Chapter Text
It’s a bright, clear sunny day. The evergreens rustle with each gust of wind as a flock of swallows chorus sweetly. Nirn continues to move, every event set in motion despite Alexandra’s predicament. It was foolish on her part, and something she wouldn't ever let go, provided she lives. Living is a grim thought, now, facing the Stormcloaks which sit beside her. One man claims to not be of their ilk, but the chatter only partially reaches her ears. Looking down, she can see her bonds are tightly woven. Still, there's always room for mistakes in the shape of wispy rope ends.
“I wouldn't try that if I were you.” A voice reminds her, lilting in caution. Raising her head, she's met with the fair skin of her people. His eyes are tired and sunken, a sign of the skirmish which took place nearly a night ago.
For a moment, Alexandra doesn't wish to answer. Why speak, when they were all destined to die?
“This is imperial land, girl. Even if you managed to free yourself, you wouldn't survive.” His words ring true, but she still has to stop herself from rolling her eyes in irritation.
“I'm not a girl.” Her eyes narrow, “You don't know who I am.”
The path is rocky, shaking the carriage with each bump. The headache forming between her brows only worsens with each nauseating sway.
“It hardly matters, we're here.” He sighs just as the carriage creaks to a stop, the end is near.
She's tall enough to spy a chopping block splattered in gore. While not a particularly comforting sight, it is one she is used to. Memories come to her in floods. Her mother was not known to her, but her locket remains in a pouch by her waist. Could she feel her panic? Would her mother be disappointed in her lack of resistance? Or, maybe, she would scold her carelessness. The temple of Mara sent her to Darkwater Crossing to assist the ill. Miners often caught sickness easier than others due to excess use of their bodies. A pitiable existence, they survived only on their ability to dig a suitable amount of rock. On her way, there were a few camps laid out, but she brushed them off as fellow travelers. Putting the pieces together, she realizes that it was the storm cloak camp gathered before her. Her imposing appearance probably didn't aid in her capture. She's well built, and quite tall—easily able to wield an axe or sword. The Amulet of Mara sitting idly on her chest had done little to sway her captors. That strategy was too intelligent for grunts it seems, since not even a priestess of Mara could outrun such stigma surrounding her Nordic heritage.
“Step this way, prisoner.” An Imperial legate barks, her lips pulled up in a snarl.
Out of habit, Alexandra mirrors the expression with a healthy amount of defiance.
“Go on, please, don't fight it.” An imperial legionary holds his hands up in a placating manner. “We’ll make sure your family is…aware.”
“I said next, prisoner.” The legate snaps, her helmet obscuring her features. Alexandra hesitates once more as she glances towards the chopping block. The gore decorating stone has only grown since her first look. Standing before it is the headsman, wearing the unsettling mask of a human butcher.
The fleeting emotion of fear curdles as wrath rises above. Raising her head proudly, she stares down at both legionaries.
“You will witness Mara's displeasure upon my death. Try not to struggle.”
Panic sets the legionaries’ eyes skyward as the winds change. Something feels ominous in the distance as the ground shakes and the wind roars. Wings as dark as night patter with great force as a creature out of children’s tales lands on the watchtower. Cobblestone crumbles towards the ground, landing in jagged pieces struck against the earth. Commands are shouted and the soldiers scramble to obey.
An eerie calm overtakes her body. Almost like the feeling of drowning, Alexandra can only stare into the crimson eyes that suddenly command her attention. The creature stares back, unblinking, but conscious. Its gaze sends her skin crawling, sinking deeper into blood and marrow until it begins to disturb her mind. Mara held no claim over Akatosh’s creations–this was not her Lady's wrath.
A hand claps on her shoulder, tearing her attention away to face the ruddy-faced Nord she nearly shared her fate with.
“Come on! The Gods won't give us another chance! We need to go. Now!” He tugs on her vestments, pulling her to safety in a nearby watchtower.
The watchtower quakes under each thundering beat of the dragon’s wings. Gooseflesh pricks her skin as the whipping nears so close she can hear the rumble of its throat–feel how it makes her hair stand on end. Stone and debris crumble upon its entrance, leaving a haze of smoke. She struggles to breath, lungs expanding in vain. Her heart lurches as she scrambles to gather her rigid limbs and haphazardly leap through the rubble. She crashes against hardwood in a heap of aching bone and skin. Bile threatens to expel itself on the floor as the world rotates in dizzying patterns. Her vision is left spotty, stars littering her view. In an attempt to ground herself, she palms the floor, searching the grooves of wood in comfort. Her lashes flutter close. Remember the tenets of Lady Mara. Recount her words, her love, her compassion. Gathering her strength, Alexandra hoists herself up, fists banging against the wood as adrenaline courses through her veins. They bulge upon her biceps, reminding her body of its turmoil.
Her memory was not something she often worried for, but seeing as how traumatic this event was, perhaps she should. Everything blurs into one as she sets off sprinting. Darkness swallows her whole, no matter how much she struggles, the ooze of exhaustion grips her tightly. It ropes along her thighs, her stomach, then her mind as it submerges her consciousness into its pool of darkness. It is not a peaceful end.
She’s sweating, heaving, and visibly shaken when the same imperial who spelled her doom on parchment tends to her. Nerves twitch, still controlled by adrenaline, as a wet rag drags across her sweaty brow. Their eyes meet, and she knows her expression of confusion is clear as his caution morphs into relief.
“You passed out shortly after we made it through the cave.” He pauses his ministrations, watching her carefully.
His accent matches his eyes in its inexplicable kindness. Manipulation would be easier than she presumed, if his profile was as soft as she guessed. But, no, manipulation was not her strength. Only brute force and passion could drive her forward. Running the obstacle through was always easier than floundering around it.
She grunts, sitting up and snatching the rag which he so delicately patted her wounds with.
“I promise you, even in this condition, I can still break you in half, imperial.” She must look weak, because the little imperial doesn’t even flinch at her gruff threat. Instead, he frowns, glancing down at the cot in thought.
“It was wrong. I realized you weren’t supposed to be there, but the legate …”
“I know.” She growls, “I look like their type of rabble, huh?” She thrusts her amulet into his chest, snarling. “My order could stamp you into the ground , civil war or not.”
Hadvar gingerly gathers the amulet, admiring its elegantly placed opal decorated in gold swirls and interlacing motifs. A memory surfaces of his uncle’s wedding; it isn’t a replica of the amulet Sigrid received, but he recognizes Mara’s symbol all the same.
“ Divines .” He rubs a thumb over the smooth surface of an opal.
The rag is thrown to the side, plopping back into the bucket beside her cot. Anger is getting the better of her, and so is her restless nature. Sighing, she stretches her neck, pulling the mask of stoicism over herself once more.
“Grow a backbone, little imperial, Divines know you need it.” With her sudden lack of resistance, Hadvar relaxes. He sits, elbows on his knees, as they regard each other. Still in the cot, Alexandra forces herself to face him properly.
“Thanks.” It sounds unnatural coming past her lips, but she would begrudgingly follow her Goddess' tenets. The nudge is resounding inside her pounding skull, tendrils of disgustingly bright emotions ensnaring her cold heart.
“For…tending to me.” She regrets her compassion when Hadvar’s lips tug in a smile. Too kind. Too bright for the horrors his superiors no doubt commit. Bunching up the furs, she forces her eyes away, but the memory remains. She would remember the color of his eyes when passing a spruce tree. Pale green, they shine verdant when sunlight filters in from the drapes gently fluttering against the window. It hypnotizes her, the drapes fluttering like the beating of the dragon’s wings. Trauma constricts her throat, clawing at her mind to chip away her sense of calm. Tension seizes her jaw, and Alexandra moves stiffly, swinging her legs over the edge of the cot.
“The name is Hadvar, by the way.” He introduces softly, still palming her amulet she so angrily thrust into his chest moments ago.
A beat passes, and she only answers when her shoulders sorely drop.
“Alexandra.” She grumbles, eyebrows pinched together in stubborn compliance.
“You know.” Hadvar begins, eyes hopeful. “I’m sure the temple would allow you to enlist in the legion. We need capable warriors…and healers.” He adds with a tinge of melancholy. Perhaps she underestimated what he’s seen.
“Not interested.”
Hadvar visibly deflates, but she doesn’t have the strength to feel bad.
“Don’t like workin’ with others.”
The imperial sighs, “I see.”
Alexandra begins gathering her items, tugging her thigh-high boots back on and haphazardly lacing them. “At least give it some thought.”
She glances up, eyes sharp. “I did.”
Hadvar huffs, unconsciously gripping her amulet tighter. “Please. General Tullius would surely pardon you.”
The amulet is snagged from his grasp, “I don’t need it. I did nothing wrong.”
He follows her hasty descent down the narrow steps, “Just…at least warn the Jarl in Whiterun. Someone needs to know about that dragon!”
Screwing her jaw tight, Alexandra turns. “Fine.”
Divines, this woman was aggravating to speak with. Her clipped replies were beginning to fluster him. She brushes past him, opening the wooden door to his uncle’s house. Red hair splays across her shoulders in long, thick strands curling down to her hips.
They’re standing on the steps now, the biting breeze carrying promises of winter.
“I wouldn’t ask any more of you.” Hadvar enunciates firmly in opposition of her complacent attitude.
Alexandra finally turns to him with an expression not easily read. Her face is unblemished, not a freckle in sight on the diaphanous canvas of her skin. Like porcelain, it stands as a stark contrast to her physique. Strong, but not bulky, lean muscle–the perfect balance that any brawler strives for. Her fingers clasp the amulet back around her neck, allowing it to sit between her chest. He watches her jaw work, swallowing before answering. His expression is hardened with a determination she reluctantly admires.
“I understand. I’ll let the Jarl know, but don’t go hoping I’ll join, boy.”
He brightens, and it sickens her. For the second time, she shoves something into his chest. It’s a pouch full of Septims, if the clinking was anything to go by.
Hadvar blinks, craning his neck upwards.
“Buy yourself a better sword.” Ah. His sword succumbed to snapping against the weight of a war-hammer during their escape. A result of a particularly vicious attack–she was forced to act. With the hilt caught between her bound-daggers, Hadvar recounts the visceral sound of skin breaking as she twisted them deeper and deeper into the man’s belly, smiling as his pleas for mercy broke into indiscernible wails. Carnage painted her face, only amplifying her lust for battle. Hadvar doubted he would be sleeping well after such a display of power. Someone as brutal as her would be a boon to the legion, but he knows, now, the extent of her clemency.
Alexandra steps away, heeled boots clicking onto cobblestone as he stands there engrossed.
The pouch weighs heavily in his palms, she’s nothing more than a blip in the distance, blending into the hearty foliage of Riverwood. He can only pray that she reaches the Jarl before Skyrim is swept up in even more calamity.