~ The Prisoner wields great power, making reality of metaphor ~

I stirred awake slowly, a curse already upon my lips. A curse which fell from my mind as I saw where I was, and more importantly, whom I was with.

My eyes moved around the area, slit pupils grazing taking extra time to graze over the other occupants of the cold wooden cart I found myself sat in. A length of rough and slightly fraying rope tied my wrists as bindings, and I thanked the Hist for my more durable than average scales. I had nothing but pity for non-Betmeri and their easily irritable skin.

"Hey, you, Argonian. You're finally awake." The most apparently perceptive occupant of the carriage addressed me. A Nord, I guessed by the color of his hair, which was so fair that it nearly reflected the light off it like metal. Though perhaps it was the sweat and natural grease that amplified it to such an extent. "You were trying to cross the border right? Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

I nodded, and worked by aching jaw for a reply. My chance for conversation was stopped by another man, who had large dirt stains on both of his cheeks, like he rolled around in mud and the forest floor for fun. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy." The dirty man, whom I now named for both his dinginess and his apparent morality, looked to the misty road that trailed off behind our cart almost wistfully. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!

"You there, Argonian," I quirked by brow at him, now giving the man my outward attention, "You and me—we shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." The Nord spoke again, cutting off my moment to speak once more.

"Shut up back there!" The Imperial Legion soldier that drove our cart yelled out, a small part of me agreeing with his sentiment.

"Please," I started, my voice rough and scratchy and notably deeper than most Argonians, "allow me but a moment to introduce myself. It would do well for you all to do the same, wouldn't you agree?" I asked, and noted the reactions of my fellow prisoners. The last occupant to of the cart seemed to take a bit of humor in my sentence, and motioned towards his gagged mouth with his noticeably better bound hands than anyone else. "Those of us who can, at least." I appended.

"I am Haj-Mota, though I suppose it would be best to shorten it to Haj. It is almost similar to your Nordic naming conventions as well, is it not?" I commented, and the blonde man across from me seemed to smile a bit at that.

"Close enough, I suppose. I'm Ralof, of Riverwood." After this, he motioned to the gagged man, and introduced him on his behalf. "And this is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim, for all it's worth to these Imperials."

"Koac, really? I would have expected something… more, personally." I said, looking at the gagged man. That didn't seem to have been the right thing to say, judging by the reactions by both the aforementioned Jarl and the Blond Nord, so I made sure to continue. "Though I suppose nobody looks intimidating while bound and gagged." That seemed to make then less angry, but the fire was still burning strong in Ulfric's eyes, though it didn't seem directed at me per se. "And you?" I motioned over to the dirty man, swiftly running away from the landmine I had just crafted.

The dirty man looked at the rest of the cart before addressing me, fear lacing his voice. "Lokir, of Rorikstead."

I nodded and opened my mouth, but shut it at the exclamations from above me. It seemed we w ere just now entering the city, no doubt on our way to execution. If only our cart was inhabited by anyone other than the most famed fugitive in the country, I could've had the possibility of a trial.

Lokir seemed to pray openly for a moment, and Ralof nodded in the direction of a highly decorated man. "Look at him, General Tulius. The Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him too, damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." Ralof ranted, seemingly to no one but himself. He opened his mouth again, a wistful look coming to his eyes, but something seemed to catch his attention, and he turned to me. "Hey, Haj, was it?" I nodded, and he continued. "Why'd you cross the border illegally? I thought Argonians didn't really leave Black Marsh all too often. Especially nowadays."

I shook my head as our cart slowed. "I wasn't coming from Black Marsh."

Ralof seemed like he wanted to continue the conversation, but the lurch of the cart stopping interrupted him, and I stood up. Ralof and Ulfric stood after me, almost defiant in their posture. Lokir hesitated before he got up, and futilely shouted, "No, wait! We're not rebels, we weren't with them!"

His cries went ignored, and a guard in front of us checked a book he held for our names. Well, Ralof and Ulfric's names. Lokir and I were not on the list, due to our impromptu detainment, and I saw Lokir tense up and stand a few paces away from the guard. With a sigh, I clapped my still bound hands on his shoulder. "Don't be stupid," I hissed, "It's better to die with honor than with an arrow in your back."

I could see him clench his fists at that, but he eventually resigned himself to his fate, slowly padding over to the rest of the executions-to-be. "And you, Argonian?" The guard asked, a quill now in his hand to write my name into the records.

"Haj-Mota" I gave him, and walked over to the group without a glance. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but his commanding officer merely gave him a cool glare and followed my movements.

She had already pinpointed me as a threat.

Good.

The General gave me a glance before looking to Ulfric and giving a speech about justice and law and whatnot. I didn't pay attention, far too embroiled in my own thoughts to give reality the time of day. It wasn't until the smell of blood filled my nostrils and the sound of hitched breaths hit my ears that I observed what was going on.

Ah, that's right. Execution. And by the look the steel-adorned woman was giving me, I was going next. "Next, the lizard!" She ordered. She seemed to take some sort of joy out of my annoyance, but I walked to the chopping block all the same. A strange sound hit my ears, and some others noticed it as well. I thought on what it could be. The mountains of Skyrim were large, and caves with less stone produced more terrifying sounds than that. But it was far too loud. Instantly, I was on guard.

Apparently, this noise hadn't happened once, as a guard noted, "There it is again." He turned to the woman, motioning to the sky with one hand. "Did you hear that?"

The woman ignored the guard, simply choosing to put her hand on my shoulder in an attempt to force me onto my knees for the block. I complied, if only because I forgot to do so before, and let out of puff of air as she pushed my head onto the block with her foot.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the headsman raise his axe high above his head. Then, I heard a voice from all around me. Or within me, both seemed likely at this moment. "Oh, this is strange."

Three things happened in very quick succession.

The first was my planned dodging of the headsman's axe, using my head spikes to push the woman's boot of my cranium and slip out of the block.

The second was the axe thunking against the now empty chopping block, bereft of its meal.

The third was the dragon.

Suddenly, a beast the size of a manor landed on the tower above, looking like an intricate illustration come to life, something you would see on the walls of a church with a mighty hero atop its dying body, something that couldn't be real. And yet it was real, almost too real.

With the thunderclap of its grandiose voice, meteors rained from the sky, raining oblivion from above and wiping out those below. Ears ringing and consciousness hanging by a thread, I stumbled inside the nearest tower, hoping it would stand.

I met Ralof inside, and he seemed both surprised and relieved that I was alive and well. It seemed that our earlier conversation held less sway over him that I thought. I nodded to him and bit down along the frayed parts of my bindings, quickly ridding myself of the quickly tied rope. My hands free and my life ensured to continue, I half-listened to the conversation going on around me and focused back on the voice that I heard inside. A voice that was distinctly not mine.

"Is this working? Hello?"

'It is,' I thought, watching Ralof and Ulfric converse, 'who are you?'

"Oh, wonderful! I'm Edward, and I don't expect you to know me. I don't know you, either."

'What?' My brain went on autopilot as I talked to the man inside my head.

Run up stairs, back away from dragon.

"Well, you see, I just ended up… waking is probably the best way to describe it. Just before the dragon appeared, if you want specifics."

Jump gap, roll with momentum.

'And why are you in my head?'

"Oh, I was hoping you'd know why. I'm supposed to be dead, but apparently I ended up in here. I was yanked from my afterlife and woke up in a small corner of your mind."

Drop down from burning ceiling, walking into clearing. Child in front of dragon.

'Strange. Apologies for your short afterlife, if suppose.'

Child runs away, dragon takes off in flight.

"Oh, it's quite alright. As splendid as Aetherius is, none of my relatives ended up there, so it was rather boring."

'Well as long as we're both taking this in stride, this should be figured out easily enough.'

"Indeed!"

I tune back into reality following the same Imperial Legion soldier that took my name at the cutting block. I followed him into the outside of a keep, and slowed as the familiar face of Ralof appeared from a quickly rubble-filled entrance.

Some minor squabbles ensued, but I cut them off with an annoyed growl. "Both of you, shut up. This isn't about factions or sides anymore. We can argue with each other when we're out of here. Alive."

Ralof seemed to think for a second, and slowly lowered his weapon. "Fine." He said, looking to me. He turned to the soldier and addressed him next. "But after this is all over, this truce is off."

Both the Imperial soldier and I nodded, and we made our way to the barracks entrance of the keep.

"Diplomacy is a virtue, I'm glad I don't have to hang in the mind of a barbarian." The voice, Edward, said.

I entered the barracks first, and quickly set to looting what I could. I slipped on the armor that I found, thankful that it was light, and gripped a fine steel sword that previously hung from a rack. I turned and found Ralof strapping on one of the helmets and putting a sword on his hip for safety. I stilled my growing urge to chuckle, remembering that I looked even more ridiculous than him. My still rag-covered form didn't strike the most imposing figure.

I pretended not to notice the Imperial's smirk at Ralof's wearing of the Empire's clothing, even if it was only a helmet. Still, I used the slight downtime to my advantage, to bolster the knowledge of both me and my… roommate, in a way. Or perhaps mindmate was more suiting. "What's your name, Imperial?"

He turned his head to me, and had the manners to look embarrassed. A dragon may be attacking, but a name isn't hard information to convey. "Hadvar," he informed, "and if I remember correctly you are Haj-Mota, right?"

I nodded, and turned to face both him and Ralof. "You both ready to get out of here?"

They both gave their affirmations, and I lead them deeper into the keep.

"Interesting." Edward muttered, just loud enough to hear. "Very, very interesting."

I watched the events of the attack unfold through the argonian's eyes. Haj-Mota. My Jel was rusty, and I didn't know what the name meant exactly, but he was a character. Almost too calm for the situation. I chuckled. He reminded me myself, way back then. But there was something I was focusing on far more than anything else. The magic that the people of this time used.

I observed the shaky vision as Haj dodged the flame-spewing spell the crazed, depraved, and startled Imperial Torturer. The inefficient, barely effective, magicka hungry flames spell, which looked as if its form was held together with candle wax and prayer. A pitiful attempt at magic that would have made any fool who dared to cast it within range of a true mage a subject for some serious public humiliation. And yet, the combatants who went against him seemed to think this was impressive.

Truly, I thought, the magical ability has degraded much since I was last alive.

I broke from my thoughts as the argonian's blade sunk into the skull of a bear, the cold cave's air parting from the carcass' still warm exhale.

I wonder, how many enemies can this age's Imperial Battlemage slay in one spell?

I wonder, just how disappointing this new time's magic will be?

I wonder, how little training will I have to give my new friend until he can compete with this time's arcane masters.

How very, very, interesting it must be, for my warped legacy to be able to pass on through this Saxhleel. And how very, very lucky.

I took a moment to breath in the cold air of Skyrim, tongue flicking out absently as I stared at the ebony-scaled dragon. It flew unlike a bird, as if its form was held up in the sky not with wind, but with pure power. A single flap of its wings nearly blew me and my two followers off of solid ground. It flew away from the charred remains of Helgen, going vaguely northward.

"That's a dangerous beast, friend. What does it mean for the world if a dragon of that size is just roaming now?"

I growled, sensing the tension in the air between the two men behind me. 'I think it means that I need some fucking sleep.'

"Agreed."

I once again wrangled the two man-children from their politically charged discourse and led them down the road to Riverwood, touching the stone of thieves and cutting the throats of a few wolves on our way there. We found rest in the only available room of the Sleeping Giant Inn.

As I faded into unconsciousness, I felt a presence in the room, which I was ready to slay when I opened my eyes. One conversation with an unnerved Breton innkeep later, and I was set to sleep with a belly full of too-sweet mead and a steak which was a bit too cooked for my palate.

Still, to be picky is to die in a land such as this, even when engaging in pleasantries.

~+-+~END CHAPTER~+-+~

It is rather awkward, writing an author's note for a story with only one chapter. What am I to say? I hope you enjoy? Give me feedback and point out any grammar issues? Tell me if I got any Elder Scrolls Lore wrong?

I hope one of those were what you wanted, reader. If there is anyone reading this in the first place, anyway.

Subsequent chapters should be longer as I get comfortable writing this story. Hopefully, anyway.

-Bella Ciao, Graye.