A Stranger in Skyrim 1

Chapter One: Dreaming

In which an execution is postponed.

She woke slowly, feeling groggy. Ugh, she'd forgotten her meds, hadn't she? She blinked sleep from her eyes, but they were still blurry. Then again, they were always blurry. She needed glasses for a reason ….

She heard a horse snort, and the sound of wheels clattering on stone. The sound was jarring – she had never been in a horse-drawn carriage, but she realized with sudden clarity that she had apparently been sleeping in one. She sat up, looking around. Slowly, her eyes adjusted until she could see perfectly. That was even more alarming.

She looked down, to find her hands bound, her clothes replaced with thin rags that did nothing for the cold. What was going on? Where was she?

Across from her sat a similarly bound man, blond and muscular, with a hint of a beard. She noted that he apparently got to keep his clothing; he was dressed in chain mail with a brown padded gambeson over it, and blue cloth over that. He was watching her. She looked back at him, uncertain.

“The mystery girl wakes.” That was not English. That was not English, but she understood it as clearly as if he'd been speaking her native tongue. “Tell me, Blue, what province do you come from?”

She shook her head to clear it. “Province?,” she said, hesitantly, shocked to discover that she, too, was speaking the foreign tongue.

He looked at her a little strangely. “Well, wherever you're from, you picked a bad time to come to Skyrim, friend. You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.” He shook his head, sadly.

The thief was dressed in rags no better than hers, she noted. Like everyone else in the carriage, he, too, had his hands bound. “Damn you, Stormcloaks,” he scowled. “Skyrim was fine before you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” The thief looked straight at her. “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.”

The soldier driving the carriage looked back at them. “Shut up, back there!”

“Anyway, what's wrong with him, eh?” The thief jerked his chin at the last man in the carriage. From the looks of him, he was some kind of nobleman, with fluffy fur covering heavy chain mail. Not only was he bound, but the … Imperials? … had gagged him, as well.

The blond guy snapped, “Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you – oh gods – where are they taking us?”

Blondie sounded defeated. “I don't know where we're going … but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No,” the thief whimpered. “This can't be happening, this isn't happening!”

She looked between them, confused. She had to be dreaming. This was not her warm, safe, bed, in her warm, safe, home. And if they were prisoners, shouldn't they have something a little more restrictive than wide-open carts? And weapons somewhat more modern than swords? She liked medieval weaponry, but she knew guns would be infinitely more effective.

Well, if it was a dream, it was her dream, and she'd just have to go along with it.

Blondie looked back towards the thief. “Hey – ” he said quietly. “What village are you from, horse thief?”

“Why do you care?” She didn't like the thief. He was so whiny.

Blondie smiled tiredly. “A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.”

“Rorikstead. I – I'm from Rorikstead.” Great, another place she'd never heard of.

Someone up ahead shouted. “General Tullius, sir, the headsman is waiting!”

“Good,” someone else replied. “Let's get this over with.”

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh – Divines, please help me!” Why would the gods help a thief? At least, she assumed the 'Divines' were gods of some sort. Maybe they were some kind of equal-opportunity gods. Gods who overlooked the various failings of a man. That would be new.

They rolled into a town of some sort, and oh, it was medieval. Thatched roofing, wooden huts. The walls and towers were made of stone, but it was rough, not the perfectly precise bricks she was used to.

“Look at him,” Blondie called her attention back. “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.” Elves? Elves? Really? She craned her neck to try and get a good look at them, but the carriage had already moved on by the time she took interest.

“This is Helgen.” Blondie's eyes went a little distant. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in ...” He shook his head. “Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

She heard a child's high voice ask who they were, and where they were going. His father shooed him inside the house – well, apparently it was an execution they were headed to. She wouldn't want her child to see something like that, if she had a child.

A woman's voice now, “Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!”

“Why are we stopping?” Whiny asked, his voice fearful.

Blondie just looked at him. “Why do you think? End of the line.” The carriage rolled to a stop. “Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.” He stood. After a moment, she followed, standing shakily.

“No, wait! We're not rebels!” Whiny cried.

Blondie sighed. “Face your death with some courage, thief.”

The others hopped out of the cart – she took her time crawling carefully down. She didn't like any kind of height, even a short drop like that.

“You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!” The reality of the situation was slowly dawning on her, as well. What if she died in a dream? Would she just wake up, or what would happen to her in the real world? No, she couldn't think of that. Something would happen, and she'd make it out alive. That was the way dreams worked.

“Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time!” The woman was dark-skinned, wearing heavy plate armor. She'd never seen real plate, nothing nearly so fine, anyway.

She glanced over at Blondie. He sighed again. “Empire loves their damned lists.”

There was a long line of people ahead of them, all dressed in the same uniform – padded gambeson over chain mail, blue cloth over that. Finally, the man called, “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric.”

The soldier called again. “Ralof, of Riverwood.” Blondie stepped forward next. “Lokir, of Rorikstead.”

“No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!” The thief stepped forward – and then began running.

The woman cried out. “Halt!”

“You're not going to kill me!” Lokir called.

When the thief did not comply, she shouted again. “Archers!” The thief promptly became a pincushion, tumbling to the ground. Blood oozed from him as she watched. She'd never seen a man die before, even in dreams. She wasn't sure what to think, but there was a sense of relief to it. At least it wasn't her.

“Anyone else feel like running?” The woman's gaze fell on her, and she shook her head slowly. She'd been shot with arrows before – even heavily padded, they hurt. She couldn't imagine the pain of live weaponry punching through her.

The man looked at her, now, as well. “You there, step forward.” She did, slowly. He was dressed in a leather jerkin with a skirt that covered his upper thighs. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mariah,” she said uncertainly. The strange language tumbled from her lips. “I don't know where I am, but there has to be some kind of a mistake – I didn't do anything.” She tried to make her case quickly. “I've never been to – to Skyrim – before in my life – I've never even heard of it before. Please, let me go, I'll do whatever you want.” This was her one shot to convince them not to kill her.

“Captain …” the soldier said, looking towards the armored woman. “What should we do? She's not on the list.”

“Forget the list.” The captain said it dismissively. “She goes to the block.”

The soldier nodded grimly. “By your orders, Captain.” He turned his attention back to her. “Forgive me.” He looked a little sad, at least.

She considered running, but where would that get her, really? Shot dead on the spot. There was still a chance something would happen to save her. She just had to hold out hope.

“Follow the captain, Mariah.” His accent butchered her name, but it wasn't like she was in a position to take offense, really.

So, she did, pausing in the middle of the line. A man stood before the Jarl, arms folded. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero.” He shook his head. “A hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” The Jarl grunted, unable to respond for the gag over his mouth. “You started this war!” The general – she recognized his voice from before – poked the Jarl in the chest. “Plunged Skyrim into chaos! Now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!”

A sound, then, a distant roar that made the small hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “What was that?” the soldier asked.

“It's nothing, carry on.”

The captain snapped a salute. “Yes, General Tullius!” She looked toward a woman dressed in brown, with a yellow hood. “Give them their last rights.”

The priestess – for that was what she appeared to be – raised her hands. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are –”

One of the Stormcloaks stepped forward. “For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with.”

“As you wish.”

“Come on, I haven't got all morning!”The red-haired Stormcloak stood before the block, until the captain shoved him down so his head was resting on it. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The headsman's axe went up. The headsman's axe came down. Suddenly, there was a body without a head, blood squirting from the stump like an effect in a cheesy horror show – only, she could smell it, taste it in the air. She shuddered, eyes wide. People were talking, but she couldn't understand them.

The captain pointed at her. “Next, the prisoner in the rags!”

The roar came again, echoing over the distant mountains. “There it is again, did you hear that?” The soldier looked around.

“I said, next prisoner!”

The soldier took her arm when she didn't immediately move forward, gently led her to the block. “Nice and easy.” She stared down at the box. The redhead was already lying inside. There wasn't enough room for another head. She began to laugh, a little hysterically. This wasn't happening. It was all a dream. She had to believe that. She'd wake up just before they cut her head off. She had to believe that.

They shoved her down so she was kneeling on the man's body. Never had a dream felt so real. She could feel him under her, could feel the sticky blood on her knees. When they lowered her face to the block, she turned her head to avoid getting blood all over her face, though some got on her cheek anyway. It couldn't be avoided. She realized she was shaking, almost violently.

The headsman's axe went up, and she closed her eyes, bracing for the impact.

Another roar went up. The General's voice, then – “What in Oblivion is that?!”

“Sentries,” the captain called. “What do you see?”

“It's in the clouds!”

She cracked her eyes open, and a massive thing descended from the sky, landing on the tower in front of her. The headsman was knocked off his feet by the impact.

She'd never seen one, had never believed they existed.

But even she could identify it.

“Dragon!”