Skyrim: Arga's Story (Fanfic)

Chapter 3: Dragons!

He woke as he bounced into the air, coming down hard on a wooden surface. Shaking his head lightly and groaning under his breath, Arga blinked his eyes open.

Things had changed for the worse since Darkwater Crossing, it seemed. His hands were bound together, and most of his furs had been taken from him. A small set of leathers had replaced them, enough to keep his modesty but not a whole lot more. The chill of the harsh wind blowing over the edge of the wagon he rode in was enough to make him hiss, shaking his head a few times to try and dismiss the feeling. Futile, but there was little else he could do.

Arga lifted his head a little further. He was in a wagon, he'd already guessed that much by how it bounced and shook as it moved along, but he hadn't thought that there would be many others in it with him. There were three others, all Nords, all familiar. In front of him was one of the bodyguards from the Crossing, and to his right was the thief that had stalled him long enough to get him caught before he could get out of the way. Across from the thief, on the other side of the cart, sat the guy that was responsible for their problems at the moment.

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. The leader of the Stormcloaks that were fighting to drive the Empire out of Skyrim. Arga had met him – if one could call it that – at Darkwater Crossing, when he had rode in, brazenly asking for people to volunteer to join the Stormcloaks.

Unfortunately for the Jarl, there had been Imperials at the Crossing, just waiting for him. They had come out of hiding and swarmed him and his guards over, arresting him and anyone else that seemed to be even something of a criminal.

In this case, that included him. Arga hadn't been looking to be arrested, and he hadn't even committed a crime at the time. Oh, he might have, as he was trying to find a way out of the Crossing before things went to hell, but he had never gotten the chance to steal a horse, or a wagon, or anything else that would get him away with speed. The Imperials had caught him looking at the horses, though, and that had been enough proof for them to grab him, knock him out, and send him off with the rest of the prisoners.

The Jarl was gagged, Arga noticed. It was a little strange to see one prisoner gagged but not the others, but the Argonian didn't mind seeing the Jarl like that. Just now, he didn't want to listen to any rants on freedoms, patriotism, or the evils of the Empire.

That didn't mean that the others in the cart didn't want to talk. The Jarl's bodyguard, across from him, looked him in the eye as he spoke. “So, you're awake. You must have taken quite a blow to the head to stay asleep for so long.”

“You could say that,” Arga muttered, reminded of the ache in the back of his head at the Nord's statement. “A sword hilt to the back of the skull is a good way to make sure you stay out for a while, I suppose.”

“Well, you're not going to need to worry about that for long,” the guard said, turning his head and looking up the road.

Arga followed his gaze. The road stretched out around several hills, but it was clear that they were approaching a town. The walls were getting bigger in the distance, and they would likely reach it in a few more minutes. What awaited them there, though, that was something that he didn't know.

“If you hadn't been there, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell right now,” the Nord behind him said. Arga rolled his eyes softly as the thief continued to complain. “This all your fault, Stormcloaks. Before you started stirring up trouble, the Empire was nice and lazy.”

“Do you have any idea of where they're taking us?” Arga asked, more to interrupt the thief than for any other reason.

“I don't know where we're going, but Sovngard awaits.”

Sovngard. Arga took his eyes off of the road, lowering his head. Sovngard was the name that the Nords gave to their afterlife, he'd heard. So they were being taken to be executed. He supposed that should have been expected, considering who was in the cart. His eyes flicked at the Jarl, and he curled his fists in barely suppressed anger. Were it not for the bodyguard in the cart and the Imperial soldiers just outside of the wagon, he would have been tempted to take a swing at the Jarl.

Still was, as a matter of fact, but he wasn't going to waste what life he had left by getting everyone around him angry.

The wagon bounced again, almost throwing them off of their makeshift seats. Arga's tail was enough to catch hold of the wagon and steady himself, but the bodyguard wasn't so lucky. He slipped to the floor of the wagon, and the thief almost went out the back of it. Considering they all had their hands tied, it was a miracle they had remained on their seats for as long as they had, let alone not broken anything in the process.

“Where are you from, horse-thief?” the bodyguard asked.

He thought that the guard was talking to him at first, but the thief at his side was the one that answered. “What does it matter now?”

“A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.”

“...Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead,” the thief muttered, lowering his head, staring down at his hands.

Arga did the same, though not for the same reasons. Traveling, lacking the funds for settling down anywhere, only staying in one place for any extended length of time by being forced to: it was not something that encouraged one to think of any home. Even Black Marsh was little more than a memory to him, and a faded one at that, with the memories of the Hist and the swamps and his Marshbrothers faded into the mists of time.

No, he stared down for another reason. Flexing his fingers lightly, Arga closed his eyes. He could still feel his magic inside. He could feel the power that he'd used in the caves of Darkwater Pass, and in the mine near Windhelm. He knew that it was still there. The question was, could he still use it? Or did the Imperials have bindings that were like the ones in Morrowind, where the slave masters could cut off the magic of their slaves?

Slowly, he closed his hands. The power was there. He could feel it. And he slowly pushed it out towards his hands. All the other times he had used magic, it had been a fast action, either holding the flames burning in his hands or throwing it out in a stream. If he did that now, though, it would be too easily seen. So for the first time, he took it slow, forced it to bubble up rather than shove it out. The soft warmth of the magic flowed down his arms, almost like it was flowing with his blood towards his palms.

And then he felt it. It was barely there, just a tiny bit of fire, an even smaller amount of heat, but it was there. His fingers hid the flames in his palms, but it was THERE. Arga smiled slightly to himself before forcing his face neutral again, letting the magic die down again. It was not the right time yet, not unless he wanted to set the wagon on fire and try to escape while they put the fire out. Tempting as the thought was, with the Jarl as a passenger, but it wouldn't work.

He opened his eyes again as the shadows of a wooden gate loomed over them. Turning his head, he watched several Imperial soldiers walk along the top of the gate, looking down at them before moving on. One wore an officer's helmet, and had a more golden sheet to his armor in comparison to the others around him.

“General Tullius, the military governor,” the bodyguard muttered under his breath, saying the name as though it were a curse. “And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves.”

That was another word he recognized. The Thalmor, an elite part of the Aldmeri Dominion. If they were helping the general, no wonder this Tullius had known where Ulfric would be and how to spring the trap for him. With their magic, and the power that they could command, it would have been simplicity itself to figure out something like that. And if they were here for the executions, things would be a good deal more complicated.

Not impossible, Arga thought, just complicated.

“It's strange, isn't it?”

“What is?” Arga asked in response to the Nord's question.

“All these Imperial towers and forts. When I was a child, they always made me feel so safe,” the bodyguard said. He shook his head. “Now...”

Now they were a prison, Arga finished the thought as the gate closed behind them. The Argonian felt eyes on them as they were paraded through the town, the citizens looking at them, and children being shepherded into houses. He could see that the children were confused, which didn't surprise him. But so were the adults, the parents. Some looked on in confusion rather than eagerness, with sorrow rather than bloodthirsty approval.

It was strange to see the people divided over an execution of someone like Ulfric, Arga thought. The way that the Imperials looked at the Jarl from behind and the sides of the cart, it was clear that they hated him, and the people of Darkwater Crossing hadn't been too impressed with the Jarl either. Yet, there were some citizens here that seemed to be sad to see the Jarl heading to an execution.

It was yet another reminder of how much he didn't know. Arga shook his head, flexing his fingers again to keep them warm. He would learn, if he got out of this.

The wagons reached the courtyard at the far side of the fort town, the wagons coming to a stop near a wall. “All prisoners, out!” an Imperial officer shouted from a little ways behind the wagons.

Along with the others, Arga got to his feet. The Jarl was the first one off of their wagon, with the thief following him, protesting all the way. “No, no, you can't do this! We're not rebels!” he shouted. Turning his head, he begged the bodyguard, “Please, you have to tell them that we're not with you! We're not rebels!”

“Go to your death with some dignity, horse-thief,” the bodyguard said with a note of disdain in his voice. “It is the least you can do.”

The officer that had ordered them out of the wagon stepped forward, another Imperial soldier standing at her side with a roll of paper in his hand. “When you hear your name called, step to the block!” the officer shouted, her voice clear and angry, with an undercurrent of eagerness to it as well.

“Empire loves their damn lists,” the bodyguard muttered under his breath.

“Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak!” the soldier at the officer's side called out.

The Jarl stepped forward without hesitation, his head held high and his chin thrust out. The gag and the hands tied in front of him sullied the image, but less than Arga would have expected. The Jarl did manage to carry out walking to the block with an air of dignity, and not a little bit of power and authority behind him as well.

“Ralof of Riverwood!”

The bodyguard stepped forward next, his hands held down at his waist. “It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!” he shouted as he followed, standing beside the Jarl in the slowly growing crowd by the block. Other soldiers were unloaded from the other wagon, Stormcloaks, by their armor, and stood at the Jarl's side as well.

“Lokir of Rorikstead!”

The horse-thief was the next, apparently, but he refused to go to the block. Hysterically, he ran up to the officers, almost falling on his knees as he begged for his life. “You can't kill me! I'm not a rebel!” he shouted at them. “Please, mercy!”

“To the block, prisoner!” the officer said, cutting through his shouts and shoving him back.

“No! You're not going to execute me!” Lokir shouted as he got to his feet. To Arga's astonishment, the thief actually ran past the officers, running away from the square. “You're not going to kill me!”

“Archers!” The officer raised her hand, and several soldiers a little further down the path raised their bows. The horse-thief ran past them, and the officer dropped her hand. The bowstrings twanged softly as they were released, and the arrows flew true, lodging in the back of the thief. He hit the ground face-first, still on impact as blood slowly flowed out of his back.

“Anyone else feel like running?” the officer asked, her hands on her hips. The other prisoners rapidly shook their heads, as did Arga. Nobody else wanted to become the target of the archers, not like that.

But neither did Arga want to go to the block. Even as he shook his head, he flexed his hands again, pointing his palms down. All of his focus went into his magic again, focusing on the slow pulling of it to his palms. Cupping his hands around each other, he managed to hide the light of the fire in his hands. Now came the complicated part. He had to let out the fire magic in a small stream, just enough to reach his bonds and burn them quickly, but not enough to hit himself in the stomach and burn through his scales. And he needed to get it right on the first try, or he was going to get caught.

As the soldiers worked to restore order with some of the few citizens that acted outraged at one of the prisoners being shot, Arga took his chance. Exhaling, he pushed at the magic in his hands, imagining the fire being pushed through a thin tube, moving at a measured rate. The 'hand' that did the pushing at the magic moved slower than it usually did when he was fighting, giving it a gently push rather than a hard shove.

The heat went further than he wanted, and Arga winced at the burning flame that went partway up his sleeves. Scales were good for some things, but not deflecting heat. His wrists and part of his forearms hurt, and hurt a fair bit, but he could feel the bindings had weakened. An experimental tug to each side almost pulled them apart, and he stopped himself from pulling further. He would break free when the time came.

Finally, calm had been restored. The officer turned to him, and the soldier looked at the list. Arga waited to hear his name called, taking a few deep breaths, his mind trying to come up with what to do next, now that he could get his hands free.

Rather than being called, however, he only heard silence. He cocked his head to the side as the soldier looked over the list once, twice, and then a third time. He held it out to the officer, gesturing at it and mumbling too quietly for the Argonian to hear. What was going on, he wondered.

“Prisoner!” the officer shouted, waving her hand. “Approach!”

He did, moving quickly to stand before them. “Yes?” he asked.

“You're not on the list. Who are you?” the soldier asked.

Arga lifted an eyebrow at that. Not on the list? Was that because they didn't know his name, or because they hadn't thought of something to charge him with? Or was he not supposed to be here at all? It seemed hard to believe that was possible, but perhaps he could get out of this without needing to run for the rest of his life. Or at least until he hit the next border. “I am Arga, first from Black Marsh, and then Morrowind, and then Windhelm,” he said.

“And why were you put in the cart with the other prisoners?” the soldier asked.

“I don't know,” Arga said with a shrug. “I...” He paused, something on the horizon catching his eyes. It was a blur, something dark, but it was high enough in the sky and big enough for him to have noticed it. He was quiet as he watched for it, seeing if it would show itself again.

“Yes?” the soldier asked. “You what?”

Shaking his head, Arga replied, “I was at Darkwater Crossing, and I was looking at the horses when the ambush for Ulfric Stormcloak took place. I wanted to see if there were any that weren't owned, maybe for sale, so I could have a faster way of getting around Skyrim.”

The two Imperials turned to each other, talking, but Arga wasn't paying so much attention. There it was again, a dark blur just behind the clouds. It was moving fast, and it was closer than it was the first time. A soft rumbling filled the air, almost like thunder in its strength, but with a noise beneath it that was higher, shriller than thunder could ever be. The Imperials hardly seemed to notice, but it shook Arga right down to his bones.

“He goes to the block.” The officer's words were enough to shake him out of his thoughts, and Arga turned to stare at her. “You heard me, prisoner. You go to the block, just like the rest.”

“But I'm not even supposed to be here,” Arga protested.

“I said.” She dropped her hand to her waist, her fingers wrapped around her sword. “You go to the block.”

Briefly, Arga considered ripping his hands free and using his magic. The sheer number of Imperial soldiers meant that he would almost certainly die, but he was already about to die anyway. If there was some chance he could get out of this, some way that he could live instead of die, then he wanted to take it.

But he never got the chance. Once more that noise filled the air, and this time the Imperials reacted, turning to look this way and that. Their eyes were wide, and more than a few looked slightly shaken by the echoing, vibrating rumble that came with the shriek in the air. “What is that?” the soldier asked.

“It's...it's nothing,” the officer said. “Get to the block,prisoner. I want to get on with thi - “

This time, it wasn't a blur, but a shadow that passed over them. Arga looked up, as did every one of the soldiers and prisoners in the square. “I think...we have bigger problems than executions,” the Argonian muttered.

Held aloft by leathery wings was a massive creature of scales of black, eyes burning with a fire that was matched by the blaze between its jaws. It hovered over the ground, just above the tall keep of the town, wings beating with enough force to knock the soldiers directly under it to their knees.

“Yol Toor Shul!” A strange shout came from the creature's mouth, and fire sprayed from its jaws. It spread across the ground, burning prisoner and Imperial alike, briefly turning them to human torches before they fell to the ground, little more than piles of ash.

That was it for the Argonian. Yanking his arms to the side, he pulled his hands free from his bindings and took off running, ducking into the nearby tower. He heard other footsteps coming behind him, but he didn't bother waiting for them, taking off up the steps of the tower as fast as his feet could carry him. Height. He needed height to see what was going on around him.

He barely made it past the second story before the wall caved in behind him. The creature had landed on the building adjacent to the tower, and had managed to hit the tower with enough force to shove its head through. Arga stared in astonishment as it breathed fire again, filling the air with heat and flames far more powerful than anything he could summon through magic. He threw his hands up to cover his face, feeling the heat against his scales, and for a moment, he was afraid that he would be killed by the fire instead of by the executioner's ax.

Then the fire stopped, and the creature was moving again, wing beats announcing that it was flying off to another part of town.

Arga panted softly as he caught his breath, leaning over the side of the stairs to see if there was anyone still living down below. There were a few people crushed under stones, but for the most part, the people that had followed him into the tower were alright. They were also all Stormcloak's men, judging by the armor that they wore, and Ulfric was among them.

It was all he could do to not growl, and so he turned towards the stairs again. He hurried up them, making his way to the top of the tower. The hatch to the top was difficult to push up at first, but he managed it, forcing it up and open before pulling himself onto the roof of the tower.

The town was in flames. What few buildings that were made of stone – the keep and a few towers – were the only places that weren't blazing with heat and fire, consumed in the flames of the attacking creature. People were dead or dying in the streets, and the surviving soldiers were doing their best to restore order on the ground. The Imperials were too busy dealing with the citizens, getting them to the gates of the city, or fighting the creature when it got close enough to the ground, to do anything about their escaping prisoners.

“I'm not going to get a better chance than this,” Arga muttered to himself. He looked up. The creature was still flying around, occasionally landing on the ground to unleash a blast of fire towards some soldiers or a building. It didn't seem to have any target in mind; as long as he kept out of its way, he should be able to get out without the big guy noticing him.

The sound of a wall breaking filled his ears as he turned to the hatch again. He turned, staring as the creature broke through one of the walls attaching the keep to the different towers with one swing of its tail, something that would take catapults many shots to accomplish.

A little fearful now, Arga ducked back into the tower, running down the stairs.

The hole was still open, and there was a hole in the roof in the house across from the tower. He paused, looking down at it. It would be a bit of a hard leap, but he thought that he might be able to make it. And it would be better to run out that way rather than go back the way he came; he doubted that the creature had left the execution square in anything resembling a single piece.

A couple of the Stormcloaks were slowly coming up the stairs, and Arga turned to them with contained annoyance. One of them was the bodyguard. What was his name again? Ralof? That sounded about right. “Yes?” Arga asked.

“What did you see up there?” Ralof asked.

“Fire. Bodies.” He shook his head. “A lot of bodies.”

Ralof shook his head as well. “It's always been said that dragons would return...but I always thought it was just a legend.”

“Legends don't burn down buildings.”

Ulfric stepped up the stairs, shaking his head as he looked through the hole, ignoring the look that Arga sent his way. “But they do provide a good distraction,” he continued. “While the dragon is burning Helgen to the ground, the rest of us can escape.”

Escape probably was the best idea at this point, not that Arga really wanted to do much fighting against the surviving Imperials. They were just doing their job, after all – except for that officer, he supposed; she took entirely too much pleasure in what she did – and he doubted that fighting would get them anything but a delay out of the city. And any delay would give the dragon above time to attack them.

He walked around some of the Stormcloaked, leaning against the whole. The stones were still warm from the fire earlier, but they didn't burn him this time. His arms stung softly from the residual heat coming off of them, though, and the Argonian shook his head lightly at the brief flash of pain. His eyes measured the distance from the tower to the house on the other side. Make-able, but just barely.

“Well...here goes nothing,” the Argonian muttered as the Stormcloaks continued to talk. He backed up a few paces, and then broke out in a sprint, running up to the hole, stepping on the edge...and leaping out into the open air.

He started falling in seconds, hitting the wooden second floor of the house with a hard thud. Falling to his knees, he let himself roll forward a little ways before coming to a stop against the far wall. “Ow,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head a few times as he got to his feet. That was not as easy as he had hoped, and his body felt like he had been thrown up against stone instead of wood, but at least he was out of the tower.

Ignoring the Stormcloaks behind him, Arga took off at a quick walk, making his way down the stairs and out through the front door of the house. The other houses were ablaze, and the dragon still flew in the skies above them, circling the town and unleashing breaths of flame with that strange shout every now and then. The words were strange, but Arga felt like he should recognize them.

Shaking his head and dismissing the thought from his mind, the Argonian slipped through the streets, avoiding the Imperials and the remaining prisoners out on the streets. Most of them were fighting either each other or the circling dragon, pulling out bows and shooting arrows into the sky. Whatever effect they might have had – if any – didn't stop the dragon from continuing to circle the place, unleashing its massive blasts of destruction on the city.

After wandering the flaming streets for a few minutes, ducking from building to building as best he could, Arga found one of the soldiers escorting some of the citizens out of the town. The leather armored soldier had his sword out, pointing to the gate that the wagons had come through, shouting for the soldiers around him to get the civilians out. His voice carried well, and Arga couldn't help but nod in approval at the way that the soldier had taken control of the situation.

Another shout from the sky caught the Argonian's attention. The dragon was coming around for another pass, sweeping through the sky with mouth open and fire brewing. The soldier was right in the dragon's path, he realized.

Not even thinking about it, Arga leaped from his shadowed hiding place. He charged across the open space between the buildings, arms out wide. “Look out!” he shouted as he rammed his shoulder into the soldier, carrying him back a few paces.

The dragon's fiery breath slashed through the ground behind them, the force behind the fire sufficient enough to actually cut through the ground for a foot or so, gouging a furrow out of the earth. If either he or the soldier had been there to be hit....the Argonian shivered, dismissing the mental image. They would not have survived it, that was clear.

“Thank you,” the soldier said as he stood up. Arga recognized him as the soldier that had stood with the officer, the one that had said that he didn't belong there. Well, that was a start, he supposed; one of the decent ones, rather than one of the soldiers that wanted to execute him. Definitely an improvement. “I'd offer my hand in introduction, but we're a little busy right now. Hadvar.”

“Arga.” He nodded his head, then looked at the dragon as it started coming around for another pass. “Think it's time to run?”

“I'd say that's a good idea. Come on.”

Hadvar led the way through the remnants of the town, pulling Arga along behind him. They passed more bodies than the Argonian thought could be there, most of them Imperial soldiers, but some nothing more than the town's population that hadn't been able to get away in time. Occasionally he saw a Stormcloak body amongst them, but they were the rarest. Likely most of them were back with Ulfric in the tower or making their way through the town, just like he and Hadvar were doing at the moment.

Suddenly, the soldier pulled him to a stop. Arga grunted as they both pushed themselves flush against a wall, and looked around. For a second, he saw nothing, and wondered what was going on.

Then the dragon landed. Two sets of claws at the ends of wings pushed past the top of the wall, and then the head of the dragon followed. It was great, black, and the scales shimmered in the firelight of the burning buildings around them. The creature's neck was wide, at least as wide as Arga's body was, and even Hadvar put his sword away rather than try to strike it. He seemed to realize the same thing that Arga did; a sword wouldn't be enough to get through those scales, not enough to actually penetrate the neck enough to cause any sort of injury.

The great three word shout came again, and fire roared ahead of them, burning through the buildings before them. It burned and shattered wood and straw, and knocked over the stone in the building before them, carving out a hole. The shrieks of the people inside filled Arga's ears, and he had to force himself not to reach up and cover his ears to try and blot out the sound.

The dragon took off again, the wingbeats forcing down the air with enough power and force that Arga was forced to his knees. Hadvar shook, but managed to keep his footing, shaking his head as he stared at the beast. “I have never seen anything of the like,” he muttered to himself.

“I hope never to see something like that again when we get out of here,” Arga responded, panting and shaking his head a few times. He slowly stood up, groaning to himself. “Let's keep moving. We need to get out of here.”

“You're not wrong.”

They followed the stone wall around the town, keeping against it as much as they could. The dragon continued to burn the town around them, but the stone at least seemed to be flameproof. It was warm, though, and there were points where the dragon had damaged it past its abilities to hold together. They passed a piece of wall that would have protected the keep before, but now there was a hole large enough for three men to walk through, shoulder to shoulder.

Through it, Arga could see various members of the Stormcloak hurrying into the keep. “Where are they going?” he asked, pointing them out to Hadvar.

“There's underground passages under the keep. It will lead them out of the town, and to safety,” Hadvar said. “We should do the same.”

Before they could step through the hole in the wall, though, the dragon roared again. It flew towards the keep, and landed on it. The Stormcloaks that hadn't gone inside already were swiftly enveloped in flame as they approached, the dragon torching them. Those that remained further back survived; those that tried to approach were turned to ash in seconds.

The sight of the dragon's sheer power shook Arga to the core. “Do you still think we want to try that?” he asked quietly.

“I....I don't think so, no.” The soldier shook his head a few times. “I don't think so.”

“Neither do I.” Well, that was one way out of the city denied. The Argonian turned, looking around. If there was no way out through the keep, then they would have to use one of the city gates. There was no way that they could get back to the execution square, even if there was a way out through that. Looking towards the gate that they'd been brought into the city through, it was clear that that route was useless as well.

That only left the last gate. It was not far, but it would leave them out in the open, and while there were trees further out to provide some cover, he did not relish the possibility of running through an inferno while trying to leave a dragon behind. Not to mention the fact that the gates were closed, and they'd need to get them open if they had any chance of trying to get out.

But it was the only chance they had, and Arga started moving, Hadvar having to come along behind him.

The gates were wood, there was that much to work with, Arga thought to himself. He was loathe to use more fire after seeing all that it had done here already, but that was the only magic he had, and it would be the only thing to knock down the gates fast enough. He called his magic to his hands, feeling the flames burning near his palms, warming him in the air that was too cold for the fire that burned through the town.

“Keep an eye on the dragon,” Arga muttered as he knelt by the door. He heard the soldier pull out his blade, turning around and holding position. “Just tell me if he starts coming this way.”

Using magic to burn off his bindings earlier, using magic differently, had gotten Arga's mind wondering. It was the same spell as he had always used, just applied differently, using his mind in a different way to form the magic for a new situation. He wouldn't be able to get through the gate with streams of flame, but what if he focused it in a different way?

Closing his eyes, Arga forced his thoughts to the magic. It was more flickery, more tired than usual, but he wasn't surprised. He was tired. When he was tired, so was the magic. But it had to work. Had to.

He drew the power up through his arms again, forcing it into the balls in his hands. The fire blazed brighter, hotter, but they didn't grow larger. Bringing all his focus to bear, he forced the fire to stay in tightly controlled balls, but kept adding power to them. The raging fire pushed against his control, trying to break free and stream outwards, but he held it in check, forcing it to keep building in the contained form. The pressure fought against him, but he pushed more and more magic into the little orbs, shrinking them rather than letting them grow to build up the pressure further.

“Whatever you're going to do, you better do it fast,” Hadvar muttered behind him. “I think the dragon's getting ready to fly again.”

“Almost....ready...” he muttered in response .His arms shook, the magic trying to go back into his system, trying to vent the pressure of the spell back into his body, but he 'pushed' back against the magic, forcing it out.

Just as the dragon shrieked again, the Argonian pushed his arms out, holding his palms against the wood. And then, he let the magic out. Not all at once, but through a pin-prick hole in the bubble that he'd forced his power into.

It worked, and better than he expected. The fire burst out with the thinness of a needle, but with the cutting power of the sharpest sword that he had ever seen. It burned through the wood in seconds, and as he moved his hand, he felt it burning a line through the door. It was focused enough that it even managed to keep from setting the majority of the door on fire.

He worked faster as he heard the dragon take flight, and soon he had managed to cut through the wood, just as the spell ran out. “Push...push it down!” Arga gasped as he stepped out of the way, his head swimming and his body shaky from the effort the spell had required.

The Imperial soldier didn't disappoint. He rammed his body into the wood, his momentum shoving the cut off wood down and taking him right through the gap. Arga was right behind him, and the two of them ran as fast as they could away from Helgen, slowly leaving the roaring dragon behind them as they ran through the trees, over rocks, and down the path.

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It was some time later that they finally stopped, panting and gasping for breath, on the shores of a lake that Hadvar called Lake Ilinalta. Arga didn't care what it was called; he had gone to it and sunk his arms into it the second that he had seen it, feeling the first relief from his burns in hours. Sighing in comfort, he let the cold water wash over them for a few minutes before slowly pulling his arms out of the water, and almost falling down on a rock near the soldier.

“I didn't know you were burned,” Hadvar said. “You should have said something in the cart or something.”

“I wasn't burned in the cart.” Arga ripped off a part of his shirt, tearing it into strips. As he wrapped them around his burns, he smiled. “I burned myself while you and your superior were arguing about whether to kill me.”

Hadvar lifted an eyebrow. “On purpose? Why?”

“It was the only thing I could think of to weaken the bindings,” he said with a shrug. “A little fire to burn through them, and I could rip through the rest of it later. I didn't think it would go as far up my arms as it did, though.” He grimaced as he tied off part of the bindings. “Something to remember, I suppose.”

His companion was silent for a moment before shaking his head a few times. “We need to keep moving. We can make it to Riverwood in a few hours, if we get started now.”

“And what's in Riverwood that we need so badly?” Arga asked. Grunting as he pressed some more cloth to his other arm, he had to take a few deep breaths before he could speak without pain. “Considering what we just ran away from, don't you think we've earned a chance to get some rest?”

“We can rest there. It's just a few hours away, and we need to get word to the rest of the Imperial Legion about what happened. I don't know who else survived; we might be the only ones,” Hadvar said. He hung his head. “If that's the case, we need to get word to Castle Dour in Solitude of what's happened, and the people here need to be warned of what's going on in the south.”

Much as he hated to admit it – and much as he wanted to just sit and rest for a while – Arga had to admit that the soldier had a point. There was little that one could do against a dragon, more than likely, but those that were in power had to be warned, and if there were people nearby that the dragon could attack when it was done with Helgen, they needed to be told so that they could leave, or prepare themselves, or do something so that they weren't caught off guard. And Hadvar was right about it being them that had to do it. He hadn't seen anyone else on the road behind them, or passing them, since they had left. It was entirely possible that they were the only ones that had made it out alive.

Getting to his feet, the Argonian nodded his head. “Alright,” he said, rubbing his arms lightly and wincing as he did so. “How far to Riverwood?”