This is a prequel to The Currents of Time. Enjoy!

Sundas, 10:30 AM, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 202

Falkreath Hold

This wasn't how Ralof had expected to die.

It was a beautiful morning, like any morning in Skyrim. The air was fresh and crisp, breezing gently through the treetops above. The sun was shining high in the sky, and everything was perfectly warm to the touch. Ralof didn't enjoy it as much as normal, though, because he was sitting in a wagon with his wrists tied together.

He'd been back here for days, right here on this wooden seat, getting bounced and jostled around every time the wheels ran over an odd cobblestone. He wished they'd get it over with soon. They weren't destined for a stay in some dungeon. The only possible reason why the Empire hadn't killed them already was so that they could be publicly executed. Ralof's fate was already sealed.

He would die a prisoner.

But that wasn't what made this so unexpected.

It might've been, for someone else. Certainly for a Nordic warrior. Every one of his brothers-in-arms dreamed of a glorious death in battle, one worthy of the Hall of Valor itself. That normally didn't involve ending up on the wrong end of an executioner's axe.

But this didn't mean much to Ralof. All it meant was that he would die with a little less freedom than otherwise, and how free was any Nordic warrior? How free could a man be, when the only way to that precious afterlife in Sovngarde was through blood and steel? Whether Ralof's hands were bound mattered little. He had lived his life shackled to his fate.

It was nothing to mourn. He'd end up in Sovngarde all the same. That much wasn't unexpected at all.

There were four other people in this wagon. One of them was the driver. Just some random legionnaire, probably wishing he could do something more exciting than carting prisoners around. The other three were in binds, like Ralof was. Farthest from him, diagonally across, was the reason he was sure they were due to be executed.

The Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak himself. The leader of the rebellion against the Empire. The man to whom Ralof had sworn his loyalty.

It had been a swift, decisive ambush. Ulfric and his men had told no one of their departure from Windhelm, but they had not even left the hold of Eastmarch before the Empire found them. And when they had, there was no point in fighting back. The legionnaires had sprung up in a huge perimeter around them, no possible way out, and simply arrested everyone within the area. Piled them all into a couple wagons, sent them on their way to Divines knew where.

But they hadn't stopped with just the men in Stormcloak uniforms. Everyone inside their perimeter had been put in binds. Everyone.

Ralof hadn't expected to die alongside complete strangers.

The final two passengers in this wagon were nameless wanderers, bedraggled and unwashed, wearing nothing but rags. Ralof had never met either of them. One Nord, one Imperial. It seemed likely they had never met each other, either.

The man on his left, the Nord, had spent this whole ride just staring downward, refusing to speak. A gaunt, hollow-eyed man. He looked like he hadn't had a good meal in weeks. That, or he was just naturally scrawny. Not an old fellow, but not young either. His face was weathered and lined with premature age. If he'd ever served in an army, he'd left those days far behind him. He looked more like a beggar, or perhaps a thief. The two titles often went hand in hand.

But the man across from him, the Imperial, was a different story. He was slumped over on his side, fast asleep. He looked like a real mess. His whole body, clothing included, was all covered in dirt and grime. His hair was a scraggly, unkempt version of a shortened Nordic cut, solid black, shiny with grease. His face was more handsome than most, a sort of gentle, youthful look that might have looked almost boyish without all the stubble. And while his frame was average by most counts, his bare arms and shoulders showed he actually had a fair bit of muscle. If he were cleaned up a bit, he could've passed for a legionnaire.

None of it added up. Ralof had so many questions, and no one to answer them.

No one in this wagon, at least. The driver was obviously in no mood to chat with his prisoners. Jarl Ulfric's mouth was gagged, and prudently so—were he able to speak, his command of the Voice would have turned things around with just a few words. The Nord still wouldn't talk to anyone. He probably could have, but he was choosing not to. And the Imperial had been asleep pretty much the instant he'd sat down in the wagon. Judging by the darkness below his eyes, he hadn't slept for a long while. Judging by his general look, he'd spent that whole long while scrambling through the woods.

The sun had set and risen again, and now it was another beautiful morning. And here Ralof sat, looking at the men he would die alongside. It felt improper. He didn't even know their names.

Ever since he had first gotten into this wagon, the Throat of the World's peak had stood high above the treetops behind him. Precisely behind him, even though they had traveled for so long, the sun had set and risen once again. They were traveling west, circling around the vast obstacle of the southern mountainside.

It was a road seldom used. To reach most places in western Skyrim, from where they had started, it would have been faster to pass the Throat of the World by its north. Assuming they were to be executed publicly, there were few viable destinations. Falkreath, perhaps, or Helgen. Divines forbid his hometown of Riverwood.

And to think, he'd expected them to be taken all the way south to the Imperial City. At least he would be able to die in his homeland.

Up ahead, a wispy column of smoke rose high in the air. A settlement. Helgen, most likely, with the Throat of the World still so close by. They were heading straight for it. And they were close. Surprisingly close. Probably only a few minutes away.

Ralof's stomach turned as he thought about it. Their time in the mortal plane was running out.

And even now, the Imperial was sprawled sideways on the bench, refusing to wake up. Ralof wondered if this man understood what was coming to him. It wasn't easy to sleep through one's last hours.

The road started on a gentle downward slope. This was the final stretch. Jarl Ulfric turned and looked ahead as Ralof did. The two of them exchanged a knowing glance.

Ralof sighed to himself. Took one more look around him, then just leaned his elbows on his knees and waited. This was the end. It was a strange, unexpected end, but if this was to be his last day in Skyrim, then so be it. He would meet his brothers once again in Sovngarde. Perhaps this was not how he had expected to die, but he could accept his fate all the same.

When he glanced up again, the Imperial's eyes were open.

"Hey, you," said Ralof. "You're finally awake."