Prologue

Some people say it's a bliss not to remember a thing. That way you can start your life over, be like a white page with no words written in your story. Truth is, when you forget everything – and everything means literally everything – about yourself, it's damn annoying.

He couldn't even remember his own name. When he looked upon his reflection in a shaded pond, the only thing he saw was a tall gaunt man with a beard. A total stranger. For as long as he recalled, he was roaming the forests pointlessly, feeding with some fruits and nuts he found along the way, hoping they wouldn't be poisonous.

One day he managed to catch a squirrel.

He threw a stone, not really expecting to hit it; but he did. Surprised by his luck and enticed by the prospect of fresh meat he quickly cut the animal open, using the very same stone he killed it with. He quickly stuffed his mouth with still hot intestines, paying no mind to the bits of fur and pine needles as he chewed. So busy with eating, he failed to notice two soldiers approaching him from behind. The fight was very quick and unequal; he was yanked by hair and pulled up. The soldiers stared at him with disgust. One of them, apparently more merciful than the other, threw him a piece of cloth to wipe the blood from his mouth.

He couldn't follow any of their words. They were speaking harshly, in short sentences, most likely arguing about who he was and what exactly was he doing there. The man just stood there, probably being taken for a harmless idiot. Until, of course, his old instincts overtook him and he tried to get away. Off towards the river he dashed, hoping he could jump into it and just flow with the current. Well, while the plan might have been simply genius, he did not foresee one important detail. The soldiers have rushed after him and though he was running very fast, two of them managed to strike him down and pin his arms to the ground.

"Why, dummy", one of them started, panting. "Not so dumb after all, are we?"

The soldier tied the man's wrists together and pushed him into the woods. All of a sudden, a forest ended. They got to a small clearing cut by a stony road. The clearing was probably a woodcutter's workplace, but the assumed woodcutter was . Instead, the glade was filled with armored men and women. A military unit, no doubt.

"Captain!" the soldier called, tugging at his captive's arm, "we found this one hiding in the woods. He must have crossed the border, he doesn't look like he's from here."

"Well done, scout", a woman stated, looking a captive up and down, "but look closely, he clearly is a Nord, just very shabby." She spat at his feet. "Like an animal. Just put him with the others. Hurry up!"

When he was forced to the carriage, the woman pointed the road with her hand and the convoy set off.

His heart was pounding, threatening to beat from his chest as the confused man tried to calm it. When that proved to be of no avail he focused instead on his breathing, the ragged panting slowing to a less painful rhythm after a time. When his breathing had quieted his pulse slowly followed suit, his eyes closing in relief as the racing of his heart subsided.

"Are you all right, friend?" A concern laced question brought him back to the situation at hand. The stranger looked similar to the reflection he had not recognised, tall and pale, but far more muscled than him. A kinsman, he guessed. What did the woman say? A Nord.

He nodded, answering his fellow captive's question.

"Good", was the only response. Apart from them, there were two others on the carriage: a young, skinny man, probably of the same race, busy speaking words to his gods or at least being not currently sharing his troubles. The second one looked more a noble, dressed in a rich fur coat and expensive shoes; what was strange about him though, was not his clothing but rather that his mouth was gagged. All of them were bound at the wrists, however only this aristocrat was silenced by a cloth.

Nothing made sense for him since the capture. He stared at his hands, unconsciously tightening one of them into a fist. He tried to focus, tried so hard it almost hurt. Drops of sweat appeared on his forehead and he started feeling growing pressure in his temples, as he was forced himself to think.

Who am I? Who do I do in here? What will happen to me?

Suddenly, a thought. A name ripped through his blank memory like a lightning rents the sky.

Faa'zhir.

He was panting heavily, but a smile crept upon his face none the less. He had something he could start with. He somehow knew it wasn't his name, but still – it must have been a friend's name or that of a family member. Why else would he remember it so vividly? Given the circumstances he currently found himself in? It's the only reason why precisely that name came to his mind.

He was so consumed with this small success of his that he didn't hear a question towards him.

"...name?"

He perked his head up at the man asking and gave him an inquiring look.

"Is that your name?" the captive repeated, gazing at him. "It surely isn't a name of a Nord, friend."

Must have said it out loud, he thought as he shook his head in response.

"A friend", it sounded so hoarse it almost made his skin crawl. Still, what was he expecting, after ceasing to speak for a very long time? He coughed, trying to clear that pathetic excuse of a voice.

"A friend's name", he repeated, slowly and carefully, as if this somehow new ability to talk would go away if he spoke to quickly.

"All right", said the man, smiling. "What is your name, then?"

He shrugged, looking down again. After thinking for a while, he grinned stupidly.

"No idea", was his answer. The man laughed sourly, throwing his head back.

"That's a shame, kinsman."

"Shame it is", he agreed. "What's yours?"

"It's Ralof, Ralof Stormcloak of Riverwood."

While they talked quietly, he made an amazing observation, namely the more he talked, the easier it got. Eventually, his voice didn't resemble an old hag's croak anymore, and when he kept the conversation going, the forgotten words flew like wine from a broken vase. The time passed quickly and before he knew, the convoy went into some city's stone walls. Ralof suddenly quietened as he tightened his lips into a thin line.

"What's wrong?" the captive asked the young soldier, frowning.

"Helgen", was the gravely response. "It's our last stop, friend."

Last stop.

"We're going to die here, aren't we", the man said quietly, more of a statement than a question.

"Aye", Ralof agreed. He looked at his companion with an apology in his eyes, but the other shrugged it off.

"It's not like I'm leaving any crying children behind", he tried to joke, but failed miserably, as Ralof pointed something out.

"You don't know that, do you?" His words were soft and the man knew his acquaintance meant no offence, but it still stung. He was right. I don't even know who is the man sentenced to die in a short time.

"Do not worry, friend. At least you die here, in your homeland", Ralof tried to lift his kinsman's spirits up, but the painful words resounded in his mind. You don't know that, do you?

He did not.

They got off the carriage and stepped towards the soldiers. The headsman was already waiting there at the block; holding the handle of an ax in his hands, leaning his weight against it. A priestess stood forward, holding her hands up. She intoned a melodic prayer, asking the Eight Divines to forgive the souls of the traitors. Damn, he thought, he was pretty sure there were nine Divines.

He stood in front of the priestess, staring at her like a halfwit, while his thoughts flooded him. Of course, there were nine gods, but one of them, the human god, as the Thalmor insultingly described Talos, was excused from the great Nine, leaving only Eight.

A push in his back disrupted the wave of memories, as he was dragged towards the block. He tried to wrench himself from the soldier's grip, but the hold was firm as a steel. Putting a hand on his arm, the soldier forced him on his knees and with a foot he helped him to lay his neck on the block.

Faa'zhir. Nords. Skyrim. Elsweyr. Shvanni. Small, petite Khajiits. No family left behind. Hot sands of the Elsweyr desert. The name the name THE NAME

Ragnar.

He felt relieved. He may have been going to die in a second, but at least he knew his name. Strange, how a person is linked to their name, like it could change...

The hit never came. Instead, he heard a frightening roar, followed by the shocked scream of a soldier.

"What in Oblivion was that?!"

And another.

"A dragon!"

Just perfect.

A/N: Hello there! First fic on its way. Hope you enjoyed this little introduction into a(nother) Skyrim story. Checked thrice, but I'm afraid there's still some mistakes. Please R&R and fare thee well, dear future-Readers.

up changed a bit as I found some word-slips in it