Disclaimer of sorts: This monster of an idea has been rattling in its cage in my head for months now, so I had to put some of it down. I am most likely biting off far more than I can chew here, but I never was one to listen to my better judgement.

I am a Skyrim addict, so it's only natural that I would start fantasizing about my favorite characters showing up in my favorite game.

I am in no way an expert on either the Soul Eater verse nor the incredibly complex Elder Scrolls lore. This AU is meant to take the majority of its plot and general environs from Skyrim/Elder Scrolls and weaves in the characters from Soul Eater (all of them, hopefully) in various forms. I welcome and hope for feedback related to either verse and how well or poorly I stick to what's important. That being said, I plan to take liberties with both in the interest of telling the story. I sincerely hope I do not offend. Be gentle with my first AU!

I have no idea if this is going to turn into anything worth reading, but I do hope you follow along, review, PM, and generally give me advice when you can. You shouldn't need to know anything about Skyrim to understand what's going on, but I will try to provide explanation in the bottom of later chapters if anyone PMs me a question.

And in case anyone following Dissonance is concerned, I have another uber late chapter in the wings that I plan to have up in the next couple weeks or sooner.

Oh, and, as always, this is majorly SOMA with notes of TsuStar and possibly other pairings that tickle me. ENJOY!

Prologue

The High King of Skyrim is dead, killed, most say, by one of his own jarls. Civil war smolders in pockets across the land, dividing loyalties. TheNords claim to desire nothing more than freedom—the right to worship their mortal-turned-god. The Empire forbids it, as much out of fear of elven retribution as religious devotion. And yet there are whispers—warnings no one wants to believe—of a prophecy within the Elder Scrolls themselves. It tells of the return of the dragons, a time when the future of the world will be decided in one great battle between Asura, god of madness and destruction and a man with no name. The people will come to call him dovakiin, dragonborn, but the dragons will know him as sil naakin, soul eater.

Ch.1

kiin ko yol (born in fire)

Hearken now, sons of snow, to an age long ago.

And the tale, boldly told, of the one.

He awoke with the tang of winter in his nose—and then because of the pain. It was not the sharp pain of a fresh wound or broken bone, somehow he knew those all too intimately, though he couldn't say why. No, this was the dull throb of being twisted and contorted into shapes his body was not made for. And his head hurt—gods his head hurt.

For one terrifying moment he thought he might be blind—everything was dark and directionless. But then the dark began to lighten, and in that gray fog he recognized the chortling of a horse, and the shape and smell of such a creature and the way its breath would cloud the winter night sky came flooding back to him in a wash of images and sensations. Eventually, the swimming world broke into focus again. It prickled in his brain like a limb awakening, and he blinked through the discomfort of it and his cramped muscles, until the landscape solidified into reality—bare branches, pines, craggy rocks, and a road all dusted in snow.

Where am I?

He was on a moving wagon, that much was painfully clear. He wrists stung—rope burn. He was bound and had been for a long time judging by the numbness in his fingers.

I'm a prisoner? Lovely.

The cart jolted over a root in the road, and for the first time he noticed the person across from him. A man, broad shouldered but hunched in discomfort. He looked tough—someone somewhere in this prisoner's life would have called him "hardboiled," but he could not for the life of him remember who it was that would have said it.

In any respect, the man had had long light hair that hung in his eyes and poorly made armor—leather and tattered cloth and a bit of maille—cheap, mass-produced. Although judging from the numbness of his own arse and the chafed, wind-bitten feel of his arms, the prisoner guessed he was not particularly well dressed either.

"You're awake," the man said, looking up in astonishment. His accent was thick but oddly familiar. "They got you when you tried to cross the border. You're lucky they didn't shoot you on sight with how you look, boy."

The prisoner glanced down at himself, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His feet were bare and sore, which probably meant he had, in fact, owned shoes at some point in his life. And his sorry excuse for trousers were ripped and muddy and speckled with either dried blood or liquefied cow manure, but that didn't smack him as odd either.

"Where am I?" He coughed. His throat felt raw, like he'd swallowed hot ashes.

"You've been captured. Walked right into an Imperial ambush same as us…and that thief over there."

The prisoner turned in the direction of his gesture. The "thief," he guessed, was the thin man huddling at the end of the cart, dressed in rags and nervously digging his dirty fingers into his knees. The man beside him was an imposing figure, shoulders rivaling the mountains in breadth, in a thick fur cloak with a rag tied tightly over his mouth.

Odd. Why aren't we gagged as well?

"Goddamn Stormcloaks!" The thief grumbled suddenly. "Skyrim was fine until you lot had to start drudging up trouble. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been patrolling the borders looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now." The thief shifted his gaze and met the prisoner's stare. "You and I shouldn't even be here. We're not rebels."

I'm not? The prisoner didn't know who he was. When he tried to recall a name or a face to go with the fuzzy idea of himself all he got was a deeper headache. Obviously he didn't look like a rebel to these men. But then why had he been trying to cross the border?

"Do you—" He coughed again but the rasp remained. "Do you know who I am?"

The man with the cheap armor laughed. "Boy, she hit you pretty hard, eh?"

She? The prisoner must have looked confused because Cheap Armor nodded toward the horse and it's rider behind them.

"The scrawny blond there. She's a new recruit, I think, but she's got a hell of a chop. We saw you go down and—" He whistled respectfully.

The prisoner narrowed his eyes at the rider behind them. He could just make out her shape on the horse as it trotted in their shadow. Damn, she's small—dwarfish. He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. For some reason, the idea that something so tiny had overtaken him tweaked his choler slightly—OK, maybe more than slightly. He was obviously a man of pride.

"Anyway, looked like you two were arguing when the rest of the legion caught up to her. She might know who you are. Not that it matters, really. We're all brothers in binds now."

"Shut up, back there." The carriage driver hissed, cracking the reigns. Cheap Armor made a vulgar gesture at the back of his head.

"I'm not one of you." The thief moaned. "I don't give a skeever's arse about your war. And what the hell is his problem, anyway? Bad breath?" He kicked out at the gagged man with a bare foot.

Cheap Armor's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, you ingrate! That's Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and the true high king. Show some respect."

The thief visibly stiffened, eyes darting from Cheap Armor to the gagged prisoner. "Ulfric? The leader of the rebellion? But if they've captured you…you're…oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Cheap Armor laughed sharply. "I don't know where we're going, but I'd wager Shor's Hall awaits us…well, some of us. I've often wondered about the mead in Sovngarde—what it tastes like. Will it give you a proper headache or is it all an endless drunken stupor?"

Sovngard. That word hit every nerve in the prisoner's body. An image of a purple sky shot with lightening burned behind his eyes. He blinked it away.

The hell?

"This can't be happening. This can't be happening." The thief squirmed in his binds.

"Hey, where are you from, horse thief?" Cheap Armor asked.

"Why do you care?" He spat back.

"Because you're a Nord by your speech. And a Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

Last thoughts? The prisoner pulled at his own binds. I can't die yet. I can't die when I don't even know who I am.

"Rorikstead. I was born in Rorikstead." The thief sighed. "But I haven't been back in…" He fell silent. They all did. Because the high stone walls of a village were coming into view around a twist in the road, and a haphazardly organized mass of men and women in uniform stood at the open gates.

"General Tullius, sir. The headsman is waiting." A female soldier on horseback called. Her horse was slick with sweat and dust from the road. They'd probably rode all night to get the prisoners here—to bring them swiftly to their deaths.

A close-shaven older man appeared to their left, also on horseback, but with the molded, gold detailed cuirass of a high-ranking official. He grumbled back. "Good. Let's…get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh…divines, please help me." The thief sobbed as they passed under the gate and into the village.

I think…I think I know those names, the prisoner thought dimly. Should I pray? What good would it do if I don't even know whose soul it is I'm trying to save?

He closed his eyes and tried to peel back the fog over his memory. Those names—they meant something. An image of a room, candlelit, with long stone benches, where bearded men sat chanting soft and powerful words appeared. But it skittered across his consciousness and disappeared.

"Look at him. That pig." Cheap Armor grunted. "General Tullius, the military governor." He spat on the floor of the cart as if the taste of the words offended him. "And surprise, surprise, it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves and their trickery. I'll bet they're behind this."

Elves? The prisoner craned his neck around to try and catch a glimpse of one, but every soldier was head-to-toe armor and each looked relatively the same, give or take some detailing or a helmet. Except…he blinked though the chill wind to try and make out the tall figure who'd just ridden up alongside the man they called Tullius. The two were far behind them now, but he could tell even at this distance that the second soldier was different. His armor gleamed like gold but looked as light and flexible as cloth. He wagered it was strong and easy to move in but not as durable as a heavier iron set—good for horseback and archery, not for hand-to-hand combat.

Must be the elf. No typical Imperial soldier could afford that sort of craftsmanship. The prisoner shook his head, nearly growling in frustration. How do I know all this?

"Used to be sweet on a girl from here." Cheap Armor sighed, leaning back in the wagon and studying the old stone and thatch houses that slid past them on each side. He must have taken the prisoner's mystified look as his cue to explain because he smiled and sat forward, pointing to one particular building; a sign out front advertised mead.

"I spent a lot of time here as a youth, at that mead hall in particular. Ah, Brynn—what a lass, and with a mouth that could…well, anyway, this is Helgen. It's on the southern border in the hold of Falkreath. We're not far from Cyrodiil, actually. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in." He winked at him. "Think these old stiffs would let us out for a last pint?"

The prisoner almost laughed. Almost, because he couldn't recall the taste of mead or juniper berries. He had no idea if he'd ever tasted anything but his own dry tongue. And now, he would never find out.

A crowd was gathering. People were coming out of their homes and leaning out their windows to catch a glimpse of the rebels and their impending demise. A woman eyed them suspiciously as she tossed her wash water out onto the street. A young boy with dirty feet sat on his front porch, legs dangling, eating a sweetmeat on a stick and grinning as they passed. This must be quite a show for a small town like this.

"Funny. When I was a lad, Imperial walls and towers like these used to make me feel so safe," Cheap Armor gestured to the thick walls and guard towers that surrounded the city, protecting it from attack.

"Haming, come inside." An older man—the boy's father, no doubt—called from the doorway. The boy protested but the battle was lost as soon as his father cast him a hard look. His son would see enough of this world's true side when he got older.

Let the children have their dreams for as long as they can carry them, the prisoner recalled. It was a voice from his memory, barely above a whisper. He couldn't put a face to the words. Another bit of wisdom from sources unknown.

The cart clattered over uneven cobblestones as it entered the village center where the rest of the soldiers and a group of villagers waited. The driver pulled the horses to a stop across from a squat tower casting its shadow over a dirt courtyard. Dark flags hung to either side, still in the cold air. The headsman in his leather apron waited with his axe over one shoulder.

The prisoner felt his insides coil. If he'd had any food in his gut he'd have lost it by now.

"Get those prisoners down from there." A soldier barked; it was a woman with a molded iron breastplate. The prisoner wagered she ranked high for a custom piece like that, a captain perhaps. "Move it!" She scolded. Her underlings scrambled to clear the crowd and pull the prisoners down from the carts.

"W-why are we stopped?" The thief scrambled back as the soldiers reached for Ulfric.

"Why do you think? End of the line." Cheap Armor muttered, rising to his feet.

"No, wait!" A soldier grabbed for the thief's arm. "You can't! I'm not a rebel! Tell them, Ralof!"

"Face your death with some dignity, horse thief!" Cheap Armor—Ralof—snapped. The thief didn't hear him, or didn't care. His face was deathly white. His eyes darted wildly to the opening at the end of the cart and to the mountains beyond.

The prisoner shook his head vehemently as the thief met his eyes, glancing intentionally to the line of archers beside them. He won't make it thirty paces.

That dwarf girl—the blond who'd supposedly knocked him out—took the initiative and grabbed the thief by the bicep, yanking him to the ground. Ulfric, Ralof, and the prisoner followed of their own volition.

"There's your girl. Bit of a manly one, but she's not so bad. Bet she'd be a little saber cat in the sack." Ralof whispered loudly, nudging his shoulder. "Think you can get a quickie in before they call your name?"

The prisoner scowled. Another reminder of things he understood but couldn't quite remember and probably never would. The blond soldier tipped her hide helmet back a bit to scratch her head and he got a brief glimpse of her face in the gray light of winter. She had delicate features and huge, expressive green eyes—her pale skin flushed with cold and exertion. She wasn't ugly, if a bit angry looking.

"Step toward the block as I call your name." She commanded, her eyes dropping to the list she'd pulled from her pack and now held in front of her.

"Oh, of course. The Empire loves their damn lists, don't they princess?" Ralof muttered. The blond shot him a look but said nothing.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, of Windhelm." She called. The jarl shoved past the other prisoners, amidst a buzz of interest—gasps, shouts of "justice" and "death" from the crowd—and took his place in the group of prisoners from the other wagons already awaiting execution. Ralof nodded to him, intoning something about honor and privilege to have served. The prisoner fought back a wave of nausea.

"Ralof, of Riverwood." She called. His cart companion smiled broadly at her, winking suggestively, and joined the jarl. She rolled her eyes.

"Lokir, of Rorikstead."

The thief took a step forward, then stopped. He was shaking bodily, his bare feet stuck fast in the frosted mud even as a soldier grabbed for his arm.

"Y-you won't take me." He whispered, shooting a look over his shoulder. The prisoner caught the look, the desperation, and tried to call out, but it was too late. His words, his warning, froze in his throat. Lokir knew about the archers, he must. But he broke free anyway, pushing past the soldiers, flinging mud and rocks in his wake.

"Archers!" The captain called. The thief didn't look, didn't stop. He was running flat out now, hands still bound, tripping a bit without his arms for balance, making for the mountains that looked nearly impassable even with all limbs free and rested faculties and a good pair of boots.

It might have been a mercy, the prisoner reasoned, when the archer lazily set him in her sights and released a single arrow. It only took one. Lokir's body dropped cold fifty paces from the wall.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The captain cleared her throat and nodded back to the blond soldier reading from the list. The blond swallowed, eyes narrowing at the names in front of her. She paused, letting a breath out between her teeth, and darted a look at him.

"I'm probably not on your list." He offered a shaky smile.

"I know." She growled through clenched teeth. "You told me not to write it down."

"Me? I—" The idea sent a little shock down his spine—a slender thread of hope. She knows! I have to live. Gods, I have to find out who I am before I die.

"W-what else did I tell you? Did I tell you my name? Why I was running?"

She shook her head but it wasn't really a "no;" it was a "not here."

Gods, woman, if not here, where? My neck and that axe are about to become awfully close mates. He tried to communicate the absolute desperation and terror trembling in his gut through his eyes. She caught the look and gripped her list tighter.

"Problem, soldier?" The captain peered over the blond's shoulder at the paper.

"He's um, he's not on the list. Perhaps—"

The captain snorted, glancing up to assess him. Obviously she alone had been granted the right to decide a man's fate based on nothing more than a look. And he had been found wanting.

"Forget the list. He goes to the block." She sneered.

The blond swallowed audibly, eyes ticking back to him. He thought he caught a brief flash of pity or, perhaps, regret.

"By orders, captain. I-I'm sorry." She murmured the last part so softly he doubted anyone else heard.

"But…I. Please, at least, tell me—" He fumbled for the words that might make her release at least something of his past for him to hold on to.

His feet were stone as someone pushed him toward the group. His gut was quivering, threatening to launch him into dry heaves.

Tullius spoke up then, standing not quite to Ulfric's chin. Still, even without an imposing stature, the governor's righteous anger was written in every line of his face and the prisoner found himself shrinking back from his shadow. This was a duty, but he took no pleasure in it.

"You started this war," the governor said flatly, pressing one finger into Ulfric's chest. "But it's gotten away from you, hasn't it? Skyrim is in chaos. The people think you're a hero, even as your men pit brother against brother. How many childless mothers would you have made before you'd sated your bloody thirst? A hero—that's what these people think you are, but we know better, don't we? A hero doesn't use an unearthly power like the voice to kill his king and usurp his throne, turn his people into a writhing mass of hatred and fear. Where is your pride now, hero? What would you say if I took off that gag?"

The governor made as if to removed it, fingers curling in the air. The crowd responded in kind—some shouted curses, called for blood, others chanted Ulfric's name. Neither seemed to please Tullius. He sighed, dropped his arms and seemed to shrink in on himself before turning back to nod at the headsman and the robed woman beside him.

The woman raised her hands over her head and closed her eyes. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines upon you," she called.

Eight? Nine? Is there even one that can hear me?

He barely heard the call for the first prisoner, never registered the man's courageous last words, but the bright red plume of blood and the thud of his head hitting the basket would echo in his soul forever.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die alone with no name and no past. Like I never even existed. Why? Is this my whole purpose—to wake and then to die?

He tried to catch her eye again, she who was currently the only person in the world that might know his name. But she wouldn't look up. Standing behind him, her bangs obscured her face.

Look up. Please, look at me.

Not that it would have made a difference but, for some strange reason, he wanted—needed—to hang onto something that wasn't cold and terrifying in this moment. And her green eyes had been so soft and warm despite her harsh tone. Was it wrong to want the last eyes he met to reflect something other than hatred or indifference, even if it was regret, even if it was pity?

"Next. The Nord with the white hair."

A Nord? I am. I am a Nord. Another tiny piece of the mystery dangled in front of him, just out of reach. He would never even know his own face.

"I said, next prisoner!" The captain shouted. The blond took his arm and steered him toward the front. She was gentle, guiding his shoulder.

"Nice and easy, prisoner." She whispered, helping him kneel clumsily in the cold mud by the block, her cool hand lingering on his back.

He could smell the blood on the ground, some had pooled in the indentation in the back of the stone, meant to channel the gore cleanly into a basket on the other side. He could see bits of hair and shards of white bone clinging to the stone's edge. His vision blurred, swam. He knew he was shaking violently. He knew if he'd had a full bladder it would certainly be running down his leg now.

I don't die like this. I can't die like this. There was something, something he had to do. He could feel it with every pound of his heart in his ears.

Someone put a boot in his back—roughly pressing his chest into the gristly stone. The world tipped on its axis and he felt the wet blood, still warm, seeping into his shirt as the headsman raised his axe and blotted out the weak winter sun. But then, he thought he saw the silhouette of something monstrous, winged and black, appearing out of the clouds. It landed on the tower, talons digging into stone. But it couldn't be...

This is a dream. It's a nightmare.

"What in blazes is that?!" Someone behind him was yelling. He could feel footfalls vibrating through the dirt. People were running, screaming.

"Dragon!"

It can't be.

The monster opened its jaws and a sound like thunder rippled over him.

"YOL TOOR SHUL."

That's when his whole world caught fire.