A/N: This is my first time publishing my work! Any feedback is welcome.
Some overall content notices for the story include: mentions of abuse, PTSD, violence, some sexual content. More specific notices will be given at the beginning of applicable chapters.
Enjoy!
On the 17th of Last Seed, 4E201, two wagons arrived in the sleepy border town of Helgen. One carried a merchant's inventory, a particularly ornery goat, and a stowaway. The other carried prisoners.
The stowaway slithered out of her hiding place beneath a heavy rug the second the merchant's wagon rolled to a stop. The goat had been aware of her presence the entire trip, and had spent the last two days pawing at her and bleating insufferably. Between that and the extremely uncomfortable position she had been squeezed into, she couldn't be happier to have two feet on the ground again.
She emerged just in time to watch the wagon carrying the prisoners come to a halt a few hundred yards down the road, next to the keep. Curiosity piqued, she wandered closer to watch as a unit of Imperial soldiers yanked the prisoners off the cart, and one by one lined them up before a small chopping block.
A state-sponsored execution. What a boring way to die.
Most of the prisoners wore blue uniforms in contrast to the Imperials' red. These had to be the infamous Stormcloak rebels she had heard so much about. Mingled among them was an important-looking man, dressed in finery yet gagged roughly with a piece of cloth, and a ragged-looking man in beggar's clothes.
Then, the one who looked jarringly out of place. A muscled Redguard in basic iron armor, with a deep scar running under his left eye. Even the Legionnaire recording names seemed confused by his presence.
"Who…are you?" He asked.
"Azzam." The Redguard stated plainly in a deep, booming voice.
The Legionnaire turned to his superior. ""No one by that name on the books."
The Legate shook her head. "Never mind the book. He goes to the block."
The Legionnaire gave him a sad look as he was marched forward. "I'm sorry. We'll see to it that your remains are returned to Hammerfell."
He remained strong and silent as he was led forward and roughly shoved to his knees. The stowaway briefly wondered what his story was. Was he a criminal? Or was he simply caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Whoever he was, this Azzam was either the luckiest man in the world or had some powerful forces on his side. For the exact moment the executioner swung his axe high into the air, a terrible monster descended atop the keep.
Its landing shook the ground enough to send everyone in the vicinity sprawling. The stowaway staggered to her knees just in time to watch the monster spread wide its enormous black wings and let loose a cascade of fire from its maw, killing a handful of Imperial soldiers instantly. She remained frozen for a moment, paralyzed by sheer terror and disbelief. All she could do was gaze in horror at a creature infinitely more terrifying than the worst of her nightmares.
Not just any creature - this had to be a dragon.
The sky turned an impossible shade of red and black, and it was as if fire was raining down from the sky. It was only when a fireball landed dangerously close to her, and she felt a pair of hands hauling her to her feet, that some sense snapped back into her.
"Come on, darling. You've got to move!"
A young imperial soldier grabbed her hand tightly and took off running. She kept up with him easily as they both dodged the flames and the flying rubble. At the opposite end of the village, he stopped her against the town wall.
"Stay right here. I've got to get the other villagers out of harm's way."
"Wait, you can't just leave me here!" She yelled, but the soldier was already sprinting in the other direction.
He was an idiot to leave her there, and there was no way in Oblivion that she was going to stand around waiting to be burnt to a crisp. She took off running towards the gate, only to find it completely obstructed by fallen rubble. The path to the only other gate was blocked by the dragon itself. Panic began to rise in her as she realized she was quickly running out of options.
Spotting a Stormcloak soldier huddled close to the keep, she sprinted madly towards him.
"I'm no hero, girl. I'm trying to escape, not mount a rescue mission."
"I can keep up, I swear it."
"Fine. But the second you fall behind, you're left behind."
"Ralof, you damned traitor! Out of my way!"
The Legionnaire who had left her stranded by the wall appeared before him, this time with the Redguard, Azzam, close on his heels.
"We're escaping, Hadvar," One of the other Stormcloaks said. "There's no stopping us this time.
"I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"
Ralof grabbed the stowaway's hand. "Come on, into the keep!" He dragged her through the door as Azzam followed Hadvar in the other direction.
Inside lay the broken bodies of several Stormcloaks. Ralof grimaced. "Guess we're the only ones that made it."
"I've seen a lot of things," The stowaway said. "But that…that monster…"
"There's no denying it. That was a dragon. The harbinger of the end times." Ralof looked her up and down. "Leather armor. You fight, girl?"
She gestured to the dagger sheathed at her hip. "I get by with this. But it'd be best if I could find a bow somewhere in here."
Ralof found a shabby but functional one on a rack at the far end of the chamber, along with a handful of iron arrows. "Will this do?"
"It'll have to."
They didn't venture far into the keep before they encountered a small band of Imperial soldiers, who attacked on sight. Ralof drew his sword and charged, but the stowaway swung back and notched her first arrow to her bow. For the first time since she climbed aboard that wagon, she felt strong and centered. Before the Stormcloak had gotten in three swings, she had put down two of the three Legionnaires.
Ralof swiftly took care of the third, then turned to her in shock.
"I'm ashamed to admit, I thought I was going to be stuck protecting you," He said. "But it looks like I'm the one that could use your help."
She gave him a steely look as she returned the bow to rest at her back.
"I'm far more capable than I look."
"You got a name?"
"Tabby."
"And who taught you to shoot like that, Tabby?"
"Are we swapping tales about our past exploits, or are we trying to make it out of here alive?"
Silence fell between them until they descended from the crumbling tower into a series of damp caves. Whether the caves had an outlet wasn't clear, but the fact that the din of Helgen's destruction was growing fainter and fainter had to be a good sign.
"Why come to Skyrim now?" Ralof asked as they waded through an underground stream. "With the war going on, it's not exactly the best time to migrate."
It was really none of his business. But since they had narrowly escaped death together, why not tell him? "I was meant to come here. Why, I'm not sure yet. But something strong was pulling me to Skyrim. And so I had to go."
"You're telling me that you crossed into Skyrim on a feeling."
"It was stronger than a feeling. But in essence, yes."
"Have you got family here?"
"I doubt it."
"Any friends? Got any work lined up?"
"No."
"What will you do, then?"
Tabby laughed humorlessly. "It's not like I had anything back in Cyrodiil, either. I've been on my own for awhile now. I'll be just fine."
After seemingly countless hours of walking, they found the mouth of the cave. The pair emerged into a wilderness so beautiful that tears sprung to Tabby's eyes.
It was a perfectly clear day, with a gentle but icy breeze whispering across her cheeks. The pine trees were a green she had never seen before; the river was so clean it sparkled. In the distance the mountains rose solemnly towards the heavens, standing as silent guardians. It was all beautiful, yes. But it was more.
It wasn't the feeling that had drawn Tabby to the province in the first place. It was something new entirely igniting inside her as she gazed upon the purity of Skyrim for the first time. It was a deep pride in her Nordic roots. It was the comfort of home, a comfort that she had never felt before. It was the knowledge that she was standing on the same ground her ancestors had walked on for generations past.
"You alright, Tabby?"
"I was born here," She murmured, more to herself than to Ralof. "I never knew."
"How do you know now?"
"I just do. This all feels right. It feels like home."
"Another one of your feelings," Ralof joked. "You're a bit of an odd one, but at least you're damn good with that bow."
A terrible noise interrupted them. Tabby and Ralof's heads both jerked upward just in time to see the dragon flying high overhead.
"Headed north," Ralof commented. "That's not good. Not good at all."
"What's north?"
"Whiterun. One of the most important cities in Skyrim." He gave Tabby a quizzical look. "Where did you say you where going, again?"
"I didn't. Because I don't know."
"Riverwood is just a short walk away from here. You should come with me. I've got an aunt and uncle there; they'll help you get on your feet."
There was really no excuse for Tabby not to accompany Ralof. She had nowhere else to go, and she was running critically low on supplies. So she agreed, and together they embarked on the short but breathtaking walk to Riverwood.
The town was just as picturesque as the surrounding countryside, but it was a bit sleepy for Tabby's tastes. She could tell it was the kind of place where nothing ever happened. But Ralof's aunt and uncle were generous enough, giving her food and a healing potion and a few more arrows. Their one condition, however, was that she continue on to Whiterun to inform the jarl of the dragon attack.
"You don't think the jarl of all people would be informed of this?" Tabby asked.
"You two may have very well been the only people to get out of Helgen alive," Ralof's aunt Gerdur said. "It's very likely word hasn't reached the jarl, given how recent this all is, and it's important that he know as soon as possible. Whiterun has good defenses, but it's not prepared for a dragon attack. Nobody is."
Tabby turned to Ralof. "You won't be joining me?"
"I should stay here, in case any of my sword-brothers made it out of there," He said. "Besides, I thought you said you could take care of yourself?"
"I can." Tabby stood, swinging her satchel over her back.
"This is goodbye then," Ralof said. He clasped her hand in an uncharacteristic sign of affection. "The Nine keep you."
Tabby stood on Gerdur's porch for a long moment before setting on the road to Whiterun. She had honestly thought that her chances of making it to Skyrim alive were slim, especially once a damned dragon landed on that keep in Helgen. Now that she had gotten this far, she honestly wasn't sure what to do next.
She was sixteen years old. Alone in a strange new land. She didn't know what kind of life lay ahead of her in Skyrim, but it had to be better than the sufferings she had endured in Cyrodiil. Trying not to worry about what would become of her just yet, she simply put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, on the road to warn the jarl.