The Taste of Adventure
"Who're you talking to?"
Martin Septim looked around. He was not alone in his cell. A tall, lean man looked up at him from a bench. He looked no older than sixteen.
"No one," Martin lied.
"Oh, come on now," the stranger pressed. "We're all friends here, yeah? All two of us, I mean."
Martin cracked a small smile. "Just a prayer to someone I hold dear."
"All right," the stranger said, grinning widely. "Good to know you're not totally crazy."
Martin turned to sit on the ground, opposite his companion. The young man slid off the bench to join him, looking out the window.
"Almost thought you were Altmer, in the moonlight. Cheekbones," he added, seeing Martin's look of confusion. "I'm terrible. My apologies if I offended you."
"Not at all." Martin had almost forgotten: he was no longer Imperial, but Breton. It would take some getting used to, that was for certain.
The stranger turned his attention back to Martin, looking his face over with interest. "Are you from High Rock? The last thing a man should think about should be home, and the people he left there."
"No. I'm from... Bruma, in Cyrodiil," Martin lied. "No family."
"Well, what're you doing all the way up here in Falkreath?" The stranger laughed. "Bit far from home, aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose."
"I guess you were arrested for crossing the border, huh?"
"I... guess so," Martin lied again. Being in the presence of such a talkative young man was trying on his already strained mind.
"Hah. Me too," the stranger admitted. "Only I was going the other way."
"Going into Cyrodiil?"
"Yeah. I hate politics," the stranger admitted. "But running away from conflict only makes me a coward. A lousy one, at that. Hafta face the music now, though."
That didn't sound good. "Face the music?"
The stranger studied him carefully. His eyes were a bright, clear blue, a welcome sight in a dark cell. "We're going to execution tomorrow."
Martin's heart sank. "Execution?"
"You really don't know anything about Skyrim, now do you?" The stranger stretched out his lanky arms. "Stormcloaks, Imperials. War. None of that ring a bell?"
Martin shook his head. "I just... had an errand to run."
"An errand?" The stranger outright laughed. "People still run errands nowadays? What kinda errand took you from Bruma all the way up here?"
"A very important one."
The stranger crossed his arms, still grinning awkwardly. "Who are you, exactly?"
Martin paused for a moment, considering his answer carefully. How trustworthy could a stranger in a cell be? "My name is Jean."
"Yeah, but who are you?" the stranger pressed. "Breton from Cyrodiil in positively ancient armor. I'd love to hear your story before we go and die."
Martin shook his head. "It is a long and uninteresting story. You would never believe me, even if I did tell you."
"But it's your story. And hey, we're gonna die anyway," the stranger said conversationally. "We can talk about ourselves, or we can count the moments left in the moon."
"Who are you?" Martin diverted.
"I'm Desmond Ice-Fist," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Arrested for attempted border-crossing. Born in Windhelm, dying in Helgen."
"You hardly look old enough to be on this sort of adventure alone," Martin pointed out. Desmond laughed.
"Just turned seventeen last month. I'm just a kid. Didn't wanna join the Stormcloaks, didn't wanna join the Imperials, just wanted to get out and be happy somewhere."
"An admirable dream." Martin leaned back against the wall. "And you thought you would find it in Cyrodiil?"
"I thought I wouldn't find it here," Desmond corrected. "Too much conflict. Escalating war, high king killed, I've had enough of it."
"The high king of Skyrim?" This was starting to sound familiar. Everything started with an assassination and death. Story of his life.
"Yeah. Ulfric Stormcloak challenged him and won," Desmond said. "Where've you been?"
"Like I said. You would never believe me," Martin mumbled. The sun was beginning to rise, weak rays of light streaming through the bars on the window. In the growing light, Martin could see more of Desmond's face. He was lean, lanky, still getting used to his skin. Stringy blond hair, and a perpetual grin.
"So tell me a story, then," Desmond said. "Doesn't have to be true."
"I'd rather not lie."
"Then don't!" Desmond laughed. "You're really difficult to talk to, you know?"
"How can you be so happy, if we are to die today?" Martin asked.
"Eh. Sovngarde may not await me, but something does." Desmond shrugged, leaning against the bench. "I'll decide whether or not I like it when I get there. But, that doesn't matter. I'd just rather not die upset."
The jailer dragged Martin and Desmond into a cart with three other prisoners in the early dawn. Martin looked frantically around for Esbern, his only other acquaintance, but he seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. The cart began to move, taking them to their deaths.
"You... are you...?" Another prisoner looked at Martin with interest. "Nah, can't be. All you Bretons look the same."
"What do you mean?" Martin asked, uninterested.
"Look like an old soul, is all," the prisoner said. "But I guess we've all got a lot on our minds."
"What're you done in for?" Desmond asked the strangers.
"Stealing a horse," one man with dark hair grumbled.
"Imperial ambush," said the other blond man.
"These Imperial bastards can't get anything straight," the horse-thief snapped. "Skyrim was fine until you came alone, empire was nice and lazy. This isn't the way to deal with petty thieves like me."
"Yeah, this is how you deal with border-crossers like Jean and me," Desmond put in sagely. "What about...?" Desmond fell silent, his eyes growing wide. "You're Ulfric Stormcloak!"
Martin looked around at the third man in the cart with them. In addition to having his hands bound, there was a tight gag around his mouth, preventing him from speaking.
"Careful how you talk to him!" the blond stranger said. "That's the rightful high king of Skyrim you're talking to."
Desmond sighed. "Wish I was older, and cared about politics enough to have a real opinion. Most I can do is give you my sympathies. No one deserves to die like this."
"But... if they've captured you," the horse-thief started, "you're the leader of the rebellion. If they've captured you... oh gods, where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where they're taking us, but wherever it is, Sovngarde might await," Desmond said nonchalantly.
The horse-thief clearly disapproved of Desmond's attitude, and turned to Martin. "So. What do you think about all this?"
Caught off guard, Martin replied, "It is hardly my place to comment on politics that are getting me killed."
"True enough..."
"Where are you from?" the blond stranger asked.
"Rorikstead," answered the horse-thief. "But what does that matter?"
The stranger shook his head. "Ralof, of Riverwood. What about you two?"
Desmond shrugged. "Desmond Ice-Fist. Windhelm native."
Ulfric nodded at Desmond. Was it approval or disdain? Behind all the dirt on his face and the gag in his mouth, it was hard to tell.
"Er. Jean. Greensmith," Martin lied, plucking a name out of thin air. "Of Bruma."
"Bruma?" Ralof laughed. "Bit lost, aren't you, friend?"
The cart entered into a city, guards and soldiers shouting. Their little cart passed through the stone walls, gates ramming shut behind them. Just off the path, Martin could see a few soldiers on horseback, talking to what appeared to be elven soldiers.
"Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe," Desmond said.
"Welcome to Helgen... I used to be sweet on a girl from here," Ralof said wistfully. "I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in."
The men fell silent. What lives had they led, that brought them here? Which action had condemned them to die within these walls? A moment of weakness, a lifetime of walking the edge of a knife? Or just placing oneself in the wrong place at the wrong time? The horse began slowing down as it approached a wall. Gathered all around were men and women dressed in Imperial armor. Several held pen and parchment, and all were armed to the teeth.
"Why are we stopping?" the horse-thief asked suddenly, the cart finally coming to a halt.
"The only reason they have to stop," Desmond said gravely, the dark tone in his voice the first indication that Martin had ever heard from him that something could be amiss.
"The end of the line," Ralof confirmed. The five men dropped out of the cart, and stood facing a pair of guards. A Redguard woman was directing soldiers to groups of prisoners, dividing them up and sending them around the encampment. Her Nord companion held their list, and called out names.
"Ulfric Stormcloak."
The gagged man stepped forward, his posture dignified. The guards took him to the side, near a small group of other prisoners waiting near a stone block and a man with a large, heavy-looking halberd.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
Ralof stepped forward, his face grim. He, too, was sent beside Ulfric. Martin shifted his weight, heart racing. This was surely not the way things were meant to go. Was it? Was he to die a martyr? For what, though? He barely understood the conflict at hand! What was he to do?
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
"You can't do this!" the horse-thief insisted, struggling against his bonds. "I'm not with them!" He ran, hands still tied.
"HALT! Archers!" cried a Redguard woman in Imperial armor. The archers in the tower made short work of Lokir; he fell to the ground in moments. "Anyone else feel like running?" the woman snarled angrily.
A chilling hush fell over the encampment. The Nord, looking shaken but not sorry, resumed his duties.
"Desmond Ice-Fist of Windhelm."
Desmond muddled forward, for the first time looking legitimately terrified. Martin supposed it was his youth that made him laugh in the face of death only as long as death did not stare back.
"And... who are you?" The guard looked at him, confused.
"I... My name is Jean Greensmith," Martin lied again.
"Jean Greensmith, huh. You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?"
You could say that.
"What do we do?" the guard asked the armed Redguard woman. She appeared not to have been paying attention, and was engaged in herding the prisoners around what Martin could only assume was a chopping block. "He's not on the list."
"List be damned. He gets the block," she said, her voice fierce and decisive.
The Nord looked shocked, but acceded. "I... I'm sorry. I'll make sure your remains are shipped back to High Rock, friend."
"Friend, indeed," Desmond muttered as Martin joined him in the crowd of prisoners slated for execution. Desmond seemed to be trying to retreat into his shoulders, slouched over and timid. "I, I don't know what to think anymore."
Martin couldn't blame him. The whirlwind of activity around him seemed to be racing at twice the natural pace, speeding along towards their deaths. A priest was performing their last rites, commending their souls to Aetherius, a blessing from the Divines. A man was kneeling before the block. A few powerful-looking guards were shouting at Ulfric, who was powerless to respond. The prisoners were chattering softly. With a flash of silver, all went quiet once again. The man's head parted company with his body in a swift instant and a burst of scarlet. Desmond had turned away, eyes squeezed shut in terror.
"All right. Breton. You're next."
Someone shoved Martin forward. White-hot fear ran through his body as he was forced down before the block. The executioner wore a dark black hood over his face. So much the better, Martin supposed.
He turned to look back at Desmond. His eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, lips moving ever so slightly. Was he praying? Martin was forced further down to the ground, against the block, eyes turned away from the prisoners. The executioner raised the halberd. No. NO! It can't end this way!
"What is that thing?" someone shouted.
The fierce beating of powerful wings blew against the crowd. A great roar pierced the sky as a dragon landed on the castle tower behind them. It let out a sharp cry, aimed directly at the assemblage of prisoners and guards. The force of the dragon's very voice pushed everyone against the ground, sending buildings toppling to the ground. The executioner dropped the halberd; Martin pushed against the block and rolled out of the way as an intense heat washed over the camp, blazing fire erupting around them.
Everything went hazy as Martin shoved himself to his feet, hands still bound.
"Follow me! I can cut you loose inside, let's go!"
Vision blurred, he blindly followed the sound of Desmond's voice. They rushed into the already decimated remains of a castle tower. Ulfric Stormcloak was there as well, talking about the dragon. Alduin. The World-Eater. Something was familiar, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite place it.
"Come on! We have to keep moving!" Desmond said, grabbing Martin's attention again. "Come on, Jean!"
"Can the legends be true?" Ralof asked, as all the prisoners untied each other's bindings.
"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric said darkly.
"What does it take to kill this monster?" Guards were shouting at each other, archers firing rapidly into the air as the dragon proceeded to raze houses and level towers with the barest touch of its tail.
"We have to go. Let's move!" Ulfric barked.
"Up the stairs, come on!" Ralof made his way up the stairs, with Desmond, Ulfric, and Martin in hot pursuit. A blast of heat came through the stone wall as the dragon breathed a stream of flames through the tower. The force of the imploding wall sent them reeling backwards, tumbling down several steps until the onslaught of flames ended. Ralof cautiously peered through the hole the dragon's breath had created. He hurriedly motioned to Desmond and Martin.
"See that inn on the other side?" he asked quickly. "Jump across, we'll follow as soon as we can!"
"But—"
"Go, now! We'll follow!" Ralof snapped. Desmond, eyes wide, made a mad leap out of the building and into the burning remains of a building. Martin, fighting valiantly to keep his muscles from seizing up with fear, did the same.
They crashed into a burning column, causing the roof to creak and fall in on them.
"RUN!" Desmond sprinted for the opposite end of the building, the lack of walls making the search for a door unnecessary. The intense heat of dragon fire scorched the ground as they reached open air again. The ground shook as the beast landed, facing down a small boy.
"Haming! I need you to come here!" the guard in charge of the executions was shouting, an elderly man taking refuge behind a burnt building. The little boy looked frozen in fear as the dragon advanced, menacing, inhaling.
Picking up a wooden shield, Desmond raced out in front of the boy, blocking the stream of dragon fire. "Come on, boy!" Desmond shouted. Together, Desmond and Haming raced back to the guard and the elder, shock and tears on the young boy's face. Desmond tossed aside the burning shield, shaking the heat off his arm. Within moments, the shield had burned to cinders.
"Gunnar, take care of the boy!" the guard shouted. "I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!"
"Gods guide you, Hadvar," the old man said, taking the shield that Desmond offered him.
"Still alive, prisoners?" Hadvar asked, running after the dragon as it took to the air again. "Keep with me if you want to stay that way!"
Blindly following, Desmond and Martin ran after Hadvar, the buildings collapsing around them.
"Stay close to the wall!" Hadvar barked back at them, flattening himself against it.
"What? Wh—"
Before they had time to question it, the dragon landed, the points on its wings digging into the brick and mortar. Desmond and Martin slammed back into the wall, the stone battlements crumbling under the dragon's weight and power.
As it flew away again, Hadvar ran towards the main part of the keep. A familiar looking face was also running towards it.
"Ralof! You damn traitor, out of my way!" Hadvar shouted.
"Not a chance!" Ralof snapped. "We're escaping!"
"Fine!" Hadvar spat. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"
Hadvar and Ralof split off, heading in different directions.
"Follow me!" they both shouted. Without hesitation, Desmond ran after Ralof. After a split-second hesitation, Martin followed him as well.