He felt a bump in the road, shaking the carriage and waking him. Shaking his head slightly in an effort to alleviate the sharp pain in his temple, his eyes flickered open to a less-than-comforting view of his own hands crossed and bound tightly.

'You, finally awake.'

He looked up to see a blonde Nord with a single braid on the left of his face.

'You tried to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial Ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.'

The man nodded to his left, indicating the second of the three men in the cart, another Nord, though this one rather scraggly in appearance, his tan rags distinguishing him from the first man, who was wearing slightly rusted chain mail armour beneath his bluish cloak and padded leather cuirass.

The second man simply scowled at the first. 'Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine, until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy.' He shook his head slightly, diverting his eyes to the bottom of the cart. 'If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.' He glanced up to the Breton. 'You there, you and me. We shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.'

'We're all brothers and sisters in binds, now.' The first man stated complacently.

The cart was shaken by another bump, and the driver looked back irritably. 'Shut up back there!'

The four sat in silence for a few moments, only the trotting of the horses and the carts' wheels were heard. The dark-haired Nord nodded to the fourth man, gagged, but dressed in a noble's clothing. 'What's wrong with him, huh?'

The first man furrowed his eyebrows, turning his head in obvious annoyance. 'Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.'

'Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you...' The man paused a moment, shaking his head. 'Oh gods, where are the taking us?'

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

'No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening...'

The cart grew quiet, for a while. The Breton's head was throbbing, and he drifted back to sleep. He wasn't gone for too long, perhaps an hour, when the man in the chain mail armour spoke up, interrupting his rest. 'Hey, what village are you from?'

Looking back up from the floor of the cart, the second man sighed. 'Why do you care?'

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

'Rorikstead... I'm... I'm from Rorikstead.'

Turning the corner, the carts made their final descent down a narrow dirt path. Looking to his left, the Breton saw a walled town, presumably their destination. At least a dozen archers lined the walls, and he could see just to the right of the gatehouse a large stone building that he assumed to be the keep. He looked down, closing his eyes, thinking of his mother, of his dog, the last small reminders of home..

'General Tullius, Sir, the Headsman is waiting!'

The Breton brought his head up, took a breath, and opened his eyes.

'Good let's get this over with.'

The second man, the Breton assumed, was General Tullius. While no expert on Imperial politics, he was certain he'd heard the name before... The dark-haired Nord, however, was not so calm in accepting this all.

'Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh.. Divines... Please help me...'

The Breton restrained himself from kicking the man. This was no time to bring up that 'divine' nonsense. This was an execution, and they may as well go through with it in honour. He blinked as they pulled out from under the gatehouse; there was no shade in the town square. The Breton felt very exposed.

'Look at him...' The blonde man said. 'General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves.. I bet they had something to do with this.'

Looking over at the man's scowling face, then to General Tullius, the Breton had a moment of revelation. This was the man he had heard about, the one who was sent to reunite the Nords and end the rebellion. Ironic, being in custody of the Empire, when his father had been an Imperial mage for years..

'This is Helgen.' Continued the blonde man. 'I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries in it..' He took a breath. 'Funny... When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.'

The Breton nodded to this, unsure of just how to respond to the man. He seemed to be a real person, not at all like the images of Nord rebels he had heard of in High Rock. He shrugged it off, his head too sore to consider at the moment.

'Who are they, daddy, where are they going?'

A small boy, not even to his adolescence, was sitting on the steps of a building, watching the carts roll by.

'You need to go inside, little cub.'

'Why? I want to watch the soldiers!'

'Inside the house, now.'

'Yes, papa...'

In spite of the situation, the Breton cracked a smile. The boy had made him remember his own childhood, not knowing the ins and outs of the world, thinking everything was friendly, and good. Poor kid probably had never been allowed to see an execution before... Executions... That brought him back into reality.

'Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!'

The dark man looked up. 'Why are we stopping?'

'Why do you think?' replied the Stormcloak. 'End of the line.'

Just as the cart pulled into the spot, an Imperial soldier pulled down the back, motioning toward the four of them to get off.

'Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.'

Exiting the cart, the thief looked around nervously, looking for anything to help him away from there. 'No, wait! We're not rebels!' He pleaded

Sighing, the blonde man turned his head to face him. 'Face your death with some courage, thief.'

'You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!'

The same woman who had ordered them removed from the carts, dressed in metal-studded Imperial armour, was now standing right next to a clearly inferior officer who was holding a ledger. She yelled with a loud, seemingly confident voice, but the Breton could spot several signs of nerves and hesitation. 'Step towards the block when we call your name! One at a time.'

'Ugh...' Sighed the Stormcloak. 'Empire loves their damn lists.

It was now the ledger-man's turn to glance nervously at the cross-armed assembly of elves behind General Tullius, clear his throat, and continue.

'Ulfric Stormcloak... Jarl of Windhelm.'

As ulfric stepped forward, the blonde Nord, as well as several like-dressed men from the other cart, nodded to him in respect. 'It's been an honour, Jarl Ulfric.'

The soldier with the ledger widened his eyes at the next name, seemingly uncomfortable at its presence on the list. 'Ah.. Ralof, of Riverwood.'

The blonde Nord, Ralof, took two steps toward the man, nodded toward him, and moved where the Jarl had gone, toward the block. Having regained his composure now, after the seemingly painful silence that had followed Ralof's name, he again cleared his throat and proceeded with the list.

'Lokir, of Rorikstead.'

'No!' Lokir cried out. 'I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!'

With that, he began to run as fast as he can with his hands tied, toward the gatehouse of this city, Helgen. 'Halt!' Yelled the captain in charge.

'You're not going to kill me!' Lokir shouted in despair.

'Archers!' An archer raised his bow, and shot at the fleeing prisoner, hitting him directly in his lower back, causing him to fall to the ground, crying out in pain.

The captain shook her head, her face turning red from embarrassment and anger. 'Anyone else feel like running?'

After taking a deep breath, with one more look at the General, the soldier with the list turned toward the Breton. Wait, you... Step forward. Who are you?'