UPDATED 8.12.2016: Slowly updating this to a higher standard of quality, ironing out inconsistencies, polishing the plot. Slowly.

FUS RO DAH

Most of the year, Skyrim was gloomy, wet, and cold enough that piss froze mid-air. Most of the year, except today, of course.

First light chased away the chill of the morning and lifted the mists cloaking the mountain. Spruce and fir met in arches above the road, the ferns encroached below. Through their thick branches, rays filtered down onto a passing line of carts. The live cargo all stirred with the break of dawn, their joints creaking with disuse.

Every carriage greeted the new day with a chorus of yawns, save one.

"FUCK!"

A scowling redguard shook her auburn hair until it fell forth and covered her face, because screw the sun.

The three other passengers in her cart stared. The nord opposite blinked at her with a furrowed brow as he unfurled his blue leathers. The grimy youngling chanced a glance before resuming his sulking at the end of the wagon. And, stoic as always, her target oozed judgement despite the rag shoved in his mouth.

Fucking Stormcloaks.

She narrowed her eyes at the man, but he'd already turned his impassive stare back to the distant horizon. The gag and his heavy fur coat were the only hint he was anything more than another rebel led to slaughter. Why the Imperials had left the coat remained a mystery up until the moment they rounded the bend.

Well… shit. The plumes of smoke appeared first, followed by blackened chimneys and slated roofs. With every hole and rock the wheels skipped over, their caravan drew closer to the hamlet below.

I need to end this.

The ropes around her wrists groaned in protest as she flexed, testing their strength. She cast a surreptitious eye at the Jarl, then at his scruffy lapdog. Both of them had their gazes fixed on the village ahead, muscles rigid with tension.

Kick the blond overboard, break Ulfric's neck, run like fucking dremora are after your ass.

She curled her fists inward, relishing the bite of the rough cords against flesh. It'd be so easy to snap her bonds, follow through with her plan, then leave all of this behind... but something was holding her back.

She ground her teeth in irritation, remembering the feeling all too well. Last time it gripped her she ended up in the dank dungeons of Imperial city, nursing the headache of the century. They left her to rot in that cell, giving her a front-row seat to the outbreak of Nirn-wide madness.

Sheogorath enjoyed it, at least.

Much like he was enjoying Skyrim right now, no doubt. The Ruby ranks were a shadow of their former strength, and the rebels were just as pitiful with their cries for freedom. The whole sorry affair was a mess of epic proportions, and it was only going to get worse.

That's why they sent you, genius.

She needn't have bothered. Months of spying and infiltration reduced to a joke by a fucking border patrol.

Nothing worse than doing a job half-assed, except for not doing it at all.

Fuck Tulius. Fuck his timing, fuck his patrols, fuck his godsdamned dedication. And fuck Ulfric especially, for starting this shit in the first place.

The redguard stared at the disgraced Jarl as she ran over her options again. She could always—

"Don't you know who that is?"

Great. I hope they kill you first. The woman glanced up to see who it was that felt like chatting on their way to the block. The nord. Of course. Her rotten luck was in top form this week.

"He whacked the High King, yeah?" she said to her linen-wrapped feet, head hung low. Last thing she needed now was the blond talking her ear off, all up close and personal.

She could smell the blood pulsing in his veins, made rich by a lifelong diet of meat and mead. Her stomach contorted, announcing to the rest of the body that it wanted to feed. She struggled to suppress the ache, pushing the enticing aroma of iron and salt to the back of her mind. Boethiah knew she could use a break, and this blathering hunk of meat definitely wasn't helping.

"Whacked?" the nord bristled. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Bear of Markarth, Jarl of Windhelm, whacked the king? He challenged and beat him in single combat, like the Old Ways command."

Her hands twitched as she curbed the urge to push him off the cart. "I'll be sure to feel honored when they behead me with the same axe."

"You jest, redguard, but dying beside a hero like him is the highest privilege a warrior could ask for."

"Hero's death my ass. He's getting his head lopped off same as you and me and that sourpuss over there." The heap of misery hadn't moved since he'd woken up, staring at the same faraway spot. His face and arms were streaked with dirt and mud, but he paid it no mind. Judging by his trembling lip and glossy gaze, the boy was just about to burst into tears.

Pathetic.

The nord turned to his neighbor as well, elbowing him in the ribs so hard he choked.

"Why the long face, lad? You should be celebrating! We're going to Sovngarde, to drink and feast with the warriors of old!"

The boy whipped around, eyes wide. "Celebrating? Celebrating?! We're going to die! Die, for the love of Akatosh! I don't want to die! I'm too young! I've got my whole life ahead of me!"

The nord blinked, then blurted out: "What in Oblivion is wrong with you?"

But the whelp didn't answer, collapsing back onto his seat after the outburst. He wrapped his arms around himself and fixed his gaze again.

"Coward. You and your kind are traitors to Skyrim and her people," spat the Stormcloak. "Good riddance, I say! May you never see the Hall of Valor! May you never feast with our glorious ancestors! May you neve—"

The cart came to a halt with a sharp jerk, cutting off his rant. In the blissful silence that followed, the redguard took in her sparse surroundings. Families huddled on the porches of the few houses, eyeing the Imperials with distrust. Mothers herded the children inside, fathers dug up their old swords. Some were looking forward to it, others dreaded it, and everyone wanted to watch.

Welcome to Nirn.

She chuckled to herself as her gaze drifted to the familiar outline of the keep against the horizon. ...Helgen?

When she recognized the banner hanging from the battlements, her lips quirked upwards. The golden stag of Falkreath hadn't changed in centuries, and the Imperial dragon billowing above it was timeless at this point. This was Helgen alright, in all its faded glory. The bulwark was crumbling in places, and half the houses looked abandoned. If people had fled this war or simply never returned from the last one, she didn't know.

Her smile persisted as she jumped off the carriage and landed at the end of the line with a wet squelch. The soldier at the front called their names one by one, until finally only she was left standing before him. The officer opened his mouth, then frowned at the parchment in his hands.

"And who might you be, redguard?"

"Ashaba from Sentinel, sir," she replied, stifling a laugh. Rest easy with the stars, mother.

The man weighed her answer for a beat, then waved her off with a shrug and tucked his list away. "Put her to the block with the rest."

So much for justice of the Empire.

The first Stormcloak was summoned, given his last rites, then promptly decapitated. The stench of rust and salt assaulted her nose again, and Ashaba had to bite her lip to keep from doubling over. The next man was already on his knees when a distant roar tore through the air, sending everyone reeling.

In the confusion, the boy from the cart broke away and belted it across the square. He made it all the way up the main road before an arrow pierced his back, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

There he lay quiet, and moved no more.

"Thank Boethiah," Ashaba muttered under her breath, glancing at the nearest soldier.

They were all alert, watching the proceedings with jittery fingers and wide eyes. The baying earlier had frayed the last of their nerves, scattered their attention.

Push the guard into the Legate, leg it through Helgen, then—

"Ashaba from Sentinel!"

...figures.

She started for the block with a litany of curses on her lips, moving at the pace of a dead snail. Before she'd taken a handful of steps, however, another blood-curdling shriek pierced her ears.

The gigantic form of a dragon landed atop the keep, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Prisoners and guards alike stumbled all over each other, falling over in a tangle of limbs. Before anybody could even scream, the dragon flattened them all again with his voice. Words of power swept across the village, dislodging shutters and unhinging doors.

And yet it paled in comparison to what came next.

Every pair of eyes flickered to the sky that had boiled over with thick clouds in a matter of seconds. The dark veil tore open in the next instant, spitting out a host of fiery rocks.

The first boulder struck the middle of the Imperials, scattering them like ragdolls. The lucky ones died on impact, broken against wall and stone. The rest cried and writhed in agony as the heat cooked them alive inside their armor.

The screams, the thunder, the violent drumming of rain all faded away as she looked on, agape. Icy dread slithered down her spine despite the fires of Oblivion raging around her. It settled in her gut and lay there like a cold weight as she scrambled to find her feet.

I'm seeing things.

Unbidden, a prayer slipped from her lips amidst the chaos, swallowed by the din of havoc.

I— I hit my head and now I'm seeing things.

Another rock smashed into the ground not far from her, exploding in a shower of sharp slivers. The sting of stone embedded in her shoulder brought her back to her senses, gasping and terrified.

Despite the smears of crimson and brown and gray, despite the dirt and spears of rain, Ashaba saw it clear as day.

This can't be true.

Alduin cut a jagged hole in the raging sky, looming over them like death incarnate. He was all horns, spikes and scales, black from muzzle to tail save for blood-red eyes. There was more than cruelty in his gaze, more than the innate ruthlessness of dragons. It was the end times, glinting in the windows to his burning soul.

Then the wyrm opened his jaws again and she dove behind a set of barrels to avoid his fire. Half the village was in flames now, the other half turned to dust and splinters by the hail of rock. If she didn't make it out now, she'd either get burned or buried alive.

Ashaba dashed towards the gaping gates of Helgen.

Salvation was within arm's reach when one of the boulders crashed into the mud mere meters away from her. The force hurled her against the palisade, and there she slumped to the ground.

The last thing she saw was the nord ushering Ulfric into the keep, and then Oblivion swallowed her whole.