Chapter Text
The clattering of wooden wheels on stone cobble mixed with the jarring rock of the wagon on its steep tilt down finally woke the young Breton. The uncomfortable sleep was made nearly impossible with the constant motion of the cart but as she had found out, rather painfully, concussions appeared to be spectacularly sedative.
Groaning with the intense agony only a combination of head trauma and light sensitivity could cause she opened her eyes to take in her surroundings.
The first thing she saw staring at her lap were her hands securely tied and whilst this in itself is a rather peculiar thing, it certainly wasn't the first time she had felt hemp rope bound to her wrists. However the second sight she took in, which did a better job of unsettling her, was the back of an Imperial soldiers head and serious as this seemed the searing fog rattling in her mind prevented it from meaning too much. Her eyes then moved on to take in the tall pines and evergreens scattered thickly on either side of the road in between the rocky outcroppings and slopes of the hills. The climate was cold and everything was covered in a thick dusting of snow leaving the girl confused about where she could now be.
There were three others in the cart with her, all Nord men and all similarly bound. Two of them seemed to be arguing whilst the other kept silent, no doubt due to the cloth gag placed around his mouth.
She realised, looking around the cart as quickly as her sore head would allow: they weren’t there.
Where were the others? They had shared correspondence, saying to meet Darkwater Crossing and to deliberate from there. Had they not reached there in time as she had? How would they know where she was?
The realisation came slowly but surely; to have run so far and so long only to reach to fall so far with no-one to help her.
She heard a gruff, strongly accented voice which seemed intent on gaining her attention. She turned to look at the man talking to her but the consuming mist of pain and panic that had begun to establish itself made it even harder to understand what the Nord was trying to say.
"You were trying to cross the border right?" the blonde Nord asked gently, as if fully aware of how her head throbbed. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there."
"Damn you Stormcloaks," the dirty, dark haired thief groused "if they hadn't been looking for you I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there," now looking at the young Breton "you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the Nord guard spat.
"Shut up back there!" shouted the Imperial driver.
The silence that fell remained for some time, which to the girl was only a partial blessing. With the quiet her mind turned to her own thoughts of things she had heard. This situation made no sense what so ever. Where was she? And who were these "Stormcloaks" the thief seemed so intent on blaming for his misfortune? As these questions came to her she was not so sure she could trust any of these men to answer them, so she let the dead air remain.
However the thief, it seemed, had his own line of questions to pose and lapsed back into his annoying chatter.
"What's wrong with him?" tilting his head towards the gagged man sat next to her.
"Watch your tongue," snapped the gruff voiced Stormcloak. "You are speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"
At any other time the Breton would be impressed by the presence this Ulfric exuded. What she could see of his face was fairly handsome, if aging in years and whilst fair like most Nords his hair looked matted with sweat, further caked with dirt leaving it limp and plastered to his scalp. But what struck her was how even bound and silenced he appeared imposing, fearless and to an extent bored. This recklessness didn't seem to fit the title "True High King" but certainly fit more truly to a self-serving opportunist than most.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion, but if they've captured you..." the thief's face suddenly fell with realization, the panic and fear clear in his eyes. "Oh Gods! Where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," The Stormcloak said solemnly.
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!"
The thief's agitation grew more frenzied at the Stormcloaks statement. The Breton knew enough of Nord beliefs to know that Sovngarde only called to those doomed to die.
"What village are you from horse thief?"
"Why do you care?" the thief asked harshly.
"A Nords last thoughts should be of home," the Stormcloak said simply.
"Rorikstead," the thief answered after calming slightly "I'm from Rorikstead."
"General Tullius, sir!" a sudden call came from the Imperial driver "the headsmen is waiting!"
The Breton turned to the front of the cart in time to see the man in the flesh. The general sat gracefully on his horse, hands clasping the reigns tightly. He was clad in the traditional, gilt leather armour befitting a man of his station; it was well used and worn with honour. The man himself was obviously Imperial and well-built for a man nearing his twilight years, his grey hair cropped close to the head in a military cut.
"Good, let's get this over with," the old general said grimly.
A fresh wave of panic swept over the thief again, inspiring an obviously less than devout man to call upon the Gods as they rode through the town gate now rearing overhead.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!" The thief begged insistently for intervention which would not come. Gods do not interfere with mortal concerns, best lays those requests at the feet of the Daedra.
Those deals may not always be favourable, but at least they did something.
The town was rather large but it was not familiar to the Breton. Rows of houses all made of wood and thatch lined up one against the other behind the stone towers and walls that encircled the centre of the town. All the residents, it seemed, had come out of their homes to see the procession of rebels marched before the block. The blonde Stormcloak paid them no heed and turned back to sneer at the general.
"Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor and it looks like the Thalmor are with him," he all but spat at the mention of the Altmer "Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this."
Whilst the general looked like a man to be respected if not feared, the mere mention of the word Thalmor sent a chill up the Bretons spine. The Thalmor riding with the general didn't seem to follow him; instead they turned and rode towards the gate, exiting the town as haughtily as only Altmer can. Whilst relief may be overstating it given the situation at hand, she was certainly grateful she wouldn’t have to worry about appearing before a Justiciar. She refocused on the Nord, watching his face soften with recognition as he finally regarded the town.
"This is Helgen," he sighed "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." He huffed a small laugh "It's funny, when I was a boy Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
The townsfolk had gathered to watch the impeding executions and had begun to chatter loudly amongst themselves. The Breton overheard a child loudly asking his father who were these new arrivals and where were they going? The child was sent inside, much to his disappointment at not getting to watch the soldiers, and told to wait there. The cart began to slow and even the young Breton was beginning to feel the fear manifest itself deep in the pit of her stomach.
As the Imperial captain began bellowing orders to have the prisoners removed from the carts, the horse thief beat the girl in asking the dreaded question.
"Why are we stopping?"
"Why do you think?" the Stormcloak replied "end of the line."
The thief's eyes grew wide with terror but the other Nords seemed resigned to their fate, if not willing to be sent to it.
"Let's go," the Stormcloak said wearily "shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us."
"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" the thief wailed as he jumped off the wagon.
"Face your death with some courage thief!"
The dark haired Nord spun around to his kinsman. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you, this is a mistake!"
Whilst the Breton was in agreement with the desperate thief, she saw what he didn't in that this close the block an extra, partially innocent head mattered little to these folk. A fact made much clearer when the captain resumed barking orders for prisoners to step forward when they had been called by name.
"Empire loves their damn lists," the Stormcloak murmured.
She turned to second group unloaded from the other cart to see if she could find any familiar faces but they were Nords, one and all. No pointed ears. No golden eyes, not even a glimpse dark green skin caught her attention. None of them were there.
She had been abandoned to her death.
Intentionally or not, it matter little. Who was here to help?
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric!" called the Stormcloak as the Jarl marched to the block.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
The blonde Nord walked away to join his condemned brothers in arms. It was strange to only just be putting names to these faces, but the Breton she would carry them with her for as long as she could.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" the thief howled. His panic overtook him and in a desperate bid for freedom, he bolted up the cobbled road to the gate of the town.
"Halt!" the captain screeched.
"You're not going to kill me!" Lokir shouted over his shoulder.
The captain impatiently called for the archers to fire. Only one did, but the arrow struck Lokir deep in the side of his chest, burying itself up to the fletching. He fell to the ground heavily, choking on his own blood as he was left to die where he lay.
"Anyone else feel like running?" the captain demanded.
No reply came. However, all eyes now turned to the Breton girl. Hiding at the back of the queue seemed less of an amazing strategy at this point.
"Wait! You there, step forward," the list administrator beckoned. She did as she was told, forcing her terror and reluctance down along with the building nausea and deep seated migraine.
"Who are you?" the administrator asked.
"Alunaaz," the Breton stated simply, using her elocution as effectively as possible.
Rule number one: regardless of circumstance, always be polite and professional. That way, regardless of outcome no one will be needlessly or personally offended.
Business as always, they would say.
She wondered what she must look like to these people, stood there in tattered, dirt stained clothes. Barely a slip of a thing, since even she could feel her bones pressing too closely to her skin, her pale blue eyes dulled with pain and pitch coloured hair only just beginning to re-grow from where it's had been shaved clean off. The shadows under her eyes were dark but even more so in comparison to her pale skin, which had begun to take on sickly, sallow tone. She was also rather aware of the confused look on the administrators face, trying to figure out if the androgynous waif was actually a young boy rather than a girl. She often used this bewilderment to her advantage when such awkward situations arose, but she saw little point in flustering him further when being sent to her death.
"You from Daggerfell Breton? Fleeing some court intrigue?"
"Not intrigue as such," Alunaaz said truthfully. She knew she was running, but explaining why and what for seemed a pointless. If she was indeed about to die, she didn’t owe her executioners her story.
"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list," the administrator asked.
"Forget the list, she goes to the block same as everyone else," the captain said with barely restrained impatience.
"By your orders, captain. I'm sorry, we'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock. Now follow the captain, prisoner."
Whilst loathe to be told what to do, sensing she had little choice Alunaaz did as instructed, resisting the urge to kick the leather plated arse of the captain marching in front of her. No, of course she wouldn't, at least someone should remain calm and proffesional even when the people handing out orders would not.
As she was placed into the mob of rebels she stood close to Ralof, being the only one she recognised and turned to regard General Tullius as he addressed Ulfric in front of the gathered crowd.
"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 an usurp his throne."
The only reply that came was a muffled groan of disdain, as that was all Ulfric could summon.
"You started this war," the general raged "plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!"
Whatever the general had to say next was cut short as a subtle but terrible cry seemed to emanate from the sky itself.
"What was that?" someone asked.
"It's nothing," Tullius interjected "carry on."
As the priestess began to sermonize the last rites to the condemned, one particular Stormcloak seemed to take offense at the blessings of the "Eight Divines" and demanded, for the love of Talos, that they get one with the execution. The priestess looked decidedly unimpressed but the captain was more than accommodating to soldier now standing in front of the headsman.
"Come on! I haven't got all morning!" he exclaimed as the captains booted foot pushed his neck to the block. The executioner raised his wickedly jagged axe as the soldier ranted.
"My ancestors are smiling at me Imperials, can you say the same?"
The axe was dropped viciously on the soldiers neck, severing it cleanly but no less brutally, leaving only blood pouring from the stump where his head had sat. Some cheered as his lifeless body bled, others screamed and even some spat at the corpse. Alunaaz was too busy trying to keep her stomach from pitching violently upwards into her throat.
"Next, the Breton!" the captain called over the surge of the crowds' noise.
Being the only Breton in the crown Alunaaz knew what it meant. But the echoing cry that silenced the crowd once again could be heard more keenly this time, almost felt, as if it was drawing nearer.
"There it is again, did you hear that?"
"I said next prisoner!"
Unable to hide any longer she walked towards to the block, trying not to look at the headless body by her feet. She heard the captain move behind her, feeling her place a hand on her shoulder and pushing her to her knees. She then felt a cruel boot heel digging harshly into her neck as it was pinned to the block. The blood that lingered from the soldier before her was still warm as was smeared against her skin.
Thank all the gods they weren’t there to see this, at least.
She craned her neck to look at the executioner and with ever growing fear she saw him raise his axe, but with surprise reserved solely for impossible things, she regarded a massive shadow flying over the mountain range and into the village.
"What in Oblivion is that?" cried Tullius.
With a rumble, the shadow landed heavily on the tower behind the headsman, shaking the ground with such force that it knocked everyone to their knees. The hulking, black mass seemed to absorb sunlight, as none reflected off it, wings clinging to the tower ledge as it bent its head down to observe the now hysterical crowd.
"Dragon!" someone screamed "it's a dragon!"
Actually, she lied. She wasn't glad they couldn't see her like this.
Why in the name of Oblivion weren't they here with her to help?
WHERE WERE THEY?