Chapter Text
"As a child my mother would tell me tales of her homeland. A place filled with hearty people and rich in nature's splendour."
"She told of ancient heroes and ancestors from a long forgotten age. Their deeds and deaths were my comfort from nightmares and fear."
"My father was just as enamoured by the tales as me. He was a Breton scholar who had met my mother when researching Dwemer ruins. In his delve he had awoken protectors of the Dwemer, fierce living machines with great strength."
"My mother had accompanied their expedition as a guide. She was a proud warrior and charged into battle to protect the surprised scholars."
"My father had stayed in Skyrim for many years after that, insisting he had to pay back the life debt he owed my mother. As time passed they grew closer and closer. Eventually they had wed in the traditional ways of both Skyrim and Cyrodiil."
"They decided to make a home in Cyrodiil near Bruma. It held the cold winter winds of Skyrim but had the blazing summer of Cyrodiil. It was my home for my whole life. My father led my study of magic, writing, reading, geography, and other Scholarly arts. My mother taught me how to wield an axe and bow, though I did not take to it like my older sister, Silva."
"I was content to live there as another member of the mages guild. Studying and researching alchemy."
"That changed when my mother died. An unknown sickness struck Bruma quickly and with little time to act. My mother was one of the first to pass, father followed not too long after."
"My mother's last wish was to be taken to her home land and have her burial urn placed with her ancestors."
"My sister was living in the imperial city with her husband and young child. She was expecting another in not too long. She could not make the journey and I wanted to hold true to my mothers tradition, a family member must be the one to carry it."
"That is how I made my way to the land filled with stories from my childhood. Of harsh cold and dangerous wilds. The place of my mother's birth."
With an aching pain shooting through his head, Laat awoke to the steady rumble of a carriage under him.
He opened bleary eyes to find a man with blond hair staring ahead in the direction they were travelling.
He turned and spotted Laat. "Hey, you, You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
"Yeah, all I really remember from it was getting hit over the head." Laat said, his speech a little slurred.
"Ah, I'm sure you'll be fine. What's your business in Skyrim Breton? Not many are willing to travel due to the war."
"I'm bringing my mother's urn to Ivarstead."
"A fair reason-"
"Shit! Hey driver! Where's my mothers urn?" Laat asked in a panic. The driver, who had been listening to their conversation so far, expected that. He knows he should have told them to shut it but… it was a long ride with silence. "All your belongings are in the head cart, everything will be taken to the keep. From the sounds of things you shouldn't have to worry."
Laat sighed in relief.
"Aren't you holdear's boy?" Asked the blonde stormcloak.
The diver nodded with a deep sigh. "Aye Ralof, it's been some time. I'd ask that you don't take offense when I ignore you, don't want to get in trouble for fraternising with the enemy."
"Fair."
Laat felt that the exchange was oddly civil for two enemies. Though he supposed they were likely allies in the imperial legion before the civil war started.
"Damn you Stormcloaks." The thief that Ralof pointed out before said. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The 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."
Seeing that his barbed remarks were falling on deaf ears, the man then turned to Laat. "You there. You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
Ralof sighed, a tired noise of annoyance. "We're all brothers and sisters in bindings now, thief."
Silence returned to the cart. Though the thief seemingly couldn't let it continue. "And what's wrong with him?" He said it while motioning to the gagged man dressed in fine fur.
"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King." Ralof barked with an offended tone.
The thief recoiled in horror. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?!"
Ralof shook his head. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits. That I know for certain."
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening." The thief muttered to himself, his panic growing.
"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"
"Why do you care?"
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." Ralof's words seemed to hit the thief hard.
"Rorikstead. I'm...I'm from Rorikstead."
"What's your name if you don't mind me asking? I'm Laat."
"Lokir… not that it matters."
Rounding a bend they could see the approach of a village, stone walls and towers casting long shadows.
A soldier called out to the lead wagon from above the gate way. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"
The voice of who Laat could only assume was General Tullius replied. "Good. Let's get this over with."
Laat could hear Lokir muttering prayers to the gods.
"Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn knife ears. I bet they had something to do with this."
"I'm only going to take a little offence to that elf comment but you're probably wrong. Most likely they're here to showboat at the general." It might only be something that Bretons and elves actually pay attention to but Bretons are part elf, at least ancestoraly.
"Wouldn't surprise me, and I didn't mean nothing by it, just angry about this whole mess."
"It's fine." Laat sighed.
A few minutes passed as the carts travelled through the town. Ralof was looking around with a strange expression on his face. "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."
It was clear to Laat that Ralof was letting his mind wander so as to better prepare himself. Honestly, Laat felt like shit. He's likely to be let go once everything is cleared up but the others here? Two traitors and a horse thief? They would likely be meeting their ancestors soon.
It made him nauseous.
"Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?" Laat turned his head and saw a young boy sitting on the steps of his home.
"You need to go inside, little cub." His father said, likely he saw the headsman that the guard mentioned.
The wagon came to a stop in a courtyard, the chopping block in easy sight.
"Why are they stopping?"
"Why do you think so? End of the line."
"No! Wait! Me and him! We're not rebels!" Lokir called out.
"Face your death with some courage, thief." Ralof solemnly said.
Under the Imperials' watchful eye, everyone started exiting the cart.
Lokir continued in his panicked tone. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"
An Imperial Captain stood in front of them as finally everyone exited the cart. "Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time!"
"The Empire loves their damn lists." Ralof muttered.
An Imperial Soldier stood next to the captain, quill and Parchment at the ready. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."
At his name, the famed Stormcloak walked towards where other prisoners were congregating at the block.
"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." Ralof said in parting.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
Ralof joined the others.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Suddenly Lokir made a mad dash for the distant gate.
"Halt!" The Imperial Captain called.
Lokir shouted over his shoulder as he ran."You're not going to kill me!"
The Imperial Captain lifted an arm. "Archers!"
The sound of a bowstring snapping loose sounded off and an arrow lodged deep into Lokir's back. He fell to the ground, a wet gurgling sound resonating from him as he choked on his own blood pouring into his pierced lung.
The Imperial Captain looked towards the other cart full of prisoners. "Anyone else feel like running?"
A moment passed in tense silence before people's names were being called again.
"Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?" The soldier said.
"I-I…" Laat was staring uncomprehendingly at Lokir's corpse. He'd seen death before, plenty of times, he was an Alchemist so he's seen what disease and sickness can do but… he's never seen anyone murdered, killed by violent hands.
"You could have caught him…" Laat said numbly. "His hands were bound, you could have just tackled him…"
"Shut it prisoner or your next." The captain said.
The man next to her spoke again, quill at the ready in his hand. "Name?"
"Laat."
"You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?"
Laat shook his head and replied on autopilot. "From Bruma actually, I'm here to take my mother's ashes to Ivarstead."
The man turned to his superior. "Captain, He's not on the list. Protocols say we should-"
"Forget the list. He goes to the block." She dismissed, walking away.
"But-" The captain rounded on the man with a stern look. The man relented. "By your orders, captain."
He turned to Laat with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodiil."
Laat numbly nodded his head. He was in shock from everything happening. All he could think was that his sister would do something stupid, probably with an axe, when she got the news.
He followed the man to the block with little thought, a churning in his stomach and light headed.
Vaguely Laat could hear someone talking about crimes and restoring peace, but it was a muddled mess through fog. No real thought other than strange fleeting ideas of mundane happenings.
A distant echoing cry rang down the mountainside. The strange foreign sound dragging Laat back.
"What was that?" The soldier who lead Laat said.
General Tullius dismissed it easily, moving to the side of the procession. "It's nothing. Carry on."
"Yes, General Tullius. Give them their last rites." The Imperial Captain said while motioning to a Priestess.
A Priestess of Arkay stepped forward, holding aloft her amulet. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-"
One of the prisoners from the lead wagon walked forward. "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."
"As you wish…"
The Stormcloak knelt and rested his head above the basket of his own volition. "Come on, I haven't got all morning. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
With only a moment of build up by the headsman, they behead the Stormcloak.
"You Imperial bastards!" "Justice will be done!" "Death to the Stormcloaks!" Various people called out.
Ralof sadly looked on at his brother in arms. "As fearless in death as he was in life."
As the scent of iron filled the air Laat felt his world spin as he bent over and hurled. The light breakfast he had that morning rising up in chunks of yellow bile.
"Next, the Breton!" The Imperial Captain called.
Laat felt tears run down his cheeks as his whole body shuddered.
Another cry rang down on the mountainside, this time much closer.
"I said, next prisoner!" The imperial Captain shouted.
"You can't be serious, Captain!"
"Are you disobeying orders soldier?!"
"He wasn't on the list! Look at him! He's barely no longer a boy and all he had on him was Alchemist tools and ashes! I didn't become a soldier to kill indiscriminately!"
"Hadvar, You will do as you are ordered or-"
"Stop!"
The captain and Hadvar both stilled and turned to face General Tullius. Although he stood in salute, hadvar looked distraught.
"Why is it I'm only hearing this now? Protocol dictates unknown prisoners have to be screened." Tullius said as he stepped close to the captain.
Before she could answer however, someone shouted from up on the tower. "What in Oblivion is that?!"
Laat looked up through bleary eyes to see a large creature swooping over the southern peaks, barreling toward Helgen before disappearing above the clouds.
Tullius drew his sword. "Sentries! What do you see?"
"It's in the clouds!" An Imperial Soldier called down from atop the tower.
Suddenly the dark creature swooped down and landed on the tower overlooking the execution grounds.
"Dragon!" A Stormcloak Soldier shouted just as it opened its mouth and let out a thundering wave of energy.
"Fus!"
Something like lightning hit Laat's brain as he was thrown to the ground.
"Hey, Breton. Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance" Ralof yelled as he dragged Laat to his feet.
Ralof lead Laat to a tower where the Stormcloaks were congregating.
Ralof ran to Ulfric's side. "Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"
"Legends don't burn down villages. We need to move, now!" Ulfric said, his voice deep and rumbling.
Looking around for a moment Ralof shouted. "Through the tower. Let's go! This way, friend! Move!"
Laat, alongside several others, ran up behind Ralof.
A Stormcloak Soldier was there trying to shift rubble out of the way. "We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way!"
As they all moved to help, Suddenly The dragon bursted through the wall, Ralof tackled Ulfric down the stairs.
"Toor shul!"
Ralof barely got down the moment the dragon blasted fire all across the interior.
Laat was pressed firmly against the wall next to where its head was sticking in from. He was so close to it he could see the dark red glow of heat slipping through the cracks between its scales.
Seeing the inn on the other side of the destroyed wall, Laat made a crazy decision. Without a moment of hesitation he jumped through the roof and over its shoulder, landing in the second storey of the building.
Laat jumped through a hole in the floor and sprinted out the crushed doorway, there he saw the list-giver with some survivors.
Hadvar called out to a young boy. "Haming, you need to get over here now! Thataboy. You're doing great."
The ground shook as the black dragon landed in the street and turned to them.
"Torolf! Gods...everyone get back!"
A blast of fiery breath came hurtling towards where Laat and the others were taking cover beside the rubble of a destroyed house.
Hadvar turned to Laat, face covered in soot. "Still alive, Breton? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."
The man called Gunnar called out as Havar led Laat through an alley. "Gods guide you, Hadvar."
Hadvar pushed Laat against the wall as the dragon perches right above them.
"Vol toor shul!"
An Imperial Soldier whose legs was crushed by rubble screamed for only a moment, reduced to nothing but charred, mangled flesh.
"Quickly, follow me!" Hadvar called, dragging Laat to his feet.
They reached the main gate not long after that, carnage and death all around. Soldiers were firing arrows in vain against the beast's thick hide and the few mages capable of offensive magic could hardly harm it.
Tullius spotted then and shouted. "Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving!"
Hadvar nodded and turned to Laat. "It's you and me, prisoner, stay close!"
An Imperial Soldier fired another shot at the beast while retreating. "Just fucking Die, dragon!"
"How in Oblivion do we kill this thing?!" Another shouted.
As they neared the keep, Ralof could be seen, axe in hand and coveted in soot.
Hadvar: "Ralof! You damned traitor, out of my way!"
Ralof: "We're escaping, Hadvar! You're not stopping us this time."
Hadvar: "Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde."
Ralof: "You, come on! Into the keep!"
Hadvar: "With me, prisoner! Let's go! Come on! We need to get inside!"
Suddenly a dark shadow came crashing down from above.
"Yol!"
Laat felt the ground under him disappear, as searing pain wracking his back. An all incompressible burning force pushed him violently forward.
Laat awoke in pain. A horrible burn stretched from his upper back and shoulders, all the way down to the back of his upper thigh. He could hardly move from the horrible pulling pain.
In a daze he summoned up what little healing magic he knew and tried patching up the burns. He got most of his right shoulder done before passing out in exhaustion and pain.
Laat awoke again, though much slower this time. Night had fallen yet he could still feel the warmth in the stones under him. The cold air bit into the burns. Laat mustered up some more strength to heal, this time spreading it out instead of focusing on a single place. He got enough done for the wound to no longer be an immediate hinderece to his escape.
Laat slowly pulled himself to his feet and looked to his surroundings. Some buildings were still burning while others were little more than ash and foundations.
Remembering the Imperials retreat into the keep, laat made his way through the half destroyed entrance.
Inside was a barracks of some kind, beds and chests littering the room. He stumbled through the place, looking for anything of use. He turned up little however, the only things of use being an old iron sword and a pair of abandoned boots.
Moving further inside he found bodies of Stormcloaks and imperial Soldiers, battle wounds clearly visible.
Laat was horrified, even in the midst of being attacked by a children's tale, they were still fighting and killing each other.
He quickly moved deeper, eventually stumbling into a storage room.
Laat took a bottle of cheap wine from a table and gingerly sat in a chair. He took a small sip, wincing at the taste, before pouring it down his back.
The pain made his vision come and go in spots but it was better than nothing being done.
Standing again he made a half hearted attempt in searching the place, certain anything of real value or use would have been taken.
However, in amongst a few sacks of potatoes, he found a poor quality magicka potion.
Without a second thought Laat chugged it, not even caring about the terrible taste, and started healing himself again.
The relief was slow but gradually the spell did its work, the burns would leave scarring but thankfully the spell would see no long term problems.
While 'healing' is the most basic of restoration spells it was still fairly powerful, if heavily draining and slow acting but unlike more hasty spells it ensured a full recovery eventually.
Now with the burn in the very late stages of healing, Laat could start to move more comfortably.
"I survived a dragon attack…"
The thought was ridiculous and he felt as though he was going mad, the shock and flurry of emotions finally catching up to him.
Taking a long since forgotten half burnt stew out of its place on the fire, Laat ate, drank nearly two bottles of wine, and collapsed into a half made bed.