[AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the prologue and origin story of Dragonborn, Mimzi, who is the main protagonist in my current story Dawn of the Companions (the Dawnguard questline crossed over with Companions) It follows the events of the main story of Skyrim, but also a side story of her childhood. I hope you all enjoy reading about my Dragonborn and follow her journey in my other stories, too! Thank you all for taking the time to read and I hope you enjoy!]
Coming home should feel like the warmth of a campfire after days of travelling in the piercing cold. It should feel like blood returning to the face and fingers after hours of enduring Skyrim's frigid winter winds, trudging through lengths of packed snow. Seeing home after years of being away is relief. It should be the definition of security and warmth of familiar memories; returning to something that has always been there to keep you. Coming home is the dream of all wandering travellers. It's even what the most renown and accomplished warriors yearn for. It can be a hearth of loved ones or a quiet stead of your own comfort. It can be entering the Hall of Valor in Sovngarde after the most excruciating moment in the light of your existence. It should be all of those things to a young Nord returning home. Her hands lied tied and bound to her lap as the carriage buckled and jolted across Skyrim's aged roads through the Falkreath Hold Forest. Alongside her were bound men, all vacantly staring into their feet and hands as the legionnaires who subdued them trotted behind the carriage on horseback. They we're heading to a destination unknown— feared to dream of. They were prisoners captured by the Empire after a snap of clashing and clamour. It had happened in the blink of an eye that one moment she was walking through Darkwater Crossing, the next she was held against the ground with an Imperial soldier's knee edged in her back. She had returned to her homeland to find what it meant to be "home". She thought being home meant safety. But now she was a Nord in Skyrim, bound and dragged into a carriage for crimes she didn't commit. This was home, this was Skyrim.
The girl could not recall what had happened. She couldn't recall the faces full of dejection that sat next to her. One was garbed in sea blue robes and chainmail armour, the jolts of the carriage wheels cracking against rocks rattled his iron armour and chains. The sound muffled the voices of the legionnaires in the seat of the carriage who would look back at them with scowls that pierced cold like an ebony blade. These men bound in carts looked like soldiers of Skyrim, but the girl knew they weren't. They were rebels. After years of being away from home she returned only to find her homeland ravished with strife from a civil war. These men were an affront to the Empire. They sullied the Emperor's decree after the White Gold Concordant was signed after being conquered by the Aldmeri Dominion; or more specifically the Thalmor, a council made up of supremacist high elves who sought to rule Tamriel for themselves making the Empire subservient and man's god Talos irrelevant. In order to keep the Empire from falling, the emperor signed the treaty to end the Great War twenty years ago, knowing they would surely be overtaken by Aldmeri forces if not agreed to their terms. The terms of the agreement were enforced immediately, one of them being the banishment of Talos worship, a Divine worshiped fiercely by Nordic people, even the young Nord herself. Seeing Skyrim as the fatherland of Nords, it wasn't a surprise to Tamriel when the province erupted in war against the Empire. This girl never considered the war would infringe her coming home, but home wasn't home anymore. It was home to war, and nothing else.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake," a man blurted across the seat from her. He sat bound and dressed in rebel garb. He looked almost like the typical "Nord" the girl had heard of across Tamriel; a kept beard, shoulder length blonde hair with one braid just off his face, and deep, ice blue eyes.
Her eyes weary and mouth parted, "what?" she muttered.
"You we're trying to cross the border, right? Got caught in that imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there", he gestured to the man sitting next to him. Herself and this man were the only two not dressed in rebel armour. Even the cart behind them was brimming with other rebels. The thief wore rags and torn hide. He was coated in dust from the ground during the scuffle at Darkwater Crossing, and trails of blood leading down the side of his head. Clearly this man was trying to escape his Imperial captors during the clash which led to a violent arrest, and to his shame he was unsuccessful. The girl hadn't a scratch upon her. The ambush was so sudden and so shocking it made her freeze to the ground. Of course, all the questions of why this was happening to her and wanting to claim her innocence were racing through her mind and trapped just behind her tongue, but during the arrest she couldn't utter a word.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief hissed, "… Skyrim was fine before you came along, Empire was nice and lazy…" he then turned to her, his expression slighting, "you and me, we shouldn't be here, kid. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
The rebel spoke up, "we are all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."
"My name is Lokir!" the thief proclaimed, jumping slightly as if he was going to come at the rebel, but quickly realizing his hands were tied.
"Lokir…" the rebel smiled and nodded, "I am Ralof, from Riverwood. Today you and I are neither rebel nor thief, simply Nords caught in season unending."
"Just shut up," sneered Lokir, "I am nothing like any of you. You rebels don't know how to leave well enough alone. Had to start a huge fuss because you can't whisper sweet nothings to your Talos amulets at night anymore? Well get over it. No god is worth this much damage."
"If you can be a Nord and still not understand why we are fighting this war, you'll never understand," grumbled Ralof under his breath and looked away to the snow-coated pine trees as they slowly passed by the roads, shaking his head.
Lokir huffed and looked to the gagged soldier immediately to the girl's right. This soldier was not garbed in the armour everyone else was wearing in the carts, but instead he wore a bear pelt robe, with gilded plates of armour and golden buckles. His hair was adorned in braids and his hands wore ancient embroidery rings. He had an elongated nose, dull eyes and a gag over his mouth. Curiously he was the only prisoner who had one. She couldn't help but wonder why this was. Perhaps he had a mouth on him and was cursing the legionnaires? Perhaps he said something he shouldn't have? But there was an aura of him that seemed important.
"The imperials had it right with this one. Shame they couldn't gag all of you," stated Lokir petulantly at the man before glancing to Ralof.
"Watch your tongue!" snapped back Ralof, throwing his glare to Lokir, "that is Ulfric Stormcloak! The true High King!"
"Ulfric Stormcloak? You… you're the Jarl of Windhelm; leader of the rebellion," Lokir's face went solemn, his eyes then stretched, and jaw fell, "but… but if they've captured you. Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
The girl hadn't heard the name but given the fearful expression from Lokir and respect from Ralof he was of great relevance. He was a Jarl. In Skyrim a Jarl is the head of governing of each Hold. There is nine Jarls of Skyrim and each Hold governed by their own ideals and the Jarl acting as a chief of people. Ulfric Stormcloak was the Jarl of Windhelm in the Hold of Eastmarch. Darkwater crossing was one of its small settlements she was passing through when the ambush struck. Not even a Jarl was safe in his own Hold.
"I don't know where we're going," announced Ralof with a sigh, "… but Sovngarde awaits."
The girl knew of Sovngarde since she was little. Yet she hadn't heard the name for many years. As a Nord herself, she knew it was the name spoken in moments of peril. For it was the relief after suffering. The afterlife of the honourable. It was the comfort in knowing death was coming. Suddenly her heart began to race and shoulder's quake. Her breathing was hard to catch and to slow down as she blankly stared into her bound hands. She could hear her own heartbeat thumping in her ears as the realization set in. She was at the mercy of the Imperial Legion. She was sat next to a wanted warlord, thief and a rebel with dozens following in carriage behind them. She was with criminals who's only thought of relief was the knowing of Sovngarde at the end of their reign on Nirn. They were on their way to an execution.
"This isn't happening… this can't be happening," Lokir shook his head fast and pulled at his binds, stooping his wrists to the floor of the cart to pry the ropes off with his feet, to no avail.
"Sit still!" a legionnaire coach screamed back passed his shoulder at Lokir, who frantically pried at his binds. Ralof sat stoic and calm, not even a furrow in his brow as he stared up at the clouds passing through the sun rays. The Jarl sat next to the girl hunched over and still. She could barely even hear him breathe. The only few to show fear in this moment were herself and Lokir. Her fear shown through her rapid breaths and quick eyes, desperately looking for some kind of escape route. She thought of jumping over the ridge of the carriage and running into the woods. She knew she was fast; she could outrun the soldiers if they chased after her. However, she traced her eyes passed the soldiers front seated in the carriage behind them. Each one had a hunting bow on their side with plenty of arrows in their quiver's. They were seasoned imperial soldiers, definitely skilled in forms of combat. If they carried a bow to their side, no doubt they were ready to use them. She was fast, but an arrow was faster, and she couldn't chance an arrow piercing through the back of her heart. Especially being bound; what if she tripped? She'd be dead in seconds, running like a coward through the woods. That's how she would die. The thought of dying like that terrified her more than whatever fate awaited herself and the others. The girl then looked down at her binds. They were made of fibre. She could use her nail to rip at the strings of the rope, and when they got to their destination, she'd be able to quickly escape through the crowd of rebels. This would take time; time the girl knew she didn't have. The fibres were flecking but we're still strong. It was a bargain, and she did not want to spend her last moments ripping at her binds and possibly being caught and killed anyway. She could break her own thumbs, she had done it before in times of capture, but then she'd need to run. Imperial soldiers were brimming alongside the carriages. The chances of her being struck by an arrow were far too high.
"Hey. What village are you from, horse thie— apologies… Lokir?" stammered Ralof, turning his gaze from the clouds back to his side.
"Why do you care?" the thief's voice shook.
Ralof smiled warmly, his eyes still weary, "A nord's last thoughts… should be of home."
Lokir smiled for a second, but his eyes soon watered and lips quivering, "Ro-Rorikstead" he weeped, "I'm from Rorikstead in the Re-Reach Hold."
Tears began to stream down Lokir's face, washing away the dirt and blood from his cheeks. His teeth clenched and eyes red he let his head fall to weep. The girl's eyes swelled with tears in response, but she didn't let them fall. She diverted her eyes away from Lokir and saw Ralof looking across to her. His eyes pitiful and heavy.
"… And what about you, youngin'. Where are you from?" asked Ralof
Her thoughts swiftly went to a boat harbour. Snowflakes the size of septims falling from above, coating the icy ground with fresh snow. The smell of the salty ocean washing waves onto the shore, and the dim light of torches alongside the docks in the twilight, lighting the ground a light purple hue against the snow. Her eyes glazed over when she could see the walls of the orphanage. Wood infested with dry rot and wide cracks, allowing the snow to draft inside. Remembering the feeling of cold and solitude as she sat on the hardwood floor. Her hands small and fragile as they gripped a rag doll tightly, cautiously watching the doors' crack.
"You there?"
She flinched and snapped back to her current state. Ralof still staring, concerned and his brow raised.
"Dawnstar," she whimpered.
"Dawnstar," he smiled, nodding just barely, "I have been to the Pale a handful of times, the unrelenting cold nearly broke me a dozen over. The most tenacious and resilient Nords I've ever met are hailed from there."
"Woah! Woah!" the imperial coach bellowed as he tugged on the lead and the carriage swerved to the next lane down a forked road. The Jarl finally looked up from his feet to look at where the road was leading. It led to an opening from the trees and towards a nearby settlement.
"They are taking us to Helgen?" queried Ralof in almost a whisper as he stretched his head back to see the road passed the legionnaires heads, he sighed "… this can't be good."
Helgen, a secluded town in Falkreath with large stone walls that cradled the village inside. The town was in the control of the Imperials as was all of the Hold, and much of their citizens owed their allegiance to the Empire. The town was made for mortar fire. It's tall stone walls and architecture, the perfect settlement to fend off a bandit raid or conquerors. However, seemingly an irrelevant town to the situation at hand with possibly no connection to the Stormcloak rebellion, and certainly no jail big enough to contain all of the Stormcloak rebels. It was certain to the prisoners that this small, irrelevant hamlet would be their resting place.
The carriage went passed a few soldiers on horseback in the way to Helgen. Ahead of the convoy of carriages was one man on horseback. His grey hair was cut short to his scalp, he wore a long red cape with an Imperial emblem of a dragon, and golden Imperial armour.
"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" a legionnaire shouted from the gates.
"Good, let's get this over with," the general proclaimed.
Elves stood out like a sore thumb in Skyrim, more specifically high elves. Three stayed on horseback near the entrance into Helgen, all dressed in dark arcane robes. They stared on at the carriages replete with prisoners in haughty disgust. Even though she was young, the girl knew Thalmor when she saw them. The general was met with the leader of the trio. She was a tall, stoical high elf. She had a reaching forehead with slicked back silver blonde hair, gold eyes and pinched lips. She kept her chin high as the general approached her and began to speak. She was too far for anyone on the carriage to even hear her voice. But given her expression, she was far from content.
"Look at him," growled Ralof in disdain, "… that's General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him… damn elves. Bet they had something to do with this."
Lokir began to shake back and forth, his bound fists pressed to his lips, he let out a cry, "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynerath, Akatosh; Divines! Please help me!"
The townspeople slowly crept from their homes to watch the parade of carriages. All onlooking with either disdain, fear, amazement, and even excitement. None who looked on had a shred of remorse or pity for the captives in those carriages. All were simply eager to watch the bloodletting of rebels they had grown to hate over the years of this civil war. No knowledge of who the prisoners were or their families, just simply branding them as rebels. Whispers clamoured amongst them, and the hate endured for those in the carriages— in the townsfolk eyes' they deserved to die like dogs.
"What's going on daddy?" asked a young boy as he overlooked on the porch of his home.
"You need to go inside, little cub," the father stated.
"But why? I wanna watch the soldiers," the boy pleaded.
"Inside the house. Now," the father pointed to the door as the boy grudgingly conceded and walked back into the home.
The giant gates of Helgen slammed behind the last legionnaires on horses behind the convoy; making sure that no prisoners would try to escape the fortress. Ralof sighed deeply and looked over the town walls, "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in…" he paused "it's funny… Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
"Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!" the captain shrilled as she marched up to the front of the line. The carts were coming up to their last destination, the chopping block. There waited a man dressed in a black sack over his face, chains draped against his chest and abdomen; and a headsman's axe rested in his hands.
Colours appeared brighter to the girl. The air was getting thin, and the tips of her fingers tingled. Her life was ending before her very eyes in slow motion. Whether to be hanged from the neck or her head violently chopped off from an executioner's axe, her death would be cheap and undeserving. Her soul would remain in the void as her deeds in life didn't grant her an afterlife. She would be dead and gone forever and no one would know of her, no family to house her bones and sing of her memory. No friends to visit her grave or mourn her. She would cease to exist. Like a snowflake falling on the warm spring grass immediately disintegrating before it even had a chance to touch the ground. She was born to die, and her soul simply evaporate into nothing. Her consciousness gone. And it would happen here, in Helgen. In Skyrim.
The girl had tears falling down her neck that she didn't even know she created till she could feel them drip down her collar bone. Her upper lip quivering as her mouth was parted, she could feel words almost slip out that she swallowed and kept in her diaphragm.
'Please don't kill me. I'm innocent. I haven't lived yet. I haven't loved, I haven't found a home. I'll do anything. By the mercy of Stendarr, Mara and Kyne. Please save me. I don't want to die.'
"Woah, Woah..." said the imperial coach as he pulled the reins.
Suddenly the carts jolted, the horses stopped, and one by one the other two carts were side by side with their own, and other rebels sat awaiting their execution alongside them.
"Why are we stopping?" cried Lokir.
"Why do you think? End of the line," gloomed Ralof.
The captain passed behind the carts pointing her finger at the soldiers, "Get these prisoners out of the carts and to the block, one at a time!"
The girl was terrified when asked to move she wouldn't be able to move as her legs felt numb. Her vision was hazed and her pulse racing. Ralof looked again at the girl, her blue eyes wide as the two moons, her lip quivering. She was trying not to show her fear, but her body wouldn't allow it. Her body was broken from the terror. She was shaking so vigorously he could see the red hair against her face rattle, the sweat droplets on her forehead and upper cheeks, and the colour from her skin gone to an ice white. He leaned in composedly, breathed in the brisk air and smiled once again while looking her in the eyes, "… let's go. Shouldn't keep the god's waiting for us."
"Out. Now!" howled the legionnaire. One by one the four stood. Jarl Ulfric the first to plant his feet to solid ground.
"We weren't with them! This is a mistake! We're not rebels!" proclaimed Lokir endlessly, his whole body shaking and swinging from one direction to the other; pleading to the Imperial soldiers.
"Face your death with some courage, thief," scoffed Ralof.
Lokir was grabbed by the arms from an Imperial soldier and pushed to the line of prisoners waiting to have their names called for documenting.
"Let's go! Off the cart, basket head!"
The girl could see the soldier yelling at her as she stood at the brink of the cart, but she was unable to move her legs farther; knowing full well what she was walking towards if she did. The soldier then grabbed her by the forearm tugging forcefully, almost enough force to smash her face into the cobblestone path. She planted her feet and continued to be dragged to the line-up with the rest of the prisoners. The soldier scoffed and stomped off to the front to a young Nord imperial soldier with a scroll and quill.
"Step forward to the block when we call your name and don't even think about running!" the Imperial Captain bellowed. Slowly small crowds of Stormcloak soldiers began to herd off the carts. The girl could see she was shrouded in the broad, tall shoulders of hardy Nord men. 'I could run through these men and be gone in seconds. They wouldn't even know I was here,' she thought.
"I am Lokir of Rorikstead! I am innocent! All I did was try to steal a horse; tried to! I am not a rebel, and neither is this young lady! We don't deserve to be here; the Empire is supposed to protect us!"
Lokir's skin was red as blood and tears swept down his face as he desperately pleaded to the imperial soldiers. The Stormcloaks erupted in simultaneous laughter at the man. Even in the grim minutes before their death they remained headstrong and callous Nords.
"All of you shut up before I do the headsman's job myself! And you! Get back in line and keep that sobbing trap of yours' shut!" the captain grabbed Lokir by the scruff of his shirt and tugged up, making his feet lose stepping, "I don't care who you are, you were captured with this filth then you die with the lot of them!" the captain pulled him towards the headsman's block and pushed with a blow to his back, "… now you can die first. Headsman! Start with this one!"
Lokir gasped and flapped his tongue as he pressed his feet against the cobblestone ground. He kept his legs bent as his prying eyes gaped at the soldiers, rebels and townsfolk who looked on. The headsman lifted his axe off the ground as he stepped away from the block, breathing heavily through his mask.
"You… you…" stammered Lokir, his face white and doused in his own sweat, he then threw his head back at the imperial soldiers beckoning him and shrilled, "… you're not gonna kill me!"
Without pause Lokir bolted. Passed the Stormcloak rebels, passed the Imperial soldiers and their captains with his hands bound and his whole upper body swinging to pick up speed.
"Archers! Now!" ordered the captain. In an instant Lokir was dead, his body went smacking violently against the earth of Helgen as four arrows pierced through the back of his chest. His head was heard cracking against the ground even from where the girl was standing. The crowd of prisoners were left quiet as the captain turned to face them again, "… anyone else feel like running?"
The girl could see Lokir's dead body as her own. If she was to run, she could be the coward the whole town of Helgen gawked at as they died an embarrassing and horrific death. While having her head lopped off at the block is mortifying, she would rather go out that way than go as a coward.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," called the legionnaire with the scroll. The Jarl, still gagged and bound with his arms behind his back stepped forward and ambled to the chopping block line with his subordinates.
"Ralof of Riverwood," he called. Ralof walked forward but took a few steps closer to the legionnaire holding the scroll and muttered,
"All the games we played as youngins', Hadvar, you were always so happy to lose. Guess that's why you stayed with the Empire."
The legionnaire snarled, "… proceed to the block, Ralof. Now."
Ralof grinned snidely and made his way to the lineup. He took one last glance in dismay at the girl still to be called and kept on to the block. She could then feel all eyes of the Imperials on her, it was she to be called next. Only minutes from death now.
"You. Step forward," Hadvar enforced to the girl, shaking still in her place. She walked over slow, scared if she fastened her pace she would stumble over her numbing feet.
"Who are you?" asked Hadvar.
'MIMZI!'
A dreadful familiar squall in a familiar place came back. The girl drifted into the back of her mind once again. She stood small and nimble in the middle of the hall, filled with ragged, small beds. The air cold even inside with no hearth fire or warm embraces to keep comfort of a home. Before her feet laid an urn; priceless but shattered. The ash inside poured down through the cracked floorboards under her bare, tiny toes. A time before she left Skyrim and came back. Still a child, but old enough to remember it now.
'You dreadful, horrible, spoiled little witch! You blasted idiot! You had better not be touching my father's urn!'
She could hear sharp footsteps against the wooden floors nearing closer to where she stood. Fastening with every step nearing closer.
'MIMZI! Come to me now! Mimzi! MIMZI!!'
The footsteps slowed and then stopped entirely. A shadow filled the doorway adjacent towards her. It remained still and then muttered, "Mimzi," it spoke quietly, "… did you break my father's urn?"
The girl could feel something she hadn't felt in years. A memory returned to her that felt all too familiar with her current quandary. A feeling that was almost impossible to describe as it was all too horrible to imagine. It would come in waves earlier in her life, but it never came back as vivid as it did now. With her life to be taken very shortly, now she was remembering this. Of all the things— she thought— why must she remember this. As she stared on helplessly at the shadow before her the feeling endured, and then overcame her. She knew the feeling. It wasn't fear or sadness. It was dread. In its purest form.
'You broke my father's urn!'
The shadow shrilled as it emerged from the doorway gloom and revealed a haggard face she hadn't seen or thought of for years but always came back to terrorize in her dreams. The woman lunged at the girl, her towering body so vast and terrible compared to her. The girl was just a child in the memory but could remember it like it had happened hours ago. The woman gripped her shoulders with jagged fingers digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms. Throwing her to and fro as she hollered. The woman's grey eyes wide set and blood shot gawking madly into hers.
"I told you not to touch my father's urn, Mimzi! I will squeeze the life from you!! You're dead, you hear me? DEAD!!'
"Hey!"
Suddenly the memory dissipated. She was back in her binds standing in front of an imperial legionnaire awaiting her to answer him. Her pause was long overdue. She had to speak up now or risk being killed in the very spot she stood. Her mind was tricking her. She knew if she fell into madness now, she would fall to no better death than Lokir.
"… what?" the girl stammered, still shaking profusely.
"Who. Are. You?" blurted Hadvar, clearly having lost his patience moments ago.
The girl composed herself and took a breath, "Mimzi," she said, "My name is Mimzi."
"Where are you from, Mimzi?"
Hadvar went from stern and objective, to concerned and palatable, "… you were crossing the border when you were captured. I doubt you're a Stormcloak. You don't have the colours and you look like you just came of age. Where are your parents?"
Mimzi stammered more and her eyes went to the chopping block where the others awaited their demise. She was still here; this legionnaire was taking pity on her. She could be spared.
"I... I don't have parents. I was raised in an orphanage," whimpered Mimzi as her eyes swelled with tears again, even the thought of surviving was overwhelming with relief.
"Honorhall? In Riften?" questioned Hadvar.
Mimzi shook her head, "no," she said, "Whiffet Hall… in Dawnstar."
Hadvar perked his head to the side slightly, "… didn't that burn down nine years ago?"
Mimzi nodded, her eyes kept to the ground, "… yes, sir."
"I see", Hadvar muttered. He looked to his superior, "Captain, what do we do? She's not on the list?"
"Forget the list. She goes to the block", the captain sneered. Mimzi's heart dropped harder than when she first knew she was being wheeled to her execution.
"But captain— she's not a Stormcloak," pleaded Hadvar, "Please, she's a child. This is not what the Empire…"
"You are my subordinate, and when I tell you to do something, soldier, you do it. She goes to the block," the captain's eyes went black and still. The heat from Mimzi's tears crossed her cheeks again. Her soul felt cheapened and forsaken. For a glimpse of speaking to Hadvar she felt the gods hadn't left her to die. They had chosen a kind soul to pity her and thus save her. She couldn't help but think what kind of god would allow this woman power? Mimzi felt like the gods were laughing at her fortune and stomping her chest while she was already floored. Hadvar returned his gaze to Mimzi's teary eyes. He looked as if his spirit had been crushed, too.
"I'm sorry", he glowered "I'll make sure to return your remains to Dawnstar… but at least you can die here… in your homeland".
Mimzi was home. This was what it felt like to return home. To not feel the warmth of a fire after trudging through thick snow for hours on end, or the warm embrace of a bed kept for you at the end of a long working day. This was home; to die in the home you were grown into. To return to her greedy, hungry roots to grow more children who will suffer the same fate. Not to be beckoned to a feasting hall in spirit form, but to dissolve into the dirt of Skyrim. Instead of a country to feel at home, it felt like a venomous predator. Just waiting for the perfect time to reel its prey and bring it back to the source of its creation, to bring it back home.
Mimzi had lost all faith. Her spirit broken in less than two hours. She felt like a calamity that had been working its way up to this moment since the day she was brought to that orphanage, and when she watched as the flames consumed the hall and all the dread that lay waste inside of it. She felt like she was born to die. For this very moment she was born to do this. But alas, one last fleck of hope gleamed, "please…" she uttered to Hadvar, his sight to the ground with disgust in himself, "please don't kill me…" Mimzi had one last chance to save her own, and it was to beg. The very thing she swore she would never do.
"Get to the block now, scum, or I will drag you there myself!" the captain barked as her fists clenched, "Go!"
Hope evolved quickly to acceptance. To accept what she could not change in the currents of what had to be. Mimzi was destined to die today. Her eyes closed as her tears continued to fall. Perhaps her existence did far more harm than good. Maybe even her death will mean something. Maybe her death is what will free Skyrim from the the civil war. She had to die so Ulfric Stormcloak could die, and the civil war could end. Whatever she could think of to make her amble her feet towards that lineup was all she needed to accept death. Her arms were soon gripped and pulled towards the line up. A quick, warm breeze from the border of Cyrodiil came rushing through her hair and drying the tears to her face. For now, she was ready to accept death.
"Ulfric Stormcloak," chimed General Tullius as he walked through his legion of soldiers to Ulfric, who was still gagged and bound, "… some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a 'hero' doesn't use the power of the Voice to murder his High King and usurp his throne." The Jarl growled through his gag; his eyes could burn through steel.
"You started this war," Tullius continued, "… you plunged Skyrim into chaos, now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!"
At that moment a sky-shattering roar was heard. It echoed through and against the mountains that Helgen rested in. Everyone in the town went quiet and looked to the skies; Stormcloaks and Imperials alike. The sound passed as those who heard exchanged confounded stares. Mimzi hadn't heard a noise like that in her whole life. Nothing that rumbled the skies as this sound had.
Hadvar's voice shook, "what was that?"
General Tullius turned his gaze from above, "… nothing, carry on," he insisted as he returned to the sidelines to spectate alongside his Thalmor superiors. The Imperial captain took over reigns for the general as she called the prisoners to be first to the chopping block.
"Yes, General Tullius!" bleated the captain, "… give them their last rights."
An Arkay priestess began sermoning the gaggle of prisoners, "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines upon you…" a Stormcloak soldier emerged, pushing himself through the crowd of his comrades.
"Oh, for the love of Talos, shut up! Let's get this over with," he announced as he approached the chopping block. By his own will, he fell to his knees before the block and laid his own head against the blood-stained stone.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
The rebel looked up to his foes, his teeth clench. The headsman brought down the axe with a mighty throw over his head and down onto the rebel's neck. The townsfolk howled in horror; the Stormcloak soldiers raged and berated their Imperial oppressors. The blade cleared through his neck and spine like a knife through butter. One quick crack of flesh, bone and tendon snapped in a moment. If someone had blinked, they would have missed it only to see the man's reddened head roll down the ground. Mimzi could feel her own vomit push up to her throat. Beheadings were something Skyrim had always practiced. Yet she had never had to witness anything like it till now, and she was soon to be a recipient. Her head would roll away lifeless and stiff down the ground too. As would everyone who stood by her amongst the prisoners.
"Justice!" shouted one of the townsfolk.
"Death to the Stormcloaks!"
Ralof could be heard behind Mimzi, "as fearless in death, as he was in life."
"Next, the Nord girl!"
The Imperial Captain called, pointing her finger to Mimzi. The air turned cold as those words nearly pelted her to the ground. She thought she had at least a few more minutes of life, even if it was to sit and watch people get killed over and over, Mimzi needed more time. To feel her heartbeat in her chest, breathe freely with her own lungs, to look up at the sky for a while longer; she needed more time to just be alive.
Then it happened again. This time louder and far shriller; the roar. It shook everyone who could hear it, and those who weren't outside came outdoors to investigate. There was no question there was something lurking on the outskirts of town— thought Mimzi. It was predatory.
"There it is again! Did you hear that?" exclaimed Hadvar, his eyes straight towards the sky.
The captain, however, was still not convinced, "I said next prisoner!"
Hadvar then looked to Mimzi, the smallest Nord there. She was dainty and timid. Her doe-eyes stayed mournful and broken. Hadvar almost felt as if he was slaying a child. He looked at Mimzi and saw innocence in every form, not just from a rebel but from all things. Mimzi had just entered her nineteenth year. She was an adult but still young enough in spirit and wisdom. He knew they were taking away her chance to choose her own afterlife, and as a Nord he knew it was a disgrace. Hadvar was not one to doubt the Empire but in these moments, he felt it. He felt forsaken.
"To the block, prisoner," he gloomed.
Mimzi once again felt two hands grip and pull her towards the chopping block, the headsman unmoving and waiting for her neck to lay before him. The two imperial soldiers stopped her before the block. Mimzi could smell the fresh blood still sopping off the stone. It wreaked of battlefields Mimzi had never seen but had only heard of in stories from elders. The smell of fresh blood, only described as a smell so foul you know it when you smell it. This was It. This was the end.
'It was short. It sucked. I was robbed. But it was a good run.'
Mimzi thought as the captain laid pressure to her back legs causing her to fall to her knees before the block.
'I was enough for me. I was my greatest protector. I had a great run.'
The captain pressed her feet on Mimzi's back, she leaned into the block and suddenly the cold blood from the soldier before coated the left side of her face. She rested into it.
Mimzi took one final glance to those who would witness her execution. Hadvar, not even able to bring himself to look. Ralof, still smiling hoping it would bring some comfort to Mimzi in her last moments. Ulfric, his eyes dull and dark staring apathetically. She then turned her head away to the side, away from the faces— to her own comfort before her death. Not to be shared with strangers. This was her death. Mimzi stared up at the sky passed the headsman as he began to lift his gigantic axe, she stayed her gaze to the clouds. One final tear fell from her cheek, and one last final thought.
'Divines, please take me. Don't leave me to rot in the ground or haunt Nirn as a ghost. I thank you for the life I was given. I only hope I can return to you.'
Then the sound was heard again, this time much louder, this time so distinct it was almost right next to her. Over the mountains and through the sun— Mimzi's gaze was soon overshadowed by ebony black furled wings. They came over the mountain like the act of a god. The wind was pushed with such brunt into the valley like the beginnings of a thunderstorm.
"What in Oblivion is that??" yelped General Tullius, drawing his sword.
Townsfolk began to scatter in screams and shouts. Panic spread like wildfire amongst the soldiers of all factions gathered in Helgen's centre. The wings landed to the top of the Helgen watch tower and threw the ground from under the headsman feet, causing him to collapse with the axe still in his hands. It had large talons the size of greatswords. Its black horns spread up to the sky like winding dead trees. It was as large as life itself. It's eyes gloomed bright red, and it traced the people of Helgen hastily.
"It's a dragon!!" bellowed those who were at the mercy of the beast's majesty.
Mimzi's head stayed rested on the blood-soaked stone. Her eyes fixed to the monster that observed the mayhem its presence created, indifferently stalking them as if they were small, insignificant prey. She couldn't tell if what she was seeing was actually happening, if madness had finally taken her at the brink of her own death. She almost didn't want to react just in case this was her mind playing a cruel trick and she'd wake up to that axe slicing through her neck.
Until the beast parted its maw and a sound like thunder shook the very ground. Soon followed a blast that threw Mimzi and the remaining prisoners against the Helgen walls. The sudden blow of pain pushed the air from her lungs as her back walloped against the stonework; she collapsed into the gaggle of thrown rebels. Only a few were able to gain their strength off the ground. Mimzi couldn't move nor talk her body felt broken. The dragon let out another crack of force from its mouth and the skies went black as night. Wind pushed and pulled through Helgen as townsfolk bellowed trying to flee from the beast. The skies unleashed falling meteors demolishing Helgen. Stonework, homesteads, pathways and even horses were eviscerated fast from the storm. Helgen was in a bowl of stone almost impossible to escape from without the town gates, It lied buried in rubble and trails of fire.
"Soldiers, get the townspeople to safety! Get the battlemages out here, damn it!"
General Tullius attempted to use his bow to bring down the monster, but the dragon soared like the speed of lightning. Mimzi laid in the rubble as other prisoners around her slowly gathered themselves and ran to safety. The dragon was burning the whole town to the ground, and she knew if she didn't move eventually, she would be buried in boulders of stonework. She then felt a hand grip hers; she looked up startled to the familiar face pulling at her arm.
"Come on, girl, get up! The gods won't give us another chance!" screamed Ralof as he wrapped his left arm under Mimzi's stomach and pulled up. She stressed her legs on the ground firmly and stood straight. Her vision was blurred and her ears ringing from the colossal blasts of the dragon. Ralof hunched to her level, his hands rested on her shoulders. His bounds were cut, he was free. He shook her shoulders raggedly. Mimzi jolted from her state and to Ralof's wide and dilated eyes. She took his hand, and they scurried through the rushing townsfolk and soldiers all fleeing for their lives. They hopped past the scattered rubble and dead bodies littering Helgen's ground; till they reached a tower and retreated inside. Inside the tower were two Stormcloak soldiers on the ground; maimed and writhing from their injuries. Ulfric Stormcloak (whose binds and gag had been removed) held the door and slammed it behind Ralof and Mimzi. Their breaths were fast and erratic. The tower rumbled as dust and debris fell from the bones of the building above. The dragon's roars, soldiers shouting, and terrified towns people's screams were finally muffled, much to Mimzi's relief.
Ralof breathed out in dismay, "Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"
"Legends don't burn down villages," said the Jarl, his voice austere.
The rubble from the tower continued to crumble as the ground shook from the dragon's blasts and meteors outside. It was only a matter of time before it fell over their heads.
"We need to move," exclaimed Ulfric, "Now!"
Ralof anxiously looked around and stopped before the winding stairs behind leading up, "… this way! Up through the tower!"
Ralof grabbed Mimzi by the hands and pulled her up the steps, she pushed her feet up with each exalt. Two imperial soldiers hid at the top of the tower and rambled amongst themselves on how to escape the town. Before Mimzi and Ralof could make it to the top a gigantic crash broke through the tower stone and only a few feet away peered the dragon's red, prying eye. Its salient jaw parted.
"GET BACK!"
Ralof's arms violently shawled Mimzi's chest from behind and pulled her back against the wall; her back pressed against him. The dragon then threw fire into the tower burning the imperial soldiers to ash and bone; their screams were fizzled out in moments as Mimzi and Ralof turned their heads away in horror. The dragon pushed itself off the tower and continued to soar over the town, casting fire and meteors over its civilization.
Ralof's panicked gaze met Mimzi's. The fear Mimzi had felt on the cart was now returned in Ralof's eyes. She didn't know him long, but to see this kind of man in a state of fear curdled Mimzi's blood. Not even a staunch Nord could brave the attack of a dragon. He took notice that the gap left from the dragons' head was adjacent to a village inn a few feet below, the roof had corroded from fire but there was an opening to land if a leap had enough power to reach it.
"Look, you have to jump through the tower onto that inn's roof. There are tunnels that could lead out of here on the other side of Helgen, but you'll need to run. Don't stop for anyone or anything, not even that dragon. I'll follow you when I can, I need to report to Jarl Ulfric," said Ralof as his hands lightly placed to Mimzi's shoulders, "Go! I'll find you again, but you need to run!"
Mimzi panicked, "No! I won't make it— please!" Tears began to stream down her fear-stricken eyes.
"You have to! There's no time to talk," with his hands guiding her back, he led Mimzi to the foot of the gap, "… you see? The inn is just a leap away. You should pick up speed before you jump but you can make it, I know you can. Now run or you will die!"
Mimzi let out a frustrated cry and pressed her lips together. The only way out was down, and through the town of Helgen. She survived the headsman's axe only to possibly die trying to escape an enormous, fire breathing dragon that had seemed to come out of the white. Dragons weren't real, Mimzi thought. What was happening? It was incomprehensible.
Nevertheless, Mimzi backed herself up three steps, bent her front knee and bolted at the gap. She lunged at the brink of the opening and raised her legs for a jump. The leap wasn't steady, but she made it to the roof; collapsing as her unsteady gait stumbled to the wooden upper floor of the inn. The building was ablaze, and the fire continued to spread as she gathered herself to her feet. There was a break in the upper floor to the ground of the stead. She jumped from the floor to the bottom and sped as fast as her legs could carry her through Helgen's shambled streets.
"Come on, boy, you're doing great! Almost there, I'll go get your father!"
The voice was of Hadvar, helping the townsfolk find refuge from the dragon attack. He was coaxing over a small child who had to leave his wounded father centred in Helgen's streets unprotected. Mimzi was hopeful if she kept running she could run past undetected by Hadvar. Suddenly black and furled wings ascended down to the road before her. The earth rattled at its landing. Mimzi stumbled but quickly retreated behind the fallen architecture that protected Hadvar, the young boy and an elderly man. The boy's father remained in distress as the dragon beckoned before him. Its jagged mouth went wide before it devoured the fallen man in one snap of its jaw. The boy released a ravaged cry for his father, Hadvar restrained him from running out to the carnage. The dragon quickly beat its wings and swept up to the sky, searching for more humans to destroy.
The boy sobbed into Hadvar's chest and enveloped him with his tiny arms. Hadvar looked to the elder next to them, "Gunnar take care of the boy. I need to find General Tullius and join the defence."
Gunnar lifted the sobbing child from Hadvar's arms, "…god's guide you, Hadvar."
As his gaze turned, Hadvar was met with Mimzi again. She sat still to the ground; she was unsure how this imperial soldier would react seeing his prisoner still breathing and making her escape. He remarked, "… still breathing, Mimzi? Stay close to me if you want to stay that way. Follow me."
They sped behind a village home, a wall to each of their sides. Hadvar grabbed Mimzi by the arm and swung her against the left wall. He spotted the dragon flying down before it perched just above them.
"Stay close to the wall!" shouted Hadvar, holding Mimzi against the stone wall behind them. The dragon lingered just above, oblivious to the humans below. It blew a ferocious roar and fire blazed the soldiers on the other side of the right wall before them. Mimzi shrieked in utter horror at the sound of the colossal dragon, its might just a few feet above her. It kicked up again, shaking the earth below and soared up to the skies.
Hadvar and Mimzi fled through the streets together, passing mages and soldiers trying relentlessly to bring the dragon down from the skies. They threw fireballs, lightning bolts, ice spikes and arrows; none of which did the slightest impairment. The beast's wrath raged through the hamlet still, its voice sending cosmic blasts at the soldiers, sending them flying unnaturally at structures. The beast swooped down— its talons spread as it snatched an imperial soldier in mid-air before throwing him like a rag doll into Helgen's watch tower.
"Gods, why won't it die??"
"How do we bring it down?"
"We're in over our heads here! Fall back! FALL BACK!!"
The imperial soldiers cried in crowds of desperate pleas to their general, who stood with his bow armed staring helplessly up at the beast.
"Fall back!" he cried "Save yourselves! …fall back!"
Mimzi and Hadvar bolted passed the fleeing soldiers and towards an unscathed keep. Ralof was there waiting, but this time equipped with a legionnaire's sword and bow.
Hadvar barked, "Ralof! You damn traitor. Out of my way!"
"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time," Ralof claimed as he looked to Mimzi.
"Hadvar! We are retreating! Leave the prisoners!" the General bellowed to Hadvar, waving him over as imperial soldiers fled through a neighbouring tunnel, exposed from the blasts of the dragon's voice.
Hadvar sneered to Ralof, "Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" he fell back to his comrades and fled through the tunnel.
"Come on, girl. Let's go! Through the keep!" barked Ralof as he waved Mimzi in through the doors. The dragon's roars and shake from the flex of his wings went dull as the keep doors slammed behind them. All that was heard was the distant rumble of the dragon outside, and the heavy breathing of Ralof and Mimzi finally reaching safety.
"Looks like we are the only ones who made it…" exhaled Ralof walking deeper into the keep, Mimzi close behind, he continued "… that thing was a dragon, no doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends. The harbingers of the End-Times. There's only one who can kill them, and Skyrim hasn't seen anyone like that in centuries, not since Talos. Closest thing is Jarl Ulfric, he has the Voice, and he will know what to do. Gods, I hope he makes it out alive. Skyrim is going to need the Stormcloaks now more than ever."
Mimzi was home now. Where civil war wages through the Holds, indiscriminately arresting innocents even just associated with the adversary. Where any moment dragons can return after a thousand years of extinction to terrorize Skyrim's people. The god's had spared her for today. At the brink of her destruction, she had the gods on her side only for a dragon to return. Home was nothing of how she left it, and the meaning of home escaped Mimzi. Her return was the onset of her home's destruction. Skyrim wasn't the same. In the nine years she was gone Skyrim had changed as she did, and now she was back. This was her home now. Changed and all.