I'm really excited about the feedback already! Yay for my fellow gamers! For those of you hanging on having never played Skyrim-go, now, buy it, is worth every cent, er, Septim. But you don't have to. PM the questions if you have 'em.

I don't own anything that is great or worthy in this-plot, characters, dragon language, Ralof's snark...OK, I sort of own that last one. Anyway, I hope this pleases the super nerds of the fandom, or, at the very least, I hope it doesn't offend. I plan on diverging from the original plot more and more as I go, but we'll always end up in relatively the same places. Give me your two Septims if you have a moment. I'd love to know how I'm doing. Amativ!

Ch.2

kotin vulom (into darkness)

We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives.

And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies.

"Hey, white-hair, get up! We might not get another chance!"

He was shaking; from somewhere above, thunder rumbled, vibrating through the bones in his chest.

A storm is coming. I should shut the windows.

"In the name of the Divines, will you wake up? You spend more time in Vaermina's dream land than anyone I've ever—"

There it was again, the shaking. No, wait. He was being shaken. Someone was shaking him.

He opened his eyes to Ralof's slightly out of focus look of concern and the smell of rotten eggs and burning hair.

"Wha—what's on fire?" He could smell it. Come to think of it, he could taste it—sulphur and acid and hot metal. The tang was oddly familiar. Another roll of thunder shook the ground.

"Would you get up? That thing—it'll be back once it's finished with our Imperial friends."

"Thing?"

Ralof grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, one hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Don't you hear it? Come on. We can unscramble your eggs later, boy. We have to find cover." The prisoner stumbled a bit, wrists still bound, as Ralof half dragged him across the square.

The town was already in flames. The very stones of the towers were on fire and the thatched roofs of the houses and those over the patrol paths of the walls were burning outright. Ash floated around them like snow.

How long was I out? It couldn't have been more than a moment.

The creature roared again from somewhere above and a blast of fire followed, exploding what remained of a tower to their right. He shielded his face from the intense heat as a curtain of flaming rock and debris pitted the ground around them, raining down on houses and barns. A woman and two young girls ran out of one hut screaming and batting flames off their clothes.

"Keep your eyes on the sky! It's up in the clouds, but it can surely aim!" Ralof called over a shoulder.

Smoke, drifting in hot, stinging clouds had them coughing and shouting hoarsely to each other by the time they reached the shelter of the few remaining houses. The prisoner barely missed tripping over something charred and smelling vaguely of overcooked ham draped across their path. With horror, he realized it was a body—a cooked one. And several other smoking black piles dotted the courtyard. People were running in every direction, dragging and carrying wounded people, animals, and belongings behind. He could hear them more than see them through the smoke and ash.

The ground rippled as something large and not nearly far enough away landed behind them. They ducked quickly behind the remains of a front porch, clinging to the shadows.

"Is that…that can't be…" He swallowed his words and caught Ralof's eye. The beast roared and another blast of heat nearly took his breath away. They dove for an alley, keeping against the wall.

"You mean you didn't see it?" His companion looked incredulous. "You had a prime view from the chopping block. Of course, you might have been distracted by that axe coming for your neck."

They both stopped and cast a look back through the eerie haze.

What did I see? The whole morning had left him reeling and slightly numb—like one of those nightmares you can't wake from but you know it's just too terrible to be true. But then there was a shadow, something with wings and glowing red eyes. It seemed like…like it knew me. And it spoke.

No, that can't be. An animal doesn't speak.

"I—I don't know what I saw. Wings? Fangs? Something impossible. I thought it was an illusion."

"Then you saw it, alright—a bloody black fire-breathing monster!" Ralof stopped, holding up a hand for him to wait just before they reached the city walls, darting a look back at what the prisoner guessed was the dragon circling somewhere behind and above them. He didn't dare check.

"You're one lucky bastard, you know that? I think you were the only one that close who survived. The bastard headsman, those three Imperial guards, and the priestess—smoked. Just like that." He shook his head. "Did you piss yourself? Boy, I think I did. Ah, in here!" He grabbed the prisoner's arm and pulled him through an opening in the wall and into one of the guard towers. The door was only open for a second before someone was bolting it behind them, barricading the entrance with the remains of a chair.

Although warmer and brighter, the tower was no less gruesome than the courtyard. Several wounded or burned rebels had been dragged inside, some lay bleeding from gashes so deep, bones and organs glistened in the torchlight.

"Did you see what happened to that girl—the blond?" He asked once they were inside.

"You mean the scrappy kid that knocked you one? Little inconvenient time to be thinking with your nether regions."

"No! I think she...she might know who I am."

"Well, she looked tough, and I didn't see her go down, so you might still get a piece when it's all over." He clapped him hard on the back, forcing a cough that tasted like ashes and ham. "Granted she doesn't haul you back in for surviving your own beheading."

"Ralof!" The man who'd barricaded the door grasped him roughly by the arms, eyes wide. "Is it true? Are the legends true? Is it really a dragon?"

"It is. I thought the pages of the Elder Scrolls themselves came alive when I saw the bloody thing hanging off the tower." He replied. "I never thought I'd live to see the legends come true."

"Ralof, don't frighten them. It's a beast, that's all it is. You know as well as I do, legends don't burn down villages." The prisoner turned as Ulfric, the man Tullius called a traitor and Ralof called lord, appeared behind them, ungagged and unbound with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

He couldn't help openly studying him—the man they say killed a king with a mere word. What was it the general had said? A hero doesn't use a power like the voice to kill his king and usurp his throne. This man didn't look like a hero or a king; he just looked tired and worried and dusty like the rest of them.

"You saw it, too, my lord. It couldn't be anything else."

"Yes, I saw it well enough. But a dragon is no more a stranger to this land than a saber cat or an ice wolf or a Nord, for that matter. Just because we hunted them to the edge of Oblivion doesn't mean there aren't a few remaining."

"But—"

"This is a creature, a beast, not some harbinger of the end times."

As if hearing his legend so dismissed, the beast let loose a roar that made the hair on the prisoner's arms rise; it was much closer now than when they'd rushed in. The tower shook. Mortar and dust rained down.

"It's found us!" Ulfric shouted. "Ralof, Korlad, we need to move! Grab anyone you can carry and follow me." He threw one unconscious man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and made for the stone staircase that wound its way up the inside of the tower behind them.

"What? Where are we-?" He sputtered. Ralof shoved him forward.

"Less talk, more climbing. Would you rather be here when that dragon brings the place down around us?"

"You do realize dragons fly?" He struggled to maintain his balance on the steep stairs as Ralof pushed him and the tower shook with the force of a great body slamming into it. "Going up is just…putting us all at a more convenient biting level!" He called to the line of men ahead of him. "For the love of—could you at least untie me? I can't even defend myself."

"Oh, so you do have opinions? Eh, white-hair? Here I thought you were a bit daft—after all those knocks to the head—thought maybe you couldn't do anything but ask stupid questions." Ralof chuckled through a fit of coughing and proceeded to mock him in a high-pitched voice. "Where am I, Ralof? What is that, Ralof? What's going on, Ralof?"

The prisoner was just about to turn around and let him know just how many opinions he actually had on how gods damned stupid this whole situation was, and how the lot of them—and the Imperials—could go to Sovngarde and clean unholy privies together in eternity for all he cared, when another blow to the tower immediately preceded the chilling sound of stone cracking and giving way above them.

"Gods, the—all of you, get away from that wall!" Ralof shouted. Too late.

A chunk of wall the size of a dinner table came sailing past their heads along with a torrent of fire, several bodies, and air so hot he could hear his own skin sizzling. He flattened himself against the steps just in time to feel the scrape of debris across his cheek as it blew past and exploded into fiery stone shrapnel on the floor below. Any wounded men they'd left behind would be with their gods now.

"Keep going, you idiots!" Ralof shouted, grinning manically. "There's a roof on the other side of the tower and the beast has made us a nice balcony!"

"For what? Enjoying the view?!" He dragged himself forward. Ulfric and the others ahead of them disappeared into a rolling cloud of dust and smoke. He followed the hazy silhouette of one man jumping through the wall and then another. The creature roared. The sound of its jaws snapping shut over bones and flesh was enough to tell him at least one of those soldiers had not made it to the roof. His dying scream was thankfully short.

"I didn't escape a beheading just to become some legendary beast's mid-morning snack!"

"Look, sweet roll, I'd rather take our chances out there than stay in here and let him smoke us to death. He's eaten, obviously." Ralof grimaced. "So, he probably isn't interested in us now. Just…don't think about it, yeah?" Somehow, even with blood and sweat running down his face and a fire-breathing monster grumbling outside, the rebel managed to look mostly unfazed—as if this was just another day.

The prisoner turned back to the opening, peering around the edge for signs of the beast. Ralof pointed through it to the broken roof beams and blazing floorboards of a building below. "See the inn there below us? Jump through the roof and onto the second floor. The dragon won't even see you if you're fast enough. And I'll be right behind you."

"Just…jump? With my hands bound?"

"I don't have a weapon on me, kid, and I don't have time to find one to free you. Tuck and roll."

"Are you out of your skull you—" And with that, the man gave him an unceremonious shove and he was flying through the smoke and burning embers of sky above the village. The roof and floor beyond rushed up too fast—the prisoner wasn't prepared, and having already been unconscious twice in as many hours certainly didn't help with his reflexes. At least that was what he told himself as his head clipped a loose ceiling joist and the shockwave it sent down his spine sent him reeling nearly into darkness again. He barely felt his body hit the ground.

"I..I'm going to kill you…Ralof. If you ever…untie me." He moaned, struggling through the heaviness of yet another brush with unconsciousness. But then he felt those cool hands on him again—on the side of his throat and his arm. He sighed and let his muscles relax. He supposed if he was to have an angel of some sort transport his half-burnt, obviously useless, sorry excuse for soul to Aetherius or Sovngarde or wherever, it might as well be her—the only one who knew him. She was a little scrawny, but she'd do.

"Gods, you're heavy." She groaned. He started awake. The blond dwarf soldier girl—his blond dwarf soldier girl—was currently dragging him by the elbow toward one of the caved-in walls of the inn. He could just make out the brightness of sky behind her head through the gaping holes in the walls and the sun was shining on his face through the ceiling. Apparently he'd fallen through both the roof and the second floor. He was starting to wonder if the gods wanted him dead or if they just wanted to leave him crippled and dumb.

Wait, where is she taking me? He flashed back to the headsman and bolted upright. His violent shifting knocked her off balance and she stumbled away from him, quickly drawing a dagger from some hidden sheath in her leather armor, green eyes wide.

"Hey! I'm trying to save you, you ungrateful cretin! This place is going to collapse any minute!"

"Save me? Why would you save me?"

He watched as her eyebrows drew together in complete shock at his question. She'd lost her helmet and her dark blond hair—once probably braided—was all askew and hanging in her eyes and covered in ash. She must have found a massive sword as well, because it was now strapped to her back and the hilt was sticking up like a horn behind her head. He would have laughed if she didn't look so tiny and angry.

She's too young to be fighting a war, he thought. And then he wondered just how old he was. They'd said he had white hair, yet Ralof had called him "boy." He was in too much pain from being thrown out of buildings and tossed out of carts and nearly cooked alive to gage how old his body felt. His brain certainly felt young enough to be afraid and terribly confused, but then who wouldn't be without memories to tie anchor to.

"Why would I…save you?" She repeated his question, voice rising in disbelief.

"Yes. Why?"

"Is this really the time to be asking that? You're lucky I saw you fall out of that tower at all."

"Pushed, I was pushed, and yes. I think this is the perfect time for you to start explaining yourself. Before one or both of us is roasted alive, if you don't mind."

She studied him a moment, eyes dancing in obvious frustration and spots of hot color appearing in her cheeks. Finally her fingers loosened on the hilt of her dagger and she sighed. "All right, if you must know. I made you a promise before you…before you forgot who you were."

"A promise?"

"Yes. I promised I would help you if I could. I don't know why in the gods' names I promised, but I didn't wager on a dragon attack, and you know what they say about hindsight…"

"No. I don't know what they say. Because I have no memories."

She winced. "I might know something about that too."

He opened his mouth to—politely—demand she explain herself when they were interrupted by a piercing scream. She stiffened.

"Was that?"

Another scream—undoubtedly that of a child. Their eyes met briefly before a third scream spurred her into action. She sheathed the dagger, told him to get his "arse" moving before the roof came down on top of him and darted back out an opening in the wall into the brightness of the vulnerable outside world.

He took one look at the smoking ruins around him, swore, and followed her, nearly tripping over yet another broken shield at his feet as he watched her charge across the open street toward the source of the screams.

It's probably just a goat or a—it was a young boy, not more than 100 paces from the inn, huddled in the shadows of another ruined house. The prisoner squinted in the glare. It was Haming—he remembered the child's round face and keen eyes watching them as they rode into town. And he remembered the boy's father's look of resigned disgust as they passed. He wasn't sure which group the father had been more disgusted with—the soldiers or the rebel prisoners—but it didn't much matter now.

Let the children have their dreams, for as long as they can carry them.

But now that same sheltered boy was screaming, white tear tracks down his cheeks, clutching at his dead father's hand in the bare dirt. He was utterly exposed. And the dragon was bound to hear him shrieking and come to claim another snack.

The soldier was running flat out now, yelling for the boy to get down, move, get away. But he was wholly distraught—he heard nothing. He certainly couldn't imagine the nightmare that had just killed his father returning for him. He was screaming because he was sure he would wake from it.

Sometimes it's better to stay asleep.

Behind them, the beast beat its great wings, sending a cyclone of wind and stinging dirt and sound in its wake as it dove out of the clouds. "YOL!" It screamed; a curling tide of fire rolled down from the clouds, catching the burning embers in the air and setting them blazing again.

For the longest two heartbeats of his—albeit short—life thus far, the prisoner watched the fire wash over the street and was sure his soldier was going to die right then, in front of him, and anything he might have learned about himself and his past would die with her—catch fire and burn to ruins.

"Get down!" He yelled. She dropped to one knee, rolling deftly as the blaze whipped over her head. His heart only started again when she looked back over her shoulder at him briefly and kept going.

Gods damn these people! Are they all insane?

Swearing more curses under his breath—because the previous one had felt so good on his tongue—the prisoner grabbed up the remains of the shield at his feet with his bound hands. It was too light and had little more than three wide slats of charred wood and a bit of the outer binding left, but it was all he had.

What am I doing? What am I doing?!

He took off after her.

The beast was directly overhead now, its shadow turning the world beneath to dusk. Time seemed to crawl as he lunged toward the girl, who'd put herself bravely—foolishly—in front of Haming and was in the process of drawing that impossibly long great sword from its sheath on her back.

He had only a fraction of a heartbeat to decide, but it was a decision he'd already made when he saw her face, green eyes blazing, as she readied her rusted old sword over her head and prepared to battle a creature who had—until just this morning—existed only in legends and children's tales. He couldn't let her die, at least not until she told him what she knew.

The prisoner turned and threw his body in front of her, the remains of the shield the only thing between them and an incoming blast of white fire. He closed his eyes as it hit. Sparks and tendrils of fire exploded around the shield, blasting his legs and shoulders just long enough to know he'd probably be missing all the hair there for a while and knocked him back into her. The dragon flew past with a screech as they landed in a pile over Haming's father's body.

Yes, I should have stayed asleep, he thought painfully. His lungs burned and his throat was on fire, but he was alive.

"You…idiot." She growled from somewhere beneath him. He rolled off her legs quickly, tossing the remains of the shield to the side, and studying her for any fatal injury as he helped her to her feet.

"I could have handled that." She snapped, brushing off her armor with both hands and scowling.

"With…that?" He asked, blinking and pointing to her great sword.

"Yes."

"That thing's more rust than sword. And can you even lift it?"

"I—Yes, of course! And it's a family heirloom. It was made by the Iron Spirit himself!"

Iron Spirit? Somehow that name sounded annoyingly familiar.

"Oh, sorry, so you were planning on what, stabbing the fire with this over sized wall decoration?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you, prisoner."

"Now that, right there, is not my name. I don't presently know what my name is because you haven't told me, but prisoner is certainly not it."

She huffed. "It's what you are, so it might as well be. Where's the boy? I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

"Um, did you hear me? I need to know who I am."

"It's all a bit complicated. Did you see which way he went?"

"A person's entire identity generally is!"

"Look, prisoner,Ihave a duty to defend this town and these people first. If we both survive it, I'll tell you everything I know. Now, help me find that boy."

He supposed she had a small—very tiny—but valid point, though he certainly didn't want to admit it when she was looking so…so self-righteous and heroic. He sighed, pointing in the direction of a group of villagers huddled in a stone archway across the street. The boy was with them.

From the clouds above, another peal of thunder—the roar of the beast, he reminded himself—echoed down and shattered against the mountains.

"We have to get them out of here. For some reason that thing wants this town to burn, and I don't think it's finished." She murmured.

"Stormcloaks!" Haming cried, pointing behind them.

It was Ralof, appearing out of the smoke and the looking perhaps even dirtier and bloodier than when he saw him last. Three of his men followed on his heels. The girl stiffened beside him, picking up her sword and leveling it at the incoming men.

"Ralof! Where are Ulfric and the other prisoners?"

"Long gone, princess." He smirked.

"Dead?"

"Not all."

"By order of the Emperor, you must tell me which direction they went. I'll speak for you personally. I swear it. I'll make sure you all receive a fair trial in Solitude."

The rebel laughed, shaking his head. The other Stormcloaks drew their weapons slowly.

"You mean you'll let us beg forgiveness and repent of our rebel ways at the High Queen's feet? Thanks but no thanks. A free Nord born in Skyrim will always be a rebel in the eyes of the Empire. And I'd rather be dead than bow to any man or woman who denies me the right to worship Talos." He spat.

"Free? Look around you. Freedom has nothing to do with it." The soldier's green eyes burned. "I, too, was born here in Skyrim, like all of you! And I call myself free. Yet I still see the honor in maintaining peace and order for the good of all."

Her words echoed strangely above the din and smoke and left a chill in their wake—he felt it down his spine. And for a moment, he could see her point. Battle, bloodshed, brutality—those were the offspring of rebellion. Freedom might come, but bought at a great cost. More often than not, throwing the yoke of one tyrant meant shackling oneself to the next in line.

The Stormcloaks beside Ralof blinked, looking dazed, their weapon hands faltering. Ralof drew his own sword.

"You aren't one of us, Imperial. You might have been born in the snow, but you speak like a silver tongue if I ever heard one. Which was it? Your ma or your pa? I'd wager you haven't a drop of true Nord blood in your veins you Cirodiilian bitch. Go back to your Emperor or we'll send you back in pieces!"

She lunged for him, sword ready, snarling. The prisoner grabbed her arm, wrestling the heavy blade to the ground. "What are you doing? I have a duty!" She shoved him off.

"You're out numbered, you fool!" He grabbed her wrist as she went for the blade again, but she wrenched it away.

Gods, she's stronger than she looks.

"Listen to him, princess. Tullius and your legionnaire cronies have fled the city. You're all that's left."

"Then I'll take you all in myself."

"There's only one way out of Helgen—one road." Ralof said. "And we're here to make sure you stay off it until Ulfric is long gone."

"We'll be trapped. There are innocent people here!"

"And we have a war to win."

She threw herself at him again, bashing her shoulder painfully into the prisoner's body and—undoubtedly—his several hundred bruises. He held back a snarl of pain as the other Stormcloaks shifted nervously, not sure whether to attack or hold their ground.

"You can't fight them all by yourself!" He pushed her back with both hands and she stumbled a bit in the loose dirt of the road. But when he turned, he found himself staring down the point of Ralof's sword and behind it a hard stare.

"You're siding with the wrong pretty face, sweet roll."

"She's just a kid. She isn't a threat to you or Ulfric, not really. And we need to get these people out of here before that thing comes back."

"Not a threat?" He scoffed. "She's one of them."

"She's a greenhorn, like you said, remember? Killing her won't end your war. It won't even ruffle Tullius's hair."

"She stood by. Like all the other traitorous Imperial bastards."

"I did my duty!" She cried. "I'm loyal to Skyrim and her people, not just my ego, but if that makes me a traitor in your eyes, then so be it!"

"Hey, you aren't helping!"He scowled over his shoulder at her. She—dutifully—ignored him.

"Ralof, these people have lost their homes and their loved ones. At least take your men and lead them out of here." He said.

"And what about her? Your little greenhorn will follow us."

"You're damn right—"

He turned with a growl and grabbed her arm again, forcing her to look at him. "We have to get these people to safety. That's more important than the Empire's vendetta against Ulfric, right? You said it yourself. They are your duty."

And my duty right now is to keep you alive until I figure out who in Shor's infernal hoard I'm supposed to be,
he thought.

Her face paled at his words, eyes darting to the people behind them watching the powers that be argue over their fates. The dragon rumbled in agitation from above. She sighed, shoulders sagging.

"The keep." She said finally. "They built it over a system of caves. It leads out far north of Helgen on the road to Riverwood. You should be able to guide these people to safety on the main road and be long gone by the time I find my way out of there."

"And how do we know you won't follow once we leave?"

She glared up at them through her bangs. "I suppose you'll have to lock me in."