Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim or any of its characters; only my own creations. The little monsters.

General Warnings: Contains coarse language, references to sexuality and sexual activity, and canon-level violence. One of the pairings is M/M, however it is very much on the sidelines along with the other romantic relationships. More specific warnings as they come up.

Author's Note: Book II has been merged onto the end of Book I for easier handling, hence the rename.

Fire in the Sky
Book I: A Voice in the Wilderness
Chapter One: Homeward Bound

you can't start a fire
worrying about your little world falling apart
this gun's for hire
even if we're just dancing in the dark

—Bruce Springsteen, "Dancing in the Dark"

"This is ridiculous."

Ralof tore his gaze from the forests of Falkreath Hold and looked at the Breton. His eyes were still closed, his black-haired head tilted back, but Ralof saw the subtle twitch of his narrow shoulders as he tested his bonds, and the downturn of his mouth when he found them unforgiving.

"You're finally awake, eh?"

The Breton's eyes snapped open at the Stormcloak's voice and he shifted, jostling his apparently still-unconscious companion. The Breton glanced over and sighed — the sound of one world-weary. "So it would seem, although… Tac. Hey, Tac. Wake up, dumbass." He rolled his shoulder, nudging him as best he could with his arms tied as they were. After a moment he gave up and settled back, fixing Ralof with an ice-blue stare.

Ralof had the distinct feeling he was being judged and found unworthy. I guess I should have expected as much from a mage… he thought, shivering. Although he suspected he knew the answer already, to break the uncomfortable silence he asked, "Why did the Imperials tie your hands behind your back?"

The Breton sniffed, although whether it was from derision at Ralof or the Imperials he could not tell, and bit out, "Harder to aim that way."

"You can still cast?"

Now the sniff was definitely aimed at him. "Of course. I just have to…" He fell silent a moment, face drawing in on itself. A look of concentration. "Ah. I wonder where they got that from," he muttered. "In any case," he said in a normal voice, "I would have been able to, had someone not had a magicka poison handy. Usually tying a mage's hands is enough, unless they've been trained in focusing energy at the wrist in addition to the palm. But it's rare enough a situation where one would need that. How would they know…?"

Ralof blinked, wondering at the Breton's audacity to speak such things aloud.

"Ah well, some of my spells might have worked on the common soldiers, but the esteemed General is here, is he not? He'd shake everything off easily. No, no. Best to wait." He pinned Ralof with those eyes again. "You have Sovngarde to look forward to, though."

He started. He'd been thinking about death, yes, but to hear the Breton speak of it so casually was like a bucket of ice water on his head. "What—"

"Aetherius, pfft!"

"Be quiet!" shouted the driver, turning his head to glare at them.

The Breton tensed, lips opening as if to say something — more likely to cast something, Ralof thought — but just then his companion, still balanced precariously on his shoulder, stirred with a groan.

"Oh, fuck…" He raised his head shakily.

Ralof's throat tightened. Tac was Imperial, no doubt about it. His eyes were tawny, skin the typical light brown of the race, features sharp and hair bronze with a very slight red tint. His face was covered in dirt, smudging with the crimson war paint on his cheeks. A gash on his temple streamed blood down his face, sticking his left eye shut — the injury had been hidden with Tac's head buried in the Breton's rough tunic.

"Are you all right, Tac?" said the Breton, with the voice of one trying to hide concern. Ralof had heard that before — from his sister. She always had to be the tough one.

"No idea. What happened again?" Tac replied in a surprisingly cheerful tone, bringing his hands up to rub at his eye. Apparently he only then realized he was bound, because he froze, blinking dumbly at his wrists. He lowered them almost sheepishly.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" Ralof cut in before the Breton could respond. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

The Breton scowled, grinding his teeth together. Ralof wondered if he was angry at the interruption or something else.

Said thief chose that time to speak up, growling something about how everything was easier before the rebellion.

Ralof rolled his eyes at this.

"You two! We shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"Idiot," growled the Breton, "What makes you think we haven't pissed off the Legion too? Be careful before throwing in your lot with strangers." He spat the last word, his mouth twisting.

"Caïn…" Tac said, glancing nervously at the horse thief.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, remember that," said Ralof with a sigh.

The Breton — Caïn — looked away, face softening. "A philosophical one, eh?" he whispered. There was no venom in the words, more like a fond memory. He said it like he had been reminded of someone, someone far away in space or time that he was likely never going to see again. Ralof found himself feeling sorry for him.

"Shut up back there!" the driver snapped again.

They lapsed into silence. Ralof knew it was more out of a lack of things to say than any desire to obey the Legionnaire.

~o~

The steady clop-clop of the horse's hooves beat out of rhythm with his heart as he stared out over the driver's head, listening to the sounds of the forest and watching the wind sway the trees. He tried to think of where the Legion would take them. The hold capital, Falkreath? It was a distance, but possible. Or at least, he thought it was a distance. His map had been lost, likely still tucked in his pack back where they had been ambushed, or confiscated by a soldier while he was unconscious. Along with his clothes, dammit. Of course the Empire wouldn't want him in the magicka-boosting robes, even with the poison and the binds. Besides that they were worth a pretty septim: unique, embroidered by hand in silver thread.

Instead they had undressed him — he could only hope they had left his smallclothes alone — and stuck him in this itchy tunic. Some footwraps too, for all the good that would do him. He might as well have been barefoot.

Not that it matters now.

A low whine from his right jolted him away from his musings. He twisted around as best he was able — the binds made it hard — and found himself face to face with Titus.

Tac, as he preferred everyone call him, was swaying slightly, the movement barely perceptible due to the cart, and his face was rapidly paling beneath the layer of blood that stuck to it. The gash on his temple hadn't stopped bleeding, although it had slowed. He blinked at Caïn with unfocused eyes. "What… I don't—"

"Shh, don't talk. Damn it, Tac, keep your eyes open." Caïn desperately wished he had his magicka. He didn't know that much Restoration, just enough to be handy in a scrape, but it was better than nothing.

Nothing was all he had now, though.

Damn that resourceful Legion.

He tried to think, but couldn't come up with anything beyond delaying the inevitable. "Here," he said, turning back to face the Stormcloak, who was watching them with a worried expression, "Press the wound against my shoulder. That may help stop the bleeding."

Sighing, Tac curled up against Caïn's side. "Gods, I wish Maea were here."

Despite himself, Caïn smiled, imagining his tiny cousin scolding the Imperials before impaling them with spikes of ice. "Yeah, she'd be able to patch you up in no time."

"Hmm," Tac agreed, eyes slipping closed.

Caïn let him rest, but apparently the horse thief had other ideas, because he began talking again. Caïn snorted when the gagged man two seats over was revealed to be Ulfric Stormcloak, the "true High King" as the soldier who'd talked to him said — was the thief really that dense? Who else would it be? The man was obviously a Jarl, clothed as he was, and what other Jarl would have been captured as he was? The gag just cemented it. He had studied the Markarth Incident, after all. The Voice was legendary even outside of Skyrim.

He sat silently as the thief panicked and the Stormcloak talked of Sovngarde and last thoughts of home. Although he knew the words weren't directed at him, he turned them over in his mind, thinking of his childhood in High Rock. The plains of North Kambria, with the tiny villages, were beautiful this time of year. He wondered how his remaining family members would take his death. Maea was unpredictable, of course. They were never really that close anyway. But Côme… he would be devastated. He'd know before the Legion informed him, Caïn supposed. He could sense these things, innately, particularly when Caïn was concerned. What would it be like on his end for the bond to be severed? Painful? He hoped not. His twin was too gentle, too kind. It would destroy him.

They entered a town — not Falkreath, he didn't think, it was too far east for that — and he frowned when he saw the Thalmor. He didn't hate elvenkind. He couldn't. But the Thalmor were an organization, not a race, and his spine prickled as he saw the General break off from their little procession and talk to them. He turned away to keep from doing anything stupid.

He tuned out the ramblings of the Stormcloak, focusing on Tac's gentle breaths instead. His stomach felt like iron in his gut, weighing him down. His arms ached. He could already feel the tell-tale itch of the brain that came from too many hours of magicka depletion. (How long had he and Tac been unconscious, anyway?) Could drive some mages mad, he'd heard. He'd never learn if that were really the case, now would he? Just as it crossed his mind again that yes, he was going to die, he felt the cart slow and roll to a stop. The horse snorted loudly.

Beside him, Tac stirred. The rest seemed to have done him some good, as he wasn't shaking anymore, but he still looked exhausted. As they rose to meet their fate, he mumbled, "Sorry. Bled all over you." Somehow, he managed to crack a grin.

"Not like it's my robes, anyway," Caïn said quietly.

He refrained from mentioning how much more blood was going to be on them soon.

~o~

Hadvar checked the list again. Dammit. Captain Signe had neglected to follow protocol and take names, again. He slid his eyes over the odd pair, noting the tension hidden behind the impassive face of one and the bland, tired, one-eyed stare of the other.

"Who are you two?" he asked finally.

The Breton's gaze flicked from Lokir's body, sprawled in the dirt, to him, sweeping cold blue eyes over the Legionnaire. He squared his shoulders and said clearly, "Caïn, of the house Guillory, of Daggerfall." He glanced at the Imperial with something like protectiveness, and continued, "This is Titus Tacitus, of Chorrol."

Hadvar sighed. "You two are both a long way from home. Captain?"

All it took was a glance from the short-tempered Signe and Hadvar knew. They wouldn't be getting out of this one. Collateral damage. It made his skin crawl. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to your homelands."

"I…" A helpless look crossed Caïn's pale face. "Thank you, but there's nothing left in High Rock. I would… prefer to be in Whiterun."

"Whiterun?"

"Yes. Ah, no need to go to any trouble tracking people down. They'll already know."

Hadvar was about to ask how that was possible, but the Breton just smiled at him — a weary smile — and turned to Titus. "What about you, Tac?"

The Imperial didn't tear his eyes away from the site of his execution. "Just about anywhere is fine, really," he said quietly.

At his companion's words, Caïn looked troubled. It was gone in the next instant, replaced by composure. Even when he looked to the block as well, he just looked contemplative.

For the briefest moment, Hadvar envied him. To be able to face death with such dignity… "All right then. Follow the Captain, prisoners."

The two joined the Stormcloaks in waiting for death. Hadvar walked around to the executioner, hating the position but forced into it by protocol. Just as General Tullius finished his speech to the Jarl Ulfric, an unearthly roar echoed through the surrounding mountains.

"What was that?" he found himself saying. An unpleasant feeling nudged at the back of his mind.

"It's nothing. Carry on." General Tullius stepped back to watch the proceedings, and the Captain commanded the Priestess of Arkay to speak.

One Stormcloak was eager for death, apparently, striding up to the block and glaring at him until the Captain planted her foot in his back. A swish of the axe and it was over for him. Hadvar sighed, tearing his eyes away from the head in the box. His gaze fell on the two non-Nords, wondering again on how they had gotten mixed up in this. The border, yes, but why?

The Imperial was leaning on the Breton for support now, blood dripping steadily from his temple. Hadvar wondered how he hadn't just keeled over from the loss. As for the other, he was standing absolutely still, his shoulders rigid to keep his companion steady. Caïn seemed to sense his scrutiny, for he looked sharply at the Legionnaire. His look was a razor for an instant, accusing, predatory—

Then the feeling was gone, as the Captain called for Titus.

Again the roar sounded, closer he thought, and he voiced his concern. The Captain snapped at him, so he just urged the Imperial to the block. "Nice and easy."

The Breton snorted at this, but Titus hadn't moved. His eyes were open now though. After a moment he clutched at Caïn's elbow with his bound hands and lifted his head with great effort. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and it closed again as he swallowed heavily.

"I know," said Caïn, so low Hadvar barely heard him. Then he nodded towards the block.

With steps so measured he must have been concentrating very hard not to fall, Titus approached. Before the Captain could push him, he knelt and laid his head down, coating the other side of his face in blood. A sigh escaped his lips as he got as comfortable as he could and closed his eyes.

A second later they snapped open again as a third roar pierced Hadvar's ears.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" shouted Tullius, even as Hadvar was unsheathing his sword and whirling around to come face to face with the one thing he never expected to see in his life.

Dragon.

Home = the afterlife. POVs shift for these first couple chapters, but hopefully it's fairly obvious who's thinking what.