I come to awareness slowly. The first thing I notice is the biting cold wind brushing against me, frigid enough that I can barely feel my fingers, which are numb enough that I suspect they are already suffering from frostbite.

The cold is all-encompassing, and I can feel it bite deep into my bones. The first thing I notice, apart from the cold, is that my hair's down, sticking to my face and slick with something. Next, my slowly rising awareness notes that pressed against my skin, there is a rough fabric filled with holes, which hardly provides me with any coverage against the northern wind.

There is sudden pain in my right foot. Someone nudged me with their metal boot. My lack of footwear and these freezing extremities of mine made such an action incredibly painful.

"Hey! Hey, you!"

"You're finally awake." I hear from somewhere in front of me. I react to the gruff masculine voice of the Nord, who had just kicked me and open my eyes. I peer through the disgusting grime and blood-covered hair clinging to my face. If I ignore all the dirt, my hair seems to be silver-white.

Looking past the hair, I notice I'm currently sitting on a moving cart, which a single horse is pulling. We are traversing a well-worn road through a forest of pines. On the coach, there are three people with me. Driving the cart is a single man with a sword strapped to his side.

In front of me sits an older male, a Nord by the looks of it. His face set into a grim expression, contrasting his somewhat jovial tone. He has shoulder-length blond hair with a single braid framing the left side of his face. Like Nords usually are, he is a well-built man and is currently wearing a battle uniform made up of heavy metal armor with light brown fur underneath, and under that is a uniform made of thick blue cloth. I notice that his arms are tied together.

Next to him sits an Imperial man, staring into the distance. His eyes are dull and highlighted by deep eyebags so dark that I wouldn't doubt it if he said that he hadn't slept a wink in a week. His expression tells me that he is scared of something. He is wearing what seems to be a shirt sown from a burlap sack. His hands, too, are tied with a length of rope.

Sitting next to me, the last person on the cart radiates a sense of importance. Due to the dark blue fur lining his neck and the intricate carvings of bears on his metal cuirass, he gives an impression of a true Nord warrior. I notice him side-eyeing me, so I avert my gaze. However, I take note of the leather strap tied around his mouth and the rope binding his hands together before doing so.

I attempt to raise my right hand to wipe away the hair from my face but am stopped by the same rope bindings my companions seem to have. I stop for a moment and just stare at the rope. It's tied into a very tight knot, and I very much doubt that I would be able to untie it without someone else's help. I continue with the halted motion and tuck the filthy hair behind my ear.

I focus my gaze on the man who spoke to me.

"You were caught crossing the border by these Imperials." He gestures toward the man driving the carriage. "Just like the thief there." He nods to his left.

"If it weren't for you all, I'd have been fine, probably halfway to Hammerfell by now. Tch, Skyrim was just fine before you damn Stormcloaks ruined it all." And with that scathing remark, 'The Thief' returned to ignoring the man, who apparently was part of these 'Stormcloaks.'

I try to pipe up, but my voice falters, and I barely make a sound with my dried-out throat. The result is a scratchy "Ah."

I clear my throat and try once more.

"Stormcloaks?"

"Mhm. Yes, we are. We participated in a skirmish led by the true High King Ulfric." Here, he nods toward the silenced man. "We were forced to call a retreat and ended up caught in an ambush by flanking forces near a pass at the foot of the Jerall Mountains." He answers my questioning tone, misunderstanding the source of my confusion.

Here the thief's gaze snaps to the man on my right. Terror seems to overwhelm him as he starts muttering to himself.

"No! I mean, ah, what are Stormcloaks" I stutter out.

The Stormcloak seems genuinely confused at my question and takes a moment to gather himself.

"Well, I suppose sinc-"

"If that's Ulfric Stormcloak himself, then... then... oh gods, where are they taking us" the terrified thief yells out, interjecting before the Stormcloak can answer.

I'm completely lost on the reason for his outburst and try to communicate my confusion with my eyes.

The blonde Stormcloak's expression darkens, and he takes a deep breath.

"To the headsman, most likely'" He grimly states.

"But we aren't with you. You've got to tell them. We aren't with you! They can't kill me; it was just a horse." The now revealed horse thief cries out.

Fed up with the noise, the man in the regal red and brown leather armor, driving the carriage, barks at us to quieten down.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, horse thief." Mutters the blonde.

My mind drives to a halt. Headsman? The man who beheads criminals? How? Why? I don't even know where I am. Why am I supposed to die? What have I done that's deserving of death? I grasp my hair tightly. The pain in my scalp grounded me somewhat.

I don't even know who I am.

I vaguely knew I was shaking, whether from cold or not, that I do not know. The world around me blurred out of focus. The pines along the road lost their shape, and the passing snow-covered shrubbery turned into nothing but a white streak. The carriage kept rolling and bumping every so often. The two ungagged passengers talked, but I didn't have the heart to participate.

I don't know for how long I was unaware. Minutes or hours. All I know is that the sun had already hit its peak when the view of a city rose from behind the road. Helgen, I believe, the blonde said. No, Ralof is his name. I heard them introduce themselves. Ralof Of Riverwood is the blonde Nord's name, and the Imperial horse thief is Lokir Of Rorikstead. And apparently, the warrior next to me is the leader of the Stormcloaks, Ulfric Stormcloak, 'The True High King' according to Ralof, and 'the rebel leader' as told by Lokir.

Helgen…

This would be the place where I die. I don't know how to feel about that fact. I don't want to die, but is there any reason to live, either? I don't remember anything after all.

Ralof and Lokir are talking about their homes. I'd like to talk too, but how could I? I don't even remember my name, let alone my home or family. I must've had a mother and a father, but did I have siblings? No matter how hard I try, there is nothingness where there should be memories.

I run my fingers through my tangled hair. If I ignore the dirt, It feels healthy and thick. Now that I think about it, I wonder if the blood in my hair is my own. Maybe the memory loss is a result of a head injury. I let out a pleased hum at the thought. Then all this could be temporary. However, the idea of having such head trauma wipes away the joyful feeling.

The first cart in the chain has reached the gates of Helgen. The entrance is enormous, with two huge wooden doors, reinforced with metal, placed into a stone arch. Due to us coming downhill towards Helgen, I can see almost the entirety of the city. The stone walls surrounded practically the whole of the place, only missing the spots next to a cliff face. I could see multiple stone watchtowers scattered about, almost triple in height compared to the surrounding wooden housings.

A stone keep stood at the far side of the entrance we would be entering. Banners hung high on the keep walls, deep red embroidered with the dragon sigil of the Empire. How I knew the origin of the sigils, I know not.

"How old are you, kid?"

I snapped out of my mind.

"Hmm?"

"I asked how old you were?" It was Ralof who had asked.

"Ah, I don't know. An adult, I believe?" That sounded about right. Felt right. Yes, I am a man grown, I'm sure of it.

From his face, I could read the disbelief. I couldn't help but scoff.

The road forked before the gate. The road from elsewhere had a procession of people, men, and mer alike. At the front rode a man with glistening steel armor with inlaid golden embellishments. The armor looked like it had never seen battle. He was a Breton, old with balding gray hair. A veteran, by the looks of it, a leader, most likely. He was talking to a female mer in a green and gray intricate uniform. Behind her was what I could only call a battalion of hundred elves in green armor, which gave me an impression of grass due to the metal's round, spiky, and green appearance.

"General Tullius, of The Imperial Legion, here in Skyrim. It looks like the Thalmor are with him." Ralof spits out venomously.

I could only guess that the Imperial Legion and the Thalmor are the ones Stormcloaks are rebelling against. Not that it's a hard one to deduce. The spite is practically dripping from my two Stormcloak 'friends'.

I don't know why I bother, but I can't help but study the buildings around me. There were just so many of them. I get the impression that this is my first time in such a city. The houses are packed together near each other, with nothing but a road's width separating most of them. The buildings were very uniform in appearance but differed in their layouts. Houses had sturdy wooden logs as load-bearing beams and parallel wooden planks making up the walls. There were tiny windows, about a head above a man's height. The buildings are built on top of a stone foundation, probably to level the buildings, as the city is situated on a slope. And roofing is made of simple thatching.

Our procession has gathered onlookers. Men and women of all ages stood on their porches and the sides of the roads staring at us. A group of children ran a distance behind us, laughing and pointing. Aah, this is the reality, isn't it? I look to the sky, hoping for something, a chance. I would do anything for a chance to live.

I note that Ralof is talking about juniper mead or something. I do wonder what mead tastes like.

The cart stopped.

And my heart jumped to my throat.

We were herded toward two pairs of two people. The pair Ralof and I were directed towards was a duo consisting of a stocky Imperial woman and a lanky Nord man. The woman was in what I assume to be the heavy armor variant of the Imperial Army uniform. The other's uniform was the light armored one, similar to the one worn by the carriage driver. The woman in heavy armor just stands there menacingly as the man in light armor reads names off of a list. Soon I am the only one left. The man takes a moment to double-check his list.

"Captain, what do we do? He's not on the list."

Hope blooms.

"Forget the list. He goes to the block."

Ah, of course.

The man takes a moment and writes something on the list. I will now refer to him as the 'List man.'

"Your name, Breton?" He pauses for a moment and hesitates.

"We will make sure your family in High Rock receives the remains." He adds with a grimace.

I don't want to die. But If I am to die, I'd rather not die nameless. So I have to think of a name for myself.

I apparently stay silent for too long as the Imperial in front of me starts to look agitated. I hurry to throw out the first one to come to mind.

"Ah- A… Alexius, sir. No family." It seems I am Alexius now. I think I am pleased. Alexius. Alex. Lex. Hmm… So many nicknames. I like it. If I am to die on the same day I was 'born', I'm glad something is left behind, even if it is nothing more than a name on a piece of paper.

The man takes pity on me and says nothing about the unsure way I told my new name.

I hear a snap of a bow, followed by a scream. I look, and Lokir is writhing on the ground ten paces up the road. There is an arrow sticking out of his back. He tried to make a run for it. An Imperial soldier approaches him from behind. Without a second's hesitation, he plunges a sword through Lokir's back. Lokir twitches once, twice, and falls still. He is dead.

I look away.

I'm ordered to join the Stormcloaks. I slowly walk towards the rebels. About two dozen men and women, all Nords, are standing there, hands bound and prepared for death. I can't even count the number of Imperial soldiers that surround us. There are archers, swordsmen, and spearmen. All of us gathered in this small courtyard under the shadow of a watchtower.

The man I saw earlier on a horse, whom I now recognize as General Tullius, walks flanked by two Imperial soldiers, each holding a spear with points to the sky. He stops in front of us. In front of Ulfric, more specifically. There is silence.

The sound of two spear shafts hitting the stone ground makes me jump. The sound marks the beginning of the General's speech.

"Ulfric Stormcloak… Some here in Helgen call you a hero." His deep voice, layered with anger, covers the entire courtyard. No one dares to say anything. Not me, not the men in blue, not the civilians nor the imperial soldiers.

"But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric says something, muffled by the leather gag, perhaps trying to use this Voice to murder the man in front of him; I know not. I imagine that to be the reason they muffled him. Although that bit about regicide is a bit worrying, there is probably more to it, and I am not particularly inclined to trust the people about to execute me.

"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire will put you down and restore the peace." Tullius continued without a pause. All the while looking at Ulfric like he was a piece of skeever dung on the sole of his boot.

A roar from the mountains stopped everyone. The sound felt as if it carried a piece of the sky itself. It felt like some hidden primal part of me reacted to that sound. It was almost as if the rumble of the roar resonated inside me and lit a fire in my chest. Blood started pumping. I could hear my heartbeat.

Is this fear or something else?

Everyone else was inclined to ignore and forget, but I could not. For how could I? Even the sight of the headsman, with his axe, was of lesser importance.

A woman steps forwards now that the General is done with his speech. This one stands out with her earth-toned robes. She announces her intention to start the last rites. But before she can even properly finish her first sentence. A rebel from my left walks up.

"For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with."

This Stormcloak is considerably younger when compared to Ralof. Dark brown hair and built like a warrior. He walks with his chest held up high and shoulders pulled back. Everything about him says that he isn't scared. But I can tell. He is.

Not a moment later, his head lays separated from his shoulders.

I don't know what to think with the fire in my chest, my impending death, and confusion all swirling into a mess inside my head.

I don't know.

I really just don't know.

"Next, the Breton in the rags."

It's my turn. I try to ready myself.

Another roar. My eyes snap to the sky almost on their own. That was closer. It is closer. It's coming. I don't know what It is, but it's coming. I feel it under my freezing skin, deep in my bones, a surety of sorts.

"I said, next prisoner!"

I lift my legs filled with lead, one after the other.

I am kneeling now. Oh, that's the head of the brunette there. Glassy eyes stared back at me.

I want to cry.

Then a roar above me.

And I lose consciousness.