Chapter Text
The carriage bounced and jostled him around, forcing his eyes open briefly despite how his headache demanded they remain closed against the light. Of course he was sitting right over the wheel of the bloody…
Wait. Carriage?
With a sharp intake of cold air, Solveig blinked a few times, brows furrowed in a pained knot. The passing warmth of sunlight shining upon his face flashed red behind his eye lids as it broke through the gaps in the leaves and branches. The sunlight’s comfort was fleeting against the early morning chill, and the mist left his skin feeling clammy and his hair rather damp. As if he needed another reason to have trouble running a brush through it later. Instead of his good ol’ campsite- which was, well, had been, rather well put together- he found himself sitting in a prisoner wagon. Which was a first.
Solveig let a heavy breath leave his lungs in a pale huff that lingered in the autumn air. He cursed his timing. He’d been camping on the nook between Falkreath capitol proper and the foothills due east, considering whether or not to travel down to Bruma for a change in scenery. Of course, he’d chosen to leave his custom made armor back at Jorrvaskr. Like a daft fool, he now realized. He must’ve been mistaken for a bandit, or a Stormcloak undercover. That had earned him a spilled drink, a ransacked campsite, and a solid hit on the head that made him understand how the anvil felt when he hammered steel
As well as a ruined birthday for good measure.
He swore he was going to go on a pilgrimage, meditate and pray to Kyne for ten years, learn the Thu’um, only to use it to travel back in time and kick his own arse. Though, realistically speaking, traveling that far back in time was only possible via forbidden magicks, not the Thu’um. If it was possible at all.
The one time he'd chosen to celebrate his birthday alone, and this is where it’d gotten him. Gods, Vilkas and Farkas would never let him live this down. If he survived today, that is.
Two Nords sat across from him, both with their wrists bound in their lap. The man on the left wore the unmistakable mail and blue uniform of the Stormcloak Rebellion. He had the look of a strapping young soldier about him, perhaps fueled by personal vendetta and the chase of glory. The terror of war had yet to carve deep canyonous wrinkles into his face.
The man on the right was dressed in naught but rags, or what may as well be rags and stank of sweat and mud. Probably a common vagabond, if he had to guess.
Solveig turned his head to the right. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm sat right beside him, his eyes narrowed in silent contemplation as he stared dead ahead. A gag was bound tightly over the man’s mouth. Solveig didn’t blame the Imperials for that. He certainly wouldn’t want to wrangle a bear of a Nord and deal with said Nord Shouting and decimating his soldiers. Possibly Shouting them apart, if the rumors about High King Toryg were to be believed.
Ulfric’s icy gaze focused on him. Solveig gave a rather stiff and somewhat awkward nod. While he didn’t necessarily agree with the Civil War completely, he wasn’t one to disrespect a Jarl. Especially one like the Bear of Markarth.
Ulfric returned the nod and went back to glaring icy daggers at nothing in particular. Well, perhaps the south direction itself was of mild offense, which… considering that was where the Imperial capital lay, it suddenly made sense.
Solveig sighed as his own gaze returned to the damp plank floor of the wagon. If he was in the same Imperial prisoner wagon as Ulfric Stormcloak, then he’d likely die this day. Well, hopefully not today, and instead the day they arrived in Solitude, because it would be… quite embarrassing to die on his birthday. Not exactly the sort of death that brings much clout in Sovngarde, that’s for sure.
The Nord directly across from him lifted his tired eyes from his lap. “You’re finally awake.” He mused. It seemed conversation with anyone besides the man desperately muttering prayers under his breath was a blessing. “You’re not a Stormcloak. Were you caught up in the ambush?”
Solveig shrugged, resting his elbows on his knees. “Aye. Suppose I was just… at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The Stormcloak soldier grunted, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “No proof, yet they still captured you.” He shook his head and hissed, “No better than those damned Elves…”
Solveig chose not to comment. He did agree that it was rather unjust, but he hoped to be able to remedy that, clear things up with the commanding officer, and be able to laugh about it tomorrow. Either way, it would have to wait.
The man on the right suddenly spoke up, seething with a bitter glare directed at the Stormcloak. “Damn your Rebellion. If not for all this nonsense, patrols, and everything else, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!”
“Save your breath, horse thief.” The Stormcloak grumbled.
“Enough chattering,” The Imperial carriage driver barked over his shoulder, then shook his head with a grouchy mutter under his breath.
Solveig tuned out the rest of the mens’ snipping back and forth, instead leaning his head back. The pale sunlight scattering through the tree branches hurt less now to look at than it had before. The crispness of the ice and snow, paired with the autumn leaves scattered about on the edges of the road provided a soothing mix of scents.
The grunts and grumbles of cold and hungry soldiers melded with trudging hoof steps and rickety carriage wheels bouncing over the uneven road. As Solveig closed his eyes, he longed for the scent of the fields and the prairies he used to ride over on horseback with Vilkhor. Their little getaway from Jorrvaskr whenever the twins were being annoying or they’d just gotten in trouble with Aela.
Best not think of such things, Solveig. He thought to himself, dragging his head back down as his posture settled into a weary curve.
“Since we’re off to Sovngarde soon anyway, what’s your name?” The young Stormcloak asked. “Mine’s Ralof.”
“Solveig.” He answered.
The boom and slow creak of a large iron and wood gate reverberated down the rough stone road, startling some ravens from the pine trees. Solveig watched their pitch black forms soar across the pale, partly cloudy sky.
As the small fort town came into view past the pines, his brows furrowed, its name a bewildered mutter on his lips, “Helgen?”
He would’ve expected they’d take the west road around Falkreath and up towards Haafingar. But… they’ve gone east? The Imperials were either taking them on a roundabout in order to stop for supplies or something, or… Helgen was where Ulfric Stormcloak would die this day. Which didn’t make any sense to him.
The old, ice crusted stone walls rose high over the road, yet were dilapidated and neglected compared to the proper Fortresses around Skyrim. They barely reached as high as the pines surrounding it. The towers nestled next to the pale rocks higher up the slopes did more to set Helgen out as a fort town than its walls did. It served more as a checkpoint for the soldiers that would march up from Bruma or through the pass east-west between Falkreath and The Rift.
The general split off from the rest of the escort ahead, meeting an Aldmeri Dominion envoy halfway. Solveig suppressed a sigh. “There’s the Thalmor,” He muttered. “No surprise.”
He didn’t much care for the Thalmor. Wasn’t sure if any self-respecting Nord did. Altmer? Fine. Solveig didn’t approve of the racist assholes going around calling them gold-skins or knife-ears just for their race. Thalmor as an organization? Less fine.
“Tch. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” Ralof said, directing a resentful glare their way.
As they entered the town and the wagon wheeled under the gate’s arch and past the front parapet, Imperial soldiers and workers marched along the road, making way for the prisoner carts. Chimney smoke, coal, and pine needles mixed in the air in an unremarkable odor. Low chatter and mutterings from too-curious citizens followed them, along with stares. A mother ushered her young twins back inside. A smith watched the carts pass before going back to work, letting the rhythmic clang of his hammer rejoin the city’s soundscape.
“Helgen…” Ralof murmured. A nostalgic smile ghosted across his face. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in…” He huffed bitterly. “Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers… used to make me feel so safe.”
The horse thief clasped his hands tight in prayer, desperately muttering Divine names under his breath. “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me.”
Solveig sighed. “Say… where are you two from, hm?”
“What do you care?” The horse thief demanded.
He shrugged and said calmly, “Reckon a Nord’s final thoughts should be of his hearth and home, aye?”
The horse thief thought it over, then meekly stammered out, “R-Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead…”
“Riverwood.” Ralof said. “The trees, the birds in spring time…” He sighed and looked up at Solveig. “Where is home for you?”
“Whiterun.”
He thought of the rolling plains blanketed with cool shadow as the sunset spilled through the clouds and out from behind the Throat of the World. The wildflowers that would peek out from behind the tall grasses that would turn gold in winter as little spots of color. He thought of the city’s towering walls and the gates on the east and west sides, and the white banners with the yellow mare proudly emblazoned upon them. Something about the way the city lights would glow faintly in the early evening as the sun began to sleep, and the wind rustling through the fields brought him peace.
He thought of the Gildergreen spreading Her branches out over the entirety of the Cloud District and Her blooms, vibrant and full of life, even when their petals would inevitably drift down onto the circular plaza like a slow spring rain. The way their sweet and tangy scent would mix with the crisp clear air coming down from the mountains and rippling across the fields.
He thought of Jorrvaskr. The great hall in the Skyforge Eagle’s shadow. The numerous nights spent with warm mead and good food in his belly as he shared stories with his Shield-Brothers and Sisters. The scents of the hearth smoke, forge coal, and Tilma’s venison stew.
It had been too long since he’d last visited… and now, it seemed that may come to be a regret whispered in the back of his mind as his head lay on the bloodied chopping block. Never even gotten married, damn it.
The prisoner wagons came around a sentry tower and towards a flat area in front of the keep’s walls. In the center stood the general, a priestess of Arkay, and the executioner. As the wagons slowed to a stop, a brigade of Imperials sectioned the area off, armed with spears and shields with their red cloaks rippling in the chill wind. Citizens gathered below to witness the spectacle of the Rebellion Leader’s execution.
“Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!” An Imperial captain yelled.
Solveig took a deep breath in and let it out in a heavy sigh.
“Shouldn’t keep the Gods waiting for us,” Ralof said.
They stood and dropped out of the wagon one by one. The captain stared at them with disdain, throwing a glare Ulfric’s way.
The young soldier next to her held a long scroll and a quill, his face drawn in a weary frown. Probably round Ralof’s age, if Solveig had to put his finger on it. This lad was leaner than most soldiers he’d seen today, and the light armor only bulked him up slightly. Poor lad looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, with his flat stare and wind tousled red hair, and Solveig couldn’t blame him.
Ralof scoffed, glaring at the lad with a fair bit of resentment. “Empire loves their damn lists.”
“Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.” The Imperial soldier announced as he skimmed over the notes on the parchment. “Long list of crimes here. It’ll be good to end this war once and for all.”
“They’re only crimes because the Empire’s got their prissy panties in a twist!” Ralof snapped.
“Shut your trap,” The Imperial captain said.
Ulfric looked at Ralof with an air of stoicism and simply nodded to him before walking towards the execution line.
That drew a long sigh from him. Divines only know what was going through the lad’s head. “It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric…”
The Legionnaire looked down at the list. “Ralof of Riverwood. Charges: Assault of Imperial Legion soldiers, killing of Imperial Legion soldiers and unlawful worship of Talos. Convicted of treason against the crown.”
The young Stormcloak spat at the captain’s feet. She recoiled in disgust. “Go to the damn block, Rebel!”
One of the Imperials shoved him harshly towards the line, making him stumble over the gravel. Ralof shrugged them off, and threw a final glare over his shoulder at the red haired Legionnaire. The man watched him go then refocused.
“Lokir of Rorikstead. Convicted of larceny, robbery and assault. You were caught stealing… a horse. Hm.”
Ah. So that’s his name. The horse thief pushed past Solveig, only able to because it was a surprise, as he was much more scrawny compared to him. Shorter too. Solveig suppressed a sigh. Lokir tried to go right up to the Imperial Captain, but was held back by another soldier as he pleaded, “This is a mistake, I’m not with them! Let me go!”
The Imperial Captain’s expression didn’t change. Were they seriously going to execute a simple thief alongside the Stormcloaks? They’d put the horse thief and himself aside to deal with them later, surely? Such crimes beget time in jail, not the death penalty.
“Enough. Join the line.”
“I- what?! No, no, you can’t do this!” Lokir yelled. “I won’t let you. I’m not dying today!” He stomped on the soldier’s foot and shouldered his way out of the man’s grip, bolting past the Legionnaire and the captain.
“Archers!”
Solveig shut his eyes. With a wince, he turned his head away as two arrows stuck into Lokir’s back. His body thudded to the ground. Dead. Murmurs and gasps spread through the crowd.
I really am gonna die today, huh?
The realization set in his bones like rockjoint, locking him in place as he stared at Lokir’s lifeless body. He watched a couple Legionnaires pick up the corpse and carry it to Divines know where. Hopefully to bury it properly. But… likely to just dump it somewhere. Forgotten.
Poor sod.
“Hey.” The red haired soldier’s voice jolted him from his mind’s spiral. The man’s expression had puzzlement written all over it. “What’s your name?”
“Solveig. Solveig Jorgaeld.” He answered, tearing his eyes away. “Listen, I believe this is a misunderstanding? I was just at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I’m a bounty hunter that had simply been camping nearby.”
The Imperial captain looked him up and down with a scrutinizing gaze. He knew he was rather broad and tall, could easily pass for a Stormcloak fighter if he wanted. The strength of a warrior that had put years of practice into his training obvious in his musculature, and the scars painted along his body in the tapestry of his past triumphs. Hell, even the way he wore his hair. Traditional Nordic braids woven along both sides of his head that fell over his shoulders, clasped with thick silver rings. The rest of his gold hair flowing freely. He’d seen many a proud Nord Stormcloak with their hair in similar styles.
But he wasn’t a Stormcloak, damn it. He’d done his damndest to stay away from the war. And for fuck’s sake, the Stormcloaks weren’t the only tall and broad Nordic warriors around.
The Legionnaire skimmed over the list a couple times. “Captain… he’s not on the list. Should we-?”
“He’s an undercover rebel. Just look at him. Off to the block.”
Solveig didn’t budge. Instead he looked the captain right in the eye. “You’re going to ship off an innocent man to be executed when you have no evidence for that?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to send a rebel to be executed. Better safe than sorry. We don’t need any Talos worshipers making trouble for the Thalmor.”
“I- Captain.” The Legionnaire started.
“To. The. Block.”
‘Better safe than sorry’ my arse. He thought. She’d better get deported for that. The soldier standing between the prisoner wagons behind him firmly placed a hand on his shoulder. He was shorter than Solveig by an inch or two. For a moment, Solveig glanced around at all the other Legionnaires surrounding the execution area. The amount of archers and lancers. The thick crowd below.
No. He’d face his execution, however unjust, with his head held high. Solveig sighed and turned as the soldier led him towards the line. He stopped next to Ralof and another Stormcloak, a brunette Nord woman.
At the furthest left end of the line stood Ulfric. The Imperial general Solveig now recognized as General Tullius stood in front of him, seething.
“Happy now, Ulfric? Your homeland lies torn asunder, kingless and bleeding, all thanks to a war you started. And for what? Huh?” Tullius jabbed at his chest. “Divines’ sake, some here in Helgen called you a Hero. A Hero! And you answered that admiration with murdering your king and usurping his throne. Now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace you destroyed.”
Ulfric fumed, his expression stoic and calm but an icy anger in his eyes. His hands tensed in front of him.
Tullius turned away, pausing one last time. “Hope your own heroes up in Sovngarde still accept you into their halls after this.”
Ralof stomped forward. “You damned Imperial dog!”
“Ralof-“ Solveig began.
The shaft of a Legionnaire’s spear slammed into Ralof’s back and dropped him to his knees. The other rebels shouted curses and insults. Yelled orders to keep them under control and in line joined the cacophony.
A rattling, gravelly roar shook the air, like how the pebbles bounced and trembled at a giant’s footsteps. It was a sound that rumbled down the mountains. It startled the birds into taking flight across the clearing clouds, their calls echoing after it. The shouts silenced. All eyes were lifted from their enemies and brothers and toward the sky. Even the whispers in the crowd went quiet.
“What in the world…?”
“You heard that, right?”
General Tullius eyed the mountains. He marched to stand next to the priestess. “It’s nothing. Carry on.”
“I don’t think that’s nothing…” Solveig murmured to himself. If he’d learned anything through his personal experience and the countless bounties he’d done… it was that whenever he had a hunch crawling down through his nerves like a caterpillar gnawing away at a leaf, it was rarely ever wrong. Despite how he tried to push it to the back of his mind, each snap and chew of the leaf made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
But General Tullius was content to think it was just a giant taking a gnarly shit somewhere, it seemed.
“Yes, General Tullius!” The same captain turned to the priestess of Arkay. “Give them their last rites.”
Solveig sighed and closed his eyes in respect and solemnity for the prayer to come. The priestess lifted her arms towards the sky. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-
A pair of heavy footsteps grated across the gravel. The voice of one of the Stormcloak soldiers snapped, “Oh, for the love of Talos, shut up will you??” Solveig opened his eyes. The Stormcloak, a young Nord man with brown hair that held a proud tinge of red glared at the priestess in defiance. “It’s Nine. Get it right.”
“Gunnar-!” The brunette Nord woman lurched forward, only to be held back by an Imperial Legionnaire. As she pulled and struggled against their grip, she pleaded, “Don’t do this, you self righteous idiot! Just wait a little longer, we can still-!”
“Alfhild.” He said. Calm. Gentle. The man turned and looked her in the eyes. The care and protectiveness of an older brother shone through loud and clear to Solveig. He’d worn that same look himself in the past. Practiced the ability to act strong to reassure someone that looked up to him.
If it was Vilkhor standing in the execution line, he’d make the same choice.
Gunnar smiled. “We die in honor. For the king.”
Alfhild gasped. With tears shining in her eyes, she steeled her expression and nodded. “For the king.”
“For the king!” Ralof shouted.
With each shout, the Stormcloaks stomped. Gunnar stepped toward the block with his head held high. The Imperial soldiers surrounding them glanced at each other, then their commanding officers. Spears and shields were raised in unison. The Legionnaires closed in as a warning, but even the clank of the weapons was drowned out.
Solveig did not join the chant. Ulfric Stormcloak was not his High King. In the face of the Empire’s injustice towards himself and Lokir, wrongfully executed this day with little or no reason, however…
He did stomp his feet.
THUD.
“For the king!!”
THUD. Tullius tightened his grip around the handle of his sword.
“For the king!!”
THUD! Ulfric stared the Imperial General dead in the eye as he stomped alongside them.
It evolved into an old Nordic War chant. Invoking the names of warrior Gods both ancient and modern. “Talos! Stuhn! Tsun! Ysmir!”
“Enough! Shut them up!” A Thalmor agent demanded, barely heard over the voices and rhythmic stomps thundering like war horses across the plains.
As Gunnar lay his head upon the frost laden stone, he looked toward his brothers and sisters. The shadow of the axe stretched over him and onto the gravel before his eyes. One final defiant chant echoed through the area, with his voice leading, “FOR THE KING!!”
Silence. Gunnar’s head rolled into the bloodied bucket in front of the stone, and the Stormcloak rebels bowed their heads in solemn grief and respect for a brother.
Talos guide you. Solveig thought. He didn’t dare say it aloud. He hadn’t verbally spoken a prayer to Talos in years, lest he be carted off to Divines only know where by the Thalmor. Nonetheless, he offered one now. He had his disagreements and differences with the Rebellion, but a life lost was a life lost. He shared their love, respect and quietly even shared their worship, for Talos.
That, and… loyalty was loyalty. He had to commend it.
Alfhild collapsed to her knees and a heartbroken wail cut through the silence.
“As fearless in death... As he was in life.” Ralof whispered.
“You done?” The Imperial Captain looked out over the execution line. When they remained quiet, she nodded, satisfied. “Good. Next, the Nord in the rags!”
There are always bound to be people in power who enjoy using that power as dominion over others. No matter what side of a war you fight on, no matter what you personally value, both sides are far more gray than they would have you believe. Both sides believe they are the white side of the scale and the other black. And yet…
“Sir Tullius.” The red haired Legionnaire spoke up. A bead of sweat shone on his brow and he swallowed. “This man… he wasn’t on the list. He’s innocent.”
There are also always those who stand against it.
Tullius looked at the Legionnaire, then to Solveig.
“Did you not see him stomping with the rebels?! Execute him!” The Thalmor spat. “If he was truly innocent, then he wouldn’t have joined that damned chant. He wouldn’t have-“
“Enough.” Tullius snapped, cutting them off. He sighed.
“I didn’t say a word.” Solveig said calmly, keeping his expression neutral as his situation was disputed.
“You don’t get to speak, rebel.”
Ralof stepped forward, a curse already on his tongue, “You knife-ear pig! You’ll execute an innocent man just for what? Your damned pride?! He’s not a Stormcloak! He wasn’t with us!”
“Aye! You cannae just go ‘round choppin’ anyone and everyone’s heads off!” Another Stormcloak agreed.
The Thalmor ignored them both and looked at General Tullius. “If even a single rebel or Talos worshiping rat survives this day, Her Ladyship will be informing the Dominion. You know full well what that may lead to.”
Tullius glared at them. “Are you making threats?”
The sharp inhale the Thalmor took was cut off. A sound like thunder crashing down from the mountain silenced the protests once again. A bellow or a roar, one could not tell. The pines groaned and cracked and their fallen needles drifted along the road, dancing southward. The hot wind blasted into the backs of the citizens standing in the crowd below, carrying the scent of smoke and the cloying sweetness of charred tree sap during a wildfire. A twinge of blood seeped into their senses as well, of battlefields and war torn lands filled with the bodies of thousands of warriors.
A cold air of death and the prickle of standing too close to a fire that could never be snuffed out. Immortal cinders brushing against their skin.
“… What is that?”
Tullius looked toward the sky. The instincts of an old soldier made his grip on the sword’s handle tighten, holding onto a companion in uncertainty.
“A… forest fire?” Someone guessed.
Any children that hadn’t already been ushered inside were quickly shooed into the fragile safety of indoors. Murmurs and whispers spread through the crowd.
That sinking hunch gnawed at Solveig’s nerves. The stem was about to break.
“Let’s get this over with.” Tullius said. “Any whose sympathies or allegiances align with the Stormcloak Rebellion…” He glanced at the Thalmor and sighed. “… Must be met with the death penalty for high treason.”
The red haired Legionnaire that had spoken up for Solveig bowed his head, falling silent.
“Go to the block, prisoner.” The Imperial Captain said.
This was why the black and white scale never once took root in his own heart, Solveig thought. He laid in the grey, and it seemed that would cost him his life. However ‘wrong’ he may be, he’d hold onto the feeling of righteousness in himself.
Barely above a breath, Solveig whispered, “Let my life be a lesson.” And he marched towards it with his head held high.
Of course he felt afraid. No man was insusceptable to the natural fear of death. No one person was invincible, and if they believed themselves to be, they were wholly wrong and would be proven as such sooner or later. Whether it be by their own actions, or the consequences that follow.
But he’ll be damned to Oblivion before he trembled like a coward. His life would not end with arrows stuck in his back and his eyes frozen open. He may not fall in battle as he wished, or pass peacefully in the night with family as he wished, but he would make the most of it all.
I’m sorry, Vilkhor.
That foolhardy little brother of his was his final and truest regret. The air between them now forever tainted with unresolved resentment and unspoken wishes. Their last words to each other frozen on that day and that day alone.
“You’re a damned fool, Solveig…”
Solveig stared down at Gunnar’s body. The blood splattered upon the stone.
“Aye. Maybe… Probably, even.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. He lowered himself to one knee, then both.
“But at least I’ll know that I did something with my life. Something good. That I helped people. I can look myself in the eye and know I am honest when I say ‘I am a good man’.”
Solveig rested his head over the cold stone. The partially coagulated blood from Gunnar’s execution stuck to the side of his neck and soaked his hair. He had to focus and force himself to stay still in order to not flinch away from it.
“But you’ll never be Kodlak… No one can.”
Silence. No defiant chant accompanied him. No rhythmic stomping beat. Only him. Only him and his own thoughts.
Let my life be a lesson. That when all else falls to either black or into white, I stand as the in between. I stand as the grey. I stand before the Throat of the World, and I look on in envy. Those Heroes who stand upon its steadily rising peaks, with Kodlak Whitemane standing triumphantly at its very top. The highest of them all. I remain at the floor. The bottom of the Throat. I understand now that you were right.
I truly am a fool.
Solveig closed his eyes.
Snap.
His eyes flew open. The trees cracked. Hot wind whipped through the banners and flags, and blew the torches all over the fort town out. That scent of death; an omen. Brought upon by a breeze that held no gentleness from Kyne. No crispness of the fields nor forest. No freshness from the mountain snow nor the southern rain. A sigh of a warlord whose lungs knew only smog and cinders, and whose tongue had tasted the blood of countless, truly countless souls. Both innocent and evil.
A sigh that breathed past Solveig’s very spirit.
Then, its shadow circled around the mountain, high above even the towering pines and oaks. With spined and scaled wings of a nightmare, and with the blackened smoke of wars long since past surrounding it, masking it. An intangible form. Yet tangible enough to be seen. To be heard and to be felt.
Tangible enough to be feared.
“The hell is that?!”
“A shadow! In the clouds!!”
The thick hide of its chest glowed underneath sharp obsidian scales. As it descended closer to Helgen, its voice rattled and rumbled through the air. As the clash of a beast’s claws against steel. “Dinok fen bo…”
Earsplitting thunder boomed through the skies. The light of the sun was blotted out in seconds. Dark clouds swirled overhead as if the sky had been turned into the sea and a whirlpool took form before their eyes. An affect that could only be achieved by the strongest mages in Tamriel, a single beast accomplished in a mere moment.
As its wings flapped and the wind brought on by it bent the trees, the glow in its chest shifted orange. Then red. Then blue. Smoke and vapor wisped from its maw as it drew its lips back in a snarl.
“Dragon!!!”
Dragonfire spewed forth, engulfing the city walls and towers instantaneously. It rushed through the south gate and through the streets like water from a burst dam. The tower looking out over the execution area had its top blown to pieces as it swooped overhead. Its shadow swallowed the crowd.
Screams. Shouted orders. Solveig’s right temple pulsed with pain. The gravel under him blurred. His body moved, untold by his mind. Booms echoed through the ringing in his ears. The stone under his hand, still slick with Gunnar’s blood. A hand under his arm, pulling him upright.
“Get up, kinsman!”
Ralof. Right. Solveig tried to shake the blurred vision away as he followed Ralof, half leaning on him, half getting dragged by him through the chaos. Panicked voices, wails, and shrieks mixed with a cacophony of thunder and fire.
The sky itself turned red. Meteors of fire rained down, bursting through stone walls and making them crumble with ease. The wind whipped through the streets every time the beast flew past, egging the flames further and further, leading them to consume everything in sight.
Ralof paused in front of the door to a remaining tower. With Solveig’s arm still over his shoulder, he kicked the fragile oak wood door open. It swung open and slammed into the stone wall behind it. They stumbled inside, coughing and hacking from the smoke.
Ulfric ushered in other Stormcloaks behind them, only ducking inside himself when they were all in. He grabbed the door and quickly shut it. He tugged the gag off and Thu’um resounded as an unmistakable echo, “Fo Krah Diin.” Ice lapped up the oak in moments, sealing it shut.
Solveig sat on a piece of broken stone, letting Ralof turn to face Ulfric. “Jarl Ulfric? Could the legends be true?”
Ulfric looked over his shoulder and simply stated, “Legends don’t burn down villages.”
As he caught his breath, a young Stormcloak lass came up to Solveig, kneeling in front of him and pressing a folded cloth to the side of his head as it bled.
He gave her a nod. “Thank you, lass.”
“No problem. Gotta look after each other, aye?” She returned the gesture. “Soran, by the way.”
“Solveig.”
Dust dislodged from the walls and ceiling. Ulfric glanced up and around. “We need to move. Now.”
Soran swiped a knife from a table and quickly cut through Solveig’s binds. “C’mon, kinsman.”
With a heavy exhale, Solveig stood. He raised his hand to his head and focused. A rose gold glow enveloped his hand, along with a touch of a warmer hearth fire orange as magicka flowed through him. The cut on the side of his head mended in moments. The blurry vision cleared.
“Up through the tower, let’s go!”
The Stormcloaks made their way up the stone stairs. The building rumbled as another roar shook the air along with the summoned storm. Solveig stuck close to Ralof.
They came to the second floor. On the opposite side, a few rebels had gathered in front of a piece of rubble blocking the staircase. Ralof skipped a step.
The dragon snarled outside.
Solveig caught the back of Ralof’s collar and yanked him back.
BOOM!
Pebbles and splinters rained down over their backs. Solveig shut his eyes and clenched his jaw tight. His ears rung in a high pitched whine. His right arm that covered Ralof’s head ached. Burned, even. His hand tensed. Voices muffled.
He coughed and shook the debris off his back and out of his hair. He couldn’t hear shit, but he still looked over to Ralof as the lad righted himself.
Instead of the tower, he saw the darkening sky above them. The smoky pillars billowing up from the fort town as it steadily became ruins to be remembered another day. The parapet it had led up to was demolished. The protective outer wall nothing more than rubble in the burning forest below. Destruction spells streaked through the air at the beast as it soared, yet it ignored all of it. Even the fireballs that erupted along its sharp scales.
A guttural bellow trilled from deep in its throat.
Solveig leaned against the stone wall as he caught his breath. It cracked. He shoved Ralof forward and his right foot slipped as the stairs caved in underneath him.
“Shit!!”
Wind rushed past his ears. Oddly clean and crisp. It carried with it the scent of the fields of home. But he couldn’t linger on that. He plummeted to the ground along with the crumbling stone wall and debris.
The air was knocked from his lungs. With a sharp inhale, he forced his body to move and rolled out of the way just before the cobbled bricks crushed him. The dust its impact blew clung to his back. Solveig coughed harshly. His lungs protested. His muscles ached.
Gods, he prayed they’d make it out of this alive.
With a groan, Solveig pushed himself up and stumbled forward. The burning remnants of the old inn surrounded him. He fruitlessly waved his hand in front of his face to dissuade the thick smoke. The sour odor of burning alcohol and juniper berries lingered even now.
He marched through, one hand covering his mouth as the smoke made his eyes water and sting. Cinders and splintered wood consumed any memory of joyful drinking and conversation, leaving naught but dragonfire and ruin.
Solveig shouldered his way through the door, hissing as it singed his skin. He brushed the embers off and emerged back outside.
By the Nine, if it was chaotic before, the streets were a nightmare. Imperial soldiers futilely attempted to protect citizens as they fled towards the west gate, but often burned with them. Families huddled together, ushering each other through in a panic. Some unsavory cowards pushed and shoved others aside to escape in their fear.
“Prisoner! This way!!” Solveig looked over. The red haired Legionnaire from the execution waved his arm. Solveig dashed to join him behind the cover of a house. He slammed his back against the wall just as one of the meteors fell from the sky and blew the roof to pieces, sending planks flying out into the main street.
The Legionnaire looked at him. “Just in case we die- I’m Hadvar.”
Solveig chuckled despite himself. “I’d say its nice to meet you, but-“
They both flinched at the sound of another tower demolished, collapsing into a set of small houses.
“Uh.” Hadvar nodded, his gaze lingering on where the tower had been. “Yeah.” He patted Solveig’s shoulder strongly and then led the way out into a side street, avoiding the trampling crowd. Where once there had been peaceful craft, conversation, and safety; instead there lied a smoldering market place. Stalls were broken. Tarps, food, and toys reduced to embers to fuel the flame.
As they rounded the corner and out into the main street, Tullius shouted, “Hadvar! Get to the keep, we’re leaving!!”
“Yes, sir!”
Another snarl echoed distantly. The blood red eyes burned. The light under the scales glowed, the rest of its form little more than a silhouette. The dragon burst through the wall of smoke on the left, looming like a blade poised to kill.
Magicka rung through the air like drawing steel and coalesced into a large ward above the panicked crowd. The dragon swooped low and a gust of smoky wind followed in its wake.
“Pa!! Pa, get up!”
“Haming! Get behind the ward!!” Hadvar screamed. “NOW!”
Solveig gritted his teeth and lunged forward with little thought. As the dragon’s monstrous shadow cascaded over the buildings with rage and hate gathered in its lungs, Solveig defied the fear of it. He dashed past the protection of the runes, and grabbed the boy. His cry was muffled as Solveig held him to his chest and rolled behind the fragile cover of a broken market stall, curling over the lad with his back turned to the open road.
“YOL! TOOR SHUL!!”
Solveig gathered magicka in his hands. His nerves ached. Magicka tore through his veins like they were being sucked dry as searing heat blasted his back. The Restoration barely kept up as fire spilled through the street and over the ward behind him. It was like he’d laid down bare into the Skyforge’s white hot coals. Haming’s wails echoed in his ears along with his own blood pulsing through his head. His eyes squeezed shut as tightly as Haming’s white knuckled grip on the front of his tunic. He poured nigh everything he had into the expert level spell that was the only thing keeping him from becoming a charred husk.
Just like the lad’s father mere feet away.
The dragon bellowed another Shout and cyclones started descending from the blood red sky. The fire faded. The spell lasted for several seconds after as Solveig forced himself to push through agony and heal the burns that marred his back.
“I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Haming sobbed.
Solveig shook his head, jaw aching as he clenched his teeth. A faint metallic taste of blood from where he’d bit his tongue. “No, lad. No, you- you listen to me.” He grabbed the boy’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. He nodded towards Tullius, “You see that man over there? Go to him, stay with him. He’ll look after you. Go! Now!!”
Haming scrambled to his feet and dashed away with a frantic nod. Solveig groaned. The Restoration spell fizzled out. A wave of nausea rippled through his system and he covered his mouth.
“Fuck…”
Of course he’d overexerted himself. The sudden lack of magicka in his veins felt cold.
A hand landed on his shoulder. “Solveig! Solveig, are you alright?!”
He managed a nod. “Aye…” Solveig coughed harshly from deep in his lungs; the smoke was getting to him. “Alive? Yes. Well? Bloody hell no.”
“Come on!” Hadvar hefted him up with a grunt.
Solveig staggered after him.
One of the few archways that still remained standing guided them to the keep’s courtyard.
“Fus… RO!!”
A shock wave blew the pile of rubble on the west side away, sending boulders and stones flying and tumbling.
Ralof made eye contact with Solveig and his shoulders relaxed slightly. Alfhild, Soran, and Ulfric emerged with him.
“Ralof?” Hadvar said. He drew his sword from his hip, glowering. “Out of our way. You’re a damned traitor!”
“Hadvar-“
“Hah! Just shut up, you Imperial dog!” Soran challenged, her lips turning up in a daring grin.
Ulfric met Solveig’s eyes. “You should consider joining us, kinsman. You’ve seen the true face of the Empire today. What else is there to hold onto but injustice and the ruin that inevitably follows?”
The dragon roared.
Solveig glanced between Hadvar and Ralof.
Let my life be a lesson… That when all else falls to either black or into white, I stand as the grey.
Solveig softened his expression, even through the stinging in his eyes from the smoke, and the sharp pain that lingered in the freshly healed burn scars. He spoke honestly, “I sympathize for both and am loyal to neither.”
The beast’s silhouette descended upon them again. Before another word could be said, its talons, as long as ballista bolts, collided with the final wall that still stood. Debris was flung tens of feet. The screams of the soldiers cried out through the air. Meteors continued to rain down and wind untouched by the Mother of Man whipped through all that remained.
A supporting column of a watchtower collapsed into the courtyard, crushing the vegetation. The once vibrant mountain flowers that had painted a dreary Lord’s home in warmth and welcome blackened. Soot clung to the grasses. To the skin.
It landed in between, drawing a line between Stormcloak and Imperial. The splintered and cindering wood burned next to the courtyard’s center piece; a statue of Akatosh.
The double doors to the keep boomed shut. The thick smog of burnt flesh, iron, and smoke lightened its burden upon their lungs. Though the burden of this day remained. A dragon, a beast of old, had returned to this land. The land they called hearth and home.
Sundered.
Kingless.
Bleeding.
…
The Wheel has turned.