Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any of the characters that appear in both my story and the game. These are the intellectual properties of Bethesda Softworks. While the story's plot progresses in my own way, it does follow the quest lines of the Skyrim game.
Ch. 2: Bound Together, Executed Together
I awoke with a headache. My muscles were sore and my stomach was growling. It seemed as though my body was being violently bounced around, which was probably what woke me up in the first place.
My vision was slowing coming into focus. I was still groggy, but I began to make out trees and rocks and, obviously, the sky. And it was cold, too cold for any region of Cyrodiil….
Then I realized that my body was still being lurched around, but nothing was pulling on me. I felt the stern plank underneath my backside and could hear the wooden wheels rolling over the hard stony ground. My senses returned all at once as I shot upright and realized that I was in a wooden cart. I was alarmed and my blooded pounded through my veins. Fearing whatever unknown situation I was now in. Looking around I took note that I wasn't alone in the cart, three men were sitting solemnly.
""Hey, you. You're finally awake" come a voice in front of me. The voice was produced by a burly man with sand-colored hair, a braid going down his left side, and dark eyes. I was too caught off guard to respond. "You were trying to cross the border, right?"
Did I?
I strained for my recent memories, but I remembered the soldiers coming towards me. They were going to arrest me under assault and crossing the border before I froze, unable to think of anything to do to help myself. My voice caught in my throat, my muscles went stiff, fear building up inside of me. I almost wanted to scream. I didn't want to go to jail!
The men didn't even bother asking me to put down my weapons before they just rushed me and wrestled me down to the cold dirt. They took my weapons and stripped me down to my last layer of clothing and then bound my hands in rope.
"Damn, I was hoping she would have some skooma on her" said the one man who drew his sword on me. "What good is a Khajiit if they don't have any skooma?"
"Right now, I can think of something this one might be good for" said the guy who thought I was with the rebel group. He had an evil grin on his face and I suddenly began to fear for more than my freedom.
With my voice still not cooperating, the only thing I could think of doing was to give the third man, the one who strikes me as the smartest in the bunch, the most pleading look I could think of. I poured all the emotion that I could into my gaze, hoping that he would realize that this was all a misunderstanding and they would let me go free as long as I promised never to return to Skyrim again.
It must have worked because before the other two had a chance to try anything, he said "That's enough you two. Let's just get her to the carriage and on the way to Helgen. We have enough to do today". May the Nine bless him.
The other two each stood on either side of me, grabbed hold of both my arms, and raised me to my feet. The Smart Guy led the way as the other two, Sword Man and Rebel Believer, practically dragged me. I didn't resist. I knew there was no hope of escaping. From lack of sleep, trekking the mountains, having not eaten in many hours, and from being emotionally exhausted from the very real possibility of facing jail, I felt all energy seep from my body. My vision got blurry and I felt dizzy. I couldn't help it; I passed out in the arms of the two guys carrying me.
"Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there."
I was snapped back into the present by the Nord man's voice. I was beginning to feel a little more aware and alert. So were all four of us ambushed by Imperials?
"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy" spoke the apparent thief. His hair was slicked back to expose his pale face. His voice came out rough and angry and he glared at the other Nord man. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell". His attention then turned to me now. "You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants". Now his voice came out pleading, as though he was trying to get me to side with him and be against the "Stormcloaks". I had no idea what a "Stormcloak" was and thus I didn't know how to respond to the man, so I stayed silent. Thankfully, the sandy-haired Nord saved me from having to speak. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief" he said.
"Shut up back there!" barked the man driving the carriage. I recognized his voice, it was Smart Nord. His harsh tone didn't stop the thief though.
"And what's wrong with him, huh?" spoke the Thief, jerking his head towards the last person in the carriage. The man had been so quiet I almost forgot he was there.
"Watch your tongue!" replied the Sandy-Haired Nord prisoner. His temper rose quickly. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
My attention then turned to the last guy in my company. His mouth was gagged, keeping him quiet and from giving any input on the conversation. He looked dirty and worn out. His light brown hair looked black in some spots, matching the dirt smeared on his face. His last name was apparently "Stormcloak", the same name of the people that the Thief said the Empire was looking for. And the Sandy-Haired Nord called him the "true High King". Perhaps these people were the cause of whatever rebellion is going on mentioned by my captures? As the pieces became clear, I began to feel more and more unsettled. Obviously I had just been caught up in something big.
The Thief looked at Ulfric Stormcloak with a puzzled look. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion".
Well, that answered my question better than could've been expected. By the Nine, what have I gotten myself mix up in? Was there some sort of civil war going on in Skyrim that the people of Cyrodiil haven't even heard of?
Then the Thief had an even darker look on his face, one of extreme fear. "But if they've captured you…. Oh gods, where are they taking us!?" He began to breathe heavily and fidget with his binds. I wanted to do the same because the man had a point. The leader of a rebellion just got captured and is on the back of a carriage in custody of the Empire, and we are grouped in with him. Maybe they will just drop Ulfric off somewhere and the rest of us will be transported to separate location.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits" spoke the Sandy-Haired Nord gravely.
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!" replied the Thief. His face looked almost defeated at this point as though he were facing death. He gave up trying to break his bonds. His breathing slowed into deep, hollowed inhales as his head hung to the ground. This all felt so unreal to me, as if I were merely watching this unfold through the eyes of someone else.
"Hey, what village are you from horse thief?" said the Sandy-Haired Nord, trying to distract the man.
"Why do you care?" the Thief snapped back.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
So I guess we are all facing death. But is death really a justified punishment for a horse thief and a border crosser? Could Skyrim's laws really be that cruel? I was always told that the providence of Skyrim was much more dangerous and unforgiving than Cyrodiil, but this sounds too extreme.
"Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead" replied the Thief.
"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" someone shouted out, catching all of us off guard. I then realized my new surroundings. We had gone from the cold and snowy mountains to a slightly warmer area with more greenery. We began to head underneath an overpass that served as an entrance/exit at the outer wall of a town.
"Good. Let's get this over with" responded our carriage driver. The Thief immediately began to pray to the gods to help him. He seemed to be getting more frightened by the second. I don't blame him. We were all seemingly facing death, but I could not feel fear. Perhaps my mind was still trying to wrap around everything that had happened within the last twenty-four hours, all starting because of that damned unicorn.
Off to the side of the road we were currently on, right behind the outer wall, stood a group of soldiers in gold armor talking to some of the towns guards.
"Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor" began the Sandy-Haired Nord. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves. I bet they had something to do with this".
I have heard of the Thalmor. "Elven supremacists", as they are called, who claimed sole responsibility for closing the Oblivion Gates in the Dominion. They refuse to give due credit to Martin Septim, the true hero who ended the Oblivion Crisis by destroying the Amulet of Kings and calling upon the power of Akatosh. I do not know a great lot about the Thalmor, but I have met many people who have shared the same views as they do. I have never sided with anyone who tried to cover up the true events of the Oblivion Crisis. People trying to bend history in a way to make themselves look better than what they truly are. It makes my blood boil.
"Funny," began the Sandy-Haired Nord, "when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe".
I understood exactly how he felt. Bruma's walls were so well guarded and so sturdy that I felt as though not even an army could penetrate the city. The guards of Bruma were so nice to me too. They all knew my name from how often I would greet them as I went in and out of the city gates for hunting. I would even trade meats with some of them. But now I was being escorted by several guards while under restraints. The wall surrounding this town was built for protection; to keep wildlife out. But now I saw them as sides of a cage. The lookout towers can see long distances in all directions; I would never be able to run away. I was trapped.
Townsfolk began to gather outside their homes to watch as we continued to the center of town. One child sat on his porch and stared as we passed. I tried not to make eye contact with him. His father, I presumed, tried to talk the boy into going inside the house. "You need to go inside, little cub", he said to his child. "Little cub". What an amusing endearment. I began to imagine that child as a Khajiit. A literal cub perched on the stoop while watching as I am lead to my grave. How would the child react? Would he even be able to grasp the concept of what was about to happen? Would it be appropriate to yell out to the child that not all Khajiits are treated this way?
"Why? I want to watch the soldiers," the child replied to his father. His remark saddened me. He was more intrigued by the soldiers going about a duty than he was by the prisoners they carried. Are prisoners that insignificant to a child? Nord or Khajiit, no prisoner should have to feel as though their final moments of life are insignificant when compared to the praise of the job title of their executioners. I caught sight of the Sandy-Haired Nord and he was looking at the child as well. His hurtful expression indicated that he might have been thinking the exact same thoughts I was thinking.
The carriage pulled into an area that looked like the center of the town, and pulled next to other carriages holding other people in bonds. More prisoners. They were all Nords, so I could not help but wonder if they are all part of this Stormcloak Rebellion?
"Why are we stopping?" asked the Thief, looking around the square with a panicked expression.
"Why do you think? End of the line," answered the Sandy-Haired Nord. There was no emotion in his voice. He seemed prepared for this fate. The soldiers began opening the carriage doors and ordering the all the prisoners off of them to stand in a group on the ground.
"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us," this time when the Sandy-Haired Nord spoke, his voice was filled with sternness that he seemed just ready to get this over with. Ready to meet the gods and start the journey that is the afterlife.
Unfortunately the Thief did not have his level readiness to die.
"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" he yelled out, hoping to get enough reason out of the guards to spare his life. We were being lead off of the carriage and onto the stone and dirt ground. The Thief turned to Ulfric Stormcloak and pleaded. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!" It sounded like he was pleading for my life for me as well. I appreciated the attempt, but overall it seemed like a useless gesture. The soldiers did not even seem to notice the poor man's cry.
"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time," demanded a male guard. He held a book of what I assumed was a list of names in one hand, and a quill in the other. Dressed in a typical towns-guard outfit, it didn't seem as though he held much authority. He probably got stuck with this roll calling task out of bad luck.
"Face your death with some courage, thief," said the Sandy-Haired Nord.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm," called out the male guard. Ulfric wasted no time to step forward and marched stoically to the spot they designated him to go stand. He kept every bit of composure possible. If Ulfric Stormcloak was afraid of dying, you would not have known.
"Ralof of Riverwood," he called out next. This time it was the Sandy-Haired Nord who walked forward. Ralof. I finally got to hear his name. He walked with almost as much composure as Ulfric, but fell short of his leader by slouching forward as he walked and having a small amount of sadness in his eyes. He took his position next to Ulfric.
"Lokir of Rorikstead," was the next name the guard called out. It was the Thief. Sad to be learning the names of these men only at the end of their lives.
He was not keen on going as quietly as the two Nords before him. "No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" he yelled at the guard. The fear was now very prominent. Lokir's entire body shook and he face was strained with worry. It was obvious that this man was completely terrified of death. His head swiveled to look at each soldiers face, asking every one of them to spare his life. To understand that he didn't deserve to die and that they should terminate his execution. But no soldier or towns guard or anybody was on his side. No person spoke out to spare him. And when it was clear that there was no hope for his life, he ran.
"You're not going to kill me!" Lokir hollered out as he ran as fast as he could down the road in front of him. The guards were too caught off guard to stop him as he shoved passed a few.
"Halt!" called out a soldier who wore the bronze and gold armor of an Imperial Captain. But Lokir had no intention of complying.
As the soldier raised her arm and yelled out "Archers!" as several guards readied their bows and took aim at the fleeing Lokir. But before they released death onto the horse thief, Lokir raised his bound hands and conjured a distorted space between his hands. And when he bought his hands back down to his body, he vanished into a puff of black and purple smoke, completely disappearing from sight. The archers fired their arrows, but none of them suck Lokir. His footsteps began fading from hearing and before too long he seemed to have made a clear escape.
"After him!" yelled the Imperial Captain. Several Imperial guards on horseback galloped down the path that Lokir took, and soon they were gone as well. She then turned her attention back to the rest of us and ordered every available guard to brand their weapons. "No one else better even think about running away! As you gather your final thoughts, know that Lokir will be found and killed without mercy!" No one moved. If anyone else were going to run, they might have done so already during the confusion of Lokir fleeing while invisible. But if the remaining people were all loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak, and fought with him during a rebellion, I doubt they would abandon him now.
With no one looking to make a break for it, the Imperial Captain motioned for the male guard with the list to continue calling the names. He looked at me, and then looked at his list, and then back at me. "Wait. You there. Step forward," he commanded me. Something in his book must not have been adding up. I did as he instructed. "Who are you?" he asked me.
I was scared to answer. Answering his question, giving up my name, would be the seal that officially groups me with the rebels and marks me for death. But it isn't as though refusing to tell him my name will save me. There would be no way for me to escape if I were to run. I don't know magic well enough to disappear or to even conjure up a fireball. My bow is gods know where and I'm not about to try to wrestle one off of a soldier.
I looked over to Ulfric Stormcloak, who was sitting on his knees near a chopping block. His mouth was still hidden behind a cloth, but this exaggerated his eyes. His eyes glared at me as if he were studying me, anxious of what I might do. Give my name and join his rebels in death or try to plea for my life. Then I looked over to Ralof, who only stared at the ground. The words he spoke to Lokir rang in my head. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
Home…. I wonder if my parents will be contacted after my execution. Will they live the rest of their lives thinking I was secretly part of a Skyrim rebellion? The thought of never seeing them again was heavy enough to make my eyes tear up. That last goodbye I told them yesterday morning would be the last time they would ever hear my voice. And it would be the last time I heard theirs. I would never be able to thank them for all that they have done for me. For taking me in when I became an orphan, for being stable pillars of support, for loving me unconditionally.
With my heart heavy and tears soaking into the fur around my eyes, I returned my attention to the man with the list. I opened my mouth and spoke through the sobs. My voice cracked from my dry throat and long overdue use.
"My name is Sor'Aya," I managed to say.