, a man sits on a throne, arguing with a men dressed in fine silks.

As I approach, a woman comes between me and the Jarl. She is obviously a dark elf – her skin is grey, darkest around her black eyes. Her leather armor rustles as she walks. “What is the meaning of the interruption?” her voice is strangely deep. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

I fold my arms, “I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack.”

Her eyes narrow, thin lips pressing together, “Well that explains why the guards let you in. Come on then. The Jarl will want to speak to you.”

She leads the way for me to stand in front of the throne. The Jarl's lanky form is sprawled in a relaxed posture across the throne. One finger toys with his yellow beard. The firelight glints off his golden necklaces.

“So, you were at Helgen,” his eyes search my drawn, sleepy face. “You saw this dragon with you own eyes?”

“Yes,” I snort, the anger of the last few days surging beneath my cheeks. “I had a great view white the Imperials were trying to cut off my head.”

The Jarl looks faintly amused, “Really? You're certainly...forthright about your criminal past. But it's none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute. Especially now.” He leans forward, “What I want to know is what exactly happened at Helgen?”

I shrug, shifting back and forth, “The dragon destroyed Helgen, and last I saw it was heading this way.”

“By my spear, Irileth was right!” he gasps, glancing at the woman clad in leather armor. “What do you saw now, Proventus?” he says to the man who had been arguing with him before. “Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?”

Irileth steps forward, red hair glowing in the firelight, “We should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger if a dragon is lurking in the mountains.”

The man protests, pasty face scrunched, “The Jarl of Falkreth will view that as a provocation. He will assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack it. We should...”

“Enough!” the Jarl cuts in, voice stern. “I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” she salutes and walks down the hall.

The man stares at the floor, “If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties.”

“That would be best,” the Jarl nods, heavy brow furrowed.

Proventus hurries away.

The Jarl looks at me, silent for a moment. “Well done. You sought me out on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it.” He nods to a servant standing nearby. The servant comes forward, handing me a heavy bundle on bent knees.

I take it, feeling the weight of it. Armor, by the looks of it, and of very good quality.

“Take this as a token of my esteem,” the Jarl nods.

“Thank you, my Jarl,” I bow slightly.

He strokes his chin, eyes thoughtful, “Of course.” Then he continues, “There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.” A faint smile spreads across his face. He stands, “Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter of these dragons and...rumors of dragons. I'll introduce you to him.” His eyes hold a mischievous gleam, “He can be a bit...difficult. Mages, you know.”

I follow him to a room on one side of the hall. Maps are laid out across a long desk along with several soul gems and spell books. On one wall, a circular alchemy lab casts a green glow about the small room. A cloaked figure pours over a book behind the desk, his face shadowed.

“Farengar,” the Jarl's voice intrudes on the silence of the room, “I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project.”

The court wizard looks up, dark eyes roving from the Jarl to me. I can't help but shiver and avoid his gaze. After a moment, he addresses me in a taut voice, “So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me.” He strokes his chin, “He must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me.”

The thought makes my legs wobble a little, but I shrug, “How hard could that be?”

A smile twists his small mouth, “Well, when I say 'fetch' I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

I let out a heavy sigh, suppressing an eye-roll. But I would much rather help to solve this dragon mystery than leave now. “What does a stone tablet have to do with dragons?” I pick at my fingernails.

“Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker,” Farengar speaks with a haughty tone to his voice. “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that is outside their experience as being impossible.”

The Jarl gives me a here we go again sort of look.

“But I began to search for information about dragons – where had they gone all these years ago? And where were they coming from? I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow – a “Dragonstone” said to contain a map of dragon burial sites.” He points at me, “Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet – no doubt interred in the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.”

I shift back and forth for a long moment, mulling things over, then nod, “Alright.”

Farengar grins down at me, “Well then, off to Bleak Falls Barrow with you. The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, come to think of it.”

I snort.

“This is priority now,” the Jarl nods, scratching his chin. “Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons. We need it, quickly, before it's too late.”

“Of course, Jarl Balgruuf,” Farengar nods. “You have given me a most able assistant. I am sure she will prove most useful.” He gives me a pointed look.

I nod, folding my arms.

The Jarl turns to me, “Succeed at this, and you will be rewarded. Whiterun will be in your debt.”

The idea of compensation tips the scales. “Very well,” I say.

Then I turn and head down the hall. To Bleak Falls Barrow. To uncover the mystery.

Unbound - Part 2

Well, here's the next part of my Skyrim fanfic. I am really enjoying doing this just for the fun of it. I kind of drifted from what actually happened in the game because most of it was just gore.

I hope you enjoy!

An earth-shaking roar makes my heart leap into my throat. Wind whips past my face. My neck still across the block, I look up. Something swoops past. The shadow of the tower looms above me.

“What in Oblivion is that?!” General Tulius cries.

The headsman's ax is raised to strike, dark eyes meeting mine from beneath the black mask. His arms are tensed for the blow.

Suddenly, a huge, scaled creature lands on the tower above us, making the ground rumble. The headsman falters, looking back and gaping. The serpentine creature's huge wings fall down over the tower, gripping the sides. Bits of stone give away beneath its claws. From beneath the rows and rows of sharp, silver scales, two red orbs pierce into the company. Above that are two horns bending back toward its long spine. I hear the sounds of weaponry sliding from its casing. Shouts and screams all around.

A woman shrieks, “Dragon!”

Hadvar stands in front of the block, sword at the ready. “Archers!” he bellows.

Then the dragon opens its mouth, issuing a sound like thunder. A quick wave of light blasts toward us. The impact knocks me back. My face smashes into the ground. Someone steps on me. Moss and cobblestones flash in front of my eyes. Shouts. Screams. Black spots speckle my vision. I hear another roar and a crash like an avalanche from the mountains.

Gulping air, I heave to my knees. Blood runs down one arm from a nasty scrape.

Pandemonium. The tower is a flaming heap of rock across the road toward the gate. People run here and there. Imperials rally on one side of the fort, shooting at the black shadow flitting across the sky.

A rough hand closes around my arm, “Hey, kinsman! Get up! The gods won't give us another chance!”

I look up at Ralof's dirty face. His bindings have been cut. He looks strangely calm though he has to shout to be heard over the tumult. I nod, struggling to my feet.

“This way!” he dashes toward a tower opposite the one that had collapsed. The heavy wooden door is open. The dragon swoops above, blasting a house to the right into a pile of ash.

The moment we enter the tower, the door is slammed shut behind us. I gasp for air. A thick scent of blood chokes me. Several Stormcloaks lie on the floor, clutching bloody wounds, some crying out loudly and others lying still. Ulfric stands nearby, watching several people try to get the wounded on their feet.

“Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof pants. “What is that thing?! Could the legends be true?!”

Ulfric's voice rumbles deep in his throat, “Legends don't burn down villages.” Then he orders, “We need to move! Now!”

Ralof dashes up the circular staircase, calling back to me, “Up to the tower! Let's go!”

I hurry after him, my heart pounding inside my chest. “Where are we supposed to go?! There's no way out!”

We come to the landing. A second later, the wall bursts open. Ralof leaps back toward me, pressing himself against the wall to avoid the large chunks of flying rock. I see the dragon's huge head a moment before it sends a blast of fire through the hole. I duck down behind Ralof, heat filling the tower. The fire stops, leaving the rock charred and blackened.

Ralof peers around the corner, then hurries to the hole and looks out. Most of Helgen is visible from here, the houses aflame, rocks flung about, people crouching in corners like rats hiding from the light.

Ralof points, “See the inn on the other side?!”

I look down. The inn is only partially aflame, most of the roof fallen in. It lies several feet below. “Yeah!”

“Jump through the roof and keep going!”

Without hesitation I leap from the hole. For a long moment, I am suspended in the air, my surroundings rushing past. Then my feet slam into the floor, and I topple over, unable to catch myself with my wrists bound. Heat presses in on every side. I scramble to my feet and hurry over to a hole in the floor. Then I drop through and emerge back in the street, on the other side of the fallen tower.

“Haming! You need to get over here! Now!” I see Hadvar crouching near the wall of a house.

A boy stands in the road, backing away from a fallen form. To my horror, the enormous form of the dragon looms on the street close behind the form, watching. I remember the boy that had been told to wait inside by his father – this must be him.

“That's it, little cub,” the fallen man rasps as the boy inches back. “Make me proud.”

The dragon opens its mouth.

“Gods, everyone get back!” he grabs the boy and pulls him behind the house as the dragon sends a blast of fire toward him. I throw myself down next to them, the flame singeing my clothing. The fallen man is engulfed. “Torolf!” Hadvar shouts.

I cover my mouth, letting out a choked yelp. Memories of my father flash before my eyes.

The dragon spreads its wings and swoops back into the sky, still circling the fort.

Hadvar looks back at me, one side of his face bloody. A stricken look is frozen on his expression. “Still alive, prisoner? Stay close to me if you want to say that way.” He looks back at an Imperial standing near the sobbing boy, “Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tulius and join the defense.” Then he runs out across the cobblestones.

“Gods guide you, Hadvar,” the Imperial murmurs.

I run after him. Sounds and images flash before my eyes, blurred and confused. Burnt bodies strewn across the ground. Cries of pain. Arrows flying. Fire everywhere. We pass men shooting at the dragon as it flies by.

We are going by a wall when Hadvar ducks down, bellowing, “Stay close to the wall!”

I lunge against the wall just as the dragon lands on top of it. Its wings grip the stones above us. A house in front of us bursts into flames. It takes flight again.

Hadvar tosses words over his shoulder, weaving his way through the ruins of the fort, “Quickly! Follow me! It's you and me, prisoner!”

The gate that leads out of the fort is blocked by another fallen tower. We work our way past it, ducking to avoid falling wreckage and the cursing, screaming people. We are near the middle of the fort, passing under an arc of stone. Two small, stone buildings lie next to the wall. Ralof comes from another archway, standing in front of Hadvar with his sword drawn.

“Ralof, you damned traitor!” Hadvar's voice is thick with fury. “Out of my way!”

Ralof's eyes are narrowed and yet triumphant, “We're escaping, Hadvar! You're not stopping us this time!”

Hadvar snaps, “Fine! I hope the dragon takes all of you to Sovngarde!” He runs past.

Ralof gestures toward me, heading for a door in one of the stone buildings, “You! Come on! Into the keep!”

I dash after him, waiting in an agony of impatience as he fumbles to open it. Dragon fire rushes toward us as we slam the door shut and bolt it.

Then there is only silence. I gasp for air, feeling the cold air chill my hot, sweaty body. After a moment, I look around at the small, circular room. Moss grows in cracks between the stones that make up the walls. The floor is muddy. A gate-like door lies on either side of the room. Next to a small table lies the still bodies of two Stormcloaks.

I shiver.

Ralof kneels down beside them, closing their eyes. His voice is soft, “We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother.” After a long moment, he stands, wiping his eyes. He looks back at me, “Looks like we're the only ones that made it. That thing was a dragon! Just like the children's tales and legends! The harbingers of the End times.”

“I thought...” my voice quavers, “I thought that they were gone for good.”

“As did I.” He takes a deep breath as if to calm himself. “We had better get moving. Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.”

I offer my bound wrists. He cuts the rope with the blade of his sword.

“There you go,” he forces a weak smile and gestures to the fallen Stormcloaks. “You may as well take their gear. They won't be needing it anymore.”

I nod and kneel down beside them. They are both men; I take the armor from the smaller of the two. The chain-mail falls heavily across my shoulders, reaching past my knees and elbows. After pulling on the blue cotton tunic, I strap the leather vest over it.

Ralof walks over to the door on the right, “I'm going to see if there's another way out of here.” He tries the door, but it is locked.

I pick up an iron sword. The rough grip feels so familiar, so comforting.

Shouts echo through the place, coming toward the room from the left door. “Someone's coming!” I look at Ralof.

Ralof hisses, ducking next to the door, “It's the Imperials. Take cover.”

I press myself against the wall on the other side, holding the sword at the ready and listening.

Anger boils inside me as I hear the sharp voice of the Imperial Captain ordering, “Come on! Get this gate open!”

The gate slides open. Ralof strikes down the first Imperial that comes through.

The Captain shouts, “Stormcloaks! Don't let them get away!”

I lunge forward away from the wall so that I will have room. The Captain charges past Ralof – who is locked into battle with another Imperial – and swings her sword at me. I block the blow with my sword, the impact jarring my arm. I have trained with weaponry all my life, but then, I bet she has too. And she has a shield.

She holds her shield at the ready, dark eyes narrowed.

I feint toward the left, then swing the sword toward the weak spot in her armor, above the hip and under her arm. She knocks my sword away from her, counter attacking with her own. I duck under the blow. My hand locks around her wrist, jerking her to the side and stabbing my sword into her back beneath the armor. She cries out, then falls limp to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

I shudder, looking away.

Ralof slides his sword into its sheath, searching the pockets of the Imperials. “Maybe one of these Imperials had the key.”

As he searches, I pull the shield from the Captain's slack arm and strap it to my own. “Find anything?” I ask.

“Aha, here it is,” he pulls the key out and walks over to the other door, unlocking it. “Come on.”

We weave our way through the dark place, groping. The occasional crack in the ceiling sheds a cold ray of light. After a while, we find a few torches, and Ralof lights one. The orange light casts on eerie glow over the stone walls. A musty smell chokes me as we go farther and farther. Except the occasional shelf next to the wall or crumpled bedroll in adjoining rooms, the place is completely bare.

The place suddenly begins to rumble, bits of rock raining down on us. All at once, the ceiling behind us collapses. We dive out of the way. Dust makes it difficult to breathe.

Ralof chokes between bouts of coughing, “No going back that way now. We better push on. The rest of them will have to find another way out.”

“Right,” I choke.

The minutes drag past like eternities.

Then I hear the sounds of fighting up ahead. After a moment, the sounds fade into silence. As we round the corner, Ralof shudders, “Trolls blood! The torture room...”

But the torturer lies dead, a cowl covering his face. Several Stormcloaks are searching the empty cells.

Ralof asks, “Is Jarl Ulfric with you?”

A woman with her hair pulled back in the remnants of a braid replies, “No. I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up. But we came in through there,” she points to another door.

Ralof begins stuffing supplies into his pockets.

After a quick search, I find a small bag of gold and tie it to my belt. A bow and quiver lie near one wall, probably taken from an unlucky prisoner. I take those and strap them to my back.

I hear a groan and turn. Ralof crouches down next to a man – he leans against the wall, his wiry body tensed. There is an awful cut on his leg and several spots on side where he was obviously burned. His olive skin is smudged with dirt, his angular face scrunched. He must be a Nord, but his face seems a little too elvish. Ragged black hair hangs into his face, a braid, longer than the rest, falling to his shoulder.

“He needs treatment,” the woman looks at Ralof. “We are going to stay here to see if anyone else makes it through. Take him with you.”

Ralof nods slowly, “Shayn, are you able to walk?”

A smirk twists his lips. He's younger than most of the men I've seen today, probably only a few years older than me. “Ever since I was knee high to a Skeever,” his voice is strained.

Ralof chuckles, pulling him to his feet, “Come on, then.”

Shayn winces, leaning against him heavily.

Ralof looks back at me, “We'd better move on. We've got to get out before the dragon brings the whole place down on our heads.”

I nod, and we make our way down the hall. There are empty cells on either side. After a few minutes we come to a dead end. Ralof holds out the torch in front of him. There is a hole in the ceiling, large enough to crawl through.

“Let's see where this leads,” Ralof hands Shayn the torch. Then he jumps up, grabbing on and heaving himself up. Shayn leans against the wall, holding up the torch. His face is pallid; sweat beads on his forehead.

He looks at me, his gray eyes somehow playful, “You're not one of us, are you?”

I shake my head.

“Come on,” Ralof calls down. “This might be a way out.”

He reaches a hand down. I take the torch from Shayn, and he grips my shoulder as he limps over to the hole. Ralof pulls him up, then me. The torch reveals a narrow pathway. We follow it, our breathing loud in the heavy silence.

Voices come from up ahead. Ralof and Shayn exchange glances and we make our way forward cautiously. The narrow path broadens into a huge cavern with stalactites pointing down toward the floor. Glowing mushrooms grow on the walls. Ralof snuffs out the torch. In the middle of the cavern stands a large group of Imperials, many of them lying down, obviously wounded. Their voices are hushed, but the echo carries their words to us.

“Our orders were to wait until General Tulius arrives.”

“For Arkay's sake, we need to leave! That dragon could bring this whole place down.”

Ralof leans over, his lips near my ear, “We'd better sneak around. I'd really rather not tangle with them right now. Keep your bow ready. We'll take it nice and slow.”

I nod, making my way forward, crouched down next to the wall. As I go, I take the bow off my back and nock an arrow to it. I've always had more ability with a bow than other weapons. Fallen boulders and stalactites help to conceal us. Ralof supports Shayn, walking behind me. My heart pounds in my throat. Every time an Imperial turns in our direction I expect him to shout and draw his sword. Sweat trickles down my face. We are nearing the other end of the cavern when one man looks straight at me, standing nearby.

Hadvar.

I draw back the bowstring, aiming the arrow at his chest. Can't breathe.

He doesn't make a sound, staring at me.

Our eyes lock in one meaningful look, then he turns away, saying nothing.

I let the string go loose without releasing the arrow, continuing on. Adrenaline makes my limbs shake. He's not going to say anything. Once we reach the other end, we slip through the passage, unseen.

Ralof hisses, “What was that?”

I shrug.

The stone path begins to slope upward beneath us, the walls pressing close on every side. I grope my way forward, unable to see anything in the blackness. My breaths become labored.

Then I see a light up ahead.

“There!” Ralof points. “We're almost there!”

Our pace quickens, and, what seems like seconds later, we emerge into the sunlight. Helgen is nowhere in sight.

Unbound - Part 1

Hi there. I'm back again. So I decided to write some fanfiction from Skyrim, a video game that I play occasionally. This is just me practicing so PLEASE don't expect a lot of quality. I'm going to try to follow the basic storyline of the game, although I might make up some stuff for the sake of keeping things interesting and relatively clean.

I hope you enjoy!

Part 1 -- Unbound

The wooden cart bumps and jolts beneath me as it is dragged along the loose cobblestones. An icy breeze, carrying with it the soft scent of snow, stirs the dark mop of hair hanging into my face. A dull throb pounds in my head. White light bores into my eyes as I try to force them open. I issue a faint groan, letting my eyelids slam shut again. Horses' hooves clop on the road ahead and behind. The occasional shout makes my head shriek in protest. Coarse rope digs into my wrists.

I force my eyes open, squinting. Small snowflakes stick to my eyelashes. The carts are driven by men wearing red tunics with leather and chain-mail armor over them. Each one is loaded with the dirty, drooping forms of other prisoners. Mountains loom up all around us, jutting from the rocky terrain and piercing the low clouds.

“Hey, you,” the sound makes my head ache. I look to one of the men sitting across from me in the cart. His face is broad and leathery, but his blue eyes hold a strange depth. “You're finally awake,” he offers a wan smile, his thin lips twisting. “Ralof,” it takes me a moment to realize that he is offering his name.

I nod, rubbing my hand against my face; I feel dried blood crusted on my forehead.

The happenings of last night slowly come back to me, beginning with me journeying toward Morrowind to visit my deceased mother's homeland and ending with a hard blow to the head from the pommel of an Imperial's sword.

After a moment, the man continues, “You were trying to cross the border, right? Ran into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.” He glances at man next to him.

The man shoots him a glare, his eyes bugging out of his sunken, weasel-like face. “Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you I could have stolen that horse and been half-way to Hammerfell by now.” He stares down at his bound wrists, his low brow knitting. His shirt looks more like a burlap sack with holes cut in it than actual clothing.

I remember seeing him flying down the road the night before when I was near the border. He almost trampled me, but the horse bucked to avoid me. I had drawn my sword, thinking he was a thug. We were just about to tear each other apart when we saw the company of Stormcloaks slinking through the shadows. They were barely visible in the moonlight; we were too close to run. They jerked him from his horse, seizing me as well. We were accused of being Imperial spies and were about to suffer accordingly. But then, out of the darkness came the light of many torches. Imperial soldiers rushed out of the night bellowing war cries. The Stormcloaks, caught off guard, fought back – they completely forgot about us. But the Imperials did not distinguish between the two of us and the Stormcloaks.

The thief suddenly looks up at me, shadows beneath his eyes, “You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the empire wants.”

I remain silent, picking at the knots of my bonds. The cool air makes me shiver. My dirty wool clothing does little to ward away the piercing chill.

Ralof's voice rumbles inside his chest, strong but not quite angry, “We're all brothers in binds now, horse thief.”

“Shut up back there!” the Imperial driving our cart orders, holding the reins in a tight grip.

The path twists through the rocky terrain, sloping steadily downward. The small, shrubby fir trees droop beneath the covering of snow.

The thief looks over at the third man in the cart – he sits with his back turned to us, one foot propped against the side of the cart and the other dangling over the side. A heavy cloak of animal skins hangs from his broad shoulders. “What's wrong with him, huh?” his small mouth twists in a smirk.

The man glances back at us through dark, shrewd eyes. His tawny hair is pulled back away from his rugged face by several braids, and his short beard is also pulled together in a braid. A gray cloth is bound tight across his mouth.

Ralof snaps, his eyes piercing, “Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king.”

The thief's face mirrors my horror. “Ulfric?” he gasps, turning on the man in the fur cloak. “Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

Ralof scratches his stubbly chin against his chain mail sleeve. The blue tunic over it is torn, held together only by the thick leather straps that his weaponry used to be attached to. “I don't know where we're going,” his voice is distant, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

The thief stares at the bottom of the cart as it rattles beneath us, “No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!”

I shake my head, my fists clenched, “They have to know that we aren't one of you. We just ran into you on accident.”

Ralof doesn't reply, his eyes searching the land around us. As the ground continues to slope, the snow becomes thinner, mixed with dirt. A tower looms up from the trees and rocks ahead. As we come closer, I see a small fortress nestled among the rocks. The walls surrounding it are made of stones held in place by mortar. Above that, split logs that have been bound together and carved into points at the top. Sentries pace back and forth behind it on raised platforms. Tattered Imperial flags hang from long poles. He looks over at the thief, “Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?”

The thief snaps, “Why do you care?”

Ralof's voice is soft, “A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.”

After a moment, the thief looks up through wide eyes, “Rorikstead. I'm...I'm from Rorikstead.”

As we enter the open gate of the fort, a man calls out, “General Tulius! The headsman is waiting!”

The thief cries, “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!”

A man riding on a Bay horse in front of the train of carts replies, his voice gruff, “Good. Let's get this over with.” He rides to the side, letting the carts pass him as they go into the fortress. His thin, wiry body is covered in gilded Imperial armor. He stops to speak with a rider waiting just inside the gate. I immediately recognize the rider to be one of the Thalmor – the high elves have seemed to have more authority over Skyrim than the Imperials themselves, ever since the White-Gold concordant, that is. Two other elves stand beside the dark horse, their gold armor glinting in the white light.

Ralof scowls, “Look at him, General Tulius the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with them. Damn elves... I bet they had something to do with this.”

We slowly go past little houses constructed of aged wood. People who do not appear to be soldiers stand on porches, watching in silence. The large, stone tower looms above us.

Ralof issues a heavy sigh, his eyes staring past me into the distance, “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilad is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny, when I was a boy Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe...”

I can't help but turn away when I see the mist in his eyes.

I hear a small voice behind us as we wind through the fort, “Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

A stronger voice replies, “You need to go inside, little cub.” The fatherly tone, it's been so long since I've heard that.

“Why?” the boy protests. “I want to watch the soldiers.”

He orders, “Inside the house. Now.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Whoa!” the Imperial driving our cart pulls back on the reins, stopping us beside the other carts loaded with Stormcloak prisoners.

The Imperial captain, a woman with a face like a hawk clad in heavy, plated armor, commands, “Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!”

The thief yelps, “Why are we stopping?”

Ralof looks at him, his eyes slowly roving across the faces around him, “Why do you think? End of the line.” After a moment, he offers me a wan smile, “Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.”

I force a smile in return and swallow down my pounding heart. We stand and begin to climb down from the cart. The Imperial captain and another man in Imperial armor stand behind the cart, waiting.

The thief protests, eyes wild, “No! Wait! We're not rebels!”

Ralof snaps, “Face your death with some courage, thief.”

He hurries up to stand in front of the Imperial captain, looking back at Ralof, “You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This a mistake!”

The Imperial captain shoves him back, not the slightest hint of sympathy in her dark eyes, “Step toward the block when we call your name! One at a time!”

Ralof grumbles as he jumps out of the cart, “Empire loves their damn lists...”

The man beside her begins to read from the list, “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

Ulfric comes forward, walking past them and around the carts to where the chopping block waits, surrounded by prisoners and Imperial soldiers. The headsman holds a heavy ax in his hand, watching from beneath his black mask.

The man continues, “Ralof of Riverwood.”

Ralof doesn't look at me as he follows Ulfric, but there isn't any regret, at least none that shows.

The man calls the next name, “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

Lokir yelps, his eyes wide with hysteria, “No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!” He dashes past them back toward the gate.

The Imperial captain shouts, “Halt! Archers!”

I open my mouth to protest but then remain silent. He's dead either way.

“You're not going to kill me!” he shrieks just before the arrows plunge into his back. He drops to the ground without so much as a whimper.

The Imperial captain turns again, her swarthy face lined with fury, “Anyone else feel like running?” Then she orders, “Continue, Hadvar.”

Hot anger boils inside me.

Hadvar looks at me through eyes that almost seem kind, “Wait. You there. Step forward.”

I take a couple steps forward, limping a little as the feeling returns to my legs. The long ride had made them almost completely numb.

His eyes narrow, “Who are you?”

I scowl before I reply, “Myra.”

“Of?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Anywhere I choose.”

He nods, writing something on the list, “You picked a bad time to be in Skyrim, kinsman.”

A slight smile creases my face. He thinks I am fully Nord despite my sharp features and skin that has a slight grayish hue, that this is my homeland, that my blood is not corrupted by my Dunmer legacy.

“Captain,” Hadvar looks at her, “what should we do? She's not on the list.”

She snorts, “Forget the list! She goes to the block.”

The man nods, his hair hanging into his face, “By your orders.” He looks at me steadily, “I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

A pang of fear makes my insides ice cold. I follow the captain mechanically to the chopping block where the other prisoners wait, faces downcast and yet still proud. In the center stands Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tulius.

The General regards the company with a look of triumph, but his words are directed to Ulfric, “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero,” a smirk twists his lips. “But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

Ulfric's eyes narrow, and he lets out a grunt of protest through the gag.

General Tulius' voice becomes low, “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”

Just then, a strange sound comes from high above, like a distant shriek and the rushing of a mighty wind.

Hadvar gasps, “What was that?”

“It's nothing,” General Tulius replies quickly, eyes searching the cloudy sky. “Carry on.” He moves back.

“Yes, General Tulius,” the captain comes forward with all the pomp of a peacock. “Give them their last rights.”

A woman wearing the orange and yellow robes of a priestess of Arkay raises her hands, cloaked face turned toward the sky, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines be upon you...”

One of the prisoners comes forward, scowling, “For the love of Talos, SHUT UP, and let's get this over with!”

Her eyes narrow, and she steps back, “As you wish.”

He comes to stand in front of the block, light-colored eyes piercing those of his captors. “Come on! I haven't got all morning!”

The Imperial captain pushes him to his knees, forcing his head onto the block.

He glares at the ground in front of him, “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The headsman raises the ax, then swings it down.

I flinch, looking away. The Imperial captain kicks his body aside. Blood runs between the cobblestones.

One of the Stormcloaks cries, “You Imperial bastards!”

General Tulius bellows back, “Justice!”

The captain sneers, resting one heavy boot on the block, “Death to the Stormcloaks!”

Ralof, who stands next to me with a sad expression, murmurs, “As fearless in death as he was in life...”

“Next!” the captain orders, gesturing at me, “The Nord in the rags!”

My heart drops into my stomach.

The strange sound comes again, louder this time. The trees around the fort rustle, chunks of snow dropping to the ground.

“There is is again!” Hadvar sounds wary. “Did you hear that?”

The captain shoots him a murderous glance, “I said, next prisoner!”

“To the block, prisoner,” he gives me that steady look. “Nice and easy.”

I walk forward slowly as in a dream and kneel down in front of the block. I can see the head of the man who had gone before me, white-faced, blank eyes staring somewhere past me. A small shudder wracks my body. A boot stomps down on my back, forcing me down onto the block, already wet with the previous man's blood.

I barely hear the shriek that comes from the mountains above. The man raises the ax. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Sovngarde awaits!