Unbound - Part 1

Hi there. I'm back again. So I decided to write some fanfiction from Skyrim, a video game that I play occasionally. This is just me practicing so PLEASE don't expect a lot of quality. I'm going to try to follow the basic storyline of the game, although I might make up some stuff for the sake of keeping things interesting and relatively clean.

I hope you enjoy!

Part 1 -- Unbound

The wooden cart bumps and jolts beneath me as it is dragged along the loose cobblestones. An icy breeze, carrying with it the soft scent of snow, stirs the dark mop of hair hanging into my face. A dull throb pounds in my head. White light bores into my eyes as I try to force them open. I issue a faint groan, letting my eyelids slam shut again. Horses' hooves clop on the road ahead and behind. The occasional shout makes my head shriek in protest. Coarse rope digs into my wrists.

I force my eyes open, squinting. Small snowflakes stick to my eyelashes. The carts are driven by men wearing red tunics with leather and chain-mail armor over them. Each one is loaded with the dirty, drooping forms of other prisoners. Mountains loom up all around us, jutting from the rocky terrain and piercing the low clouds.

“Hey, you,” the sound makes my head ache. I look to one of the men sitting across from me in the cart. His face is broad and leathery, but his blue eyes hold a strange depth. “You're finally awake,” he offers a wan smile, his thin lips twisting. “Ralof,” it takes me a moment to realize that he is offering his name.

I nod, rubbing my hand against my face; I feel dried blood crusted on my forehead.

The happenings of last night slowly come back to me, beginning with me journeying toward Morrowind to visit my deceased mother's homeland and ending with a hard blow to the head from the pommel of an Imperial's sword.

After a moment, the man continues, “You were trying to cross the border, right? Ran into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.” He glances at man next to him.

The man shoots him a glare, his eyes bugging out of his sunken, weasel-like face. “Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you I could have stolen that horse and been half-way to Hammerfell by now.” He stares down at his bound wrists, his low brow knitting. His shirt looks more like a burlap sack with holes cut in it than actual clothing.

I remember seeing him flying down the road the night before when I was near the border. He almost trampled me, but the horse bucked to avoid me. I had drawn my sword, thinking he was a thug. We were just about to tear each other apart when we saw the company of Stormcloaks slinking through the shadows. They were barely visible in the moonlight; we were too close to run. They jerked him from his horse, seizing me as well. We were accused of being Imperial spies and were about to suffer accordingly. But then, out of the darkness came the light of many torches. Imperial soldiers rushed out of the night bellowing war cries. The Stormcloaks, caught off guard, fought back – they completely forgot about us. But the Imperials did not distinguish between the two of us and the Stormcloaks.

The thief suddenly looks up at me, shadows beneath his eyes, “You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the empire wants.”

I remain silent, picking at the knots of my bonds. The cool air makes me shiver. My dirty wool clothing does little to ward away the piercing chill.

Ralof's voice rumbles inside his chest, strong but not quite angry, “We're all brothers in binds now, horse thief.”

“Shut up back there!” the Imperial driving our cart orders, holding the reins in a tight grip.

The path twists through the rocky terrain, sloping steadily downward. The small, shrubby fir trees droop beneath the covering of snow.

The thief looks over at the third man in the cart – he sits with his back turned to us, one foot propped against the side of the cart and the other dangling over the side. A heavy cloak of animal skins hangs from his broad shoulders. “What's wrong with him, huh?” his small mouth twists in a smirk.

The man glances back at us through dark, shrewd eyes. His tawny hair is pulled back away from his rugged face by several braids, and his short beard is also pulled together in a braid. A gray cloth is bound tight across his mouth.

Ralof snaps, his eyes piercing, “Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king.”

The thief's face mirrors my horror. “Ulfric?” he gasps, turning on the man in the fur cloak. “Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

Ralof scratches his stubbly chin against his chain mail sleeve. The blue tunic over it is torn, held together only by the thick leather straps that his weaponry used to be attached to. “I don't know where we're going,” his voice is distant, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

The thief stares at the bottom of the cart as it rattles beneath us, “No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!”

I shake my head, my fists clenched, “They have to know that we aren't one of you. We just ran into you on accident.”

Ralof doesn't reply, his eyes searching the land around us. As the ground continues to slope, the snow becomes thinner, mixed with dirt. A tower looms up from the trees and rocks ahead. As we come closer, I see a small fortress nestled among the rocks. The walls surrounding it are made of stones held in place by mortar. Above that, split logs that have been bound together and carved into points at the top. Sentries pace back and forth behind it on raised platforms. Tattered Imperial flags hang from long poles. He looks over at the thief, “Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?”

The thief snaps, “Why do you care?”

Ralof's voice is soft, “A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.”

After a moment, the thief looks up through wide eyes, “Rorikstead. I'm...I'm from Rorikstead.”

As we enter the open gate of the fort, a man calls out, “General Tulius! The headsman is waiting!”

The thief cries, “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!”

A man riding on a Bay horse in front of the train of carts replies, his voice gruff, “Good. Let's get this over with.” He rides to the side, letting the carts pass him as they go into the fortress. His thin, wiry body is covered in gilded Imperial armor. He stops to speak with a rider waiting just inside the gate. I immediately recognize the rider to be one of the Thalmor – the high elves have seemed to have more authority over Skyrim than the Imperials themselves, ever since the White-Gold concordant, that is. Two other elves stand beside the dark horse, their gold armor glinting in the white light.

Ralof scowls, “Look at him, General Tulius the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with them. Damn elves... I bet they had something to do with this.”

We slowly go past little houses constructed of aged wood. People who do not appear to be soldiers stand on porches, watching in silence. The large, stone tower looms above us.

Ralof issues a heavy sigh, his eyes staring past me into the distance, “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilad 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...”

I can't help but turn away when I see the mist in his eyes.

I hear a small voice behind us as we wind through the fort, “Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

A stronger voice replies, “You need to go inside, little cub.” The fatherly tone, it's been so long since I've heard that.

“Why?” the boy protests. “I want to watch the soldiers.”

He orders, “Inside the house. Now.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Whoa!” the Imperial driving our cart pulls back on the reins, stopping us beside the other carts loaded with Stormcloak prisoners.

The Imperial captain, a woman with a face like a hawk clad in heavy, plated armor, commands, “Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!”

The thief yelps, “Why are we stopping?”

Ralof looks at him, his eyes slowly roving across the faces around him, “Why do you think? End of the line.” After a moment, he offers me a wan smile, “Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.”

I force a smile in return and swallow down my pounding heart. We stand and begin to climb down from the cart. The Imperial captain and another man in Imperial armor stand behind the cart, waiting.

The thief protests, eyes wild, “No! Wait! We're not rebels!”

Ralof snaps, “Face your death with some courage, thief.”

He hurries up to stand in front of the Imperial captain, looking back at Ralof, “You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This a mistake!”

The Imperial captain shoves him back, not the slightest hint of sympathy in her dark eyes, “Step toward the block when we call your name! One at a time!”

Ralof grumbles as he jumps out of the cart, “Empire loves their damn lists...”

The man beside her begins to read from the list, “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

Ulfric comes forward, walking past them and around the carts to where the chopping block waits, surrounded by prisoners and Imperial soldiers. The headsman holds a heavy ax in his hand, watching from beneath his black mask.

The man continues, “Ralof of Riverwood.”

Ralof doesn't look at me as he follows Ulfric, but there isn't any regret, at least none that shows.

The man calls the next name, “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

Lokir yelps, his eyes wide with hysteria, “No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!” He dashes past them back toward the gate.

The Imperial captain shouts, “Halt! Archers!”

I open my mouth to protest but then remain silent. He's dead either way.

“You're not going to kill me!” he shrieks just before the arrows plunge into his back. He drops to the ground without so much as a whimper.

The Imperial captain turns again, her swarthy face lined with fury, “Anyone else feel like running?” Then she orders, “Continue, Hadvar.”

Hot anger boils inside me.

Hadvar looks at me through eyes that almost seem kind, “Wait. You there. Step forward.”

I take a couple steps forward, limping a little as the feeling returns to my legs. The long ride had made them almost completely numb.

His eyes narrow, “Who are you?”

I scowl before I reply, “Myra.”

“Of?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Anywhere I choose.”

He nods, writing something on the list, “You picked a bad time to be in Skyrim, kinsman.”

A slight smile creases my face. He thinks I am fully Nord despite my sharp features and skin that has a slight grayish hue, that this is my homeland, that my blood is not corrupted by my Dunmer legacy.

“Captain,” Hadvar looks at her, “what should we do? She's not on the list.”

She snorts, “Forget the list! She goes to the block.”

The man nods, his hair hanging into his face, “By your orders.” He looks at me steadily, “I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

A pang of fear makes my insides ice cold. I follow the captain mechanically to the chopping block where the other prisoners wait, faces downcast and yet still proud. In the center stands Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tulius.

The General regards the company with a look of triumph, but his words are directed to Ulfric, “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero,” a smirk twists his lips. “But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

Ulfric's eyes narrow, and he lets out a grunt of protest through the gag.

General Tulius' voice becomes low, “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”

Just then, a strange sound comes from high above, like a distant shriek and the rushing of a mighty wind.

Hadvar gasps, “What was that?”

“It's nothing,” General Tulius replies quickly, eyes searching the cloudy sky. “Carry on.” He moves back.

“Yes, General Tulius,” the captain comes forward with all the pomp of a peacock. “Give them their last rights.”

A woman wearing the orange and yellow robes of a priestess of Arkay raises her hands, cloaked face turned toward the sky, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines be upon you...”

One of the prisoners comes forward, scowling, “For the love of Talos, SHUT UP, and let's get this over with!”

Her eyes narrow, and she steps back, “As you wish.”

He comes to stand in front of the block, light-colored eyes piercing those of his captors. “Come on! I haven't got all morning!”

The Imperial captain pushes him to his knees, forcing his head onto the block.

He glares at the ground in front of him, “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The headsman raises the ax, then swings it down.

I flinch, looking away. The Imperial captain kicks his body aside. Blood runs between the cobblestones.

One of the Stormcloaks cries, “You Imperial bastards!”

General Tulius bellows back, “Justice!”

The captain sneers, resting one heavy boot on the block, “Death to the Stormcloaks!”

Ralof, who stands next to me with a sad expression, murmurs, “As fearless in death as he was in life...”

“Next!” the captain orders, gesturing at me, “The Nord in the rags!”

My heart drops into my stomach.

The strange sound comes again, louder this time. The trees around the fort rustle, chunks of snow dropping to the ground.

“There is is again!” Hadvar sounds wary. “Did you hear that?”

The captain shoots him a murderous glance, “I said, next prisoner!”

“To the block, prisoner,” he gives me that steady look. “Nice and easy.”

I walk forward slowly as in a dream and kneel down in front of the block. I can see the head of the man who had gone before me, white-faced, blank eyes staring somewhere past me. A small shudder wracks my body. A boot stomps down on my back, forcing me down onto the block, already wet with the previous man's blood.

I barely hear the shriek that comes from the mountains above. The man raises the ax. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Sovngarde awaits!