Chapter Text
Fjuri sat perched on a small ridge just beside a little copse of trees, snow lightly falling from a darkening sky watching the flickering light of a campfire in the distance. She didn’t like the idea of someone camping so close to their hideout. Angi was still a wanted woman and by association, so was Fjuri. It’d been a few weeks now since she’d helped her murder the two Imperial soldiers that had killed her family. They’d been hiding out in the mountains on the border since then.
She pushed her red hair out of her eyes. She supposed that she’d need to get a closer look whether she liked it or not. The sun was setting and she was running out of daylight, the quicker she got this done, the faster she’d be eating that stew Angi was working on back at the cabin.
She moved to creep closer, when a snapping twig behind her made her freeze. Fjuri reached for her sword but she wasn’t fast enough. A thick hand gripped the length of her blazing hair as she was dragged backwards out into the open and thrown face first into the snow.
She scrambled to get to her feet but a boot between her shoulder blades pinned her to the ground, her fingers sank into the ice-crusted snow, wrapping around something hard and cold as they took her sword.
“Well, what have we found here, Ralof?” A deep voice drawled. She couldn’t see their face but saw their boots moving as they found a comfortable seat on a downed log.
“Could be a spy.” A thick nordic voice mused as the boot between her shoulder blades pressed harder. “Sword is Imperial make.”
“Well woman? What say you? Imperial or Stormcloak?” The first voice asked. Fjuri struggled to raise her head just enough to spit at the boot of the man sitting before her. He laughed, biting into something; a red apple she saw as his forearm rested on his knee, gripping the crimson fruit in scarred and calloused hands. The boot between her shoulder blades pressed harder with its heel.
“Mind your manners and answer the question.” Ralof demanded.
“ Fuck. You .” She growled.
The first man stood up and gripped her by the hair, pulling her upward as Ralof’s boot stepped off of her back. Fjuri’s fingers tightened around the cold stone.
“We’ve got ourselves a little spitfire-” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as the rock she’d been holding connected with his temple. She pulled his sword free from its sheath at his hip. He roared with a curse as a well placed kick sent him to the ground, the apple he’d been eating flying out of his hand.
She finally got a good look at the men around her. Stormcloaks. Of course. The man who’d been standing on her back, Ralof, swung forward with his axe. Fjuri deflected the blow with the sword, steel on steel ringing out into the dark.
It didn’t matter, she was outnumbered. As she’d deflected the axe, another man grappled her from behind, forcing her to her knees. Ralof took the sword she’d stolen back, handing it to the man she’d hit with the rock.
The man was grinning, and Fjuri felt her stomach sour. This would be her last night on Nirn, she was sure of it. The red of his blood streaked down his face from where she’d struck him, seeping into his fair blonde locks and beard. His ice blue eyes intent on her as he laughed and then frowned.
“Tie her up, we’ll take her back to camp for now.” He muttered, wiping the wound with his sleeve.
“Yes, Jarl Ulfric.” Ralof nodded, securing her with a length of rope.
Fuck. She’d hit Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion and Jarl of Windhelm in the head with a rock. She was going to face capital punishment when they got to where they were going. Still, what was Ulfric Stormcloak doing out in the mountains on the edge of Falkreath in the middle of the night?