Chapter 1- The Beginning at the End

The distant sounds of wagon wheels rolling over stones woke him from his sleep, and as he awoke, he was greeted with a splitting headache. He reached up to rub his head, only to find that his wrists were tied together. It was then he realized that he was in a wagon that was headed to an unknown location. He looked around and saw that this was one of four wagons, all loaded with people who were bound, like he was. As his focus gradually returned, he saw that these men and women were soldiers, and that they had just recently been in a battle. Their armor still had blood on them, and a few had bandages wrapped around their heads. The wagons were being driven by soldiers, but these were different from the soldiers in the wagons. While the soldiers in the wagons had scale armor wrapped in blue cloths, the soldiers driving the wagons were dressed in leather armor with red accents, and two were dressed in plate armor; one was silver, and the other was golden. The man in the golden armor rode a similarly armored horse, and carried himself with pride and authority, giving himself the appearance of a general.

He then looked at the three others in the wagon with him. Sitting in front of him was a man in his mid-thirties, with long blonde hair and a short beard, his somewhat pale face accenting dark piercing eyes that stared at him.

"Hey, you," the man said, "you're finally awake"

"Yeah, it would seem so, unless this is a nightmare," was the response. "And my name isn't 'you'. It's Arlin."

"My apologies," the man chuckled, "but when one is on death row, names are the last thing on their mind. Well, if introductions are to be in order," he reached out with his tied hands, doing his best to present a handshake, "I'm Ralof. Ralof of Riverwood."

Arlin did his best to shake Ralof's hand, but the gesture proved to be awkward, to say the least. After the handshake, Ralof leaned back again. "So, you were trying to cross the border, right?"

Arlin nodded. "I don't remember what happened, though."

"You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there." He gestured to the man sitting next to him, dressed in ragged clothes and scowling angrily.

"Damn you, Stormcloaks," he grumbled. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If it hadn't been for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The man looked at Arlin. "You there, you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." He spoke in a tone that sounded almost desperate, as if trying to reassure himself that his capture was a mistake, and that he would be released soon.

Ralof, however, shook his head. He knew that once the Imperials made an arrest, no amount of pleading would set you free before a trial happened. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The Imperial soldier driving the wagon turned his head slightly, glancing at the four in the wagon and scowled. "Shut up, back there," he said, earning the glares of four men.

The thief turned to the last man who was sitting next to Arlin. His armor, which was darker than the others, was covered with a black fur-lined coat. In addition to his bound wrists, his mouth was gagged, and he was not happy about it, as evident by the scowl he wore on his face.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" asked the thief.

Ralof spun on him angrily. "Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

"Ulfric?" the thief repeated, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you…" his voice trailed off as realization slowly dawned on him. "Oh, gods, where are they taking us?!"

"I don't know where we are going," said Ralof as he looked in the direction the wagons were heading, "but Sovengarde awaits."

"No," the thief gasped, "this isn't happening! This can't be happening!" He curled up on himself as best as he could, like someone trying to wake himself from a nightmare.

The four men sat in silence for a while, staring ahead toward the direction of where the wagons were going. Finally, Ralof turned to the thief and broke the silence. "Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"

The thief looked up with a scowl. "Why do you care?"

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

He sat in silence, hesitant to answer. "Rorikstead," he finally said. "I- I'm from Rorikstead."

Ralof turned to Arlin. "How about you? Where are you from?"

Arlin looked down at his hands, pondering the question. He stared at his right hand, which had a strange mark on it; three triangles joined together to form one large triangle. He couldn't explain it, so he had come to Skyrim to hopefully find an answer.

"Well," he responded, "I'm originally from Skyrim, but my family fled some years ago, after my father was killed in a skirmish against the Thalmor. We've lived in Hammerfell since."

"I'm sorry about your father," said Ralof solemnly. "He sounds like he was a true son of Skyrim."

Arlin only nodded, not wanting to say that his father was actually an Imperial soldier in service to the Emperor directly. He knew about the civil war between the Empire and the Stormcloaks, and he didn't want to cause a scene. He looked up as the wagons turned a bend and approached the stone walls of a small town. Two Imperials stood by the gates, ready to open them when the wagons came closer, and one Imperial stood watch above the gates. As the wagon train approached, the Imperial turned and called out to the general.

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

"Good," replied Tullius, "let's get this over with."

The two Imperials opened the gates, allowing the wagons to pass through. Arlin could hear the thief praying behind him: "Shor! Mara! Dibella! Kynerath! Akatosh! Divines, please help me!"

Arlin turned to the thief. "If you hear an answer, let me know. I could use some divine intervention, too." He turned back to look forward as the wagons passed through the gate. 'But, seriously,' he thought to himself, 'if any of the Divines can hear our plea, we could really use your aid right about now.' At that moment, suddenly everything around him shone with a blinding white, and he cried out in surprise as he rubbed his eyes and looked around. He was standing (or, more accurately, floating) in what seemed to be an empty space of light, but he wasn't bothered with the brightness. He looked all around, but there was no one and nothing in sight.

"Hello?" he called out, hoping that maybe an answer would come, but only silence followed. "Where am I? Am I…dead?"

Suddenly, a voice that wasn't his spoke up. "Hello? Is someone there?" The voice sounded feminine and timid, almost as if it was afraid of something. It also sounded like it was right next to Arlin, but when he turned around, he was still alone.

"I'm here," he answered.

"What's your name?"

"My name is Arlin."

"Arlin?" the voice repeated thoughtfully. "I was expecting someone else, but your name holds a familiarity to me. I think I'm supposed to help you."

"Help me with what? Who are you?"

"I can't tell you right now, we don't have much time. But I can say that I am a friend, and I am to guide you on your quest."

"What quest? I'm in a wagon."

"All will be explained, in time. Right now, you have a different problem to deal with."

"Oh, right," Arlin groaned. "The headsman,"

"He's actually not the danger you need to be wary of, right now."

"He's going to literally chop my head off. How is that not a danger?"

"Look to the skies," was the only reply before the world returned to normal, and Arlin shook his head. He looked around, and he found himself still in the wagon, and still riding into the small town. Ralof was looking behind him with a scowl, and Arlin looked up to find that Tullius had moved over to a group of elves, all on horses, with a woman at the front of the group. She was taller than the general, even while riding her horse, and dressed in the robes of a high-ranking Thalmor agent, which sharply accented her face. Pale and with sunken cheeks, anyone who took a quick glance at her would, understandingly, mistake her for a vampire, but a closer inspection would lead to one seeing that her eyes were golden, and not the red color a vampire would normally have. She carried herself with dignity and pride, and she exuded an air of arrogance, which caused Arlin to scowl angrily. He hated conceited people, and this woman made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Look at him," Ralof scoffed. "General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves! I'll bet they had something to do with this!" They sat in silence for a few minutes before Ralof spoke up again. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

"That sounds like an amazing drink," said Arlin, who only now noticed how hungry and thirsty he was. Up to this point, food was the last thing on his mind, so it was easy to ignore. Now, however, the realization hit him like the backhand of a frost troll, and he immediately regretted the thoughts of food.

"Funny," Ralof mused, more to himself than Arlin.

"What's funny?"

"When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Arlin only nodded in response. Before his family fled to Hammerfell, he used to live in Solitude, the capital of Skyrim, and the main base of the Imperial Army, so he was able to relate to how it felt living behind Imperial walls. As a child, he would often sneak out of the city and go exploring in the woods just outside, even going so far as to get lost on more than one occasion.

He snapped out of his reminiscence when he heard the voice of a young boy talking to his father.

"Who are they, Daddy? Where are they going?"

"You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."

"Inside the house. Now."

"Yes, Papa…" the child answered solemnly.

Almost immediately, the voice of a woman shouted out: "Get these prisoner's out of the carts! Move it!"

The thief turned to Ralof with a look of fear in his eyes. "Why are we stopping?"

"Why do you think?" grunted Ralof, "End of the line."

The wagons lined up along the stone wall, and the Stormcloaks began climbing out. Arlin turned to Ralof, who gave him a nod.

"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

"Well, given the circumstances, I'm sure they'll be forgiving," Arlin replied as they began climbing out of the wagon. The only person who had to get pulled out of the wagon was the thief, on account that he was refusing to cooperate. "No! Wait! We're not rebels!"

Ralof rolled his eyes with a sigh, his annoyance beginning to show. "Face your death with some courage, thief."

"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

The pleas were ignored as the thief was forced to line up with the others in front of the Imperial captain. Another Imperial soldier came up beside the captain, carrying a ledger and a quill. He was of average height, with shoulder-length chestnut brown hair and a slightly paler complexion than Arlin was, who had a slight tan from living in Hammerfell for some years.

"Step toward the block when Hadvar calls your name!" shouted the captain as they lined up in front of her. "One at a time!"

Ralof sighed in exasperation as he stepped up next to Arlin. "Empire loves their damn lists." The Imperial soldier, presumably Hadvar, began reading out the names from the ledger;

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." Arlin looked on as Ulfric made his way to the executioner's block, and Ralof bowed his head in respect for his leader. "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood," Hadvar continued, and he glared at Ralof, who glared back, as he passed by. From their short interaction, Arlin could only guess that the two of them had some history.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," Hadvar turned back to his ledger.

The thief, presumably Lokir, turned ghostly pale at the calling of his name. "NO!" he shouted, stepping forward until he was in arm's reach of the captain, who grabbed the hilt of her sword in response to the sudden outburst, "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Lokir turned and sprinted toward the main gate.

"Halt!" shouted the captain, but Lokir didn't even slow down. "You're not going to kill me!" he shouted back in response as he got closer to the gate. "ARCHERS!" the captain screamed out, and one of the Imperials quickly shot an arrow at Lokir, who cried out and fell to the ground before he got to the threshold of the gate. Arlin sighed and shook his head.

'Well, I guess that's kind of like divine intervention,' he thought to himself, 'but that's still a sad way to go.' He turned back to the captain, who turned around with a livid expression on her face. "Anyone else feel like running?" she inquired in a calm tone that made Arlin decide that it would be in his best interest to stay put until told otherwise. Hadvar turned to Arlin, then looked at the ledger. A look of confusion came over his face, and he looked back up at Arlin.

"Wait, you there! Step forward."

Arlin took a deep breath and stepped forward, and he could feel the intense glare from the captain on him.

"Who are you?" Hadvar asked.

"Arlin, son of Martin, son of Yarlin, of Solitude."

Both of the Imperials looked at each other with a look of surprise and turned back to the ledger. The way Arlin presented himself made it sound like he was from a prominent family, but all that the Imperials saw was a Nord man dressed in rags that showed his toned body in different places. His dark red hair, which was accented with black roots, was mangled, as well as his beard. His dark green eyes looked on as the Imperials searched for his name in the ledger.

"My family fled to Hammerfell after my father was killed in a skirmish some years ago. I only recently came back for… personal reasons." He felt that it was necessary to keep his true purpose to himself, as he couldn't tell at that time who he could and couldn't trust.

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman," Hadvar looked at the captain. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

For a brief moment, Arlin was hopeful. Maybe they would release him? However, the captain turned to Hadvar and shook her head, causing Arlin's heart to sink.

"Forget the list," she said, crossing her arms across her chest, "he goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain," Hadvar answered, and he turned to Arlin with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

Arlin sighed and shrugged. "It's alright, I understand. You let one prisoner go, you'd have a riot to contend with."

"Well," the captain snorted, "at least someone understands."

"Follow the Captain, prisoner," said Hadvar, and Arlin turned and walked to the chopping block, which had a wicker basket in front of it. The headsman stood next to the block, holding his giant executioner's axe, and beside him stood a priestess of Arkay. The captain walked past Tullius to stand next to the priestess, and Tullius glared at Ulfric, who stood, bound and gagged, before him.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," began Tullius, "some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric could only growl dismissively in response.

"You started this war," Tullius continued, "plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

At that moment, a sound echoed past the mountains and through the air, causing everyone to look up at the sky in curiosity, and a little bit of fear, for the sound was like none other any of them had ever heard before. The sound was, from what Arlin could only guess, a roar, loud and long, like the roar of a waterfall echoing in the wind, yet with a deeper pitch, and it sent a chill down his spine.

"What was that?" Hadvar spoke up.

"It's nothing," said Tullius dismissively. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius!" the captain said with a salute. She then turned to the priestess. "Give them their last rites." The priestess turned to the Stormcloaks and lifted her hands up as she began:

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-"

"For the love of Talos," snapped one of the Stormcloaks as he marched up to the block, "shut up and let's get this over with!"

"As you wish," said the priestess as she placed her hands on her hips, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.

"Come on!" the soldier shouted as the captain moved up behind him. "I haven't got all morning!" The captain placed her hand on the Stormcloak's back and nodded at the headsman, who nodded back in response. She then forced the soldier onto his knees, then used her foot to bend him forward, setting his neck on the block.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," said the Stormcloak, looking up as the headsman readied his axe. "Can you say the same?" At that moment, the headsman brought his axe down on the Stormcloak, separating his head from his shoulders. As the captain kicked the corpse off of the block, a variety of shouts, cheers and jeers echoed around them:

"You Imperial bastards!"

"Justice!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

"As fearless in death as he was in life," said Ralof as he solemnly bowed his head in respect for his fallen comrade.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!" shouted the captain as she pointed at Arlin, who raised an eyebrow.

"Not wasting any time with me, I see," he observed. "What? You think I'm going to run off, too?"

Then, the sound that was heard only moments before echoed through the air again, louder this time, as if whatever made the sound was coming closer.

"There it is again," said Hadvar, turning to the captain. "Did you hear that?"

The captain was getting impatient. "I said next prisoner!"

"To the block, prisoner," Hadvar said to Arlin, "nice and easy."

Arlin squared his shoulders, took a breath to calm his nerves, and approached the block. He was then forced onto his knees, then bent forward, laying his neck on the chopping block. He looked up at the headsman as he once again readied his axe.

At that moment, Arlin caught movement from the corner of his eye. He looked and only caught a glimpse of what he could only describe as a giant winged demon, black as night, with a roar that shook the very air around them.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" shouted Tullius.

"Sentries, what do you see?" the captain said.

"It's in the clouds!" an Imperial shouted as the creature landed on the nearby watchtower, and the force of the landing shook the earth, causing everyone to stumble. Arlin lifted his head and stared at the creature; it was larger than even the watchtower, with wings that could dim out the sun. Spikes lined its back, and its horns gave it a sinister and demonic look combined, and its red eyes seemed to stare into Arlin's soul, which caused his to tremble in fear. He had only heard stories, but he never thought he would ever see such a creature, and the scream of a nearby villager only confirmed what the creature was:

"DRAGON!"