Luke Velaryon: The Last Dragonborn C8 (Patreon)

Chapter 8: Escaping Helgen Part III

They walked down the corridor until they reached a storage room, where in a crate, Luke saw his satchel. 

“There it is.” He crossed the room and picked it up, feeling a sense of relief as he held it in his hands. Besides the clothes on his back, this is all he has from home. 

“See?” Hadvar said. “I told you it would still be here.” 

“Remarkable,” Ralof replied dryly. “The lad's belongings weren't ‘misplaced’. What an achievement.” 

Luke resisted the urge to bang their heads together. Gods, these two were worse than dogs and cats. 

“We don't know what we might find in that passage,” Hadvar said, ignoring the Stormcloak. “We should prepare as well as we can.”

He gestured around the room.

“Take a look around, Luke. There should be plenty of equipment to choose from. I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns.”

Luke glanced at the burns that covered parts of Hadvar’s arms and neck, and grimaced. They looked very painful, yet the soldier hadn't complained at all. Hadvar got them while rescuing civilians, and Luke himself had not escaped unscathed, his arms and legs were covered in bruises, and several cuts that stung every time he moved, though compared to Hadvar's injuries, they were minor. 

“What about me?” Ralof asked mockingly. “Am I allowed to take some gear?”

“You'll do whatever you please regardless of what I say.” Hadvar scoffed, and Ralof shrugged, already looking around the room. 

Luke put the satchel on the floor and began looking around. Most of the armors were either too large or too cumbersome, but eventually he found a set of Imperial light armor that fit reasonably well. The cuirass was a little loose and the helmet slightly oversized, but it would do. One by one, he put on the armor, bracers, and helmet. The boots were too large, so he left them where they were. 

Afterwards, he looked for weapons. The dagger Ralof had given him earlier remained on his belt, but he would prefer something with greater reach. In the end, he selected an Imperial steel sword and a sturdy shield, made mostly of leather, so its weight won’t bother him while still providing enough protection for attacks he might not be able to dodge. Finally, he found an Imperial shortbow and a quiver of arrows. Shortbows offer superior maneuverability in tight spaces, and they can be nocked and fired much faster in rapid succession than other bows, which is why Luke chose it instead of a longbow. 

By the time he secured his weapons, he looked less like a lost noble boy and more like a young soldier, a very young soldier who most definitely lied about his age to join the Legion. The absurd though brough a small smile to his face as he remembered the adventurous stories he and Jace would make up as children. 

He and Jace used to plan to escape from home when they were younger, to roam the lands as hedge knights, or join one of their grandfather’s expeditions to the far east or the Summer Isles. In those imagined stories, they would lie about their age and story. Most of the time, Jace would become Jack of Spicetown, and he would be Lucan of Spicetown. 

“Well,” Ralof said, looking him over. “Seems you found something in your size after all.”

The Nord still wore his blue Stormcloak armor, but now carried a shield and had acquired a massive greataxe resting across his back.

“I am not that short,” Luke answered with his hands crossed. He is five feet and 4 four inches tall, nearly as tall as Jace, despite being almost a year younger. 

“Sure you aren't.” Ralof walked over and stopped beside him. Luke tilted his head upward to look at the giant Nord who stood at over six feet tall. 

Luke glared at him, and Ralof grinned, resting his arm on his head as if it were an armrest and leaning part of his weight on him. Luke scoffed and moved away very fast, using a bit of magicka to make himself faster, but to his disappointment, Ralof staggered only a step before regaining his balance. 

Ralof barked a laugh. 

"Ha! Nice try, whelp." 

Hadvar glanced at them and rolled his eyes. 

“By the gods,” the soldier sighed. “Now there are two of them.” 

Hadvar walked over carrying a small satchel. The angry burns that had covered parts of his arms were gone, replaced by healthy skin as though the injuries had never been there. 

“I found a few healing potions.” He reached into the satchel and handed a vial to each of them.

Luke accepted his and looked from the potion to Hadvar's arms and back again. Back home, potions existed, but their effects were modest at best. They eased pain, reduced fevers, or helped the body heal naturally over time. But these potions? The potion Hadvar had consumed had healed burns that should have taken weeks to recover from.

Luke held the glass vial up to the light and looked at the reddish liquid inside, and his curiosity led him to try it for himself. He uncorked it and drank, and instantly regretted it. The taste was foul, it was bitter with a vague herbal taste, and it left him with a greasy aftertaste in his mouth. 

Before he could say anything, he felt a sudden soothing warmth flooding his chest, then came the tingling. It felt like blood returning to a numb limb, except the sensation spread through his entire body. Pins and needles raced beneath his skin as bruises faded and scratches closed before his eyes. 

Luke stared in disbelief. In a matter of moments, all the bruises and scratches had vanished. 

He laughed. In all honesty, what had he expected? This land was full of wonders. Back home, a potion that instantly heals one’s injuries would be called witchcraft or a miracle, but here it's just normal. The people of Tamriel truly had no idea how fortunate they were. 

“Are you ready?” Hadvar asked.

Luke nodded after slinging his satchel over his shoulder. 

“Ready.”

“Then let's move,” said Ralof.

They left the storage room and followed Hadvar deeper into the keep. 

The passage entrance, according to Hadvar, lay somewhere beneath the fortress. If it remained intact, it could become the difference between hundreds of civilians escaping and hundreds dying trapped inside Helgen. 

Nearly five minutes later, they heard fighting further ahead. Ralof and Hadvar exchanged a look, and without a word, both broke into a sprint. Luke followed a heartbeat later. The first thing that crossed his mind was: Who in their right mind would be fighting while a dragon was destroying the town? 

He had a feeling he knew who, and the moment they burst into a chamber near the armory, he was proven right. 

Three Imperial soldiers were fighting a lone Stormcloak. On the ground lay the corpses of a legionnaire and two Stormcloaks. 

Luke did not recognize the Stormcloak, he hadn’t been among the Stormcloaks in the watchtower, but he did recognize one of the soldiers: the captain. The very same woman who had nearly sent him to the chopping block without so much as caring for what he had to say. 

The remaining Stormcloak was struggling to hold the soldiers off, Luke stepped forward before Ralof could rush to aid his comrade. This is not the time to be fighting among themselves; surely they can be reasoned with? 

“Wait!”

Everyone turned toward him.

The Stormcloak retreated several steps toward Ralof while keeping his weapon raised, his eyes flicked between the Imperial soldiers and Havar, looking at the latter with suspicion, uncertain whether he was friend or foe. 

“A dragon is destroying the town!” he shouted. “People are dying outside!” 

“Silence, boy,” the captain snapped. “I heard enough of your honeyed words.”

“There is a passage beneath the keep that could save the civilians trapped in Helgen,” Hadvar said. “Captain Livia, this is not the time to fight Stormcloaks. We need to save the people first.” 

“Is that true, Ralof?” Asked the Stormcloak, turning toward his comrade. 

“Ay—”  The word died on his lips, and he froze as he saw the blade erupting from his comrade’s chest. 

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. 

The Stormcloak stared down at the blade protruding from his breastplate, shock filled his eyes, and as blood spread across his armor, a wet cough escaped him, then his knees buckled. He hit the floor with a heavy thud.

Luke's eyes widened. His gaze dropped to the dying man before snapping toward the captain. That woman… Why? Why won’t she listen to reason? 

“Gunjar!” Ralof roared.

For a moment, no one moved; they just looked at the dead Stormcloak and at the captain standing over him with her blade still dripping blood. 

The captain pointed her sword toward Ralof and looked at Hadvar. 

“Kill him.” 

Hadvar did not move, he just stared at her. Ralof’s eyes moved to Hadvar, and Luke glanced between his friends and the soldiers, his hand moving towards the hilt of his sword. This woman can not be reasoned with. Luke might have escaped the axe and the dragon, but if he is not careful, she will take his head. 

The captain's gaze grew colder.

"Kill the rebel, Sergeant," she repeated. "That is an order.”

Hadvar still did not move, and her expression hardened. 

“Disobey me, and you will be declared a traitor to the Empire.” 

Still, Hadvar remained motionless, looking between the captain and the dead Stormcloak. Ralof’s grip tightened around his axe, but before he could open his mouth, Hadvar spoke. 

"To Oblivion with your orders." 

"Traitor."

"A dragon is burning Helgen to the ground, Captain." Hadvar drew his sword. “People are dying, and if you still think this is the time to fight Stormcloaks, then you've lost your damn mind." 

"Fuck the Empire!" Ralof roared with a wild grin as he hurled himself at the soldiera.

And just like that, Luke’s first real battle began. 

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