Chapter Text
Skyrim is cold.
Skyrim is cold and brutal and terrible.
Sawen clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Goosebumps ripple across her bare arms, the tattered rags that her Imperial captors dare call clothing doing nothing to shield her from the harsh mountain wind. The tips of her ears are numb, and she wonders if they are cold enough to snap right off like icicles.
The others in the wagon begin to talk, spinning a ballad of rebellion and freedom and kings, but she pays them little mind—remains silent when they try to include her in their conversation. Instead, she looks around, surreptitiously taking in her surroundings and searching for a way out.
There is none, other than the obvious. And there is no freedom in death.
She always knew this day may come. Every lock picked could be her last. Every coin pocketed could be the one that cost her everything. Part of her once thought herself invincible; she has been arrested more than her fair share and successfully escaped each time. Imperial prisons are notoriously troubling to escape from, though even they could never hold her for very long. But now she knows she is anything but invincible. There is no chance to escape this time, not from execution.
Her objective was simple enough: she needed to steal enough coin and food to last her until she made it to the next town, and Legion camps are always ripe for the picking. She could not have anticipated stumbling into an ambush intended for the Stormcloaks. A calculated risk on her end turned into a foolish miscalculation, one that will now cost Sawen her life.
As they enter the keep, Sawen sees an altmeri woman in Thalmor robes on horseback. The man across from her suspects Thalmor involvement in the ambush, and anger flares inside her like a wild, raging flame. Sawen clenches her fists in her lap—her fingers are numb from the cold, so she squeezes harder, until her knuckles hurt. What little does she have left that the Thalmor have not already taken from her? Had Valenwood not been punishment enough for her sins?
Your life, her mind answers cruelly.
The wagon slowly rolls to a stop once they reach the inside of the town the others call Helgen. Sawen sees the headsman waiting for them, standing at the chopping block with his axe in hand. Her anger is quickly replaced by near-paralyzing fear as she is once again confronted by reality. Not only will she die here, she realizes, but she will die alone here. The very idea sends a chill straight to her gut.
Sawen closes her eyes, swallows against the knot in her throat, and imagines she is home.
Valenwood is beautiful this time of year. She thinks of the forests and their lush trees, and the salty smell of ocean water lapping along the coast. She pretends that she is in her family’s home, and for a moment she can feel the warmth of a hearth fire against her skin.
She hears her brother’s laugh. He tells her, “I told you so,” as he so often does, but there is no malice in his voice. Only teasing.
Outside her imagination, she hears footsteps as the other prisoners stand and exit the cart. She gets up and follows them by sound, eyes still closed.
She sees her sister’s smile, the admiration that lights her eyes. Sawen knows her sister will feel her loss most of all and hopes that she will find it in her heart to forgive her.
They call Ulfric Stormcloak’s name first. Sawen bites her tongue and watches him go.
Was it worth it, would-be king? she wants to say. Is any of this worth it anymore?
She feels her mother’s arms, warm and inviting. She is relieved to welcome her eldest home after her longest journey.
The guards call another man’s name, and then another’s. Another thief tries to run away and escape. Sawen listens to him die. Her chest tightens painfully.
She pictures her father’s eyes, kind and patient. She knows she has disappointed him, but she prays that he will forgive her, too.
I’m sorry, she wishes she can tell them. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—
“You there!” the guard barks at her, and Sawen’s eyes fly open as her head snaps upward. Her imagination crumbles, her memories turning to ash.
She steps forward as she is instructed, her face calm despite the war that wages within her, despite her fear and sadness and guilt. She holds her chin high and stares him down, not giving herself away—never giving herself away—as the man looks her up and down with a frown.
If she is to die, then she will die with dignity.
The guard opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it. His gaze is clouded when he finally speaks again:
“Who . . . are you?”