Work Text:
It’s dark.
Darker than I remember it being. The cold is absent from my body as I feel warmth again for the first time in years. Ice I was accustomed to, leaving and replaced with an out of body freedom. The freedom I’d only felt through death.
Though, how I’d fallen back into the void I can’t be sure. Last I can recall I was with friends. Happy.
But now I’m floating without form in blackness.
And suddenly, I feel something else?
It’s not emotional. It’s physical. Like a touch. I feel it barely where my hands would be if I could see my body. Then a sharp pain from where my head would be, bouncing through my form. I can feel my body returning to me.
I’m not dead?
Then why be in the void? Why did death feel so near? Almost like a dream.
Then the darkness rose and the tightness around my wrists felt real. I’m not dead. But I am in danger. I sense death surrounding me…
========= A New Story =========
Soft blue eyes opened to find light and colour. Very monotone colour but the hues of green, blue and yellow were visible enough although blurry. Blinking cleared the fog but pain still ran through his brain, sharp and rapid successions of eclectic pulses through him. A groan came from him though he didn’t hear himself, his head wavering slowly. Though that could just be the carriage ride. The carriage itself was rickety and old from the sounds of it, the browns from the wood sapped away, It was riding down a forestry hill, Zane knew this not because of sight but because he could feel himself leaning in one direction to avoid slipping around the seat.
“Hey you, You’re finally awake.” A strong male voice speaks to him.
Surprised and still rebooting he can only manage a half-minded “hhgm - ”
Lifting his head up to the man brings more pain to his body but manners are essential upon first meeting someone. Especially someone clad in armour with scars and war-torn eyes looking back at you. Blonde matted hair laps at his face, unwashed and dirt-covered, fresh wounds on his bare arms and there he can see the warrior had his hands tied.
It was jarring enough that his focus shifted from the man in front of him to his own hands and low and behold his wrists were bound also. One of his sleeves was torn enough for him to see skin under it meaning his disguise was active and wouldn’t appear inhuman. Perhaps that was best. He wasn’t entirely surprised by the bindings but more so by the pair of grey quilted legs to his right. Ignoring agony he sees two other men in the carriage with him. One next to him wearing fine dark blue robes and long blonde hair and wrist bindings not unlike the first’s. When he sees his face he notices the worn, supposedly white, fabric gag in his mouth and clearly, he isn’t pleased with it.
The other man looks to be of no significance only wearing rags, also cuffed, and a scared almost teary expression on his small round face, short shaggy hair unkempt and not helping the circular silhouette of his frame.
“You were trying to cross the border, right? They picked you up before they ambushed us and that thief over there.” That same battle-hardened man’s voice drew his attention back to the front of the carriage.
“Damn you Stormcloaks ,” The man in rags bursts out, “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, Id’ve stolen that horse an’ been halfway to Hammerfell…” Stormcloaks? Skyrim? Empire?--
“You there,” Zane’s attention coming back to him and he focuses his eyes on the thief, he’s being addressed, the easing pain is secondary. “You an’ me, we shouldn’t be here! It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”
“We’re all Brothers and Sisters in binds now, Thief.” Again the words are venomous from the warrior and gives Zane no time to even come up with a response to the Thief.
“Shut up back there!” The driver of the carriage, wearing brown leather and chain armour bellows. A brief silence covers them, a very brief silence. Zane is ready to speak but finds his voice frozen and unable to make more than an affirming grunt. Still rebooting…
Instead, the Thief speaks his exact words for him, “What’s wrong with him ?” He questions, his small head in the direction of the mysterious man with no words, dressed as if he were going to a medieval banquet.
“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!” Demands the Warrior, leaning over and metaphorically placing a hand on his shoulder to pull him away from the ‘True High King’ .
A small gasp from the thief alerts Zane that this is either a man of high social stature or someone with great power that would insight the same shocked response. Maybe both. “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” his tone changes to one sounding accusatory, “You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you-” Then his whole body excretes fear “Oh gods! Where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits…” The Warrior’s voice is low and his eye twitches with sadness.
“No! This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening!” The thief panics and Zane feels welling anxiety in his stomach. It’s sickening. He doesn’t know where he is, who these people are or where they’re headed but from reactions alone, his gut assures him it’s danger. What’s the worst thing that can happen? He dies?
Another wave of silence quiets them as their likely situation sets in until the Warrior leans to the thief with a small kind smile. “Hey, What village are you from Horse Thief?” And the venom from his mouth dissipates.
“Why do you care?” He rebukes, tears in his eyes.
“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home .” His smile widens and his eyes squint as he moves back to his original sitting position.
When Zane looks at the warrior he sees a large stone wall to his left and looking at it he notices how many carriages are being taken in. All of them were full of people dressed in the same blue-clothed armour as the Warrior and every cart being led by the same uniform. This is an execution party. Everyone here is going to die. Including me.
“Rorkistead, I’m-- I’m from Rorikstead…” He answers finally while wiping tears with his bound hands.
Off in the distance, a soldier yells “General Tullius Sir! The Headsman is waiting!” and the doors to the town open.
“Good. Let’s get this over with.” A high masculine voice sounds from the very front of the carriages. A voice he can only imagine belongs to the man ‘General Tullius’. Likely the man who captured them and Likely the man who’s going to kill him and his-
-friends.
A quick burst of panic rises in his throat preparing to yell out his fellow ninja’s names but quiets himself knowing his voice hasn’t yet activated and from what Zane could tell from his initial inspection of the men in the carts. There was no sight of people in green, red and black nor could he see the iconic hair of the lightning or water ninja would they blend in with the blues. On one hand, his friends would not be executed today; on the other hand, it may be him who’ll be departing.
They’re making their way through the iron gates when the thief begins listing names of deities, of which he figures when he pleads for them to help him. May they help indeed, not just for his sake but for them all, if only to escape or at the very least find his friends. Being left alone with no one but enemies was something Zane had never wanted to go through again.
“Look at him.” The Warrior’s venom returned not to the thief but to-- “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.”
A silent beep in his head and a pop in his mouth pushed words from his mouth he hadn’t mean to speak. “Elves?” He blinked.
The warrior’s eyes looked deep into him like he were an enemy “The Elves. Or would you prefer the Aldmeri Dominion ? All the same. All Elves .”
This time, however, Zane kept his mouth shut, He knew he could speak again which was nice but it seemed as though people here aren’t fond of each other and understanding would be key. That is if he were to live at the end of the day to learn where in the 16 realms he was. Elves are not from Ninjago. He was in another realm. Even better, I’m being executed in a separate realm of which my brothers may or may not know I am located.
While riding through the town, the houses and shops were generally the same wooden square buildings with thatched rooves, small windows and porches of which people stood at watching them go by.
Again, answering his unspoken question, The Warrior spoke to no one in particular “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Elod is still making that mead with Juniper berries mixed in!” He seemed reminiscent until his memories ran dry of ‘Juniper berry mead’ “S’funny, when I was a boy, the Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”
Feeling the Warrior’s pain as his own Zane softened his cold gaze at the man and looked him in the eyes with a smile. He seemed surprised and smiled sadly with him. Zane’s smile shattered like dropped glass when past the Warrior’s head, Zane saw a small clearing by a stone arched bridge. And in that clearing was a basket and a curved block of wood. The wood was once pale. Now, it’s blood red.
The Warrior takes notice of his gaze and turns his body to see the clearing. He stares for a moment then chuckles. A sad, amused, morbid sound given that his head would be added to the list of lives claimed by that clearing. He doesn’t say anything, acting as though death wouldn’t phase a warrior of his experience with bloody corpses. But silently he’s praying. Praying to Talos his soul be taken to Sovengarde.
Off behind Zane, he hears a child ask his father where they’re going. The father ushers him inside. The boy want’s to see the soldiers. But the father won’t let him see the slaughter.
The cart slows and the driver pulls back on the reigns. A woman dressed in all steel holds the hilt of her sword, stands at the houses by the clearing making way for the carriages. She commands the officers “Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!”
Worry flashes over the thief “Why are we stopping?”
And the warrior answers him “What do you think? End of the line.”
No one speaks, the thief only looks back and forth from the floor, to Ulfric and to the road they just came from.
The cart stops and everyone jerks from the sudden halt.
“Let’s go! Shouldn’t keep the Gods waiting for us…” The warrior speaks somewhat jovially and stands up to show his true height, looking down at everyone else. Quickly Ulfric follows him and stands, then Zane who stands warily and slow.
The thief sits for as long as possible until the three figures simple intimidation rushes him out of the cart. He’s terrified and completely unprepared to leave this life, unlike the blondes who seem almost welcoming to it. “No! Wait! We’re not rebels!”
The warrior calls from behind him “Face your death with some courage, Thief ” insulted by the man’s cowardice, his hate for the thief fills his voice once more.
He frantically looks around “You’ve got to tell them, We work with you! This is a mistake.”
The woman standing tall beside another man in leather holding a book and quill. She has her arms crossed and ignores his pleas. Her gaze was clear and speaking a thousand words of strength even with the helmet obscuring her.
“...Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time!”
“Ugh. The Empire loves their damn lists.” the Warrior holds his hatred on his sleeve.
The younger man beside the woman coughs and lifts his quil as he looks down at the book in his hand, light brown hair lightly covering his eyes when he does so. His voice is soft but stern a similar accent to the blondes although clearly physically different.
“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” The man calls and like a sheep, the bound King steps forward. “It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric…” From Zane’s left, he can hear the Warrior’s quiet words of faith and his soul is crushed under failure to his King.
“Ralof of Riverwood,”
Zane doesn’t know who the rest of these names are or who they belong to so all he can do is watch and save names to faces when he sees them separated from their bodies. Of all the people he expected to move at that name, it was not the scarred warrior he had spoken with, but as his king did, so did he. So a person he knows will die today.
“Lokir of Rorikstead--” “NO, I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” The thief. His name is Lokir. And he’s going to die today.
Not how he expected though. Lokir screams out his plea and not a second later pushes past the Woman and is dashing up the path, his bare feet hitting the stones with painful force. She recuperates from the unexpected outbreak and bellows her orders with fury “Halt!”. He doesn’t stop and as he runs he retaliates “You’re not going to kill me!”.
She stops and raises her arm up and throws it down with a command, “Archers!”. Three or so men with bows raise their loaded weapons and aim. Barely a moment later, The Ex-Thief is lying dead, full of arrows, on the cobbled road. There is surprise to only Zane and the civilians for a pause as they take in what they saw.
“Anyone else feel like running ?” She turns with flames in her eyes.
The crowd of watchers leaving and joining and the to-be executed stubbornly staying quiet.
Zane was completely thrown off. He was prepared for blood and prepared for the disembodied head but for some reason not expecting a man he’d spoken to, to be riddled with arrows for simply wanting to live ? It was more than he’d thought. Death is expected of humans and machines alike and still it hurts no less regardless of how prepared he was.
“...Wait. You there, step forward” The young man with the list looked back from the letters to Zane and called him forward. Zane almost wouldn’t have heard it, recovering from the sight before him. No one moved to get the thief’s body. It just laid there. Zane walked forward but found his gaze still on Lokir. It’s so much worse when you know their name.
“Who are you?” His voice was somehow softer like he was speaking to a lost child. Zane couldn’t answer straight away, he stuttered and tried to tear his eyes from his corpse to no avail. He stood stupidly for too long for the Woman’s patience. Interrupting his gaze she moved to her right. Her face was now where Lokir’s body was. Forcing Zane to look away. Clearly, he didn’t hide his uncomfort “Answer, welp.” she growled.
“My- My name is Zane-” Stopping himself from completing his greeting phrase. He’d decided to definitely not show his robotic nature and refrained from giving clues. At least this time he knew he was a robot, he just had to hide it really well…
He wrote something in his book, unseen to Zane’s eyes “You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, Kinsman… Captain, what should we do? He’s not on the list.”
Kinsman . They think he’s human. Good.
“Forget the list. He goes to the block”
“By your orders, Captain. I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here in your homeland.” He was genuine, Zane could tell. This man who was sentencing him to death truly felt bad about doing so. Whether he cares for the lives of all the men and women dying today or just because Zane was not meant to die here, who knows. “Follow the Captain, prisoner”
This was it, this was the moment Zane was to die in a land he didn’t know. By people, he’d never seen. And where the hope of returning home from another realm a second time was within the percentile he could not calculate.
Zane should have listened around him. Maybe he would’ve heard the call of hope just when everyone else had. To Zane, one moment ago he was sitting in a cart to his doom and the next, he’d witnessed two deaths in one day.
They called him to the block…
“Next! The Nord in the rags”
He took but a step when an eerily familiar breeze caught his ear as did everyone else’s. “There it is again? Did you hear that?” Was the man with the list.
“I said ‘Next prisoner’!”
The man with the list hesitated for but a moment “To the block prisoner, nice and easy..”
Then he stepped forward. Stood above the block and they pushed him down, his head hit the block hard but it would be nothing in comparison to what came next. He faced the Executioner. His mask hiding his identity, and the axe raised high in the air.
“What in Oblivion is that ?” Was General Tullius’ voice. It was panicked and enraged.
Then the wind. Then the roar. Then the Dragon.