One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.
Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate,
As we voyage along through the life:
Tis the set of a soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

Prisoner

The familiar clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone wasn't what woke her, nor was it the constant swaying and jolting that came with riding on a horse-drawn carriage. It wasn't even the loud, throbbing pain pounding on her skull from the inside, though it certainly wasn't helping matters. No, what caused her to stir had, in fact, been the trembling voice of a terrified passenger who was complaining an awful lot.

"Damn Stormcloaks. Everything was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."

There was a small breeze that brushed the hair from her face and raised a chill all over her skin. What had happened to her tunic?

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

She tried to open her eyes but it damn near killed her to do it. She squinted to let in as little light as she could, hoping to make sense of her surroundings. Everything was foggy, blurring in and out of focus.

"Hey, you; you're finally awake!"

She heard the voice clearly enough; it practically bounced around in her head. However neither the words nor their meaning were fully registering to her. The most she could muster in reply was a noncommittal grunt.

"You okay? You were hit pretty hard," the voice spoke again, this time softer.

Okay? Not in the slightest. She was in pain. She ached everywhere. And she was tired; so very tired. But she needed to know where she was and what was happening. She was far from lucid, and that wasn't especially safe.

She forced her head up to look around and instantly regretted it; a deafening ring phased in and out with the sudden head rush, and she only caught bits and pieces of what her 'brothers in binds' were saying.

"...Imperial ambush, same as us..."

"...what's with him?"

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to..."

"...where are they taking us! ?"

"...Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde. The resting place of dead souls.

She should have figure it out sooner. She was being sent to her death. That certainly clarified quite a bit.

"General Tulius, sir! The Headsman is waiting!"

"General Tulius, the military governor," one of the voices spat. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this."

Her vision was slowly beginning to clear, and she looked across from her to see a blond Nord in a blue cuirass, his hands bound before him and his neck craned to the left to catch a better glimpse of everything. To the right of him was another Nord, covered in dirt and wearing what amounted to a cloth sack. He was frantically whispering under his breath; prayers of some sort, to be sure. And next to herself...

Yet another Nord, albeit a rather decorated one. His mouth was bound as well as his hands, which struck her as odd. He didn't look like a particularly loud one to her, and what real harm could a man's voice do anyway? His mane was thick and wild, with twigs and leaves poking out from it in odd places, reminiscent of some feral beast, while his broad, square posture gave him the look of a man in power. The massive, boastful fur resting atop his shoulders made her feel naked in just her smallclothes, and it suddenly occurred to her as she eyed this man that there was something terribly familiar about him.

As she tried to place him, he caught her gaze. She froze, like an elk after spotting a predator. His brow furrowed and she shook herself out of her thoughts, looking away from him and forward. They'd entered a small village, and people were piling out of their homes and shops to catch a glimpse of the prisoners.

"This is Helgen," the first Nord began. "Used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the Juniper Berries mixed in."

He paused to listen to the silence. As if to herald their doom, not even the birds had taken up song this morning. "Funny. Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

They passed under a stone archway, and she spotted the chopping block in the center of the courtyard. Nothing like a pubic execution to give the poor, unfulfilled souls of this place a reason to keep toiling.

The soldier driving the carriage called for the horse to stop, and all four passengers lurched forward at the abruptness.

"W-why are we stopping?" The sack-wearing thief stammered.

The first Nord slowly got to his feet, along with the man in the furs. "Why do you think?" He asked. "End of the line."

She watched as the thief's lip trembled, clearly torn between outrage and fear; though he, too, go to his feet. She remained seated, if for no other reason than that she was certain were she to stand, she'd just fall back down again anyway. The guards would simply have to drag her out.

However, her prompting was not made by guards, but by the first Nord. "Come," he said proudly. "Let's not keep the Gods waiting for us, hm?"

Humbled by his brave front and idealistic pride, she assented and followed his lead off the wagon.

"Proceed to the block as your name is called."

"Empire loves their damn lists," he muttered, earning a grim smile from her.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The man in the furs stepped forth, and proceeded to the line of bound men and women already assembled, all in blue cuirasses.

That name. She'd heard it in taverns and on the streets. Was this really the Ulfric Stormcloak? Rebel and kingslayer? Perpetual thorn in the Imperials' side? She stood on her tip-toes to catch a better look over the first Nord's shoulder. So they caught him, huh? Either the Empire was better than she gave them credit for, or the Rebel was worse than she'd have expected.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The first Nord walked to the line. Ralof, huh? If she was indeed worthy of Sovngarde, she'd make it a point to seek him out there.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

He'd been nervous and twitchy the entire time she'd been awake, so it came as no surprise to her – to anyone, really – that the thief bolted the moment his name was called. It was even less surprising when an arrow caught him in the back of the neck and sent him crumpling to the ground.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial Captain asked, sounding a bit cocky. The scribe standing next to her didn't give the incident much attention, as his eyes were already on the last prisoner from the carts; the only one he didn't have a name for.

"Wait," he said with a small frown. Had he skipped a name somewhere? No, they were all accounted for; somewhere along the way they'd managed to pick up an extra prisoner. Strange. He looked up; she was watching him with wary eyes.

"Who... are you?"