Sorry this took so long! It's more difficult than I thought to get through a very rigidly-scripted scene and still make it an interesting read. Finally got it done though, hope you enjoy! -NightingaleNyx-

**I do not own any part of the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim-this is a work of fiction purely for shits and giggles. However, Sillina Bjornsen is my original character, and she is, as such, my intellectual property.**

Well, it hadn't been the woman.

But if it weren't for the woman, he definitely would have noticed the Imperials hiding in the forest. He was certain of it. The jarl's brow furrowed in vexation. How did they know where he would be? Did he have a mole in the ranks? But how? He had intentionally followed a completely different itinerary from the one he laid out with Galmar and the men for this very reason. They were leaving two days earlier than scheduled. And yet here he was - bound, gagged, and in the back of a wagon headed for Talos knew where.

If I do have a mole, Ulfric realized, they may have been traveling with me. Which means that they likely would have survived the ambush, knowing it was coming and taking cover.

He took a good look at the people in the wagon with him. Diagonally across from him with his blond head wearily angled toward the road ahead was one of his own men, a hardy Nord from one of the smaller mill towns. He had seen the man fight valiantly in the ambush, summoning his soldiers to the shield wall to protect him. He seemed low on the list of possible traitors.

Next to him, and across from himself, was the horse thief that had galloped by their convoy. He'd been dragged back to the group by a pair of Imperial soldiers posted further up the road, writhing and whining like a toddler who'd been caught in the sweets bowl. He seemed an unlikely candidate as well, though it wasn't impossible that his joyride was a signal to the Imperials of his passing.

To his left, slumped forward and unconscious, was the woman.

He hadn't gotten a particularly good look at her yet. She'd been wearing a cloak most of the trip, pulled close to her face, and in the chaos of the ambush, he'd been concerned with more important things. The Imperials had carried her, unconscious, to the same cart that he was to board and stripped her of her cloak as they checked her for any weapons. He'd heard the one supporting her report that she'd taken out two of them with only a fallen shield before he'd managed to knock her out.

Now that there was nothing better to do, Ulfric assessed the unconscious form. She was slight of frame, dressed in a mussed linen tunic and pants, with white-blonde hair that fell past her shoulders. Under the dirt and blood that smeared her arms, her skin looked to be the palest he'd ever seen - almost reflecting sunlight, like snow on a cloudless winter day. At first glance, she appeared to be a fellow Nord, but the longer he looked at her, the more he questioned his assessment. As her hair swayed with the movement of the cart, he could catch glimpses of abnormally high cheekbones. That combined with her smaller frame… maybe she was part Breton?

The wagon hit a rock in the path, and the woman's hair shifted, revealing the tip of a slightly tapered ear.

Talos, the jarl thought to himself. She's an elf.

The jolt seemed to rouse the she-elf from her stupor. Blinking drunkenly, she straightened, hair falling in a mess around her face and once again hiding the slight point to her ears. His soldier also seemed to notice her regaining consciousness.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

She groaned in response.

The soldier continued. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there."

The thief turned to glare reproachfully at the man. "Damn you Stormcloaks… 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." He turned his gaze to the still-dazed she-elf, leaning toward her. "You there. You and me. We shouldn't be here! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

The soldier looked on resignedly. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!" The Imperial driver had clearly had enough of the chatter. The thief, however, decided to ignore him.

"And what's wrong with him?" he demanded, staring at Ulfric. Ulfric instead watched the she-elf, who turned her gaze on him for the first time. Her features were strong, but refined - elven grace in a Nord frame. He couldn't help but notice the strange color of her eyes - were they blue? Grey? It was hard to tell, but it was strikingly non-elven.

"Watch your tone!" the soldier snapped. Ulfric pulled himself away from the elf's eyes to return the thief's stare, challenging him wordlessly. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

The thief's eyes widened as Ulfric continued to stare menacingly at him. "Ulfric? The jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! But if they captured you…" Realization dawned on the thief's smudged face. "Oh gods… where are they taking us?"

The soldier turned to again gaze reflectively into the distance before the cart. "I don't know where they're taking us… but Sovngarde awaits."

"No… this can't be happening. This isn't happening!"

Ulfric watched as the convoy rounded a bend in the path and the low stone walls of a small township came into view. So this is where death lies for me. Talos, Shor… if you will not save us, commend our souls to Sovngarde.

His eyes fell once again to the she-elf. She too was silently gazing toward their fate, though she betrayed no sign of seeking divine aid. If anything, she appeared… numb. Distant. As if her soul had retreated so far within herself that whatever person lived in her body could no longer be touched.

Then again, she was an elf. Elves thought themselves so high above everyone anyway. Aloofness was their nature.

The soldier's voice startled him out of his musing. "Hey. What village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?" the thief snapped.

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

The thief's face fell as the gates opened to welcome them to their death.

"Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead."

Sillina's glazed eyes barely registered the walls as they neared them. She wanted to cry. Scream. Shout to whatever divine beings would listen at the unfairness of it all. But it was as if nothing had enough power to overcome the icy despair in her belly.

I didn't even want to be here…

She didn't want to come back to Falkreath. She didn't want to ever have to think about her life in Skyrim again. It had all been a distant memory - something shoved in a box in a cupboard in her mind, never to be pulled out to the light of day again. She'd made a life in Cheydinhal, carving herself a place in its society to feel safe and sheltered. She'd been almost happy. But her damned father… he'd found a way. After all this time, after all Mother had done to save her, he was still going to be the death of her in Skyrim.

The cruel irony pulled her lips into a pained line.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

The sudden call pulled her out of her self-pity. An answer rang over the walls - an energetic voice from a tired soul. "Good! Let's get this over with."

Damn.

The horse thief's panic was visibly rising. "Shor! Mara! Dibella! Kynareth! Akatosh! Divines, help me!" His eyes darted all over, as if expecting one of the gods to manifest before him and rescue him from his fate. Sillina smirked to herself. Maybe when Sanguine took a vow of chastity.

Their wagon trundled through the gates, giving view to the small township within. Homes with thatched roofs lined a worn stone road that curved out of sight. An important-looking man in an Imperial uniform sat atop a bay horse, conversing heatedly with what appeared to be a group of Altmer. The yellow-braided Stormcloak soldier across from her seemed to notice them too.

"Look at him," he scoffed, his nose crinkling in disgust. "General Tullius, the military governor." He glared at the graceful figures of the Altmer. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Sillina became very aware of her loose hair tickling the gentle points of her ears. It didn't appear that the Nord had noticed her elven features. And while it was clear his disdain was clearly for the Altmer present in particular, she was certain that his "brothers and sisters in binds" sentiments would run sour should he learn of the Dunmer blood that coursed through her veins.

Not that it matters now, I suppose.

She stole a glance along the bench to the large Nord man seated beside her. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. Leader of the rebellion. She cursed her own naivete for not reading the situation better back in Bruma. To be fair, there had been little to no Stormcloak presence in Cheydinhal. True, talk of a civil war in Skyrim would reach taverns anywhere - especially the topic of the death of King Torygg - but it was an issue that war-weary Cheydinhal could not be burdened with for long. Skyrim's civil dispute was something discussed briefly, then passed over in favor of inquiring about whatever was good in the kitchen.

But looking at the jarl now, with his jaw set behind his gag, eyes proud even in the face of death, Sillina could immediately see why droves of Nords followed him. The man exuded a power and charisma that could not be ignored. And when she'd turned to find him staring at her earlier… It was less of a look and more of a nonverbal challenge. She could only imagine the influence he could have over a room when unbound and able to speak. She vaguely wondered what his voice sounded like. Too bad she'd never know.

"This is Helgen," came the soldier's voice again, softer now with melancholy. She turned to look at him. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." He looked wistfully across the township, eyes clouded with memory. "Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Sillina smiled sadly. He did have a kind face, and it was easy to feel a sense of comradery with him. She vaguely wondered what happened to the girl.

The wagon jolted again as it rounded the large bend in the road. Sillina's eyes met those of a small, dark-haired boy sitting cross-legged on his porch. He looked on with the brashness that comes only with innocence. She smiled again, shoulders sagging at the knowledge that their presence here today would likely give the boy his first taste of death. Maybe a bit of kindness with the memory would make it easier when it inevitably haunted him.

"Who are they, Daddy?" the boy asked, not breaking his gaze. "Where are they going?"

A rust-haired man in leather armor, presumably the boy's father, rose from where he had been leaning on the railing. He gave the convoy an apprehensive look. "You need to go inside, little cub."

"But why? I want to watch the soldiers!"

"Inside the house. Now."

Disappointment clouded his features. "Yes, Papa…" The boy rose and disappeared inside. Sillina could only hope that he wouldn't sneak glances out the windows.

The wagon suddenly slowed. Just past the group, and visible to all, was a blood-stained block.

"W-why are we stopping?" the thief asked, shaking so violently that she could feel it in the floorboards.

"Why do you think?" the soldier responded dryly. "End of the line."

The wagon stopped with a final jolt.

"Let's go," said the soldier, rising from his seat on the bench. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." Numbly, Sillina stood with the others, moving without really telling her body to.

"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" The thief looked around desperately at anyone who might listen as Ulfric Stormcloak was the first to dismount the wagon, stepping heavily onto the dirty stone road.

The Stormcloak wagged his head in disappointment. "Face your death with some courage, thief."

"You've got to tell them!" he begged, tripping off the wagon. "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

"Ladies first," said the soldier quietly, turning to Sillina with a wry smile and a wink. Wishing she could find it in her to return the humor, Sillina stepped off the wagon. Imperial soldiers watched their every move.

In the back of her mind, she took a grim satisfaction out of the fact that besides Ulfric, she was given the most wary eyes.

The captain stepped forward - an Imperial woman, clad in impressive armor that clanked loudly when she moved. Her shoulders squared, she looked over the prisoners stepping off the wagons with a disdainful eye. Despite her stance and armor, to Sillina she resembled a child playing dress-up alongside her Nord lieutenant, who held a large book and quill.

"Step toward the block when we call your name! One at a time!" She shouted the orders, as if unsure she would be followed otherwise.

The Stormcloak scoffed as he jumped down. "Empire loves their damn lists."

Didn't they.

The lieutenant looked down at his book, glaring at the first name on the list. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm," he said evenly.

The figure in black pelts before her moved silently toward the block with a stately gait, fixing his captors with what she could only assume was a stare similar to the one he'd given her in the wagon. She shivered. The man was intense.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." Her Stormcloak companion's voice was thick with pride. Sillina shook her head. Damn Nords and their honor. So much heartache over something so pointless.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

Her companion stepped forward wordlessly, flashing her a quick half-grin, and followed the heavy footprints of his leader. Ralof, she told herself, vowing to remember his name, if only for the few minutes she had left to remember. She suddenly felt so very lonely standing there. Strange, the bonds that could be made in such a short amount of time.

"Lorik of Rorikstead."

The thief, upon hearing his name, began to panic in earnest. "No! I'm not a rebel!" He lurched forward toward his captors, tension making his movements abrupt and clumsy. "You can't do this!" Seeing no sympathy in his captor's faces, he suddenly bolted for the gap between soldiers like a frightened deer would flee a bear.

The captain looked on in astonishment. "Halt!" she cried, to no avail.

"You're not going to kill me!" Lorik yelled gleefully over his shoulder, sprinting up the cobblestones.

"Archers!"

On command, a single arrow was loosed with a fwip, streaking toward the fleeing horse thief. It hit him directly at the base of his skull, midstride, making his body trip over itself exaggeratedly as he fell dead in the middle of the road.

That would've been almost funny, if not for the circumstances.

The captain wheeled back around to the remaining prisoners. "Anyone else feel like running?" she demanded. To her own surprise, Sillina thought seriously about it for a moment, just to tear at the woman's already fragile authority. She was going to die regardless - why not have a little fun first?

The lieutenant noticed her for the first time. "Wait, you there. Step forward."

Damn. So much for her fun. Ah well, who had the energy for running anyway? Taking a few steps forward, she stood wordlessly before her captors.

The lieutenant looked at her suspiciously. "Who are you?"

She lifted her chin to meet his gaze and, pulling herself out of her numb stupor, willed her voice to sound strong and sure. "Sillina Bjornsen. Cheydinhal." Double damn. All her talk of Nords and their pride, and here she was trying to muster up all her dignity for her executioners. Maybe she was a "true Nord" after all. The thought repulsed her.

The lieutenant shook his head as he frantically flipped through the pages of his book. "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."

You have no idea.

The pages stopped flipping. The Nord turned to his commander. "Captain," he said uneasily, "what should we do? She's not on the list."

The captain sniffed dismissively. "Forget the list. She goes to the block."

The Nord hesitated. "... By your orders, Captain." He turned to Sillina, his eyes soft. "I'm sorry, kinsman. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

If only he knew how little comfort that really was.

"Follow the Captain, prisoner."

Ulfric's brow furrowed as he faced the headsman's block, surrounded by Legion soldiers that panted for his blood, an executioner that stared wickedly, and a thrice-damned priestess. Since he'd been a boy, he'd fantasized about becoming his own "great hero of old" - the kind of hero whose noble death grandfathers would tell their grandsons about in hushed awe, whose last blows were sung in merry taverns for hundreds of years after mankind had forgotten his face. To say that a rushed execution in a tiny border town was not exactly how he had envisioned his death would be an understatement. What song would ever be written about his unceremonious beheading?

"Ragnar the Red" suddenly entered his mind. It did little to improve his mood.

"Ulfric Stormcloak." Tullius' voice was even and measured as he stood across from the would-be High King, even as Ulfric glowered. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero."

Ulfric sniffed. Maybe there was some hope after all.

"But a hero," Tullius continued, his brow indenting to almost mirror Ulfric's, "doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

The righteousness in the general's eyes was unbearable. He had no idea of Skyrim's customs. No respect for its traditions. His Empire and the damned elves had even outlawed Talos! One of the most famous users of the Voice! How dare he speak of how it should be used! Ulfric strained against his gag for the first time, ready to verbally eviscerate the ignorant Imperial before him… unsure of how literally he meant it. Fortunately for the general, the gag effectively stifled him, and only a few muffled sounds of anger escaped.

The general's self-righteous expression became all the more unbearable as smugness entered the curve of his mouth. He raised his voice so that all the courtyard could hear him. "You started this war! Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

Before Ulfric could strain again at the rags in his mouth, an unearthly sound rang down from the mountains. Both his and the general's gaze snapped toward the sound, and a hush fell over the yard, but the sound did not repeat.

"What was that?" came a timid soldier's voice.

"It's nothing," shrugged Tullius, snapping back to Ulfric. "Carry on." He stalked away, with that annoying high step the Legion ingrained into their officers. Ulfric, for his part, was not so sure it was nothing, but it wasn't as if saying anything now would help his situation, even if he could.

"Yes, General Tullius!" The too-eager captain in the crested helmet snapped a salute.

Milk-drinker.

He heard a snort slightly behind him. Turning to his right, he saw the she-elf sniggering in the corner of his vision, her dirty platinum hair bouncing on her shoulders. Clearly he wasn't the only one having his last joke at the captain's expense.

The captain frowned in annoyance and turned moodily to the robed priestess behind her. "Give them their last rites."

Ulfric bowed his head respectfully. The priestess, closing her eyes and raising her hands toward the heavens, began:

"As we commend your souls to Ethereus

Blessings of the Eight Divines upon you–"

"By Talos, SHUT UP and let's get this over with!" One of his soldiers stomped his way to the front of the assembly of prisoners.

The priestess' eyes snapped open. She wrinkled her nose, obviously affronted at the interruption. "As you wish," she clipped.

Stopping before the block, the soldier turned to face the captain, giving her a look that would have made Ulfric himself hesitate. "Come on! I haven't got all morning!"

The captain stepped forward cautiously to put the soldier on his knees, the man's scornful gaze never faltering from his captors. Seeming to take courage from his cooperation, she placed her foot on his back and roughly shoved him down onto the stained wood.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," he spat, glaring at the headsman. "Can you say the same?"

The wicked swish of the ax was his only reply.

The captain unceremoniously kicked the falling decapitated body away from the block with her foot, smug satisfaction playing with every feature of her face. The shouts came from all around now, all the townspeople eager to express their outrage or encouragement with the first blood. Ulfric did his best to shut them out and pay his respects to such a loyal comrade.

"As fearless in death," came a somber voice from behind him, "as he was in life."

Ulfric had to agree.

Eager to move along, the captain straightened and looked pompously at the prisoners, clearly searching out the next prey. Ulfric wondered if they would choose to kill him first to break the spirit of the rebellion, or torture him by killing all his men in front of him and then killing him. It would likely also make a nice finale for his good friend Tullius.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!"

So he was dessert.

The unearthly noise filled the air again, this time sounding much closer. The hair on Ulfric's neck stood on end - something felt very wrong here.

The lieutenant seemed to share his unease. "There it is again! Did you hear that?" His eyes searched the skies frantically.

The captain, however, was having none of it. "I said next prisoner!"

The lieutenant turned to the space just to the right and behind Ulfric. He frowned in an unspoken apology. "To the block prisoner. Nice and easy."

The footsteps that answered were much lighter, and the pale, white-blonde figure made her way past him. The she-elf-Nord's gait was stiff and slow, but surprisingly steady, as she proceeded toward the block. She only faltered when she gingerly stepped over the headless body to take her place, his blood adding to the stains on her worn shoes. The captain took a hard hold of her shoulder and shoved her into the ground, this time grabbing ahold of her neck to push her slight frame roughly down onto the block, her face to the executioner. Grasping the white-blonde clumps - now soaked with fresh blood in places - the captain pushed them over the she-elf's head. A pointed left ear, with an impressive notch in the cartilage, shined unabashedly in the sun.

The headsman readied his grasp on the ax, and then something massive and dark passed quickly overhead.

"What in Oblivion is that?" cried Tullius, even as Ulfric watched it alight on the tower before them. A huge vibration shook the entire town, knocking the headsman to the ground just as he raised his ax to strike.

A female voice cried what Ulfric could not.

"Dragon!"

His fingers in her hair.

The sharp smell of alcohol on his breath.

The hulking beast made eye contact with her.

"Hold still, little brat!"

Its massive jaws opened, letting out a string of strange syllables. The words themselves seemed to knock her and the block over, dazing her further.

"Papa! Papa, no!"

"I said hold still, dammit!"

Her vision was blurry, red flashing in time with her pulse in the periphery of her vision. Her ears rang, deafening her to all but the voices in her head. What was she doing?

A shape moved before her. Waving. A man waving. His mouth moved.

"Hey!" His voice was faint. "Hey, kinsman! Get up!"

Up? Why was she on the ground?

The man was suddenly grabbing her around the shoulders, trying to lift her up. He pulled her in front of him, trying to make her eyes meet his.

"Come on! The gods won't give us another chance!"

They ran.

The great beast flew overhead, blasting flames along its path. Stones fell from the sky as the pair fled the execution area for a nearby guard tower.

A shrill, haunting scream rang inside her skull.

"Run, Sillina!"

"Mother!"

"Run! Don't look back!"

Her own heartbeat filled her ears, the fear making it sound both like rushing waves and a beating drum all at once. The red continued to creep further into her field of vision, both blinding her and sharpening her focus. The arms around her shoulders were the only things keeping her attached to reality.

The man practically threw them into the tower doorway. Sillina hit the floor hard on her side, struggling to breathe against what felt like four horses crushing her chest. The abrupt sensation of her bare arms scraping on cool flagstone helped pull her back to reality, and she looked around wildly.

She was in a round stone room, undoubtedly the whole of the tower's ground floor, with a spiral staircase. Ralof, who she now realized was the one dragging her to safety, stood nearby. Around them were a few other Stormcloaks, and near the door was none other than -

"Jarl Ulfric!" said Ralof, only slightly out of breath himself. "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

The jarl's face darkened as he turned to the soldier.

"Legends," came his deep, sonorous voice, "don't burn down villages."

Ulfric took inventory of the situation. The beast roared its terrible Voice again outside, undoubtedly spelling the death of yet more innocents. While he felt for them, he knew he and his men were in no state to take on a dragon. He had no weapon, save for the Voice - of which his foe clearly had far greater mastery. The few men he had left were tired and in shock from the events of the past day.

The Imperials, if nothing else, had the best chances at efficiently evacuating a city.

He scanned the group in the tower with him. A mere five of his men had made it into the tower, along with the she-elf. He was mildly impressed that she'd made it even past the courtyard, though it seemed as though his cart-mate had helped her with that. He seemed by far the most together of the remaining party.

"We need to move," he barked at the soldier. "Now!"

Nodding, the soldier addressed the group. "Let's go! With me, up the tower!"

They didn't need telling twice.

The she-elf and one of the younger boys headed the group, being faster and nimbler than the others. Ulfric heard the sounds of stones shifting.

"We just need to move some of the rocks to clear the w - GAH!"

The boy was thrown wickedly to the side, never to rise again, as the stone wall of the tower was blown inward by fiery breath. Ulfric nearly collided with blonde hair and snowy skin as the she-elf stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide with fear.

Talos preserve us.

His cart-mate stepped up to her, gently pulling at her arm.

"See that inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going!"

She turned back to him, shaking her head in an emphatic refusal.

"You're smaller and more agile than us! We'd never make that jump without breaking through the floor and our bones!" The soldier reasoned, giving her back a gentle push toward the opening in the wall. The charred remains of the inn roof were just visible through thick smoke. She stared at him, eyes wide in silent panic.

A small part of Ulfric wanted to feel pity for her, but damned if it was not the time for cowardice. Damned elves.

"Go!" The soldier pushed her one last time. "We'll follow when we can!"

With one last panicked look at the group, she disappeared over the edge in a flash of white.

The soldier turned back to Ulfric, the small relief shining in his eyes.

"Now to get you to safety, my jarl! If you'll follow me…" The soldier pushed around him, back down the stairs. Ulfric had no choice but to follow. The remaining three soldiers stayed close behind.

"Where are you leading us?" asked the jarl, reaching the bottom floor again.

"With any luck," the soldier responded from the doorway, "to the keep. I seem to remember some whelps in my youth talking about some old tunnels underneath it that lead out of here." He paused for a shallow laugh. "Back then, their only value was sneaking out at night to drink mead with pretty girls. Never thought I'd be depending on them for my life."

Ulfric clapped him on the back. "Damn useful knowledge it ended up being. If we live through this, I'll be in your debt, my good…?"

"Ralof," the man finished, flashing a quick grin. "But with all due respect, Jarl Ulfric…" Ralof peered out of the door again, where the dragon landed against the opposite side of the wall and released another torrent of fire, "I would wait to make any promises until we're breathing safe air again."

With another quick snap of its jaws, he monster beat its massive leathery wings and took flight again, giving the group its opening. A chorus of leather and steel boots hit the stone road as they ran across town for the keep.

"Ulfric! Ulfric Stormcloak!"

Damn.

Ulfric stopped and turned, disdain as clear on his face as his beard.

"What is it, Tullius?"

The military governor stood a ways off, glowering at him incredulously.

"A dragon attacks these people - your people - and you are only concerned with your escape? What kind of leader would betray his kin like that?"

Ulfric bristled. "I do not have to defend myself to you, Tullius! But I hardly think you would be willing to arm me, nor my compatriots to assist in the fight!" He pressed a fist to his chest. "I am of more use to my people alive. I refuse to die a death that gains them nothing! And facing a dragon, unarmed, for the sake of appearances? Gains nothing!"

"We must go, my jarl! The dragon is coming back around!" Ralof shouted.

Ulfric ignored him. He took a few grand steps toward Tullius, throwing his arms wide to gesture at the carnage around them.

"However, apparently you, with all your men and equipment, find it worthwhile to argue politics when you should be evacuating a city! Whose leadership should be questioned now, Tullius?"

Tullius bristled at that.

"My jarl!" Ralof shouted again.

Tullius shook his head. "You have no true loyalties, Ulfric Stormcloack, except to Ulfric Stormcloak! Divines help us the day that Skyrim ever sees you on the High King's throne!"

Ulfric sneered. "I'll make sure to bring you an amulet of Talos to wear to the coronation!"

"JARL ULFRIC!"

A blast of flames rained from the sky, threatening both parties with its blistering heat. Ulfric dove to the side, rolling once with the momentum, and jumped back to his feet. Looking around, he saw that the dragon had effectively scattered the group, setting the grass and structures around them aflame and obstructing his vision. Ralof and Tullius were nowhere in sight.

Damn his pride. Damn Tullius' mouth.

Raising the furs on his coat to his face to filter some of the smoke, he tried to make his way out of the dust and smoke around him. Flames danced dangerously close. He had no idea where he'd come from or where to go now.

He was a sitting duck lost in a five foot square. Pathetic. He had a better shot at a good song about his death now though - a dragon was at least involved. No one had to know the specifics.

A muffled cry came from his left.

"Over here!" he shouted through his furs. Moving toward the sounds, he recognized the blue fabric of one of his soldier's uniforms, the woman's arm outstretched through the smoke.

"Jarl Ulfric! I know a way out!"

Ulfric clasped her arm gratefully. "Where to, kinsman?"

"Follow me, my jarl! I can get us on the road to the Rift!" She led them along several buildings that crackled like merry hearthfires, dodging falling smoldering wood. "We have a camp along the way where we can get you a horse and escort!"

"Do you know where anyone else is?" he called over the noise.

"My cousin Dirk is waiting at the gate! We lived here when we were children. Know the place like the scars on our knuckles."

Talos, Ulfric prayed as he and his escort ran for the gates, I thank you for hearing my plea.

Watch over my men.

He grunted.

And may Helgen fall on Tullius' head.

You know I had to include the iconic scene, but I also wanted to explore what the HECK Ulfric was doing during the whole Helgen fiasco. The answer? Being as dramatic as ever. Not a lot of our heroine in this one, but obviously that will soon change.

As always, reviews highly appreciated!