Chapter 466: Execution Site
[TL: Asuka]
[PR: Ash]
A yellow ball of flames hung high in the horizon, raining down rays of warmth onto the land. A horse carriage—filled with passengers—slowly clopped through a stony path set between shrubbery and low walls.
But perhaps calling it a horse carriage was a resplendent overstatement. It was little more than a cart used to carry hay and wood. And what an ancient cart it was. Its paint had peeled off, its body was filled with broken splinters, and the wooden boards on the sides had cracks on them. As its wheels rolled across the ground and gravel, grating screams would flare up into the air, perhaps telling its passengers that this old cart could go on no further.
The coachman was in a brown, sleeveless leather jacket, and a leather helm hung on his head. He had a stern look on his face, a sword hanging from his girdle.
Five criminals sat in the back of the carriage, their hands tied with sturdy ropes. One of them even had a piece of white, tattered cloth tied around his mouth. Among these criminals was one man named Flynn. Sturdy Flynn. With black hair and brown eyes, but a nondescript face. Much like his looks, Flynn was a boring—yet honest—man.
And Flynn had a question. He was but a regular lad from a regular village. All he did that day was stroll around the wilderness, but then a group of armed empire soldiers arrested him and chucked him onto a carriage, taking him gods-knew-where. Where are they taking me? And why?
“Blasted Stormcloaks! If it weren’t for them, Skyrim would’ve been a sanctuary. Nobody’s gonna come for us. Would’ve been a good life, but it’s all ruined!”
An unkempt, angry man across Flynn was going into a tirade. His clothes were in tatters and had patches, and so were his pants. Gaunt was his face, but fury had the energy to creep into his eyes nonetheless. “If it weren’t for them going around searching for rebels, I would’ve gotten myself a horse and run away to Hamemrfell. Could’ve reached there soon, but blast that. Hey, you. Yeah, you and that sleeping kid beside you.” He looked at Flynn. “None of us should be here. It’s the Stormcloak the empire wants.”
Flynn nodded. For most of his life, he had been a lonely tramp, wandering from one place to another. News of the Stormcloaks went around these parts of the land, but not once had he seen a Stormcloak.
He thought the rebels would never come all the way to Skyrim, not at least in his lifetime. But he thought wrong. In a twist of fate, he ran into the rebels and was caught by the Imperial Legion under the suspicion of being an accomplice. They look no different from the common folk. Why’d they even rebel against the empire? Shoulda stayed home and became a farmer.
Flynn turned his attention to his left. There, a bizarre young man was resting on his shoulder. He was incredibly handsome, to say the least. His skin was smoother and more supple than the most beautiful woman in their village. And this young man had peculiar ears. Pointy ears. Ears that most definitely did not belong to a Nordling.
Unlike his beautiful countenance, however, this lad shared the same misfortune as Flynn. He was found unconscious in the wilderness, perhaps from an illness. And the soldiers took him to make up the numbers.
A man with unkempt blonde hair and a chiseled face scanned his fellow criminals. He was a bona fide Stormcloak, and this man chastised, “We’re in the same boat now, thief. Instead of complaining about your life, try making some friends. Might be your last chance doing so. Name’s Ralof. What’s yours?”
“Lokir.” The thug nodded up at Flynn. “What’s your name, country boy?”
“Flynn.”
“And that one beside you? Wake him up.”
Flynn patted the cheek of that young man, but he did not wake.
“Fine. Let him sleep. It’s probably better for him in this situation. What’s his deal, then? He looks even worse than us.” Lokir looked at the man in silver chainmail and a black cloak. Despite his mouth being gagged, the man radiated regality.
“Watch your tongue, cur,” Ralof berated. “You are in the presence of the revered Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak.”
“The legendary Jarl of Windhelm? The leader of the rebels? Even he’s captured?” All the color was drained from Lokir’s face. “We’re in the company of the empires number one fugitive? Where are they taking us? To the execution site?”
Calmly, Ralof said, “I can feel the Sovngarde awaiting my arrival.”
“O Thor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh… Gods, please, deliver me from this fate!”
***
Flynn inhaled sharply, his mind buzzing in disbelief. “We’re going to the chopping block?” Shocked, he said, “No! I’m innocent. I’m not even a part of the rebellion! I’ve done nothing but live my life abiding by the law! What did I do wrong?”
“Right and wrong don’t matter to the Imperial Legion.” Lokir heaved a sigh of resignation. “I ain’t gotten married yet. Single and no kids. I have it worse.”
Lokir and Ralof started a conversation, but Flynn did not register a single word in his head. His eyes were staring into the distance, but there was not a glimmer of light within them.
The carriage moved into a narrow passage flanked by stone walls and wooden shacks. Soon enough, they entered a stark, quiet village surrounded by stone walls and fields of vegetables. Here and there, houses made of hay and wood stood.
Up the slope went the carriage, slowly taking the criminals into the center of the village, where the cylindrical tower loomed. Children who were engaged in a game of chase with their dogs stood before their houses, talking about the carriage in curiosity. The criminals had no doubt these children would hurl any pebbles or greens they could get their hands on. Fortunately for them, these children had nothing to pick up.
“Ah, Helgen. Got an old flame here. Wonder if Vilod’s still making his special mead. It’s got juniper berries mixed in.”
“Not like you’ll ever get the chance to taste it again,” Lokir snapped.
And then the wheels stopped turning.
“H-Hold it.” Fear crept into Lokir’s voice. “Why’s the carriage stopping?”
“You know why.” Ralof stood up, a smile curling his lips. “Come. Sovngarde awaits.”
Ulfric hopped off the carriage first, earning him the attention of all Imperial soldiers. They wore sleeveless leather armor and faulds covering their knees. Their calves were exposed to the elements, and a sword hung from their girdles, while a bow was strapped to their backs.
Two soldiers stood near the carriage. The one on the left was the captain. A woman. She donned a flashier armor and a pair of long iron boots. On her right stood a man. He crossed out a name in his book. As the Jarl of Windhelm approached him, the man announced, “Ulfric Stormcloak!”
The Jarl strode past the soldiers, making his way to the chopping block before that looming tower, the resolve in his eyes never wavering.
“It has been an honor serving you, Jarl!” Ralof stopped talking and shouted after his leader, sending him off to his demise.
“Ralof of Riverwood!” The clerk gazed at the blond man, but Ralof ignored him. Like a man about to be bestowed upon the highest honor, he held his head high as he walked toward his death.
The clerk shook his head imperceptibly and continued, “Lokir of Rorikstead!”
The thug’s eyes darted around him nervously. “This is a big mistake! I’m not a rebel. You can’t kill me!” Lokir let out a guttural, hysterical roar and charged into the distance, thinking he could escape.
And then he fell headfirst to the ground, an arrow buried in his back. With every passing moment, his breathing weakened.
“Anyone else want to have a taste of my arrow?” The captain sneered, her gaze as cold as the winter winds.
And Flynn dashed his idea of escape. He gulped nervously, a look of struggle creeping onto his face. Getting shot by an arrow looks like a painful way to die. Perhaps a clean death is better. He turned his attention to the lad who was resting his head on his shoulder. His breathing was clearly getting heavier, and his eyelashes fluttered. He’s going to wake soon. Perhaps I can use him to fend off these soldiers?
“Hey, you. Raise the head of that man beside you.” Hadvar cut off Flynn’s train of thoughts. He scanned through his list and looked at Flynn and the young man once more, his eyes laden with surprise. “Captain, they’re not on the list. Should we let them go?”
“The list matters not,” the captain said. “Take them away. Off with their heads.”
“I see.” Hadvar gave the men an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. But at least you’ll die in your homeland. Hold your friend steady, but do not wake him up. Just let him go in peace.”
He’s not my friend! I need to run! Flynn roared silently. Alas, a dozen soldiers had their eyes on him, their bows ready to fire the moment he tried to escape. A pallid, terrified Flynn followed the captain to the execution site. There, a dozen death rows stood in a circle, and Flynn stood at the end of the line, still holding up the sleeping lad.
Standing before Ulfric was an old, balding man with a face resembling the moon’s surface. With a victorious tone, he judged, “Ulfric Stormcloak, some misguided souls in Helgen call you their hero still, but a hero would never have used their Dragon Shout to usurp the throne of our exalted emperor. Yet that was a crime you committed.”
The burly Jarl of Windhelm snarled like a dog who was held by his nape, with no way to escape.
“You are the reason this civil war came to be. You have plunged Skyrim into chaos, taking the lives of countless innocents. Words alone are insufficient to encompass your crimes. And now I announce your and your accomplices’ execution! May your deaths return peace to Skyrim!”
All of a sudden, some of the audience stared up into the skies, though there was nothing there. And yet, they heard something rattling in the distance.
Hadvar looked into the heavens, muttering, “What is that?”
“It matters not. Nothing can save Ulfric. Resume the execution!” The old man swung his arm down and hurried to the edge of the execution site, where a burly executioner stood. In his hands was a long axe. And the hooded priestess in a gold silk robe chanted her prayers sonorously.
“I pray to you, the Eight Divines, that these souls shall march peacefully into the afterlife. You are the salt and soil of Nirn, O our beloved—”
“The Nine Divines! The great Talos is one of them as well! That’s enough prayers. Just get it over with!”
To Flynn’s surprise, a blue-cloaked rebel strode past the death-row inmates and stood atop the stage of the chopping block even before Ulfric could. It almost felt like he was in a hurry to die. The lad doesn’t even look older than twenty. Is he in a hurry to die? Or is he trying to do something else?
“My ancestors are waiting for me with open arms. What about yours, Imperial soldiers and betrayer of Talos?” Even though the Stormcloak’s neck was already resting on the chopping block, the man gave a brave speech.
And then the executioner brought his axe down onto the rebel’s nape. A decapitated head fell to the ground, its eyes still wide open, and blood spurted into the trough before the chopping block.
“Gods, no!”
Despair welled within the hearts of Flynn and his fellow death-row inmates, and they made peace with the gods, though they wondered who would be next.
Suddenly, Flynn felt his shoulder shudder. The unconscious lad was pushed ahead, and a soldier led him to the chopping block. Guilt filled Flynn’s eyes. “Sorry, mate. I can’t save you. Not when I can’t even save myself.”
The executioner held up his axe, sucking in as he prepared himself to take yet another life. Just when he was about to swing his axe down, something stopped him. Something terrifying.
“Fus Ro Dah!” A great and terrible roar shook the firmament, assailing the townspeople’s minds with a thousand invisible knives.
The executioner stopped midway through the execution. He put his axe down and looked around. Everyone in the site raised their heads as well, their eyes filled with confusion.
“What in gods is that?”
Gasps and shouts echoed in the air. A gigantic silhouette reared its head from behind the clouds in the skies. It unfurled its wings—dark as night—and swept across the heavens, covering the lands with its shadow. The silhouette flapped its wings once, twice, and then it shot into the skies only to plummet down at devastating speeds.
Its shadow loomed over everyone’s hearts, and the air itself seemed to freeze, making the townspeople’s teeth chatter.
“What do you see, sentry?” the old general bellowed.
A dull thud boomed across the air as dust and debris fell from the stone tower. A scaly, terrifying creature landed on the top of that tower, crouching upon it. The sentry was smashed into a pancake under its tremendous weight, and the creature’s spiky wings covered half of the tower underneath.
It craned its serpentlike neck forward, revealing a terrible, reptilian head covered in tough black scales and horns. Its eyes were wild, feral, and primal.
“A dragon!” some of the soldiers shouted in fear.
The dragon responded with a roar, sending cold shudders down everyone’s spine. There was… incredible power within that shout. That shout could command all the powers of the world. Even the skies. And the skies changed. Crimson clouds filled the firmament, flames licking the land, spiraling like whirlpools.
A rain of meteors fell from the clouds, hurtling down at blinding speeds. The meteors crashed into the ground, sending sparks and smoke flying everywhere. A beautiful hamlet started burning, the flames surrounding all the inmates, soldiers, and townsfolk within the execution site.
And they were the fortunate ones. Many were smashed and charred by the falling rocks.
“Ro Dah!” The dragon opened its maw and screeched at the people. Shockwaves undulated across the town, toppling the soldiers around the execution site. What was once a solemn, somber place was now in shambles.
“What are you waiting for, lads? This is our chance! Come with me!” Ulfric led Ralof and their rebels into the tower beneath that dragon.
Flynn wanted to follow as well, but that strange man was still lying unconscious on the chopping block. If he were to abandon the man, only death would await him. “Dammit!”
And thus, Flynn did something he would brag about for many years down the line. With his tied-up hands, Flynn held the man by the neck and dragged him into the tower like he was deadweight.
Once he reached safety, Flynn let the man go, huffing and puffing. The exhaustion he felt almost knocked him out. Dammit, this is going to be a long day. A dragon showed up out of nowhere, summoned a meteor rain, and now I followed the Stormcloaks into this tower. And I risked my life saving a stranger. Flynn could imagine how his life would look decades down the line. He would be sitting beside a fireplace, telling his grandchildren about this fateful day in his life. That’s going to make for a great story. That much is enough. Any more of this, and I might actually die.
***
When he finally saw whose company he was in, Flynn was horrified. Ralof of Riverwood, Ulfric, the Jarl of Windhelm, and a group of Stormcloaks were there. But not a single Imperial was seen.
An unsettled Ralof asked, “Jarl, you’ve seen a lot in your life. Was… Was that really the creature of legends?” He picked up a sword and cut off the rope tying Flynn up.
“Dragons don’t level towns,” Ulfric answered, his voice deep, his gaze calm. “That thing is going to destroy this tower soon. This is not a safe place. We need to escape this town.” And he ascended the tower.
Ralof turned around, smiling at Flynn. “You’re Flynn, aren’t you? And what’s your friend’s name?”
Flynn didn’t answer.
“I saw everything. You’re a good man. You were in as much danger as he was, and yet you still saved him.” Ralof patted his shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re leaving this place.”
Ralof ascended the spiral staircase. Flynn deliberated over the decision and realized he had no choice but to follow them. And the Stormcloaks have no reason to hurt me. I’m a nobody. He held the stranger up and, with difficulty, climbed the stairs.
The rocky climb, the shouting, the pelting of meteor, and the rustles from the tower’s top finally woke the stranger. He grunted, and his eyes snapped open. Flynn looked at the man, and he was greeted by a pair of dark gold and silver eyes.
The stranger said something incomprehensible, and then a silhouette appeared beyond the hole on the wall, its shadow covering Flynn and the stranger.
Chapter 466: Execution Site
[TL: Asuka]
[PR: Ash]
A yellow ball of flames hung high in the horizon, raining down rays of warmth onto the land. A horse carriage—filled with passengers—slowly clopped through a stony path set between shrubbery and low walls.
But perhaps calling it a horse carriage was a resplendent overstatement. It was little more than a cart used to carry hay and wood. And what an ancient cart it was. Its paint had peeled off, its body was filled with broken splinters, and the wooden boards on the sides had cracks on them. As its wheels rolled across the ground and gravel, grating screams would flare up into the air, perhaps telling its passengers that this old cart could go on no further.
The coachman was in a brown, sleeveless leather jacket, and a leather helm hung on his head. He had a stern look on his face, a sword hanging from his girdle.
Five criminals sat in the back of the carriage, their hands tied with sturdy ropes. One of them even had a piece of white, tattered cloth tied around his mouth. Among these criminals was one man named Flynn. Sturdy Flynn. With black hair and brown eyes, but a nondescript face. Much like his looks, Flynn was a boring—yet honest—man.
And Flynn had a question. He was but a regular lad from a regular village. All he did that day was stroll around the wilderness, but then a group of armed empire soldiers arrested him and chucked him onto a carriage, taking him gods-knew-where. Where are they taking me? And why?
“Blasted Stormcloaks! If it weren’t for them, Skyrim would’ve been a sanctuary. Nobody’s gonna come for us. Would’ve been a good life, but it’s all ruined!”
An unkempt, angry man across Flynn was going into a tirade. His clothes were in tatters and had patches, and so were his pants. Gaunt was his face, but fury had the energy to creep into his eyes nonetheless. “If it weren’t for them going around searching for rebels, I would’ve gotten myself a horse and run away to Hamemrfell. Could’ve reached there soon, but blast that. Hey, you. Yeah, you and that sleeping kid beside you.” He looked at Flynn. “None of us should be here. It’s the Stormcloak the empire wants.”
Flynn nodded. For most of his life, he had been a lonely tramp, wandering from one place to another. News of the Stormcloaks went around these parts of the land, but not once had he seen a Stormcloak.
He thought the rebels would never come all the way to Skyrim, not at least in his lifetime. But he thought wrong. In a twist of fate, he ran into the rebels and was caught by the Imperial Legion under the suspicion of being an accomplice. They look no different from the common folk. Why’d they even rebel against the empire? Shoulda stayed home and became a farmer.
Flynn turned his attention to his left. There, a bizarre young man was resting on his shoulder. He was incredibly handsome, to say the least. His skin was smoother and more supple than the most beautiful woman in their village. And this young man had peculiar ears. Pointy ears. Ears that most definitely did not belong to a Nordling.
Unlike his beautiful countenance, however, this lad shared the same misfortune as Flynn. He was found unconscious in the wilderness, perhaps from an illness. And the soldiers took him to make up the numbers.
A man with unkempt blonde hair and a chiseled face scanned his fellow criminals. He was a bona fide Stormcloak, and this man chastised, “We’re in the same boat now, thief. Instead of complaining about your life, try making some friends. Might be your last chance doing so. Name’s Ralof. What’s yours?”
“Lokir.” The thug nodded up at Flynn. “What’s your name, country boy?”
“Flynn.”
“And that one beside you? Wake him up.”
Flynn patted the cheek of that young man, but he did not wake.
“Fine. Let him sleep. It’s probably better for him in this situation. What’s his deal, then? He looks even worse than us.” Lokir looked at the man in silver chainmail and a black cloak. Despite his mouth being gagged, the man radiated regality.
“Watch your tongue, cur,” Ralof berated. “You are in the presence of the revered Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak.”
“The legendary Jarl of Windhelm? The leader of the rebels? Even he’s captured?” All the color was drained from Lokir’s face. “We’re in the company of the empires number one fugitive? Where are they taking us? To the execution site?”
Calmly, Ralof said, “I can feel the Sovngarde awaiting my arrival.”
“O Thor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh… Gods, please, deliver me from this fate!”
***
Flynn inhaled sharply, his mind buzzing in disbelief. “We’re going to the chopping block?” Shocked, he said, “No! I’m innocent. I’m not even a part of the rebellion! I’ve done nothing but live my life abiding by the law! What did I do wrong?”
“Right and wrong don’t matter to the Imperial Legion.” Lokir heaved a sigh of resignation. “I ain’t gotten married yet. Single and no kids. I have it worse.”
Lokir and Ralof started a conversation, but Flynn did not register a single word in his head. His eyes were staring into the distance, but there was not a glimmer of light within them.
The carriage moved into a narrow passage flanked by stone walls and wooden shacks. Soon enough, they entered a stark, quiet village surrounded by stone walls and fields of vegetables. Here and there, houses made of hay and wood stood.
Up the slope went the carriage, slowly taking the criminals into the center of the village, where the cylindrical tower loomed. Children who were engaged in a game of chase with their dogs stood before their houses, talking about the carriage in curiosity. The criminals had no doubt these children would hurl any pebbles or greens they could get their hands on. Fortunately for them, these children had nothing to pick up.
“Ah, Helgen. Got an old flame here. Wonder if Vilod’s still making his special mead. It’s got juniper berries mixed in.”
“Not like you’ll ever get the chance to taste it again,” Lokir snapped.
And then the wheels stopped turning.
“H-Hold it.” Fear crept into Lokir’s voice. “Why’s the carriage stopping?”
“You know why.” Ralof stood up, a smile curling his lips. “Come. Sovngarde awaits.”
Ulfric hopped off the carriage first, earning him the attention of all Imperial soldiers. They wore sleeveless leather armor and faulds covering their knees. Their calves were exposed to the elements, and a sword hung from their girdles, while a bow was strapped to their backs.
Two soldiers stood near the carriage. The one on the left was the captain. A woman. She donned a flashier armor and a pair of long iron boots. On her right stood a man. He crossed out a name in his book. As the Jarl of Windhelm approached him, the man announced, “Ulfric Stormcloak!”
The Jarl strode past the soldiers, making his way to the chopping block before that looming tower, the resolve in his eyes never wavering.
“It has been an honor serving you, Jarl!” Ralof stopped talking and shouted after his leader, sending him off to his demise.
“Ralof of Riverwood!” The clerk gazed at the blond man, but Ralof ignored him. Like a man about to be bestowed upon the highest honor, he held his head high as he walked toward his death.
The clerk shook his head imperceptibly and continued, “Lokir of Rorikstead!”
The thug’s eyes darted around him nervously. “This is a big mistake! I’m not a rebel. You can’t kill me!” Lokir let out a guttural, hysterical roar and charged into the distance, thinking he could escape.
And then he fell headfirst to the ground, an arrow buried in his back. With every passing moment, his breathing weakened.
“Anyone else want to have a taste of my arrow?” The captain sneered, her gaze as cold as the winter winds.
And Flynn dashed his idea of escape. He gulped nervously, a look of struggle creeping onto his face. Getting shot by an arrow looks like a painful way to die. Perhaps a clean death is better. He turned his attention to the lad who was resting his head on his shoulder. His breathing was clearly getting heavier, and his eyelashes fluttered. He’s going to wake soon. Perhaps I can use him to fend off these soldiers?
“Hey, you. Raise the head of that man beside you.” Hadvar cut off Flynn’s train of thoughts. He scanned through his list and looked at Flynn and the young man once more, his eyes laden with surprise. “Captain, they’re not on the list. Should we let them go?”
“The list matters not,” the captain said. “Take them away. Off with their heads.”
“I see.” Hadvar gave the men an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. But at least you’ll die in your homeland. Hold your friend steady, but do not wake him up. Just let him go in peace.”
He’s not my friend! I need to run! Flynn roared silently. Alas, a dozen soldiers had their eyes on him, their bows ready to fire the moment he tried to escape. A pallid, terrified Flynn followed the captain to the execution site. There, a dozen death rows stood in a circle, and Flynn stood at the end of the line, still holding up the sleeping lad.
Standing before Ulfric was an old, balding man with a face resembling the moon’s surface. With a victorious tone, he judged, “Ulfric Stormcloak, some misguided souls in Helgen call you their hero still, but a hero would never have used their Dragon Shout to usurp the throne of our exalted emperor. Yet that was a crime you committed.”
The burly Jarl of Windhelm snarled like a dog who was held by his nape, with no way to escape.
“You are the reason this civil war came to be. You have plunged Skyrim into chaos, taking the lives of countless innocents. Words alone are insufficient to encompass your crimes. And now I announce your and your accomplices’ execution! May your deaths return peace to Skyrim!”
All of a sudden, some of the audience stared up into the skies, though there was nothing there. And yet, they heard something rattling in the distance.
Hadvar looked into the heavens, muttering, “What is that?”
“It matters not. Nothing can save Ulfric. Resume the execution!” The old man swung his arm down and hurried to the edge of the execution site, where a burly executioner stood. In his hands was a long axe. And the hooded priestess in a gold silk robe chanted her prayers sonorously.
“I pray to you, the Eight Divines, that these souls shall march peacefully into the afterlife. You are the salt and soil of Nirn, O our beloved—”
“The Nine Divines! The great Talos is one of them as well! That’s enough prayers. Just get it over with!”
To Flynn’s surprise, a blue-cloaked rebel strode past the death-row inmates and stood atop the stage of the chopping block even before Ulfric could. It almost felt like he was in a hurry to die. The lad doesn’t even look older than twenty. Is he in a hurry to die? Or is he trying to do something else?
“My ancestors are waiting for me with open arms. What about yours, Imperial soldiers and betrayer of Talos?” Even though the Stormcloak’s neck was already resting on the chopping block, the man gave a brave speech.
And then the executioner brought his axe down onto the rebel’s nape. A decapitated head fell to the ground, its eyes still wide open, and blood spurted into the trough before the chopping block.
“Gods, no!”
Despair welled within the hearts of Flynn and his fellow death-row inmates, and they made peace with the gods, though they wondered who would be next.
Suddenly, Flynn felt his shoulder shudder. The unconscious lad was pushed ahead, and a soldier led him to the chopping block. Guilt filled Flynn’s eyes. “Sorry, mate. I can’t save you. Not when I can’t even save myself.”
The executioner held up his axe, sucking in as he prepared himself to take yet another life. Just when he was about to swing his axe down, something stopped him. Something terrifying.
“Fus Ro Dah!” A great and terrible roar shook the firmament, assailing the townspeople’s minds with a thousand invisible knives.
The executioner stopped midway through the execution. He put his axe down and looked around. Everyone in the site raised their heads as well, their eyes filled with confusion.
“What in gods is that?”
Gasps and shouts echoed in the air. A gigantic silhouette reared its head from behind the clouds in the skies. It unfurled its wings—dark as night—and swept across the heavens, covering the lands with its shadow. The silhouette flapped its wings once, twice, and then it shot into the skies only to plummet down at devastating speeds.
Its shadow loomed over everyone’s hearts, and the air itself seemed to freeze, making the townspeople’s teeth chatter.
“What do you see, sentry?” the old general bellowed.
A dull thud boomed across the air as dust and debris fell from the stone tower. A scaly, terrifying creature landed on the top of that tower, crouching upon it. The sentry was smashed into a pancake under its tremendous weight, and the creature’s spiky wings covered half of the tower underneath.
It craned its serpentlike neck forward, revealing a terrible, reptilian head covered in tough black scales and horns. Its eyes were wild, feral, and primal.
“A dragon!” some of the soldiers shouted in fear.
The dragon responded with a roar, sending cold shudders down everyone’s spine. There was… incredible power within that shout. That shout could command all the powers of the world. Even the skies. And the skies changed. Crimson clouds filled the firmament, flames licking the land, spiraling like whirlpools.
A rain of meteors fell from the clouds, hurtling down at blinding speeds. The meteors crashed into the ground, sending sparks and smoke flying everywhere. A beautiful hamlet started burning, the flames surrounding all the inmates, soldiers, and townsfolk within the execution site.
And they were the fortunate ones. Many were smashed and charred by the falling rocks.
“Ro Dah!” The dragon opened its maw and screeched at the people. Shockwaves undulated across the town, toppling the soldiers around the execution site. What was once a solemn, somber place was now in shambles.
“What are you waiting for, lads? This is our chance! Come with me!” Ulfric led Ralof and their rebels into the tower beneath that dragon.
Flynn wanted to follow as well, but that strange man was still lying unconscious on the chopping block. If he were to abandon the man, only death would await him. “Dammit!”
And thus, Flynn did something he would brag about for many years down the line. With his tied-up hands, Flynn held the man by the neck and dragged him into the tower like he was deadweight.
Once he reached safety, Flynn let the man go, huffing and puffing. The exhaustion he felt almost knocked him out. Dammit, this is going to be a long day. A dragon showed up out of nowhere, summoned a meteor rain, and now I followed the Stormcloaks into this tower. And I risked my life saving a stranger. Flynn could imagine how his life would look decades down the line. He would be sitting beside a fireplace, telling his grandchildren about this fateful day in his life. That’s going to make for a great story. That much is enough. Any more of this, and I might actually die.
***
When he finally saw whose company he was in, Flynn was horrified. Ralof of Riverwood, Ulfric, the Jarl of Windhelm, and a group of Stormcloaks were there. But not a single Imperial was seen.
An unsettled Ralof asked, “Jarl, you’ve seen a lot in your life. Was… Was that really the creature of legends?” He picked up a sword and cut off the rope tying Flynn up.
“Dragons don’t level towns,” Ulfric answered, his voice deep, his gaze calm. “That thing is going to destroy this tower soon. This is not a safe place. We need to escape this town.” And he ascended the tower.
Ralof turned around, smiling at Flynn. “You’re Flynn, aren’t you? And what’s your friend’s name?”
Flynn didn’t answer.
“I saw everything. You’re a good man. You were in as much danger as he was, and yet you still saved him.” Ralof patted his shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re leaving this place.”
Ralof ascended the spiral staircase. Flynn deliberated over the decision and realized he had no choice but to follow them. And the Stormcloaks have no reason to hurt me. I’m a nobody. He held the stranger up and, with difficulty, climbed the stairs.
The rocky climb, the shouting, the pelting of meteor, and the rustles from the tower’s top finally woke the stranger. He grunted, and his eyes snapped open. Flynn looked at the man, and he was greeted by a pair of dark gold and silver eyes.
The stranger said something incomprehensible, and then a silhouette appeared beyond the hole on the wall, its shadow covering Flynn and the stranger.
