“Yes, my Th- I mean Dyce. You still have to get up. Should I make you some breakfast?”
Dyce lifted his head from the pillow and blinked blearily at Calder. “Why the fuck do I have to get up at all? Is a dragon attacking the stables again?”
“No, Jarl Ulfric sent you your orders. The Stormcloaks are going to take the Rift.”
Dyce let his head fall back down onto the pillow again. “I can’t. I’m busy.”
“I’ll heat some water, my Thane,” Calder said, straightening up.
“Pleh.” Dyce waited until Calder’s footsteps faded away and he sat up, holding his head in his hands. He needed to cut back; otherwise he’d just be inviting another visit from Sam. But spending the evenings at the Cornerclub seemed to hold off the inevitable a bit longer than going to bed early did.
They were sending him to war. Again.
Dyce picked through his memories of the previous night and frowned. Had Ulfric really shown up at the Cornerclub? And then told off Rolff for shouting at elves? It all seemed a bit unlikely in the cold light of morning. He still didn’t know what to make of Ulfric, and he was too hungover to consider it further. He sighed and rolled out of bed before Calder came back up to drag him out.
He hated it. The war. The fact there were always casualties on both sides, no matter how hard or how recklessly he fought. He’d had to be rescued more than once because of his desire to kill the enemy before they killed his friends. The enemy. But they weren’t his enemies. He lived in constant fear that he’d run into Hadvar again.
What would he do if he did?
He was learning how it worked; how large groups of troops moved and fought. He no longer feared what he didn’t know about war. He was marked by now; they knew him and attacked and feared him in equal measure. They changed their strategy around where he showed up.
“The Rift, huh?” He shook his head, “Maven’s not gonna like it if we knock her off the throne.” He supposed it was partly his fault they’d lost the Rift in the first place, but he now knew why Ulfric hadn’t said a murmur against how the peace conference had turned out.
He heard Calder’s footsteps on the stairs. Time get up and go.
~~~ “So far, so good,” Dyce breathed into Ralof’s ear.
They were hanging, quite precariously, inside a well. This well was inside the Imperial held Fort of Greenwall. Back when the Stormcloaks had held it, they’d made note of the fact that the well was accessible from a nearby cave, and infiltrators could use it to enter the fort undetected and open the gates from the inside.
Now they were testing this theory.
All seemed quiet. Above them the aurora glowed in a clear, cold sky. They could hear the Imperials patrolling the walls, but with no moon it was hard to work out exactly where they were, but they were equally well hidden. Galmar had picked this night specifically for that reason.
“You’re better at this sneaking around than I am,” Ralof whispered. “You get the gate and I’ll watch your back.”
Dyce nodded, and waited not a moment longer before vaulting out of the well and landing silently, crouched and still. Nothing. With no more noise that the flutter of a lunar moth he drifted across the courtyard towards the heavy gates, barred against the Stormcloaks. As soon as they opened, he knew, Galmar and the other troops would flood in before the Imperials had time to react.
That was the plan.
As soon as Dyce touched the gate with his gloved hand, someone shouted and every brasier in the fort flared to life as a dozen hands put them to the torch. Within the ring of fire, Dyce and Ralof were easy targets for the Imperial archers lining the walls.
The commander dropped his hand, and the arrows flew before Dyce’s horrified gaze.
TIID KLO UL
Dyce swam against the currents of time, knocking aside the arrows that drifted lazily towards him, and watching in horror as one of the missiles found its mark, with agonising slowness, in Ralof’s chest. Dyce gritted his teeth and stretched out his hand, his fingers wrapping around the feathered end and yanking it back with a spray of blood that floated like rubies in the still air.
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timeasmymeasure
What's a Thief to a King? M!DB/Ulfric 12/??
Date: 2013-02-09 12:02 pm (UTC)“Uhurgh. Call me Dyce. Then go away.”
“Yes, my Th- I mean Dyce. You still have to get up. Should I make you some breakfast?”
Dyce lifted his head from the pillow and blinked blearily at Calder. “Why the fuck do I have to get up at all? Is a dragon attacking the stables again?”
“No, Jarl Ulfric sent you your orders. The Stormcloaks are going to take the Rift.”
Dyce let his head fall back down onto the pillow again. “I can’t. I’m busy.”
“I’ll heat some water, my Thane,” Calder said, straightening up.
“Pleh.” Dyce waited until Calder’s footsteps faded away and he sat up, holding his head in his hands. He needed to cut back; otherwise he’d just be inviting another visit from Sam. But spending the evenings at the Cornerclub seemed to hold off the inevitable a bit longer than going to bed early did.
They were sending him to war. Again.
Dyce picked through his memories of the previous night and frowned. Had Ulfric really shown up at the Cornerclub? And then told off Rolff for shouting at elves? It all seemed a bit unlikely in the cold light of morning. He still didn’t know what to make of Ulfric, and he was too hungover to consider it further. He sighed and rolled out of bed before Calder came back up to drag him out.
He hated it. The war. The fact there were always casualties on both sides, no matter how hard or how recklessly he fought. He’d had to be rescued more than once because of his desire to kill the enemy before they killed his friends. The enemy. But they weren’t his enemies. He lived in constant fear that he’d run into Hadvar again.
What would he do if he did?
He was learning how it worked; how large groups of troops moved and fought. He no longer feared what he didn’t know about war. He was marked by now; they knew him and attacked and feared him in equal measure. They changed their strategy around where he showed up.
“The Rift, huh?” He shook his head, “Maven’s not gonna like it if we knock her off the throne.” He supposed it was partly his fault they’d lost the Rift in the first place, but he now knew why Ulfric hadn’t said a murmur against how the peace conference had turned out.
He heard Calder’s footsteps on the stairs. Time get up and go.
~~~
“So far, so good,” Dyce breathed into Ralof’s ear.
They were hanging, quite precariously, inside a well. This well was inside the Imperial held Fort of Greenwall. Back when the Stormcloaks had held it, they’d made note of the fact that the well was accessible from a nearby cave, and infiltrators could use it to enter the fort undetected and open the gates from the inside.
Now they were testing this theory.
All seemed quiet. Above them the aurora glowed in a clear, cold sky. They could hear the Imperials patrolling the walls, but with no moon it was hard to work out exactly where they were, but they were equally well hidden. Galmar had picked this night specifically for that reason.
“You’re better at this sneaking around than I am,” Ralof whispered. “You get the gate and I’ll watch your back.”
Dyce nodded, and waited not a moment longer before vaulting out of the well and landing silently, crouched and still. Nothing. With no more noise that the flutter of a lunar moth he drifted across the courtyard towards the heavy gates, barred against the Stormcloaks. As soon as they opened, he knew, Galmar and the other troops would flood in before the Imperials had time to react.
That was the plan.
As soon as Dyce touched the gate with his gloved hand, someone shouted and every brasier in the fort flared to life as a dozen hands put them to the torch. Within the ring of fire, Dyce and Ralof were easy targets for the Imperial archers lining the walls.
The commander dropped his hand, and the arrows flew before Dyce’s horrified gaze.
TIID KLO UL
Dyce swam against the currents of time, knocking aside the arrows that drifted lazily towards him, and watching in horror as one of the missiles found its mark, with agonising slowness, in Ralof’s chest. Dyce gritted his teeth and stretched out his hand, his fingers wrapping around the feathered end and yanking it back with a spray of blood that floated like rubies in the still air.