The rattle of a moving wagon rumbled in Kyrie's ears long before she managed to stir her aching muscles and open her eyes. She sat up slowly, flinching and blinking at the sudden burst of light that flooded her vision. When the blurriness faded, the young woman found herself in the back of a wagon driven by an armed Legionnaire. Her sword was gone. Her rucksack was gone. Even her overclothes were gone, leaving her dressed in nothing but the ragged clothes she had been wearing beneath her leather armor. Her hands were bound and rested uncomfortably in her lap.
Memories of the moments before she went unconscious flooded her mind, and quickly Kyrie glanced at the other people in the wagons around her. Her heart sank when she failed to spot Ayrlyn, and she covered her face with her hands in shame. If only she had been content to stay in Cyrodiil. If only she had told Ayrlyn to stay home. If only...if only...if only...
"Hey! You!"
Kyrie glanced up at the sound of an accented male voice, her eyes resting on the figure sitting across from her on the wagon. He was a handsome man, dressed in some sort of blue and grey light armor, if it could even be considered armor at all. His hair was a rich blond and hung to just above his shoulders, a strand to the left of his face having been braided.
"You were trying to cross the border, right?" he continued. "Walked right into that imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
He motioned with his head toward a dark-haired man in rags sitting at the end of the wagon. The thief flinched and grit his teeth, clenching his fists together when he heard the man speak. Kyrie glanced in the direction the blond indicated before shaking her head.
"I was already across the border," she responded. "What's going on?"
"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief bit bitterly, not even giving the blond-haired man the chance to answer Kyrie's question. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."
At that the thief turned to look at Kyrie.
"You there," he said. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
Kyrie frowned at him doubtfully.
I shouldn't be here, she thought. Not so sure about you.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Stormcloak replied slowly, his words laced with venom.
The thief scoffed and looked as though he might have replied to the Stormcloak's words, but he couldn't say anything before the guard driving the wagon threw a fiery glare over his shoulder.
"Shut up back there!" the guard barked before turning back to the uneven road before him.
Kyrie wrinkled her nose at the guard's back.
Honestly, she thought to herself. What does he think we're going do? Talk him to death? We're already tied up, and it's not like we're plotting escape. What's wrong with talking? Horker.
A rueful chuckle escaped the thief's lips, and he turned toward the man sitting across from him, who was dressed in fine clothes and sitting stone still. This other man had been gagged, but he looked out on the world through a pair of keen eyes. There was a nobility, a pride about him, and Kyrie wondered if he was a nobleman of some sort.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" the thief said.
Immediately the Stormcloak sitting across from Kyrie stiffened.
"Watch your tongue!" the blond commanded, his voice sharp and warning. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" the thief questioned, obviously startled. He turned to the one called Ulfric. "You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you...oh gods! Where are they taking us?"
Kyrie could hear panic rising in the thief's voice. Quietly she glanced down the sloping road as it curved around the forest trees. True high king? Rebellion? Ambush? The thief's panicked voice caused a lump to form in the young woman's throat as the realization of what was going on finally struck her.
It sounds as though I'm in a bit of trouble, Kyrie laughed inwardly. Just my luck.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," the Stormcloak replied solemnly.
The young woman felt as though her heart had dropped into the pit of her stomach.
Oh. Bloody. Oblivion.
"No! This can't be happening. This isn't happening!" the thief exclaimed, covering his face with his hands.
Kyrie could feel a shiver run down her spine. A fool. She had been a bloody fool. How could she have ignored the rumors of rebellion? Of course, who would have guessed that the imperials would have marked her as a rebel? And as she glanced around at the other people in the wagons that rumbled down the road, this question began to grow bigger in Kyrie's mind. She didn't look anything like a Stormcloak. If nothing else, she certainly didn't have the Stormcloak armor. She could feel herself relax slightly. It had been dark the night before and the imperials had been eager to catch the rebels. All she had to do was explain her situation and she should be able to go free. She didn't doubt that the Empire had its sights set on the thief, but Kyrie had done nothing wrong. Surely they would let her go.
As she looked at the people in the other wagons, Kyrie spotted Hara, who had also been stripped of her armor and weapon. It was strange, but the dark-haired woman seemed to look more imposing now than she had in her armor. There was a menacing expression on her face as she leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her thighs and her chin in her bound hands. Her right foot tapped impatiently against the wood floor of the wagon in which she sat, and Kyrie couldn't help but wonder if it would be dangerous to release the woman now. She had a look in her eye that was absolutely murderous.
Just then, the Stormcloak in front of Kyrie began to speak and the young woman glanced back over to the people immediately in her wagon.
"Hey...what village are you from, horse thief?" the Stormcloak questioned. His tone was decidedly softer than it had been before.
"Why do you care?" the thief responded bitterly.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," the Stormcloak replied, his voice laden with emotion.
The thief paused. His voice was choked when he at last spoke.
"Rorikstead," he said. "I'm...I'm from Rorikstead."
Home… Kyrie thought. Did she even know what "home" was anymore? The thought of Ayrlyn crossed her mind and she choked back a sob. Without her sister, could she ever call any place home again?
By this point, the first signs of a village could be seen down the path, and a moment later, the wagon turned a corner. Kyrie could now see a village spreading out before her, with high stone walls and wood-framed buildings.
"General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting," a nearby guard called to a man in fancy imperial regalia.
"Good. Let's get this over with," the one called General Tullius replied.
A wave of panic swept over Kyrie when the general's words caught her ears. She swallowed and clenched her fists, trying to stay calm.
Now, now, Kyrie thought sarcastically, trying to keep herself from allowing her fear, and anger, and sadness to overtake her. Let's all keep our heads, please. She paused at this thought. Oh my. That was bad.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh, Divines please help me!" the thief exclaimed.
The Stormcloak seemed to have his own way of facing his death.
"Look at him!" he said, pure venom dripping from every word he spoke. "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!"
He paused for a moment as he glanced around at the village, then a sad expression crossed his face.
"Ahhh, this is Helgen," the Stormcloak sighed, a sense of longing creeping into his voice. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny. When I was a boy, imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
Me, too, Kyrie thought with a sigh. She glanced around at the large group of prisoners in the wagons in front of her. No trial. No discretion between the guilty and the innocent. Just the headsman. Is this really what Skyrim has become? Is this really what the Empire has become? I didn't realize head-lobbing was a sport.
"Who are they, Daddy? Where are they going?" came the sound of a young boy's voice.
Kyrie turned to see a boy of about 8 or 9 standing off to the side of the road. She watched as the man near him urged him toward one of the houses.
"You need to go inside," the father said.
"Why? I wanna watch the soldiers."
"Inside the house. Now."
Kyrie stiffened as the wagon began to slow to a stop.
"Yes, Papa," she heard the boy reply.
Youth and all its innocence. Kyrie could only wonder what would become of Skyrim...what would become of the Empire...if this sort of behavior continued. What would happen to the children who would grow up under the rule of a government so unjust as the one she now faced? Had she really ever aspired to become one of them? The thought immediately morphed her lingering fear into a sense of hatred and she shuddered slightly as a wave of anger washed over her body and spirit. Quietly she lifted her head toward the imperial guards. If she had to die, she hoped that her death would mean something. But even if it didn't, she would go to Sovngarde with courage. At least, she hoped she would…
Just then the wagon pulled to a stop in front of a stone wall.
"Why are we stopping?" the horse thief asked, looking around with wide, frightened eyes.
"Why do you think?" the Stormcloak replied. "End of the line. Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
"No! Wait! We're not rebels!"
"Face your death with some courage, thief."
"You've got to tell them we weren't with you! This is a mistake!"
Kyrie watched as the thief and Ulfric Stormcloak reluctantly stepped out of the wagon before she followed suit. Already several imperial soldiers had gathered in front of them. One, a woman with strong, square shoulders and a sour expression on her face, was dressed in high-grade armor; the one standing beside her, a man of roughly Kyrie's own age or possibly slightly older, was clad in regular armor. He held a list in hand and stood attentively waiting for orders.
"Step toward the block when we call your name," the female soldier barked harshly. Kyrie assumed she was the guard captain. "One at a time!"
A sigh escaped the Stormcloak's lips and Kyrie glanced over at him.
"Empire loves their damn lists."
The guard in regular armor lifted his list and began to read.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
Kyrie watched as the man with the gag in his mouth stepped forward. He still couldn't speak aloud, but his eyes spoke for him. He was proud, and he was defiant. There was no fear in those eyes.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," the Stormcloak said solemnly.
The Jarl paused only briefly, closing his eyes and nodding slightly in recognition of his comrade's words.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
The Stormcloak stepped forward, his posture as proud and strong as that of the jarl. One corner of Kyrie's mouth twitched up in a half smile. If it were possible to come back and haunt people after death, she would make sure to find Ralof and Jarl Ulfric and add them to her list of haunting buddies. There was certainly retribution to be paid.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
The thief, who stood in front of Kyrie, jumped slightly when he heard his name called.
"No! I'm not a rebel!" he exclaimed. "You can't do this!"
Kyrie's mouth dropped slightly as she watched the one called Lokir bolt past the guards, back up the trail in the direction they had come.
"Halt!" the guard captain shouted.
Oh, yes, halt! I only want to chop your head off. I can't think of any possible reason why you would feel like running away, Kyrie thought sarcastically.
"You're not gonna kill me!" Lokir shouted back.
Kyrie's eyelids dropped slightly in an I-can't-believe-you-really-just-said-that look. Famous last words, she thought to herself.
"Archers!"
The young woman watched as an archer put an arrow to her bow and loosed it at the escaping prisoner. The thief fell dead, the arrow in his back.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the guard captain asked menacingly, her cold grey eyes glancing between the remaining prisoners.
Ass. You're the first one I'm coming back for.
The guard with the list grimaced slightly, then turned back to Kyrie.
"Wait. You there, step forward. Who are you?" he asked.
The bitch that's going to come back from Sovngarde and eat your soul for breakfast, Kyrie thought to herself.
"Kyrie," the young woman replied stiffly. "Raised in the Imperial City, but originally from Solitude."
"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman," the guard said, his voice tinged with regret. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."
His voice almost sounded hopeful, as though perhaps he was going to try to get Kyrie out of a death sentence if at all possible.
Ok, fine. You're not so bad. I won't eat your soul. I've got bigger fish to fry.
"Forget the list. She goes to the block," the captain responded curtly.
You, bitch, are one of those bigger fish.
"By your orders, Captain," the guard responded. He turned to look at Kyrie. "I'm sorry. But at least you'll die here, in your homeland. Follow the captain, prisoner."
Oh, sure. That's comforting.
Kyrie frowned at him as she turned in the direction the guard had indicated. He was probably as helpless as she was when it came to the guard captain's decisions, so she found it hard to hold it against him.
Still, though, she thought as she lined up with the other prisoners. You picked the wrong job, sir.
Just then Kyrie felt someone elbow her arm and she glanced up to see Hara. For the first time, the young woman noticed just how truly imposing Hara was. Kyrie wasn't short, but the other woman must have stood a good three or four inches above her. Her shoulders were broad and square and her arms rippled with muscle. She looked every bit the Nord she was.
"I think your sister made it," Hara said softly, her eyes focused on General Tullius as the man stepped toward Ulfric Stormcloak.
Kyrie's heart leapt slightly at Hara's words. Hope. There was still hope for Ayrlyn. It was a comfort, at least, since it was Kyrie's own foolishness that had gotten her sister in that mess to begin with.
Quickly Kyrie glanced around at the prisoners crowding around her. She and Hara weren't the only ones who didn't look like Stormcloaks. There was also an elf there, possibly a Bosmer, though her skin was exceptionally fair and, aside from some facial features and the pointed ears, she really didn't look much like an elf at all. She also was possibly the only one of the group who looked neither frightened nor angry. Actually, she almost looked bored. Kyrie couldn't help but wonder what had landed that one in the same predicament as herself and Hara.
"Ulfric Stormcloak," came General Tullius's voice. Kyrie glanced back at the Imperial. "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."
Kyrie stood a little straighter at this comment. The Voice? Murder? What was the general talking about?
Ulfric grunted bitterly in reply.
"You started this war," the general continued, "plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."
Peace? Kyrie thought bitterly. You mean the kind of peace that allows you to execute innocent people without a fair trial? Oh, yes. That sounds peachy to me.
All of a sudden a distant roar split the still air and several of the guards glanced around nervously.
"What was that?" the guard with the list questioned.
"It's nothing," General Tullius replied. "Carry on."
"Yes, General Tullius!" the guard captain chimed.
Kyrie huffed slightly. You are such a lapdog.
"Give them their last rites," the captain continued, turning to a robe-clad priestess standing just beyond the rugged chopping block and ominous, ax-wielding headsman.
The priestess nodded, then lifted her arms and began, "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight Divines upon you."
You're about to chop my bloody head off, Kyrie thought. Like Oblivion, I want your blessing.
It seemed Kyrie wasn't the only one put off by the priestess's showy act, for immediately one of the Stormcloak prisoners stepped forward.
"Nirn our beloved-" the priestess continued.
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" the man snapped, stomping over to the chopping block.
"As you wish," the priestess huffed, turning away.
Kyrie couldn't help but roll her eyes slightly.
"Come on! I haven't got all morning!" the Stormcloak growled.
He gave the guards around him one more fiery glare before turning to the chopping block. For a moment he paused, staring at the scarred stone before him. Then one of the guards pressed him down until his head rested on the stone.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, imperials. Can you say the same?"
Kyrie watched with growing trepidation as the headsman raised his ax. Shouts of "You Imperial bastards!" mingled with "Justice!" and "Death to the Stormcloaks!" Then...thwack!
Kyrie flinched slightly and averted her eyes as the ax came down on the Stormcloak's neck. It was one thing to have a fair chance in a fight. It was another thing to think, That's going to be my head and I can't do a damn thing about it.
"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof sighed.
Kyrie glanced over at the man next to her. Yes. Fearless, indeed. She wasn't sure she could match up to that, but she'd certainly try.
"Next, the Nord in the rags," the guard captain called, pointing at Kyrie.
The young woman drew in a deep breath. She could feel her legs trembling beneath her. Though it was hard to believe right now, she knew that death by beheading was probably one of the better fates she could have met. After all, it would be quick and painless. Small comfort that was.
All of a sudden, another roar split the still mountain air. It was louder this time, and Kyrie glanced around at the sky. It wasn't like any roar she had ever heard before, and it sounded as though it were coming from above. Of course, that was unlikely. Only birds could fly, and there were no birds that she could think of that could make a sound quite like that. No, it must have been her imagination, a sound from the mountain that only seemed to have come from the air. But still… A chill ran up and down her spine, and it felt like her blood ran cold through her veins. Was she simply afraid of death, or was it something else?
"There it is again," the guard with the list said, also glancing up into the sky. "Did you hear that?"
"I said next prisoner!" the guard captain shouted.
The guard with the list gave his captain a bewildered stare, then turned back to Kyrie.
"To the block, Prisoner. Nice and easy."
Ass, Kyrie thought as she sighed and stepped forward. She came to a stop before the guard, then turned to the chopping block and laid down on her side, staring up at the headsman above her. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, but she kept her gaze steady. She wanted to look her killer in the face before she died. She would remember him in the afterlife.
As the headsman began to raise his ax, however, a dark form swooped down from the sky. At first Kyrie couldn't believe her eyes. Her blood began to burn like fire in her veins and she wanted nothing more than to jump up, but her body itself felt paralyzed by the visage before her. Another roar split the still mountain air as the black form soared toward the people gathered around the chopping block. All eyes turned in the direction of the dark visage.
"What in Oblivion is that?!" General Tullius exclaimed.
The black form swooped low, the ground quaking as the massive body landed on the stone tower not far away.
A chill ran down Kyrie's spine. It couldn't possibly be! But then, she had read enough books to know what she was seeing. That reptilian body...those shimmering scales like plated iron...those leathery, outstretched wings and pale ivory teeth like rows of new-sharpened daggers...there was only one thing that could be.
"Dragon!"
And then there was chaos.
