Disclaimer: The game Skyrim is owned by Bethesda. I am merely borrowing the setting here.

All thanks to my beta Verpine! Only a few chapters are done now, but more will follow.

Chapter 1. Escaping death

What had they gotten themselves into? A cascade of unfortunate events had brought them into this most unfortunate situation.

If only they hadn't been forced to buy a ridiculously expensive visa at the border between Morrowind and the Cyrodiil, they wouldn't have been this poor. Then she wouldn't have been forced to brew and sell potions for profit. How was she supposed know that it was the Dark Brotherhood that had purchased a batch of deadly potions? She had been told that it would be used to poison traps for wolves, who threatened a farmer.

And how the authorities of Cyrodiil had traced it back to her was beyond her understanding. Well, perhaps she shouldn't have boasted so much about her alchemical abilities, but it was necessary, you understand? They needed the money, and some recognition helps.

Her father had refused that the guards take her alone, so they were both captured. They were being driven to the Imperial City to serve their time, when their carriage was attacked by bandits. The guards were killed and their bodies looted, but the bandits left them alone. Perhaps they had felt true to honour amongst thieves. She and her father could report the attack, but it was more probable that the authorities saw them as the culprits instead, coming up with a fancy story. Imperial authority just wasn't something you could count on to believe the truth or give you a fair trial. Their last collision had made that abundantly clear.

Then, on their escape, high in the Jerral Mountains, they found a group of warriors who appreciated their input. Again, how could they know that the leader was Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion in Skyrim himself?

And of course, the group was attacked by the damned Imperials. How was it that fate rebounded on them, as if they had angered a Daedric Lord?

Milly wriggled her hands, but it was in vain. The bonds were tied too tight, enchanted to drain her magicka. She hated the feeling of being out of magicka. It was as if a small part of herself was chopped off, a part that was always there, a warming source in the pit of her stomach, calming and soothing. She knew it was futile, but she tried to call forth anything that might have lingered in the emptiness. Perhaps one last spark resided somewhere deep within, and she just had to concentrate the best she could, and then -

Nothing.

"It is no use, lass," one of the Nords told her. She looked up. It was Ralof, the one that had persuaded Ulfric to take them as extra guards. Or more likely, to take her father as a guard, for she wasn't so useful in battle.

He looked at her wearing a pitying expression. She shot him a dirty look. She still had a slightly numb feeling from falling to the ground in the battle, where she hit her head on rock rather painfully.

"I guess it would be of no use to tell you I am sorry," he tried.

"And I guess it would be no use to tell you that you could have warned us of the danger," she shot back. "Congratulations, you have just contributed to the deaths of two innocent people."

She knew she was being unfair, because they had also offered them protection until they were well over the borders in Skyrim. It wasn't exactly their fault that they were attacked.

But she didn't need him telling her that. She simply hated it when people kept the truth from her. It made her feel like a little girl, unworthy. And everything was easier if you could blame someone.

Upon her expression, he held his tongue.

She shifted, for it was very uncomfortable in the wooden carriage. Her leg was asleep and her hands suffered from the loss of blood.

She looked around the carriage. Ralof was sitting opposite her, and Ulfric himself sat next to her, the only one that was gagged. His eyes pierced everything and he seemed awake and full of hate.

As if the Daedra mocked them yet again, the scenery was breathtaking. The white mountains, lit by the sun, seemed to emit a feeling of harmony and perhaps melancholy. The soft drizzle of snow had stopped, and covered the road with a white blanket. Not many people used this road and the traces of their charts and horses were the only spots that violated the virgin snow.

She winched as she saw a small thistle at the side of the road, far out of her bound. It was a valuable ingredient for her, since it wasn't native to either Morrowind or Cyrodiil, the only provinces she had traveled to. It made her sad to realize that she wouldn't be able to dabble with the supplies that this foreign land could offer. The branch of thistle disappeared around the corner.

So, this was Skyrim, where her Nordic roots lay. The first time she visited it would be the last. The visit would only last a day.

Would it hurt, to die? How would they do it? Would they hang them? Chop their heads off? Perhaps they wouldn't kill them anytime soon. Perhaps they would leave them to starve in a dungeon.

Well, at least that would prolong their visit to Skyrim.

She looked at the carriage in the front. Her father was sitting there, but he still seemed slumped and silent.

"Damned Stormcloaks, damned you be," the fourth person in their carriage muttered. He continued to blather incoherently, about a horse he stole and how it all was the Stormcloaks fault he was in this situation.

"Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?" Ralof asked him, shushing his hysterics. "A Nord's last thought should be of home."

Home? What was home for her? She had lived in Mournhold most her life. Her sister still lived there, married to a jewellery trader. Now they could never let her know what happened to them.

Mournhold never was the right place for her or her father. Her father had been a soldier, and after good service, he was allowed to leave his duty. He married her mother, a Breton, who lived in Mournhold. He thought he could be happy there, that he wouldn't grow restless. But then mother died of illness when Milly was ten. It had been hard on all of them.

Gwynneth, her sister, had never really been the adventurous type. She loved the city life and the hustle and bustle of people, but Milly wanted to go out and see the world. History had always been her passion, and she wanted to do nothing more than go to Vvardenfell and excavate the old Dwemer ruins, or visit Red Mountain where the Nerevarine had made an end to the dangers of Dagoth Uhr. Unfortunately, the eruption of said Mountain, two centuries ago, had vanished most of the ruins. Those still remaining, underground, were in severe danger of cave-ins.

So that was not an option. But another, just as interesting legend to Milly was of the Ayleid elves, the very first to settle an empire in Tamriel. They were extinct now and the ruins of their cities were mere remnants of bygone races, much like the Dwemer. There were many settlements scattered around Cyrodiil, so that would be their new plan. And if they went to Cyrodiil, they could visit the Imperial City. She had wanted to see the White-Gold Tower for as long as she could remember. After her sister had married, she and her father made plans to move to the Imperial Provence to start working at the ruins. Her father still had his swordsman skills and she knew a little of magic from years spend at the College.

But when they tried to move to Skingrad as a base for their research, the trouble started. The border guards demanded most of their hard-earned money and left them broke. They were stuck in Cheydinhall, with no Ayleid ruins whatsoever. Her father needed to sell his sword to get money and Milly took to alchemy.

The rest is history.

"Helgen," Ralof spoke. He chuckled, a low sound, void of mirth. "My childhood sweetheart came from here. Fitting place to die."

She stared at him, her eyes big.

"Do you really think they'll kill us here, now?"

He chuckled again, but this time there was sympathy in his voice. "I don't doubt they will. Sovngarde awaits, lass."

Distressed, she shifted her gaze to the city. A child ran, laughter on his face. How could anyone find joy in this forsaken world? How could the villagers continue with their life as if time hadn't stopped? And why wasn't she in the same carriage as her father? Would she even get a change to say goodbye to him?

The carriages stopped in the middle of the village, next to a square. In front of a tall tower stood a man, his face covered and a large axe in his hand. The executioner, that was for sure. In front of him was a wooden dais, with a large wooden block in the middle. Were they really...?

Her heart seemed to slow down. Had it given up yet? But at the same time, every heartbeat seemed to be louder than the one before.

Ralof gave her another pitying look as he noticed her despair.

"It will be quick," he said. "Let's go. We shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us."

How could he be so calm, so accepting of death? She was screaming on the inside, but her mouth was too dry to voice it. She couldn't utter a reply, could do nothing more but go out of the carriage, unbalanced because of her bound hands and stiff legs.

Milly barely noticed when the horse thief ran away and was brought down by archers. She sought her father's gaze, some sort of silent reassurance. His face was calm, compassionate. The look he gave her calmed her down a bit. Her father wasn't panicking, and so she shouldn't either. This was death, this was their end. There was nothing they could do about it. It was out of their hands, and so there was no point in worrying.

"You there, come forward," one of the soldiers commanded.

"M... me?" she uttered, finally finding her voice.

"Step forward," the soldier commanded again.

She did as he asked. The way he looked her up and down with disgust gave her shivers. She knew she must look like rubbish, with her hair one big tangle of leaf and matted with blood, and her clothes were torn. The look the man gave her, she might as well be dead already.

"Who are you?" he asked. "You don't quite look like a Nord."

"I'm only half-Nord," Milly replied in a small voice, regaining the ability to speak. "And half Breton. I'm Milly – Greenthorn. That is my father, Holger," she said, indicating her head towards her father. He was getting out of his own carriage, finally awoken, and was looking straight at her.

"And you're from?"

The Imperial soldier snapped her back to the present. Milly hesitated for a moment. "Mournhold," she replied in the end, for she had never really felt any true attachment to Cheydinhall.

She looked at her father while the soldier went back to his papers. He wanted to walk to her, but another Imperial soldier was interrogating him.

"Forget the list. They all go the block," the commanding lady ordered.

A ripple of shock went through the prisoners. No fair trial indeed. They would be killed, one by one, on the wooden platform. And they all got to watch.

Unsure what to do, and with boots seemingly filled with lead, Milly followed the other prisoners to the square. Right now, there was only one thing she wanted, and that was being near her father. If this was the end, they would face it together.

"Dad..." she said, when she finally found herself next to him. She was so glad to be near him that she was at a loss for words.

"Hush, Milly," he said compassionately. "This is it. It will be painless, I promise you."

She studied his face. His greying beard was matted with blood and his lower lip was split. There was a large gash over his right eye, one that would have made a scar, if he was allowed to live longer. His blue eyes were still as bright as always.

As a priest was telling tall tales of how their souls would be blessed by the Eight, one of the prisoners couldn't take it any longer.

"By the love of Talos, keep your false prayers to yourself," he spat. "If you need to kill us, do it quickly. That will be better for all."

He positioned himself at the block, and the executioner raised his axe.

"Look at me, Milly," her father urged. She looked at him. "I am sorry I dragged you into this. And who knows what awaits us afterwards, but we might see mother again. I'm just sorry we could never tell Gwen."

"It's not your fault," Milly replied, as she heard the sickening clunk of the axe chopping off the prisoner's head. Her throat closed and it became hard to breath. "Dad, just know, whatever happens..." She wasn't able to utter anything more.

"No," her father said, his eyes focusing on something beyond Milly, probably to an image in his mind. "Everything will be fine."

"Quiet!" the commander called. "I will have no one talking."

"What? Or you'll kill us?" one of the prisoners at the side remarked.

Milly would have laughed had this been any other situation, but she never felt further removed from laughter in her life.

"You go next," the commander said, pointing to her father.

"Goodbye, dear," he said, as he walked up the dais. Milly's heart plummeted through her stomach into the cold soil. Her throat opened and she gasped for breath. This was the end.

Milly was far to busy looking at her father to notice that the body of the killed prisoner was dragged aside. His head was put in a large wooden crate, where they'd likely collect all of their heads. Just a few more minutes and her red head would mingle with all the blonde of the Stormcloaks.

The wooden block was already shiny with the blood of the first unfortunate Stormcloak. Her father knelt down.

She had small consolation in the fact that her father wouldn't see her dead. It was meaningless that this meant that she, in turn, had to see her father's body. She just wanted him to remind her of life, even if reminding meant nothing in the afterlife. If there even was an afterlife, that is.

Ralof, who standing next to her, gave her a small nudge with his shoulder, a gesture that was meant to comfort.

Oddly, there were no tears in her eyes as the executioner raised his axe. The motion was sickeningly slow, as if he was mocking the seriousness of the situation. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime further, the axe was at the highest point. From now on, it would go downwards, and end up in her father's neck.

But it never did. The strangests of sounds emerged, like an echo of a dream. It came from above and the roar, the rumble, made everyone look up. A sudden shadow fell over them, shading the sun away, much darker than any cloud. And then, the sound slammed down with such a great force the very rock on which they stood rumbled.

"What in Oblivion is that?" someone called, and they all saw it.

It was a dragon. A true, enormous dragon, that was soaring in the air on widespread wings. A dragon. It was black and large and it would be able to fill up the entire entrance hall of the College of Mournhold by itself. His scales shone in the light of the watery sun and rippled like silver.

But how? Her father said he always dreamt about dragons, and he had researched their lore. The fact remained, they were supposed to be gone for ages!

The beast hovered in the air and landed on the tower overlooking the square. The ground shook upon his impact, and she could hardly hold herself upright.

The skies turned, energy crackling around the tower, clouds moving around as in a storm. She was overwhelmed, and as the dragon opened its mouth and cried, her vision blurred and she fell down.

As she got to her feet, the world had changed. Before, it had seemed empty, devoid of energy, but now everything was alive. There were screams, there was fire, explosions, and as she scurried away, following her father, she stepped over a dead body. She was sure this one still had its head attached to its shoulders...

As they moved further, there was an explosion to their right, and with a scream, someone fell down from the ramparts. They ran around the falling man, navigating through the mess, somehow managing not to lose their footing. It was all they could do to stay alive. Milly answered to an instinct. She had to follow her father, step where he stepped, never losing sight of him.

What was happening?

Her father headed to one of the towers. The air was still filled with screams and cries and chaos, but it came at a distance now. She was breathing heavily and for a moment, her vision clouded. When it returned, her eyes fell upon Ralof, Ulfric, and a few others of the Stormcloak prisoners. Two of them were wounded, and she tried not to look at the gaping, bloody hole that was the shoulder of one of them.

"What is that thing?" Ralof exclaimed. "Can – can the legends be true?"

Ulfric shook his head and leaned against the wall. "Legends cannot burn down villages."

"I take it from your reaction dragons are not common here?" her father asked.

"No," Ralof replied. "I don't think anyone has seen one in living memory. They are but legend now."

Milly stared at her father. One of the prisoners was busy cutting his binds loose, moving to her when he was finished.

It felt odd to have her hands free again, but nothing was better than the feeling of her magicka slowly seeping through her veins again. The flow of life was back in her body again, energising her instantly.

She wanted to hug her father and never let go, but after the sound of a loud explosion, Ralof urged them to go up the tower. Blindly, they followed him, for what other options did they have?

But then, commotion started again. The dragon blasted a hole through the wall of the tower, right where one of the Stormcloaks had stood. They fell down the steps, looking at the hole in the wall. They needed to jump.

Ralof knew of a few ways to get out of the city. Well, alright, they would continue to follow him then. Milly hardly realised what was happening as they avoided falling rocks, fire and the dragon itself.

She saw the little boy, cradling himself to his father's chest, muttering "dragon, dragon...". She saw a large burn wound at the side of his head. Poor child, but what could she do? Onwards, she had to go, follow her father, follow Ralof. She had to ignore the bodies of both citizens and soldiers, people falling, screams. Everybody now had blood somewhere, perhaps from themselves, perhaps from someone else. She saw a woman, cradling a stump of her arm, but she had to go on, and on, on...

There was another tower, and underground passageways. Imperials to fight, but not she. She pressed her back against the wall, watching Ralof slice through a soldier, observing how her father nearly beheaded another with a sword he had taken from a fallen soldier. It was killing or getting killed, the most basic instinct known to men. Onwards they went, and then another explosion, right above them.

The passageway had collapsed and trapped Ralof, her father and herself on one side, and the Jarl and the other soldiers at the other side. Again, they had no option. They couldn't wait to move the debris. The Jarl was on his own now, and so where they.

Silence awaited them around the next corner. The passageways had merged into natural caverns. Then, the cave vibrated and told them they weren't nearly out of danger. Hopefully there was another exit, an exit that went somewhere safe.

There were voices, footsteps. Around the corner, over a bridge, were more Imperial soldiers. Milly remained to the side, hoping that no one would notice her, as her father and Ralof charged at the foes. Ralof was agile with a bow, regaining his aim even in the heat of battle. But as she saw Ralof shooting down soldiers, a whole new type of fear overcame her.

Apparently, while she was hiding herself from the battle, on of the soldiers had snuck up behind her, not observed by anyone. And now he was pressing a dagger to her throat.

"Thinking you're so fragile you don't have to fight, don't you, my dear?" a raspy voice muttered in her ear.

His body was pressed close to her, the dagger so near it would slice her skin if she so much as swallowed. She was so frightened she could hardly move a muscle. She couldn't see the man as he was standing behind her, but his voice had an unpleasant lisp around the corners. Neither her father nor Ralof had noticed a thing. Even if she could utter a sound, a scream would throw them off balance, and might get them killed. No, this was just her and the soldier.

The soldier turned her around, slamming her into the wall. She gasped for air and felt close to fainting. The man pressed his hands against her upper arms, keeping her locked in place. The man had a square face, smeared with dirt and blood. He missed a tooth, and his breath reeked so foul it almost made her faint.

There was a gleam in his brown eyes, something she could only describe as mad.

"Well, you have pretty hair," he said, releasing one of her arms in order to slide it through her red curls. "I reckon you're not too unsightly if we clean you up."

The man buried his face in her neck, and before she knew it, his hands were on her body and he was licking her skin.

There was hardly time for fear as Milly acted. All she knew was that this wasn't going to happen.

Not feeling particularly brave, Milly pressed her hand to the top of his head, collecting all the magic that had flowed back in her veins, called forth heat, and released it. The fireball that erupted from her hand was not so strong, but it was strong enough to do the trick. The soldier screamed as she blasted his skin off. He could do nothing more than release her and grabbing for his mangled head. He fell back, hit the stones hard, and didn't move.

Milly stared at his body in horror. She could hardly believe what had happened and still felt the man's dirty hands on her bodice, his breath in her neck.

The face of the body was a horrid mess of red and black, and one of his eyes was missing. His jaw sagged, and this wasn't a face any more.

"Milly?" her father called, as he and Ralof came around the corner. They were speechless as their eyes fell upon the body.

"I – I killed him," she muttered, staring big-eyed at the palm of her hand, that was now an ugly red. In her numbness, she didn't feel any pain.

She had killed someone.

"Magic?" Ralof said. "Well, that is certainly effective. Here, let me bind that for you."

She followed him, still numb, as he took her to stream that flowed through the passageway and washed her hand. He took a small tin jar from his pocket and spread some of the cream on her palm, before he wrapped some linen around it.

Her father was still speechless.

"Milly..." he said finally, when Ralof was done.

"I'm alright, dad," she replied weakly. "Just a little shocked."

"We have to continue," Ralof said, looking around in a worried manner. "I think we are close to the surface. We might have killed all of the soldiers, but if we linger too long, more are sure to come."

"Wait," Milly said, as she walked back to the body of soldier. As she saw it again, she wasn't scared any more. She took the dagger that had fallen to the ground. What if there came another one that tried to kill her? What if there was no one around and she had to save herself? And what, when at that exact moment, she had no magicka left? She could never handle a real blade, but a dagger like this one... She might not really know how to handle it, but how hard could it be? She just had to stick them with the pointy end, at the right place.

"I'd better hold onto this, before something like this happens again," she said a bit unsure, and looked up. "Well, we'd better hurry. Dad, I intend to see the day that wound of yours has made a scar."

It was another fifteen minutes before they stood in the fresh air. It felt like days had passed since the carriage stopped, but it was still early afternoon.

The surroundings were breathtaking. They were at the foot of the mountains, with snowy tops that surrounded them from all directions. Water rushed nearby, and she guessed there must be a stream behind the tall pine trees. Birds chirped from the high branches and butterflies fluttered around the flowers at the roadside. The air was clean and fresh, smelling green and the sun was shining, the bright rays filtered by the foliage.

This was life, in all its glory. They had escaped death once again. They were in Skyrim now, both of them alive. Perhaps they did have some good luck, after all.

AN: I set this story to M because I want to be save in whatever I write. If you write about battles and stuff, things might get a little gory. I don't quite know where the line is between T and M, so the M is just to be sure. Happy reading, and lots of love!