Epic of the Dragonborn

by

Morgana Maeve

Chapter 1: Of Wagons and Dragons

Author's Note: Wow, it's been nearly four years since I've been here. And look, a new fandom! Craziness.

Warning: Strong language and violent images. This is Skyrim, people. It was rated M for a reason and I'm not going to clean it up for y'all. Skyrim is too amazing for nonsense like that.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for the idea of the main character. Bethesda owns everything.

She wakes as the wagon lurches down the path, each bump and jerk of the wheels biting deep into her bruised, almost broken bones. The smell of horse shit and unwashed bodies is thick in the air, and she raises her hands to wipe at her nose. The last she remembers is blood on the snow...her blood? Necromancer blood? Her sister's blood? Blood on the dagger.

Her hands are bound, ropes digging into her gaunt wrists.

Panic sets in then, the same white flames that had gripped her in the cave before...before what had happened in the cave. Her eyes roll back. Got to get out, got to get out, got to get out. Her back slams against the wall of the wagon, shakes loose a plank, and she gets a jab in the spine - oh Talos, the spine! - for her efforts.

"Settle down there," a voice commands, but she's too far gone to recognize it as anything but an enemy. She struggles harder, lips pulling back in a feral grimace of sheer rage and helplessness, and the jabs become harder, rain down on her shoulders and neck. "Settle down, Stormcloak scum!"

Stormcloak. Yes, yes, she had gone to the Stormcloaks. Had she? Yes, yes, she had. For something. Friends? Brothers. Brothers? Something. Stormcloaks. Nords. Nords were good.

These are not Nordic voices, not for the most part. She can catch some chatter, some familiar accents, but mostly foreign, foreign faces, foreign armor. Her brain struggles with them, tries to place them, tries to remember some history, some past before the cave...the cave. The white flames threaten to consume her again, to take her back to the cave.

She doesn't want to go back to the cave. The cave, the cave is a bad place.

Movement to her left and right and front. She jerks her head around, cracks her fragile neck in her haste. She gasps through her teeth.

Three men, dirty men, sitting with her. Watching her. Her body wants to reach for the familiar weight of her greatsword at her back, but of course that's gone now, left in the cave. Her clothes are gone too, she realizes belatedly. Dirty rags cover her skin, offer no resistance to the cold wind blowing down the mountain. She shivers violently, more from everything else than the cold.

Been cold a long time, long time. So cold. Fire was for Necromancers only, not us, not me. Cold bars in the cave, ice cold.

"Hey, you!" She jumps, almost falls off the sliver of bench she's perched on. It's a Nordic voice though, and that means she can relax a bit. Nords are good. Nords are friends. "You're finally awake."

She finds enough strength and sense to nod, manages to croak, "What happened...?"

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there."

He gestures to the other dirty man, a small man, mousy, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Sullenly, he glances over all of them and shrugs slightly, looks away, looks back.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the mousy one snaps. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy." She can't tell what he is, Stormcloak, Imperial...Imperials...bad? Good? Soldiers. Not from Skyrim. Outsiders. Why are they in Skyrim? She tries, but her brain can only go as far back as the cave before it delves into white noise and scatters, taking her with it. Just staying there in the wagon, in the present, is hard enough. "If they hadn't been looking for you," he continued, glaring at the Stormcloak - Nord, blonde, dirty, familiar - "I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." He turns to her suddenly, and she reels back, shows him her teeth. He doesn't seem to care. "You there. You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Stormcloak says. She stares at him. Familiar. She's seen him before. But where? Why? How? Who is he? From the depths of the white flames, she pulls the name Ralof. Ralof? This is Ralof. Yes, she knows that he is Ralof. Somehow.

"Shut up back there!" the driver yells. Ralof and the horse thief ignore him. The other passenger, prisoner, sits quiet, proud. She finds herself drawn to him, for reasons unknown. He is commanding, regal almost. Also familiar. Maybe. It's a vague memory of someone like him, or actually him, or Talos knows.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" the thief asks, jerking his head towards the silent passenger.

"Watch your tongue!" Ralof spits at him. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

"Ulfric?" the thief repeats. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! But if they've captured you...Oh Gods, where are they taking us?" His voice rises in pitch, in fear, and she simply stares at Ulfric, uncomprehending.

The Rebellion is something she knows of, slightly. It exists somewhere in the distant past locked away in her memory. It has something to do with politics, she remembers, politics and Thalmor, whatever that was. Fires. Death. Displacement. It's part of the reason why she's here, isn't it? She thinks it might be. Part of the reason. Perhaps she had been a Stormcloak? What were they anyway? If she didn't know, did that mean she wasn't one?

Ralof speaks quietly. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovengarde awaits."

"No, this can't be happening! This isn't happening!"

She can relate to that. It's a phrase she's repeated to herself over and over again, as far back as the flames will allow her to remember.

The forest begins to thin, and a town opens up before them, a small one that's unfamiliar to her. Most of Skyrim is. She knows the cave, but was that even in Skyrim? She has no idea. It was somewhere. Somewhere bad. Necromancers were there and Necromancers are bad. Her spine tingles, prickles under her skin. It's always felt different since...since then. Her mind shudders, runs away from it, and she nearly passes out again, if not for the constant jarring and shaking of the wagon keeping her firmly awake.

Horse shit and sweat. This is how she dies, is that it? To survive for so long, only to die like this. Not befitting for a Nord, not at all. But she can't really complain against it. It will be nice to not feel the pain anymore. Sovengarde is supposed to be nice. It'll be better than horse shit and sweat. Perhaps Helga will be there. And Solveig. Though Helga didn't die in battle. Or, rather, she did, but not in the kind of battle a Nord wants to die in.

Solveig...

"Hey. What village are you from, horse thief?" That from Ralof, sitting there, quietly accepting his fate.

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

She doesn't remember her home. Had there been a home? A home and family, Helga, Soveig, Mother, Father, brothers? Home. Home is far away, was far away. Somewhere. Skyrim? Maybe. Somewhere. Farm. Small. Smell of wheat on the summer air.

"Rorikstead. I'm...I'm from Rorikstead."

And she, she from a cave. No thoughts of home for her.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" That from an Imperial somewhere behind them. The horse thief blanches noticeably, but neither Ralof nor Ulfric give any indication of fear or terror or regret. As for her, she feels a stirring of fear deep in her belly, but relief at the thought of no more pain is enough to keep the fear from spreading to her damaged limbs.

The bindings cut into her skin and are stained red from the blood. Blood on the dagger. Blood on her face, bloody hands reaching up to make her stop. Taste of blood in her mouth, salt, metal.

"All right, let's get this over with."

"Julianos, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me!"

She wants to tell him that the gods don't care for one frightened horse thief. Where were the gods inside the cage? Where was Talos when home, Mother, Father, somehow disappeared from her memory?

"Look at him," Ralof says in sudden contempt. "General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. Bet they had something to do with this." Her eyes find the back of General Tullius, slide over him to the Thalmor agents, dressed in black and robes. Necromancer-like. She decides she doens't like them, and their familiarity in her mind is linked with intense dislike. High Elves. Thalmor agents. High Elves roaming the countryside

The ban against Talos. Yes, Thalmor and Talos, and Talos worship and bans. No one can worship Talos, Thalmor orders. Damn High Elves, thinking they can rule everything. High Elves, not human, not Nord. How can they understand Talos? They can't.

Fire. Embers in the wind. Run from that. Don't get burned.

An old memory? Childhood? No. Feels more recent.

General Tullius doesn't watch the wagons pass. His back stays firmly turned, though he must know the thorn in his side named Ulfric Stormcloak is on one of them, humbled like all the rest at the thought of losing his poised, regal head. Maybe he's savoring his victory, like the icing on a sweet roll.

"This is Helgen," Ralof continues. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Veelad is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in." He pauses, then says sadly, "Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

"These are my first," she whispers. Home had no walls around it, to protect or dismay. Home had been open, the smell of leather in the night. Solveig curled up on her arm, blonde hair tickling her nose. Warm blankets for their toes.

A boy speaks to them from a house, stares at the wagon with a mix of wonder and fear. He wants to know where they're going. She feels like telling him death, death is where they're all going, and he'll join too one day if he's not careful. Today will be the death of innocence for him if he follows. His father swoops in and orders him into the house. Smart man. Keep the boy safe for one more day. One more day before he has to find out what the headsman is.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!" a female solider yells. The horses slow, come to a halt. The fear in her belly spikes, sends jolts through her tired legs, and the flames inch up her arms and demand a greatsword to prove her worth to these Imperial captors. If only, if only. Accepting death when it's an abstraction is one thing. Accepting it when it's four feet from your body is another. Give her the horse shit and sweat and let her roll in it if it meant living an extra day longer.

But Helga and Solveig...She'd like to see them again. And Mother and Father. Home. Sovengarde. The fear recedes.

"Why are we stopping?" The horse thief's voice quivers in unmasked terror.

"Why do you think? End of the line," Ralof answers.

Ulfric says nothing, sits there bound and gagged.

She says nothing, just shakes from the cold and the fear and relief and the damn shaking wagon wheels.

The horses stop, the wheels creak to a standstill, and the guards start motioning the prisoners to step down. Funny how she doesn't really see herself as a prisoner. Like the thief said, she doesn't belong here. She just happens to be here, and that's that.

Her legs don't want to support her as she stands. Mottled bruises cover the bits of skin she can see through the rags, and the rags covering her feet are bloody. There's probably an infection in there somewhere. Among them, Ulfric is the only one who seems in control, as if he planned this, or is planning something in that silent mind of his that will get him out of this mess, will maybe get them all out of this mess. Most of these prisoners are his men and women, save she and the thief. Would he take pity on a Nordic girl and save her too? She doesn't know enough about him to make a decision. Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion. The Jarl of somewhere. Windsomething. Too many differing opinions on him for a solid thought. He likes Nords. She is Nord. Maybe he will rescue her.

Where was the rescue in the cave?

"Let's go," Ralof tells her. "Shouldn't keep the guards waiting for us."

"No wait, we're not rebels!" the thief cries. She sees Ulfric skewer him with a gaze of contempt, but the thief doesn't notice, only blubbers more about how he's not ready to die.

"Face your death with some courage, thief."

"You've got to tell them we weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

The female soldier speaks again. "Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time!" Her voice hints at her power, at how much she likes to use it. Dangerous woman, that one is.

Ralof sighs. "The Empire loves their damn lists."

A male voice this time. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." Ah, Windhelm. She's heard stories of Windhelm, somewhere in the past. A good place. Welcoming. If you're a Nord.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." No regrets from Ralof.

"Ralof of Riverwood." Ralof walks calmly, throws a defiant look to the guards, and takes his place before the block. "Lokir of Rorickstead."

"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" His movements are too jumpy, to sporadic. He's going to run, she realizes. No, don't run. Never run from a predator. Don't run, she urges in her mind. But he runs anyway, sprints past the female soldier, wobbling on legs that have no balance.

"Halt!" the soldier screams.

"You're not going to kill me!"

"Archers!"

And that's the end of Lokir of Rorickstead. She never sees the arrow fly but hears the twang of the bow and the death-gurgle of the horse thief as he falls, twitches, and finally dies. A good clean shot, probably in the neck. Merciful. Better than the headsman. Much better. A good clean death with only a few seconds of pain.

"Anyone else feel like running?"

No. She's tired, injured, cold. No energy to run.

"Wait, you there." The male guard is looking at her, his quill posed above his list. She goes very still, locks her mouth. "Step forward." Her legs move automatically, but the rest of her body is rigid, waiting, anticipating an attack. "Who are you?"

Who is she? That's a good question. She doesn't know who she is herself. She stares at him, watches him stare back at her. What must he see? A dark-haired and dark-skinned Nord, sunburned and fire-burned and messy. Coal-ringed eyes to keep the fleas out of them. Bushy hair, unwashed and uncombed for months, matted at her neck. Was the hand-print still there, brown in dried blood? A frame that's too thin to support her body, small breasts, small waist, reedy arms that used to be able to carry pounds of loot and are now just skin and bone. Bruises, cuts, dirt.

He was much more Nordic-looking than her, clean and fresh-shaven, longish hair hitting just below his chin. Imperial armor though, sad. His eyes wait for her patiently, wait for her to find her voice, her identity.

Who is she, he asked. Better to start with a name.

"Olga," she says, and her voice cracks from disuse. She's not used to speaking in anything more than a scream. "Olga, sister of Helga." It's been a long time since anyone's spoken Helga's name. But soon she will see her sisters again.

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinswoman," the man says to her. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list. She goes to the block." Olga's eyes narrow, and the bloodlust rises in her chest.

Bitch, may you rot where you stand. The man can stay, but you can rot.

If she'd had her greatsword...but no, nothing but empty air on her back.

"By your orders, Captain." He turns to Olga, and there's pity in his eyes. She wants to spit on his pity, on his willingness to lie down at the Imperials' feet like a dog. "I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland. Follow the Captain, prisoner."

"Olga," she whispers. "I am Olga. Not your prisoner."

They all gather around the block, about half a dozen Stormcloaks and herself. Jarl Ulfric stands a bit apart from them, taller and more kingly, a fine example of a Nord. No small wonder that people follow him. General Tullius walks up to him and plants his feet directly across from Jarl Ulfric. Too close for decorum. He doesn't understand deference, or more likely doesn't recognize Jarl Ulfric as a leader.

"Ulfric Stormcloak." General Tullius' voice is powerful, condescending, as if he is speaking to a wayward child. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Murder? King? "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."

Pretty words for one who hasn't done anything. Get out of Nord business.

A few of the Stormcloaks resist against their bonds, but everyone stops when the wind carries a sound like metal scraping against metal down from the mountains. A battle perhaps. The echoes die off. People look up to the sky, shift nervously from foot to foot. Not a battle. Something living, sounded like something living. Olga watches the mountains. A bird? A huge bird? But no bird makes such a metallic sound. The fear bubbles up again.

The male soldier asks no in particular, "What was that?" So, it was disturbing to others as well. Good. Good to know she's not as crazy as she thinks.

Tullius, Imperial idiot that he is waves it away. "It's nothing. Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius." Stupid bitch. "Give them their last rites."

A priestess steps forward, dressed in gold robes and pompous airs, her arms spread wide as if to collect their souls even before they departed. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved - "

She's cut short by an impatient Stormcloak, brave enough to voice what all of them are thinking. "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with." He strides forward, fear maybe turned to anger, or maybe just angry in general, tired of his death being drawn out by forces not his own. Not anxious to face death, no, but anxious to get it over with. Enough of the hedging and waiting. He's a brave man, if not foolhardy.

Offended, the priestess drops her arms and sniffs. "As you wish."

"Come on!" he shouts. "I haven't got all morning." Olga thinks perhaps that fear is operating in him after all, and his bluster is only his way of masking it.

The Imperial bitch pushes him to his knees, uses her foot to drop his head onto the block. The headsman takes hold of his axe and tests his grip with his fingers. The crowd mutters behind them, ill words and words of praise, curses to the Stormcloaks and curses to the Imperials. Chickens cluck. The wind blows. There's a faint scent of burning in the air, like the way the forge used to smell when Gjord used to make steel armor in it. Burnt metal and fur.

Olga blinks. Gjord? Forge? Remnants of an older life before the cave?

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" Defiant to the end. The headsman lifts his axe, and the blade gleams in the cloudy sunlight. Time for a moment suspends, seconds before the blade falls, and Olga feels her blood churning beneath her skin. Then the axe descends, cuts cleanly through flesh and tendon and muscle and bone in glut of crimson and the scent of something rotten. The blade buries itself into the wood. The man's head falls, all very slow to Olga's frozen eyes, and rolls into the basket.

Gods, they actually are going to execute all us, aren't they. Oh Gods, no, please. Fog hazes over her vision, seeps into her thoughts and terrifies her. To have survived this long, to have survived the Necromancers and their games, their experiments, only to die here, at the hands of Imperials who didn't care that she wasn't their enemy. Talos, you bastard, how dare it end here. Her hands fidget with the bindings, rub the skin off her wrists. She doesn't care. Let her out of here, let her go. Helga and Solveig can wait. They will never age in Sovengarde. They will remember their sister Olga, regardless of when she joins them. Let her go, let her go.

"You Imperial bastards!" a woman cries.

"Justice!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

Ralof gives him his eulogy. "As fearless in death as he was in life."

"Next, the Nord in the rags!"

Olga's head snaps up, her eyes wide, pupils dilated so that they're all black and no brown. A more thorough chill than anything else she's ever experienced takes hold her limbs and locks them in place. Her hands fight with the ropes, cut her wrists to the bone, and she manages to strain an elbow as she twists them tighter.

Again, that strange sound, closer this time. Metal scraping on metal but alive somehow. But it's no matter. The Imperial bitch glares at her, and she finds her legs moving without her willing them to do so. Her arms still. Better to go out in pride than in fear.

Helga, Solveig, I'm coming to you. Be ready to accept your sister when she arrives.

Will she even have her head when she enters Sovengarde? Or will she have to carry it under her arm?

"There it is again. Did you hear that?"

"I said next prisoner!"

"To the block prisoner, nice and easy."

"Olga!" she yells to him. "Olga, sister of Helga!"

She can't stride, is too injured to do more than shuffle, but Olga manages to tilt her chin up in one last act of indifference. She turns, feels the Imperial bitch's hands on her back - the spine, don't touch the spine! - falls to the ground and bruises her knees more, feels the soldier's foot on her back, drops her neck onto the wood, and finds herself staring at the dead Stormcloak's head, his eyes glazed over in an expression of agony. Olga turns her own head away, rests her cheek on the warm, wet, sticky block. The headsman towers above her, reeks of blood and death in his fur and chains. She resolves to keep her eyes open, to watch as death claims her.

But traitorous mind, it screams out no, no a thousand times no. Her heart hammers in her chest as if it would explode. No, no, no, please no.

I don't want to die here.

Her mouth opens in a silent scream of protest, and she feels a power well in her throat and explode from her lips. Olga can almost see it traveling through the air, bluish, pale, wavering and dispersing as it travels away. The headsman tests his grip again and starts raising the axe. The fear explodes in her lungs, and she pushes against the foot, struggles to rise. The Imperial bitch is too strong though, and as much as Olga struggles, she can't get her feet under her.

Her eyes find the jabbed peaks rising up in the distance. A piece of the mountain breaks away and...flies? A bird? Too large to be a bird. It's huge. Winged. A winged piece of the mountain. She's never seen anything like it, but a certain inherent, inborn fear, very different from the fear of death, makes her still to a complete stop, like an elk does when it notices a hunter. If she doesn't move, it won't see her.

"What in Oblivion is that?" Panic ripples through the crowd.

"Sentries! What do you see?"

The thing flies overhead, casts its shadow over nearly everything and everyone, and lands on the watchtower. Shock-waves shake the ground, knock the headsman off his feet, axe falling to the floor with a clang. Huge and black like death, it watches the panic it's caused with cold, reptilian eyes, and Olga stares at it, comprehending finally what this thing is sitting there before her.

Talos help us all. It's a dragon, a living legend, a thing that should be dead, but she'd be damned if that wasn't exactly what it was staring down at her with beady, red eyes. It's a dragon. Talos, it's a dragon. Oh Gods, why isn't she running?

Someone else realizes what it is. "Dragon!"

The dragon looks directly at her, and she feels as insignificant as the torchbugs she used to catch at night to make potions must have. The headsman collects himself, turns, readies his axe, and the dragon shouts - shouts! - and everything goes down. The sky itself turns murky, swirls, stormy and angry, and flaming rocks fall, whistle through the air. And still, Olga can't run, can't move, just lies there, kneeling with the dead, fear permeating every fiber of her being.

If she doesn't move, it won't see her.

It shouts again, and the edge of its Voice catches her in the head, knocks her sideways and half-unconscious, and her vision goes for a second, comes back fuzzy and blurred around the edges. People scream, run, grab weapons, nearly trample her, but the fear has her paralyzed, and she lies there on the blood-soaked ground, staring, not blinking, mind reeling.

Dragon. Cave. Necromancers. Solveig. Little sullen Solveig, dead now, a pile of ash. And she too, Olga, the second-oldest sister, about to become ashes as well, in a dragon's mouth. Being burned hurts. Will being eaten hurt? How will she die anyway? Burned, eaten, trampled, dropped, spattered on the rocks?

Feet stop in front of her, hands grab her back and try to pull her up. "Hey kinswoman, get up! Come on, the Gods won't give us another chance!" Ralof. His hands pluck at her rags, pop seams as he drags her to her feet.

Olga stumbles along after him, tripping over rocks and bodies, dodging more of those flaming rocks as they fall from the sky, and trying to stay balanced on wobbling ground. Ralof ducks into the nearest keep and she follows, is wind-burned by heat as a rock explodes to her left. The force of the hit knocks her sideways, and she trips her way into the doorway, knocks into someone tall and strong who tries to steady her, but momentum carries her further and she crashes into the far wall, out of breath and heaving.

Blood hangs in the air. As she clutches the wall, feeling the rough, comforting stones shudder under her fingers, two Stormcloaks bend over a third, trying to tend to his wounds. She peers closer and immediately regrets it, springs back and wretches deep from her belly. The injured Stormcloak is nearly bit in two, guts and blood pooling all over him and the floor. That he's still alive only makes it worse. She can hear his babbling, the half-crying, half-raging wailing that marks someone who's going to die in mere seconds still clinging desperately to life.

Olga turns away from it, tries to block out the pain and the fear that resonates so soundly within her own body. Her arm is bright red, shiny, hurts more than she can tell. She flexes it and flinches, hissing at the crackling pain. There is magic to fix it, she's seen it done and has had it done to her, but she can't remember the exact way to do it, not in the midst of all this chaos.

Her ears find Ralof's voice and cling to it. "Jarl Ulfric! What was that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages." Jarl Ulfric's voice is liquid, smooth, almost like a creamy ale sliding down her tongue. The power underneath it makes her vibrate, draws her closer, but she resists, remembering the Voice. Like the dragon, he has the Voice. Just as dangerous, if not moreso because he is human. "We need to move, now!"

"Up through the tower, let's go!"

Ralof brushes past her, reaches for her arm and pulls her with him. Olga yelps in pain. The cuts on her wrists are large and deep, and the burn screams out in protest. He keeps pulling, urging her up the stairs, and she cracks an ankle against one, falls, pulls him down with her. His arms lift her by her armpits, take on her weight, and he sort of carries her, sort of drags her up to the landing. He smells like horse shit and sweat. Olga begins to laugh, a hysterical, crazy, shrill laugh, and clings to this shoulders. Ralof grunts, puts her down, and then picks her right back up and swings her down the stairs, pinning her with his body against the wall.

Over his shoulder, the wall where they had just stood implodes, and the dragon's head, thick and black and terrifying, barrels in, retreats, and fire takes its place. She screams, and the sound is drowned out by the dragon's roar, that metal on metal screech that pierces her ears and impales her brain.

Someone had been on that landing. She can hear him thrashing in the flames. Tears leak from her eyes, dampen Ralof's cuirass. Her fingers curl, but he gently shakes her off, pushes her forward. The fire has stopped. Wind rushes in, tears at her rags.

"See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going!"

He doesn't give her any chance to resist. His hands push and her feet leave the ledge, her body traveling through open air. For a moment she is weightless, and then she lands, hard, twists an ankle, and she grunts, rolls, scrambles forward and drops through a hole in the floor to the ground.

"We'll follow when we can!" The loss of Ralof makes her nervous, more nervous than she already is, and she wants to turn back, to stay with the Stormcloaks and their protection.

Out in the open, she runs in a crouch, trying to make herself as small as possible. The dragon's shadow passes over head, and she squeals, dropping down to all fours and crawling. The dragon lands, eyes a small child, and she tries to shout for him to run, to get the hell away, but her voice sticks in her throat. The male soldier from earlier runs past her, calls for the boy, and when he comes running, picks up the child and roughly passes him along to another soldier. The dragon breathes fire again, catches the male soldier in the arm, but all he does is grimace and keep moving. Olga watches with her hands buried in her hair, staring and gaping.

"Still alive, prisoner?" he asks. "Stick close to me if you want to stay that way." He takes off, and Olga runs with him, legs like jelly, not really understanding why she's running with an Imperial, only that she must.

"Take care of the boy," he calls out. "I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!"

She doesn't want to be part of the defense. She wants to go back in the keep and huddle somewhere safe.

They run past bodies and climb over debris walls, make it to a real wall when he yells, "Take cover!" and presses himself up against it. She flails and throws herself back onto it as the dragon lands, its clawed wings inches from her face. Heat radiates off its body, rotten heat that gags her.

It flies away without noticing them. They take off running again, right into the midst of battle, bodies littering their path now along with wreckage. Several soldiers sit with their stomachs in their hands, watching in mystification as the organs slither through their fingers. One looks at her and says, "Tell my family I love them." Olga shrieks and turns her face away, tries to hide her tears.

Archers perch on arches and platforms, shooting arrows to no avail. "It just keeps coming!" one says in horror. He's young, barely a man. His face looks as though he wants to throw his bow away and run back to childhood.

Ralof suddenly runs across their path, two little axes clutched in his grip. He stops, stands in their way. "Ralof, you damned traitor," the soldier snarls. "Out of my way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof answers softly. "You're not going to stop us this time."

"Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovengarde!"

Hadvar runs around him and Ralof runs past her, leaving her in the middle, confused and scared. They both call for her follow them, and she turns in helpless circles, stressed and strained beyond imagine. Who to follow, if any? Who? Hadvar, the Imperial? Ralof, the Stormcloak? Both have helped. Both have hurt. Who to follow?

She begins to cry, still turning circles, while the dragon turns its own circles somewhere above her.

Who to follow? Who, who to follow?

I will apologize for lifting the dialogue directly from the opening sequence, but honestly, it's the opening sequence, is important for plot, and I can't write the Epic of Olga without the plot. For those of us who have watched the opening sequence more than ten times (sixteen for me), this might seem a little repetitive, especially the first few chapters. Rest assured, things will get more creative once the opening sequence and the first dungeon are past us. By the time she gets to Whiterun, we'll take a departure from the actual plot of the game and explore what makes Olga tick.