This is my first attempt at a fan-fiction, based on my favourite TES V: Skyrim character – whom I have recently began to re-play, this time with a lot of extra story and many a twist in the original idea. The story shall follow the main questline of Skyrim and Dragonborn for the most part, but there are going to be digressions from the canon just as often as not. Assume that things are as set by the original until told otherwise. For the time being, the events of Dawnguard will not be making an appearance.
I always welcome constructive criticism, and don't hold back if you believe there are any loopholes in the story that have not been sufficiently explained. I cannot promise to answer all such questions however, as some information may intentionally be withheld until the heroine herself learns of it.
Chapter 1: Captured
"Why does he not act? Man, Mer and Beast cannot stand alone against the events to come. Do we let them fight this terror alone?"
"The mercy in your heart clouds your vision. The peoples of Nirn have always endured, one way or another, through cunning or honour, might or magic. They will endure this too."
"You know as well as I that they never did so alone. Our hand has always guided them, the divine incarnated in their greatest heroes. It is unthinkable to imagine the history of Man without Ysgramor, or Alessia, Reman Cyrodiil, or Tiber Septim? Without the one whom the penultimate Septim dubbed the Eternal Champion, a title holding more truth than any mortal could have guessed? What of the Mer, had there been no Nerevar, or his last reincarnation? Had the prisoner stayed a simple commoner instead of having ascended just moments before the same Emperor entered his cell, all Mundus would have belonged to Mehrunes Dagon now. We have played with fate before, in times less dire than these, yet now do we hesitate. Why?"
"And yet it is through our meddling, that the prophecy had come to be fulfilled so soon in the first place, all within hardly more than an age. The Balac-thurm had been shattered, reassembled, and unmade. Numidium was awakened and destroyed utterly. Time itself was made non-existent for the briefest of moments. The three upstart gods destroyed and the mountain itself infuriated. The Amulet of Kings, destroyed by the last Septim to shield Nirn from the Daedra's direct intervention forevermore, yet thereby succeeding in opening the path for an even more terrible enemy to re-emerge from the vestiges of Time. And now, through vainglorious ambition and greed of one influential man, does the Tower of Snow lie prepared for the final act; all exactly as had been foretold. All is set for the World-Eater's return, only the final spark is missing. Do we meddle in the fates of mortals once more, and light that spark with certainty?"
"Ask yourself this: is it better to aid when help is needed and fail, or to restrain oneself from acting and risk bringing about the same outcome through one's inaction?"
"So we let our pity for the mortals influence reason? Do we act to save them, based on mere trust in their potential, and hope that they can indeed subvert the prophecy of the scrolls themselves?"
"Without that hope, what is left?"
Sieglinde of Solstheim awoke from her delirious slumber only to find reality no less confusing than the world of dreams. She was sitting on the side of a carriage with her hands bound by irons, two imperial legionnaires at her right, near the back of the carriage opposite one another, a third at the reins, and the Jarl of Windhelm along with a couple of Stormcloaks opposite to the recently-awoken Nord. She knew Ulfric – or rather, she knew of him – though none of those present knew Sieglinde. That was precisely what seemed so strange in all of this: why was she arrested, bound and placed on this carriage, when all she did was cross the border from Cyrodiil into Skyrim? What had changed so much during the time she was away, that would make it a crime for a Nord to return to her homeland?
"Finally woken up, huh? I was just about to comment on what a pity it was that we had to spend this trip in silence," said one of the captured Stormcloaks. His speech was heavily accented, clearly a sign of one who had never left Skyrim.
"What's wrong with silence?" she blurted out impulsively. Her speech on the other hand, was of almost untraceable origin; only someone with personal experience could detect the rare occasional lapse in pronunciation which would place her at a crossroads of Nord and Dunmer dialects, with Solstheim or Windhelm being the obvious guesses. The man and his companions simply laughed. The eyes of the gagged Jarl next to him showed no hint of humour; they were set on the path that lay before them.
"Nothing of course, it's just a damn boring way to spend a trip, that's all. Hell of a shame for a man to die after hours of boredom, don't you think?"
"Dead is dead. Unless you're given a sword and die fighting, there's no good way to go." She did not mention the fact she had no need of one, but if there was any hope of escape, it was better no-one knew of her being a mage. The clothes she wore were simple black robes that could have been those of a better-dressed commoner, a mourner or even a cultist, and if they had not suspected her of having any magical talent already, they would likely not change their mind now – that is, unless she gave herself away.
"Now that is a heart of a true daughter of Skyrim right there," said the blonde Stormcloak that spoke to her before. "A shame we met like this, you could have made a fine Stormcloak."
"That's enough of the traitor speech, prisoner. Or do you want to be gagged like your precious Ulfric as well?" Obviously the guards were not pleased by being reminded of what the Stormcloaks stood for. While many were Imperials, the majority of the legionnaires accompanying the prisoner carriage were Nords themselves, and not few of them went to great lengths to avoid making eye-contact with the Jarl of Windhelm.
"I can't see how that would have made my situation any better. I'd just be arrested for actually being guilty of treason instead of this… 'misunderstanding'." She had already told them the whole story; to the guards, the other prisoners… anyone who would listen. How she was in Cyrodiil visiting a relative in Skingrad and was returning home after a year; which was not the entire truth, but not a lie either. She was still put on the carriage and bound as if her words meant nothing.
The carriage began to move downhill towards the fortress town of Helgen, the wheels rocking with the unsteady road. The walls and battlements before them were not particularly large or high, at least not compared to some of the other fortresses Sieglinde had seen, and yet there was a sense of foreboding wrapped around them, heralding what she feared was about to take place. Much to her disdain, her assumptions were correct; as soon as they passed the gates and rounded a corner, they were greeted by the sight of an executioner and an impromptu chopping block. As the officer called each prisoner, she became more and more nervous. There were too many guards and the chains were holding her hands too closely for her to cast any spell other than perhaps a few of the novice-level ones. The officer called for her. She stepped forward with slow strides; with dignity, holding her head high and her eyes defiant.
"Who are you?"
"I am called Sieglinde, once of the Skaal of Solstheim, now of the College of Winterhold, and I reject any and all of these false claims of my supposed consorting with rebels." The officer's gaze faltered, turned to the captain to his right.
"What do we do? She's not on the list," he asked his superior.
"Of course I'm not on the list, you cheese-brained son of a mammoth! They arrested me for no crime at all, unless coming home after finishing an errand in Colovia is now a crime!" She always did have a temper, but clueless people who were 'just following orders' made her blood boil.
"No exceptions; she goes to the block, like all the rest," said the captain, a stern woman whose unpleasant character Sieglinde could describe with a single phrase: up-tight bitch.
"If this is the kind of justice the Empire stands for here, then imperial power in Skyrim has truly been weakened and corrupted beyond recognition. This is no Empire of Martin Septim who sacrificed his life to save his people! And by Shor, this is no Empire of Talos, denying their founder and sentencing to death the people he loved and protected on mere suspicion!" Most of the Stormcloaks gave a loud cheer of agreement, though she noticed some remained silent; probably hoping to plead for their lives later. Either that or they were suspicious of her for having so nonchalantly dissed them a moment earlier. Or they were simply unimpressed by her little speech. The Imperials on the other hand didn't take her act of protest that well. A pungent old glove was shoved in her mouth with such force she had difficulty repressing the impulse to regurgitate. Not that they let her struggle for long; strong hands pulled at the chain that held the iron clasps on her hands and she couldn't help but stumble straight onto the executioner's block.
Well done, look where your loose tongue got you now, she thought to herself. The executioner lifted his axe as a priestess of Arkay spoke the last rites. Had she stayed silent, she might not have been executed first. She closed her eyes as she waited for the blade to come down on her bare neck, unable to move with the guard behind her pushing her down.
Dammit, this cannot be happening to me! I am a master of the magical schools of Alteration, Destruction and Enchantment, and an expert Conjurer! How could I have let them disable me so easily? I should have fought them at once; I could have killed them all with a well-placed Fireball or Chain Lightning spell before anyone got close enough. I would have become a wanted criminal, sure, but better to be a wanted criminal on the run than an innocent captive being sent to the axe. An Ebonyflesh spell could have saved her from a direct hit from even the strongest un-enchanted weapon, but this was moot since she was unable to perform the gestures to cast it in the first place.
A strange sound distracted her from her thoughts and she opened her eyes again. It resembled the roar of a great beast, but came from somewhere in the sky. It distracted the guards and the executioner too, as they searched the skies instead of getting over with killing her. Then a sudden quake shook the ground and a gargantuan shadow fell upon the watchtower behind the executioner. An impossibly powerful voice boomed in the air and everyone covered their ears, dropping anything they held in their hands. This was her chance! She pushed upwards with all the weight of her body and the momentum of sudden movement, toppled the guard restraining her, kicked the executioner in the groin with full force, then expelled the putrescent cloth from her mouth and darted behind the nearest wall for cover from any arrows that might have been shot after. Not that she needed cover it in the first place: as soon as she looked around, she could see burning rocks falling from above, and the sky itself swirled in a blazing vortex of ignited clouds. A grey-black dragon, larger than even the largest building in Helgen, breathed fire and incinerated Imperial and prisoner alike, roasted man and stone with impunity.
Disbelief, shock and awe came and went in a matter of moments; survival took precedence. To her luck, everyone was too busy trying to save their skins, or shooting arrows at the great wyrm, who seemed to be at best annoyed by them. This gave Sieglinde enough time to concentrate and generate a simple spell of flames between her palms. The chains were wrought iron and would not give way to simple heating, even if she expended all of her Magicka reserves in the attempt to do so. But that was not her plan, for iron had a weakness that was easily exploited by anyone with the wits and materials at hand; and wit was the prime weapon of a mage, who was never without her magic. She heated the metal until it was blazing hot, so much even that it scalded her wrists despite the fact that only the chain was targeted by the spell; then the fire vanished as twin rays of frost emerged from her palms and joined at the same point that was just a moment before wreathed in flame. With a loud squeal and an even louder crack, the chains broke. She was free, and, more importantly, no mere chain restrained her spell-casting. Next to escape the chaos that still ran rampant through the falling fortress.
