Hello, everyone!
This will be my second published story on fanfiction. Though my first one is still ongoing, I've seen many people successfully balance two fics, and I'm hoping I'll be able to do the same. Besides, I'm on vacation, and have no access to the documents for my other story, but I had to write, so, behold, the product. I've been meaning to write something Skyrim-y for a while anyways, since the game is utterly fantastic.
This story, while operating in the same Skyrim universe we all know and love, won't quite follow the usual gameplay due to the differences in my story (i.e. the lack of a Dragonborn). I'm also planning on using almost only canon characters, however, I'm using my own modded version of the game for a base, so you might see some characters that aren't in the vanilla version.
Anywho, this is getting far too long for an introductory A/N, so I'll let you have at it, beginning in good old fashion Helgen. You've seen it before, you'll likely see it again, but I always find it's a great jumping off point for any Skyrim story. So thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy.
Dusk of the Dragonborn
This week was decidedly not one of Ralof's better weeks.
The ambush. Fighting tooth and nail in an unbalanced skirmish that had quickly dissolved into a merciless beating. Being hogtied and hauled into rickety carts, stripped of all rights. The long, rough ride from Darkwater Crossing, devoid of both food and water. Turning towards Helgen instead of Cyrodiil, and discovering their sentence was not public humiliation, but public execution. The outrage of seeing his leader, his king bound and gagged and spat upon by the insolent invaders of Skyrim as though it were he who was the criminal.
But the insult to the injury, the salt in the wound, the cherry on top of this pile of shit, was coming face to face with the man before him.
Ralof's fists clenched, eyes sparking with anger. In all their days of travelling, he had not once spotted this man amongst the throngs of Stormcloak prisoners and Imperial dogs. There had been many in their party, but not enough to hide a man forever, unless he was actively seeking concealment.
From the discomfort now hanging thick in the air, Ralof assumed this was the case. His eyes narrowed coldly at the man across from him, who dared to display a fleeting expression of guilt across his weather-worn face.
Enough of the lies, Hadvar. You're no sorrier to see me go than the day I left for Windhelm. Go on, do your duty like the puppet you are. Bastard.
Brown eyes hardened; quivering lips stilled. As though Hadvar could hear his old-friend-turned-enemy's thoughts, he grimaced and gritted out, "Ralof. Of Riverwood."
The last part was tacked on with even more disgust, as though he was loathe to remind himself of the hometown they'd once shared. Ralof hoped the thought made him squirm.
Remember it all? Remember the day you first arrived in Riverwood, a fresh orphan still sobbing for your parents, and I stole a sweetroll from the Sleeping Giant to cheer you up? Remember the time I accidentally dropped your uncle's best blade in the forge, and you took the fall for me? Remember all those afternoons we spent by the river, talking or playing or simply watching the clouds, together?
He held Hadvar's gaze as he moved to the new line of prisoners; the uneasiness behind angry eyes told him the boy he'd once known did, in fact, remember.
Good. I hope those thoughts haunt you to the end of your days.
If this was the old Hadvar, they would have. The old Hadvar had always been a gentle lad, too kind and complacent for his own good. He'd grow faint at so much as the scent of blood; it had been a shock to the whole village when he'd announced his desire to join the Imperial army.
As Ralof watched, Hadvar called Lokir's name, and the skittish thief ran, earning three arrows in his back while Hadvar looked on, unflinching. Well, if it hadn't been clear already, it was now; the boy he'd known was dead. The man he dealt with now was new Hadvar.
Ralof hated new Hadvar.
"H-Horrible, isn't it?" a quiet voice murmured beside him.
Ralof turned his head slightly to acknowledge the other prisoner he'd grown to know on the ride to Helgen. An Imperial of small and slight stature, Leander Neleus looked more boy than man. A fact that went unaided by his pale face and wide eyes as he took in the corpse of the horse thief.
"If he just hadn't run." The Imperial swallowed, unable to tear his gaze from Lokir's prostrate form. "He, he could have—"
"Wound up here like the rest of us, getting a nice beheading instead of an old arrow in the back," Vidran growled, rolling his eyes.
Leander shied away from the taller Nord and shuffled closer to Ralof, who couldn't blame him. Fellow prisoner or no, Stormcloaks weren't the best of company if you were an Imperial, no matter where your allegiance lay. But Ralof had spent a few good days getting to know Leander and had been graced with nothing but courtesy and civility, as well as somewhat frantic affirmations that the man was decidedly neutral when it came to Skyrim's civil war. It had been impossible to hold an unfounded grudge against the stranger for long.
Besides, something about Leander had warmed Ralof to him almost immediately. With his kind, albeit meek attitude, the man almost reminded Ralof of a younger . . .
No. That was not a thought worth completing.
"Ulfric. Stormcloak."
The words were spat with such acerbity, spite pouring from each syllable, that Ralof immediately whipped around. The burning fury in his heart had instantly rekindled; who dared to speak the name of his king as though it were an insult?
Ah, of course. He scowled, as did his Stormcloak companions, as General Tullius faced off with their great leader. One man adorned in the finest golden armour, the other with ropes at his wrists and a rag in his mouth, yet it was Ulfric who held his head higher on this morning. Tullius wasn't capable of such dignity—or tall stature.
Mocking laughter coursed through the Stormcloak ranks as Tullius glared up at Ulfric, unable to meet the eye of the towering Nord. "Tell me, Jarl of Windhelm, did your word mean nothing when you first swore fealty to the High King, or was it only of late that you became so despicable?"
A few of the most hot-headed Stormcloaks, Ralof and Vidran among them, let loose a stream of curses at the insult to their king's honour, only to quickly be silenced by the surrounding Imperial guards.
Ralof coughed and spat out a wad of blood and spittle, glaring at the nearest Empire-loving dog, who was massaging his knuckles after hard contact with Ralof's jaw. Leander looked on, shocked and scared, growing only more so as Ralof began to chuckle quietly under his breath. Whether the blow had knocked the sense from his head, or gallows humour was truly at work, he could not help but be amused by the sight of Tullius so resentful of his taller prisoner.
"Some here in Helgen call you a hero." Tullius sneered, still trying to make eye contact with Ulfric, who refused to look down. "But would a hero permit the murder of innocents, betray his country, and blow his king to pieces?"
From the houses surrounding the executioner's block, many cries of "Nay!" rose up as Helgen's people thrust their fists in the air. Equally emphatic was the Stormcloaks' decrying of Tullius's words, the voices of Vidran and Ralof strong among them.
Tullius glowered at Ulfric; the latter had yet to even acknowledge the former's presence. Vidran guffawed loudly, elbowing Leander out of the way to nudge Ralof playfully. "Would you look at that?" he teased, not bothering to whisper. "Someone ought to get the poor general a stool."
That earned him a kick from the Imperial captain herself. Tullius too glared in Vidran's direction before returning his attention to Ulfric. As he fumed, Ralof began to believe the man was seriously considering a request for a stand; anything to make him eye-level with the true High King of Skyrim.
Instead, Tullius gave the guards behind Ulfric a swift, curt gesture. In an instant, they were on him, grabbing his shoulders and kicking out his knees, forcing him to kneel before the unworthy general.
He might as well have burned an effigy of Talos. The Stormcloak prisoners bellowed as one, launching themselves at the nearest soldiers with rage shining bright in their eyes. No one could disrespect their king in such a manner.
Ralof was at the forefront of the fighting, swinging his bound hands left and right. Leander squawked and ducked just as the fists soared over his head, catching an approaching Imperial right in his unprotected neck. The man went down, and for a moment, a brief, brief moment, Ralof felt hope surge through his veins. Perhaps they might actually escape.
Then came the roar so nightmarish it turned Ralof's blood to ice.
Everyone in the courtyard, be they Imperials, Stormcloaks, or citizens of Helgen, froze, their breaths catching in their throats. Fear seeped hesitantly into the air around them, though no one knew what exactly they were afraid of. It was shock that had floored most of them, shock and apprehension.
Some, unfortunately, were better at shaking off such emotions.
By the time Ralof recovered, two sleek blades of Imperial steel were digging into his tunic, their tips nearly drawing blood. His fellow Stormcloaks had been similarly overpowered.
Just like that, their little rebellion was over, and their lives were forfeit.
But there was still the question of that ungodly roar.
"W-What was that?" Leander stammered, his eyes jumping from Ralof to his own Imperial guard. Ralof's eyes narrowed as he recognised Hadvar at the end of the blade directed at Leander; at least he was being gentler with the Cyrodiil native than Ralof's guards were with him.
In fact, restraining the prisoner seemed to be the last thing on Hadvar's mind. Though his eyes lacked the same fear his captive's held, there was concern in his tone as he called out, "Captain?"
"I'm sure it was nothing," Tullius said dismissively, though every few minutes his eyes would flicker to the sky, scanning the clouds like a hawk. "Carry on with the executions."
"Yes, sir," the Imperial captain all but shouted. Her overzealous eagerness to follow her general's orders had cleared all uncertainty from her expression, a reassurance not quite shared by her soldiers. "The false king first, sir?"
"No." Tullius's gaze retuned to Ulfric, still unwillingly kneeling before him. The Jarl of Windhelm stared forward, unmoving, even as Tullius grabbed his chin and forced him to look towards the executioner's block. "He believes he is saving his people. Let him watch them die." He bent down, forcing eye contact with the other man as he growled, "You cannot lie to yourself forever, Jarl."
Anger reared its violent head, nearly sending Ralof into another flurry of shouting and punching. Only the sight of his king, so calm even as he was taunted and slandered, held him in check. If Ulfric could face his death with such dignity, Ralof must strive to do the same.
"Very well, General." The captain stepped up to the row of prisoners. "Which would you like first?"
"His most loyal. The ones who put up the most fight."
Tullius's eyes locked on Ralof; though the Stormcloak wasn't watching her, he could feel the captain's do the same. Despite himself, his breath hitched in his throat. Though he had made peace with death, comforted by Ulfric's promises that they all would have a place in Sovngarde, he could not stop his heart from pounding as he was pushed towards the executioner's block.
Until Vidran barrelled forward, all scowls and glares as he addressed the Imperial captain. "Fine, then. Let's be done with this."
The woman's gaze flitted from him to Tullius, who paused, then nodded. Before Ralof knew what was happening, he was being pulled back into the line, watching as his oldest Stormcloak companion strode towards the waiting headsman.
"Vidran . . ." The word was quiet, yet spoken with urgency as Ralof stared towards his closest friend, unable to process the sudden change in the situation. Vidran was going to . . . he was . . .
The bold Nord glanced back, winked at Ralof, before turning to shout at the nearby priestess trying to perform his last rites. "To Oblivion with you and your 'blessings'. If you won't count Talos amongst the gods, then your prayers are false, and I want nothing to do with them."
The priestess paused halfway through her 'blessings of the Eight divines'. Somewhat huffily, she stepped back, and Vidran was promptly forced to his knees before the block.
Ralof didn't know whether to laugh or sob. That was Vidran, cutting his last moments of life short just to be spiteful. The man's temper was as fiery as his hair.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning!"
Ralof bit his lip as Vidran uttered one last jab at the Imperials. No, he wouldn't cry. His friend deserved a strong audience for his death, as strong as he had been in life. Ralof would not dishonour him by turning away.
The headsman, a shadowy figure resting in the shade of a nearby tower, pushed himself up and strolled over, enormous axe held loosely in his grip. It was a monstrous thing, all black steel and jagged edges. But if the design's aim had been to strike fear into the hearts of its victims, it had failed. Vidran scowled and shouted, defiant to the very end, no hint of dread present in his eyes even as the axe swung down and—
Ralof couldn't help himself; he flinched as the blade hit flesh, cleaving through it like butter and releasing a spray of blood wide enough to grace his boots. His eyes jumped to his feet unconsciously, wide and uncomprehending as he took in the specks of scarlet dotting the fur. That . . . That was Vidran. Pieces of Vidran.
His friend was in pieces.
Ralof had faced the death of a comrade many times before, of course. But perhaps it was the overwhelming aura of hopelessness in the air, or the fact that he'd been forced to witness such a grisly demise that made this day so much worse than those past. His good friend had just been slaughtered like an animal at the hands of the Imperial bastards they'd been so confident they'd defeat.
And now, he was next.
The captain opened her mouth, surely to proclaim such, but before she could speak, a roar identical to the one before rocked the entire town of Helgen. Ralof flinched once more, nearly stumbling as the ground vibrated beneath his feet.
Whatever it was, it was louder—closer—than before.
Prisoners and soldiers alike glanced around, nervousness present on every face regardless of rank. Many opened their mouths to voice their fears, but Tullius's bitch was having none of it; she had the look of a woman desperately trying not to feel unsettled by distracting herself however she could.
"Next prisoner!" she shouted, jabbing her finger at the first person her eyes landed on. "You, the one in the rags!"
Ralof had almost forgotten Leander; Leander appeared to wish he had been forgotten. His already ashen skin paled further as Hadvar lowered his blade and stepped aside, motioning for the Imperial to step forward.
"N-No, please, I'm not—"
"I'm next," Ralof said, butting in without thinking. All eyes turned on him, even the hooded black pits of the executioner. Ralof forced his face to remain impassive, his heart to remain strong. He would set an example for his Stormcloak brethren, to the very end.
Time to do for Leander what Vidran had done for him.
But the Imperial captain was having none of it, forcefully dragging Leander out of line and towards the block. "No more would-be martyrs," she snapped in Ralof's direction as her charge whimpered and struggled. "This prisoner is next."
Scared as he was, Leander looked even younger than usual. Ralof couldn't let them execute this boy. "But—"
"Stay in your line, Stormcloak," an infuriatingly familiar voice spoke. Ralof turned to see Hadvar, sword out and aimed at his once-friend. "Captain's orders."
Ralof despised Hadvar at that moment, despised him with every fibre of his being, but he was also the only soldier he knew, and thus, his only hope. The Stormcloaks around him were fully prepared to die for their cause, but Leander was no part of them; his sole crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Executing him was more than unjust.
"Hadvar," Ralof hissed, trying to keep the disgust in the name to a minimum. "Look at him. Let the rest of us die and you're a puppet, but let him die and you're the criminal. You said it yourself, he's not on your damn list. You have no quarrel with him."
Ralof stared hard at Hadvar, driving his words deep into the man in hopes of finding the boy he once knew. And for the briefest of moments, he thought he had. Hadvar's gaze flickered from him to the block, where Leander was trembling with fear, frantically repeating his lack of affiliation with the Stormcloaks. Ralof held his breath as the Nord in front of him hesitated . . .
. . . And jabbed the tip of his sword closer to Ralof. "No tricks, scum," Hadvar snapped, not quite meeting Ralof's eye. "Captain's orders. The man dies."
To think, Ralof had believed a trace of old Hadvar remained. No—this was all new Hadvar.
Ralof really hated new Hadvar.
"I-I'm not a Stormcloak," Leander babbled frantically, his quivering knees kicked out from under him. "I'm just a traveller from Cyrodiil, please, I have friends you can contact there, they can vouch for me. I have no part in Skyrim's war, g-gods, I've never even been here before! Please, you can't—"
His words ended in a shuddering gasp as the captain lay a booted foot on his back, forcing his head onto the blood-coated block. From the gagging that came from Leander, Ralof was sure the boy would hurl, but fear stopped him in his tracks as the headsman raised his axe. All Ralof heard after that was one final plea.
And then a roar like none before it rocked the very earth they stood upon.
Stormcloaks stumbled to their knees. Around them, the townsfolk screamed. The headsman had dropped his axe in shock, and was now lumbering away from Leander, racing towards the safety of the nearest tower, along with numerous Imperial soldiers.
From the ground, Ralof watched them run. He watched the air around them darken as a massive shape shadowed the land and with another deafening roar, landed atop the Imperial's tower. He watched, unable to believe his eyes, as a dragon glared down from above.
Gods no.
It was a creature from fairy tales, myths and legend, yet impossibly real. The scales as dark as shadows, the spine like a mountain crag, the wings as wide as a castle's keep—and those eyes. Red as blood, and glowing with thousand-year-old malice.
Ralof felt his heart stop in his chest. He'd faced many enemies in Skyrim, fought many monsters, but this, this was the face of true evil.
Cold fear seeped into his veins. Sweat broke out across his pallid forehead. He'd been knocked to the ground by the dragon's impact, and as hard as he tried, he could not stand. His legs had turned to jelly; he was shaking almost as much as Leander.
Leander . . . shit!
Ralof's head jerked up, eyes frantically searching for the boy. He always tried to save others, of course, but the need to make sure the young Imperial was safe was a stronger one than any he'd felt before. He couldn't fathom why—the boy felt . . . necessary, somehow—but he'd worry about that later. Right now, he had to find—
There. Still trembling by the headsman's axe, though he'd somehow managed to stagger to his feet. The headsman himself was visible just a few paces away, crushed beneath a fallen portion of the tower.
Ralof finally stumbled to his feet, but he'd not taken a step in Leander's direction before the monstrous beast atop the tower opened its mouth once more. He expected a roar, and was instead met with a thunderous crack! as the dragon . . . shouted?
Ralof had no time to comprehend the situation. Up above, the once sunny skies had become overcast, masked by roiling black clouds as ominous as the beast before them. Chancing a glance up, Ralof spotted small lights amongst the darkness, and briefly wondered if the clouds were on fire.
The first flaming meteor struck not ten feet from him.
All at once, the panic in Helgen hit the apex. Where before there had been shouting, running townsfolk were now shrieking, desperate animals, willing to push, shove, or climb over anything in their way of safety. The Imperial soldiers were frantically trying to round everyone up in an orderly fashion, but it was impossible when half of their ranks were part of the stampeding mess. As Hadvar watched, three guards raced into the nearest building after a family of terrified citizens, only for an enormous meteor to plummet straight through the roof, flattening house and humans alike. Nowhere was safe.
Except a perfect circle of land formed around Leander.
Ralof ran forward, only to dive back as a meteor hit the ground directly where he would have been. A quick glance around told him no one was having luck getting close to Leander and the dragon; likewise, every time Leander attempted to escape, a flaming rock would plunge down, deterring him from his path.
But Ralof would not leave the boy so easily—still, he felt that overwhelming need to keep Leander alive. Taking cover under the collapsed ruins of a nearby home, he forced himself to steady his breathing and remain in control of his fear. He'd simply wait for an opening in the deadly rain, then sprint forward and . . .
His train of thought disappeared, along with every other idea in his head. It felt as though his mind had shut down entirely, along with every muscle, nerve, and organ in his body. Panic had him completely paralysed as the dragon moved, clawing its way down the tower with talons larger than any greatsword. Stones and mortar crumbled from the tower, sending Leander stumbling back, only to be stopped by another meteor crushing the headsman's block not a foot behind him. The boy was well and truly trapped.
Even from this distance, Ralof could see the fear in the boy's eyes as the dragon regarded him. The beast tilted its head, almost curious, as nostrils the size of gopher holes brushed against the quaking Imperial and sniffed. Then the dragon reared back, thrust its head in the air, and let out a sound unlike any Ralof had heard thus far. Short, individual roars filled with malice and mockery—the beast was laughing.
"Dovahkiin."
This time, Ralof was sure he hadn't imagined it. The dragon could speak, albeit in a gravelly, barely comprehensible voice.
"Dovahkiin. Ful mal. Ful sahlo."
Ralof had no idea what the beast was saying, but there was something else in Leander's wide eyes besides blatant fear: understanding.
"W-What is this?" Even over the sounds of screams and impacts around him, Ralof could still hear the terrified shout of the Imperial. "What are you? What do you want?"
The dragon released another bone-chilling laugh.
"Dii laas. Hin dinok."
Ralof was no closer to understanding what was going on, but it was impossible to miss the new surge of fear in Leander's expression. The Imperial shrieked and turned to run, tipping him off that maybe he should as well, toward Leander, to help the poor boy escape. But fear kept him frozen, even as the dragon opened its mouth once more. Not to speak, but to shout.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"
Time seemed to slow for Ralof. He watched Leander sprint forward, but each step seemed to take an eternity as, behind him, a wave of fire built in the dragon's throat. Ralof finally gathered the courage to rise, but he was slow, too slow. His warning cry left his mouth just as the dragon's flames left its.
The inferno burst forth, so hot that Ralof could feel it sear his skin even from this distance. With a cry, he raised his still-bound arms to protect his face and dove to the dirt as heat sizzled on his unprotected flesh. And he was a fair few feet away, too—gods, what had happened to Leander?
A gale of hot, dry wind whipped across his back. He brought his head up just in time to see the dragon take to the skies, mouth open as it cried in its strange language.
"Faal Dovahkiin los dilon! Daar lein los Dii."
These words chilled Ralof's blood like no others. They had been spoken differently—pridefully, with a thick aura of wicked triumph to them. And there was that strange word again; Dovahkiin, the one the dragon had used when it had first spoken to Leander.
Leander.
Ralof's gaze darted back to the place where he'd last seen the stranger he'd gotten to know. The Cyrodiil native who had come to Skyrim on a whim, to distance himself from his busy city life. The boy who had been wrongfully arrested, who seemed to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All that remained of Leander Neleus now was a smoking, blackened corpse.
Ralof fell to his knees right there in the centre of Helgen's courtyard, unmoved by the meteors that crashed down around him. A small voice in the back of his head screamed for him to rise, to run, to find his comrades and escape this hell with them, but he couldn't. What was the matter with him? After all, he had seen death before, and this boy was but a stranger. He should mean nothing to Ralof.
Yet as Ralof's eyes flitted back to the roaring dragon above, he had a sinking feeling that somehow, Leander Neleus had meant a great deal to the world. And now he was gone.
Quick translation of Alduin's dialogue (which may be incorrect as I was using an online translator - corrections are welcome):
"Dragonborn"
"Dragonborn. So small. So weak."
"My life. Your death."
"The Dragonborn is dead! This world is MINE."
And then there's the Firebreath shout: Fire, Inferno, Sun.
So there we are: the first chapter of A World Torn Asunder. This actually began as a writing exercise for me to practice the high fantasy element so I might one day be able to write my own original novel, so any comments or constructive criticism is much appreciated. Especially on my descriptions, which I skimmed over in this chapter because I figured everyone knows Helgen, but really that was my excuse to leave them out because I suck at them. Damn you, descriptive language! I'll nail you down some day.
Anyways, once again, thank you very much for checking out this story. Next chapter might actually be up in a couple of days, if I get more time on vacation to write. If not, see you (figuratively) when I see you!