Lastspell Falls [A Skyrim Fanfiction}

In The Eyes of The Gods

A/N: Hey hey! Just want to say, if you're still reading then thank you so much for sticking with this! I've officially finished writing the story itself, so the last lot of chapters are all scheduled to post over the next few days or so, with a double whammy on the final day.
Thank you again for joining me on this journey, please remember to vote on your favourite chapters, and drop me comments if you'd like to see more stories like this!

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I wake to a commotion, people rolling out of their beds as there's shouting somewhere nearby. A boy's broken voice shouting, men yelling, and more voices jeering. I scramble out of bed, snatching up my sword and bow as if expecting a fight, and see Andrinius barrel down the stairs, steps still unsteady as he catches himself on the railing. A glance at the light outside tells me it's just past sunrise, and as I charge after Thelessa and Zakarus, the latter also still unsteady on his feet, a cheer sounds from downstairs.

People are already shoving their way out of the hall when we get down there, visibly excited despite most still having the stability of a six-month-old. I hear snatches of conversation as I try to push through the group, getting swept up and carried out the door as we spill out into the clearing, people moving to form a ring around Skjoren and Hadvar.

I realise I've never seen Hadvar truly angry before. Certainly, I saw it last night, but this is worse – this is more like rage, like the same fury that I know when the dragons combine their strength with her. A cold darkness that I think is unknown by most; but I see it in the glare Hadvar is directing at Skjoren, as the Stormcloak picks himself up from the ground. Surprisingly, he's still in his armour, but his axe isn't on his hip – it's in Hadvar's other hand.

"Skjoren Ember-Gaze, you stand accused of the murder of fifteen civilians at Whitereach, and the attempted murder of sixteen more in Lastspell Falls."

Hadvar's voice rings out on the cold morning air as Skjoren rubs his face, clearly still waking up. I wonder how Hadvar manages to look so alert, so awake, when I know he stayed up on watch last night well after I went to bed. Maybe it's the same adrenaline that seems to be pushing him to pace back and forth in front of Skjoren – stalking, like a predator.

I've never seen him like this, and it's a little... frightening, if I'm being honest. Despite everything over the past few days, the reconnecting, the soft moments, I remind myself that he is an Imperial Captain, and this is probably him enacting Imperial justice.

"By Imperial law, you're found guilty until proven innocent," Hadvar continues, prowling his end of the loose ring that's now formed. "But we all know how that'll go, and I think you'd prefer something you consider fair."

He throws Skjoren's axe down in front of him, the steel making a harsh clang against the stony ground. Skjoren, on one knee, looks from it to Hadvar.

"By Nordic tradition you prove yourself under Tsun, by rite of combat."

People are shouting, jeering at Skjoren as he hesitates, looking up at Hadvar. There's a flash of fear in his expression as Hadvar stops his pacing, turning to face Skjoren front-on, sword hanging by his side but clearly still at the ready. I want to leap in. I know I probably should; we're so close to being free, the path so close to being done, and Hadvar is risking his stupid life against this guy for what? Avenge the soldiers killed in the skirmish? Validate the anger of the locals? Why not simply arrest him, drag him into Castle Dour and let... let whatever happens there, happen to him?

The dragons are stirring, rising, watching through my own eyes as they soak in the energy. And yet, my feet remain planted in place, frozen as if by some greater power. This is not my fight. Let them battle. Let them resolve it. This is justice.