Chapter 2
They spend the next week trundled up in the most uncomfortable horse-drawn cart that Mull has ever had the displeasure to ride in. He's cramped between smelly broad-shouldered Nords, his wrists are tied together for days on end without reprieve, and the road is extraordinarily bumpy – to such an extent that he's convinced the driver is going over every stray stone and through every rut he can find just to spite them. Knowing the Imperial Legion and their penchant for vindictiveness against vanquished enemies, it certainly isn't impossible.
He and Lokir share their cart with a handful of Stormcloaks who were captured in the aftermath of the battle – the nearby conflict they heard right before their own arrest. The rebels are Nords to a man, bearing the pale skin, fair hair, light eyes, and muscular physiques that broadly characterize the rugged denizens of this restive northern province.
One of the Stormcloaks stands out from the rest, a golden-haired man draped in a luxurious fur cloak over an intricately-carved steel cuirass. By his appearance and the regal air with which he conducts himself even while bound in chains, Mull guesses he's probably a leader or a noble of some kind.
The Imperials tightly gag the man and refuse to remove it for even an instant. Two soldiers ride on horseback directly behind the carriage and watch him like hawks for all hours of the day, and continue to closely monitor him when they stop to make camp at night. He's given water by dribbling it through the cloth gag, but is rarely allowed solid food. Mull is immensely thankful that he isn't being subjected to the same treatment, though he also wonders what in Oblivion the man could've done to earn such abuse.
When Lokir finally voices their shared curiosity, one of the captured rebel footmen – who introduces himself as Ralof – explains that this man is none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, the infamous Bear of Markarth, the Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the rebellion, claimant to the vacant throne of Skyrim's High King, and a Tongue to boot.
Mull can scarcely believe it. He actually laughs aloud when the Stormcloak says those things, drawing a few irritated glares to himself. Only when Ralof vehemently insists does he start to give serious consideration to the ridiculous claim. To think they'd actually be sharing a cart with the Ulfric Stormcloak, one of the most hated men in the entire Empire, by pure chance! The odds of such a thing must be absolutely minuscule.
Although it does make sense that they'd muzzle him if he is a Tongue. The Imperials wouldn't want him Shouting them all to Oblivion. It explains that officer's comment about the 'last day of the war' too. Catching Ulfric Stormcloak seems like it would be a pretty big deal.
There aren't many people in Tamriel who haven't at least heard of the Stormcloak Rebellion, a war waged by a conservative faction of the Nords who wish to continue worshiping Talos, the Hero-God of Mankind, in violation of Imperial law. Mull vividly remembers the day he first learned of the Rebellion, over a year ago in a marketplace in some tiny Cyrodiilic village. Ulfric Stormcloak had killed the High King of Skyrim – who's name he has since forgotten – which marked the beginning of the war. After that, the southern Jeralls weren't nearly as safe of a refuge for brigands as they once were. Imperial patrols and supply caravans were soon crisscrossing the mountain passes with alarming regularity, putting increasingly severe pressure on Mull's old gang. It made life a lot harder for them. But that's ultimately neither here nor there. The past is the past.
According to Ralof, this particular group of Stormcloaks were ambushed by the Imperials near Darkwater Crossing and caught completely unprepared. They never expected the Imperials to sneak so far into rebel-held territory without being detected. A tactical masterstroke, or so Ralof grudgingly admits. After a short and hopeless battle, Jarl Ulfric had ordered his men to surrender and they were all promptly taken prisoner. It was to their extremely bad fortune that he happened to be in personal command of the detachment at the time
Ralof waxes on and on about Ulfric being the next great conqueror, the man who will defeat the damnable Thalmor and their Imperial puppets once and for all, and how his cause is justified by the Empire's decision to strip away the ancient traditions of their people.
Mull does his best to tune out the drivel. He might wholeheartedly agree with the man's distaste for the High Elves – as do most Men, as a general rule – but other than that, he's never been the type of person to care about the politics of the day. Purportedly, Jarl Ulfric slew Skyrim's High King with the power of his Voice alone, so maybe there's some validity to Ralof's various claims.
He can't say he really cares though, and definitely not enough to hold an opinion either way. None of this has ever had any effect on him, so why should he bother?
Except now, I've somehow found myself trapped right in the middle of this mess. I'm sitting not five feet away from Ulfric Stormcloak of all people. This is a tale that no one would ever believe.
He spends the first few days of their journey basking in the hilarity of this improbable situation, but after they've shared the same cart for long enough, the novelty slowly but steadily begins to wear off.
Other than Ralof's grandstanding, the cart's denizens don't speak much for the duration of the trip. There's no reason to. Mull and Lokir don't know these men and nor do they especially want to, a sentiment that most of the Stromcloaks seem to reciprocate. Ralof is friendly enough and acts sympathetic to their plight, cursing the Imperials for the injustice of their actions – though one gets the impression that he would take any available opportunity to do so.
The rest of the Stormcloaks, on the other hand, seem much more reserved. They are grim and light-lipped, betraying nothing of their thoughts. Some are wounded, swathed in bloodstained bandages. Others look dead to the world, so downcast and quiet are they. These are thoroughly beaten men.
Lokir sequesters himself in one corner of the cart for most of the journey, and the few times he and Mull interact are when the horse thief asks if he's thought of a way to escape. Mull always responds with some variation of "No, and if we tried, we'd be dead in a heartbeat." Imperial legionaries are ruthless in that regard, more so than most. And unfortunately, yes, he can say that from personal experience. He's had a few run-ins with their ilk, and they never ended well.
He's only known Lokir for a short while, but against his better judgment the horse thief has grown on him. Shared hardship builds trust. They've watched each other's backs in recent weeks as they journeyed throughout the wilds of the Rift and the Eastmarch, hunting, foraging, and waylaying the occasional traveler to put food on the metaphorical table. It was hardly a glorious existence. Their options were often limited, as two men are only capable of pulling off so much mischief by themselves, but it was enough to keep them alive. That's what matters most at the end of the day. And the horse thief does cook some damn good breakfasts. That's a big plus in my book.
As it turns out, the Imperials have no idea Mull and Lokir are wanted men. They haven't bothered to ask for their identities or even if they're citizens of the Empire, merely assuming them to be two more nameless rebels. He's holding out hope that once they get to wherever they're being taken, they might realize their mistake and let them when he's being honest with himself, he knows that he wouldn't bet on those odds. These are Imperials after all. For their kind, ignoring inconvenient details is practically a national pastime.
Their merry little caravan heads south into the wooded highlands of the Rift, an area where Mull and Lokir had roamed earlier in the summer, and then turns west to enter the high passes intersecting the northern spur of the Jerall Mountains. The land changes drastically in a surprisingly short amount of time, with forested plains lying directly next to huge sheer-faced mountains, making the landscape seem extremely disjointed. Mull has seen some big mountains in his time, and indeed has been seeing these specific mountains from a distance for the last couple of months, but only now that he's right up next to them does he comprehend their true immensity. They're breathtaking.
Or they would be, if the reason for him being here weren't so regrettable. Knowing that he's probably headed for some deep, dark prison cell for the rest of his life does a lot to dampen his spirits.
The Throat of the World, the highest peak in all of Tamriel, soon rises in the west like some great pillar of the gods, raised in time immemorial to uphold the weight of the sky. It's unimaginably massive, far taller than any other peak Mull has ever seen. It's difficult to comprehend that something so gigantic could actually exist. Its uppermost heights are hidden above an ever-present layer of dark grey clouds.
Many of the Stormcloaks finally break their silence, lifting their arms and offering up prayers to the goddess Kyne at the sight of her holy mountain. A handful of Imperials do the same, though they tend to address their supplications to Kynareth instead – different names for the same goddess from what Mull understands, but these men evidently don't see things the same way. He derives sardonic amusement from the dirty looks occasionally exchanged by the two sides whenever the difference in terminology is overheard.
He considers joining them in their prayers – he needs all the help he can get right now, whether it be divine intervention or otherwise – but something inside him vehemently rejects the idea. The gods are benevolent, yes, but he doesn't feel worthy of the right to beg for their aid. He's a bandit for gods' sakes. Everyone gets their just due eventually, and he's surely no exception to that rule. His has been more than a few years in coming. That doesn't mean he'll just lie down and accept his fate like a beaten dog, but he has enough self-awareness to at least admit that much. What comes will come. He's too prideful to beg on his knees for salvation.
The caravan is harried by rebel incursions every couple of days, but they're are too few in number to risk facing the Imperials in open battle, always withdrawing with nothing to show for their efforts. The Imperials keep a tight leash on their prisoners, and none are able to escape even when the attacking rebels come close to the caravan. Their guards are unceasingly vigilant.
As a result, Mull doesn't have much to do besides lounging inside the uncomfortable cart and lamenting his sore backside, their lack of warm food or alcohol, and the relentless chill of the high mountain roads. They're traveling through admittedly beautiful country, but although the soaring peaks, sprawling forests, and shimmering alpine lakes are certainly eye-catching, admiring the scenery only does so much for him.
He simply isn't accustomed to sitting and doing nothing like this for extended periods of time. They have no choice in the matter since they're admonished by the Imperials whenever they speak too loudly, look around too intently, or even move too abruptly, but the knowledge that there's no alternative to this forced slothfulness only serves to worsen the tedium. As a result, there's far more time for him to spend dwelling on his thoughts than he'd like.
The quiet moments are the worst. They are the domain of Morven, and of the many ways he wishes the events of the past several months could've gone differently. The roads he could've taken or chosen not to take. He's never been a particularly introspective man, but in a situation like this, it's hard not to be.
In an effort to ease his mind away from those unpleasant memories, he commits himself to mentally tallying up all the reasons he hates Skyrim so far. It's a long list, and he's at it for a while. The horrendous weather and the incessant cold are just a few of the items. Northern Cyrodiil was a much more temperate land despite being nearly equally as mountainous.
His morose contemplation is eventually interrupted by Ralof the Stormcloak. There is no context or preamble. The man starts talking unprompted, slowly at first, but with increasing enthusiasm as he continues.
He tells Mull about Skyrim, its geography and history and traditions, and after a while begins speaking of his own life. Mull has little desire to listen to a man he doesn't know as he chatters about himself, but he has nothing better to do, so he might as well. It staves off the boredom at least.
He isn't a very good listener however, and by the time Ralof is finished, he doesn't recall much beyond the fact that the man's hometown is called Riverwood, that he has a sister whose husband owns a lumber mill, and that he's been a sworn warrior to Ulfric Stormcloak for the last five years. "That's my tale, as it stands," Ralof finishes wistfully.
Mull suppresses a sigh of relief. Thank the gods. He's finally done.
Unfortunately, his joy proves short-lived. It seems that Ralof isn't finished quite yet. "So what's your story, friend?" the man inquires. Not expecting the question, Mull quirks an eyebrow in askance, and Ralof elaborates. "You don't look to be from Skyrim. You haven't got the nose. Though I must say, yours is in pretty rough shape." He taps his own nose and chuckles.
Mull's nose has been broken more times than he can count. Though it currently resembles a lump of misshapen cartilage more than anything recognizable, he isn't as insulted by the man's comment as some people might be. In his mind, it's a visible indicator that he's seen his fair share of scrapes and come out of them alive every single time.
"How did you find yourself here in the Old Kingdom?" the Stormcloak continues. "You look like a man who's done some fighting. You've got some tales to tell, I'd wager."
Mull snorts and looks away. Aye, maybe he does, but there's no way he'd share them with a stranger. What would the man even think? His life could best be summed up as a litany of thievery and murder. More than that, it wouldn't be a lie to say that he and Lokir are criminals taking advantage of Skyrim's current woes. A Stormcloak would doubtlessly disapprove of something like that. He doesn't particularly care either way, but Ralof is the only one of these rebels who's shown even a little geniality toward him and Lokir. There's no point in ruining it.
"Ah, it wouldn't make for a good story," he hedges. "You don't want to hear it. It's nothing worth telling anyways."
"Bah," Ralof waves dismissively. "We won't know until you try."
Mull is still skeptical. It must show on his face, as Ralof quickly switches to a different avenue of attack.
"Gods' mercy, man! I poured my heart out to you, didn't I? That's got to mean something!" His lighthearted grin fades. "And besides…" He glances from side to side, as if considering whether to continue or not. Their Imperial captors haven't reprimanded for fraternizing them quite yet. "…We're all brothers and sisters in binds now. You seem a rough sort, but so what if you carry a past you aren't proud of? Few of us have, and in spite of that, I sincerely believe Sovngarde awaits us all. You'll see no judgment from me. So let's hear it."
He scoffs at the man's earnestness. Even assuming Ralof does have good intentions, it doesn't make any difference to him. "Sorry friend. Like I said. Nothing worth telling." There are many things he'd rather not recall, and certainly not aloud. Some stories are better left untold. He's pretty confident that his own story is one of those.
Ralof slumps against the side of the cart and lets out an aggrieved sigh, but Mull can tell he's merely acting the part. "Fine, fine. I concede. You win." The façade breaks and his smile returns. "It was worth a try, right?"
He grunts noncommittally. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he almost – almost – appreciates the man asking those questions. If nothing else, it was a way to break the monotony of their journey.
They speak for a while longer after that, but of nothing consequential. Mostly discussing the weather and bemoaning the state of Skyrim's roads. Mull nearly comments that if they truly want to advocate for a better road system, the man who controls half of the province is sitting right next to them. But he decides that the jest might be in bad taste and keeps his mouth shut.
And speaking of the weather, it's noticeably chillier at these high elevations than in the lowlands of the Frostwater Plains. He bundles up into a ball within his threadbare cloak and does his utmost to preserve what little body heat remains. Ralof teases him for his weakness. "You think this is cold? This is nothing compared to how it'll be in a few months."
"I'll never understand how you Nords can bear to live in a place like this." Though Skyrim is a magnificent land, the climate leaves a lot to be desired. It's only Last Seed for Talos' sake. It shouldn't be this cold, mountains or no.
When he and Ralof finally settle into restful silence, he raises his eyes beyond the confines of the cart. The sun is already low, sinking behind the range of peaks looming in the west, bounded on their northern end by the extraordinary immensity of the Throat of the World. They're going uphill on a winding road that overlooks the flatlands of the Eastmarch below. On the horizon behind them, green forests steadily give way to the mist-shrouded Frostwater Plains. Whatever lies beyond, he couldn't say. It's a big world out there. The thought leaves him feeling melancholic and very, very small.
He tries to remember the many different places he's seen over the course of his life. He isn't the most widely-traveled individual, but he's visited his fair share of different regions. The rugged highlands of Craglorn and Colovia, the deep wilds of the Great Forest, the windswept valleys of County Bruma, the misty vales and woodlands of the Rift. Skyrim is one of the most gorgeous he's seen, no doubt about that, but it's a wild and deadly sort of beauty, all sharp lines and jagged vistas. The wildlife certainly accentuates it in that regard. Every region of Tamriel has its own plethora of dangerous creatures, but Skyrim has a reputation for standing head and shoulders above the rest.
He who walks Skyrim alone does not walk for very long, or so the saying goes. That's part of the reason he partnered up with Lokir in the first place, for mutual protection. The fact that he shared with the horse-thieving vagrant a desire to gain wealth by illicit means had merely been an added convenience. Only needing to worry about yourself is a liberating devolvement of responsibility, but having someone to watch your back is advantageous in its own ways. Honor among thieves is a lie, at least in his experience, but common interest is a powerful motivator.
Of course, a lot of good it did them in the end. Now they're both in binds, and it remains to be seen how they'll get themselves out of this mess. Or if they will at all.
-x-
After another few days, they descend from the mountains into a broad valley of dense pine forest, the eastern frontier of Falkreath Hold. From there, it isn't long before they reach the Imperial stronghold of Helgen in the late morning.
Helgen is more outwardly Cyrodiilic than Mull would've expected. It shares few similarities with the towns and hamlets of the Rift that he and Lokir have recently journeyed through. Those were Nord settlements through and through, simple in every way and isolated from the wider world. By contrast, this town is heavily fortified and contains a mix of both Nord and Imperial architecture, thatch-roofed longhouses boasting intricately carved soffits standing right alongside multistory stone edifices embellished with columns and wide verandas. Men clad in animal skins with swords or long daggers sheathed at their sides walk through the paved streets together with others draped in elegant but impractical Imperial tunics, a veritable melting pot of Nord and Cyrod.
The outer fortifications are mostly wood palisades and ramparts, but further within the town he can already see the stone walls, towers, and Imperial banners of a legionary citadel. It's presumably no coincidence that such a well-protected town is situated at the terminus of the east-west mountain pass they just traversed. And speaking of mountains, the town is surrounded by dozens of them, all different shapes and heights as they rest dauntingly on the horizon, some snowcapped and others barren.
In contrast to the beginning of their journey, Ulfric Stormcloak is now pale and wan, seeming utterly miserable. That indominable pride with which he conducted himself at the beginning of their trek from Darkwater is now nowhere to be seen. Mull almost feels bad for him. They're taking this Tongue thing seriously, aren't they? Just how big of a deal could that be? He isn't especially knowledgeable about the power of the Voice and couldn't rightly speculate, but surely the ability to use some special brand of magic couldn't be that much more dangerous than the norm. The Imperials have quite a few battlemages with them, assuming the legionaries wearing flowing crimson robes beneath their armor are in fact mages, so they'd presumably have the capability to put down a single rogue Tongue. Presumably.
As they trundle through a gatehouse, Mull overhears some of their Imperial escorts conversing with a squad of town guardsmen. According to them, the Pale Pass has been completely snowed in by a huge avalanche, which means the primary route through the Jerall Mountains between Skyrim and Cyrodiil will be blocked off for the foreseeable future. I guess we're not going to Cyrodill then. Not unless our captors fancy digging through the snow for days on end.
Earlier in their journey, Ralof voiced the assumption that they would be taken into the Imperial Province by way of the Pale Pass so Ulfric Stormcloak could face public trial and execution in the capital of the Empire, the Imperial City. Mull and Lokir saw no reason to disagree with that logic. As it turns out, the Stormcloak was mistaken, though by no fault of his own.
When they pass under the gate, Mull discreetly leans over the side of the cart to better listen to the group of armored men.
"The central courtyard has already been prepared for them. General Tullius himself has even arrived to oversee the proceedings."
"That must mean we're really going through with it, then. To think that the threat of Ulfric Stormcloak will finally be ended once and for all. Somehow that doesn't seem possible."
One of the Imperials guffaws. "Don't worry about that. I'm sure it'll seem plenty possible when their heads start to roll. The General doesn't want to take the risk of leaving any of them alive. The headsman will earn his wages today, make no mistake."
The Imperials' derisive laughter fades into the distance as their cart draws further away from the gatehouse. Mull feels the blood drain from his face. That didn't sound good. Not at all.
He turns to Ralof, who also appears to have overheard that conversation, and they share a somber look. Their captors must've grown impatient, seeking to end the Civil War as quickly as possible, and are now choosing to do so in truly Imperial fashion. With a public beheading.
"What do you think?" Mull quietly asks.
The Stormcloak chooses to remain silent, lost in his thoughts.
He can't blame the man. That's a hell of a thing to hear while eavesdropping.
He and Ralof evidently aren't the only ones to figure out what's awaiting them. The news spreads rapidly among the denizens of their cart as well as the others in their caravan. Lokir is utterly distraught, but Ralof breaks his silence to tell him to grow a spine like a true Nord. "Face your end with some courage, thief. I don't know where this road will end, but wherever it does, Sovngarde awaits us."
That's about what I'd expect from a Stormcloak. Mull remains silent, stewing in his own muddled reflections. He'd never felt that his life, for whatever it's worth, would lead him to an end like this. Beheaded alongside a bunch of strangers because of some Imperial officer's overzealousness.
He lets out a low sigh. Well, that isn't entirely true. It really shouldn't be all that surprising. This isn't the first time he's faced mortal danger. Not even close. But in his previous brushes with death, there's almost always been some sort of silver lining, a way out for someone perceptive and level-headed enough to take advantage of it, a possibility of survival no matter how slim. He's never been in a situation that felt truly, undeniably hopeless, save for one.
This is a situation that he has no control over whatsoever, just like that battle down in Cyrodiil where Morvenbled out in the snow-soaked grass as their gang was decimated. On that day, he was helpless. Powerless. Unable to do anything at all, except sit there and watch as she succumbed to her wounds. Now, that exact same directionless anger swells within him.
How fitting is that? It seems that the gods love their irony. He clenches his fists and bares his teeth in unspoken challenge to the townspeople watching impassively as their carts roll through the streets of Helgen, fenced in by the parapets of broad stone walls poking above the rooftops on all sides.
He isn't angry because he thinks this is unjust, nor because his time on Nirn is about to be cut short. Literally. No, it's the hopelessness that rankles him. It's unbearable to know that there isn't anything he can do to weasel his way out of this.
He's so caught up in his internal tirade that he almost fails to notice Ralof pointing out a man standing to one side of the road. "That's General Tullius," he states. "He's the Military Governor, the commanding officer of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim. I'm not surprised to see him here. Jarl Ulfric has been his enemy for many years, though the war only began last spring."
The man certainly looks the part of an Imperial general. He's clad in a set of luxurious red and gold armor and sits atop a massive white warhorse. However, he isn't the person who catches Mull's attention.
The general appears to be conversing with three dark-robed Altmer. They're impossible to miss, being particularly distinctive with their yellow-tinged skin – almost jaundiced in appearance – and long pointed ears. Nobody could mistake them for anything other than members of the Thalmor.
Ralof spits over the side of the cart. "It looks like the Thalmor are with him," he mutters with distaste. "Of course they're a part of this mess. Damn Elves. I bet they had something to do with this."
Mull finds himself agreeing with that sentiment. He'd never turn down a justified opportunity to think unkindly of the High Elves. Blasted piss-skinned knife-ears.
For the rest of the ride through Helgen, Mull occupies himself with hateful thoughts directed towards Tamriel's most universally detested race. And for good reason. Nobody likes them after they burned half the continent during the Great War. He also has his own reasons for despising them, of a more personal in nature. His native Hammerfell suffered cruelly beneath the unforgiving boot of the Aldmeri Dominion for nine whole years, even after the war had ended on all other fronts. He was just a child then, incapable of understanding the true scope of the conflict, and nor has he ever been much of a nationalist. But still, the war left many scars. To some extent, that's true for all of Tamriel.
Stewing in righteous anger is a welcome distraction from his current predicament. As such, he nearly misses a brief exchange between Ralof and Lokir.
"Hey lad," Ralof addresses the younger man. "Where are you from?"
Lokir glares at him. "Why do you care?"
The Stormcloak exhales heavily. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home, you know."
The man scowls and averts his gaze. After a moment, his expression softens. "…Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead."
Ralof nods and wordlessly looks down to the weathered floorboards beneath their feet, swaying with the bumping of the cart.
Something about the two men's interaction strikes Mull as incredibly melancholic. It's been a long time since he truly had a home, so he can't completely relate, but one of his former gang's more recent encampments in the Jeralls – the one he dreamed about, as a matter of fact – was always what he considered to be his closest thing to that. A home. Those cherished places that each of them will presumably never see again, except as they haunt their memories.
-x-
The carts rumble to a stop one after the other. Mull breathes, leaving an ephemeral puff of silver vapor in the morning air as he examines their new surroundings. They've been transported into a walled courtyard overlooked by high granite towers, manned by dozens of Imperial soldiers as they stand guard over the grisly proceedings to come. Black and red banners flutter languidly in the faint breeze. Many townsfolk have gathered to watch, at least a couple hundred of them. They're making a spectacle of us. Lovely.
The courtyard's most distinctive feature, however, is the morbid sight of an executioner's block waiting just for them. A man with a massive crescent-bladed axe loiters next to it, his gaze sweeping across the gathered prisoners as if appraising the quality of their heads. Mull's chest tightens, but he consciously maintains strict control over his expression. The last thing he wants is to offer these Imperial bastards the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
He soon notices the presence of a handful of minotaurs among the Imperial legionaries, both atop the walls and within the courtyard. Hulking masses of coarse fur and dense muscle, these beastfolk are distinctive for their thick horns adorned with glittering jewelry, comparatively simple iron nose rings, and ludicrously large weapons slung across their backs or hanging from their broad belts. To say that they tower over their mannish comrades would be a gross understatement. He's somewhat surprised by their attendance. It's been a while since I've seen any of their kind. There aren't many of them outside of Cyrodiil, as far as I'm aware.
"If there are bull-men here," Ralof comments, "then the Empire must be taking every conceivable precaution for this farce. Not that it's surprising." He smirks. "Jarl Ulfric is a formidable foe, even while in chains."
Mull grunts ambiguously. The leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion is hardly the image of a formidable conquer at the moment. He glances sidelong at the Jarl, surrounded by a squadron of Imperials – both men and minotaurs – as he's bodily hauled out of their cart, gagged and trussed like a hog. He looks nearly dead on his feet.
At the direction of a handful of soldiers, Mull and the rest of his fellow prisoners begin climbing down from the carts one at a time under their own power. When his turn comes, he stumbles as he drops to the stone-cobbled ground and almost falls face-first, but Ralof is merciful enough to grab his arm and help him remain upright. He should've anticipated being so stiff after sitting in the same position for so long.
"Thanks," he mumbles. The Stormcloak tilts his head in acknowledgement and turns to face their captors. The courtyard is silent save for the distant buzz of conversation from their assembled spectators. They're both loathe to further disrupt that silence and wordlessly agree to leave it at that.
The Imperials take a few minutes to record the names of each prisoner and organize them into rows. He hears Ralof grumble under his breath as he's called up to identify himself. "Empire and their damned lists."
Couldn't have said it better myself.
While the majority of them continue to wait, one of the Imperials informs them that they can't go to the block with any personal possessions other than their basic clothing. "Take off your boots and belts. Empty your pockets. If you have any gold or jewelry, leave them here."
His weapons were confiscated upon their initial capture back at the Darkwater River, but he'd managed to hold onto his coin purse. Now, with little other choice, he reluctantly withdraws the last of his currency and deposits it into a basket already full of various Stormcloaks' valuables and memorabilia. His only adornment is a simple necklace with a bone amulet hanging around his neck, but he surreptitiously removes it and stuffs it into one of his pockets when nobody seems to be paying attention. It's something he would rather die than give up. And… seeing as he is about to die, it would feel incredibly wrong to die without it. It's a gift from Morven. That's all that needs to be said.
Around them, the courtyard descends into a state of organized chaos. Imperial legionaries are marching every which way, Nord and Cyrod and minotaur alike – and even a few Orcs and Elves. Most of their attention seems to be concentrated around Ulfric Stormcloak a few dozen yards away. Mull, Lokir, Ralof, and a handful of other Stormcloaks end up sequestered along one edge of the courtyard, huddled beneath the shadow of the walls, written off as unimportant in the broader proceedings.
Legionaries and other minions of the Empire swirl around them in a hectic but well-ordered mass of humanity. Most are soldiers in armor, average and forgettable, but not all. At one point, a minotaur marches in front of him some ten feet away. He can smell the bull-man's disgusting musk even from that distance, like an unwashed animal. In a way, he supposes that's exactly what the minotaur is.
As if sensing his gaze, the minotaur stops and turns its massive horned head to look down at him. Gold chains jingle against ivory. Beneath heavy brows, round umber eyes regard him inscrutably, gleaming brightly with intelligence. After holding his stare for long enough to make him uncomfortable, the minotaur snorts disdainfully and continues marching, each weighty footfall thumping like a drumbeat.
He doesn't have to wait much longer before he's called forth to give his name. "You there. Step forward." The speaker, one of the Imperial soldiers, is a young Nord man with a stern face and solemn eyes.
He hesitates for a moment, prompting another soldier to shove him from behind. He twists around to growl wordlessly at the offender, but the Imperial sneers back at him with a hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. Knowing an unwinnable fight when he sees one, he swallows his pride and faces the man who'd first spoken.
"What is your name?" he gruffly asks.
Having anticipated the question, Mull has already begun to consider his response. Normally in this type of situation, he'd give a false name to avoid difficult questions relating to his identity and the bounties already on his head. Most of the fellow brigands he knew over the years had never bothered with fake identities. But by doing so, it can't be overstated how much more effectively he's been able to avoid bounty hunters and other similar types. He's carried multiple different names, so adding one more to the collection shouldn't matter.
That said, he quickly realizes these Imperials won't care who he is in the slightest. He's about to become one decapitated corpse among dozens, so why would it matter?
He won't provide his real name – he hasn't used it in a long, long time – but there's no point in coming up with a new one either. So, he settles for the one he's carried ever since joining his final gang. "…Mull."
The soldier raises an eyebrow with palpable skepticism.
He curses his lifelong inability to lie convincingly, but is thankful all the same when the Imperial doesn't press the matter. He may have been going by that name for a while, sure, but it's technically a lie all the same.
"Any family name?" the Imperial continues.
He shakes his head.
"Place of origin?"
Another shake.
The Imperial waits for a few seconds before exhaling with exasperation. "And you are aware that without this information, we won't be able to return your remains to your homeland for interment?"
He nods. I don't know where they'd take me.
"Fine then." The man's visage softens for a fleeting moment. "I will ensure that your bones are buried properly."
He grunts his thanks, such as they are.
The soldier returns his attention to the scroll held in his gauntleted hands, eyes scanning back and forth.
He isn't immediately called away, so he decides this is probably the best opportunity he'll get to plead his innocence. Might as well try. Imperial legionaries are hardasses at the best of times, but I haven't got anything else to lose at this point. And besides, this one doesn't seem too prickly.
He nervously licks his lips. "I'm not a Stormcloak." When the Imperial glances up from his scroll to regard him with uncertainty, he hastily continues. "A man named Lokir and I were taken prisoner while traveling near the Darkwater River. None of your legionary friends would listen to what we had to say. We've never been Stormcloaks and we have nothing to do with the war. We shouldn't be here."
By the end, the words are tumbling out of his mouth. He's growing desperate. When he first realized they were headed towards their execution, it didn't immediately seem real. Now though, with the headsman's block in clear view, it looks like much more of a certainty than before.
He fully expects the soldier to berate him for daring to question Imperial authority or something equally conceited. So, he's understandably surprised when the man frowns and starts to reply, but pauses. He subjects Mull to a flinty stare, assessing him for any sign of duplicity.
He does his best to remain outwardly relaxed. This one isn't a lie, he tells himself. There's no reason for you to show fear. Well… not right this instant.
Finally, the Imperial reaches a decision and raises his voice. "Captain! I don't think this one's on the list," he calls out.
He looks inquiringly to a lithe olive-skinned woman with angular tribal tattoos adorning her bare arms, marking her as a Nibenean Cyrod. She sighs in annoyance and briskly marches to his side. Her full set of gilded plate armor, high-crested helm, and red cape bearing the sigil of the Imperial dragon show her to be an officer of some importance.
"He claims that himself and another one of these prisoners are not rebels, and rather were detained without due cause in violation of Imperial law. What should we do?"
She huffs impatiently. "All are guilty until they have proven themselves innocent. That is Imperial Law, as laid down by the Prophet Marukh at the inception of the Empire. It is one of the immutable principles of our righteous nation. So, rebel." She turns to Mull, her lips drawn back into a conceited sneer. "Tell me. How exactly will you prove yourself innocent?"
It's obvious that she's trying to goad him. He doesn't give her the satisfaction of a response.
"Go on. Don't be shy."
He sneers but says nothing. He has no proof that this woman would accept, and even if he did, he's sure she would invent some tongue-in-cheek excuse to disregard it. It's as she said – this is Imperial Law. It bends for no one.
"Hmph. As I thought." She turns away without a second glance, instead redirecting her ire to the legionary. "Don't forget your place, Nord. As a sworn soldier of the Legion, you are not allowed to deviate from the script set out for you. Forget the list. He's going to the block with the rest. We aren't making any exceptions today, and I don't care what excuses they try to offer. This is too important to risk making a needless mistake."
The legionary scowls unhappily, a sentiment that Mull wholeheartedly shares, but doesn't try to argue. "…By your orders, Captain." He gives an apologetic grimace and tells him to get back in line.
He glumly sighs. That's it, then. No dice. He files back into his spot in the formation of prisoners, garnering a few unhappy or sympathetic stares from Stormcloaks who overhead his attempt to talk his way to freedom.
Once everything is in order, they spend a little while listening to the Imperial General they saw speaking to those Thalmor earlier – Tullius, he recalls – as he smugly gloats before Ulfric Stormcloak, still bound and gagged. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down!"
There's lots of talk about restoring the peace and so forth, the many ways that the world will become a better place without the rebellious Jarl in it. Pretty words for a beheading.
Ulfric Stormcloak tries to respond, but his words are muffled by his gag. Over the shouted mockery of the crowd as they react positively to the general's tirade, they likely would've been inaudible regardless.
After the general has had his fill of boasting, the assembled prisoners are subjected to the supplications of a vermillion-robed priestess of Arkay. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, may the blessings of the Eight Divines be upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn…"
Considering the vast majority of Nords from the Old Holds don't adhere to the Cyrodiilic Imperial Pantheon, that's a backhanded insult if Mull has ever seen one.
He notices Lokir trembling to his one side and Ralof staring resolutely ahead on the other. Once more, he laments their lack of options for staging an escape. Their best opportunity would've been before they passed through Helgen's gates, while they were still in the carts on the road. Unfortunately, the guards had been so vigilant and numerous that attempting to flee would've only ended in their premature deaths. But now that he thinks about it, Mull realizes their choice to remain docile made them little more than cattle being led to slaughter. The result is exactly the same in the end. Well… can't turn back time. Sure would be nice though, wouldn't it?
When the priestess is mercifully finished, the headsman starts his gruesome work with one of the rebel footmen, a man who Mull doesn't recognize. The Stormcloak strides fearlessly up to the block and drops to his knees of his own volition. "Come on, I haven't got all morning!" he taunts with a mischievous grin. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?"
Thunk. A fountain of crimson blood darkens the earth, spilling forth from severed arteries. The man's now-headless corpse slowly topples to one side before being unceremoniously dragged away with legs still twitching erratically.
Lokir is brought up next, practically carried by two soldiers as he struggles against their iron grip every step of the way. "Please, please! Let me go! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this! Please, I don't want to die! Please!"
Fueled by desperation, the horse thief somehow manages to rip himself away from his captors and sprints madly for the courtyard gate. He's shot by archers before making it twenty feet and tumbles screaming to the ground, lifeblood pooling between the stones around his flailing body. Shafts and fletching protrude from his back like so many quills on a hedgehog. His movements become more and more sluggish until, eventually, he falls still. Some of the watching townspeople jeer haughtily at the sight.
Mull's insides tighten as he looks on, unable to do anything to stop the inevitable. Useless. Powerless. He grits his teeth to the point of pain at the sight of his dead companion. Dammit, Lokir…
When he first met Lokir, the horse thief was a man down on his luck, just like he was. They banded together and struck out to find their fortune in the wilds of Skyrim. He was a good partner in crime. He was an idiot, but also gregarious and considerate. Of all the damn things, in this moment Mull recalls that slice of toast from the morning before they were captured at Darkwater. And now, right before his eyes, Lokir is gone.
The next few executions pass in a blur. Before he realizes, it's already his own turn to be directed to the front of the crowd by the Nibenean captain, who he favors with a venomous glare as she shoves him to his knees before the block. It stinks of spilt blood and urine, and he makes a monumental effort not to retch. A whispered curse escapes his lips. Despite his best efforts to remain composed, he feels the frigid grip of debilitating fear beginning to claw at his chest. When trying to remain calm inevitably ends in failure, he focuses on his anger towards the Imperials and the Thalmor in an attempt to drown out everything else. That doesn't quite work either.
His breathing quickens and his heartbeat pounds deafeningly in his ears. He doesn't want to become like these dead Stormcloaks. He doesn't want to become like Lokir. When it comes down to it, in this moment of impending death, of course he'd be a coward. He really shouldn't be surprised. I… I don't… I can't die like this… No… damn it!
Suddenly, a strange noise echoes through the sky, like the distant rumbling of the harshest gale imaginable. It might be thunder, but… that doesn't seem right. The Imperials mutter disconcertedly amongst themselves. Mull's spine tingles with a feeling he can't identify. There's something decidedly unnatural in the air, though he doesn't think he could put a name to it.
The headsman hesitates. If that weren't the case, then Mull would already have been beheaded. The Nibenean captain yells for her subordinates to ignore whatever it is, but she can't keep her voice from wavering, betraying her unease. She pushes against his back with the sole of her steel-plated boot to prevent him from rising.
His neck chafes against the block, the rough-shorn wood pricking him with a dozen splinters. Beneath the overpowering odor of death and various bodily fluids, he can just barely make out the fragrant scent of fresh pine needles, no doubt from whatever tree the block had been hewn. It's a comforting smell, and reminds him of better times. He recalls Ralof's words to Lokir shortly after they entered Helgen.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home, you know."
His fear and anger slowly drain away, replaced by a quiet sort of resignation. He releases a long sigh. I suppose this is it. At least I'll be seeing Morven again soon. Hopefully. He shifts one of his bound hands, rubbing his wrist against the weight of the necklace lying inside his pocket.
With that, he looks upwards to the burly black-hooded headsman as he once again raises the crescent-bladed axe, the last thing he expects to ever see in this life.
So it is that he has a perfect view of the massive dragon, dark as a nightmare, that swoops down from the snowcapped mountains surrounding the town and drops onto a nearby tower with a deafening roar. The huge creature's landing reduces the tower to a pile of shattered rubble and sends the headsman sprawling, the axe flying from his grasp. Fragmented blocks of stone scatter across the courtyard, immediately sowing chaos.
Mull is frozen as he lies against the executioner's block, unable to move, prostrate in the face of impending death. He stares into the dragon's smoldering eyes, ablaze like the harsh summer sun, as he tries to comprehend what exactly he's looking at. Later, he distinctly remembers someone yelling "What in Oblivion is that?!"
Then the creature roars again and the fabric of the world is torn asunder as fire rains from the sky.
-x-
AN:
For those of you who care: I was asked about the MC's race, so I'll clarify that Mull is a human whose father was a Nord. I honestly haven't thought about the mother yet since she doesn't matter a whole lot, but let's just say she's a Redguard or Imperial. Take your pick.
