We’re in a town somewhere; “Helgen”, I thought I heard someone say.
We’re pushed off the cart & lined up in front of some Imperial captain. She seems angry. Ulfric is gagged as well as bound.
At least the gods have granted me that mercy.
Some petty official has a list, a list of names, and he begins to read them out.
There is another who says he doesn’t belong here, another thief, a Lokir from Rorikstead.
He runs! I’m good at running; I’ve been running most of my life. Will he make it?
“ARCHERS!” the captain commands.
They shoot. He falls.
“Anyone else feel like running?!”
I did. Now I don’t.
The official is talking to me. He seems confused.
“And who…are you?”
“I am Shinb….”
I don’t even get to finish! Am I to die nameless?!
“Captain”, he interrupts, “he’s not on the list. What shall we do?”
“Forget the list: he goes to the block!”
If I somehow get through this you’ll be on my list, captain….
The Stormcloak is walked to the block, his head is pushed down onto it.
Strange noises.
It’s over quickly: axe raised, axe falls, head rolls. The Stormcloak is dead.
More strange noises.
It’s my turn. My head is pushed onto the block. It smells awful. I see the Stormcloak's head, lifeless eyes staring back at me. I close my own eyes & breathe silent prayers to whatever gods may still be listening.
That noise again, & louder - much louder!
I open my eyes. Painfully twisting my head I look up.
There’s a dragon looking down at me. A dragon. There are no such things as dragons!
Is this what death is? Or am I having a last mad dream, death-throe imaginations in a head that in reality is rolling around on the ground?
My dragon emits an ear-splitting roar. I feel its force on my face, and once again my world goes dark...
Any who may chance upon this journal – or at least the more perceptive among you – will have surmised that as I have been able to record these events that I indeed did not die. Or you have joined me in the mad imaginings of my afterlife. Either way you are correct: my story is not over!
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Or am I having a last mad dream, death-throe imaginations in a head that in reality is rolling around on the ground?
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