Desmond wakes up in a cart.

In an instant, he's taken stock of his surroundings. There's three other men with him, and a quick flash of his eagle vision says that none of them are hostile. The man sitting next to him has a gag in his mouth, and is vehemently glaring at nothing. They are dressed oddly, in tunics and cloaks that would not be out of place in a renaissance festival. All of them have ropes tied around their wrists.

In the next instant, he takes stock of himself. The Apple is still shoved in the pocket of his hoodie, which has the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and on his right arm there are a myriad of scars not unlike a circuit board. His jeans are caked with dirt at the knees, and his sneakers are similarly dirty. His pack, thank god, is still slung over his back. His hidden blade is still there as well, strapped to his left wrist just like always, and its familiar weight brings him comfort.

The blond man across from him smiles widely. "Ahh, finally awake, I see." Desmond ignores him, instead going to town on his bindings. He grew up on escape training and espionage, and ordinary rope is child's play compared to zip ties. He's out of them in seconds.

He ignores the gasps and stutters of the two ungagged men in the cart, instead shifting his weight onto his toes and vaulting up and backwards out of the cart. He's off across the rough terrain, stumbling slightly as feeling works itself back into his legs.

He enjoys his freedom for all of about fifteen seconds before something strikes him in the back and he goes down. His head cracks on a rock and he blacks out- again.

He wakes up back in the cart.

They've got him in iron manacles this time, chained behind him to one of the wooden beams on the cart wall. His legs are unbound though, and he doesn't even grace the other prisoners with attention this time as he brings his foot up to his face and shimmies a lockpick out of his shoe with his teeth. He turns his head and arches his back, dropping it into his hands. They're unlocked in a minute, and in moments he's sprung out of the cart again. He lasts a little longer this time, making it almost home free, but he makes the fatal mistake of turning to look back and he goes down with an arrow in his shoulder.

He wakes up back in the cart.

In the seconds it takes everyone to notice he's awake, he's already on the move. He leans over, grasps the shaft of the arrow with his teeth, and with a pained grunt, rips it out. He shoves it in the keyhole of the cuffs and twists. It definitely should not work, but it does, and the cuffs pop off. Instead of wasting time unlocking his feet he just yanks his ankles as hard as he can and the metal brackets they're chained to pull out of the wood.

He brains one guard with his cuffs and trips another with his ankle chains, who falls and accidentally impales himself. He's so close to freedom, he can practically taste it, when a third guard lights him up with 20,000 volts of purple lightning and he collapses, shaking so hard he knocks himself out.

He wakes up back in the cart. Call him crazy, but he's starting to notice a pattern.

This time, he makes no move to escape. His arms are twisted apart and bound to each opposite elbow, and his forearms are chained to the cart wall. He has shackles on his knees and his ankles, and his ankles are cuffed to the floor. He may be a good escape artist, but even he can't do anything in this situation.

The blond man across from him quirks an eyebrow. "What, no moves to escape this time, friend? We were sure you had something else up your sleeve."

Desmond glares and, for the first time, opens his mouth.

Instead of English, smooth Arabic rolls out of his mouth. He tries again, but this time it's Italian, with a little French mixed in. The third time yields Mohawk. He violently shakes his head and grunts when the voices in his mind settle. He smiles sheepishly at the three other men, who are wide eyed and staring by now.

"Sorry about that." He shakes his head again. "It's just- all the languages- my head gets them confused sometimes." He looks around, eagle vision flashing, but all the guards are a dull, inattentive red. "Who are you?"

The blond man grins understandingly. "It is no trouble, friend. I am Ralof, of Riverwood. Next to you is Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true high king of Skyrim." He nodded to the dark haired man. "I know not who this man is, save that he is a horse thief and he is from Rorikstead." The man- Ralof- cocked his head, peering at Desmond. "And what of you, friend? Who are you?"

Desmond is tempted to give him a fake name, he really is, but he figures- what the hell? He's tied up in a cart with what looked to be prisoners, in a country he's never heard of with people who don't know him. There probably isn't any way his real identity could come back and bite him in the ass. He knows how these things end.

#

"I'm Desmond, Desmond Miles."

Ulfric Stormcloak is not a man taken to fits of rash action or flights of fancy. No one would dare tell you otherwise. He is nearly always level headed, the perfect picture of composure. It is an image he cultivates almost religiously, and he works as hard as he can to make sure that nobody- nobody but Galmar, that is- ever has a reason to think differently. 'Nothing gets the better of Ulfric Stormcloak,' the people whisper. 'He is invincible. He is a man with the strongest of wills.'

But dear Divines, this man.

This stupid, rash, courageous Desmond Miles, who has escaped three times and killed two Imperials bare handed and had almost, almost made it to freedom. This enigmatic man who flows between unknown tongues like water and dresses so strangely and has scars like ancient carvings and eyes like polished septims.

Well, Ulfric challenges even the strongest of men to walk away from that.

He watches him out of the corner of his eye, sees him nod at all the right points and act like he's listening to Ralof. All the while his eyes flit around, taking in their surroundings and cataloging escape routes and guard positions, all instinctive. He watches the man shrink away from the guard at his back and pull his legs in to make himself a smaller target.

And it occurs to Ulfric that this is a man who has seen war. Not just seen it, but lived it, a man who has been hunted and bloodied and backed into a corner so many times that even when he is relatively safe he is constantly on edge. It's in the set of his jaw, the curve of his spine, the slope of his shoulder. He has seen it many times, the haunted look in the eyes of old veterans. What could this man, who is barely into adulthood, have experienced to make him look like he has never know peace?

Then they pass into Helgen, and Ulfric sees the block, and sees the way the strange man stills, and it clicks.

Strange, beautiful Desmond Miles, who calms the shaking horse thief with soothing words even as he knows without a doubt that he is going to die. He is resigned to his fate, and, as they are loaded off the cart into the courtyard of Helgen, even when Tullius is monologuing and he should be paying attention, Ulfric cannot stop watching him. He watches Desmond relax at the sight of the block, sees him admit defeat.

He burns at the thought of the loss of such fight, such fire.

Ulfric isn't rash, no. But once something catches his attention, once he gets hooked on it, there is no standing in his way. He has always had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, a boundless desire to know things, to understand the world around him. People are no exception. And Desmond, Desmond is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a cloak of shadows. Ulfric yearns to speak to him, to listen and touch and learn this man, and they have never even spoken to one another.

He would kill every person in this town himself if it would keep this man alive long enough for Ulfric to know him.

Ulfric Stormcloak is, by no means, a devout man, or a selfless one. He prays maybe once in a while, for strength and determination to win his war. He has never prayed for another. But as he watches Desmond shuffle forward and smile at the executioner like an old friend, he breaks into fervent prayer, hoping against hope that someone, anyone, might hear.

Please, anyone, by the Divines, let this man live. Let him live.

Then the dragon attacks, and Ulfric nearly cheers.