Disclaimer: Guess who doesn't own Skyrim? Me. Guess who does? Bethesda Softworks.
The day dawns, cold and sharp, and the wind howls into the city from every direction. Drums, heavy and dull and deep as the voices of mountains, footsteps pounding along in heavy, tired unison.
There is no march to battle today. That had already been won weeks ago, paid for by the precious blood of the loyal brothers and sisters of Skyrim. This is the victory march, and he and his men had born the prize of freedom and prisoners of war through the gates of Solitude. Now they bear their prize back to the gates to the platform where the crowd gathers to shout for blood.
He has seen far too much death to cringe at an occasion of beheading traitors. He takes no delight in the beheading either, but people must pay for their crimes, and his warriors want justice.
The first to go is General Tullius of the Imperials. Ulfric remembers him distinctly by the way his eyes had looked as the battle had shifted in favor of the Stormcloaks. The man had known it was the end, and when hit over the head only moments after meeting the jarl's eyes, he'd simply fallen into a heap, as if in complete surrender to fate. Now he was resting his head on the chopping block, tears pouring down his face, but not a word of complaint.
The crowd cheers as a life passes into Sovngarde, and the next is brought to the block to be taken.
The affair is rather mechanical in his eyes. His excitement through bloodlust had been cured a long time ago. People take his slouched stance and face resting heavily in his hand to be distraction because he is thinking ahead about the country. But it is, in fact, because he is bored. And tired. They'd already made a showcase of killing out in the fields of Whiterun.
Everyone seems to take on this monotony, the victory cries growing less and less as time wears on until the third to last prisoner steps onto the platform.
Ulfric's eyes shift upward, now with rapt attention. The crowd erupts with outrage and scorn and bitter sorrow, spitting and throwing rotten vegetables, sobbing and holding their loved ones.
The Dragonborn takes it standing and without speaking a word.
Because the troops had to be appeased and for everyone's safety, the Dragonborn had at first been gagged and bound. But she'd refused to be confined simply because she had lost. She'd shouted rows and rows of guards down until she'd gotten her wish to remain free of rope and chain. And the whole way to Solitude, dirty roads and snow and frostbite and all, she'd remained in the line of prisoners. Even now as she stands on the platform, the crowds inviting her rage and taunting her, she stands unbound and ungagged, mouth shut, arms hanging to her sides.
If ever there was a being who was truly free, it was the Dragonborn.
The executioner had heard the stories of all those guards injured by her Thu'um, so he juggles whether he need be forceful with the prisoner to please his High King. But she does not need prompting, kneeling without a word before the chopping block to hear her rights to redemption from the priest of Talos.
She lifts her eyes slowly, and for a few seconds the eyes of prisoner and ruler meet. There is anger in her eyes; anger at his taking Whiterun, running through it with his men and destroying it, killing men she'd known as her battle brothers, terrorizing people she'd known as family and cherished neighbors. He knows the effect had not pleasant, but it had been necessary. If Whiterun hadn't been dealt with firmly, the Imperial Army would not have taken the Stormcloaks seriously. It was all or nothing.
Aside from her anger, though, there appeared to be no malice. There was only betrayal, indignation. But not malice. There was only a look of:
"You had better know what you are doing."
And he did.
...He hoped.
The priest finishes and the High King watches the crowd. Some look thoroughly pleased that the menace of the Stormcloaks is being dealt with at long last. A few people are clasping their hands as if in supplication, their faces full of sorrow at the Dragonborn's capture, for even before her resistance she had ever been the helper of his people.
The executioner shoves a boot into her back, causing her neck to push further onto the chopping block. He sees her wince, some of her bones still broken from the weary march. But she does not make a sound. She remains silent.
The executioner takes his axe up. She still does not make a sound.
The blade raises above her neck. She still does not make a sound.
Everyone holds their breath. He watches her slowly close her eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek in surrender to a fate she never asked for, in sorrow for a world she is leaving because there is nothing left for her to do that will matter. The fate of the world is in the hands of the people around her.
The axe begins to fall.
He shuts his eyes.
The walk back to the palace is done numbly, and Galmar wisely decides not to speak a word. He hadn't been able to watch her head leave her body, but when he'd resolved to look up and see them carry her body off the executioner's stage, her corpse had evaporated into flames and ash before everyone's eyes. There would be no mass grave to carry the Dragonborn's body, no desecration or honor in her tomb. And although he had done his duty by his people, he feels as though he has destroyed something sacred. The Dragonborn had been the instrument of the gods to save the mortals of Nirn. And no sooner had she done her duty than she was caught up in the wars of man, and put to death by the very people she had saved.
She had been the greatest enemy to his plans, going toe-to-toe with him at nearly every turn, rallying the people behind her to be nearly unstoppable. But she had had his respect. She had been strong, cunning, and had saved countless lives. He had regarded her with reverence he was not often willing to give to those in his company, as there was hardly anyone worthy of so much praise.
He stops a moment, looking up to the sky as the wind continues to howl, mournful, the clouds overhead promising rain with rumbling voices. It all came down to this. Victory, at the cost of so much. Heroes and villains cast down the same. There is nothing he can do now. He can only carry on as best he can, and guide his people into a new age of freedom.
He hoped, prayed, this would be enough. Gods knew that he was powerless to stop it now.
A/N: So, I did my best to create a nonspecific Dragonborn. I mean, I could write about mine, but it feels a little self-serving in a drabble. Plus so many people have all these original Dragonborns in their stories and I'm just like "aaaah how do I...?" Obviously there were some specific things in here, which were: a) the Dragonborn's a woman, and b) the Dragonborn's got Imperial ties. It fit with what I was pounding into the keyboard.
I know the Dragonborn could have gotten out of this one and flown away to freedom easily. In the game even after you fight the good fight (if you joined a side), you can continue on. But seriously, how much fighting can you do before it all stops mattering? How much struggle can a person go through before saying "fine, you guys want it this way, I can't do anything about it"? Jumbled thoughts, but that was the thought process behind this. Surrendering in the face of undeniable change is difficult and sad, but when you've got nowhere else to turn, even a hero can't do much.
If you see anything you find repetitive, misspelled, or in need of expansion, drop a comment and lemme know. It will help improve the piece you've taken your time to read. Any opinions on what you've read are also welcome. I enjoy reading thoughts about what I throw onto this site.
Thank you for reading! Have a pleasant day/night~.