AN: Basically, I just wanted to read a fic with some great dragonbornin' all over, maybe a nice pairing because I secretly love romance. But the problem I had with the fics I found was that was everyone is writing about their OCs that I have no emotional connection to. So that got me thinking how one could make a dragonborn fic with a dragonborn everyone knows. And this is what I came up with. I'm not sure where I'm going to take this if I continue, do I just do the Whiterun bit and wing it from there or what or do I follow some questlines. I would LOVE some feedback/suggestions. Anyway here's the thing:

Prologue
"Our Hero, our Hero, claims a warrior's heart"

If this would be the end, then so be it. He wouldn't soar to Sovngarde among the honored dead from the heat of the battle. No war cries from his brothers and sisters would set his blade-torn body aflame with pride as he left this world of mortals. It was going to be here within Helgen's walls. Bound. Shoved down onto the chopping block, bowing to this miserable ruin they called Empire. His gaze wandered to his sides as they were brought to Helgen and lined up beneath the looming watchtower. At least he was among friends, brave men and women. True Nords. But he knew that they were tormented by the same burn of failure as he was. They had failed.

They had failed... Jarl Ulfric. There he stood. Proud as ever, wearing his gag and bounds like crown jewels. No regret. Still a beacon for his men even as they were lined up for death. They would die for him gladly. Every last one of them. Even if it was like this. His gaze fell to his own bound hands. There was nothing he could do. How had he thought that a simple lad from old little Riverwood could make a difference, make the people of Skyrim heard?

It was strange how calm he was, he wondered, knowing the fate that surely awaited him. The world around him was somewhat hazy, like he was already fading from it. He barely noticed being shoved forward. Barely registered Tullius speaking. His eyes wandered aimlessly and his minds rediscovers memories of the summers in Riverwood, his first trip to Whiterun, the lass here in Helgen he used to be sweet on. What finally rips his mind out of the mist of the past - along with his heart from his chest - is a face he once used to know.

"...Ralof?" he heard the faint gasp. Saw the eyes, wide and pained. He steeled himself against the memory of fondness. What right did that man have to claim to be pained? This changeling, that wore a face so familiar. If this had been the man he once called friend and loved so dearly when they ran through Riverwood together as lads he would be standing here with him bound as his brother. Not standing there wearing that gilded uniform masking a rotten cowardly husk. He refuses to meet Hadvar's' eyes.

Finally the first head falls. First of many to come. As he is grabbed and led to the block it feels like a small eternity. He feels everything, sees everything, hears everything, but nothing connects. The failure burns. A noise resembling a cry of a beast echoes through the skies, strangely befitting of his feelings. The fate of this land in the hands of these infected sears him. As his head is lowered, his only wish is to be heard. When the watchtower shakes above him and he looks up and sees the black beast, he holds no fear. The beast roars and it's Voice vibrates through him. It pierced the skies and the mountains and rains flame upon them, and from those flames he was reborn.

On the outside Ralof of Riverwood was the same man as he was when he was chained and dragged to Helgen. But when he ran to the intact watchtower to make an escape with his shieldbrothers and -sisters through the fire and chaos, a Voice had been awakened inside him.