Desmond doesn't move for about thirty seconds.
He just stares at the dragon, because holy motherfucking shit on a stick that is a dragon. He looks down. Is he dreaming? He has to be dreaming, because dragons aren't real. They aren't.
Then Ralof, stubborn, wonderful Ralof, grabs him and tugs him away as fast as he can.
There's a lot of running, after that. It's surprisingly freeing, being able to just let go and sprint through the burning rubble, trailing behind Ralof and that Ulfric guy. He hadn't known he'd missed this. At one point Ralof is gone and he's following a man in leather armor instead, dodging dragon fire and freerunning across open ground. It looks like one of the soldiers that captured him, he thinks, while the man is screaming at others to get some kid out of the way. Then suddenly Ralof is back, and Desmond is so relieved to see a familiar face in such agonizing chaos that he doesn't even think before following him into the keep.
#
He collapses, panting, inside the stone building. His skin and jacket are singed, and if these shackles don't come off in a few moments he's going to scream.
Ralof hauls him to his feet. "A dragon, here and in the flesh! I never thought that those old legends had any truth to them." Then he's off to look around, leaving Desmond to try to catch his breath by the door. Sure, he's sprinted farther than that before, but never in such stressful circumstances. Now that the adrenaline's worn off, he's shaking like a leaf.
"Do you see a key to this door anywhere?" Desmond shakes his head. "Damn. If we want to-" Ralof abruptly cuts off, dragging Desmond to the side of the locked door. "Imperials! Hide!"
"Get this gate open!" Oh, he knows that voice. That's the lady who sent him to the block. If anyone had the key to his cuffs, it would be her.
He's just opening his mouth to tell this to Ralof when she spots them. "Prisoners!" She shrieks. "Attack!"
He and Ralof jump opposite directions. The two less armored guards follow Ralof, but the woman, the most dangerous, goes after him. Fuck.
It's no competition, really. She's heavily armed and he's in just his hoodie, with his arms cuffed behind his back. In mere moments she has him at her mercy, her chest pressed to his back and her sword at his throat. He can hear Ralof calling his name from where he's fighting off one of the guards, the other fallen at his feet.
"Any last words, criminal scum?" she hisses.
"Sorry about this," he murmurs. He twists his wrists and jabs his hands back into her stomach, hidden blade releasing. He jerks to the side and twists as her arms go slack in surprise, gashing a huge wound across her torso. He backs away quickly, out of sword range. She falls to the ground, blood burbling out of her mouth.
He does his best to shake the blood off of his blade and retracts it. Ralof is staring, wide eyed, at the dead soldier. Desmond whistles to get his attention.
"You mind searching her for a key to these cuffs? I'm a little tied up at the moment." As surprised as the other man is, he still chuckles at the bad joke.
"Of course, friend. One moment." His hands pat over her pockets, eventually pulling away, triumphant, with two keys. "Aha! One of these should open the gate, and the other your shackles. Now, let me see if I can get these bindings off." Desmond gratefully turns and presents him with his wrists, and in moments he is blessedly free. "There we go."
He works feeling back into his hands as Ralof moves to unlock the other gate. His sleeves had prevented a good amount of chafing, but the skin and muscles are still raw and sore.
He sees Ralof moving off down the stairs and makes to go after him. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs the woman's sword. It's not like she'll be needing it anymore.