The Last Dragonborn
Chapter 1
Alastair trudged along the rough road, occasionally stubbing his feet on rocks hidden under the snow that seemed to be piling higher and higher. He was only into his first few miles of travel through Skyrim and already he was wishing he was back in Cyrodil. The Nord half of his blood was helping against the cold, he figured.
Cyrodil held nothing more for him, at least nothing that interested him. He could make a living easy enough there, he just didn't want to. The only thing that interested him lately was finding the father he never knew.
After his mother's sudden death, Alastair decided now was the time for him to branch out.
His mother had always spoke highly of his father, even though he was never there. She spoke of their first meeting when he had traveled to Cyrodil from Skyrim to sell some furs with a caravan, how he spoke softly to her one moment but was able to turn around and sweep away enemies with ease the next, and their love that grew rapidly over the few months he spent there.
Alastair had some anxiety about the whole situation. Skyrim was a hostile place according to the stories he had heard. He hoped his bit of weapons training would be enough to protect him. He carried an iron sword on his hip and some arrows and a longbow on his back, and was able to wield some basic spells.
But now walking alone through the white-washed woods just following a broken road made him feel incredibly naked and vulnerable. Every branch that shifted under the weight of its burden of snow or the scampering of a rabbit set him more and more on edge, to where he constantly had his hand on the hilt of the sword. No matter how unsure he felt, he knew he had to force himself along.
…
It had been some time. The clouds covered the sky, but Alastair could tell it to be about noontime. He had begun to notice something that bothered him, even more than the huffs of various animals and tumbling piles of snow; silence.
A deafening silence. He stopped and slowly began sliding his sword from the scabbard, his hazel eyes scanning his surroundings. There was absolutely no movement, no noises, except for his own breath.
I'm too exposed! his instincts shouted. He began rushing towards the nearest tree, desperate for cover. A snarl pierced the silence, and his heart leapt. A wolf? He heard branches shifting to his right and behind him. He dropped the sword and reached for an arrow and the bow, spinning around to face the furry attacker.
But a wolf was not coming through the trees. Instead, there stood a wood elf, pinning him with wide, amber eyes. She wore white fur armor designed to protect and keep in heat. A blonde braid rested on her left shoulder and white paint contrasted the tanned skin of her face.
Seeing she had no weapons on her, Alastair lowered his bow. Why would a wood elf be out here? She examined him up and down suddenly, and began speaking quickly. "You need to get out of here! Go! Now!"
He blinked, confused. "Run? Run from what? Who are you?"
"I said to run!" She leapt towards him and grabbed his arm, trying to push him along down the road. Alastair yanked his arm from her. "Why?" he protested.
The answer started charging out of the trees at all sides. A dozen or so Imperial soldiers began pouring out and surrounding him, pointing all manner of weapons at him and shouting at him to drop his bow.
Alastair complied and threw his arms up. A tall woman approached him, short sword ready in her hand. "You are under arrest for crimes against the empire," she spat out.
"What? What crimes? I'm just traveling from Cyrodil!" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Save it, Stormcloak!"
He scoffed. "You think I'm a Stormcloak?"
"He's not one of them! Let him go!" the elf shouted at the woman. Two soldiers grabbed both of her arms and started pulling her away. She wrestled against them and kept protesting. Two more soldiers approached him. One held a rope in his hands. Alastair didn't know what to do, so he took a swing at the closest soldier. His fist slammed straight into the man's jaw.
Several soldiers were suddenly on him, knocking him into the snow. His vision went white as snow engulfed him, then pain exploded in back of his head, and the white faded to black.
…
Alastair's eyes slowly blinked open. His neck was bent back uncomfortably, and his body was being jolted roughly. He lifted his head to look around. He was in a carriage, hands bound tightly with ropes. The man to his right had a gag in his mouth, the man across from him wore armor with a blue sash, and the one next to him wore thin rags. They were all tied as well. The elf walked silently behind their carriage.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake." Alastair looked at the man across from him.
"Yeah, I guess I am."
"You walked into that Imperial ambush, just like us and the horse thief."
"Damn you Stormcloaks. If it wasn't for you, I would have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now," retorted the thief angrily.
The Imperial soldier driving ordered them to stop talking. The thief ignored the order and turned his attention to the gagged man. "What's up with him, huh?"
"Watch your tongue! That's Ulfric Stormcloak you're talking to, the true High King!" the warrior growled. The thief's eyes widened. Alastair gaped at Ulfric, putting pieces together in his mind. The man that murdered the High King and had started a civil war in Skyrim was here, sitting next to him, taken prisoner by the Empire. This didn't bode well for him.
"Ulfric! But that means, if they captured you… Oh gods! Where are they taking us?!" the thief exclaimed, his voice rising.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," answered the Stormcloak quietly.
Alastair turned to the driver. "Look, I'm not a rebel! I didn't do anything wrong! I'm just traveling from Cyrodil! I'm looking for my father!" he pleaded. "You have to let me go!"
The soldier ignored him.
Alastair looked up ahead. Stone walls began rising above the trees. Within the minute they approached heavy wooden gates that groaned open to accept them. Once they had passed through, the gates closed again with a heavy thud. Alastair swallowed, thoughts swirling in his mind.
The elf broke off from the caravan, and a general in Imperial armor approached two elves, donned in bronzed armor and sitting proudly on fine horses. The Stormcloak noted with disgust that they were the Thalmor.
Isn't Sovngarde the afterlife for just Nords? He wasn't sure because he had never thought about it. But then where would he go? He was a half-breed. He heard the Stormcloak soldier mentioned something about mead and a woman, but Alastair was having a hard time hearing anything besides the beating of his heart in his ears.
The carriages halted. There were people standing on the porch of a house, watching the procession. A priestess stood waiting by a man that stood silently, donned with a face mask and holding a large axe.
Imperial soldiers began unloading the prisoners. Alastair stood and followed the others in stepping down out of the carriage. "Step forward when you name is called!" ordered the woman harshly. The Stormcloak made a sarcastic remark about the Empire and lists.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm… Ralof of Riverwood… Lokir of Rorikstead…"
"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Lokir cried, and began running toward the gate, but did not make it far before being shot down by guards. Alastair gaped at the soldiers.
The Imperial soldier turned his attention to Alastair. "You. Who are you?"
Alastair was indeed a half-breed: half Imperial, half Nord. He had dark messy hair, shorter than the hair of most the men he saw. His eyes were hazel, with only hints of blue, but mostly golden. Had he inherited more of his father's traits, they would undoubtedly be blue. His skin wasn't fair, but tanned from working long hours in the sun in Cyrodil. His body was solid and muscular as well, and he tended to fare the colder weather better than others in Cyrodil.
At age 23, he should have already settled down with a family. He was handsome, and had caught the eyes of many young women back in Cyrodil, but he never pursued any of them. While some of them were quite beautiful, he never found anything interesting in their character. This had driven his mother mad. Indeed, now he felt a tad guilty for never giving her any grandchildren before she passed.
"My name is Alastair. I'm from Cyrodil. I've come here looking for my father, a Nord."
"Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list?"
The captain was unfazed by this. "Forget the list. He goes to the block."
Alastair blinked at her. "By your order, Captain," answered the soldier. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodil."
Alastair was guided back to the small group of prisoners. The general approached Ulfric. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."
Ulfric just grunted in response, the gag still in his mouth. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos," the general continued, "and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."
Just then, a strange sound echoed through the mountains. It sounded somewhat like a roar, but nothing Alastair had ever heard. Some sort of strange animal that inhabited only Skyrim, perhaps. But this wasn't the case, as others looked around quizzically, and the soldier with the list asked, "What was that?"
"It's nothing. Carry on," replied the general.
The priestess was ordered to give them all their last rites, and out of habit Alastair began to tune her out. But, he was about to die; perhaps he should actually pay attention! He blinked, and tried to clear his mind, and drown out the ever-increasing pounding of his heart in his chest.
One of the Stormcloaks stepped forward and interrupted the priestess. "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" Everyone's eyes followed the man as he approached the block, with determined footsteps and back straight and proud. "Come on, I haven't got all morning!" Alastair was astounded by the man's courage and attitude. He was forced to his knees by the captain, and his head made to rest on the block, stained with blood, over a basket awaiting to collect his head.
The executioner moved into place. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" The axe was raised, then brought down, and with a sickening slice, the Stormcloak was dead. Two guards collected his body, still squirting blood from his neck. Shouts were heard from the citizens around them, and the Stormcloak next to him commended the man's bravery.
"Next prisoner!"
The same roar echoed across the land again. "There it is again! Did you hear that?" the soldier questioned again. The captain waved it off.
A flash of gold caught his eye across the yard, as the elf from the woods stopped to watch. She gazed at him sadly, and Alastair instantly felt a twinge of regret for not having ever pursued a woman. He took this time to gaze at her, to appreciate a woman's beauty for the last time.
Her hair, catching the bouncing lights of the flames of torches around her, seemed to be made of melted gold. Her eyes matched her hair perfectly. She had a small frame, built for quick movements. Her figure, though hard to make out under her fur armor, was splendid, with perfect curves. He took notice of the white paint on her face, around her eyes and emphasizing her striking features, and the slight pink of her lips.
What had he missed out on?
"I said, next prisoner!" the captain barked, and his heart skipped a beat when he realized she had chosen him to be the 'next prisoner.' He was nudged from behind, and his legs walked him forward almost automatically. The beating of his heart became deafening now. The soldier avoided looking at him, but the dead eyes of the Stormcloak stared at him from the wooden box.
The captain placed her hand on his shoulder and roughly shoved him down. His head lay on the block, and he felt the blood of the Stormcloak against his flesh, still warm. The executioner took up nearly his whole line of sight, as the large man took a step back and gripped his ax with both hands.
Time slowed down.
Alastair braced himself as the executioner began lifting the ax.
The roar sounded again, closer.
The general shouted. "What in Oblivion is that?!"
Indeed, what was that? Alastair's eyes widened. A large serpentine creature had just flown from the mountains!
The creature disappeared from his line of sight just as quickly as it had appeared.
The ax was raised above the executioner's head.
The creature swooped back into his vision, landing roughly on the guard tower behind the executioner, who stumbled and dropped his weapon from the force of the landing caused the ground to shake. The creature was black, with jagged spikes protruding from the head and shoulders. Giant spikes extended from the wings.
The creature gazed evenly at all of them, as if summing them up. Then it draw back it's head slightly and opened its mouth wide. The sound of lightning split the air, and blood red clouds formed in the sky. Boulders plummeted to the earth, tearing down the stones of buildings like they were nothing.
"Dragon!"