Chapter 1: Who are you?
The world slowly came into focus from its blurry dreariness, the biting cold of the bitter snow and sharp winds which sliced into his skin left no doubt. This wasn't a dream. The jostling of the wooden cart only cemented this fact in his mind as each and every stone they rolled over on their way down the mountain path made what was sure to be the last few minutes of their lives as uncomfortable and as dreadful as possible.
He slowly looked around, blinking away the grogginess of unconsciousness away with what was left of the ice that had crusted over his eyes. The first thing he noticed was the fact that he wasn't alone. Three other people were in the cart with him, clearly being a mish-mash of people from different walks of life.
There was an angry-looking man sitting right next to him in what looked like the finest clothes he'd seen in a long while, a majestic fur cloak draped over an armor that had only been dulled by the harsh weather. A bruise was clear to see on his cheek, something which might've marked a humiliating defeat on others only served to highlight him as someone who could achieve victory even in defeat . Through it all, a wild ferocity radiated from the man, reined-in only by the pride and charisma of a man who was born to lead. All of which only served to make the fact that he was bound and gagged like an animal even more ironic.
The ones who had captured them, and it was obviously clear that they'd all been captured, were either masters of irony or were deliberately trying to send a message. Sitting across from the proud man that radiated a wild ferocity was someone who couldn't have been more different. The contrast couldn't have been clearer and more strange than a pleasant, sunny day in Windhelm. Where one was dressed in fine clothes and armor, the other wore what amounted to a threadbare sack with holes that had been cut out for the neck and sleeves. Where the former sat with an unflinching pride and ferocity despite tightly bound and gagged, the latter sagged in a defeated posture even though he barely had his hands tied up. Dark bags were under his eyes, the shadow of cowardice marking him as someone unimportant and likely to soon die without even knowing anything else of the situation at hand.
Casting his gaze in the opposite direction, he saw two people in what was clearly uniform armor. Under his eye, he noticed the shoddy craftsmanship of the metal, the faded and contrasting colors which told of their allegiances. It was something which was just good enough to give to the rank-and-file, yet leagues above what the average bandit could afford. That was where the similarities ended, though. The one sitting across from him, with the torn blue cloth loosely shrouding his armor, had ragged hair and was bound like the rest of them. The other man, the one who quite literally held the reins that commanded the horses tethered to the cart, wore his leather cuirass with a crisp perfection. It was well-maintained, the red symbolizing his devotion to his faction, was neatly ordered.
Seeing that no one was paying attention, he tested the ropes that bound and lashed his hands together. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten tied and bound. The only thing missing would be that old crone that used to hover over their heads with a sadistic rip on her face where people's mouths were, twisting in wet glee at their pain.
Sadly, it was just like it was back then. Hopeless. Twisting his hands only gave him slight rope burn, struggling against his bonds only made him feel even more powerless, and there wasn't even a loose nail he could try to discreetly use to wear the rope down into threads. It was as if he could see words floating in mid-air at the corner of his eyes, mocking him as they stated the obvious: Your hands are bound.
He let out a self-deriding sneer, something which could've been mistaken for a snarl.
Even worse was the fact that his struggles hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Hey, you." The ragged man in blue-cloaked armor in front of him called out. "You're finally awake."
He pointedly did his best to ignore the other man speaking, with good reason for it too. It was because of him and the others like him that he was even in this mess in the first place! Not that it was of any use, considering the blonde-haired man just continued talking.
"You were trying to cross the border, right? You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
Said thief, the man who was dressed in a ragged sack with holes, glared in the blonde-haired man's direction. "Damn you, Stormcloaks." He spat out. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."
Honestly, there was a big part of him that agreed with the shabby-looking horse-thief. Not that he would ever say that out loud, of course. Unfortunately, his eyes met with the man wearing the ragged sack, and he could easily how much hate you had towards the other two from the looks of your eyes alone.
"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, thief." Blondie placated, seemingly carefree despite their situation.
"Shut up back there!" The 'Imperial' that was driving the cart shouted, leaving a moment of silence stifling the air, while he himself just stared at the blonde-haired man.
Even after years of living in Skyrim, he still couldn't understand the strange and weird hair fashions around these parts. Blondie in front of him had the hair which framed the left half of his face braided, with another going down the back of his head, while the right half of his face would've been covered by the loose hair if it hadn't been frozen into clumps of strings hanging down from his head at an unnatural angle.
It wasn't long until the horse-thief broke the silence. The black-haired man with dark bags under his eyes nodded his head towards the finely dressed man gagged and bound like an animal in front of him. "And what's wrong with him, huh?"
Blondie's face took a murderous turn. "Watch your tongue." The blue-cloaked man in armor practically hissed, angrily. Honestly, it was the first time he and the horse-thief had seen the soldier get angry. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
A chill ran down his spine, something which he was sure the horse-thief was feeling, too. And it had nothing to do with Skyrim's blizzard-like weather. There was only one thought that ran through his head.
'...Shit.'
Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm and Leader of the Rebellion against the Empire. The man who killed High King Torygg.
….and he was sitting in the same cart as the rest of them, a prisoner as much as the rest of them. This was bad.
VERY bad.
There was no way the Empire would let the man who'd challenged their authority just be locked away in prison, and there was definitely no way that he'd be let free. And if they were in the same cart as someone like him….
He could hear the skinny, black-haired horse-thief come to the exact same conclusion at the same time. Loudly.
He could also hear the blonde-haired soldier calmingly reply to him, trying to make him settle down.
'A Nord's last thoughts should be of home, huh?'
He was no Nord, and home was certainly the last place he wanted to think of. Honestly, it'd been so long that he sometimes wondered if he'd actually dreamed up everything that happened in the "other world".
It would've been better if it had been just a dream. Still, that was one lie that he'd never managed to buy into yet, unfortunately. Even trying to swallow that lie practically made him gag. To believe it would've been running away, and that was something that he would never do. That was as much a part of him as his own name, something which was such an intricate part of him that it might as well have been his Origin.
Doing so was something which would've left him broken, with whatever was left standing among the shattered pieces of himself as a pathetic remnant, with whatever creature crawling up from the ground and cracked pieces more monster than man.
-He wasn't someone that ran away.-
Life hummed in the background as they entered a medieval village. From the idle commentary that the blue-cloaked soldier was making, this was Helgen.
-He never ran away. Even though he'd known all his life that his father hated him and blamed him for his mother's death.-
The cart passed by several children who were ushered into their homes, a crowd which jeered in the background as they called for their deaths.
-He was someone who buckled down and put his nose to the grindstone, someone who pushed himself farther than anyone else. When his father had started beating him when he was 5, when his uncle Kariya had died, he never once complained.-
The jostling and movements of the cart slowed to a stop. The horse-thief, who was apparently from Rorikstead, was still complaining and muttering to himself as the blonde-haired soldier, who at one point had been "sweet on a girl" from Helgen, told him to chin up and meet his death with his head held high.
-It didn't matter how many times he plucked out shards of glass from his face after his father's latest drinking binge. It didn't matter how many broken bones he had to suffer. If his father was so worthless that he couldn't find what he was looking for in him, then he would turn to his grandfather.-
They were told to step forward to the line in front of the chopping block one at a time as their names were called. The man who'd been gagged, Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm was called first. He walked forward with his back straight and his head held high.
-If his grandfather would only look at people who had the ability to become a Magus with respect, then he would become one at all costs. It didn't matter how much the security around his father's study made him bleed. It didn't matter how much the unnatural flying worms with razor-sharp teeth that kept guard around it would come after him, hungry for his blood. He would become a Magus so strong that everyone would respect him. It didn't matter that he was only 6.-
The Imperial with the list called out another name, Ralof of Riverwood, and the blonde-haired soldier with the blue-cloaked cuirass followed his leader towards the line leading to the chopping block.
-His younger sister, Sakura, was the only light in his life. She cleaned his wounds after he plucked out the shards of glass from his face. She set his bones after they were broken and convinced his grandfather to use his magecraft to heal him. She was the one who had tears in her eyes as she cheered him on in his studies of magecraft to be more useful to their grandfather. And because of all of that, he gave her everything that had ever been denied to him. It didn't matter that he'd only known her for 2 years, or that she'd only been his sister since he was 5. She was his light, his sister, and he loved her and would always protect her. Especially since her old family had abandoned her to this one.-
The horse-thief, Lokir of Rorikstead, was called. Instead of following the other two, he'd chosen to run instead and had gotten shot down by the archers standing by them. The ground seemed to eagerly drink up his blood as it fled from his dying, gasping body like water through a hole in a bucket.
-He'd seen his younger sister follow their grandfather into the room that he called his workshop. Heart pounding, blood rushing through his veins, and with a feeling that his stomach was going to be turned inside-out, he'd followed them. But just as he'd opened the door, light seared into his eyes, burning into his skull as if someone had taken a blowtorch to his eyeballs. That sick feeling in his stomach finally twisted and ripped inside-out, like someone had used a fishing hook and reeled his insides out through his mouth, and suddenly there was snow. It didn't matter if he was only 8 years old. He'd been dragged to a place he'd later find out was called Skyrim.-
And finally, he was the last one from his cart. They stared at him with confusion in their eyes, before calling him up.
-He had always been a proud kid. Now, he'd grown up and become a proud man. He would never run away. He would always do what needed to be done. He was-
"Who," The Nord man in Imperial light armor began, "are you?"
"Shinji Matou."
Author's Note:
For those of you that know a little bit about Skyrim, I want to ask you 2 questions:
1) What race do you think people in Skyrim would think Shinji is? He's part Russian, which would explain racial ties to the Imperials and the Nords. On the other hand, he's also part Japanese, which could be stretched to say that he's half-mer (which means Breton, basically).
I'm not actually going to have the Divines from Tamriel change his race. He'll still be Russian/Japanese, but this will basically be what the people in Skyrim think he is.
2) Should I follow Hadvar or Ralof?
Shinji doesn't like Ralof because he's part of the Stormcloaks who got him into this mess. On the other hand, I can't see him liking Hadvar either, because he's part of the faction that tried to execute him even though he's done nothing wrong.
There'll be more action in the next chapter.
SPOILER: Huge, giant dragon
