Hope you'll like my first chapter! It's my first ever fanfic, and I've had this idea for a while now.
Please review if you have the time! They're always appreciated.
Enjoy!
It was early in the morning; the sun already blaring a warm glow across the sky and trees. There was a slight chill in the air, and the sunlight strongly streamed through the canopies. Among the trees was a large, dusty path with two large wagons being pulled by strong, brown horses. The clacking and soft neighing of the animals was all that could be heard, along with the soft bristle of the wind brushing against the leaves above them.
The wagons and horses were being guided along the path by formally dressed soldiers; a couple were leading on horses of their own at the front, and in the wagons were defeated prisoners; hands tied and mostly dressed in blue, tattered uniforms. One, however, was dressed like a royal knight. He was the only one whose mouth was gagged, but he held his head up proudly with confidence, staring intently before him, avoiding eye contact with the others. He was preparing himself.
One, rather young, man gave him a quick glance, curious of his identity. He quickly gave up and stared down at the wagon. It didn't matter anyway.
There were two others, and both of them Nords. One of them sitting across from him noticed his curiosity. He had typical long, blondish hair thick with dirt and a ragged blue uniform. His face was hard and well chiselled but his eyes conveyed defeat.
"You were trying to cross the border, right?" His accent was thick, and the young man continued staring down. The Nord continued on. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
The Nord glanced sympathetically at the thief who suddenly raised his head at his mention. "Damn you Stormcloaks," he responded bitterly. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."
The gagged man gave him a slight glance, and continued staring into nothingness.
"If they hadn't been looking for you," the thief continued, "I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell." His voice drowned away into a mutter, but his face was still scrunched up in anger.
The young man gave him his attention and sympathy, as he was unnecessarily caught in the Imperial's trap as well. The thief noticed his stare.
"You there," the thief stuttered. "You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
It's still futile in the end, the young man thought to himself.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Nord replied solemnly. He had accepted his fate, and the young man gave a slight nod in agreement, which resulted in him staring down at his feet again.
"Shut up back there!" an Imperial soldier yelled commandingly.
The thief seemed to ignore this, and inquired about the other gagged Nord. "And what's wrong with him, huh?"
"Watch your tongue," the Nord snapped. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
The young man's head snapped back up as he examined the gagged Nord beside him inquisitively. He had heard talk of the civil war in Skyrim. Even in his last few hours of his life, he never would have expected to meet the leader. He guessed it was over now, since he was now in binds.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" the thief asked, his voice staggered. "You're the leader of the rebellion."
Ulfric's eyes met the thief's for a moment before retreating again to mull over his fate. The young man looked down again. For some reason, he didn't blame Ulfric for this. Even if he was from Cyrodiil himself, he assumed this would be his fate sooner or later. He had never claimed loyalty to anyone.
"But if they've captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?" The thief's eyes widened with the realisation of his demise. As if he was in denial before; he could no longer ignore the truth.
"I don't know where we're going, But Sovngarde awaits," the Nord answered quietly.
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."
The thief sat quietly panicking as the wagon became silent again. After a few moments, he seemed to have calmed down, closer to acceptance, perhaps. The young man stared up into the sky instead, attempting to enjoy the cool breeze. This was his first time in Skyrim, and he wanted to enjoy what he could.
"Hey," the Nord's rough voice penetrated the silence. "What village are you from, horse thief?"
"Why do you care?" the thief quickly responded, his voice shaky and unstable.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," he answered, his eyes wandering off, dreaming of his own.
"Rorikstead," the thief replied with a calmer tone. "I'm… I'm from Rorikstead."
It was then that the young man's thoughts drifted off to his own home. Except, this didn't bring him comfort of any kind, and he kept his mind fixed on preparing himself instead, preventing his thoughts from straying again.
After another moment of silence, which felt like hours to the young man, a voice was heard from the front. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"
These words stabbed a stroke of fear and dread in their hearts, so much so that they didn't speak to each other.
"Good, let's get this over with," Tullius replied, one of the riders in front.
It angered the young man that he was talking about their executions so lightly, but it wasn't as if he hadn't experienced this attitude towards death before. Memories flashed before his mind, but he broke out of this trance by the thief's desperate chanting.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me."
The young man pondered at this plea for aid, and wondered who he could ask. He had never believed in them, but he could feel the intrigue at finding some comfort from relying on an otherworldly being – one that could save him from death or perhaps greet him afterwards.
They were nearing a large, wooden gate being opened at their arrival, surrounded by tall, stone city walls. A young woman was walking beside them, holding hands with her daughter. They both stared with hard curiosity and acceptance.
They were all silent as they were brought into the town. The man took this time to look around the town, wondering where he was. The Nord focused his eyes on General Tullius in front.
"Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor."
The other three watched Tullius as well, as a new hatred for the man sentencing them to their deaths simultaneously grew together. Especially the Jarl, he stared at him with narrowed, burning eyes.
Tullius trotted over with his horse to a few other armoured officials; however, their armour was very different. The young man recognised with surprise that they were High Elves; Thalmor, he guessed, although, he had never seen one before up close. Their armour was almost golden and shiny, and their expressions and poses were gleaming with arrogance.
"And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves," the Nord muttered to himself. "I bet they had something to do with this."
The man diverted his attention to the civilians watching them; some with curiosity, others with depression. He wondered if they were used to watching public executions. He certainly was, but he noticed certain parents shielding their children's eyes and pulling them inside. Again, he wondered what town it was. It was mostly full of the usual stone, grey buildings and the sky seemed duller here; the sun's red glow had quickly vanished with the overpass of clouds.
"This is Helgen," the Nord stated, answering the man's unspoken question. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."
His voice spoke with an air of nostalgia, which depressed the young man even more.
"Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe," he continued, longing for the ignorance of childhood.
The man turned to examine the wooden buildings behind him, as civilians began shutting windows and doors.
"Who are they, daddy?" a young boy asked, watching the prisoners, sitting on his porch. "Where are they going?"
"You need to go inside, little cub," his father replied, continuously staring at them judgementally.
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."
The boy's father turned his attention on the little boy. "Inside the house. Now," he commanded.
The boy reluctantly stood and his eyes, just for a moment, met with the young man's. They were full of the naivety and bliss of a child, with the desire to explore and experience new things, but not bearing the strength to take these new experiences. The man almost wanted to destroy this innocence; wished for the father to end his son's childhood. But he passed this wish off as a dull, pointless hope of vengeance against someone who hadn't even wronged him. Instead, he directed this anger at the General riding with the Thalmor in front.
"Whoa!" an Imperial soldier spoke to his horse.
A captain stepped forward, stammering out commands: "Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!"
The thief began his panic again, head whizzing about confusedly. "Why are we stopping?"
"Why do you think?" the Nord snapped back. "End of the line."
The wagon came to a sudden stop, shifting the prisoners slightly. The man watched the other prisoners on the second wagging being led off, hands tied. He could feel his heart beginning to race, and closed his eyes for a moment to calm his nerves.
"Let's go," the Nord spoke softly to him. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
He nodded slightly in response, feeling an ounce more of attachment to this Nord than before. They all stood together, both of them keeping mutual eye contact, Ulfric standing proudly, and the thief shaking.
"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" the thief pleaded, as they stepped off the wagon.
"Face your death with some courage, thief," the Nord told him sternly.
They were met with a female captain, examining them as if they were inhuman, and another Imperial soldier. More soldiers were flooded around them, with a few civilians watching from their houses.
No chance of escape, the young man thought.
"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"
The man glanced nervously at the panicked thief. He knew he was merely scared and in denial of what was to come, but he would have hated to be subject to his feelings this much. He possessed no sense of pride. Any attempt to reason with them was futile, so the young man held his head highly, showing no fear on his face.
"Step towards the block when we call your name," an Imperial ordered them. "One at a time."
"Empire loves their damn lists," the Nord muttered.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."
The name and title seemed to be carried with the wind. The name was of great significance, but the young man was wondering how long that would last after his execution. The Imperials would rid it in all history books, never speak of it again. But it would perhaps remain through the ages. For the young man himself, however, he would be eternally forgotten.
Ulfric, with his royal clothes and proud posture, stepped forward.
"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric!" the Nord cried.
Ulfric gave no acknowledgment to the Nord, but continued on, marching past the two Imperials to the other line of prisoners.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
The Nord, called Ralof, the man learned, followed Ulfric with pride.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
The young man's heartbeat quickened as the thief stepped forward. It would be him next.
"No!" Lokir cried, "I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!"
Lokir shook his head violently, and shifted his weight. The man stared after him concerned as he darted past the two soldiers.
"Halt!" one commanded.
"You're not going to kill me!" he hysterically laughed. His clumsy running, with his hands tied made him look desperately cowardly, as with running from his inevitable death, he forsook his honour for a worse one.
"Archers!" the female legion called.
The young man didn't want to watch, but he felt that he wanted to make something of Lokir's death honourable. He managed to travel another few feet when his back was abruptly stabbed with a flying arrow. He toppled to the ground face-first, spurting a trail of dirt and dust into the air, leg twitching until he moved no more.
The man then bowed his head and never set eyes on Lokir again.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the female legionnaire asked smugly. She caught the eyes of many prisoners around her, full of burning hatred.
"Wait," the name-caller said, facing the young man. "You there. Step forward."
The young man straightened his back and walked up to the Imperial soldiers, keeping an expressionless face. They both confusedly stared at the young man, unaware of his identity.
"Who are you?" the male guard stuttered.
"Tirane of Cyrodiil," the young man answered bluntly.
There was a slight flash of surprise on the soldier's face. "You're a long way from the Imperial City. What're you doing in Skyrim?" he asked inquisitively.
The man didn't answer.
The soldier bore a strong air of confusion. "Captain," he muttered, turning to the female. "What should we do? He's not on the list."
At these words, a wave of hope swept through the young man, though his face remained calm.
"Forget the list," she replied sternly. "He goes to the block."
"By your orders, Captain."
All his hope was diminished and replaced with burning hostility towards these Imperial soldiers. The male one, however, glanced gravely at the young man.
"I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodiil," he assured him.
At this point, the young man didn't think much of this statement or his sympathy. He was trying hard to cling onto the calmness he had before.
"Follow the Captain, prisoner."
Tirane's heart began to race again as he followed the female Captain to the line of prisoners. He fortunately was able to stand next to Ralof, but all they could do was acknowledge each other with a grim nod. He could feel his legs growing weak, but tried his best to stand strongly.
Ulfric was standing in front of the line, with General Tullius facing him. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he mused aloud. "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."
All Tullius received in return was a muffled grunt, since Ulfric was still gagged. Tirane wondered what Tullius meant and wished he'd learned more of Skyrim. A painful thought of all the things he had yet to know and experience stabbed him, and he glared at General Tullius.
"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."
Tirane understood a war and fight for peace and honour, but he was irritated at the fact he was going to die because of it. He had always wanted to leave Cyrodiil, but perhaps he wasn't meant to.
Suddenly, a far-off noise caught his ear, a sound like thunder, but alien to him. It caught the attention of the guards and prisoners as well, as everyone stared into the sky in wonder.
"What was that?" the male soldier asked warily.
Tullius ignored it. "It's nothing. Carry on."
The prisoners bowed their heads in depression and the soldiers began to make preparations, but Tirane still examined the sky. It was useless however; the clouds had disappeared leaving a vast blue blanket with no unusual mark.
He quickly gave up like the others and faced a priestess declaring their last rites, praying to the divines, but Tirane didn't pay much attention. It started to get annoying after a while.
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with." It was said by a Stormcloak prisoner, to Tirane's amusement. It decreased their remaining time, but he, himself, couldn't stand it much longer anyway.
"As you wish," the priestess solemnly complied, as the vocal Stormcloak walked up to the block.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning," the Stormcloak continued. It caused a surreal turn to the situation for Tirane. The Stormcloak showed no fear, and he only hoped he would do the same when it was his turn. The priestess turned her head and left. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
His voice was strong with belief and bravery. Tirane turned to face Ralof who was staring at his fellow Stormcloak with pride and admiration.
The Stormcloak knelt down, and his face was shoved down to the block by the female Captain. The next few seconds went by in silence.
The headman lifted the long, heavy axe into the air, and instantly it seemed, sliced through the air and ended the life of the Stormcloak. The prisoners watched as blood spurted from the neck and the head rolled into a basket in front. The body fell to the side of the block, completely limp and no longer containing any air of pride.
None of it really matters, Tirane helplessly thought to himself, his eyes widened and legs now shaking. He had witnessed public executions before, but it was completely different with his foreboding knowledge. But the pride and bravery that soldier had was now completely diminished; his beliefs and musings gone. And the same thing was going to happen to him. Did something like honour really matter? All he wanted at that moment was to escape – whether it was done honourably or not, Tirane realised he didn't care.
"You Imperial bastards!" another Stormcloak soldier cried. Ulfric was staring down at the soldier's body, unresponsive.
It was met with cries of justice from the Imperials and townspeople. "Death to the Stormcloaks!" an old woman yelled.
"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof stated, head held high.
Tirane shivered with growing fear, and took a deep breath to calm himself.
"Next, the Imperial."
He made sure his legs stood firm and he tightened his fists to stop himself shaking. Why did it have to be so soon?
Again, the alien sound penetrated the tension, louder this time, and everyone searched the skies again in alarm.
"There it is again. Did you hear that?" the male soldier asked.
"I said, next prisoner!" the female Captain huffed.
He then turned towards Tirane, looking sympathetic like before. "To the block, prisoner," he told him, softly. "Nice and easy."
Tirane made sure not to stumble. Taking his time, he walked over to the block, looking up at the sky one last time. He stopped at the block, right next to the large axe, dripping with blood. He met the male soldier's sorry eyes, and then knelt down, as his head was pushed down onto the block. He was suddenly more conscious of everything; his breathing which slowly took its last gasps of air, and its noise filling his head; the blaring light from the sun shining into his eyes; the uncomfortable position he was in, and the black, looming figure with the axe staring down at his next prisoner, eager to get the job done. The thick stench of blood around his head soaked his red hair and made him feel sick with its mustiness. In a couple of seconds, his past and goals flashed before him; knowing he wasn't going to achieve anything almost maddened him. But there was also a small glimmer of hope that someone would be waiting for him in the afterlife.
The headsman lifted his axe high in the air when a thundering roar was heard again, the loudest yet. Tirane's eyes widened in shock as he witnessed a great figure soaring down from the mountains in the sky and towards Helgen.
Thanks for reading!
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