It's funny—I never thought that I, as an executioner, would be executed.
Being under the same curse for hundreds of years, waiting for the day when my soul would transfer to a new life is, admittedly, tiring work. While my body withered, decayed, and took its final resting place six feet under, somehow my life remained.
And here I am now, staggering on new legs, to my final and absolute death.
Guards—Imperials—surrounding me carry icy expressions on their faces as they roughly lead me and my bound wrists down a line of others "like me". Small pebbles and wooden shards dig into my bare feet and I look down, watching my steps as well as the other prisoners'. Though I'm not exactly sure what the rest of the lot did to deserve their punishment, somehow I feel I'm different from the rest of them.
Well, of course that part's true. They haven't been dead for the past two-hundred years.
"Halt, Dunmer. Do not speak unless spoken to."
My hands—bluish-grey and chafed from the ropes—catch my eye. I have to see them, for they remind me that I am now an elf, a true Dunmer by blood and flesh. It's different. Hundreds of years buried in the dirt has corroded my original Imperial flesh, my eyes, my blood.
"You, there."
They're not speaking to me; instead, the guards lock eyes with a man two people ahead of me—some sort of high-elf? Perhaps an Imperial? It's hard to tell, and I cannot hear their voice when they speak.
"What's your name?"
All that time in silence had left me immune to the piercing fear of death; so, quite frankly, I grow bored of the whole "execution" rigmarole quickly and stare at the back of some Nord's head in front of me. Grime and crusted blood stain his golden locks. Beneath my feet, a pebble shard digs painfully in my heel. I wish my feel hadn't lost their hard calloused layers in the whole "rebirth" process.
"You're up, Stormcloak."
Interestingly enough, it was a Nord who had uncovered my grave a mere twenty-four hours ago. How could this be? When the curse set upon my soul, my orders were thrust upon the members of my family—specifically, the Altmer named Arquen. Had she thought me a betrayer as well?
"You there, Nord! Step up!"
Anyway, the moment I arose squinty-eyed and trembling from my grave, a knife found itself in the belly of the Nord. Rusted and chipped as it was, it was mine own blade when I served in the Brotherhood, and pining for a kill. I would have had it yet…if these stupid guards hadn't taken it from my grasp.
A thunk cuts through the soft murmurs and laughter of the guards, and the head of some man, Stormcloak, plops neatly into a brown wicker basket. Eh. Though the Nord in front of me begins to shift his weight nervously from foot to foot, I remain steady. I've seen too many murders, too many executions, to be fazed by such a simple thing.
"You there, Prisoner! You're next."
Curiously enough, I notice that the guard holding me has been staring at me the entire time. With a knife in one hand and my wrists in the other, he subtly bounces and fidgets, as if anxious. Figures. If he was truly a seasoned guard, he would have the stomach for these things. But there's some sort of "war" going on here—figures—and they need all the Imperial soldiers they can get.
As the Nord steps up to the plate for execution, I see the guard beside me trying to catch my eye. For once I feel lucky to be in Dunmer skin; when my red eyes stab through his, I can feel him flinch in his iron armor and his hand tighten on my wrist.
Then, he does something that even catches me off-guard. His eyes narrow slightly, countering my contempt gaze, and with his knife-hand, he holds the blade between two fingers and opens his palm. Five.
A powerful screech slices through the air as the next prisoner leans over the execution's slab. That makes everyone in the area flinch and gaze upwards, towards the source of the noise. But not the guard beside me. In a flash, he has his knife to my wrists, ready to slice my veins—
—but instead, what I find him doing is frantically slicing the rope, sweat dripping down his temples, his voice heavy. The screeches grow louder, but by then he's cut the rope...
He raises his head and his breathing stops. All goes still, from the movement of the guards to the dust rising in the air. Then…
"LOOK OUT!" he shouts, and that's my cue to take off running, testing out my new legs—which, evidently, are not as good as I may have hoped. Screams erupt as a winged creature—wait, is that a dragon?—crashes into a building overhead.
What the hell have I missed in the last two hundred years?!
Stones peel away from the tower and crumble to the ground as the dragon launches itself into the air again, spreading its massive wings to create a shadow that nearly engulfs the entire area.
"YOU THERE, COME BACK!" I hear it piercing through the crowd, but there are too many other conflicting voices for anyone to take him seriously. I am inhaling knives as I run, knives that stab with a cold ferocity at my lungs and make it harder for me to breathe. A body runs across my vision; it's the Nord who was next in line for execution. He's running with another guard to safety. Figures.
As for myself, I dive into a haystack near the southern gate and shelter myself between some barrels. My breathing is so loud I fear it's echoing. But no; instead there are screams, screeches, stones falling effortlessly like sand on a dune. And I tremble. Because this is like nothing I experienced in Cyrodill. Because dragons are supposed to be dead. Because I am alone in a world I do not recognize.
Hush, young one. Sleep now, and we shall rejoin again another day.
Her words brush over me like a gentle kiss, and I find my eyelids growing heavy. I cannot do otherwise. For now, all I can do is obey and wait for our day to come again.
