Chapter Text
“Justiciar Aedor, report,” commanded the crisp, authoritative voice of First Emissary Elenwen, her commanding presence running chills down the Justiciar's spine; he may not like her, but he could at least respect the stranglehold she has on the Thalmor in the providence of Skyrim. The First Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion regarded him with a gaze as piercing as her tone. Reclining behind a desk of gilded timber, the surface polished to perfection, she exuded an air of unassailable control. Her sharp features—razor-thin eyes, an aquiline nose, and a pointed jaw—seemed chiseled from stone, betraying no softness. Her left and right hand came together to form a triangle, steepling her fingers as though she were judging him and his intelligence network. Aedor often found himself wondering if, in a line of thought which would surely have him executed no matter his affiliation with the First Emissary, were she to furrow her brows just slightly more, her eyes might vanish entirely beneath the weight of her own severity.
Her robes, ceremonial yet practical, bore the crest of the Dominion’s Governmental Branch, the dove-shaped signet gleaming faintly under the flickering lamplight. This emblem symbolized her elevated position within the Thalmor hierarchy, a visual reminder that even he was not at the top of the totem pole in Skyrim, if her constant verbal put-downs and conversational spars didn't make it often enough. Every motion she made seemed deliberate, a calculated performance of control and authority that left little room for dissent.
“Yes, First Emissary,” Telindil Aedor replied, bowing his head slightly in feigned deference. He adopted an air of dutiful compliance, carefully concealing the inner sigh that threatened to escape his lips. His own attire mirrored hers in cut and design. However, his robes bore the Radiant Eye insignia on the collar—a mark of his own rank within the Thalmor’s Justiciar corps, a role designed as much for the enforcement of Dominion law as for its propagation through fear and intimidation. Inspectors, such as himself, acted as Independent Agents that could (mostly) ignore the expected chain of command in the Inspector's assigned territory. Of course, the "supreme leader" of the Thalmor in Skyrim was above this measure, as she was the one to appoint him in this position.
“Our intelligence agents embedded within the Legion have confirmed that Ulfric Stormcloak, along with a contingent of his rebel forces, was captured near Darkwater Crossing. It is disputed as to why they were traveling, but I've received reports, though very few, that Ulfric has been missing from Windhelm for a few months. I would not be surprised if he attempted to find favor for his rebellion between the Lesser Providences between Skyrim and Cyrodiil.”
Elenwen’s thin lips pressed into a hard line as her brows knitted together. The motion did exactly what Aedor had anticipated moments prior—her already narrow eyes seemed to vanish entirely, leaving only slits of disapproval in their wake. “Troubling news, Justiciar. Troubling indeed,” she said, her voice cold and measured. “Did your source divulge where these prisoners are to be taken? Are the Imperials preparing for a trial?”
Aedor's reply was equally measured, each word chosen to provide just enough information without letting on that he knew more. “There will be no trial, First Emissary. Providential Skyrim Imperial High Command, acting under the directive of General Tullius himself, has decreed the immediate execution of Ulfric Stormcloak. The location has been identified as a small fortified settlement known as Helgen, and according to our intelligence, the rebels are expected to arrive there within a fortnight. The only reason it is expected to take that long, despite their relatively close location to the settlement, is because half of their party is searching for remnants that managed to escape.”
The First Emissary rose abruptly from her chair, the motion imbued with a sense of urgency that belied her otherwise composed demeanor. She reached for the gloves she had discarded upon her desk earlier, her gaze never wavering from Aedor as she pulled them on with deliberate precision. The soft sound of the fabric stretching over her fingers punctuated the silence. He honestly couldn't remember if his own gloves made that sound, but he certainly picked it up this time.
“You will assemble a mounted Diplomatic Corps Squad—ten of our finest, no exceptions—and meet me at the front gates within thirty minutes. Ensure that every single one of them is armed, equipped, and ready for potential engagement before we set foot outside this building. Do I make myself clear, Justiciar?”
“Yes, First Emissary,” Aedor responded, his voice clipped and formal. The words fell from his lips with practiced ease, a reflex born of years of navigating the rigid structures of Thalmor bureaucracy. Inwardly, however, he cursed the interruption. He had been savoring the rare opportunity to indulge in his own laziness—a trait carefully hidden beneath the guise of unwavering diligence that had earned him his current station.
Without further word, he spun on his heel and strode out of the chamber, his boots echoing against the marble floor. He crossed the opulent lobby, its high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings that spoke of Altmer supremacy, and emerged into the courtyard. As soon as he stepped out into the cold air, it assaulted his throat. As much as he hated these lands (and how much it seemingly hated him), he knew that his place was here. He refused to let the End of the World be concluded without his oversight. If there was one thing he was willing to actually put effort in, it was in ensuring that he would have a future to rest easy in.
‘Only had to suffer the past ten years in the Thalmor waiting, damn you, “Dragonborn,”’ he thought bitterly as his gaze wandered briefly to the horizon.
--
Two Weeks Later
Two arduous weeks of travel later, the sun dipped low over the jagged horizon, casting its amber hues across the jagged peaks of Skyrim. Aedor sat astride his steed, his posture stiff from days in the saddle, his shoulders squared as he fought the exhaustion weighing him down. Beside him, Elenwen—cold, imperious, and unflinching—seemed unfazed by the journey. As the highest-ranking Thalmor official within the province of Skyrim, her presence carried an undeniable gravitas. Aedor had learned to navigate her intimidating demeanor with careful diplomacy, ensuring she would never suspect him of treason or of attempting to usurp her accomplishments. That caution, coupled with his numerous achievements, had earned him the title of Justiciar-Inspector—a position affording him greater freedom of movement and a measure of influence, yet one that tethered him firmly to Elenwen’s iron will.
The gates of Helgen loomed ahead, their timbers weathered by the relentless winds of the north. Aedor’s gaze swept the settlement, noting its modest size and strategic positioning. Within the confines of its walls, General Tullius had arrived with a small contingent of hardened Legionnaires, their crimson capes fluttering as they rode past the gathering crowds. Behind them trundled the wagon of prisoners, a grim procession awaiting its terminal fate. Elenwen urged her horse forward with a sharp command, her pace deliberate as she approached Tullius.
“General Tullius, stop! By the authority of the Thalmor, I’m taking custody of these prisoners.” The bark of Elenwen’s order cut through the murmurs of the civilian crowd that began to gather to watch the proceedings, its edge sharper than steel. Aedor noted the rare anger seeping into her tone, a rarity he seldom witnessed; she usually liked to make her anger a more cold sort. She was always controlled, calculated; this deviation piqued his curiosity. Or at least would, he he hadn't known of the Thalmor's investment in Ulfric.
Tullius halted his horse and turned to meet her gaze. His expression was an amalgam of disdain and (likely) feigned disinterest, his patience already worn thin. “Ambassador Elenwen,” he drawled, his tone steeped in sarcasm. “I guessed that you wouldn’t want to miss an execution.”
With a dismissive gesture, Tullius pivoted his mount to face the prisoners. “Do you know my guest?” he began, voice dripping with derision. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm. Once a candidate for Skyrim’s throne. Traitor to the Empire.” His words grew heavier, darker, as though the weight of the rebellion rested solely on his shoulders. “If you want Ulfric alive, you’ll have to take him by force.”
Elenwen’s tone flattened into monotony, her temper quelled beneath the surface, nearly back to the tone Aedor was used to hearing from the haunty woman. “You’re making a terrible mistake, General Tullius,” she replied, her words measured yet laden with warning.
Tullius nudged his horse forward, his voice ringing clear as he left Elenwen behind. “I will put an end to this rebellion here and now—rightfully in my position as Legion General.”
Elenwen’s composure cracked slightly as she called after him, her voice rising with indignation. “Your Emperor will hear of this! By the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, I operate with full Imperial authority!”
Aedor’s attentions shifted as Elenwen turned to him, her piercing gaze leaving no room for objection. “Justiciar-Inspector Aedor, I have a task for you,” she declared, her tone carrying the promise of swift consequences should he fail.
Anticipating her command, Aedor tugged his hood lower, the fabric concealing his subtle grimace. “First Emissary, if you plan on tasking me with ensuring the asset’s survival, then I already have a plan in motion,” he replied smoothly, although his lack of conviction betrayed him. He had always been a poor liar.
A flicker of surprise crossed Elenwen’s face, soon replaced by her characteristic smugness. “I can see why I raised you to your position, Justiciar-Inspector. But do not interrupt me again, or you will regret it,” she warned, her voice sharp enough to cut. Without hesitation, she began signaling her subordinates, ensuring the readiness of her unit. “Remain here, Aedor, and ensure your plan does not end in catastrophe. I expect a detailed written report upon your return to the Embassy. I will be waiting.”
Aedor watched her retreat, her command lingering like a weight upon his shoulders, one that he could imagine weighed the same that the Legion General seemed to have on his own shoulders. His white lie—a feeble attempt to placate her—would surely unravel with the impending arrival of the dragon. But he cared little for the consequences. His mind churned with thoughts of escape from the Thalmor’s suffocating grasp, a hope tethered to the Dragonborn’s resurgence. Anything to secure his longevity and eventual retirement.
Dismounting quickly, Aedor tethered his steed to a nearby post and made his way to the courtyard. The atmosphere bristled with tension; the eyes of Imperial personnel and Helgen’s citizenry alike fixed upon him. Among them were the prisoners, their expressions ranging from resigned to defiant. Aedor kept his distance, knowing the towers would soon be rubble, consumed by chaos. Instead, he found his station by the deserted inn, its interior barren save for an innkeeper who eyed him warily before turning her attention back to the Imperials and their Prisoners.
He did not bother with small talk; there was no point. The woman would likely perish in the coming devastation, and her (likely) disdain for the Altmer—a sentiment widely shared in Skyrim, if not the entire Empire—made interaction futile. Aedor understood her hatred, even sympathized with it. The Thalmor’s supremacist ideals and oppressive rule had earned them scorn across Tamriel, and he would be a liar to claim he was untouched by their prejudices in his new lifetime in Nirn. Despite it all, he considered himself a far cry from the worst of his kind—a faint reflection of modern humanity’s virtues amidst a sea of arrogance.
Then he saw her—the prisoner destined to reshape fate. She was not the towering paragon of Nordic strength he had expected, nor the embodiment of warrior prowess restrained only by bindings. Instead, she was a teenage girl, bound and gagged, her demeanor a fragile contradiction to the legends foretold.
Dread and hopelessness surged within Aedor, eclipsing any fleeting dreams of his retirement. Could this slip of a girl truly bear the mantle of Dragonborn, the hero destined to challenge Alduin, conquer the vampire menace, and triumph over Mirrak? Aedor’s heart sank as reality settled heavily upon him.
A pit formed in Telindil Aedor’s stomach, a gnawing sensation born not of prejudice but of pity and defeat. The sight before him was not what he had anticipated. The Dragonborn—the figure destined to shape the fate of Tamriel—was a girl, barely older than fifteen, if that. Her youth was undeniable, her stature fragile, and though he harbored no sexist beliefs, he could not help but question the wisdom of fate in choosing a child for such a monumental burden.
“A kid? Oh, ahem. You are a long way from Cyrodiil, Imperial,” muttered the soldier tasked with reading the list. His voice wavered as he glanced back at his steel-clad Captain, desperation etched into his features. “What should we do, Captain? She is not on the list.”
Aedor could almost recite the Captain’s response verbatim, the words etched into his memory from countless encounters with Imperial bureaucracy, let alone his foreknown knowledge of events that had guided him to Helgen in the first place. “Ignore the list. She goes to the block,” the Captain replied, his tone devoid of hesitation.
“By your orders, Captain. I’m sorry, Prisoner. I will ensure that your remains are returned to the Imperial Capital. Follow the Captain,” the soldier added, his voice tinged with regret.
General Tullius stepped forward, his presence commanding attention as he addressed the crowd. “Ulfric Stormcloak,” he began, his voice heavy with disdain. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero does not use the Power of the Voice to usurp his king and steal his throne! You started this war and plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”
A roar shattered the uneasy 'tranquility' of the upcoming execution, reverberating through the air like a harbinger of doom. The crowd stirred, confusion rippling through their ranks, but Aedor felt only validation. His timetable was unfolding as expected. The Dragonborn would not die here today, no matter her age or apparent fragility.
“What was that?” asked the soldier, his voice trembling.
“Carry on,” Tullius ordered, dismissing the interruption with a wave of his hand.
“Give them their last rites,” the Captain commanded the Priestess of the “Eight” Divines.
The Priestess stepped forward, her voice steady as she began the ritual. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved—”
“Oh, come on! We don’t have all morning!” a Stormcloak interrupted, his impatience cutting through the solemnity. He stepped forward, offering himself up for execution. Aedor almost found the moment comedic, had it not placed the Dragonborn at greater risk of losing a head.
The rebel knelt at the block, his defiance unwavering. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” he challenged, his voice steady even as the executioner’s axe fell, silencing him forever.
Jeers erupted from the crowd, a cacophony of voices from Imperials, Stormcloaks, and Helgen’s citizens alike. The Captain’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Next, the girl in the rags!”
The roar returned, louder and more ominous, yet the Captain remained resolute. “I said, next prisoner!” he barked, silencing the murmurs.
Aedor’s hands fidgeted as the girl approached the block. His mind raced, calculating the spells he could cast to protect her, to attack the Imperials surrounding her. But the odds were insurmountable. He could not subdue an entire garrison, let alone contend with the dragon that was soon to arrive. Fear gnawed at him, yet he knew he could not afford to test fate any further.
As the girl knelt at the block, a massive dragon appeared on the horizon, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.
“What in Oblivion is that?” Tullius exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Dragon!” a Stormcloak shouted, his cry echoing through the courtyard.
Even Aedor himself had to pause at the sight of the Dragon. It was... big. While it had certainly been a long time since he played the game, he certainly didn't remember feeling this much trepidation at facing such a foe, even if that was a digital version of his future opponent.
Chaos erupted as the dragon’s shout reverberated through the air, throwing soldiers and civilians alike to the ground. Aedor seized the moment, a prepared spell of ‘Blink’ teleporting him beside the masked executioner, his elven short blade flashing as he stabbed the executioner in the neck, silencing him before the axe could fall. None noticed his actions amidst the pandemonium. The Dragonborn, dazed by the dragon’s shout, slumped against the block, her head striking the wood. Aedor hoisted her over his shoulder and sprinted toward the keep, narrowly avoiding the collapsing tower that crushed those who attempted to follow.
He navigated the chaos with practiced precision, darting through alleyways and past bewildered soldiers. An Imperial archer stared at him in confusion as he vaulted over barrels obstructing his path. Finally, he pushed his way into the barracks within Helgen Keep, depositing the girl onto a bed as he began to assess the room’s inventory.
The barracks offered little in the way of supplies—healing and magicka potions, a few iron swords, and scattered pieces of light Imperial armor in varying states of disrepair. Aedor’s frustration mounted as he surveyed the meager offerings.
A soft groan drew his attention. The girl stirred, her brown eyes filled with confusion and fear as she looked up at him. “Imperial, I am Justicar Aedor, of the Aldermi Dominion. Do you remember where you are?” he asked, his voice steady. He could not afford pleasantries, between his dissatisfaction of finding a child in the place of the dragonborn, along with the uneasy feeling he found himself facing in the new situation he found himself in, there was not much left for him to be endearing to the youngling.
She nodded hesitantly, her movements slow and deliberate, whether out of caution or the lingering effects of her injury, Aedor could not say.
“Good. If you will allow me to approach, I will cut your bindings,” he offered, retrieving his dagger. She extended her bound hands, and he severed the ropes with a swift motion. As soon as she was free, she tore off her gag and sprang from the bed.
“What—I—where are we?” she stammered, her gaze darting around the room.
“I could have sworn I just asked you that,” Aedor quipped dryly, though he knew his humor would be lost on her. “We are in Helgen Keep. A dragon has attacked and is raining fire upon everyone outside. We need to hurry.”
“I… remember. You—you stabbed the executioner!” she exclaimed, her voice rising.
“Oh, good, so you do remember. Now we need to move,” Aedor replied, mentally chastising himself at his short-term surprise. Of course, she had seen him kill the executioner—she had been staring directly at the man.
Aedor gathered what supplies he could—potions, non-perishable food, and a sealed container of water. Just as he approached the door, it swung open, revealing an Imperial soldier. For a moment, both men stared at each other, their expressions mirroring surprise.
“Oh,” they said in unison.