Elder Scroll series 1. Chapter 1: Death at first sight

Man has always been obsessed with war, driven to the point where they will invent any excuse just so they may play its game. But it's a dangerous game to play, and many, if they stick their hands into the flames, will get burnt.

_A/N: Hullo everyone! Thanks for clicking on the story, really I appreciate it. This is my first story published, so I'm more than a little nervous about putting it out into the light of day. As a **W**__**arning: **__this story is a little dark, but I tried to make it as realistic as possible. I rated it M for graphic violence and gore, strong language, sexual themes and nudity, and lastly because the game itself is rated_ _M+_._ I just want to thank all the people taking the time out of their day to read this. It means a lot to me. I just tried to put everything into it, didn't I? Anyways, please give me your thoughts and reviews if you have any questions :)_

_Also, I will be writing my own questline after Helgen, with references to the MQ in Skyrim. This isn't canon at all; just straight up fanfiction. I became bored with how much Skyrim's quests were constantly replayed over and over and watered-down. Ye Gods, I was already slightly bored of them on my hundredth playthrough! Not to say I don't enjoy well-written stories of those quests, I just got tired of them and so. . . I break tradition._

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Chapter 1: Death at first sight

A bitter cold wind knifed through the ragged cloth tunic like a sharp blade through warm butter, chilling her to the bone. A war of thirst was raging inside her mouth, and she could taste the faint coppery tang of dried blood. It hurt to move, hurt to think, hurt to do anything, a dull ache at the back of her skull that wouldn't stop.

An eagle scream harshly in the air as it searched for prey, flapping its wings as it soared through the flint-coloured sky, a mere pinprick in the scattered clouds. The sun was gone, hidden perhaps behind the lofty mountains that loomed massively to either side of her.

_Mountains. _The thought was a jolt to her head, and she gazed around at the peaks in surprised silence. Near the top they were covered in deep drifts of snow in hues of shaded grey and plum purple and pure white, but from the middle down the snowfalls gave way to shingled granite ridges, solemn pine trees shrouded in mist, and scraggly juniper trees with half-frozen waterfalls lurking nearby, almost hidden from view. The landscape was pretty, if not completely foreign. Blooms of wild roses and mountain flowers grew in clumps near the road, and she realised uncomfortably that she was bound hand and wrist with tough rope, shackled to a wagon. Panic took hold of her sudden as a storm. She tugged feebly at the bindings, and bit back a gasp of pain as the hemp chafed her already raw wrists. She felt bile rise up at the back of throat.

"So, you finally decided to wake up, did you lassie?" She glanced up to see a man sitting across from her, his hands bound in similar fashion to the same iron ring that restricted her own. He had ice-blue eyes and a mop of dishevelled blonde hair that was longer than hers, his face seamed and soiled from exhaustion. His armour wasn't in much better condition, hanging off him in bloodied tatters. She supposed the cuirass had once been a dark blue, but blood and dirt and the gods knew what else had coloured the leather to a stained off-hue. "You look tired," he said amiably.

"Where. . ." Her voice was cracked and rough, raw like uncut wood, as she licked her lips. It hurt to swallow.

"You're in Skyrim, at least near the border." He studied her for a moment. "You look awful young."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she forced them away before they threatened to overspill onto her face. She wouldn't cry, she _couldn't._ Silence stretched between the both of them, and for a while she stared at her feet, cracked and wrapped in foul-smelling rags. The tips of her toenails had turned an unhealthy tinge of blue, and she could no longer feel her thumbs.

Finally she shivered and said, "I didn't do anything wrong. I was just. . . traveling." She watched an elk stalk through the bushy undergrowth, only to take off at the wagon's approach, trumpeting in fear.

"I'm sure you speak the truth. . . but you're not like to get any sympathy from the Imperials." He spat. "They have no honour, no code of justice. The best you'll get from them is a hard rape."

Her eyes widened in fear. Another wind blew, this time colder, and she hunched down miserably trying to take what small shelter she could from the wagon. The words struck at her over and over again in her head, and she wanted to cry again.

_He has to be lying,_ she told herself, _there's no way the Empire would do such a thing, he's just trying to scare me. It won't work. It's a misunderstanding, is all. I'll tell them who I am and they won't touch me, and I can go back home._ But when she raised her head, she didn't see any falseness or malice in his features, only sadness. That scared her even more.

"You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." He nodded his head to the side, and she glanced over to where a stick-thin Nord was huddled down amidst the creaking wood, mumbling incoherently under his breath that misted. He looked more pitiful than she probably did.

"He's been muttering like that the whole damn time, making it easy for a man to go mad." He paused, his breath steaming in the air. "My name's Ralof."

She said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"Damn you Stormcloaks!" The thief declared, jerking his head back to show eyes half-crazed with fear. His face was smeared with dirt, and his oily black hair smelled like fermented seed. "Damn you damn you damn you!"

"See what I've had to put up with?" Ralof asked.

"Skyrim was fine until you came along, Empire was nice and lazy and did nothing, nothing! Until you came. You and Talos." He made the word a curse. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell, living like a bloody jarl."

"Watch your tongue, thief, and show some respect for God."

"So there's only one now? the thief taunted. "What happened to the other Eight?"

"Talos rules as champion and chief deity over them, second only to Akatosh," Ralof insisted. "You should take more pride in his deeds, kinsman."

"You're no kin of mine," the thief said darkly. "My mother was half-Imperial herself, on my granda's side."

"Aye. I figured you had the blood of a craven in you."

"Shut up back there," the driver said irritably, giving the horse a taste of the long black riding whip. "Or I'll gag you all like I did your 'king', starting with the rebel."

The thief glared sharp daggers at Ralof, but bit his tongue and lapsed into silence. It seemed to get colder as they rode farther south, which made no sense. Then it started to snow. Softly at first, then harder and quicker, and the flakes that came drifting down were as big as her fist, an opaque white that glimmered like diamonds even without the sun's rays.

"Hey," the thief whispered, and he had to repeat himself several times before she finally realised he was talking to her. "You're a pretty Breton. You remind me of my mother, all sweet and gentle and innocent. And I've never seen hair that colour before." The hair in question was a pale silver-blonde, matted and tangled with a smell emanating from it, hardly what one would call pretty at that particular moment.

Ralof scoffed. "The day that sentence is a compliment is the day your mother isn't a whore."

"The thief practically choked on his own spittle that came flying out of his mouth. "Wh-wh-whore?! My mother i- is. . . my mother is—"

"—An Imperial, you said it yourself. Blood tells."

The thief spluttered angrily. "My mother is a gentlewoman, you leave her out of this!"

Ralof gave a patronising stare. "You're the one who brought it up."

The thief made to grab Ralof, but his bonds stopped him a few inches short. He snarled instead, and for half a heartbeat he was reminiscent of a savage wolf she'd come across a fortnight ago outside the gates of Bruma, a half-starved thing that was all skin and bones. A kindly Bosmer helped kill it for her, and had made her supple gloves from its hide in return for her letting him keep the meat for salting. She wished fervently that she had the gloves now, her hands were turning a slight bluish-black from cold and exposure.

The thief turned back to her. "Why don't you open your tunic for poor Lokir, and I'll open mine."

Ralof laughed. "No one wants to see you naked, thief, least of all me. Don't you have any dignity?"

The thief whose name was Lokir—if indeed that was his name—did his best to ignore him. "Don't you want your virtues to be seen?" He said in a purring tone, giving what he no doubt thought a friendly smile, but what really ended up a grimace that resembled a troll on skooma.

"No," she said tersely, and hunched as far away from him as she could get. Ralof laughed again. It was a subdued laugh, quiet and muffled and sombre, yet it was there all the same.

They moved slowly around a massive scarred boulder with clumps of nettled growing raggedly around its base, and a spreading village hoved into view. Actually, the word village would have been generous. Hamlet was far better suited to the cottages surrounded by stone walls in decay.

There were other wagons behind and in front of them filled with soldiers similarly dressed as the soldier Ralof, but as they were starting down a steep decline none blocked her view. Not that there was much to look at. Beyond the aforementioned wall that was sinking and covered with moss and lichen, several ragtag buildings stood in disarray behind it. Most were built of rotting wood with discoloured yellow thatch serving as roofs, and most were spattered with mud and nightsoil and running rampant with squealing pigs and children.

"Helgen." Ralof's voice was soft. "They're taking us to Helgen."

"Helgen? Why Helgen?" Lokir demanded, eyes wide with fear at the answer.

"Why do you think?" Ralof asked. "End of the line."

For a moment the thief didn't understand. Confusion was spread across his homely face, then slowly recognition. He began to break down sobbing as he tore futilely and desperately at his bonds.

Ralof stared at him with disgust. "Craven. Face your death with some courage, thief."

"No, no, no, no, no," Lokir said, "please no, I can't die, I can't die, I can't die. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please please I'm sorry." Tears streamed freely down his face, and for a moment she felt pity. Then the feeling passed.

"What did you think they were going to do?" Ralof asked. "Pat you on the back and accept your apology, then give you your horse back and send you on your way with a bag of stolen gold? Idiot."

Lokir was in mild hysterics by then, incoherent of everything and muttering the list of the Divines over and over again as he begged and pleaded for mercy. Ralof sighed. He looked sad again.

There were people on the sides of the road that had stopped to watch the procession. Some carried buckets of water, others piles of splintered firewood. One Nord had a deer slung across his brawny shoulders, sweat beading his broad face and dripping down into his clothing despite the cold. She wondered if it was the same deer she'd seen from earlier.

A few gave her curious looks, and one little boy made a face at her with his tongue, but none said anything nor made any move to stop the process. They spoke instead in quiet whispers to those standing next to them. _I did nothing wrong,_ she wanted to scream at them, but was fearful of being gagged, and they wouldn't have believed her anyway. To them, she was a branded criminal and deserving of Imperial justice, whatever that might be.

The sun came out to the west of them behind tall grey-green sentinels and ironwood trees, and blinded her briefly for a short instant. Then it disappeared again as quickly as it came, and she was right before Helgen's gates.

They were still creaking open slowly as they passed underneath, and the smell of fungus and rotten leather reached her nose. Everything was decaying here. The paved road ended abruptly and turned to jagged, uneven cobblestones that jutted up like angry teeth.

To her right a group of Elves sat atop slim coursers, watching them pass with pale cold eyes. There was nothing friendly about them, merely disdain. Their armour and weapons glowed faintly, as if imbued with moonlight, and Ralof scowled back at them when he caught sight of their chilling smiles.

"Elves. Figures. I hate Elves. I bet they had something to do with this. Them and their Magicka."

She heard the creaking again, and when she turned she saw the gates closing shut behind them again with a protest. Two wagons were behind them, though one contained only a single prisoner, dressed richly in furs and silks but gagged at the mouth. He caught her glance and looked up, and she'd never seen so much anger or hate burning in those eyes, barely controlled. She quickly looked away again.

"Helgen," Ralof said. " I remember this place better than I'd thought. I used to be sweet on a girl from here, you know. She looked a lot like you. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." He smiled faintly and sniffed. "Ha, I recall when I first tasted that that mead. I snuck out from my home and came up here, demanded a bottle, and passed out after my first good swig. I was. . . let me think, three-and-ten, I remember now. Anyways, my Da got wind of what'd happened, because apparently—I don't recall this so I can't verify, but everyone said I did—I went around tryin' to set fire to people's privy houses and tried to marry a cat in heat, claiming her kittens were my own. Don't give me that look, lassie, I was stupid then and it was my first time proper drunk! My Da was good and riled, so he came and drug me home and whipped me good. I couldn't sit straight for a month, Oho but that drink was well worth it. Maybe Vilod'll let me have another swig before I go, you know?"

"General Tullius sir, the headsman is waiting!"

"Good," another voice answered back, gravelly and sharp like pointed rocks. "Let's get this folly over with once and for all."

Lokir whimpered.

"Tullius." Ralof glowered, a scowl on his lips. "The great Military Governor. It shouldn't come as a surprise the Thalmor are with him, no doubt swimmin' in their glory.

"You know what's funny? As a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so. . . safe. An illusion, just like everything else." He looked up at the sky. "There are worse days to die on. At least I'll be home."


	2. Chapter 2: Justice

Chapter 2: Justice

They dragged the prisoners from their carts at the cries of an impatient captain, and rows were formed between the defeated as their names were written down onto sheets of paper lists. She found herself sandwhiched between Lokir and Ralof, with the hateful man that was richly dressed just behind. She could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of her head, and fidgeted uncomfortably. _Keep your eyes straight,_ she told herself. _Don't look back._

"Step up to the block when we call your name, one at a time!" The captain barked. She was tall for an Imperial, her eyes as angry as the captured noble. More so, for she looked positively livid. She kept tapping her foot impatiently against the ground, and sweat was beading on her dark skin from the heavy armour and boiled leather she wore draped about her figure. "I said move it!"

Next to her a burly Nord stood with book and quill, his eyes and hair a soft brown. "Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm," he called, "Son of Hoag." The gagged noble shoved through the others carelessly, head held up high. He was handsome up close, with sharply lined features, a rich dark beard, and hair that was braided in the old styles of the Nordic folk. His nose was curved sharply like a hawk's beak, and his eyes were a pale pale grey, almost devoid of any colour. The captain spat on the ground as he passed and squinted suspiciously.

"Is has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric." Ralof said quietly to himself. "Talos keep us."

"Ralof, son of Vramir, of Riverwood." Ralof gave only a small glance of recognition at the Nord, and made his way in silence. Not so the thief.

"I can't die," he whimpered desperately. He smelled even worse up close, and down between the backs of his thighs were dark brown smudges that looked smeared. She hoped the stains weren't what she thought they were.

"Lokir, son of Groddir, of Rorikstead." The Nord called, his voice carrying on the wind.

"You're not gonna kill me!" Lokir screamed to no one in particular, taking off at a run and laughing madly, head thrown back. "Freedom!"

He bulled over Ralof who shouted "bloody_ hell,_" and raised his hands to protect his head as he fell heavily onto the flagstones. There was a _cracking _noise, and when he stumbled back to his feet his nose was bloody. "Archers," the captain called. "_Loose and kill the bastard!_"

"I'm not dying today!" Lokir yelled lustily at the top of his lungs. He almost made it to the closed gate before three arrows took him in the back and became buried in his flesh up to the fletching. He made a puzzled sound at the back of his throat and fell forward, drowning in his own blood.

"Was that really necessary?" The Nord holding the book and quill asked quietly, as they watched the thief twitch in his final, undignified death throes.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The captain asked the remaining prisoners. None answered her, and chose to remain in a sullen silence. She turned back to her companion."If you ask questions like that you shouldn't wonder why I'm in charge and not you," the captain retorted haughtily. "We still have another prisoner left."

"You," the Nord said. "Step forward."

She obeyed, albeit hesitantly. "Who are you?" he asked softly. Her voice caught in her throat. When she opened her mouth to speak, only a rattling noise came out, and the Imperial captain laughed, her voice harsh like a crow's in the thin, cold air. "A fucking dimwit who can't talk. Wonderful. The gods must be laughing themselves sick right now."

The Nord winced. "She looks so young, there must be a mistake."

"The only mistake _I _see is your weakness for a pair of pretty thighs."

"But . . . she's not on the list," he protested feebly.

"Forget the list, she goes to the block."

". . . No."

Both the Imperial captain and the Nord turned in surprise to look at her. "What did you just say?" The captain demanded, her face the equivalent of someone whose dinner has just stood up and begun telling jokes.

"I said. . . no. Please. I've, I've done nothing. . . nothing wrong." She had found her voice at the last second, choked with raw emotion and fear. "This is a mistake. My name is Rose Cheyeriil, and. . . please, please this is _wrong_."

"Don't presume on what you think is right and wrong," the captain snapped. There had been no recognition at the Breton's name, only a brief flicker of annoyance. "You're going to the block."

_I'm going to die. _The realisation frightened her to no end, and she turned to the Nord in mute appeal. He looked uncomfortable. "Captain, I—"

"—Don't 'Captain' me, Hadvar, she's _going _to the block. I'd suggest you take that as a hint to be quiet before I put you on probation and half-rations."

He lowered his eyes to the ground in defeat. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, his breath frosting in the air. "We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock. Follow the captain, prisoner." He refused to meet her gaze, so she had no choice but to turn and follow the Imperial.

She watched the headsman as he finished sharpening his axe, and a cold shudder passed through her. The steel looked wickedly sharp, glinting brightly in the sun. It was funny, but she wasn't cold anymore, or maybe she was so cold that all feeling had left her body. Not that it mattered either way. She was staring death right in the face.

_I don't want to go._


	3. Chapter 3: Dragon

Chapter 3: Dragon

"Ulfric Stormcloak, you bloody bastard." A gaunt Imperial dressed in finely-made steel pushed his way through the crowd. The gilding on his chestplate was made of inlaid gold and niello, and glittered like his shrewd grey eyes that never missed a thing. He was spare and short, but commanded a presence far more intimidating than a hundred bandits. Or so she thought, Rose never having seen a bandit before.

"Shall we execute him first, General?" The Imperial captain asked smartly, making her way to his side. "Show them that their leader is no more invincible than goblins who ride dragons. It'll put the fight right out of them."

The general snorted in derision. "No. Kill him last, make him see his men die one by one, so he knows what it's like to feel helpless. Not that I would imagine he'd care."

"Like what happened at Karthwasten?" The Imperial captain prompted.

"Karthwasten." The word was bitter on his tongue, and the sharp look he sent her let her know she'd made a mistake. "Never speak to me of Karthwasten."

"As you say, General Tullius."

The general turned back to Ulfric. By then all of the remaining prisoners had formed up, and Rose found herself between Ralof and a tall blonde woman with face paint smeared on her face in the shape of blue tears. Beneath it, she saw real streaks of tears that had smudged her facial markings, but the woman still held her head high proudly. _She's afraid but still brave,_ Rose realised.

"You started this war, Kingslayer," Tullius said angrily to Ulfric, "you tore Skyrim into bloody chaos, and now I'm going to put you down like a rabid dog, and restore the peace." There were cries of heartfelt outrage from the Stormcloaks, and surprised murmurs from the gathering of smallfolk who lived in Helgen and had come to see the execution. The Imperial captain bobbed her head up and down in agreement with the general's speech, reminding Rose of a goose. But this goose had a sword and a fiery temper.

"It's time you answered for your crimes, for rebelling, and for Markarth. Good people were killed that day, children were butchered and women were raped because of you. Because you deemed they weren't true to your cause. You and your justice. You're going to taste what Imperial justice is, Ulfric, and when you feel the headsman's axe biting deep into your thick neck I want you to curse me with everything you have, because the gods won't save you from those you've wronged, down in whatever hell you believe in."

Ulfric made a strangled noise at the back of his throat, and jerked his head violently to the side, as if trying to bite free of his bonds.

"Get this folly over with and kill them," the general said tiredly. "I'm done with bloody speeches, just execute them all and be done with it." The Imperial captain saluted. "Yes, General Tullius!" She turned to a slim priestess garbed in hooded robes of a soft white hue. "Give them their last rites."

The priestess raised her hands into the air, her voice sweet and melodious as it carried across the yard. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nir—

"—Will you Imperials just shut up so we can get this over with?!" A ragged Nord demanded, his Stormcloak armour in worse tatters than Ralof's, and his beard and side-whiskers a fiery red.

"Him first," the captain declared. "Since he seems so eager for us to start." Two soldiers dragged the Nord forward, unresisting as he taunted them. "It takes two if you to match me, huh? I'm not surprised, the Empire's always been craven to the bone, too afraid to open their eyes and fight for what's right!" When he reached the block the captain brazenly smashed her steel gauntlet across his unprotected face, and blood spattered everywhere in a misty red haze. He spat out a brown tooth, "That's all you have, wench? Why don't you kiss me again, on the other cheek this time." She gladly obliged him, and this time his nose broke and he spit out two molars. Rose couldn't deny his courage, but wondered if his bravado was nothing short of unwise.

They shoved him roughly down onto his knees, and the captain placed an iron-toed boot upon his head, forcing his neck to bend painfully. "Come on," he yelled, wincing at the sudden pain, "I haven't got all morning!" Some of the Empire's soldiers laughed at that.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials, can you say the same?" he demanded, his last words as the heavy axe came swinging down. The blade was sharp, but it took two more full swings to chop through the bone and meat of his thick neck. Rose felt her stomach twist at the gore, and would've thrown up had she something to regurgitate.

They didn't even bother cleaning up the mess, only pushed the headless body away from the chipped block and heaved the severed head into a rotting compost pile.

"Next, the Breton!" someone called, and Rose felt her body clench. Fear shivered through her like a white-hot knife, and her legs started trembling like a jellycake.

A tremour passed suddenly beneath her feet, so quick she thought she'd imagined it in her panic, but when she looked around her everyone had uneasy glances pasted on their faces, even the smallfolk.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked, and for a moment he seemed as scared as a boy.

"It's nothing, carry on." The captain commanded. She was the only one who seemed unfazed by the quake. "Just an earthquake. They probably happen all the time around here."

"But I live near here an—"

"—I _said, _next prisoner!" The captain barked, her eyes flashing with anger as she fingered her sword hilt.

Hadvar shuffled his feet. "To the block, prisoner," he said gently, "nice and easy."

A Stormcloak—Rose didn't see who—laughed. "You Imperials know nothin'. That ain't no quake, it's the gods, it's Talos tellin' you he ain't happy with you Imperials and your Elven pets," he spat the word out, "killin' his protege."

"Talos can go piss himself, for all _I_ care," the captain snapped back irritably. "Next idiot who wants to mouth off to me can go to the torture rack instead of the block." She was met with a sullen silence. When she eyed the Nord who'd spoken up and he didn't respond, she gave a small hint of a smile, though it was hard to tell beneath her helmet. "Now," she continued, "_next prisoner." _

Rose felt someone push her forward, and she found herself walking, though rather unwillingly. Her feet dragged reluctantly on the cold ground, and she could feel her pulse speed up at the sight of the bloodied axe, just waiting for her. Everyone was looking at her, staring at her. Even the Elves, who had ridden over on their horses, were giving her bored looks of disinterest.

She felt sick again. _I don't want to die,_ she thought, but it was no use pleading; they wouldn't listen and everyone who heard would think her a coward. She didn't want to be a coward.

Rose felt another tremour as she reached the chopping block and staggered, her mouth dry. Rough hands shoved her down into the ground, into the blood and gore and viscera of the dead Stormcloak, and something slippery filled her mouth. It tasted of rubber and _crunched_ between her teeth, and a blind panic made her flail in desperation and spit it out, fighting back a sob as they twisted her head to the side. She glimpsed the sun briefly before the headsman blotted it out.

He was massive, with a large potbelly for a stomach and coarse hair all along his bare arms which could easily be mistaken for a fur cloak. A black mask with eye slits covered his face, and he smelled of sweat and blood.

Or maybe that was the block she was smelling, or maybe even her, as she was coated in the stuff and sticky from her face to her shaking chest.

A warm liquid trickled down her legs towards her feet, and she realised with horror her breeches were wet. _I pissed my pants._ She wanted to cry again, wanted to go home, wanted to _live. _

"Gods," Hadvar said, and for a moment she thought he was talking about her, seeing as he had an ample view of her backside, but his tone was. . . awed? scared? Not disgusted, but terrified.

_Do I have magical powers in my pants? _She thought madly, half-crazed. Rose wanted to laugh, to scream. She wondered if she really was insane. _Why yes, just let me up and I'll undo my breeches, and we'll see what mystic and horrifying wonders my thighs conceal. _

Then she heard the roar.

It blotted out everything, an endless torrent of raw power that shattered glass. She heard horses and people screaming alike, as if from far away. The priestess was shrieking and running around in circles, waving her arms wildly. It took Rose a split-second to realise the woman was on _fire,_ tongues of flame whirling and whipping off her robes in a grotesque dance, leaping and spinning in colours of scarlet and crimson and black.

It took her another moment to realise that she was sitting with her back to a stone tower. _How did I get here? _The headsman lay dead at her feet, his neck snapped at an odd angle by a piece of heavy stone.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" someone yelled, though it sounded rather far away and soft, like a whisper compared to that wild thunder which drowned everything else.

"Archer, _kill it!" _Someone else screamed hoarsely. The Imperial captain, maybe. Rose couldn't be sure as other voices joined in, all yelling and shouting at the same time.

"What in the Gods' names is it?" someone asked, and someone replied with, "You're asking me?!" A civilian ran past in staggered movements, screaming and clutching a bloody stump. "Help me!" he screeched, his sweaty dirt-red hair clinging to his scalp, "help me, me arm, me fuckin' arm! Where's me arm?! _Help me!" _

Mummy," a little boy sobbed, running willy-nilly about the carnage with his soot-stained arms wrapped tightly around his thin chest. "Mum-mum-mum-mummmy! Mummy where are youu!?" Snot was coming out of his nose, and Rose saw that he was clutching a wooden soldier, and had dropped it. As he bent to reclaim it, another roar seemed to shake the very roots or Nirn, even louder than the first. It could have just been her imagination, but it sounded eerily like a laugh to her.

The clouds were heavy and red and black, and meteors of hot, flaming rocks were pouring and gushing out of the heavens, some as big as a house, others no more than a man's fist.

Nothing was blacker than the creature that flew.

Nor faster.

Rose raised a shaking, silent hand out as a warning, but was too late, helpless but to watch. The little boy managed to run about ten yards before the beast snatched him up in talons six feet long, screaming "Mummy save me," one last time before the creature snapped the child's spine with a _craack, _taking to the sky again, as quickly gone as he'd came. He vanished like smoke amongst the clouds with another ear-bending bellow of triumph.

Air as hot as a furnace beat at Rose's face, and her skin blistered and popped from the open exposure. Her screams mingled with the rest as she was slammed face-first into the ground.


	4. Chapter 4: Illusion of a heaven

___A/N: Okay so I apologise for the short chapters and any mistakes I make in spelling, but they seemed a hell of a lot bigger on my iPod and somehow turned to miniscule size once I transferred them over. To make up for this, I'll usually put chapters in pairs until I decide to write longer (which I doubt because I'm lazy.) So hey, give me a shout out if you need something clarified, or a review if you want, or not. I'm not going to force you to write one, you know, but it would be nice to get some feedback to let me know I'm not doing a completely horrible job. Until then, Allons-y!_

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Chapter 4: Illusion of a heaven

Rose listened to the sound of flutes.

A thrush swooped by on dark speckled wings, chirping merrily. She could hear the sound of a bubbling stream in the background, and faint laughter that echoed through the trees. Flowers grew in clumps around her feet, and she saw she was garbed in a silvery mail that caught the sunlight, glinting like slivers of diamonds. The armour felt as light as a feather and breathed like cotton, but there was a strength in the woven metal that spoke Elvish.

_Where am I?_ It was a good question, as this was a vast difference between the fiery hell she'd escaped from. Even now it seemed like a fading nightmare. _Perhaps it was_. It was a comforting thought, or else she was dead.

_Dead. Am I dead? _Rose didn't think so, as she didn't _feel_ dead. In fact she had never felt more alive; a vibrant and dark energy was coursing through her, lighting her veins and throat with pulsing fire, making her feel more powerful, omnipotent. She had never felt this way before.

"Hail!" someone called, and Rose heard a bear roaring in the distance. She followed the sound. The path she took wound through various garden beds, and the trail itself was made of a strange, pale stone that lit up with different colours when her feet touched them. Scarlet, orange, blue, purple, red, yellow, and so many other colours without names to describe them swirled about her in the air, curling like tendrils of smoke, then vanishing when she raised a tentative hand to touch them, appearing farther ahead of her as if to taunt her of sorts.

She passed large orchards dripping with fruit and courtyards made completely of roses and lilies, fountains that sang with warbled voices and barbed thrones made of glimmering ice. Rose heard the bear roar again, this time closer and coupled with the screeches of delight from children and adults. She moved like a shadow with a smoothness she sensed rather than felt underneath a white trellis shaped like two erotic lovers embracing that was covered with a thick, purple ivy which glowed. She finally appeared amidst the cacophony of noise, startled at the sight.

A large furry bear was dancing in the middle of a yard, ribbons and streamers made of stars and planets woven into its coarse hairy fur. It laughed a booming laugh and clapped its huge paws together, turning in time to the melody of a carved wooden lute.

Small children were dancing around the bear. _No, _Rose realised with surprise, _those aren't children. _They were small and slight of build, but that was where the semblance stopped, and rather abruptly. They had sharply-pointed ears like Elves but scaled, and they had hair that had no colour at all, and was every colour under the sun. They were garbed in living jewels, flowers and furs and wisps of pale gold and beaten silver and bronze, which moved with them whenever they moved and leapt and danced through the air. _Where am I? _The creatures sang and chanted in a tongue Rose didn't understand, ancient and deep and vibrating, making her wanting to cry out with joy and weep at the same time, and she wished with all her soul that she could understand what they were speaking of.

"Hail!"

Rose turned to who was calling. It was the person holding the lute, and he was smiling broadly at her. "What is this place?" she asked.

"Heaven, friend. Or a close to it as I know of," he said jokingly. He was humanoid at the very least, and for that she was grateful. Enchanting as they were, the other creatures unnerved her, especially the dancing bear. _Bears shouldn't dance. _"Is this the Divines? Am I dead?" It was a question she dreaded yet Rose couldn't standing waiting for the answer.

"You're awfully curious, one of Dovah, but no."

"Dovah?" his answer just confused her. "What do you mean?" The word felt strange on her tongue. Foreign.

"Come," he replied, "I'll show you." He put aside his lute and stood, and Rose realised just how tall he really was. He stood a good seven feet, if not more, and was dressed in chainmail and boiled leather, like a warrior. His blonde beard was plaited intricately with ribbons, and reached his large and bare feet that were tough with callous. He gave her no time to argue or ask more questions, but instead strode boldly off through the woods which surrounded them, leaving the bear and creatures behind without a second glance. She struggled to follow and keep up.

They continued in silence, climbing rolling hills and fields of poppies, crossing streams made of amethysts and walking round frozen waterfall that went higher than the clouds until Rose was certain her ankles would fall off from pure exhaustion. Even then, he gave no signs of stopping.

Finally he paused. "Come. Through here." He walked straight up to a solid rock wall and touched the surface, seeming to vanish.

Rose gave a cry of dismay and rushed forward, but the stone was solid to her fingers, and extremely cold. "Hello?" she called, scraping at the rock, but only dust and crumbling nitre came off. "Stop, wait!" She pounded on the rock as hard as she could, but only silence met her answer. "Come back!" Rose said angrily, and pounded on the rock again. It stood like it always had, and she suspected even a giant from the legends would have had trouble lifting it. Rose wanted to scream in frustration. Her body seemed consumed by fire now, burning up, and something was at the back of her throat, something raw that was clawing its way up to her lips and scorching her mouth. She took a deep breath to calm herself and leaned against the wall for support, only to fall completely through and land heavily on the other side on her hands and knees.

He laughed when he saw her picking gravel on her scraped palms with a huff. "I wondered when you'd figure it out. Sometimes even the heroes are confounded by a single trick."

"You could have warned me," Rose spat. "I'm not a hero either." Her mother had always been keen to remind her she was of no importance except to breed, and the memory became bitter within her.

"As you say." He made no move to help her, but instead moved on like nothing had happened.

She struggled to her feet and glanced behind, and Rose saw that the rock was see-through on this side, though slightly gritty like a dirtied window-pane. Orangish-red runes glowed fervently in the top and bottom. "This way!" The man boomed, and she hurried to catch up. He didn't seem like someone you'd want to get upset.

The sight that met her eyes took her breath away.

Fields of russet and ripe wheat wound their way around a large lagoon, with soldier pines and grey-green sentinels standing back-to-back on the shingled slopes of giant mountains coloured every hue and shade of a deep blue. The sands around the lake were a pure, soft white, the waters a shimmering pale purple, and then deeper out a frothy cerulean. On the banks stood willows dripping jewels in place of seeds, and bronze seaweed was being washed up and carried by people with webbed hands and feet. In any other place all the colours come together would have seemed garish and ugly, but here. . . it all fit.

On the lake stood the castle.

To even describe its beauty and simple splendour would only tarnish it, and when Rose clapped eyes on the slim towers she felt strangely at peace, the deepest happy she'd ever known in a long while.

"What do you think?" The man asked, looking at her expectantly.

"I . . . I could stay here. Forever. It's beautiful."

He seemed satisfied with her response, for her grinned again, showing white teeth. "Aye. You should see the others, though. Dibella's especially, if you've got a taste for statues."

"There are more?" Rose asked, incredulous.

"Of course! What, you all thought we lived in one big castle, like it was bigger on the inside?" He scoffed in good humour. "If only, but no. This is Zenithar's place, at least you know him as Zenithar. He has many other names."

"Zenithar?" It was almost too much to wrap her head around. _Dibella too. I'm in. . . heaven._ "He's the god of. . ."

"Work, wealth, commerce, aye. This is only a tiny part of his realm, most of it ain't visual."

"What do you mean, visual?" It was an odd way of phrasing it, and it piqued her curiosity.

He frowned deeply and rubbed his beard in thought. "I don't know how to explain it to you so you'd understand. You're still living, see."

"I am?" Rose asked, dismayed and incredibly disappointed.

He laughed again. "You sound so heartbroken. Yes, I'm afraid so. Even the weakest and most pettiest of spirits here can detect life from, well, not alive. You reek of the living."

"When I die I'll come back here, though, right? I will, won't I?" she pressed, seeing his expression.

He gave her a sad look. "Come. This is Zenithar's kingdom but Akatosh has been visiting for the past millennia, so we'll find him here. Easier than waiting for him at his own castle, and you don't have much time."

"You haven't answered my question," she said heatedly. Rose was afraid that she wouldn't come here when dead, afraid of where she'd go. Was there a hell out there?

"Nor will I. It is not for me to decide where you go when you pass from Nirn."

"And who does decide?"

"That depends," he said, looking distractedly at the sky. "We must keep moving if we want to reach the keep before dark. The ferry closes at sunset."

"Depends on what," Rose pressed.

"Depends."

"On what."

"Damnation, you're worse than Kyne!" He sighed tiredly. "It's different for every mortal, so I don't know exactly."

The way he said it interested her. "Were you a mortal once?"

He smiled bitterly. "I was."

"Who where you?" She would have said '_what were you,'_ but refrained from saying so. He was of a husky build, and had pale blue eyes and platinum blonde hair like hammered gold, usually found in the Nordic folk, but she was horrible at guessing and didn't want to offend, so she decided to ask instead.

"I am Shor." He declared proudly.

"Shor?" she asked, surprised. Rose found it hard not to laugh. "Shor of the heroes?" It was. . . strange to talk to him, in the mildest way of saying so. _If _he was what he claimed, of course. Rose had no way to tell if he spoke the truth or was simply messing with her.

"Yes," he said, giving her an injured glance like he knew her thoughts.

"But I thought the Nords went to Sovngarde when they died." She had read that in a book somewhere.

"They do," he allowed grudgingly. "Sovngarde is here, and elsewhere. I _own_ Sovngarde. It is my mead hall, and sometimes I wander back there, and sometimes I stay here. They're all connected, and oft times I find the air just as pleasant here as there, if not sweeter."

Rose watched him warily, distracted by his vague answer."You don't look like they paint you in the books."

He grinned. "I chose this form today. Perhaps tomorrow I'll choose something else." He glanced up at the horizon. "But we must move, we've tarried here far too long already." Rose followed his eyes and realised he wasn't lying. The sun was setting in a fiery blaze of crimson glory.

In place of stars and constellations, she could see planets coming out of the darkness . . . some being consumed just as quickly as they showed themselves by something big and black and wriggling, resembling a worm. Rose shuddered, feeling a cold chill creep down her spine. _Does it have talons six feet long? _she wondered.


	5. Chapter 5: Face of a king

Chapter 5: Face of a king

"So," Akatosh said, unsmiling. "You are the Dovahkiin, one of Dovah." He lounged casually with two fingers placed against his jaw.

Rose shuffled her feet in embarrassment, and felt like an idiot. She shook her head, "My lord, I- I don't understand." What was it with people calling her titles she had never heard of before?

He waved a hand impatiently. "It makes no matter. Dovah means dragon in the ancient Dragon Language, Mal osley. You are of the dragon's blood, therefore called one of Dovah." He made no mention of the word Dovahkiin and what _it_ meant.

She had to bit her lip to keep from laughing, but he saw her amusement all the same. "Something humours you?" He asked.

"My lord I. . ." she hesitated. "This is all just so. . . unreal."

"I would imagine so," he stated, a wry smile on his lips. Above his head a finely-wrought crown made of ebony dragon horns was nestled amongst his curling hair, and the black doublet he wore bore gilded dragon scales the colour of dried blood. About his throat a fine mantle of cloth-of-gold was clasped by a small silver clasp wrought in the form of a sword at his neck, and his fingers bore silver rings inlaid with jet and flawless black diamonds. Rose felt dirty compared to him; where she paled, he shone.

His feet rested easily on the foot of Zenithar's throne, a massive chair made purely of several thousand different coins and various metals and shapes all melded together, the armrests jewelled anvils made of onyx and jade.

Shor explained to Rose before they came to court that what he saw, and what she saw would be two very different things. "I might see him as a mighty warrior," he said briefly, "and you could see him as a small child. Or a wild beast. Such is the way with Gods, always changing their minds and bein' mystic." The irony to her was that Shor was a god himself in the Nordic pantheon, though he never said so or laid claim to it.

What she saw when they were brought before Akatosh was a handsome, middle-aged Imperial who reminded her eerily of one of the Septim Emperors, with brown hair and eyes. He spoke eloquently and not unkindly, but there was a roughness to him she couldn't place, a hardness about his mouth.

"Why am I here?" Rose asked. "Shor says I'm not dead."

"He's not wrong," Akatosh replied, leaning on a wooden sceptre. "What do you think of him?"

"Shor, you mean?" She gave a nervous laugh, then stopped herself. "I- I don't. . . know. It's not everyday a god asks you whether you like a long-dead hero or not. He seems friendly, though."

Akatosh inclined his head towards her. "He says he likes you, but you stammer too much."

Rose looked about her in bewilderment, but she and Akatosh were the only ones in the hall. In fact, she remembered Shor waiting outside for her. "I don't see him, where is he?"

"He is standing exactly where you are."

Rose frowned. "Oh."

"I am talking to him as well, and he says you're a fine soldier on the battlefield."

"No I'm not," she protested. She had never even held a sword before, and she heard that they were quite heavy.

Akatosh smiled. "He says you will be."

Rose took a step forward. "My lord, if I may. . ."

"By all means." There was no end to his patience, it seemed.

"Why am I here?" Rose blurted out, sounding more angry than she intended. "Why did you bring me here to the heavens if I'm still alive? It seems a little cruel, and I. . . I don't belong here." As much as she hated to say it, the words had already formed on her tongue, and she knew with a heavy heart they were true enough.

Surprisingly, he didn't seem affected by her outburst, or he simply chose to ignore it and the hot tears she tried to push away. It was _excrutiatingly _cruel to do this to her, to take her here knowing she couldn't stay. His eyes seemed warm as he replied, "So you become aware of your destiny, and it becomes aware of you." He waved a hand. "I have chosen you, one of Dovah, and soon you will be called Dovahkiin, King of dragons."

So that's what the title meant. "I'm a woman, she said defensively.

"Yes," he said, pausing slightly, "I know. The dragon blood is in you, descended at my command so that you might free Nirn."

"You. . . I don't. . . I'm to free Nirn? How?" She wasn't sure if things could get anymore complicated.

"You must find that out for yourself. I picked you, with your royal blood, and I pray you don't prove to disappoint. The whole of Tamriel hangs in the very balance."

The fact that a god would pray threw her off, and she shook her head in bafflement. "I'm not a noble, or a hero. I'm not even important either." Her mother used to say that to her, and she never really believed it until now. "Please, I—" she stopped and shook her head again. _What do I say?_ she wondered. Everything had become more than a little overwhelming as of late, and she felt tired beyond compare.

His eyes were gentle and soft, like she could lose herself in them. "You _are_ descended from royal veins, _Septim _veins of a lower branch. I have chosen you, and so you must go forth as my champion and kill Alduin the World-Eater before he destroys Tamriel and Nirn. You have the gift, Rose, and you will use it when the time comes. You must. I have to send you back soon, but I fear you won't recall anything our conversation. You won't remember anything until the moment's right."

"What if I don't want to be your champion?" Rose said in a small, small voice. She had never felt more miniscule and insecure than now. "What if I just want to be Rose?" Was that too much to ask? Why did he have to choose her? He kept acting like she had a power of sorts, and she knew very well she didn't. Hell, back home she wasn't even considered pretty.

Akatosh waved a hand again, "Then Nirn will become what you see before you, and much worse." A silvered mirror appeared from thin air, and through it she saw a smoking desolation, smelled burnt flesh, heard the tormented screams. Images flashed by one after the other, here a moment and gone the next; cavorting daedra and festing cannibals and dragons, dragons everywhere. They were like flies, killing, burning, roaring in triumph and victory as they slaughtered people in droves of tens and thousands. And above the carnage sat the most terrifying of dragons Rose could possible imagine, his talons tearing apart the White-Gold tower. Tears filled her eyes, but she couldn't tear herself away, like she was _forced _to watch it. "Make it stop," she said softly, unable to look a moment longer.

The mirror vanished. "You understand now." It was not a question, but more of a statement.

"Yes." She wished she didn't, staring at her feet sadly. "I understand." _But why me? _

"You won't be alone," he said consolingly, as if guessing her mood. "I will help you when I can, and the other Divines as well. So will others of your kind, the mortals. They will feel inclined to aid you, and men will flock to your cause to rid Tamriel of Alduin."

"Alduin." the name sounded harsh on her tongue, and the words burned her mouth with a sour taste. "I need to kill him, this Alduin?" She hoped it wasn't that monstrous dragon she saw, but Rose had a sinking feeling it was.

Akatosh said, "That it one of his many names he holds. He has others. You must return to Mundus, though, your life is in peril."

"I don't feel any different," Rose said. She really didn't want to leave, ever.

"That is because you are guarded here, protected. Once you leave this place you'll return to the dangers, to the pain. I don't miss pain." He only gave a bitter smile to add to her confusion. "You must go now."

"Wait," she called out, "one more question." When had she ever felt so desperate? She knew she was stalling, but would it have been horrible to stay here, to die and live in this peace? She was afraid of the answer.

He sighed, like he knew her intent. "As you wish."

"Is Talos a divine?"

Akatosh answered with a smile, slammed his wooden sceptre down onto the marbled floor, and she vanished like smoke from the heavens.


	6. Chapter 6: World's anguish

Chapter 6: World's anguish

Everything seemed so distant, as if her soul had become detached from her body and she was floating above it, looking down upon herself.

Except for the pain. The pain was close. Excruciatingly close and horrifying. It burned a hole right through her, and she would have certainly cried out if she'd been able to.

Someone stumbled blindly over her and cursed, and Rose gave a jagged gasp, her chest wall a searing pit that brought hot tears to her eyes. She felt as if she was being cooked from the inside.

"Shor's Bones!" the person exclaimed, seemingly come to realise that she was, after all, not a dead corpse. "I thought. . . "

A thunderous roar drowned out the rest of his words, and Rose felt someone shoving her upright, where she realised she had been laying face-down, her jaw pressed against half-melted rock and burning ash. "You're the Breton!" he hesitated for half a second, and Rose saw through salt-encrusted eyes the blurry form of Ralof. "You need to come with me," he continued, "Talos himself couldn't give us a better opportunity." She was in no state to argue, but gave a silent scream of pain as he lifted her like a sack of potatoes and took off as fast as he was able. Every jolt and loose cobble sent a dozen knives slicing right through her, and by the time he put her down again Rose's bowels had turned to water.

They were in a tower of sort, or a really intact ruin of one. The smell of molten sulphur made the air hard to breathe without choking. To her left and right were refugees in various states of being wounded; the most hale of them boasted only burns and scratches, while the worst were dead or almost to that point. She felt blood soaking up through her tunic and knew it wasn't her own.

"Ulfric!" Ralof shouted, making his way over the door again, shoving aside anyone that stood in his path. "What do we do? It's a dragon, isn't it, like out of the legends?" There was fear in his voice, and a few nearby that heard his words gave audible cries.

"Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric seemed relatively calm, and rather unharmed despite the situation, not counting the ragged remnants of his garb. His voice was deep and rich, powerful. "Legends don't snatch children from the sky. Legends stay legends."

Another roar crescendoed around them, and the tower shook, loose stones rolling down the steps and crashing into people. Moans of pain and anguish and fear went up, and far off in the distance someone screamed.

"What do we do?!" Ralof repeated, the panic rising on his face as he looked around him.

"We leave this tower." Another tremour struck, and a piece of the ceiling came down in a blind rush of crumbling mortar to strike a young Nord, shattering what remained of her into a bloody mass of pulp and bone. "We leave this tower now!"

Those able were quick enough to obey, springing to their feet and massing around him. "We go down," Ulfric said, starting at once for a heavy cellar door with rusted iron hinges. Rose stared at them with fevered eyes as they began to descend. "What of the wounded?" someone asked, and Rose saw Ulfric's mouth harden, knowing his answer before he even said a word. "Only Talos can save them now," he proclaimed. People began to weep at his announcement, mostly those too weak to move on their own without aid, and a few cursed his name and spat out bloody phlegm.

Another rumble shook the rafters, and the Jarl of Windhelm started down the open cellar steps without a second thought for the dying.

_I am dead. _There was no other way to put it. Soon or late the tower would come toppling down, and breathing itself was difficult as of right now. _I am dead or soon to be, and no one cares. _She would have wept if she could, but her eyes were burning and dry, as hot as a desert. Funny, she'd been able to cry earlier, but it seemed the Divines had robbed her even of that small comfort.

Ralof crouched before her. "I'm sorry," he said, slicing through her ragged bonds which pinned her hands together. "Talos save you." His eyes were sad, a strange light glancing through them. For a moment it seemed as if he really _was _sorry, then he stood upright. "Ulfric needs me. Who knows, maybe we'll see each other soon." His tone didn't suggest it likely.

Rose tried a silent plea for help, raising her freed hands, but he was already gone, like wisps of smoke in a strong breeze. She heard at the edge of her hearing the cellar door close.

Another roar, more deafening than the last, and more pieces of stone and ceiling fell, this time larger and more jagged, accompanied with plumes of oily black smoke and screams from above her. The piece crashed down into the sides of the tower and crushed those unlucky enough to get caught beneath their stoney embraces.

Rose wiped blood from her eyes and stood, biting back another scream as she hobbled for the door, uncertain what drove her forward. She found it to be blocked from the other side, and the cellar was bolted shut as well. Ulfric didn't seem to want anybody crawling through and taking up valuable space. She tried to pound on it in a feeble attempt, but stopped after a few nasty inch-long splinters embedded themselves into her skin. She was trapped.

Then she saw the stairs. In a fit a madness or desperation she struggled towards the rough stone, slipping through gore and feces and who knows what else. Someone tried to latch onto her legs, sobbing hysterically, but she kicked the person in the head and they let go of their meagre grip instantly.

Rose had to climb over the body of an Imperial archer before reaching the foot of the stairs, both his legs crushed underneath heavy stone and his eyes glazed a milky-white. She started to climb up on all fours like a dog, blocking out the sobs and begging and wails beneath her. She couldn't help them now. She could barely help herself.

She had no idea what drove her, only that she made it to the first landing with only a faint grasp on her consciousness, as she frequently kept slipping in and out of her senses. Rose could feel something loose moving in her chest, grinding against something else and creating pure anguish.

A gaping hole stood where a part of the wall should have been, and corpses littered the ground below and on the landing itself, still smoking and freshly charred. She saw long claw marks dug into the warm stone, like a great beast had been scrabbling for purchase, and a cold shiver as sharp as steel went up her spine.

The stairs that led up to the roof were completely blocked by rubble and cracked wooden beams, tongues of fiery flames still swirling from the wood.

That left only the hole.

An inn (or what she assumed was one) was nearby, but nearly all of it was aflame. Great conflagrations swirled to ten feet high, and the smoke was far worse. But it was the only choice. It was either death by stone or fire, and neither was very appealing to her at the moment. Another rumble decided her. The tower had begun to topple into itself, and things began falling to her left and right as the floor gave way underneath her feet. _I have a small chance,_ she thought madly, before running and jumping out through the hole in front of her.

_Oh, Gods. . . _Her stomach flew into her throat and she toppled head first into flaming thatch that quickly leapt to her tunic and hair, eager to taste something living. Rose screamed as she crashed through the roof to the floor, then to another floor where she landed on a wooden table, as yet untouched by flame until now.

She rolled to the ground, her skin and singed hair on fire, and somehow, someway she managed to stumble from the burning building into the blessed snow. Lukewarm and melted though it was, it felt amazing. Nothing had ever felt half so good.

A black shadow flew across the sky.

It looked to be as large as the village itself, and what bore the shadow seemed like something from a devilish nightmare. It was scaled and heavily plated, with wicked-looking horns and eyes as deep and red as flawless rubies, glowing and pulsing with hellish fire. Great leathern wings the colour of ebony spanned a good thirty feet to either side of the monster, and sharp talons were crusted with bits of dried gore. Its belly was faintly glowing a dirtied orange, and it roared triumphantly as it caught sight of her and changes its course, flapping its massive wings and landing not fifteen yards away, making the ground shake as he started to scrabble towards her like a wyrm faster than she would have believed, an evil gleam present on its features.

Victory and malevolence expressed itself in its eyes as she moved backwards helplessly, her back hitting something solid and preventing her from moving further. The monster opened its maw to shout, and Rose briefly glimpsed the most beautiful colours she could imagine come pouring up its throat, swirling and leaping and dancing vividly, mesmerising her. She could feel the oppressive heat even from there, ten times hotter than the inn and twice as eager, crackling through the sky.

A piece of shingle hit it.

Rose could tell it hadn't hurt, but merely surprised the beast if nothing else. Even so it turned in a violent wroth, spewing flame and screaming. Or maybe that was her screaming. She honestly couldn't tell.

A piece of wood hit it this time, and Rose saw the culprit, a scraggly little boy with stick-blonde hair. Not the one who'd been killed, but the one who'd stuck his tongue out at her earlier. "Ha!" he yelled, fearless. "Eat that! and that! Die, die, die!"

"Haming, you need to get over here, _now!" _someone yelled back, and Rose saw the Nord Hadvar running towards the boy for aid, waving his sword. "Run!" he shouted, then to the beast, "come here and taste Imperial steel!"

_Why, he must be bloody mad. _

The boy scrambled away and off by her, much to her dismay. Once the monster from hell finished off with the Nord, he was certain to turn back to them to finish what he started. "I'm Haming," the boy said nonchalantly. He eyed her chest with mischievous eyes. "You shirt's undone. I don't care, though. I've seen lots o' women before." He stopped, realising what he just said. "You won't tell my mum, will you?"

Rose could only stare back.

An old man came sprinting out of a collapsing building, staggering with a babe in arms. He was swift despite his age, though tears were streaming from his eyes because of the heat and smoke.

"Haming!" Hadvar was suddenly right there, a deep cut stretching from his forehead down to his left jaw. "Are you safe?"

Haming rolled his eyes. "Where'd it go?" he asked, referring to the beast.

"It flew off. I need to get you to safety." Hadvar noticed Rose for the first time as she struggled to her feet, clutching her chest and suddenly self-conscious.

The monster was nowhere to be seen, she saw, but the idea was so strange that it just took to flight without killing _someone._ She was, however, not about to argue.

"Are you certain it's gone?" Haming demanded.

"Does it look like it's still there?" Hadvar replied, irritated as he gripped the hilt of his sword more firmly. "Now's not the time for your games. I need to get you all to safety, then to join General Tullius with the defence."

"Defence, for what?" The old man had come stumbling up, and Rose saw that he was tenderly holding a wine bottle, not a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes as she'd previously thought. _A drunk. _A laugh burst from her lips; it was all so unreal. She staggered into Haming before Hadvar stopped her, grabbing her arm roughly.

The old man coughed before continuing, "Helgen's lost, a smoking ruin now, can't be helped. Go, I'll look after Haming here and the girl." He wiped his rheumy eyes and coughed again, nursing the bottle.

"I wanna go with Hadvar!" Haming protested, but it was drowned out by another roar. Rose felt the same, not liking being referred to _girl_—even though he didn't know her name—as if she was a piece of property, and couldn't defend herself.

Hadvar shook his head. "I can't do that. If we move quickly we might have a chance, but not if we stand here arguing. One of the first laws of being in the Legion is to protect the citizenry, and I intend to do just that." His gaze swept over them, settling on Rose. "The keep isn't far, it's onl—"

—A monstrous creaking sound interrupted him, drowning out all other noise before a part of the inn came crashing down in whirls of smoke and fire, scattering foot-long splinters of burning wood around them. Rose staggered and half-dove in a mad fit of instinct, something sharp scraping her jaw and leaving a rake of bloody flesh behind on her face. She faintly heard the drunkard scream, and Haming shout, and she gazed up as she saw the old man smashed and flattened to the ground by a falling part of wall, spraying his blood and insides like a chunky red stream of mist.

"_Haming_!" Hadvar shouted, stumbling towards the inn but forced to retreat as more yellow-red flames belched forth in a hot gust. "_HAMING!" _ She saw the madness and desperation in his eyes as he noticed her, panting like a mad dog.

Rose heard another roar, and saw the creature flying over her, glancing down in satisfaction. Their eyes met, beastial to human, and colours faded rapidly from her vision to greyish hues as time itself seemed to slow down to nothing. Only his eyes stayed their burning ruby-red, scorching her with their fire. She choked. It was like he was _poisoning _her somehow, but that didn't make any sense. He looked away from her in disinterest and time sped up as the beast flew towards another tower nearby filled with a ragged group of archers, Imperials and Stormcloaks alike as they shot at him stubbornly with bows and arrows. He opened his maw to scream fire. . . but didn't.

Instead he flew away, much to the archers' confusion and dazed victory, only for him to come hurtling back at eye-blurring speed, wings folded protectively around his body as he crashed into the side of the tower and came out through the other wall, roaring triumph and breathing flames everywhere as it spun. A few archers leapt desperately from the tower as it was collapsing in on itself, while others danced in a frenzied state as they were burned alive by the fire the monster spewed, screaming and dropping their weapons to flail their arms about. It was almost. . . entrancing.

"Breton!" Rose jerked her head away from the carnage to glance back up at Hadvar. She had been laying on her back with legs splayed at an awkward angle "Come with me!" he said, face stained with soot and ash.

_My name's Rose. _She almost laughed at that. Why would he care what her name was, especially at a time like this? He dragged her to her feet, unresisting.

"We need to get to the keep," he insisted stubbornly, but strangely calm, and she realised how close he was to losing it. She had no choice but to follow once she saw that light in his eyes. He was crazed with guilt and loss, and she wouldn't have been surprised if he drew his sword on her if she refused to come with him.

She followed behind him as best she could, as he had an iron grip on her thin arm, much stronger than before.


	7. Chapter 7: Escape

Chapter 7: Escape

Stumbling over half-burned corpses, some still alive and writhing on the ground like blackened snakes, Rose shut her ears to moans and shrill screams alike. The very air was searing, and there were waves of heat that shimmered like burning gas. The smell was beyond horrific, and more than once she bit back bile at the back of her throat, trying not to gag or vomit.

"This way, over here!" Hadvar said, jumping down a broken stair and showering the area beneath his feet with ash and coals, scattering them amongst the ground and glowing pebbles.

She wanted to scream at him as he helped her down. _Slow down! _She could barely keep up with his pace, and he was dragging her almost the whole way with his free hand. She wasn't fighting him, but it was still extremely painful. Rose was in hardly a fit state, and near every breath was an agony.

She didn't have much more time for inward thought was she was forcibly flung into a stone wall, gravel scraping roughly across her face and chin. There was a terrible pounding her her ears like a violent drum, and a demonic voice was wailing unintelligibly, chanting. Then the heat. Whatever she had felt before, _this _now was ten times more terrifying and painful. She pushed herself up and came face-to-face with a long black talon, the edge gleaming a sinister black as smoke rose off the great leathern wings that surrounded it. An overpowering smell of maggots and corruption and death made her heave, in both bowels and throat.

The thing was above her, that creature out of hellish nightmares, but its head was obstructed from view by its great wings, and for that much she was grateful. It took to flight suddenly, making huge and hot gusts of wind push her back down into the ground.

Something sharp sliced into her thin tunic, cutting deeply into the small of her back, and when she glanced back the tip of the talon missed her face by mere millimetres. She would have cried again if her tears hadn't all burned away.

Hadvar was there, urging her up and shoving her to her feet. He seemed oblivious to her pain and half-dragged and shoved her through the ruins of a salting shed into a courtyard.

An ice spike a yard long came whistling by their heads, and promptly became embedded into burning wood, sending thin ice slivers from the spike flying through the air with the impact. She could feel the artificial cold shimmering from it in waves.

"Bloody hell!" A half-familiar voice yelled loudly. "Aren't you poncy mages good for anything? My blind grandmother has better aim than you!" General Tullius shoved one of the mages aside roughly. "About bloody time you showed up, Hadvar. Get into the keep soldier, we're leaving, _now!" _Face smeared by blood and dirt, his helm's plume had caught fire, though he hardly seemed to notice.

"You heard him, Breton, it's you and me." Hadvar started at a run now, and Rose stumbled and fell, her chest heaving for breath. He turned back impatiently. "Come on!"

"I can't," she cried, her voice raw. ". . . just leave me." His face was torn, and for half a heartbeat she really thought he'd leave her, and despair must have become written on her face. But he came back and dragged her to her feet, just as another roar and something resembling a shout sent them flying. The world whirled drunkenly as things flew by in a blur, and Rose landed hard on the ground, her teeth numb and blood in her mouth.

She pushed herself to her feet and saw what she guessed to be the main keep not ten yards away. Hadvar had landed on an archery butt and was struggling to his feet. He was cradling one of his arms.

He was halfway to her when he caught sight of something, and his face twisted in anger. "Ralof!" he cried, half-running towards her with a desperate limp. "You damned traitor, keep away from her!" He reached her and pulled her violently to the side.

"We're escaping, Hadvar, and she's coming with us. You're not stopping us this time." Most of Ralof's hair had been burned away, and there was a mad light in his fevered blue eyes as he clutched a war-axe with his hand, the other reaching towards Rose's wrist.

The cellar where Ulfric and his counterparts must have been destroyed, she realised, or else they had found an escape tunnel and he didn't want to become another roast corpse for the monster's dinner. It was strange, though, as Ralof was alone. _Was he the only survivor? _she wondered. It didn't seem likely, as he used the word _we. _

_Unless he meant me as well. _

"Leave her alone, she's not with you!" Hadvar raised his sword-arm and backed off a step. Rose was both equal parts incredulous and afraid.

"She's coming with me," Ralof replied, almost calmly. "Ain't nothing you can do about it, Imperial."

"Don't be so sure," Hadvar said, "because I can do this." He ran his sword into the other man's side. Dark crimson flowers blossomed as Ralof staggered away, dropping his war-axe and crying out in pain and surprise, gripping his rent cuirass where his flesh was torn to the bone. Rose stared at him wide-eyed as Hadvar shoved her through the keep's doors. The last thing she glimpsed was the blinding look of pain and disbelief in his blue eyes.

* * *

Rose staggered into the dark musty building and collapsed a few feet from the entrance, shaking violently. It took all her strength to just lay there and breathe, her lungs feeling seared and painfully cooked from the inside out, resulting in her gasping for breath as hot tears finally beaded her eyes from the damp moisture in the keep.

Hadvar knelt beside her. "We need to keep moving," he said gently. "Who knows how long the keep'll stand. I'm sorry."

Rose started to laugh, but the pain was too much and she began to cry again. If anyone, he should apologise to Ralof, but she doubted that would ever happen. "Just go away," she said angrily, swiping at her tear-stained face with the back of her dirty hand. "Go away. Can-can't you see I can't. . . can't move?"

"I'll find something for the burns." He stood, ignoring her feeble protests, and moved from her field of vision. He was back shortly, carrying an armful of things. He apologised again with a guilty look on his face. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm going to have to move you."

He picked her up—apologising profusely—and carried her to a wooden bed covered with soiled furs, and laid her carefully on her side.

She gritted her teeth and bit back a scream. Rose could feel her heart slowing, her senses becoming more groggy, like she was swimming through molasses. Her teeth chattered together like a pack of squirrels with their own will, and she felt a freezing chill descend on her. She hugged the tatters of her rags to her thin body, eyes pale and blank.

"I'm going to have to take off your tunic," Hadvar said, panic in his face. She wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or to her, but it was becoming harder to hear and understand. She had the strength of an infant, unable to fight him off even if she wanted to.

He fumbled at the clothes awkwardly, so much so that she was firmly convinced he'd never touched a girl before, and she decided she could do a much better job herself even in her current state. The cold that greeted her bare flesh was like an ice dragon's teeth, worrying at her skin with gnashed iron teeth.

Hadvar sucked in his breath. "Talos." She looked down at her naked body, and cried out.

Her skin ranged from blistering crimson red to smoking black, steam still rising off her burning pores. She couldn't feel the heat, nor the pain, but the sight alone wanted to make her faint. "How did you survive?" Hadvar said. Where veins should have been, glowing embers traced fiery lines of red-orange colour all throughout her body, almost white from heat. The hair on her body had been seared off, from her chest to her mound to her feet, her skin raw nearly to the bone.

Hadvar's face had taken on a sickish-green hue, but he held firm and tried to apply a salted salve all the same. He winced and withdrew his hand almost instantly, and gave a cry as he plunged his hand into a bucket of tepid water. Or what she assumed was water. She could have been wrong, and it was hard to tell subtle colours in the dankness of the keep.

"How are you still alive?!" he demanded, pain lanced across his face as he cradled his hand. She covered her chest in reply, burying her face in her arms. Rose wanted to sleep, to die, to wake up suddenly and find out that this was nothing more than a dreadful nightmare, and she was still back home safe and sound in Daggerfall.

The keep shook suddenly, and Hadvar stood. He disappeared, and she faintly heard some rummaging, and muttered curses. Someone lifted her arms, and sat her up. "Drink this," he said quietly, thrusting a small vial into her hands. It was white, with pale intricate designs painted on the outside, portraying a priest with his arms uplifted. The stopper was oiled cork, and what once might have been the fine leather of a stoat was wrapped around the top of the bottle. She fumbled with it and opened the cork, pressing it to her shaking lips.

The liquid seeped down inside of her, thick and heavy and tasting of bark and lemon peels. The pain that came with it was so sudden, so intense she dropped the bottle and it smashed against the stone floor, shattering into a hundred thousand pieces and spraying an amber substance everywhere.

She cried out as she felt her lungs catch fire and _expand, _as if they were growing, mending. Rose felt herself falling and someone catching her, heard a distant roar, and sweet, sweet darkness rose up to swallow her consciousness.


	8. Chapter 8: Disappointed apologies

Chapter 8: Disappointed apologies

"Mal osley."

Rose stared at him in confusion and astonishment. "I remember you," she said, startled. "I. . . remember you! I forgot, but then I remembered. Why. . . why did I forget?"

He smiled. "You'll only retain these visits in memory when you're here." They were standing by a lake, a violet so shockingly deep it was almost black, and birch trees in autumnal shades stood all around them, like sentinels, silent and impressive. He looked the same, but dressed more simply, in a cloth-of-silver doublet and woollen breeches. No ornaments decorated him except for a slim copper circlet, wrought in the shape of a coiled dragon taking flight, the wings a papery jade colour.

"You look the same," she observed.

"I'm glad you noticed." Akatosh gently took her hand with a surprising strength and led her into the forest, seemingly intent. There wasn't a path or trail laid out before them, but she somehow knew that _he_ knew their destination. Indeed, these very woods themselves.

Rose cleared her throat. "Shor said you could take on the form of anything, or anyone."

"I can," he replied, amused. "But I prefer to appear as one entity to each person."

"Why?" she asked, curious.

"People tend to be confused if you change yourself frequently, I've found, and that's the last thing I want with you. They become. . . mistrustful."

"But you can do it?" she pressed.

"Of course I can do it." the smile vanished from his face.

Rose lowered her eyes, afraid that she had upset him. He drew her up a rocky trail, and led her into a tangle of bramble and willows, through a thicket of lilies and a hedge of singing birds to a granite ledge overlooking heather-strewn hills. "This place is beautiful," she finally said wistfully. "I didn't mean to offend, God."

"God?" He laughed quietly. "Yes, I supposed I am God now, aren't I? _A _god, of course. A title I'm still not yet entirely used to, but completely familiar with at the same time." There was something regretful in his voice, but something ecstatical as well. "You didn't offend, Dovahkiin. You wouldn't be here if you did." He withdrew his hand from hers carefully, as if afraid he might break her like a doll.

"Oh, good," Rose said, relieved. Then to break the silence, "Will I come here every time I pass out, or sleep?" She desperately hoped so. It was so quiet here, a person could easily forget themselves.

He turned to face the knolls and hills, watching the darting swallows outlined against the setting sun. "No," he replied.

"Oh." She was disappointed. There weren't any troubles here, or plagues or woes or pain. It was, well, _heaven. _Just remembrance of her still being a mortal became a bothersome itch; no matter how hard nor how fiercely you scratched it, it never really went away.

"I _should _have died," Rose said heatedly, in a moment of angered passion that startled even her. "That. . . that _thing _should have killed me."

"You mean the dragon."

"Yes, _dragon. _My skin was all burnt up and I should—should have died. I felt horrible." Even now, she felt the phantom pain of her suffering and shuddered violently. It wasn't _fair. _

"You felt pain from your wounds," he said nonchalantly, "but not from the burns." He looked over at her, the sun shadowing his brown hair. "You have Dovah blood. Your skin is tough like a dragon's. You have a soul like a dragon's. It would be shameful for someone like you to suffer and die from something so simple as _burns. _I shouldn't need to explain this."

"Well do I shit like a dragon too?" Rose said angrily. "I mean, why would you even bring me here knowing I have to go back? I can't even bloody remember anything _except _when I'm here, which doesn't do me any real good on Nirn, now does it? Why can't you help me and stop acting like a snobby—"

The angry look he gave her was frightening, instantly silencing her. Rose felt death in his glowing eyes, anger in his mouth. Her knees gave out and she dropped to the ground without her willing to, silently cursing herself. Her eyes widened and her heart began to pound as she looked up at him as a mouse does to a cat.

Akatosh seemed sad as he helped draw her back up. Almost like he was disappointed. "You'll remember when the time is right. You do have a dragon's soul, or part of one. I sometimes forget that. When you learn of your identity, I'm afraid you'll have a hard time controlling yourself." He gave a hint of a smile.

"I'm sorry." Rose avoided his eyes. "I'm sorry. I. . . I've never done that before."

"I would take care not to again," he said good-humouredly. "It might end up a dreadful mistake for you to forget."

"What. . . what should I call you? I mean, do you want me to say Akatosh? or God, or Sir, or—"

"Akatosh," he said. "Or Martin."

* * *

Dorthe was absentmindedly playing with her cloth doll, sitting on the wooden boardwalk that led to the sawmill. She had named the doll Soldier, determined to become one herself when she was old enough, despite her mother's mortification. It was made out of straw and burlap, with button eyes and a little wooden stick that served for a sword. She would make up stories about the adventures Soldier had, and about how he would become High King.

When she reached the age of six-and-ten, she told herself almost every day that she would set out and have adventures of her very own. She would get rich and fight bandits and drink wine, and possibly capture Ulfric himself single-handedly to turn in to General Tullius. Everything was meticulously planned out in her small head, right down to the minute details of what she would wear when she herself was crowned as High Queen.

Stump nuzzled her dress with his muzzle, snuffling the doll. Dorthe patted him fondly with a childish hand. "You can carry me like a horse when I go and join the Legion," she said confidently. "We won't tell Mama, though, 'cause else she'll get real mad. She wants me to be a lady, but ladies are boring."

Stump growled happily in agreement. "Good dog," she sat, scratching him behind the ears. He thumped his tail against the wood, shaking stray hairs down into the water. Dorthe giggled.

She sighed in contentment and swung her feet back and forth, watching the blue-green river as it was churned up by the water-wheel. The sun warmed her face, and her stomach rumbled slightly with hunger. "I should get something to eat," she said aloud to no one in particular, watching the south road. Dorthe liked to watch travelers come through from Helgen and Falkreath, though not many had come recently. Alvor had blamed it on the war, with Sigrid her mum stating that, "War affects everyone, even things you wouldn't expect."

Right now an elk was grazing by the edge of the road, its antlers brushing the leaves of a nearby tree. Dorthe watched in fascination, leaning out to see better. A monarch butterfly landed on its velvet tines, and it looked up suddenly, body tensing. Without turning around it broke into a headlong sprint, dashing to its right and running up into the hills, baying out in alarm.

Dorthe stood upright, hand gripping her doll as she peered at the road. A shadow moved from the trees, walking uncertainly with a limp. It seemed to take on the shape of a monster at first, then slowly forming into the shape of a person's shadow. Her mouth opened when she realised whose shadow it belonged to.

"Hadvar!" she shouted, excited and nearly jumping for joy. She hardly got to see him anymore. Dorthe dashed down the boardwalk and ran to him, Stump close on her heels as he barked, sensing her happiness. "Hadvar, Hadvar!" She almost leapt up into his arms, then realised he was carrying something. No, _someone_. A young girl in fact, unconscious. She stopped short. "Who's that?"

Hadvar grimaced in pain. "Long story, little cousin. I—she's hurt. Can you fetch Uncle? I don't think I can carry her for much longer."

"Is she dead?" Dorthe asked. "She _looks_ dead." The girl's face was extremely pale, and when she leaned closed Dorthe couldn't hear her breathing. "She's a soldier like you." The girl was wearing armour much too big for her, and in horrendous shape. She had pale silver hair that was burned off in clumps, making her seem like an accident of sorts.

"Just, just go, Dorthe. Please." She was about to argue when she saw his face and stopped.

"Okay," she said quietly. "But I think she's dead."

"I don't care what you think!" he snapped. "She's not dead, not after I carried her such a distance!"

Dorthe felt hurt, but turned around anyways and led him to her Pa's house. It was a warm afternoon so most everybody was outside doing something, and they looked at the trio of them in surprise and curiosity. She knew they had to look a strange sight, and normally she would be overjoyed at getting so much attention, but now she hardly felt anything. Hadvar never snapped at her before, why would he do it now?

_Maybe he hates me_, she thought sadly. What did she do? Was it the girl? _Mama isn't_ _going to like this_. Sigrid hated other females in Alvor's company, afraid that he would suddenly leave her for another, more attractive woman. Dorthe thought that it was ridiculous, as she was certain her dad wouldn't do anything of the sort. Her mum wouldn't turn the girl away, especially if she was almost dead, but it wasn't helping that the stranger was pretty. To Dorthe, her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

She swung her doll over her shoulder and walked up to the door, opening it and letting Hadvar go in first. When they were inside she closed and locked the door firmly.

"Where are they?" Hadvar asked, his face lined with worry and panic as he glanced around the room.

As if in answer, a loud gasp and moans were heard behind a closed wooden door. Dorthe smothered a giggle. Now? They were doing this now? She was accustomed to hearing odd noises at night every now and then, but in the middle of the day? The front door wasn't even locked!

She remembered that she had told Frodnar about the sounds once and he had smugly told her a disgusting answer about sex, his parents doing the same activity. She hadn't even known what that particular word meant until he explained it to her, and she still wasn't sure she believed it. It was just so. . . _ick_.

The girl shifted ever so slightly, making Hadvar almost drop her from surprise. "You should put her on the table," Dorthe said, pointing.

The bedroom door clicked, and opened as Sigrid stepped through, hair a mess. "Hadvar!" She yelled, covering herself with the dress she had halfway on. "What th—" her eyes settled on the girl in Hadvar's arms and she suddenly stopped her movements.

"What's going on?" Alvor appeared behind her, bare-chested. "Hadvar, what are you doing here? Aren't you on leave from—"

"Uncle, please," Hadvar said, "please I need your help. I, I think—_she_ needs help."

Sigrid moved into the room, her steps firm. "Dorthe, fetch me the clean linens. Alvor," she turned to look at her husband with a stern face, "go get the mustard salve, now."

Hadvar laid the girl on the table gently, before sitting down in a dining chair himself, exhausted. Sigrid brought out a sterilised knife and began to undo the girl's armour, cutting it apart in some places as it was deformed and melted in some areas, as if from some great amount of heat.

When Sigrid sawed through the leather and exposed the girl's chest, she bit back her lip to keep from crying out. The girl's flesh was completely blackened, pus leaking out from some of the cracks and smoking. Hadvar lifted his head and watched in astonishment, some of her bones showing as her skin was sloughed off so much. The girl's eyes shot open and she struggled to sit upright, vomiting as her body shook.

"Mama, what's happening?" Dorthe asked, watching as she stood with the forgotten linens. Alvor was behind her, hand placed protectively on his daughter's shoulder. "Sigrid!" he said, "What's going on?!"

"Take Dorthe away," Sigrid said to Hadvar, "take her outside! Alvor help me—help me hold her down!" Dorthe began to cry as Hadvar half-carried, half-dragged her to the door. Alvor held the girl down as she convulsed and screamed, Sigrid wielding the knife, her face pale and white as a mammoth's tusk.

"What witchcraft is this?!" Alvor demanded, not getting an answer.

"Stop, stop I wanna—Hadvar don't I—Mama!" Hadvar opened the door and carried her out, arms and legs struggling. He set her down on the porch, door closed.

"Why did you do that?!" Dorthe said angrily. "What if she dies?"

Hadvar rubbed his eyes. For a moment he looked like an old man done in, defeated. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I—I don't even know why she's still alive. I, I don't."

"What are they doing to her? Mama had a knife," Dorthe said. "She had a knife, Hadvar."

"I'm not blind," he said dryly. "Let's—let's just go to the inn, alright?"

"Why?" Dorthe asked.

"To take our minds off it. It's out of my hands now." He seemed relieved at just saying that. "I'll buy you something."

"With what money?"

"What makes you think I don't have any money?"

"By how you look," Dorthe said honestly. "If you want, I'll buy.

"Oh, and _you_ have septims?"

"I do," she responded. "If I give you some, you can buy me some wine."


	9. Chapter 9: Quiet talk

Chapter 9: Quiet talk

Hadvar and Dorthe both spent most of the night at the local inn, the former uncomfortably answering Camilla's innocent, if not nosy questions as best he could, while Dorthe ate a tremendous amount of sweet rolls and heavily watered-down wine, making herself sick and proclaiming at the same time that she felt perfectly fine.

They finally left early in the morning, just as the sun had begun to rise in shades of copper rose and misty silver, and Dorthe, worn clean out from the night's entertainments, was practically a zombie as they walked to her home in the pre-dawn chill.

Hadvar felt the same, if not worse, since he hadn't slept well since before Helgen. He had yet to mention why he was really here to his aunt and uncle, and dreaded not to tell them because he feared they wouldn't believe him and think him crazy instead.

He had had a hard enough time getting Camilla to keep from sitting in his lap, who kept saying he looked so dangerous and handsome and demanded to know why he hadn't come to Riverwood sooner. Worse, Sven would give him pointed stares every five minutes that soon became insufferable.

The door was locked, and a tired-looking Sigrid answered his quiet knock, a stained towel wrapped about her head as she stepped onto the porch. Her hair was a ragged mess, and dark circles were heavy under her blue eyes.

"Can we come in, Mama?" Dorthe asked in a sleepy voice. She'd buried her head into Hadvar's side, swaying unsteadily on her feet with every stray breeze while she held his hand with her own.

Wordless, Sigrid nodded tiredly and led them in, then locked the door again as if afraid that bandits would come and ravage the town. Maybe they would. At this point, Hadvar wouldn't be surprised if a naked bear came running down into the middle of Riverwood handing out free drinks. Well, maybe he would for that.

Alvor had sat down in a rickety wooden chair by the burning hearth—which was nothing but embers by now—a half-empty bottle of warm mead still clutched in his calloused hand as he nodded softly to an unknown music.

The dining table had been scrubbed clean, though in the dwindling firelight you could still see the dark stains of where blood had soaked into the wood.

"Where is she?" Dorthe said, suddenly wide awake—a mystery with which all children seem to have—and was peering around the room rapidly with her brown, doe-like eyes. "Is she dead?" It seemed to be a favourite question of hers.

"No," Sigrid said. "No. She's in the spare room."

"Can I see her?" Dorthe said, curious.

Sigrid scowled, a fearsome sight with her blood-shot eyes. "Absolutely not. She needs sleep, as do you, missy, it's well past your bedtime."

"Aw, but Mama, I ain't tired," Dorthe insisted.

"Ain't isn't a word," Sigrid snapped, "and stop arguing with me and go to bed before I get the switch out."

Dorthe's defiance melted like a summer breeze, and under the wilting stare of her mother, she slipped her hand from Hadvar's and meekly went to bed. Dorthe turned in the doorway and announced loudly, "I'll visit her in the morning," and vanished before her mother could say a word.

"It already is morning," Sigrid muttered darkly. She buried her face in her hands. "I suppose you both ate at the inn?" she asked quietly.

"I took her there to keep her mind off things," Hadvar explained, feeling absurdly guilty.

Sigrid sighed wearily and lifted her face, then went over to the hearthstones and, bending down, stirred the embers with an iron poker. "She doesn't need your help on that matter. The child is as scatter-brained as a sparrow."

"I know," Hadvar said. "Is Uncle alright?"

"He's just worn out." Sigrid kissed Alvor's brow and ruffled his hair affectionately. "I think the sight of another woman naked scared him more than I can say." She smiled a bright, bitter smile without amusement.

"Oh." He wasn't sure how to respond to that.

The smile faded. "You look worse for wear. Come, sit down and I'll clean up your face." She bade him sit down in another chair, this one cushioned, and proceeded to clean it by way of hot water and boiled vinegar. He winced at the stinging pain. "A troll could've done a better job of treating your face!" Sigrid exclaimed tiredly, but not unkindly. She'd heard of soldiers being terrible healers, but surely he couldn't have forgotten all the basic healing craft she'd taught him before he left for the town of Solitude, and him a mere boy then, but so attentive.

"If I had known of any trolls in the vicinity at the time, I would have gladly employed in their service," he said dryly.

"Hadvar. . . what happened?" Sigrid asked quietly, cupping his face then letting it go. She dabbed his face gently with a clean towel, then applied a cooling green salve over his burned jaw. "The poor girl's been through so much, even now. . . I'm not sure she'll make it. By the amount of burns she has she should have been cooked alive, and she kept babbling nonsense about a dragon—"

"Now's not the time Aunt, I'm sorry. I can't speak of it right now, not sensibly."

There was a long uncomfortable silence. For a while nothing was said as she cleaned his face. Her features were deeply lined from fatigue, making her seem older than her thirty-some years. There was still vibrant colour in her cherry-red hair, with only the barest hints of silver, but her blue eyes seemed much older than her personage.

"Do you know the girl's name?" She finally asked, to break the quiet. Beyond Alvor's soft snores, the house was still. "She's very pretty," she continued, "and her hair is so lovely. It reminds me of the soft candy you used to love as a boy."

He had noticed it as well. Actually he had noticed the sad expression on her face first, and how young she looked while being led from the prisoners' wayn. It was as if she had known she that was going to die, but some small childish hope had remained inside her that it was all a bad dream and she'd wake up back home from wherever she was from.

"It was. . . " what was it? He felt ashamed he couldn't remember. Robin? Lily? something delicate like her. "I think it was something after a flower," was all he could say.

"Well, I guess we won't know for certain until she's conscious, which may be a while yet." Sigrid stood. "There, now, that's the best I can do. Since the girl's sleeping in your old room for the nonce, you can use Alvor's and mine. I can never wake my bear of a husband when he's like this, trusting from experience. First, though, change out of that nasty armour and into something cleaner, or you'll ruin the furs on the bed, and they were a wedding present.

"I have some of Alvor's old sets of clothes still laying about—goodness alone knows why I still have them, he certainly isn't getting any thinner—they're in the pantry."

"And where will you sleep?" Hadvar asked nervously. It felt wrong to take his aunt and uncle's bed from them, but when Sigrid insisted upon something she became like a harridan on a war path, and nothing could set her from it.

"Oh, I'm not going to sleep tonight, I need to watch after your girl. It's like the time Dorthe got the measles, but worse. Ah, but goodnight, Hadvar."

"Goodnight Aunt," he mumbled, going to the pantry first, then to the bedroom. The clothes were a bit large if not soft and warm, the bed even more so. Eyes heavy-lidded with sleep, it wasn't long before he was lulled into a peace he hadn't known for days.

The dreams he had were nothing peaceful.


	10. Chapter 10: Cleansing

Chapter 10: Cleansing

The darkness was calling to her, but she went towards the light, towards the fire.

It consumed her soul, catching aflame and burning through her veins with a such sweet pain as she'd never known before.

He stood on a grassy plateau overlooking a sea, waiting for her. "Monah do osley." There was something unsettling about his smile, something sly. When he beckoned a hand casually towards her, she noticed that the nails were almost talon-like, a scaled gauntlet of skin that he wore on both arms. And when she looked closely at his brown hair, she noticed a pair of small webbed horns that could easily be mistaken for curls.

"Anytime you decide to stop staring at me, Dovah."

Dovah. She'd heard that name before. And though she had never seen this man before, she knew him, somehow. "Dovah means dragon. I am no drag—"

She had wings. She had always had wings. Why did she not notice that before? The webbing was a breathtaking leathery iridescent, shining in the bright afternoon sunlight, and her scales were a smoky-white copper interlaced with crimson chasings. Rose had a sudden desire to take flight, but felt powerless to do so.

"Mal osley. You must be patient."

He moved his head slightly, and she felt a stinging pain. "What are you doing?" she cried, but it came out garbled and nonsensical. Rose felt as if someone were scraping her scales off, her beautiful scales she'd been born with. "Stop," she said, but he ignored her.

He moved a hand this time, and she could see the scales coming off, whirling away like ash up into the sky and quickly becoming nothingness. _"Stop it!"_ she said again, but again he ignored her. The pain had a bitterness to it, full of drunken ecstasy like the most potent of drinks but stronger, and more sweet.

He moved a foot this time, digging his booted heel into the soft ground that surrounded them, and her skin came off in layers, a stinging itching pain that wouldn't stop. Itching, itching, so much fiery itching it burnt and stung, making steam-filled tears come to her red-rimmed eyes.

Finally he slammed a wooden sceptre down into the ground, hard enough to shake the very roots of Nirn, and she screamed as living fire whirled around her, fire of her bones and marrow and soul, wilting away like melted butter and cleansing her.

She collapsed to the ground, weak and dizzy, her skin red and raw and tingling. Her scalp felt like it had been pulled out by the roots, and a strange thirst descended upon her.

Akatosh helped her up. She was human again, she found to her sorrow, bereft of anything but her own nudity. Rose felt cleaner, stronger, but heartsore as well. Somewhere deep down inside, a part of her longed to be the dragon still.

* * *

She stirred drowsily in the dark, slowly coming awake from the dregs of heavy sleep. There was blankets draped about her, warm furs and scratchy linens that nearly suffocated her.

Rose drew some of them back feebly, her small pale hand barely visible in the dim light. She was aware of a dryness in her throat, and voices that seemed so far away. She slowly sat up, fighting off a dizzying breathlessness as her chest heaved for air. Someone had bound tough linen strips from above her breast to her lower stomach, and they were stained with caked blood and something else she wasn't sure of. Maybe she didn't want to know.

Tears fluttered through her eyelashes as she forced them away. She could not cry. Instead, she looked around the room, seeing where she was.

The bed she'd been laying on was a low truckle bed, the bedposts made of birch wood firmly lashed together with leather and nails. A small wooden end-table was next to her, along with a ceramic bowl and a wicker candle that had long since died away. Beyond a sturdy chest at the foot, a narrow window across her and a threadbare rug, the room was painfully devoid of any furniture.

More voices came from beyond the closed door, this time louder and more pronounced. She rose unsteadily, swaying as she gripped the bedpost as if her very life depended upon it.

Her pale hair was sticky and clung to her bare back in a ragged braid as she placed a feverish hand on the brass handle and turned, ever so quietly.

"I'm going to go play with her right now!" Dorthe said excitedly, hopping up from where she'd been sitting. The remains of her breakfast were still evident on her dress, much to her mother's distress which was plain on her face.

"Dorthe, young lady, you will do no such thing! Get get back here before I tan your hide and tell Alvor!" Sigrid said angrily. It was clear by the expression on her worn features that she was running short of patience, if she hadn't already.

Rose leaned against the doorway for support, taking in the scene with subdued hazel eyes. Hadvar saw her first, looking up from the dining table with surprise. Dorthe followed his gaze, and upon seeing Rose, cried in delight while Sigrid looked nothing short of horrified. Alvor—whoever he was—was nowhere to be seen.

_I must look a mess_. She winced, and Sigrid was instantly on her feet.

"Girl I—what on Nirn are you doing up?" she demanded, "and walking! Your wounds, I—Hadvar help me sit her down." Between the two of them she was forced to sit down into a cushioned chair, while Sigrid whisked a bowl full of vinegar and poppy milk out of seemingly thin air that made Rose shirk away from her as far as the seat would allow. She still remembered the horrendous burning pain that had come whenever her wounds contacted with the foul mixture.

"Please I-I'm fine," she protested feebly, pushing back and trying to rise.

"Hadvar make her stay," Sigrid said steadfastly.

"Are you gonna die?" Dorthe asked wide-eyed, even as her mother shushed her.

"Dorthe you go right outside this minute, and don't you dare come in until I say so. Go—go play with Frodnar, or go help your father, and don't pester her!"

"Yes, Mama," Dorthe said sullenly, almost insolently as she went out, closing the door as loudly as possible without slamming it.

Rose squirmed even further back, and found strong hands holding onto her bare shoulders, making her unable to move. A panicky feeling made its way up her throat.

"You should have stayed in bed," Sigrid scolded, picking up a wicked-looking knife. "That way you wouldn't have frightened me so."

Rose barely heard her. All she saw was the dagger. _Please don't_, flashed across her mind, but her tongue was like a cow's and wouldn't obey her brain, so she stayed mutely silent, still trying to move away to no effect.

"Hold still," Sigrid said, taking the dagger and slicing away the stale bandages. Her face paled.

"What is it?"

Sigrid looked up. "Her wounds are gone."

"What do you mean gone?" Hadvar asked uncertainly. He had never heard of that happening before.

"Come look." Sigrid sent a glance at Rose that one might at a demon, and despite herself, she shivered.

The last thing Hadvar wanted to do at that moment was see the young girl's chest again, especially since she was conscious now. It embarrassed him, though likely _her_ more. "I'll take you at your word," he said finally, releasing his grip on her. When Sigrid saw his face she didn't push him.

Sigrid looked at Rose again. She looked at her for the longest time, as if searching for something in her face. "Perhaps the Divines saved you," was her only response, but her tone didn't suggest it likely.

Rose herself looked down at her waist. _She's right,_ she thought, and was unsure whether to feel relief or fear. From the topside of her, her chest down was red skin, as if rubbed raw, but nothing was burned to a blackened crisp, or leaking pus. She felt light-headed.

"The gods mustn't be done with you, then." Was the last rejoinder Sigrid had to say. Rose could only mutter "maybe," under her breath as new linen was wrapped about her sore waist.


	11. Chapter 11: A journey to home

Chapter 11: A journey home

He left in the early twilight of dawn.

Hadvar had stayed only a few days after Rose came awake, deciding he couldn't delay his journey to Solitude. He had no idea if the general had survived the devastating wreckage of Helgen, and had no way of knowing until he reached Castle Dour. Even if Tullius was dead—which Hadvar prayed that he wasn't—someone had to tell Legate Rikke what horrors took place just a few days ago.

To his vast relief and concern, none at Riverwood knew that Helgen was nothing more than a pile of smoking rubble now, and to their minds it was still a considerable keep of Imperial strength. Indeed, the last news they'd had was of Ulfric staying at Darkwater Crossing, and that long stale. Dragons were still a myth, for now.

Rose had kept quiet, her mouth sewed firmly shut, and he often found her eyes glazed, deep in thought. They hardly spoke, and he remembered with disconcertment some time later that he still didn't know her name. Perhaps the next time he visited home he would find out, Sigrid assuring him that she could stay for a while.

"Here, Nephew," Alvor said quietly, his breath misting in the air as he handed over a worn knapsack fill to the brim with baked goods. "Sigrid insisted on nothing less. There's some other necessities beyond food, too, that you might find useful."

"Thank you, Uncle." Hadvar touched his hair slightly, which shimmered in the pale light of the sun. "I'd thank Aunt too, but I might die of obesity before I get to my destination."

Alvor smiled. "I can attest to that. You be safe, now."

"I will," Hadvar said. He had told his uncle what had happened at Helgen, the only person he really trusted here, and even then the tale was heavily watered-down for his benefit. After thinking briefly on the matter, he even decided to omit the detail of the dragon. His uncle was a placid, stoic man, and wouldn't take kindly to dragons coming back, inexplicably and without reason except to destroy everything in sight. That, and his inability to move his family even if he believed the wild story would have distressed him needlessly. Hadvar wasn't even sure if he could believe it, and he had seen the damned thing with his own eyes!

He set off at a brisk pace, a chill—yet welcome—wind seeming to lift him along. He stopped at the old stone bridge and looked back, eyes washing over the small wooden cabins that made this place a hamlet nestled away in the wilderness of Skyrim. In the sun, the thatched roofs looked like spun gold, and the splashing waterwheel nothing short of a magic weaver out of the child's tales.

He saw the smoke rising from cobbled chimneys, and heard somewhere off in the distance a dog barking. This was the home he knew since from childhood. His first kiss was with Camilla behind the hulking inn, before he'd joined the Legion, and when she hadn't seemed so desperate back then. Her hair had felt so soft, black like a raven's wing, and her eyes were so loving. He found out later that she also kissed Ralof—very fervently according to Embry—and that had been the brief end of that.

He turned his back on the town and continued on to Whiterun.

* * *

It was raining heavily when he stepped through the enamel doors that led to Solitude. His boots were soaking to the knee, and the leather of his armour clung to him tightly as the chain links clattered wetly. Raindrops spattered everywhere, to both his right and left, onto the cobbled streets. In any other weather one could see the beauty of the sprawling town, but in rain one's vision was vastly limited.

Two children were playing in the gutters, laughing and shouting as they pushed little boats into swollen rivulets with sticks. Wet hair was plastered to their foreheads, and one began to shout with merriment when she fished a half-drowned butterfly out from the water. He pitied them when their mothers would find them in their drenched and sodden state.

Besides the children the streets were deserted, and Hadvar could see plumes of greyish-black smoke coming from both the Winking Skeever's large ovens, which only meant a full house. He almost thought of going through the merry wooden doors into the blazing rooms within, and spending the night in a clean bed, if not his own. Lisette would be there, and she always had a smile for him, with her silver-gold hair and slender frame. Her voice was entrancing, and he could almost see the words forming in the air as if from a woven spell whenever she sang or quoted poetry.

But he had a duty. The Legion needed him, even if it meant waking superiors from their sleep and telling the worst news possible.

With a heavy heart and a reluctance which irritated him, he walked through the rain-wet streets to Castle Dour, nicknamed Dour General by the soldiers. He wondered what they'd name it now, if indeed Tullius was dead. Perhaps they would keep it in honour of his memory, but he doubted it. Most of the time his fellow soldiers complained about how bloody hard he pushed them, never expecting less than perfection and hardly giving praise. "The moment he gives us a day off is the day Tullius becomes a whore," was a favourite saying of theirs.

Hadvar rarely joined in with them. He felt wrong doing so, and despite himself, admired the general. When a person led an army, he realised, one couldn't have friends. There was no time, and one day you might need to punish said friend, even if the punishment was death. _A harsh reality,_ he thought to himself.

Only one soldier was on sentry duty in the rain, looking absolutely miserable as he huddled under a sodden blanket that draped his bony shoulders. The torch he'd been clutching had long since gone out, the smoke from it all but fled. He didn't see Hadvar approaching until he stood two feet away, much to his candid dismay as he fumbled for his sword. "Who goes there?" he demanded, and if Hadvar didn't know better he thought he'd seen the man's face go red as a beet. "State y'business." The soldier managed to draw his sword, at the expense of dropping the torch.

"Hadvar, petty officer of the Imperial Legion and escort to General Tullius. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get in out of the rain."

The soldier gaped at him. "Ha-Hadvar?" Disbelief was written on his features. "Petty officer to—"

"General Tullius." Hadvar watched the rain drip down the man's shortsword. The drops almost looked silver in the light. "Can I go in now?"

"Well I-I suppose so." He eyed Hadvar's armour, as if to ascertain it was really him. "Go on then. The general'll want to see you."

Relief surged through Hadvar at hearing Tullius was still alive, and that he wouldn't have to explain his death and the escape of Ulfric to a peeved Rikke. "Thank you," he said gratefully, and went inside the hall, dripping wet.

The hall was cold, and immaculately clean. He felt rather like a sodden beggar as he dried his boots as best he could on the rug, and could almost see the dismay of the maids looming up before him when they found the mess, brooms in hand.

The general was leaning over a table, muttering to himself as he stared intently at the map laid out before him. Ancient leather and crisp vellum were stretched over every inch of the walls, painted with towns and roads and wilderness, showing the breadth of Skyrim from its glory days to the present. A desk was shoved unceremoniously into a corner, littered and heaped with numerous scrolls and letters, some as of yet unread, the waxen seals unbroken. On the floor was a massive velvet rug made of crimson, and embroidered with the emblem of the Legion. It seemed so out of place here in the stark bareness and lack of richness that preceded everywhere and made the castle so gloomy.

A soldier tried to stop Hadvar from advancing further by placing a hand on his chest. He saw that Legate Rikke was opposite the general, and both looked up at his entrance. "Holy hell, soldier," Tullius said, even as Rikke gave a start of surprise. "Welcome back to the land of the living." With a nod, the other soldier withdrew and resumed his post with deference.

"It's good to be back," Hadvar replied wearily. The journey from Whiterun to Solitude had worn him through despite taking a carriage, not to mention disastrous rumours of a dragon attacking Whiterun as soon as he'd left it.

"I wish I could say the same. I had scouts rummage through what was left of Helgen, by way of Falkreath, and they swore upon their mothers that they found your body."

"I pity the mothers," Rikke said dryly. "In any case, you're alive."

"I'd crack open a cask of wine to celebrate," Tullius said, unsmiling, "but it would be a waste of good wine. In any case, welcome back. Report in, then find some dry clothes, and maybe some rest." The general turned back to the map and marked something down with a quill.

"I have to ask," Hadvar said. "What happened to Whiterun? I heard the city was destroyed."

It was Rikke who answered him. "Fool's nonsense. Where did you hear this?"

"Morthal," he replied, solaced. It was hardly a day's walk from what locals called the Jewel of Skyrim—Whiterun—to Riverwood, and he was horrified that it might have been the same dragon, in which case the smallfolk would have been doomed.

"Figures. Gossip is the worst in small towns. More so those in the middle of swamps." She stiffened. "Never mind that news did reach that backwater of a hamlet, a dragon did attack, but only the Western Watchtower. It was brought down, to our understanding."

"Was it black?" He hadn't meant to ask that, but the question had formed on his lips before his mind realised just exactly what he said. Inwardly, he cursed his stupidity. How would she know, unless she had been there?

Legate Rikke narrowed her eyes, voicing what he thought. "How am I supposed to know what colour the damned beast was? And what does it matter? It's dead, and good riddance. I hardly believed the general when he told me about Helgen, and if the gods are good, it was the same creature."

Hadvar didn't think so, as the gods were hardly good in times of peril. The dragon had been massive, coal-black and blotting out the sun with eyes like the flames of hell itself. He was unsure if the whole combined forces of Skyrim could take it down, without divine intervention, and that seemed rather far-fetched.

Tullius had the same disquieted expression on his face that he felt, and Hadvar, suddenly feeling tired down to the marrow of his bones, excused himself and left, restiveness on his face.


	12. Chapter 12: Facade of an exit

_A/N: So you may have noticed that I changed the story's profile image recently. I'm a huge Game of Thrones fan, (I've read through all the books twice) and I was watching an episode recently where I thought, 'Hmmm Robb would make a good Hadvar.' Unfortunately it was the Red Wedding episode I watched, but if I could choose someone to play Hadvar it would be Stark. As they say, Winter is coming. :) And thank you everyone for reading this._

* * *

Chapter 12: Facade of an exit

Life settled down once Hadvar left. She had woken up one morning and found him gone, much to Dorthe's distress as she rarely saw him anymore.

Her wounds—though completely healed—were still sore, and in some lights the skin looked rather red like a lobster. Sigrid insisted that she help around the house to earn her keep, and as Rose had no cause to argue she consented to whatever menial tasks she was pointed to, grateful for the roof over her head.

Alvor, though kind, hardly spoke to her and never looked her way, choosing instead to gaze meekly at his wife. In any other circumstance it might have been humorous, but there was no amusement to her now in her current predicament. Her birthplace High Rock, had been intrinsically one of great beauty, and so were its occupants. She had only been thought common there, the only exception of that of her hair, a pale and soft white-gold that bordered on silver. Here, it was different. Every male within a two mile radius seemed nervous, tense, and seemingly forgot every other female, to Camilla's biting jealousy.

She had ventured into the inn once out of curiosity, and instantly regretted doing so. Rose came staggering back to the cottage with enough bottles of alcohol to sustain a score of drunkards for a week, much to Dorthe's delight and Sigrid's silent disapproval, and that had been the end of that.

"Perhaps milady would like a song?" Sven had asked when she visited, flashing a white smile that bordered on insolent. His hair was a gold-brown, and though his figure was broad, there was something graceful in him. Perhaps it was his slender fingers, or the way he held himself as he moved. If one judged by looks alone they would have guessed him a noble, by the way he richly dressed.

"No, thank you," was her only reply as she left the table she'd been quietly sitting at. Back home men were at least intelligent and could take a hint, but here it appeared the Nords were too stupid to realise anything except a blunt "No," and sometimes even that didn't work. They took what they wanted.

"Rose?"

Rose murmured as she was torn from her thoughts. Dorthe was looking at her expectantly. They were sitting side-by-side on the wooden boardwalk that ran on the north side of the house and led to the mill, watching the clouds which shimmered in fantastic displays of colour from result of the setting sun.

"You look kinda far away, like you aren't here."

She couldn't have described it more accurately, and Rose felt an ache, a longing that she couldn't put words to. "I'm fine."

"I hope Hadvar'll come back." She fiddled with the braid Rose had taught her, much to her delight. Dorthe, despite her tomboyish nature, loved the latest fashions from different provinces. "Last time I saw him was two years back, on my nameday. He brought me a sword, but Mama got rid of it. She said it wasn't lady-like." Dorthe scoffed, to show what she thought of it. "Mama doesn't know anything."

"I'm sure that's not the case," Rose said, amused. "If it was, you'd get away with everything."

"Mama doesn't know the _right_ stuff," Dorthe corrected. Then, leaning close, "we're going to get married."

That took her aback. For a while she was silent. "Why are you telling me this?" she finally asked.

Dorthe shrugged. "I gotta tell someone. And anyways, you're like a sister to me. I ain't never had a sister. Technically I'm not supposed to know this, but parents seem to think their children are deaf. When I'm a parent, I'm gonna have to be real careful what I say 'cause I'll know that kids aren't stupid. Do adults lose their memory?" The question was innocent enough, as were her brown eyes that gazed at her with affection.

Rose laughed. "I hope not." They watched a stray cat stare hungrily at some salmon and perch hung up to dry on a fishing net, out of its reach. "Does Hadvar know of this . . . betrothal?"

"No," Dorthe said lightly. "It was 'posed to be real secret, only between Mama and my aunt, but she passed away so now only Alvor knows. And you." She turned and looked at Rose fiercely. "You gotta promise that you won't tell anyone you know, and I mean _promise_. Hadvar can't know, he _can't_."

Rose tried a small wistful smile. She wished Dorthe hadn't told her that particular knowledge, because now she knew she wouldn't be able to look at him the same—if indeed she saw his face again—without being reminded of her. "I promise. But aren't you upset about being married to someone without your knowing?"

"We aren't married yet," she replied scornfully, "and I like Hadvar. I do know, too, but it's secret."

Rose was no stranger to arranged betrothals, and rather hated them. However, she knew Dorthe's temper and that of determined children, and chose to hold her tongue.

"We're gonna have lots of babies," Dorthe said cheerfully, "and a big house, and he'll watch them as I go out and fight bandits."

"Fight bandits?"

"Of course! What else?" Dorthe seemed rather exasperated at her question.

Rose held her hands up as a sign of peace, fighting the urge to smile. "Do you. . . know how children are. . . made?" She herself had learnt at a young age the details and discrepancies of intercourse, but very much doubted the young girl before her did. The last thing she wanted was an angry intervention from Sigrid.

"You lay down and tickle." Dorthe said firmly. "Frodnar told me. It's kinda disgusting, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there." She drew out an iron dagger hidden in the folds of her dress. "You must promise upon blood that you won't tell," she said, offering the blade hilt-first to Rose.

Rose gravely took it, seeing no other option that wouldn't offend the child. The blade was sharp, though old, and she pricked her forefinger under Dorthe's careful instruction. The blood that welled looked black in the dying sunlight. "I find it hard to believe your mother let you keep this," she said about the knife, not unkindly.

"She doesn't know. Give it to me." She mirrored what Rose did, then pressed their hands together. "Blood with blood, as friends die and loyalties lie, justice will always fall.

"Friends become enemies, enemies become friends, but there will be nothing left when the darkness descends. The hero will come, to save us all, but at a terrible cost. They will rise then fall, as everything becomes lost. Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes.

"Soldiers soldier on as time tears away. The clock comes ticking as she never comes to stay. Farewell to you, as death becomes fate."

Rose shivered. "Where did you learn that?"

"From a book. It sounded good, don't you think?" Dorthe stood, wiping her finger on her sleeve. "Come on, I bet Mama has dinner ready, let's go eat."

* * *

Supper was a thick vegetable stew, seasoned with pepper and warm braided bread on the side, with melted butter and pease. For dessert maple cream scones were served, with soft white cheese that was studded with hazelnuts, with plenty of water to drink. Sigrid didn't allow alcohol.

Sigrid herself was in an inward turmoil. She had laid out the hearty spread with a strange heart, and she found it hard to eat during the whole meal. As usual, Dorthe chattered away like a wild sparrow, while Alvor kept his eyes fixed firmly on his plate and said little. Meanwhile, the young girl, who was named after a wild flower best left wild, answered Dorthe's questions and statements with a peculiar humour and said nothing else to anyone. It irked her. That, and her strange, impish beauty.

Sigrid loved her husband, and up until now, the feeling had seemed mutual. But ever since the heathen had arrived at their doorstep, he began to act guilty, and rarely looked at the both of them without feelings of horror emblazoned onto his face. She couldn't stand it.

Nor was he the only man affected by it. As it was, the whole of Riverwood was enthralled by her. Sigrid was certain that the only reason for it was because beyond Camilla—and her beauty was nothing special in _her_ eyes—Rose was the only female of breeding age that was single and without a husband.

_She has to go,_ she told herself, the guilt at such a thought startling at first. She had promised Hadvar that she could stay, and it was difficult to see his face and how he would react if he came back and the girl was gone.

_But I didn't say how long she could stay, _she consoled to herself as she washed the dishes after dinner. Yes, the girl was helpful and yes, Sigrid had taken a grudging affection towards Rose as she was far more lady-like than her she-wolf of a daughter. But she was causing discord in the family, intentional or not. Alvor's love came reluctant and disheartenes in her arms at night, and afterwards Sigrid thought bitterly if he were imagining Rose beneath him instead of her, and fighting it.

That was it. She tried to be a good wife and mother, but struggling with jealousy was one thing, and living under the same roof as a possible rival was another. She expressed her thoughts to her broom, when she was certain that she was alone.

"I mean, I've been married for twelve years and he's never looked at another woman, and one night she shows up and it's all changed! I've seen prettier women too." Saying so made her feel horrible inside, but it took something off her chest too, something heavy and cold and violent.

"I'll come up with an excuse to make her leave. It has to be a good one, one she can't object to. She has to leave Riverwood too. It won't do for her to stay at the inn, as Alvor goes there every Sundas. No, she has to go to Whiterun or someplace far away." To make up for the dirtiness of her words, Sigrid attacked the dining floor viscously. She looked up suddenly and Rose was standing there at the top of the stairs that led down to the cellar.

Her mouth was twisted, and a sad look was in her eyes. _Oh, Gods,_ Sigrid thought in momentary horror as she froze. The girl never looked younger than at that moment, evening moonlight shining through a window and on her hair. Something else was on her innocent features, something akin to anger.

Rose gave her a weary look. "I'll leave." Then she went to Hadvar's old room and quietly closed the door, leaving Sigrid in a state.

* * *

"Do you have to go?" Dorthe pleaded, tears in her young eyes. She had finally gotten a sibling, if not by blood; a friend who played with her and listened intently, someone who cared for her troubles and indulged her whenever she imagined wild fanciful tales which other adults merely laughed at with amused scorn. And now she was leaving. Someone who had finally _understood_. "Please don't go. Stay with me, an-and we can play forever and ever."

Sigrid laid a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Dorthe, wipe your eyes. I'm sure Rose wouldn't want you sobbing all over her." She said the guest's name out of cool courtesy, not wanting to offend by saying "girl," or "child," one of which was offensive, and the other utterly too familiar with paternal traces. She had offended enough, and she and Rose were certainly not related.

Rose stood there awkwardly, the sun in her hair, and a faint smile twisted on her lips. She wore an old set of clothes which belonged to Sigrid before she married, the shirt a warm woollen dyed a soft pine-green, and the cut of the cloth modest. The breeches were leather, and if not completely comfortable they offered protection from the sun. High boots laced to her knee, and a tooled knapsack hung from her small shoulder, filled to the brim with edibles and water skins and a small purse of septims. Sigrid had been generous, insisting on everything as her maternal instinct took over while packing the bag.

"I'll miss you, Dorthe," Rose said sadly._ I've finally found a home, and now they don't want me anymore_. It saddened her. She gave Sigrid a long, searching glance, but the mother avoided her gaze. She understood why she wanted Rose to leave, but it didn't make the leaving any easier. If anything, it made it harder.

"I'll miss you more," Dorthe said, fighting back tears at her mother's behest. "Now I'll only have Frodnar to play with, and he's mean sometimes. Promise me you'll come back, _promise_."

Rose hesitated. _I can't,_ she almost said, then bit back the words. Dorthe didn't need to hear that. "I'm sure we'll see each other again." It was the only pathetic response she could think of to say. "I'd best leave before the sun makes it too hot to travel." She had a map that told her how to get to Whiterun, but Sigrid had warned to stay on the road unless she wanted to run into wolves.

"Goodbye," Dorthe said, defeated.

Rose said, "Goodbye," and that was that.

Sigrid was grateful that Alvor had muttered about urgent work and retreated to his sweltering forge before the farewells took place. The departing was awkward and strange enough without him unintentionally adding to it. Relief took hold as she watched Rose walk down the cobbled streets, but fear as well, in case she had sent to girl to her death or another unpleasant fate.

"I need to say goodbye again!" Dorthe said, hot tears in her eyes.

"You'll do no such thing," Sigrid said dreamily, as if a maiden deep in thought. "It's almost supper time and I won't have you muddying up your dress."


	13. Chapter 13: Piqued curiosity

_A/N: I forget to mention this before, but I will be frequently updating old chapters from any grammatical mistakes or spelling errors. This story means a lot to me, and I hate having to see flaws after working so hard on. I added chapter names as well, to make it easier to remember. :)_

* * *

Chapter 13: Piqued curiosity

Loud laughter filled the smoked and hazy air of the inn, mingled with coarse jests and oaths that seemed to sear the very atmosphere.

"You'll think he'll do it?"

"Bloody 'ell, I hope not, I paid a shit ton o' money for him to fucking lose."

Gilbert smiled wanly. "It's a crying shame I'll be using that money to get laid tonight. I'll remember you when I get her to scream my name, I promise." He downed a tankard of whisky, grinning childishly behind the pewter as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sorrex scoffed. "And who'll be that lucky lady?" There was a jealous tone in his voice, but most men were envious of him as it was, so he took it as a compliment.

Gilbert's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Why, don't you know it's Gisli, the famed sister of Erikur. After _he's _done with her, of course." Laughter greeted his statement, more raucous than before. "Lisette, love," he said, raising his tankard, "another round on the house." Corpulus owed him quite a bit of money, so Gilbert had taken it upon himself to alleviate some of that debt by drinking, eating, and whoring for practically nothing. _It doesn't hurt to constantly remind him_, he thought amiably to himself. In truth Gil had forgotten how much Corpulus still owed him, and as the innkeeper was loath to be reminded of the debt in the first place, Gilbert didn't take it upon himself to ask.

Lisette smiled shyly and brushed by him, calling out to the other patrons. She was a bard for most of the time, but Corpulus paid her extra to serve to patrons. It wasn't in her kind nature to refuse, as Sorrex wanted nothing to do with the business except to inherit it and moan about his spurned attempts at courting, which he did well enough.

"Lisette," Gil said over the din, "did I _ever _tell you your hair was like beaten silver? Most exquisite!" He was definitely drunk. _I could bed her tonight_, he thought, _enjoy myself_. She had light fingers like you wouldn't believe, and was extremely lusty as befitted most of those employed as skalds. Though she hadn't been a maiden coming to him for the first time, she had still been wet and willing, and was able to contort herself in all sorts of shapes he assumed only the gods could take on. Of course, you'd never guess it just looking at her. She seemed as saintly as a nun, with her large purple eyes that shone like molten amethysts in the candlelight; for one so well acquainted with poetry, she could be easily wooed by it. It was a tactic he used often when he was in the mood.

"Here you go, Gilbert," she said, giving him a wide smile and a clean tankard. "I put extra froth in it, just how you like it."

"I do like extra froth, nice and wet." He slurped his drink loudly, pretending not to notice her cheeks redden with the faintest hint of a blush.

"I think I'm going to go give her a special batch of Dragonfire wine," Sorrex said, ignoring him and her both. "Vivienne has to like _something_."

"She likes apple pie," Gil offered helpfully. "A strange acquirement for courting, but it goes to those ample curves she has nicely."

Sorrex's eyes narrowed to fine pinpricks. "And how would you know that?" To say his voice was accusing was a massive understatement.

Gil cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well I. . . I got it from a friend of hers." The truth was the complete opposite, but he would have been damned to say so to him. Vivienne had been a maiden, so gentle and loving. . . except beneath the sheets. When she reached her climax she had actually uttered something that sounded similar to 'Sorrex', but he wasn't entirely sure, and he doubted that that little detail would save him from a murderous death by meaty hands if the truth ever did escape. And Gilbert never intended for it to.

He wouldn't be able to go to her house for a while, which was a shame because she made the best sweet rolls he knew of.

"Who was this. . . friend?" Sorrex said suspiciously.

"Her—" Gilbert coughed into his sleeve. "—her mother."

Sorrex nearly choked on his supper. "That seems a little. . . I mean even for you," he stared down at his plate. "Damn."

_If it takes the suspicion off_. The room had suddenly become extremely awkward.

Thankfully Lisette sat down next to him, so he could take his mind off of it. "Queen Elisif has decreed that the burning of King Olaf won't take place," Lisette said mournfully, toying with her hair and sidling closer to him. "Worse, she says there won't be a Bard's festival either. She said it was 'in poor taste.'" Her sweet face was the epitome of melancholy. Talking about the festival was a favourite topic of hers, and was on everyone's lips lately. Venting her anger by stating how horrible it was seemed the only possible way to expel her anger and everyone else's.

"Don't you mean Jarl Elisif?" Gilbert asked absentmindedly. They had had this conversation before, though he was certain she didn't remember it. If so, her face would have likely gone up in flames at being reminded on something she was supposed to know about and remember.

"What?" She looked disconcerted and confused.

"Jarl Elisif? She isn't High Queen yet. I thought bards were supposed to be silver-tongued in politics and titles and such." It was only meant as a tease as he intended, but she seemed so horrified he instantly regretted saying anything at all.

"Oh." She fiddled with a tankard she'd claimed, then downed it like a thirsting wretch. "I suppose. . . It's just that the wholeness of it is so unfair, I forget sometimes the most important things. Giraud often scolded me when I was being taught at the college." A faint happiness of a blush touched her cheeks, before vanishing quickly like water in a desert. Her eyes narrowed, similar to Sorrex's. "For a moment, you sounded like a rebel." She smiled widely. "But I'm sure your comment was only spur of the moment. After all, you did just get raised to the rank of Lieutenant in the Legion." Her eyes fairly twinkled as she reached out for a loaf of bread, still warm and crispy.

_Bloody Gods_. He'd forgotten her moods changed as quickly as an autumn storm near the Rift, and this conversation seemed to be going down a worse road than with Sorrex's. It was easy to forget a lot of things about a person when sex with them felt amazing; you tended to overlook things, sometimes important things.

"Did you hear about the Dragonborn yet?" Sorrex said, still looking down at his plate, then reaching for his cup and finding, in surprise, that it was in Lisette's possession. "I heard he visited the Greybeards up at High Hrothgar, and people said they heard them shouting from Riften, like honey poured over thunder."

Lisette shook her head, her eyes shining brightly. Beyond the festival, the Dragonborn was second on her list. Everybody was talking about him, and how it was his destiny to stop the "Other," whoever he might be. Legend decreed a dragon, which made Gil want to laugh. Loudly. _People must be blind_.

"I heard he's seven feet tall, with arms that can lift a whole ox!" Lisette beamed excitedly as she spoke, giving Gilbert an apologetic look. However much she seemed inclined to him, it was obvious that every female in the province would gladly spread their legs for the Dragonborn, a fable come to reality. In that aspect, Gil was slightly envious, _slightly_.

"Ay," Sorrex said almost grimly. "He's got hair the colour of silver, too, so I hear. Touched by the Divines."

_Yeah_, Gilbert thought. _Well I heard that his cock's as big as a home._ It was complete rubbish. He almost said it out loud too, but stopped himself just in time. He was a little drunker than he originally thought.

Lisette fidgeted with her own hair. "He sounds amazing." She touched Gilbert's arm, who was staring at the floor intently, and he looked up. "But I have a man right here that's flesh and blood. I doubt I'll ever see the Dragonborn face-to-face." She gave a wistful sigh.

He wasn't sure whether to be happy and relieved, or upset at being second choice on someone's dinner plate, even if first choice was practically a Demi-God incarnate. _I've never been put in this place before_. He suddenly realised why his competition with suitors often left them angry. A girl would always go with a steak rather than a sausage. Unless of course they _liked_ sausage.

The door blustered open with a heavy sheet of rain and wind, causing several patrons to sputter and curse, turning to shout at whoever stood there to stop letting the foul weather come in.

Gil felt rather than heard someone close the door then sit down in a quiet corner. Most went back to what they were doing after giving the intruder curious glances, but his eyes were drawn to her almost instantly. He could tell she was a female, almost childish with imp-like features and wet, dripping hair that hung in ragged curls around her face. She fiddled absentmindedly with a candle on the table, but made no move otherwise. When her eyes drifted up and met his, she studied him evenly, unafraid and inquisitive.

Gilbert nudged Lisette slightly, not hard but enough to get her attention. "What?" she asked.

"Maybe you should go see what she wants," he gestured towards the girl sitting by herself. "She seems hungry." He didn't entirely know why he was saying it, but she shrugged it off. He was just a generous man.

Lisette examined the stranger closely for a few minutes in silence. "Her hair doesn't compare to mine."

"What does that have to do with serving?" Gil said irritably. She had been known to be jealous, but to be jealous of _her_ was almost ridiculous. "I thought you get paid to feed people."

"I get paid to sing," Lisette retorted sharply. "Last time I did so, you said I sounded like an angel. If she wants something so bad, then she can get it herself." With that she stood up and left him, marching angrily to her lute and strumming it with a ferocity he hadn't known she could harbour.

Sorrex whistled to himself, "she seems _upset_. I thought you were suave, but maybe you've lost your touch after so long." His condescending tone irritated Gil to no end.

"Go fuck yourself Sorrex, seeing you can't find someone to do it for you," Gilbert snapped angrily, pushing back his chair and standing upright.

The young girl didn't even seem to register him as he sat down next to her, her eyes not lifting from the unlit candle she held. Gilbert pushed a piece of bread across to her that he had carried. "You seem lonely." It was a simple observation, but the scorching look she gave in return was anything but friendly.

"I swear to the Divines if you so much as touch me, I'll castrate you myself and feed your manhood to the goats." She eyed the food. "What do you want?"

Gilbert couldn't have been more surprised by her reaction. He smiled to relieve the tension that seemed to build up inside of her. "I'd rather prefer if you didn't cut my manhood off. I find it quite useful for the time being."

"Most men do." She still hadn't touched the bread. "You with the Legion?"

It came as no surprise, seeing as he was wearing the armour, after all. "No, I just like the look of it on me."

"Then you're a terrible thief."

"And what would you know about thieving? Not stealing from innocent bairns, are we?" If looks could kill, he would have been in a coffin by now.

"No," she said venomously. The cold came off of her in icy waves, and Gil had never seen a woman so unfriendly before. In a way. . . it intrigued him, minus the part where she desperately wanted to stab him several times. What's your name?" He said amiably. "If you don't eat that bread you'll likely starve." He tsked aloud, almost enjoying the one-sided conversation of sorts. "It would be a shame if a girl like you were to die, cold and hungry." He made a mournful face at the very thought.

"I'm not a girl," she said, then stopped herself as realisation hit her about what she just said.

"So you're a boy? I knew it all along." He sighed miserably with a dour face. "These things just seem to happen to people like me, more often than I'd care to admit."

"That's not what I meant," she said, almost rising from her seat. "I _am_ a girl, but I'm not a child."

"How old are you, then?" Gil asked smoothly. She was stony from the exterior, but he had no doubt she had a fiery heat inside of her, taken in every concept. Or so he hoped. He'd made some horrible mistakes in the past, and none were pleasant to reflect upon.

"Six-and-ten," she said, then made a frustrated noise as she realised what she just said.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to give information about yourself to strangers?" Gil couldn't help but ask, restraining a smile that threatened to slip over his features, knowing it would only upset her further. "You should really eat," he pressed, "you look pale."

"I always look pale." She shoved the bread away. "If you're going to poison me you could at least feed me something decent."

He was baffled. "Po-poison you?" He laughed loudly. "Why would I do that? If you want something more appetising, though. . ." He beckoned to Lisette more than once, who finally came over with a scowl planted firmly on her face.

"What?" The bard said, a frown forming on her brow. "I'm busy working."

"That you are," he replied, fiddling with the strands of Lisette's hair. It paled in comparison to the girl sitting next to him, and perhaps she knew it, too. "Can you bring something more agreeable to us, if you would? I'm afraid her current meal isn't . . . suitable to her delicate stomach."

Lisette scowled. "And why would I do that?"

"Why dearest, you wound me. I thought our affection went beyond simple interrogations and reasoning. If you need _something_, however, this poor woman is searching for her lost husband and needs more nourishment. As you can see, she's quite underfed." He cut off the girl's protests with a look.

"Husband? What are you, twelve?" Lisette shot a look at the girl, then glanced back at Gilbert. ". . . Fine. I hope she finds her bloody spouse too, so she can fuck him to his satisfaction. He must like children." She went off with a huff, her hips swaying.

Gilbert smiled. "That wasn't so bad. Trust me, she's much better in the bedroom." He paused, noticing the strange look on the girl's face.

"I hope none of the other soldiers are like you."

"Oh, I hope not," he agreed. "Then the Legion would be boring."

"Why did you lie about me?"

"Why else? She's a very jealous woman, and it's better if you're seemingly attached to someone already."

He showed her small hands to him. "I don't have a ring."

"Then stop waving your bloody hands about," he said irritably. "You know, you still haven't responded to my question."

"Well, you ask a lot of them," she replied defensively.

"I need to know your name," Gilbert said.

"Need or want?"

"Both," he admitted. "I haven't met someone like you in a long time, and I find your company. . . refreshing."

"You just want to know so you can fondle yourself at night and moan my name." The hint of a grin played on her lips before vanishing. "I doubt you've met someone like me before."

"So arrogant. The true test comes down to names, however. I can't decide if you're unique until I know, so it's of the upmost importance you tell me what people call you."

"No."

"Well, we're getting somewhere, aren't we? My name's Gilbert and you're called. . ."

"No."

"That's an awful odd name for a lady," he mused, stroking his jaw.

She gritted her teeth. "I'm not a lady."

"No name, no lady," he said aloud, as if talking to himself. "You're a walking enigma. I must say I do hope your name isn't something flowery, I'm allergic to some of the flowers that dot Skyrim."

She kept her face stone-like, and they were interrupted further by Lisette returning. She placed the food down then stood there, waiting. "Pay up."

"What?" Gil's smile faded. "I don't have to pay." He didn't have any money either at the moment, so. . .

"Not you, _her_." She pointed at the girl with a finger. "Wenches still need to, in case you forgot. Unless of course her husband wants to pay and sweep her off her feet, but I don't see a ring." The faintest glimmer of a sneer was on the bard's face. "You must be feeling lecherous tonight by not having it on, so if you can't pay you can fuck some strangers for coin, spread those pretty little legs out on the table for any man to take you like a bitch."

"Enough, Lisette," Gilbert warned, angry. "She's on my tab. But tonight you can take your own advice, if you want to. I heard you've been broke lately."

The sneer disappeared from Lisette's face, replaced by a look of hurt. "Gil—"

"—Go away." He had no idea why he was suddenly protective of the girl sitting by him, nor why Lisette had so quickly become a territorial hagraven, but he didn't relish talking to her later and apologising. Maybe he wouldn't.

Lisette complied reluctantly, waking away back to her lute and stealing glances at him.

"She isn't so bad when she's not like this," Gil said by way of an apology, turning back nonchalantly and finding the girl standing with a knife in hand. "Plan on killing someone?"

He could feel the anger radiating off of her. For a moment it looked like she was struggling with herself before finally sitting back down with a malevolent look.

"I'm so glad you didn't decide to murder someone tonight. She can be a handful," he said, gesturing to Lisette, "but I've never seen her so upset. You must have really angered her."

"_I _angered her?" The girl said. "It was you, idiot." She leaned back in her seat with arms crossed against her chest.

He let the insult slide, though it still bothered him. Worse, he couldn't argue because she was right, sort of. In a way. "Are you going to eat now?" He asked like one would to a small child, changing the subject.

"No. I'd rather eat beggar's filth."

"There's some outside," Gilbert encouraged. "Though I'm sure the taste is far less pleasant than what's before you."

"I don't trust her, and I don't trust _you_." She stood. "Eat what you want, I'm leaving."

"The streets are dangerous for delicate things like you," Gilbert said, trying to offer her a warning.

"Good. I'd like to see them try." A dangerous glimmer wandered in her eyes. He'd seen the look before in fellow soldiers before battle, but to see someone like her wearing the expression. . .

He was speechless for moment, watching her as she left boldly through the door. Gilbert noticed she had a sword hugging her hip, made of fine-cut steel.

Gil fingered his jaw again apprehensively for a moment—a habit he always had—where a coarse stubble was forming. Now that he thought about it, he didn't trust the food either, knowing Lisette. He shoved the plates away and stood. Maybe he'd see the stranger again, his curiosity piqued by her distrusting nature. _She's quite pretty, for a Breton_.


	14. Chapter 14: Of a shadowed city

Chapter 14: Of a shadowed city

Torchbugs lit up the dark night, buzzing softly as they paraded themselves up and down the paved streets, accompanied by translucent butterflies that glowed different colours, some paler than others. The air was filled with a scent-like breeze, much sweeter than the smoke and roasted meat of the inn, and more delicate.

It had stopped raining some time ago, but the ground was still wet beneath her boots, and she could see small puddles in the road where the reflection of the moon and stars shone. Something pricked her mind at the back of her thoughts, but whatever it was she couldn't remember. It was something important, that much she knew, but the rest remained in shadow.

Guards passed her every now and then as she walked, holding torches and giving her curious glances, but none said anything or stopped her. Rose knew she must have looked a sight, with her hair and dirtied clothes and cloak, which had been mended by herself several times though she was a horrible seamstress. She knew she could get a better one, but this one had. . . sentimental value. Rose decided that when the day came when it was only tattered rags, _then _she would store it safely somewhere and buy a new one. It was a good thing no one else was silly like her, or else shopkeepers would be out of business.

She pondered on Gilbert as she walked. He had been handsome, but cocky like most men. With his nut-brown skin and hair a shade darker and richer, many maidens had probably lost their train of thought, drowning in his eyes that could tell you a story without him speaking a word.

_I hope him saying he was unique is true_, she reflected ruefully. If he wasn't and everyone bothered her like he had, then the Legion would be hellish and she'd go become an estranged hermit living in the mountains. As much as she hated to admit it, she rather liked the idea.

_I have a world to save_. It saddened her more than she could say. The Divines must have gotten bored with Nirn and decided to play their own joke by having her become the heroine, and knowing she would fail, they would watch Tamriel become destroyed so they could begin anew in their creations. She had to stop thinking she would fail, because then she _would_. Rose sighed. _I can't do this much longer_.

Exhaustion was taking its toll on her heavily. She'd hardly slept a full night in a month's time, and her appetite had shrunken less and less as more and more people became more demanding of her, ignoring the fact that she was so young. Some people even tried to take advantage of her _because_ of her age, hence her previous aggression towards the soldier Gilbert.

_Snap_. A twig crunched beneath someone's foot, and she knew it wasn't her own.

Rose whirled towards the sound, fingers dwindling on her sword's hilt. _So the soldier was right after all about it being dangerous_. She didn't know whether to be relieved or anxious. There wasn't a guard in sight, and even the insects had disappeared.

_Where am I? _She glanced around nervously. Solitude was a lot bigger than she expected, and as usual she got lost. She had actually gotten directions at the stables outside the city on where to find Castle Dour, believe it or not, but they had seemed much simpler before she stepped foot inside the main gates. Alleys and side streets snaked through to join up with the main roads like a maze, only to turn into more streets and wynds that spread out in every direction. Houses towered over her currently, crouching over the street she was on until their shingled roofs almost touched like lovers embracing for a kiss.

She heard the soft scuffing of feet on stone, and turned again. "Who's there?" Rose asked, not really expecting an answer. The silence was nearly overwhelming, as was the smell of the sewers. _I must be somewhere near the pipelines which lead down to the sea_.

"You lost, moppet?" A ragged beggar emerged, starved and emaciated. "You don't belong here."

Rose relaxed, breathing an inward sigh of relief. "And why not?" She said.

"Look around you, what do you see?" He wore the remnants of tattered clothing, and she could see him shivering in the damp air. A thin cap clung to his bulging skull, and his eyes were cloudy. The smell that came from him was worse than the sewers in a way.

"I see houses." Was he blind? She doubted it very much so. His body seemed alert, and he kept eyeing her hand which hovered over her sword. She dropped her arm to her waist to make him less nervous.

"Look closer," he urged, and she did.

The houses were old, she realised, and in different stages of dishevelment. Shingles had been torn off some of the roofs, and produce was beginning to rot in corners of the uneven street where it was hard to see. Even the road wasn't safe, with loose cobbles and puddles of something that wasn't water.

Rose had always been told during her brief stay in Skyrim that Solitude was one of the prettiest places there were in the province, with multiple shops and political intrigues to keep even the most tedious and fractious person alive pleased for a time. Nobody had mentioned this place to her. She was embarrassed, because she had honestly thought the whole city would be sunshine and flowers. Rose guessed it just showed how naive she really was.

"Welcome to Solitude. I'm afraid people don't mention this part of the city, where the dregs and people too poor to afford anything else live."

"How did it get this way?" She could see from the overgrown gardens it used to be a well kept area of the city. Now. . . she wasn't sure _what_ it was anymore.

"It used to be the real jewel of the city, until Potema came in the night and slaughtered most of the residents living here with her Daedra before her death." The beggar spat. "Now most houses are cursed, if you believe that sort of thing. The area's. . . evil, you can feel it. It's why you don't belong here, girl. Not someone like you."

"Hasn't the Jarl done something? Has anyone?" Rose didn't like the thought of people living this way in squander with no other choice. It wasn't _right_.

"What makes you think Elisif'll get off her comfy throne to see her subjects? No, she's content to sit and obey like a dog so long as she gets her reward. There's a reason Ulfric was able to kill Torygg."

Rose cleared her throat, not liking where this was going. "I'm looking for Castle Dour."

"Sure you are," the beggar said. There was a sneer in his tone. "What makes you so sure they'll accept a girl like you? Frail lookin', pretty and no doubt far away from home. The best you can hope for is a good scolding."

"Don't talk to me like that." She had gotten used to people saying similar things, but coming from him was simply insulting. "I have a sword." Did she really have to remind him?

"I used to have a sword," he replied. "Better than that stick of steel. It was Dwemer. I used t'be in the Legion too, so I can tell you straight they won't accept you."

"That's not for you to decide."

"You really think the Empire's so desperate they'll take in someone like you? You can hate their decision but they're not. . . they're not stupid." He paused for breath, shaking with anger.

Rose was taken aback. "What did they do to you?" The words were on her tongue before she could stop herself.

He had calmed himself down somewhat, though his eyes were still expressive. "It doesn't matter what they did, not anymore. I used to be important to them, until they thought I wasn't. Save yourself some heartache and don't even try."

She _had_ to try. In fact, joining the Legion hadn't been her first choice, but Delphine wanted information on the Thalmor, and decided Rose would be her best bet to get it if she joined the Empire. It was dangerous—and even treasonous—but it was her only option and time was running out quicker than quicksand.

The beggar grunted. "Take the next left down the road and follow it. It should bring you to an abandoned brewery. Turn right and keeping walking straight, it'll take you onto the main road. You can find your own way from there." He sniffed.

"Thank you. . ." She wasn't sure what to make of his change of heart, but wasn't about to question it.

"Don't thank me, girl, I want none of your sappiness. Just don't blame me when they reject you."

Rose palmed a few coins from her bag and handed them over. "Here."

"Take those away!" He said huffily, shoving her arm aside.

Rose was baffled. He gave her help and refused something in return? "I'm just trying to help you," she said, miffed.

"Then you must be a thick-headed idiot," the beggar snapped back. His expression softened at her face. "People see me with money, they'll think I stole it. I don't wanna get thrown into jail again."

Rose kept silent for a while. ". . . People would get into a tiff because they saw you with money? How are you supposed to eat?"

He gestured to the mouldering food nearby. "I eat what the townsfolk don't."

Rose felt sickened. "You shouldn't have to, you should be able to buy something and not be condemned for it."

"You obviously ain't seen a lot of the real world, have you? Sometimes the world isn't fair."

"Well then I'll change it so it will be," Rose said, determined. She dug into her knapsack and brought out a withered apple. She had been planning on throwing it away, but decided against it. Never had a decision made her more glad that she changed her mind. "It isn't rotten, but it's not exactly sweet, either. I usually don't eat apples, but. . . " she offered it to him, and he took it reluctantly.

"Do you bathe often?" She asked softly, watching him eat with a pained expression. His teeth were brown and broken, but it didn't stop him from devouring something that wasn't spoiled. He made small noises as he ate.

The beggar wiped his grimy mouth with the back of his hand. "Whenever it rains. It ain't like people let me go in the public bathhouses."

"Well they should."

He gave a strangled noise she thought was probably a laugh. "You said that before." He began gnawing on the core.

"Your teeth are bleeding," Rose exclaimed, alarmed.

He shrugged, like it was a common occurrence that happened often. "You got more?" He eyed her knapsack hungrily, but he kept his distance.

"No." It was the truth.

"Liar," he said.

"Am not," Rose said. "I really don't have anything else." If she did, she wouldn't have even walked into the inn near the gates in the first place. As if being reminded, her own stomach growled loudly.

The beggar laughed. "I s'pose you're stomach's tellin' the truth," he said amiably. "You'd best get going, though. I ain't the worse things you could run inta out here at night. They might ignore me, but they sure won't ignore you."

Rose took his advice and left him there, glancing back only once to see him disappear into the shadows. A shiver ran through her.

* * *

Castle Dour wasn't as nearly as hard to find as she feared, the giant black shadow which was the castle seeming to topple even the fat yellow harvest moon that lingered in the sky.

Worn cobbles replaced the smoothly paved road, filled here and there with weeds and filament cracks in the worn stone. Turrets loomed to either side of her, with ragged flags on their roofs displaying banners shifting in the breeze. There were ramparts with crenellations wherever she looked, connected by swinging rope bridges, stone bridges, and stairs that led up and down everywhere else like a maze.

A well gurgled to her left, and up ahead was a training yard, currently empty. Archery butts and quintains were set up, looking eerily like soldiers, but of course they were only made of straw and leather.

Rose wished the beggar had given her more directions to the main keep, as it wasn't likely the castle would have a giant sign posted, saying, _You are here_.

Raw instinct pushed her feet towards an unceremoniously decorated door, absent of frills with a guttering torch in a sconce. "Can I help you, missy?"

Rose jumped, startled. A soldier stood by the torch, half-obscured in shadows. He chuckled lightly at her surprise. "Seems a bit late to be out and about, wouldn't you say?" He had light blonde hair with a stocky frame, his armour worn and weathered.

"I'm looking for the main keep," Rose said politely. She had a dreaded feeling in her stomach that the soldier would push her away, telling her to go home. And what could she say in her defence? That she -had- no home?

Instead he said, "Through this door," motioning the said door with his hand.

"Aren't. . . aren't you going to tell me to go away?" She asked timidly. Rose knew she should have just thanked him and walked inside, but she was curious, and the door looked a little shady. Certainly not what you'd except for a castle's main entrance.

"We get loved ones inquiring after family members at all hours," he replied. "I wouldn't get my hopes up for a positive answer for when they can come home, though."

_He doesn't think I want to join_, she realised. It made sense, as most girls her age were sewing and getting married, after all. "This is the door?"

"Go in and take a left down the corridor, first door on your right, inquire after Praetor Freea."

Rose nodded, like she had meant to see the praetor in the first place. "And if I want to see General Tullius?"

He smiled down at her, like one would to a child. "No one sees the general unless he asks for you personally. Legate Rikke handles the recruitment, so I wouldn't bother her, either."

Rose repressed a sigh. "I see," she said.

"Who're you asking after?" The soldier questioned. "I might know them."

She thought carefully about her response. ". . . Hadvar," she said finally. She _was _curious about him, not seeing him in a while. He probably thought she was still with his uncle Alvor, and Rose was uncertain how he'd take to seeing her.

"He's finally got a girl, does he?" The soldier said, grinning. "Good for him. Last I heard he was promoted, though I don't know where he's stationed at, currently."

Rose didn't correct him. At least this way he wouldn't stop her from getting inside. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said cordially, opening the door for her. "It gets boring standing here on sentry half the time. Remember, left down the corridor, first door on your right."

"Left down the corridor, first door on my right," Rose repeated. She had no intention to follow his directions whatsoever, but thought it best to reassure him.

"Name's Garen," he said nonchalantly, leaning on the doorpost.

She gave a wry half-smile. "Your mother named you well."

"_Your_ mum was a good woman, to not tell strangers your name," Garen responded with a quip.

Rose's smile faded. Her mum had been anything but good to her, and it didn't suit her to dwell on past memories, especially unpleasant ones.

Rose went through the door without another word.

She found herself in a richly decorated hallway, if not slightly musty. The smell of old books greeted her nose, and the light filtering in through the windows was dim.

A ragged carpet padded her feet, bearing the tattered insignia of the Legion, accompanied by tapestries on the walls with similar patterns. An empty desk stood to her left, with a smoking candle and lashings of different papers that stood in disarray. A fireplace was behind it, cold and soot-stained, a faint reminder that it could hold warmth.

A corridor went to both her left and right, seeming to stretch on endlessly in either direction. She could hear muffled voices as if from far away, and remembering Garen's advice, she decided against it and turned right.

Forgotten swords and plated armour stood on displays gathering dust, making a collage that would have been impressive were it not for the darkness. Rose could barely see, and followed blindly through the dimness with outstretched hands, praying that she wouldn't run into anyone.

". . . And what if he refuses?"

". . . give him war."

"War. And what. . . the people rise. . . us, or worse, join Ulfric?"

". . . Pray that they don't. . . enough blood. . . Divines can only. . ."

Rose followed the murmured conversation past a few closed doors until she stumbled onto a brightly-lit room. Maps hung on every wall, stretched tight and faded with old paint. Tables and desks littered the area, clumsily stacked with inkwells, unsealed scrolls, parchments, and more books than she would have believed.

A man stood leaning against a table, close-cropped head bent down as he studied the area around the middle of the map intently. She assumed him to be the general, and remembered him dimly from Helgen. Despite herself, her heartbeat picked up in fear. What if he remembered her? Would he sentence her to die again? No, that was nonsense. She was the Dovahkiin, and no one touched her unless she wanted them to. Rose consoled herself as best she could with the thought.

A woman was nearby the general, arms crossed and back to him and Rose as she stared out of a stained-glass windowpane. Her hair hung in ragged waves down her back, and her steel armour glinted coldly at Rose.

"Balgruuf will come to his senses. He'd be a fool not to." The woman turned to say more, and froze when she caught sight of Rose standing there. The woman's hand hovered dangerously close to her sword.

The general sensed her movements and looked up, studying Rose with surprise. ". . . Can I help you?" He asked finally. It seemed he that had grown older since she last saw him, with dark circles under his eyes which could only mean he'd suffered more than a few sleepless night. "This is a restricted area."

Rose cleared her throat. "I. . ." Now that she had the opportunity, she found herself at a loss at what to say. _Say something_! she thought angrily, but the words wouldn't form. Of course the general didn't remember her.

Tullius waved a hand. "Easy, Rikke, I hardly think she's a spy."

Rikke snorted. "That's probably what Ulfric _wants_ you to think, General."

"Then he's deceived me, Legate," General Tullius replied in which Rose thought an attempt to be humorous, but she could hear the seriousness underneath in his tone. "

You don't belong here."

"I do," Rose said bravely, stepping into the room and straightening her back so she was taller. "I'm here to join the Legion." The words finally came and rolled smoothly out of her mouth, making her feel light-headed after speaking.

The general gave a small laugh, then stopped himself after seeing Rose's expression. His grey eyes traveled from her stance to the sword on his hip, and he tensed. "I- I see," he said uncertainly. "Gods. Do people really think we're that desperate? Damn Ulfric. Damn the locals, and damn Talos." He looked back to the map, and Rose saw his knuckles were white from clenching the table so hard.

Legate Rikke coughed. She was short, tanned and wiry, with wrinkles under her eyes the only thing denoting her age. Her pupils were as cold as ice when centred on Rose, but they softened considerably when Rikke glanced back at Tullius. "General. . ." She said softly in a scolding tone.

"Yes, yes, I'm being heretical about a god that shouldn't even exist, and I shouldn't condemn the smallfolk for taking up arms in what they no doubt think a noble cause. I suppose that's one of the reasons you don't see Nordic scholars all that often," he said wryly.

"We don't take children," Tullius said to Rose, turning his head and looking back at her.

"I'm _not_ a child," she responded defensively. She felt slighted, like they should _know_ who she was, which Rose knew was ridiculous since General Tullius had only seen her once before at Helgen and likely didn't recall her, or if he did, he thought her dead. It was for the best, but she hated being continually shoved aside like she was a _nobody._

"No?" Tullius asked. "How old are you, then?"

"I. . . " Rose hesitated. ". . . twenty," she lied.

Rikke gave a light scoff. "Quit wasting the general's time," she said bluntly, "he has better things to do than play nursemaid to you all day." She started to move to the doorway near Rose. "I'll get an escort of soldiers to see you out."

Rose whipped away from her, hand on her hilt aggressively. "Hadvar said you were different!" She said angrily, horrified that the beggar had been right all along and she hadn't listened. "He said. . . I didn't think he meant this!"

Legate Rikke drew her own sword, seeing the danger in Rose's eyes.

"No wonder Ulfric's winning," Rose spat. "_He_ wouldn't have turned me away because of age!" Her fingers itched to draw steel, desperate to prove herself to them. To prove to herself that she wasn't useless and where she didn't belong. Tears swam in her vision and she swiped them away like a toddler does with a runny nose.

"No," Rikke said, "Ulfric would turn you away because you aren't a Nord. _If _he didn't hang you on accusation of being a spy, which is what he does to those that aren't of Nordic descent."

Tullius looked thoughtful, his eyes cast upwards to the ceiling. He glanced over at Rose. "Hadvar. . . you're his. . . spouse?" He looked puzzled, like he was trying to figure out what was what.

Rose's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. "No," she said hotly, shaking her head and mumbling.

Legate Rikke moved closer. "Go back home to your family, child." She had a stern look on her face. "It's late, and I don't care for your antics. There's a war going on, and the last thing the Legion needs is a child's death on our hands. We're bloodied enough as it is, we don't need you adding to it."

Something snapped within Rose. She was tired of hearing excuses, tired of being denied and insulted and scolded like a rag doll. Couldn't they understand? She _had _no family. Who would love someone like her? Nobody respected her, or felt her anger and pride boiling inside of her like someone else had taken possession of her soul. It wasn't _fair. _

She sighed and slid her sword back into its scabbard where she had halfway drawn it. Just as the legate relaxed a little she inhaled,

_"FUS RO_ _DAH!"_

Books, parchments and maps were flung willy-nilly into the air as the general staggered backwards under the raw power of her voice.

Someone grabbed her wrist roughly and twisted her arm away from its socket painfully. Rose reached up with the palm of her free hand and smashed it up into Rikke's face, breaking her nose with a _crack._

Rose kicked over a side table, scattering plates and inkwells as she unsheathed her sword, relishing the sound of sweet steel ringing in her ears. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew that this was wrong, but she was tired of being nice. Rose pushed away the feeling of guilt and came face-to-face with a soldier she didn't recognise.

He grabbed her sword-arm and she brought her knee up between his legs mercilessly, tearing his shield from his arm and throwing it full into his face. Rose sidestepped him easily and brought a swinging cut onto the back of his legs, crimson spattering the floor in a spray of bright red. Her ears relished the sound of his cries, feeding a wild, unconfined beast inside her soul take hold that devoured anguish and feasted in the dark.

Another soldier came out of nowhere, and Rose faintly recalled his name. _Garen_, she remembered, parrying his sword and locking blades. Red-orange sparks flew as she dug her heels into the wooden floor for grip, her adrenaline kicking through her veins like a potent drink.

Someone smashed something heavy and metal into the back of her head, and Rose dropped to the floor like a cripple, crying out and nursing her scalp as things grew and diminished in a strange merry-go-round of dimensions. She felt like she was going to retch.

When she looked back up she was completely surrounded by swords drawn and pointed at her. She still had her hands behind her head to cradle it, and as a sign of defeat as well. She felt slightly out of breath, like someone was pressing on her lungs, so Rose knew she couldn't shout again for the time being.

Rikke stood off to the side, scowling with a bloody nose and lip, wiping her mouth dryly with the back of her hand as she spat out a tooth.

General Tullius pushed himself roughly through the circle of blades, and he looked down at her. His grey eyes studied hers intently for a moment, as if looking deep into her soul. Rose knew she had to look a sight, and tried to control her harsh breathing so she didn't sound like a wild beast. She felt. . . liberated, for some strange reason, and she was more than willing to accept a punishment now that she had calmed down considerably and could think clearly.

The general smiled thinly. ". . . Welcome to the Legion, soldier."


	15. Chapter 15: Raven

_A/N: Thank you RashaTemple and Chris the Metis for those comments, it makes my day knowing that people are reading and enjoying this story. To answer your question, RashaTemple: Yes, I probably already have half of the story pre-written and the basic outline done, so it's just a matter of uploading and transferring it. I get a little excited about publishing, so sometimes I can't help but put more than a few chapters up. As for Dorthe, why yes, I believe she's around ten :)_

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Chapter 15: Raven

She woke suddenly in darkness, her bed sheets tangled about her legs.

Slivers of moonlight came through the shuttered windows of her room to spill upon the old wooden floor, giving the scattered rushes a silvered look.

Her head still ached and was sore, the linen bandages wrapped around her scalp beginning to itch with a fiery pain. She had been sent to a physician nearby, who had treated her wound with a mild green salve that cooled the discomfort, but it must have wore off because it was beginning to hurt something fierce again.

She only hoped that the other soldiers hadn't come out of the scrape too badly. A horrible feeling of guilt washed over her as she remembered cutting down that one nameless soldier, and the sensation of delight when she had conquered him. It was shameful and horrifying, and Rose wanted nothing more than to bury her face into her pillow and pretend that it hadn't happened. But it had. And no doubt the story was on everyone's lips by now.

For that one inexplicable moment, it had seemed that something else had taken charge of her soul, making her a primal beast that followed an emotional instinct. She desperately wanted to apologise, but her sudden shyness and embarrassment made it impossible. And she was too. . . proud to admit she had erred? Nothing hardly made sense anymore.

_I wish Arngeir was here_, Rose thought wistfully to herself, hugging her knees and staring at the floor. He had been so patient at High Hrothgar, answering her questions and teaching her on the better ways to use her Voice with a fatherly kindness. No matter the severity her mistakes, he had never gotten upset or yelled.

"You will want to use your Voice for destruction, and it in return will want to use you," Arngeir had warned her, in what seemed so long ago it must have happened to another person. "But you mustn't give in, no matter the temptation. You have dragon's blood in you, and it will fight to dominate, to _control_. I know it is. . . difficult to understand, especially with a Dragonborn so young like you. But you must try.

"And what if I fail?" Rose had asked quietly, scared of the option, and terrified of his answer.

"There is no option to fail. You must succeed and save Skyrim."

She had seen the pain in his grey eyes, and had a strange feeling inside of her the rest of that day; reading tomes on the subject he had given her as a gift, in honour of her presence.

She still had the books now, carrying them around with her despite their weight. The stories were wonderful, and Rose could gaze all day at their fabricated illustrations, but the endings to most of the stories were. . . less than desirable. She feared that her own story would end like those in the books and fables, resulting in a few sleepless nights.

Rose could smell lemon peels on the wind, and burnt bread and cinnamon. She sniffed the air tentatively, moving her feet to the floor. A cold searing pain flashed across her vision, and for a split second everything was enhanced; colours were brighter, angles and lines sharper, and smell and touch were heightened. She could hear faint laughter now, and the far away call of a hawk with the clash and clatter of plates and dishes. A wave of blinding senses came over her suddenly, and she struggled for control, her eyes dilating to twin black eclipses as she tried to breathe deep, but ended up sounding like a strangled cat instead.

It was over as soon as it had come, and Rose felt immediately sheepish afterwards. The Greybeards had warned her of this; because of her soul and dragon's blood coursing through her veins, she was bound to experience what those ancient creatures sometimes felt themselves.

She would feel strange distortions at certain moments, sometimes in a heated passion or at the most inopportune times. It was all a part of being Dragonborn, Arngeir had explained patiently. Especially, if the prophecies proved correct, she was the last to set feet on Nirn. A rather depressing affair on the whole, and it was hard to be optimistic.

_And they don't know what it feels like_, Rose thought, _how wonderful, and how maddeningly terrifying at the same time_. The Greybeards knew Shouts, but only from lengthy study and devoted meditation. Their mortal souls weren't troubled with bestial disturbances.

"A human can only use ten percent of their brainpower," Arngeir had explained to her in a lecture in that famed lofty hall, the stone walls cold to the touch despite the ample iron-grated braziers that were situated to fill the room with heat. "Even if they are of the intellectual sort, their ingenuity stays within the same confines," he continued, "trapped like a wild beast. One descended from the Elhnofey—such as the Elves—can use twelve percent of their mind, and beast-like races much less, though aren't limited to such barriers.

"Dragons know no meaning of time, and they use nearly eighty percent of their mind, sometimes even more, and are the pride and bane of Akatosh's creation. Because of this, their senses and reactions are heightened, they can see things living and dead, past and present, and they are so attuned to time that they are immortal unless killed, and can delve into the fabrics of time itself. Waiting is meaningless to them; the borders of gender are one and the same, and they mate spiritually, sharing memories and choosing the stronger traits to pass on so that each offspring of a descending line is much more powerful than the last.

"They rarely committed themselves to such taboo rituals, though, as there was no point to it, men living in fear of them, and worshiping their like as gods." He smiled softly then, like a grandparent looking at a young child. "You have that very blood in your veins," he had warned again, "the traits doomed to your soul, and they will fight to control you, to cloud your thoughts and mask your true emotions. You must be very careful."

Rose didn't need to be told twice, literally. "What did the other Dragonborns' do?" She asked, fighting the anxious feeling that kept coiling in her stomach. Somehow Rose was sure she wouldn't like the answer.

"They chose freely to go down the paths of war and turmoil, despite the advice they were given—they used the Voice when they shouldn't have, and it ended in chaos and fire, and their ultimate destruction."

_I was right_, she had thought dourly, not liking the answer at all. "But. . . I have to go to war, I have to destroy what threatens Tamriel—this Alduin, and I need to do it quickly, lest he gains an advantage." Just speaking about it made her incredibly tired. How could she, a small Breton who had mostly gone ignored and abused throughout her entire life, suddenly become the saviour of Nirn, and herald the destiny of a Dovahkiin? She wasn't even a bloody Nord, unlike the rumours and gossip running wildly about the countryside, and most rejected her on sight when told the truth, or they merely laughed and made a crude comment about her sex.

Arngeir only gave her a cryptic answer in return which made absolutely no sense, claiming it would in the near future when the time was right.

Her stomach rumbled slightly, making her look down in surprise. When one was contemplating their destiny it was easy to forget that she needed to eat like all the other mortals, unfortunately. Rose wondered if it was too late to stop by the mess, or maybe the kitchens.

She rose and dressed into something comfortable to wear, fidgeting almost constantly with the bandage on her head, even though she knew she shouldn't. Rose had been given a small room to keep her things in, isolated from the others, which was nice but upsetting as well. It showed that even though the general might respect what she and her raw power could do—and even that, he remarked, was uncertain—they were afraid that she might attack someone willy-nilly, which in her mind was completely ridiculous.

She had a small bed and an end table next to it with a washbasin, a chest at the foot of the bed with a wooden dressing screen opposite it. It was spare, but not uncomfortable. Rose did have a window with purple-and-gold ivy crawling all over it that looked out onto the training yard, so she could watch the sun rise in the mornings. That was a nice touch. She washed her face to the best of her abilities, wishing she had a candle to see better.

A clattering sound drew her from her absorbed thoughts, and she looked to the window set near the ceiling, shuttered with wooden screens similar to the dressing screen. They were carved plainly, as befit soldiers' barracks, and made of stained oaken wood; not entirely unpleasant to look at, but usually hidden in shadow from the finer things to see that decorated a person's bed space.

The sound was a pecking noise, so peculiar and strange it drew her to the window half-dressed, where she threw open the closed shutters with an iron clasp.

Rose jumped back in a moment of startled surprise as a raven peered at her, and _quorked_. Its plumage was the colour of ebony, the moonlight silvering it and the dried gore that spattered its wings and head. The raven's ice-blue eyes peered at her with unbridled mischief, then bit her hand violently and took to the air with an abrupt start, clacking its beak and cawing into the wind.

Rose gave a muffled yelp and cradled her hand against her chest, watching the bird with the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach. The blood looked thick and black in the dark as it dripped slowly from her hand and onto the floor, spattering on the scented rushes.

* * *

She finally found the dining hall—after cleaning her injured hand with strips of linen—but not before taking more than a few wrong turns. Honestly, it wasn't that hard to find if one just simply followed their nose and ears. The building was apart from the main keep and set back next to a small cultivated orchard and garden, oily smoke rising from its two main chimneys that dotted either end of the building widthwise, and from the kitchens and buttery behind it.

The mess hall was much bigger on the inside, the tall ceiling beams stained a dark black from countless years of smoke. More rushes were scattered on the worn hardwood floor, although much more newer than hers in her room, which were slightly musty-smelling, compared to these that were sweet, their scent mingling with roasted meat slathered in a creamy gravy, and a heavily peppered hearty stew.

The place could perhaps seat seventy—maybe eighty if more benches were shoved in, but the dining hall wasn't even half-full, making it seem something resembling a ghost town of sorts. Nevertheless, the hall was cheerful if not drafty, and soldiers sat merrily in groups around the trestle tables, quaffing large amounts of ale and making jests. Hardly anyone noticed Rose slip in, much to her relief, and most lost interest after giving her a brief appraising look of her person, going back to whatever it was that amused them. She had been afraid that her story of cutting down their fellow soldiers would anger them, but apparently they hadn't heard yet, or simply didn't care. She was willing to bet a good amount of money on the former option.

They congregated mostly near the fireplaces at opposite ends and near the kitchen doors, where it was warmer and more vibrant. Rose chose a table near the doors which led outside to the training yard, where it was cooler and she was more apt to be left alone. _It's for the best_, she told herself. None of them knew, then, who she was, and it was better left that way.

A serving girl came up. "Can I help ya?" she asked haughtily, placing a hand on her slim waist while holding a stone flagon in the other.

"What's on the menu?" Rose asked politely, looking up at her. They appeared to be of the same age, but where she was fair-haired, the wench had a dark widow's peak, her hair curling round her small shoulders in shy curls that were slightly ragged.

The girl pursed her thick lips and laughed. "This ain't no restaurant. You get what we give, doxy."

Rose bristled as she stood upright suddenly. "Then why'd you even ask? Do you take me for an idiot?" The insult had rankled her deeply, like salt in a wound. Her dragon soul stirred angrily inside of her, lashing out in a sudden provoked anger, and it was all she could do to stand there calmly with a look of indignity on her face, while it was a battle for control on her interior. The Dov were feared creatures, not pathetic things to be mocked, nor playthings to be slighted with words, not secretly, not openly.

"Oh, sorry lovie," the girl said, giving a barbed smile. "I wasn't asking what ya wanted, I asked what you're doing here. It's obvious you don't belong." She set the flagon down and widened her green eyes mockingly. Rose was suddenly conscious of multiple eyes on them, and instantly knew that she had drawn attention to herself. Again.

_Damn her. _She had an itch in her fingers that burned, and wouldn't be quenched unless she drew her sword. But that was absolute madness. This serving girl was an innocent, a citizen of Solitude, and butchering her would only serve to bring the whole roof down upon her head. _I could kill you where you stand, strumpet. I could Shout you into Oblivion_. For a moment the words blazed with a fiery heat on her lips, and she desperately wanted to do it, to _show_ them that she wasn't weak. _Do it_. Rose opened her mouth and—

"What's going on?" The wench's eyes widened as she turned around to look behind her in surprise, muffling a gasp.

"Gilbert," she said, looking flustered. "I- I was just—"

"Threatening a soldier of the Legion with petty insults? Someone's jealous." A man stood behind the wench, and Rose realised it was the same person from the tavern. "Not the brightest idea, I have to admit." He gently shoved her to the side. "Now why don't you get some scoff for me and my compatriots?" He leaned in close to her. "Maybe if you're good, I'll pay you a visit tonight, hmmm?" He toyed with a strand of her hair, then stepped back giving a coy smile.

"Why, yes I- of course." She went off meekly after picking up the flagon, shooting a timid glance back every few feet.

"You should really teach me that trick sometime. Maybe I'll use it on the whore, who knows? Gods but I hate her." A girl seated herself next to Rose. She had the same dark complexion as her companion, but her hair was braided in two long cornrows that went down her back. "You really shouldn't give her hope when there is none, Gil," the girl said, then looked at Rose straight in the face. "What do you want?" She asked bluntly. The girl had almond-shaped eyes a deep emerald, as compared to Gilbert's brown.

"You'll have to forgive my sister, she's not known to be gentle." Gilbert seated himself across from her. "You know," he said, looking up at Rose amiably, "I feel like this conversation would be ten times better if you weren't standing over me like that. I hate being at a disadvantage."

"You should keep standing there," the girl urged fervently. "I enjoy his misery."

"Heartless harlot."

"Ass."

"You should know, a lot of women happen to like my ass," Gil said, giving another coy smile.

"They shouldn't, and if they are, they're blind. It's hairy. Women don't like hairy asses."

He made a face. "Have you been spying on me, dear sister? That's a little. . . incestuous."

Rose sat. The anger inside of her had been replaced with confusion. She sat there feeling quite the odd one out.

Gil grinned at her, making his hawk-like nose much more prominent. "There now, that wasn't so hard, was it? Seems like you joined the Legion after all, didn't you? I have to admit I'm more than a little surprised, but stranger things have happened. You know the saying, hard times makes for strange bedfellows." He only looked a few years older than Rose, his brown eyes friendly as he leaned back in his seat, hands steepled together.

His sister scoffed. "Mostly women call you Gil, and only when you have a little extra money to spend on the side, which is never, 'cause you're poor. Anyways that book you lent me? It _has _incest in it. Fuckin' disgusting." She turned to Rose and held out a slim nut-brown hand. "I'm Riah, by the way, in case you were wondering, since my brother is too handicapped to introduce us. _And _I'm the older of the two of us, which makes me more important."

Gilbert's smile disappeared, and a look of annoyance flickered across his face. "Let's agree to disagree; If the book's disgusting, then why are you still reading it, Riah?" He asked in a patronising tone.

"Because shut up that's why, it's bloody fantastic." Riah looked at Rose. "What do people call you?" While Gil's eyes were genial, hers were searching.

Rose felt pressured for some reason. "Rose," she finally said, deciding it would be best to be honest. She didn't need to make another scene.

_What do they want?_ It seemed strange to her that they would choose to sit here, when much more preferable choices were easily available. It wasn't like she had been friendly to Gilbert earlier, either.

"Oh, so you'll tell _her _your name, but not me?" Gil asked, an offended look on his face, to which Riah gave a smug smile.

They were interrupted in their conversation by the wench rudely returning with a platter full of edibles. She served Gilbert first, smiling at him coquettishly as she set the choicest bits down before him, then carelessly putting the rest down and filling their tankards with ale.

Riah muttered darkly to herself into her cup as she downed the creamy liquid, the froth overflowing as she chugged it.

There was enough stew there for ten people, made with roast lamb and salted potatoes, carrots, and honey-basted onions. With it was carved hunks of beef in bread trenchers still too hot to touch without getting burned. Rose hadn't tasted anything nearly so good in a long time, used to dry goods that didn't go bad, and not cooking for herself in a long while.

"Rose is a pretty name for a pretty girl, I suppose," Gil conceded, giving a slight smile again. "At least for you." It seemed so easy for him to smile like that, so natural that without it he would be incomplete, no longer whole. "It is very. . . flowery, though."

"What's _her _name?" Rose asked, looking at the serving girl who was currently fawning over another male. She decided to at least be cordial to them, seeing as it wasn't very likely they were going to go away anytime soon.

Gilbert looked a little sheepish. "You know. . . I don't really know. I've never asked. I guess I never thought it important at the time."

Riah laughed into her tankard. "Well, there you go, getting your _priorities_ straight. I call her whore, and it suits me just fine. She's probably barren, in all likelihood, if you take into account all the men she's had, unless there's a toddler hiding under her skirts. Which I quite frankly doubt. Not the motherly kind. She's always had it out for me, and seemingly you too—no offence. Also no offence, but it doesn't look like you really belong here."

"You're not the first to say I don't belong." Rose said sourly, putting her fork down and staring at her plate with a stone-like expression.

Riah blazed on with her questions like an interrogater, either ignorant of Rose's change in mood or indifferent. "You come from High Rock? I know it's stereotypical, but we're both from Sentinel in Hammerfell." Riah gestured at her and Gil. "Thought I'd ask."

"Daggerfall." Rose stood up hastily. "Excuse me," she said, getting off the bench she'd been sitting on, "I'm not that hungry." She hated talking about her past—even if it was as simple as something about stating where she was from—especially to complete strangers. She felt like she had no privacy, and the matter of her family was. . . delicate, to say the least.

Gil shrugged. "You don't have say you're sorry, not here. It's not as if your mother's lording over you."

Riah sent him a sharp glare. "Idiot, what if her mother's dead?"

"How am I supposed to know that?" Gilbert said indignantly. "It's not like she said her mum _was _dead."

"Would you go around saying _our _mum was dead? You should use your head sometime, with a process called _thinking_."

Their voices were a continuous babble in the background, a noise that joined the others as she drowned them out and left through the front doors like in a daze, her head suddenly hurting again. It was drizzling lightly as she stepped out into the yard, and the temperature had cooled off quite a bit, but it was preferable to staying in there in the heated environment, and the rain made her feel clean.

* * *

"I don't think you quite belong here, human." Rose gave a slight jump in surprise, letting the book she held slip through her fingers to the floor. It crashed loudly, bending back the pages and spine. She bent down to pick it back up, a nervous feeling in her stomach.

A Thalmor stood watching her, emerald eyes narrowed to fine pinpricks. He was thin and wiry, and she guessed him to be a mage at a glance.

She cleared her throat and avoided his eyes, looking back down at the floor, then up again. "What makes you say I don't belong?" Rose asked carefully. She had had a few run-ins with the Thalmor before, and none of them exactly were what you'd call. . . pleasant.

Delphine had told her bloodcurdling stories about some of their divisions as well, and she shuddered to think what would happen if they knew who she was. She didn't worship Talos, not exactly, but she had been accused of being a heretic all the same, and violently attacked because she had "provoked" them.

Rose was just glad the overall description of her person was completely off; it had saved her from more than a few scrapes.

He leaned against a bookcase. "Most humans I've observed are content to bashing each other to a bloody pulp with shields, not wasting their precious time _reading_." He gave a slight friendly smile. His hair was short, unlike most of the Altmer, coming to the tips of his ears and stopping roughly. "Then again," he said, "you don't look much like a warrior. Neither do you have the air of a mage—so tell me, what are you doing here?" It was a harmless enough question, but Rose could sense the tension behind it.

"I've heard the views here are spectacular," Rose said glibly.

He laughed. "They're even better in my bedroom. You're reading. . . A history—"

"—Of sword tactics," Rose finished quickly, putting her hands protectively on the cover, as if to hide it. "You ask a lot of questions."

"I'd be an idiot not to," he retorted sharply. "This library here is pathetic to those I've seen, particularly back home in the Isles. They have a mediocre one at best at the College of Winterhold, and it certainly doesn't take your breath away."

Rose shuffled her feet. "I wouldn't know, I've never been there." She felt increasingly uncomfortable, the small space not helping. He was right, in one way; the castle had far more space for training yards and a weapons' room, with only a small library to make up for the intellectual side of things.

"I should go," she said nervously. "I have some letters to write." It wasn't a complete lie, just not the whole truth.

He didn't stop her, only made a small remark just as she reached the door. "I know who you are, Dovahkiin, and the Dominion is watching you."

Rose repressed a shudder and turned the brass doorknob, escaping as quick as she could out into the sunshine.

She walked across a secluded courtyard slowly, as if afraid of being followed and determined not to be. Riah sat underneath a shady maple stringing a bow, and without knowing why Rose made her way over to her. Riah gave a slight glance upward as she approached, then looked back down as she waxed her bowstring, her mouth full of greasy twine.

Her brown fingers were slender and graceful, greasing the string with a steady rhythm. "Someone looks upset," she finally said nonchalantly, pulling the twine out of her mouth with a fluid motion.

"Is there always Thalmor crawling underneath your feet everywhere you turn?" Rose asked, sounding more angry than she intended. Her knuckles were white from clutching the book she still held so hard, she realised, so she loosened her grip.

Riah looked curious. "You obviously had a nasty run-in," she observed casually. "To answer your question, though, not usually, no." She sat the bow down and began to fletch an arrow with seagull feathers. "What happened?"

Rose hesitated. There was no harm in telling her, was there? She was more lonely than she cared to admit, and she desperately wanted to talk to _someone_. "One of the Thalmor agents threatened me, saying I was being watched." It made her uneasy just to even talk about it, and it was difficult to restrain herself from looking around.

"Slimy bastards," Riah said, giving a light scoff.

They were interrupted by a soldier coming up and standing a few feet away. "Rose?"

Rose looked at him curiously. "How did you know. . . "

"You match the description they gave me," he said, not elaborating on who _they _were.

"What did you. . . What do you need?"

"The general and Rikke want to see you, preferably now."

Riah smiled. "Well that gives you a lot of time, doesn't it? Maybe you made that Thalmor agent piss his pants so hard he wants you to pay for a new pair of breeches."

Despite herself, Rose felt a smile slipping over her features.


	16. Chapter 16: Hjaalmarch

Chapter 16: Hjaalmarch

She couldn't help but feel nervous despite herself, her stomach full of butterflies like she was on skooma—not that she knew what that was like, only hearing of the illegal substance after a short stay in Whiterun.

What Rose had taken to calling the map room had been all cleaned up, the rugs scrubbed clean and the disorderly piles of parchments neatly organised. It was like she had never been there, except Rose saw a few divots and scrapes on the stone and wood, the only giveaways that she'd been there at all.

Tullius stood exactly as he had when she first approached, carefully studying the map laid before on the table as if a single mistake in the geography would cost him his life.

He was freshly clean-shaven and dressed in his armour, grey eyes pensive and deep in thought. He looked up and watched Rose for a few moments quietly, before turning his attention back to the map. The look had been cool; neither friendly nor aggressive.

"How familiar are you with Hjaalmarch?" Was his only question.

Rose started, then cleared her throat as she stood there awkwardly, acutely aware of a scowling Rikke in the background. "Like Morthal?" She asked hesitantly, taking a few timid steps over the threshold and into the room. "I've heard stories about the marshes, but. . . "

"—You've never been there," Legate Rikke stated, arms crossed firmly over her chest. Her nose was slightly crooked, and if her eyebrows were pinched together any tighter from her upset expression she had they'd fall off her forehead. She didn't seem happy that Rose was there.

"No," Rose answered quietly, knowing it wasn't what they wanted to hear, but she wasn't a big enough idiot to lie to them about it.

The general gave a hint of a smile as he looked up again. "Then I sincerely hope you like getting your feet wet, soldier, because I'm sending you to reclaim a fort we recently lost."

Rikke stepped forward as if on cue, coming around the table and standing across from Rose. Though she wasn't tall for an Imperial, she had a much bigger height advantage than the Dragonborn, towering over her by a good three inches.

"Fort Snowhawk became overrun with mages not two months ago," the legate said. "They butchered every soldier we had stationed there in cold blood with witchcraft, and they've been ransacking caravans and supply trains ever since. It's high time they were killed like the vermin they are." She spat the words out angrily.

Tullius said, "You'll be sent to Captain Hadvar whose leading the mission and in charge. When you get there you'll report straight to him, and carry out what orders he has for you. I trust you won't disappoint, Dragonborn, a lot is riding on this."

"I'll. . . I'll try not to, sir." Rose's mind was a whirl of clouded thoughts and emotions, spinning around and around like a drunken horse.

"Good," General Tullius said, and if Rose didn't know better she would have thought he sounded pleased. "You'll be leaving tomorrow at the break of dawn, so I suggest you get some shut-eye. Lieutenant Gilbert's one of the best trackers we have, so he'll be leading the group you're in to the camp."

_Bloody hell_, Rose thought, silently swearing to herself, and slightly shocked that she even thought such a thing in the first place. If her mum could see her now . . . but her mum wasn't here, and she likely no longer cared what Rose was doing or what she thought.

* * *

Dawn came earlier than she wanted, her eyelids heavy from sleep as she forced herself up from her bed, which had suddenly become so comfortable and warm in the last few seconds she doubted she could have moved even if she wanted to, and only leaving the covers out of necessity. She didn't like to think what would happen if she was late, somehow doubting her status as Dragonborn would save her from punishment.

She was jittery as she washed her face in cold water with the washbasin she had, packing what few things she owned into her knapsack. Rose debated about bringing the books, then decided against it. She would feel horrible if they had somehow gotten damaged, unable to forgive herself for being so careless.

Her shortsword felt heavier than usual on her hip, as did her dagger sheathed sideways at the small of her back. Her thoughts wandered aimlessly as she watched the sunrise, the sky turning from a dark cobalt to a pearly pink with streaks of lavender and gold, the clouds fluffy temples as the birds serenaded whoever was willing enough to listen to them.

She still kept wondering why General Tullius had let her live, and even more surprisingly, why he welcomed her to the Legion after she had just tried to kill some of his soldiers. Was it because she was the Dragonborn? Because of her ability to Shout and the rumours that she was omnipotent? It had to be, but still seemed a reckless move that only desperate people made. Had she really chosen a side in the war? Neither option was angelic, but after hearing stories about Ulfric. . . were they just stories, or did they hold a grain of truth to them? The Jarl of Windhelm would of course deny them, and dismiss them just as he insisted, stories. But she couldn't help but wonder. Did she make the right choice? Rikke had said Ulfric would have turned her away or hanged her for her race, and she had a bad feeling the legate was at least partly right.

The Jarl of Windhelm had sentenced her and several other innocents to die just so he could save his own skin back at Helgen, and the memory was still bitter in the back of her mind. Maybe that was why she found herself at the Empire's doorstep, unsure of where else to go.

Rose thought of Hadvar, then instantly pushed him out of her mind. She wasn't some sappy maiden, and she'd see him soon enough, nerve-wracked as she was. The sun was climbing up slowly through the sky, so she picked up her bag and made her way outside.

Gil stood leaning against a lower wall, casually tossing a dagger back and forth. His hair was freshly washed, and his face clean-shaven. When he caught sight of Rose, the hint of a smug smile played about his features. She instantly decided in that moment she didn't care for it at all. His grinned widened when he caught sight of her. "So, the mighty Dovahkiin decided to wake up from her slumber, did she? You even took time to wash your hair." He gave a slow whistle.

There were several other soldiers around him, either sharpening their weapons or talking quietly in the early dawn. The only person she recognised beyond Gilbert was Riah, standing close by with the bow from yesterday and a quiver full of fletched arrows with seagull feathers.

"What do you mean?" Rose asked, startled that he knew that information in the first place.

"Don't tell me you don't know yourself that you're the Dragonborn, because that would really complicate things." He sheathed his dagger.

"Not that I- I. . ." She stammered, angry and confused. Rose supposed that word would have gotten out eventually, but she had been hoping for a little more time and peace. If people knew who she was, then they had undoubtedly heard the stories of her breaking Rikke's nose by now and causing damage to the map room—the place where Tullius seemed to spend all his time, gazing down almost sadly at the province of Skyrim painted on crackly leather. There was probably an official name for the room, but she doubted whether she'd ever remember it. To her, it was just the map room.

"Oh, yes," Gil said, drawing her attention back to him. "General Tullius told me _all _about you last night, and that you were going to join my group on our way to Fort Snowhawk. You know, just because you're apparently Dragonborn and the saviour of mankind doesn't mean you have to be a dick to nice men like me," he said amiably, walking over to her. "You didn't even introduce yourself at the tavern, then you go spouting it off to my sister?"

Rose was spared thinking up a response as Riah said, "People just love me," giving her brother a sweet smile.

Gil scowled at her interruption. "I didn't ask for you to talk, now did I?"

"Since when do I have to ask for your permission, little brother?" Riah asked, putting her hands on her hips.

Gilbert scoffed, as if it was obvious. "I'm taller than you so I hardly think that term still qualifies, _and _I'm lead tracker of this mission, not you."

Riah gave a venomous smile. "I remember the time you first pissed your breeches in your sleep, brother, do you? You kept having nightmares about that giant sweet roll, and wouldn't stop bawling that it was going to find you and eat you." A few soldiers grinned and laughed at the bold statement.

"Well I remember that time you were tricked into eating dog shit, and _that_ is much more embarrassing because it means you were gullible and stupid." This time it was his turn to smile. "Let's get a move on, maggots, since the Dragonborn has so kindly decided to grace us with her presence." He turned and started off for the gates, the rest forming up behind him.

Rose stumbled to follow, uncertain what to do and joining the back, the column two by six. A broad-shouldered soldier was to her right, with flaming red hair and a superfluous amount of freckles on his face. He certainly wasn't handsome, but gave her a friendly smile all the same, keeping silent.

Rose thought it best to keep quiet as well, and gave a weak smile in return, looking at the buildings they passed underneath with interest. She had only seen them once at night, so their quaintness and sheltered gardens had gone unnoticed.

Few people watched them, as hardly any were out on the streets. Instead only pigeons and a few scurrying rats were witness to them leaving, dropping quickly out of sight or flying away in a rush of feathers.

A carriage passed them heading to the Blue Palace and filled with sacks of flour, and a drunken bard staggered out of the Winking Skeever, waving his arms about wildly and stumbling into a bush, falling on the ground and laughing heartily. Rose wondered if he even knew where he was, or if he even cared. His laughter turned to vomit soon enough as they passed, and he watched them blearily through red-rimmed eyes.

The guards let them pass under the metal gates, nodding their heads in respect. Outside a playful wind buffeted Rose's face, kissing her cheeks with a salty brine and playing with her pale hair like a lover.

The road went down a steep incline, and not far down it a Khajiti caravan stood in ragtag disarray, hide tents being put up like fat tepees, and a bonfire was going strongly even though it was still morning, the smell of smoke rising on the air. Rose was fascinated with the Khajiit, never seeing them before, but hearing of them in books and stories.

Some were boiling water in a kettle over the fire, another was flipping pancakes, and one was chopping up firewood while the rest set up camp. They were mostly humanoid to what she could see, with enlarged ears and whiskers and feline eyes that watched them indifferently as they traveled past them. One had fantastic markings all over her slim body, and her mate was tattooed similarly from head to foot, hoop earrings made of bone pierced through his over-large ears. They had a savage finery to them overall, though they dressed only in ragged furs and bone, with a scattering of silks and amber beads.

"Ah'm assumin' ye've never seen the Khajiit before, seein' as ye're lookin' like a bairn does with his birthday present," her companion finally remarked, though rather quietly.

Rose could only look at him in surprise for a few moments, until she tripped over a rock. "Where are you from?" She asked, curious. She had never heard someone talk like that before, and hearing him for the first time made her feel incredibly naive.

"Ah'm from up north, lassie. Ye've obviously ne'er been there, have ye?" His accent was brogue and thick, making it hard to understand him.

"You're a. . .?"

"Nord," he finished for her simply. "Though Ah wouldnae recommend talkin' while marchin'. We apparently aren't supposed tae do et."

She nodded and kept quiet, her feet finding a steady rhythm in walking, the soles of her feet warm from the paved road.

They traveled down a small dirt footpath which led to a little wooden mill that was concealed from above by a massive granite slope. Rose could see the harbour from far off; the ships made a splendid sight as they sailed beneath the Solitude Arch, merchants' galleys and fishing cogs alike.

Their column was slightly ragtag, keeping a primitive form but dispersing almost unnoticeably like waves do around small pebbles. Gilbert was up ahead, paying attention to minute details that were lost on Rose. He stopped, turned, decreed a short lunch, then went and sat down by the murky waters.

Rose went and sat beneath a gnarled apple tree, slipping her knapsack off her shoulders. It was the same one Sigrid had gifted to her, and the brown leather was supple and soft, the clasp which held it closed a burnished silver.

She had packed mostly rations, fearing she wouldn't take enough and end up starving because of it. It honestly wouldn't surprise her, she having no experience with soldiering until now. Well, she was learning, sort of. And it felt good to have so much freedom at her fingertips, she almost sighed aloud.

She ate a piece of rye bread with almond-studded cheese and a strip of salted beef, washed down with dandelion cordial. The food had never tasted so good before, and it seemed like she had just started eating before Gil announced they'd be leaving again.

Rose looked down at the ground miserably, then slowly got up. Her feet were beginning to be sore and she was still hungry, her fingers greasy from the beef.

"Who needs roads? I found a footpath that leads across into the marshes just a little ways up from here. It should cut our distance time by a quarter," Gilbert said almost proudly after everyone had returned to their former position. "I hope you like getting your feet wet."

A few groans were met with his announcement, but no one protested. There was a reason he was leading them, and if they had to suffer, so be it. Rose was less inclined to agree, but found she had no choice. The Dragonborn, it seemed, wasn't given preferential treatment, and she wasn't asked for her input.

* * *

_I would have gladly gone for the roads_, she thought sourly, pulling her boots through muck that sucked at her boots with a desperate strength.

The marshes had a foul smell to them, and sometimes large black bubbles would come rising to the surface, only to sink back down with a _sploorge_. Mosquitoes and gnats were everywhere in thick black clouds, and the dead white trees seemed to reach out for them with their twisted branches resembling hands in an eery way.

Mould was everywhere, combined with half-submerged stones that looked ancient and were crawling with nitre and other rotten substances. The water looked a putrid yellow, and a deer skull gleamed whitely out at Rose through a scraggly group of reeds and bulrushes.

"This place is awful," she grumbled, more to herself than anyone. "How could people live like this?" she wondered aloud, thinking about Morthal. Living near the edge of a bog like the mill did had seemed bad enough, especially when you woke up every morning and saw the marshes out your window for a view. But to _live_ in filth like this was. . . puzzling.

It certainly wasn't quiet. Bullfrogs and cicadas prattled on endlessly, and the dead trees were constantly groaning and shifting their roots in the flimsy soil.

When Rose happened to glance across at her fellow companion, he was drenched in sweat and seemed more miserable than her, though he uttered no complaint.

Another mosquito landed on her arm and she swatted it away angrily. She was the Dovahkiin, why was she wading through a marsh that went to her waist in some places and smelled like fermented feet? Was this punishment for her behaviour towards attacking Rikke and the other soldiers? If so, the Empire could go rot in Oblivion. She was _the _Dragonborn, the _last_, and she should be tended to like a king! Not thrown down like a disgusting servant to do the dirty work!

Then she almost laughed. Why, she had chosen to do this, unsure of what else to do and scared of accomplishing the prophecy with Delphine at her back, the foreshadowing of her death almost ridiculous. She was an idiot for thinking being a soldier of the Legion—or even a soldier in general—meant that she would do noble things all the time. Rose was in a bloody marsh, getting eaten alive by insects and likely to die by mages at the end of this. She was beginning to see why some people were so sarcastic in life. What else could you do, when everything was just complete and utter bullshit? Not to mention that she had suddenly found an incredible sailor's tongue inside of herself.

Rose had no notion of how much time had passed, except that she was completely and utterly lost, her feet hurt something awful, her mouth was dry, and her armour clung to her uncomfortably because of her dried sweat. Not to mention that her head was pounding loudly inside her skull.

A dragonfly whizzed past her, buzzing and heading for the overcast sky. She wouldn't be surprised if the weather suddenly decided to rain. Why not, seeing as they were already miserable?

Gilbert stopped. "We'll camp on that ridge," he said casually, pointing to a slope that was encircled by stones and tree stumps. Unlike everyone else, he seemed rather unaffected by the climate. In fact, he appeared. . . happy? Of course he would be.

_At least it's not that far a distance_, Rose thought consolingly to herself, little knowing the true distance and innocent of how things could look much closer when in truth they were far away.


	17. Chapter 17: Ghosts

Chapter 17: Ghosts

"Have you ever heard of the Weeping Lady?"

Rose jerked her head upwards, her eyes bleary from lack of sleep. The small fire in the middle of the camp had turned into little more than embers by now, and a cold wind chilled her right to the bone. It was strange to think how during the day the marshes had been unbearably hot and humid, but at night it was just slightly above freezing, like a desert in the books she used to read. The wet, soggy ground that sucked at everything certainly didn't help.

Riah sat across from her calmly, sitting atop a rotten log like it was the most comfortable chair in the world. Her striking green eyes seemed relaxed, far away and distant.

"No, I haven't," Rose said tiredly, struggling to hold back a yawn. She could hear the sentry nearby as he gave a small cough and shuffled his feet. No doubt he was colder than she at the moment, farther from what was left of the fire, but at least he had a cloak to warm himself. Rose didn't even have that.

She had packed everything she could think of and more, but somehow taking a bedroll with her—or even a blanket—had slipped her mind. She had no place to sleep except for the soggy ground, and she was damned if she laid down in _that_ filth. Rose was certain that if that happened, she would likely catch an infectious disease and die.

"Can't sleep?" Rose asked politely. Unlike her, Riah had a rather soft bedroll, so Rose couldn't think of a viable reason other than restlessness of why she would be awake at this time of night.

Riah shrugged, looking up at the stars, studying the constellations silently for a moment. Another breeze rustled by them, stirring some of the clumps of deathbells nearby that grew in profusion in the marshes. They were beautiful flowers, and mesmerising with their starry shape and colour, but deadly to those that touched or ate them.

Rose would be genuinely surprised if there was something here that _wasn't_ poisonous or trying to kill you. Why anybody in their sane minds would want to live in a horrendous place like this was positively ridiculous. Honestly, they had to be crazy to do so.

Riah drew out a small leather bag concealed in her right boot. It was made of brown leather, with decorative beads strung near the top. "We should reach the camp by the end of the week at the earliest," she announced, unstringing the bag carefully.

"I can't wait. This place is bloody awful." Though the news of travelling that long a period of time before they reached the camp disappointed her, she was still sorely glad that they had a destination in mind.

Riah chuckled dryly. "You haven't seen _anything_ yet, trust me. Have you ever killed someone?" Her eyes became scrutinising, suspicious, almost. It was strange to see them change like that in a blink of an eye.

Rose was taken off guard by the sudden question, and was quiet for a moment before replying. ". . . Yes." She said it softly, almost death-like as her face became drawn and still. She had killed, and often. More than she would ever admit, to anyone or herself. And the question unnerved her to no end.

Riah looked at her, as if unsure whether she was telling the truth or lying. "Gods," she swore quietly, "you have." Her emerald eyes seemed sad now, almost motherly.

"Something pretty shitty must have happened to make a girl like you turn to a soldier's life."

"Something like that," Rose said, giving a humourless smile.

"Well, you _are_ Dragonborn. I keep forgetting. Sorry." Her tone didn't suggest she was sorry in the least. She spilled some of the contents of her bag into her hand, and Rose glimpsed sharded grains of a pearly-white substance, almost like sugar but with hints of pink and purple.

"Is that. . . "

"Moonsugar. Keeps me sane."

"Isn't that illegal?" Rose hated asking the question, as she sounded like a goody two-shoes, but she couldn't help herself.

Riah flashed her a grin. "More than you know." She tilted her hand up to her mouth like a funnel, and slowly let the grains fall into her mouth, crunching the shards between her teeth.

Rose watched her with a repulsed fascination, disgusted but she couldn't look away. A faint smell wafted over to her, impossible to describe but incredibly strong. It smelled like . . . like intoxication, like starlight and illicit kisses by lovers.

"Want some?" Riah asked, seeing her expression. For a moment, Rose was sorely tempted. She even reached her hand out a few inches, then stopped herself. What was she, if she stooped so low as to start taking drugs? She was supposed to be a model, not a criminal that was in its most juvenile form.

She shook her head sadly. "No, thank you."

Riah scoffed. "Suit yourself. I prefer to dabble in everything, it makes me more well-rounded."

Rose looked to the remains of the fire, in its last stages as it guttered sadly. She would have added more firewood, except that finding anything dry within a ten mile radius was damn near impossible. And she certainly wasn't going to go wander aimlessly in the dark for something when she couldn't even see, the risk of her breaking her neck or worse too high for her to move more than a few yards from her place, uncomfortable though she was.

"What was that about some weeping lady?" Rose asked, genuinely curious and wanting to take her mind off of the toxic scent of the moon sugar. How the others around her weren't affected by it was a complete mystery.

"You mean _the_ Weeping Lady?" Riah corrected, slipping her leather bag back inside her boot. "You probably wouldn't want to hear it. Too scary and all that."

All Rose heard was an unspoken challenge, and despite herself she rose to the bait. "Try me," she said aggressively, to which Riah laughed.

"If you say so. There was once an evil spirit that got separated from the others, tricked into coming here on Nirn by one of their brethren. The story was, the trickster told the evil spirit that there was a pit of living souls harboured in the marshes of Skyrim, ripe for the taking, but no one had ever dared to claim it because none had ventured on the earth before and returned. The trickster insisted that once the spirit found the pit, they would have enough power to return home and then some. You see," Riah said, stretching out her legs closer to the fire as she leaned back, "the spirits themselves are incredibly greedy creatures, and their sustenance of living is dead souls that are already harvested and pass through their realm—like our bread and water, so to speak.

"This one spirit that was tempted was the most greedy of them all, and couldn't help but take the bait of having a pit of living souls that was all theirs, and theirs alone. The spirits had only eaten the dead souls—until now—but there were rumours that consuming just one living soul would make you as powerful as a Daedric Prince, if not more so—that's all rubbish, of course, but the trickster was cunning, if nothing else.

"Convinced, the evil spirit journeyed to Nirn, and found it much easier than they thought. Upon reaching Tamriel, the spirit traveled to Skyrim as instructed and ventured into the marshes. It searched for a month straight until it finally realised that it had been lied to, and that no such pit existed.

"Horrified about being so gullible and tricked so easily, the evil spirit started going on a murderous rampage, killing any and everything it saw, but only at night because the sun was poisonous to its skin.

"People first blamed the murders on wild animals or bandits, but accounts started travelling back about people seeing white phantoms in the dead of night, and hearing a kind of wail, akin to weeping. It was the spirit, enraged at being fooled and trapped on Nirn for all eternity.

"It still wanders about the marsh at night, in the desperate hope that it will still find the pit of souls, sobbing wretchedly until it sees you.

"What you see is what scares you the most—what haunts you, and what makes you guilty, and what gives you sleepless nights—"

"What do you mean?" Rose demanded, her breathing ragged in her ears. For some reason, her heart was thumping wildly in her chest and she was terrified that Riah could hear it beating across from her.

Riah shrugged nonchalantly. "If you're terrified of an axe-murdering savage, legend says that's what form the spirit takes. If you're scared of a clown from hell, than that's what'll probably appear. Just. . . more scary, I guess."

"What if you're scared of puppies, or spiders, or apples?" Rose demanded urgently. "What does the spirit look like then?"

"How the bloody fuck should I know?" Riah asked irritably, an annoyed look on her face. "Do you want me to finish the story or not?"

"Sorry," Rose mumbled quietly, shuffling her feet with embarrassment and staring at the ground like a naughty child caught in the act of doing something bad.

"The spirit can't consume the souls it kills, so it's forced to keep hunting until its anger is sated. Because of this, she always cries as she slaughters her victims."

"Well then, how do the victims die?" The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and Rose felt sheepish immediately afterwards. Hadn't Riah just warned her to be quiet? And here she was like an idiot, running her mouth.

"I don't know, dismemberment? Torture maybe, being skinned alive. I'll leave the rest to your imagination." Riah was suddenly quiet after that, staring at the embers of the fire intensely.

"What. . . what happens then?" Rose said, after a few moments of silence. She suddenly realised that she had creeped to the edge of her seat expectantly.

"That was the end of it," Riah replied smoothly, "she's still out there in the marshes, and nothing can kill her, as far as anybody knows."

Rose's mouth was completely dry, and she made a small gulping motion with her mouth. "That. . . that's just a legend, right? A story to pass the time?"

"Sure," Riah said, getting up from her seat and moving towards her bedroll. "Goodnight," she said almost cheerfully, grinning to herself.

Rose could've sworn she heard weeping that night.


	18. Chapter 18: Tensions

_A/N: I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but chapters that I update and fix from grammar errors will always occur the same day that I post new chapters, that way you aren't getting notifications and being confused. Sorry, I can be an idiot sometimes. :)_

_Also, I will start writing responses to reviews at the end of the latest chapter I post, that way you don't have to feel obliged to read them if you don't want. I swear if this auto-correct will keep changing words that I spell correctly into gibberish I will throw my mouse against the wall._

* * *

Chapter 18: Tensions

Hadvar rubbed his eyes wearily. Staying up half the night for a week straight had made him tired and weary. A map lay stretched out before him on a piece of wood that served as a crude table. They had been there two weeks. A whole fortnight of planning and eating watered-down rations, of sleeping on mounds of hay and smelling the latrine ditches every morning in place of the smell of breakfast.

Two weeks he had restlessly planned, observed and scouted out Fort Snowhawk, determined not to fail. The men under his command were growing impatient with every passing day, eager to return home to their families or back to Castle Dour in Solitude.

He had heard the mutterings, the complaints quietly uttered in the hopes that he wouldn't hear. Some of the soldiers were eager to attack straight away, while others simply wanted nothing more than to pack up and leave. Hadvar couldn't have done either option even if he wanted to. He lacked the men for a full frontal assault, and returning back to Solitude empty-handed wasn't an option at all. He wouldn't go back with failure.

Fort Snowhawk had to be taken, no other way to put it. It was right next to a main road, and with rogue mages running rampant in the area and slaughtering innocents, they left the Legion no choice but to purge the place of their presence. _And good riddance_, Hadvar thought sourly. He hadn't known any of the original soldiers that had held Fort Snowhawk before being murdered in the night, but he could only imagine what it felt like to lose someone you loved, or were close to.

Getting supplies out here in the marshes was a courier's nightmare, and as a result they were running low on rations. The local water was poisonous to drink from unless boiled with heat, and they inconveniently only had two small cast iron pots to share between twenty-some men. Hadvar hoped that the small company which would join them shortly lived up to what the general had told him in a letter.

_They're some of the finest_, Tullius had written, _or so I hope them to be. I would have sent them sooner, but a certain scout proved to be tardy on a different mission and I didn't want to waste him by placing him elsewhere. Capture the fort, Captain, so we can regain a surer foothold in Hjaalmarch._

_—General T._

The letter was brief, as all his letters were, and it placed a tremendous amount of pressure upon Hadvar's shoulders. As stated before, failure was not an option.

It didn't help that Tullius had promoted him for his actions at Helgen, as he felt it was an honour he didn't deserve. It was madness then at the time, so to reward someone for simply surviving chaos when so many innocents had died. . . his rank felt soiled because of it. The tension for him to complete this mission successfully was staggering, and worry had him in its iron grip, unable to let go.

Beyond that incomplete description of what awaited him in that platoon, his mind was left to wander. They had to have a natural aptitude for combat to be sent, and at least one of them could track. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

"Captain," a soldier said, opening the leather flap to his tent. "They're here."

He said nothing at first, merely looked over from where he had been standing next to a makeshift table . "It took them long enough," he commented wryly, though with good spirit. He had actually started to worry that something had happened to the small team, but it was a relief that his fears were proved to be unfounded. Here they were at last.

The soldier departed quickly after Hadvar asked her to bring the leader of the platoon to him. She was tall and gangly, and certainly not handsome, but as dependable a soldier as the rest of them. Her family slaughtered by rebels at a young age near Falkreath, the Dunmer—whose name was Saria—sought refuge in the Legion, and had been serving under Hadvar's command for just a few months.

Her family still recently dead, her dark red eyes glowed with nothing but a passionate anger and hatred, fiercely burning even in the light of day, so much so that they almost rivalled the sun's luminosity itself at times.

Hadvar wasn't certain he approved of her vehemence, but she obeyed her orders promptly enough so he found little cause to argue with her. _Not that I want to_. He tried to be model to others as a captain—kind but firm with his men. Unfortunately he had to be more strict and firm than nice and genial, but he soon learned that leaders have no friends. They couldn't afford to.

There was a crude map on the table, made of leather and dried ink. It had to be more than a hundred years old, an ancient relic of times past. If the map could be believed, there used to be mountain not ten feet from where he stood. _A lot's changed_, he thought tiredly. He could only hope that not all of it had, or they were in some trouble.

His tent was plain, if not a bit bigger than his soldiers. He had argued that he didn't need one as spacious as this, but was finally convinced as he would need the extra room for the maps and parchments.

The walls were made of raw animal hides and weathered canvas, the flaps rough and coarse to the fingertips; it was about five by six feet at a rough estimate.

There was enough room for a small fur bedroll, a table with the maps and scrolls, an end table with a lantern and a water jug, currently empty. He decided early on that a commander shouldn't reap the bounties of harvest while his men suffered. So far he had stayed firm in that belief.

He was distracted by the sound of Saria returning. "Do you have them?" he asked without turning around. His eyes studied where the fort was, a marsh in its place. Hadvar laid his hands on the map as he leaned against the table. If he could somehow figure out a way to use the marshes to his advantage. . .

Saria cleared her throat. "Captain."

"What?" Hadvar turned around impatiently.

". . . Well," Gilbert said nonchalantly, leaning on the tent's entrance as he smiled. "Don't get your ego in a twist for little ol' me, will you? I'd hate to be a burden."


	19. Chapter 19: Restraint

Chapter 19: Restraint

"You?" Hadvar asked incredulously. _Gods, anyone but him_.

"Yes." Gil sighed sadly. "It's me." He moved off of the entrance and approached. "I see you've lost a few pounds. Rations made you slimmer?"

Despite himself, Hadvar let his irritation show. "Why would the general send you?" It was a rhetorical question, one he couldn't help but ask aloud. "Everyone knows you for a drunken whoremonger."

"I got raised to the rank of Lieutenant," Gilbert said angrily.

"That doesn't change who you are." Did General Tullius put so little faith into his mission he sent him? Sure, he was a talented tracker if one forgot his blatant mistakes and tardies.

"It might," Gil replied heatedly. "I could change if I wanted, but then I'd be exactly like you. . . and I would rather hang myself then let that happen to me."

"The Legion would be the better for it. It might smell better, too." He gestured to the map with his right hand. "Care to take a look, _Lieutenant_?"

Gilbert said nothing but brushed past him silently, tracing the leather with a finger. It was then that Hadvar realised he had subconsciously gripped his shortsword like he was going to unsheathe it.

_Bloody hell_, he thought. What was he if he became angry enough to draw a weapon upon an inferior? An idiot likely to be killed or incarcerated for the crime of murder. He loosened his sword grip.

"You can go," Hadvar said to Saria. "Tell the others in Gilbert's platoon that—"

"—This map is old," Gilbert complained loudly.

Hadvar restrained a sign escaping his lips. "Tell them that they'll be fed shortly and shown areas to pitch their tents."

"My group brought their own food rations," Gil said smugly.

"Yes, thank you for pointing out something I had already assumed."

"Then why waste resources? Your food probably tastes terrible."

"I wasn't talking to you, Lieutenant," Hadvar snapped. He was beginning to wonder if the man ever shut up.

"Well you were two seconds ago. What changed?"

"I was talking to Saria before you decided you weren't given enough attention and interrupted me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Gilbert said in a patronising tone, placing a hand over his heart mockingly. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Please, go on, I'll be a good boy like you are."

Hadvar really wanted to kill him at that moment.

Gilbert smiled triumphantly to himself and looked back down at the map, staying quiet for once.

Hadvar dismissed Saria and went over to Gilbert. "You were saying something about old maps?" He stood across from him on the other side.

"It's too old, look at it!" Gilbert gestured wildly. "How in the Divines is this useful?"

"I am looking at it."

Gilbert snorted in reply. "You must have left your eyesight back in Solitude, then, along with your wits and combat skills."

"On the contrary I'm quite sane and capable of wielding a sword. I must be if I'm of a higher rank than you, Lieutenant. As for the map, I assumed you were a good enough tracker you wouldn't need a more current one. I apparently was mistaken, and all those wild nights of you getting drunk and boasting of your prowess meant as little as you telling a whore you just fucked that you loved her." His words came out bitter.

"Did I sleep with a kitty-cat you liked?" Gil asked sweetly. "Was me being in her little pussy too much for you to handle?" Gilbert stood upright now. They were about the same height. "You probably won't tell me her name, so let me guess. . . was it Vivienne? Lisette? Jordis? Or someone I fucked that wasn't pretty enough to attract my notice?"

". . . If you say anything of the sort to me again," Hadvar said quietly, "I'll cut off your precious toy you love so much and hang it around your neck. Do you hear me, boy?"

Gilbert had an indignant look on his face. "I'm three-and-twenty."

"I don't care how bloody old you are, I base people off of how they act and present themselves, not how long ago they were born. I am leading this mission and I _will_ pull rank on you if I have to."

Gilbert fingered the dulled iron dagger on the table as he muttered, "Only cravens pull rank on inferiors." He wasn't looking at Hadvar anymore, but at the blade with an almost curious expression.

"Wrong. Cravens are the sort of idiot that questions their authority or who runs from a fight, presumably those who track—like yourself. I'm merely showing you whose in charge. If you're still doubtful about my ability to wield a weapon, though, we can gladly take this outside."

"And draw the mages down from their fort onto us? Let's do what we came here for, _Captain_. Don't mistake this for backing away, though, _Captain_. I'd love to bloody your nose once we get back to Castle Dour in a roaring success. Who knows, maybe afterwards I'll go get drunk and shag a whore. That's all you seem to think I do, and I'd desperately hate to disappoint you of _all_ people."

Hadvar pointed to the map. He was tired of the banter and wasting precious time. "Can you make sense of anything?"

Gil scoffed, offended. "Do you take me for a child? Look, here," he pointed to a small muddied lake on the map to the northwest of where the fort currently was. "That's not here now. It's just. . . marshes. The ground must still be wet because of the humidity, so the water had to have seeped into the soil and held. You can see here," he pointed to the south of Fort Snowhawk," that there's a small stream. Streams don't just happen, they form slowly over time."

"You think the lake turned into an underground burn?"

"I don't think, I _know_," Gilbert said confidently. "Where else would it go?"

"If you're right. . . "

"Then the ground beneath Fort Snowhawk is softer than anywhere else. The soil, plants, everything. It could be that it's not even an underground stream, but a stream blatantly running through the bottom of the fort with caves. It's steamy, hot and miserable everywhere _but_ there. The earth and rocks are corroded. Malleable, even. I'd bet that you can even see mist forming there at times."

Hadvar studied the map silently for a few moments. It seemed that they were finally getting an advantage of some sort. If he had to put up with the company of him, then he supposed he'd have to suffer. Bigger things were at stake here.

"Hello. . . ?" Gilbert said. "We're not having a one-sided conversation, are we?"

"I need to think this through, form a proper plan."

"You mean you didn't already have one before I showed up?" Gilbert looked like he was going to laugh at the statement.

"I didn't have someone useful like you, despite your complaints that you can't read old maps." _That ought to shut him up for a bit_, Hadvar thought grimly to himself. He really wanted some peace and quiet to himself.

"I never said I couldn't read it, I just said it was ancient." Gilbert stressed the words, like he was an old man hard of hearing. "And anyways, I have friends that are probably worried you murdered me or something."

_They have no idea how close I was_. Hadvar still didn't trust himself at the moment. "Leaders shouldn't have friends," he said to Gilbert, not really sure why he was still talking to the man-child. It wasn't like the tracker was going to listen, especially to him.

Gil hesitated at the entrance to the doorway, hand paused on the leather flap. "And why's that?" He asked curiously, looking back.

"Because someday he might need to bury them."

* * *

**Reviews**:

_**Chris the Metis:** Oh my sweet summer child. . . seriously though, I have a feeling that you won't like an upcoming chapter._ ㈸1

_**birgittesilverbow:** Wow thanks! That review made my day, and it's nice to know you like the story :) Things about to get real intense in the upcoming chapters._


	20. Chapter 20: Unnoticed shadow

Chapter 20: Unnoticed shadow

Rose arrived at the camp thirsty, the soles of her feet soaked, and she herself tired beyond compare. The final day of traveling had been the most miserable, the heat consuming everything in its path, oppressive to the point where she couldn't even struggle against it, much less function.

What the most unnerving factor had been during their journey was the absolute silence. It was deafening. Sure, you could hear the soldiers next to you breathing and cursing and muttering under their breath, and every now and then a stray dragonfly that whizzed passed your head with incredible speed. Beyond that and the odd wind which stirred the branches and leaves of withered plants there was nothing. No birdsong, no elks calling out, no running streams. If there was any such thing nearby—and Rose sincerely doubted that—they were keeping quiet.

It was at times like these she could swear she heard voices. Tones she couldn't place, speaking in ancient tongues she didn't know. It was maddening, and more than once she wondered if she had finally lost her sanity. It wouldn't surprise her. Almost nothing would surprise her at this point. She had lived through too much.

"Oi," Riah said saucily, throwing a muddy stick at her friend. "Pay attention will you? You about walked into me, bloody idiot."

Rose mumbled, "sorry," before sitting down on a moss-covered stone. Her clothes were already damp, so it wasn't like they could get any more uncomfortable. At least she hoped not.

The camp was a lot smaller than she imagined, set to the west of Fort Snowhawk and surrounded by rocks and clumps of grey-green sentinels. It was a good spot, she had to grudgingly admit, if not in the middle of the marsh and completely bothersome.

_How cynical I've become_. She almost rather enjoyed it. What would her mum think of her now, seeing her in the army and acting like she did? _No, no don't think of her. Think of anything but her._

Those already stationed in the camp welcomed them, then went back about their business. Hardly any spared a glance for Rose, like she was nothing but a shadow. Looking like she undoubtedly did, it was a miracle and she was grateful for it.

Gilbert was summoned by a sour-looking Dunmer, who gave no information about herself. The Dark Elf promptly returned and showed them where to sleep, handing out rations with the help of a Nord.

"My name is Saria," she said. "Enjoy what you have. Most of us are still hungry, and you all have full knapsacks. Nobody's going to help you if your rations are stolen, so I wouldn't be an idiot and I would watch them." Her whole demeanour was angry, her face stone-like as her eyes burned unhappily. Rose was certain the Dunmer had never been joyous once her entire life by the way she acted.

"Captain Hadvar's merely being generous," Saria continued. "He doesn't hate you, and he certainly doesn't like you. You're only soldiers under his command—arrow fodder—so I suggest you act like them. Pitch a tent where you want." She turned and left unceremoniously after the rations had been handed out.

Riah sighed and looked at the mess in her hands. "This looks like dog shit."

"They don't know how to cook?" Rose offered helpfully.

Riah sent her a poisonous look. "Thank you for being obvious. It's times like these I _really_ appreciate it."

* * *

Rose found herself in a predicament.

She didn't have a tent, and nobody and seemed to bring along an extra one. She kept kicking herself mentally for forgetting something so simple. It was a blatant sign that she knew nothing of soldiering or being in the army.

Rose had yet to ask someone, and if she still kept her dignity it would stay that way. Riah had reluctantly asked her if she wanted to share after seeing the misery on Rose's face, but she declined. It would feel wrong and awkward if she had accepted, and that was the last thing she needed.

She ended up sitting by the fire, stirring the edges with her foot. She took a tour of the camp (which was less than ten minutes) and sat herself down, unsure of what else to do.

There were latrine ditches to the north surrounded by a dense of dead birches and dying pine trees. Rose found out—mortified—that they were completely open, with no privacy to be had whatsoever. She was determined to hold it as long as she could, horrified of relieving herself next to a man. A man that would see parts of her she didn't want anybody to see.

There were rough-hewn barricades of raw and dead wood mixed together around the perimeter, with sentries as an added precaution. The fire was in the middle, the captain's tent not ten yards away. Tents and bedrolls were in various states of disarray around her, sprawled out in no particular pattern.

The flap to the captain's tent was thrown violently open and Rose jumped, nervous about who it would be.

Gilbert emerged, muttering something about a "prick." He stopped when he saw Rose and changed course immediately.

"You don't look happy," she observed as he sat down next to her on the ground. Her statement was completely understated. He looked like all his hopes and dreams had been flung from him beyond his reach, taunting him mercilessly.

"Good," he said bitterly. "I hope I look like a bloody troll. The gods know I just finished dealing with one."

"Hadvar?" She asked hesitantly, certain it had to be someone else.

"He needs to be drawn and quartered."

Rose was shocked into silence. For a moment all you could hear was the flames crackling and popping in the air. "That seems a little. . . harsh. What. . .what did he do, exactly?"

"He, he. . ." Gilbert shrugged like it was no longer important, not finishing his answer as he stared at the soft ground miserably.

"He. . . what?" Rose pressed gently. "What did he do?"

"He threatened me," Gil mumbled, reminding her of a naughty child.

"Hadvar threatened you."

"He'd tell you to say 'Captain Hadvar' in his presence." Gilbert gave a sour-looking grimace.

"Presence," Rose said, not sure she understood. Why would be use that particular word? He made it sound like Hadvar was pompous and vain, like a noble or jarl.

"Yes, _presence_, what part of my sentences don't you comprehend?" he said, exasperated. "I hope the wanker gets his deserts."

"That's. . . quite some colourful language," she answered. ". . . Did you do anything to deserve the threats?"

"No!" Gil said, outraged as he stood upright. "Why are you taking his side?!"

"I'm not taking his side," Rose said defensively, flinching away instinctively. "You tend to—"

"—To what, overreact? Bloody hell you're just like my sister!" He took off suddenly, his long strides carrying him with injured dignity and pride. If Rose hadn't been so upset it would have been a comical sight.

"You know men are all idiots." Rose jumped from her uncomfortable seat a bit and looked up in surprise. Saria was sitting across from her on the other side of the fire silently, sharpening her sword on a whetstone. Either she had been there quite a while and Rose was too preoccupied with her thoughts she hadn't noticed, or Saria had just sat down and listened to her and Gilbert's whole conversation in the shadows. Both options made her bit uneasy, and she couldn't help but shift ever so slightly away.

"What makes you say that?" Rose asked.

Saria smiled grimly at her blade, oiling it with a ragged cloth. "All they want is attention, stupid, simple beasts. And when they don't think they get enough attention, they'll go do something bloody stupid." She looked up from her sword. "You know the captain?"

"A little," Rose admitted, not agreeing with Saria's statement about men, but not wanting to upset her at the same time. "But not really. I mean, I doubt he even remembers me."

"He spurned you? Funny, you're not _that_ ugly. I should know what that word means, shouldn't I? Me of all people. Hmph." She scuffed her toe against a rock. "It'd be hard to forget someone with that hair."

"I. . . thank you, I guess," Rose replied, unsure of what to say. Nobody had complimented her in such a way before. "But we're not. . . I mean. . ." She struggled to find the right words. "We never. . . we're only acquaintances."

"What a pity. This camp needs to be livened up by a few moans. Now that Gilbert's here, though, I don't think we'll have a problem about that."

Rose blushed, hating herself for feeling her cheeks redden with embarrassment. "You know him?" She said, changing the subject as best she could without raising suspicion. "Gilbert, I mean?"

"Who _doesn't_ know the bastard? He's a good tracker, even better drunk, but a horrible lover." She looked up at Rose and added hastily, "So I've heard."

"You'll find someone. There's a someone for everyone, you just have to be. . . patient." Rose didn't know why she was offering advice in a field she knew nothing about except for the information learned by reading books. She wasn't even sure she was helping matters.

Saria laughed sourly, putting down her sword. "You're an idiot if you believe in those faerie-tales. You must be a maiden still if you say things like that." Her red eyes burned into Rose, so she couldn't help but avoid her staring gaze.

"Men like maidens the best," Saria continued. "It makes them feel special. Like they have something brand-new all to themselves. You don't belong here. You belong in a nice house dressed up in lace and married to a rich man with children. You're like a ghost from a storybook, and I think, like all ghosts, you'll die and fade with time."

"That's poetic."

"Aye, I'm a bloody genius, sera, ain't I?" Saria stood. "I'm going to sleep. Unlike you, I have a bedroll and a tent."

"Would you—"

"No," Saria cut off abruptly. "I'm not giving you my bedroll. You can go sleep in the marshes for all I care."

"That's not what I meant, I just—how do you know, about men liking maidens the best?" It was nothing short of an awkward question, and Rose cringed inwardly, hoping no one heard her.

Saria watched her like a hawk. "They want something unspoiled, so it gives them greater satisfaction when they ruin a girl. The Nords here like to especially rape Dunmer girls that stay with their families because they can. They say that Elves are beneath them and their stupid bloody savage ways, but they obviously aren't opposed to defiling them, calling it 'justice' all the while." Saria took a step forward, her ruby-red eyes burning a hole right through Rose.

She finally stepped back. "Not all men are bad. The idiots are the good ones." She offered Rose a sour grin before retrieving her sword and vanishing into the sprawled camp.


	21. Chapter 21: Reacquaintance

Chapter 21: Reacquaintance

Her stomach rumbled, and she twisted uncomfortably.

Rose had drunk much more water than she intended during the day and a few hours into the night, and she desperately needed to go. _Bad_. Her bladder was full to the point of bursting, and not even contorting herself into different positions was helping anymore.

She couldn't hold it much longer, but she was terrified of using a public latrine. When she traveled with Gilbert and her platoon, they were always able to go relieve themselves alone or in groups of the same gender not far from where they camped. She didn't understand why she couldn't do that now, the sentries turning her back at the perimeter and telling her to go use the ditches. In front of everyone.

There was no way in hell she was doing that.

But now it seemed that she didn't have much of a choice. She could either wet her pants, or bare herself into of everyone.

Riah had merely cackled like a crow when Rose confessed her worries, hoping for some advice or comfort. "It's not like they haven't seen a bush before, now have they? You have to go _sometime_, Rose, or you'll piss your breeches and be known as a thick-headed idiot.

That was also the last thing she wanted, but at the same time she couldn't hold it anymore. Desperation won out over dignity, and Rose stood stiffly upright.

There wasn't anybody else near the fire, everyone off sleeping in their tents or bedrolls. She prayed it would stay that way, winding her way north past the captain's tent. She could briefly see Hadvar's outline as he stood over something. Her nerves took a hold of her and she scurried away like a timid mouse.

An owl hooted off in the distance, and she watched the sentries patrol with potions of night-eye attached to their leather belts. There were three of them, hooded and cloaked with their cowls pulled down over their faces. One had a bow, while another carried a broadsword and the third seemed to be unarmed. Rose took him for a mage.

The latrine ditches were blessedly deserted, and a sentry wasn't in sight. She wasted no time in shoving her breeches down and making water, the cold night air nippy on her skin.

The trees loomed menacingly to each side of her, their shadows taking on strange shapes to the naked eye. A wolf howled way off in the distance, and the owl hooted again in response.

She used to love owls, watching them late into the night back home in Daggerfall. The barn owls were her favourite, their melancholy faces striking a chord deep within her heart. Rose fondly remembered she always used to make up stories about them, usually involving an enchanted prince. If Saria was right, then her nonsense as a child had been nothing more than a waste of time. She almost felt ashamed of herself.

Rose turned and laced her breeches back up, taking a few steps into the wood and feeling much better. Decomposing leaves, soft needles and rotted soil crunched beneath her feet as she walked, glancing up every now and then at the sky. The stars looked cold and clear, twinkling brightly like untouchable diamonds.

Rose heard a scuffling noise and looked down just as she ran into a dark shape. Her stomach rose to her throat as she fell back, heart thumping wildly. "Wuh," she said, losing her balance.

The other person almost staggered into her and placed a hand onto her arm, making her panic as she dropped to the ground like a rock.

"FUS," she shouted, head thrown back towards her shoulder as she laid on her back, legs splayed out as a scream was frantically pushing its way up her throat.

"What the. . ."

Sleeping birds scattered from their nests with squawks of distress as Rose fumbled for her sword, mind numb as she cursed herself. _Idiot. . . get the sword. . ._

She faintly heard the sound of people running, and a blinding light was thrust into her vision, making her squint and throw a hand up. Someone had used the spell Candlelight to see better, and when she could see she wished fervently she hadn't.

Soldiers still half-asleep and undressed formed a handful of a group, gaping at the scene before them in astonishment. Rose saw no one but strangers until Riah pushed her way through roughly, much to her relief.

"Goddamn Dragonborn," she said angrily, stepping forward. "What are you—" she stopped as she looked to Rose's left. ". . . Captain?" Riah asked incredulously in disbelief, her eyes drifting back to Rose.

Hadvar had hurriedly pulled his breeches back up, though unable to put them on properly as his other hand gripped his shortsword. He looked confused, his hair in a dishevelled state.

He looked over at Rose and stopped, and she avoided eye-contact with him as she felt her face redden to the shade of a ripe tomato. More people had joined them by this time, including the sentries who must have felt obliged to investigate what was going on.

She tried to stop herself from visibly shaking, her nerves a ragged, frayed bundle collapsing in on itself. Rose had only a faint grasp of how bad the situation looked, but even so she was terrified all the same. This wasn't how she wanted them to meet. She wasn't even sure if she wanted them to meet _at all_. If there was a way she could somehow dig a ten foot hole to bury herself in, Rose would gladly have done it by now, desperate to get away from the prying eyes.

She rose awkwardly, refusing any help and pushing her way quickly through the crowd, frustrated with trying to get away from them. Rose didn't know if they followed her—she didn't look back, staring straight ahead of her instead.

_Where can I go?_ she thought, despairing. The answer was nowhere. She didn't have a tent, or even a bedroll. People would see her by the fire and undoubtedly ask her unwanted questions, and she couldn't very well leave the area.

The truth was hard to accept. She was trapped.


	22. Chapter 22: Past Terror

_A/N: **Bonus** chapter! Because it gives me an excuse to post three of them in one day._

* * *

Chapter 22: A weeping terror

But Rose had to leave the camp, as least for a little while. She shoved her hands into her armpits and walked hurriedly, hoping no one would run into her. No one did.

She barely felt the chill as she stumbled away from the camp, eyes pointed towards nothing in particular as her feet led her willy-nilly. What would happen? Would they go searching for her? Probably not, but she was just randomly assuming things at that point.

The stars seemed even farther away here, mocking her as they sparkled and shone in their constellations. She never felt more alone than at that point. Something hissed softly in the distance, and Rose turned her head vaguely to the sound.

She was in the deep bowels of the marshes, having wandered to the southwest without even realising it. Here there wasn't any living trees, or clumps of foliage to begin with. Rotted half-submerged trunks reached up from murky depths to trip her unsuspecting feet, and she fell more than once, falling clumsily and cursing, her breath fogging in the air.

_Sweet. . . sweet child. Tender flesh. . . hunger consumes me. . ._

Rose lifted her head and stared around the marsh nervously, her body tense. She could have sworn she heard voices not even a few seconds ago. What was happening? She turned her head back in the direction of where the camp lay, and out of the corner of her eye she was a vague white shape.

Rose instantly whipped her body in that direction, but there was nothing to be seen. She must have imagined it, she _had_ to have. It was just her imagination playing tricks on her.

_But if it's not?_ Her heart started to hammer loudly against her chest.

She could hear weeping.

Rose turned and fled, mouth dry with fear as she just started to run, not caring which direction, but she just had to _get away._ She couldn't stay here.

Another misty white shape appeared to her left, sitting on a stump and crying as it stroked something. Rose veered right, hot tears in her eyes. If she had looked back she would have seen the white apparition staring at her with its eyes.

Rose began to sob now, fright consuming her as her breathing became ragged and torn in her chest. She didn't dare stop, she _couldn't_, or something terrible would happen to her.

She didn't know what was happening, she didn't want to know. _I just—I just need—need to get back to camp,_ she thought. Embarrassment was nothing to the fear and terror she was experiencing now.

In the dark she tripped over a rock and fell flat on her stomach, mud splattering her face with a combination of wood rot, fungus and tepid water. Rose gagged out the awful taste and rushed to her knees, mind whirling drunkenly. She froze, the breath gone from her body by the fall.

The weeping was right beside her.

Rose slowly turned her head to the right. An apparition sat next to her, crying as it brushed its opaque hair. The ghost wasn't looking at her, or else didn't see her.

She started to cry silently, holding in the sobs as she sat there, too afraid to move, biting her lip with enough force to draw blood. She felt snot running down her nose as she held her breath. . . _help me_.

The ghost turned.

_Divines._

It was her nightmare. _Mother, _Rose thought dizzily.

_Fucking little whore,_ it intoned, pointing a crooked finger at her as it smiled wickedly, revealing black fangs. _Funny little whore. Let's play a game. Shall I send you to the brothel? Mummy don't beat me! Mummy I'm sorry!_ The apparition bent down over Rose, eyes widening with malice. The eyes were blacker than ebony and completely soulless, devoid of life. Rose could see her own reflection in them, except twisted.

In a blink of an eye the ghost vanished and reappeared on Rose's left, sitting in the same position that she was and less than an inch away. The ghost began to wail as it clawed at its eyes with its fingernails, and a black substance began to ooze down its face. _Let's play a game, Dragonborn! LET'S PLAY A GAME!_

"No! St—stop!" Rose choked out, feeling a wet substance slip and slide down her own face, but when she touched it her cheeks were dry. "Stop this!"

The ghost screamed in response and lashed out, and Rose felt her lips go numb and start to tingle. A cold feeling passed over her, making her feel. . . strange, lifeless. It began to seep into the marrow of her bones, and she felt incredibly chilled.

She raised her hands to her face, but they were the hands of an old woman, wrinkled and veined. _"Stop!"_ Rose sobbed, her chest heaving.

_Let me eat you, tender child! Weep the soul 'til midnight dark, murder the whore with a broom! Murder the whore with a broom!_ The ghost stopped what it was doing and turned, staring at Rose, lifting its hands from its face.

_Mummy, mummy, I'm sorry mummy!_ It mocked, and Rose's screams joined the apparition's.

She drew her sword. _"Feim Zii Gron!"_ Rose felt her body change, felt it shapeshift into an ethereal form as the blood in her veins froze. Her eyes turned to a pale grey, her hair silvered to a translucent platinum.

She ran the apparition through with her sword. "My mother's dead," she whispered softly, dropping her hand away as she watched with the last of her strength.

The ghost screamed and clawed at the hilt of the sword, wailing in an unknown tongue. Rose sat there, entranced. There was an explosion of light, and the apparition vanished into thin air. Rose lowered the hand that shielded her eyes after a few moments.

A light breeze stirred her hair, and she began to laugh like a madwoman before she collapsed.

* * *

_**Reviews: **_

_**Rashatemple: **I hope the last chapter satisfied you, lol. It was pretty awkward to write, so overall I'm satisfied with it. :)_


	23. Chapter 23: Silver-haired doll

_A/N: I just put this in the first chapter, but this story does not follow the in-game main questline. Instead, I will be writing my own story with brief mentions of the Skyrim MQ. Sometimes you will come across familiar scenes that I feel are necessary, but I am making them very different from what you're used to, so nothing feels boring or repetitive. This is straight fanfiction. (Silly me, I should have mentioned it earlier.)_

_And for those of you wondering why I'm updating on Monday; I have no idea if I'll be home the latter part of this week. I'd rather be safe than sorry, so if I am home during that time you'll get two more chapters on the weekend. Yaaaaay!_

* * *

Chapter 23: Silver-haired doll

She woke up suddenly, her eyelids fluttering open as she gasped for breath. When she sat up she saw she was next to a lake, the rushes a deep green colour that matched a flawless emerald for its hue.

Rose stood uncertainly, her legs shaking but firm. She breathed slowly, looking around her. A forest stood a good ways off, their leaves swaying ever so gently in an undetectable breeze. Her limbs ached like she had run a mile nonstop, and her throat was dry.

She moved to the lake next to her, a fog slowly moving away in painted swirls as she walked through it. Rose pushed the reeds and bulrushes to the side and sat down near the edge, the water perfectly clear and still, like she was looking in the mirror.

She bent down and scooped the clear water up, the evening sun catching the bright droplets as it does on a spider's web. It tasted pure and sweet, cooling her mouth and easing away the headache she had.

When she looked down she saw her reflection, and almost cringed. Her hair was ragged, she had dark circles under her eyes, and there was a hungering look to her face, as if she was a wild starved animal that had nothing to eat. Rose didn't like that look at all.

The reflection changed. Her face became thinner, her nose pinched, her eyes swollen and angry. She clutched the sand and dirt around her in surprise, almost falling into the water. _Mother, _Rose thought, her chest hurting.

"Mum," she said out loud, her face flinching as she turned away. More fog had drifted in, creating a barrier so she couldn't move away, frozen to the spot like a caught deer.

_Who are you?_ A voice whispered softly, and she looked around wildly. No one was there.

"Where. . ." Her lips moved like they were frozen. Who said that? She could have sworn that she'd heard that voice before. It belonged to. . . It was. . .

Suddenly the memories came pouring back, vivid and fast and eye-blurring so much so that they hurt. "Make it stop," she cried out, clutching her head with both hands as if in great pain, crouching down. "I am nothing!"

* * *

_Her mother stood before her five years before, holding a splintery broomstick. She looked the same, dressed in a woollen dress. "You bloody _whore_," she spat angrily, raising the broom and bringing it down. "I hope your husband beats you when I sell you off! You don't deserve happiness you thieving little harlot!"_

_Rose sobbed and huddled in a corner, raising a small hand in defence. "Mummy stop!" She had screamed, crying_ _as the broom was brought down again and again. "Stop, stop, I'm _sorry_, I won't ever eat again!" She could feel the merciless wood against her bruised skin over and over, her ragged gown more a hindrance than a help. It showed more than it covered, and she had worn the tattered thing her whole life, not hardly allowed another dress. She didn't deserve one, as her mother put it. Especially not after taking a piece of bread without asking for it._

_Later that same night she stood before a cracked mirror in the dank cellar, looking at herself. _I'm ugly, _she had thought.__ Some of her pale hair had been torn off in clumps, and her face was mottled with angry-looking bruises. Rose cried out in heartfelt fury and had thrown a sharp rock at the mirror, shattering it into a hundred thousand pieces of sharp glass_.

_She had gotten a worse beating for breaking that, but at least she wouldn't have had to see herself anymore._

Hundreds of painful memories flashed by, making her dizzy as they were hurtled blindingly fast until a different one came, replacing the previous. Rose sat there by the lake, unable to move as her mouth went dry from the pain and fear. It was as if she were experiencing everything all over again.

_In High Rock the summers were usually warm and the winters mild, but that particular winter had been the worse one yet in recorded history, though nothing compared to the ones in Skyrim. Icicles hung from every roof and barn, and snowdrifts reached up to Rose's thighs wherever she walked. It was bitterly cold, and the wind would come howling, sounding like a furious demon as it cut through all your layers of toasty wool and fur right to the marrow of your bone, chilling you instantly. But she didn't have those extra layers to protect her._

_Rose had been sent outside to scrub pots and pans, her mother having guests over for dinner that night. She hated it when that happened, because her mum would hide her in a broomcloset. If it was her friends it was worse, because she was paraded out and laughed at. Once her mother had even forced her to. . ._

No. She silently choked. Not even in her memories that came against her will would she think of that.

_Rose itched her rough, leather collar. It had her name and address branded into it with an iron, that way if she ran away and someone saw her they could return her like a piece of property to her mother. It was only openable with an iron key, and Rose hadn't had the heart or courage to steal it from her mum. She barely had the bravery to look at other people._

_The cold bit into her exposed skin, making her bite her lip until she drew blood, tasting it in her mouth and gums. The soap was a harsh lye and bleached her skin, making it sting for hours on end afterwards. It didn't help that the pots were absolutely filthy, and the water into which she plunged them was freezing to the touch, ice forming on the edges. It had been hot inside the house, but then she too had also been warm._

_A few hours in the callous chore Rose had spotted two young girls walking side by side. They were dressed with silk and samite with fur cloaks and mittens on top, fluttering ribbons in their styled hair. Oh, how beautiful they looked to her childish eyes, how princess-like. In truth they were hardly more than middle-class, but to a ragged waif like Rose they were royalty, queens and princesses. She imagined that they had stunning crowns and tiaras they would put on at home, and suitors by the dozens who would bring them flowers and chocolates. She had never tasted a chocolate before._

_Rose had took a break from her task for a minute, her thin arms shaking from the cold as she gazed after the girls with longing admiration. She would have sworn afterwards that they had worn diamonds on their fingers and throats._

_As they passed by on the cobbled street, one happened to glance over and see Rose sitting there on the stoop, watching them. Just in case she did have the nerve to try and bolt, her mother had tied a rope about her waist and fastened it to the door, trapping her so that she couldn't move more than four feet in either direction. She tried biting it once, but the taste had been so awful she immediately spit it back out._

_The young girls stopped, and one of them made a clucking sound with her tongue like she was disappointed. Rose would never forget her blue eyes, the kind of blue you could drown in. Icy, but sweet at the same time._

_Her friend whispered something in her ear that sounded like, "Rat bait," and they both laughed before moving on. Rose's heart ached to go with them, to laugh and be a princess, but reality returned and she bent her head to her chore. She had to concentrate._

_Not ten minutes later she heard whistling, and when she looked up a young man was walking down the street, in the same direction the girls were. Her heart sunk when she saw how handsome he was, and she glanced away quickly, scrubbing the pots and pans with a fierceness she didn't know she had. What would she be to him? Nothing. Nothing at all._

_"Hello," he said. Rose ignored him. Didn't he see that she was busy? She wasn't worth the time to talk to, she had work to do._

_A few moments of silence passed, and she began to think that he had gone on his way before he said, "You look very pretty, Rose."_

_When she heard that she began to cry. "Can you take me away?" She asked hopefully. She couldn't run away by herself, but with someone else's help. . ._

_"No," he replied gently. "I'm sorry. You have to do that by yourself." He was leaning on the rickety wooden fence that separated the yard from the street. It wasn't much of a yard, though, as it was covered in the patchy snowdrifts of winter. Even in the summer hardly any living grass grew, just mostly thorny weeds. Rose supposed looking back that it was fitting; the house she had lived in was broken-down as well._

_"I. . . I can't. Look, _look_ at me." She wiped her snotty nose on her sleeve. "Ju-just go away. She'll _kill_ me if she sees you." As if afraid that would happen at any moment, she kept looking over her shoulder at the door._

_"Oh, come now, I don't think that'll happen. You haven't become aware of your destiny yet, and it hasn't become aware of you."_

_"What did you s-say?" Rose asked, bewildered as she dropped her scrubbing cloth._

_In response he smiled and stood upright, continuing on his unknown journey and leaving her confused at his gibberish._

* * *

"Make it stop!" Rose yelled, opening her eyes with a start. The flood of painful memories had vanished, and she sat there shaking violently. She wasn't by the glassy lake anymore, but instead in the middle of a garden. There was a marble fountain to her left, the figures in it naked lovers embracing as water spewed from their mouths.

She rose unsteadily, calming herself down. All pain had left her, but she was still incredibly uneasy. Rose had no clue where she was. She finally decided to follow a cobbled stone path, watching bluejays and nightingales and sparrows alike flutter over her head as they twittered. She moved around a bend and what she saw startled her.

Life-size china dolls and glass soldiers stood in each side of the road, bent in different positions. The road itself was checkered, and the shrubbery behind the dolls were cut into fantastic shapes, shadowing the figures with black and greys.

Rose walked down it, eyes darting everywhere nervously. The china dolls were lovely to look at, the soldiers exciting, but she was afraid that one of them would come to life suddenly. It wasn't until she was already halfway down the path that she realised the soldiers were from the Legion, and the dolls were people she knew.

She stopped in astonishment at one that looked exactly like her. It was dressed in a deep burgundy gown, long dagged sleeves trimmed with fur almost reaching the black-and-white checkered floor. The chest was slit down to the stomach, and a cloth-of-silver fabric lined with lace was beneath it as a covering. Her hair was a bright platinum, a golden crown on her head. The doll's face was an ivory-white, and Rose could see tiny little porcelain cracks forming under the skin. When the doll opened her emerald eyes, Rose took a step back in alarm.

The figure looked at her quizzically, like she was wondering why Rose was even there in the first place, tilting her head to the side. She bit her glass lips, then held out a stained cloth animal with a small arm. Rose watched her, then tentatively took it. As she did, the china doll began to cry. The teardrops slipped from her face to the floor, shattering into shards of glass.

"Queen," the doll murmured quietly, and Rose realised that all the other figures had come to life, reenacting out scenes of love and battle and everything in between. One was brushing her hair, some were dancing, and a group of the soldiers were fighting against each other.

Rose looked at the doll, and when she did she sucked in a breath to keep from crying as her eyes moistened. It was Raggen, a stuffed doll that she made as a child out of scraps of whatever she could find back in High Rock. It was ragged, torn, stained, and the straw stuffing was coming out, but Rose clutched it to her small chest all the same. When she was younger she had been terrified that her mother would find it and take it away.

"Thank you," she whispered quietly, but the china figure didn't even seem to hear.

The other dolls never once looked at her, or even recognised her, making Rose feel invisible. They were still mesmerising to watch all the same.

She saw Gilbert drinking out of a glass tankard, and then later on with a woman in bed. Hadvar was there kissing someone in a doorway, and Riah and General Tullius were talking. An Altmer mage was reading, and there was a man tossing an apple back and forth as he watched her.

And there was a black dragon.

Rose heard the distant roar, then the very ground beneath her feet shook with tremours. When she glanced behind her, she saw a monstrous glass creature—it could only be a dragon. With ruby eyes and black scales it swooped down, roaring. She screamed and began to run, feet kicking up small clouds of dust.

The figures around her reacted violently, surging forward and racing to the china doll that looked exactly like her, drawing their swords and shouting, sounding for all the world like a babbling brook.

The dragon took no interest in them, but moved towards Rose instead, and her stomach flew to her mouth. She turned and veered off the path, running willy-nilly and dodging around the fantastic shrubbery, eyes wide and mouth parted for air as she ran.

She heard a shout and instinctively dived, feeling a wall of heat pass her and consume the foliage to her left. Off in the distance a glass figure screamed as they were melted into nothingness.

Rose dashed into a headlong sprint, hearing the dragon's wings behind her. She didn't have to turn her head to know how much he hated her, hated every fibre of her being.

She was to be his undoing.

Rose glanced a door out of the corner of her eyes, and ran towards it. It was blue and faded, windows near the top. By the looks of it it had taken a harsh beating, but at that point she hardly cared. She needed to escape, _anything_.

Rose yanked open the handle and spinning, slammed the door shut firmly. It shook crazily under the impact of the dragon as the monster screamed aloud in fury, and for some amazing reason the door stood standing.

She turned around slowly, breathing a silent prayer of thanks in her mind. What she saw before her made her eyes widen and stopped her breath short.


	24. Chapter 24: Blind eyes

Chapter 24: Blind eyes

Rose realised that she had lost Raggen during her escape from the dragon, and her heart sank a little at the discovery. It had been so long since she'd seen it, it was a type of agony to be torn from it again. She didn't care how old she was, the doll had more importance to her than a mansion or palace. It was the only thing that had comforted her in those dark times—and she knew how stupid it sounded, but she didn't even have the time to say _goodbye_ to it.

Rose wiped her eyes hurriedly with the back of her hand and looked around her, determined not to cry over a toy. At least not right now.

She was in a torture room of sorts. Different devices hung on the walls and ceiling, hanging down into her vision. There was a coffin with spikes inside it, an iron brazier with heated tongs, and multiple shackles chained to the wall. One had a skeleton hanging to the rusted chains, tatters of rotten cloth still clinging to its mildewed bones.

Rose tried to shut her eyes to the impaling stakes. Beyond the glowing brazier, the room was dim. A foul smell pervaded her nose, smelling of shit and human misery. Crimson blood streaks were all over the floors and walls, smeared handprints in some of them. The words _HELP ME_ were clumsily scrawled near a pair of irons.

Rose heard a shattering scream, a scream that made her heart pound and want to throw up. She knew who made that sound. _I scream that way,_ she thought, terrified. A bear roaring loudly drowned out all other thoughts, making her head ache something awful.

The scene changed rapidly, and she saw a volcano erupt. Ash scattered everywhere, landing and burying trees, plants, and animals alike with a thick, sprawling dust. It was kind of like a black snow, and the smell of sulphur was thick in the air, choking out all other scents.

A black rose was growing in the midst of everything. Its petals curled and glimmered, seeming to thrive on the ash and desolation, even in the middle of nowhere.

The sun burst through a group of grey clouds and landed on the rose, shining brightly. The flower began to burn and smoulder, going up in flames as it shrivelled. Rose hissed and closed her eyes as her teeth elongated painfully, her skin burning up like her namesake. She felt her lungs crisp like bacon, and opened her mouth to cry out.

She faintly heard a voice ask, _What are you?_

Rose opened her eyes slowly.

She was on a marble balcony, with colonnades to either side. Soft rugs padded her feet, and up ahead at a small table laden with a banquet Akatosh sat reading quietly, facing the spectacular view of mountains in front of him.

_Those_ _are_ _the_ _mountains by Helgen,_ Rose realised, surprised. She hadn't known that there was a balcony here so high up. But then again, maybe there wasn't. It was currently afternoon, and the sun warmed the mountains to soft greys and blues that were easy on the eyes. It was strange, but the sun didn't burn her now as it previously did.

Rose walked and sat down across from him. She started when she realised she was a child again, but garbed in clothes that would humble a king. She didn't _feel_ different, but when Rose glanced in a standing mirror she saw her younger self. A gossamer crown was placed gently on her head in the shape of a dragon with purple amethyst eyes.

"How are you?" he inquired without looking at her, flipping through the pages of his novel intently. It was written in a language she didn't recognise. Daedric, or maybe Dragon. Or maybe something else entirely. He himself was wearing a golden robe with plain breeches and a black jerkin underneath, tied at the waist with a cream-coloured rope, dragon scales sewn onto the sleeves, and pauldrons made of dragon bone on his shoulders. Next to him was his staff.

"I. . . I'm fine," she lied reluctantly, hesitating sheepishly as she shuffled her feet from side to side.

He looked over at her. "Do you take me for an idiot? I'm a Divine, Rose, I know what you're thinking." Despite his harsh words, his voice was kind and firm.

"If you know already what I'm thinking, then why do you need me to speak at all?" Rose said, exasperated and annoyed. There was a tingling feeling in the back of her mind, like she was missing something—an important piece of a complicated puzzle—but she didn't know what. It was strange to hear her childish voice again. Scary, almost. It sounded very shrill and pained to her ears.

He smiled gently. "Because I want to hear you say it." His eyes looked deep and soulful, watching her with a gaze she couldn't quite comprehend.

The realisation hit her like a boulder, and Rose nearly stood upright from where she'd been sitting across from him. "You. . . you were that. . . that _man_ all those years ago," she said passionately. "Why. . . ?" None of it made sense to her. He was the man in her memories, walking up to her, talking to her. _You haven't become aware of your destiny yet. _The words choked her. Blinded her.

"What are you, Rose?" Was Akatosh taunting her? She couldn't tell. She knew stories of people being so deceptive that they fooled themselves, but he looked so honest. _As if he cares for me. _

"I'm nothing." Rose felt like she was going to cry again. Her emotions seemed to never end, making her feel like a fool in front of everyone.

"No," he said, "you are more important to me than all of creation." He took her hand as they both stood. His brown eyes never left her face as he studied her. "It is not a shame to cry. It is not a weakness. Rather, is it a sigh of strength because you care enough to feel."

It was night, and they stood under a canopy of shattered stars.

"What do you see?" he asked softly.

She didn't reply for a while, merely craned her head back and looked up, complying with his request. "I see a sky full of stars," she said finally. "I see constellations and planets." They were mesmerising, much more colourful and large than the ones back on soil. Rose wondered if they had legends weaved around them like the ones back home did.

"Is that all that you see?" he questioned, withdrawing his hand.

"Yes. . .?" Rose didn't know if she was saying the wrong answer. Maybe she had upset him, somehow.

He gestured around them. "And what do you see down here?"

"On Nirn, you mean?" Rose glanced around carefully. "We're in a forest, right at the beginning of spring, it looks like. There's a small pond over there, and trout leaping from it." She pointed, then remembered the lake from earlier and couldn't help but shiver.

Akatosh sighed wearily. "How can you expect to rise if you're blind to everything you see?"

Rose looked severely indignant. "What am I blind to?"

"Life, mal osley. You need to open your eyes."

"They _are_ open," she insisted. "Are _you_ blind?"

He smiled as he asked, "Are they? Would you like to see what a dragon sees?" His eyes were suddenly golden, taking her aback. Horns were atop his head, and his teeth were like fangs. She wasn't in the least frightened. For an inexplicable reason, Rose knew—rather _felt_—that he would never harm her.

"I. . . " She hesitated. Did she? What did the dragons see, exactly? The way he phrased it made it sound unknown. Rose had sometimes experienced what it was like when her dragon blood took control of her soul counterpart, but would this somehow be different?

Akatosh leaned in close. "Would you like to fly?" His fangs shimmered in the night as he smiled, pupils flashing.

She couldn't resist.

"Yes," she said, smiling shyly back.

* * *

_A/N: Mal osley means little flower in Dovahzul (aka Dragon Language). Would you like me to put translations of the Dovahzul they speak at the bottom of chapters? If so, I will go back to previous chapters and add them, and put them in newer ones as well._

_Fun fact! Did you know that the last Dragonborn is not able to actually kill Alduin? As Akatosh's first-born and an aspect of Akatosh himself he can only be defeated, not destroyed. So at the end of the Nirn we know and time itself he will reappear again to devour the world so Akatosh can make a new one—it's an endless cycle. Akatosh creates Nirn, Alduin devours it, Akatosh creates a new Nirn with completely different races, geography etc, Alduin destroys it—and because there will be no more Dovahkiins left he'll succeed in his conquest. Also, before he became greedy and wanted mortals to be his slaves in the Dragon War, Alduin was not viewed as evil. _

* * *

_**Reviews:**_

_**Chris the Metis:** Well, thank you. :) It helped that I wrote that at like 3am. With the lights on, of course. . ._

_**RashaTemple:** Most definitely! I myself am not too comfortable with it beyond briefly alluding to the subject—I always try to get out of my comfort zone to better my writing, though. My readers are very important to me, and I would never want you to read something you're uncomfortable with, so if I ever have a chapter with an actual scene of that—and torture as well. Both are sensitive subjects and I respect that; I tend to write these things tentatively—I will post a warning, with a brief run-down of what had happened in the next chapter, minus the obvious. Or, if you do want to read that particular chapter and just not that scene, I will put in a line so you know where to stop. Either way, you don't miss any plot. I was actually going to have a warning of that if it ever came up. :)_

_Unfortunately, back then in Medieval Times women were not respected and were commonly treated poorly beyond nobility—and even then, they couldn't choose who to marry; hence one of the reasons it was called the Dark Ages. It was quite common for that horrific thing to happen to women in the Vikings conquest days, or even in everyday life if a man wanted her and she wasn't strong enough to repell him. Thank goodness for modern times. _

_Whew! That was the longest answer to a review I've ever written. It's probably longer than one of my chapters, lol. _


	25. Chapter 25: Reality

_A/N: Here's a really awkward chapter for you, especially if you're a bloke (guy). I mean really, really awkward. I honestly haven't seen anyone else with a chapter written like this. Enjoy!_

Chapter 25: Reality

Rose woke up slowly, her limbs aching. She felt cold, and her armour was stiff to the touch. She panicked for half a heartbeat, not recognising where she was. Rose rubbed her eyes like a small child does, sitting up abruptly as she took a sharp intake of breath.

It left her mouth in a rush as she felt a pain in her side, like there was ice in her veins and flesh. She looked down and saw with surprise that she was on a bedroll, a thin blanket spread carefully across her.

Rose pushed it aside, taking in her surroundings with sleep-ridden eyes. She was in a drafty canvas tent, with a makeshift table next to her and her knapsack by her side. An end table was near the entrance flap, with a clay water jug and a flickering lantern. She could dimly make out the faded sigil of the Legion insignia by the flap, and the relief Rose felt was overwhelming.

She was. . . drained. There was a tingling feeling in the back of her mind, that told her something was _off._ Rose didn't remember any of the tents being this big. Her heart flew to her mouth as realisation hit her, just as the entrance was opened.

She almost leapt to her feet as Hadvar walked in.

Their eyes met as he closed the tent flap, and she felt absurdly guilty, like she had deceived him somehow.

"How are you?" he asked mildly, taking a few steps forwards.

"I'm fine," Rose said gently, embarrassed as she shifted her hazel eyes away from him, drawing her legs up to her small chest subconsciously.

There was an awkward, strange silence between them as he went to the table, and Rose wanted desperately to disappear more than anything. Their last encounter certainly didn't help things. She settled for burying her head into her knees.

He gathered up a worn map and some greyish-black charcoal, his brown eyes expressive as he glanced back at her. There was a warmth in them she didn't quite expect when she looked back up. "So. . . you're the Dragonborn," Hadvar said, giving her an appraising look. "I heard you killed a dragon single-handedly and saved Whiterun."

"Is that what they say? The tales seem to get more lucrative each time they're told." Rose smiled quietly to herself, not entirely displeased with the notion.

"General Tullius never mentioned you in the letters he sent. To be honest, I was expecting the Dragonborn to be someone. . . " He looked indecisive, like he wanted to say something he shouldn't. ". . . someone taller."

"Most people say that," Rose said, trying to make light of the uncomfortable situation. There was a tension between them, and she tried to forget the fact that he'd seen her naked several times. He was a full man grown, he had probably seen hundreds of women. Probably kissed them too. The sight of her wouldn't have provoked anything. She wasn't that pretty to someone like him, surely.

Lost in her own thought, Rose glanced back at him and saw that he was looking strangely at her legs.

"You. . . you have. . ." It was like he didn't know what to say, or how to phrase it. ". . . Your legs," Hadvar finished uneasily.

Rose gave him a confused sideways look, then glanced down. She wanted to cry out when she saw that her legs were crusted with dried blood. There was fresh blood on the bedroll as well, sticky in the dim light. As if to embarrass her further, more came when she put slight pressure on her thigh and a heat of discomfort washed over her lower stomach.

"I'm sorry." Hadvar said awkwardly, looking at his bedroll where most of the blood was.

Rose bit her lip, abashed. She wanted to choke herself. _He sleeps here,_ she thought dizzily. As if things couldn't get worse. "I. . ." She didn't know what to say. An apology seemed rather weak, but she did just. . . _Oh, Gods._

_Divines._ The mellow way he looked at her with his eyes didn't help anything. Rose was ashamed of herself. She could taste blood on her tongue from biting so hard.

"I'll. . . send someone in," he said finally, leaving the tent with the map and closing the flap behind him.

Rose wanted to throw something as soon as he left. Why was this happening to her? She hated the attention, because it was focused solely on her. That always meant that it was bad. Rose's mind was numb as she recalled why she was even in here in the first place. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Saria walked in a some minutes later with a scowl planted firmly on her angled face. The glare only deepened when she saw Rose, eyebrows furrowed. "Bloody hell," she said, "you just _had_ to go do this now, didn't you. You must have been starved for attention as a child. Here." She tossed a small vial, which Rose thankfully caught, fumbling with it.

It was made of coloured glass, the liquid inside a pale purple as it sloshed around. "What's this?" Rose asked, fiddling with it nervously.

"What do you think it is, idiot?" Saria snorted in annoyance. "It'll help relieve your symptoms. You're going on the mission."

"I—what mission?" Rose said, startled. Nobody had mentioned a mission to her as of yet, so to be suddenly told so _now_ was a little disconcerting.

"To infiltrate Fort Snowhawk," Saria stressed. "Hadvar didn't want you to be a part of anything, worried that you'd somehow hurt yourself. Looking at you now," Saria said snidely, but in good humour, "I can see where he's coming from. Anyways Riah was adamant you come with her and Adran on the infiltration, and the captain couldn't really say no."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you gormless? You of all people should know what Riah can be like." Saria huffed impatiently, as if it was obvious.

"Not that," Rose said, "I meant, what do you mean you say that you see where he's coming from?"

"Oh, I don't know," Saria said sarcastically, leaning up against one of the wooden tent poles. "We only found you in the middle of the marshes, looking like a corpse. Everyone thought you were dead. This was after we heard you screaming bloody murder for miles, of course. Not to mention Shouting. Strange the mages didn't hear you. They must be stupider than we realised." Saria gave her an insulting smile.

Rose gave an involuntary shudder, remembering. . . remembering. Her hands began to shake. _Do you want to play a game?_ The voice was haunting in her head.

"What's wrong with you?" Saria asked pointedly. "I'm beginning to think that you're just a vain little girl with an empty head who enjoys attention. Being Dragonborn certainly hasn't helped your ego, if that's the case."

"Shut up," Rose snapped angrily in response. "I'm fine." Saria's comments were starting to get to her. She was getting to be tired of mocked and the sole object in people's comments. Rose realised she couldn't very well tell them what she saw, what she had been through. They wouldn't believe her. That was the terrifying part. Everyone thought that ghost stories simply stayed stories, until of course it happened to _them._ But it hadn't. It had happened to her, and she wondered if the only person who would remotely understand was Riah. It wasn't a comforting thought, thinking of her likely reaction.

She uncorked the bottle in a fluid motion, draining it with a glare at Saria, an angry fire burning in her eyes. The liquid tasted of ambrosia, pleasant and light on the tongue, and reminiscent of almonds. Rose found that she was wanting more after it was all gone, the smell lingering around her in the air.

"You can clean yourself up," Saria said huffily, giving her a canteen of water and towels. "No one offered to donate any knickers, so you're on your own."

"You told them?" Rose said, mortified.

Saria's face was stone-like. "No," she said bitterly. "I made innuendoes about you and the captain. Of course I told them. You think they'd just donate some of their underwear for no reason? Not that they did anyway."

"I have my own," Rose replied defensively. " I just don't think it was necessary for you to have told them."

"Well, you should have said something to me before I told anyone. It's not my fault." She glanced at the canteen. "That's marsh water, by the way. We're not wasting water so you can take a bath. Enjoy."

Saria stopped at the exit. "I'd go see Riah after this. They're actually all talking about the details right now. Let's just hope you're as skilled as she claims."

When Rose had some privacy she changed, scouring her legs clean until they were raw and red as a tomato, then cleaning the bits of her armour that needed it. She also tried desperately to get the stains out of the bedroll, but no matter how hard she scrubbed they stayed put. If anything, they seemed to get darker and more embedded into the fabric.

She felt horrified, more so because she was the cause of it. Rose decided to buy Hadvar a new one after getting out of this mess. She'd find the money somehow, someway.

The potion had to have taken effect, because she already felt miles better than earlier. There was a strength Rose hadn't felt, and her stomach pain had eased considerably, letting her think more clearly without hindranced by pain.

Rose walked over to the tent's flap, then stood indecisively, mustering up her courage. She had to go outside, to report to Riah on whatever she was supposed to do. But she'd see Hadvar, and everyone else. The embarrassment would be insurmountable. They would be talking about her, wouldn't they? Some Dragonborn she was.

_Act like a soldier,_ Rose scolded herself harshly. _You're not a little girl anymore. Just grow up._ She was going to face her worries eventually, so why not now? It wasn't like she could hide in the tent forever. It wasn't even hers to begin with.

_Stop being a lovesick whore._ She heard her mother's voice in the back of her mind, and it decided her. She had gone through most of her life with that nagging, and she wanted it to stop. Now.

* * *

They were congregated mostly around the fire, the map spread out next to them. the star-speckled night sky looked down at as they argued quietly. Hadvar looked up first at her approach, and the others soon followed suit when she was noticed. Gilbert was toying with a iron dagger fondly, while Riah had a skin of wine next to her feet. There was mage with curling blonde hair and pale eyes, and the way he looked at Rose sent shivers down her spine.

Everyone else looked to be asleep or eating supper, hardly sparing her a glance. She felt vastly relieved.

"You're awake," Riah said cheerfully. "It's good you're not dead. I never worried, though." She glanced back at the map. "How soon can we start?"

"So eager, aren't you dear sister," Gil said, tossing his dagger up and down fluently as he smiled. "You have to remember the sentries."

"As if I forgot. We'll be going through the cave, so I hardly think they'll post guards where they dump their sewage."

For a moment Rose though she had misheard. "Did you say. . . sewage?" she asked, moving closer. _That's not possible._ It seemed so. . . disgusting.

The sorcerer answered her. "We discovered a natural cave situated under the fort, with a tunnel that leads directly onto a running stream beneath it. So. . . yes, we did say sewage. The mages use it for dumping excrement and discarded matter, as the Legion did before them. With luck there won't be sentries posted except on the walls, so we'll be able to get in with relative ease."

"_I_ discovered the cave," Gilbert said proudly. "Not _we,_ Adran. Without me you'd all be walking in circles."

"Could you not be the arrogant idiot you always are?" Hadvar asked. "The mission is a bit more important than you're self-important attitude. Yes, you found the cave but any talented tracker could. If you're looking to impress me, you can volunteer for the infiltration and see if any of your boasts have real substance."

Gil grinned. "I'll leave the impressing to my sister and Adran. And Rose," he added, flashing a smile at her briefly. "I've done enough work, in my opinion."

"I could care less for your opinion." Hadvar said bitterly.

"Then why am I here?" Gilbert countered. "It's just to see me again, isn't it? That's why you never had any success with girls!" he exclaimed in mock surprise, eyes widening ridiculously.

"Of course I like girls," Hadvar retorted sharply, annoyance on his face. "That's beyond the point. I put my duty and military service first, instead of superfluous flirtation." He turned to the mage Adran. "Do you have the masks?"

"I do," Adran responded solemnly, pulling them out from his satchel. He wore the cuirass of an Imperial soldier, with the sleeves and legs modified. He had dark brown leather gauntlets on his wrists, and small pauldrons to protect his shoulders. Around his neck a small silver clasp held together a cloak dyed mottled hues and weaved with bits of foliage. All in all he made a strange sight, with his hair and eyes that seemed colourless and devoid of expression.

The masks were made of a coarse green substance studded with small steel bolts, and covered the mouth and upper jaw, excluding everything above the nose. There was a soft brown fabric interwoven with certain parts, and the masks themselves glowed faintly.

There were three of them, and Adran handed one to Riah and Rose each, keeping one for himself. "They're enchanted," he explained, "so they'll keep any foul air pollutions and water from entering your system. The masks filter in oxygen with Alteration, so when you first put them on it'll feel funny, off."

"I feel funny all the time," Riah jested, slipping the mask into a small bag.

Rose wanted to ask why she was even going with the two in the first place, beyond Riah's insistence, but didn't want to appear the fool. Instead she said, "When do we leave?"

"It's too late now," Hadvar said, looking at her. "Tomorrow night will work best. It gives you more time on your hands, and it'll let Riah and Adran explain everything to you, and gives me time to prepare everyone else for the attack."

A rough realisation of the plan formed in her head, albeit fragmented. "You want an infiltration unit to kill the sentries and let everybody in without setting the alarm off." Rose turned her eyes to Riah, panicked. They said, _Why me?_

Riah smiled indiscreetly as if in response and put a finger to her lips, drawing her feet up.

"Exactly," Hadvar said. "With our luck and Adran's help, we should be able to pull this off."

Rose looked in confusion to the mage. Hadvar made it seem like Adran rarely contributed, or that his help was singular. Adran, seeing her expression, elaborated. "I'm not with the Legion," he said impassively. "Just. . . temporarily for right now. I help them, they help me." His eyes moved to the rock next to him, indicating for her to sit down.

Hadvar stood. "I'll leave the map with you. He rubbed his jaw tiredly, and Rose realised that he had stubble. Funny, she didn't notice it before. But then again, the situations with him and been nothing short of awkward. He took his leave for the tent, and Rose realised with dread he'd be going to a stained bedroll. Just thinking about it made her want to hide from him.

Gil stretched. "I should sleep," he said, "everybody knows Captain Prick'll make me get up early."

Riah smiled, the grin faintly resembling a sneer. "You're just jealous of his immaculate military service and performances of duty."

Gilbert muttered something inaudible and moved past Rose, her hands folded into her lap. She had wanted to say something, but the moment passed in a blink of an eye, and she found herself alone with Riah and Adran. The other soldiers seemed to have lost interest, or else decided to get some rest while they could.

Rose looked at Riah. "How long was I. . . out?" she asked tentatively.

"About a day and a half," Riah replied.

Rose was horrified about being unconsciousness for such a long time; strange enough, she wasn't hungry either. "Why did you make Hadvar let you take me with you?" she said, asking another question and wanting to change the subject abruptly. Besides, she was burning with curiosity to know, and since there was only the three of them she deemed it was safe enough to ask.

Riah shrugged. "You mean I persuaded him to let you come? That man is damnably protective of you, for some reason. Almost. . . questionably so. It was more difficult than I thought, but in the end he couldn't resist my charm." She smiled affably.

"You still didn't answer my question," Rose responded. She was momentarily distracted by Adran taking out a small journal and reading from it. Everything he did, even if it was the simplest of actions, was. . . strange. Different. A strange unseen energy seemed to vibrate around him, like a magnetic force she couldn't explain.

"I thought you might be helpful," Riah offered. "You're small, and handy with a sword. Slitting throats'll be easy for someone like you."

"How do you know that?" Rose asked incredulously.

Riah sighed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Because," she stated blatantly. "I watched you in the training yard in Solitude. You're not as furtive as you think. At least for me. _I_ happen to be a master at stealth. But the stupid magicians here shouldn't be a problem for you. Just. . . wait to Shout at them until everybody's fighting. Wouldn't want to ruin everything, of course."

"I'd like to see you Shout firsthand," Adran said softly, eyes looking up over the pages of the journal at Rose. "How many Shouts do you know?"

"I. . . Just a few," she lied. Actually she knew quite more than a few, but Rose didn't feel inclined to trust him.

He seemed disappointed. "You should learn more," he replied, emotionless. For some reason she felt something dangerous in his tone. "Knowledge is power."

Rose sat up straighter when she realised what one of the oddities was. He was a Nord. There weren't any Nord mages, at least none that she knew of. It still didn't explain the energy that pulsatesd around him, or the off feeling she got. It also annoyed her that she hadn't realised he was human until now, like he was trying to put a veil of shadow and illusion over him.

"So," Riah said, kicking a foot up on an empy seat and drawing Rose's thoughts back to the present. "Here's the plan."

_A/N: Just one chapter for this week, sadly. I uploaded this on my iPhone, so if you see any mistakes please point them out. _

* * *

_**Reviews:** _

_**Chris the Metis:** Yes, Akatosh is very interested in her isn't he? Though his reasons as to why are still elusive. _


	26. Chapter 26: Into the beast

Chapter 26: Into the beast

_Still as a shadow. Fearless as a lion. Oh, Gods. . ._

The smell was overpowering, wafting up her nose and down to her lungs, clouding her head with the stench and limiting her movements. It was indescribable, even with the mask on. When Rose first climbed down into the cave, tears stung her eyes from the violent odour. It took all her strength not to vomit or gag on first instinct, repressing a shudder instead.

Riah looked to be no better, the whites of her eyes flashing with disgust, though Adran seemed miraculously unaffected, his pale eyes searching the tunnel as they climbed down single file. The stone walls were slippery with fungus and a dark brown-green slime that oozed all around them. Worse, it seemed _alive,_ pulsating and shifting slightly when they walked past. When Rose looked closer she saw tiny white worms wriggling in the mess, their fat white bodies pale and glistening. She glanced away quickly, her complexion more bloodless than the maggots.

When their boots slushed down into the waste and sewage, Rose couldn't help but flinch, her hazel eyes wafting down to the ground and her feet. She could visibly see the clumps of shit and undigested food, along with the corpses of a few dead rats.

She could hear her breath in her ears, violent and fast as her heart beat wildly in her chest. She felt the mask fogging up and she panicked for half a heartbeat, her nerves strained and sporadic. She feared that all it would take was a simple thing to set her off, reminding her vaguely of a contraption engineers back in High Rock would use; they'd set up explosives, and, using Alterarion magic, they would detonate the device a fair bit of distance away.

Adran chuckled darkly, drawing her back to the present rather harshly. If she didn't know better, Rose could have sworn she saw him smiling to himself.

He whispered, _"Masraan do volok, quarn si bolord."_ And a soft bluish-white light filled the tunnel softly, illuminating a small circle of light as he raised a gloved hand up. Rose watched in fascination as a blue swirl leapt out of his hand and spiralled to the ground, a few inches away from muck. It began to dance away, leaving a trail behind and shimmering faintly.

She knew a few spells herself, but only a few basic ones from instinct. Nobody had taught her anything, and she hadn't dared to ask when she was younger. Rose shook her head to the side. _Fierce as a sabre cat,_ she told herself, trying to calm down. _Still_ _as a mirror._ She had never done anything like this before, and the plan still seemed ridiculously impossible to her. Especially when she remembered what her part to play was; it was highly dangerous, and could easily lead to her death. . . or worse.

_No,_ she told herself, _no. Keep to the. . . the present. If I look away I'm gone, destroyed._

"Won't someone see that?" Riah asked quietly, her voice muffled by her mask as she took a few steps forwards, following the blue trail. The sewage reached to her knees, which made it unfortunately to Rose's thighs.

"Not unless they decide to visit their drainage tunnels in the middle of the night," Adran said softly, making Rose strain her ears to hear him properly.

Riah scoffed. "You better be bloody right, because if we get caught I'm going to strangle you personally." She walked forwards more then stopped and turned back, glaring at the pair of them through her mask. "Are you coming? I'm not going to hold your hand."

"Never thought about it." Adran strolled past confidently, forcing Rose to follow as the trail vanished like smoke after him, curling into thin invisible wisps.

She placed her palm onto the walls for support, grimacing at the slimy texture. In some parts the sewage was heavily watered-down thanks to the unseen stream, to where it was almost clear enough to see through. In other areas it was thick it was like trudging through molasses. They always felt the current, though. Tugging at them gently like a persisent child does when they want something. How deadly that small current could become if they fell wasn't lost on Rose.

There was enough twists and turns to fool a talented tracker if they weren't careful, and after a while Rose's head began to ache and spin. More tunnels and crevasses would appear, only to lead into dead ends. Sometimes the blue trail would lead them astray, only to go dancing back in circles until she wanted to shout. It was like she was suffocating in an endless hell, and Rose was beginning to believe she had _always_ been there, walking in a waking nightmare, mind foggy as every cognitive movement she made was getting slower and slower.

Even breathing was become more and more difficult with the masks, the vapours seeping through despite the enchantments carefully placed upon them. She briefly saw a full-grown skeever out of the corner of her eye and jumped, making a frightened noise as it slinked against the wall, baring its yellowed fangs at the trio and snarling.

"Ignore it," Riah murmured. "It probably has enough disease in its bite to paralyse you."

"How—how does that help me ignore it?" Rose gasped out, struggling to walk as sweat plastered her pale hair to her face. She was seeing a mist in her peripheral vision, yet when she glanced to the left or right it disappeared, making her doubt its existence. _Deep as a lake. . . swift as a. . . a mushroom. No, no. . . an elk._

Adran stopped. "There," he said, pointing. Rose vaguely saw a ledge high above their heads, fungus growing all over it profusely. Despair consumed a small part of her. _How can we. . . reach it?_ She was far too short to just jump up and grab it, and she doubted she even currently had the strength to try.

Adran stopped the spell he was casting, and the blue path vanished as Riah moved, unhooking a thin, wiry rope she had weaved into her brown hair, unnoticeable until now. Rose felt an immense relief at seeing this.

Riah gave a low whistle as she swung the rope in a circle a few times, testing the weight cautiously. Taking a deep inhale of breath she swung the rope upwards, the small three-pronged grapple clanging loudly against a few rocks and splashing back into the waste, making Rose's heart pound as her mouth went dry with fear.

Riah cursed a profusion of colourful oaths, muttering to herself violently as she tried again, and again. On the fourth try it connected, scraping in a horrendous screeching wail against something before settling down with a _clack._ All three of them froze like a rabbit sensing prey, and time seemed agonisingly painful and slow. How long they stood there, Rose couldn't say. Her breath was getting shorter and her vision more clouded with every passing moment.

Finally Riah wiped her hands down and began to climb the rope, feet steadily pushing off of the solid rock in front of her as she ascended with relative ease, her face grim. Adran looked at her, indicating for Rose to go next. She swallowed hard and complied, thin arms shaking with visible effort as she gripped the rope.

Slowly, horrifically slowly she climbed, pulling herself up. Rose had never been physically strong with her upper body strength, and she wanted to curse herself for not being well . . . as good as Riah made it look. Sure, she could lift things, but carrying her body weight was _hard_ for someone like her.

About halfway up her hands started to slip with sweat, and Rose panicked, legs flailing as her arms gave out and she fell. She shouted silently as her stomach flew violently to her throat and she landed back in the sewage, sinking down to the bottom like it was quicksand. A heavy feeling crushed down upon her chest, and Rose shut her eyes, mouth filling with waste as she tried to scream, the sewage breaking into the mask. In a desperate attempt she shot her hand up to the surface, her head dizzy.

She was going to die, wasn't she? Somehow she wasn't very comforted. Rose couldn't even open her eyes, her vision obscured by blackish-brown shit and Divines knew what else. She felt herself being suffocated and shuddered inwardly. _Akatosh. . ._ It was a random thought that leapt out at her in her disoriented mind, struggling to think.

An arm grabbed at her roughly, pulling her up like a rag-doll. Suddenly a blinding light was thrust into her eyes and Rose coughed, chest heaving as she struggled, giving a short burst of a scream before a hand firmly clamped down over her mouth, muffling her.

"Be quiet," Adran said sternly, setting her down. She staggered into the wall closest to her, unable to breathe, to see. She was covered from head-to-toe in filth, an unrecognisable monster.

Rose tried to fling the mask away, but Adran stopped her. "Don't," he warned coldly. "If you take it off, the toxins in the fumes will hurt you, _if_ not kill you. You've already ingested some waste; I can't look at you until later." He raised a hand and casted something green at her, wiping away at her eyes with the hem of his sleeve.

She flinched away at the spell, but something warm spread through her chest, giving her more courage as it calmed her nerves. "What did you do?" she asked, peering up at him nervously. Rose still didn't trust him—nor the entire plan for that matter—and there was a horrible taste in her mouth she couldn't wipe away.

"Something to help you," he responded vaguely. "If you're done with making enough noises to drawn a whole pack of deaf wolves onto us, go and climb the rope again." Rose didn't like his tone, more so the way he made it feel like a command, yet surprisingly she got to her feet, unresisting as she went to the ledge obediently like a thrall. She wanted to shout at herself, but she was already climbing automatically, unable to stop.

Riah helped her over when she reached the top, a worried look on her face. "Why in the bloody hell would you go and do something like that?" she said angrily. "I thought you went and _died _on me,idiot. And here I was thinking I'm responsible for your death." She looked like she wanted to smack Rose on the back of her head.

Rose felt the spell wearing off on her, and her panic returned in a rush. She tore the mask off and began to retch on her hands and knees, her body shaking with effort. Adran climbed over and watched her impassively.

"We should keep moving," he said to Riah. "Every minute we don't is a minute wasted." He looked down at Rose. "You have a vital part to play, Dragonborn. If we wait too long it'll be too late."

Rose coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, instantly regretting it. "You—_you casted a spell on me," _she said, outraged as she looked up at him.

"I also saved your life," Adran said. "Don't leave that part out."

"You—" Rose retched again "—You treated me like a _thrall_." Her breath was coming less and less; if anything the whole stench of the sewer and its fumes were making her dizzy.

"No," Adran said, crouching down next to her. "I casted a spell called Courage on you, or else your panic would have spiralled out of control and you would have kept screaming." He glanced over at Riah, who was coiling the rope back up. "If it's any consolation I won't do it again," he said.

Rose tried to think up of a retort, but couldn't. She struggled to her feet and resisted the effort to clutch her head. "How . . . could anyone drain the. . . the. . ."

He seemed to catch her drift. "It takes awhile for the fumes to have an effect on someone. If you're just dumping out a bucket, there wouldn't be any lasting illnesses done to you. If you fell in the sewage, however. . ."

"I'm fine," Rose stated. "Let's do what we came to do." She coughed and moved away from him, determined to see the mission through. They had already gone too far to turn back.


	27. Chapter 27: Innocent

Chapter 27: Innocent

There was a small set-back iron door leading to a dim cellar, the bars rusted and corroded to disrepair. Riah scoffed and pulled out a small glass vial of oil, rubbing the substance into the hinges smoothly.

"Is it locked?" Adran asked impatiently.

"They'd be idiots if they did. Who would dare break into the fort through the cellars and sewage tunnel?" She gave an innocent smile. "Oi," she said, looking at Rose through her mask. "You don't look so good."

Rose spluttered. "I'm fine," she said tiredly. In truth she was _far_ from okay, but she would have been damned to say so. After being volunteered—without her knowing—to go infiltrate with Riah and Adran, the whole success of the mission resting on their shoulders, Rose couldn't disappoint anyone. She was the _Dragonborn._ She huffed inwardly. _I hate them for this._

_Strong as a castle._ But castles had cracks in the walls, chinks. Rose shoved her feelings away deep down inside her, getting up and walking carefully towards them, ignoring her pain. If she walked any faster she would throw up. There was enough unknown feces on her to satisfy a horde of flies; she wasn't adding to it.

Riah swung the door open silently with a grin. "Told you," she said smugly, reminding Rose of Gil. Adran shrugged in response, moving into the cellar carefully.

Riah watched Rose carefully, her face guarded. "You scared me," she said. "I thought you drowned in sewage."

Rose smiled weakly, swallowing hard as she forced her knees to stay strong. "That would be a shitty way to go."

"Ha, very funny." She followed Rose silently, gripping her covered bow as her eyes darted around the room. Her movements were tense and alert, but she relaxed moments later when the coast was clear, the area deserted.

Rose looked at the cellar. The floors and walls were rough-hewn stone, natural in some parts as glowing mushrooms and fungus clinged tightly to it, glowing softly. Wooden barrels and kegs were stacked messily in a chaotic pattern around her, with rotting wooden shelves above them in disarray. Another wooden door led out to their right, barred at the bottom and top with steel bolts. There was a small dark window in the middle of the door, with iron bars over it. It looked like the room hadn't been used for storage for quite a long time.

Rose held in a breath of relief when she saw the small stream that ran through Fort Snowhawk few feet away from her, coming in through the ceiling like a waterfall and falling down into a crevasse on the floor.

She walked over to it, oblivious to what Riah and Adran were doing as she tipped her face upwards, bending into the water. The cool sweetness tasted like perfection in her mouth as the stream ran freely down her hair and face, washing the waste from her.

In a rush her panic vanished like a snap of the fingers, replaced by a soothing calm as the stream cooled her.

_Rut, Peyt. Frolok fah lahzey._ Rose opened her eyes. _Danger._

Without warning the door that led upwards swung open violently, and a mage staggered in drunkenly with a bucket. His raven-black hair curled around his jaw, obscuring his face. When he saw Rose he stopped suddenly and cursed, dropping the bucket as waste splattered over his leather boots.

"Who are you?" he demanded angrily, drawing out a dagger from the folds of his robe. He tried to summon a spell but failed, too inebriated to function properly as his mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"I. . ." Her mouth had gone too dry to speak, ironic as she stood next to a stream. She blinked a few times to clear the heads of water from her vision. _What do I say? _For a moment she feared he would turn and run, warning the others of her presence. He looked so young.

His eyes landed on Rose's armour and he swore as recognition flickered vibrantly in his blue eyes. "Fucking cunt. Empire's sending whores now?"

The insult stung, but only for a moment. Rose hid her emotions from him, refusing to let the mage know that his comment rankled her. Oh, how it irritated her to no end. _I'm a cunt now, am I?_ She had heard the word only once before, but did she know what it meant.

"Hey," someone whispered softly, and Rose's eyes flickered over to Riah and Adran. Relief swept through her in an instant. She had completely forgotten about them.

The mage whirled at the sound, Riah standing directly behind him. "Hi," she said cheerfully—loudly, loosing her nocked bow into his face. He made a small desperate sound as the arrow connected with his head, the force from the impact throwing him back until he crashed into a barrel, falling into it. Riah smiled cruelly as she watched his limp body. His head looked like a crushed walnut, veins strained a purplish-blue down to the neck, his face an unrecognisable smush of blood and brains.

"He was so young," Rose commented, moving around the body carefully as Riah searched it.

"I've killed younger." Riah placed her muffled quiver of steel arrows onto her back firmly, making sure it stayed as she rejoined them empty-handed. Rose looked at her bow. It was Dwemer, with cogs and screws at each bend. The metal gleamed dully at her, showing a distorted reflection.

"I thought your bow was wooden." Rose said, confused. She _did_ see Riah stringing a wooden longbow back at Castle Dour, she was sure of it.

"That wasn't mine," Riah replied, gesturing to the one on her back. "_This_ little beauty is."

"What's with the cogs?"

It was Adran who answered he as he too his mask off, Riah following suit. "It makes the bow compactable," he said, explaining. "So she can fold it down into a smaller version to carry."

Riah patted his shoulder as she gave a low whistle. "Isn't _he_ useful," she said wryly, moving to the open door. "Let's go kill us some mages."

* * *

There were two mages in a small dining room, chuckling as they talked in quiet voices. One held an old book as he leaned against a bookshelf, while the other was sifting through a basket of herbs at the table he was sitting at. Both were facing sideways to her, making her mouth go dry everytime they glanced her way.

Rose stood tense, crouched down near the ground in one of the two doors that opened onto the room. Another side door led outside, near the west postern gate which was their goal. She was unseen, she knew, yet her heart kept pounding madly like it had a mind of its own. They needed to kill the mages, or else they would blatantly see them leaving and attack—or worse, set off the alarm.

Riah was waiting by the other door, waiting for the signal to lean in and shoot. Adran was busy casting rune traps and covering their tracks, so it was just the two of them.

_I have to kill one of them._ It wouldn't be hard. She had killed plenty of people in her brief role as the Dragonborn. . . yet why did she feel so nervous, so guilty? _It doesn't_ _matter._ Rose pushed it to the back of her mind. She couldn't fail the Legion, not when she still had a job to do for Delphine. _Which is treasonous . . ._

No. She couldn't think of that now. Riah was waiting right this minute, likely wondering if Rose had lost her nerve. Maybe she had. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

It wasn't like the mages didn't deserve to die, because they did. Infiltrating the fort led them to several different rooms in the prison wing where people had been murdered and tortured. _Innocent_ people. It reminded her faintly of her nightmare, but this was a reality before her, scarring her very eyes, blinding her.

There were even some victims still left alive, chained and naked to various devices. Some had gone utterly insane, while others were on the verge of death, beaten and broken. Rose felt sick to her stomach when she saw them. They slit the throats to those that deserved the act of mercy, while quietly promising freedom to those that had a chance. One was a girl even younger than her, eyes dead and pale, her tongue torn out to keep her from screaming from the things she had suffered. Rose felt her heart tear from her chest when she saw that, the child limp as she didn't even try to cover herself, all her tears burned away.

Rose took in a deep breath to calm herself, body shaking at the memory. _"Fiik lo sah."_ The whisper seemed to take near all her strength.

A spectral white form of her moved from her body, and Rose breathed deep as she felt a part of herself leave, like the ghost had taken it to support itself. She fought the ice-cold feeling that threatened to take over. It if did, the ghost would consume her. Arngeir had taught her that. She had to be strong. _Stronger than a bear. Strong._

The mages startled in surprise as Rose's apparition came into their sight, one drawing spells while another fumbled for the shortsword laying on the table next to him. Before any could take a step forward or move further, the one with the spells clutched his throat with both hands in puzzlement. "Hurt," he gurgled, blood gushing from his neck as he fell over, an arrow buried in his flesh up to the fletching.

The remaining mage staggered from the table, facing Riah with widened eyes as he left his back turned to Rose. "Stay back!" he warned shakily, "Stay back!"

Rose quickly drew the dagger sheathed sideways at the small of her back, mimicking the action of gripping the mage's hair and yanking it back, slipping the dagger around his throat, using her instinct.

Like a puppet the apparition obeyed, following her every movement without so much as looking back at her. The dagger it held in its translucent hand was like the ghost, but waves of mist came off it, shimmering and cold as a corpse. Her ghost sliced the mage's throat open, revealing a wide, red smile as it sawed down to the bone without stopping, the blood falling through the blade and spattering on the floor.

The mage tumbled to the ground, clutching his life's blood as he turned to stare at the apparition, mouth half-forming words that would never be spoken. Rose approached, dagger still in hand as Riah met her halfway.

"Good job," Riah congratulated, but Rose frowned. None of this felt right. They had hardly run into anybody beyond corpses and torture victims. She could count all the people they encountered on one hand. The prison was huge but. . . empty. _Too_ empty.

Rose caught movement out of the corner of her eye and quickly turned. A socerer had been sleeping under a pile of furs on a small cot, unbeknownst to them as he blended in with the wall. He gaped at her in confusion, then stood up straight as an arrow when he realised who they were. _What_ they were. Soldiers. Enemies.

Rose didn't give him a chance as a raw instinct kicked in. With her free hand she gripped his wrist, snapping it and kicking hard up between his legs, hearing him cry out in pain as she slammed the dagger against his chin, forcing his head painfully upwards as crimson dripped from it.

"Where is everyone?!" she heard herself demand, taken aback by her own ferocity, but Rose wasn't about to let him see it. _Nobody can._

Riah coughed. "Rose—"

_"Where is everyone?!"_ Rose repeated harshly as she ignored Riah, digging the sharp blade into the mage's flesh. Something roared inside of her and she relished seeing the anguished look on his face, the way he whimpered like a dog. She remembered seeing the dead bodies in those rooms. . . having to kill some of those that were alive herself because it was a mercy. That. . . that girl. Rose didn't know if she would be still have her sanity after being tortured, taken in horrific ways. . . tortured.

"I. . . I—" he garbled out, blood trickling down his neck and staining his blue robes.

"Answer me!"

"In the main hall," he sobbed, breaking down with raw fear powering his emotions. "Please—please don't kill me. I never did _anything,_ I swea—"

"Liar!" Rose stamped on his left foot. "Why are they there?"

He cringed, even though he was taller than her by a good foot and a half. "The feast," he babbled, "the _feast._ A cara—caravan of traders was on the road and we—_they_ caught them. The-they're in there, dancing and whorin—"

_"Raping,"_ Rose corrected harshly through her teeth. "Spare me your lies, craven. No one lies to a dragon. They're taking innocent women because they can, aren't they? _Aren't they?"_ She put more pressure on the dagger, which made him sob in pain.

"Yes," he cried out. "Yes they're ta-taking them. I'm _sorry, _I neve—"

She cut him off. "You know what I think? I think you're going to die, so your lies won't help you now."

_"Divines,"_ the mage yelled loudly, before Rose kicked him again in the shins to silence him.

"You don't deserve to talk to them," she whispered, rage sweeping over her. "You don't deserve to go to heaven. Go to hell instead." She suddenly stabbed her dagger up into his head, covering his mouth as he gave a muffled scream. She felt bone scrape against the knife, then felt his eyes give way like jelly as blood splattered her face.

Rose had no concept of how long she stood there, only that when she finally stood back limply Adran was there, staring at her in disbelief. Riah looked. . . disconcerted, to say the least. Like she didn't know how to react.

Rose felt the violence leave her in a rush, her hazel eyes going dull as she fought back the urge to sob. What happened? How had she. . . lost control? For a moment her vengeance had simply gone into overdrive as she recalled the countless victims she encountered throughout the fort. Waves of guilt washed over her, making her drop the knife as it clattered loudly to the floor. How had she done that? Why? It felt like someone else had taken over when she said those words. Something else.

"Rose. . . " Riah said, almost gently. Rose's apparition had disappeared, so it was just the three of them.

"It explains why no one's here in the prison," Rose stated weakly. "It makes. . . sense." She forced herself to stand upright. She was an awful person now, wasn't she? A criminal. _Gods,_ she thought.

No. No she didn't deserve to pray to them either. She deserved to be punished.

"Rose," Riah said again. "_Look_ at me, Dragonborn." When Rose did she said, "I would have done the same."

* * *

_**Reviews:**_

_**Rashatemple:** No worries, then. :) Pretty damn uncomfortable, huh?_

_**Chris the Metis:** I assume you're talking about Rose being inexperienced? If so, then yes she is. The only thing she knows about wielding a sword is what Delphine taught her, so anything else is pretty much unknown. We'll see if she gets it together or not_. ㈳3


	28. Chapter 28: Fire and Chaos

Chapter 28: Fire and chaos

They made it outside to a small courtyard with little worry. A few mages were standing sentry on the crumbling walls, but most were drunk and night-blind from the torches they held. They would be easy pickings for a skilled assassin. Rose's stomach clenched at the thought of what the mages were doing.

A burning anger shot through her, as her thoughts turned dark again. She would kill them all.

"Rose," Riah whispered quietly, motioning her over as she glanced around warily, hand placed behind her back on her bow.

Rose started, then made her way over, silent as a deer. It was almost unnerving how fluently she moved, like an ancient predator that should have died ages ago. "What?"

"I need to pick the lock on the west gate." Riah glanced up at the crescent moon. "Hadvar's probably had a heart attack by now. Adran will be standing watch over me. It'll likely be a simple lock—the bloody mages are too stupid for anything else."

Rose tensed. "And what will I do?" She felt very nervous at that point. Riah hadn't mentioned her at all. Everyone told what an important part she had to play, but no one described it as of yet, keeping her in the dark.

Riah turned her startling emerald eyes back at Rose. "You'll be killing the sentries, Dragonborn. Drawing their attention away from me and Adran." She grinned. "Just don't bring the whole fort down onto us."

"I—you want me to kill them all?" Rose asked, shocked, and shocked at herself that she was shocked. She had just killed a mage earlier, but the violent anger stirring inside of her had suddenly faded, and she felt incredibly alone.

"Of course," Riah answered, her face growing serious at Rose's hesitation. "Can you do it?"

Rose paused. What choice did she have, really? She couldn't disappoint them. She was the _Dovahkiin._ The _Last_ Dovahkiin. And the Dov _never_ backed down. A swell of pride rose in her chest. "I can do it," she said confidently, unsure if she really was.

Riah smiled. "Do something spectacular. I want them to shit their pants before they die."

* * *

Rose slid through the shadows, heart pounding again. Her target was two mages talking, their backs to her as they leaned against the battlements. There were four sentries in total, the other two on the opposite side of the fort

Her own back was against a wall overgrown with ivy, partially concealing her. She didn't have a bow—nor was she particularly skilled with one—and that scared her. She would have to get close, and deal with them quickly before they overwhelmed her. All it would take was for one of them to turn around. . .

Then a thought struck her. If she attacked them and didn't kill the both of them instantly, it would make noise and alert the other sentries who would instinctively sound the alarm. Inwardly, she cursed herself for her stupidity. For a moment, she didn't know what to do. That frightened her more than anything. Riah and the rest were depending on her, she couldn't fail. She couldn't fail them.

_But what can I do?_ Terror gripped her, then a hot anger at her cowardice. You are a dragon, she told herself. _Think of something._

A horse whinnied softly in the distance and it struck her like a bolt of lightning. It was a mad plan, likely to get her caught, but it was something, at least. She followed her instinct and went to the stables quietly, praying to any Divine that would listen that the mages wouldn't turn around. They didn't.

The horse started violently when Rose walked into the musty stables, eyes rolling in fear as it kicked the stall door and trumpeted. Rose went to the animal, panic rising as she feared someone would come running at the sound.

"Shhhh," she said comfortingly, attempting to touch the horse's muzzle to calm it. It snapped its teeth at her instead, trying to bite her hand as it paced restlessly.

The smell of horse dung overwhelmed Rose's nose, and she was thankful that there wasn't any light in the stables except for the moon sifting through the thatch of the roof, afraid of what see would see. The air itself was damp and unpleasant.

The horse was an old palomino mare, one eye milky-white. Fresh scabs criss-crossed over her ragged hide and muzzle, a whip the culprit. Rose could see the pain and fear in its remaining eye, and felt pity. This horse didn't belong here. She faintly remembered that a traders' caravan had been raided by the mages. Likely the beast was some of their plunder.

"It's ok," Rose murmured gently. "I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you anymore." As if sensing the sincerity of her words, the beaten animal let her touch it with the palm of her clammy hand. "I have a plan," Rose said softly, bending her head closer to the horse's ears. "It's a mad plan, and dangerous. I need a brave beast like you to help me. Can you?" Rose felt absurdly silly talking to an animal, but she did it nonetheless. It wasn't like someone was watching her.

The horse stared into her hazel eyes, as if judging her. Then it snorted. Rose took it as acceptance and opened the stall door, sliding a bit between its teeth. She was acutely aware of the passing time, and so she mounted the mare bareback.

The _clip-clop_ of the horse's hooves on the stone outside the stable resonated in Rose's ears, and she drew her sword from its sheath nervously, pulling out a vial of oil and coating the blade with it.

She summoned a flame spell with her free hand, the conjuring words pricking the back of her mind. Rose felt the heat as the tongues of flame danced merrily between her fingers, but not the pain. Holding in a breath, she lowered the hand onto the sword, watching it catch flame. The horse sensed the heat and whinnied, startled as it took off in a bolt. Rose almost fell from its back, clinging wildly to its filthy mane as the spell was extinguished.

"_Stop_," she shouted, but the mare had a mind of its own and plunged ahead, heedless of their recent agreement. Rose grappled for control, the wind shoving her hair back wildly from her face. She didn't have any stirrups, or a saddle. . . _But I have reins._

Rose jumped at the thought and fumbled for them, water running from her eyes. In some divine miracle she found the reins, grasping them with a desperate strength and pulling back, hard.

The horse reared and bucked beneath her, coming to a sudden stop. Rose screamed as she was thrown from its back onto the ground, her spine connecting with something wooden as her face smashed into her knee. She twitched involuntarily as a wave of pain crashed down, nearly blinding her and almost drowning out all other senses.

She faintly heard loud shouting, and the sound of running feet. It was the sentries. It _had_ to be the sentries. The horse screamed louder than her and took off, running willy-nilly. Her back was to the stars, but she could barely see anything. Rose gasped for breath as the voices drew nearer, and she was horrified.

_I've failed_.She had likely alerted all the sentries, who had no doubt raised the alarm already. She had failed. Riah and Adran and the rest would be caught, and it was all her fault. Such a simple task, and she couldn't even finish it properly. She was such a bloody idiot.

Her sword was off to her right, flung from her grasp with the impact. Rose would have cried, but she didn't deserve to. Her vision cleared somewhat, and a face leaned in towards her, sneering.

"Look what we have here," the mage said, voice thick with drink as he staggered slightly. "We got a runner." His nose was broad and lumpy like a potato, broken several times as he peered at her, his teeth brown and rotten, eyes beady in a face too big for his shoulders.

"She's a soldier," someone else chimed in. Rose couldn't see who it was. "Look, she has the Legion insignia."

The first mage snarled with anger. "Fucking Empire. They think they can just come in here and kill us? With a whore? Are you the general's whore?" He chuckled darkly. "I'm going to fuck you bloody with a sword, bitch. Scream if you like." He roughly grabbed Rose's chest and lifted her off the ground, bringing her mere inches from his face. "You're a pretty thing," he murmured softly, almost consolingly. Rose could smell the wine on his breath. "Do you have a nice warm cunny for me?"

Rose could see the rest of the sentries standing clustered around her closely, eyeing her like a hungry pack of wolves. Her fear kicked into overdrive at the look they all had.

"If there's one, there's a nest," a mage put in angrily with dusky features, standing off to the side. "The Legion always sends more than a few to do its dirty work." He spat on the ground, as if to prove his point.

"Aye," another agreed. "Make her tell us if there's more o' them."

The first mage glanced at her, relishing the look on her face. "Is it true?" he asked mildly. "Are there more of you?"

Rose swallowed hard. An unbearable pain was forming in her lower back, and she couldn't feel her legs anymore as they quivered uncontrollably. A small relief washed over her that the mages couldn't possibly have raised the alarm yet. It would give the others a fighting chance. Maybe, just maybe, they would come to her aid before. . . before. . .

"Answer me!" the mage practically yelled, shaking her violently.

Rose did the only thing she could do at that point. She Shouted.

"_YOOR TUL SHOOR!_" The mage let go of her suddenly as he screamed, flames engulfing him as he flailed his arms desperately in a frenzied dance, hopping from foot to foot and yelling.

Rose felt someone else grab her arm roughly, and she drew her dagger at her back, spinning on her numb legs and driving it point-first into the person's skull. More blood spattered her face and she staggered away, weaponless.

Something icy scraped her side and shattered, and Rose cried out in pain. A socerer was summoning ice spikes and throwing them at her, eyes as wide as hers. Her veins felt frozen, and her heart began to slow, despite Rose's fear and panic.

She ran for her sword, and met the other mage halfway. He was a burly man, and grabbed her small wrist easily, twisting it to the side at an odd angle with a _snap_. Rose shrieked as she stomped her foot down and bit his hand, kicking between his legs as she struggled to get away. He cursed heatedly but was like a massive stone wall, unmoving.

Anger suddenly moved through her as she shook like a child. Dov were _not_ defeated. Dov were _champions_. "Damn you!" Rose shouted into his face, swinging her free hand up and grabbing his eyes, clawing at them, _tearing_ at them. The mage instantly let go of his iron grip, yelling as he dropped like a stone.

Rose fumbled with her shortsword from the ground and turned, stabbing the blade into the man's chest, plunging it deep into his heart as she twisted it maliciously. She watched the light fade from his eyes. When she looked up, the remaining mage had fled, terror written on his features as he whimpered. Rose withdrew her sword in a haze of blood and followed, her feet pounding into the stone as she violently turned a corner of a wall. She could smell the fear on him. He was close.

Except she ran into Hadvar when she moved, slamming into his chest. She drew her sword up again instantly but he stopped it with his own, sparks ringing off his blade. He look troubled as he looked down at her.

Rose dropped her shortsword, looking over at the dead mage not five yards away with an arrow in his throat. "Good," she murmured, eyes misty and far off. "Good."

"What happened?" Riah demanded, bow in hand. "I said to kill the sentries, not set the bloody fort on fire." She glared at Rose fiercely.

Rose looked at her strangely. "They would have taken me," she said quietly, calmly. Softly enough that only Riah and Hadvar heard. Her sword-arm suddenly went limp, like she held the weight of the world on it. Hadvar glanced at her disconcerted and alarmed, but he didn't say anything.

Riah cursed. "Did they set off the alarm?"

"No," Rose responded almost instantly, her heart slowing. "I killed them before they did."


	29. Chapter 29: Cara

Chapter 29: Cara

Cara stared at her hands. She stared at the ground. She stared at anything that would take her mind off of what she faced. But it didn't. _Someone help me,_ she pleaded silently to the Divines, resisting the urge to cover herself as she watched her mother and friends being treated in the same rough manner. Watched as tears blinded her eyes, as she herself was half-dressed in tattered rags.

It was too painful to watch. Everyone else from the caravan watched as well, and just as helpless. The mages laughed and cheered the each other on, goading and making cruel jokes.

Nothing had happened to Cara yet, but she knew it would sometime. Upon seeing her, a man named Liendan had claimed her for himself, fondling her throughout the night as his underlings feasted on their "spoils of victory." He seemed even more pleased when he learned of her maidenhood, though she had no idea why.

Born and raised in Riften, her parents were merchants who had joined a trade caravan heading to Markarth. Cara had been so excited, desperately wishing to see the Temple of Dibella for herself. She thought that she was invincible—as all young people did—but tonight proved otherwise; seeing her father slaughtered and left for dead to rot in the ruins of the raid. Her _Da_. The man who always promised to protect her. Where was he now? _Where was he?_

There were few males left alive from the slaughter, the rest people she had grown up with and knew dearly, shackled and in the same state as she, or worse. People that were going to die. She would last a little longer, until Liendan grew tired of her. She had to remember his name. _Liendan_, Cara reminded herself. _You mustn't forget his_ _name. Liendan._

Liendan leaned towards her, his mouth dangerously close to her trembling ear. "Are you enjoying the feast, sweetling?" he asked innocently as he slid a hand under her skirts and up her thigh. Cara repressed the urge to shudder. "It's lovely," she said hollowly, forcing her eyes away as she wept softly.

"Shhhhh," he said comfortingly, stroking away the tears with a thumb. "Aren't you _such_ a lady. It's a shame I like women with more spirit. I hope you won't disappoint tonight." He frowned, lips curled downward. It was hard to look at him, as he was handsome. He didn't look like a cruel person. He seemed intelligent, charming, and amiable. Not a man who would do. . . this.

Cara threw up bile in her mouth, her eyes dulled. She and her friend Stella always imagined tragedies befalling them when they were younger, but _this_ happening to her had never crossed her mind. And a prince always saved them, sweeping them off their feet with a kiss.

She wouldn't have a prince tonight.

The front doors slammed open and a horse charged in, frothing at the mouth as it trumpeted and turned over a trestle table wildly, lashing out with its hooves. Chaos ensued as mages leapt to their feet, knocking away food and their spoils as they tried to catch the maddened beast, spells in hand. Someone yelled in alarm as they realised a dead mage was tied atop the horse, his eyes weeping red sores.

Cara saw something out of the corner of her eye, and turned, heart in mouth. Her eyes widened in disbelief as Legion soldiers came from the side entrances, instantly attacking the already distracted mages with arrows and swords, turning the feast into a slaughter. Cara screamed as a woman toppled onto her, blood pouring from her mouth by an arrow as she twitched. Cara shoved her away and stood, trying to run.

She saw her mum dead with her neck gashed wide open, and a socerer next to her, laying side-by-side almost peacefully. She dodged another mage and a soldier locked in combat, panic in her eyes as she tried to escape the battle.

Something sharp was suddenly stabbed into her side, and Cara cried out as her feet stumbled, turning and glancing a mage out of the corner of her eye. He raised a broken sword to finish the blow, eyes crazed with insanity and anger, mouth turned back in a grimace.

A sword burst through his neck before he could, making warm blood droplets spatter her face and exposed chest. The sword withdrew and the mage fell to his knees, staring up at her with dying eyes. The soldier behind him kicked him carelessly to the ground. When he saw Cara he winked in a friend-like fashion, his dishevelled brown hair flopping comically into his caramel-coloured eyes. "Hi," he said amiably, before running back into the slaughter and yelling.

Clara covered her mouth and crawled to the nearest table, the sounds of war ringing in her ears. Corpses littered the floor as the room flashed violently with all the bright spells being casted. She began to sob, her chest heaving as a dark crimson flower bloomed on her side, staining her dress and making her feel light-headed. The pain was a dull ache, something vibrating down to her bones as she uselessly spread a shaking hand across the wound.

Someone fell to her left and Cara jumped, yanking her head towards the sound. It was a young girl—surely younger than Cara was—with pale hair that bordered on silver. Her mouth was twisted wryly, and one of her wrists was limp, the other holding a sword as she looked upwards. She was coated in dried filth.

"What a innocent young girl you are," a voice said chillingly, and Cara almost cried out at the sound, fear running down her spine in short jolts.

Even though there was a battle raging all around them, everything was quiet to Cara as she strained her ears desperately to listen, heart pounding.

"Not so innocent as you think, raper."

Liendan chuckled. "What gives you the right to call me that?" Cara could hear the anger in his laugh and flinched. Horror filled the pit of her stomach. _She's going to die,_ Cara realised, helpless to do anything. "I'm Liendan, not _raper_. You should know when to hold your tongue, girl. You need to remember that. _Liendan_."

The girl smiled, and Cara stared at her bravado, realising that her eyes had contracted to black twin eclipses. Surely it was a show, a magic trick. _Something_. "I'll call you what I want, raper. Murderer. Defiler. Necrophiliac. I can smell the corruption on you." Though Cara didn't see, Liendan's features twisted with rage at the last word. "Truth is," the girl continued, nursing her wrist. "I have you right where I want you."

"Oh?" Liendan said, strangely calm, but Cara wasn't fooled by his tone. It was like the silence before a massive storm. "Please clarify."

"_FUS RO DAH!_"

Cara saw from underneath the table Liendan fly through the air like a bird and come into contact with a stone pillar, neck cracking as his head was smushed in and he slid to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she shuddered. She glanced over and saw that the girl was staring at her. Cara's lips parted in sudden fear. Would she kill her too?

The girl smiled. "I saw him with you." She glanced over at the pillar where he still was. "He's dead now." Cara began to shake at her simple statement.

"What's a—what's a. . ."

As if guessing her question, the girl shook her head firmly and struggled to her feet, her eyes still ebony as she launched back into the fray, much to Cara's amazement and terror. She huddled under the table, trying to block out the screams of the wounded with her hands.

A pain came from her waist, and when Cara looked down she saw that her skirts were soaked thoroughly with blood. _Oh_. . . she thought, her vision fading as she spiralled into an unconsciousness.

* * *

_**Reviews: **_

_**RashaTemple:** Ha! I got inspiration from a certain person ZACH USE THE GODDAMNED FREBREEZE BOTTLE. Ahem. But yeah. . . _

_**Chris the Metis:** Thank you. :) War is usually grey, I agree, and there really isn't good or evil, just different shades. _

_**Guest:** Awwww, thank you! It's nice to know people really do enjoy this story. _


	30. Chapter 30: Broken bones to mend

_**A/N:** Another chapter because it's Saturday!_

_So I realise that this is probably much darker than you all thought. But I won't post anything regarding the promise I made without a warning. I do actually read the chapters beforehand, lol. And I do, surprisingly, know what I'm doing. Have a good weekend!_

Chapter 30: Broken bones to mend

Rose stood out on the battlements alone, watching the sun rise as a cold wind ruffled through her hair. Beneath her, the fort was a buzz of activity as the Legion tried to undo the damage the mages had done. The surviving torture victims were led out into the sun, bathed and fed, their wounds treated. Only two had died since Rose had stumbled across them when they infiltrated, and she wondered if that was a blessing or a curse. She would have preferred death.

It was three days after the battle, yet Rose felt like it was only yesterday. Her bones ached, and her soul felt troubled. Guilty. All of her anger had melted away like a summer breeze, and she was left feeling haunted by what had occurred.

_I should eat,_ she thought, but in truth she wasn't hungry. Nor had she bathed, unlike everyone else. The fort left a sour taste in her mouth, and even when she looked at the scoured stones she could still see the blood, and hear the screams. The whimpers of the hurt, the wails of the anguished. She couldn't wait to leave.

But they couldn't, not yet. They still had to rebuild some broken parts of the damaged fort, and tend to the innocent survivors. It was one of their laws: _Protect the citizenry._

And so she wandered the walls numbly like a ghost. No one approached her, so her only company was the wind and sky. At least nature wouldn't judge her and would listen with a sullen kindness. It was strange, but sometimes she thought she could hear the wind whispering back. But when Rose shook her head to clear it, everything was silent and still.

They would wait for more reinforcements from Solitude before going back, Captain Hadvar staying behind to man the walls. He sent a letter to Castle Dour as soon as the battle had finished, a raven the courier. Rose mistrusted ravens, and so gazed at it suspiciously when it took to the air, _quorking_ and flapping its wings. She had mused if it has blue eyes, then dismissed it. She wasn't a child anymore, not since the battle. _Something has changed._

They buried the fallen soldiers in a moss-covered graveyard, using rough pieces of unfinished stones as head markers. They burned the mages. Rose had stood mere inches from the flaming pyre, gazing at it with angry eyes, the heat of battle not yet fled from her body as hungry flames licked at the wintry sky almost ruefully.

Not even Riah talked to her; she was in the armoury taking stock of the weapons. Rose had heard the soldiers talking excitedly of them finding a hidden barrel of elderberry wine near the chestplates and helms. If she knew Riah, she'd be getting dead drunk. It almost made her want to laugh that one of the few people she trusted was a drunkard and a well-known skooma addict. _Strange times make for strange bedfellows._

No matter. She had been putting off her report to the captain for some time now, and Rose didn't know how much longer it could go on. Talking with Hadvar was awkward and embarrassing to her, but she was afraid of a scolding. Or worse, a demotion. She had rarely seen him the past few days, except for at the burial of the soldiers. Even then, he had been distant to everyone. Pensive.

Rose sighed inwardly and made for the steps, hugging her broken wrist to her chest. She had yet to get it fixed, but Adran was the only healer and she didn't trust him. Maybe it was his eyes. . .

She found out where the captain was from a fellow soldier. "He's in the east tower," the soldier said, a coy smile on his face at the mention of Hadvar's name. His eyes drifted down to her hand. "You break your wrist, Dragonborn?"

"No." Rose lied, miffed. She pushed past him without any thanks, making for the tower.

It was the sturdiest and highest tower, she saw, with the rookery and mews at the top. A few gnarled fruit trees grew around the base in clumps of dead grass, and Rose assumed an orchard used to have been there, then later abandoned. A sentry greeted her as she went inside and started up the steps, and Rose became incredibly nervous again.

_He's a full-grown man,_ she scolded herself, feet resonating on the stone steps as she climbed. _Stop acting like a child_. Rose was six-and-ten, after all. An adult woman in the eyes of the world. _Good to be wedded and bedded_. Her face flushed crimson, and she was glad that she was alone.

She found the door closed, and her courage faltered again as she stood there like an idiot. What if he was sleeping? Well, it was late morning, but there _was_ a chance that he slept in. Finally Rose just knocked, sick of the banter going back and forth in her mind and the pathetic excuses she made up _not_ to. She was the Dragonborn—she didn't have time for this.

Rose heard someone say, "Come in," and she opened the door, swallowing. Morning light filtered in through the windows, bathing the stone floor and softening it. A wooden table clustered with maps stood at one end of the circular room, with a ladder to its left that led up to the rookery. Even from here, Rose could hear the ravens warbling quietly. There was an open door opposite her, and she could see a bed behind it with a tilted bookcase. Beyond that the room was sparse, but undoubtedly clean.

Hadvar stood behind the table freshly washed, riffling through the maps absently. He looked up at her, then back down again. Rose closed the door as a silence filled the room between them both. Divines but was it suffocating.

"You look tired," he said finally, glancing back up.

"A little." In truth she was exhausted, but felt that he probably didn't want to hear her complain.

"Did you need something?" He stopped what he was doing and looked at her dirt-smeared face, his eyes travelling past her chest to her wrist. Rose felt self-conscious, and clutched her arm tighter as if in defence. She knew she looked ragged—and probably an idiot—for not bathing, not to mention the smell of the sewers. "You have blood on your face," he said wryly.

"It's not mine." Rose felt thick-headed at his first question. Did she really not need to report? She thought that's what all the soldiers did after a battle. _Stupid_. It wasn't that she didn't like bathing—she was a very cleanly person—but she didn't want to wash _here_. So many bad deeds had happened at this place. . . It felt wrong to even stay here, let alone bathe naked in a tub.

"What happened to your wrist?"

"I. . . " she drifted off uncertainly. "Someone broke it, I think."

"And you haven't gotten it looked at." The way he stated it made her want to shrink into a tiny speck.

"I was busy," Rose replied defensively, standing her ground.

"The sentries reported see you wandering all day on the battlements, and nobody's seen you at the bathhouse or mess hall." Hadvar looked at her curiously, but not unkindly.

"I don't like Adran." Rose stated firmly. "I don't trust him."

"Why not? He's the only healer we have. . ."

"Doesn't matter. I'd rather have it broken."

"He saved your life in the sewage tunnels," Hadvar stated benignly, the hint of a smile on his face.

Rose stared at him. "How. . . how do you know that?" she asked, incredulous. As far as she knew, whatever that happened during the infiltration had stayed between the trio.

"I know a lot of things, Dragonborn." He moved around the table towards her. "Let me see it," he said gently.

Rose hesitated, then lifted her arm over towards him. Hadvar held it with both hands, examining the wrist as he turned it. When he put slight pressure on her arm, Rose bit her lip as a sudden pain shot through her.

"I can set it back properly." Hadvar looked down at her. "It would hurt, though."

"It's not broken?" The relief she felt was immense.

"Part of it is separated, which can sometimes be worse." The captain explained patiently, glancing at her wrist more closely.

"Oh." She wasn't sure what else to say.

"I can reset it." He repeated, "but you'd have to be comfortable with me doing it."

"Can you do it better than Adran?" Rose asked, her face drawn and pale as she fought the urge to tremble. Somehow, this was worse than fighting a horde of mages, and she had done that.

"Would you go see him if he could?" Hadvar said in reply, giving her an inquisitive look.

"No."

He smiled. "I didn't think so." He moved her over to the light to see better. "It's going to hurt," Hadvar warned. "And I'll need you to keep still. You might need something to bite down on."

"Just do it." Rose looked away in response, her wrist already hurting. Hadvar turned the wrist gently in his direction, feeling for the bone.

He snapped it back suddenly into position and Rose stuffed a fist into her mouth and screamed. Tears blurred her vision as a stabbing pain shot through her arm, and if Rose didn't know better she would have thought that her veins had caught on fire. She sobbed as her scream trailed off, and she could taste blood in her mouth from biting down so hard on her hand and fingers.

"I'll go find a healing potion so you won't have to wear a cast." He left for the bedroom, leaving Rose alone. She staggered against the wall and placed her uninjured hand on the stone, breathing frantically. When he returned with a vial she eagerly drank from it, almost crying out at the relief she felt. Rose looked at the empty bottle, hands shaking slightly. She could feel her skin mending, and it was a painful bittersweetness.

"You did well," Hadvar said softly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." It was what she always said when she couldn't think up of a response. Rose looked at the ground between them. "Thank you."

"If you want. . ." He hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. "I could. . . I have a washbasin here if you want to bathe."

Rose looked up at him strangely. For half a heartbeat she was tempted, but, she suddenly realised it would be far more awkward, and she knew that the bedroom door wasn't thick enough to block out noises. He was just being polite, but enough strange things had already happened between the two of them. "No," Rose declined quietly.

"Are you sure? I'll be leaving for the mess hall and cellars. You just seem to like your privacy," he added quickly, seeing the look on her face.

Rose cleared her throat painfully. "I'll. . .I'll survive the bathhouse." She didn't want to say no him again.

"Of course," Hadvar replied, a discomfited look on his face. "I didn't mean—I hope you didn't think I wanted to see yo—"

"—No," Rose cut off quickly. "No." She stood upright. "I should go."

"Why did you come here in the first place?" Hadvar asked, an inquisitive look on his face.

"I don't remember," Rose lied glibly. Of course she remembered, but she hated looking like an idiot. Especially in front of her superiors. "It wasn't important, though."

When she was outside his door she wanted to bury her hands in her face and scream.

_**A/N:** Awww, poor Rose._

* * *

_**Reviews: **_

_**Chris the Metis:** She is improving but you're right, she still has to control her dragon. It could be a problem later on, especially if loses her temper and there are innocents around. _


	31. Chapter 31: A courting for a maiden

Chapter 31: A courting for a maiden

The bathouse was blessedly deserted, trails of hot steam rising from the granite floors. There were six stone tubs, large enough to house four people each. Clumps of soft moss hung down from the wooden rafters, with shafts of sunlight pouring in through the shuttered windows. But Rose wasn't fooled. The room might have been innocent once, but she hated thinking of what dark things had transpired here, despite the innocuous look.

She went to the nearest bath and filled it, stripping off her stiff, soiled armour. Rose barely felt the scalding hot water as she submerged herself, letting the waves of heat wash over her. She scrubbed her hair and skin with a lye soap, watching the layers of grime and blood stain the waters a murky tint. It felt good to be clean, and she drifted in the waters on her back, eyes half-closed as her aches and pains diminished greatly.

It felt like only a moment had passed before she opened her eyes again, but the red sunlight through the windows told her differently. Rose sat bolt upright, sending ripples of water splashing over the rim of the bath.

_My armour's gone. _A panicked feeling rose in her chest as she squinted her eyes to see better. Sure enough, it wasn't there.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caused her to turn, sloshing water onto the floor as Rose hastily covered herself. A girl stood there in the shadows by the door, dress smeared with dirt as she stared back at Rose dully.

Rose let out an inward sigh of relief to herself, lowering her hands slowly so as not to frighten her. "Can I help you?"

The girl moved towards her slowly. "You're the Dragonborn." Her face was cautious, afraid that she would make a sudden mistake and be punished for it. "I saw you. I saw you wandering the battlements."

Rose forced a smile, resting her hands on the lip of the bath. "I like to walk," she explained amiably. "What do you call yourself?"

"I. . . Cara," she said quietly, a note of doubt creeping into her tone.

"How long were you standing there, Cara?"

The girl visibly flinched. "I'm sorry," she said immediately, her face sorrowful.

Rose looked puzzled. "You don't have to apologise." She hid the uneasiness from her face, uncertain how someone like her could have stayed concealed for so long. Then again, Saria seemed to have the same talent, or maybe she was just easy to sneak up on. _I should practice more at stealth. _Rose really was horrible at it.

Cara rubbed her throat nervously, flinching again. "You killed him."

"Who?" Rose glanced over to the stained-glass windows, then back again. "Who did I kill?" She was afraid that she'd hurt someone close to her. If so, the conversation would become very awkward.

"Liendan." The girl moved closer. "You called him a necrophiliac. A murderer."

_Of course. _Rose's face lit up at the statement; she recognised her now. "You're the wench hiding under the table," Rose said, giving a small smile.

The girl stopped cold in her tracks like a deer.

"I'm sorry." Rose said, feeling horribly guiltily at her last sentence. She honestly hadn't meant anything by the choice of words, but she could easily see how she would be offended. "I didn't mean it like that. I did kill him though, yes." Rose leaned back, putting more distance between them as water sloshed around her. "Was he. . . close to you?"

Cara's eyes narrowed angrily, and for a moment Rose could see a spark in them. "He killed my Da."

"Oh. . . I-I'm sorry." Rose avoided her eyes. "I didn't know—I just assumed. . ."

"His friends hurt my mum." Cara's voice cracked. "He whispered horrific things to me and promised to make me squirm. He touched me in front of everyone, he. . . " Her voice trailed off as tears filled her eyes. "He deserved to die."

Rose's stomach filled with dread at her words. "I'm sorry." She repeated, knowing just how hollow they sounded. "I didn't know. He. . . deserved more." She looked at the girl closer, and noticed how pretty she was, even with her dour expression. She had curling blonde hair, with sweet blue eyes that seemed so innocent, and pale, trembling lips. Rose had never had a friend before, but she felt an instant kinship.

"My parents were merchants," the girl continued, "and we were travelling to Markarth. I had always wanted to see the giant waterfalls and jewellery stalls. We. . . never got there."

"Is your mum still alive?" Rose pressed softly.

Cara shook her head firmly. "No. They're. . . dead. Both of them. I'm all alone now. Divines. . . " She looked up at the ceiling. "You saved me, Dragonborn." Her body began to shake. "But you couldn't save my parents."

Rose stared back, shame and guilt filling her body like a stone. "I didn't know, if I would—I don't know. . . I would have tried." The sentences wouldn't form properly in her mouth, and she knew just how miserably pathetic they sounded.

"You're so pretty," the girl said back suddenly, glancing at her again sideways. "I can see why everybody talks about you."

Despite herself, Rose felt her curiosity rising. "What do they say?" she asked.

The girl blushed slightly. "They said you have hair the colour of the moon, and that your legs are long for a Breton." She hesitated when she saw Rose's expression. "And they. . . some say. . . they have a bet." She looked at the floor in embarrassment.

"What bet?" Rose asked suspiciously, drawing herself up.

"To court you. Some. . . everybody says that you're still a maiden, so whoever claims your maidenhood. . ." She trailed off uncertainly, fear in her eyes as she watched Rose.

_Bastards. _She muttered darkly under her breath. "_Who_ is betting?" Rose demanded suddenly, looking more sharply at the girl than she intended.

"Some soldiers. I don't know their names." Cara took a step away as Rose left the tub, her movements jagged and harsh like a puppet's.

"Can you describe them, at least?" Rose asked, glacing around the room as water beaded in the cleft in her breasts, trailing down her body to the floor. Nobody had dared to approach her for a long while, so for them to go gambling on what was between her legs was ridiculous. Sods, every one of them. Their compliments did nothing to soothe her wounded pride. If anything, if only angered her more.

Cara gulped. "No." she said, fidgeting with her hands silently.

"You're lying. Where's my armour?"

The girl looked genuinely confused. "Your . . . what? Armour? I don't know."

Rose gritted her teeth in frustration, resisting the urge to Shout. "My. Armour." She repeated, as if Cara was a simpleton. "It was here, and now it's not." Rose took a deep breath to calm herself, her hands clenched. _If someone stole it. . . _

"Gilbert."

Rose's head snapped towards her. "What?" Her voice sounding much more hoarse than she cared for.

"I heard one of them. His name. . . his name is Gilbert. The others said so." Cara took more steps towards the exit, putting a healthy distance between the two of them. "Please don't. . . kill any of them."

Rose stilled to practically no movement at all, reminding Cara of a fragile doll in a way. Her eyes glazed over, and even her breathing slowed to a snail's pace. It was frightening, in a way.

"Cara," Rose said calmly, her lips drawn tight over her face. "Fetch me some armour and a sword. I think I'll need them tonight."


	32. Chapter 32: Harsh lessons

Chapter 32: Harsh lessons

Rose slammed open the bathhouse doors, walking outside in ill-fitting armour with a shortsword in hand pointed towards the ground. A light drizzle dampened her already wet hair, running down her chest in hazy beads.

She could hear his laughter, and her angry mood turned to murderous fairly quickly. _We'll see who's laughing in a few minutes. _

Gilbert was standing amidst a group of others under a leather canopy in the training yard, jesting amiably as he leaned nonchalantly against a bale of musty straw. Several archers were with him, quivers latched onto their hips and backs. Rose could see steel arrows in some of the archery quintains, some completely off the mark, some centre. The rain seemed to have no effect on dampening any of their moods, as some held drinks in hand.

For a reason or other, this irked her to no end. _They're likely jesting about their "bet," _she thought sourly to herself. Her footsteps firmly resounded on the wet stone, her face grim as she approached. Gil must have heard, for he raised his head and their eyes briefly met. At first he seemed humorous, but as he caught her expression the smile quickly faded from his lips.

_"KRII!"_ Rose Shouted, breaking out into a run. The soldiers jumped and looked back at her with alarm, moving quickly out of the way. Gilbert fumbled with his sword belt frantically as he finally realised that he was her target, hands dropping the slippery bottle of brandy he held.

She could see from his pained, drawn expression that her Shout was working, draining his soul's essence and strength, weakening him. His complexion had already formed several shades paler, and his veins were noticeable on his neck and arms.

Gilbert unsheathed his sword in a flurry, drawing the blade up and parrying her sudden strike, sparks flying off both the swords despite the rain. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rose cut him off by kicking his feet out from under him.

He stumbled away from her into the training yard, regaining his stance clumsily. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, and heard him swear.

Rose ignored his inebriated stated and lunged forward, putting weight on the balls of her feet like a dancer. He dodged the blow quickly and grabbed one of her arms, twisting it to the side as she fell to her knees.

Rose dropped and rolled, coming up beneath his legs and jamming her sword hilt between them, hearing him give a cry of pain. As he dropped his guard for a few seconds, Rose regained her feet and stood away from him cautiously, body poised.

"Not so handy on your bets now, are we?" she taunted, watching with satisfaction as his eyes widened. Now he knew why she was attacking, good. It was plain to see that he no longer considered her no threat. It was refreshing. Now they could fight without hindrance.

Everyone else stood quite a ways back, watching her with mixed expressions. Some had their hands resting on their weapons as if to protect Gil, but no one made a move forward.

"What Shout did you use?!" Gilbert shouted, straightening his slumped body.

Rose smiled sweetly. "A special one for whoremongers." She ran at him again, but instead of attacking she leapt to the side, coming under his swing and kicking him in the shins with her steel-plated boots. She was ecstatic that Cara had picked them out.

Gil winced and stepped on her foot harshly in retribution, their blades clashing together in a song of steel. Back and forth, side to side, it was a mesmerising dance of sorts as they parried and lunged in a flurry of moves. Rose let her raw, primal instinct of surivial guide her, adrenaline kicking in.

She bent backwards, watching his sword swing wide above her head as she brought her own up, twisting her hands forwards as she slammed the flat of the blade into his face.

"Godammit!" he yelled, grabbing her sore wrist. Rose cried out and tried to move away from him in defence, but he held fast. "What the fuck are you doing!" Gil shouted.

It was raining harder now, and they were both completely soaked. Rose hardly felt it. There was a singing in her veins and flesh, and a voice inside her was calling out for more bloodshed until a victory was called.

"You said you wanted my maidenhood," Rose whispered to him conspiratorally, "so here's a little blood." She smashed his nose violently to the side, and he staggered away, releasing her from his grip as she heard an audible _crack_.

She kicked a wooden bucket of slops out of the way, and sprinted after his retreating figure, running a loop of sorts before she tackled him to the ground. Rose brought a knee to his chest, half-sitting atop him, but he blocked access between his legs before she could hurt him there and knocked her sword away, shoving her off to the side. She brought a leg up, but a blinding pain to her eyes stopped her, her vision going a strangling white, then a midnight black as she choked. Rose shrieked with fear and pain as something clung desperately onto her wrist.

She forced her eyes open, wiping away the smeared blood on her face. Gil sat atop her, his arms off to the sides of her shoulders as his body blocked her view of the yard. She could taste the copper tang of blood from her split lip, and her eyes ached horribly.

"I'm usually not used to such rough foreplay," Gilbert said raspily, holding back a cough, but he didn't get any farther with his sentence as she striked him with her hand, connecting with his lower jaw. She swiftly kicked his knees out from under him and, grasping his hair, she tore him off of her, rolling and running for her sword.

She couldn't see anything but a red mist filling her vision, with Gilbert in her sights. _"Fo, Kraah!"_ The words formed easily on her tongue, and she felt the temperature drop several degrees. Raindrops froze and became mini icicles, falling to the ground and shattering around her, but she barely felt the chill. The anger was too much, pulsing inside of her, worming around.

His looked dropped to a glare as they charged each other, and she was happy that it was no longer a one-sided fight. Their shortswords clanged together with a new type of zeal, and he took the initiative and brought his leg up, kicking her away. The force made her breath stop short—it was already depleted from Shouting—and it was her turn to stagger. She heard a whining noise out of the nowhere and ducked, feeling something sharp miss her hair by inches. Rose looked up incredulously and saw a dagger buried up to its hilt in the leather canopy's stand.

"You almost killed me!" she said indignantly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I assumed that that's what you're trying to do to me at the moment." His tone angered her, and she rushed him, twirling away at the last second and slamming her sword's pommell into his chest. She felt his shortsword graze her ribs and grimaced.

Rose dug her heel into his right leg and shoved him off his balance and back onto the slippery ground. She kicked his sword away, where it skittered to a stop, and Rose straddled his chest as she crouched down. But there was nothing loving in her movements or glance. She felt only pure, unbridled anger.

To be bargained and gambled on like she was a piece of property was infuriating. Worse, Rose seemed a whore in that aspect, worth only to be fucked because there was a prize at the end and the boast that they bedded the Dragonborn. "How much am I worth?" She hissed, leaning down and putting pressure on his neck with her sword.

He guessed what she was getting at by the way his eyebrows drew up in surprise. "It wasn't meant—"

Gilbert was violently cut off by her twisting the shortsword. "Don't tell me is wasn't meant seriously, _Gil. _It's pretty bloody serious to me. What were you going to do, force me?"

He looked horrified. "No!" Gilbert practically shouted, though his voice was muffled by the blade. "No. I—we would never . . . it was only meant to be fun. . ."

"Does it look like I'm having fun?" Rose asked, watching him wince with pain as his blood welled at the tip of her sword. "Do I look like a prostitute to you?" She was so preoccupied with her interrogating she didnt feel the rain, or someone pulling her roughly off Gil until it was too late.

"Put me down!" She screeched loudly and flailed her arms, sounding shrill even to her own ears. Her sword dropped to the ground with a clatter, skittering away from her.

"No one gets to kill my brother except _me_," Riah stressed, dumping Rose unceremoniously on the ground. "Least of all a wench he cares for."

The remark stung, and when Rose looked up she was greeted with a cold gaze. "They were betting on me!" Rose shouted angrily in defence of her actions, brushing off her wet armour as she stood, the fight leaving her body as her knees began to shake. _What did I do? _The red mist quickly left her, and her breath was foggy as she glanced over at Gil.

"Oh?" Riah sounded incredibly sarcastic. "Enlighten me. What were they betting on?"

"My maidenhood." She made the word a curse, and despite herself, warm tears blinded her vision. Rose muttered inwardly to herself, hating how weak she looked at that moment. Her anger was still undeniably there, but she felt helpless and misunderstood. Alone.

Riah just looked at her like she was daft. "So you're upset because men want to fuck you?" The question grated harshly on Rose's ears, and she fought the urge to flinch. "Do you think that they would force themselves onto you?"

This time she did flinch, quaking in her boots with emotion. "It's the whole concept," Rose said, her voice dripping with anger. "They're _gambling _on what's between my legs."

"Well, you are the Dragonborn." Riah stated, as if that made if a perfectly viable reason.

"What's that supposed to mean!"

"It means that almost every soldier in the Legion wants to bed you, idiot. You're a maiden, destined to save the world, and incredibly pretty. What person _doesn't_ want you?"

Rose could only stare back, hating that her virginity was apparently common knowledge to everyone. "Well, what do you expect me to do?" Rose asked, gritting her teeth in frustration. "Just ignore them?"

Riah made a nonchalant gesture. "Accept their gifts and reject their proposals; you're strong enough to beat them to a bloody pulp. Or if you like them, bed them. Or Shout them into Oblivion. I couldn't really care."

"I'm _not _a whore."

"I never said you were."

"I don't _love _anyone." Rose said, taking a step back with a sad expression. "I don't _want _anyone." It wasn't her making a statement, not really. It was her voicing her own fears. Nobody loved her. Nobody wanted her. _Was_ she a whore? She didn't have to be a maiden to be one, right?

For the first time she noticed Adran standing behind Riah, and she moved even farther away, putting a healthy distance between them. Now that she looked around more, she saw almost everybody watching her, soldiers and maids and victims alike, standing under shelter or out in the rain.

Rose took another step backwards and ran into someone. She froze stiffly in her tracks, and she saw Riah grin. That alone worried her, and she felt like a mouse running from a cat at that moment. _Bloody hell. _

"Well, someone stole my armour," Rose half-muttered, half-shouted in an accusing tone, afraid to turn around.

Riah moved towards her, face neutral. "Maybe because I sent a maid to fetch it and have it cleaned. You were getting a bath one way or another." She stopped, and looked past Rose with a hint of a smile on her face. "Captain."

Rose tensed and moved away quickly, unsure where to go. It was instinct, but she felt immensely guilty afterwards. She didn't face Hadvar—unsure if she could—and bickered with Riah instead. "You could have told me."

"The maid I sent said you were dozing in the bath. Why would I have her wake you up, knowing how angry you get?"

"I don't get angry," Rose defended.

"Yes, you do. You're like a dragon." Riah grinned again, her arms crossed against her chest as the reference.

Rose was about to make a sharp retort in a reply, when she felt the cold from the rain and shivered. "You took my weapons."

"I found better ones for you."

"Did you?" Rose said, her tone of voice doubting it.

"Yes. Maybe if you weren't trying to murder my brother I would show them to you."

"I'm not trying to murder him. I was putting him in his place."

Despite herself, Riah gave a sour smile as she let her arms fall to her sides. "Well, I think that lesson will stay with him the rest of his miserable life."

* * *

_**Reviews:**_

_**FrozenCause:** Yay! *Throws confetti.*_

_**RashaTemple:** I probably won't write one. I obviously don't want to say that I'm not for certain, in case I end up actually doing it, but the liklihood of me doing so is slim. I honestly think there's a 95% chance I won't, considering with how much I've already written so far. :)_

_**Chris the Metis:** I'm glad you mentioned the Battle for Whiterun, *hint hint.* And crushes on people never seem to go well, do they? :)_


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Elder Scroll series, Adventure, Fantasy