Chapter Text
The clip-clop of horse's hooves on stone and early morning sunlight shining onto his face had Shiro’s eyes slowly fluttering open. He looked to the left and right, finding himself in a wagon with three other men. The one farthest from him, gagged with cloth for some reason, was wearing a scowl on his face that said being captured was more of an inconvenience than something to be scared of. The second, dressed in rags, seemed equal parts afraid and irritated. The scenery surrounding them, all rocky mountains and tall pines, suggested they were still somewhere in Skyrim. It would’ve been nice to look at, had he not been bound - rather tightly, he noted as he felt tingling in his wrists - and travelling in a wagon driven by an Imperial soldier.
"You’re finally awake," A friendly voice shook him from his thoughts. The man who had spoken to him was dressed in blue and gray-- a Stormcloak cuirass. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us-- and that thief over there."
Shiro found himself having difficulty recalling exactly what had happened at the border, and if the throbbing in the back of his head was any indication, he guessed he’d been struck there, likely by the soldiers who had taken him. Why they had taken him, though, was still unclear. I… I think I was coming home from Cyrodiil, but I can’t remember why I was there. Oh well.
His eyes reflexively slid back over to the man in the rags. “Damn you Stormcloaks; Skyrim was fine until you came along,” the thief said, voice dripping with malice. “The Empire was nice and lazy; if they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.”
The thief met his gaze. “You there. You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”
Before Shiro could reply, the Stormcloak spoke again. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” he said somberly.
“Shut up back there!” The soldier driving shouted suddenly, and a momentary hush fell over the wagon.
“What’s wrong with him, huh?” The thief eventually asked as he turned to the gagged man, voice significantly lower than before.
“Watch your tongue!” The Stormcloak soldier seemed not to care for the Imperial’s order, Shiro mused. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”
“Ulfric… the Jarl of Windhelm?” The thief asked, tone distinctly surprised as he turned to the gagged man. Shiro found himself equally surprised, though the gag around the man’s mouth now made sense, at least. All of Tamriel had heard by now that Ulfric had murdered the High King of Skyrim using the Voice, an ancient and mysterious power some said originated from the dragons of legend.
“You’re the leader of the rebellion. If they’ve captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?!” The thief asked, panic creeping into his tone.
“I don’t know where they’re going,” the Stormcloak replied, “but Sovngarde awaits.”
“No, this can’t be happening, this isn’t happening!” The thief raised his voice in alarm.
Shiro himself wasn’t quite sure how to react to the situation at hand, honestly. Of course he didn’t want to die, but he didn’t feel afraid, either. It was as though someone had assured him that everything would be fine. Who knows? Maybe someone had. His memories were foggy enough for that to be plausible.
“Hey,” the soldier said, voice low and somber as he turned to the thief, “what village are you from, horse thief?”
“Why do you care?” The thief asked bitterly, as though he still blamed the soldier for his capture. Well, to be fair, technically if the Stormcloaks hadn’t been in the area, both Shiro and the thief would likely be completely fine, but he’d call it more of an unhappy coincidence than anyone’s fault.
“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” The soldier said quietly.
“Rorikstead; I-I’m from Rorikstead.” The thief stated. Shiro noted that the rag-clad man seemed to be trembling slightly, and he felt earnest sympathy, regardless of this oddly calm air that had settled around him.
“General Tulius, Sir. The headsman is waiting.” A soldier called from somewhere ahead of them.
“Good. Let’s get this over with.” The short, irritated, yet somewhat tired voice that replied, Shiro guessed, was the General.
“Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh; Divines, please help me,” the thief prayed frantically as they passed through the gates of the town they were being taken to.
“Look at him,” the Stormcloak spat, “General Tulius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves… I bet they had something to do with this.” A moment of silence, and then the soldier spoke again.
"This is Helgen; I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” Shiro couldn’t keep a small smile from briefly twitching his lips at the thought as the soldier reminisced. “I wonder if Velod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.”
The quieter man took the opportunity to examine their surroundings as the Stormcloak spoke, noting the high, stone walls and towers surrounding the place. A few stood outside of their homes on porches to watch the executions-- something Shiro didn’t understand. Why would anyone want to watch someone die?
The man’s voice grew somber once more, a hint of bitterness to his tone. “Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.” Shiro winced when he heard a young boy from somewhere nearby asking his father who the prisoners were, and where they were going. The man only told his son to go inside, and though the boy protested, eventually he obeyed.
Good. He thought. No need to scar that poor boy.
The tiniest sliver of dread poked into his heart when he heard the soldier driving the wagon stop the horse. That weird, inexplicable feeling of reassurance was still there, but natural mortal instinct had him now a bit nervous, knowing what lay ahead.
“What’s going on? Why are we stopping?” The thief asked, shaking more visibly.
“Why do you think?” The Stormcloak responded. “End of the line.”
He then turned back to Shiro. “Let’s go,” there was a sort of… not confidence, nor excitement, but… something positive, in his voice. “Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us."
“No, wait! We’re not rebels!” The thief shouted on behalf of himself and Shiro.
“Face your death with some courage, thief.” The soldier scoffed.
“You’ve got to tell them-- we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!” Shiro’s face twisted in sympathy for the frightened thief as they stepped out of the wagon. He had a feeling that the Imperials wouldn’t care much for misunderstandings. Easier to just kill them all than take the time to work out who was who.
“Step towards the block when we call your name; one at a time!” A loud, angry female voice shouted.
The Stormcloak soldier he’d been riding with sighed heavily. “Empire loves their damn lists," he said as a soldier dressed in Imperial armor began calling names.
“Ulfric Stormcloak; Jarl of Windhelm.”
As the Jarl stepped forward, the soldier beside Shiro said, “it has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric."
“Ralof of Riverwood.” The soldier called, and the Stormcloak Shiro had become acquainted with stepped forward. Well, at least now I know his name.
“Lokir of Rorikstead.” Upon hearing his name called, the frightened thief began to protest. “No, I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” Lokir took off, ignoring the Captain’s command to stop. Shiro was unsurprised when the man was shot down by an archer.
"Anyone else feel like running?” The Captain asked, tone dripping with something akin to frustration, but with more anger.
“Wait,” the soldier said as he turned his attention to Shiro. “You there. Step forward.” Shiro did as he was told, decidedly not wanting to end up like poor Lokir. “Who… are you?”
For the first time in forty minutes, Shiro spoke. “Shiro, of… well, I can’t really remember where I’m from.” ‘Since one of your soldiers clocked me on the head’ was left out, for fear of aggravating them. If they were questioning his identity, perhaps he would be allowed to go free?
“You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman,” the soldier said sympathetically. “Captain,” he turned to the woman beside him, “what should we do? He’s not on the list.”
“Forget the list,” she replied, “he goes to the block.”
I always thought the Empire was more reasonable than this, Shiro thought. Maybe it’s just her.
“By your orders, Captain,” the soldier beside her said. “I’m sorry,” he turned to Shiro, apologizing with a somber voice. “At least you’ll die here, in your homeland.” Shiro sighed, and followed the woman as instructed. That strange calmness came back to him again, as though this were merely a bad dream he’d wake up from soon. I should be scared… so why aren’t I?
“Ulfric Stormcloak,” The General addressed the rebellion leader as Shiro joined the group of soldiers to be executed in the courtyard. “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.”
The Jarl audibly grunted behind his gag in response, glaring at the General.
“You started this war; plunged Skyrim into chaos. Now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.” Shiro wished Tulius wouldn’t sound so proud. Yes, Ulfric had started a civil war that had been ravaging his home during the time he’d been away, but twenty or so people along with himself were going to die today. Rebels or not, they were still people-- they still had families and friends who would mourn them and harbor even more hatred for the Empire. Regardless of whether or not Ulfric died today, the war would continue on, fueled by the fury of a thousand leaderless soldiers. Killing the Jarl would accomplish nothing, aside from avenging the High King. Nothing more than spitefulness. I would’ve expected more tact from the Empire.
Suddenly, a loud, indiscriminate roaring sound emanated from the sky, calling all attention to the clouds. The Imperials thought nothing of it though, and decided to continue.
“Give them their last rites.” The Captain commanded a priestess standing beside her.
Raising her arms up, the priestess began, “as we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-”
“For the love of Talos, shut up, and let’s get this over with.” A Stormcloak soldier boldly stepped forward, making his way to the block.
“As you wish.” The priestess stepped back.
“Come on, I haven’t got all morning.” The soldier snarked, and Shiro resisted the urge to smirk. This guy’s got some nerve.
The soldier was pushed to his knees, and onto the chopping block. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” Shiro couldn’t stop himself from shutting his eyes as the headsman swung his axe.
“As fearless in death, as he was in life.” Ralof sighed from beside him.
“Next, the Nord in the rags!” The Captain called, and Shiro stiffened when he realized that he was the ‘Nord in the rags’. Then, again came that roaring from the sky-- closer, this time, and everyone looked to the heavens.
“Did you hear that? There it is again.” The soldier from earlier stated.
“I said, next prisoner!” The Captain shouted-- did she always shout everything she said?
“To the block, prisoner, nice and easy.” The soldier commanded, though he seemed none too happy about it. Perhaps he was the only one here with a conscience. Shiro sighed heavily.
There was no other option than to proceed to the block; running would get him an arrow in the back, like the thief from earlier. He wasted no time stepping up to it. No sense in delaying the inevitable. He was promptly pushed to the ground, over the rebel’s lifeless body, and with a sharp kick to his back forced forward over the block. He’d be lying if he said the sight of the severed head in the bucket in front of him didn’t make him a little queasy. It’ll be over soon.
And that was true, wasn’t it? This ordeal would be over. His life would be over. His friend whom he’d been visiting in Cyrodiil-- would he miss him? Would he ever know about his execution? He had no family here in Skyrim, no friends (that he could remember)... No one to know he was gone. He lay there, asking himself questions as the headsman, clad in armor made from the hides of animals and a black cowl covering his face, raised his axe.
The roaring came again, deafening and alarmingly close. A massive, black-winged creature soared into view, landing on top of the tower behind the headsman. The great beast’s weight on the ground caused it to quake, the headsman (among others) losing his balance and falling over.
“Dragon!” Someone shouted in terror at the sight of the thing.
Dragon? Shiro himself felt no fear, only confusion. Aren’t dragons an old legend?
The dragon opened its mouth, and with a powerful shout caused the sky to bend to its will. Fire began raining down from above, and with another shout Shiro found himself paralyzed, head knocking against the block as he was jostled by the force. His vision darkened, the screams from all around him muffling until all was quiet, and the only thing he felt was the throbbing in his head.