A Skald's Ode to Skyrim
The cold air stilled as if Hjara was suddenly removed from the blood-drenched snowy battlefield surrounding her. Sound has long left her ears leaving only a faint ringing that has been gradually increasing in volume for what seemed like a season.
She can feel the hold on her drum weaken as she begins to notice her left arm slowly disassociating itself from the rest of her bruised and battered body.
As the ground tremble beneath her feet she can sense the bodies dropping in her peripheral, reminding her of the blissful days where she would feel logs drop to the ground at her father’s mill, sitting at the edge of the river watching her own reflection in the water as the clouds passed above her head.
Her blood stained visage stares back at her through the dying eyes of a handsome young Breton, who looked to be the same age as she was. Drifting her gaze to his lips she notices him mutter something but all she can hear now was a shrill pitch engulfing her senses.
As she watches the man’s soul leave his eyes, her senses begin rushing back into her body, giving her a feeling of relief she hasn’t felt since the first time she performed in her life at Candlehearth Hall which ended with the whole tavern up in applause and demanding an encore.
“Another one!” exclaims a patron.
“Aye! Aye!” as the rest cheer in agreement.
Then suddenly she hears a harsh scream drawing near.
“Die Rebel!”
Hjara quickly tightens her grip and regroups her thoughts towards prying her bloodied steel war axe from the Breton’s ribcage swinging it overhead as she twists and holds steadfast against the ground to meet a muscular Colovian’s great sword. The Colovian quickly overpowers her and with a motion reminiscent of her father chopping wood, the Colovian brings his weapon overhead as she closes her eyes and braces for Sovngarde.
“You call yourself a warr-“
KER-RACK!
Her father has just split a log in two on a tree stump.
A stray arrow has just penetrated the Colovian’s skull.
Hjara draws breath and quickly rises off the ground to examine the battlefield. Men lay dead on the snow and a good many of them her brethren laying peacefully as if they were cradled in the bosoms of Kyne.
“Fall ba-ACK!” yelled a Stormcloak soldier as his torso was split in half by a greataxe that seemed to have materialized from the golden-orange horizon behind him.
Hjara’s senses begin to abandon her again as she stands there paralyzed from the scene of the slaughter while the rest of her brothers and sisters begin to retreat. She moves her gaze towards her drum hanging from a strap on her shoulders and receives a burst of courage from the sight of it. Hjara cradles her drum with her limp arm and begins to bang on its face with the head of her axe to a cadence.
As Hjara draws breath she begins to give way to her voice.
“We drink to our youth... and to days come and gone... For the age of oppression is now nearly done. “
Sounds of steel clashing and cries of pain and agony overpower her voice. She slowly rallies herself and gathers the strength to assert her voice among the sounds of battle.
“We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own! With our blood and our steel we'll take back our home!”
She begins to take steps towards the enemy as men rout towards her. Hjara holds fast with her courage and begins to drum harder as she marches on.
“All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King! In your great honor we drink and we sing.”
Passing Stormcloaks were stopped on their tracks as they begin to hear Hjara’s strong voice plea to them to stand and fight.
“We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives. And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies!”
Hjara falls to one knee and begins to catch her breath then she hears the battle cries of her brothers and sisters from behind her.
“For Ulfric!”
“For Skyrim!”
She draws in a deep breath and with all her strength lifts herself up from the snow with renewed spirit to continue her song and this time with a voice that rivals Ysmir’s own.
“But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean. Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams!”
The Stormclaoks regroup and begin to push back the Imperials towards the foot of the Velothi Mountains.
Hjara continues her march forward as more and more routed Stormcloaks rally pass her. At every step she beats her drum louder, stepping over bodies of the dead in the snow.
“All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King! In your great honor we drink and we sing. We're the children of Skyrim, and we fi-AGH!”
Her verse was stopped short by an arrow that pierces her kneecaps as she falls forward into the snow. Hjara can hear the battle continue as she lays in the snow but she cannot tell if they still have the Imperials retreating.
“We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives.” She sings slightly out of tune.
She picks herself up and begins to crawl on all fours towards her drum which was flung three meters in front of her. After what seemed like hours crawling through the snow she gets herself on her knees and begins to catch her breath.
Suddenly all she can hear was her breathing and the beat of her heart. Silence fell upon her like the blizzard that was falling upon the battle.
“And when Sovngarde beck-AAAAAGH”
Hjara suddenly feels a sharp pain in her chest as she was flung back before being even aware of what was happening. She could feel the cold arrowhead which pierced her chest inside her slowly making it’s way to her heart with every beat.
Hjara whispers to herself, “Every one of us dies.”
The smell of freshly cut lumber overtakes her senses and she begins to relax to the sound of the river and the sound of wood chopping behind her.
“Hjara!!” A Stormcloak’s voice yells from a distance.
“Hjara! Dinner’s ready!” her mother yells from a distance.
“We drink to our youth..” Hjara responds with a soft whisper.
“Come along now my little songbird! After dinner I’ll make you a drum out of the wood you helped me chop today.” her father tells her.
“…to the days come and gone.” she whispers.
“It got dark earlier than expected”, her father says to himself as they both walk hand-in-hand towards their home.
“For the age of oppression…. is now… nearly…"
Hjara felt a sense of peacefulness as she laid on the cold ground slowly being blanketed by snow in the middle of the quiet blizzard.
"It's done!" Hjara exclaims joyously as she impatiently grabs the drum from her father's hands.
"...done.” she says with her last breath before she fell asleep.
The sky was clear that evening allowing the stars to shine through the window of their humble homestead. Hjara’s father gently covers her with a fur blanket and kisses her forehead.
“Goodnight little one.” he says under his breath as he closes her door quietly behind him.