Dark Wings in the Cold

1: The Prisoner's Cart

I groaned in pain as I awakened to the rough bouncing of a wagon cart. Everything aches down to the bone. My wrists burned where the ropes that bind me felt like they were rubbing my skin raw. Unseen, for they were tied at my back - I would give anything to be free. Straw dug into my neck and itched horribly, but I could not find the strength or balance to set myself upright.

Faintly I remembered traveling through the forest with someone... my father's nephew, Wuunrik Axe-Drinker. We paid the carriage fare and left the civilized streets of Blacklight behind us not a full day after my uncle was assassinated for his claim to a position within the Grand Council.

Thalmor be damned.

From where I was lying the rough boards scratched my bare leg, left exposed by the dirty rags they call clothing. Rags that barely cover my knees! I couldn't tell in the mist which direction the cart was heading or what was to become of us.

As if it matters. I know what lies ahead is not kind.

"Something is wrong... Aldria! Run!"

Angry shouts from the woods. The clank of armor.

And then Wuunrik was dragged off by Imperial Soldiers.

I ran.

My heart pounded in my chest. No broken spear to save myself this time, just my legs.

"Find her!"

I clung to the dark side of a tree, gasping desperately and trembling.

A rough hand crushed my shoulder and spun me around with malice. Everything faded and I knew no more.

I swallowed and gritted my teeth against the pains in my head and body. The carriage lurched enough to rattle every board and unsettles me. I ended up laying on my side, aware of others near me, their faces grim. Resigned.

The fair-haired nord sitting towards the back of the cart looked my way and met my eye.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

To his left, the thin dark-haired nord snorted with contempt.

"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." He glanced at me, then cast his eyes downward. "You there... You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants. Rebels and traitors."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The soldier flanking the cart pulled her horse's reins hard and leaned forward. "Shut up back there!"

Soldiers, rebels and traitors? The rumors of rebellion must be true.

If that is so... there is little hope for me.

It pained me to breathe, but I forced myself to listen.

The one he called a thief leaned forward, hushing his voice and nodding at a man, gagged and wearing fine clothes, hunched forward on the bench nearest to the front of the cart. "What did he do?"

The fair Nord's face hardened beneath the dirt caked across his cheek. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim."

Ulfric Stormcloak... the Jarl of Windhelm, in the North?

My breath escaped in a gasp I could not control as I realized exactly which cart I was riding. Fear knotted within my stomach. May the Nine preserve us...