A/N: This Fic was inspired by Sheason's Story, a wonderfully massive novelization of Fallout: New Vegas by Sheason.

Disclaimer: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and its characters are owned by Bethesda.

It was the sixteenth of Last Seed, and I was going to be rich.

A cold breeze chilled my bones as I led the pack horse along the only road to Skyrim that wasn't already buried under several tons of snow. The Pale Pass was thick with highwaymen, especially at this time of year, but thanks to the Understanding, such a deterrent was mitigated to merely an unfortunate crust on the roads of commerce. On either side of me was a guard in dented armor; I had never bothered to ask their names, and they had never bothered to offer them. In fact, they had never said anything aside from "Three hundred thirty," which was slightly more than the average rate for an escort across the border. I hadn't bothered to haggle; it was more than fair, considering that most traders hadn't bothered to take the land routes to Skyrim in over a month. The heartland of Skyrim was by now crying out for goods from Cyrodiil, and I expected to be the only trader supplying those goods – at a reasonable markup due to demand, of course.

"Stand and deliver," called out a muffled voice that sounded as bored as I felt.

I stopped to look up at a man wearing more fur than a menagerie. Thick material clothed him from head to toe, and only a small slit in the top suggested that this highwayman was more than a mountain of hide. His hand was held out to me, gloved palm open. I exhaled heavily from my nostrils and pulled a money pouch from my belt. Though I knew that it contained exactly two hundred septims, I nevertheless made a show of counting them, knowing that the highwayman would do the same. I wordlessly stepped forward and proffered the pouch; he just as silently stepped forward and took it. I caught sight of rough skin and serpentine eyes; my robber was an Argonian, which explained the heavy clothes; he was likely not yet used to being outside the damp warmth of Black Marsh. We both nodded, and I and my retinue continued up the path. I willed myself not to look to either side; I knew that archers were hidden among the stones, ready to ensure that any sudden and startling movements I made would be hazardous to my health.

For quite some time, travelers and highwaymen in the province of Cyrodiil had had an Understanding; travelers would not unduly alert the authorities to the presence of the highwaymen, and the highwaymen, in turn, would not steal more than an amount of money that was mutually acceptable. The result was uniquely arranged form of robbery that, amazingly, benefited everyone. Traders were free (or, at the very least, reasonably paid-up) to carry their goods between cities without having to overspend on irritating little trifles such as security; at the same time, highwaymen were protective enough of their sources of income that they tended to come down hard on any bandits that might be so unwise as to endanger the Understanding or the money that it guaranteed. As a result, Cyrodiil was the economic power of the Empire.

By now, I had been trudging onward for quite some time; the shadows cast by the towering mountains were beginning to deepen when I heard another voice.

"Hey, you."

I looked up. The man in front of me was an unmistakable Nord; thick blond hair fell over his shoulders like straw, and his pale face looked as if it had been carved from the surrounding mountains. He was wearing a leather vest thick with studs and buckles, and his bare arms were like the trunks of trees.

I sighed. The man standing in the middle of path- no, walking down the middle of the path toward me wore an imperious smirk. Here was a highwayman that enjoyed his work. I could almost hear the stretching of bows as his unseen confederates prepared for any potential unpleasantness that might arise, should I or my bodyguards suddenly try to do something suicidal, like not giving him any money.

I slowly and deliberately reached for another money pouch. "Will two hundred be fine?" I asked. I heard a soft twang and a quiet bubbling noise behind me. I turned around to see both of my bodyguards on the ground, their blood already staining the dry grass. I didn't even get a chance to shout before something heavy hit me on the back of the head. I fell forward, hit the ground roughly… and kept falling, falling into blackness.

The last words I heard were, "Welcome to Skyrim,"

I awoke in darkness and confusion. My mouth felt as if someone had stuffed wool into it, and the back of my head ached terribly. I unsteadily got to my feet, my vision slowly clearing. It was night, I thought; the sky was dark, and I couldn't see very far ahead. I also couldn't see my horse, its cargo or any of my possessions. Even the thin coat I had worn to keep out the worst of the chill was gone; the bandits had left me with my undershirt and trousers. I managed to find the presence of mind to swear.

I felt the back of my head and immediately wished that I hadn't. I felt a vague texture of damp and stickiness before pain arced through my skull like a hot poker. My ears roared, and I nearly fell over again. Then I became aware that my ears weren't the only thing roaring.

The thin wood where barren mountains met the forest was alive with shouting. One voice rose above the others.

"Victory or Sovngarde!"

Even in my concussed state of mind, I understood that the last place that I wanted to be a a battle. I picked a direction and stumbled blindly through the sparse woodland. At first, I thought that more bandits had found a caravan or something, but it was far too loud and going on for far too long. I don't remember how long I fled, or even if I even covered any ground, before another cry, much closer this time, cut through the thicket.

"For the Emperor!"

This time I managed to scream a little before something heavy struck me on the back of the head and I once again tumbled into the black depths of unconsciousness.

Unfocused thoughts swam through my head. Each time one came close, I grasped at it feebly; each time, the thought wriggled out of my grasp and fled into the darkness. Voices came from a great distance away, and were distorted as though I was caught in a great pool of water.

I awoke to the sensation of being jostled. A cart. I was in a cart, I thought, though I couldn't fathom why. There was a bump, and pain cleaved through the back of my head, unleashing my thoughts with painful clarity. I opened my eyes, but carefully, in the event that someone might decide to knock me out again. Someone in front of me was driving a cart; I reluctantly opened my eyes further, and saw that he was wearing armor. I strained my memory enough to know that it was the armor of the Empire. I shifted in a vain attempt to ease my sore muscles, and came to an unsettling realization: my hands were bound.

"Hey."

I wasn't alone on the cart. Across from me, someone was trying to get my attention. "You're finally awake," he said. He was a blond Nord, like – and here my skull stung in painful recollection – like the bandit that knocked me out the first time. I noticed that he was still trying to talk to me. "You were trying to cross the border, right?"

My head hurt too much for me to process words. I nodded. "Walked right into that Imperial Ambush." It was then that I noticed his armor. He was wearing a battered leather jerkin over an old shirt of chainmail. He had a tattered blue sash wrapped tightly around his armor. He jerked his head to the side, indicating the other people on the cart. "Same as us. And that thief over there." He said the word thief in the same tone of voice a high-society woman might use with the word skeever.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," said a voice with an equal measure of venom. I gingerly turned my head to look at the two others. The speaker looked how I felt; his eyes were sunken into his head, his head was bruised and bloodied, and he was wearing a filthy tunic that was little more than rags. I realized with dull horror that I was wearing the same thing. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The would-be horse thief was glaring daggers at the first Nord when he suddenly turned his gaze to me. "You there! You and me, we shouldn't be here! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." His voice had a hint of plaintiveness, and it struck me that he was raising it for the sake of the cart's driver.

The Stormcloak shook his head. Was that pity or disgust on his face? "We're all brothers in binds now," he said softly. "Thief."

"Shut up back there," the driver of the cart said without turning his head. I felt someone next to me stiffen, and I realized that I had been leaning against him. I did my best to straighten up and winced when the movement sent another wave of pain through my head.

I looked at the man next to me. The first thing I noticed was the cloth shoved into his mouth; unlike the rest of us, he had been gagged. The second thing was a sense of danger. The man was even more battered than the other two prisoners, but the look in his eyes suggested that his injuries were only making him angry. He wore a fine cloak of what I was certain was bear fur; under it, his muscles strained against his binds. He had the air of an unsprung trap.

The thief had noticed him, too. "What's up with him?" he asked.

"Watch your tongue!" the first 'Stormcloak' barked with an intensity that he hadn't shown before. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

Battered though my brain was, I made the connection between Ulfric Stormcloak and The Stormcloaks.

"Ulfric," the thief said, "The-"here he used a word that I didn't understand- "of Windhelm? You're the leader of the Rebellion!

Oh, shit.

"But if they captured you…" the thief breathed, evidently coming the same thing as me. He blanched. "Oh, gods. Where are they taking us?"

The man called Ulfric only stared, but the Stormcloak soldier shook his head. "I don't know where we're going," he said softly, "but Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde?

The thief seemed even paler. "No. No, this can't be happening," he said. "This isn't happening!"

I remembered that battle cry in the night. Victory or Sovngarde. Death or Glory. I made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a squeak on the auditory spectrum of Noises To Make When One Is Afraid.

The Stormcloak rebel stared at me for some time. Then, he seemed to soften. "Hey," he said to the thief. "What village are you from, Horse Thief?"

"Why do you care?" the thief shot back.

The rebel seemed to sigh. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

There was a terrified silence. The cart rattled along the path. Dawn came.

"R-Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead." The pale little man looked as if the world was ending. As far as he was concerned – as far as all of us were concerned – it was.

Once again, we were all silent. The rebel looked pensive; the thief, scared out of his wits. Though the look on Ulfric Stormcloak's face could have cut through steel, he didn't bother to try to speak through his gag. I wanted to say something, anything. I wanted to tell the cart's driver that I was just a trader from Kvatch, that it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be here. I opened my mouth, but could only croak. The rebel just looked at me with an expression of what might have been sympathy.

As we slowly weaved our way out of the mountains, the pain in my head began to subside to a dull throbbing. Eventually, I could see a town in the distance, though it could have just as easily have been called a fort; it looked heavily fortified. As we rolled into the town, one of the Imperial soldiers called out. "General Tullius, sir! The Headsman is waiting!"

Oh, shit.

"Good," replied a voice that sounded as if its owner had been sucking on lemons all of his life. "Let's get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh," the thief mumbled miserably. "Divines, please help me!"

I craned my neck and squinted into the brightening sunlight to get a look at the general. He was a dark-skinned Imperial with silver hair; even from our distance, I could see that his armor was trimmed with gold. With him were a couple of tall individuals in black robes.

The rebel noticed my gaze and sneered. "Look at him. General Tullius, the military governor," he spat. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." He shook his head and looked away, disgust evident on his face. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Ulfric Stormcloak only stared at the general. I wasn't sure, but he didn't seem to have blinked in the entire journey. I became aware that Tullius had turned to glare back at us. I stared, transfixed, until our wagon turned a corner.

"This is Helgen," the rebel told me; he didn't seem to want to speak to the thief anymore. I turned to look at him; his expression was conflicted between defiance and sorrow. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." He looked away, into the past. "Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with Juniper Berries mixed in." He sniffed. "Funny," he said with a sad smile, "when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.

The townspeople were muttering amongst themselves, shooing their children inside; they could smell the impending bloodshed. I could smell it, too; the air was thick with trepidation, and much of it was mine.

All too soon, the wagon began to roll to a halt. "Why are we stopping?" asked the thief.

The rebel scoffed. "Why do you think?" He jerked his head toward the town square. I felt sick. A chopping block sat there. "End of the line."

I felt my breath quicken. I had thought that we were being shuttled to some gods forsaken prison to rot until someone decided to see if I was actually supposed to be there, but this…this was a summary execution. No investigation, no trial, not so much as a hearing. They caught us, and now they were going to kill us. It was as simple as that.

I saw the rebel flash a grim smile. "Let's go," he said, far too much enthusiasm in his voice. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

The thief somehow contrived to panic even further. "No, wait!" he cried out as we began to exit the wagon. "We're not rebels!"

"Face your death with some courage, thief," the rebel retorted.

"You've got to tell them," the thief insisted. "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

Every fiber of my body wished for me to do the same, to protest, but my tongue was caught in my mouth.

An Imperial woman in Officer's armor cast a stony glare on us. She ignored the thief and said, "Step toward the block when we call your name."

"Empire loves their damn lists," the rebel snorted.

A young Nord, about as young as the rebel next to me, stepped forward. His long, red hair, unimpeded by a helmet, tumbled down the back of his head to his shoulders. He held a scroll and a quill pen. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," he recited, and again I caught that word – Jarl – that I didn't understand.

As the leader of the rebellion stepped forward, the rebel next to me said, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

The soldier paused for only a moment before continuing, "Ralof of Riverwood." The rebel next to me straightened and wordlessly walked forward to join Ulfric.

The young soldier's gaze lingered on Ralof's face, and he paused for a moment longer than he had for Ulfric. "Lokir of Rorikstead," he said, tearing his gaze away and back to the list.

Horse Thief took a step forward, but shouted, "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

…And then he took off, sprinting down the road. "Halt!" roared the officer. After no time at all, she called out, "Archers!"

"You're not going to kill me!" Horse Thief shouted, an instant before they killed them.

I looked on in horror as arrows seemed to sprout from the thief's body. He stumbled and fell hard, writhing in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. I didn't have enough time to feel sick before the officer turned to us and shouted, "Anyone else feel like running?" I noticed that she was staring at me as she said it, as if daring me to protest my innocence.

The young Imperial soldier, who looked almost as pale as I felt, followed the officer's gaze to me. "Wait," he said. "You there. Step Forward."

Around that time, my mind simply stopped working. My knees shook, but my legs walked me forward a couple of steps so that the soldier could see me clearly.

The soldier stared at me for what seemed like an eternity until he asked, "Who are you?"

Completely unaided by my brain, my mouth said, "Sedgwick. O-of Kvatch."

The soldier penned in my name. "You're a long way from the Imperial City. What are you doing here?" I didn't get a chance to answer before he said, "Captain, he's not on the list. What should I do?"

Hope welled up within me. Yes, I wasn't on the list! I didn't belong here, I was just in the wrong place in the wrong time, they could just let me go or even see about doing something about those bandits at the pass…

In my head, I was taking my re-acquired wares to the Skyrim heartland when the captain said, "Forget the list." What? "He goes to the block, too."

I could feel my insides breaking, whimpering in the face of the cruelty of the world. "By your orders, Captain," the soldier said before turning back to me. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned Cyrodiil." He paused, as if weighing his words. "Follow the Captain, prisoner."

"My remains," I echoed in a croak.

It was the seventeenth of Last Seed, and I was going to die.

When I followed the captain, I stopped in front another group of prisoners that was in front of me. They were all wearing the same armor as Ralof. Imperial soldiers were present as well, and they stood stiffly to attention near every possible route of escape. Next to the block stood a woman in faded yellow robes and a man in…

I shivered. The headsman was wearing a leather vest and fur chaps, both of which were bulging with the fat born of soft living and hard eating. On his arms, however, his muscles positively bulged, and for good reason; in one hand he held a wicked looking axe. There was no question as to its purpose.

In the center, the general was speaking to the leader of the rebellion. "Ulfric Stormcloak," said General Tullius, "some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

For the first time, I heard Ulfric grunt through his gag. He was seething, turning a glare of pure hatred on the general, who was returning the favor measure for measure.

Tullius raised his voice. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."

As if on cue, the wind picked up, roaring in such a way that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Evidently, the young soldier with the list noticed it, too. "What was that?" he asked.

"Tullius grunted. "It's nothing. Carry on."

The captain straightened in a manner that seemed far too eager, considering the circumstances. "Yes, General Tullius," she all but sang.

The captain looked sideways at the robed woman. "Give them their last rites," she ordered, and it was only then that I recognized the robed woman as a priestess of Arkay. Evidently, the clergy of Skyrim wore much humbler vestments than that of Cyrodiil.

In a precisely practiced drone, the priestess began her prayer and continued for all of five seconds before a Stormcloak rebel stepped forward. "For the love of Talos," he snarled, "Shut up and let's get this over with."

The priestess looked affronted, but managed to say, "As you wish."

The rebel stood in front of the block. "I haven't got all morning," he said as the captain shoved him on his knees. "As the headman stepped forward, the rebel sneered and said, "My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

And just like that, his head was separated from his shoulders. Another gust of wind blew in from the east, and my knees almost buckled.

"Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!" The captain barked.

"Renegade!?" I burst out, my terror momentarily giving way to indignation. Again, the wind roared.

It wasn't the wind, a small part of me thought. The wind doesn't make me want to crawl into a hole and hide.

"There it is again," said the young soldier. "What is that?"

The captain didn't answer. "I said, next prisoner!"

"D-don't I get my last rites?" I asked, desperate to cling to life for even a few seconds more.

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy," said the young soldier. He looked uneasy.

I gingerly stepped forward, but as soon as I got close enough, the Captain shoved me onto my knees in front of the block. I felt a rough hand push me onto the block. The headsman raised his axe.

And then the world went mad.