A/N: Help, I still don't know what I'm doing.

I'm not happy with how short this chapter is-I'd rather have something that's upwards to 5k words, but the next chapter will be longer, at least. Hope its enjoyable anyways.

Summary: Desmond is hard pressed to decide whether or not he's had worse mornings.

Too damn sober for this
Chapter 2

Surprisingly enough, it isn't the fact that his hands are bound in front of him, surrounded by armed guards, or steadily traveling to who knows where that Desmond finds most odd about his current situation. To be honest, everything about the entire thing should put Desmond in a not-so-great mood (the grimness carved on his captors' faces and the dull throbbing in his head are fun contributing factors to that), but instead, he's actually more bothered by the fact that its still blue-balls freezing cold even with the sunlight streaming through the trees and literally no one around him seems to have a problem with it.

It's weird, considering that even Conner's people had had thick layers of protection from winter's bite. His fellow prisoners among the assembly of guards have all been stripped down to the same flimsy, short-sleeved garments and while subdued, they all seemed freakishly well acclimated to the cold. He's glad for the fact that they've (strangely) allowed him to keep his hoodie, in any case.

Which is a mistake on their part, really, because wow, despite the great show of, 'you-are-obviously-our-captive-don't-even-try-anything,' stunt they got going on, his jailers—the, Imperial Legion, they call themselves—are actually really shitty at their jobs.

He's still armed, for one. Surprisingly, he can still feel the sheathed dagger he'd stolen strapped against his arm. It's no hidden blade, but it's a reassuring weight that gives Desmond some amount of comfort. He's pretty sure he can struggle his way out of his binds (which are thin and more like cords than actually ropes in the first place) but when he takes note of the guards' formation and choice weapons at their hips… Well, Desmond doesn't need his ancestors' strategic insight to know that it isn't wise to fight that uphill a battle.

('Know to pick your battles wisely, Desmond can almost hear his ancestors intone—but it's really just their fancy way of saying, 'don't start shit when you're very clearly outmatched, Jesus Christ.')

There's a strong, spine-stiffening spike of alarm when he realizes his satchel is gone from his waist (his apple, where's his apple?!), but the staccato of panic is short lived when he spots it untouched among other goods hoarded next to the cart driver. It's a generous pile comprised of blades, helms, cuirasses…

Desmond frowns, noting the different coloring scheme of the uniforms that are most likely that of his fellow prisoners' missing outerwear. It makes Desmond somewhat self-conscious of his own white hoodie and jeans ('hide in plain sight, good luck with that,') but it's somewhat lessened when he notices that he's not the only odd one out.

Desmond initially thinks nothing of him at first—dismissing the grandiosely dressed man as some lord of whatever whom had deigned to sit with the damned to gloat—until he registers the rope and gag. The man looks familiar though and it's only when Desmond spots the bruise on the man's temple that suspiciously matches his own does the former bartender 'ah's.

Well damn.

It's that asshole.

The cart lurches and this time, Desmond can't contain the sharp intake of air when it rouses the dull throb in his head to an angry flare. Its enough to draw the attention of the man sitting in front of him, whom moments before, had been bickering with a 'horse thief' if what Desmond had gathered from their conversation is correct.

"Ah, you're awake." The man announces, his previous scowl transforming into a friendly grin when he faces Desmond. "You gave us a scare there. Coming from the trees like that, one would think you chased by the dead themselves if not for the bandits at your heels."

Desmond blinks, thrown off by the ye olde English type of speech.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" The blonde continues and takes Desmond's thrown silence as a confirmation. "Walked right into that imperial ambush," he gestures at his comrades with a jerk of his chin, "same as us, and that thief over there."

At the mention, the horse thief huffs and glares at the blonde haired man. "Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell." He turns to face Desmond beseechingly. "You and me—we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Desmond doesn't quite know how to respond to that, utterly blindsided by the sheer amount of word salad thrown his way. "What?"'What the fuck is a Stormcloak?'

Ralof grins cordially, unaffected by or even perhaps used to the hostility. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The horse thief scoffs, muttering something under his breath before jerking his head to the finely dressed man in front of him. "And what's up with him, huh?"

That elicits a more irked response, the blonde bristling in offense. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

And Desmond can't help it: "True High King."He repeats; deadpan, because that sounds a lot like bullshit.

"Aye, friend!" The blonde says, mistaking Desmond's 'you're-kidding-me' tone as awe. His back straightens and with some pride leaking into his voice, "He challenged High King Torygg to a duel of one our most oldest of ways and won Skyrim—"

"You mean more like stole Skyrim," interrupts the guard directly behind the blonde. It's followed by a snort and jeer, "If you're going to accurately tell an account, Ralof, best get your facts right before I cut your tongue for perjury."

The aptly named Ralof scowls before his face takes on one of recognition when he sees the guard. "Hadvar. Threaten all you want, but that does not change Skyrim's rightful allegiance to its King."

"What allegiance do we have to a so called King who would divide the people and plunge Skyrim into chaos?" Hadvar spits out. At that, the said king's face strains and whatever Ralof says to that is lost to the world as Desmond tunes them both out, utterly disinterested in whatever drama they have going on. He drags his gaze past the other prisoners to the country side, but in doing so, inadvertently meets the 'True High King's' eyes, whom, from the crease in his eyebrows, had been intently studying him. His face is thick with weariness as if he hadn't been sleeping well, but Desmond can read the question on his face.

Desmond can't blame him for that. Ulfric had been the only one whom Desmond had detected skepticism from when Ralof had assumed him crossing the border and inwardly, Desmond thanked whatever deity that existed that the sharper man in their little group was gagged.

Still, Desmond glowers at him in reply, uncomfortable with being scrutinized. 'This is your fault.' Desmond thinks sourly.

The sentiment must have shown clearly on his face because at that, the King—Ulfric Stormcloak—raises an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed.

"Wait, Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" The horse thief says, looking at the gagged King. "You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you…" He pales. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ralof sobers at that and from the corner of his eyes, Desmond can see Hadvar distance himself from the cart, his face stony.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

Desmond hasn't the faintest idea of what 'Sovngarde' is, but the way Ralof averts his gaze makes him still.

If possible, the horse thief pales even further. "No… this can't be happening. This isn't happening!"

A forceful 'thwak!' traveling through the cart from next to him startles Desmond enough to realize that he's stopped breathing for a moment. He glances at Ulfric—because surely the man had intentionally knocked at the wood of the cart to get his attention—but sees the man looking elsewhere.

(Okay, so maybe the guy isn't a total asshole.)

Still, Desmond takes a shaky breath. He glances past the cart driver, seeing a village. He commits himself into listening to Ralof and the horse thief's hushed conversation—anything to distract himself from the quiet panic bubbling in his chest.

"What village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead… I'm from Rorikstead."

("None." Desmond replies when he's asked and it's because he doesn't consider any place a home anymore. He thinks 'home' is more like a moment—one of sharp words and hushed, late nights, followed by another, then another, like bricks building upon each other for shelter.)

(They're moments long passed.)

The sounds of the horses' hooves clicking against village's stone roads rattle Desmond's teeth. He feels colder, somehow.

"This is Helgan," Ralof says, as if speaking of the weather. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

Desmond shivers. His stomach is in knots. He feels like he's going to throw up.

"Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?"

"You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."

"Inside the house. Now."

And then the cart stops.

"…Why did we stop?" It's the horse thief that asks.

The laugh Ralof gives is empty. "Why do you think? End of the line."

They're in the town square, Desmond can tell. There's a large, dark robed man standing in wait in the center of the square. He carries an axe.

And in front of him is a block.

And in that moment, something in Desmond shuts off. He goes blissfully numb. The village fades away and when he blinks, he's back at the Grand Temple with the Eye before him as still as a tomb.

"Save one. Your touch, a spark. A spark to save the world."

Desmond blinks again and feels the cold. He barely registers following the others out of the cart until he catches the horse thief's arm when the man stumbles over his own feet.

"Thanks." The horse thief mumbles, subdued, but the wild look in his eyes belays his portrayed calm. It reminds Desmond of the horses not yet tamed on the Farm, skittish and always foolhardily running at the first sign of an out.

And from that, Desmond knows without a doubt that the horse thief is going do to something stupid and he can't—will not allow that to happen.

From the corner of his eyes, Desmond sees a guard notch an arrow, watching the horse thief—("Lokir." The horse thief says when Desmond asks and he understands when Lokir pauses to echo his name as if to make sure Desmond remembers it. He doesn't let go of Lokir's arm until the man stops shaking)—warily, before lowering his bow when Lokir looks significantly less like he's going to run.

A name is called and Desmond resolutely looks to the ground when the axe sails through the air, penetrates flesh, and catches on the wooden block. Beside him, Lokir prays. ("Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.")

He sees boots step into his line of sight. It's Hadvar, confused, and referring to his captain when he says there's an 'Imperial' not on the list. Desmond isn't afforded any hope (or confusion) when the woman sends him to the block despite that. For a moment, Hadvar looks like he's going to argue, before he acquiesces.

"I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to your homeland."

(But home is long gone and Desmond is never going to see his mom, his dad, his team—)

Desmond closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and savors the taste of bitter ash in his mouth.

Juno smiles. "You played your part well, Desmond."

And as he's pushed to the ground, his neck barred over the stained block with his executioner above him, Desmond has the quiet hope thatdying sticks this time because it's far too cruel to give him the illusion of living just to take it away.

So, Desmond doesn't look away. He watches the axe reach its peak above his executioner's head, eyes wide, enraptured—

And it's the fact that Desmond is watching so intently that makes him the first one to notice the goddamn dragon.

A/N: Comments/Reviews are greatly appreciated!