-Prologue-

"Papa, tell me again."

The Dunmer sighed with exasperation at his son's incessant pleas. Those Nord legends were getting more and more far-fetched. Their silly superstitions had even captured the interest of his young son.

Well, if the boy will let me work, it may be worth it to just tell him the damn story, he thought to himself. He looked to his young son and allowed himself a smile; the boy's face lit up with excitement as he settled at his father's feet. The Dunmer did his best to recall the story's plot.

Those damn Nords and their superstitious nonsense, he thought.

"Not long ago," he began, remembering the words as he went. It was his son's favorite story. He should've known it by heart. "A child was born of two northern farmers. The woman was called Isa Green-Field and her husband was Hodarr Green-Field."

His son's eyes lit up, and warmth washed over his heart.

"When the child was born, they saw that it was a daughter, so they called her Sif, like the golden maiden of legends. But the child was not golden, and she was not breathing; her hair was black as midnight and her skin was as pale as moonstone. The farmers mourned their stillborn child and buried her deep underground. Isa Green-Field became Isa Cold-Womb."

Nord names were awfully straightforward, he thought. He sighed to himself and continued.

"The next morning, Isa Cold-Womb was awoken by a terrible wail. She came outside to find her stillborn child, alive, in a bed of straw. The child's grave-mound was undisturbed, yet she was risen from it."

His son's eyes were wide with anxiousness.

"The farmers' neighbors feared that Isa Cold-Womb and her husband had been calling upon the Daedra to resurrect their stillborn daughter. They chased the farmers and their pale child from their farm."

"Where did they go, Papa?" this son interrupted, suddenly. The Dunmer cleared his throat and continued.

"They went over mountains and crossed rivers, and it is said that their child's sudden silence sent a chill through the mountains that kept even the most wicked creatures at bay." That line almost made him shiver. "They fled Skyrim into Cyrodiil, Isa Cold-Womb's homeland. The farmers and their child were never seen again, but the chill of Sif Still-Born remains-"

"-beneath the Throat of the World." The Dunmer's son had finished the story himself. Thank the Divines, thought the Dunmer, as his son thanked him and began to scramble away.

I have work to do, the Dunmer thought. I cannot be worried about these silly tales. His wife, Methala, would keep their son entertained now that he had been told his stupid story.

Just when he was turning back to his ledger, he heard his son's voice once more.

"Papa?"

He sighed. What could the boy possibly want? "Yes, Tavyn?"

"Do you think Sif Still-Born is real?" Tavyn asked, curiosity evident in his voice. He gets that from his mother, the Dunmer grudgingly thought to himself. He would have to talk to Methala about this ridiculous "Still-Born" tale.

"It's only a story, son."

"Yes, Papa."

-Years Later-

Ulfric sat, bound and gagged, wondering how he could've allowed himself to get into such a position. His eyes wandered to the cart ahead of them; full of his loyal soldiers, his Stormcloaks. They were going to the block, because of him. He was going to the block. By Talos, it was all going to end, today.

Had he fought so hard, only to have his head lopped off by the very thing he had grown to hate so passionately?

He looked to his left; there was Ralof, one of his most loyal soldiers. Ulfric was suddenly of a mind to give the boy a promotion. He almost chuckled to himself. It's a little late for that, isn't it? He thought to himself.

Next to Ralof sat another Nord, in ragged robes. His eyes kept darting back and forth, looking for a way out. He had the edginess of a thief that was finally caught. Ulfric almost felt a shred of pity for the Nord, but it was suddenly erased. The thought of the headsman's block threw a black shroud over everything else.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake," Ralof said, suddenly. Ulfric looked over to see that their fellow cart-mate had finally stirred from unconsciousness. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

So he was a thief. Ulfric had guessed right. Another small victory.

The woman that Ralof was addressing looked lazily at the thief, trying to comprehend the situation around her. It gave Ulfric a moment to observe her features.

Her skin was alabaster smooth, with the dark hair and thin cheekbones of an Imperial noblewoman, but her lips were drawn, as a Nord's would be. Her eyes were dark and appeared heavily shadowed, while the irises were as pale as her skin. Her hair was dark, as Ulfric noted before, but after looking a bit more closely he realized that it was as black as Oblivion itself. There was something almost ghostly about her. Ulfric could clearly see the Imperial features, but there was an aura of fierceness about her that almost screamed Nord.

There was a vertical scar underneath her eye, and another small scar above her lip. By the Nine, what a strange looking woman she is, Ulfric thought.

He looked away when she looked up.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief spat. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell. You there," he nodded at the woman. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Ulfric didn't hear the woman respond.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," Ralof responded. He had come to terms with his fate. A courageous boy, Ulfric thought. No, a courageous man.

"Shut up back there!" the Imperial soldier shouted from up front. All were silent for a moment.

"And what's wrong with him, huh?" Ulfric recognized the horse thief's voice, and guessed that he had pointed in his direction.

"Watch your tongue!" Ralof snapped, as loyal as ever. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king!"

Ulfric made a point to look away. He didn't want to see Ralof's face, or the fire in his eyes. He felt bad enough, leading his own men to their demise.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion," the thief said, worry building in his voice. "But if they've captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

There was silence for a moment.

"I don't know where we're going," Ralof said, quietly. "But Sovngarde awaits."

His grave honesty was met by denial from the thief. "No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" Ralof asked, trying to sway the subject.

"Why do you care?" the thief snapped. Ulfric could feel the tension mounting once more. He suddenly wondered what the captive woman was making of all this.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," Ralof replied, once again somber. Perhaps he isn't as ready as I thought he was, Ulfric thought to himself. Then again, death wasn't the easiest of things to accept.

"Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead."

Again, silence. Ulfric was thankful for it. He saw the shadow of a wall approaching, and he looked up.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" and Imperial soldier shouted forth.

"Good! Let's get this over with," came the reply. Ulfric felt a rattled sigh escape from his lungs; his heart was starting to accelerate, but not with fear. With anger. By the Nine, if only his hands weren't bound… Those Imperials would have a time pulling him away from Tullius.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!"

Ulfric was almost sure that the horse thief had never prayed to any of the Divines in his life. Death brought desperation, Ulfric reasoned in his head. The thief doesn't want to die.

Ulfric was sure that none of them really wanted to die, but they could at least face the inevitable with honor. The thief may have been a Nord, but he didn't possess the traits of Ulfric's people. Being a Nord was synonymous with being proud, being honorable, and facing even the most grueling challenges with courage.

"Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor," Ralof suddenly spoke up again. Ulfric's eyes were already fixed upon the General. He imagined the arc of an axe, and Tullius's head rolling, instead of his own. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

As their carriage crawled through the village, Ulfric heard Ralof speak up once again. "This is Helgen," he said. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making the mead with the juniper berries mixed in."

There was a brief moment of silence before Ralof continued to reminisce.

"Funny, when I was a boy," he said, hate evident behind every word. "Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Ulfric remembered a time like that. It was an impossibly distant memory, but it was there. Almost out of reach. He looked up and saw red flags, flying the Imperial sigil. He knew, in his mind and his heart, that those flags would look a lot better if they were flying the Great Bear of Eastmarch. He made a note to himself that if he got out of this alive, Falkreath hold would be his for the taking.

He was stirred from his thoughts when the carriage rattled to a stop. The thief spoke again, fear more than obvious in his voice. "Why are we stopping?"

Ulfric looked over as Ralof and the woman looked up. "Why do you think?" Ralof looked at the thief. "End of the line." He looked at the woman with a bitter smile on his face. "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." Ulfric stood up slowly, fearing for a moment that he might be thrown off balance. He hopped down the carriage ladder and felt reassured when his feet hit solid ground.

"No, wait! We're not rebels!" Ulfric heard the thief protest.

"Face your death with some courage, thief," Ralof sighed, voicing the annoyance that all of them surely felt at his cowardice.

"You've got to tell them we weren't with you!" he persisted. "This is a mistake!" Ulfric heard the thief hop down behind him.

A female Imperial captain stepped forward, clad in full armor. "Step toward the block as we call your name, one at a time!" she growled, in a commanding voice. Ulfric had a sudden desire to brandish his favorite axe and mount her head on a spike outside of Windhelm.

"Empire loves their damned lists," Ralof scowled, bringing forth a little bit of lightness. Ulfric was thankful that he was there to lend his humor.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." Ulfric cursed to himself. He should've known he would've been first. He knew Tullius was anxious to have his head on the block. If Ulfric was lucky, Tullius might've lopped it off himself. He walked forward and heard Ralof behind him. "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

As Ulfric was walking to meet his bound companions, he heard Ralof's name called. He slowed his pace a bit, to at least have the fellow Nord's company for a few moments before his untimely death. Both he and Ralof turned when they heard the thief's name being called.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Ulfric almost wished he could've warned the thief, but he wouldn't have listened to reason.

"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Lokir shouted, and began an awkward sprint towards the gate. The Imperial woman called after him, but he didn't listen.

"Archers!" she shouted, and Lokir of Rorikstead was dead. She turned back to the woman, standing alone by the carriage. Ulfric and Ralof continued their walk to the block.

"Wait, you there, step forward" Ulfric faintly heard the male Imperial say. He assumed that the woman was being spoken to. "Who… Are you?"

Ulfric strained his ears to hear the woman's response, but her reply was too quiet to discern from the surrounding noise.

"You're a long way from Cyrodiil, aren't you?" Ulfric heard the male soldier reply. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list, she goes to the block," the captain replied. Ulfric growled to himself. He would have that Imperial's head.

"By your orders," Ulfric heard the male soldier's reply. "I'm sorry that you won't be dying in your homeland." He was addressing the woman again. Ulfric didn't dare to look. He heard the woman's reply, this time.

"Skyrim is my home." Her voice was calm, content. An eerie silence followed it, as if the Imperial had nothing to say. How strange, Ulfric thought to himself. Even her voice unsettled him a bit. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, following the female captain. He was brought face to face with Tullius, and it took everything in him not to lunge forward and tear Tullius's head from his shoulders.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," Tullius began, in that distinctly Imperial accent that Ulfric had grown to hate. "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." Ulfric let out a few muffled protests. That was not his intention. He challenged Torygg in the old Nord way, and the man lost. "You started this war, and plunged Skyrim into chaos! But now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore peace!"

There was a loud, metallic roar, more disturbing than that woman's voice. It echoed off the buildings and resonated everywhere, as if it were alive. The roar was nothing like Ulfric had ever heard before. Could it have been a bear, or a troll? No. A Sabre cat? Not even close. He was sure that nothing in Skyrim could've sounded like that.

"What was that?" the female captain asked Tullius. Ulfric was glad for the roar; it silenced the General's pointless speech. Tullius looked puzzled for a moment, but shook his head and dismissed whatever thought was troubling him.

"It's nothing," he said, stepping aside. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," that damnable captain replied, in a pious voice. Ulfric vowed, for a third time, to have her head on a spike. She turned to a priestess in yellow robes. "Give them their last rights."

"As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the eight Divines-"

Not Eight! Ulfric thought, angrily. Blessings of the Nine! There are Nine Divines, you bastards!

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" one of Ulfric's fearless soldiers shouted, stomping up to the block.

"As you wish," the priestess lazily replied.

"Come on! I haven't got all morning!" the soldier growled. Ulfric watched with horror as the captain put her foot in the middle of the soldier's back and pushed him down, to face his death. The headsman raised his axe, and Ulfric's eyes locked on it. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" Ulfric's eyes followed the blade of the axe as it swung downward and severed the head of his former soldier. There was an uproar, condemning both the Imperials and Ulfric's Stormcloaks.

"As fearless in death, as he was in life," Ralof said gravely, bringing reason once more into Ulfric's thoughts. He looked over at Ralof and nodded, once again thanking Talos that there was something to be learned from this.

"Next, the half-blood in the rags!" the captain shouted. Ulfric turned to see the woman look up, with malice in her pale eyes. He should've known! The woman was half-Imperial, half-Nord. That's why her features were so strange.

The sky was shattered by another roar, but louder and more menacing. It sent involuntary shivers down Ulfric's spine. He heard murmurs from the Imperials around him, but his ears were ringing too loudly to discern any specific words.

"I said, next prisoner," the captain spat, not to be disobeyed. Ulfric watched as the captain put her foot in the middle of the woman's back and shoved her downward. The headsman raised his axe, and Ulfric decided to step forward. He was not going to allow any more innocents die for his sake, especially innocents that'd been caught in the crossfire.

A shadow passed overheard, met with General Tullius's sudden cry. "What in Oblivion is that?!"

"Sentries, what do you see?" the captain said, fear in her voice. Ulfric looked up, as what could only be a dragon, black as night, landed on the top of the Imperial tower.

"It's in the town!" one woman cried. "Dragon!"

The dragon Shouted, louder than Ulfric had ever heard before. The ground beneath him shook as black clouds gathered in the sky and swirled overhead. There was the sudden heat of fire whooshing overhead as Ulfric dropped to the ground and rolled on his side. He felt the bindings on his wrists being cut, and looked up to see a fellow Nord smiling down at him. He took the Nord's outstretched hand and was hauled to his feet.

"This way, Jarl Ulfric!" the Nord called, racing towards a stone tower to the right. Ulfric followed him, stumbling along, but quickly regained his footing. As he ran, he flexed his fingers and tore the rag from his face.

They only gagged him because they knew of his Voice.

Ulfric and the Nord ducked into the tower.

"What is your name, soldier?" Ulfric asked, as soon as the noise from outside died down and he could think properly. The Nord looked bewildered before straightening up and gathering the courage to answer Ulfric's question. Ulfric saw that the soldier was just a boy, not yet out of his teen years.

"Dorvur, sir," he saluted Ulfric with a fist over his heart. Ulfric responded with the same gesture.

"Dorvur, you have saved my life. For that, I am in your debt," Ulfric scanned their surroundings as two more Stormcloak soldiers joined them. "Before any debts can be repaid, we must find a way out of here." He looked at each and every face, making sure that he connected with them. "Alive."

Ulfric turned when he heard the door open again. Ralof stormed in, followed by the half-blood woman. Ulfric contained his joy behind a stern face.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof said, a smile lighting up his face. "Am I glad to see you! What are your orders, sir?"

Ulfric looked at every face, and he could read fear in each one, plain as day.

"Escape, with your lives," his eyes stopped on the woman's. They were pale and empty. "Talos be with you all."

Ulfric wasn't sure how they got out of Helgen alive, but the following day, he was almost to Windhelm. He and Galmar would have a bit of planning to do when he got back.