Chapter Text
Cold. That was the best word to describe that day, a day where everything changed for one man. Cold, and… surprising, to be more specific. On that day, four men would be visiting the headsman. On that day, three would make it out alive, and, on that day, one man would go on the adventure of a lifetime, and become the greatest warrior in the history of Skyrim. One who would be the lyrics in songs sang by the bards for generations to come; one whose name would dance off the drunken tongues of soldiers in mead halls; and one who would be revered by Ulfric Stormcloak himself.
This is the tale of the Dragonborn, Mathias Kohler,
The hero of Skyrim…
Chapter One: Execution
The sound of the wagons creaked as they dragged across the stone road leading to Helgen. Horseshoes clinked and clunked on the ground as they carried soldiers on their backs, who were brought in to keep the new group of prisoners from escaping. Not like they could escape even if they wanted to. Their wrists were bound in cuffs, preventing them from unsheathing a weapon or defending themselves—which, again, they couldn’t, because their weapons had been confiscated for the planned execution.
There were four men scheduled to be killed today, and one who shouldn’t have been scheduled at all. His name was Mathias Kohler, a warrior who had no family, no friends, and no home. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had called a place his ‘home’. The word was unfamiliar to him now—alien, if you would. But it wasn’t all bad, he supposed. Being alone suited him. It meant no attachments, and that he would never have to hurt people he cared for ever again…
Shaking his head and just barely tousling his odd, spiked-up hair, Mathias blinked his deep blue eyes and frowned. Where was he, and what had happened? He couldn’t remember anything, and he especially couldn’t remember why he was on a carriage with three other strange men. “So, you’re awake now?” A voice suddenly rang through his ears; it was a gruff voice, and laced with the accent of a Nord. Mathias glanced up and followed the voice and was met with the face of a man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a beard. He favored the cuirass of a Stormcloak on his person, and it was with that image that Mathias realized something. However, he did not speak up; not yet, at least.
Almost sensing that Mathias wanted answers, the man with the Stormcloak cuirass immediately started to explain, “You were trying to cross the border,” He said, staring directly at Mathias, “but you walked into that imperial ambush, along with the thief…” The blonde-haired man then glanced to his left, and stared directly at another man next to him. Mathias stared at the new man as well, and frowned even more. It was obvious now—there was no denying it. He was on a carriage with two Stormcloak captives, and a thief, which could only mean one thing…
“Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine before you showed up,” The thief said, gritting his teeth, “if it weren’t for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now.” The scorn in the thief’s voice was blatant. What had happened…? And why couldn’t Mathias remember any of it? “Hey, you,” The thief called out, boring his dark eyes into Mathias’ blue ones, “You and me… we shouldn’t be here. The Stormcloaks is what the empire’s after.”
“We’re all brothers in binds now, thief. It’s best you accept that.” Mathias could feel his eyes widen at the man’s words. They were being taken away—obviously to be executed—and he was being so calm about it…!
“Where are we?” At last, Mathias spoke, his own Nordic accent heavily lacing his voice, “And what happened?”
“We’re on the road to Helgen, brother,” Said the man as he shifted in his seat. The benches on the carriage were fairly uncomfortable—obviously made for prisoners, “And like I said… you were crossing the border when you ran into an Imperial ambush, along with all of us.” He made a gesture with his hands, despite having them bound together. Mathias once again frowned, and glanced around at the occupants in the carriage. There were two men with Stormcloak uniforms on, one with cloth covering his mouth. And then, there was the thief, who apparently wasn’t supposed to be here, either. So… was this it? Was Mathias’ fate sealed, then?
“Shut up back there,” A voice suddenly called from on top of one of the horses, obviously from an Imperial soldier. Mathias narrowed his eyes at the rude man, and let out a sigh.
“And what’s wrong with him?” The thief suddenly asked, his eyes gazing at the Stormcloak soldier sitting beside Mathias. To be honest, he had been wondering the same thing; why was there a cloth covering his mouth? Why was he not being permitted to speak, unlike the rest of them?
“Watch your tongue!” The man suddenly chided, anger flashing in his eyes for a brief spell, “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak: the true High King.” Mathias felt his eyes widen in shock; Ulfric Stormcloak? Here? Now more than ever he was convinced that today would be his last day of life. If the leader of the rebellion was here—the Jarl of Windhelm—well, they were all going to be undoubtedly executed.
“Ulfric Stormcloak…? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The thief muttered to himself, disbelief and shock lacing his words. It seemed as if all the pieces to the puzzle fell into place at that moment, the same that had happened to Mathias, “But if you’re here, then… Gods, where are they taking us?!”
“I do not know where we are going, but Sovngarde awaits…” The blonde-haired man stated, his voice low and trailing off into the bitter, cold wind. Mathias swallowed thickly. He wasn’t ready to die. Not like this, at least. He was too young, and being beheaded without any reason was an absolutely pathetic way to go. He couldn’t accept this at all.
At the mention of Sovngarde, the thief’s face contorted into a look of pure horror, “This can’t be happening…” He uttered under his breath, once again sounding shocked, and now, even a little terrified, “This isn’t happening…!”
The blonde man turned his head towards the thief, and suddenly inquired in that same, neutral tone, “… What village are you from, horse thief?” Mathias glanced at him as well, and waited for an answer expectantly.
“Wh-why do you care?”
“A Nord’s last thoughts… should be of home…” He drawled out in reply, his voice melancholy as it drifted off into the cold, bitter air. It even depressed Mathias a little, which was shocking, considering he was normally a very chipper person.
“… Rorikstead… I… I’m from Rorikstead…”
There were a few moments of silence, in which the only sounds that were heard were the sounds of the horses galloping and the carriage shaking as it traversed down the bumpy, stone road. Mathias blinked his entrancing blue eyes, and glanced off towards the town they were about to enter: Helgen. It was then when he heard the sound of a soldier informing general Tulius that the headsman was waiting, and he once again internally cringed. His last few moments of life were upon him, and they would be spent getting ready to die. This certainly wasn’t the way he wanted to go. However, despite the fact that his death was upon him, Mathias strangely didn’t feel as nervous as he probably should have. It was… odd.
“Shor… Mara… Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me…!” The horse thief suddenly mumbled to himself, pleading for mercy from the gods. Mathias couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. Even if he was just a petty thief, part of him felt sympathy. After all, before he became a warrior and an adventurer, he wasn’t too far from the line of poverty.
“Look at him,” The blonde-haired man suddenly said, looking rather peeved for some reason, “General Tullius… the military governor.” Mathias glanced at the aforementioned man, and blinked his large blue eyes, “And the Thalmor are with him… Those damn elves; I bet they had something to do with this.” In all honesty, Mathias didn’t mind elves. He wasn’t a hateful man; although, he wasn’t a very big fan of magic. He had a bad experience with the stuff when he was a child. “Funny,” The Stormcloak soldier went on, his voice sounding faintly humorless, “When I was a boy, Imperial walls used to make me feel so safe…”
Mathias, once again, said nothing. Instead, his attention was focused on a small child, who was staring at him and the other men in the carriage, “Who are they, daddy?” The boy asked his father, “Where are they going?” After a few moments of hesitation, the father told his son to go inside, and the boy reluctantly did so. Mathias was thankful for that; he didn’t want a small child to have to watch an execution like this… It would just be awful.
They rode through the streets of Helgen for a few moments longer, before the carriage slowed to a stop. There were many soldiers in the area, probably to prevent any prisoners from escaping their untimely fates. Well, this was it… “Why are we stopping…?” The thief’s voice rang out suddenly, sounding just as nervous as it had the moment he found out they were all going to be executed.
“Why do you think? End of the line.” The man stated, and an unwanted shudder went up Mathias’ spine. This truly was it now, wasn’t it? Should he even attempt to pray to the gods? Would it even do any good now? Probably not. His head would be rolling soon enough… “Let’s go,” The blonde-haired man suddenly stated, staring directly at Mathias, “Wouldn’t want to keep the Gods waiting…” It was at that moment when all four men stood up. Immediately, the thief protested, shouting out that he wasn’t a rebel. Mathias couldn’t help but feel even more pity prick at his heart. Most Nords like him probably wouldn’t care about someone as petty as a thief, but he couldn’t help himself. He had a large heart… “Face your death with some courage, thief.” The man said as he jumped off the makeshift carriage with the rest of them.
“You… you’ve got to tell them! We weren’t with you! Th-this is a mistake!”
“Step towards the block when we call your names—one at a time.” An Imperial woman barked out, her voice lacking any compassion. The man beside her held a list in his hands, obviously containing each and every one of their names.
“Empire loves their damned lists…” The man commented. He looked really impatient, as if he couldn’t wait to die. It was odd, but Mathias didn’t say anything. Funny, really; this was the first time in his life where he remained so silent for so long. If anyone here actually knew Mathias, they would say that was impossible.
“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” One of the soldiers suddenly called out, and the man with the cloth covering his mouth stepped forward and towards the headsman. Mathias found himself suddenly tapping his fingers together as they were bound. Now he was growing impatient as well. He just… he had a feeling that everything was going to be OK, but at the same time, he wasn’t so sure…
“Ralof of Riverwood.” The next name was stated, and the man standing beside Mathias—the one who had been wearing the Stormcloak cuirass—was next to walk up to the headsman. He walked in silence, and Mathias shuffled around nervously where he stood. Now it was only the thief and him…
“Lokir of Rorikstead.” Mathias blinked his deep blue eyes, and glanced at the thief, who was quick to run towards the Imperial soldier in a futile attempt at defending himself.
“No! You don’t understand! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” He shouted desperately, but the soldiers seemed to care less about him than they would a beggar in Riften. It wasn’t their lives, after all. So why would they care? How selfish. Mathias didn’t think he could ever be like that, unless he was fighting bandits or something… Anyway, before he even realized it, Lokir—the thief—was running off and away from the headsman, and from his inevitable demise. The female Imperial soldier called out: “Halt!” but he didn’t listen, and continued running. “You’re not going to kill me!” The thief shouted, running as fast as he could away from his execution. This was it… they had archers, so there was no way he was going to get far at all. It was a sad attempt, really.
“Archers!” The woman yelled, and soon, at least three arrows were shot at Lokir, killing him instantly. “Anyone else feel like running?” Mathias swallowed thickly, and barely bit down on his bottom lip. What a horrid way to go…
It was then when one of the Imperial soldiers noticed his presence, and called out to him, “Wait, you there… Step forward.” He said, and Mathias was quick to listen. He took several steps towards the two soldiers, and stared at them both with an expression that was far too serious to match his normal personality. “Who are you?” The soldier asked. Was he not on the list or something? How odd.
“Mathias Kohler.” He stated simply, and the soldiers looked over the list.
“A Nord, eh?” The Imperial soldier frowned at Mathias, and went on to say, “You picked a bad time to come to Skyrim, kinsman.” That was right. The war was happening still, wasn’t it? It must have been, if Stormcloak soldiers were still being captured and executed. Mathias only knew bits and pieces of the news in Skyrim, but he was definitely aware of the troubles it was having with the Civil War lately. “Captain, what should we do? He’s not on the list.”
“Forget the list. He goes to the block.” Well then. That was that. Mathias frowned deeply and felt his heart sink. There had been an ounce of hope he was feeling when the soldiers questioned the list; unfortunately, he was going to be beheaded anyway. It was just like he had thought earlier; why would they care about him? It wasn’t their lives that were being thrown away.
“… By your orders, captain.” The man holding the list stated solemnly, sounding at least a little regretful that they would be executing a seemingly innocent man regardless. “I’m sorry. But at least you will die here, in your homeland. Follow the Captain, prisoner.” Mathias would have preferred to not die at all, but that didn’t seem likely anymore. What a shame… Anyway, he nodded his head, and followed after the female Imperial soldier.
After taking a few steps towards the headsman, they reached a circle of people. In the middle was a stone block, and a man with a bloodied, rusty battle-axe—the headsman. This was the spot where all of their heads would be chopped off. The sight made Mathias grimace. Sure, he had fought plenty of monsters, animals, and bandits over the years, but the thought of losing his head like this was… stomach churning.
“Ulfric Stormcloak…” The general himself—Tullius—called out, an almost smug look on his face, “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 only response he received, were the muffled grunts that emanated from the Jarl’s lips, concealed by the fabric covering his mouth. General Tullius went on. “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”
The very moment General Tullius finished speaking, something very odd happened. There was a roar in the distance, which sounded as if it came from a ferocious animal, or a large beast. It sent an odd shudder down Mathias’ back; he had a bad feeling about this…
“What was that?” A villager asked as everyone surrounding the area turned their heads in confusion.
“It’s nothing. Carry on.” Tullius said, waving off the sound as if it was just a butterfly in the wind.
“Yes, General Tullius.” The captain responded, before glancing at a priestess of Arkay, “Give them their last rites.”
The priestess nodded her head, and lifted her arms up into the air. She stared into the sky and spoke the words of the gods right before their final moments of life ended: “As we commend your souls to Aetherius,” She said, and Mathias forced himself to stifle a yawn, “blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved—“
“For the love of Talos, let’s get this over with!” A Stormcloak soldier suddenly called out, and headed for the stone slab where his head would be cut off. Mathias frowned at his impatience, but, then again, they were all going to die anyway, so why bother stalling with their rites?
“Hmph… As you wish.” The priestess grumbled, and the Stormcloak soldier stood in front of the headsman, looking rather impatient.
“Come on! I haven’t got all day.” He shouted, and soon, an Imperial soldier was grabbing him, and forcing him down. His head turned so that his cheek could be pressed against the rough, cold, stone slab, and he spoke his final words with zealous pride, “My ancestors are smiling down upon me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” And with those final words uttered, the headsman lifted his battle-axe into the air, before suddenly forcing it down, chopping the soldier’s head off in one fell, clean swoop. His head rolled off the slab and into the basket in front of it, and Mathias inwardly winced from the sight. Fear suddenly shot through his body; he was going to die. He was going to die in a matter of mere seconds! He wasn’t ready to die though… But, he had to face his demise with honor and dignity; the way a true Nord would.
As Mathias was lost in his thoughts, the deceased Stormcloak soldier was kicked aside and out of the way. From the crowd of people that had gathered around the execution scene, a myriad of different opinions were shouted. Some villagers favored the empire, while the soldiers waiting to die cursed it. “As fearless in death, as he was in life…” Ralof suddenly muttered, a strange glint in his eyes. He looked both proud and saddened, and with good reason, too. That soldier seemed like quite the Nord.
“Next, the Nord in the rags!” The woman shouted out, causing Mathias to dumbly look around; the Nord in the rags? Who was she talking about? Before he could think about it too much, however, the sound from earlier returned. It sounded like the roar of a powerful monster, but he had never heard it before. This was odd, because Mathias had fought a lot of monsters in his time—from the swamps of Black Marsh to the dusty sands of Hammerfell. But in all his years, he had never heard a sound like that.
“There it is again. Did you hear it?”
“I said next prisoner!”
“To the block, prisoner… Nice and easy.” The soldier said to Mathias, and he suddenly had to swallow a thick lump in his throat. Was it really his turn now? Why couldn’t there be another prisoner in rags! Frowning, Mathias hesitantly obliged, and walked towards the block. For some reason, he still felt rather… calm? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to die—he knew this—but for some reason, Mathias wasn’t worried about what was going to happen. Maybe he just wasn’t afraid of death anymore…
Regardless, Mathias stood in front of the block where he would be beheaded, and crouched down. He got into a comfortable position as his pale cheek rested against the cold, blood-stained slab of stone. So, this was it, huh? It was just so hard to come to terms with… Deep-sea blue eyes stared up at the headsman about to take his life; however, those once-narrowed pools of blue soon widened with surprise as something horrifying was seen in the distance, up in the great blue sky. Something scarier than death; something that hadn’t been seen in history since ancient times…
“What in Oblivion is that?!” The words were literally taken out of Mathias’ mouth, and as the headsman lifted his axe into the air, ready to strike down the blonde, spikey-haired Nord where he lay, a much bigger problem suddenly came into the picture.
A dragon.