Sundas, 10:46 AM, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
When the wagon hits a ditch in the road, my face is thrown into the shoulder of the man beside me. My cheek hits pointed bone, and pain clears the fog from my mind. I am left with nothing but a throbbing headache and the chill of the wind. As I flex my arms, a length of thick rope scrapes against the skin on my wrist. My hands are bound.
“Hey you. You’re finally awake.”
Groggy, I glance up at the large blonde man seated across from me in the wagon. One of the soldiers in blue. The man on the horse, their leader, is bound and gagged beside me. My cheek throbs from striking his shoulder. “You were trying to cross the border, right?” The blond man studies me cautiously. My appearance must be even more startling to others than to myself. I am surprised that he would speak to me with such concern. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there.” I have no answer for him. I think of the altar, the ring of pillars, the frozen old man draped on top of my cold body. I shiver at the memory, one of my few.
The ‘thief’ raises his voice, angry and sharp. “Damn you, Stormcloak. Skyrim was fine until…”
As they argue, my eyes and ears wander far from the men bound in the wagon with me, and I watch the sun rise from above the mountains. We are far from where I first woke, from where I discovered the men in blue, and where the others has discovered me. The trees are different. Towering, as wide as two men. The mountains loom all around us. The wagon dips down into a valley, and my bound arms keep me from keeping my balance. I slam once again into the man next to me. My eyes drifts to the floorboards as we near our destination: a small village at the bottom of the valley.
I meet eyes with a young boy on a doorstep. His father yells at him to return to the house, but he hesitates. I study his eyes as he watches us drive by. Only when he catches sight of my face does he cower back into his father’s shadow. I gently touch at the red stains across my mouth. My fingers come back dry. I fear the bloody hand will never fade or wash away.
Amidst prayers to their gods and curses at our captors, we are hauled from the wagon one by one, tugged down onto the ground as the soldiers take our names. I don’t resist as I’m manhandled off the wagon. Two soldiers, a woman and a man in leather and mail, wait for me at the bottom of the step. The man is holding a tome in his arms, writing out some sort of tally of their catch of the day. Glancing up from the book, his eyes widen at the sight of me.
“Who are you?” I remain silent at his hesitant question, meeting his eyes coolly. I don’t answer. I can’t.
A tense moment passes as he studies me. "You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?"
With more silence as my response, he anxiously returns to his book. The woman beside him narrows her gaze at me. I am an unknown quantity.
“Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.” The man in armor whispers hoarsely to his superior.
“Forget the list.” She answers impatiently. “She goes to the block.”
“By your orders captain.” The man seems almost saddened by her order. His eye soften as he scratches a few words into the ledger. “I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock. Follow the captain, prisoner.”
High Rock. The word means nothing to me. They call me Prisoner, Breton, and other names I do not understand. This place is a stranger to me, as I am to mine own self. My life began in cold, pain, and blood. Perhaps it is fitting that it end in a similar fashion. With my hands bound, swords and death surrounding me, I have little choice in the matter.
As we are led from the wagon, the villagers and soldiers shout cruel and violent things. They wish us dead. I decide that I do not like these people. An image enters my mind, a vision, a fantasy: they are all bleeding and broken, still warm unlike the bodies at the altar, still on the dusty ground.
But I can feel that the vision is not mine. I can feel the pleasure of another at the scene of carnage, again not mine. I am frightened for the briefest of moments, but at least the bodies are silent in my mind’s eye, so that is good.
The thunk of an axe brings me back from my thoughts. A man’s head rolls on the ground several feet from its owner.
“Next, the Breton!” I watch the woman in mail, ever silent as I am marched forward . The dead man’s corpse is kicked away from the block.
I fall to me knees before they have a chance to force me down. Leaning down, I rest my head against the damp wooden slab. The wood is surprisingly warm, from the blood of its previous resident or from the now phantom sun, I cannot tell.
As the headsman’s arms rise out of my peripheral vision, I rest my eyes. The sky growls above, but I am more concerned with the warmth beneath my cheek, and the moment’s respite before the axe falls.
Soon, everything around me is in flames.
The creature from the sky…Dragon, they named it… its breath sets fire to the sky. Everything burns. The pain is excruciating, but it shocks me awake from my stupor. A heavy arm grabs me and drags me to my feet. I hear a familiar voice yelling to me in the bedlam. Through the fire, smoke, and carnage, I make out the face of the blonde man in blue armor. Still gripping my bound wrists, he leads me from the fire and into the dark. I take one last look into the fires, the bleeding and broken bodies. They are all still, as in my vision. Did Dragon hear my desire? I fear the beast, but in a dark corner of my mind, I am thankful that the cruel people have been silenced.
The door entry to the tower is slammed shut at the air catches fire once more. And once more, darkness.
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