The Stormcloak bear flew high above the Palace of the Kings, the ocean wind whipping it and sending the banner flapping violently. Talion clenched the rail of the ship, the scars on his hands white from the pressure. Twenty-one years—it had been twenty-one years since he'd seen her shores. Skyrim. He was home.
When he stepped onto the docks, Stormcloak soldiers searched his pack before letting him through. They gave his pack only a cursory glance but tore apart the packs of any Mer or beastkin, looking for any indication of Thalmor involvement. "Safe travels, kinsman," one soldier said as he handed Talion back his pack. Talion nodded, throwing it over his shoulder. Tired and in need of a meal, he made his way to Candlehearth Hall.
Warmth greeted him as he stepped inside. The low murmur of conversation and the crackling flames were a welcome comfort after long weeks at sea. He ordered a bowl of stew and a mug of mead from the innkeeper before settling at a table in the back with a clear view of the door—an old habit sharpened by years in Thalmor territory. He ate his stew—boiled rabbit with carrots and potatoes. It wasn't bad. He took a drink of his mead.
"Get out of here, knife-ear! You're not welcome in here," a patron shouted.
A large Nord with massive hands scarred from labor and battle shoved the Dunmer man at the table near the door, spilling his stew everywhere.
"You made a mess, elf," the Nord said, disgust dripping from his every syllable. "Clean it up." He tossed a rag to the Dunmer.
Loud laughter echoed through the hall. Though a small man and no match for the Nord, the Dunmer stood and spat through clenched teeth.
"Damn ice-brained Nord," the elf growled, reaching for a knife at his side.
The Nord slapped it out of his hand with a chuckle, then stomped the Dunmer's face. With a loud crunch , and blood sprayed from his nose.
"Now you get to clean it up with your tongue, elf."
Many Nords despised elves of all kinds, so few would stand for the elf in this moment. But Talion reserved his hatred for the Thalmor alone. It was the Thalmor who had killed his brother, the Thalmor who had made him a slave. Talion had fought alongside Dunmer, Khajiit, even a few Argonians; they had a common enemy, something this Nord seemed to have forgotten.
Talion stood. This display had gone on long enough.
"Lick the floor clean, elf!" the Nord shouted, forcing the elf's face into the spilled stew.
"That's enough," Talion said, his voice loud and commanding.
The laughter stopped. The Nord turned.
"What are you, some elf lover?"
"Go back to your drink. The elf was just leaving," Talion said calmly.
"I don't think so. This filthy little elf isn't going anywhere until I can see my reflection in these floors."
Talion stepped forward, resting his hand on his sabre. "I won't tell you again. Go back to your drink."
Talion met the man's eyes. A spark of fear was there in the Nord's eyes. He looked away and scoffed.
"Go on, elf. Get back to the Gray Quarter where you belong. I'd better never see you in here again."
The elf stood, holding his ribs, and as quickly as he could, left the inn.
Talion tossed a rag to the Nord. "Now clean it up," he said, his eyes meeting the Nord's again, his hand grasping the hilt of his sabre.
The next morning, after he had breakfast at the inn—salt fish and hot bread—he paid the innkeeper a few septims for a bath. He sighed as he submerged himself in the hot water, leaning back and enjoying the simple luxury. He was a large man, and the basin was too shallow for him, but it was better than he'd had in years. He ladled hot water over his long black hair, washing the dirt and grime from weeks at sea off him. He cut down his long salt-and-pepper beard to a more manageable length.
When he was done, he examined his face in the polished copper mirror on the wall. His silver-blue eyes stared back at him, tired from the hard years of fighting this endless war. He dressed in his travel leathers, grabbed his pack, and left the inn, stepping out into the busy streets of Windhelm.
He searched his coin purse. Only a few hundred septims to his name. Not enough to buy a horse, but more than enough to hire a carriage. His father and brother lived in Riverwood. It had been many years since he'd seen them. His father had owned the lumber mill in town, but that was many years ago. He may have sold it after all this time. His father wasn't a young man anymore, after all.
He found that the carriage driver had already set out and wasn't expected back for a few days, so it seemed Talion would be walking. He bought some supplies for the journey—it would only be a couple days walk. He would need food, a few wine skins, perhaps a bedroll, a new winter coat, and some boots. A Nord though he may be, he had spent many years in the deserts and jungles of Elsweyr. It would take time before he was used to the Skyrim snows again.
He would head south toward Ivarstead, through the mountain pass to Helgen, then home. He packed his provisions in his travel pack, tightened his sword belt, and set off on the snow-covered cobblestone road to Ivarstead.
Night had fallen, and Talion was exhausted. Since he was in no hurry, he decided to make camp for the night in a small copse beside the cliff face on the road to Ivarstead. Building a fire for warmth, he set out his bedroll and had a small meal of dried horker, washing it down with a swig from his wineskin. The mead was sweet in his mouth.
After that, he spent some time practicing his sword work. Janico had always been adamant that daily practice was crucial to developing his skills. Talion moved through the forms of Goutfang, the Khajiit martial art—a light and agile style often employing dual sabres and quick footwork. Talion preferred a single sabre, keeping his other hand free for spellwork. His old friend Janico White-Mane, a master of the style, had taught him over his many years in Elsweyr. Though their meeting had not been friendly at first, they soon grew to respect each other's abilities as warriors. Janico had never been what Talion would call a master—more of a friend imparting his wisdom and skill.
Talion's true master—the man who taught him everything he knew of sorcery—was Divayth Fyr, the ancient Telvanni mage. Many thought Divayth had died in the Red Year when Red Mountain erupted, taking Vvardenfell with it. Instead the old Dunmer had vanished into one of his many realms, continuing his research and perfecting his art. Divayth had been disappointed when he first laid eyes on Talion—a Nord with no knowledge of mysticism, with not a spell to his name—but Talion had shined like a beacon in the darkness of Aetherius, the realm of magic. The ancient Dark Elf had sought the source of this light and found Talion—a Nord with a deep connection to the realm of magic.
Divayth had flatly refused to teach Talion at first. "A Telvanni mage would sooner curse their own ancestors than pass their knowledge to an outsider." But as Talion grew, his magicka became more and more unstable. Eventually, Divayth relented, recognizing that untrained Talion was far more dangerous to both him and Nirn. Over many years, Talion learned secret Telvanni spells never before taught to outsiders. Talion had vowed to take the knowledge to his grave. Though Divayth had never taught Talion his deepest secrets, Talion had learned more than most Telvanni ever would from Divayth.
Talion sat down in the dirt, panting from his sword practice. He wanted to go to sleep, but he knew Divayth would flay him alive if he found out he'd practiced "the cat's" teachings but neglected his own. Resting on his knees, he took a deep breath, steadying his heart. He cast Telekinesis and concentrated on the spell. He lifted the stones around him. Divayth had always said this was an excellent spell to learn control and precision with magicka. The ability to divide one's attention to several objects at once, yet control them independently, was difficult—but essential to true mastery.
He manipulated the stones around him, willing them to float in intricate patterns in perfect unison with one another. The longer he held it, the harder it became. He closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth in concentration. Eventually, with his magicka reserves nearly drained, he willed them forward. They shot like arrows into several nearby trees, each stone hitting its mark perfectly, sending chips of bark spraying across his small campsite.
He fell backward to the ground, panting vigorously, sweat beading down his face.
"Again," he heard Divayth's voice, imperious and sharp from the distant past.
"Again," he said, agreeing with the old Dunmer. He got back to his resting position and began again.
When Talion bedded down that night, he was exhausted. Sleep took him as soon as he closed his eyes.
==
He stood in a line of pikes, his ill-fitting armor uncomfortably loose on him. He looked to the side and saw his younger brother, Kairm—fear on his face.
"The outer wall has fallen! The Thalmor are charging!" Captain Caius shouted.
Talion grabbed his brother's shoulder. "It's going to be okay," he lied.
"I was only supposed to be a messenger," Kairm said, pleadingly, tears streaming down his face.
"Set your pikes!" the captain shouted. "Fight to the last! For the Emperor! For mighty Talos! Fight!"
Talion clenched his jaw.
"Shield wall!" the captain shouted.
Thousands of shields locked in a phalanx formation. Talion saw it then—the stone, coursing with magical energy, high in the air, arcing down toward the city walls.
It hit with a burst of light and a powerful explosion that sent many soldiers sprawling to the ground. Talion got to his feet and looked to his side—his brother was gone.
"Kairm!" he shouted, looking around wildly for his brother. He saw him hiding in an alleyway, covering his ears, crying as stone after stone crashed into the city walls, cracking holes in their defenses.
Talion saw creatures of flame and lightning stepping through the breach. He heard screams of "Atronachs!" Many soldiers turned and ran at the sight.
"Hold the line!" the captain shouted.
"Mages, forward! Cast warding your spells!"
The spells of the Atronachs crashed against the warding spells of the mages, who quickly began returning fire—raining lightning and fire down upon the elementals. But the Atronachs were only meant to soften them up.
After them came the Dremora, followed closely by the undead—waves upon waves of black-clad Daedra and the rotting corpses of slain Imperial citizens, flooding through the broken sections of the wall.
Talion looked to Kairm—crying, trying to hide—and back to the oncoming horde. He looked to the great dragon statue of Martin Septim, avatar of Akatosh. He said a prayer to the Nine, set his pike, and prepared as the horde crashed into them.
Talion woke with a start to the sound of screams, his dagger unsheathed and ready before his eyes even opened. He scanned his surroundings, eyes wide and alert. The sound of clashing swords and dying men echoed up from the valley below.
Talion kept low and crawled to the edge of the cliff face. The battle below was not going well. The Stormcloaks were being massacred—half-clothed men emerging from their tents only to be cut down by raiding cavalry or hidden bowmen.
"Shit," Talion said under his breath. He quickly began grabbing his things, stuffing them haphazardly into his pack. He knew that if they found him here, the odds of them stopping to ask questions were slim.
His ears perked up as he heard the rustle of chainmail in the trees behind him.
"Drop your weapons, traitor!"
Talion stopped packing. "I'm not a soldier. I'm just a traveler on my way to Riverwood to visit family," he said, raising his hands.
"I said, drop your weapons!" the voice commanded.
Talion stood, undoing his sword belt and letting it fall to the dirt.
"Take him."
Talion was shoved to the ground by rough hands, his wrists bound. The soldiers began searching his pack, efficient in their robbery, tossing aside anything they deemed useless splitting his provisions and gold among themselves. They even took his boots and winter coat—though the soldier who ended up with them at least had the decency to let Talion have his old set.
They took Talion down the cliffside to the battlefield. Over a hundred corpses lay strewn in the dirt and muck. At the center of it all knelt Ulfric Stormcloak, bound and gagged. Next to him, another Nord knelt, blood matting his long blonde hair. A dozen others sat in the dirt—the only survivors.
"General Tullius, sir," the soldier that had arrested Talion said, snapping a crisp salute. "We captured this scout on the cliff face above."
"Good work, soldier. He'll meet the headsman with the rest," the balding Imperial general said, looking at Ulfric with disgust. "Send word to the Emperor—we have the traitor Ulfric Stormcloak in custody. He will be taken to Helgen and executed there. It's on the border of Cyrodiil—that'll send a message to the rest of the jarls. This is what happens to traitors to the Empire."
The general raised his voice. "Let's get a move on. I want to be done with this business quickly."
They threw all the survivors into wagons, chaining them to the floorboards.
"Talion? Is that you?"
The bloodied Nord beside him lifted his head. It took a moment for Talion to recognize him.
"Ralof?" Talion asked.
"Aye," Ralof said weakly.
"What are you doing here?" Ralof asked.
"They thought I was a scout," Talion said. "They wouldn't listen when I told them I was just passing through."
"Damn Empire," Ralof spat weakly.
The driver whipped the horses into motion, and they set off on the long road to Helgen.