"Ralof of Riverwood." Aka the intro scene angst post that got out of hand. 1.5k words
The son of a blacksmith and the son of a mill worker. It was inevitable they meet and become part of each other's lives–not only because Riverwood was a small town and everyone knew everyone, but because their families so often worked together. Hadvar, who was learning how to wield a hammer but too small to help around the forge; Ralof, too young to work the mill but old enough to get into trouble, learning how to handle wood without getting splinters in his fingers. They were young when they met and became fast friends, boys with wide eyes and toothy little grins swapping secrets and bragging about how much help they were to their parents.
But boys don't stay young forever, and they aged into young men, taller and stronger and growing into a sense of pride over their work. Contests over who was stronger, faster, quiet evenings by the river talking softly about their visions for the future. It had never been a question: whatever that future was, they were in each other's. Two young men making an oath under the setting sun to always stick together–to the end.
Except, older now, they're aware of what's been on the wind without them ever noticing: the strained relationship between their families, tense words, a mask of politeness put on only for their sons. Until they came of age. Leaving boyhood behind and becoming men, they listened to their mothers and fathers, heard about the fighting over who Skyrim belonged to, the conflict over whether or not the Empire had any place in the province. The truth, no longer watered down.
[You were the one that I wasn't supposed to lose.]
They had their first full blown argument after what had started as a joke and had left each other full of apprehension. They'd once thought it ridiculous, thought the conflict over the war would never–could never–bother them here. But neither man was willing to concede, and stilted interactions became fewer and fewer, until Ralof watched his oldest friend leave for the last time, heading out of the gate towards Solitude. To join the Empire. Hadn't he been listening? The Imperials made demands and they were expected to follow them–but who was the Empire to give commands on Skyrim's soil? Initial despair slowly burned away into a sense of betrayal, and soon Ralof was leaving, too, making the journey to Windhelm to join Ulfric.
Years and worlds apart, promotion after promotion, as much as they hated it, as guilty and terrible as they felt when memories returned, they still thought about one another; it's not often you forget such an old friend–maybe even your first friend. They never saw each other on the battlefield and prayed that was enough, that they'd never have to be the one to end each other's life. And their wish was granted.
[Never again will I look into the only eyes that knew me, feels like a bullet running through me!]
It was while Hadvar read the prison logs his captain gave him after an unexpected detour that the world came to a sudden halt. The sounds of armor and weapons, voices and footsteps–everything faded, replaced with his heart pounding in his ears. He sucked in a single, shallow breath when his chest ached and he realized he'd stopped breathing and he read the list again. 'Stormcloak; Ralof; Riverwood.' His blood ran ice cold and he shivered despite the warmth of his station. He'd known the names on the list were why he was here, was why Tullius had so abruptly changed course and had ridden so hard to Helgen; they were here for an execution, or a few, and he'd already been struggling to cope with the fact, head full of cotton for the last day and a half as he assisted with preparations. It was bad enough he was here as a part of something as gruesome as an execution–death was awful enough on a battlefield, full of adrenaline and necessity–but when he realized his friend's name was on the list, everything just… stopped. He scanned the list again and again, trembling fingers tracing each name on the page, but it never changed from what he knew it was. When he came back to himself some time later–so much later that the candle nearby had burned down–he pleaded for a different assignment, a different role during the event, and each time he was harshly denied. He'd been given an order. It would be followed.
He practiced reading the names through the burning lump in his throat, and it took hours before he could speak them without breaking down.
[You were the one that I wasn't supposed to lose–I thought I'd have you for a lifetime! Have you for a lifetime.]
It had been days since the Imperial ambush, and Ralof had gotten better about hiding how uncertain he was. He was part of Ulfric's guard–he needed to appear calm, needed to keep it together for the rest of the Stormcloaks, but exhaustion weighed heavily and he knew they could see it in his glassy eyes. He had no idea how the Empire seemingly knew where they'd be, and he had no idea where it was taking him, where it was taking Ulfric and the heart of their campaign. All he knew was that they wouldn't survive wherever they were going, and while his last days would be full of fear and remorse, his kinsmen didn't have to spend theirs the same. He did his best to keep them calm, reassure them–lie through his teeth to avoid starting a panic and having them all killed somewhere in the woods instead.
He had a series of realizations once the prison caravan reached the first gate. There was Tullius, arguing with the Thalmor he'd betrayed his citizens for, here for the show; as the cart rattled along over the cobbles, he started to distantly recognize where they were beneath all the Imperial banners; and as the caravan came to a stop and something caught his eye–sunlight gleaming on wicked, curved steel in the distance–that this was going to be their last hour alive. You've prepared for this, he told himself, and he had; fighting against sleep to keep the peace, he'd done what praying and pleading for forgiveness he could to prepare himself for the death he knew was coming.
Ralof was not prepared for Hadvar to be holding the ledger when he stepped off the cart.
It had been years since they'd seen each other, but he'd know his friend's face anywhere, as often as it haunted his dreams. His chest felt tight as he watched the soldier look over the prisoners, and when their eyes met between the shoulders of everyone between them, he watched Hadvar's expression crumple before he forced it into something more presentable, bowing his head low over the book in his hands to hide the despair in his eyes and the miserable twist of his mouth. Somehow, despite the exhaustion that had him swaying on his feet and the overwhelming urge to run, get out, escape running through his veins, he managed enough energy to feel a flicker of anger. What good would Hadvar's regret do him? What good did it do as his shoulders rose with a deep, measured breath and he read aloud Ulfric's name?
"Ralof of Riverwood." Quiet, steady–steady in the way a man spoke when he was trying not to cry, steady like his own words had been hours before. Dark, miserable eyes followed him as he moved off the path towards an expectant soldier, and as they passed one another, whatever anger Ralof had mustered died out. What good did forcing himself to hate a friend do him in his last moments? Even as he passed him by and the headsman came clearly into view, he could admit to himself that all this time, he's still considered Hadvar a friend. And the darkness under his eyes, a face as tired as his own: Ralof knew without anything being said that the Imperial felt the same.
He stood as tall as he could on unsteady legs next to Ulfric, proud to stand and die beside him, as much as it terrified him–he was young, after all, had known the risks but thought he'd have more time. Hadvar, hardly a distance away, could only take in what would be the last time he'd ever see his best friend, exhausted, bound, and sent to the block by his own words. His condemnation. Heads filled with duties and regrets, both men tried to face what was coming with their heads as high as they could and wondered how much of it was for each other.
Later, they would meet again, though they were unaware–it would be sooner than they'd ever think, surrounded by smoke and ash and raining hellfire, shouting to be heard over the din. Voices straining to be heard, a desperate performance as steel shines wickedly in the firelight, two enemies knowing what their station demands and unwilling to do it, hoping, once again, they wouldn't be the one to end the other's life.
