Chapter Text
Kaermo wrapped his robe tighter around himself. The climate in Skyrim was far from the warmth of the Summerset Isles, even in the beginning of summer. He would have dressed in a more suitable fashion if he had known it would be this cold.
“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” one of the company’s Imperial soldiers said.
Kaermo glanced at her, seeing her smile.
“The cold I mean,” she added and gestured at the snow covering the pasture. It had stopped falling from the sky by now, at least, but the ground was already white from the snowfall.
Maybe one could get used to the chill and the harsh terrain. But it seemed a futile effort when Kaermo would rather finish his mission and get out of Skyrim again as fast as he could.
A Thalmor guard walked up to them and placed himself in Kaermo’s line of sight. “We will not be staying for long. Ulfric Stormcloak is soon to be captured.”
“There is new information about his whereabouts I suppose?” Kaermo asked, lowering his voice so that the Imperial wouldn’t be able to hear his words.
The guard nodded and pointed at the wagon in the end of the caravan. “The First Emissary wants to speak with you, sir.”
Kaermo turned around to approach the wagon without another word. Elenwen never took kindly to having to wait for her subordinates.
Another Thalmor guard opened the doors to the carriage, lowering his head as Kaermo climbed in. He bowed to the Emissary seated inside before settling down opposite her. The interior of the wagon was made of oak, with seats in some plush fabric. A faint smell of mountain flowers lingered in the air.
The Emissary nodded at him while her sharp, yellow eyes searched his face. Her blonde hair was cut at her shoulders, for practicality no doubt, unlike his own. “Ulfric Stormcloak has been spotted at Mixwater Mill by Tullius’s men. The Imperials think he and his Stormcloaks will pass through Darkwater Crossing on their way to Riften. General Tullius is planning an ambush as we speak.”
“You want me there then, Madame?”
Elenwen smiled. “I presume you know what to do. Do not stray from the plan.”
“And if they manage to capture him?”
“Oh, they will. Tullius is more than capable of doing that, presuming his informants have told him the truth.”
Kaermo frowned. “I thought you would inform Ulfric Stormcloak in turn, letting him slip away.”
“He won’t have any reason to trust you then, will he?”
In the ensuing silence, Kaermo bowed his head again. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. The thin layer of sweat covering them caused them to stick to each other.
She wanted him to play the traitor longer than she had earlier let on. Longer than the usual quick mission.
He pursed his lips. “Can you ensure that I will be granted full immunity afterwards, Madame?”
Elenwen glanced out the window and Kaermo followed her gaze, seeing nothing but thick tree trunks of the forest they were moving into. “You have nothing to worry about, Kaermo. The Aldmeri Dominion is grateful for your continued efforts.”
Kaermo straightened his back, keeping his words to himself. Elenwen didn’t just dislike waiting, she wouldn’t like to be questioned either.
“Was there anything else, Madame?”
“Be discrete, professional and get as close as you can.”
†††
The caravan made camp at the edge of the forest, where the carriages and horses were barely hidden by the scarce trees and bushes. Kaermo switched his robes for a thicker leather garb, readied his horse and bid his fellow Thalmor friends farewell, before leaving as soon dusk settled. He made sure not to let any of the Imperials notice him. All they’d know later on would be that one of the Altmer nobles in Elenwen’s company had disappeared during the night. Maybe they would even hear rumors of a High-elf in Ulfric’s service, if everything went well.
Kaermo kept leading his horse as quietly as he could until he had left the camp far behind him. He could no longer see the fires or hear the men, as he sat up on his horse and continued his journey in a quick trot.
The dirt road led up the mountain. For now the terrain didn’t seem too difficult but he had been warned that it would turn steep soon enough. Elenwen had provided him with one of the company’s strongest steeds and if he were lucky the he would be able to leave the mountain behind him before the first rays of sun.
He had more ground to cover than the Stormcloaks to get to Darkwater crossing, but a troop traveled much slower than one man on a horse. The only way he could complete the mission would be if Ulfric Stormcloak trusted him and no Nord would trust an Altmer if he didn’t prove himself first.
†††
The road to Darkwater Crossing took a night and a day on horseback. He reached Ivarstead at sunrise, ate a small breakfast at the Vilemyr Inn and continued into the forests of the Rift. Frostbite spiders, wolves and bears were crowding under the canopy, slowing him down with their repeated attempts to fight. The wilderness of Skyrim was more dangerous than any region of Tamriel that he had visited before. The only places close enough to compare were the mountainsides crawling with Cliff racers in Morrowind.
At noon he stopped to eat again. This time he made a fire at the shore of Lake Geir, where he could hear the roar of the waterfalls draining into Darkwater River. Having the river so near let him relax for a while, as the most difficult parts of the journey to the Crossing were behind him. Now he only had to follow the river and he would be there.
†††
The wet roofs of the houses in Darkwater Crossing shone in the sunset. Kaermo made his horse slow down to a stop and dismounted as he reached the first cottage. The only people he saw were a pale and blonde Nord woman and a female child with, as far as he could tell with humans, the same complexion as the adult. They were standing by one of the houses and stared at him from across the street.
He put on a neutral face and waved in greeting. “Is there an inn or some establishment of the like here in town?”
The woman muttered something to herself and the girl snickered. Kaermo couldn’t distinguish if the sound was amused or derogatory. Altmer children were unusual and he hadn’t met very many of other races either.
“You’re not dressed like one of those Thalmor-bastards,” the woman stated in the melodic accent of the Nords.
Kaermo crossed his arms over his chest. “You are a mer-hating Nord then, I suppose? Since one cannot differentiate from the bad apples of one’s race.”
“Wood-elves never hurt anybody and Sondas takes good care of my little girl. We have plenty of High-elves in Skyrim too, but the only ones allowed on Stormcloak territory are the ones we can trust.”
“I have more reason than any of you to hate the Thalmor for what they’ve done,” Kaermo replied and clenched his jaw.
“Sure you do.”
The girl frowned. “If the Thalmor are like the Stormcloaks then they don’t care about hurting their own people. Don’t be mean to the elf-man, mom.”
“Hrefna!” the woman exclaimed.
Kaermo narrowed his eyes. Elenwen had told him that the Nords in the eastern parts of Skyrim were united under Ulfric, but here was a child speaking her mind openly. Obviously, not all of them respected their Jarl if such criticism could be said in front of a stranger.
“I’m on my way to Windhelm,” he confided and the woman glanced at him.
“Really?”
“Where else would I go? There is no other man who might be able to stand up to the Dominion, when even the Empire bowed their necks,” Kaermo declared, keeping his gaze locked with hers, and smiled tight-lipped.
“If that is truly how you feel… Well, it can’t hurt to tell you since you’re already here. We’ve no inn or tavern in Darkwater Crossing, but the miners here in town have been plagued by a horrible cough and not all of their sleeping rolls are used anymore. I’m sure they’d let you sleep there for a few gold coins.”
“Thank you.”
Kaermo turned to his horse, curling his lip while his head was hidden by the stallion’s thick mane. If a simple Nord woman took this much convincing to tell an Altmer about some sleeping rolls, then he would need months to earn Ulfric Stormcloak’s trust.
†††
Kaermo woke to sound of shouting and swords. He crawled out of his sleeping bag and jumped up on two legs, reaching for his daggers as he moved. Barely had he managed to grip their hilts when a Stormcloak soldier wearing the telltale blue armor stumbled into him. Kaermo pulled him behind himself. If the Nords wanted a demonstration of his “loyalties” then they would get one, he thought as he raised his weapons and faced his first opponent.
“Run off to your General if you’re scared,” Kaermo taunted at the Imperial soldier.
The Stormcloak behind his back snorted unintelligently, but seemed to be back in form since he placed himself at Kaermo’s right side and gripped his sword again. Both of them attacked at the same time, their blades meeting the Imperial’s with loud clangs.
Kaermo’s fingers itched with the urge to use his magic. Some lightning bolts and some sparks and he could take down the closest Imperials in a few seconds. With his daggers on the other hand, he had to rely on the Imperials unease to kill an Altmer or the swords of the Stormcloaks for protection. It was an unsettling thought, but he knew how wary the Nords were of Destruction magic.
“Hey, you High-elf! To me!” someone shouted.
The voice came from a robed woman on the other side of the street. Kaermo slashed one last time at the Imperial in front of him, before dancing away from the return blow and running across the road. Up close, he realized that she bore no weapons and that her hands shone with Resurrection magic. To think that even a Nord could be capable of magic amazed him.
“You fight like a milk-drinker,” the woman greeted him.
Kaermo made a face and threw one of his daggers into an Imperial’s head. It connected with his eye and the man went down screaming. Wincing at the sound and the sight, Kaermo reached for the now bloody blade and stabbed his next opponent in the stomach. “Is that so?”
“But at least you fight,” she added smiling and moved her hands, in a way that he recognized as the Healing hands-spell. The glow transferred from her to him and he felt the warmth of her magic spreading through him.
Imperials were flocking around them. How Tullius had managed to gather a force this strong, in such a small amount of time, was astounding. It wasn’t worrying though, as long as Elenwen was aware of the General’s capabilities for warfare.
“Follow me, High-elf. Ralof needs our help at the Darkwater Pass,” the Stormcloak healer shouted and started running out of the village.
Kaermo hesitated only for a second before following her. He didn’t know where Ulfric was anyways, so it couldn’t hurt to stay with a soldier who might speak well of him after the fight.
They sprinted through the darkness; the Stormcloak first and him after. He slashed and cut anything that got in his way, his blades glinting in the moon light. It was only when the woman suddenly stopped that he slowed down.
“Gunjar!” she exclaimed.
Kaermo looked over her shoulder at the red-haired man kneeling on the ground, with a bleeding wound in his right shoulder. The female Stormcloak summoned her healing magic again and Kaermo turned his back to her. He took a defensive stance with his knives in front of him, but none of the Imperials approached. Instead they swarmed around them with their bows readied with arrows.
“Lilija,” the man, Gunjar, groaned. “Thank you.”
Kaermo glanced at them. She helped him to his feet again while watching the Imperials with a frown on her face. Maybe she hadn't realized that the fight was over.
“Round up the survivors!” someone shouted.
Kaermo narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd for other Stormcloaks. He recognized that voice. It was General Tullius himself and if the General was here then so must Ulfric Stormcloak be.
The Imperials suddenly all straightened up and saluted. In a line between them walked a muscular man with graying hair. Kaermo looked the General in the eye and saw the moment when he recognized him.
“You’ve switched to the wrong side, Altmer,” he said evenly. “The Stormcloaks want your kind out of Skyrim.”
“I fight for whoever I want to fight for,” Kaermo answered and shifted his grip on the daggers.
The General’s eyes flew to his hands. “Weapons on the ground. Now!”
Kaermo stayed still until he could see Gunjar lowering his axe in the corner of his eye. He mimicked the Stormcloak’s movement and crossed his arms over his chest after ridding himself of his knives. When he looked at his fingers he saw that they were smudged with the blood of Imperials. He raised his head and cleared his thoughts from any stray guilt. His missions sometimes included killing other people’s enemies. It didn’t help to ponder over it.
“Gather up the prisoners!” Tullius ordered, walking into the crowd again. “And bring me the Jarl and the Altmer.”
Kaermo tilted his head. He could come up with three different theories why the General would want him. Either he suspected the Thalmor was involved, he thought Kaermo had some ulterior motive himself or he believed Kaermo should be handed over to the Dominion. Two of his theories might lead to torture while the last one would get him killed, unless Elenwen kept her word.
Two Imperial soldiers grabbed his arms, pulling him with them. While one of them bound his hands together behind his back, the other pulled out a bottle from his leather pouch. The liquid inside it shone with a sickly gray tint, akin to the color of Nirnroot.
The soldier sneered as he pried Kaermo’s mouth open and fed him the concoction. It spread through him; he could feel it burning inside him and he would have fallen to his knees if the soldiers hadn’t been holding him up.
“What was that?” Kaermo demanded, gasping for breath.
“We can’t have you using that magic of yours now, can we?”
It was some sort of magicka suppressor. They were banned in the Aldmeri Dominion since losing one’s magic was considered a fate worse than death. Only years of training to keep himself collected stopped Kaermo from snarling at the Imperials. Instead he hung limply in their grip, trying not to show how much the loss of his magic unnerved him while being unable to stop the energy from leaving his body.
†††
The General resided in a tent put up in a clearing outside of Darkwater Crossing. He stood bowed over a Skyrim map, frowning at it as though it had offended him. Placed on different holds were small flags; red and blue, and even though Ulfric himself had been captured, half of the flags were still blue.
In the tent with them was also Ulfric Stormcloak. He had a gag in his mouth and his hands were bound behind his back. His long blonde hair was ruffled and sweaty and his light-green eyes glared at both Tullius and Kaermo.
General Tullius smirked at the look on his face. “I guess that answers the question if you knew the Altmer was fighting for your cause.”
Ulfric narrowed his eyes. What Kaermo had previously thought, of his trust taking months to earn, seemed to be true. The man glared more harshly at him – just for being an Altmer – than at the man who had just ambushed and captured him.
The Imperial soldiers who had brought Kaermo to the tent let go of him and he immediately found himself swaying as though he would topple to the floor. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself together, straining his back to keep straight.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.
“It is highly unlikely for someone like you to genuinely support a rebellion in Skyrim,” Tullius answered. “Did the Emissary send you here to spy on us?”
Kaermo raised his eyebrows. “Would you even believe me if I said no?”
“Of course not. But your answer tells me more than your silence would.”
Ulfric grunted, the sound stifled under his gag. He seemed to have tired of glaring but he still stared at them with a creased brow.
“You can’t interrogate him if you are scared of his voice,” Kaermo said.
The General smiled slightly, probably taking notice of his change of subject. “I don’t need to interrogate him. His actions have never befuddled me and the problem that he poses will die with him. A quick execution and I will crush this rebellion.”
Kaermo froze – his thoughts spinning from how he would rescue Ulfric to what Elenwen would do to him if the rebel leader died – as he decided which reaction would be appropriate for a Stormcloak Altmer. He let his mouth fall open, showing how much the news surprised him. Had Elenwen known about this? Was that why she felt it necessary to have a man close to Ulfric?
“You cannot just kill him! Fighting for one’s country is not a crime!” he exclaimed, wincing inwardly at how much like the uncivilized Nords he sounded.
“Why does this matter to you?”
“The Empire licks the Aldmeri Dominion’s boots with all their actions,” Kaermo snapped. “You humans think we all are Thalmor, all puppets under our rulers. You never realize that getting away from those forsaken Isles might be the best thing that ever happened to one of my kind!”
Barely had he spit the words out, seemingly fuming and slightly scared, when he heard her laugh. He turned around, swaying a bit as his control over his empty body wavered, and saw her walk into the tent.
“Oh, how sad that you feel that way,” Elenwen mocked. “I was wondering where you had ended up, Kaermo, but I really shouldn’t have wondered at all. Stirring up problems just like your parents, are you? How original…”
General Tullius glanced between them both, frowning almost as deeply as Ulfric. “Madame, you arrived faster than I’d thought you would.”
She graced him with a small smile before turning to Kaermo again. “Are you planning on executing this one? I certainly wouldn’t let him run free if I were you.”
Tullius straightened. “He killed and injured many of my men, I won’t let him go alive.”
“I was defending myself!” Kaermo protested. “We were attacked by your men, presumably on your orders. And yet you blame me for not standing still and letting your soldiers kill me!”
Tullius made a quick gesture with his hand and two Imperial guards immediately stood at his side. “I need to speak with the Emissary in private. Bring back the prisoners to the others and make sure they do not escape.”
One of the guards, a blonde man in typical Imperial garb, grabbed Kaermo’s arm and dragged him out of the tent. Kaermo kept struggling the whole way to the prisoner’s cages and didn’t stop until the man had pushed him inside and locked the door behind him. Inside his confinement he sank to the ground and leaned back against the bars, the movement straining his shoulders as his hands were still bound.
He could see the other cages from where he sat. Most were teeming with men and women in Stormcloak armor. But a few of the prisoners were alone just like him. He saw the Stormcloak healer that he had fought with earlier. She inclined her head at him when she caught him looking, her face grim and bruised. Obviously, the Imperials didn’t let her use her Restoration magic. They had probably doused her with the same potion as him.
Outside their cages, Imperials walked past. Most were carrying something, whether it be bodies; wounded or dead, or armor and weapons. The equipment seemed to have been taken from the dead judging by the holes in the fabric and the blood on the blades.
He could see blurred faces with gouged out eyes flashing in front of him. Blood streaming over humans and blades cutting into their skin. With his fingers to the palms of his hands, he pushed the images out of his mind, pressing until his nails broke the skin.
Thalmor. Elenwen’s orders. The Aldmeri Dominion. His family.
This was the way. He could not be weighed down by death.
†††
A group walked up to Kaermo’s cage and he got to his feet in seconds. He glared at the guards but didn’t move as they unlocked the gate and threw Ulfric Stormcloak inside. One of the men got in the cage with them and pushed Ulfric to the ground, binding him to a pole, before leaving again.
Kaermo stared at the Jarl who met his gaze angrily. “They are doing this to spite you, aren’t they?” Kaermo muttered and sat down.
Ulfric grunted against the gag in his mouth.
At least Kaermo wasn’t alone anymore. But the company of a barbaric rebel leader was barely a step up from being a lonely prisoner. A barbaric rebel leader who couldn’t even speak and who probably would do nothing but Shout at him if he could.
Kaermo snorted and rested his head on the iron bars. The Imperials at least had to let the prisoners out of the cages for the execution and he would come up with a plan to get himself, and Jarl Ulfric, free before that.
†††
The Empire were transporting the prisoners to Helgen for their execution. As such they were moving back the way that Kaermo rode only a few days ago. He had never been more certain that Elenwen had contacts close to the General. She had known exactly where the Imperials would bring Ulfric, before most of them had even known themselves. Her caravan with Thalmor Justiciars and guards were probably still camping outside the town, waiting for the Imperials to arrive with their wagons.
During the day, Kaermo and three other prisoners were placed on a carriage and during the night, Kaermo and Ulfric sat in their cage in mutual silence. Since his mission was to get close to the man, he felt as though he should use the time to make Ulfric curious about him. But from the looks he got from Ulfric, he seemed to prefer the silence to the few times when Kaermo tried a one-sided conversation.
The morning of the second day of the journey, someone tripped Kaermo on his way to the wagon. He fell headfirst to the ground and his ragged robes got soaked through with muddy water. His long blond hair was streaked with it when he raised his head to spit out some dirt. When he jumped to his feet and turned around, he saw some of the Stormcloaks smile at him.
“You should’ve helped the lady to her feet,” one of them snickered.
“Oh, was it a lady? I thought the goldenrod was a Falmer who’d crawled its way up from the caves.”
Kaermo glared at them and clenched his fists, the fingers aching with the need to burn something up. “You S’wits wouldn’t know the difference between a horse and a Nord woman,” he said, but the Dunmeri insult probably went over their heads.
He heard laughter and glanced around. The Imperials were stopping to watch the fight and they seemed just as amused as the Stormcloaks. The question was who they were rooting for, him or the barbarians.
The Nords advanced on him again and he backed up, bracing himself for their kicks or punches, when a blonde brute of a Stormcloak got between them. “The High-elf fought the Imperial-bastards with us at the Crossing. You have no shame if you attack one of our own.”
“The puny elf will never be one of us, Ralof. Skyrim is for us Nords!”
“He helped Lilija and Gunjar,” Ralof snapped.
Neither of the Nords got a chance to reply as the Imperials started herding the prisoners towards the carriages again. Kaermo breathed out and turned around to get up on his carriage when someone kicked his leg. He fell forward and, since his hands were still bound behind his back, he had no way to brace himself for the impact that was the floor of the wagon colliding with his head with a loud crack.
†††
“Ah, you’ve woken up.”
Kaermo groaned and focused his gaze on the person speaking. His vision was still a bit blurry but he thought he could make out Ralof’s blonde hair and bearded face.
“How long was I out?”
“The rest of the trip. We’re almost at Helgen.”
Kaermo shook himself, immediately regretting the action when it made him aware of his splitting headache. “By Auri-El…”
Someone made a sound of dislike and when he looked to his right, he saw Ulfric with the ever present gag.
“Fine,” Kaermo muttered. “By Akatosh.”
Ralof laughed. “You understand his grumbling?”
Kaermo kept himself from sighing. What else than the use of an Altmeri word would the elf-hating barbarian have to complain about?
“We have shared a cell for a few nights,” he said aloud.
The fourth man on the wagon leaned forward. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Watch your tongue, horse-thief! This is Jarl Ulfric, the true High-King of Skyrim.”
“Ulfric!? But if they managed to capture you…? By the Gods, where are they taking us?!”
Ralof smiled, his face grim. “Sovngarde awaits.”
†††
Elenwen was already in Helgen when they got there. She sat atop her horse, flanked by two Thalmor Justiciars. Kaermo heard Ralof muttering something about ‘damn, elves’ but he kept watching the Thalmor. He recognized one of them. It was Ondolemar; the man in charge of enforcing the Talos-worship ban. Kaermo hadn’t seen him in years, though it looked like he hadn’t changed much. He still kept his hair hidden under his dark robes, but now the stubble on his chin was streaked gray as it had not been before.
The first time they’d met had been at The Merchants Inn in the Imperial City almost two hundred years ago.
“General Tullius, sir. The executioner is ready!” an Imperial said, startling Kaermo from his thoughts.
The carriage finally stopped on a small town square. One by one the Stormcloaks got off the wagons and lined up for the Imperials. The Imperial in charge of their wagon turned to Kaermo and asked for his name. It was on the list, apparently right next to Lilija’s and Ulfric’s since he got placed between them for the execution. He turned slightly to Lilija and whispered: “Do you have the use of your magic?”
She glanced at him, shaking her head slightly. “They gave me some sort of potion.”
A roar from the sky made Kaermo look up. He couldn’t see anything strange and none of the humans reacted so maybe this was nothing out of the ordinary. He went back to flexing his hands against the bindings as a Priestess of Arkay started reciting the last rites.
He could throw himself on the executioner, maybe at least pushing him to the ground, and give the Stormcloaks the distraction they needed to act themselves. But that would most likely get him killed and the mission was to get close to Ulfric, not sacrifice himself for him.
Then he heard the roar again. This time when he looked up he saw something in the distance. He was still staring at it, when an Imperial pushed him towards the block. The push made him stumble forwards and he had barely regained his balance when he felt a foot to his back and was forced down to his knees. His head slammed into the cold stone hard enough to make his already aching head throb with pain. He kept his eyes on the headsman, breathing slowly through his mouth and kicked out with his foot against the man’s knees.
The executioner groaned but remained upright and Kaermo lifted his foot for another kick when something – a giant beast – landed on top of one of the city towers. It roared and red meteors began falling from the sky.
People screamed and ran like scared hens around him. Arrows flew after the beast but they didn’t seem to harm it.
Kaermo jumped to his feet, his head still pounding and his vision a bit blurry. But the Imperials if not that creature would kill him if he stayed so he had to move. He ran, searching for Ulfric with his gaze and sprinting to his side when he saw him leading a group of Stormcloaks into another tower.
“It seems the legends are true!” Ralof exclaimed.
Ulfric shook his head, now free of the gag. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”
“Legends?” Kaermo asked.
Most of the Stormcloaks stared at him with narrowed eyes and drawn brows and the ones who had tripped him earlier looked especially angry, but Lilija answered his question.
“The return of the dragons have been foretold. It is said that Alduin, the World Eater, would once again roam Tamriel,” she said and gestured for him to turn around. When he had his back to her, he felt her hands on his bindings before they fell off.
“Huh,” Kaermo longed to speak of these dragon legends with the scholars of the College of Whispers. He had, of course, been aware that some prophesies and legends centered on the Nords, but he never would have thought that one of them would actually turn out to be true. It seemed almost ironic that a true prophesy would exist in a province that disliked magic.
“We must move,” Ulfric stated.
Ralof nodded. “Up these stairs. Follow me!”
They ran together, the Stormcloaks and Kaermo, and he made sure to stay close to the Jarl. With a living (and fire breathing) dragon up and about, he couldn’t be too careful trying keep Ulfric alive.
The wall blew into pieces in front of them and two soldiers were crushed under the debris. Through the newly made hole, the dragon stuck its large head and breathed flames that forced Kaermo to push himself and Ulfric against the closest wall, in order to avoid getting roasted. Neither of them were Dunmer – who could cloak themselves in fire without any harm – after all.
As soon as the fire had burned out and the dragon had left, Jarl Ulfric pushed Kaermo away so hard he almost fell to the floor. “What do you think you’re doing, elf?” he snapped.
“Saving your ever-ungrateful person,” Kaermo quipped. He might not care if the man lived or died himself, but Elenwen would probably kill him if Ulfric died. A failing spy was worse than a dead spy to her.
Ulfric stared at him, but the wrinkle on his forehead seemed to be from confusion rather than anger. “Why?” he asked.
Kaermo licked his lips and glanced at the Stormcloaks while he pondered over his answer. “You heard what I told General Tullius.”
“Getting away from the Thalmor does not equal joining the Stormcloaks.”
“There isn’t really a way of escaping them,” Kaermo said. He had heard stories about ‘punishment and reeducation’ while in Alinor. But only the ones lucky enough to be allowed to live got that treatment.
Kaermo turned his back on Ulfric to climb out the hole. The Jarl was still frowning when he landed next to him on the burnt floor of the neighboring house, but he didn’t say anything else.
†††
The dragon kept circling around Helgen, breathing fire and eating the people who got too close to it. Its talons and tail slashed at the Imperial soldiers trying to fight it while their arrows and swords didn’t seem to injure it at all. Some ran when they saw how little effect their weapons had but General Tullius had gathered a group of soldiers around him that still fought to hold their ground, while the inhabitants of Helgen and their fellow soldiers fled or died.
The Stormcloaks didn’t bother with fighting the beast. They ran through the town and into an Imperial keep that was – hopefully – sturdy enough to keep the dragon out for a while at least. The keep was made out of stone and seemed to be built right out of the mountain as its corridors turned to caves and tunnels. On their way through, the Stormcloaks encountered torturers, soldiers and spiders, but the opponents were no match for them.
Kaermo got some armor and grabbed a greatsword from one of the dead Imperials, but the weapon was too heavy for him to fight very well with. He caught Lilija watching him once with her eyebrows drawn together but whatever she thought of, she didn’t say anything and he didn’t have the time to ask.
Finally Ralof shouted that he could see light at the end of one of the tunnels. They all hurried after him, some smiling and some grim; as though they expected it to be a trick. But as they got closer to the opening all of them breathed a sigh of relief. When they got out of the mountain, Ulfric had barely opened his mouth to say something when they heard the roaring again and saw the dragon fly over their heads.
“It’s heading to Riverwood!” Ralof exclaimed and started running with Gunjar and a few others not far behind.
Kaermo readied himself to go after them but when he glanced at Ulfric, the man didn’t move.
Instead he stared after them – watching as they disappeared into the sparse forest covering the mountainside – and his knuckles gripping his axe turned white. “I cannot show myself in Riverwood. Jarl Balgruuf will take it as a sign that I’m attacking Whiterun Hold.”
“You should get back to Windhelm, Jarl Ulfric,” Lilija said, bowing her head as she spoke to him. “Balgruuf has guards in Riverwood and Ralof knows how to handle himself. They’ll protect the people if needed. There’s nothing we can do.”
“You’re right… I cannot do anything from here. I need to speak with Galmar and I need to step up this fight.”
“We can get horses from Hjornskar Head-Smasher. We should be able to make it to his camp without being noticed by the guards.”
One of the other Stormcloaks interjected. “We’re too many for that. If we want to sneak by Whiterun, then we need to split up.”
Most of the Stormcloaks made sounds of disapproval. But before anyone got the chance to say anything, Ulfric cleared his throat and everyone immediately turned to him. “We’ll stay here and hide in the forest while two of us gather the horses and bring them back here. I do not want to alert either the Empire or Balgruuf of our presence.”
Kaermo pursed his lips. Being one of the people to perform this task might increase their trust in him, but at the same time he was loath to leave Ulfric behind. While he was mulling over the dilemma, Lilija made the choice for him.
“I’ll do it if I can have the elf with me. We look the least like Stormcloaks and could probably walk into Whiterun without anyone suspecting us,” she declared, with just a little bit of glaring as she watched her fellow Stormcloaks, daring anyone to object.
Ulfric opened his mouth as to protest but closed it again and nodded. “If you’re sure…”
“I am.”
Kaermo and Lilija left immediately when they had gotten Ulfric’s permission to do so. Lilija was quick for a human, but with her much shorter legs, she soon seemed to tire of the pace he kept. He sighed inwardly but slowed down a bit. Why humans tended to protest Mer superiority over Man was beyond him, especially when Altmer were stronger both with magic and speed while the strongest of Men only shone in close combat with battle hammers and axes.
They ran through the woods and swam across the river in order to avoid meeting the Whiterun-hold guards on patrol in Riverwood. While they might be the least suspicious couple of the Stormcloaks, people probably would notice an Altmer in the company of a Nord and they couldn’t be too careful.
They followed the road towards the city of Whiterun; with its wooden walls and lavender covered grounds, until they reached a small group of houses. From the smell surrounding them, Kaermo guessed it to be a meadery. Nord mead was one of the few things even the Thalmor seemed to appreciate about Skyrim as it was often provided during their travels, but Kaermo had never acquired the taste for it.
Lilija pointed at the mountain on the other side of the river they’d crossed earlier. “The Whiterun Stormcloak camp is a bit up the mountainside.”
Kaermo nodded and was just about to start running again when Lilija grabbed his arm.
“Why don’t you use your magic in battle?” she asked.
He turned slightly towards her, watching her in the corner of his eye. Was she accusing or was she just curious? Her face was difficult to interpret. She neither smiled nor glared, only looked at him.
“The Imperials gave me the same potion as you.”
She frowned at him. “I meant earlier, at Darkwater.”
Had she noticed him trying to suppress his magic or did she just assume he was a mage because of his race?
“I… you Nords are more often than not distrustful of magic users,” he muttered.
“We Nords appreciate the show of strength in battle, only you and I prove our worth with spells instead of swords. I saw you with that greatsword earlier, it clearly isn’t the weapon that you should be fighting with.”
He shook his head and started running in the direction she had pointed earlier. It had felt natural to him not to use his magic while surrounded by Nords. He had acted in a similar way when he was in the Imperial city. Destruction magic was feared all over Tamriel and the only clear exceptions were in Morrowind and the Summerset Isles. By fitting his personality and combat style to the prejudices and norms of the province he worked in, he usually managed to avoid being feared or hated for his magic abilities. Of course some people wondered why he didn’t fight with fire or lightning like most of his kind, but he had gotten so good at dual-wielding his knives that it could be believed to be his area of expertise.
Lilija, who’d caught up with him again, continued her line of questioning. “I don’t usually demand answers from every recruit. But I don’t understand you and while I might want to trust you, I find it difficult.”
“Why?” he asked. The answer, if she had one, could be useful for his future work. This mission would go much quicker if he could understand what the Nords thought.
“You haven’t given us any reason to. You fight with us, with weapons that aren’t your own, for a cause and a country that isn’t your own, against the people your kind supports.”
He wanted to laugh at her for thinking that the Dominion supported the Empire. Had she forgotten the Great War? Did she not remember how his kind had forced the Imperials to submission?
Other Altmeri people would’ve laughed at her while he had to clear up her contradicting beliefs in him. “I fight because the Empire could not best the Thalmor. I fight because Hammerfell could, because you can and because I would be dead if I didn’t,” he stated.
“We have the same enemy,” she concluded.
He smiled at her. “Which makes us friends.”
†††
Hjornskar Head-Smasher lent them half a dozen horses and supplies to cover most of the ride to Windhelm. Lilija thanked him while he glared distrustfully at Kaermo, who left the Commander’s tent to ready the animals instead.
The trip back to the others took less than a third of the time it had before. They rode hard and followed the road for most parts. It was almost impossible to hide six neighing horses in the forest and Kaermo longed for the company of a Bosmer who might have been able to persuade the animals to keep quiet. After a few attempts of trying to sneak past Riverwood, they gave up and just galloped past the village. Lilija was smiling giddily by the time they got back to the Stormcloaks. Her cheeks were flushed red and her eyes glistened with tears from the strong wind to her face. Kaermo watched the emotions flash on her face and realized that he had never seen an elf so emotional from something so little. Humans seemed much like children to him.
Ulfric must be an exception though. The man’s facial expressions varied between anger, confusion and a neutral one that betrayed nothing of what he felt. While Kaermo wore other’s emotions to hide his own, Ulfric quite often didn’t seem to show anything at all.
“We will split up. Ride for Windhelm in couples, two and two. Take different routes and avoid all Imperial legion soldiers and hold guards,” Ulfric ordered while dividing the horses between his men.
Kaermo stood by, watching them. Ulfric gathered some of the soldiers to talk out of earshot from the others. He knew that Jarl Ulfric would not assign him a partner or a horse. He knew that he was of no importance to the Stormcloak cause or to the Jarl himself. And he understood that it wouldn’t change for all his efforts, if he didn’t do something that forced the man to see him as the person he pretended to be.
He needed them to know him as a victim of the Thalmor and not just as an Altmer who didn’t show where his loyalties lied. But he also needed to prove himself to be strong, honorable and useful to the rebellion. To be able to influence Ulfric he had to become someone of importance. An officer, a friend, an informer. He had to become a proper Nord hero.
“How does one become a Stormcloak?” he asked Lilija.
“You’d probably do best if you joined the Stormcloaks the normal way.”
Kaermo frowned at her. “I don’t follow you.”
“There is a test, for all the new recruits and an oath to swear. It’s how all of us joined. You’re doing it the wrong way, fighting with us without being a Stormcloak.”
“And even an Altmer is allowed to join?”
Before she had a chance to answer, Jarl Ulfric gestured for her to come to him. “Come to Windhelm and we’ll see,” Lilija said and smiled ruefully as she left him.