Author's Note: I am so sorry.

Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls or the Inheritance Cycle. They belong to Bethesda Softworks and Christopher Paolini respectively.

"A wedding, you say?"

Haleth raised an eyebrow, a slight frown furrowing his brow. To his front sat a woman that perplexed the Nord to no end—Angela, she called herself, an herbalist of her own definition. And yet, Haleth could not shake the feeling that this woman was so much more than a simple "herbalist."

"Yes, a wedding. Have you never been to one?" Angela paused for a moment, her eyes sweeping up and down over Haleth. "Well actually, you certainly don't seem to be the sort…"

Haleth's frown grew in size, the veiled… insult? Observation? Whatever it was, it irritated him. Slightly.

"No, that is not the case. I've had my fair share of weddings, most of the time as a visitor." Haleth's eyes floated to the side, memories appearing to him. Yes, the last wedding he had attended had been… less than successful, to say the least. Certainly not a happy one—never would that be the case if the bride happened to die during it. Unless the bride was, of course, a shrew of any sort. Ah, these sorts of things were always too contrived for the wary ranger.

Poor Vittoria. If only Haleth had been a mite faster, she would not have ended up a red and white stain on the courtyard of the Temple of the Divines.

"Only most of the time? You don't seem to be the sort to be married, no offense…"

Haleth chuckled, shaking his head. "None taken, dear herbalist, and no, I am not married. I admit, I have never had the idea to… settle, as it were." Haleth shrugged, before speaking once more. "And who are the bride and groom of the day?"

"Ah, yes. The lucky gentleman is Roran Stronghammer, as his people have started to call him—he's Eragon's cousin, or brother, or whatever, that one, the groom. The bride is Katrina, also from the same village Roran hails from." Angela shrugged mutely, her mouth curling into a smirk. "It was supposed to have happened a few days ago, but it was delayed, for the time being. Unfortunately."

"And they saw fit to entwine themselves during this war? On a battlefield?"

Angela frowned in turn, shrugging while looking a tad frustrated. "Well, yes. It may not be the best time for a wedding, but if they so choose to do so now, then why not?"

"It is a horrible time for a wedding. A strategic nightmare, the perfect time for the enemy to ambush us... We are in a vulnerable position—no defensive fixtures, a camp full of civilians who are intermixed with the soldiers, and I have no doubt that during the wedding, there will be no shortage of drunken men and women, helpless in their joviality and reveling." Haleth fought the need to connect his face with the palm of his hand. "Absolutely stupid of the… leaders, of the Varden, as it were."

"Eh, what can you do?" Angela simply shrugged.

Another thought came to Haleth's mind, and his mouth curled once more, looking Angela straight in the eyes. "And why exactly did you see the need to tell me? We are not exactly acquainted, after all."

"What, a few days' worth of chatting and getting to know each other, and you do not even consider me a friend, not even an acquaintance?" The herbalist looked offended, leaning backwards with an incredulous gaze in her eyes.

"No."

This time, Angela seemed to be the one fighting the urge to bring her hand to her face. "Oh, how dull you are, Haleth." Her expression became pensive; Haleth was given the distinct impression that she was gauging him. "But, I will be honest—after I saw you during Nasuada's meeting, and then your duel with Arya, I admit that you have piqued my interest. You, Haleth, are an unknown to me. I don't know who you are, what you are doing, what your intentions are, and from whence you came." Her eyes narrowed, her head turning a slight bit to the left. "And I am the sort of woman who wants to know everything about everything around her. And how best to grow accustomed to the unknown, then to personally deal with them?"

Haleth nodded—it was a respectable answer. "Very well. Now, at what time is this wedding, anyways?"

"Oh, in about… thirty minutes?" Angela, to her credit, was humble enough to look flustered at this break in knowledge.

"Thirty... oh, of course. And I assume I need to… tidy up, as… people say?"

"Oh no, no need at all. The wedding is going to be a little bit informal, after all. We still need to be on the watch for any attack, as you said yourself."

Haleth gave a low sigh, more than a little relieved. "That is… good. Well, I guess we should be on our separate ways. Farewell, Angela?" Hopefully, these people's goodbyes were not so different from those in Tamriel —he had enough trouble with social situations as it was.

"Yes, yes, goodbye. Enjoy the last of your… mead, Haleth. Hopefully you don't come down with illness after drinking that." She gave the bottle of mead at Haleth's hands a look of disgust before standing up from the table and departing, leaving Haleth alone in the pavilion Looking down, Haleth gave the bottle a similar look to that one Angela had bestowed on it, though not quite so venomous. The bottle had served its purpose, albeit poorly, and Haleth threw the bottle into a nearby wastebucket with a shrug. Looking into the sky, Haleth judged the position of the sun—thirty minutes he had, and thirty minutes he would waste.

Haleth was utterly bored here.

Strolling through the Varden camp, Haleth judged the stares and gazes of those around him. Wary ones, scared ones, measuring ones, and faux-intimidating ones. It seemed that after his duel with the elf Arya, Haleth had made quite the impression on the Varden.

With good reason, of course. From what he'd picked up, it was not often in this place that a simple human could beat an elf in swordplay, especially an elf of Arya's social stature. Yes, indeed, Arya seemed to be quite the special little mer, and it appeared that no one had seen Haleth for the fighter he was.

Passing by a tent of peasants, Haleth nodded at a little boy, who seemed frightened at Haleth's appearance, if a little awestruck. Haleth could not help but feel a little bit self-conscious—he had never gotten used to the whole ordeal of being the famed Dragonborn of legend, but he had dealt with that by hiding his identity as the Dragonborn. Here? Even in a very much miniscule position of… infamy, as it was, Haleth was never the best at dealing with attention.

Probably a reason why he was "one of them sneaky types," in the words of the Whiterun Guard. His hood and mask probably left much to the imagination, no doubt—not that Haleth had any desire to show his face to the masses.

For now, however, Haleth had decided to put off his arrival at the present wedding. It was not as if they expected him there, despite the event having started some minutes before. Haleth felt it was okay to play truant, for the time being.

He arrived shortly at the one of the various training fields within the Varden camp. Upon his arrival, the multitude of warriors currently training seemed to falter for a short moment, before resuming their practices. Haleth, in turn, merely shrugged before approaching what seemed to be the local quartermaster.

"I wish to train."

The quartermaster, on his part, seemed more than a little taken aback by Haleth's statement. "Blunt one, are ye now? Well, feel free to take a practice sword from over there and get hacking. Plenty of dummies to go 'round." The large man, garbed in heavy plate armor and wielding an axe of some sort, responded, nodding his head in affirmation.

"I would also request a partner to duel with."

The man frowned, before nodding. "Alright, then I'll get ye one." Turning around, he called to one of the several warriors. "Oi, Wilhelm! Get over here and help this lad train. Duel him, if ye will."

The man in question, Wilhelm, took one look at Haleth before shuffling on his feet. "Eh, sir, I'd… rather not, in truth."

"Well, why the hell not? Ah, whatever." Pointing to another man, the quartermaster gestured towards Haleth. "Moriarty, pick up your sword and take this man to the circle!"

Once more, the soldier in question refused, and Haleth could see the quartermaster growing angrier. "Why the hell does no one want to fight this little roguish peeve here!? Is no one going to do it?"

The first soldier, Wilhelm, started to speak, albeit a tad nervously. "Erm, Captain Bolden, you didn't happen to see the duel between the newcomer and that one important elf, didya'?"

The quartermaster appeared puzzled, shaking his head. "No, I didn't. Heard about it, but thought nothin' of it. Poor lad probably got himself beaten into the dirt, didn't he?"

"Erm, no sir. They came to a draw, they did… and the newcomer happens to be that man." Wilhelm pointed at Haleth, and when the quartermaster turned to look at Haleth, an incredulous look upon his face, Haleth simply shrugged.

"Eh? Really?" Haleth nodded, and the quartermaster simply shook his head, sighing as he did so. "Ach, whatever. Seems ye won't have a training partner to duel with today—or probably any other day, for that matter." The man looked over Haleth, a frown upon his face. "Don't know how ye managed to beat one o' them elves, but I reckon if it's the truth, you're quite the fighter yourself. Feel free to practice on your own, if ye so wish."

Haleth shook his head, sighing internally. "No, I'll be fine. No time anyhow, now that I realize it. Apparently there's a wedding going on right now."

The quartermaster nodded. "Ah, the wedding. Never met Stronghammer myself, but I hear he's a valuable fighter. A shame my men and I can't participate, we have to be on watch during that time." He looked strangely at Haleth, an eyebrow raised. "An' why ain't a man like ye participating in the wedding? Shouldn't you be at it?"

Haleth shrugged in response, his head tilting in dismissal. "Eh, they won't miss me much. I can be late."

Captain Bolden chuckled heartily, before giving a lazy salute to the nord. "Well, off ye go, and don't go scarin' none o' my men, if ye will."

Haleth nodded his affirmative and made his departure. A frown upon his face, Haleth realised that he craved some—any—action. Any at all.

Well, to the wedding it was—

Haleth stopped dead abruptly, his head snapping to the sky as he listened. A faint sound, brass-like and droning on. He knew that sound distinctly, having heard it across the entirety of Tamriel. With it came blood, steel, and death.

A warhorn was wailing its harbinger of death from somewhere within the camp, and like a tidal wave of movement, soldiers began to pour out of their tents in a hasty frenzy. They grabbed weapons, shields, armor, and clothing, their frantic movements bustling forth across the camp.

Haleth looked forwards, eyeing Captain Bolden's men. Immediately, the soldiers had sprung into action, alert as their eyes spread wide.

"Captain Bolden, sir, what's going on?" the young soldier from earlier, Wilhelm, blurted out, running up to his commanding officer.

"I don't know, lad." Bolden looked away, his voice escalating into a commanding shout. "Men! Grab your weapons and armor, and make ready!"

Haleth made to speak, before being interrupted by a horse cantering up to the training field. The rider carried a horn in his hands, blowing into it once, twice, before addressing Bolden. "Captain Bolden, get your men out of the camp and into the fields north of our position!"

Bolden looked warily up at the rider, his mouth curled into a frown. "Care to tell me what in hell's blazes is goin' on, ser?"

The rider shook his head. "Not much time, Bolden. The Empire is attacking, perhaps four-hundred soldiers at most. Your commander, Lord Faywell, is unavailable, so you must take the initiative and muster your men outside the gates. Hurry, Captain!" With that, the messenger rode away, his horn blaring once more.

Bolden watched as the rider departed, before looking at Haleth unsurely. "Lad, I'm not so sure as to what's going on, but it seems we're under attack. Only so few men, though." He whistled, and a horse promptly cantered up to Bolden, waiting for the man to mount it. "I'm not fit for high command, only for me and my few men here, and I dunno who is at this point. But, care to join us, young master? Seems we have some redcloaks to put under the ground." The quartermaster ended his speech by holding out a hand, presumably for the Nord to shake.

Haleth nodded, grasping Bolden's hand firmly as he shook it. "Beats sitting in here doing nothing. My name's Haleth."

"William Bolden. Good to meet you, Haleth. Now, shall we be off?"

Haleth shook his head, gesturing for Bolden to leave. "Nay, but I'll meet you and your men at our muster, Captain. I need to gather a few things, first."

The large captain nodded, before turning around. "Men! Let's move out, on the double!" Bolden rode out of the training field, his men following him on foot or horseback in a somewhat disorderly manner. Hesitating for a moment, Haleth brought his hand to his mouth, letting loose a high-pitched whistle.

From behind Haleth, a neigh sounded off, the sound of hooves clattering against dirt rushing towards him. Haleth turned around, grabbing ahold of a pair of reins as he swung himself on top of a mound of white fur.

"Missed me much, Frost?" Haleth whispered into his horse's ear, riding forth quickly through the camp as civilians and soldiers alike moved out of his way. In response, the icy-white horse whinnied, galloping forwards. Within seconds, the two approached a familiar tent, and Haleth jumped off of Frost, landing on the ground with a small roll.

The ranger rushed into his tent, his eyes whipping around as he searched. Bread, clothing, a bowl, some spare knives and forks, several books—ah! There! Haleth rushed to the corner of the tent, his hands grabbing onto a sword's hilt and slapping its sheath onto his back. Following this, Haleth slung a pale blue longbow across his back, before reaching for a long spear, a weapon he had seen fit to acquire from the camp's armory the day before.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Haleth sprinted out of the tent, mounting Frost with a whoop.

"Hiya! Let's go Frost, quickly!"

The air was silent and dry, the heat of the midday sun beaming down angrily upon the soldiers of the Varden. They sweated in their armor, light glaring off of their plate and mail as they shone like beacons. A few men coughed or mumbled, their eyes angled forwards as they glared upon the crimson ranks that slowly marched forwards.

"I count three—no, four. Four hundred men in red." A tall green-clad man, mounted upon a spotted brown horse, spoke from Haleth's right, his hands holding up a cylindrical, bronze telescope as he spoke. "Why so few?"

Another large man cleared his throat from behind Haleth, gulping down a mouthful of bread before he replied. "A distraction, maybe. Or a test. Who knows what Galbatorix the Pretender is planning?"

A third officer clad in full, blue-painted plate spoke in turn, his voice tinny through his visor. "Doesn't matter—we can crush them easily, and hold them at the Jiet River. Baron Tory, young master, what have you got planned?"

All eyes around Haleth shifted to a young man in the front. Man was, in effect, a bit of a misnomer, the highest-ranked officer little more than a boy, a very young baron, who had likely inherited his title and rank from a father or relative. Haleth wondered what had prompted the leaders of the Varden to put such a young boy in command of the mustered soldiers—inexperienced, likely, and afraid. Of course, the boy was accompanied by a set of older officers and soldiers, yes, and it would likely be a relatively small engagement, but that did not excuse the pure mistake in command.

The boy, Baron Tory, spoke unsurely after a silent moment, his eyes wide and fearful as they gazed out upon the ranks and files of scarlet before them. "Lord Bywater, when are our reinforcements due?"

The noble who had been eating bread, Lord Bywater, responded promptly, his voice husky and rough, like sandpaper. "Within the hour, milord. Soon's they get in armor and can arrive with their retinues."

"Hopefully they're not all too drunk at this point," the blue-plated noble replied, his horse shuffling below him as he spoke. "Though, I'm sure we'll be fine."

Baron Tory was silent for several seconds, before finally speaking once more. "Right. Captain Margrave, Captain Bolden—you two take command of our infantry and skirmishers—how many do we have?"

The telescope-wielding man in green, Margrave, responded. "About five hundred men-at-arms, milord. Mostly swordsmen and spearmen. Besides that, some one-hundred archers and crossbowmen."

Tory nodded, turning to the blue-clad knight. "Good. Ser Pent, Lord Bywater—you two take half of our cavalrymen, and charge from the right. I'll take the rest and flank from the left. Agreed?"

Ser Pent shook his head in disagreement. "I highly advise against that, milord. You're our leader, you must stay safe. Bywater will take command of our flank, but I'll stay with you behind our lines."

"Then who," Tory started, "will take command of our left, if not I?" Haleth listened to the boy ramble, evidently desperate to prove himself in command, yet fearful all the same. After a few seconds of debate and arguing, Haleth interrupted.

"Sir," Haleth began, holding up a hand. "If I may, I can hold our left. You won't need to worry about it, in that case."

The young lord looked back at Haleth, giving the cloaked nord a hard, incredulous gaze. "Then who, exactly, are you, good sir? I've no idea where you've even come from." Indeed, the rest of the nobles, with the exception of Captain Bolden, stared skeptically at Haleth.

"I'm sure the Lady Nightstalker would vouch for me," Haleth said. Of course, he didn't know that, and by the way Nasuada had treated him, Haleth could bargain that was not the case whatsoever. Tory, however, seemed to be convinced—Nasuada likely had a tremendous hold on her followers. Haleth, however, was loath to give the woman any notion of respect.

"Very well," Tory nodded, gesturing towards their left side. "You'll take command of our cavalry on the left, and charge in when our infantry have engaged. Ser Narrin awaits with your command. Does anyone have any questions about their assignemnts?" The boy received a chorus of "no sir's," and smiled grimly, riding forwards. "Then it is decided. Onwards to victory, men!"

Watching as the assembled leaders dispersed, Haleth gave Frost a pat, guiding the mare across the plains. Within a few moments, he had reached a grouping of cavalrymen, bearing blue banners. Upon seeing Haleth they were on their guard, clearly not expecting a man garbed in black cloaks to ride at them.

"Halt! Who goes there?" Their leader, it seemed, a man mounted upon a black horse, wearing a coat of steel plate as well as a cerulean cloak around his shoulders, called out to Haleth, brandishing a long lance. Evidently, this was the Ser Narrin whom Baron Tory had mentioned.

Haleth approached the man, holding up a hand in a sign of peace. "Calm yourself. Ser Narrin, I presume?"

"That is my name," the man replied, using a hand to lift his visor. "And who are you?"

Haleth stopped Frost just short of Narrin. "The name is Haleth. Under orders from Baron Tory, I'm to commandeer your unit. Do you have any issues with that?"

Narrin grumbled lowly, clearly unsure of the revelation. "Eh, I've not got any issues with that, sir."

Shaking his head, Haleth looked into Narrin's eyes. "Clearly, Ser Narrin, you do. So, may I offer a stipend, of sorts?"

"What's that?"

"You obviously have much more chemistry with your men than I ever would, Ser Narrin. I'll be leading, obviously, but, for the time being, I'll allow you to retain your general command. Just follow my orders, and all will be well."

Narrin did respond for several moments, clearly considering. After some time, the knight finally nodded, extending a gauntleted hand. "Aye, I can do that. I ain't got the head for major command, anyways, and Tory clearly vouches for you."

Haleth took the man's hand, shaking it firmly. "Thank you, Ser Narrin. Now," Haleth began, looking out towards the field. Off in the distance, a glob of crimson and steel shone under the hot sun, slowly marching towards a river that separated the two hosts. "What exactly is the situation? Our overarching orders are to charge in after the infantry engage, but I need more information."

"Well sir," Narrin started, pointing out towards the field. "King Orrin was originally supposed to take command. Unfortunately, he was preoccupied by the events of the day—the wedding. Off there, in the distance, is the Jiet River. This is the only crossing from here to Feinster, so we can't afford to lose here. Not that I think we will."

"And your men? How many cavalrymen do we have here?"

"Fifty, sir—all heavy cavalry, armed with lances and swords. We're part of King Orrin's personal guard, you see."

Haleth was confused—he had not met or heard of this "King Orrin" yet. "Who's this King Orrin?"

Ser Narrin looked at Haleth incredulously. "You haven't heard of King Orrin? King of Surda, and the only reason Lady Nightstalker and the Varden are able to support this war in the first place?"

Haleth shook his head, waving his hand in dismissal. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Signal your men, Ser Narrin—we ride forth now."

Narrin gave a brief salute before turning around, calling to his men. "Men! We ride forth, with me!"

One of the riders blew into an ivory horn, its wail signaling their movement. At a gentle pace, Haleth rode forth, followed by Ser Narrin and his company. In the distance, the crimson horde approached the river crossing, the soldiers in blue opposite them. Haleth gauged the distance, estimating that the armies would meet within a few minutes—enough time, therefore, for Haleth to reach a favorable position from which to charge. It would be simple enough—it was a scenario that Haleth had personally been involved with multiple times during the Second Great War. Time and time again, Haleth had been at the forefront of a cavalry charge.

And yet, something about this particular instance threw him off—something was different, something was off.

Something about the men in red, across the river, was simply unnatural, and the souls of the dragons, wolf, and nightingale within him screamed at him, warning him of danger.

Author's Note:

I am very sorry for the delay, guys. Several events have happened upon me that severely delayed the output of this story, including exams, schoolwork, college applications, and a whole wide range of stuff. I've also began work on several other projects, but that's not as important.

Thanks for hanging in, guys. I promise that uploads will be somewhat more regular from here on out. I hope, at least.

Individual Replies:

Blinded in a bolthole: Well, Haleth isn't a werewolf-at least, not in the traditional sense. That will become more clear as the story progresses. Also, I fully plan for the debate between the Empire and the Varden to be a key plotpoint for Haleth.

That's it! Thanks for reading, guys, and I'll see you guys soon, hopefully.