Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For all of Juno’s megalomaniac devices and blatant hatred for humanity, Desmond thinks that it is perhaps a small kindness for her to lie about it not hurting. It reminds him of a parent ripping a Band-Aid off prematurely on the count of 2 to minimize the pain and though Desmond still hates her, he’s reluctantly grateful for her deceit the moment he touches the Eye. Unexpected pain is better than expected pain.

And it does hurt. A lot.

He can barely breathe, let alone form a coherent thought as the Eye burns him, siphoning the heat of the sun through his veins like ichor. How long it lasts, Desmond isn’t sure. All he is aware of is fire and the insistent humming in his ears growing louder and louder as the Eye pulses through him.

Endure, something urges him, voice like a combination of hundreds of thousands of millions, you must endure.

It sounds like the world and Desmond latches onto it desperately, using it as an anchor through the torrent attempting to pull him under.

His vision had long faded from the agony, yet in his mind, Desmond sees it—the Earth, shining, spinning, in the void of space and he’s almost brought to tears because more importantly, it’s safe. He wants to reach for it—surprised when he can feel himself able to, but just before he’s about to touch it, can’t help but think how strange it is that, enveloped in the sun’s glare, the Earth looks a lot like—like—

ENDURE.

The pain reaches its crescendo and Desmond screams, feeling the fire in his chest claw its way mercilessly up his throat. He begs for the end. There’s nothing he wants more than for it to end already, and just when he’s at the tipping point—

Well.

Death, as it turns out, is eerily quiet—and feels a lot like face planting onto a stone floor.

Desmond isn’t quite sure what he had been expecting in the first place, to be honest. There had been more pressing matters at the time after all (either walk away and let the world burn or sacrifice his life and stop the solar flare) so thinking about the afterlife hadn’t particularly been something to really stress out about.

(It is mostly the repercussions on those he cared about that had.)

He thinks that pearly gates would have been nice or perhaps a gleaming bar in the sky. Desmond wouldn’t have minded either—so long as they give him the respite to rest and wake as just Desmond and not the mismatched caricature of men long dead.

So it’s with some amount of disappointment then, when Desmond gathers enough of his scattered and frayed awareness, to realize that he will be granted none of that.

The air is hot like it had been in the Grand Temple, but its humming and thick with something that has Desmond’s senses feel dulled. It feels like smoke, thick and heavy as it curls lethargically in his lungs.

He tries to move, but his body is sluggish to respond. He can hardly get his eyes to open but as the seconds tick by, he at least manages to work his fingers. He explores what he can, the pads of his fingers catching uneven grooves on the ground until his pinky and ring finger smear across something warm and wet.

That’s weird.

Vaguely, Desmond knows that all of this should concern him. Juno had obviously lied to him yet again. He is very much still alive and the Eye—

Desmond’s train of thought derails.

The Eye.

Her freedom.

Ah.

And Desmond wants to laugh because that tricky, tricky bitch—but oddly enough, no feelings arise from the realization of Juno’s dishonesty. That should also concern him (he’s sane enough to know that that is not a good indication of his mental health) but the thing is, there’s nothing left in him except bone deep tiredness which makes it all the more worse because, ‘wow, I really don’t fucking care.’

That listlessness lasts all of five seconds—to which bleeds into mild annoyance, sours into frustration, and then, finally, shifts into fury.

Because of course it turns out this way. Of course his choices still end up wrong.

How funny is that?

And this time, Desmond does laugh. It bubbles in his diaphragm, tickles his raw vocal cords, and escapes in throaty hiccups. His eyes are stinging. His chest aches. The whole situation is the funniest thing in the world because Juno lied to him, she must have lied to him because he’s still alive and she’s free, and the solar flare, what about the SOLAR FLARE, HAD IT ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING—

“By oblivion!”

Desmond’s eyes snap open and at the same time that adrenaline chases the sluggishness out of his body, the temperature seems to drop several degrees. The voices in his ears cease, making him realize that the constant low hum he’s been hearing hadn’t at all been his head after all, but of that of the chanting of the black robed figures standing around him. They seem to hold their breath as he clumsily pushes himself off the ground and it takes Desmond a moment to realize that it isn’t just the ground he has been laying on, but a ritualistic satanic pentagram made of blood of a dungeon.

“What the fuck?” Desmond rasps and the robed figures around him recoil in unison (one even faints and if Desmond hadn’t been in so much shock, he would have found it hilarious because if they were going to be weird cult guys, then at least, own it) stumbling over themselves with thinly veiled terror. The Assassin stumbles away from the group and when his back hits the wall, there’s a clatter as weapons—bows and swords, Desmond realizes numbly—tumble to the ground from the knocked over stand.

The clattering seems to make the robed figures even more agitated, but one of the robed figures however, is braver than the rest. He raises both hands, curling them into loose fists and Desmond has the brief thought of, ‘dude, what are you even doing?’ before his eyes widen when fire, fucking FIRE, materializes between his palms and shoots right at him.

He throws himself to the side, feeling the heat of it pass inches from his face. His heart hammers in his chest and he can’t even fathom what the hell is going on because how is that even possible?!

“Now, brothers! While it’s weak!”

‘’It?’’ Desmond thinks in bewilderment but has little time to dwell on it when he sees the rally rouse the others into action. Their hands glow with light and this time when Desmond propels himself to the other side of the room, it’s to get out of the way of a bolt of goddamn lightening. It singes the edge of his hoodie but Desmond barely has time to register that when he hears a whir in the air that is accompanied by a piercing pain in his chest.

“Your soul is ours!” One of the robed figures yells and the staff’s head that is pointed at Desmond progressively begins to brighten. Cursing, the Assassin rolls out of the way and just because all this is really starting to piss him off, he grabs a nearby chair and chucks it in their direction. It ends up harmlessly bouncing off a conjured ward-like shield, (because fuck you, magic is apparently a thing) but it’s enough of a distraction for Desmond to sprint and scoop up the fallen bow from the ground. It’s useless without a projectile but…

‘This is gonna suck.’ Nonetheless, Desmond braces himself, grips the shaft of the arrow lodged in his left pectoral and yanks it out with a pained grunt. Fire blooms from the entry point, making Desmond’s vision go white briefly before he’s dipping into a dead man’s memories and the white is from something different altogether.

Desmond lets out a slow, steadying breath. His awkward grip on the bow shifts. He notches the bloodied arrow, pulls the string back, and when Desmond releases it straight between the closest man’s eyes, it’s to phantom sounds of musket fire in his ears and scent of worn leather in his lungs.

The others scatter among terrified screams. Desmond can hardly understand what they’re screaming about—doesn’t know who these Divines are or what the hell a daedra is—but he wants out.

He snags a dagger off the fallen body, dances it nimbly between his fingers, and just when Desmond is about to make use of it among the robed men’s disarray, something catches his attention in the corner of his eyes.

In retrospect, Desmond knows that it should have been nothing of note. Among the gold goblets, fine jewels, and lilac flowers upon the dais, the round object looks dull and nondescript in comparison. Despite that, the object pulls Desmond’s gaze to it, making his breath catch and his body still all the same because there is no mistaking the relic.

It’s just as he’d last seen it. A Piece of Eden.

Something in Desmond croons. It’s his Apple.

He takes a step towards it and at the same time, one of the robed figures gasps.

“The artifact! Don’t let it—!”

The robed figure closest to the dais plucks the Apple with a withered hand, but doesn’t have it for more than two seconds before Desmond is instantly upon him. The bow cracks and disjoints at the belly when Desmond whips its upper limb across the man’s face. The man and Piece of Eden tumble to the ground and when he quickly recovers to reach for the Apple again, a hard cuff with the broken remnants of the bow against his arm buys Desmond enough time to scoop the Apple away.

To Desmond, that was when time seems to freeze. His eyes dilate as the room becomes swathed in a kaleidoscope of gold. Warmth rushes through his body from his connection to the Apple, electrifying every inch of his skin and leaving him gasping for breath. Something like elation bubbles in his chest and Desmond can’t help but bask in the alien feeling of rightness that overtakes over him the moment the Apple settles in the palm of his hand like an old friend.

He feels…renewed, for lack of better word. Gone is the lingering ache in his body. The throbbing wound left by the arrow dulls and Desmond knows without checking that the blood has stemmed and clotted. He can’t help trembling in exhilaration or the breathless laugh that escapes because goddamn.

For something as accursed as a First Civilization tech, it certainly has its benefits. Desmond rolls the Apple in his hand leisurely and as if in a trance, admires the faint glow it had taken the second it had come into his possession. It’s no wonder that such a thing could bring great people under its lull.

The assassin brings the golden orb to eye level and just like that, something in Desmond’s mind furls and uncurls. This is his, instinct says with such fervor that Desmond is nearly taken aback until his gaze draws to the whimpering man who had dared to put his filthy mitts on what is his.

“Mine.” Desmond snarls, pure, possessive fury coating his voice, and the man scrambles away with a frightened squeal. He idly notes that his other companions have gone strangely quiet and when Desmond turns to them, he sees the cohort huddling on the other side of the room in varying states of apprehension and fear.

‘Good,’ Desmond thinks viciously. The Apple pulses dangerously in his hand, responding to his anger. It wouldn’t be difficult to fight his way out. He could kill them where they stand. He could kill them before they can even blink.

Then, the robed man in the staff steps forward. Desmond tenses, raises the Apple warningly but is caught off guard when instead of attempting to fry him again, the cultist throws his staff to the ground and drops to his knees.

Desmond startles in surprise, “What are you—” 

“Spare us.”

What?

The robed man’s head bends low, touching the ground. “We beg of you, please! Spare us!” Behind him, his brethren follow suit, bowing their heads low.

From their body language—anxious, but resigned—it doesn’t look like they would fight him if he decides not to.

Which is good, isn’t it? Still, Desmond’s stomach twists uncomfortably and he looks away. “Where’s the exit?”

“P…Pardon?” The kneeling man asks and recoils when Desmond scowls at him impatiently.

“The exit.” Desmond repeats, feeling a headache bloom in his head from their ridiculous pleas. He slides the Apple in a stolen satchel, ignoring the collective sigh of relief at the action. “Where is it?”

“That is all you...?” The man blinks, looking utterly stupefied. His mouth opens and he seems to want to say something else when he suddenly thinks better of it. He slowly points to the wall. “There’s… there’s a lever over there. It leads back out to Skyrim.”

‘What the fuck is a Skyrim?’ Desmond wants to ask but holds his tongue in favor of following the instruction. The wall slides back easily once the lever is pulled and Desmond grins slightly when he feels a draft across face.  

Desmond doesn’t look back. At most, he spares a subdued, “thank you” just for politeness’ sake before he’s off through the narrow tunnel without so much as a backwards glance to the gawking robed cult.

It’s a pity too, because if he had, he would have noticed the golden sheen of light that had encompassed the dungeon leave with him.

'Okay…this is…definitely not New York.’

That is, of course, an understatement to the highest degree.

Desmond blinks dazedly, looking out into the miles and miles of snow covered pine trees out in the distance.

‘Maybe… a national park?’ Desmond thinks numbly but then retracts that guess almost immediately because last he checked, green auroras like that stretching across the sky aren’t natural in any part of the world, let alone the United States.

And neither is goddamn magic.

Christ. Desmond takes a shuddering breath, part of it due of the frigid cold but mostly to temper down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He catches himself against the trunk of the closest tree. Where in the hell is he? After the debacle at the Grand Temple, he had thought… he had hoped—

Desmond scrubs his face. He bites his lip hard.

With forced calm, the assassin glances around for any identifiable markers but grimaces when a quick survey yields nothing of value. No roads, no signposts, no break in the trees—Desmond clicks his tongue but when he tries again with his Sight, breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the trail of red footprints leading out through the trees. It’s faint—hours old considering the intensity of the glow— but it’s a path that looks often used. Hopefully it leads to a town or somewhere safe where he can gather his bearings.

Desmond shivers, burrowing into his hoodie as his breath comes out in cloudy puffs. ‘Some thicker clothes wouldn’t hurt either.’

The forest is quiet as Desmond navigates his way through the brush. The only sounds he can pick up are of the light crunching of the frost flaked ground, the various sounds of nocturnal wildlife, and the chattering of his teeth.

Skyrim, the cultist had called this place. Desmond huffs in mild amusement despite himself. It sounds like something straight out of Tolkien.

‘Rebecca would get a kick out of this.’ Desmond thinks absentmindedly as he cautiously scales down a slope in the path, careful as to not slip on the frost. He recalled her being a fan of those sorts of stories. Shaun, on the other hand, would probably have an aneurism. Lips twitching, Desmond can already imagine it. He’d flail around angrily, all the while finding some way to pin the blame on Desmond.

And as for his dad… Desmond’s steps falter. Well, he’d know what to do. Somehow.

He wonders if he’ll ever see them again. It’s a sobering thought and Desmond closes his eyes, swallows his grief. He wonders if they’re okay—wherever they are now. While he had initially been inclined to believe that Juno had lied to him about sacrificing his life in order to stop the solar flare, his current clearer state of mind has forced him to reconsider that assumption. When he thinks back on it, Juno had seemed very sure of herself. Even Minerva—disapproving as she had been— had acknowledged both options, and thus inadvertently gave them all the more merit.

So maybe Juno hadn’t been the one to send him to wherever the hell he is. That still leaves the questions of who, how, and even why—

Desmond stifles a sigh, feeling his head spin. First it’s the Assassin/Templar war, and then it’s First Civilization drama, and now he has to deal with the magic and mayhem of this strange, new world?

The cosmos, Desmond huffs a little helplessly, seems to really like messing with his head.  

He’s nearing the edge of the forest where the foliage melds into tundra when Desmond hears it:

“That’s close enough.”

Under any other circumstance, Desmond would have berated himself for being so deep in thought as to be unaware of his surroundings, especially when it came to unexpected friends or foes. The only reason why Desmond isn’t doing such is because he’s too busy gawking the moment he notices them—or more particularly, what they’re wearing.

“How are you not freezing?!” Desmond can’t help but burst out because seeing a campsite of four people isn’t all that surprising—seeing them all dressed in essentially furs that only cover 60% of their bodies in 10F temperature, is!

In his surprise, Desmond doesn’t notice when he takes a startled step forward until the group collectively narrow their eyes and zero in on the movement. The woman whom had spoken first gets to her feet, drawing a sword from her waist.

“We warned you!”

“You never should have come here!”

And just like that, Desmond’s day gets even better.

“Oh, come on! I didn’t even do anything!” Desmond yells, aggravated, but when that and backing some steps does nothing to placate the assholes from advancing, there’s nothing Desmond can do but turn tail and run.

Is everyone here shoot-first-ask-questions-later?! Desmond immediately throws himself behind the cover of a tree just as arrows embed themselves into the bark, before zigzagging his way through the thicker brush. He can hear them behind him, giving chase and—is that barking?

Desmond spares a glance back and promptly reigns in the very, very, strong urge to curse colorfully into the sky. ‘That’s a dog. They have a dog. That’s SUPER.’

‘FUCK SKYRIM.’

Thankfully, Lady Luck seems to shine on him because not one second later does Desmond jolt when hears the welcoming sound of rushing water.

The river. He can lose them at the river. Panting, Desmond sprints to the left towards the direction of the water source. He can hardly see where he’s going with the amount of foliage in his way, but Desmond trusts his senses. It’s hardly worth watching where he’s going when he can hear them quickly catching up behind him.

But not for long. Desmond grins manically, the river loud in his ears. He’s almost there. Desmond goes for a running start, aims for the break in the trees, and just when he leaps out of the tall bushes—

“What in the—”

And in that split second, the only things Desmond can register are blonde hair, surprised blue eyes, and the bafflement in a low, deep voice. It’s quickly followed by mild surprise in that oh, what are the chances, sort of way before Desmond sends them both tumbling to the riverbank with a cringingly loud crack of skulls from an accidental head-butt. 

It takes a whole lot of yelling, annoyingly insistent hands, and his head really hurting—‘Concussion. Yep, that’s definitely a concussion’— before Desmond knows nothing more.

When Desmond next opens his eyes, he’s tied up in a cart.

He’s happy to know, at least, that he took the asshole that had been in his way with him.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly enough, it isn’t the fact that his hands are bound in front of him, surrounded by armed guards, or steadily traveling to who knows where that Desmond finds most odd about his current situation. To be honest, everything about the entire thing should put Desmond in a not-so-great mood (the grimness carved on his captors’ faces and the dull throbbing in his head are fun contributing factors to that), but instead, he’s actually more bothered by the fact that its still blue-balls freezing cold even with the sunlight streaming through the trees and literally no one around him seems to have a problem with it.

It’s weird, considering that even Conner’s people had had thick layers of protection from winter’s bite. His fellow prisoners among the assembly of guards have all been stripped down to the same flimsy, short-sleeved garments and while subdued, they all seemed freakishly well acclimated to the cold. He’s glad for the fact that they’ve (strangely) allowed him to keep his hoodie, in any case.

Which is a mistake on their part, really, because wow, despite the great show of, ‘you-are-obviously-our-captive-don’t-even-try-anything,’ stunt they got going on, his jailers—the, Imperial Legion, they call themselves—are actually really shitty at their jobs.

He’s still armed, for one. Surprisingly, he can still feel the sheathed dagger he’d stolen strapped against his arm. It’s no hidden blade, but it’s a reassuring weight that gives Desmond some amount of comfort. He’s pretty sure he can struggle his way out of his binds (which are thin and more like cords than actually ropes in the first place) but when he takes note of the guards’ formation and choice weapons at their hips… Well, Desmond doesn’t need his ancestors’ strategic insight to know that it isn’t wise to fight that uphill a battle.

(‘Know to pick your battles wisely, Desmond can almost hear his ancestors intone—but it’s really just their fancy way of saying, ‘don’t start shit when you’re very clearly outmatched, Jesus Christ.’) 

There’s a strong, spine-stiffening spike of alarm when he realizes his satchel is gone from his waist (his apple, where’s his apple?!), but the staccato of panic is short lived when he spots it untouched among other goods hoarded next to the cart driver. It’s a generous pile comprised of blades, helms, cuirasses…

Desmond frowns, noting the different coloring scheme of the uniforms that are most likely that of his fellow prisoners’ missing outerwear. It makes Desmond somewhat self-conscious of his own white hoodie and jeans (‘hide in plain sight, good luck with that,’) but it’s somewhat lessened when he notices that he’s not the only odd one out.

Desmond initially thinks nothing of him at first—dismissing the grandiosely dressed man as some lord of whatever whom had deigned to sit with the damned to gloat—until he registers the rope and gag. The man looks familiar though and it’s only when Desmond spots the bruise on the man’s temple that suspiciously matches his own does the former bartender ‘ah’s.

Well damn.

It’s that asshole.

The cart lurches and this time, Desmond can’t contain the sharp intake of air when it rouses the dull throb in his head to an angry flare. Its enough to draw the attention of the man sitting in front of him, whom moments before, had been bickering with a ‘horse thief’ if what Desmond had gathered from their conversation is correct.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The man announces, his previous scowl transforming into a friendly grin when he faces Desmond. “You gave us a scare there. Coming from the trees like that, one would think you chased by the dead themselves if not for the bandits at your heels.”  

Desmond blinks, thrown off by the ye olde English type of speech.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” The blonde continues and takes Desmond’s thrown silence as a confirmation. “Walked right into that imperial ambush,” he gestures at his comrades with a jerk of his chin, “same as us, and that thief over there.”

At the mention, the horse thief huffs and glares at the blonde haired man. “Damn you, Stormcloaks. 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.” He turns to face Desmond beseechingly. “You and me—we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” 

Desmond doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, utterly blindsided by the sheer amount of word salad thrown his way. “What?” ‘What the fuck is a Stormcloak?’

Ralof grins cordially, unaffected by or even perhaps used to the hostility. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.”

The horse thief scoffs, muttering something under his breath before jerking his head to the finely dressed man in front of him. “And what’s up with him, huh?”

That elicits a more irked response, the blonde bristling in offense. “Watch your tongue. You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

And Desmond can’t help it: “True High King.” He repeats; deadpan, because that sounds a lot like bullshit. 

“Aye, friend!” The blonde says, mistaking Desmond’s ‘you’re-kidding-me’ tone as awe. His back straightens and with some pride leaking into his voice, “He challenged High King Torygg to a duel of one our most oldest of ways and won Skyrim—”

“You mean more like stole Skyrim,” interrupts the guard directly behind the blonde. It’s followed by a snort and jeer, “If you’re going to accurately tell an account, Ralof, best get your facts right before I cut your tongue for perjury.”

The aptly named Ralof scowls before his face takes on one of recognition when he sees the guard. “Hadvar. Threaten all you want, but that does not change Skyrim’s rightful allegiance to its King.”

“What allegiance do we have to a so called King who would divide the people and plunge Skyrim into chaos?” Hadvar spits out. At that, the said king's face strains and whatever Ralof says to that is lost to the world as Desmond tunes them both out, utterly disinterested in whatever drama they have going on. He drags his gaze past the other prisoners to the country side, but in doing so, inadvertently meets the ‘True High King’s’ eyes, whom, from the crease in his eyebrows, had been intently studying him. His face is thick with weariness as if he hadn’t been sleeping well, but Desmond can read the question on his face.

Desmond can’t blame him for that. Ulfric had been the only one whom Desmond had detected skepticism from when Ralof had assumed him crossing the border and inwardly, Desmond thanked whatever deity that existed that the sharper man in their little group was gagged.

Still, Desmond glowers at him in reply, uncomfortable with being scrutinized. ‘This is your fault.’ Desmond thinks sourly.

The sentiment must have shown clearly on his face because at that, the King—Ulfric Stormcloak—raises an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed.

“Wait, Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The horse thief says, looking at the gagged King. “You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you…” He pales. “Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

Ralof sobers at that and from the corner of his eyes, Desmond can see Hadvar distance himself from the cart, his face stony. 

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

Desmond hasn’t the faintest idea of what ‘Sovngarde’ is, but the way Ralof averts his gaze makes him still.

If possible, the horse thief pales even further. “No… this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening!”

A forceful ‘thwak!’ traveling through the cart from next to him startles Desmond enough to realize that he’s stopped breathing for a moment. He glances at Ulfric—because surely the man had intentionally knocked at the wood of the cart to get his attention—but sees the man looking elsewhere.

(Okay, so maybe the guy isn't a total asshole.)  

Still, Desmond takes a shaky breath. He glances past the cart driver, seeing a village. He commits himself into listening to Ralof and the horse thief’s hushed conversation—anything to distract himself from the quiet panic bubbling in his chest.

“What village are you from, horse thief?”

“Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

“Rorikstead… I’m from Rorikstead.”

(“None.” Desmond replies when he’s asked and it’s because he doesn’t consider any place a home anymore. He thinks ‘home’ is more like a moment—one of sharp words and hushed, late nights, followed by another, then another, like bricks building upon each other for shelter.)

(They’re moments long passed.)

The sounds of the horses’ hooves clicking against village’s stone roads rattle Desmond’s teeth. He feels colder, somehow.

“This is Helgan,” Ralof says, as if speaking of the weather. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.”

Desmond shivers. His stomach is in knots. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

“You need to go inside, little cub.”

“Why? I want to watch the soldiers.”

“Inside the house. Now.”

And then the cart stops.

“…Why did we stop?” It’s the horse thief that asks.

The laugh Ralof gives is empty. “Why do you think? End of the line.”

They’re in the town square, Desmond can tell. There’s a large, dark robed man standing in wait in the center of the square. He carries an axe.

And in front of him is a block.

And in that moment, something in Desmond shuts off. He goes blissfully numb. The village fades away and when he blinks, he’s back at the Grand Temple with the Eye before him as still as a tomb.

“Save one. Your touch, a spark. A spark to save the world.”

Desmond blinks again and feels the cold. He barely registers following the others out of the cart until he catches the horse thief’s arm when the man stumbles over his own feet.

“Thanks.” The horse thief mumbles, subdued, but the wild look in his eyes belays his portrayed calm. It reminds Desmond of the horses not yet tamed on the Farm, skittish and always foolhardily running at the first sign of an out.   

And from that, Desmond knows without a doubt that the horse thief is going do to something stupid and he can’t—will not allow that to happen.

From the corner of his eyes, Desmond sees a guard notch an arrow, watching the horse thief—(“Lokir.” The horse thief says when Desmond asks and he understands when Lokir pauses to echo his name as if to make sure Desmond remembers it. He doesn’t let go of Lokir’s arm until the man stops shaking)—warily, before lowering his bow when Lokir looks significantly less like he’s going to run.

A name is called and Desmond resolutely looks to the ground when the axe sails through the air, penetrates flesh, and catches on the wooden block. Beside him, Lokir prays. (“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.”)

He sees boots step into his line of sight. It’s Hadvar, confused, and referring to his captain when he says there’s an ‘Imperial’ not on the list. Desmond isn’t afforded any hope (or confusion) when the woman sends him to the block despite that. For a moment, Hadvar looks like he’s going to argue, before he acquiesces.

“I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to your homeland.”

(But home is long gone and Desmond is never going to see his mom, his dad, his team—) 

Desmond closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and savors the taste of bitter ash in his mouth.

Juno smiles. “You played your part well, Desmond.”

And as he’s pushed to the ground, his neck barred over the stained block with his executioner above him, Desmond has the quiet hope that dying sticks this time because it’s far too cruel to give him the illusion of living just to take it away.

So, Desmond doesn’t look away. He watches the axe reach its peak above his executioner’s head, eyes wide, enraptured—

And it’s the fact that Desmond is watching so intently that makes him the first one to notice the goddamn dragon.

Chapter Text

“That’s a dragon.”

That’s either the fourth or fifth time his fellow prisoner has stated the fact, but Ralof can tell that it’s still not sinking in. Not that he can blame the man of course, because it was, by all accounts, a dragon but even he had the self-preservation to take advantage of a fabled monster’s arrival to escape execution. As such, Ralof had pulled the strange man—and he was strange, for everyone had seen how he had looked upon his executioner with welcome, fearless abandon— along with the horse thief and every kinsman still on their feet to safety.

“A dragon.” The man—an Imperial, he recalls the guardswoman guessing—emphasizes forcibly and Ralof is just grateful that the horse thief isn’t going through the same existential crisis. Instead, Lokir is panting along with him in a similar state of panic, dodging past collapsing wooden beams whilst hustling their new friend along whenever he lags.

“Ralof! Into the tower!” A Stormcloak points. The tower is straight ahead of them, but it’s a daunting amount of ground to cover to reach it.

There’s a tense moment where the dragon roars from above, making the air swelter, before its flying off again, circling the burning village like a vulture to carrion.

“Quickly!” Ralof yells and just when they’ve cleared the courtyard, the dragon snarls again, loud and foreboding. It makes the earth tremble minutely and the white clothed man abruptly falters at the door, staring back out to the dragon in stunned disbelief.

“Did you hear what it just—” Lokir yanks the man forward before he’s able to finish his sentence, the door slamming shut behind them all for some brief peace.

They aren’t alone in the tower. Looking around, Ralof spots most of his company in various states of wear and tear but it’s the sight of a fur trimmed cloak that has him sending a quick thanks to the Divines above. It’s interrupted when the dragon roars again outside, making everyone cringe. The white clothed man reacts the most severely, spine stiffening and face going white. 

Ralof hides a grimace. He can understand. It’s one thing to hear them as bedside stories, another to see them with your very own eyes. Perhaps it for his peace of mind or just because he needs to confirm to himself that this isn’t a grandmaster illusion that Ralof stumbles to his king, beseeching, “Jarl Ulfric! That thing! Could the legends be true?”

At that, his fellow Stormcloaks stir, dirty faces looking to the tall Nord like mountain flowers to the sun. For all Ralof knows, he is just that to them; a source of light – someone whom would take Skyrim out of the shadows of a Thalmor manipulated Empire.

Ralof remembers a time where it had been thought impossible—because what could a ragtag army of farmers and sellswords go against a mighty Empire—but then Ulfric had shown again and again his love for his country and countrymen.

And High King Torygg had fallen.

“Legends don’t burn down villages.” Ulfric says, but it’s the fact that his voice is contemplative instead of uncertain, eyes narrowed instead of wide, that offers Ralof some solace because despite the severe implication of his words, Ulfric Stormcloak is known as the cunning Bear of Markarth for a reason.

Ulfric closes his eyes briefly before shifting his gaze to survey their numbers. It’s regrettably small, Ralof realizes with a wince—the remaining half of their forces after the Imperial Empire’s ambush now dwindled down to merely a handful thanks to the beast circling above their heads.

Ralof looks to his king, knowing by the frown on his face that he’s reached the same conclusion, only to blink in surprise when he notices how the Nord’s eyes fixes on the white clothed Imperial.

The Imperial is lingering by the doors, conversing quietly with Lokir—though it’s more like the horse thief is speaking at the Imperial rather than to consider how the lad only seems to be paying the Nord only half his attention.

The other half is on them.

Like the rest of them, the Imperial looks exhausted. He’s nearly curled into himself, back bowed almost submissively, but his eyes, Ralof notices, are anything but. They dart around warily, measuring each person in their shelter as if considering them potential threats. Even when a Stormcloak does the lad a favor by cutting him out of his binds, his gaze is still distrustful, but he nods thankfully anyways, gingerly rubbing his wrists as he does.

It’s a curious reaction for one that Ralof had deemed harmless, near mouse-like, due to the man’s constant anxiety.

But then again, Ralof settles, even cornered mice will bite.

Still, it doesn’t help the unexplainable feeling Ralof gets when he examines the Imperial. The lad’s looks, his speech, and even his strange clothing—there was something about the male that didn’t match up. For an Imperial, the man doesn’t fit the mold he’s seen in Skyrim before. Despite what Hadvar had guessed, Ralof isn’t too sure himself that his fellow prisoner is even an Imperial in the first place.

“What do you know of him?” Ulfric rumbles quietly, startling Ralof out of his scrutiny. He glances to his Jarl and notes the calculating look pointed at the Imperial.

‘As much as any of us do’, Ralof is about to say, when the tower abruptly lurches. 

“The dragon!” Someone yells over a stressed, “Holy Shit!” from the Imperial. Brick goes flying as the tower trembles and from the newly made maw of the tower, a torrent of fire licks two Stormcloaks whom had been on top of the stairway.

“They’ll live.” A kneeling Stormcloak says shakenly when its deemed safe to check over the two. “Another second out there with the dragon, and they’d both be dead.”

“The dragon will bring down the whole tower at this rate.” Ulfric curses under his breath before looking over the others. “We need to move.”

Where, is the main question. With the door barricaded from rubble, the only way reliably forward is up—or perhaps through the hole in the wall. A hurried survey outside tells Ralof that the Inn immediately across from the tower is still somewhat intact. A majority of the roof is destroyed, but the second floor still looks accommodating. It’s also a fortunately direct path to Helgen Keep.

He points it out to the others and when the Imperial is prodded by another Stormcloak to go first, Ralof expects the minute hesitation. He’s seen his fellow prisoner lag in a daze following the dragon’s initial attack and pitying the man, Ralof moves to request a Stormcloak sister-in-arms to assist the man through when he catches a streak of white out of the corner of his vision. Startled, Ralof turns just in time to see the Imperial through the hole and in the air.

‘Good man,’ Ralof praises inwardly but his approval melts into disbelief when the man doesn’t just drop to the second floor like he thinks he will. Instead, the Imperial catches himself onto a ridge of the partly destroyed roof with both hands. The tips of his shoes collide with a beam under him but instead of being stunned from the contact, he uses the momentum to bounce his upper body above the rooftop. His legs straighten perpendicular to the beam as he does so before they fold above the tiles, knees tucking neatly under him as the Imperial essentially perches onto the rooftop all in one fluid movement.  

Behind his soldiers, Ulfric’s eyebrows arch appreciatively. ‘Well now…’

The Imperial looks natural there, perched on top of a narrow beam of wood and when the lad looks back to them, canting his head questionably as if asking, ‘Are you coming or what,’ Ralof can’t help but snort in amusement once the surprise wears off because stranger and stranger, this was an interesting one to come across.   

Unfortunately, the dragon takes that moment to fly a little too close for comfort, the heavy beat of its wings causing the foundation of the Inn to creak and destabilize.

Ralof growls low in his throat, knowing that it would not be able to hold all of them now. They’ll have to find another way and regrettably, the Nord calls out, “Go, friend! We’ll follow you when we can!”

The man gives him a dubious look before he nods and with a small wave, proceeds to dive off the roof and out of sight.

‘I need a drink.’ Desmond grouses as he brushes off the straws of hay from a coincidentally well-placed hay pile off his clothes. The village is burning, people are dying, there’s a motherfucking dragon on the loose, and Desmond really needs a drink.

Desmond isn’t an alcoholic. By all accounts, drinking is an occupational hazard for a bartender. At the Bad Weather, there hadn’t been a rule for any of their bartenders not to drink, but they were in the bar business; it was a given that if they were going to, then they had better damn well be able to manage it.

And Desmond can manage it. He’s not a monster like the regulars on Friday nights who could drink the Bad Weather dry if they really wanted to, but Desmond can hold his liquor and knows when to stop because getting wasted isn’t worth it if he’s going to wake up the next morning feeling like his head’s been trampled.

But today, on this wintery, panic-inducing day, he’ll make an exception because Jesus Christ he’s too damn sober for this.

“Yoor Toor Shul!” An inhuman voice booms in the air and Desmond grits his teeth as it reverberates inside his skull. The call is accompanied with a fresh wave of heat that boils the air and Desmond thanks whatever deity up there that exists that the dragon is too preoccupied dealing with the soldiers to pay much attention to him. 

Which brings him to his current predicament.

It’s not here.  

Desmond is knee deep in the snow at the center of the executioner’s square. He can barely feel the cold seeping into his jeans as he sifts through the wreckage of what used to be the cart, searching through its remains again and again with increasing dread. He tosses away broken wood and other useless items but no matter how much he looks; his satchel isn’t here.  

His apple isn’t here.  

Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Desmond clenches at the fabric of his jeans, forcing himself to take deep breaths as he tries to control the pounding of his heart because he cannot have a panic attack in the middle of this chaos even if his only link to home is gone and ohgodit’sgoneit’sgonewhatishegoingtodowhatishegonnaDO—

“Haming! You need to get out of there now!”

Desmond gasps at the shout, recognizing the urgent voice as Hadvar. The soldier is some paces away where the brunt of the dragon’s fire is concentrated. He’s covered in soot, sword in hand, as he waves his free hand at—

“HAMING!”  

“Son of a—” 

Adrenaline and panic thrumming in his veins, Desmond can barely register what he’s doing until he’s got the kid under his arm, skidding off to the side and panting in exertion as the spot where the kid had been is scorched black.

“What were you doing?!” Desmond exclaims between breaths, but the child ignores him in favor of wiggling out of his hold with a distraught, “Papa!”

Luckily, Hadvar catches the boy before he takes two steps towards the charred remains of a house. “Enough, Haming. You heard your father’s last words.” He catches Desmond eyes, nods in gratitude, before beckoning at an old man—Gunnar, Hadvar calls him— to take the child to safety.

“I’m surprised you’re still alive, Prisoner.” Hadvar says once the area is temporarily clear of the dragon. (‘You and me, both.’ Desmond thinks.) “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

“Gods guide you!” Gunnar yells gravely and Hadvar dips his head to him before motioning to Desmond to follow him. There’s a tense moment when the dragon swoops down and perches on the adjacent stone wall they’re passing, but it leaves soon enough, if not without killing a couple archers that had been unlucky enough to get caught in its fire.

“Quickly!” Hadvar calls once the dragon has taken off and Desmond spares the bodies a brief prayer when they pass through the site. It isn’t long before they catch up to several other soldiers and Hadvar nearly sags in relief at the sight of a man whom Desmond vaguely recognizes as one of the few people to speak during the execution.

“General Tullius!”

“Hadvar!” The general barks, “Into the keep, soldier, we’re leaving!” He doesn’t spare Desmond a glance as he jerks his head towards the direction of a large, stone structure. “Gather the others if you—"

“Toor Shul!”

‘Would you shut up?’ Desmond thinks irritably, shooting a scathing look at the dragon when he feels his temple start to throb. He’s getting real sick of the dragon’s incessant yelling in gibberish he doesn’t even understand

“C’mon.” Hadvar says and Desmond doesn’t resist when Hadvar pulls him to the direction of a stone overhang. There’s a soldier standing on the ledge, shooting arrows into the sky. 

And just because the universe happens to love conflict, that’s when they run into Ralof.

“Ralof.” Hadvar growls to which the Assassin can’t help but look on incredulously as Ralof bristles in response because are they actually doing this now? “Pity not seeing you between the dragon’s teeth.”   

“I could say the same to you, Hadvar.” Ralof bites out, raising his sword, “but then again, I give credit to the dragon for not ruining its appetite with a pile of scrib jelly.”

Hadvar’s face turns red. “Scrib jelly?!”

Yes, they’re actually doing this now. 

Luckily, Desmond is saved from banging his head against the nearest stonewall when Lokir—blessed, drama-free Lokir— pops his head out from behind Ralof. (Desmond idly wonders where the rest of the small band of Stormcloaks are, but it’s hardly something to really consider now.) 

“Lokir.” Desmond greets with a faint grin and the horse thief seems to brighten at seeing a friendly face before his face abruptly drops.

“Vol Toor Shul!”

“Look out!” Lokir yells and immediately, they scatter haphazardly out of the way of another stream of fire that blackens the dirt in a clean straight line.

Ralof coughs roughly from the smoke curling in the air, face now as ashy as Hadvar’s. “We’re—we’re escaping, Hadvar! And you can’t stop us!”

“Fine!” Hadvar shouts back hoarsely. “I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!”

Then, Ralof looks to Desmond and no, no, no, there is no way in hell that Ralof—“You! Come on, into the keep!”

—or even Hadvar—

Hadvar balks indignantly, looking to Desmond just as expectantly. “No, with me, prisoner! Let’s go!” 

—is going to pull him into this!

“Fuck that shit!” Desmond yells right back and because he’d rather escape out of this mess with someone who isn’t adding to his escalating stress, he grabs a confused horse thief by the arm and shoves them both through the nearest door.

The keep, oddly enough, withstands the dragon’s temper tantrum fairly well. The stone groans when the beast flies close, but its walls holding strong is a testament to its strength in architecture. 

Desmond is quite impressed with it (not that he has many keeps to really compare it to and considering the Villa as one is a stretch) if not only because complimenting its formability is a good distraction from the panic attack he’s currently having inside. 

Curled against the door on the ground with his head in his hands, the faint roars and his own ugly, ragged breathing are the only sounds that occupy the still, dusty air.

Desmond can’t stop or hold it in even if he wants to. He’s tried clasping a hand over his mouth but all that does is make him wheeze until he’s gasping so desperately that it makes his throat ache. He knows that he’s close to breaking down. Every single crazy, insane, stressful thing that’s happened in the last 24 hours is catching up to him and he feels like he’s unraveling at the seams because he doesn’t want to be here and his apple is gone and god, he can’t do this right now and like this—

“Friend?” A voice murmurs tentatively and Desmond’s eyes snap open in alarm, acutely aware that he’s not alone. How had he forgotten about Lokir?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Desmond gasps out, “Desmond. My name—it’s Desmond.” The sudden vertigo that sneaks up on him after nearly makes him want to empty his stomach. He focuses on a crack on the floor between his feet, grips at the fabric of his jeans to keep his hands from shaking so hard. Shame makes his face burn uncomfortably. God, what is he doing?

He hears Lokir shift uncomfortably, the tips of his fur shoes stepping into his line of sight. “Are you—” 

“I’m fine.” Desmond assures him but bites the inside of his cheek when he realizes it had come out more sharply than he’d intended. He blinks rapidly. “I’m fine—I’m, shit—” He wipes his face and finds it wet. It takes a couple seconds for him to pull himself together and when he chances a glance up, Lokir is watching him carefully, concern etched on his face. His hands are in front of him, palms faced outwards which Desmond can’t help but snort at because the man is treating him like some skittish horse.

“I’m good.” Desmond says again, squeezing his eyes shut as he leans his head back against the door. He forces himself to believe it even with the nausea that is beginning to churn in his stomach. Slow and steady, Desmond tells himself. He just needs to hold himself together…

“If you say so.” Lokir replies, voice doubtful but he doesn’t argue. He waits a moment, before saying almost apologetically, “We should keep moving.”

Slowly, the Assassin nods, and only opens his eyes when he’s sure that the sourness creeping in his mouth is gone. The keep won’t hold forever. Already, he can hear the stones creak like gnashing teeth, dust falling from the ceiling. There’s only one way to go from what he can tell, but when Desmond staggers to his feet and activates his Eagle Vision, he’s relieved when it shines in welcome.

Bracing himself, Desmond looks to Lokir, and grins thinly. “Let’s go.”

Call him crazy, but Desmond feels like they’re in some sort of video game with the amount of looting they’re doing. It’s a necessity, of course. It’s hard to miss the telltale sounds of clashing steel from up ahead and Desmond isn’t too keen on any confrontations armed with just an iron dagger.

Unfortunately, the weapons he does find in the next room (which looks like a living area for soldiers) aren’t really any better. The steel swords from the weapon racks have a better rating than what he currently has but it only takes a test swing for him to have traces of Ezio grumble in dissatisfaction in the back of his head. 

(Well, beggars can’t be choosers.) 

Lokir, for his part, is armored head to toe in Imperial armor. Desmond only takes the bracers when Lokir offers the rest of his haul (“The chest armor will weigh me down,” Desmond explains when the horse thief gives him a questioning look) and hands him a spare steel sword in return. Compared to the prominently cloth armor he’s used to, the protection the armor offers is superior, but its weight and sheer noisiness factor is hardly a worthwhile tradeoff. 

“I can’t believe it. That was really a dragon.” Lokir murmurs once they’re making their way further into the keep. He winces at every sound, hands tightening awkwardly around the sword’s grip. Lokir following Desmond’s lead almost in a daze and jumps when the sound of a cave-in echoes from ahead. “Just like the children’s story and legends. The bringer of End Times.” 

“That really seems to be a running theme lately.” Desmond mutters under his breath.

“What?” 

“Nothing!” Desmond says cheerily and comes to a stop when they reach the end of the hallway that is marked by the cave-in. There’s a door to their left that looks like the only option forward, but when Desmond activates his Sight—

He grabs Lokir’s arm in warning, pulling the other man into a crouch behind the wall.  

“…potions in here. We’re going to need them.” 

“Stormcloaks.” Lokir breathes in recognition once he peeks around the corner, but his relief turns to confusion when Desmond doesn’t let him go of his arm. “We were prisoners too. Maybe they’ll—”   

“They won’t.” Desmond shakes his head urgently, eyes narrowed at the four soldiers ahead. They’re red in his Sight but worst off, also in their way. Perhaps they can sneak past? Or wait until they pass? Desmond is about to regale the plan to Lokir when there’s a rustle of iron from the other side of the room, the sound of footsteps, and then—

“Hey now!” A voice calls and when they both peer around the door frame, incredulous, Desmond nearly does a doubletake because what the hell is Hadvar—the Stormcloak’s friggin’ captor—doing?!

Sure enough, the Imperial soldier is standing in the dim lighting, hands up in a pacifying gesture—which doesn’t seem to be doing its job considering how the four Stormcloaks shoot to their feet in alarm.

The brunet steps forward, grin genial. “Listen, I mean no harm—”

But Hadvar doesn’t get a chance to get another word in when the air immediately turns hostile, the soldiers immediately drawing their weapons.

“Imperial!” The Stormcloak woman in charge yells, “Get him!”

Hadvar’s face falls into a scowl once seeing the peaceful approach as a failure. “Have it your way!” He unsheathes his sword with practiced ease, but Desmond catches the minute wince on his face in the motion and the darkened splotch on his sleeve. He favors his right shoulder.

‘He’s injured.’ Desmond realizes.

“We should move while they’re distracted.” Lokir whispers and the horse thief is right—this is the perfect opportunity. They just need to get to the other side of the room and then they could be on their merry way without conflict but—

Hadvar cries out when a Stormcloak catches him across his weaker side.

“I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to your homeland.”

The soldier had been kind. To reassure those on death row their body’s passage to their homelands had been a kindness and Desmond gets the feeling that the man would have fought to make sure it happened even if their corpses would have likely been left elsewhere.  He doesn’t know Hadvar, but against his better judgement, Desmond can’t watch him be cut down in good conscience.

No, this wouldn’t do at all. (It is not his time, yet, if he has any say in it.)

“What are you doing?!” Lokir hisses in alarm when Desmond rises to his feet. 

And besides, Desmond settles, Hadvar isn’t that big of an asshole, anyways.

“Get ready.” Desmond mutters to a wide-eyed Lokir and that’s all the warning the horse thief gets before he throws them both into the fray.

As far as his day is going, Hadvar isn’t quite having the best.

The dragon is, of the course, the biggest contributor to his very bad day, but then again, he should have known that the day would go sour when he had found Ralof, of all people, among their count of captured Stormcloak solders. 

Traitors and flying lizards aside, Hadvar would have been content to end his day on that note, but then they had had to go into the damned keep.

In retrospect, Helgen Keep was, of course, the best option to retreat to in their current predicament. He and his fellow soldiers had thought that they’d be safe from the dragon until it (hopefully) lost interest in them, but they hadn’t realized the dangers presented inside the Keep. They weren’t the only ones to think to seek refuge inside its stone walls.

They had managed to make it past confrontations from man and beast alike, but then the keep had shaken, causing the western hall to collapse and separate Hadvar from his companions lest he be crushed by the rubble.

All in all, Hadvar was not having a good day, whatsoever.

‘This, at least, would make a fine tale to tell at home.’ Hadvar thinks because it really is the only silver lining to this whole ordeal.

“Imperial!” The woman yells and Hadvar’s smile falters. “Get him!”

Assuming he makes it home, of course.

Hadvar curses and immediately draws his sword in time to meet with the woman’s. The force of the interception makes him grit his teeth and the shoulder wound from an earlier Stormcloak skirmish flares angrily. The injury is hardly a grievous one, but on his sword arm, its nearly debilitating. Hadvar grits his teeth and pushes the woman away just in time to avoid a swinging axe from one of her soldiers. He manages to disarm one Stormcloak briefly before he’s pushed back by the woman again.

However, Hadvar isn’t one to fool himself. He doesn’t have a high hope in this fight because against four, no matter how hard he’s trained or garnered from his Uncle’s teachings, there is little he can do with a lame arm and waning energy.  

So, when he’s finally pushed back by their onslaught, Hadvar braces himself, (praying, please, Divines, he doesn’t want to die) only to catch something odd, just out of the corner of his eyes.

He sees a flutter of white that reminds him of feathers. It’s followed by a gleam of gold, bright and nearly unearthly, from underneath a shadowed hood.   

It has Hadvar mesmerized for a second, wondering in amazement if he is seeing Arkay himself before his own death—until he blinks and the Stormcloak soldier that should have impaled him by now is on the ground with someone in white—that mouthy Imperial from before, he realizes—on top of him, an iron dagger buried into the base of his neck. It catches the other two Stormcloaks by surprise but Hadvar has enough wits in him to take the opening when he sees it, smacking the hilt of his sword into the Stormcloak-at-his-left’s nose.

The Nord brings his blade down swiftly when the Stormcloak recoils but when Hadvar turns around to deal with the captain, he stops when he notices the deed already done, the strangely clad Imperial already crouched over her body, the sword slick and stained in his hand. 

Oddly, the Imperial doesn’t acknowledge him as he expects when he rises. Instead, he goes to the first Stormcloak he had taken down, turning the corpse over to its back, and then running his hand over the corpse’s face. Hadvar has a moment of disgust at that until he realizes that the corpse’s eyes are now closed. A glance at the woman yields the same result. The Imperial had closed her eyes too.

That is…an interesting sentiment, especially for a criminal.

(But then again, he hadn’t been on the list. So, perhaps he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.) 

Yet, something nags the back of Hadvar’s head. He’s missing something, isn’t he? He counts three bodies on the ground.

He had dealt with one Stormcloak and the Imperial had gotten the other two. Hadvar jerks up in alarm, frantically scanning the room. Where is the fourth?

No sooner had the thought passed, he sees a hint of dyed blue fabric from the nearby stone support. The pale sleekness of a blade glints against the overhanging torch light above the unsuspecting Imperial.

“Watch out!” Hadvar yells, but even as the Imperial’s head jerks up, Hadvar knows it’s useless because no matter how fast the brunet is, there is no escaping that arc in such little space. He moves forward anyways, hoping somehow that he can block the blade before it can sever the man’s head from his body when—

BONG.

The Stormcloak falls like a sack of potatoes.

Above him, is Lokir, the horse-thief. He looks terrified and in both hands is a bronze vase with a very sizable dent.

And as the Imperial starts to snort and dissolve into breathless laughter (praising the sheepish horse-thief all the while,) all Hadvar can do is just stare on in bewilderment. 

“Thank you for your help.” Hadvar says once he collects himself. He still looks a bit dazed—not that Desmond can blame him because even he’s still wowed by that nice save. The soldier snaps out of it and dips his head in gratitude, a polite grin planted on his face. “Lokir of Rorikstead and… Desmond, was it? That would have turned out badly without your intervention.”

“No problem.” Desmond grins, wiping his eyes once his laughter wears off. He feels lighter—a little less strung out—and is so very glad that he had chosen to take Lokir with him because damn, he’d needed that.

“What were you doing alone, anyways?” Lokir asks warily.  He’s looting the bodies, pocketing gold coins but when he comes across a small healing potion, hesitantly offers it to Hadvar. It’s meant to be a peace offering because even though he doesn’t like the Empire, he’s willing to put that aside if it means escaping the keep alive.

Understanding the sentiment for what it is, Hadvar accepts the bottle with a grateful nod. “Cave-in. I was in one of the western halls when I was separated from my company.” Hadvar explains after a generous gulp of the liquid. “I imagine many were,” His face sours, “including Ralof and his band of traitors if they are still stumbling about in here.”

Desmond quirks an eyebrow at that as he stows away his iron dagger. “Bad history, huh?”  

“He’s a Stormcloak.” Hadvar says solemnly as if that explained everything. (It really doesn’t—but Desmond is just going to let sleeping bears lie.) The soldier hands the bottle back to Lokir before addressing them both. “In any case, we should move together. It will better our chances of getting out of here alive with the cave passage so close.”

“Cave passage? You saying you know your way around here?” Desmond asks hopefully.  

Hadvar hums. “More or less. All keeps have different layouts depending on what it is intended for but there is always a cave exit out to Skyrim somewhere.”

The soldier is thankfully right. With the silent agreement to travel together, they had no sooner traversed through a narrow hallway on the Nord’s direction before the temperature dropped and the walls transitioned from organized brick to mossy, unworked stone. It’s like they’ve entered a cave system that has seen its fair share of travelers, if the stray pouches of coin and worn-down skeletons are any indication.     

“Not used to the cold, I take it.” Hadvar chuckles, noticing Desmond shiver from the corner of his eyes. He’s leading their small party, lighting the way with a torch in hand.

“Cold? It’s freezing.” Desmond bites out and shoots a jealous glare at Hadvar and Lokir, whom despite having armor that is short sleeved, seem utterly unaffected by the low temperature. Desmond rubs his arms to get a little friction going. “How are you two used to this?”

“Ah, I forget you aren’t a Nord like us.” Lokir says, looking backwards, and beside him, Hadvar hums in agreement.

Desmond raises an eyebrow. What did that matter? “Meaning…?”

“Well, we Nords are not only famed for our talent as warriors, but also for our resistance to the cold.” Hadvar answers slowly and eyes Desmond with some confusion. “You’re not aware of this?” 

“I’m… not really from around here.” Desmond admits, filing away that piece of information. So, Nords were a race, it looked like. This was…sounding more and more like what’d he’d expect to see in fantasy novels. What next? Elves? Orcs?

It all sounds so ridiculous and even though Desmond tries not to dwell on it, the fact that this place is so absurdly different from home leaves his stomach tight with knots. What he’d give to go home.

But then again, was there even a way to get home?

Desmond lets out an unsteady breath, feeling lightheaded and dizzy all at the same time at the thought—like someone’s stuffed cotton balls in his head and let him tumble downhill. His only link of home was through the Apple, but it hadn’t been anywhere in the cart. For all he knew, it could have gotten lost in other debris or worse—someone might have taken it in the chaos for whatever reason. If that was the case, then where did that leave him?

What then?

“—iend? Desmond?”

Desmond jerks, unaware that somewhere along his train of thought, he’d stopped in the middle of the tunnel. Lokir and Hadvar are peering at him with varying degrees of concern on their faces. They’ve backtracked for him, Desmond realizes, and embarrassed, spares them an apologetic grin as he moves to catch up. “I—sorry, got lost in thought.”

“It seemed more than that.” Hadvar says doubtfully, brows arched. “We called your name, but you didn’t seem to hear us. You looked… distressed.”

Desmond gives as huff of dull laughter, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Stressed, is more like it.” He pauses, considering the two, before asking, “By any chance… did you happen to see anyone take anything from the cart I was in after the dragon attacked? Or anything about this big,” he emphasizes the size with his hands, “round and gold colored in a leather satchel?”  

Hadvar hums under his breath, eyes narrowing in thought. “Hard to tell with the chaos happening, but I don’t recall seeing anything like that.”

Desmond looks to Lokir hopefully, but when he too shakes his head in negative as well, bites the inside of his cheek to keep his disappointment from showing.   

Well, it was worth a shot.

His Apple was still out there somewhere, then. Desmond scoffs under his breath, uncertain as to why the thought makes the palms of his hands itch. He’s searched for Pieces of Eden before but it’s the first time its accompanied by this nagging ache—like there’s a pestering blind spot of a void in the corner of his eyes that he can’t quite ignore.

Which is… kind of weird, but Desmond writes it off as just his anxiety talking. It’s not like it means anything, right?

“That sounds like an odd thing to have.” Lokir professes, frowning. “Was it a memento or something?”

“Or something.” Desmond responds wryly. ‘Object of mass megalomania, First Civ crazy-magnet, or glorified stress ball. Take your pick.’

“Well, friend. I’m sure you’ll find it. You seem like a lucky one, after all.” Hadvar asserts confidently. At Desmond skeptic looks, the soldier elaborates, “You narrowly escaped the block with your neck intact, a dragon rampaging over Helgen, and managed to make it this far. Whether it be by the blessings of a Divine on your side or not, that makes you a fortunate one in my eyes. So, whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure it’ll come back to you somehow.”

“Wow, Hadvar. Didn’t figure you to believe in that sort of thing.” Desmond says, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. Hadvar had struck Desmond as a sort of pessimistic person, to be honest. Considering from what he’d gathered that Skyrim was in some sort of civil war, it’s to be expected.

“In these trying times, I’ll take anything.” Hadvar confides amiably and when they come across a barrier, the soldier obligingly pulls a lever to lower the barrier into a bridge.

Hadvar crosses first, the wood groaning oddly as he does, but Desmond doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is instead caught by the sight of a mini waterfall a scant distance away and when Desmond sees it stretch further through the cavern, he nearly sags in relief. As far as indications went for a way out, water is good. Rushing water is better.

‘Fortunate, huh? Sure, doesn’t feel like it in the long scheme of things, but maybe there’s some merit in that.’ Desmond isn’t on board with that sort of belief in superstition and luck, but the sentiment makes him feel better all the same. With the river as a sign of them being close to getting the fuck out of here, maybe…maybe things were looking up.

But the moment Desmond takes a step forward, a loud crack whips through the air. He registers his foot meeting air, startled twin cries of his name, and looking up into crumbling stone until all he feels is numbing pain.

‘Fucking called it,’ is Desmond’s last thought before his vision goes dark as the ceiling caves in, taking him and the wooden bridge with it.

Chapter Text

Hadvar fears the worst when the dust settles. As a soldier of the Imperial army, he has seen firsthand the devastation a rockslide or cave-in can bring. Many of their camps and forts are scattered across Skyrim’s mountainous regions—strategic locations that offer defensive advantages but also come with their own risks. The harsh terrain makes rockslides and avalanches an ever-present danger, uncommon but not rare, especially when stray magic users are involved.

So, when he and Lokir make their way to the bottom level below where the bridge once stood, Hadvar braces himself for what they might find—something crushed, something broken and entombed by stone—but instead, the rocks shift and impossibly, Desmond isn’t completely buried underneath the rubble as he has feared.

He’s pinned under a fair amount of stone and wood, but he’s alive, somehow. For every piece of debris they move, the damage becomes more and more discernible, but the rise and fall of his chest is still there (however faint) and it's but another testament to Hadvar’s claim of the lad being lucky to have survived that with his life intact even if he hadn’t gotten out of it completely unscathed.

Hadvar hisses under his breath in sympathy as he carefully rolls the other male from lying on his side to his back, mentally assessing all damage he can see. Thank the Divines, the falling debris has somehow missed Desmond’s head—the man escaping with only abrasions instead of the grimmer alternative, but the rest of him hasn’t been as lucky.

The ruined leg is the first thing Hadvar notices. It’s a mess. The limb is twisted at a sickening angle, bone jutting sharply against skin that looks dangerously close to giving way. Blood soaks through the tattered remains of his pant leg, dark and pooling beneath him. Ugly abrasions and jagged scrapes mar his arms and shoulders, where torn fabric reveals deep scratches likely carved by sharp stone. His chest rises and falls in unsteady, shallow breaths, and Hadvar can already see the beginnings of deep bruising beneath the grime coating his skin. Dust clings to bloodied wounds, and small flecks of rock remain embedded in torn flesh.

There is likely even more to Desmond’s injuries he can't see, hidden beneath his clothing, but Hadvar is acutely aware that neither he nor Lokir are in any position to do anything about it. His healing spells are novice level at best and the remaining half bottle of the healing potion they managed to force down his throat can only do so much. With limited supplies and skills, it's all they can do until they get him to an experienced healer.

“That should hold.” Lokir murmurs quickly, securing a makeshift wrap around the worst of Desmond's wounds. It quickly dampens to a dark red, much to the horse thief's dismay. The sound of steel against steel clangs in the air, echoing from the open tunnel behind them. It’s followed by what seems like the sound of something clattering to the ground and screaming that has both Nords tensing, hyperaware that they aren’t the only ones with the same idea to escape this way.

“We need to move.” Hadvar grunts and looks pointedly at the horse thief. “Help me get him up.”

Surprisingly, it's not a difficult task—Desmond is unusually light and Hadvar very nearly topples Lokir when he rises quicker than he intended. The lad lacks a warrior’s bulk, Hadvar notices once Desmond is propped between them, though it’s unexpected. He’s witnessed enough of Desmond’s fighting style to piece together that he relies more on a thief’s finesse than a warrior’s strength— much to Hadvar’s disappointment.

In any case, carrying Desmond the rest of the way shouldn’t be too difficult. Hadvar crouches, motioning for Lokir to rearrange Desmond, and rises with ease once the man is securely settled on his back, arms dangling limply over his shoulders. The weight is manageable, and Hadvar figures they can maintain a decent pace—but the journey itself is another matter. He’s carried wounded soldiers off the battlefield before, but never without someone watching his back.

The horse thief doesn’t count. Not really. Not when Hadvar can see, clear as day, the frankly amateur way he’s wielding that sword. 

“We’re going to be at a disadvantage like this.” Hadvar mutters gravely and is almost taken aback when Lokir tenses, shooting him a near venomous look.

“We’re not leaving him.” Lokir growls.

“Peace, friend. That’s not what I meant,” Hadvar soothes, though his brows shoot up in surprise at the sharpness of Lokir’s reply. He hadn’t taken the thief for someone so attached to a man they’d only just met. “I mean we should avoid a fight if we want to make it out of here.” Because I doubt you can defend us both. The words go unsaid, but Hadvar can tell Lokir hears them loud and clear. The thief grimaces, his knuckles tightening around his sword’s hilt.

Fortunately, no refute is forthcoming. Instead, Lokir grunts in lieu of an acquiesce, snatching a torch off a wall and holding it up above his shoulders as they settle on a steady pace through the cave system. The further they progress, the draftier it gets, raising Hadvar’s spirits. 

"You surprise me, Lokir of Rorikstead," Hadvar says, breaking the tense silence. He keeps his tone casual, but his eyes are sharp as Lokir glances at him warily. "First impressions had me thinking you'd bolt the first chance you got. You certainly looked the part." He inclines his chin toward their injured companion, making his point clear. "And yet… here you are. Loyalty isn’t exactly what I’d expect from a horse thief. Or is this some unspoken code of honor among your Thieves Guild?"

Lokir wrinkles his nose at the mention of that (because they are far beyond him) but doesn’t deign to answer, because the truth is, the soldier's read him right. Back at the town square, that had been Lokir’s first intention. He remembers the icy terror, the overwhelming desire to run as far as his legs can take him no matter the consequences, and just when he’d been on the edge of succumbing to his panic...

Lokir’s gaze flickers to Desmond’s sweat slicked head.  

"Mark my words, if you keep doing this— one of these days, you're going to get yourself into something you can't run away from." 

It’s perhaps Lokir's comeuppance that it’s his mother’s warning that comes to mind now of all times when he’s faced with the sight of the executioner waiting before him.

For a moment, he refuses to believe it’s real—that the black clad monolith looming before him is nothing but a figment of his imagination, but then the carriage driver releases them from the cart and that’s when reality crashes down. The ground feels unsteady beneath him, as if it’s crumbling away. 

This wasn’t right. 

“No…” 

They’re going this far for his crimes? What has he done to deserve this? He’s never hurt anyone! He just stole a damn horse. He tells himself that surely, surely this is a mistake, but when he frantically looks to the Captain, he sees no leniency on her stony face. His hands start to shake, teeth chattering.

“This isn't right… It's a mistake… it has to be!” Lokir mutters to himself in disbelief. His life flashes before his eyes, every good and bad thing he’d ever done in the past 27 years played out in a matter of seconds and it’s with a dawning sense of mortification that he realizes it’s bereft of any accomplishment or glory he has long coveted. 

He can’t die yet—not yet! 

Wild eyes shoot to the town’s gate. They’re still open, nary a guard at the post, and impulsively, he weighs the idea of running. It’s not far. His feet aren’t tied together. He glances at the guards still processing the other prisoners. Surely they are too focused on Ulfric the Kingslayer to bother with him. He’s just a horse thief, right? They probably will not even care, so maybe, maybe…

He prays to the Divines once more, pleading them to give him strength. The Captain barks an order and when the soldiers begin unloading the cart, he nearly trips on the steps if not for the firm grip that catches his arm.  

Lokir mumbles a quiet, ‘thanks’, barely glancing at the fellow prisoner who helps him until he realizes the other hasn’t let go of his arm. He turns his head and just as he does—

“Sorry—what's your name, again?”

He recognizes that voice. It’s that one—the one who was caught crossing the border. 

“L-Lokir,” he stutters, his panic beginning to get the best of him, but when he drags his gaze from the hand clutching his arm to meet the other’s eyes, he stops short because is he seeing right? The man’s brown eyes are abnormally bright in the dawn's light, as if he’s stolen color from the sun’s itself. Somehow, the color looks familiar, and he imagines that if it were a shade darker, it might match his mother’s hair—

His mother.

Lokir’s stomach drops. Divines, what were they going to tell his mother? Would they tell his mother? He was all she had left after his father had gone (and he, no better—just like every man in his poor mother’s life. What kind of son was he?) If he had to return home to her in a box, how would she cope? Was that what she’d remember him by? Not the famous adventurer he had promised he’d become when he ran away from home, but a petty criminal executed on a wooden block?

“Lokir, huh?” The strangely clad man hums, jolting Lokir out of his internal rambling. He’s surprised when he’s offered a faint smile—just the smallest quirk of his scarred lips— but it transforms the man’s face, bringing a surprising warmth to his eyes, like sunlight breaking through a veil of clouds. Dazed, Lokir tries to remember the strange man’s name but comes up blank. “Good.” The man chuckles. “Sounds much better than just calling you ‘horse thief’ in my head.”

Horse thief. Lokir’s nose flares. Was that how they’d remember him? Was that really all he’d leave behind as his legacy?

His gaze flickers to the city gate, tongue between his teeth, knowing what they would say if he went for it—what he’d be remembered as: horse thief, criminal, coward. 

“Yeah, it’s Lokir.” Lokir repeats, firmer this time so that even the damned soldiers around him can hear it. He’s terrified out of his damned mind, but even though his instincts tell him to run, he refuses to let anyone remember his last moments as a man with his tail between his legs. He’s going to die anyway. If this is it, he’d rather die with some semblance of honor. 

‘Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, give me strength…’ Lokir prays, unaware that as the man releases his arm, he isn’t trembling anymore.

Lokir recalls the archers that had been present—arrows notched, their eyes keenly trained on them—details he had been too distraught to notice at the time. He glances at the unconscious man and thinks, ‘I would have died.’ An arrow to his back, not with a sword in hand. How could he ever face his ancestors in Sovngarde like that?  

‘Had Desmond known all along?’ Perhaps it was the need to find out that made Lokir allow himself to be pulled by that strange Imperial into Helgen Keep. He had clung to the question, waiting for a moment when they were alone. When the keep’s doors slammed shut, cutting them off from both Hadvar and Ralof, Lokir figured it was as good a time as any to ask.

At least, it should have been.

Even now, Lokir can’t shake the image of Desmond, curled in on himself with his head cradled in clawed hands, shoulders trembling. Nor could he forget the way Desmond flinched when he reached out—something raw and wild flickering in his eyes that left Lokir unsettled.

Lokir knows absolutely nothing about Desmond—nothing about who he is, where he comes from, or even what he has done to land himself in that damned cart, but something in Lokir rebels at the thought of leaving the man alone like that because…

"I owe him." Lokir answers finally, eyes meeting Hadvar's solemnly before averting. He sees flashes of wide, haunted eyes and trembling limbs in his mind’s eyes and his mouth presses into a firm line.

There must be something in Lokir’s expression, because Hadvar makes a soft noise of understanding. The soldier turns his gaze forward, lost in the memories of years past. When it comes to gratitude and debt, well—Hadvar can relate.

They continue onward in a more comfortable, if not amiable, silence after that, following the shallow river through the cavern in a steady trek. They must be close to the end, if the faintest breeze is any indication, and from there, it will only be a short trek to Riverwood. There, they can find a healer for Desmond... as well as advice.

The soldier withholds an anxious sigh, the burden of the flying beast and its destruction of Helgen weighing heavily on his mind. The dragon is far, far too close to his home village. What is there to stop it from attacking villages like his own? If besieged by a beast like that… Hadvar dares not think of it. It would fare no better. Riverwood is a rural village, too remote, and its population too small for Winterhold to spare soldiers for its defense, especially with the current need for enlistment in the civil war. The only thing his village has are its meager walls and a handful of hired mercenaries, but they would hardly be able to hinder, let alone kill, a dragon.

After much mulling, Hadvar decides that it would be best to consult with his Uncle Alvor. With his experience dealing with battles outside and inside the courts, he would know what to do.   

“Did you hear that?” Hadvar jerks out of his thoughts at the note of panic in Lokir's voice, his gaze snapping to where Lokir has stopped ahead, torch raised in alarm. Immediately, the soldier falls silent, straining to detect anything out of the ordinary, but after a moment, he shakes his head when nothing stands out.

“I don’t hear anything.” 

“I could have sworn I heard something. It sounded like—” The horse thief purses his lips, trying to find the right word. “Scuttling?” 

‘Scuttling?’ “A skeever, perhaps.” Hadvar guesses because those creatures have long made these caverns their home, and beckons Lokir to keep moving. "They won't bother us if we don't bother them."

“I—yeah, probably just a skeever...” Lokir mumbles, but his eyes still flicker around uneasily. The horse thief wonders how long it will be until they’re out of this awful place. Truthfully, Lokir can’t shake the feeling that there’s something watching them. He glances behind them briefly, just to make sure, and abruptly yelps when he catches a blur of movement that is far too fast for his eyes to follow and much too large to be a simple rodent. 

“There—!” Lokir starts to yell but his warning is cut off when something heavy and cold slams into his back, knocking him to the ground. The torch tumbles out of his hand and fizzles out into a puddle of liquid, engulfing the cave in darkness. The horse thief yelps when he feels the coldness on his back spreading and burn through his tunic, the concentrated freezing sensation something anyone would decipher as attributed to—

“Frostbite spiders!” Hadvar calls out and with his free hand, yanks his sword out of its sheath, brandishing it in front of him. He squints his eyes, trying to adjust to the lack of light. He can’t see much—just silhouettes against the darkness, but there’s no mistaking the sound of sharp clicks and rustling, spindly legs scraping against the cave floor. It’s a blessing that the cavern amplifies the noise because it’s only by sound and years of experience that Hardvar twists just in time to block the lunging of one of the creatures. He strikes back the moment it falters, but it's nowhere near as effective as it usually is, not with Desmond’s weight on his back. Still, he manages to side step fast enough to deliver a quick swipe, putting enough strength to sever one of the beast’s many legs and making the spider recoil.

The spider shrieks angrily, faltering, but as it retreats, another one quickly takes its place. Hadvar doesn't know where they are coming from with Lokir's torch extinguished, but he can make out the faintest of light on the other side of the cavern, which was also right next to—

“Ugh—” Lokir grunts, his arm shoulder-deep inside something. He had tried to get back on his feet by leaning against a large rock against the wall, but that ‘rock’ had somehow crumbled under his weight. Shaking his arm, the Nord cringes at the wet and slimy mucus clinging to his skin. “What is—” Lokir wonders before realization hits and the horse thief takes to his feet just in time to dodge out of the way of a gob of poison spat at him from a screeching and incredibly enraged spider. 

Divines, they’d wandered straight into the beasts’ nest, destroying their eggs.  No wonder they were so aggressive—they were protecting their spawn. 

“Quickly!” Hadvar urges, shouldering Lokir towards the exit of the cave when the man hesitates. With their backs to the cave wall, he hopes they can maneuver their way out because taking on all the beasts would be impossible. 

One of the beasts scuttles forward from his blind side and only thanks to his quick reflexes does Hadvar manage to step back in time to avoid the creature’s bite. The spider snarls angrily and with no small amount of trepidation, Hadvar realizes that it had just narrowly missed both him and Desmond. 

Or maybe just him—because when Hadvar spares the spider a second glance, he sees a piece of bandage hanging between its fangs, soaked with blood. Desmond’s blood, Hadvar realizes, when he feels something warm drip onto his neck and stain his tunic. The spider lunges again, but this time, as Hadvar swings his sword to parry, he nearly loses his footing when he feels Desmond begin to slip off his shoulders.

Hadvar curses, struggling to readjust his hold on the man, but it's difficult when he has to pay attention to the spiders. Desmond groans softly, the motion possibly having reopened one of his many wounds. 

“Stay back! Back, damn you!” Lokir screams, slashing the air with his sword while sidestepping towards the exit. Despite his clumsy form, his wild swings are enough to keep the spiders at bay, carving a much needed opening for them to make their way out.

That is short lived however when Lokir’s breath is knocked out of him when he’s hit by another gob of venom with enough force to cause the Nord to tumble into Hadvar. Hadvar gasps, the momentum causing him to trip and lose his grip on Desmond. The unconscious Imperial drops like a sack of potatoes and Hadvar suffers the same fate as Lokir when he stumbles and falls into a clutch of eggs, crushing them against his weight.  

Before Hadvar and Lokir can gather their bearings, something shrieks from above, loud enough to make their ears ring—and then the Mother is upon them.

Consciousness returns and retreats from Desmond in slow, rhythmic waves, lazily pushing him into a vague state of awareness before submerging him back into the depths of unconsciousness. Each fleeting moment of lucidity offers brief, fragmented glimpses of reality, flashing like sunlight shimmering from beneath the water’s surface. Yet, through the gentle push and pull, something gnaws persistently at the edge of Desmond’s senses, refusing to be ignored. At first, it's a faint warning, a whisper at the back of his mind, but it grows sharper with every passing moment. Wake up, it seems to say, hushed, but urgent. Quickly, wake up. 

The words—or was it a feeling?— slice through the fog, and only when the gentle tug becomes more like a forceful yank, does Desmond jerk awake, gasping and cringing because dear god, he wishes he had stayed unconscious.

It hits him all at once. His body has barely even twitched and yet it’s like all the lights in his brain are lighting up in an attempt to make every single hurt littering his body known. Desmond recoils from the torrent of stimuli assaulting his senses, the intensity enough to make him dry heave what little is in his stomach. Gagging, Desmond tries to gather his bearings but it's hard to when his eyes feel crusted shut and he doesn’t remember what the fuck is going on. 

He can't hear anything past the ringing in his ears, humming like a constant, high pitched whine in his head, and is therefore oblivious to the sound of cracking eggs and delighted, hungry chitters. 

(Mother, mother, hungry, hungry! Tiny voices chirped in unison, their words broken and disjointed. Their cries, though small, carried the same chilling hunger as their larger kin. A hundred, little eyes watched their elders carry off the two larger, feistier prey, leaving the last, tasty morsel in their lair.)   

Desmond knows he’s not in the greatest shape. His body feels like one big bruise and through the potentially concussion-induced nausea, Desmond struggles to recall how that happened as he takes stock of his injuries. He remembers— a giant lizard, a lot of fire, and going into some sort of medieval keep that turned into a cave and then…

Weakly, Desmond tries to move, but regrets it immediately when his right leg flares with renewed agony because oh, he remembers now. The Assassin gasps through gritted teeth, body involuntarily curling in on itself from the fresh wave of pain but even that is a mistake because the movement itself causes more of his injuries to make themselves known. Bile shoots up his throat, burning his esophagus and he forces himself to swallow it down lest he choke on it.

Goddamn. How is he still alive? This is probably the worst shape he’s ever physically been in. Even when living as his ancestors, he doesn’t think it’s ever been this bad. Fighting through his anxiety, Desmond tries to steady his breathing, to push through the searing pain, but all he manages is a pitiful wheeze that spirals into rapid, shallow gasps. A deep chill seeps into his limbs, spreading like ice beneath his skin, and he begins to shiver uncontrollably. 

That’s probably not a good sign. Desmond swallows hard against the sour taste pooling in his mouth. Definitely not a good sign.

(It smelled delicious. The little ones fidgeted excitedly, impatiently, but they were born with the hierarchy in their hearts and waited until allowed. Still, they pleaded— MotHER, hunGRy—please ) 

He tries to push himself up with his arm, but a low hiss of pain escapes his lips as his chest protests angrily. He does manage to roll onto his back however, and though the movement forces another muffled groan from him as another hurt reveals itself, it thankfully eases the pressure on his ribs.

‘Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up.’ Desmond thinks ruefully. So this is what it feels like to have a good couple hundred pounds of cave ceiling collapse on him. Someone—likely Hadvar and Lokir— had probably moved him since he’s not buried under rubble. (He vaguely wonders if he’s even supposed to be moved after that sort of physical trauma, but that ship has already sailed.) 

Which, speaking of the Nords… Desmond blearily tries to open his eyes, but groans when the world spins in a way that his stomach pointedly does not appreciate. He squeezes his eyes shut with a miserable groan from the minuscule attempt. 

‘Cmon, get yourself together.’ Desmond scolds himself and weathers through the strain to at least try to focus his wavering eyesight. He plays with the idea of looking out with his Eagle Vision, but throws that out the window when he feels like it will shake his already tenuous grip around his nausea.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they do, Desmond realizes that he is alone. He doesn’t see Hadvar or Lokir—or anyone, for that matter. The darkness reveals little beyond the faint silhouettes of oddly shaped, cobwebbed, bag-like things clinging to the cave walls. Had they left him behind? Given the situation, Desmond can’t really blame them if they have. Still, the pang of disappointment gnaws at him, no matter how much he tells himself he shouldn’t feel it. Survival of the fittest, after all. He would only slow them down.

Summoning what little strength he has left, Desmond painstakingly pushes himself up onto his elbows. Slowly, he slides against the solid surface behind him, managing to sit upright. The movement sends blood rushing to his head, making the world tilt unpleasantly with vertigo, but at least the persistent ringing in his ears fades into silence. He expects the quiet to linger—maybe broken by the faint whistle of wind through the cavern—but every hair on the back of his neck stands on end when instead, the air is shattered by a chorus of clicks and shrieks.

(The morsel was still alive. Good, good, the little ones chittered. They were always so cold, but this one—this one would fill the ache inside their newborn bodies.)

How had he not heard them sooner?! Eyes snapping open, Desmond jerks his head towards the source and lets out a startled yelp when he realizes he isn't actually alone in the cave.

He sees the legs first—long, gangly and, impossibly large—creeping into what little light that filters into the cave, before— 

“SHIT!”

Adrenaline surges through his body, masking the pain as he flings himself sideways. He barely avoids the gigantic spider’s—how is that even real?! Desmond mind babbles hysterically— lunge and scrambles backward, elbows scraping against the rough stone. He kicks out with his stronger leg, instinct overriding reason, but his foot hits nothing but air when it effortlessly evades. Panic rising, the assassin gropes desperately at the ground, fingers searching for anything he could use as a weapon, but there’s nothing within reach. 

“Goddamn—!”

Desmond drags himself backward towards the cave wall, trying to put as much distance between him and the monster but it’s a feeble, pathetic attempt, especially with his lame limbs and when the spider strikes again, he is too slow. 

There is a brief moment of awful clarity—a split second where he registers six-inch fangs sinking deep into his shoulder, piercing his right pectoral and through his shoulder blade—before the pain hits. 

It’s blinding, worse than all his current hurts combined and he can’t help the strangled scream that tears itself from his throat. It rips through his chest, his throat, like fire, and Desmond doesn't even know if the sound is human. It sounds like something else, something otherworldly and primal, and he has no idea if it's his own voice or a memory of his ancestors. He just knows that—that—

He doesn’t want to die. 

Desperation makes him thrash in the spider's grasp even though he knows it's no use. He tries to grapple against the hard shell of its abdomen, trying to wrench the thing off but the more he moves, the worse he feels from the cold venom taking hold of his body.

( Delicious! Delicious! The little ones savored the warmth, the life, from the most coveted ichor. They could taste the richness, even if it wasn’t in their own maws. They envied their older sibling, wanting—craving—) 

The spider hisses in what Desmond (strangely, impossibly) knows is elation, but reason is lost on him when the monster rears its head, yanking him upward and then down. He doesn’t even register the impact when his body collides against the hard floor as the beast shakes him around like he's some sort of chew toy. Desmond can only feel white-hot pain, body locking up in a violent seizure as his mind struggles to comprehend the onslaught upon him.

(A mouthful wasn’t enough. Its siblings agreed, craving the nourishment. There was something special about this one, they understood. Tastier than any they’d ever tasted before. More, they urged. It wasn’t enough to sate their hunger. They wanted more—) 

His vision swims, blurring around the edges, but he can still make out more spiders—silent, patient—creeping closer. Their eyes gleam like dark glass, fangs dripping with venom and saliva.

(— more —)

“Nnngh…” Desmond whimpers, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears. There’s a moment when the monster pauses, jowls loosening and granting Desmond the briefest of respites, before it clamps down with renewed vigor into his body with a sickening crunch. The scream that tears out of his throat is stifled by the blood foaming from his mouth. He doesn’t know how long he’s left gasping, choking on his own spit and blood before Desmond loses the strength to struggle. 

(—MORE—)

He goes limp in the spider’s hold and as if sensing this, Desmond can feel the monster’s front legs prod him, its prickly appendages maneuvering his body closer to its maw. He feels its fangs retract from his body with a wet squelch before sinking into him once again and all Desmond can do is groan weakly as the pain starts anew.

Then, strangely, the pain begins to lessen. 

‘Oh.’ Desmond thinks hazily. 

So this is how he’s really going to die. 

‘Eaten by spiders. What a way to go.’ Desmond wants to laugh at the absurdity of the thought, but that too catches in his throat, bubbling up as a pathetic wheeze through spittle. The sound is swallowed by the cacophony of chittering legs and squeals, the spiders’ collective noise filling the cavern and drowning out the uneven rasps of his own failing breaths. 

So instead of laughter, he surrenders to the cold numbness creeping through his body, overtaking the overwhelming pain. It’s almost a relief, that icy embrace, dulling everything into a strange, distant haze. His eyes flutter, heavy and unwilling, until they close completely, saving him from the sight of the dark shapes closing in.

(— MOR—ah?)

And because of that, Desmond doesn’t notice when the spider that bit him so eagerly suddenly goes still. For the briefest moment, its many eyes widen—dilating in what almost looks like realization—before it abruptly jerks back as if scalded, unhooking him from its fangs with a violent shudder.

(The sweet, phantom ichor they had been drinking so greedily curdled within them, turning into a burning inside their bellies that refused to be expelled. An instinct older than thought shuddered through their minds— a primal warning: it was wrong. Forbidden. A sin beyond comprehension—!) 

Desmond falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes, the shock of hitting the ground again enough to drag him sharply back into full consciousness. For a long moment, Desmond doesn’t (can’t, really) move, waiting, expecting this to be the end because surely the spider had only let him go to give the others their turn. He braces himself for the inevitable but instead of feeling tiny fangs sinking into his flesh or the feeling of being dragged off to who knows where, he hears panic. 

(An ancient repulsion coiled in their guts, and as one, the little ones turned their fury towards the one who had stolen the forbidden ichor first, who had dared to feast where none should tread—)

That’s the only way he can really describe it because the spider is screaming. 

Eyes snapping open, his gaze flickers upward, and he sees the beast thrashing wildly. Its long, spindly legs flail, and it lets out another ear splitting screech as if in agony.

‘What the hell…?’

Desmond tries to move, but his body feels like lead, the venom still sluggishly coursing through his veins. He watches in stunned disbelief as the spider convulses, foaming red at the mouth, its movements frantic and erratic, as though the blood it had taken from him were poison coursing through its body. The noise it makes—high-pitched and grating—sends fresh jolts of pain through Desmond’s already-frayed nerves.

In response to that, a chorus of harsh screeches erupts around him. Desmond’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach, thinking they're rallying to finish him off but instead of beelining towards him, they’re—

No… no, that can’t be right. He has to be hallucinating.

Desmond blinks, his vision blurring in and out of focus, but the scene before him remains the same. The other spiders close in on their thrashing kin, and at first, he thinks they’re trying to help—to save it from whatever is ailing it, but then, one suddenly rears back, sinks its fangs into the struggling spider’s side, and Desmond doesn't know what to think now.

Another spider lunges forward, snapping a leg clean off its former companion with an audible snap . The wounded spider’s thrashing weakens, its movements slowing as the others swarm it until Desmond can no longer see it in the chaos. The scene oddly reminds Desmond of a YouTube clip he’d seen once where a swarm of honey bees killed an invading wasp by “heat balling" it because when the other spiders finally retreat, the spider is dead, its many legs (sans ones) curled lifelessly beneath it. 

For a long moment, nothing moves, and Desmond feels, rather than sees, the remaining spiders collectively turn their many eyes onto him. Breathe caught in his throat, he fully expects them to do the same to him that they did to that other spider, but instead of attacking, the remaining spiders seem to… hesitate? Their many eyes dart toward and away from him, their movements uncertain. Not for the first time, Desmond swears he can feel something from them.

Fear.

However, it’s not relief that washes over him. The spiders’ jittery movements, the way they skitter in half-circles as if unsure which direction to go, keeps his frayed nerves on edge. It’s like they’re torn between retreating or... something else.

Then, a sound cuts through the tense silence, reverberating through the cavern like a distant drumbeat. 

Heavy, deliberate footsteps.

Desmond stiffens, his pulse racing. Was whatever that was coming the reason for the spiders’ weird behavior? His gaze snaps toward the direction of the sound, but the jagged shadows of the cave obscure whatever is coming. 

He does see, however, the spiders freeze, their chittering becoming almost frantic. Then, as though they’ve collectively decided something, began to retreat, backing away into the dark crevices of the cavern. Their clicking legs and scraping movements grow softer until it’s just him and the carcass of the dead beast.

There’s little Desmond can do, paralyzed and weak as he is on the cave floor as the footsteps grow louder, more distinct. Whatever spooked the spiders is coming closer and Desmond has the outlandish hope that maybe it’s someone friendly. Perhaps, it is one of Hadvar’s or hell, maybe even Ralof’s comrades but the first glimpse he gets is a massive shadow, its bulk filling the narrow tunnel ahead and oh, that is definitely not anyone friendly. 

Or human, for that matter because when the bear (because of course, it has to be a bear—why wouldn’t there be a goddamn bear in a goddamn cave, Desmond rationalizes irrationally) emerges, stepping into the faint light filtering through the cave, its presence is overwhelming, towering over Desmond even at a distance.

He sucks in a sharp breath, his body screaming at him to move, to run, to do anything but he lies there frozen like a deer in the headlights because there’s nowhere to go.

The bear’s gaze locks onto Desmond, its dark eyes narrowing. He swallows thickly, his heart hammering so loudly in his chest he’s sure it can hear it. The massive creature takes a slow step forward, its nostrils flaring as it sniffs the air.

‘Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move…’ 

(There’s a rhyme meant to guide you in a bear encounter, but for the life of him, Desmond can’t recall it. He knows that if it’s a polar bear, he’s fucked, and if it’s black or brown, he’s supposed to do two different things—but who’s to say any of those rules apply in this magical, shit world of Skyrim?)

But then when Desmond is absolutely sure he should have played dead, the bear’s focus shifts. Its nose twitches, and its head turns sharply toward the spider’s corpse. A low, guttural growl rumbles from its throat, deep and menacing, as it lumbers closer to the lifeless creature.

Desmond holds his breath as the bear approaches the spider, acutely aware of the clack, clack, clack, of its claws against the rock floor. It sniffs the air again, before lowering its massive head toward the twisted carcass. Its jaw flexes, revealing yellowed rows of teeth, and for a moment, Desmond thinks the bear is going feast on the dead spider—but instead, the bear roars , loud and almost melancholy, the sound echoing through the cavern and making goosebumps erupt on his skin. Then, with a ferocity that makes his stomach churn, the bear lashes out, swiping at the spider’s body with its massive claws. The carcass flips and twists under the assault, brittle exoskeleton cracking loudly with every blow.

Desmond flinches as the bear stomps down on the spider with its paws, growling and roaring in a mix of rage and anguish. In the back of his mind, Desmond knows this is unnatural. The bear’s movements are almost... personal, as though it wasn’t just attacking out of necessity, but out of… grievance? 

It growls and stomps, the force of its fury rattling the stones beneath them and Desmond flinches when upon putting its full weight behind a stomp, the spider’s abdomen suddenly bursts open with a wet, sickening pop.

‘...the hell?’

He can’t tell exactly what it is that gushes out of the spider’s cavity. The gore is a mix of reds, browns and yellows, some of which Desmond knows must be from him, but then the clumps of matted fur spill out, and—

‘Oh.’

There’s bear fur in the spiders’ stomach. Wet and half digested, it’s shorter, softer, and finer than the coarse coat of the bear in front of him. Its lighter cinnamon hue stands out starkly against the dark, vicious fluids and when the bear prods the spider’s carcass with a heavy paw, he sees partially digested bones spill from the spider’s stomach, the size of them making it unmistakably from an adolescent. 

The bear seems to understand as well because it lets out another mournful roar, the sound tapering off into something between desperation and hollow comfort— like its trying to console the lifeless remains of its cub. The bear huffs, lowering its head to nudge the remnants of its cub’s fur. Its massive shoulders shudder, and for a moment, Desmond feels—bad. 

“I’m sorry.” He wants to say, but it comes out hoarse and slurred. He doubts the bear can understand, yet when its head lifts and its dark eyes lock onto him once more, its gaze softens ever so slightly.

For a long moment, the bear stares, as if considering him, before it snorts and with a deep rumble of finality, turns away from the mangled remains of the spider. Its massive paws crunch the bloodied husk as it steps over it and Desmond watches as the bear hesitates at the edge of the chamber, its hulking silhouette framed against the faint glow of a distant tunnel. It lifts its head, sniffing the air, its ears twitching at some sound only it can hear. Then, with deliberate movements, it starts to trudge away, disappearing into the shadows.

Desmond knows he should be glad for that. His body is screaming for rest. Every rational thought tells him to stay put and let the bear go, but…

If the bear knows this cave—and it must, if it had been hibernating here—then it's his best chance of finding a way out. Alone, he’s as good as dead. He can’t outrun the venom crawling through his veins or the crushing weight of his injuries, but if he can follow the bear and find help…

He has to follow that bear. 

“W-Wait—!” Desmond calls out but his voice is barely audible to even himself and the bear’s footfalls do not falter. 

With renewed vigor, Desmond forces his body to respond, though every fiber of him screams in protest. Gritting his teeth against the fiery pain radiating from his right side, he rolls onto his left, his good arm trembling as it takes the brunt of his weight as he braces himself to push himself up. The former bartender takes advantage of the many crevices on the cave wall for leverage and when Desmond drags himself up, his left leg trembles as it takes on the majority of his weight. His right leg fares worse, lagging uselessly, his toes scraping against the ground more than lifting. 

There’s a fleeting sense of success when he’s finally standing on (sort of) two feet, but that feeling is short-lived when the world tilts dangerously around him. A wave of vertigo washing over him and combined with the sudden sourness collecting in his mouth, Desmond can’t help but double over as his body convulses in dry heaves. He’s acutely aware that the distance between him and the bear is growing and with it, so does his desperation. By the time the nausea settles, Desmond can just feel his stomach drop because he can’t hear the bear anymore. 

Fuck, has he missed his chance? He takes a desperate step forward, hobbling with his good arm scrabbling for purchase against the cave wall, but like a flame snuffed out, the adrenaline that had been keeping him upright abruptly vanishes. His vision swims and when he makes the mistake of putting pressure on his right, ruined leg, his knees buckle beneath him, sending him pitching forward. 

Only, he doesn’t hit the ground.

Desmond gasps as something catches the back of his hoodie, the jarring pull stopping him just short of smashing his face against the cold stone. His head feels anything but good from the abrupt motion, but he manages to turn his head enough to see—

The bear.

Its massive jaws are clamped around the scruff of his hoodie. He can feel its hot breath on the back of his neck and Desmond is acutely aware of its teeth just grazing his skin. In his shock, the assassin doesn’t dare move, going limp and docile in the bear’s grip and so when the bear pulls him upright, dragging him with surprising gentleness closer to its side, instead of mauling him, Desmond can hardly believe it because what. 

When it finally releases him, Desmond lands on the stone floor with a soft oof. He watches with wide eyes as the bear lowers itself to the ground beside him, lying down with an expectant huff.

Desmond blinks, utterly stupefied as the bear shifts its body. It looks at him, turns its head to the cave exit before looking back at him as if …beckoning. 

Does it… want him to climb on?

For a long moment, Desmond just stares, his brain struggling to process the absurdity of the situation. A wild bear—a bear —wants to carry him? Out of a death-trap cave? It doesn’t even crack his top ten for weirdest experiences, but it’s close. 

But, fuck it. Why the hell not? 

“Okay...” He answers, his voice cracking. He braces his arms against the ground, trying to lift himself. His first attempt is pitiful; his arms give out immediately and he would have face planted into the ground if not for the bear catching him by the scruff of his hoodie again. 

The bear lets out a low grumble—not angry, but almost... patient. Carefully, the bear shifts its head, releasing his hoodie and giving him enough space to try again. When he hesitates, Desmond feels the nudge of its nose against his good shoulder—a motion too deliberate to be anything but encouragement. 

Unfortunately, Desmond’s second attempt fares no better and he lets out a startled yelp when the bear takes over, gripping his hoodie again and lifting him partway. With surprising precision, it uses its head to push him onto its broad back, settling him into place.

He’s too exhausted to resist, his limbs barely cooperating as he flops across the bear’s thick fur. The warmth of its body seeps into him, a stark contrast to the cold that’s been gnawing at his bones ever since he’d landed himself in this godforsaken world.

The bear rises easily, as if having 170 pounds of an injured assassin is nothing to it, and Desmond clings to it weakly, his fingers curling into its fur. It’s coarse, but not unpleasant. The bear moves with a surprising smoothness, carrying him through the cavern with slow, deliberate steps.

It's actually… soothing, the sway of the bear's movement akin to being rocked. Combined with the warmth of its fur, Desmond can feel himself relax against the bear's back. The pain fades into a dull, distant throb. Despite his best attempt at staying conscious, he can't help it when his eyelids begin to droop. 

As his consciousness slips away, he dreams of being engulfed in a bed of warm fur, the steady rise and fall of the bear's breath beneath him pulling him deeper. Safe. Protected. For the first time since he's landed in Skyrim, the cold doesn't reach him.

And then, the warmth shifts.

It morphs into something else—golden light seeping through the cracks of his mind, pulsing like a heartbeat and in the distance, he sees it. His Apple. It hovers in the darkness, waiting, watching, its glow beckoning him closer.

The warmth of the fur vanishes, replaced by an overwhelming pull, a sense of compulsion so strong that Desmond can’t resist it. He lets it lead him through the void, body feeling weightless, until he's within reach. Slowly, he raises his hand, but just as his fingers can graze his Apple—

A shadow moves.

Black scales. Sharp, gleaming teeth. He watches, helpless, as his Apple is swallowed whole.

Then, glowing red eyes pierce through the void. They lock onto him, irises narrowing into slits, and in the distance, Desmond hears the echo of screaming villagers and the crackle of fire consuming everything in its path. 

Desmond knows who has his Apple.