This story is contains exact lines from the opening cutscene of Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, so it will contain spoilers. I claim no money from Skyrim, and all rights for this belong to Bethesda. So please don't sue me. Thanks you for reading this, and I hope you enjoy my story. Criticism of any type is appreciated (Especially involving grammar. i don't really get it, despite speaking English all my life.).
I feel the darkness spinning around me. My mind reaches out, grasping for something, anything to hold onto. A flash and images appear, burning themselves into my mind. Mountains and rivers, caves and dungeons. A burning fire and a large beast roaring as it soars over my head, flying through the air. Then all retreats back into the darkness
With a jerk, the world comes back into view. I am on a wooden cart being pulled down an unfamiliar road. Moving my head, I see an even more unfamiliar sight. Mountains, ice, and snow, everywhere I look.
That's odd, The only place in Cyrodil that has mountains like this are up near the border to Skyrim.
Suddenly, the memories come flashing back to me. The stories told to me by my father, of his grandfather's homeland. A land of glory and honor, one that is beautiful yet bestial, my leaving of my home in the Imperial City, where I had spent all my life before this. I remember my attempt to cross the border, only to get caught up in an Imperial ambush, where it seemed as though a man was shouting words that made no sense, yet were straggly familiar. Then, I remember nothing but blackness and pain.
I look around, at the landscape around me. The pine trees tower over me, and the mountains tower over them. The frosty wind bites at my skin, sucking some of the little warmth I have in this frozen land away. This land is majestic. I wonder why grandfather left this land.
Shaking my head to clear the fog that had formed in it, I shift my body, hoping to move myself to a more comfortable position. My movement catches the eye of a fellow prisoner. "Hey, you, you're awake," he says, relief evident in his voice.
I look over my companion. A Nord, like me, he has long blonde hair, and a strong face. He wears armor, a common sight amongst the people here, chainmail, covered in blue cloak. Hearing me say nothing, he asks another question, "You were trying to cross the border, weren't you? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief."
As if hearing his label had activated him, the thief snaps at the Nord, nervousness and fear evident in his voice. "Damn you Stormcloaks, Skyrim was nice until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."
The mention of Stormcloaks and the Empire throws my mind into a whirl. I knew who the Empire was, having grown up in their seat of power, the Imperial City, under the shadow of the Ayleid architecture of White-Gold Tower. But these Stormcloaks, who were they? From the way the thief had talked about them, this group had only recently come into this land. Who were they, and what did they want?
The thief continues to talk, as I listen on, only partially interested in what he has to say.
"I could have stolen that horse, and been halfway to Hammerfell by now." Turning his attention to me, thief starts to talk to me.
"You there, you and me shouldn't be here. It's Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
As I ready myself to explain what had happened to me, the Nord across from me choses the moment to speak up. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."
"Shut up back there," The guard guiding the cart says over his shoulder. Seems he finally heard us speaking. Looking over at the thief, I see him staring at the fourth person in our cart. A man, dressed in elegant clothes, and with a strip of cloth ties over his mouth so that he cannot speak.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" the thief mutters, mainly to himself.
"Hold your tongue!" The Nord says forcefully, enraged at this treatment of the last prisoner. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak! The true High King!"
"Ulfric? Ulfric of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! If they've captured you then… Oh Gods!" The thief exclaims in surprise, with panic evident in his voice. "Where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
"No, this can't be happening! This isn't happening!"
"Face the life you have chosen, and deal with your fate before the Nine Divines," I say to the thief, my throat hurting as each word comes out.
Staring at me in surprise, the thief says, as if in disbelief, "You worship Talos, though it has been banned throughout the Empire! Oh, stuck in a cart headed to my death, with a group of traitors and Talos worshippers! I am going to dies! Why does this have to happen to me?"
I turn my face away from him in disgust as he starts to cry, sobs wracking his body, though no sound comes out.
"Hey, what village are you from, Horse-thief?" The Nord asks, trying to comfort the crying man.
"Why do you care?" the thief spits out venomously.
"Just a Nord's last thoughts should be home."
"Rorikstead, I'm from Rorikstead," the thief says reluctantly.
A voice sounds out from ahead. "General Talius sir! The hedgemen is waiting!"
"Good, let's get this over with," a voice from the cart ahead calls back. Turning my head, I see a town ahead of us. Stone walls, a guard post at the gate, this town seems to be well fortified from any bandit or beast attacks. Turning my head to the Nord, I ask him, "What town is this?"
"This is the town of Helgen. It is a base for those blasted Imperials and the dogs who lick their feet," he replies, the hatred obvious in his voice.
The thief starts to talk under his breath, praying to all the gods to rescue him from this fate.
"The gods will not help you," I say to him softly. "You must earn honor and glory in battle to gain their respect. Only then will they help you."
The thief turns to look at me, a puzzled look on his face. "You aren't from here are you?"
"No, I have come to my father's father's homeland to claim honor for myself and my family, as a true Nord should."
A look of pity settles over the thief's face. "You still have a lot to learn. Don't let yourself get blinded by those you don't suspect kid," he says, resigned.
"Wait, thief, before we die, let me ask, what is your name?"
"I am Lokir, son of Fulstan"
"Well then, Lokir, let us go to our deaths with a brave heart, and a smile upon our face, as we go to face the Nine Divines, and we will see that those Thalmor really are wrong."
A silence falls over the group of us as the cart travels through the wall and into the town itself. We see a group of men on horseback, conversing with one another. The Nord across from me mutters to himself about the men. From what I can hear, he hates all of them, though why, I do not know. Taking a look over at the men, I see a sight that makes my blood boil. A Thalmor Justicar. Seeing that brings back memories of my parent's death, but I suppress them. I will see them soon, and this is no time to focus on revenge. But I cannot help but scowl at them, thinking of the most painful ways I could kill them in my current situation.
As the cart turns, and the elves go out of vision, I realize that the Nord across from me was talking. I start to listen, hoping to gain some more information about what sort of situation we are in.
"I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Velod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe." He says, as if talking to stop himself from thinking about what will happen to us soon. Stop, don't think like that. You will only end up doing something foolish.
The cart pulls to a halt as I hear a harsh femine voice cry out, "Get these prisoners out of the cart!"
"Why are we stopping?" Lokir asks, his voice shaking from fear.
"Why do you think? End of the line." The Nord across from me spits out remorsefully.
"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us," the Nord says, turning to face me.
"No, wait, we aren't rebels!" Lokir yells.
"Face your death with some courage, thief," says the Nord.
"You've got to tell them we aren't with you! That this is a mistake!"
Silence is the only response. In the silence, I prepare myself to meet the Nine Divines, and to be reunited with my family. If only I could have seen more of my homeland. And that I had died with glory.
"Step toward the block, when we call your name," the same harsh voice yells at us. People scurry about, trying to complete the orders as soon as she gives them.
"Empire loves their damn lists," The Nord says, as he gets down from the cart and moves to take a place beside me. And I feel as though I have to agree with his statement. Back when I lived in the Imperial City, I felt as if there were lists to take care of lists. The bureaucracy that has evolved since the Oblivion Crisis almost 200 years ago is staggering.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," the clerk calls out.
"It has been an honor Jarl Ulfric," the Nord beside me says as the Jarl walks toward the Imperial soldiers that have come close to escort him to who knows where.
"Ralof of Riverwood," the clerk says as Ulfric is escorted past him.
The Nord beside me walks toward the clerk, pride and fear in his stride.
"Lokir of Rorikstead"
"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this to me!" Lokir cries, as he bolts off, trying to escape what the Fates have set in stone.
"Archers!" the harsh voice yells to some soldiers.
A soldier nearby pulls an arrow out of his quiver, and in a fluid motion, draws his bow back and releases the arrow. The arrow flies straight into Lokir's back, piercing his heart, and the thief falls where he stands.
I am left alone, standing in front of the clerk, who looks at me.
"Wait, you aren't on the list. Who are you?"
"I am Jonin, son of Thoran. I hail from the Imperial City," I reply, hoping the fear doesn't show in my voice.
"You picked a bad time to come back to Skyrim, kinsman. Captain, he isn't on the list, what should we do?"
"I don't care that he isn't on the list. Send him to the block," the captain snarls.
Turning to me, the clerk motions me forward, muttering to me, "I'm sorry. But, at least you'll die here. In your homeland." Resuming his normal voice, the clerk says, "Follow the captain prisoner."
The captain turns away from the clerk and marches toward a large stone tower. I reluctantly follow, casting a glance at Lokir's dead body as I pass it. "Peace be with you my friend. I hope Talos takes mercy on your soul," I say to his dead body. I wish I could do more, but I cannot. At least, not while a prisoner of the Imperial Legion. Taking my place in the line of prisoners, I turn to my right and see the Ralof, the Nord who sat across from me on the cart ride to this place. Hearing voices start to talk, I turn my attention back to in front of me. An Imperial, dressed in fine golden armor, addresses the gagged man who was with us in the cart.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgan call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!"
He murdered the High King? Why would he do such a thing, especially when the Empire is falling apart? I thought that this place was supposed to be a stable province, not plunged into chaos and civil war, like Hammerfell was about a century ago. But a larger question remains. Which side is in the right in this case? I have seen the Empire ban the worship of Talos, ally themselves with the Thalmor, and they did ambush me, and I am waiting for my death to come at their hands.
The man in the golden armor continues to talk to Ulfric. "It was you who plunged this land into civil war and chaos! Now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"
As he finishes this statement, a loud road is heard through the valley. This roar, it sounds so familiar. Like I've heard it somewhere before. But no animal in Cyrodil makes a noise like that. So what is it?
The roar sends the men into a slight panic, as they all glance nervously up at the sky. They twist their necks back and forth, in an attempt to see what beast made the noise. Fear seeps into one soldier's voice, as he asks the question we were all wondering, "What was that?"
"It's nothing. Carry on," the man in the armor says.
The men begin to carry out their duties once again, but with tenseness evident in their actions, jumping at every sound they hear. The harsh voiced woman turns to the priest located near the executioner. "Give them their last rites," she orders.
The priest starts to talk, and I tune her out. What good are last rites? If you haven't made your peace with the Nine Divines, then to do so now is too late. It seems as though one of the Nords that was in another cart agrees with me. Shaking off the hands of his captors, he calms strides toward the block. "For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with," he says, resigned to what is going to happen to him.
The priest stops midsentence, obviously mad that someone had interrupted her blessing. Stepping away, she lets the prisoner kneel at the block in front of the executioner. The harsh voiced woman plants her foot into his back, and roughly shoves him face first onto the block. At the last moment, the Nord lets out a line that burns in my memory.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?"
With a wet thwack, the executioner's axe separates the Nord's head from his body. The head rolls away from the axe, and into a waiting basket. I see the Nords eye's, and how they are still filled with the hatred and vengeance that he was feeling when his spirit departed for Sovngarde. From somewhere behind me, I hear a women scream, "You Imperial bastards!"
This scream is matched by another yell, "Death to the Stormcloaks!"
"Know that Talos smiles upon you this day," I say to the body, my head bent in respect.
"As fearless in death as he was in life," I hear Ralof murmur beside me.
"Next, the Nord in the rags!" the woman yells.
The same roar as before fills the air. The soldiers stop everything that they are doing to look for something, anything that they can place the blame for that unnerving sound on. And, once again, I feel a sense of familiarity at the sound. But, it's not like a sense of familiarity that you get when you are close to home. No, it is a familiarity that fills you with dread. I move the little bit that I can, searching for what made that roar.
"There it is again, did you hear that?" the clerk that took my name down asks.
"I said, next prisoner!" the woman barks.
"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy," the clerk says as he faces me.
Funny, I thought I would have died in the riots back home. Or maybe being attacked by bandits. But being killed by Imperial soldiers in Skyrim. I never would have guess that.
I march toward the block, each step a step closer to the gods. I feel a pressure on my shoulder, forcing me to drop to my knees. Then, another pressure, much harder this time, presses on my back. I turn my head to stop from slamming my nose onto the hard wood, and fine myself staring right at the executioner, his axe ready to separate my head from the rest of my body. A motion from behind the man draws my attention. A large, flying beast. One that I had never seen before, letting out the same roar that had been heard previously. What was this thing?
The beast turns, and dives down at the fort. It lands forcefully on the top of a tower, knocking parts of the tower to the over, and shaking the ground around us. I finally get a full look at the creature that had landed. What I saw was impossible, part of my mind told me. These had been extinct for at least an Age. But, what I saw before me proved that thought wrong. I saw a dragon leering down at me. My mind suddenly remembered the visions that had passed through my head before. The creature I had seen in my vision was a dragon.