Stalwart, Story of Henrik Options

[Lord Veneficus]

Stalwart

Chapter One


Henrik ran a gloved hand through his grey speckled beard, bouncing roughly on the small cart loaded down with various ores. The horse tethered to the rickety old cart whinnied with dissatisfaction as the fatigue of pulling the cart began to take hold. “I know, Ida, I know. Just a bit further and we’ll stop to take a break, old girl,” he said, gently patting the horse’s side.

The breeze whistled through mighty trees along the road, leaves dancing about on the hard packed dirt. Henrik took a deep breath of the cool air and began to contemplate his next piece of work. He was a tremendously talented smith and would not be privy to tell anyone of that fact. His weapons had gained him a decent bit of fame around Whiterun Hold. Henrik’s thoughts were abruptly shaken as he heard a rustling that came from no breeze. “Whoa, whoa,” he whispered to Ida.

The cart came to slow stop and Ida quickly became restless as the noises persisted. By the Gods, I’d prefer not to fend off any bandits. Just as quickly as the thought passed through his mind, an arrow pierced the air and struck his beloved horse in her right haunch. Ida reared violently and exploded into a gallop, throwing Henrik backwards. His heavy, muscular body hit the ground with great force and loud pop resonated into the air. Henrik grunted in pain and stumbled to his feet, arm jolting with pain.

“NOW!” A gruff voice yelled and a cacophony of unsheathing blades rung out. Henrik pulled his blade as well but was quickly disarmed as he was wrestled to the ground by two Altmeri soldiers clad head to toe in Elven armor. Henrik knew what would come next and grasped for his Talos amulet, blood boiling with rage.

They carried on a short conversation in Elvish and their leader, crouched to pat Henrik’s body down. Henrik immediately recognized the mer as Valdemar, a captain of a Thalmori checkpoint to the east of Whiterun. Valdemar eventually made it to his upper torso, his fingers running along the amulet. “What is this, Henrik?” He asked as he yanked the amulet from Henrik’s neck.

“Don’t play stupid, you twit,” Henrik spat and Valdemar brought his fist violently into his face, stood, and began speaking Elvish. The only bit that Henrik could understand was mention of Helgen. Thank the Nine.

The elf turned to Henrik and slung his booted foot into the side of Henrik’s head. Blood trickled through his hair as Henrik slowly lost consciousness.

[Lord Veneficus]

Chapter Two

Henrik awoke yet again to a bump riddled ride. The silhouettes of his fellow prisoners came into view as his eyes adjusted to the morning sunlight; one was dressed in Stormcloak garb. A blond man sat in front of him, eyes toward the floor of the carriage; another sat to Henrik’s right, though there was a gag in his mouth and was enveloped in fine clothes. The last of the men sat towards the back of the carriage. He was a brute of a man, covered in the scars of past battles, hair and thick beard black as the Void, and he was clothed in rags. Odd bunch. Henrik thought.

The blond man glanced up from the floor and caught Henrik’s gaze, his eyes steeped in sadness and disappointment. “Good to see you’re finally awake. We thought they had thrown us on here with a dead man,” the man said. “How did you get tangled up in this?” Henrik’s memory began to creep back.

“Ambushed by those Gods-be-damned Elves,” Henrik said through gritted teeth.

“Same as us, but we were ambushed by these bastards,” the man swung his head towards one of the Imperial soldiers, who spun around to pommel the blond man with his elbow. The blond man grunted and said, “I’m Ralof, by the way. Not that it matters now. Sovngarde seems to be calling us.”

Henrik gave a weak smile and said, “Name’s Henrik.” He understood why the rebellion had started; no man should be told who he can and cannot worship, especially regarding a man such as Talos Stormcrown.

Ralof then pointed towards the gagged man in front of the brute, “This is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, true High King of Skyrim!” It seems I’ll be put on the block; especially if they’ve got me tied up next to the ‘rebel’ leader.

Out of the corner of his eye, Henrik could see the brute near the back staring into the forest, nostrils flared and eyes lusting for the chance at freedom. Ralof glanced at Henrik and shook his head as if to say talking to the brute was a lost cause. Curious, Henrik leaned forward and asked, “And your name?”

The Nord brute turned his steely gaze upon Henrik, scrutinizing every small detail. Henrik could see an animalistic quality in the brute with his dirty, matted hair and dark, sweaty smudges all along his arms, neck, and face. “Not important. No sense in getting comfortable,” he spat, returning to his deep gaze into the woods. Henrik glanced back towards Ralof and shrugged his shoulders; Ralof gave Henrik a look as if to say ‘Told you so.’

*******

The conversation had died down significantly over last hour, leaving Henrik to only his thoughts and the wondrous beauty of the snow-capped mountains and trees surrounding him. The anger that had risen in him before had been slowly replaced with the acceptance of his death, bringing about almost euphoric sights, sounds, and scents. Of course, he had been confronted with death before, but this instance had felt entirely different.

Henrik was quickly shaken from his thoughts as the watch tower of Helgen crept over the snow covered pines. A thin sheet of ice rested atop the battlements, glistening in the morning sun. There were a number of black silhouettes sat perched at the top, as well, seemingly ushering in death.

Ralof once again brought his eyes from the floor and into Henrik’s. “Where are you from, Henrik?” He asked.

“Whiterun. Why do you ask?”

“Because a Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” Ralof said as he rested his back against the old oak rail and smiled into the sun.