Chapter Text
The She-Elf disembarking the ship was not in a good way. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair was tangled, and dark circles lay under her silver-grey eyes. She had no choice but to keep moving, however. No money for a place to stay. She crossed the dock, wondering how much the city would have changed since her previous visit - before the War had scarred Cyrodiil. The Keep had been badly damaged and left to ruin, she knew this much from the official reports, but little detail had been recorded of the ‘unimportant’ parts of the city - where people merely lived their lives.
As she moved through the streets, keeping her head down, trying to shrink into herself, make her height less pronounced, she saw a mixture of things. There were damaged buildings, the once-pretty Gold Coast city now shabbier and less cheerful at a glance. But the people seemed proud, and had clearly worked to repair what they could, now milling around the marketplace in high spirits, from what she could gather.
She approached one stallholder, and asked if there was anyone who would buy small valuables from a person. The stallholder pointed vaguely at a thin, dark haired man behind a low table covered in cheap trinkets. Nodding thanks, she crossed the marketplace, and asked what he’d give her for the ring she had hidden in a small pocket sewn into the lining of her thin jacket. Not nearly what it was worth, of course, but it should be enough for a carriage at least as far as the Imperial City, and perhaps a meal or two. She would likely have to sleep rough, but better to sleep rough with a full stomach. She thought.
In the end, she spent most of the night on the carriage, her stomach growling, but she did sleep, at least a little. She stumbled off the carriage at its stop by the village of Weye, before it crossed the large bridge into the Imperial City proper, and realised she could not stop here to eat. She was too distinctive, and if the innkeeper - a cheerful She-Altmer - was the same as the last time she had been here, there was too much risk she would be recognised, not to mention the added complication that, on the long voyage from Alinor’s docks, she had settled on ‘borrowing’ the innkeeper’s name. It was easy for her to remember, and plain enough not to draw too much attention. No pretty ‘-iel’ names, and nothing that anyone would associate with her, not even Saltar, who likely had forgotten the name as soon as they had left Weye, for all his flirting.
Theoretically, she had been exiled and that should be the end of it. Why exile someone and then try to track them down? But then, they may not have yet known the full extent of her involvement in the Community, and there was every chance they would find out more. Better to be cautious. She ran her fingers through her hair as she walked, combing out the tangles as best she could, and stopped by a small stream by the side of the road to wash her face. At least it was still summer, she thought, albeit cooler than in the Isles, and becoming colder as she followed the Silver Road towards Bruma. Still, it was an autumnal chill, and within the realm of bearable, as much as she might wish for a warmer coat or at least another layer of clothing. The road was quiet, only an occasional mounted Guard passing in the other direction, and she reached Bruma in the early evening. The keeper of the smaller, nastier inn served her a bowl of some sort of grey stew, and eventually agreed to let her sleep on the floor by the fire, if she didn’t cause any trouble.
***
The following morning, she made her way out of the side gate of the city, only meaning to allow herself a passing glance at the statue of the Savior of Bruma. She was surprised to see how intact it still was, two centuries on, and froze when she saw how closely it really did resemble herself - Estoril’s skin and eyes had been golden in life, of course, but in cold grey stone, all that was there, was the shape of her face, a dagger held aloft, a hood covering the cropped hair. Thankfully, nobody much was about, and certainly nobody was paying much attention to a too-tall Altmer, her tangled hair covering as much of her face as possible without totally obscuring her vision.
She trudged along the road leading into the mountains, her thin jacket and breeches offering barely any protection against the increasing chill of the wind, and her boots letting her know that snow was not merely cold but quick to melt into a soggy mess that seeped through the thin leather. Her boots, after all, had not been made with the expectation of the wearer stepping in puddles, let alone walking through snow.
When she finally reached the border post, it was strangely quiet, only one sleepy guard leaning against the gate. She waited, in the shadows, and observed.
Finally, as she was beginning to think her ears might actually freeze off, the guard’s eyes closed, his head lolling forward, and she decided to risk it. She had no idea why she had chosen to head for Skyrim, really - perhaps a defiant ‘fine, then I’ll be a bloody Nord!’ type of sentiment, perhaps a hope that she could vanish into one of the ‘Stormcloak holds’, whatever those were, and avoid any former colleagues recognising her. Mostly, she had just walked where her feet had led her, she thought.
She made it past the guard, climbing as quietly as she could over the gate, and crept down the hill a way. The cold was beginning to both hurt and numb her hands and feet, and the tears weren’t far away, she knew. She moved towards a group of trees, standing with her back to them, trying to make out whether the shapes in the snow ahead were people, or just rocks.
Either way, she couldn’t afford to stand still in the fresh snow that was starting to fall, so she pushed forward, stumbling into the midst of a group of what she could now see were soldiers.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Damned if I know, soldier, but we’ll have to get her away from here. Tullius and his people should be almost here, by now, but there’s no way they can make it through the Pass in a snowstorm. Take the Elf down to the road with you, and pass the message on.”
She found herself roughly dragged down a steep hill, at the bottom of which her hands were bound and she was shoved unceremoniously onto a wooden cart with three men - one in rags, one in scruffy blue armour, and one in some sort of elaborate getup, plate armour with expensive looking furs over the top. She tried to protest, but the scruffy one just chuckled, and tried to make conversation. Judging by the road they were on, they were headed to somewhere called ‘Helgen’, he said, and he started waxing surprisingly poetic about his memories of the place. Well, for a scruffy, armoured Nord, anyway.
To her utter horror, as they passed through a gate into the walled settlement, she heard a familiar voice - Elenwen, one of the higher-ups. She doubted the She-Elf would recognise her, but she did not have any intention of risking it, and sunk lower on the bench. Finally, the carriage stopped, and she realised the awful truth. A headsman’s block was right in the middle of the small square, and a crowd had gathered.
The three men rose, and she found herself following them, watching in disbelief as the ragged horse thief tried to run, and was easily brought down with a single arrow from one of the soldiers. Another Nord with a quill and paper asked her name, not unkindly, and she gave the one she had practiced.
“Nerussa.”