Morndas, Last Seed 17, 4E201
9:30 am
Helgen

The two siblings huddled close together on the cart bench, the little girl hiding in her elder brother's body as much as her bindings allowed. Ralof watched sadly, listening as the boy sang into the girl's ear in a vain attempt to give her comfort. The boy, who was really more of a young man, kept his voice low so the irritable Imperial directing the horses wouldn't have cause to shut him up; Ralof heard only faint snatches of song over the wind and creaking of the old cart. From the boy's other side, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak watched with the same kind of sadness as Ralof, though in his dark blue eyes the sadness was tempered by righteous anger at the Legion's treatment of these Nordic children. Even the cowardly horse thief, shaking in his torn garments, showed a small measure of pity for the young pair.

They clattered into Helgen—and to their apparent executions—silently, all eyes focused on the youngest among them; Ralof spared a moment of his attention to glower at Elenwen and her Thalmor Justiciars as they passed; Ulfric did not spare the Altmer even so much as a glance. One of the legionnaires called out, declaring that the headsman was ready. The little girl sobbed loudly, terrified, as the cart pulled to a stop. The boy stopped singing and curled desperately around her form, as if he could shield her from the injustices of the Empire with his body.

"We're going to be fine," the cart's occupants heard the boy whisper shakily as they stood and prepared to move. "We'll get through this. You'll be fine, I'm going to make sure of it." He did not sound like he believed it; the girl was clearly not fooled.

Ulfric and Ralof were seasoned warriors, both graceful and sure-footed, and even the horse thief had some measure of balance; though bound, they managed to jump-slide the short distance to the ground and land with surety. The children, however, were not so fortunate. The boy landed with a stagger but quickly regained his footing. He moved to support his sister as much as he could, but with his hands bound there was little he could do. The girl whimpered quietly but made the jump; her legs buckled as she landed, and without the use of her hands to counterbalance or catch herself, she fell toward the unforgiving ground. Ralof made an instinctive move to help, but the boy beat him to it. In an impressively quick maneuver, he twisted his torso and fell to his knees, breaking his sister's fall with his stomach and thighs.

Fortunately, the legionnaires were otherwise distracted as Ralof braced the boy and helped him to his feet. The girl sent him a quick look of thanks, hazel doe-eyes wide and glistening, as she joined the line behind her brother.

"Step toward the block when he calls your name," the Captain, a snappish Redguard woman, barked. The sun glinted harshly off the polished metal of her pauldrons. "One at a time!"

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." Ralof's eyes darkened with sadness as he recognized Hadvar's voice. To his once-friend's credit, he called the Jarl's name with solemn neutrality.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," Ralof said quietly as the Jarl moved away, steady and proud even as he walked to his execution.

"Ralof of Riverwood." Pain flashed briefly through Hadvar's eyes, but his face and voice remained utterly neutral.

The Stormcloak couldn't resist one last jibe at his old friend as he walked past. "The Empire loves their damned lists," he snarled under his breath, staring with accusing eyes. Hadvar looked steadily ahead.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

The horse-thief seemed to finally reach the end of his rope as his name was called, hysterically insisting that he wasn't a rebel before he made a suicidal run for freedom. Suicidal it proved to be; the Imperial archers downed him in seconds. The Captain's snarled "anyone else feel like running" was his only eulogy.

The girl was shaking visibly by this point, a constant stream of tears running down her pale cheeks. The boy was similarly pale, though he seemed to be focused on his sister too much to truly panic. Hadvar finally realized that the two children were there, his blue eyes widening in shock.

"Wait. You two," he said. "Who are you? What are you—" The soldier's voice failed as he realized the children were bound like prisoners. A look of disturbed confusion crossed his face.

"I-I am Alar Clay-Shoes, of Whiterun," the boy said, his voice trembling slightly. "This is my little sister Amara. We were coming back from our relatives' home in Cyrodiil, but—but we got lost after this bear came into camp…" He began to ramble, his grey-blue eyes shining wetly as he finally got a chance to plead his innocence. "We didn't mean to walk into the fight, really we didn't, but I was scared the bear was still coming and didn't want to risk going back a-and Amara and I still had both our packs, so I figured we should just keep walking, but suddenly there were soldiers and everyone was fighting and I drew my sword because I just wanted to keep Amara safe like I promised and—and—but—"

"What's this, now?" General Tullius, sufficiently distracted from glaring hatefully at Ulfric, walked over at the sudden commotion. His narrowed eyes landed on the two Nord children, one of whom was crying and trembling and the other who was hyperventilating as he tried to explain.

"We didn't mean to, sir, really we didn't"—the boy was nearly begging as he spoke—"but the soldiers wouldn't listen and they were hurting Amara and I just panicked, sir, really I didn't—"

"Calm down, young man." The General held up a quelling hand; Alar's jaw snapped shut with an audible click. "Take a deep breath and tell me what happened, slowly."

Alar deflated slightly, shutting his eyes and taking several deep breaths until the tremors in his limbs subsided. He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, meeting the General's eyes steadily.

"I am Alar Clay-Shoes of Whiterun," he said calmly, "and this is my little sister Amara, sir. We've been in Cyrodiil with relatives since the summer, after our parents died, but we were heading back so that I could take over the farm again. We made camp early yester—" Alar hesitated, brow furrowing as he realized that more time may have passed than he remembered. "Er, the day we were t-taken, sir, because Amara was tired, but a bear came sniffing around and decided we would make a good meal, so we ran. It was my fault, really, since I didn't know where we were once we stopped running. I decided that we should just keep walking since we both had our packs and I wasn't sure if we had really lost the bear. But we walked into the fighting, on accident, sir, I swear. Everything was so chaotic. I drew my sword just in case I had to protect Amara, but the Legionnaires thought I was a Stormcloak and someone grabbed Amara a-and… I panicked, sir." Alar's face flushed with shame as he admitted this, ducking his head slightly. "One of the soldiers knocked me out, and when I woke up we were in the cart, sir."

The General's countenance was thoughtful and concerned as Alar looked back up at him, a pleading look on his young face. "We're not rebels, sir, I swear it."

Tullius chuckled dryly at this and shook his head. "You know, son, I think it would be nigh on impossible to convince me your baby sister was a rebel." A look of pure relief crossed the boy's face at the General's words. "And I'd wager that no self-respecting rebel captain would send a boy as young as you to guard Ulfric, especially without armor."

"Yessir," Alar agreed, nodding vigorously. Amara pressed into her brother's side and nodded silently as well, hope clear in her eyes as she watched the General.

"I'd be a bad rebel, sir," she offered solemnly, "I can't even lift a sword yet."

Tullius laughed aloud, his eyes softening in a distinctly parental way as he looked at the little girl. "And how old are you, young lady?" he asked gently.

"Eleven, sir," she replied, blushing and hiding a little further behind her brother's lanky body. "I'll be twelve this winter." Her eyes brightened as she looked up and chirped "and Alar's going to be seventeen in a week!"

"Hm." The Imperial rubbed his chin and looked thoughtfully back to Alar. "Well, son, I certainly believe you, but it would be better for everyone if you had some kind of proof."

Alar looked down at his bloodied and worn boots, a sliver of pink tongue visible as he nervously licked his lips. "Er, well, we could… ah…" a thought seemed to dawn on him suddenly, and he looked down at his sister. "Mara, do you still have Aunt Lynette's letter? The sealed one?"

"It—it's in my pack, Alar," she quavered, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know where it went."

Alar turned back to General Tullius hopefully. "Amara kept the letter from our Aunt, sir. It was sealed with the Laebourn house crest and an official Imperial courier's stamp, but it was in Amara's pack."

The General nodded and looked around for a suitable errand-runner. "You there!" he said to the Captain, who straightened under his gaze. "Where are the prisoner's items stored?"

"In the keep, General," she responded crisply, a good deal less acerbic to the General than she had been to the Stormcloaks.

"Right then." He turned back to the children. "Amara," he prompted, "tell the Captain what your pack looks like."

Amara opened her mouth, only to shrink back under the cold glare of the Captain; Alar quickly took over as she hid behind him. "It was a fur pack, Captain, made out of a pale gray wolf pelt. Ma—er, mother attached an Amulet of Mara to the clasp," he said.

The Captain nodded briskly and walked away with a stiff back, clearly irritated at being sent on an errand like a common recruit. Amara peeked around her brother as the Redguard left, hazel eyes wide.

General Tullius glanced at the gathered rebels, frowning, and gestured for Hadvar to come closer. "Take these two into the keep," he said. He lowered his voice and added, "they shouldn't have to see this."

Hadvar saluted, relief at the General's decision obvious on his face. "Come, children," he said, handing the ledger off to another soldier. Amara glanced uncertainly at General Tullius, who offered her a reassuring smile.

"Go on," the Imperial said. "I'll see you later to make sure you get an escort back to Whiterun."

"Thank you, sir," Alar said fervently, his grey-blue eyes shining with gratitude. "We won't forget this, sir."

Hadvar ushered the two children through the streets, making a mental note to cut their bonds as soon as possible. Poor Amara stuck right to her brother's side, trying to hide from the curious eyes around them. Alar glared at anyone who stared at his sister for too long, doing the best he could to shield her.

Luckily, the keep wasn't far at all. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Hadvar pulled a dagger from his belt and reached for Alar's bound hands. "I'm going to cut your bonds, alright?" The boy stiffened nervously as Hadvar sliced through the leather ties, relaxing once they fell away.

"Thank you," he said, rubbing at the red imprints the ties had left. Amara was much more skittish as Hadvar reached for her hands. "It's alright, Mara," Alar soothed, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's not going to hurt you."

As soon as her hands were free, the little Nord climbed straight into Alar's arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. The boy accepted this without complaint, hefting her onto one hip and running a calming hand down her back. He looked at Hadvar, whose expression was one of mingled guilt and softness.

"What now, sir?" he asked.

"Now, we wait," Hadvar replied, leading his charges over to some chairs by the wall. "As soon as the reb—er," he glanced at Amara and quickly amended his statement, "as soon as General Tullius is free, we'll get you an escort."

Alar nodded seriously and sat down across from Hadvar, placing Amara sideways in his lap. They stayed in awkward silence for a few minutes. Hadvar drummed his fingers on the table, glancing at the children occasionally. Alar closed his eyes and pressed his face against Amara, rubbing her back and murmuring quietly whenever she squirmed.

The Redguard Captain broke the silence when she came stomping into the atrium with a pack in hand. She spotted Hadvar and the children, stalked close enough to toss the pack onto the table, and stomped off again with a few muttered obscenities. Hadvar glared at her departing back.

Alar reached immediately for the pack, opening it one-handed, and pulled out a letter. "Here, sir," he said, proffering the slip of paper. "Officially sealed and everything."

Hadvar took the letter, noting the official seal, and quickly skimmed the contents. He offered the children a smile when he was done, and handed it back. "You're in the clear, Alar."

The boy practically melted in relief, clutching his sister—who still had yet to emerge from her hiding place in his shoulder—closer. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly.

He opened his mouth to add something else, but suddenly a muffled sound filtered in from outside. Hadvar and Alar both stiffened, exchanging alarmed looks.

"Shor's bones, what was that!" Alar exclaimed, clutching Amara tighter.

Hadvar stood and moved in front of the children, his hand ready at the sword. "Get down," he said urgently. Alar scrambled to take cover under the table, taking Amara with him and bracing her against the wall.

The sound came again, this time closer. The keep abruptly shook with a tremendous force, dust raining down from the ceiling. Hadvar staggered, and drew his sword. The first screams started filtering in from outside.

"Dragon!"