Chapter 2 - Helgen

• Posted by Footfalls February 19, 2016 - 981 views

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  Helgen

                 By the furthest frontiers of Falkreath, beneath the steadfast shadow of Snow Throat, lay the town and keep of Helgen – thatch cottages, smoldering braziers, crumbling watchtowers and all. A solitary waystation, it lay nestled between mountain peak and mountain pass, right on the border between two realms of men. But this was no backwater town: today, its well-worn roads positively bristled with Imperial banners and soldiers, all bearing the red dragon insignia of the Legion. Archers and sentries lined its wooden palisades, ready to greet any unwelcome arrivals with the appropriate amount of force. In truth, while it belonged to the province of Skyrim in name, Helgen shared more similarities with a fortified Imperial stronghold than a sleepy Nordic town.

                It was the 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201. An end to the season of feast and harvest, of spiced cider, crackling fires, and dying leaves, of the last warm breath of life before the stillness of winter. The farmers of Skyrim would be hastening to gather their crops soon: bushels of wheat, bundles of potatoes, heads of cabbages and more, storing their produce in anticipation of the coming snows. War and winter made for a poor stew, and Kyne only knew what troubles the coming months would bring. But for now, for the people of Skyrim, there was work to be done – all in preparation for the inevitable turning of the year.

                With one exception: Helgen. This morning, not one villager would be bringing in their firewood, cleaning their clothes, or in fact doing any chores at all. No, they would be watching the spectacle. After all, it wasn’t every day that a fully-fledged Imperial company rode through town, bringing along with them a line of Stormcloaks all clad in chains. There was even a general, a severe-looking Imperial observing the proceedings astride a handsome brown destrier, accompanied by a trio of high elves. The harvest could wait, this would surely be the talk of the town for years to come.

                Beyond the gathering throng, a lone figure, axe in hand, stood by a rough block of wood. Dressed in furs and wearing a sack that obscured his face save for two eye-holes, he ignored townsfolk and soldiers alike (and was given a wide berth by both). The sound of a sharpening blade filled the air as the man bided his time, waiting in anticipation for the arrival of different sort of harvest.*

                It was fast approaching.

                And it demanded an audience.

                “Who are they, daddy?” asked a voice behind me as the caravan creaked its way into Helgen. “Where are they going?” Just a young hatchling, I thought, and judging by his smooth face and piping voice, no older than twelve. The boy was sitting cross-legged on the porch of his house, eyes wide at the somber procession in front of him. His father, a muscular Nord with long, matted hair, watched impassively, arms crossed over their cottage’s railings as the condemned rolled past. His weathered face betrayed no emotion. From the cart, I stared back, intrigued.

                “You need to go inside, little cub,” the Nord said calmly, returning my curious gaze.

                “Why? I want to watch the soldiers.”

                His father’s reply was kindly, but firm. “Inside the house. Now.”

                “Yes, papa.”

                I nodded in silent approval as the boy stood and walked reluctantly indoors – his father was quite right, this was no place for children. In the meantime, a crowd was gathering, murmuring at the new arrivals, at the Stormcloaks with their stony faces, at the Imperials with their eyes of steel. At the man who was gagged, whom a cloud of rumors followed. At the mounted elves with their golden skin and slanted eyes. Even a few curious onlookers eyed the strange Argonian, the one with the black scales, and they whispered. I shifted uneasily. I doubted many people in Helgen had seen more than one of my kind in the course of their lives, but even so it felt so surreal being looked at like I was some... object. Xhuth, it was like attending my own funeral.

                The caravan came to a halt as an Imperial captain, clad in gleaming steel armor and wearing a plumed helmet came to the front. “Get those prisoners out of the carts,” she barked, motioning to her subordinates. “Move it!” Slowly, the prisoners shuffled out of their carts as the soldiers began their tally.

                “Why are we stopping?” the thief asked, the fear in his voice clear as day. The townsfolk’s murmurs had gotten louder since Ulfric’s name was called. There was an undercurrent of resentment, too.

                “Why do you think? End of the line,” came the morbid reply from the blonde as his name was called. Ralof, of Riverwood.

                “Let’s go,” said Ralof, voice hard as winter. “Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

                “No, wait!” cried the thief desperately when the soldier got to his name. Lokir, of Rorikstead. “We’re not rebels! You’ve got to tell them, we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

                “Quiet,” Ralof admonished from the line of prisoners. “Face your death with some courage, thief.”

                But Lokir didn’t seem quite ready to leave the cart, hesitating on the edge for more than a moment. “Get out, thief,” snarled one of the soldiers, shoving the unfortunate Nord off the cart and sending him sprawling onto the ground below.

                “No, I’m not a rebel!” Lokir protested, scrambling in the dirt. “You can’t do this!” He managed to get up to his feet, then suddenly broke into a sprint. “You’re not going to kill me!” Yells broke out from the group of Imperials.

                “Halt!” shouted the captain, and when it was clear Lokir wouldn’t, she called for the archers – one of them was already drawing his bow. A single arrow caught the fleeing thief through the neck, and Lokir fell to the ground with an unceremonious thud to the gasps of the townsfolk.

                “Anyone else feel like running?” the captain sneered, sweeping her gaze over the rest of the prisoners as a few soldiers dragged away the body. No one moved.

                “Wait. You there, step forward.” With Lokir gone, only I was left on the cart. One of the Imperials had noticed me.

                I stepped off, painfully aware that any wrong move would be my last. “Who are you, Argonian?” asked the soldier, eyes scanning his list. “A relative of one of the Riften dock workers?”

                “N-no, I don’t know anyone here,” I started haltingly. “My name is Jun-mei. Or Footfalls-in-Ash, in Cyrodilic. Listen, this is a mistake,” I continued, unpleasantly aware of both the pleading tone in my voice, and the feeling of déjà vu. “I come from the south, from Bruma. I’m just a hunter, not a Stormcloak.” A shade of anger crept into my voice. “Waxhuthi, do I look like a rebel to you? I’ve never even met any of these people before today!”

                The soldier gave me a considering look. "Captain. What should we do? He’s not on the list."

                I held my breath.

                "Forget the list,” the captain snapped, not even bothering to look at the parchment or myself. “He goes to the block."

                You bitch.

                "By your orders, Captain.”

                The soldier turned back to me. “I'm sorry,” he said, somehow managing to sound apologetic while I could only gawp in apoplectic shock. “We'll make sure your remains are returned to Black Marsh. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

                What choice did I have? Hands trembling with fear – or was it rage? – I joined the line of prisoners just in time to see a greying Imperial officer (General Tullius, according to Ralof earlier) come forward to address the leader of the rebellion.

                “Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm,” said Tullius in a weary tone. “For months you’ve led us on a merry chase. Well, now it’s over.” He gestured to the crowd. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

                The Voice?

                Beneath his gag, Ulfric muttered something darkly.

                Tullius’ own voice hardened. “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”

                Suddenly, a roar rang out through the valley. It seemed to come from the sky, echoing all the way down the mountain pass to Helgen. It was harsh. Powerful. Full of anger. And it sounded like no creature or beast I had ever heard before. Heads turned this way and that as the gathered crowd gazed up to the clouds apprehensively.

                “What was that?” asked a soldier finally.

                “It’s nothing,” said Tullius, seemingly unshaken. “Carry on.”

                “Yes, General Tullius,” acknowledged the captain, clasping her hand to her chest in salute. She turned to a slight young woman dressed in the hooded robes of a priest of Arkay. “Give them their last rites.”

                The priestess nodded, raising her hands towards the prisoners in prayer. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-“

                “Pah.” One of the Stormcloak prisoners spat, interrupting the priestess’ “-for you are the salt and earth of Nirn-“ and striding forth boldly towards the executioner’s block. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with.”

                The priestess frowned. “As you wish…” she said acidly, then stepped out of the way.

                The Stormcloak wasted no time in laying his head on chopping block, grunting a little as the Imperial captain shoved him down roughly with her boot. “Come on, then,” he growled, goading the executioner towering above him. “I haven’t got all morning.”

                Grasping his axe in silence, the executioner gave no indication he even heard the Stormcloak, merely raising his blade up high. The prisoner spoke his final defiant words to the sky.

                “My ancestors are smiling at me Imperials. Can you say the same?”

                Then the axe came down, severing the Stormcloak’s neck cleanly through and even biting into the wood below with a solid thunk. Blood rushed out of the Nord’s gaping stump as the Imperial captain casually kicked the now lifeless body to the side. As the Stormcloak’s head fell into a waiting wicker basket, the gathered crowd, tensed and quiet up till this moment, erupted into a cacophony of voices.

                “You Imperial bastards!”

                “Justice!”

                “Death to the Stormcloaks!”

                Ralof only shrugged stoically. “As fearless in death as he was in life,” he intoned, bowing his head.

                I let out a long breath that I hadn't realized I was holding.

                Yes, well, it’s all wonderful that you’re dying for your cause, but-

                Another roar echoed through the town. Again, that discordant cry that shook the trees – was it closer now? Heads turned towards the skies, but once again they were completely empty save for the clouds. Slowly, the echoes died down, leaving only the sound of banners flapping in the wind.

                “Next, the lizard!”

                Kaoc.

                “To the block prisoner,” directed the soldier who had taken down my name. “Nice and easy.”

                I half-started towards to the block, then paused as a thought occurred to me. No harm in trying, right? I coughed. “It’s, uh… not too late to hear my last rites, is it?” I asked hopefully, looking towards the priestess, who then looked to the captain.

                “Well-” the priestess began.

                "No." The captain interjected, patting her sword. “No more delays. Get moving lizard, before I cut you down myself.”

                Kaoc.

                I took the long walk one step at a time. Gravel crunched beneath my bare feet as I felt a rising panic slowly welling in my chest. I knelt before the block, head bowed and mouth dry as the captain’s boot on my back forced me down roughly. The slab was still sticky with gore; I felt the warmth of it on my cheek as it pressed down into the coarse, splintery wood. My own blood was pounding in my head. The executioner, axe in hand, loomed above me with blade raised. The captain had stepped away. The axe, wickedly sharp and still slick with blood, gleamed in the sunlight.

                It was the end.

                Suddenly a third roar, far louder than the first two, shook the town to its very foundations. A dark shadow fell over the square. Over the rumbling I heard Tullius' incredulous “What in Oblivion is that?” when the source of the roars was finally revealed. An enormous winged monster, scales as dark as obsidian, came soaring over the crest of the hill behind the watchtower, effortlessly covering the distance to town within a single beat of its baleful wings. Covered in jagged scythe-like protrusions from head to tail, its narrow red eyes glared malevolently at Helgen. Its horns were as sharp as sickles. Its teeth were as deadly as daggers. Its roar shook the world. The executioner had fallen to the side, insensate from the force of its landing, leaving me alone in the square to face the beast as it crowed from its perch on the watchtower.

                Its kind hadn’t been seen in millennia… and yet time had not altered its terrible, terrifyingly recognizable visage.

                The dragon roared, and the world fell apart.

   

   

  ^though it still involved heads

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