Summary:
This is the final chapter of Bjorn's origin story, beginning with a horrifying nightmare and ending with the events of Helgen—where Skyrim's story begins. The chapter ties Bjorn's prequel experiences directly to the unfolding events at Helgen. Over the years, I've played through the game multiple times as Bjorn, making different choices, all of which are validated here. While I generally prefer writing original narratives rather than retelling events from the game, I enjoyed rewriting the events at Helgen. I'm not sure if I'll continue with a sequel set during Skyrim's events, but if I do, it will follow the journeys of Bjorn and the other characters introduced in the prequel—such as Cordelia for the College of Winterhold, Hela for the Dark Brotherhood, and Amirah—and also introduce Ervador, my male wood elf canon character for the Thieves Guild, who wasn't introduced before. I also feature lyrics from the song "A Warrior's Life" by Giramor, from the Interesting NPCs mod for Skyrim, in this chapter.
The graveyard was still, the wind cutting through the trees in sharp gusts. The earth around the casket was freshly disturbed, with dark soil clinging to the edges of the wooden box. Bjorn's hand rested on Margaret's shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity as they stood side by side. His fingers were trembling, his chest tight, but there was a strange comfort in the weight of the moment.
But then, as he glanced at her, she turned. It wasn't her face he saw.
Zalam-dar was there with that sickening smile of his. His one eye was wide, mocking. Bjorn could feel him staring through the other eyeless socket, underneath his eye patch. His voice had an unsettling purr to it as he spoke.
"What's wrong, Bjorn?" Zalam-dar's voice was light, almost teasing, but it crawled under Bjorn's skin like a hundred insects. "Not so pretty anymore, huh?"
Bjorn took a step back, his breath coming in jagged gasps. "What the hell is this?"
Zalam-dar didn't answer. He just laughed—a guttural, cruel sound that echoed through the graveyard.
"You liked it, didn't you?" Zalam-dar taunted. "You liked it when you killed her son. You evened the score. She took your parents, you took her son."
Bjorn shook his head and raised his hands in defense. "No, it was an accident," he cried.
.Zalam-dar's grin widened. "Liar."
Siward's coffin splintered open with a sickening crack, and the small body—pale, lifeless—rose. Its eyes were wide, unblinking, and it was staring directly at him.
"Murderer," the boy rasped, the words hollow, unnatural.
"No..." Bjorn's chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. "I didn't mean to…"
The chant began low, a whisper in the wind. "Murderer."
It grew louder, more insistent. The boy's voice was joined by Zalam-dar's—both of them now a chorus of accusation, their faces distorting with rage, mouths widening into grotesque grins. "Murderer."
Bjorn stumbled back, his heart racing. The ground beneath him felt unstable like it was buckling under the weight of the words. His hands pressed against his ears, but the voices didn't stop. They grew louder, more frantic, more furious.
From behind him, a small voice cut through the nightmare's grip.
"What, Daddy?" His daughter Tava's voice—small, innocent—sounded strange here, as if it were part of the nightmare itself.
Bjorn turned, his heart slamming in his chest as he saw her. Her face was full of confusion, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. "You killed a kid?"
"No..." His voice was barely a whisper. "I didn't."
Her eyes filled with fear, and then, without a word, she turned and ran.
"No, come back!" Bjorn shouted, his hand reaching out as she disappeared into the dark.
But she was gone.
The chanting continued, louder now. "Murderer. Murderer. Murderer."
Bjorn's head spun, his knees giving out as the voices closed in on him. He tried to block them out, but they only got louder, more insistent. They filled the air, the ground, and his soul.
Then, from the shadows, came a familiar voice—cold, mocking.
"Come on, brother," Hela purred, stepping into the nightmare with a grin that was all too familiar. Her crimson vampire eyes glinted with that same darkness, that same hunger. "You're just like me. Embrace it. Murderer. Murderer."
Bjorn's blood ran cold. "No…" he whispered, his voice shaking. "Please…"
But Hela didn't stop. The chanting grew louder, a chorus of demons surrounding him.
"It's as easy as killing a chicken, just like on Gramps and Granny's farm, wasn't it?" Her laughter pierced the air, shrill, unforgiving.
Bjorn's chest tightened as the nightmare swirled around him, the faces turning monstrous, demonic. The chant, the accusations—nothing could drown it out. It never stopped.
"Murderer. Murderer. Murderer."
He curled into himself, suffocating beneath the weight of it all, the voices, the guilt, the horror. There was no escape. There never had been.
As Bjorn opened his eyes, the rough burn of the ropes biting into his wrists snapped him awake. The first thing he saw was the front of the carriage, with an Imperial soldier driving the horses—each heavy footstep pounding louder than anything else. Across from him sat a Nord with blonde hair, his gaze fixed on the driver. Slowly, Bjorn's surroundings came into focus—he was on a cart with three other Nords, all bound like him. The blonde man across from him looked like he could be a relative. To the right of the blonde, a scrawny red-headed Nord sat nervously, while to Bjorn's right, a long brown-haired Nord with a goatee sat in silence—his strong features resembling the descriptions Bjorn had heard of Ulfric Stormcloak.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Bjorn felt a strange serenity in the silence, listening to the creak of the wheels and the steady footsteps of the horses. It was certainly a relief from the nightmare he had awoken from. The silence stretched on for several moments until the blonde man across from him turned, looked at him, and spoke.
"Hey, you," he called out to Bjorn, "You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush—same as us." He then turned his head to the red-headed man next to him. "And that thief over there."
"Damn you, Stormcloaks." The thief sulked. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I'd of stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."
The thief then turned to Bjorn, his expression more friendly. "You there," he said with a sense of camaraderie, "We shouldn't be here. It's those Stormcloaks the Empire wants." He then gave the blonde man a dirty look.
""We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." The blonde man's voice was calm, as though he had come to terms with the situation, finding an unexpected peace in their shared fate.
Then, Bjorn heard the condescending sneer of the Imperial carriage driver. Had he not known better examples, he might have despised all Imperials because of men like him. "Shut up back there!" the driver spat.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief shook his head at him.
"Watch your tongue!" The blonde man yelled at the driver, losing his calm from before. "You are speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"
"Wow, that really is Ulfric Stormcloak himself!"Bjorn thought, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and disbelief. Though Ulfric wasn't necessarily a good man, he was a historic one, and Bjorn couldn't help but feel a surge of energy at the thought of being in his presence. No matter what happened, he was part of history now.
The thief started trembling. Bjorn raised an eyebrow, wondering what was troubling him.
"You're Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm?" The thief was panicking, his voice shaky. "If they captured you…Oh gods! Where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." The blonde man almost sounded proud to say that. Bjorn felt the same way; he was at peace with whatever came. He was glad that no matter what happened, he would die a true Nord and not a coward like the thief.
"No this isn't happening! This can't be happening!" The thief was getting hysterical.
If my hands weren't bound, I'd smack him across the face. Bjorn thought. I don't want to spend my last moments listening to this fool. I'd tell him to shut up—if I had the energy. But I don't.
There was a brief pause before the blonde man spoke again to the thief. Despite his gruff exterior, his tone was calm, almost nurturing. "Hey, what village are you from horse thief?"
"Why do you care?"
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."
Home. Bjorn wasn't sure what home to think of. Windhelm was the city he was born in, but it never felt like home. The cold, the bleak stone walls, and the harsh wind—everything about it felt unforgiving. It was a place where tradition held tight, but not in a way Bjorn appreciated. The city's narrow-mindedness and the ignorance that ran through its streets made it harder for him to feel connected. It was why he kept to himself as a young boy living there. He'd heard enough stories about other parts of Skyrim—the Rift, with its forests and open landscapes, and Hjaalmarch, with its rugged beauty and wild terrain—to know that they might suit him better. Those regions, from what he'd heard, felt freer, more open-minded. It was the kind of place he could imagine calling home, if he'd ever had the chance.
But what was home? Was it just a place, or was it the people you shared memories with? Was it more of a concept than a physical location? His family had lived in Hammerfell since he was six, and most of his fondest memories with his parents were from their time there in the Dragontail Mountains—despite that not being where he was born. It was there that he met Amirah, his first love, with whom he had his wonderful daughter. Was that home? Home could mean many things, and he wasn't sure which memory to focus on. Was it the last time he spoke to his daughter? Was it thinking of her future, and the woman she'd grow into? Or was it the fond memories of his parents, or even his sister, in the moments she acted halfway normal?
Then, he thought of his mother singing him A Warrior's Life when he was a child, and it felt fitting. He was almost moved to tears remembering the calming sound of his mother's lute playing and her soothing voice singing the lyrics:
All across this great white land, we fight to die with sword in hand,
Bandit, pirate, soldier, or king, for a warrior's life we shout and we sing!
As Bjorn got lost in the song in his head, the two Nords across from him continued talking.
"Rorikstead," the thief said to the blonde man. "I'm from Rorikstead."
The song echoed in Bjorn's mind, the galloping hooves and creaking wheels serving as its rhythm.
A warrior's life, through and through, fighting wars old and new
And when it's done, take me home, across the bridge of old whalebone!
"General Tullius, sir," the Imperial driver called as they neared the other units, "The headman's waiting."
They were words that would frighten a lesser man. But Bjorn kept singing the song in his head.
Give me an ale and give me a beer! A salty wench and plenty of cheer!
Give me a brawl or two or three, and bards to sing of you and me!
The horse thief started praying to the Divines, his voice growing more and more desperate. "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, help me!"
They passed by the Imperial general on his horse, speaking to a group of Thalmor agents.
"Look at him: General Tullius, the military governor!" The blonde man spat, venom and hatred filling his voice. "Damn elves! I bet they had something to do with this!"
Though Bjorn shared this man's anger, he kept his focus on the song in his head, choosing to live his last moments in peace.
Before the carriage arrived at its destination, Bjorn sang the remainder of the song in his head.
A warrior's life, through and through, fighting wars old and new
And when it's done, take me home, to the great mead hall of ancient stone!
The carriage was slowing down. They were now entering the small village of Helgen. The streets were lined with cobblestones, and the grass between them was a vibrant green. The stone walls of the village looked weathered, and the keep stood at the center, casting a long shadow over the town. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the homes, and the distant sound of the river added to the quiet atmosphere. Helgen felt like a peaceful village, almost untouched by the world beyond its gates.
"This is Helgen," the blonde man sounded nostalgic. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
The carriage slowly came to a stop. The horse thief continued to panic. Bjorn tried hard not to lash out at him. He sensed these were his last moments and didn't want to waste them on negativity.
"Why are we stopping?" The thief asked, though he knew he wouldn't like the answer.
"Where do you think?" The blonde man replied. "End of the line."
Finally, it stopped.
"Let's go," the blonde man said, his voice filled with pride. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
"No, wait! We're not rebels!" The thief cried out, knowing it was futile, yet still pleading.
"Face your death with some courage, thief." The blonde man said firmly as they stepped out.
"Finally, he said what I've been wanting to say,"Bjorn thought."He just said it in nicer words than I would have."
The thief rushed anxiously up to Ulfric Stormcloak. "You got to tell them we weren't with you! This is a mistake!"
Ulfric didn't even acknowledge him. On some level, Bjorn found the interaction both amusing and saddening. While he'd felt nothing but annoyance at the thief during their ride, he now felt sorry for him.
"Poor bloke was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,"he thought.
"Step towards the block when we call your name! One at a time!" the Imperial captain barked ahead, her voice dripping with authority and disdain—as if she relished ordering them to their deaths.
"The Empire loves their damn lists," the blonde man sulked behind him.
Then a softer voice cut through—a Nord imperial soldier, noticeably kinder than his superior.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." He called the name up to the block.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," the blonde man said reverently.
"Ralof of Riverwood," was the next name called up. Finally, Bjorn had a name to call the blonde man.
Then, it was the horse thief's turn. "Lokir of Rorikstead." They called his name.
"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" he screamed.
"Halt!" the Imperial captain growled, her voice as harsh as a whip.
Then the thief darted ahead, attempting to flee.
"Come on,"Bjorn rooted for him internally,"you can make it!"
"You're not gonna kill me!" For the first time, the thief's voice held a hint of courage and resilience.
What Bjorn saw next horrified him.
"Archers!" the Imperial captain called out.
Without hesitation, the archers killed him on command. A man who wasn't even involved in this conflict—a man who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time—was murdered in cold blood, as if it were nothing. Murdered by the Empire that claimed to stand for what's right and protect its citizens.
"This isn't the same Empire my parents fought for,"Bjorn seethed to himself.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the captain said coldly, reveling in the fear she instilled as she made an example out of him.
"I feel like slitting your throat,"Bjorn thought, clenching his fists."Why don't you unbind us and talk tough, you coward?"
Then, the Nord Imperial soldier finally looked at Bjorn—the only one in his unit who showed even a hint of humanity. His expression was remorseful and somber, yet he couldn't defy his superior. It was as if the uniform he wore made him forget he had free will at all.
"Probably has a family to take care of,"Bjorn thought."Can't judge him for obeying orders. It's easy to say I wouldn't do the same, that I'd rebel if I were in his shoes. But for all I know, I'd do the same as him."
"Wait, you there," the soldier called out to Bjorn, "Step forward. Who are you?"
"Bjorn the Swordsmith."
"Bjorn the Swordsmith?" The Nord soldier raised an eyebrow as if he found that name odd.
"Yes, Bjorn the Swordsmith," Bjorn sounded irritated. "Nord names either have titles or we use our clan names as our last names—like my father's surname came from clan Bear-Blood or my mother from clan Storm-Child. Don't you know? You're a Nord too, aren't you? Or have you worn that uniform so long that you've forgotten your roots?"
The Nord soldier shook his head and sighed, not wanting to engage. "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."
He then turned to his captain. "What should we do? He's not on the list."
"Forget the list," she said, once again showing her inhumanity. "He goes to the block."
"By your orders, captain," the Nord soldier replied. He knew this was wrong, yet he submitted.
"I'm sorry," he told Bjorn, knowing he didn't belong there. "At least you'll die here, in your homeland."
"So this is it," He thought. But it didn't frighten him. He had come close to death so many times now that it no longer scared him. He figured it wasn't an ending—just a doorway into something new.
Bjorn followed the captain to the executioner's block. He no longer dwelled on his contempt for her, just found solace in the moment.
Once he came to a stop beside the other prisoners, Bjorn took in the scene before him. General Tullius and Ulfric stood ahead, to his left—the Imperial commander radiating superiority as he condemned the rebel leader to death. Bjorn loathed the General, but he wasn't sure what to make of Ulfric either. Would he join the Stormcloaks if he had the chance? He didn't know.
Amirah had told him not to act on knee-jerk reactions or let emotions dictate his decisions. "Try to see the bigger picture," she had said. He tried to keep that in mind.
"Ulfric Stormcloak." The General addressed him with venom in his voice. "Some here at 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!" He continued, "Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!"
Peace? Bjorn scoffed internally. What kind of peace is it with the Thalmor being able to persecute Nords for worshipping their own Gods? And with an empire so weak it bends its knee to the Dominion rather than fighting them. Sure, maybe Ulfric isn't the answer, but to say things should go back to how they were without addressing what caused this rebellion is plain ignorant.
As he awaited his fate, Bjorn heard the chirping of birds in the distance. It was pleasant to listen to, a small comfort on such a sunny day. He thanked the gods he'd die on a day like this.
Then, Bjorn heard a sound that startled him—the unmistakable roar of the black dragon from his dreams. He had heard it countless times in his sleep, but now it echoed in the distance, real and alive. Or was it just another illusion?
His body went rigid as his breath caught in his throat. Was it truly the dragon? Or had his mind shattered under the weight of this place?
"What was that?" The Nord legionnaire's voice trembled slightly with fear.
Bjorn froze, his heart pounding. The other man heard it too. It wasn't a trick of his mind. It wasn't just a dream.
He thought back to the night his parents' ghosts had visited him over a year ago."There is a destiny before you. Those dreams of the black dragon—they are not just dreams. They are something much more."
Was this what they had meant? Was this the beginning of his destiny?
The General brushed off the sound with a casual wave. "It's nothing. Carry on."
"Yes, General Tullius." The captain then turned to a priestess standing near the executioner's block. "Give them their last rites." Bjorn was shocked to hear her voice finally show a hint of compassion for a change, though it still wasn't much.
The priestess lifted her hands to the sky and began. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines upon—"
"For the love of Talos, just shut up and let's get this over with." A gruff voice cut her off. He was a Nord with red hair, similar to Bjorn's father's side of the family. Was he a member of clan Bear-Blood? It didn't matter now. The man strode up to the executioner's block, impatience in every step.
"Come on! I haven't got all morning!" He egged the headsman on to carry on with his business.
The captain kicked him from behind, forcing him to his knees. He finally placed his head against the block.
His last words, full of resolve, rang out before the axe fell. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials! Can you say the same?"
"As fearless in death as he was in life," Bjorn heard Ralof say after the deed was done. Though Bjorn didn't know the man as well, he couldn't help but agree with the sentiment, based on what he'd witnessed in his final moments.
"Next, the Nord in the rag!" The captain finally looked at Bjorn and called him up.
Then the roar of the dragon was heard again. The captain and everyone else looked up.
"There it is again," the nice Nord legionnaire from before said. "Did you hear that?"
The captain didn't care. "I said, next prisoner!"
"To the block, prisoner," the Nord soldier said softly, with a hint of melancholy. "Nice and easy."
"Nice and easy?"Bjorn laughed inside."Yes, if I'm going to be executed, I might as well do it gracefully—don't want to be messy in my death."He thought sarcastically."What an absurd thing to say to someone as you send them to their death."
Bjorn put his head on the block. He had no clever last words, like the man before him. Just silence and acceptance.
Bjorn's gaze lifted to the sky, and for a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. A shape in the distance—a dark figure moving with impossible speed. He blinked, trying to focus. It was a dragon.
No... it couldn't be. Not now. Not here.
His stomach tightened. Was this a hallucination? The roar, the dark wings, the way it tore through the sky—too vivid to not be real.
"What in Oblivion is that?!" The General's voice rang out, sharp with disbelief.
"Dragon!" a female voice shouted from somewhere behind him.
The dragon landed atop the tower, its massive form looming over the scene, its eyes locking onto Bjorn's as if it recognized him.
The headsman, completely unaware of the creature's presence, was focused on his task, preparing for Bjorn's execution. But the dragon, without hesitation, let out a deafening shout. The force of it knocked the headman to the ground, unconscious before he could react.
Bjorn's pulse raced. He had cheated death once more. The dragon's gaze held him as if it was trying to tell him something.
Those weren't just dreams.
His parents had spoken the truth. The dragon was real.
He knew, without a doubt, that Zalam-dar was connected to this creature. But a new thought quickly followed: Was Zalam-dar's essence part of this dragon? No. Zalam-dar had been nothing more than a fleeting identity, a temporary vessel that had faded away. He was just a pawn in something far bigger, something Bjorn didn't yet fully comprehend.
Chaos erupted. Imperials, Stormcloaks, and the watching villagers scattered in panic, fleeing for their lives. In that moment, all differences vanished—fear had equalized them, and they all acted the same, desperate and vulnerable, despite the divides that had once seemed so clear.
"Come on!" Ralof called out to Bjorn. "The gods won't give us another chance!"
Bjorn had hoped to avoid falling into the ranks of the Stormcloaks so quickly. He'd just gotten out of prison a week ago, and he wasn't eager to go back. Yet what choice did he have but to follow? Who else could he trust? So, he followed Ralof into the tower ahead.
Inside the nearly destroyed stone walls of the tower, Ulfric stood waiting. His calm, collected demeanor hadn't changed since the dragon's arrival. Bjorn could see why so many Nords followed him, but whether he'd join them was still uncertain.
"Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?" Ralof had a mix of awe and fear in his voice.
"Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric's voice was filled with certainty. It was almost as if he expected this to happen.
Bjorn's mind raced. Perhaps Ulfric is connected to a greater cosmic plan too? He thought, wondering if there was more to this dragon's appearance than mere coincidence. Was this all part of something larger, something beyond their understanding?
Before Bjorn could ponder this any further, Ulfric shouted with urgency, "We need to move, now!"
"Up through the tower, let's go!" Ralof echoed.
Just moments ago, Bjorn had accepted his fate at the executioner's block, but now, adrenaline surged through him, awakening a fierce will to live. The gods had spared him for a reason. There was something more for him to do, a destiny he had yet to fulfill.
He rushed up the tower and leaped into the burned-out inn beside it. A mix of emotions swirled inside him—horror at the destruction and death that had consumed Helgen, and disbelief that the dragon from his dreams was now a terrifying reality.
When he made it outside, the dragon had landed on the ground, breathing fire at the Nord legionnaire from earlier and his allies.
"Still alive, prisoner?" The legionnaire sounded slightly relieved. "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way!"
Now Bjorn had another option besides joining the rebels. He could escape with this man. He seemed trustworthy enough. Maybe he could clear his name too if they survived this, and he could still get that fresh start he was hoping for.
The next moments were a blur as he rushed past charred corpses and burned-down homes and shops. Though what he saw troubled him, he tried to stay focused on his escape.
Finally, he made it to the fortified keep. There, both Ralof and the Nord legionnaire came face to face, pointing their blades at one another.
"Ralof, you damn traitor! Out of my way!"
"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof replied, and Bjorn finally knew the other man's name. "You're not stopping us this time!"
"Fine," Hadvar said spitefully. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde."
Then, they both rushed toward different entrances to the keep, each calling out to Bjorn to follow them.
At this moment, Bjorn had to make a choice. Both seemed trustworthy. Both seemed like men he'd share a mead or ale with under more relaxed circumstances.
Should he join the rebels? Fight for Skyrim's freedom? If he went with Ralof, he'd solidify his choice and continue to be a fugitive of the Empire. He hated what he saw of the Empire today—the injustice when they killed that thief in cold blood as he tried to escape, and the way they were ready to execute Bjorn without even knowing who he was. Maybe if he went with Ralof, he could get even with that imperial captain too.
Or should he go with Hadvar? Perhaps Amirah was right. Despite its flaws, a united Empire might be the best option against the Thalmor. Plus, Ulfric had weakened Skyrim by waging war on his people. Skyrim was also home to more than just Nords—did they need his Nords-first ideology governing their land, treating non-Nords like second-class citizens?
Neither choice was ideal. And whichever path he took, he'd have to kill members of the other side as they escaped. Either way, his sword would drip with the blood of his countrymen. But he had to make a choice.
Which way would he go? Which way… would he go?