1.

He crawls out of the ashes of Helgen.

Stands in the courtyard of the keep and strips off his Imperial armor. No more, he thinks. No more, not after his regiment is cold and gone to Sovngarde, or the Void, or some plane of Oblivion where he cannot follow, not yet.

His captain, his brothers and sisters; their faces are unrecognizable where they fell, running, fighting, all dying.

He piles his armor on the steps of the keep and feels the chill wind of Skyrim tugging his shirt, his hair. Sets off and doesn’t look back, not even for dragons.

2.

The Rift is hot.

He sticks to the side roads, paths obscured and unmarked. The Jarl has no sympathies for the Imperial troops at her border, but a deserter, especially one who has killed in her city, will also want for a welcome.

Wolves are terrible eating, but he can’t survive on wild gourds alone. He learns to hear them coming, how to keep the flames from his hands steady so they cook in their furs. Ruins the pelt for selling, but he hasn’t seen a caravan in weeks.

A courier, sweaty, gasping, finds him with a note:

We know.

3.

Babette’s un-childlike speech, Festus’ grumbling, Arnbjorn swearing over the forge, Nazir’s mockery; all so odd, and yet familiar to a man who was once a soldier, living among kin that isn’t blood. (The spider is definitely really weird, though.)

But it’s Gabriella’s dry strangeness that captures his heart, although she never looks at him and berates him when he takes too long to leave for a contract.

She throws his clothes in the pool under the waterfall when he doesn’t wash them after a kill and refuses to give him robes.

Astrid nods knowingly and sends him on his way.

4.

Veezara grins at him when he slips into the Temple of the Divines. Outside is chaos; there is the wailing of the bride’s friends, both false and true; there are unintelligible shouts from the searching guards.

He and the Argonian (Astrid doesn’t trust me, he thinks) play at praying until the monks finally stop casting dark looks their way. He looks up to see which of the nine—no, eight, he’ll never get used to that—stares unseeing down at him.

Arkay. Of course. Not as good as their Dread Father, but he’ll do.

The blessing, though, is a surprise.

5.

His hands shake very badly when he goes to strip Gaius of his armor. He has done so many times over, the past fortnight; he won the man’s bed easily, his trust far less so.

Lucien’s ghostly muttering floats over to him. He shivers, thinking of the spectre’s eyes on them in bed, on the road, as they fought, as Gaius died…

Thinks of how the betrayed assassin laughed when he finally drew his dagger to make an end.

He clenches his fists. Then sets back to work: the letter hidden, a son’s carelessly arranged limbs, a father’s broken heart.

6.

The soul gem glows darkly with the Gourmet’s captured spirit. He knows his eyes are glowing, too, and draws his hood down closer around his face as he rides, fast, for Morthal.

The noon sun burns through his armor. Underneath him, Shadowmere seems to know it, and strains for more speed, hooves sparking on the road.

Falion shelters him for the day, though the wizard forbids Agni to get too close. The girl knows too much of vampires already.

The next dawn, the Gourmet’s soul is offered up for his own. He wonders briefly, if he ever truly had it.

7.

It is the first time he has made a sound in months, and it is because he is screaming, screaming after Commander Maro’s retreating back—call them back please don’t do it I will kill you and I’m sorry—but of course it is too late, he was a soldier once, he knows that Imperial commanders don’t take back their orders, never, especially when they will win and their enemies will bleed and burn and die and he stops screaming only because the Penitus Oculatus agent has stabbed him and he needs to draw breath to kill them and RUN

8.

He finds Astrid lying in the circle, the dagger, the petals lying beside her burned body. She is whispering something barely loud enough to hear; when he kneels close to her to catch what must be her last words she puts the blade into his hand.

He looks up at Nazir and Babette, Babette who belies her three hundred years and clings close to Nazir, presses her face into his side so she won’t see.

Listen, the Night Mother says in his head, and obey—

They lay her beside her husband, still in his wolf shape.

He rides for Solitude.

9.

“Your Emperor is dead.”

His voice is hoarse, but the man hears him; the guards hear him, too, and murmur fearfully. He knows he will never return to Solitude.

“I thought, perhaps, to let you live, and face your losses alone.”

He holds up a soul gem; the Commander’s eyes go wide at its color.

“I have lost my family twice over; you have only lost a son. You could live with that.”

He drops the soul gem into his pouch, and his hand comes back up glowing with its spell.

“But then, what kind of assassin would I be?“

10.

He dismounts from Shadowmere’s back at the stables and walks quickly, purposefully, to the gate; a few carefully chosen words, a blade handed over, and the guards escort him warily to the Jarl.

Who demands, sitting upright on his throne, “Give me one reason why I should not immediately hand you over to General Tullius to be hanged.”

He tugs the heavy stone free from his pack—the housecarl lunges with her sword—and sets it at the Jarl’s feet.

“I will kill the dragons.”

To an Imperial soldier, the Emperor’s final order speaks louder than the Night Mother’s whispers.