Welcome to Skyrim. Enjoy your stay, ratings may go up. I do not own Skyrim either, or anything in the elder scrolls series, for that matter.

Female Alduin x Dragonborn. Guns. Magic. Thu'um. Parkour. Violence. Meaningful character death. Many maniacal monsters masquerading as multiple, meaningful, miraculous memories which are actually marvelously marked massacres who mow the lawns of civilization. Muahaha.

The cold chilled me to my bones as the unheated van rolled on. There were three others with me, not counting the imperial guards on their motorcycles. A horsethief, a jarl, and a soldier. All part of a great spectrum, yet here we were, getting sent to Sovngarde.

I still felt guilty.

Even though each of us were so different from one another, we were headed to the same place. Hopelessly lost.

I still felt guilty.

"What's got you looking so down, cat?" The soldier spoke up. Ralof, I think his name was. Stormcloak rebel here to liberate skyrim under the evil clutches of the empire and aldmeri dominion. Sarcasm.

"I feel guilty, Ralof." I looked him in his aged eyes, eyes aged with wisdom yet sparkling in naivete. "I have done something Talos would have never forgiven."

"What is it, comrade?" His piercing blue eyes stabbed me. They bore an eerie resemblance to… my friend. I guess I'd have to get used to seeing their dead eyes wherever I went for the remainder of my shortened life. Bullets fired from guns do that to people. Guns provides by arms dealers.

I'll still feel guilty.

"My name is Dra'kar. I am an arms dealer. I let my bodyguards die and fired naught a shot." I looked steadily in his eyes. They reminded me of what I had lost. "I provided the men who killed us with the guns."

Ralof looked at me sadly. "That's how war goes. You think you're doing fine and then… An ambush." He looked at Ulfric Stormcloak, jarl of Windhelm, leader of the rebellion.

A title meant shit if you were dead.

And all the jarl could do was groan for he was gagged. Apparently he could use the thu'um. The thu'um is the language of the dragons. It's their shout. I wouldn't know too much though. I'm just an arms dealer.

A famed khajiit arms dealer who got his friends killed.

And for what? A few measly gold septims.

"How about you, horsethief? What's your story?" Ralof asked, voice thick with his nordic accent.

"John. I'm an imperial. I was a servant at a farmer's home. The master of the house had a daughter." He took a deep breath before continuing. "We were in a secret relationship, but one day she was raped. She… She blamed me. She was afraid I'd tell her father that she had contracted vampirism."

"By Akatosh. That's not one of the happier stories I've heard today." The nord reclined in his seat but no position was comfortable in this metal van. Especially when we were cuffed. No magics could be used unless we wanted to lose an arm. We were royally screwed.

We spent the rest of our trip in quiet reflection. Old wounds need time to heal. Time we don't have. So we might as well pick at the scabs until the pus comes out, followed by blood that wants to clot. Disinfectant would be a luxury. But we just have to hope that draining the pus will fix it. That's how people used to treat the black plague.

Time will also fix a broken heart. But it won't fix the dead. Akatosh… Why… Fuck you. Fuck you Mara. Fuck you Talos. Fuck you Dibella. Fuck you Julianos. Fuck all of you. Just bring me to Sovngarde where I can see her again.

Fuck.

I-I didn't do shit. And now they… They're all dead. I could've tried. Gone out in a blaze of glory. But no. I'm a selfish asshole who… Who left them for dead.

I don't deserve redemption or a second chance. It's time for me to pay for my war crimes. I don't deserve amnesty. I deserve the fate of my comrades: Death.

Even though I wanted to see them again, we reached the walls of Helgen too soon. Is it selfish if I want to honor their death by fulfilling their wish of me living?

An imperial guard opened the van doors, not allowing us a moment's rest to adjust to the bright sunlight.

We were slowly dragged out like mule, ready for slaughter. My throat dried, as did my eyes. It appears I was going to visit my friends… If they even forgave my cowardice.

"... blessings of the eight divines upon you…" The priest droned on. Likely the last words we'd ever hear would be coming from a stranger in robes, gospel in one hand and assault rifle in the other.

"For the love of Talos, let's get this over with!" A male redhead nord stepped out, silencing the priest. The priest gave an undignified hmph as she crossed her arms. The male nord walked up to the executioner's block. They'd be using an axe to kill us.

He was well-built. Muscular and scarred, thrown into a conflict which he deemed unnecessary. He was to lose his life over a man long dead. His flaming temper contrasted with his sunken eyes as he stared defiantly at the imperials.

"My ancestors are smiling at me. Can you say the same?"

The axe was lifted, then swung down, cleaving the air.

Blood gushed from the fatal wound. His head fell neatly into a bucket.

A nordic woman screamed in the background, likely a lover.

She was likely a lover. A wife. A companion. A friend. And now they were separated.

Permanently.

"Next! The cat!" An imperial captain yelled at the top of her lungs, her voice strangely deep. Her heavy armor chinked as she dragged me towards the chopping block. An eery metallic noise.

She patted me twice on the back and frowned as she set me down onto the block. Another name on an endless list. Another statistic. Her eyes dripped with sadness. A relative of hers must have been executed in a similar fashion. Reduced to nothing but a percent on a parchment.

She had calloused hands that spoke of a time when she most likely farmed for her family. Before the conflict drove a wedge between the people.

There was a small indentation on her left ring finger. Barely noticeable. She lost her husband to the war, then. Perhaps a child was executed by stormcloaks.

The way she carried herself was soldier like. She was probably raised as the bastard daughter of a general. That would explain her experience with armor, and the presence of callouses on her hands. Her mother was a farmer then. She had deep brown eyes, meaning her parents were most likely both redguard, brown eyes being a dominant trait to the nordic blue.

She bore little to no accent, meaning she was raised in Cyrodiil.

My thoughts were interrupted as I was lain on the block, much like a trophy on a pedestal. The bastard redguard, daughter of a military commander, widower of an unnamed number nodded towards the headsman.

The large black axe lifted high from the ground.

Time froze as the axe was in the air, and an ear piercing screech was heard.

"Sentries, what do you see?" The commander shouted, clenching her chipped teeth, shiny under the dust.

I knew I was good at some things.

The best thing was how fast I could process information.

The headsman swayed in the breeze as blood flew from his temple. A gunshot rang out into the yard. There was a hidden sniper. The commander's eyes darted left and right searching for an answer.

"Dragon!" The sentries cry was cut short as a blood sprayed from his throat.

Dragons. Huh. Dragons were a legendary circuit of super soldiers. Trained from birth to be unbeatable. To do the impossible. They were the only hit squad to be able to use thu'um effectively.

I'm using past tense because they were thought to be long dead. hundreds of years ago. The only explanation for Alduin's appearance would be… cryosleep.

But that was impossible. There was no such thing as cryosleep several hundred years ago... Or guns...

Or perhaps a time traveler.

An act of god.

Each possibility worse than the last.

"Get down!"

By then it was too late. A squadron of marksmen were promptly massacred in front of us by a figure clad in red. The dragon named Alduin graced us with her presence. Her hunting knives made quick work of everyone around her. She nimbly dodged bullet after bullet. Every flip, twist, and turn sending a spray of bullets into the heads of various imperials. Fireballs rained down from the sky as she began to shout.

"Come on, cat! The gods won't give us another chance!" Ralof was pleading from the inside of a watch tower. This bloody massacre thing was getting repetitive.

I broke out into a full on sprint, sliding between the legs of an imperial, hands still gagged as Alduin's bullets killed the man on top of me.

Mid-slide, I twisted my hands sideways and extended my claws, snipping away the handcuffs that restrained me before pocketing the falling body's pistol.

My sprint brought me straight towards Ralof, who looked at me in slight amazement. Picking pockets and running is also what I can do.

"Was that a dragon?" The jarl of Windhelm looked the soldier in the eye. He clearly thought of his people as equals. A noble trait. A trait I wish… No.

There is no time for self pity. There's time to get piss drunk later. I must live for my friends now.

"Ralof, Balgruuf, I'll head up the tower." They nodded at me before I sprinted up the stairs. The familiar burn in my lungs was refreshing. The mild pain in my stiff joints was a good distraction. I reached the top, where a stormcloak soldier was removing rubble.

"If we just moved-" His speech was cut short as the wall was blown clean off and an inferno melted his face off.

I glanced down at the stormcloaks below and at the inn at the other side.

But I'll survive.

I jumped through the wall, landing neatly on the inn roof and rolling. My sprint brought me towards the edge where an imperial was directing civilians.

Landing softly, I rolled and ran again, ducking and weaving past burning buildings.

I'll survive.

The scorching heat from various burning building was blistering.

But I'd survive. For the people who died. For those who are still alive.

The town gate was bolted shut. An unwise move if you plan to evacuate a town. I kept on running, past the sounds of gunfire, past the screams of the dying.

I'd survive.

In the distance I saw the red guard commander and Ralof squaring off.

"We're leaving and you're not stopping us this time!"

"Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde." The two then made for the keep, an unspoken truce preventing them from blowing each other's heads off.

I made my way into Helgen keep, the screams of the tortured fading behind me. I didn't turn back, not once. Sarah wouldn't have permitted that.

Because I had to survive.