Chapter Text
He awakens to the sharp, pounding sound of heavy hooves against a rough dirt road, the feeling of ice-chilled wind lightly blowing through his hair, and the aching soreness in his body where his ass meets the hard wooden seat of what feels like a moving carriage… and the worst headache he has ever had.
His thoughts are sluggish in his aching brain, but Wooyoung is nearly a master at gleaning his whereabouts without ever opening his eyes. A talent he has picked up from his past few years of impressive alcohol consumption. Even through his blinding headache, he can tell that his wrists are tied in front of him. He quietly wriggles his arms in their binds to test them, and winces at the chafe. It feels like rough rope. If he can get away, it shouldn’t be too difficult to break free.
Judging by the weather, he is still in Skyrim. In other words, it’s fucking freezing. Whoever put him in this carriage didn’t bother to let him keep his winter cloak. He can hear the sounds of men yelling to each other over the din of horses and wooden wheels trudging along. They’re not angry, but commanding and militant. It reminds him of his childhood in the Imperial City, and he shivers at the thought. Maybe his parents finally got fed up waiting for him to ‘get his head on straight’ and sent for him. Gods, he hopes not.
He takes a moment to try and remember where he was before he passed out. It’s foggy and feels like a strain to reach for the memories, but they start trickling in slowly. He had been on his way to Riften from Falkreath, travelling on recruitment rounds at Viarmo’s request. The southern roads leading to Pale Pass are commonly bustling with people, but he hadn’t met any travelers or fellow bards. It had been very strangely quiet. He sang to Brandy to fill the eerie silence, as the normally gentle mare had seemed skittish, tugging at her reins and snorting against her bit.
His head throbs. Giving up on pulling at his aching mind, Wooyoung chances cracking one eye open, not yet willing to risk giving any other sign that he is awake. The first thing he sees is another man in binds across from him. Not what he expected, if this truly is his parents’ doing. He takes in the man’s appearance; ruggedly handsome, blonde, and – shit. Judging by his tattered blue uniform, he’s a Stormcloak. Wooyoung slams his eye shut again as it all comes rushing back to him, a blur of vicious images.
As he’d come upon the border gates, a battle between the Legion and Stormcloaks had broken out so suddenly he’d barely had time to react - he’d tried to double back, but was stopped at the crossroads by a ratty looking man with dark hair and roughly yanked from atop his horse to the dirt road below. The man had scrambled into Brandy’s saddle and kicked her hard, and she’d bolted straight forward. Wooyoung had given chase, because Brandy was his only real friend in this gods-forsaken place, and had watched with great despair as a stray battle axe caught her by the neck. The idiot who had stolen her had tried to run through the fight, past the border gates and into Cyrodiil. Wooyoung had fallen to his knees, screaming as he helplessly watched her die. He’d felt a sharp strike at the back of his skull, his vision flashing a painful white… then it all went black.
He must have gotten hit from behind as he despaired over his lost companion. It explains the throbbing headache he has now. He’s been captured, then. Probably by the winning side, which means the Empire if the Stormcloak in matching binds across from him is anything to go by. He perhaps has some hope, then, since this is all a mistake and he was simply caught in the crossfire. He’s a native of Cyrodiil. Surely they won’t think him a rebel if he just explains his unfortunate circumstances… leaving out his relation to his parents, of course. That would just complicate things.
Resolving himself to try and talk his way out of this, Wooyoung finally opens his eyes and lifts his head to look around. Instantly, he winces and squints. The day is shockingly bright and cheerful for his dire circumstance, and far too much for his bruised head. The Stormcloak across from him, noticing his consciousness, addresses him right away.
“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were chasing this man across the border, right?” The handsome Stormcloak speaks in a thick Nordic accent, motioning to the raggedy dark-haired man seated beside him, who is looking very disgruntled. Sure enough, it’s the man who stole Brandy and got her brutally killed in his reckless attempt to flee Skyrim. Serves him right, ending up here. She had been a fine horse and an even better friend to Wooyoung. May she rest in peace.
“You walked right into that ambush, same as us, and your horse thief over there.” The Stormcloak continues, looking sympathetic.
“Damn you, Stormcloak. Skyrim was fine until you rebels came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been waiting for you, I could’ve been halfway to Hammerfell by now.” The thief spits with vehemence, before turning to look straight at Wooyoung with dark, beady eyes.
“You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” The grimy man finishes, making Wooyoung defensive. He is the only one who shouldn’t be here. This rat thief deserves everything coming to him.
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, asshole.” Wooyoung grinds out, bristling. He has never felt such intense disgust for another person in his life.
“We’re all brothers in binds now, thief.” The Stormcloak says, dismissive.
“Shut up back there!” The Imperial soldier driving their carriage shouts, sobering them all into brief silence. Wooyoung is content to just leave it at that, and obey the commands of the soldiers around them until he can speak to someone about being let go. There are a few minutes of silence… but, of course, this fucking lowlife thief just has to open his mouth again.
“And what’s wrong with him, then?” The skeever’s ass says, a mocking tone in his voice as he motions to another Stormcloak sitting across from him. Wooyoung takes the chance to finally take note of the captive seated beside him. His uniform is different from the Stormcloak who has been talking to them, more ornate. Maybe higher ranking, if Wooyoung had to guess. Also, strangely, he is wearing a gag. Maybe he got mouthy with the soldiers when they were captured. Wooyoung doesn’t have long to consider him, though, because the thief is suddenly met with seething anger from the Stormcloak beside him.
“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking about Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”
“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The thief asks, panic rising in his voice. The man in question, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak if the other rebel soldier is to be believed, looks at him with hard eyes above the gag that keeps him from speaking. Or maybe more importantly, shouting. If the rumors and tales Wooyoung has heard are to be believed, that is. There is surely a defiant, powerful, regal air about him.
“You’re the leader of the rebellion. But, if they’ve captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?” The thief continues, looking around, now trembling with his fear. Wooyoung understands the sentiment. If they’ve caught Ulfric, there is almost no way the Empire lets anyone present in these carts survive, Cyrodiil native or not. He’s never liked politics, much to the dismay of his family, but he understands enough to know that the Empire won’t ask questions or risk leaving any dissenters alive.
“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.” The Stormcloak says, clearly resolved to his fate. That Nordic bravery is admirable, but it won’t help Wooyoung get out of this alive, and hopefully without alerting his parents to his whereabouts.
“No! This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.” The thief says in a panic, more to himself than anyone else. He continues mumbling fearfully as the cart's occupants settle into a grim silence.
Wooyoung ignores the happenings in the wagon and takes a moment to look around and see if he can figure out where they are going. He can see what looks to be a fort ahead of them, up the road. It’s a little mountainous, but based on the trees around them, they are still in Falkreath hold. If he had to bet, he’d put his money on Helgen. Not good news.
As they continue slowly edging closer to the fort up ahead, Wooyoung’s theory is confirmed when they see the Helgen gates. A few guards come out to pull the gates open for their arrival. The huge wooden doors creak so loudly that he can hear it from pretty far up the road, and to Wooyoung it feels like the opening maw of some giant beast come to devour him. A grim thought.
“Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?” The Stormcloak asks quietly, breaking the silence.
“Why do you care?” The thief shoots back, defensive.
“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” The Stormcloak replies simply, giving him meaningful eyes. The thief is quiet for a long moment, but as they come up on the gates, he quietly responds;
“Rorikstead. I’m… I’m from Rorikstead.” He sounds defeated.
After they pull through the gates, Wooyoung can see several people sitting on horses who seem to be waiting for them. A tall female high elf… judging by the sleek black and gold robes and distinct air of superiority, a Thalmor. There is also a shorter man in an Imperial general’s uniform, looking decidedly unamused. They are backed by what looks to be several high ranking Legion soldiers. Based on the heavy military presence, it’s safe to say they aren’t bringing the captured prisoners here merely to hold them. No, this is much worse. A soldier runs up on foot to alert the general of Wooyoung’s sinking suspicion, and his stomach drops directly into his ass.
“General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!”
“Good. Let’s get this over with.” General Tullius replies tersely, and leads his horse off somewhere, tailed by his entourage.
Wooyoung doesn’t see or hear much past those words, as panic truly starts to rise in him. He has heard of General Tullius before. He is known to be all business all the time amongst his peers in the Legion. This situation is dire, and there is nobody nearby to help him. Wooyoung has been to Helgen maybe twice during his time in Skyrim, because it’s a small and serious place that doesn’t take kindly to raffish bards like him. Not much hope in the way of recruitment for the college, so he doesn’t know anybody here. His best hope is still trying to talk his way out, but even that seems likely to be futile, given the personage he is sitting next to right now.
Dimly, Wooyoung hears the thief praying to the divines, and the Stormcloak complaining about the Thalmor presence. He hears the light voice of a child, and the deeper voice of a panicked father ordering the child inside. He feels the cart pulling to a stop, and hears the barked orders of a no-nonsense Legion captain.
He looks up, and directly across from where he is seated in the wagon is the waiting headsman standing menacingly with his axe perched next to him, the block at his feet. Wooyoung’s pounding heart is suddenly in his constricted throat, and he can barely breathe. He is rendered silent and paralyzed by the heavy realization that he very well may die here today.
Wooyoung is startled out of his motionless private panic when a Legion soldier nudges his leg, demanding he leave the wagon. He looks up and sees that the rest of the men he was brought here with are already out, standing in disarray at the edge of the cart. Unsure what else he can do, he complies, his eyes darting around as he looks for some sort of escape. He can’t die like this. He has barely lived at all. Nobody will miss him, or probably even look for him… and when the news reaches his parents, they will have confirmed that they were right about him all along; useless, ambitionless, and a traitor to the Empire.
As he is looking for any kind of exit, the soldiers bully the gathered bound captives into a rough line in front of the captain. Looking to his left, toward the waiting executioner, he sees a large grouping of Stormcloaks already waiting there.
Brandy’s thief, now roused into a full state of panic, is shouting that he isn’t a rebel and they have to let him go. The Stormcloak tells him to face his death with courage, but the thief isn’t listening. Wooyoung agrees with the asshole this time. This isn’t fair, or right, they really aren’t rebels. He watches as the thief continues his hysterics, only to be punched hard in the face by a soldier and commanded to shut up. Wooyoung winces, because he was about five seconds away from joining in with his protests, and that looks like it really hurt.
“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time.” The Imperial captain says, no room for argument in her tone. As the soldier next to her starts calling names, Wooyoung considers her with careful eyes. She is clearly in charge here.
He has always been good at reading people, so he looks at her body language to see if he might be able to convince her to let him go with the right persuasion. He takes in her hard pale-blue eyes, the stern lines that are set into her face. He looks over her perfect posture and commanding stance, and realizes with grim certainty that she is not going to help him. She reminds him of his own mother; a woman who lives in a man’s world and has been hardened by it, but succeeded within it. She will not disregard orders from on high for someone like him.
Thinking quickly, he looks to the man next to her. In an instant, Wooyoung can tell that he will have a way better chance with him. He has soft hands and softer eyes, not yet hardened by war. His voice is trying to be authoritative as he calls the names of the prisoners, but it wavers ever so slightly, like he isn’t sure he is really in a place to be giving orders. He doesn’t appear to have any significant ranking here, but Wooyoung will have to take his chances with him. A gentle soul like that is bound to have sympathies with at least some of the higher ranking soldiers.
In time, as the man reads through the list, they get to the men Wooyoung arrived here with. He learns that the man in the gag is definitely Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. If ever there was a name synonymous with bad omens, Wooyoung is sure it must be the one belonging to Windhelm’s Jarl, because all he feels as the soft-eyed soldier calls it out is an icy cold in the pit of his stomach.
The other Stormcloak soldier is apparently Ralof of Riverwood. It sounds like a classic, brave Nordic name. It suits him, Wooyoung thinks, as he tries to shake off the sick feeling that lingers from the previous name. As Ralof proudly marches off to stand next to his Jarl and await his death, the horse thief is called.
“Lokir of Rorikstead!”
Immediately, the thief, who Wooyoung now knows as Lokir, starts his panicked shouting again.
“No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” He screams, and starts to run. Wooyoung flinches as the captain turns sharply and shouts for him to halt. Lokir keeps running, making a break for the gates they came through, because they are still open. Wooyoung watches on in horror as the soldiers along the road prepare their bows, awaiting the order to kill him. The captain gives it, and Lokir is unceremoniously dropped to the ground in a rain of arrows.
Wooyoung is unable to look away as the soldiers start to drag him off the street. Lokir is not yet dead, but very clearly dying, his eyes wide and his breathing labored as he chokes on his own fluids. There is a trail of blood streaking the stone path as they drag him, and it’s darker than Wooyoung had thought it would be. He’s never seen so much at once. The gruesome scene contrasts so heavily with the beautiful sunny day that it is difficult for his mind to process. He feels sick again.
“Does anyone else feel like running?!” The captain shouts, turning back to eye the rest of the waiting prisoners, making an example of Lokir. Everyone is deathly quiet, and nobody dares to make a move. Wooyoung thinks he may throw up. He’d despised the man for what he had done, but Lokir hadn’t deserved this. Nobody does. The soldier calling names takes the continued silence from his captain as she turns back to face the line as his cue to continue. He looks at Wooyoung, then to the list, then back up. He appears confused.
“You there. Step forward.” He says as he motions to Wooyoung. Although his feet feel like they are cemented in place, he somehow manages to drag them forward, approaching the young soldier.
“Who are you?” The man asks. It would seem that it’s showtime. Wooyoung opens his mouth to speak for the first time since arriving in Helgen. His voice comes out weak at first, his throat tight.
“I’m… my name is Wooyoung. I grew up in Cheydinhal, but now I work as a recruiter for the Bard’s College in Solitude. The, uh… the man that just tried to run. He stole my horse and tried to cross the border with her, and I was trying to chase after him as the battle at the border gates was happening. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m no rebel or criminal. Viarmo at the college can vouch for me. Please, don’t let them kill me.” Wooyoung says, sounding as genuine as he possibly can manage, even with the small lies to hide where he is truly from. He lets his voice break, lets the emotion he is feeling show through. The fear he feels is visible plain as day on his face, and as he says the last sentence, his voice lowers to a near whisper as barely contained tears form in his eyes.
It’s not Wooyoung’s best work, but it does the job he meant for it to do; gain sympathy without alerting them to his parentage. He refuses, even now, to use their names to clear his own. He refuses to hand them control of his life when he has spent the entirety of it refusing to bow to their demands. If he really must die here, he will die free. Even if his mother's voice rings in his head to call him a petulant child even now.
The soldier considers his words and looks at him with kind eyes, nodding. He looks like he wants to let Wooyoung go. For a second, Wooyoung really thinks he might. But then his face morphs into a conflicted, apologetic look that makes Wooyoung’s heart sink, and he turns to the unforgiving captain at his side.
“Captain, what should we do? He’s not on the list, I think he’s telling the truth…” the soldier tries, earning him a scathing look from the captain. He goes quiet and looks down, and the captain turns those burning eyes to Wooyoung.
“He goes to the block.”