Darkness.
It surrounded him, made his shoulders and arms stiff and his neck ache. It was when thinking of this ache he suddenly realized the pounding in his skull, reverberating off its interior walls.
He felt an intense cotton-like pressure in his ears, and through it heard the muffled sounds of what he believed to be bits of conversation.
It took effort to slowly crack open his heavy eyes, the lids wanting to stay glued together, but he managed to break the darkness. After a moment of blinding light, he saw the figures of sitting men through the thin sliver cut through the black. He tried speaking, but choked and began coughing, the rough contractions making his esophagus feel raw.
The figures seemed to shift to look at him, and he thought one of them may have said something, but the darkness took over again before he could make the words out through the cotton.
Voices; deep and low.
He could hear them conversing, just beyond his dreamless rest; dragging him back to the world of consciousness.
He slowly opened his eyes, little slivers first and then full blinks. He forced them to stay open, willed them not to seal shut again. He gave a sighing groan of effort, and tried to move his arms to stretch them, only to find an un-budging force of resistance. He looked down.
His hands were bound at the wrists by thick rope.
"Hey, you," a voice said. "You're finally awake." He turned toward the voice, let his eyes focus. In front of him sat a man with long, filthy blonde hair matted to his dirt-covered face, wearing the ever-familiar quilted leather and chain mail armor, a blue cloth draped across his chest and over his shoulders; a Stormcloak, rebel to the Imperial army.
He saw that the man wore similar bindings to his own.
"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." the Stormcloak continued in his thick Nordic accent.
He stayed silent. They passed through snow-covered mountains and forest, following a winding path of stone.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," another man spoke to the right of him. The other man wore stained rags and no shoes. His face was even more caked with dirt than the previous man. "Skyrim was fine until you came along," the man scowled. "Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and have been halfway to Hammerfell. You there…"
The man turned to him. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Stormcloak spoke with a resigned tone.
"Shut up back there!" someone yelled from the front; an Imperial soldier.
He was suddenly struck with the realization that he was stuck in the back of a wooden prison carriage, being carted away to Talos knows where. He felt his pulse quicken, and his hands became clammy with hot sweat.
"And what's wrong with him, huh?" the horse thief asked with disdain, looking to another man who sat across from him. The man wore much nicer clothes than the other two; clothes of a noble status. His hands were bound like the others, too, and his clothing was torn and stained with blood and dirt. His mouth was gagged.
"Watch your tongue," the Stormcloak scolded. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
Ulfric Stormcloak. The leader of the Stormcloak rebels. If he remembered correctly, he had killed the previous High King of Skyrim, using some strange power. He did not remember much more detail about the incident.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion, " the horse thief said in astonishment, then fear. "But if they've captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
He didn't want to think about that.
"I don't know where we're going," the Stormcloak replied, "but Sovengarde awaits."
"No," the horse thief's voice shook, "this can't be happening. This isn't happening."
They were nearing the gates of a village, following another cart in front of them. They were led by more Imperial soldiers.
"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" the Stormcloak asked the thief, and the thief looked at him in annoyed puzzlement.
"Why do you care?"
They passed homes and villagers who had gathered along the sides of the stone path to watch them pass.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
The horse thief was silent for a moment, then said, "Rorikstead… I'm from Rorikstead."
"General Tullius, sir!" an Imperial voice greeted, and the four men looked back to the front. He recognized a man as an Imperial general. "The headsman is waiting!"
The headsman. He didn't want to think about the context of that statement.
"Good," the general- Tullius- said. "Let's get this over with." He pulled out of formation from the front of the line on horseback, moving over to a few Thalmor on the sidelines.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh," the horse thief prayed. "Divines, please help me."
"Look at him, General Tullius, the Military Governor," the Stormcloak glowered. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."
The Stormcloak paused.
"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in." The Stormcloak's voice held a tone of melancholy. "Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
"Who are they, Daddy?" a small boy from the crowd asked, watching them pass. "Where are they going?"
The father began to usher the boy inside. "You need to go inside, little cub."
"Why?" the child insisted. "I want to watch the soldiers."
"Inside the house, now." The father's tone was firm, and the boy gave in.
"Yes, papa." The child disappeared into the house.
"Whoa!" the driver shouted, pulling on the rains.
The carriages stopped.
"Get these prisoners out of the carts," the commanding officer ordered. "Move!"
"Why are we stopping?" the horse thief asked with panic.
"What do you think?" the Stormcloak asked, as if the man was dumb. "End of the line. Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
The Imperials unloaded them off the carts and grouped them together before a commanding officer and a soldier with a quill and a piece of parchment.
"No!" the thief shouted, his panic rising. "Wait! We're not rebels!"
"Face your death with some courage, thief," the Stormcloak chided him for his cowardice.
"You've got to tell them!" the thief cried. "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"
"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time," the commanding officer spoke, ignoring the thief's cries.
"Empire loves their damn lists," the Stormcloak muttered.
The soldier began calling off names. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."
Ulfric stepped forward, meeting Tullius's gaze with his own unwaveringly impassive one. He walked past and stopped before the block.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!" the Stormcloak shouted to his leader.
The soldier continued. "Ralof of Riverwood."
As Ralof, the Stormcloak soldier, passed to join Ulfric, he and the soldier with the list shared a look of familiarity, before both looking away.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
"No, I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!" the thief- Lokir- yelled. He began to sprint past the soldier and down the path, sending the rest of the Imperials into a commotion.
"Halt!" the commanding officer yelled, but Lokir continued his sprint without looking back.
"You're not going to kill me!"
"Archers!" the commanding officer commanded, and a few Imperial soldiers pulled out their bows, aimed for Lokir, and fired. He was down in seconds, and did not move again.
The commanding officer turned back to the crowd of prisoners as the archers replaced their bows. She gave them a pointed look. "Anyone else feel like running?"
There was a long moment of silence as no one spoke up. They would face their death with pride.
She looked to the soldier with the list and gave a curt nod. The soldier looked back down to the parchment, then looked back up again, his brows furrowed.
"Wait. You there." The soldier motioned to him, the only one left from that cart. "Step forward."
He was still for a moment, his body refusing to move. He forced his feet to shift towards the soldier, then slowly walk, until he was within a few feet of the man.
"Who," the soldier asked, "are you?"
He swallowed the strangling lump of panicky fear down, straightened his back, and squared his shoulders. If he would die, it would be with dignity.
He spoke with a blank, stony face and a prideful tone.
"Ludwig Beilschmidt."