A/N: Edited and re-uploaded this because grammar is a thing. :p I may do a total re-write of this someday.


The sun was barely rising over the land as the two figures made their way down the road. One, an aging Dunmer with an ever expanding gut, and white hair was riding a horse, and was dressed in fine clothes. Covered in expensive jewelry, it was clear that this man had never done a hard day's work in his entire life.

The other was on foot. Dressed in rags, and blindfolded, the young Khajiit woman stumbled along behind her master's horse, her bound hands connected to a rope, which was tied to the Dunmer's saddle. A heavy iron collar was around her neck, signifying her status as a slave, and she wore a square of wood hanging off an earring in her right ear. It had the number forty-two burned in to it, indicating that she was the forty second out of her particular batch of slaves.

In contrast to the overweight Dunmer on horseback, she was thin to the point of emaciation, her cheeks were sunken, and all her bones and joints stood out in sharp contrast. Her fur and skin practically hung off her body, and she was so covered in dust and grime that whatever color her fur might be, one couldn't be certain.

The aging Dunmer looked back in annoyance as the Khajiit stumbled again. Tugging hard on the rope he spoke, irritation dripping from every word, "Do hurry up will you, you useless piece of fur."

The Khajiit responded in the only way she could: a vigorous nod of her head before breaking in to a pathetic looking jog, the pain she was in obvious in every step despite how she tried to hide it.

"Honestly, I don't even know why I keep you around anymore," the Dunmer continued while turning his attention back to the road ahead, "You're absolutely worthless," he continued. "Still, I suppose I might get a fair price for you once we get to Skyrim. I'm sure some rich noble up there could find a use for you if we're very lucky, otherwise I'll simply have to dispose of you myself, and you know how I hate getting my hands dirty. You wouldn't want to make me do that now would you, you piece of garbage?" he asked, looking at the Khajiit again.

She shook her head to show she understood. This line of inquiry was beginning to concern her, less so because of the possibility of death, but because Master was obviously displeased with her, and as a slave her one goal was to please her master or mistress. Should she fail at this task, her master had every right to punish her, or even to kill her. Master did not deign to speak to her again and so she was left alone with her thoughts as she jogged along behind her master's horse.

Not that her thoughts were her own, she reminded herself. No, her thoughts and her body belonged only to her master as was proper. Most people would be angered by the fact that not even in the innermost corners of their mind were they truly their own, but for her that was just the way things were. The master made the rules and they were followed, no arguments, no conflict, simply obedience. And from this arrangement came a certain peace for her, as never in her life had she had to make a decision for herself. From the day she was born, she had been a slave, and her masters and trainers had made every decision for her, meaning all she had to do was obey.

As master and slave continued their journey, nothing of real interest occurred and the dunmer did not speak again. Soon the two found themselves at the border of Skyrim, with the sun beginning to set, painting the sky a vibrant orange. As they entered a clearing, ready to make camp for the night, a huge commotion suddenly erupted all around them.

Men in blue and brown armor suddenly came pouring out of the trees, with men in red and brown armor following in hot pursuit, all of them yelling like mad. All she could do though, with the blindfold on, was listen to the screaming and clashing of weapons all around her. She heard a loud thump as a body hit the ground next to her, not knowing that it was her late master's who had taken an arrow through the skull in the confusion.

Forty-two stood stock still in the middle of all the chaos, not daring to move an inch without orders, and soon heard a shrill scream as the horse she was tied to died a violent death. She was jerked forward as the rope binding her wrists to the saddle tightened, and felt something heavy slam in to the back of her head. Shouldn't have moved without permission, she scolded herself, as she lost consciousness


Waking slowly to the sensation of movement, forty-two noticed three things right away. She was still blindfolded, her hands were still bound, and her head was throbbing as if a mammoth had stepped on it. She had no idea where she was, or where her master was, and this was more frightening than anything. Master was the one that told her what she should be doing and thinking. Without him, she was utterly lost, as if a ship without a rudder.

"Hey you, you're finally awake." a voice from above her spoke, drawing her attention. "You were trying to cross the border right? Walked straight in to that imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

The voice continued to speak, but was it directed at her? She didn't know! She didn't know! What should she do? She began to panic until a memory surfaced. Her masters had done this before hadn't they? Yes…back when she was being trained. They had disappeared, so she had been left alone in a room, with no instruction for hours. Too afraid to move, she had stayed put, frozen in place for hours until her masters had returned. They had said nothing to her at the time but had given her a nod in the affirmative, and that night she had received extra bread.

So she would wait then. Wait and see what happened, and when master returned, he would tell her what to do, and things would go back to normal…right? The realization that she was no longer moving brought her back from her thoughts.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!" a woman's voice said.

Forty-two heard footsteps and the creaking of wood as those around her began to move, and so she followed, crawling on hands and knees in the direction the woman's voice had come from until all of a sudden, there was no more wood under her hands. For a split second she hovered, teetering on the edge of balance, before gravity won out and she tumbled from the cart, landing hard on her back and knocking all the wind from her lungs.

She lay on the ground for what seemed like forever. Stunned, she tried to get air in to her lungs, until finally, a breath of air made it in to her lungs.

Then she heard the woman's voice again, gruff and irritated. "Get up cat. This isn't a vacation and you aren't here to relax."

Rough hands grabbed her and dragged her to her feet. She tensed at the contact, as in the past, touch had always meant pain.

"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!" the woman again.

A male voice began calling out names until Lokir of Rorikstead was called. She didn't know who he was, but it didn't matter, as after arguing for a while, he ran and was quickly cut down by what she presumed to be arrow fire. She hoped never to be so foolish as to disobey an order from a superior. It only brought on punishment, as she knew all too well.

"Wait a minute," the male said, pausing in his listing off names. "Who are you Khajiit? You're not with one of the trade caravans are you? What's your name?"

Khajiit, she wondered. Does he mean me? Reaching up with her bound hands, she displayed the tag on her ear, the only name she knew of was carved in to it after all. She hoped she wasn't stepping out of line here.

"Captain," the male voice spoke once more, sounding uncertain. "What should we do? She's not on the list?"

"Forget the list," the woman's voice barked. "She goes to the block!" She sounded almost gleeful about it if you asked her.

Her thoughts were interrupted again as she heard the thwack of metal on bone, and the smell of fresh blood filled her nostrils.

"Next the cat," the woman proclaimed, and Forty-two could swear once more, she sounded almost gleeful about it.

Rough hands shoved her in the direction of the woman's voice, and she stumbled forward to where she was caught, smacked hard across the face by what felt like a gauntleted fist, and shoved to her knees. A foot on her back pressed her head and neck down on to smooth stone, coated in blood. So it's to be death then. Master must be very displeased, she thought to herself as she waited for the axe, (she assumed it was an axe, what else would you use for and execution?) to fall.

Instead, a mighty roar echoed all around her, and the earth shook as something massive landed heavily nearby. The ground shook again as a massive wave of energy sent her tumbling head over heels till she came to rest against a wall, getting thoroughly bruised and scraped in the process, and banging her head against the wall in the same spot she had been hit in the ambush.

Once again she was too dazed to move. All around her she could hear screams, and smell burning wood, flesh and a lot of fresh blood. Not to mention the crashing of stones all around her that sounded like they were falling out of the sky. And through it all, the roars of the beast causing the destruction echoed in her ears. Vaguely, she was aware of being pulled across the ground by her still bound wrists, her arms stretched out over her head, small sharp rocks digging in to her back.

"Come on! The gods wont give us another chance!" The male voice from the cart was speaking to her. At least, she thought it was the same voice, but she wasn't sure of anything at the moment save that she was moving.

Ulfric Stormcloak watched as Ralof entered the tower they had taken shelter in. He was carrying the blindfolded Khajiit in his arms, and from the looks of her, she was in bad shape.

"She's coming with us," Ralof responded to his questioning look.

By Talos why did he have to choose now to be a hero? Ulfric thought to himself. He was about to refuse, and tell Ralof to leave her. She would only slow them down after all, and besides, she wasn't even a Nord; why she he care what happened to her? But something stopped him. He wasn't sure what, whether it was the small movement the Khajiit made in Ralof's arms, or the fact that she simply looked so helpless, lying there nearly unconscious, but Ulfric's gut told him to help her, and he had come to trust his instincts over the years. They had kept him alive too many times to pass it off as mere coincidence. "Fine," he barked. "Give her to me. We need to move now! Up through the tower, let's go! Before that dragon kills us!" Ralof handed the girl over to Ulfric, and took point as they moved up the stairs.

The run through Helgen was frantic and desperate, until finally the two men and the Khajiit made it to the relative safety of the stone keep, where they took a moment to rest and catch their breath. She was finally beginning to regain her senses as she felt the blindfold being removed.

Forty-two blinked against the light, and gazed up at the face of the large Nord crouched above her. His golden hair seemed to shine even in the candlelight, and his striking blue eyes, to peer in to her very soul. He was dressed in fine robes and boots that screamed wealth, and even now this man radiated authority. She knew a noble when she saw one, having served them her whole life, and this man was most certainly of noble birth.

Quickly, she averted her eyes, choosing instead to look at the ground. You do not make eye contact with your betters, slime, she reminded herself. She sincerely hoped he did not notice her lapse.

"Can you stand," the large Nord asked her. "We need to get moving."

She nodded, and stood on wobbly legs, using the wall for support. Her head spun, but she was upright.

"Ralof," the noblemen spoke again. "See if you can get one of those gates open. I'm going to get our friend here equipped."

She watched the other Nord's feet move off and he responded with, "Aye." as he did so.

"Right then," the richer of the two began. "You may as well take Gunjar's gear. He won't be needing it anymore."

She watched as the Nord bent over the dead body, and stripped it of armor and weapons.

"On second thought, perhaps just his weapon," the man continued. "The armor probably weighs more than you do."

With her eyes trained on the ground, she barely saw the axe as the Nord tossed it to her, but somehow managed to catch it without dropping it, though its weight quickly overwhelmed her, and the dead of the weapon met the floor, even as she maintained her grip on the handle. She strained to lift it, but to no avail. It was too much for her to handle.

The noble grunted in annoyance as he took the axe from her and a small dagger was pressed in to her hands. "That's probably more your size," he said. "Ralof, any luck with those gates?"

An annoyed grunt came from across the room. "No Jarl Ulfric," Ralof replied. "They're locked tight. I'm afraid we're stuck."

It was then she became aware of just what it was she was holding. She had a weapon! Slaves weren't supposed to even look at a weapon, much less hold one. What was she doing with this in her hand? Surely she would be punished for this. Ulfric seemed to sense her reluctance. "I'd keep hold of that dagger if I were you." he told her. "Unless you want to be killed." Her ingrained obedience to following orders won out over her apprehension at holding a weapon. If master said weapons, then weapons it would be. And that was it wasn't it? This man was her new master; therefore she must obey.

"Damn!" her master yelled. "Trapped like rats in a sinking ship!" He kicked angrily at the barred door, and to his surprise, it gave slightly under his kick. A few more strong kicks, and the door burst open. "Thank Talos, let's go!" he shouted. The three of them moved out, with Ulfric leading and Ralof in the middle. She followed behind, like a proper slave.