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The panic only increased as we rocked our way along mountainous passages, the four of us bound, helpless, in a wagon. I do not know how the others felt. They must have felt the same way. But Ralof—the one in the corner, with a straight back and smiling eyes—made sure that I ate and drank when we stopped, and he sang softly, oh so softly, until we fell asleep with dreams of our respective homelands.
I cannot bear to think of how I entangled myself in this web. There lay an inhospitable border between Cyrodiil, my homeland, and this gods-forsaken land of Skyrim. My home had been drenched in sunlight, even if I had worked mainly in the shadows, with dagger and poison. Ironic, really. As I had caught endless cruel husbands and wicked necromancers, now here I was caught by the merciless eyes of the law.
How had they known? I only dared ask myself in my dreams. How had Skyrim’s military force known who I was, and what crimes I was escaping?
On the fifth day, Ralof finally managed to wring some sense from me. I stared into his eyes. How could he look so kind? We all knew what waited ahead.
“Hey you. You’re finally awake,” he said gently. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”
The thief in question looked over at us, with an undeniable glint of desperation in his 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've stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. 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.” Ralof sighed.
There was an angry call of shut up back there! It came from a rugged, white-haired man in a soldier’s uniform. I remained silent.
The thief, Lokir, looked over towards the last man in the cart. They had taken the effort to gag him, when they did not do this to us. Perhaps, had he been standing and unbound, he might have seemed more bear than man—that ravaged face, those arms powerful enough to brutally beat down any opposition to his words. But with the bindings, he huddled on the end of the cart as a broken and beaten man. His eyes were dark and cunning beneath his placid demeanor. Just looking at him, I felt a shiver.
“And what’s wrong with him?” Lokir sounded disgusted.
“Watch your tongue!” Ralof said sharply. “You are speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”
“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The thief’s face paled. “You’re the leader of the rebellion! But if they captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits,” Ralof replied solemnly.
I panted, yearning to break these bonds and splinter this cart into a million pieces. Whatever they had done to me, that day, I felt as weak as a newborn. I used to have magic. I used to consort with kings and gods. What happened? My memory dripped away from me like rain down a brick wall, washed away into the wilds unknown. I would—oh gods, I would die alone and without even my magic, my memory.
The jerk of the carts, imperceptibly at first, changed their rhythm. Suddenly, the trees crowded away from us, and there stood before us a mighty stone wall.
“No, this can’t be happening,” Lokir moaned. He swallowed several times. “This isn’t happening!”
“Hey,” Ralof said. He tried to smile at Lokir. “What village are you from, horse thief?”
“Why do you care?” Lokir turned bewildered, wild eyes on the rebel.
“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” His eyes remained kind, and perhaps that was why Lokir actually managed to take a few deep breaths.
“Rorikstead. I’m… from Rorikstead,” he replied unsteadily.
One of the soldiers called back to their leader. General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!
I nearly choked on my fear. Here we were, then. The headsman is waiting. I knew the gods would never accept anything less than cruel punishment for me, after what I did in my past life, (and what had I done exactly?), but I had hoped my end would be more peaceful. A potion slipped into my drink. Not such a bloody end, for sure.
Good. Let’s get this over with. The one called General Tullius had silver hair and a hardened look to him. I had chosen the wrong new home, I told myself, for the millionth time on this journey. Even Morrowind would’ve welcomed me with more kindness. I should’ve gone anywhere else.
Lokir moaned again. “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. The Divines, please help me.”
Ralof saw me watching Tullius. “Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” He twisted around to watch the soldiers streaming through the gates. Our wagon bumped after them, along a cobblestoned street lined with wooden houses.
“This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod 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.”
The villagers crowded around to watch the parade. One little boy asked his father where we were going, and his father tersely commanded him to go back inside.
All too quickly, we pulled up to the chopping block. An imposing stone tower stood over it, reminding me, just briefly, of the Imperial City Palace in my homeland. The government had seemed unreachable, then. I had never thought they would actually catch me. The arrogance! As if anyone could be protected from the cruel games of the gods and the politicians.
Lokir was panting, by now. “Why are they stopping?”
“Why do you think?” Ralof seemed to have lost his strength. He kept his back straight. But the fire seemed to leave his heart, then. “End of the line. Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”
“No wait,” Lokir pleaded with the soldiers. Their faces could have been carved from stone. “We’re not rebels!”
“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof said, but his voice was only sad. The soldiers hauled them out, one by one.
“You’ve got to tell them,” Lokir said, although whether he pleaded with Stormcloak or with Ralof, I didn’t know. “We weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”
The imperial soldiers ignored the thief’s words. Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time!
“Empire loves their damn lists,” chuckled Ralof. But he did not seem truly amused.
Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, they called out. Could there have been a note of hatred in those words, I wondered. What more could they expect of him? He was going to die. Whatever this Stormcloak fellow had done, he was going to receive the ultimate punishment—a bloody, ignoble end in a rural town. His corpse probably dumped in the woods to be eaten by wolves. I immediately regretted thinking that last bit.
Ralof of Riverwood, Lokir of Rorikstead, they called out. They were bored with these names. They were simply the next words to call out from the list.
“No, I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” Lokir backed away, fighting against the harsh grips of the soldiers. Before anyone could move, he had broken from the line and ran through the streets, back the way we had come.
Halt, they shouted after him. Archers, they called to their brothers-in-arms. In one horrible second, Lokir twisted and fell limp to the ground. I couldn’t stand up, even as they looked back my way. Dead. Dead in a second. I would be next.
Anyone else feel like running? One of the guards deadpanned.
“Wait, you there.” One of the guards—they had called him Hadvar, I thought—looked more closely at me, and then down at his sheet of paper. I was forced out of the cart. “Step forward. Who are you?”
I stared blankly into his face. But then it dawned on me. He truly did not know who I was. Lokir had been right—these people had simply thought I was another of this Stormcloak’s lackeys. They did not know my true name, or that I had walked all that way on foot through Cyrodiil to start anew in this country.
“Helena Mercyward, sir,” I said. Perhaps my mind remembered a sliver of the plan I’d had when escaping. It remembered that I had planned on being a soft, doddery merchant woman, who would grow old with her lover. The sort of person who’d had evil things done to her, not someone who’d done evil things to so many people.
The name came out too soft-sounding. Hadvar looked a little stricken.
“You’re a long way from the Imperial City. What are you doing in Skyrim?” He looked over at the captain of the guard. “Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.”
“Forget the list,” she said crossly. “She goes to the block.”
“By your orders, captain,” he replied formally. He looked back over at me. “I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodiil. Follow the captain, prisoner.”
So, at least I wouldn’t be dumped and forgotten. The thought brought little comfort, as I turned to face the stained block of wood in front of us. That chopping block promised a quick death, at least. But I could not get the image of Lokir collapsing to the ground out of my mind. I breathed fast and shallow.
“Ulfric Stormcloak,” announced Tullius. His voice was as grave as… well, as my own grave would be. “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 general spat out the crimes with the conviction of a true Imperial. This man, here, murdered a king? A bold move. Dully, I wondered what the Voice was, and whether I would’ve supported this Stormcloak fellow if I’d lived in Skyrim all my life. I didn’t know. Standing tall, he seemed like the sort of controversial figure I might’ve taken coin from, in the past. As a rule, I did not support politicians that I took coin from, because I knew that they would turn on me if people ever talked of them and me meeting. Politicians who pay to have their opponents—or their wives—murdered, generally did not have the best interests of their people at heart.
Tullius composed himself, and continued. “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”
This demented official seemed to think that whatever war this man had started would end with his death. Gods above! Government officials were idiots. Tullius actually thought that this man represented chaos, and he could restore that mythical bureaucratic order with his execution. If I knew anything about war, I knew that people who blindly followed a man like Stormcloak would fight harder in the wake of his execution. What a martyr, they will think. We must honor his name and continue this fight against such an evil oppressor.
Maybe it was a good thing to die now, before I got caught up in this primitive country’s war. It seemed that I would’ve died young, anyways.
A distant roar came from somewhere above us—from the sky, if such a thing made any sense. I looked up in alarm. But the sky was clear and blue. The mountains towered above us, above the town, above the whole world. I had thought those mountains would feel protective of their little assassin-escapee. Now, they only meant to crush us beneath the wait of inevitability.
“What was that?” Hadvar hissed.
Tullius cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. Carry on.”
The Captain saluted stiffly. “Yes, General Tullius. Give them their last rites.”
A priestess of Arkay, the god of death, walked forward. She began to pray, loudly, with weathered hands raised skyward. One of the other Stormcloak lackeys, who had been on a different cart, rolled his eyes.
“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with,” he groaned.
The priestess narrowed her eyes at him, but she lowered her arms. “As you wish.”
“Come on,” he said loudly. “I haven’t got all morning. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”
Oh, gods, how I wished I could be so blasé about this whole business. Even if I had been a chatty individual, I could not have mustered the courage to speak a single word. These Imperials—so unlike my own people, and yet so very similar—may well have removed my voice from my throat and locked it up with my weapons and armor. Perhaps their “Voice” power involved stealing other people’s voices and using it as their own. (I did not see how they could murder someone with a stolen voice, though.)
The blade gleamed in the sunlight. I felt sick. I wanted to turn away. But the axe glittered, and with that indescribably slick crunch as blade met flesh and bone, the Stormcloak lackey went limp. His head filled the little wooden tray on the other side of the block, and rivulets of blood flowed downwards after it.
One of the other prisoners shouted Bastards! His voice nearly broke. The onlookers jeered and spat at us. Ralof, next to me, murmured, “As fearless in death as he was in life.”
The imperial captain called out in a bored tone, “Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!”
My mouth filled with acid. No, it’s too soon. Make them do the Stormcloak fellow next, I pleaded, with any god who would listen. Stop this execution altogether! Anyone, please! I don’t want to die like this.
As if on cue, another roar sounded down the mountainside. It sounded much, much closer this time. I swear the pebbles rattled in the streets.
“There it is again,” Hadvar said nervously. “Did you hear that?”
“I said, next prisoner,” the captain barked impatiently.
“To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy,” Hadvar said, shaking off his unease. He gripped my forearm and brought me forward, to the chopping block. Blood still seeped across the wood from the last prisoner’s death.
I struggled, just a little bit. My head felt thick with fear. Whatever drugs they had given me must be wearing off, just a little bit, but it did not matter. Hadvar easily was twice my height and weight, and he pushed me down. I lay my head on the block. I wanted to weep to the world, and I might have, if I hadn’t been in front of those disgusting soldiers.
In the sky, above my head, I caught a brief glimpse of an enormous shape swooping over the mountain peaks. It seemed to be heading… directly towards… us?
“What in Oblivion is that?” Tullius said, his graven demeanor cracking just a little bit. This crack, more than anything else, shook off the last of the fugue coating my mind. And in its place sprouted a small seed of hope.
The soldiers shouted to each other, probably along the lines of what is it? The blade rose above my head. I could see my own face reflected in it. Please, I prayed. Distract him.
My prayers were answered. An honest-to-gods dragon landed on the tower, just above the executioner’s head. Everyone began to scream and run.
The creature was almost beautiful, with its blood-red hide and its mighty horned head. I scrambled out of the way, my binds restricting me, and I ran ragged through the courtyard. Just a second behind me, a gout of flame hotter than Oblivion rushed towards the spectators.
I did not know how I managed to escape that original blast. The stench of burning smoke, of a musty sourness I could not name, of my own sweat. The awful shrieks of the villagers, the splintering of wood beams, the cascade of stone rubble as the beast turned walls into ruins. But I found myself next to the crumbled, burning remains of a house, while complete pandemonium reigned around me. Hadvar stood to my left, staring upwards. He told a child nearby, one of the Helgen children, to run! Ralof ran by on my right side, looking back at the chaos.
“This way!” Ralof shouted to me.
At the same moment, Hadvar looked over and saw me. I did not know if he saw a prisoner or just another villager, but he called out, “This way! To me!”
Which one? I had a split second to choose, with the dragon reigning in the skies above. Hadvar was closer. I dove under his protection, as the dragon made a second pass above the town.
“To the tower!” he roared. He dragged me over to the safety of the Imperial watchtower, the main entrance of which had been destroyed. But a secondary entrance lay at ground level, around the back of the building.
Hadvar cut my bindings as fast as he could, with a little knife he kept in the pocket of his uniform. He dragged me through the doorway along with a couple of the quicker-minded soldiers.
“Okay, prisoner,” he panted. He shut the door. “You get a second chance. Find some armor and spare weapons and follow me. We should be able to escape the town from here.”
A second chance. I jumped on his words, and I flew to one of the chests lying around. There were beds to each side, clearly a barracks of some sort for the soldiers to rest when they were not on patrol (or on execution duty). Their chests full of military gear were useless in this fight. But if we met a smaller enemy—say, desperate-eyed people who planned on escaping any way they could—then I had enough skill with a blade to cut down anyone who stood in my path. I donned a basic hide-based armor: reinforced breastplate, shin boots, leather gauntlets. A hide helmet had been hidden in a different chest. It all smelled like sweat and hide, but its weight was familiar and comforting. The rusty iron sword felt good in my hand.
I felt more ready to take on the world, standing here with a weapon and some armor. I stood a little taller, and felt a little stronger.
Hadvar was already moving. He charged through the next room without looking back, and I jogged to keep up with him. Together we clanged down a set of stairs and through a dungeon, where we met more of the Stormcloak lackeys. Now that I stood beside Hadvar, and they mistook me for one of them, I felt a little different than before. If someone came at me, sword raised, then I hacked them down. There was nothing complicated about it.
These Stormcloaks went down with little fight, though. Their heaving breaths and wild, rolling eyes made me think of animals to the slaughter. None of them wielded a blade with anywhere near the skill that Hadvar or I did.
The torturer and his assistant thanked us politely when we passed on the news, but I did not know whether they believed us. I mean, a dragon? There hadn’t been one of those around for centuries. Those noises above could just be an attack of the rebellion, which would certainly account for the bunches of Stormcloak soldiers running amok. But they allowed me to take some of their lockpicks and health potions.
“Come on,” Hadvar urged. We moved on.
The heavy, imposing stone walls gave way to older remains, and eventually to natural stone. The tower must open up into one of Skyrim’s infamous cave systems. The floor changed to rougher stone, then to soil. We broke out into a fortification of a different kind—wooden ramparts, bridging a small, fast-moving stream. Here, too, Stormcloak soldiers roared and attacked us on sight. I slashed at an archer who stood nearby, attempting to get a clear shot of Hadvar.
The archer immediately switched over to a sword of his own. I weaved and dodged. He sliced through the hide, right where the sleeve met the shoulder, and I reacted instinctively. My sword plunged through his neck before I could comprehend what had happened, and Hadvar and I suddenly stood in a pool of blood and dead men.
I carefully wiped my sword and searched the dead man. He didn’t have anything of use, really. I did keep the small amount of gold from his purse, and I did the same for the others. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little coin when—if—I made it out of here.
Hadvar prudently did not mention the looting. But as we continued forward, I dared to ask him, “Who are these Stormcloaks, exactly?”
He stopped dead. The only sound echoed above, from the dragon’s merciless attacks, and from the stream beside us. Then he shook his head. “So you truly are not one of them, huh? I had known it was a mistake, when I saw that your name was not on the list.”
My voice nearly cracked on the next line. “I was only crossing the border.”
“I am sorry,” he said, and he truly seemed to mean it. Then he coughed. “To answer your question, the Stormcloaks follow Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. But they don’t have Jarls in Cyrodiil, do they? Jarls are the leaders of individual cities. Together, they elect the High King of Skyrim, but when King Torygg was elected, Ulfric voiced his opposition immediately. Ulfric challenged him to single combat. He—well, he used the Voice on him.”
“What is this Voice?” I asked suspiciously.
“Well, the Voice,” he said. He pointed a hesitant finger upwards. “The language of the dragons. Mortals were given the gift to learn the words of power. Ulfric literally shouted Torygg to pieces.”
The language of dragons? So this fool used the language of dragons to assassinate a mortal, and then they were surprised when a dragon showed up at Stormcloak’s execution trial. No doubt the dragons awakened just to have the privilege of killing Stormcloak themselves.
We continued on in silence. We had to wade into the stream itself, through a narrow passage, and squeezed through another narrow crack in the cave system into a natural cave. I downed one of the health potions, as the cold water and my shoulder wound threatened to knock me senseless. The red-tinted bottle worked magic instantly. One second, I had one hand cupping a bleeding wound, and my world consisted only of putting one foot in front of the other. The next, my shoulder was perfectly whole—not even a scar—and I felt I could run from one side of this mountain to the other.
I looked at the little red bottle in wonder. I’d need to stock up on these little guys.
Up ahead lay a sleeping bear. Hadvar shushed me, and we crept around the side of the cavern. I hardly dared breathe. Even with my magic-induced high, I did not fancy my chances against that sleeping behemoth.
Eventually, the passages grew lighter and airier, until the space opened up suddenly. We stood on the edge of the mountain, with a cliff to one side and a flower-lined dirt road in front of us. Hadvar turned to me.
“Thank you,” he said seriously. “I don’t think I would have made it out of there without you. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve more than earned your pardon. Just don’t go looking for trouble with the Legion, alright?”
I nodded. I hadn’t dared speak too much, back in the caves, but the fresh air and the lack of choking smoke made me feel a little bolder. “What next?”
“I am going down to Riverwood,” he replied. “It’s the nearest town, and my aunt and uncle live down there. I have to warn them. Here we may part ways, or you could join me—I am sure they would supply you with a good supper and any supplies you may need, before you head off to wherever you had planned on going.”
“I do not know my way around this country,” I said, looking down over the edge of the cliff, “And I like the sound of a warm meal and a bed. There was—no real plan. Perhaps you can mark a recommended location on my map.”
He nodded and laughed. “Aye, I can do that. You have earned the title of friend, as well.”
We began to walk. Hadvar began chatting amicably, about his aunt and uncle, about the weather. I pocketed some handfuls of flowers. I ate one of the blue ones—it was slightly spicy, with a good texture to it. Hadvar had one, as well, and he confided that one of the main ingredients in the health potions were these blue mountain flowers. I pocketed a few more of the blue ones, for later study.
The day was warm and inviting. When we came upon the Guardian Stones, we seized on the chance to stop walking. He told me the story of each one, and the magical boons they had been known to grant to worthy travelers: there was the Warrior Stone, etched with figures of men in armor with swords and axes; the Thief Stone, with a figure in a cloak hunched over; and the Mage Stone, with a figure in flowing robes with hands raised. Chuckling, he dared me to approach one of them and pay respects.
I considered the worn old stones. What a strange land. Well, I couldn’t say that Cyrodiil was not free of what might be seen as strange customs, also. I picked the Warrior Stone, as I wanted Hadvar to think me as a worthy traveling companion, and not as a thief or some petty, weak-armed mage. Looking back at him, I fell to my knees and raised my arms, as though I were praying. I laid both palms flat against the warm granite.
Almost immediately, something shifted inside of me, as though I had been harboring a sleeping dragon in my chest, and it had suddenly shifted about in its sleep. I shook my head, smiling, and turned back only to see Hadvar staring up in awe.
I followed his gaze. Above me, a rounded hole at the top of the stone had begun to crackle with a strange blue light, like a shard of lightning. How odd. Then the light spread throughout the entire stone, through every etched line in every pictograph, until suddenly, we both were left staring at an old, worn stone again.
“A warrior, good! I knew you shouldn’t have been in that cart the minute I laid eyes on you.” He smiled at me. “I’m glad you decided to come with me. Look—we’re almost to Riverwood.”
Standing on the edge of the path, I could see the tops of the wooden houses. And we trundled down the path at a quicker pace than before, eager for a nice meal.