Hello all! Thank you for taking the time to check out my little story here. I wanted to write a fanfic for Skyrim for a long time now, though I never really had that plot that perfectly stuck to me – until now. After all, who doesn't love our favourite rebel from Riverwood?

This fic is going to be a take on the story through the eyes of Ralof. He will meet the Dragonborn and embark on a journey to save Skyrim – and maybe have a few misadventures here and there, maybe even fall in love...

P.S: Please note that the first two chapters will be a little slow as the scene is set, but the story will pick up in later chapters, please stay tuned!

Without further ado, here is chapter one!

CHAPTER ONE: Inferno

Oh good. She's not dead.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

My voice sounds almost relieved. I'd never once spoken to her since the encounter at Darkwater Crossing, nor do I really feel that concerned about her fate when my own hangs very low in the balance. In fact, it probably would've been better if she had met her end sooner rather than later, considering what fate we were most likely to face.

But with the Jarl himself unable to talk even if he wanted to, and the man on my left moping and groaning like it would help him, I want nothing more than someone interesting to talk to in these moments which would, most likely, be my last.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" I ask when she finally lifts her head enough to glance at me, tired eyes peering from under a ragged hood. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She seems to be hearing but not listening, and she barely throws the thief a glance before turning her head to examine the road ahead.

So much for someone interesting to talk to.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief mutters instead, and I frown, turning from the woman to look at him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell."

I suppose there's something to be admired in blatant honesty, even if the man is lacking in more than just decent character.

"You there," he suddenly says; and he's talking to the woman, who reluctantly looks back at the thief. "You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

I hold back the sharp words at the tip of my tongue. Not worth it. Would it even matter who we were once we arrived at wherever we were going?

But the woman just stares at him for another few seconds before returning her gaze back to the road. That gives me some feeling of triumph. I'm still not sure if she's mysterious or just plain boring, but at least now I'm not the only one being ignored by our female companion. Well, apart from poor Jarl Ulfric, who doesn't really have a choice.

Breathing a sigh, I look down at my hands, dirty and bloody and bound together tight. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The soldier driving our carriage snaps at us to shut up, and surprisingly, it's the woman who glares daggers into the back of his head. I wonder what her thoughts on all of this were. If she has any; she doesn't seem to be keen on voicing them.

"And what's wrong with him?"

A surge of indignation rises up in my throat. No one speaks to our leader that way. "Watch your tongue!" I warn the thief, hearing something akin to a snarl in my voice. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion."

As if on cue, all three of us now had our gazes upon the man. It was a bitter situation, this. I had joined this rebellion because I believed in it. I felt it with all my heart. I wanted to go to war for it, even if I was to meet death at the end. Now it had come to an end, and I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to die by a well-organised execution. I wanted to die on the battlefield, with a sword in my hand and blood in my mouth.

And here is the man himself, the one who had started it all; bound at the hands and mouth, so powerful that even his voice was a feared weapon. His posture is slouched but his eyes have not lost their fire, and idly, I contemplate the fate of such a legend as Ulfric. War hero. Jarl of Eastmarch. Rebellion leader. Master of the Voice. He would die, but his legend would not die with him. What can I say about myself? How will I be remembered?

"But if they captured you..." Realisation dawns upon the thief's face, his expression flooding with terror. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ulfric has his head bowed, eyes closed. I avert my eyes from the panicked thief and consequently find those of the woman, gray irises staring right back at me. "I don't know where we're going," I speak softly, not quite able to break eye contact with the strange prisoner in front of me, "but Sovngarde awaits."

I think I see the faintest nod of her head before she redirects her focus to the structures appearing in the distance, but maybe it had just been the shaky bounce of the carriage rolling over the rocky path. I glance back at the thief, almost taking a bit of pity on him. For Ulfric and I, death is only the gateway to a better place. For him... his expression speaks only of hopelessness. I ask him where he was from, and he responds first with a scowl.

"Why do you care?"

Sighing, I drop my head, looking at my boots. For all my absence and reluctance to visit Riverwood, it was interesting how much I suddenly longed to see it again. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

The man's expression softens, and suddenly he looks so young, lost; helpless. I wonder what had given him cause to become a thief in the first place. "Rorikstead..." he murmurs, his voice forlorn, "I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

Before I could try my luck asking the same question of the woman, the sounds of shouting voices and distant conversation have me lifting my head to look up, realising where we were. The exchange between the general and a soldier told me exactly what was soon to happen here, and fear seemed like a distant memory, nothing but anger sitting in place of it. I barely hear the thief's pleas to the gods for help, too busy glaring at the group gathered in the near distance.

"Look at him," I huff, shaking my head in distaste. "General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Out the corner of my eye, I see the woman straighten and crane her neck a bit to get a glance at what I had mentioned, her eyes focused on the general and his entourage. A light frown twitches at her brow, and then she sits back down beside Ulfric, her gaze alternating among the many Imperial soldiers scattered about the town centre.

"This is Helgen," I say to no one in particular. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." A bout of nostalgia grips around my heart, and I frown against it. "Funny... when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Funny how old forgotten memories become so vivid when you're about to face death.

The thief is, as usual, on the edge of hysteria. "Why are they stopping?"

Indeed the carriage stops, much like my heart does a moment later. This is it. "Why do you think? End of the line." There isn't any real fear in my heart, of course – but there is regret. I wish I'd done more. Experienced more. Lived more.

I look at the woman in front of me, but her face is unreadable. I wish I knew what she was feeling. Is she truly as calm as she appears, or is she merely hiding her fear behind a blank expression? "Let's go," I say, standing up. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

"No! Wait! We're not rebels!"

Have you no spine at all?

"Face your death with some courage, thief." I don't bother to pay further heed to his words, stepping off the carriage and somewhat regretful I can't help the woman down, though she does just fine jumping off on her own. Standing, she's smaller than I thought, though not frail. She's more a girl than a woman.

The Imperial soldier orders us to move toward the chopping block upon having our names called, where a rather ominous-looking headsman awaits. My eyes are, however, fixed on the soldier. Hadvar. A man I used to know - or I thought I knew, at least. I didn't look him in the eye. "Empire loves their damn lists," I mutter, and the woman beside me grunts. That's the most I've heard out of her all day.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

As I tell him it has been an honour to have known him, I wish at least he could be spared. That he, the leader, could carry on the fight. It's a ridiculous thought, of course. He is the entire reason for this gathering. The Imperials would sooner free all of us in order to keep Ulfric than release the man alone; the single biggest threat to the Empire.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

Ralof of Riverwood. Maybe that's my only legacy. Ralof of Riverwood, Stormcloak rebel. I suppose that's not so bad.

I can feel Hadvar watching me as I walk past, but I don't spare a second glance. We may not have been kin, but that doesn't make his role in this execution any less traitorous.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No, I'm not a rebel!" the thief cries. "You can't do this!"

Clearly devoid of all sanity, Lokir breaks from the line and begins to sprint as fast as he can up the road from where we came, hands bound and steps unsteady. His last words claim that he will not be killed by the Imperials, right before he is killed by the Imperials. The captain, a stern woman of short stature, demands to know if anyone else feels like running.

My gaze leaves the captain and falls upon the woman instead, the last to have her name called – except her name is never called. Hadvar asks her who she is, and I realise she isn't on the list. This is, oddly, a relief. At least one of us will leave here alive.

"Irma."

I finally learn her name. A simple name. Irma.

And yet there's nothing else to go with it. No clan name, title, not even her town of origin. Nothing.

Hadvar waits for a moment for her to continue, but she doesn't. "Irma who?"

"Irma."

"Well... very well." Hadvar scribbles her name onto the parchment. "You picked a bad time to come back home to Skyrim, kinsman." He then turns to the captain, asking what they should do with her since she's not on the list – and then I get a proper shock upon hearing the reply.

"Forget the list. She goes to the block."

What?

To her credit, she barely reacts, perhaps but a slight widening of her eyes; and she obeys her orders, the gentle words of Hadvar left behind as she steps into line beside me. Tullius' voice rambles in the background, but I'm focused on Irma as her gaze travels to where Lokir lies dead with a back full of arrows. Then she turns to me; her eyes always unreadable. Injustice, I think as I stare at her. Sentenced to death for nothing but being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Are you afraid?" I dare to ask, my voice low and quiet.

For a moment, Irma shows no sign that she will respond, but then her lips press together, as if gathering her courage; and she finally shakes her head. I feel a faint smile on my lips, but the moment is crushed by a distant echo, a strange sound that seems to confuse everyone. Hadvar voices his concern, but the general demands they carry on. A distraction would only benefit us, I think bemusedly.

Turning back to face forward, I listen as the priestess recites her tired old lines. Maybe Arkay is the only god really paying us any attention right now. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved–"

"For the love of Talos," a gruff voice snaps; "shut up and let's get this over with."

I can't stop myself from grinning when she's interrupted. Jorrgar has never been the most reverent of men, but he's always been among the most honourable.

"As you wish," the priestess resigns rather haughtily.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," Jorrgar says with a voice full of pride, full of hope. A man eager for Sovngarde. "Can you say the same?"

The axe meets the block with a metallic clang and the sound of severed flesh, but along with it I also hear a soft gasp from beside me. And though Irma's expression does not betray, I can see the tautness of her brow, the quick blink of her lashes. It isn't fear. It's sorrow.

"As fearless in death," I say, voice unhindered this time as I make it a point to stare at Jorrgar's limp body as it's pushed to the ground; "as he was in life."

"Next," the captain yells; "the Nord in the hood!"

Wait –

I don't know this girl. I barely just learnt her name. I have no idea what her beliefs are, or what her past contains. I have never even partaken in a single line of conversation with her.

And yet here I am, Julianos help me, filled with more dread at the thought of her dying than for my own death. Worse, it fills my head with bad ideas about how to put a stop to it –

Another menacing sound breaks through my train of thought, focuses my gaze toward the skies. That sound again.

"There it is again," Hadvar says again, anxious as he turned to the captain. "Did you hear that?"

It seemed to have come from the mountains, but then what explanation does that have?

"I said, next prisoner!"

What a pleasure it would be to simply stroll over to the small-faced wench and stretch her neck over the block instead. But, as nice as it was to entertain such thoughts, there were worse fates than a quick death by beheading. Not to mention my inability to do anything with my hands still bound, as much as I wanted to stop the murder of an innocent woman. How did the Imperials believe they were delivering justice to Ulfric, a so-called murderer, if they would not give justice to a girl without a sin tainting her name?

Irma, however, walks to the block as easily as if she was going to collect a pardon, and I can respect that. The captain yanks at her hood roughly to pull it off her head, and by the slight flinch in Irma's expression, I can tell the woman managed to grab a fair amount of hair, as well. She's forced down, her head resting on the block, face turned away from the rest of us, and I think that maybe I'm grateful not to have to see her face when the axe comes down.

Something interrupts it before it has the chance, and this time it's not just a strange sound from the mountains.

"What in Oblivion is that?" I hear Tullius shout in horror, the captain asking what the sentries see – in the meantime, I'm speechless, and I can't move.

I see it – a giant, black, winged creature, hovering over the town until it lands atop a tower, the ground shaking under the sudden weight drop; and me? I can't move. I can't do anything but stand there, mouth open. But then it opens its mouth too, and the roar throws us all back. It's only when I catch myself mid-stumble to avoid from sprawling to the floor that I snap out of it. If I had thought before that the gods didn't care about us, this had definitely changed my mind.

One more shot, one more chance. One chance and so many possibilities – and I knew exactly what the first thing I wanted to do was.

I find her fallen beside the block, dazed by the creature's shout; though she had got out lucky. The headsman looked to have died instantly.

"Hey!" I shout, nudging her in my inability to grab her. "Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!"

She stares up at me, the trance breaking and she pushes herself to her feet with a groan. There's no time for her to regain her balance as I run toward the tower, her steps audible right behind me, and once the door is shut I immediately ask for something to cut my binds with, which Ulfric readily provides. "Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?" They couldn't be. Dragons had been dead for years. But what else could it have been?

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric replies, his brow drawn tight and his eyes distant in thought. For a moment I look around in panic, realising I hadn't seen Irma run inside with me, but she's braced against the wall behind me, sitting on the steps, catching her breath and blinking her eyes rapidly as if there was something stuck in them.

Finally, Ulfric looks up, straight at me, and I notice that familiar determination in his eyes, that fire that had never gone out since the ambush. "We need to move, now!"

I turn to Irma immediately, grabbing her arm and pulling her up to her feet, and she stands without complaint. "Up through the tower," I gesture hastily, pointing to the top of the staircase and nudging her by the small of her back. "Let's go, move!"

Following after her quickly, my heart pounds, my mind asking a dozen questions every second that passes by, but the most prominent is how are we ever going to escape this place? Even when we reach the top of the tower, then what? We'll only be in the direct sight of the 'enemy'.

As if to bring me back to reality, however, the tower window and the wall around it crumbles with a deafening bang, the Stormcloak right beside it falling down with a yell.

"Get back!" I bellow, and Irma does, except its more that she falls back than steps; straight into my arms. To my horror, I witness the magnificent black snout of the dragon appearing before us, though it pauses only to unleash a wave of fire upon the soldier at the ruins of the window, before it departs, leaving only wisps of flame and a charred corpse behind.

My entire body is screaming with fear-induced adrenaline, and I can feel the shock in Irma, too; shaking in my arms, her breath coming in heavy gasps, scratching up through her throat. With the immediate danger gone, I know that this is no time to take a break, and I quickly push her forward, up the last three steps to the hole in the wall. "See the inn on the other side?" I shout over the noise, and she nods quickly, head whipping to look at me expectantly, waiting for my instruction. "Jump through the roof and keep going!"

She hesitates, and I push her toward the window again, before heading back down the stairs to help our wounded men. "Go!" I yell. "We'll follow you when we can!"

As I watch Irma leap down into the ruins, my only hope is that the next time I see her, it's not in Sovngarde.

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