A/N: This chapter has been a long time in the making. A bit too long. For those who read and enjoyed the prologue, I apologize for taking so long. For those who are reading this for the first time, thank you for choosing to read this story. I'll do my best to keep posting chapters more regularly from now on. Thank you for your patience and for choosing to read ODAK! Enjoy.
Why had he of all people been chosen?
Ralof of Riverwood had never thought himself a coward, but then again, being counted as one of Ulfric's personal guard could make a coward out of just about anybody. Especially when that someone was the freshly-picked successor of some poor guard who had been virtually disintegrated by an Imperial sorcerer-assassin. When young Ralof had heard of his appointment he had been nothing short of ecstatic, but hearing of his predecessor's gruesome demise had effectively killed that joy. What replaced it was fear. A fear so large that all the courage he could muster was hardly enough to conceal it.
Being one of the guard was certainly an honor, but what was a guard, really? They had terribly short lifespans, for one. And what were they, really, but human shields; eager to throw away their lives for the sake of their beloved king? If one died, so what? There were hundreds more men and women scrambling for the chance to die in Ulfric's name. To put it simply, even the most loyal of guards was dispensable. Now that Ralof thought about it, did the Kingslayer even know the name of his newest member of his personal guard? If he wound up the same as the man before him, would he be remembered? Or would he just be one of the hundreds of Ulfric's faceless martyrs?
These troubling thoughts and many more like them stewed frequently in his mind, as they did the day the stranger came.
Jarl Ulfric had decided, for some kingly reason or another, that the edges of his territory were to be reinforced once more, both militarily and morally. Intent on going himself to supply garrisons to the small settlements in the south of Eastmarch, the Kingslayer, along with his personal guard and a small army of soldiers, set out for the country. It was a routine enough mission, one required quite often, and it quickly became what similar missions often ended up being.
Dreadfully dull and entirely uneventful.
One foot after the other the company plodded on, mouths silent and faces solemn. Every man had long since become lost in his own thoughts, as what little conversation there had been had been bled dry long ago. Young Ralof, exhausted from a long day's hard march, shot cursory glances between the trees and off into the surrounding wilderness, scanning the woods for threats that might pose any sort of threat to the cavalcade. The southern reaches of Eastmarch were crawling with threats, be they bears or bandits, but hours of searching and seeing nothing had dulled Ralof's eyes and bored him nearly to tears. Tired of staring down an empty forest, his attention shifted to the regal sight riding just beside him.
Jarl Ulfric rode tall and proud on a mighty bay stallion, his kingly profile silhouetted against the light of the setting sun. Ralof squinted, trying to read whatever expression might be on his liege's stoic face. A tree passed between the company and the sun and the Jarl's features came into view. He looked almost… bored. Hours had passed since they had left Windhelm, and they were only just past halfway to Darkwater Crossing. The soldiers, Ralof included, were nearly dragging their feet from exhaustion, yet the horse and his regal rider looked restless. The sun came into view, and once again the Jarl's face was plunged into darkness. Ralof let out a sigh and struggled to keep up their brisk pace, as his sluggish feet burned and screamed their need to stop and rest. The young soldier cast a hopeful look up at Ulfric, a look that pleaded for a well-deserved respite from a hard march, but the man did not seem to notice him.
As one of Ulfric's personal guard, Ralof could not show any sign of weakness, any sign that he might hesitate to give his life for Ulfric. Ralof was getting dangerously close to letting out a groan. His feet were killing him, and the straps on his pack were digging into his shoulders through his leather cuirass. Another glance was shot up at the Jarl, this one witha hint of contempt. Did he truly not know how exhausted his troops were? Did he notice? Did he not care?
No, Ralof had to remind himself, Ulfric was a good man — a great man — who would drive the Empire from Skyrim once and for all. He was the Kingslayer, the True King of Skyrim. He was the only one who could unite the land, the only man willing to do what was necessary to usher in an era of peace and greatness unlike any other. He was the stuff of legend, that Ralof knew well.
… but what kind of king didn't care about his own men?
Suddenly, as if the very gods had heard his silent blaspheming, an impossibly bright light exploded though the trees, blinding Ralof. He shouted in alarm and threw up his hands to shield himself from the light. In addition to the startled cries of his fellows, he heard Ulfric's horse scream and rear, and the thud of its rider falling from his saddle.
The light died slowly, but even slower was the readjustment of the company's eyes. A little dazed, Ralof squinted through the trees, trying to find the source of the light. His vision was clouded and blurry, so much so that he could hardly make out the first row of trees before him, let alone the figure shambling towards them.
As the sight of movement, Ralof quickly drew his waraxe. "Halt!" he barked, brandishing the weapon at whatever was approaching, "Stop right there, whatever you are, before I kill you on the spot!"
The thing stood still, and as Ralof's eyes slowly cleared, appeared to be a man, fair haired and even fairer of skin, which happened to be as bare and naked as the day he head been born. He held a hand to his side, and his breathing was labored. Ralof furrowed his brow in confusion at the bizarre sight. The stranger was a Nord, that he could tell by his height and fairness, but evidently a terribly confused one, given by his unclothed state and how far he had wandered into what was complete wilderness. A simpleton, perhaps? Or, Ralof thought with a sinking feeling in his stomach, a very effective distraction. Ralof narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to the stranger. "Did you set off that light? Was it a spell? Some imperial machine?" No answer. Ralof raised his axe threateningly and shouted, "Tell me now, or I'll drive my axe through your skull!"
The man opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, his eyes rolled back into his head and his knees crumpled beneath him, landing face-first into the snow. Ralof's eyes widened at the stranger's sudden collapse. After the man had lain still for a few moments, Ralof lowered his axe.
Ulfric, recovering slowly from his tumble off his horse, said to Ralof, "He may be an Imperial spy. Check him." Ralof looked back to Ulfric, confused. What could he possibly check? The Jarl simply looked from the stranger to Ralof and back to the stranger. The soldier let out a sigh and turned back to the stranger, fastening his waraxe tightly back to his side. Though the stranger's entrance had been a flashy one, literally, it had not seemed to bring any danger upon them.
Ralof stepped closer and bent down next to man, touching a hand to his neck. There was still a pulse, but it was obvious the man was unconscious. Ralof uncurled the strangers clenched fists with some effort, and found them empty, but drenched in warm blood. Concerned and confused, the soldier turned the man over and nearly retched at what he saw.
The man was a youth, even younger than Ralof was, he couldn't have seen his twenty-eighth winter yet. And it was truly startling the lad had managed to stay standing so long, given the grotesque wound in his side. What had surely been a stab wound had festered and bled, though the blade that had struck him was something dark and evil, in that there was no doubt. The area surrounding the wound was covered in sticky red blood, and beneath this crimson coat was flesh so black and dead it suited a draugr more than anything living. The boy was terribly hurt, and would die if a healer didn't tend him immediately.
Ralof, horrified at the youth's wound, turned back to his fellows and shouted, "He's no spy! He's been hurt… he needs help!"
"I believe you are the one who needs help, Stormcloak."
Who had spoken to him? The youth? He turned to face whoever had spoken to him. His eyes widened at the sight of an Imperial sword pointed right between his eyes. Not daring to move an inch, Ralof glanced out of the corners of his eyes and saw that not one but nearly fifty gleaming steel soldiers had surrounded the company. And that was only those he could see. Ralof shot a glare up the sword to the man before him, whose triumphant smirk and laughing brown eyes caused Ralof's rage to flare.
His grip on his waraxe tightened, but he knew deep down that the company wouldn't be leaving this ambush alive. But at least they would go down fighting.
However, it seemed Jarl Ulfric thought differently. In his booming voice he said to the Imperials, "I know when a battle is lost, and I will not have good soldiers die needlessly. We surrender."
Ralof exhaled sharply through his teeth and reluctantly let his hand fall from his axe. He hung his head in defeat and let out a sigh. Opening his eyes, he looked down at the youth, knowing that whatever that flash of light was had brought the Imperials upon them. Had the youth cast some sort of spell as a signal to the Imperials?
And almost on cue, the grievous wound gleamed brightly, though much dimmer than the burst that had accompanied the entrance of the stranger. The glow held all the beauty of a midwinter's aurora, and Ralof could only stare in wonder at the shimmering colors. As it slowly died, Ralof could see what seemed like the wound mending itself, flesh coming together and seaming neatly as if there had hardly been a wound at all. Had the wound been an illusion, or had a healing spell been cast upon him? It had been unlike any magic he had ever seen.
Ralof let out a bitter laugh.
Injured bystander, Imperial spy… it mattered not who the stranger was. Either way, he had doomed them all.
It was the gentle kiss of the rising sun that woke the Once and Future King from his fitful sleep. He let out a yawn and turned his face to the shining warmth, imagining Merlin having just drawn the curtains to wake him. "Merlin," grumbled Arthur, struggling to open his heavy eyelids, "I just woke up from the strangestdream… you were in it. I get more than enough of you during the day, so seeing you in my dreams made it an absolute nightmare. And I even dreamt that you — you of all people — were a sorcerer. A bloody powerful one, too…" Another yawn. "Can't believe I thought it was real."
A chill breeze passed over Arthur, sending violent shivers down his spine. That was odd. Did that idiot of a manservant open the window? Arthur, grumbling at the unpleasant cold, tried to cross his arms over his bare chest. But much to his surprise, he found he couldn't move his hands. Something was binding his wrists together. Startled, Arthur's eyes flew open. He nearly gaped at what he saw.
Between what appeared to be two horizontal wooden slats he saw distant, jagged mountains rose up from the ground like earthen jaws, reaching high into the clouds to rend apart the sky. And all around him were tall, foreboding pines that looked more like black, skeletal fingers covered in needles than any tree he had ever seen. And all these features were covered in a thin blanket of snow, painted pink and orange by the slowly rising sun.
Suddenly, whatever he had been laying down on jolted violently, sending Arthur's head into a thick wooden board with a thud. He bit back a groan and carefully, as to not further injure his smarting head, rolled over. Two men stared back at him, one a rugged blond in a striking blue cuirass and the other a rather distraught, wiry man in rags. Both had their wrists bound as Arthur's were. They rode in what seemed to be a carriage.
What in the world…?
The man in blue, noticing Arthur's movement, turned his head toward the young king. "Hey, you," said the blond curtly, "You're finally awake." Arthur furrowed his brow, trying to place the man. His voice was eerily familiar, as if he had heard it in a half-remembered dream. But even more familiar was his face. Where on earth had he seen this man before?
Before Arthur had the chance to ask one of the many questions on his mind, the man in blue leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Arthur's abdomen. The young king, not sure what to think, looked from the man before him to his chest, then ba— wait, what was that?
Was that a potato sack or a pair of trousers he was wearing? Thick, itchy canvas had evidently been hastily fashioned into trousers and fastened to his hips by a rough rope. Certainly a far cry from any of the luxurious fashions he had worn back in Camelot, or even perhaps from anything even the poorest of peasants wore, he was sure he looked like a complete idiot. Even moreso than the time Merlin had tried to pass him as a village idiot. Arthur looked back up to the man in blue, wondering if his rather primitive attire was the subject of his attention.
Evidently not. Arthur, confused by the other man's long stare, glanced quickly back down to his abdomen to find what was so terribly interesting about him. Just as he was about to ask what on earth he was looking at, Arthur saw it. A barely visibly scar lie on his left side, just beneath his rib cage.
No, it couldn't be. Mordred had only stabbed him in his nightmare, hadn't he? Arthur stared down at the thin pink line, a nearly invisible scar on an otherwise healthy body. He hadn't had that scar before, no, that blow had definitely been delivered by Mordred. Fighting the bonds on his wrists, he struggled to look closer the area. When he gently touched the scar, it didn't hurt. There was no redness, no tenderness… it seemed like a very old wound.
But that wasn't possible, it couldn't be possible. It had only been a dream, seeing all his closest friends die before dying himself. In Merlin's arms.
Merlin.
If what had happened had not been a nightmare at all but some nightmarish reality, Merlin really had been a sorcerer. Arthur gazed down at the scar on his side and traced a finger over it, trying to piece together the puzzle. Had Merlin with his magic — God, what an idea! — healed the wound? But, if that were so, why wasn't Merlin here with him?
A better question… where was "here"?
But, most importantly, where was Merlin?
"So your wound's gone, I see," said Blue, leaning back and looking down at Arthur coldly, "If it was ever there at all."
"So it would seem," replied Arthur absently as he strained to sit up. As he pushed himself up, he felt his foot smack against something — no, someone. Expecting to see the idiotic grin of his manservant, he looked to see who it was.
A gigantic bear of a man, bound and gagged with filthy rags, glared down at Arthur with all the frigid severity of the landscape around him. Behind the gag was a strong and brutish face framed by hair as golden as Arthur's, and nestled deep beneath a heavy brow were blue-grey orbs that seemed more like orbs of ice than any eyes he had ever seen. Between those icy eyes was a large and imposing nose, whose nostrils flared furiously at the indignity of Arthur's stare. He had a dignified and even regal air about him, despite how utterly filthy he was.
The young king, realizing his accidental kick had almost knocked the brute off the carriage, murmured a quick apology before managing to right himself. The Brute, not taking his hateful eyes from Arthur, quickly occupied the space where Arthur's feet had been. Arthur edged closer to the front of the carriage, wanting to be as far away from the angry Brute as possible.
Blue, noticing the tension, spoke up once more. "Don't like Stormcloaks, eh, stranger?"
Beside Blue, Rags finally piped up, saying, "Like Stormcloaks? Bah! Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you…!" He shot a glare at Arthur, "And you. If you hadn't signalled the Imperials, I could've stolen that horse and have been halfway to Hammerfell!" Arthur stared at the man, baffled at the total gibberish Rags had just spouted. Seeing Arthur's confusion, Rags scoffed. "Oh, feigning innocence, are we? Just because your little plan didn't work out and got you bunched in with us prisoners, you try and win points with us? Well, it's not going to work! You're the one who got all of us captured!"
"I really have no idea what you're talking about," said Arthur, truly not understanding anything Rags had said. "I have no idea what a 'Stormcloak' is." Rags merely rolled his eyes. Arthur let out an exasperated sigh and continued, "Look. I'm dying one second and then I wake up here the next. I didn't signal anybody. And you know what? I don't even know where I am."
Blue raised an eyebrow, and his accusing glare turned into one of thoughtful curiosity. After casting another glance to Arthur's side, he said calmly to Rags, "We're all brothers in binds now, thief."
The carriage driver, irritated by the arguing and accusations, called gruffly for silence. And silence was what reigned for a minute or two before Rags, his rage having smoldered into irritating irritability, jerked his head towards the Brute.
With a half-smile, Rags snorted, "And what's wrong with him, huh?" Arthur dared a glance back at the Brute and instantly looked back at Blue. The Brute's glare had not once taken his eyes off of Arthur, and if anything, his glare had only intensified.
Now it was Blue's turn to be angry. He shot a glare at Rags and spat, "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
Rags seemed to shrink away in fear at the name. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" All color drained from the man's face. Visibly shaking, he continued, "Y-You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
Blue looked ahead, straining his eyes for any sort of landmark. After a moment, he turned back and let out a resigned sigh. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
Sovngarde. Arthur had heard similar sounding words from Saxons as well as some of Odin's people. He looked around and squinted against the light of the sun, trying to recognize the landscape. Was he somewhere in Odin's kingdom? Had he been captured by warring Saxon tribes? Was Skyrim some sort of country the Saxons had devised for themselves?
He distantly heard Rags despairing over the situation, and then a conversation between the other men in the carriage. Arthur looked from the mountains to the carriages trailing behind and ahead of them, scanning faces for that of his manservant. After several minutes of checking and re-checking each and every man (and were those women?) he could see in the caravan, Arthur had to accept that Merlin was not there. Neither were any of his knights there. Nor his soldiers. Nor his courtiers, his people… anybody he knew.
Arthur was alone. Not only was he alone, but he was unarmed and unarmored, lost in an unfamiliar land in a sea of unfamiliar people. Also, being bound in a carriage with rebels and criminals didn't help his situation much.
Trying to find some way to better the situation or to possibly escape, Arthur looked back up. Much to his dismay, the scenery had changed from mountains and forest to thick stone walls and stout stone homes while he had been lost in his thoughts. He looked around at the small town, noting several stone towers, a handful of wooden homes, and a large, fortified keep on the far end of the town. From what he could see, the walls ran about the hamlet in a circle, with several gates leading nearly all directions into the surrounding countryside. Glancing up at the sun, he determined which way was south and quickly looked for a southern gate.
Unfortunately, as they rode further into the center of the town, Arthur's hopes of escape became unrealistic. Strange men in red leather uniforms and others in full steel seemed to ooze out of the very stonework. As the carriages passed by, they cheered wildly, almost as enthusiastically as they jeered the brutish Ulfric. The supposed town seemed more like some strange military outpost, as it was crawling with soldiers and knights. Some of the soldiers accompanied impossibly tall hooded figures, which Arthur knew likely concealed a sorcerer or some sort of magical, humanoid creature. Arthur leaned back against the railing of the carriage and let out a sigh. Escape would be virtually impossible.
Unless Merlin bounded in at the last second with some harebrained scheme and against all odds his stupid plan would just magically work. Ah… so that was how he did it. Magic. Arthur looked around at the hordes of jubilant soldiers heralding their imprisonment and wished, for the first time in his life, for a little bit of magic.
Suddenly, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Arthur turned his attention to the driver, and seeing that his uniform matched those of the soldiers in the rest of the town, stared dumbly. Seeing Arthur's surprise, the driver snorted, "End of the line." Arthur felt the carriage shift, and looked to see what had caused it.
The other men were standing, preparing to get off the carriage. Arthur quickly did the same.
Two soldiers stood before the carriage, one small, thin one in gleaming steel and the other a large, burly man in leather. The large soldier glanced down at a piece of parchment and called, "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
Ulfric stepped off the carriage and landed heavily on his feet. He straightened his back slowly and with purpose, making sure to let the poor sod with the parchment know that he was much taller and much more powerful than him. The soldier seemed to shrink in the Jarl's shadow, but luckily for him, soldiers led the frightening bear of a man into the nearby square.
The soldier looked back down at his list and frowned. The next name he spat as if it were poison. "Ralof of Riverwood."
It was the man in blue who stepped from the carriage next, his stormy grey eyes narrowed at the soldier who had called his name. With a bitter smile on his lips he said, "Ah, Hadvar. An Imperial officer now, eh? I thought you were better than that." The large officer nearly glowed a beet red at the statement, and shot an angry glare at Ralof. The soldier in steel hissed for silence and quickly shoved the man named Ralof into the group of Stormcloaks in the square. A break in the men and women gathered allowed Arthur to see what punishment they awaited in the square.
He saw the bright reflection of the sun upon the jagged blade of a headsman's axe.
It was then Arthur knew that if he didn't get out of this situation soon, he was going to die. He had to come up with a plan that would allow for an escape. Maybe, when they called him down, he could make a break for it. The southern gate couldn't be all that far. Yes, he was sure he could make it.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
Arthur looked up and say the man in rags, shaking and whimpering, his beady eyes darting about like those of a trapped animal. He looked at the officers and let out a pathetic wail. "No! I'm not a rebel," the thief protested desperately, "you can't do this!" And then, without warning, he bolted.
The officer in steel, not sparing a single moment to be surprised, barked, "Halt!"
"You're not gonna kill me!" cried the man in rags, almost taunting the soldiers.
"Archers!"
Poor Lokir hadn't made it fifty yards before an arrow was quickly notched and sent flying. The arrow found its mark in his neck, the point ripping through his flesh as easily as if it were butter. With a strangled, gurgling scream, he fell onto his side and jerked wildly. Arthur, even as far away as he was, could see the man's shaking hands fumbling to stop the river of blood flowing from the wound. The archers, possibly as an act of mercy, loosed another arrow into the dying man. It landed in his side with an audible thud, and with one last gasp the horse thief became still.
The officer, nonplussed by Lokir's death, turned to the crowd of rebels and then to Arthur, shouting, "Anyone else feel like running?"
After that display, almost all hopes of escape had vanished from Arthur's mind. But, seeing as he had done nothing wrong, they wouldn't execute him. But then again, if they really were Saxons, would he be executed for merely being King of Camelot, their sworn enemy?
Suddenly, the impatient driver grabbed his shoulder and pushed Arthur from the carriage, sending him sprawling onto the ground below. Arthur struggled to stand, and when he did looked uncertainly at the two officers before him. The officer in steel, he was surprised to see, was actually a woman. Her dark eyes glittered with anticipation, almost as if she would enjoy seeing so many people die. The man next to her, Hadvar, seemed to have the opposite opinion. He gazed down at his parchment resignedly, letting out a deep, regretful sigh after calling out each name. As Arthur awaited his name to be called, he watched Hadvar's brow furrow in what appeared to be confusion.
The soldier looked up at Arthur and said, "Who… are you?"
So they didn't know who he was? And now that he looked at these shining steel soldiers, they didn't look like any Saxons he had ever seen. No, they looked civilized, cultured… Like they would know the gravity of killing a king. They wouldn't lump him in with the other prisoners, especially as he was not only innocent of any crime, but had even apparently assissted in the capture of the rebel leader. They'd have to let him go.
At Arthur's silence, the lady officer reached out and grabbed Arthur by the hair, yanking him down to her eye level. "You were asked a question and you will answer it, prisoner!" she snarled, her terth bared almost ferally at him, "Who are you?!" She held a moment longer before shoving him back to the carriage. Arthur barely caught himself on the cart before falling to the ground.
Awkwardly, he managed to push himself up and shoot an angry glare at the violent woman. Scalp smarting and the rest of him trembling with rage, he answered indignantly, "I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot!"
Hadvar raised an eyebrow at Arthur's answer and cast a concerned glance at the officer beside him. "Captain? We, uh, have no 'King of Camelot' on the list…"
The captain snorted and returned Arthur's glare with a malicious sneer. "Forget the list. He goes to the block."
What? Arthur couldn't have possibly heard correctly. He was going to the block? For what, exactly? All he could do was stare at the vile woman in utter disbelief, praying that she was just pulling some sort of cruel, sick joke. The sadistic smile on her face, however, said otherwise.
A hand fell on his shoulder almost sympathetically. Hadvar let out a long sigh and said sympathetically, "I'm sorry. But at least you'll die here, in your homeland."
His homeland? This hellhole was the very last place Arthur would want to call his homeland. This was no Camelot, this was far from Camelot! And, now that he thought about it, was he even in Albion? Arthur let out a bitter laugh at Hadvar's attempt at comforting him. Sure, he would die, but he would die a criminal's death in a strange land far from home.
And wasn't that just bloody brilliant.
Hadvar urged Arthur forward towards the other prisoners. The young king looked at the soldier and was surprised to see his sympathy genuine. It was clear that the deaths of even the guilty weighed heavily on his soul, that Arthur could tell by his melancholy eyes and sagging shoulders. Maybe, if Arthur played his cards right, this man could help him. Another glance at the soldier made that maybe a definite yes.
The silvery glint of a chance at escape shone brightly from Hadvar's boot: the hilt of a dagger. Arthur bit back a smile, remembering how he and Merlin had escaped capture from Saxons using the same method. Wait, he and Merlin. Had Merlin used his sorcery to get that dagger into their possession? Had Arthur really stolen that dagger by himself, or through the aid of magic? Arthur, knowing he had to get that dagger or perish, shook his head in an attempt to dispel those demoralizing thoughts. However, he could not shake the seed of doubt the knowledge of Merlin's sorcery had planted.
Having reached the other prisoners, he looked over their shoulders at the square before them. An executioner loomed ominously over a splintered wooden chopping block, beside him a robed woman and that devil of a captain. Behind them stood a large stone watchtower, apparently unmanned. A gate lie just west of the square, leading off into thick woods. There were only two guards with swords standing at attention, though their attention was focused mainly on the scene unfolding in the square.
A remarkably small man in rather remarkable armor strode up to Ulfric, his tanned, aged face twisted down into a stony grimace. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he said evenly, as if scolding a disobedient child, "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you downand restore the peace!" Murdering kings and usurping thrones? Arthur felt his eyebrows raise in surprise. Now that was some rebellion this Empire had to deal with. No wonder they wanted these Stormcloaks out of the picture.
His chain of thought was abruptly broken at the sound of a distant, echoing roar. Arthur froze at the sound, knowing full well what had created it. Flashes of the near destruction of Camelot came to mind, of roars that jarred your very bones and columns of devouring fire hotter than the very flames of hell. He searched the surrounding skies, and after finding nothing, silently prayed that what he heard was not what he thought it was.
Trying to keep his mind on a marginally more pleasant doom, he looked back up to square, finding the robed woman making a prayer of her own. She spoke of strange gods and otherworldly destinations that were completely alien to Arthur. Were they, perhaps, gods of the Old Religion? Arthur tensed at the thought.
"Oh, for the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with." One of the Stormcloaks stepped forward and willingly laid his head on the block, as if an execution was a better fate than listening to a sermon. Perhaps it was. "Come on!" barked the rebel, his voice dripping with hostility, "I haven't got all morning!" With a shrug, the executioner readied his axe. He raised the axe high above his head, letting it gleam in the morning sun before slamming it back down onto the block.
Beside Arthur, Ralof of Riverwood bowed his head in respect for the dead man and said solemnly, "As fearless in death as he was in life."
Before Arthur could even form an opinion on those words, the captain called out the next name.
"Next, the King in Rags!" the captain laughed, dark eyes glittering with excitement and mirth. Arthur swallowed nervously. He hadn't anticipated being the first one called, being innocent and all. Well, that might be a boon now that he thought about. After cutting his bonds, the other prisoners might fight against their captors, and in the confusion Arthur would run away and be far gone. The one they wanted was Ulfric, anyway, not him. Yes, yes… this was good. This was a very good thing. His thoughts were broken by the captain, her smile gone and replaced by an ugly, impatient scowl. "I said. Next. Prisoner."
He felt Hadvar take his shoulder again and try to lead him forward. However, feigning paralyzing fear, Arthur planted his feet firmly on the ground. Hadvar inhaled deeply and said gently, "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy." Arthur looked back to Hadvar, making his eyes huge and terrified. The soldier immediately looked away and forced Arthur forward.
Now was his chance!
Pretending to faint, Arthur's knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground. Hadvar, bearing crushing guilt already, bent down to help him up. Arthur slowly opened his eyes to look at the soldier, eyes trailing down his left boot. The dagger was still there! As Hadvar helped Arthur stand, Arthur reached his bound hands towards the hilt of the dagger. He felt his fingers touch the hilt and the blessed chill of cold hard steel. Just as he begun to wrap his hand around the blade, Hadvar adjusted his stance, ripping the weapon from Arthur's grasp. The young king watched dumbly as the blade fell from his hands and out of reach to the ground below. Luckily, the wild cheering of the crowd that had gathered had muffled out the clatter of steel against stone.
Arthur stared dumbly at the fallen weapon, knowing that his best chance at escape was gone. He felt his feet move beneath him, bare feet nearly freezing against the cold cobblestones. Frantically, he tried to think up another plan. Maybe he could roll off the executioner's block and just make a break for it. After all, the man that had preceded him had not been held to the block, and he doubted gentle Hadvar could bear holding an innocent man — or any man for that matter — to the chopping block. No, he had plenty of opportunity to escape! There was still hope!
Just as he finished formulated his makeshift plan, something pushed him to his knees and hold him down against the block. What was going on? He strained his neck to see what was holding him. He blanched.
There was the captain in all her shining steel glory, pinning him to the block with a heavy metal boot. Seeing him look up at her, she stepped down even harder against him, crushing his bare chest and neck painfully against the splintering wood. He bit back a yelp as pointed wood dug into flesh. At his obvious pain, she flashed a bright smile and pointed back to the executioner. Arthur's eyes widened and he looked at the true threat, and nearly shouted at the sight of the axe already high in the air. The huge, jagged blade glittered with all the beauty of the new morning, shining as bright as the sun against the bright blue sky. However, so focused was Arthur upon the weapon that he did not see the black winged creature begin its descent towards Helgen.
And then the axe began to fall.
Was it all over?
Then, suddenly, chaos erupted all around him. A force not unlike the gale of a storm blasted into both Arthur and the executioner, sending them flying clear across the square straight into a thick stone wall nearly twenty feet away. Arthur fell to the ground with a thud, seeing stars from the impact of the strange, unrelenting force. Head throbbing painfully, he could hardly make out the sounds of the roars and screams sounding all around him. He tried to stand, but his reeling head sent him back down to his knees.
A moment of rest cleared his head somewhat, and using what little strength he could muster, looked up to see what happened.
What remained of Helgen was ablaze, and far above the flaming town flew a dragon as black as darkest night. As Arthur watched the beast, he was horrified to see it tuck in its wings and begin to drop, its terrible jaws parting to reveal a churning ball of fire. At the last possible moment it snapped open its wings and sent the fireball flying into a watchtower, obliterating it almost completely. And with a series of roars that sounded eerily like laughter, the beast soared back up into the clouds, preparing its next fiery assault.
He had to get out of Helgen, now. Or, at the very least, find shelter from the dragon. He let out a groan as he forced himself to stand, the world spinning and rocking wildly around him. From what he could see, the hamlet had been reduced almost entirely to flaming rubble, as had its residents. Charred or burning bodies littered the square, some still moving and crying out in wretched sobs for help, others for an end to their suffering. Arthur quickly looked away, trying to find a way to help himself before helping anyone else. Where was he? Where was the gate? Where were any of the gates? Arthur looked around for any kind of cover that might save his life.
Through the smoke and debris, Arthur was surprised to see Ralof bending down to the poor souls, helping those who were able to be saved into what looked like a tower. Arthur raised a hand to catch the man's attention and tried to call out, but succeeded in choking on ash and smoke. Covering his mouth and nose with his other hand, Arthur began to stumble over to the tower.
The few yards that separated him from the tower seemed like miles, and the ground lurched and buckled beneath Arthur's feet. One particularly large tremor sent him sprawling to the ground. His hands still bound behind him, he struggled to stand. Arthur watched helplessly as he saw the dragon swoop down towards him, opening its maw in preparation to send more hellfire down onto the hapless people. And with a deafening scream, a column of fire erupted from its gaping mouth, searing ground just feet from Arthur's body.
After the dragon let out another laugh it circled around the town, landing on the ruins of walls and towers to rain fire down on what few soldiers still lived to fight it. Arthur tore his eyes away from the creature and looked back to the tower to see Ralof staring at him. Arthur, his body screaming at him to stop, wrenched himself upright and limped towards the tower. Ralof ran to meet him.
"You're alive!" shouted Ralof over the roaring of the dragon, taking one of Arthur's arms and wrapping it over his shoulders, "The tower's still intact, it's already taken a blast and it's still standing! Mostly!"
"Well, mostly is good," panted Arthur, a faint smile on his face as he gratefully took the support. Together the two men made their way towards the tower. With each step, Arthur grew weaker and weaker, barely able to move by the time they reached the stairs. He fell from Ralof's side and collapsed, struggling to breathe.
The Stormcloak was about to help him back before a booming voice from the tower commanded, "Leave him." Ralof looked up to see Ulfric standing the doorway, staring Ralof down.
Ralof's eyes widened at the command. "Wh-what?"
"Did you not hear me, Rolf? I ordered you to leave him."
"But… but he's not an Imperial!"
Ulfric's brow furrowed and he shouted angrily, "It does not matter! He gave away our position to the Imperials, which makes him just as good as one in my eyes." The Jarl looked up in the sky, "And if you haven't noticed, Rolf, there's a dragon out there who is more than eager to kill us all! We need to move, now!"
Ralof stared at Ulfric in shock. Furious, the soldier shouted, "I'll not leave an innocent man to die!"
"Then you'll both be left to die," said Ulfric, and promptly slammed the door.
Many thanks to my reviewers koryandrs, Santoka, Midwinter Sun, and ToSmithereens for leaving such kind reviews and for, well, taking the time to read my little story. I hope I can give you a story worth following! And yes, Midwinter Sun, it was a very, VERY bad idea on Merlin's part! Thank you all for reading and double thanks to those who are kind enough to leave a review!