I do not own the Elder Scrolls Series.

AN: This. This is my second attempt at one of my first fanfictions. Last time, I ended the story because it was a mess caused by eagerness overtaking experience. Hopefully now, I'll be able to do it justice. Keep in mind, this isn't going to be a 100% copy of Skyrim's story. Major elements will be the same, just tweaked a bit and only to make the setting make more sense. The most important being that it's only been 81 years since the Oblivion Crisis, not 201. In addition, this story will take heavy influence from both canon lore, obscure texts, my own ideas and even some ideas from other fan writers. With that said, I've spent a long time thinking and re-thinking this story and now I hope it will be everything I thought it could be.

Chapter I: The Flight from Helgen

"And the Scrolls have foretold, of Black Wings in the cold, that when brothers wage war come unfurled! Alduin, Bane of Kings, Ancient Shadow Unbound, with a hunger to swallow the World!"

- Song of the Dragonborn

"The Aurbis is but a wheel within a wheel, spinning ever around. A fluctuating harmonic-cycle that is continuously feeding into itself as it marches without end, held up by the spokes that strengthen its ever-spinning heart. Life gives way to Death gives way to the Dream gives way to new Life again, Eve is to Night as Night it to the beauty of a new Dawn; wheels within wheels within wheels, cycles spinning forever more. And yet wheels can be damaged, the spokes can break and shatter, leaving the wheel to collapse in on itself. But something broken can be repaired again. The Cycle must continue."

- Witch-King Domhnall, Druid King of Galen, from Aurbic Meddlings

17th-18th of Last Seed, the Year of Our Divine Sovereign 4E 81

It is the 81st year of the Fourth Era, and Tamriel is no stranger to death. To the races of Mer, death was Lorkhan's last cruel trick, to waste away into nothing before they were free to return to the Aetherius. To the races of Men, death was a simple part of life. You lived and you died. Though many may try to delay death or make it subservient to them, all die in the end. For most, death is some far-off dread, distant yet always drawing nearer with each passing day. For others, however, death is a constant in their life. A companion that watches them, even as it claims everyone around them, leaving them always waiting for the day when it will be their turn. And on the 17th of Last Seed, 4E 81, death came to Helgen alongside a Breton clad in rags.

Clutching an Imperial sword and dressed in Imperial leather, Sebastien Ciero breathed deep as he exited the cave, the fresh air mixed with the stench of ash and death. It was an all-too familiar smell that seemed to dog him no matter how far he traveled. Despite it, he allowed himself a small moment of respite, standing in the gentle warmth of the sun, so welcoming after the blistering heat of dragon fire and the dark chill of the cavern. The warmth could only last so long, however, before the biting cold returned. And of course, with the cold, came the Nords.

"Shor's bones, I was starting to wonder if we were ever going to make it out of there." The Legionnaire – Hadvar, Sebastien's mind helpfully supplied – seemed somewhat slow on the uptake and had a habit of pointing out the obvious, such as storerooms, spiders and caves. Still, he had been decent to Sebastien, even when his superior was out for his blood. That alone earned him some favor.

"Aye, but we've still got farther to go." On the other hand, there was Ralof. Seemingly headstrong and reckless, as Nords were wont to be, but possessing a level of cunning that deserved some respect. The fact that he had gone out of his way to get Sebastien to safety helped as well.

"What I'm curious about," Hadvar began, glaring suspiciously at the Stormcloak "Is what you might know of this, Ralof."

"You accusing me of something, Hadvar?"

Sebastien fought back a groan of frustration. And there they go again. Allies were a useful thing to have, especially in an unfamiliar land. They would be more useful if they didn't descend into bickering at every half-slight.

"It seems to me mighty coincidental that a dragon appears when your traitor Jarl is about to be executed."

"You think we need a dragon to win?" Ralof laughed. "What good's a dragon compared to the children of Shor?"

Whatever retort Hadvar had planned went ignored by Sebastien as he observed their location. The cave had led them out to the bottom of a cliff overlooking a river valley, the exit partially hidden by small rocks and untamed bushes. With what was left of Helgen burning behind them, the only path left available was to go further down into the valley.

Behind him, the argument was growing more heated. Fearing the potential of steel being drawn, as well as being thoroughly annoyed with both of his companions at this point, Sebastien spun on his heel.

"Would the both of you be qu- Get down!" Rushing forward, he grabbed both the Nords and forcibly dragged them down to the ground as shadow swept out from the smoking ruins of Helgen, the rush of displaced air nearly deafening them. With a final baleful roar, the dragon flew north from Helgen, before finally disappearing behind the distant mountains. The three waited for several moments, not daring to move until they were sure it wouldn't return.

"Looks like he's gone for good this time." Hadvar said at last, standing up. Sebastien and Ralof stood as well.

"What's past those mountains?" Sebastien asked, wondering where exactly the dragon had gone too.

Ralof frowned. "Whiterun Hold," He answered, looking worried. "Come on, we need to keep moving. The closest town from here is Riverwood. My sister, Gerdur, owns the mill, she'll be able to give us supplies and the like."

"Aye, Riverwood's our best bet." Hadvar agreed. "But we should see my uncle Alvor instead. He's the smith, and loyal to the Empire."

Sensing the beginning of another argument, Sebastien intervened. "And how long will it take us to get to Riverwood?"

Ralof shrugged. "Two, maybe three days if we stick to the roads. After that though…"

"We need to tell people that there's a dragon on the loose," Hadvar finished. He turned towards Sebastien. "Listen, I know this isn't your land, but we need your help. Ralof and I can make our way to Windhelm and Solitude, but if that dragon really is heading for Whiterun, someone needs to warn Jarl Balgruuf,"

Sebastien raised an eyebrow. "You wish for me to inform your king?"

"Jarl," Ralof immediately corrected. "And aye. Riverwood, Rorikstead, these settlements don't have many guards, not enough to fend off a dragon certainly. Unless Balgruuf is warned, Whiterun Hold is defenseless."

Sebastien hummed thoughtfully. Right now, he was stranded in a country that was not his own, one that was not only plagued by civil war, but now by a legend come to life as well. To travel alone was to invite brigands, wolves, and whatever else might call these forests home. Going to Riverwood with these Nords was his best chance, it would seem.

He sighed. "Very well, I'll come to Riverwood with you and let K-Jarl Balgruff know of the dragon." Unconsciously, Sebastien brushed his fingers against his right palm, against the Mark that stained it. And perhaps I can finally go home.

By the time evening had arrived, the three survivors of Helgen had put some distance between themselves and the damned village. How much longer they had to go until they reached Riverwood, Sebastien couldn't say, however. Hadvar was leading them, Sebastien himself behind him with Ralof taking up the rear. A rustle from a nearby shrub made him pause before a hare poked its head out of the brush. Without warning, an arrow shot forward, piercing through the rabbit's skull.

Ralof slipped the bow back over his shoulder. He grabbed the rabbit, holding it up by the ears and pulled out the arrow with an unpleasant twist. "I suppose that's dinner, then." He said, glancing at the rabbit. "Won't be much between the three of us, but it'll make tomorrow a bit easier."

"Wait," Sebastien said, holding up a hand. He closed his eyes, willing magicka into them. Share your secrets with me, show me the life you hide. He thought and opened his eyes, emerald-green overtaken by a shifting and twinkling blue and the forest came to life before him. All around, small wisps of blue lit up in the shadows and from behind trees and bushes. Most were small, buzzing things, darting through the air or marching along the ground, but one stood out. A small rabbit shaped hole in the darkness, hiding under a bush covered in red berries in the distance.

He pointed in the bush's direction. "There," he said to Ralof. "Another one, hiding in the shrub. Quickly, before it runs."

Ralof briefly hesitated before unslinging the bow and releasing another arrow where Sebastien pointed. There came a brief squeal and the sound of something collapsing. Like a snuffed candle, the small light went out. Ralof frowned, walking towards the bush he reached down and pulled up a second rabbit, his arrow piercing through its chest and coming out the back.

"How'd you know that was there?" Hadvar asked.

"The world has many secrets. With magic, you might persuade it to share a few," Sebastien answered. The blue faded from his eyes, and they returned to their natural green color. It was growing darker, and night was drawing closer. "We should camp here for the night; I'll get a fire going."

Sebastien clicked his fingers and a spark shot out, lighting the pile of kindling. After a few moments, a burgeoning flame grew into a roaring fire and the welcome smell of sizzling meat followed soon after.

"Awfully calm, throwing fire about likes it nothing." Ralof may have held his tongue with the rabbit trick, but the Breton's casual use of magic still made his hackles rise. He may not have lorded it over the Nords like an elf might've, but that didn't mean Ralof had to like it.

"Simply trying to help," Sebastien answered. Ralof said nothing, simply turning the meat a bit.

Maybe the Breton was being truthful, but it could be just as likely he was lying. Lies, the only things a Breton loved more were coins and magic, or so more than a few Nords believed. It wasn't as if they hadn't learned it from somewhere, though. Sebastien might look as human as could be at first, dark hair hanging in long tresses, a darker beard framing his mouth and chin, but there were tells. Eyes that were a bit too bright, ears that were a bit too sharp, elvish blood ran strong in him, Ralof didn't doubt.

Eventually, the meat was done cooking and at last they ate. It was unseasoned and near tasteless, but it was welcome after the long journey and would help them keep moving when morning came. A waterskin snagged from Helgen was passed around with just enough to last until they reached the White River in the morning. Still, Ralof would've preferred something stronger after the day's events.

Maybe mead with juniper berries in it. He thought wryly. The sudden urge to laugh came, but he willed it away. Wouldn't look good, laughing at nothing in front of a Legionnaire and a Breton wizard. Not that they would've noticed, they were busy talking in low tones. Hmph, he'd leave them to it.

Chewing on slightly burnt rabbit meat, Ralof mulled over the events of the day. He took comfort in the knowledge that Jarl Ulfric had escaped having seen him and most of the surviving Stormcloaks escaping through the gate that led to the Rift. Laila Law-Giver might be able to offer them sanctuary till they reach Windhelm, though that snake Black-Briar might persuade the Jarl to demand a king's ransom for the trouble.

At last, night had come, and the fire had died down to mere smoldering embers. Hadvar banked it, hiding what was left from being visible along the road. Ralof stretched and grabbed his bow. "I'll take first watch, who wants second?" The Breton raised his arm and Hadvar agreed to take third. "Fine, then get rest, the both of you. We all need it if we hope to reach Riverwood tomorrow."

As the other two made themselves as comfortable as they could on the rough ground, Ralof sat by and watched. Thankfully, Last Seed was only just ending, and the last warmth of summer would sustain him for the night. From the rocky outcrop he sat on he could see far down the road leading to and from Riverwood. As he silently surveyed the scene, Ralof's thoughts turned toward that morning and the Dragon attack.

Though a part of him would have liked to think it was divine intervention, that Talos Stormcrown himself had saved their lives, he could not bring himself to believe it. The Dragon had made no difference between Stormcloak and Imperial, soldier and civilian. It killed and maimed at its leisure. No, Talos might be angry, furious even at the Empire's lack of faith, but such an attack…

Ralof sighed and the faces of his fallen brothers and sisters swam through his mind. Abandoning them had left a sour taste in his mouth, even if he knew it had been necessary. They had chosen vengeance over freedom and paid the price for it. He struck down a few of their captors where he could, but followed both the Breton and Hadvar as they moved forward. The mission came first, it had to. Otherwise, Skyrim would never be free.

It didn't mean he had to like it though.

Sudden movement from the trees made his heart leap to his throat and Ralof rapidly unslung his bow. His heartbeat only slowed as a bird obliviously chittered above, darting from branch to branch. Ralof nearly laughed. Just a bird, nothing more, He thought. Letting out a small sigh of relief, Ralof turned back toward the empty road and watched.

Sebastien Ciero was shaken out of his fitful sleep by Ralof. The visions of burning smoke and flame, of burning cities and chapels that swam through his mind was replaced by the star-dotted sky.

"It's you're watch, Breton." Ralof said gruffly.

Sebastien bit back the urge to mouth off at the Nord. Sleep had not come easily, nor had it been peaceful, but it had still been preferable to being conscious of the freezing cold surrounding him. Sebastien tugged at his tattered cloak, pulling it closer around him. The cloak, like everything else he had on him, had been taken from the keep that housed the tunnels they fled through. The Empire had confiscated his things and he had been unable to reclaim them as they escaped Helgen. All the things he had on him, essentially all his worldly possessions, gone. His armor, his pack, his pipe (By Oriel, did he want his pipe back), his money, all gone.

Damn them, he thought as the chill bit deeper. Damn the Empire, Damn the Stormcloaks, Damn Skyrim itself. Sebastien sighed and clenched his right fist. Damn me as well, I suppose, for coming here at all.

Leaning over the glowing embers, Sebastien breathed deep, letting the warm air fill his lungs before breathing new life back into the fire. Slowly, but surely the embers grew into small flames and soon the fire was roaring and merry once more. Across from him, Ralof (still awake it would seem) snorted in distaste. Sebastien spared him a small glance and held his hands up to the fire.

"You do not trust me." It wasn't a question and both men knew it.

Ralof turned over, facing Sebastien fully. He didn't say anything, and he kept his face unreadable, but his eyes betrayed the truth. When Ralof still refused to answer even after a minute of two of silence, Sebastien simply shrugged. "That's fine," he said. "I don't ask for your trust, nor do I offer mine freely."

The Nord still maintained his silence, but just when Sebastien was convinced that he had finally fallen asleep, Ralof finally spoke. "I don't trust magic," Sitting up, the Stormcloak glared at him. "Or men who worship it."

Sebastien raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't exactly call it 'worship' per say. Magic is a tool, to be used at one's convenience or leisure. Do your offer tribute to your bow because it helps you stay fed or pray to your shield because it saves your life?"

"I pray to Tsun, so that I might overcome any obstacle that blocks my path. I pray to Kyne so that when I die, I might enter Sovngarde and have my deeds sung in the Hall of Shor. And I pray to Talos, for he is Ysmir, God of Men and Dragon of the North, where his breath is endless winter, no matter what the Imperials or their Elven masters might think."

"Ah, so it is faith that drives this war then?" Sebastien asked. In truth, he had little knowledge of the war that had been plaguing Skyrim these past few years. It had seemed irrelevant at the time, and he had nearly paid the ultimate price for his ignorance at Helgen.

Ralof was quiet again, not because he was refusing to answer, but rather, he was trying to find the right words. At last, spoke. "The Nords, we fought for the Empire, for the lives of humanity during the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion and how were we thanked for our service? Titus Mede II, the so-called 'Emperor' spat on the Gods themselves when he signed the White-Gold Concordant. An Empire without Talos? Without its soul? I'd rather die a thousand deaths before I betray my heritage. Jarl Ulfric saw the truth and spoke when the High King himself was silent. The Empire has made Skyrim weak, perverted her with false idols and cowardly jarls and now the Stormcloaks, the true Sons of Skyrim must save her."

Sebastien nodded, grateful for the knowledge and at least somewhat understanding. High Rock had a complicated relationship with its gods. Most non-Bretons simply said that they didn't practice an 'excess of faith', but the truth, as with all things, was much more complex and he admitted as much to the Nord.

"Talos, or rather St. Hjalti, doesn't have much influence in High Rock, at least not in Wayrest certainly. Maybe within Wrothgar or Alcaire, but not outside of them. The idea of a mortal, whether god or not, being equal to High-King Oriel Akatosh is…controversial as far as the Church is concerned."

"Hmph, tell me then Breton, what do you pray to?" Ralof asked.

Now it was Sebastien's turn to be silent, as he clenched his right fist tightly. After a moment, he spoke. "The Heavenly Court rules all aspects of life, or so teaches the Church, but these past 15 years have caused me to give prayer to Raymond the Ebonarm specifically."

"I've never heard of him," Ralof grunted.

"Most wouldn't outside of the Iliac. He is the Knight Penitent, tasked to wander the earth for his failure to avenge Trinichant the Martyred. All those who seek repentance must ask for his aid."

"Repentance, eh?" Ralof asked curiously.

Sebastien nodded, feeling more tired and older than he really was. "No one truly lives without making mistakes, Ralof. The only difference is whether you choose to accept responsibility for your failures or to continue making them." He sighed, and waved the Nord off. "Go on, get some sleep. I imagine we still have a long trek till Riverwood."

Ralof nodded silently, his face somewhat somber. "Aye, you're right about that." He gave Sebastien a respectful nod. "Night, Ciero."

As Ralof went to sleep, Sebastien went back to watching the road, the newly restored fire only barely helping him see in the darkness. Not that he expected much to happen, any bandits or animals were likely asleep and as unhospitable as Skyrim was, it was hardly High Rock. They were too far east for any Reach pagans or Hag coven to be prowling the wild and too far north to be concerned about the Goblin-ken and Minotaurs that haunted Cyrodiil.

Of course, there could be other Beast-kin out at night.

Sebastien's heart froze at the thought. The idea that there could werewolves or some other child of Hircine out was not a comforting one and the wilds of Skyrim would be paradise for such creatures. No, Skyrim was not like High Rock at all, where knights clad in steel and mages wielding magic could make even the wildest of roads seem safe. Licking his lips (Gods, did he miss his pipe),Sebastien quietly unsheathed the Imperial blade he took from Helgen. The gladius was shorter and less wieldy than he was used too. He might have been more comforted if it was silver, or perhaps even adamantium as his own blade had been, but it would do for tonight. Besides, Sebastien thought as he held up an open palm, lightning crackling and bouncing between his spread fingers. I am never unarmed. The buzzing sound and metallic smell of the static was almost soothing, really. Let the wolves come, and he'll send them scurrying off to their master, tail tucked between their legs.

It might even be fun.

A sudden chill wind brushed past, and Sebastien found himself clinging even tighter to his cloak, his teeth chattering. The leather legion armor and the threadbare shirt underneath did little to offer him warmth or protection and once again Sebastien found himself missing the comforting weight of a steel cuirass or the warmth of a wool gambeson. With chattering teeth, he felt another wind blow by and felt something brush against his hand. Sebastien shot his hand back and gripped his sword before he saw that it was just a simple thistle plant. Plucking away a sprig of thistle, Sebastien thoughtfully examined the flower. Thistle had a variety of alchemical properties, including an inherent resistance to the cold. He frowned, thistle alone wouldn't be able to keep the cold off him, at least not for the rest of his watch. He needed something else, something…

A shiny glint of red winked at him from a nearby bush. Slowly reaching out a hand, Sebastien snatched a few small red berries from the bush. He had seen such bushes growing along the road since he first woke up on that damned cart, even when half-buried in the snow. An idea came and Sebastien quietly took the waterskin out. He frowned, there wasn't much left. Enough, certainly, but…

He shook his head. We'll get to the White River tomorrow and if I want to live to see it, this has to work. Picking up a large, flat rock, Sebastien willed magic into the stone and watched as it shifted and molded into form. Without the proper equipment, he would have to improvise. Setting the berries and thistle branch into the crude mortar, Sebastien poured a bit of water on top and pressed his palm flat against the bottom of the rock. Fire erupted from his hand, and the water began to boil. Snatching another rock, Sebastien began grinding and mixing the herbs and water together until nothing, but a thick, greenish-red slurry remained. With a quick, silent prayer to Finastre, Sebastien tipped the stone back and choked down the crude and swiftly made frost potion. The mixture was bitter and hard to swallow, but it was effective. Sebastien felt the cold diminish and the warmth of the fire grew. Smiling, Sebastien sat back against the tree. Let Skyrim try its best. High Rock, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, I've bested them all. Glancing up, Sebastien saw that the moons were reaching their height and knew his watch would soon be over. I'll live.

He always did.

"Hadvar, wake up." Hadvar was stirred awake at the Breton's voice. Sitting up, he saw Sebastien crouched by the fire, his wiry frame wrapped tight in his own cloak. He was surprised to see that Sebastien wasn't shivering as badly as when he had gone to sleep. He must have fed the fire while Hadvar was asleep or perhaps the Breton was getting accustomed to Skyrim already. It would make his journey to Whiterun easier, at least.

"Your watch, soldier," The Breton said. The fire allowed Hadvar to get a better look at him in the dark. Lean and wiry as Bretons typically were, but a skilled swordsman and magician, nonetheless. His thin, sharp face was framed by a curtain of dark hair and a beard that hugged closely to his lower face. Bright green eyes peered out from behind this curtain, and the slight pointed tips of his ears made it apparent that Sebastien's family stayed close to their Elven heritage.

Hadvar nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly. As the Breton passed by him to return to his own sleep, Hadvar stopped him. "I'm sorry, by the way." At Sebastien's confused look, he elaborated. "For this morning, the Captain was out of line. We should've given you a chance to explain."

"Why didn't you?"

"…I wish I could tell you," Hadvar admitted. "I thought the plan was to escort Ulfric to the Imperial City for trial, but then the General said to execute him in Helgen. Maybe he didn't want to give Ulfric the chance to escape, or Elisif wanted him to die in Skyrim."

"Elisif?" Sebastien asked.

"Oh right, you wouldn't know, would you?" He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "Er-Jarl Elisif, I should say. Perhaps High Queen, but that depends on the Almoot. She's the Jarl of Solitude now that High King Torygg is dead. The Empire is backing her claim to the throne against Ulfric."

Sebastien said nothing and so Hadvar continued. "You could join! The Legion, I mean." The Breton was clearly an experienced fighter and a skilled negotiator, able to browbeat a rebel and a legionnaire into cooperating even while under pressure. High Rock was still loyal to the Empire as well, and any chance of the kingdoms aiding the Stormcloaks were miniscule. Cyrods and Nords might have made up most of the infantry, but both cavalry and battlemages were mostly Bretons. Hadvar had seen the effectiveness of Breton charges and even if he didn't really understand them, he knew the Legion's Battlemages were devastating on the battlefield. They'd certainly be useful against the Dragon in any case.

Unfortunately for Hadvar, Sebastien only laughed. "Awfully presumptuous of you, to ask a man to join the Legion that would have had his head only this morning." There was little heat in his words and yet Hadvar still flinched.

"That…wasn't our finest moment, I know," he hastily admitted. "But we just want this war to be over. Even more so now that there's a Dragon about. Surely you want the same. For peace and order?"

Sebastien still grinned, but it didn't reach his somber eyes. "Peace and order? One is impossible, the other simply improbable." He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, but no. This is your war, the Nords' war. What do I care for St. Hjalti and Jarls? I'm simply an observer, no different than any other visitor." Despite his words, Hadvar was undeterred.

"You think peace is impossible?"

The Breton paused. Frowning, he thought the question over before answering. "Perhaps not impossible, but rather fleeting. Nothing is eternal, not in Mundus where limits are sewn into the very nature of reality. Men, Kingdoms, Empires, all things must come to a close eventually. If they didn't, I think we'd all go mad."

"But shouldn't we still fight, despite this" Hadvar asked. "Even if the end is as inevitable as you say it is, shouldn't we still fight to delay? All the people this war has killed, do their lives mean nothing?"

Sebastien shook his head. "Forgive me, I do not mean to sound heartless. Recently, I've found melancholy an easy trap to be caught in. I admire what the Empire stands for, but I simply have more pressing tasks at hand." Turning away from the Nord, Sebastien moved to lay down. "I truly am sorry, Hadvar, but my answer is no."

Frowning, Hadvar glared at the Breton and sharply countered. "High Rock is still a vassal of the Empire. It has been since Alessia herself broke the backs of Elvish kings. Does loyalty truly mean so little to you?"

The words came out angrier than they should have, but Hadvar had become frustrated and perhaps wanted to jab at the Breton. But as soon as he said them, he wished he had said nothing at all. The look Sebastien gave him pinned him where he sat, emerald eyes blazing in the firelight. The Breton raised his right arm and Hadvar braced, thinking he might strike him. But no blow came and instead he watched as Sebastien bared his open palm in front of him.

"There, do you see it?" The question came as a vitriolic hiss, as if the fire itself had asked the question. Hadvar simply gaped, not knowing what to say. Sebastien snarled and asked again. "Do. You. See. It?"

"I-I see it," Hadvar stammered out. If only he understood what he was seeing. There, staining Sebastien's right palm, was the image of a black rose. The flickering shadows of the fire made it impossible for Hadvar to tell if it was simply a tattoo or if the image had been branded onto Sebastien's flesh.

"Do you know what it means, what that Mark represents?"

Hadvar shook his head rapidly. "I-I'm sorry, but I don't." He knew very little about any finer aspects of Breton culture outside of the obvious parts like their obsession of lineage, hierarchy and knighthood. He genuinely had no idea what this seemingly inconspicuous little rose could mean.

Perhaps Sebastien realized this. With blatant difficulty, Sebastien took a deep breath, seemingly forcing himself to calm down. "You are ignorant," he said, his voice flat. "And so, I will forgive you just this once. This Mark represents a broken oath and trust betrayed. I have carried it for 15 years and with each year, with each passing day, I have fought to see it removed, to see my sins washed away. You ask me what loyalty means to me and I will tell you. Loyalty has meant 15 years of atonement, 15 years without a home to call my own and 15 years without a familiar face to return to. For 15 years, I been an exile and even if it takes me 100, I will see this Mark removed."

Sebastien turned away, patting down the grass to lie on. Hadvar only watched in silence for some time. Finally, he asked. "Is there truly nothing that could change your mind?"

The Breton froze and for a moment Hadvar feared he had offended him again. Instead, Sebastien's face softened and looked almost mournful? "Queen Amia," he answered quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Queen Amia-Estelle Barynia De Wayrest. Even in exile, I am still loyal to the Royal House of Barynia. You want my help? Then convince her to join your war." Sebastien elaborated, laying back down on the grass.

"Wayrest?" Hadvar asked, remembering that Sebastien had swiftly corrected him when the Nord made the mistake of assuming the Breton was from Daggerfall. "Right, you told me. If Amia-"

"Queen Amia!" The Breton harshly interjected.

"Right, right!" Hadvar hastily acquiesced, holding up his hands. "If Queen Amia were to back Elisif, you would as well?"

"For Crown and Kingdom," Sebastien confirmed, his eyes closed and voice low. "That's how it goes."

Hadvar nodded, processing the information. "For Crown and Kingdom," he quietly repeated. With a sigh, Hadvar began his watch, idly wondering just what Sebastien had done to warrant being exiled from his own kingdom. The Breton had been insistent of his innocence at Helgen, and he was certainly no Stormcloak, that was blatantly clear. As Hadvar watched and waited for the sunrise, he distantly recalled that while Sebastien had denied being from Daggerfall, he never gave a clear answer of whether or not it had been due to 'court intrigue' that he had come to Skyrim. He certainly spoke a great deal about loyalty for someone in exile, Hadvar thought. Under the soft moonlight, the Nord pondered on what might cause a supposedly loyal man to be branded a traitor.

At last morning came and saw the three Helgen survivors continuing down the road. There was a tense quiet between the three men that lasted well into midday when at last they found the White River, lazily drifting further down in the valley. Hadvar, to his credit, seemed to at least try to keep up conversation, pointing out landmarks such as the Guardian Stones lying off the main road or the ominous ruin of Bleakfalls Barrow adorning the mountains. Sebastien couldn't say for certain what a draugr was and assumed it some kind of cairn-wight. Despite the soldier's best efforts, the quiet tension was only truly broken when they stumbled upon some type of camp half-hidden off the path. It was the first evidence of civilization that they had encountered since escaping Helgen and naturally drew their attention.

"Keep your wits about you," Ralof said to them as they drew closer. "Bandits are known to haunt these roads."

Approaching the camp, they were surprised to find it seemingly deserted. The only sign that it wasn't completely abandoned was the still smoldering remains of a fire lying in the center of a circle of crude tents made from animal pelts. A sudden whining cry caught Sebastien's attention and he saw there was a horse standing under the shade of a tower tree, leashed to it a rope. It was a handsome creature, with a dark chestnut coat, though it reared and whinnied as Sebastien approached.

"Easy, easy now, I'm not going to hurt you," With a steady hand, Sebastien drew from the well of magicka within him and a soft green light appeared in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, the light flew from his hand like a cast stone and disappeared into the horse. Sebastien was given a small insight into the animal's mind, felt its fear and uncertainty as a stranger approached, its great heart beating and lungs drawing rapid breath, felt as its muscles and sinew tensed, ready to buck and kick if he drew too close. He delved deeper into its mind and drew out a sensation of peace and relaxation like drawing water from a well. Slowly, the horse began to calm down, its breath and heart steadied and its muscles, still tense under the skin, started relaxing slowly.

Stepping closer, Sebastien made sure to appear as nonthreatening as possible and gently laid a hand on the horse's side. After a moment, the horse gently lowered its head and allowed Sebastien to brush back its long mane. Poor thing's scared half to death. He thought.

"Hey, Breton!"

It was Ralof, waving him over by one of the tents. The Nord held up a large sack that had been by the tent and Sebastien could hear the clinking of glass within. Reaching into the sack, Ralof passed Sebastien a bottle of mead.

"'Black-Briar Reserve'" Sebastien read from the label. Ralof nodded, holding up his own already-opened bottle.

"Aye, Maven Black-Briar might be a crooked witch, but her mead is the best you'll ever have. After a drink of that, you'll forget all about the cold."

Popping the cork off, Sebastien took a swig of the honey-colored liquor and found himself nearly gagging. It was a strange and rather thick liquor, tasting like honey and white wine. Still, it chased off the lingering cold just like Ralof promised and it tasted far better than the crude potion from last night. Sebastien soon found himself taking another sip all the while Hadvar looked on disapprovingly.

"We should not be here; we don't know who these belong to." He argued.

Sebastien waved his concern away. Grabbing an apple, he idly fed to the horse while talking to Hadvar over his shoulder. "If this truly is a bandit camp as you thought, then we are denying them their stolen goods. If it belongs to an Imperial loyalist, then you are simply allocating them of needed supplies and can compensate them at a later date. If they support the Stormcloaks and their rebellion, then I'm sure they'd be more than happy to offer aid to someone trusted by Ulfric himself." It was bold, and perhaps foolish even to act so flippantly, but Sebastien had found himself without the will to care at this point. Exhaustion and hunger had made sure of that. In any case, the Nords did not seem to mind. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true. Hadvar seemed more gob smacked and uncertain, whereas Ralof…

Well, Ralof was laughing.

"Ha! Bretons always know just what to say. Were you perhaps some banker's son or court minister, Ciero?" Shaking his head and still grinning, the Nord continued rummaging through more of the sacks lying about, pulling off leeks, lettuces and other such stock. "Hey, Breton, see if you can find us another rabbit, perhaps we could have a stew."

Caught-off guard by Ralof's sudden support of his magic, Sebastien decided it must have been due to the alcohol and perhaps a desire to annoy Hadvar. Still, rabbit stew does sound rather appealing. Closing his eyes, Sebastien once again willed Magicka into his sight. Opening them, his pale blue gaze scanned the forest before catching sight of a light behind a bush in the distance. It was too large to be rabbit, though. Understanding came to Sebastien as the crouching bandit notched an arrow back, aiming at Hadvar.

"Get down!" He hissed, grabbing Hadvar by the shoulder and forcibly pulling out of the way. The arrow shot past and buried itself into a tree as Sebastien threw out his hand. With a crackling fury, a white-hot bolt of lightning flew from his hand and struck the bow-carrying marauder. She cried out in pain, partially collapsing to the ground as the three survivors unsheathed their weapons.

Realizing that their attempt at an ambush had failed, the bandits rushed out of the surrounding forest. With the archer still recovering, there were three more brigands to deal with; a Nord wielding a heavy iron mace and clad in armor made from animal hide, an Orc with armor made from bands of iron carrying a pair of war axes and an olive-skinned Cyrod wearing leather carrying a spear. With a thundering cry, the Orc charged directly toward Sebastien, clanging his axes together.

Acting swiftly, Sebastien slung another bolt of lightning at Orc. The electric bolt struck the Orc, but did little to slow him down. With a pained grunt, the Orc continued its charge and swung at Sebastien's head only for him to parry the blow with his sword.

"En Garde!" Sebastien hissed in Bretic, sidestepping a follow-up strike. The power behind this attack threw the Orc off-balance, allowing Sebastien to swipe at his exposed arm flesh. The Imperial-made steel ripped through the Orc's green hide, spilling thick dark blood across the grass. The Pig-child snarled and swiped at the Breton, but Sebastien stepped back in time and countered with another bolt of lightning. The bolt temporarily stunned the Orc, allowing Sebastien time to back away and analyze the situation. Powerful and fast, but painfully sloppy. He thought. Not a veteran, likely a young bull looking to start his own clan. Without proper plate armor, Sebastien would have to play this safe and allow the Orc to tire itself.

"Priez votre Dieu pour avoir pitié, Orc, vous n'en trouverez aucune de ma part!" Sebastien spat at the Orc in Bretic. With sword in hand, Sebastien went on the offensive. With light steps, he weaved and dodged the Orc's blows, allowing the Greenskin to further exhaust himself. As the Orc panted for breath and its swing grew more sluggish, Sebastien took his chance. Parrying a final axe strike, Sebastien tightened his grip on the gladius and swung. While a longer blade might have fully buried itself into the Orc's neck, or even outright decapitated him, the shorter gladius instead ran through flesh, cleanly slitting the Orc's throat.

Stepping back, Sebastien watched in grim satisfaction as the Orc dropped its axes and fruitlessly tried to stop the heavy flow of blood from his throat. Turning away from the dying bandit, Sebastien scanned the camp for his allies. Hadvar was fighting with the spear-wielding Cyrod, while Ralof dealt with the Nord in animal-skin. Just from observing them, Sebastien could see the blatant differences in their fighting styles. Hadvar fought with the same regimented and precise control of a legionary, balancing offence and defense with his shield and gladius. Ralof, on the other hand, fought the same way Sebastien expected a Nord to fight, favoring rapid and overwhelming attacks with his axe while always moving. Movement between the trees caught Sebastien's eye and he saw that archer had fully recovered and was aiming at Ralof.

"Ralof, the archer!" Sebastien called, racing forward toward the tree line. Ralof managed to catch sight of the archer just as she pulled back the bowstring. In an impressive bit of a maneuvering, Ralof hooked the Nord bandit's shoulder with his axe and forcibly moved the brigand into the arrow's path. Before the archer could adjust her aim, she let the string go and the arrow pierced the bandit's back. The Nord cried out in pain, his spasming hands dropping his mace allowing Ralof to bury his axe into the bandit's skull.

Panicking, the archer tried to notch another arrow, but Sebastien reached her first. Rushing forward, Sebastien heard his own thundering heartbeat roaring in his ears and his thoughts were filled with the single minded to kill the bandit. A swipe from his gladius knocked the bow from her hands and as she fumbled for the knife at her belt, Sebastien seized her shoulder and rammed his sword through her stomach. The bandit gasped as blood was forced up through her mouth. Ripping his sword out of her, Sebastien watched with disdain as the brigand fell to the ground, dead. Breathing deeply, Sebastien allowed a familiar sense of elation to overtake him and fought back the urge to grin. It was nice, almost comforting, to remind these bandits, these vermin of their place beneath him. They chose to live like animals, to forsake order and law for barbarism and so he would treat them as such. Killing them felt like winning.

And Sebastien liked to win.

Leaving the bandit's corpse behind, Sebastien raced back to the camp just in time to see Hadvar finish off the spearmen. With the bandits dead, there was little reason to stick around for much longer. Approaching the dead Orc, Sebastien knelt down and began stripping off the banded iron armor. It was a grim business to rob the dead, but a practical one. Besides, they were bandits. Their souls were already forfeit. Ralof must have felt the same, for he fastened the steel plated shield from the dead Nord across his back.

"Should we not bury them?" Hadvar asked, surprised and somewhat concerned to see his companions' lackadaisical attitude to grave robbing.

Sebastien shook his head. "No," he called from over his shoulder, as he strapped the gauntlets over his arms. "Better to let Jeffre handle it. Him or Namira, one. 'All that comes from the earth is returned in the end'." That was what the Wyrds certainly believed, and Sebastien knew better than to doubt the Wyresses on matters of the earth.

"Aye, Ciero's right." Ralof agreed, hoisting the sack of remaining mead over his shoulder. "Besides, leaving them here might convince other brigands to keep quiet for a while."

Standing up, Sebastien stretched, the sound of grinding metal like music to his ears. Ah, much better. Ugly as it may be, the iron armor was far more familiar to him then the legion cuirass. It would certainly offer more protection from the cold as well.

"How much longer till we reach Riverwood?" he asked, wiping the archer's blood from his sword. Approaching the horse, Sebastien was glad to see it unharmed, if once again spooked from all the fighting. He couldn't help but grin when the horse visibly calmed down as he approached, once again allowing him to stroke its neck.

"We could be there by dusk if we leave soon," Ralof answered. Despite this, they lingered just a small while longer, searching the camp for anything useful. Among the bandits' spoils, Sebastien managed to find a small traveling bag, a lockbox filled with a handful of septims and a few jewels that he quickly opened with magic, and a new pipe and small bag of tobacco (Thank Queen Marie for small mercies). Happily puffing on his new pipe, Sebastien walked up to the horse and gently untied it from the tree.

"Now what do you plan on doing with him, eh?" Ralof asked as Sebastien led the horse by its leash.

"Well, I can hardly let the poor thing sit here and starve, now can I?" Sebastien asked, appalled by the very thought. "Besides," he added, shooting a sharp look at the Nords. "My last horse ran off because of your war." I hope she got somewhere safe. Hadvar, to his credit, had the decency to look sheepish. Ralof unrepentantly huffed in amusement.

"Fair enough, I suppose," the Stormcloak admitted with a shrug. "What do you plan on calling him anyway?"

Sebastien hummed in thought for a moment before smiling at his new steed. "Phoebus," he answered, petting the now-named Phoebus on the head. Gently tugging Phoebus along, the three survivors of Helgen continued down the road to Riverwood. As they did, Sebastien couldn't help but grin a little. He had a pipe, some coin, armor and a horse, already his second day in Skyrim was proving to be far more fortunate than his first. Even the run-in and skirmish with the bandits had left him feeling elated. Let Skyrim try her best, he thought again, blowing a ring of smoke from his pipe. Let her try and I will still beat her. It was him against the cold, frigid Northern land, and he would win.

After all, Sebastien liked to win.

"Priez votre Dieu pour avoir pitié, Orc, vous n'en trouverez aucune de ma part!" Translation: "Pray to your God for mercy, Orc, you'll find none from me!" Language: Modern Bretic. A typical Bretic warcry, usually directed at foes belonging to a faith considered pagan by the Church of the Heavenly Court.

AN: Oh, my goodness gracious, this one chapter has taken me I think nearly seven months to write. I can only hope that it doesn't take me 20 years to finish this story. I'm pretty sure this is nearly double the length of the original first chapter and its still under 10,000 words. I've got a lot longer to go, but I'm going to do it. I promise. Hopefully, I'll even manage to finish most of it before ESVI is released. I know the joke is that ESVI will NEVER come out, but hey, with Starfield out and about, who knows? Who knows? With that said, I genuinely can't wait to continue this story and add my own Dragonborn's legends to the probable dozens, if not hundreds of others out there in the world of fanfic writing. And hey, with this first chapter complete, maybe I'll even be able to have the confidence to start writing other fics again. I have this idea for a novelization/adaption of Fallout Tactics that's been buzzing in my skull for a while now, so keep an eye out for that in the future. Until then, that's all folks. Take care – John Bones.