Dark Wings in the Cold

2: Escape

Before I could react, Ralof pulled me backwards and around the corner. A hot wave of fire surged between the buildings. Sweat trickled down my arms, replacing the goosebumps.

"He's going to burn the village to the ground! We can't stay here." He glanced behind us at the walls. "We can't wait for the walls to burn, either. The smoke is getting thick. It will be a miracle if we can make it into the forest alive."

The dragon took wing again, circling the village overhead. His shadow passed across the road as he disappeared again into the burning clouds.

Follow the Nobles, a voice whispered.

"What?!" I turned, looking for the source of the ethereal voice.

With another crash, the building to our left was splintered beneath a large section of the guard's tower.

"We have to go!"

"Where is the keep?" I shouted, scrambling to take cover around the other side of the house.

"The keep?"

"Nobles build escape routes in case of attack! We need to go to the keep!" The smoke burned in my chest. "Which building?"

"It's the one by that longhouse - there!" Ralof grabbed my hand, dragging me across the street as I coughed. I stumbled blindly behind him, tripping on the still body of an Imperial soldier. His sword lay a few steps away in its sheath.

I clutched the sword to my chest and staggered to my feet. My legs burned with the exertion.

This is your chance, Aldria. Run!

I collapsed the moment my feet touched the cool stone of Helgen's keep. Burning tears escaped my eyes. My heart threatened to tear through my chest as ragged sobs racked my exhausted body. It felt as though Skyrim held more danger than the daggers of political enemies across the plains and fiery peaks of Morrowind. The worst feeling was being alone in this bitter land, without my cousin.

If anything happens, keep running. I will find you.

As a child, I lived with the threat of daggers in the night. My father sacrificed everything to accept a position of diplomacy in Morrowind following the war, taking us from the chill of Skyrim when I was an infant. Not one year into my life in Morrowind, my mother barely survived an attack the town square, leaving her without use of her legs. Still we stayed. The honor of protecting Skyrim in the heart of the Imperial realm remained as dear to him as life.

It was a price he gladly paid. Duty and honor bound him to serve. By the year I turned 11, my father succumbed to illness and fatigue, leaving the chair by the hearth empty, my mother's heart broken. We moved into the protected home of my uncle. His position as a respected friend and confidant of Scelius Aeria, the heir to House Redoran, assured our safety.

Faintly I heard Ralof slam the heavy door behind us and the hollow thud of the bar sliding into place. A hollow protest of wood scuffing against wood echoed when he began searching a chest of drawers.

We were free to play at the edge of the forest. Wuunrik always wished for more hours to roam and explore, especially when I argued with him to slow down so I could pick flowers for my mother. I crouched among the wildflowers, brushing dirt and bugs away. I always picked the purple flowers for mother, her favorite color. As long as I could I convinced Wuunrik to sit with me, I could stay and fill my apron with flowers. One evening, I convinced him to wait with me just a few more moments, as the sun sunk towards the horizon.

It was the last day I ever stepped foot in the forest.

"We have to keep moving." Ralof lifted a torch from the iron sconce on the wall. The movement cast shadows upon the floor-rug and illuminated the cracked door ahead. Within the room, tankards sat at a table, half full. Abandoned.