A/N: This is my first fan fiction, and I didn't realize when I started this how doing the Helgen sequence is so off-putting, but if you can bear with me, this is where a pivotal moment happens in Gerhild's life. If you'd rather skip Helgen, jump to Chapter Four. All reviews are welcome, as long as they are honest. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

17th of Last Seed: 4E 201

The noises were cacophonous, ringing through her skull, affirming she was alive despite seeing nothing more than the blackness of the grave. Emotions swelled up within her, making the breath catch in her throat. First to come was disappointment, followed quickly by fear, the feelings overwhelming her. Still she didn't make a sound, not even a whimper, though she had more than earned it. Instead she focused first on identifying the sounds, so different from what she was used to, the screams of prisoners, the sharp snap of a whip, or the dull thud of an axe chopping through flesh.

Horses. The sounds she heard were from horses, from the earth being crushed beneath horses' hooves and cart wheels. There was movement, too, a lolling of her head on her shoulders as if her neck had gone boneless. A breeze ruffled her hair briefly across her face, and the stray thought entered her mind that she needed to re-braid her hair. A horse neighed, and she opened her eyes.

Slowly the darkness let go of her vision, allowing her to see she was riding in the back of an open cart, staring at her feet. A taste of bile was in her mouth, along with blood, though most of it was not her own. Carefully she worked saliva—what little she could muster—around in her mouth until she could spit. Some of the discolored drool was left dangling from her lip, forcing her a second time to remove the refuse from her mouth.

Having cleared away the unpleasantness, she took note of herself. Her gown and soft boots had been replaced by a rough tunic and leggings with rags for shoes. Her wrists were bound in front of her, the harsh rope etching deeply into her already bruised flesh. Her back was raw and wet feeling, the coarse fabric of the tunic abrading the welts and cuts left over from her torture. Her other hurts and sores were minimal, mostly what was expected after the abuse she had been made to suffer. Not wanting to think about that, she lifted her head timidly to take stock of her surroundings.

A man came into view, sitting across from her, the dusty blue mantle of a Stormcloak soldier wrapped around his shoulders and flowing down his front. He was a good ten or fifteen years older than her, with the sturdy Nord build, blond hair and kind blue eyes. A braid hung down the left side of his face, and his chin was dusted with at least a day's growth of beard. He sat hunched forward slightly, his elbows on his knees and his wrists bound in front of him the same as her. He smiled when he caught her eye, and spoke when he thought she was coherent enough to hear him. "Hey, you. You're finally awake."

His lilting Nordic voice sounded musical to her mind, a welcome change from the sneering and self-righteous tones of the Thalmor. She couldn't answer, other than a swallow and a nod, the fear blocking the words in her throat. She was awake, but the nightmare wasn't over yet. And unlike the man across from her, she had an inkling what their fate would probably be, having heard her interrogators speaking before she blacked out. Her eyes fell to her bound wrists, wishing she could free herself, wishing she could run away, wishing…

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" he asked. Apparently he wanted to have a conversation. Too bad her words were frozen in her heart. Yet his words made her remember her reasons for coming to Skyrim, for coming to a home she had never known. She looked back up at him as he continued, "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there."

Even with his hands bound, he was able to jerk his thumb at the man sitting next to him. The second man was dressed like her, in the rough rags of a prisoner. He scowled at the other two men in the cart with them. "Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." He turned to look directly at her, trying to find camaraderie with the only other non-Stormcloak prisoner. "You there! You and me! We shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." He nearly spat the title, channeling all his fear into the hate he felt for the rebels.

The soldier sighed, his voice full of regret as he pointed out, "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." He pronounced the word with a soft "t" sound, rather than the "th" she was used to hearing. The man was a true Nord, alright.

"Shut up, back there!" the driver of the cart called out. That accent was pure Cyrodiil, full of Imperial rules and regulations. She turned to give him a quick glance, wondering what he might do if they kept talking, thinking it couldn't be any worse than the fate that awaited them at the end of the cart ride. Or any worse than what she had already been made to endure.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" the horsethief asked, indicating the man sitting across from him, and next to her.

"Watch your tongue!" the Stormcloak rebuked him. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

She jerked her head up at this, recognizing the name despite having lived all her life outside of Skyrim. Slowly she turned to face him, scared and curious at the same time, her brows scrunched in trepidation. He was bound same as they were, with the addition of a gag. She hadn't believed the stories she heard, about how Ulfric used the power of the Thu'um to Shout apart the former High King. It was obvious the Imperials did believe the stories, however, as they had stopped his mouth.

Her gaze lifted from the gag to his eyes, and the fear heightened. The look he gave her was tinged with recognition, as if he could tell who she was, or rather who her parents had been, just by looking at her. She swallowed but held his gaze, refusing to show weakness. His eyes showed sympathy for her apparent circumstances, and full knowledge of where they were heading and what would await them at their destination. And acceptance, as if he knew, even though they were facing their deaths, everything would be alright. His faith and strength were encouraging, and his eyes boring into her loaned her this calmness.

In fact, she pushed all emotion aside, every twinge of fear or regret or even hope. Considering their fate—sitting in a carriage on the way to their execution—she decided there was no longer any reason to feel. Though this was not the way she had wanted to end her young life; apparently there were times when fate wouldn't allow one to have what one wanted. She decided to face her death the same as Ulfric, stoic and strong and sure, and put her faith in Sovngarde.

He seemed to understand the change in her, and gave a brief inclination of his head as if approving her action. She would have smiled at this, but her newfound coldness kept even the positive emotions at bay. He turned then to face forward once more, and she saw his eyes carefully scan the trees along the side of the road. She followed his gaze quickly, but was too slow to catch whatever it was that he saw. She did notice movement, though she was unable to see what caused the movement, whether animal or man.

The horsethief was still talking, using the noise of his voice to cover his fear. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion." He paused to consider in whose company he sat. "But… if they've captured you… Oh, gods! Where are they taking us?"

The soldier across from her answered softly, "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

The thief was shaking his head, eyes darting wildly as he looked for a means of escape, only now realizing the carts were carrying them to their deaths. "No. This can't be happening. This isn't happening!"

"Hey," the Stormcloak called, trying to break into his fear, "What village are you from, horsethief?"

"Why do you care?" he asked, venting his surliness at the other.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

She looked at him, saw the sadness and regret in his expression, and knew he was already thinking of his home, his family, his youth…

"Rorikstead. I'm…" the thief paused to swallow, calming a little as he thought, "…I'm from Rorikstead."

Her home, at least the place where she had been born, was back in Cyrodiil. The house was gone, as were her father and her mother. Now her home was Skyrim, for however brief a time, and she lifted her eyes to look around her at the mountains, the snow, the trees, the foxes…

"General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting," a voice called out. She wanted to curse it for interrupting her thoughts, but could no longer find the emotion to spark the anger to make the effort.

"Good," an old man said from the front of their little caravan, pausing his horse before they entered a small village. She looked at him, noting his proud bearing and gruff voice, and remembered his face. He had stood behind the Thamlor hag who had questioned her… "Let's get this over with!" he continued, sounding as if he would be late for another appointment if this wasn't finished quickly enough.

"Shor… Mara… Dibella… Kinereth… Akatosh…" the thief tried to remember all the names of the gods. Giving up, he finished, "Divines, please… help me!" She considered correcting him, finishing listing all the gods, including Talos who was conspicuously absent from his recital, but thought better of it. Speaking would only turn his ire towards her.

The Stormcloak ignored him now, looking instead at the General prancing ahead of them on his horse. "Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him, damn elves!" He leaned forward to spit on the floor between his feet. "I bet they had something to do with this."

She turned to see what he had seen, and immediately noted an old Thalmor, the same one who had tortured her and ordered her subsequent rape. Elenwen was the bitch's name. She was too far removed from her emotions, however, to even feel satisfaction when Tullius received the same cold disdain as anyone who wasn't Thalmor.

The sound of the gates closing behind them echoed within her dead heart. She faced the Stormcloak soldier once more as he—still thinking of home—reminisced about his youth. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here." He sighed, his mind wandering through his past and the streets of this village. "I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

She looked around them dispassionately, mildly curious about the place where she was to die. She supposed she should envy him and his memories—a lifetime of Skyrim was available to him, whereas she had only a few short days, and very little of it pleasant.

"Funny," he spoke again, his voice carrying only so far as her ears, "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

She nodded slowly, having felt the same in her own youth. He was right; it was funny how something so comforting could turn so ugly, and not through any action of her own. Thinking of her youth, she noted a small boy who had come out to the porch to watch the unusual progression of soldiers and prisoners.

"Who are they, Daddy? Where are they going?"

"You need to go inside, little cub," his father answered.

"Why? I wanna watch the soldiers."

"Inside the house. Now!"

As their driver slowed their cart, she heard the boy obediently answer his father. She spared him no more thought, however, as her attention was needed for her own fate.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts!" an Imperial Captain ordered.

"Why are we stopping?" the thief asked, his voice panicky once more.

"Move it!" the Captain shouted.

"Why do you think?" the Stormcloak answered softly. "End of the line." He swayed slightly as the cart finally stopped. When he spoke again, all regret was gone, replaced with a brisk, business-like tone, "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

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

The soldier had finally had enough of the whining. "Face your death with some courage, thief!"

"You've got to tell them," he pleaded, even as he was forced down from the cart. "We weren't with you. This is a mistake!" It was touching the way he still tried to include her in his plea for pardon, but even if it were miraculously granted, she wouldn't accept it. Not now. Not from Thalmor hands.

They were made to face the Captain and another soldier, this one a Nord who had sided with the Imperials. He also had a kind face, like the Stormcloak next to her, though his hair was brown instead of blond. A list was in his hand, a quill in the other, already hovering over the parchment as if eager to tick off the condemned. "Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time," the Captain instructed in a voice that was meant to sound intimidating, but only made her seem foolish.

"Empire loves their damn lists," the blond soldier muttered.

The Nord with the list called out clearly, "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

The bound Jarl stepped forward proudly, and his captured men and women cheered, refusing to bend their necks to the Imperials. The Imperial soldier tried to ignore the shouts, almost apologetically ticking the name off his list.

"Killing him will be their worst mistake." She muttered her first words since waking, as she watched him make his way to the ring of prisoners already gathered around chopping block.

"What do you mean?" the Stormcloak asked quietly, curious as to why she chose now to speak, as well as why killing Ulfric would backfire on the Imperials.

"Alive, Ulfric can be forced to stand trial, even an unjust one, and be made to look like an outlaw, a rebel, a murderer, all the things they would accuse him of. But dead, executed quickly without a hearing, he will be made a martyr. A martyr is a powerful symbol, and not as easily destroyed as a man's life. The Imperials, and the Thalmor, will grievously regret their actions today."

The soldier nodded agreement to her wise words. He looked at his leader and spoke softly, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood."

He stepped forward then, giving the traitorous Nord a glower and a muttered, "Hadvar," in acknowledgment. The two men must have known each other, but the Imperial refused to meet his eyes as he checked the name off the list. Her heart was too far gone to feel regret at Ralof's leaving, even if she could have considered a man she had only known for less than an hour a friend. But she sensed he was a good man, a gentle soul, who only did what he did because he had to, not because he wanted to. Though he was being killed justly—he was a traitor to the Imperial government—his execution was in an unjust manner. A Nord should die with a sword in his hands…

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Again her thoughts were interrupted. She turned from Ralof to see the last man from her cart step forward. He looked hesitantly at the Captain's face, and finding no compassion there, panic took him in its unbreakable grip. "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

He began racing away, down the street they had just come, screaming that he was innocent of being a Stormcloak. The Imperial was quicker, calling to her archers to fire. No less than six arrows impaled his back, felling him to the ground. She could hear his moans as his life slowly ebbed from his veins, the arrows making his death much longer and harder than the headsman's axe.

She would not see him in Sovngarde tonight.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the Captain taunted in her ridiculously puffed up voice.

The soldier with his list showed some sense, looking back and forth from his list to the last prisoner, and completely ignoring his haughty Captain. "Wait," he locked eyes with the prisoner, gesturing with his quill as he continued, "You there, step forward." She obeyed, registering in the back of her mind that all eyes were watching her. She stopped when she was standing in front of the soldier and waited. "Who are you?"

"Gerhild." Her voice was calm and steady, not too quiet nor too loud and boastful, but clear and full of strength nonetheless.

Hadvar paused long enough to research the list on the parchment, still not finding the name, so he didn't see the frown that creased the Thalmor bitch's face. Gerhild didn't respond to her; though a few moments ago she would have had the flickering impulse to stick out her tongue, now she was content to stand impassive before her executioners. She had been tortured for days and hadn't revealed even so little as her name to Elenwen, yet she readily gave it to the headsman's assistant. She hoped it rankled on her nerves.

He finished and looked back up to her. He lifted his brows expectantly, but she didn't answer his unspoken question. At last he gave in and asked, "Where are you from, Nord?"

She supposed she should feel a little guilty—Hadvar was a fellow Nord and shouldn't be made a fool of—but he had joined the Imperials. And besides, she had pushed aside all her emotions, killed her heart ahead of time so her death wouldn't hurt quite so much. Lifting her bruised chin still caked with blood from her split lip, she answered in her same clear voice, "Skyrim."

The Stormcloaks laughed, a few cheering her cheekiness, others praising her loyalty. Without looking she could feel Ulfric's eyes boring into her again, but she didn't want to see the expression on his face, unsure if it would be proud or reproachful. Truthfully, there was no other answer she could have given. Her mother and father were Nords, but she had lived in too many places in her short life to know what to call home.

He caught the jibe, but chose to let it pass. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

The Captain replied eagerly, almost thirsting for blood. "Forget the list. She goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." Hadvar turned back to face her, his expression sad. "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry your life is ending this way. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

"Save your pity," she answered, "For those who need it. I have no use for it."

This time the barb cut deeper, and he let it show. Screwing up his face, he added a little too harshly, "Follow the Captain, prisoner."

She turned from him to join the others in line, ready to wait her turn at the block. She stood next to Ralof, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, and he brushed her shoulder in a somewhat comforting manner.

There was less and less time available to her, and more and more interruptions to steal what was left. General Tullius imposed upon the next few moments, desiring to posture and pontificate before the headsman's grisly work could begin. He strode out before the assembled Stormcloaks. Though he faced only Ulfric, he was addressing all of Helgen, undoubtedly making them unwitting witnesses to legitimize the unlawful execution. "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 looked like he wanted to respond, and a muffled sort of grunt could be heard coming from beneath the gag. It was too effective, however, in stopping the words, whether they were a rebuttal or a Shout.

Tullius ignored him, continuing his speech, his tone turning bitter and accusatory. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!"

The wind kicked up just then, making a strange sort of howling noise as it ripped through the trees. Eerily, Gerhild felt no ruffle in either clothing or hair or skin to mark the passage of the wind. It was like it was merely the sound without the movement.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked, his voice tinged with superstitious guilt.

"It's nothing," Tullius brushed it aside, but quickly changed his mind about finishing his speech, deciding it would be prudent to get the matter finished before something could go wrong. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," the Captain bowed promptly, eager to do his bidding. When he stepped back, she gestured to the priestess of Arkay standing nervously behind the headsman. "Give them their last rites."

The numbness crept deeper within Gerhild as time began to slow. The priestess stepped forward, her arms raised in blessing, but her words washed over Gerhild like rain. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you…"

"For the love of Talos! Shut up and let's get this over with!" The priestess was not invoking Talos, who was the reason the Stormcloak Nords fought this rebellion, so she was subsequently heckled into silence by one particularly impatient Stormcloak.

"As you wish…" the priestess acquiesced, stepping aside almost gratefully.

"Come on," the soldier taunted, staring straight at the Imperial Captain. "I haven't got all morning!"

The Captain scoffed and acted tough, but Gerhild could tell she was unsettled by the man's bravery. She kicked him behind the knee, forcing him into the dirt before the block. Dimly she watched as the headsman stepped forward and raised his axe. Just before it swung, the soldier got in one final goad. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

The sound of the blade slicing through muscle and bone and sinew echoed through her soul, making her think she could feel the ground beneath her feet shake from the force of the blow. The head dropped into the basket, the body remaining on its knees until the Captain stepped forward to kick it off to the side.

Gerhild could hear several catcalls, from both Stormcloak and Imperial sympathizers, but it was Ralof's comment that filled her ears. "As fearless in death, as he was in life." She turned to look up at him, but instead found herself watching Ulfric. He wasn't looking at the man who had just died for his cause, but at a place just above the outer wall. Again, whatever he might have seen was out of sight by the time she looked. Ulfric caught her eye next, nodding his head slowly as if trying to tell her something. Yet whatever mystery he wanted to impart came too late, as the Captain's voice rang out.

"Next, the girl!"

Immediately afterwards came the sound of the empty wind again, howling and echoing like it was sweeping down a vast canyon. The sound was supernatural, and the effect was superstitious.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?" Hadvar asked, his voice slightly panicky.

"I said," the Captain repeated louder, as if the volume of her voice was directly related to the breadth of her courage, "Next prisoner!"

Hadvar sighed, motioning to Gerhild. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy." The pompous ass still refused to use her name.

She moved, almost as if in a dream, the others parting to allow her to pass as she walked calmly to the center of the courtyard. She stopped when she reached the Captain, looking her squarely in the eye before saying quietly, "Kick my legs out from beneath me, and you'll lose a foot before I lose a head."

The quiet bravado worked, making the puffed-up Imperial swallow and step back half a foot. Gerhild paid her no more attention, turning to the block and kneeling in front of it. In a last moment of consideration, she pulled her long, half-unraveled braid of dark-blonde hair over the shoulder opposite the headsman. It was a little awkward with her hands bound, but the Captain was still too wary to get too close to her. Then all prepared, she bent over and settled her neck against the block. The first head was still in the box, and not wanting to look at it she turned her face towards the executioner.

She felt like she was in a dream, as time slowed down and the oddest details became crystal clear. She felt the earth beneath her knees shake, and the motionless wind tear through the courtyard like a screaming gale. Something dark and winged flew through the small patch of sky she could see between the headsman and a tower. She thought it was a bat, but the day was too early for bats.

"What in Oblivion is that?" she heard the General ask.

"Sentries, what do you see?" the Captain ordered.

She watched the headsman spit onto both hands, taking hold of the shaft of his axe and hefting it behind him. As he prepared to swing it up over his head, she wondered if she would have time to feel the pain before she woke in Sovngarde. But the dream turned into a nightmare.

"It's in the clouds," an Imperial soldier shouted.

"Dragon!" another voice screamed in a heavy Nord accent.

The wind screamed again, low and angry and full of power. The ground shook, and the headsman fell to the ground, dropping his axe behind him. The tower was now in full view, and perched on top of it was the source of all fear. The face was ancient, with glowing eyes and a cavernous mouth filled with jagged teeth. As it leaned over the edge of the tower, long limbs stretched out to either side, ending in curved claws bigger than a man. Horns filled out its silhouette like a mane, and when its mouth opened, fire and wind and power issued forth. The headsman had been trying to regain his feet, and inadvertently rose up between her and the dragon just as the force of it would have hit her. Instead, he died instantly.

She must be dead as well, but instead of the beautiful dream of Sovngarde, she had the torturous nightmare of hell and soul-eating dragons. Light and sound and feeling began fading away from her…

"Don't just stand there. Kill that thing!" Tullius shouted…

"By Ysmir, nothing kills it!" another voice answered…

"Get the townspeople to safety…"