The Others
Chapter 1: A Date with Destiny
A/N – Hi guys, this is my first foray into the world of fanfiction in quite a few months as certain circumstances in my personal life have rendered me unable to write, but alas I have returned to spew my incomprehensible crap on the internet. Enjoy my poor readers, R&R please since you're all such wonderful people :D.
Disclaimer – I don't own TES, Skyrim, etc. etc.
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If you asked anyone living in Skyrim today who the biggest hero of the 4th Era was, chances are that you would receive an unwavering and unvarying reply wherever in the land you went. Dovakhiin. The Dragon-Born. The mighty Nordic Warrior who slew the great dragon Alduin – he was as tall as a giant and as strong as a mammoth, with the ferocity of a Bear and the agility of a Sabre Cat. Truly he is one worthy of song, however his story has been told a thousand times over and sung a thousand more. No, I'm not here to recollect the tales of Dovakhiin to you, I want to tell you about an entirely different group of people who were there the day of Alduin's attack on Helgen – a story of betrayal, intrigue and frankly just as much excitement as that of the Dragon-Born – I'm here to tell you about the others.
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Morndas 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201. A day that will live forever in my memory. The glowing warmth of the breaking dawn above the verdant Falkreath Pines contrasted with the chilling breeze that crept under my skin and froze my very bones, I could feel the end was near, and the beautiful sun was the beacon calling me to Sovngarde. I was sitting bound in a rickety imperial horse-drawn cart alongside my other captives who had been scheduled for execution like myself, just ahead of us was a second cart, this one I could just make out housed Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, and the Dovakhiin himself; and just beyond them was the small village of Helgen. The smell of impending death hung heavy in the air.
There were four of us bound in the cart; the first was a Dunmer named Vayln Marvos, he was a thin-framed man with long wiry black hair which was messily tied behind his back in a ponytail. His face was very gaunt looking, his leathery dark turquoise skin tightly hugging his bones giving him a very profound jawline and cheekbones, which concaved dramatically into his face giving him an overall sickly look. But his eyes were by far his most striking feature; piercing crimson reds with faintly visible black pupils, merely looking into his eyes was deeply unsettling – if eyes are the windows into the souls then through this window one could observe a tortured soul which inspired both fear and pity in all those who knew him. In the hour-or-so journey that the four of us had spent together in this cart I'd learned a lot about my fellow captives, we were blood-brothers now, unified by our impending fates and unfortunate circumstances we'd formed a bond which would intrinsically tie us together long after this day had come and passed. Vayln's past was a long and sordid one, and he had no qualms in admitting that he deserved to be heading to his execution, about ten times over, as he had committed crimes most foul against not only Skyrim and her people, but against nature itself – he also had no qualms in admitting this. Marvos didn't want to die with a guilty conscience it seemed. Once a renowned wizard at the College of Winterhold; Vayln had started to develop a grudge against the Arch-Mage Savos Aren, what started out as a petty feud for superiority ended up in an assassination attempt on the Arch-Mage's life masterminded by Marvos and carried out by his resurrected army of dead mages buried within the College grounds – a rampaging horde of vicarious liches tore apart the College and 23 students lost their lives in attack, some were simply destroyed with magic, others however, were less fortunate and were disembowelled and cannibalized by the malevolent wraiths – feasting on living flesh made the undead nightmares more powerful. When it seemed like Vayln's attempt at destroying Savos and everything he held dear was just about ready to achieve fruition, the Arch-Mage sacrificed most of his power to seal the abominable horrors (and the majority of his life-force) into an amulet which he carries around his neck at all times to safeguard the terrible power it holds within. Understandably, after his rebellion was quelled, Marvos was handed over to the Imperials for execution – and henceforth why he is sitting with us in this small wooden cart heading to the headsman's axe.
My second brother-in-chains was, in fact, not a brother at all, but a sister – Iliwen – an Altmer. Teary-eyed and nervously praying, it was clear to me from first impression that Iliwen was certainly not a hardened or experienced criminal, simply a pretty young girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when I finally drew her out of her protective shell enough for to share her story with the rest of us, my theories were confirmed. At only 15 she was the youngest of our party, and only recently had she left her homeland of Valenwood – or rather she was exiled – declared a 'traitor to the state' by the vicious Thalmor Government, Iliwen was framed of murder, and because of her nervous disposition was unable to defend herself adequately in trial. Following her exile, it was not long before she ended up in with a group of travelling bandits making a living by sacking small villages; she was not a fighter and was scared of violence, but she had a natural affinity for strategizing and coordinating organised raids, this earned her an honoured spot amongst her travelling vagabonds. However she hated herself for it. Every night she would be plagued with nightmares, unable to sleep as she was wracked with guilt for the terrible crimes that she had planned, it made her sick to her stomach and all she could do was tell herself that one day she'd get away from it all and start a new life somewhere in Skyrim, or maybe Cyrodil, far from elves, far from the Thalmor, a new life in the country. That day never came. Finally succumbing to her overbearing guilt Iliwen finally broke and attempted suicide, unable to live with herself anymore and convinced that her sacrifice would please the Nine Divines more than any more innocent deaths she slit her wrists with a knife that her fellow raiders had given her. Despairingly, Iliwen woke the next morning to find herself alive, in agony and sedated, but alive. The other bandits and found her nearly dead and wrapped her wounds up before selling her to the Imperial Troops for some cold hard coin, after all, what use was a leader that didn't have the guts to get the job done; the very next day Iliwen was on the cart heading for Helgen alongside the rest of us.
The third member of our merry little group was an Argonian male named Shadresi, but stated that for too many years now he was known by his 'Cyrodilic' name: Hides-In-Shadows. Melancholically reflecting that even his native Saxhleel name sounds alien to him, it'd been far, far too long since he'd set foot in his native Black Marsh – but he yearned for it so much, it was his dream to be home. To be free. However fate does not dictate the script of life to the whims of mortals, and on the day that Hides-In-Shadows had finally secured a ship to sail back to Black Marsh, his boat was plundered by pirates from Stros M'Kai (In Hammerfell, home of the Redguards). Mercilessly the Redguard privateers ransacked his pride and joy, his ship that he'd spent years saving up for and they stole anything of value from its decks, even things which had next-to-no monetary value like Shadresi's clothes and his pet tortoise: Flippers. After proceeding to destroy his life dream, the ruthless wastrels of the sea then decided to cut off one of the poor Argonian's arms – just to test whether 'it would grow back'. It didn't. A severely beaten, green-scaled, spikey-headed Argonian washed upon the shores of Riften the next day, he tried to find work but there was no job for a one-armed Argonian, as even the two-armed variety were totally expendable commodities to the local Nords. Desperation claimed Shadresi and he resorted to thievery to survive; making a home for himself in the Ratway under the city he only came out at night to steal food and other supplies he needed to live – the city guard became suspicious of him, and despite no solid evidence they charged him with cases of thievery, banditry and scaring children. No less than two hours later he was on the cart to Helgen with the rest of us.
Finally, that leaves me, the fourth and final member of our party. My name is Lars, of the clan War-Broken, although I have long renounced my clanship since they defected to the Empire, or rather, they sold me out to the Imperials in the middle of the night because I refused to pick up a sword and die in General Tullius' name. Two legion troops appeared at our cozy Whiterun home in the dead of night armed with swords and maces; I had three choices in my mind: stay and fight and most likely die; surrender and come quietly and most likely die or run and most likely die. I ran. I ran for months, but the legion pursued me like the relentless bloodhounds of war that they are. Eventually a Legion spy in a small tavern in Falkreath Hold captured me and I was bound and sent to Helgen without a trial or even a chance to say any last goodbyes. I've never really believed in Ulfric's cause to greatly myself, but it seems I have now become a Stormcloak without much choice in the matter, given that I'm wanted by the Empire for that oh-so-great crime of being a conscientious objector in a pointless war.
"Hey you lot quiet down back there!" The Imperial driving the cart arrogantly snarled at us "Don't make me kill you early now, General Tullius personally wants to see your heads roll, ha!"
We all begrudgingly accepted this imposed silence, given that we were all far too tired and weak to fight anymore and for the rest of the journey to Helgen we all sat in near silence, with the occasional whisper back and forth passed about the cart. It was nearly midday when the old rickety wooden cart finally pulled up into Helgen, the horse's hooves clacked loudly against the stony road into town and from small wooden houses villagers had emerged at their doorsteps to witness the events which were about to unfold. The first cart bearing Ulfric entered the main plaza swiftly followed by our cart and then the large wooden-log gate was closed behind us. The exits were now sealed. There was no escape.
"Get those prisoners out of there and just put them over in the tower or something! Get them out the way, Ulfric's execution is what were here for" One of the higher-ranking Imperial Officers ordered the driver of our cart
He and three other legion soldiers threw us into the stone-walled tower that was surfacing as a makeshift prison. The guard who threw me was particularly rough and when he launched me I was sent hurtling into a wooden table which shattered under the force of the collision and as I slowly blacked out (due to taking the hit to the head) I could overhear guards laughing at me for being so weak. A disgrace to Nords everywhere. Then black.
I blipped in and out of consciousness, hearing a few blurry sounds that distorted in my head.
Imperials laughing. An axe being sharpened loudly at a grindstone.
My eyes fluttered open momentarily, I caught a glimpse of the maddening and shaking world around me.
Vayln with a sword in his hands. A dead Imperial. Iliwen's shackles being cut off by Marvos.
I felt my entire world being shook up as someone lifted me onto their shoulder, that's the last thing I can remember. That, and a terrible screech in a forgotten tongue coming from outside the tower; it sounded almost like a... a dragon.
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A/N – Alright guys that's my first chappy up let me know what you think please R&R, I'm very happy to take on board any constructive criticism, or even if you think I should be banned from ever writing anything again it's that god-awful, please lemme know thanks Oh, and apparently Redguard pirates watch too much Dragonball Z, as they seem to mix up Argonians and Namekians, strange world.