All of life can be described as a temporary respite from the darkness. By darkness, I am not just referring to the easily recognizable concept of darkness in its physical form, but of everything darkness represents to our psyche. When we begin life at our most basic stage, that being a fetus in the womb, we are enshrouded in darkness for nine grueling months. Then, one day, a day that will hopefully come many years from now, we will close our eyes one last time and forevermore be in the embrace of utter nothingness.

That is not to say that life is pointless, or that genuine fulfillment is a fool's dream. To believe that life is all about nihilistic pleasure punctuated by death is to fall for another one of the darkness's evil tricks. That kind of thinking breeds men and women unrestricted by any notion of morality, and often they become the true monsters of history. Nothing makes them repent, because in their eyes, the darkness has already won. To them, fighting for anything is pointless; the darkness will always come for them in the end.

One should not worry about the darkness. It may come one day and snatch you away from your family and friends, but it has already lost from the moment you left your impact on this world. Every little action you take has, through the butterfly effect, helped shape the future of society in ways you cannot possibly imagine. What grand tales inadvertently happened because you simply forgot to wake up on time one random Monday? The world may never know.

And so our story more-or-less begins with the breaking of darkness. A chilly wind was the first sensation to awaken Garfield from his slumber, its icy touch caressing his whiskers as consciousness returned. Opening his eyes, he was not greeted to the expected sight of Jon Arbuckle's bedroom. In its place was a man sitting on a wooden bench, his body and head bend over to look on the wooden floor. He was clad in some blue-brownish tunic, and his blonde hair was bedraggled. Though Garfield could not get a good look at his eyes, his posture suggested that sleep had eluded him.

This was not home. Wherever he was, Garfield knew it was far from Jon's house. It was only once that thought crossed his mind that Garfield realized he was moving. The not-so-delicious scent of horse dung was in the air. Throwing his head to his left, Garfield caught sight of a man dressed in leather armor colored a brownish crimson. They wagon was traveling along a cobblestone road that snaked down a lazily-inclined hill. On either side of the road were pine trees, their leaves stained with morning dew. With the exception of the sounds of wagon wheels rolling along, all was quiet.

Garfield couldn't help but shiver. Why was it so viciously cold!? How could anyone, even him, sleep in this kind of frigid weather? His eyes darted around the cart, but nothing was familiar. Of chief concern was that his bed was nowhere to be seen, nor was Pooky. He tried desperately to conjure some witty joke, but his mind was simply too blank.

It was then that the man in front of Garfield lifted his gaze upward. His eyes widened as he realized that Garfield was conscious and frightened.

"Looks like you're awake at last," he greeted with a smile.

Garfield nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I do wake up, sometimes."

The man's smile morphed into a somewhat sly grin. "Even now, I find that hard to believe. You were sleeping right through that Imperial ambush and everything."

"Imperial ambush?" Garfield questioned, cocking his head. When there was no reply, he yawned. "I must be having quite the dream. No more lasagna right before bed. Well, at least until Thursday!"

The man awkwardly rubbed his nose with his bound hands. The gesture caused Garfield to look at his own paws, and was only then that Garfield noticed he was tied up just like the man.

"My name's Ralof," said the man with a nod.

"Garfield," the cat remarked. "Although I still have no idea what I'm doing here. You're probably just a figment of my imagination. This is quite a strange dream."

"You're a strange Khajiit," Ralof muttered to himself. Then, more loudly, he said "I can tell you right now that this is no dream. Have you been taking too much skooma, by any chance?"

Garfield hesitated awkwardly. "I don't understand. What's skooma? Where are we? Besides my mind, I mean."

"Where else?" Ralof chuckled. "Skyrim. Home of the Nords. You must be one of those Khajiit caravaners come to do business."

"Buddy, I've come to do two things in this world: eat lasagna and kick dogs off of tables. Those are my trades, not selling knickknacks in Canada or wherever this place is."

Ralof shrugged, as if he was giving up trying to understand a word Garfield was saying. "All I know is that you were supposedly caught trying to cross the border. That's what our Imperial 'friend' over there says, anyway."

The driver of the wagon, a man clad in some brownish leather getup, snorted. "You two could make a lot of people happy by shutting up and making your last prayers to the Gods."

"Bastard," Ralof muttered. "I can't believe we walked right into their trap. They played us like fools."

"This is all your fault, you know?" said a brown-haired man off to Garfield's right. He was not dressed in the same clothes as the rest of the caravan, instead he was clad in rags. "Damn you Stormcloaks to Oblivion. Skyrim was just fine the way it was, and then you had to ruin it over something as stupid as religion. I could be in Hammerfell right now, but instead? Instead, I'm on this cart, being taken straight to my death."

"You were trying to steal a horse, thief," Ralof argued calmly.

"Lokir," the accused thief replied. "I'm Lokir."

"The point, Lokir, is that you were not exactly innocent. Perhaps this is punishment from the Gods."

"The Gods sure have strange punishments," Lokir muttered under his breath.

A few more seconds passed in relative silence before Garfield noticed the gagged man, dressed in a fur coat and a distinct set of armor, sitting next to Ralof.

"Wow, they really must not like him," Garfield pointed with his bound paws at the gagged man.

Ralof chuckled. "Ah, of course they don't. Do you not know who that is?"

The man in questioned muffled something unintelligible.

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak," Ralof continued when nobody answered his question. "They probably gagged him up so he couldn't profess his own innocence, the damn Imperials."

Lokir's eyes widened, as if stricken with a sudden realization that still eluded Garfield. "Ulfric Stormcloak? The Jarl of Windhelm?"

Ulfric nodded, his eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and stress.

"You're the leader of the rebellion," Lokir declared in quiet awe. Quickly, though, his awe melted into cold fear. "But. . . If they've captured you? Oh Gods, where are they taking us!?"

"Nowhere pleasant, that's for sure," Ralof stated with a shrug. "What village do you hail from, horse thief?"

"It doesn't matter where I came from," Lokir stubbornly remarked. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Ralof eyed him sadly. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"I must be dreaming," Garfield added with a tired yawn. "I don't know who any of you are or where I am. Maybe I've been watching too much Game of Thrones, I don't know."

Ralof turned to face Garfield with a bewildered expression. "I do not understand you at all, Garfield."

"The feeling's mutual," Garfield quipped.

Lokir fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. "We need to get out of here," he whispered to his fellow captives. "I can't die like this."

"We were outplayed," Ralof countered. "We have no weapons or rations, our guards outnumber us, and these parts of Skyrim may be friendly to the Imperial cause. Face it, Lokir: our deaths likely await."

Lokir face contorted as if he was trying to formulate a reasonable counterargument, but nothing must have come to mind. Instead, he bowed his head in apparent prayer. "Divines, please help us. Help me."

As the wagon rounded another corner, a walled village came into sight. At once, Ralof's eyes lit up with realization. "I recognize this place. We're coming into Helgen. Before this whole mess started, I used to come here all the time for mead and conversation with a beautiful girl," he remarked with some semblance of happy nostalgia. "I wonder if Vilod still makes that delicious mead with juniper berries mixed in. If you allow me to ramble, I remember a time when Imperial walls and towers made me feel like I could never be in danger, that as long as I remained loyal to the Empire, my rights, my personhood, everything I stood for and believed, it would all be protected. Those beliefs are long gone. I have since recognized them as naïve and foolish, and yet I strangely miss them."

"Quite poignant," Garfield muttered, rolling his eyes in the process.

But Ralof did not hear him. Instead, Ralof peered to the throng of Imperials standing on the side of the road as they entered Helgen's walls. Among the crowd of soldiers was an older man, his hair grey with age, with features stern and still strong in spite of his ancient physique.

Ralof glared at the man, though he never even so much as looked in their direction. "Look at that bastard act so high and mighty, General Tullius, 'The Military Governor'."

No sooner had he spat the words out then a tall, slender, yellow-skinned female emerged from the crowd. He dress was black, quite different from the brown-red leather of her fellow men. Unlike the rest, she cast a smug glance at the cart of prisoners. Her face looked very punchable, even to an otherwise indifferent Garfield.

"And it looks like the Thalmor are here to watch over their puppets. I bet those damn yellow elves had something to do with all of this."

Crowds of citizens, dressed in what Garfield could only recognize as stereotypical medieval peasant clothes, emerged from their houses to watch the procession pass. Some seemed to be bursting with glee, while others only watched with mournful frowns. None spoke. Ralof seemed to recognize one of them, a woman, watching him in particular. Her face was on the verge of tears. He turned away. It hurt too much to look at her.

Not that he had to dwell on her for too long, for the cart suddenly came to a stop against a wall just off of the town square. Prisoners began to file out of the other wagons with barely any prompt

"End of the line," Ralof muttered. "Not the way I wanted to go, but at least I can rest knowing I died for a worthy cause."

"I'm not a rebel!" Lokir shouted at the Imperial soldiers lining up in front of the prisoners. "I'm just a man caught up in all of this! Please, have mercy!"

"Silence!" shouted a woman, her armor steel unlike the rest of the leather-clad men around her. "You're a prisoner, whether or not you're one of these Stormcloaks makes no difference! You will get what you deserve just like the rest of them!"

Glad to see the legal system in this world is structured so well, Garfield thought to himself.

The woman gestured to a soldier standing next to her. He was brown-haired, with skin a similar color to Ralof's, and he carried a quill pen and book with him. "When Hadvar calls your name, step forward to the block! One at a time! I can make your last moments much more painful than the headsman can!"

"Imperials love their damn bureaucratic lists," Ralof growled.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," Hadvar began. "Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstea-"

Before Hadvar could finish, Lokir shoved past the rest and stepped far closer than the others. "I am not a rebel! You can't do this to me!"

Without waiting for any sort of reply, Lokir booked it past the Imperials, rushing down the cobblestone roads as fast as his rag-covered legs could carry him. He threw his head back to face the Imperials one last time, a wicked smile on his face. "You're not gonna kill me!"

"Archers!" the captain barked fiercely. That was all she had to say to get her men into action. In a moment, three arrows soared down the cobblestone road. The first missed entirely, but the second one dug itself deep into Lokir's ankle. He had just enough time to begin to scream before the third pierced his neck. His scream became a gurgled moan. He froze, stumbled a bit, turned to face the Stormcloaks one last time, and then collapsed onto the ground. Grey stone was washed red with blood. There was no hope that he would ever survive, not with his neck turned into a pincushion.

Ralof only shook his head sadly. "Though a thief he was, I wish he had enough dignity to die gracefully," he remarked. "It would've made for a better song."

"So running is out of the question, I suppose?" Garfield questioned sarcastically. "Good, I'm not much of a runner anyway."

"I detect bitterness in your voice," Ralof replied. "There is no need to despair, my feline friend; our fate is in the hands of The Gods, now."

"I don't know what you mean by 'The Gods'," Garfield countered. "The only god that comes to my mind is Jim Davis."

"Jim who?" Ralof rose an eyebrow. "I do not under-"

"Be quiet!" The captain bellowed, and the pair fell silent. "We are not here to listen to your banter. We are here to execute you lot as traitors! Let's just get this over with! March!"

"Wait!" Hadvar interrupted, scanning the paper in his hands. "The Khajiit. . . Captain, I don't see any Khajiit on this list."

Garfield glance around. "Who, me?"

Hadvar nodded. "What's your name?"

"Garfield," he said with a shrug. "Some would say Garfield Arbuckle, but I prefer Garfield by itself. Any chance I could get some lasagna as a last meal?"

"A strange name for a strange Khajiit," Hadvar commented aloud. "Captain, he's not on this list. I don't think he's with them."

"We can't take any chances," the captain replied without missing a beat. "He goes on the block, with or without his name on the list."

Hadvar nodded. "The execution will be carried out, captain."

"Good."

Turning to Garfield, Hadvar offered a genuinely sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, Garfield. We'll make sure your remains are returned to the sands of Elsweyr."

"Elsewhere?" Garfield questioned nervously. "Else where?"

"March, cat!" bellowed the captain, and Garfield gave up trying to reason. Death or no death, he would wake up from this bizarre dream at some point. He followed the Stormcloaks a few paces to his left. They were already practically in the center of this little walled village, and the executioner's block was already erected close by. Alongside the headsman stood some woman clad in a hooded robe.

Probably a priestess for one of these 'gods', Garfield thought.

Without being called or addressed, Ulfric stepped forward. Though bounded and gagged, there was still something prideful about the way he walked toward his certain doom. He locked eyes with Tullius, and the two men glared, saying nothing.

Finally, as the commotion in the crowd grinded to a halt, Tullius spoke. "Ulfric Stormcloak, to some here in Helgen, you are a hero. That title is unwarranted. No hero would dare murder his rightfully-elected king and attempted to usurp his throne. Their sentiments are misguided, but that will soon be corrected."

Ulfric shouted something, but all that came out was another unintelligible muffle.

"You started this war!" Tullius continued, as if countering Ulfric's words despite not understanding them. "You plunged Skyrim into anarchy and chaos! Now, justice will be carried out here in Helgen! The Empire will put you down! Peace will be restored at last to Skyrim!"

The roar with which he finished his speech was evenly matched with an equally fierce roar coming from the skies. It caught the attention of several Imperials, Stormcloaks, and civilians.

"What was that?" Hadvar questioned. "Did anyone else hear it?"

"It's nothing," Tullius insisted. "I got too impassioned in my speech. It was probably just an echo against the mountains. Let us carry on."

The captain saluted. "Yes, General Tullius!" she affirmed with a nod. Turning to the robe-clad woman, she said, "Give them their last rites."

The robed woman stepped forward. "Stormcloaks of Skyrim, as we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon yo-"

"Nine Divines!" a Stormcloak shouted as he stepped forward. "Do not waste my time and yours spreading lies. For the love of Talos, let's just get this over with!"

The priestess scowled at the Stormcloak. "As you wish. You will be the first."

"Good!" the Stormcloak nodded. "Better to die and be done with it than be surrounded with you traitors a minute longer!"

There was no need for the guards to escort him to the block, and the executioner did not need to push him down onto the stone. Instead, the Stormcloak did it all himself.

"Do it!" was all he stated. "Do it now!"

A moment later, his head lied in a wooden basket. His headless corpse, still spewing blood like a fountain, was kicked off the block. Shouts erupted from the crowd, some condemning the unjust slaughter, others calling it justice long overdue. Garfield could only look on in shock. Even if it was all just a dream, it felt so real. It looked so real. Maybe this wasn't a dream.

"Next, the cat!" the captain shouted.

"C'mon, Garfield," Havar commanded as compassionately as he could. "Take this nice and easy."

"You have a funny way of dealing with death," Garfield remarked with an annoyed frown as he walk toward the block. "I guess I have no choice but to oblige, though."

"You got that right," the executioner said to him as he kicked Garfield down into position. It took a few extra kicks, because Garfield's fat neck almost didn't fit into the depression, but at last, it finally got squeezed in.

"This is very uncomfortable," Garfield wheezed, barely able to breathe.

"Any brave words of wisdom you wish to impart to your comrades?" the executioner inquired incredulously.

"Eh, a last meal would be nice. Do you have any lasagna? I love lasagna."

The executioner paused. For a moment, just a brief moment, his mind allowed itself to imagine a happy future where prisoners everywhere were given a last meal. What a utopian world that must be! Before he had time to really dwell on his vision, however, he heard another great howl in the skies.

Hadvar's gaze turned skyward, his eyes squinting as he cautiously analyzed the clouds. "There's that sound again. Please tell me I'm not the only one a little nervous about that."

"We can scout it out after we're done here, soldier," Tullius assured. "Right now, we need to end this war."

Garfield wondered why they were executing soldiers and commoners before Ulfric if they were so concerned with ending this war. After a moment's consideration, he shrugged it off as crazy dream logic. Gazing upward, Garfield locked eyes with the executioner, who soon drew his axe back to deliver the final blow. Just as he was about to bring the blade down on Garfield's head, however, a large black shape emerged from behind the nearby mountain. It announced its presence with a loud, ear-splitting shout. All became chaos in an instant. Tullius shouted something Garfield didn't quite hear, followed by the sound of several swords sliding out of their scabbards. Even the executioner turned his focus away from Garfield as the shape, now clearly recognizable as some flying beast, touched down on the watchtower above.

"Dragon!" one of the women in the crowd shouted. "There's a dragon in Helgen!"

Yep, dream logic, Garfield thought. Nevertheless, he tried to yank his head out of the executioner's block, but his neck fat left him trapped in an awkward situation.

The dragon, however, was not focused on him. It roared with such ferocity that a blast of energy escaped its mouth. The force soared over Garfield, though he couldn't turn his head to see where it landed in the crowd. Above it all, the skies, once clear and bright blue, were now covered completely by violently swirling clouds the color of ash and smoke.

Garfield thought all hope of escaping this situation was lost, until he felt a set of hands, unbounded hands, fall upon him. They tugged desperately at his fur, but Garfield was simply too fat to budge.

"C'mon!" Ralof shouted. "Get up! Get up, Garfield! We need to get out of here!"

"You think I like lying on this block anymore than you!?" Garfield shouted back. "I'm stuck!"

"You need to lay off the moon sugar!" Ralof strained as he yanked Garfield harder.

Finally, one more tug freed Garfield from the block. He threw himself up and turned to face Ralof. His face was stained with fresh blood, and his eyes were wild and crazy with shock and distress. Bodies and rubble were strewn about the Helgen town square, and even though it was immediately clear that this was a losing battle, Imperial soldiers fought on. Screams, roars, and exploding cobblestone drowned out almost every other sound.

"C'mon!" Ralof roared. "We need to get out of the open!"

Garfield silently obliged, barely avoiding a blast of fire as he skidded after Ralof across the street, straight into an untouched watchtower. As soon as Ralof made it inside, he shut the door, putting his entire weight against it. Looking around, Garfield found the room already occupied by Ulfric and a few other Stormcloaks.

Ralof panted, clutching at his chest. "Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing!? Could they. . . Could the legends be true?"

Through the chaos, through the fury, Ulfric remained calm and collected. "Ralof, legends do not burn down villages."

An impact from outside shook the tower to its very foundations. One of the Stormcloaks, wounded and lying on the ground, made a gurgling groan.

Ulfric pointed at the stairs. "We can't stay here. We must leave!"

Garfield raised an eyebrow. "I'm no expert in medieval architecture, but I don't think we'll magically find a way out by going upward."

"What choice do we have?" Ralof countered, ignoring the unfamiliar conjecture of 'medieval'. "If we go out the front door, we're even more dead!"

As Ralof began to climb the stairs, he shot a glance back at Garfield. "Are you coming? I'm going with or without you; this is the only thing I can do!"

Garfield shrugged. Confronting the dragon outside might be less painful than confronting his mortal enemy: physical exercise. However, another impact against the watchtower caused his survival instinct to finally kick in, and he rushed after Ralof. A moment later, there was another explosion that took out a large portion of the watchtower's second floor walls. The dragon's fiery breath turned the second floor into a furnace for those unlucky enough to already be up it, but luckily enough for Ralof and Garfield, they managed to hide themselves on the last few stairs. Never noticing their presence, the dragon flew off to destroy things elsewhere.

Ralof was the first to rise, ignoring the rubble and scorched comrades as he peered out through the massive hole in the wall. Below them, the thatched roof of the inn next door had been burned through. It was a long fall, but one that could potentially be made without any serious injuries. At once, Ralof knew what he had to do.

"We're gonna have to jump for it!" Ralof explained as Garfield joined him in staring down below. "We might be able to sneak out past the inn and straight out of town, if we're lucky."

Garfield nodded anxiously. "Eh, why not? Cats always land on their feet, anyway."

Then, to Ralof's mild surprise, Garfield leapt first. True to his word, he landed perfectly fine on the second floor of the inn. Ralof hesitated, summoned the will to jump himself, and came down after Garfield. He landed with a sloppy roll, nearly crashing into a bookshelf, but was ultimately alright.

Garfield began to run, while Ralof scooped up a few bottles strewn about the floor. He recognized those bottles anywhere: Juniper Berry Mead! If he were to survive this, it would be a tale worth telling in a tavern somewhere. Afterwards, he joined Garfield outside the inn. The dragon was still circling what remained of Helgen, and arrows flew as freely as ravens. Few hit their intended target, and even those that did hit seemed to do nothing to stop it.

Alas, the road that had brought them into Helgen was no longer accessible; rubble had blocked it off entirely, forming a makeshift barrier from dragon attacks. Hadvar, the Imperial taking notes of the prisoners, stood with his sword drawn, as did a boy and an elderly man. The boy, unlike the other two, was not moving to find cover. He was pacing slowly about the street, his eyes flickering between corpses and the ruination of his hometown. By all accounts, he was in total shock.

"Hamming!" Hadvar roared. "Hamming! I know you're scared, but you need to get over here!" Hadvar's hoarse voice begged. "Please! Don't let the dragon take you too!"

But Hamming didn't seem to hear him. Instead, Ralof ran past the boy, scooping him in his arms in the process, before bringing him to Hadvar alive and unharmed. Garfield followed, just barely avoiding another blast of fire as the five of them too cover behind the rubble on the street.

Hadvar and Ralof, for one brief moment, did not seem to recognize each other as enemies in war. When their gaze fell upon each other, it was not the gaze of hatred or wrath. Instead, if only for a mere second, they were brothers in arms. Then, however, they seemed to realize just who they were leaning against.

And that realization made Hadvar scowl. "Ralof! What are you doing here!?"

"I could the ask the same of you!" Ralof countered with a bitter snarl. "Why are you not fighting with the rest of the Imperials!? We have an excuse to hide from the dragon; we have no weapons! So why are you, with a sword in your hand, hiding with children and the elderly!?"

"Have your brains turned into cabbage!?" Hadvar shouted back. "What good is a sword when the dragon is hardly on the ground!? I'm trying to save those that can't save themselves! What are you doing!?"

"This isn't the time to fight, ladies!" Garfield snarked as he peered around their makeshift hiding spot. "The dragon's back in the air. Maybe we should take this time to get outta here!"

"That cat's right!" the old man agreed. "You two go with him, I'll take care of Hamming. Gods guide all of you!"

Ralof and Hadvar stared into each other's eyes, seemingly weighing the benefits and drawbacks of working with their foe. Finally, Hadvar extended his free arm.

"Truce?"

Ralof shook his hand. "Aye, for now."

Garfield, Hadvar, and Ralof managed to drop into an alleyway, rush through a burned-out house, and met up with Tullius and the last few remaining archers. Despite the fact that most of their comrades were dead or dying, those last few men gave everything into their shots. In a way, it was honorable. In another way, it was hopelessly stupid. Tullius's attention briefly turned to the three of them. Ignoring Ralof's relatively-free status right now, he addressed Hadvar with a shout:

"Into the keep, soldier! We must leave! This is a losing battle!"

"Yes sir!" Hadvar acknowledged as the trio rushed toward the keep. It was among the last of the untouched structures, and unlike the rest, appeared to be actually capable of surviving a dragon attack. As they were sprinting that final stretch, however, the dragon landed on a perch behind them. Garfield turned his head to face it as the ran. Its twisted features resembled a wicked smile as it eyed them. Just then, Ralof reached the door. He threw it open with all his might as Hadvar rushed in first.

Ralof noticed the dragon, what is was about to do, and that Garfield was slowing down. "Hurry!"

The words had just barely left his lips when the dragon sprayed hot fire at the two of them. Just before the flames could swallow them whole, Ralof pulled Garfield inside and shut the door, pressing his whole weight against it. After seconds that seemed like centuries, the force of the dragon's fire finally stopped.

Inside the keep, there was only a little candlelight. Inside the keep, there were still the muffled screams of those trapped outside. Inside the keep, there was an orange cat, an Imperial, and a Stormcloak. None of them knew what to do next.

Well, maybe Ralof did. He produced three bottles of juniper berry mead. "Anyone thirsty?"

Hadvar frowned at him. Garfield slumped himself against a wall, shaking his head.

"Alright," Ralof muttered. "Maybe now is not the time."