Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13393545.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Gen
  Fandom:
      Elder_Scrolls_V:_Skyrim, Elder_Scrolls
  Character:
      Lydia_(Elder_Scrolls), Hadvar_(Elder_Scrolls), Ulfric_Stormcloak,
      Balgruuf_the_Greater, Proventus_Avenicci, Irileth_(Elder_Scrolls),
      Arngeir_(Elder_Scrolls), Brynjolf_(Elder_Scrolls), Paarthurnax_(Elder
      Scrolls), Alduin_(Elder_Scrolls), Basically_all_the_other_characters_you
      know_who_they_are, Characters_from_mods, Female_Dovahkiin_|_Dragonborn,
      Sofia
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Explicit_Language, Drugs, Implied/Referenced
      Underage_Sex, Friendship, mod_content
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-17 Chapters: 1/? Words: 4345
****** Sofia the Last ******
by Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne
Summary
     After a night of drunken revelry, Sofia, a failed acolyte of Dibella,
     failed student of the College of Winterhold, unsuccessful adventurer,
     and prank-loving partyer, finds herself under arrest in an imperial
     prison convoy, and gets caught up in some of the the greatest events
     in the history of the world.
     Follows the main, civil war, College, and other questlines, and
     eventually will move far beyond them, with mod content and my own
     ideas sprinkled all through.
Notes
     The character Sofia is based on, but not entirely identical to, the
     titular follower from the mod Sofia - The Funny, Fully Voiced
     Follower. Content from other mods such as Wyrmstooth and Apocalypse -
     Magic of Skyrim will be featured. The universe has been modified for
     realism in several ways, mostly being made larger so as to feel like
     the cities are actually cities or the College is large enough to
     actually be a school. I will also make up or alter actual Elder
     Scrolls lore as I see fit, though I will try and be clear as I go
     with how this version of Tamriel works.
     Do note too that though the title of this story is stolen from the
     Disney show Sophia the First, it has absolutely nothing to do with
     it, nor shall it intentionally resemble it it any way.
Sofia was in a cart. The rough jolting of wheels on rocky soil hurt her head
through what long experience told her was a mighty hangover. Wishing she
weren’t conscious at all for it, she tried to ignore her own uncomfortable
existence entirely, but after what was nowhere near long enough the cart hit a
particularly offensive bump, forcing Sofia back into the world of the
conscious.
“Thank the Divines, you’re awake,” said a man’s voice. “We were beginning to
think you never would.”
Sofia opened her eyes at the voice and found herself momentarily blinded by
harsh, pale daylight. Looking around, she found herself in a cart somewhere in
the mountains. Rocky hills rose sharply beside the road on both sides, topped
with dark evergreens. The cart, she saw, was driven by two men in Imperial
Legion uniforms. She could see a similar cart in front of this one, and another
likewise behind. There were three men in the cart with her, two scruffy-looking
nords, one young and blonde and the other older, with brown hair streaked grey,
and a brown-haired Bretonish-looking man who seemed vaguely familiar to her.
“I’m… wake…” Sofia managed. Her head was thick with hangover haze and gave her
a gentle yet insistent throb with every hoof-clop, making focusing on anything
a serious challenge.
“You were trying to cross the border, right? Stole a horse with Lokir over
here, and walked right into the Imperial ambush, same as us,” said the man.
Is that what happened? It sounded plausible, at least. Sofia tried to think
about what happened last night, but couldn’t quite make out anything more
specific than being at a small village tavern, flirting with local men to get
free mead. Horse theft was certainly something she’d done before, both sober
and drunk.
Looking around again to try and get her bearings, she was alarmed to notice
that the nord men were in Stormcloak uniforms. The part about the Imperial
ambush began to register then. She was riding in a prison convoy. She noticed
too that the older nord was gagged. All the men had their hands bound, and
Sofia found hers in ties as well. Prison it is. Damn.
“No thanks to you,” said the Breton. “You stopped us when we ran into you and
accused us of being spies. If it weren’t for that, we all would have walked
away free.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the nord. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds
now.” 
The Breton didn’t respond.
Sofia’s head swam with questions, and not a small measure of fear besides.
She’d slipped arrests and prisons many times before all over Skyrim, but never
from the high security of Imperial fortress prisons. She could easily untie
herself in a pinch, since Imperial soldiers and guards were taught standardised
knots an old friend had once taught her to slip, but she’d probably have to
plan her escape more carefully than normal.
And that still left what she’d been doing last night. Why had she been making
for Cyrodiil? She’d never tried to leave Skyrim before. She was dressed, she
saw, in a now-ruined gown which still managed to cover everything, and her
long, dark hair was loose and messy. “Hey,” she said to the Breton, “Floki,
right?”
“Lokir,” he replied, visibly annoyed.
“Lokir, okay. So, what happened?”
“You don’t remember?” he said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh. Well. Let
me fill you in then, miss innocent princess. First, you got everyone in the inn
drunk. I’ve lived in Stony Brook for fifteen years, and I never seen the so
full. At one point, you got on a table and pulled down your dress while singing
a song so bawdy it’d make a sailor blush.”
Sofia didn’t remember that at all, but did very clearly remember having done
exactly the same thing on many other occasions, so she knew he was probably
telling the truth.
“Then,” Lokir continued, “you started pulling other women up with you, and
exposing them as well. You got kicked out for corrupting the priest’s daughter,
I think it was, or maybe it was the innkeep’s. Doesn’t matter. Me and some
other men followed you out. For some reason, you showed interest in me, and
eventually the other men went back inside. We drank together on the bridge for
an hour, maybe two, singing songs and telling stories, until you pushed me into
swiping an expensive bottle of brandy from the inn and running off on a horse
you stole from the inn’s stables.”
Though it still didn’t jog her memory, that story was familiar to Sofia in
nearly every detail. He’d probably omitted the part where she’d slept with him
before going back to the inn, since that was generally what she did when drunk,
but that omission was understandable given company.
“When we got out of town with no direction, just kept running. Then we ran into
this bunch.” With that, Lokir kicked the older nord in the shins.
“Hey! Watch yourself!” shouted the younger nord. “That man in Ulfric
Stormcloak, the true High King.”
Sofia’s blood went suddenly cold. That man was Ulfric Stormcloak?Ulfric
Stormcloak, the rebel, the murderer, the hero of so many. If he was captured,
though…
Judging by his looks, Lokir was having the same moment of shock. “But that
means… Oh gods, where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know,” said the nord. “But wherever we’re going, Sovngarde awaits.”
A kind of animal panic set into Lokir, a panic Sofia had seen before. “No no
no, this can’t be happening, this can’t be…” he said again and again under his
breath. He eventually stopped repeating himself and simply sat there,
shivering.
The ride continued in awful silence for some while before the nord broke the
silence again. “Where are you from, horse-thieves?”
“Why do you care?” Lokir snapped.
Sofia knew why. “Because a Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” she said,
quietly.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a nord,” he said sharply. After a few moments, he
softened. “Rorikstead. I’m… I’m from Rorikstead.”
“Riverwood,” said the blonde nord.
“Markarth,” Sofia spoke softly. She’d thought of the home of her childhood
often in her years of adventure, but knew well enough that the City of Stone
was not for her. The priestesses of Dibella who’d raised her would say she gave
the goddess a bad name, and in truth, she did. She wasn’t proud of where her
life had gone, but didn’t regret it, either. She’d managed to send a few
letters over the years to Sister Marin, the woman who had raised her as a
mother might, to tell her about the world at large, but had never stayed in one
place long enough to get a response. Sofia had faced death more than once in
the last few years, but always from exposure or from injuries in fights she’d
picked. She’d never imagined that she’d be executed, especially as a mistaken
prisoner of war. Such is life, though. Six long years of adventuring across
Skyrim had impressed that upon her in a way no philosopher’s wisdom might.
When the cart turned around a sharp corner in the road, a fortress gatehouse
came into view among the trees. Imperial legion archers guarded it from above,
and more soldiers were visible through the open gate. As they approached, an
older man in officer’s armour appeared in the gatehouse to watch them pass
through. One of the soldiers driving the cart shouted up to him. “General
Tullius!”
“Captain Hadvar!” replied the General. “The headsman is waiting. Let’s get this
over with.”
So it was to be a beheading, then. Faster than a hanging, by all accounts, and
far preferable to many other, crueler methods of execution.
“General Tullius, the military governor,” said the nord with a visceral sneer.
“Oh, and look at that, the Thalmor are with him.” Sure enough, Sofia saw a
robed high elf standing not far from the general, watching patiently. The nord
seemed about to speak again, but then started looking around, as if the
fortress were familiar to him. Sofia followed suit, and saw why. “I know this
place,” he said. “This is-”
“Helgen,” she said, cutting him off. Not a fortress at all, but a walled town,
one the crossroads of the southern mountains. It was not a large place, but it
had always been a welcoming respite for the road-weary.
“I used to be sweet on a girl from here,” said the man.
“I was too, oddly enough.”
The nord smiled. “I remember… Velod, he used to make this mead with juniper
berries mixed in…”
“He does. That’s how I met his daughter, that mead,” Sofia said.
“Little Ayla?” he asked. “She was so small, last time I saw her… I always knew
she would grow into a great beauty.”
Sofia simply smiled at that.
The man looked up into the air, taking in town. “It’s funny, you know? The
Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”
Sofia again didn’t reply, for the main courtyard had come into view. The
general who had greeted them was present, along with his Thalmor shadow, as
were a priest, a robed executioner wielding a sword taller than he was, and a
small crowd of other soldiers and civilians. A board with a round cut sat in
front of a basket.
The cart came to a stop in the yard, along with some three other carts packed
with Stormcloak men. The two drivers from her own cart got down and walked
around to the back.
“Get up! Out of the cart!” shouted one of them, an imperial woman. She was
short, even as Imperials went, and had narrow, cruel eyes and a small mouth
visible beneath her helmet.
Ulfric Stormcloak rose with dignity and grace and jumped smoothly down to the
ground, making Lokir’s shaking stumble even more pathetic-looking. The nord
man, whose name Sofia now realised she’d never even asked, rose with dignity
yet resignation, his shoulders lacking the proud squaring Jarl Ulfric held his
with. Sofia rose last, moving slowly, hardly aware of the way her own legs
moved.
“Now, step forward when I say your name,” said the man, whose name Sofia
remembered was Hadvar. He was a classic nord, tall and muscled with long brown
hair and a facial bones you could cut yourself on. He withdrew a scroll from a
leather bag, and started reading off names. “Ulfric, of House Stormcloak, Jarl
of Windhelm,” he said. The Jarl sauntered forward, taking the place indicated
by another officer near the block.
“Ralof, of Riverwood.” Hadvar seemed to wince slightly at the name. 
The once-nameless nord, Ralof, took his place by his king, chin held high.
“Lokir, of Rorikstead.”
Lokir took two steps forward before panicking. “No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t
do this!” He bolted, knocking over the Imperial woman on his way.
“Archers!” she shouted, getting back up from the ground. In the blink of an
eye, a half-dozen arrows sprouted from Lokir, who’d managed to run no more than
a hundred feet in his escape. Several protruded from his gut; his would be a
painful death, Sofia knew. Coward, she thought. He was right, though. He was
not a nord. Perhaps it’s for the best I don’t remember meeting him.
“Sofia, of Markarth,” said Hadvar.
Though suddenly weak-kneed at the sound of her name, she managed to hold her
head high as she took her place next to Ralof.
This went on for what felt like hours. Many more names were called, but Sofia
wasn’t paying any attention. She was fixated on the chopping board, taking in
its every fine detail, from the smooth, fresh-cut quality of the wood to the
little knot on the bottom corner. They’d made it just for the occasion, it
seemed. Nothing but the best for Jarls, she supposed.
Reality was quite jarring when it snuck up on her. “First prisoner, to the
block!” shouted the Imperial woman, pointing to the Stormcloak man standing
next to Sofia, a handsome young man with brown hair and an angular, shapely
face.
He strode to the block, swaggering across the yard like he owned the place. “My
ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial,” he said as he knelt, “can you say the
same?”
Clearly this annoyed the captain, who shoved him over onto the block with a
foot. As the priest recited a prayer nobody heard, the executioner came
forward, and with silent, fluid motion, brought his greatsword up and then
down. It passed cleanly through the Stormcloak’s neck, severing his head with
barely a sound, but clanging loudly when it hit a rock in the dirt of the yard.
That can’t be good for the blade,Sofia thought instinctively, her thoughts
moulded by years of maintaining weapons or having to replace those she’d
neglected. It was hard to imagine a less appropriate thought to have at that
particular moment, and Sofia took a second, for some reason, to curse herself
for it.
“Next, the horse-thief!” shouted the captain, pointing squarely at Sofia as the
first man’s body was dragged to the side.
Before she could move, there came a distant sound. It was hard to say what it
was; it had the quality of a knife cutting through hard ice, or perhaps the
growl of a mountain sabre-cat, but the chill it instilled and sent travelling
up the spine was similar to the deep, elemental terror of a wolf’s howl, and
there was something in it that reminded Sofia vaguely of the dusty, ancient
voice of a draugr. It came from everywhere, from nowhere, from above from
below, from all sides and almost from within. There were several shouts of
confusion, and Sofia smelled the distinctive odour of someone wetting
themselves.
The captain was unimpressed and arrow-focused, hardly stopping to notice the
sound. “I said, NEXT PRISONER!”
Sofia walked slowly to the block, counting her last footsteps. One, two, three,
four, five… she knelt down gingerly, feeling the wetness of the dirt on her
knees through her woolen dress. She lay her head down on the block, the last
man’s blood slick against her skin. As the headsman slowly went through his
motions, Sofia closed her eyes. A nord’s last thoughts should be of home.And
hers were. She thought of the stony streets of Markarth, of the soft beds in
the Temple of Dibella, of her fellow acolytes and her friends, of Sister Marin,
of sweetrolls and early autumn snows….
And just as she could almost feel the sword severing her neck, the noise came
again. But it was louder this time, like a giant screaming in one’s ear. The
piercing, howling shriek seemed shake the very earth. Screams of human terror
rang through the air, as did what sounded rather alarmingly like sails. Sofia’s
eyes shot open just in time to see a great black dragon, for it could be
nothing else, land on the watchtower above her. Its landing shook the ground
like an avalanche. Glowing blue eyes the size of human heads surveyed the scene
with hunger.
The dragon roared again then, releasing a blast of fire over Sofia’s head. It
gave yet another roar as its fire quickly engulfed the town. There was
something strange about that roar, Sofia’s mind registered, something more like
a voice than the call of a wild animal. There was almost the suggestion of…
words?
The dragon must have seen something interesting elsewhere, then, for with a
single, forceful beat of its great wings it lifted itself into the air and
disappeared from Sofia’s immediate view. She herself wasn’t aware of much of
anything until someone grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her up. Breaking
out of her daze, she saw Ralof standing behind her. “You like being alive,
horse-thief? Come with me if you want to stay that way.”
Now aware of herself, Sofia didn’t need to be told twice. When Ralof turned and
made for a nearby tower, she was nearly tripping over his feet. Once inside,
she collapsed against one of the walls, breathing hard, trying to wear away at
her shock. There was a dragonin the skies above her, burning everything in
sight. It had saved her from death, only to plunge her into peril.
And her hands were still bound. Noticing that, she worked at them for a few
seconds, running through the familiar motions, and eventually managed to work
the bindings loose. She thought about healing her wrists, but they weren’t much
more than sore, and Sofia knew well enough she may have more dire need of her
magicka soon enough, and had nothing to help with regenerating it.
Calmer thoughts working their ways in then, she became aware of people talking
in the room around her. One was Ralof; he was standing by the entrance, keeping
watch. The other, she saw, was Jarl Ulfric. “A dragon, in Skyrim,” he said.
“I thought they were a legend,” Ralof said. “They seemed so… unreal.”  
“I’ve always been told they were dead.”
“Then where did this one come from?” Sofia asked, jumping in.
“I don’t know,” said Ulfric. “It looked to have come down from the mountains,
but it could have come from anywhere. Maybe it back from the dead.”
“Zombie dragons. Just what we all need, what with your war already fucking
things up for everyone.”
Ulfric looked like he was going to reply in anger, but Ralof interrupted him.
“I don’t see it out here. I’m going up to see if I can get a closer look.”
The Jarl tried to stop him as he ran past. “That’s not a good idea, Ral-”
But it was too late: he was already halfway up the stairs when the wall in
front of him exploded. Ralof fell back down the stairs, and didn’t move to get
back up. Dead or no, he wasn’t going anywhere, and Sofia knew it was probably
time to leave.
She didn’t bother saying anything to the Jarl before she left. Outside, she
found the town awash in flame and smoke. There were corpses littered all around
of people and horses, and some bodies that had yet to make it that far and
still could be seen to breathe or twitch. Sofia had seen more than a few
decently-sized battles in her time, but this was something different, almost
more like divine wrath. Nobody and nothing was spared the touch of dragonfire.
Sofia made her way down the main street of the town, trying to find the gate
she’d entered Helgen from, but through the smoke and wreckage she wasn’t even
certain she was actually on a street at all half the time. She passed a couple
groups of Imperial soldiers shooting arrows and firebolts at the dragon, mostly
to no apparent effect. Screams and shouts from every direction seemed to weigh
like a blanket across the town. As she wound her way through the burning ruins,
she did manage to get her hand on a sword that was reasonably undamaged from an
Imperial soldier in far worse condition than his weapon.
Finally, almost miraculously, she managed to find the gate, and found it still
open. Taking in, and then regretting taking in, a deep breath of smoky air, she
made to run for the opening, but before she could, the dragon dropped directly
down atop the gatehouse, roaring its deafening roar and throwing a fireball
over her head. When it took off, its tail dragged across the gatehouse, tearing
it down and creating a rubble pile where freedom had once beckoned. Sofia’s
heart raced as it sank, and her knees began to wobble.  
“Prisoner!” someone shouted to her. She turned looking for the source, until
she found a group of Imperial soldiers. The one at the front was familiar-
Hadvar, was it? He beckoned to her again. Sofia didn’t need to be told a third
time, and ran flat out down the hilly street towards him, and followed
wordlessly as he made his way into Helgen’s main keep, which outwardly seemed
intact.
Hadvar had taken her and his men into what appeared to be barracks. There were
rows of simple beds not separated by any visual obstructions, with chests at
the foot of each. There were what looked like weapon racks on the walls. A few
of the beds were taken up by men and women already rescued, Imperial soldiers
to a one. Sofia was only mildly surprised to see General Tullius among them.
Because of course he would be. What a strange day.
“You, prisoner,” said Hadvar, breathing heavily like the rest of his men. “What
was your name?”
“Sofia. Hadvar, right?”
“Yes. Now, Sofia, if you plan to get out of here alive, you’ll want to get some
armour from those chests. There should be some left over.”
“You’re not going to try and imprison me, are you?”
“It’s pretty clear to me you aren’t a Stormcloak, and that you didn’t belong
there. Captain Andia, however, doesn’t - didn’t - do anything by half-measures.
So, no. I think you’ve got a pass on prison or execution.”
Sofia nodded at him before peeling off to find some leftover armour. The chests
had enough odds and ends that it didn’t take her long to find enough to make a
decent suit, and she even managed to find a better sword, along with a bow and
full quiver. Tullius paid her no mind all the while, as if she didn’t exist.
She may as well not have. He and Hadvar talked in quiet tones to each other
while Hadvar’s men went about doing the same, replacing bits of damaged armour
and weapons. When Sofia ditched her old clothes even down to the underthings,
none the soldiers in the room, to their professional credit, spared a moment to
stare or blush, though Sofia wouldn’t have minded if they had.
Up close, Tullius could not have looked more like Sofia had always imagined
Imperial generals to look: trim, snowy white hair, a clean shave, good muscles
for his age, and that certain hardness of gaze the old warriors Sofia had known
always seemed to have. His stocky Imperial build contrasted sharply with nearly
everyone else in the room,
Every now and again as they worked, they heard the dragon’s muffled roars
outside, but the sheer terror of the real fucking dragonwas beginning to fade,
and a sense of purpose was returning to lift the mood slightly.
Hadvar eventually peeled off from the general to check up on the room’s men and
ensure they were all properly equipped. He reported back to Tullius when done.
The general then stood up. “Men,” he said, “I hate speeches. So, I’ll keep this
short. Follow me, and I’ll lead you to safety. Remember your training, and keep
your heads. Now, MOVE OUT!”
The soldiers gathered - Sofia counted some twenty three of them, not including
herself and the two officers - all saluted in unison before filing out into the
hallways of the hallways of the keep. Tullius directed them through endless
many identical passages, down several staircases, and eventually through to a
network of caves. After what felt like hours, and may very well have been,
Tullius found a door hidden by a wall of hanging moss, and opened it to reveal
daylight.
Fresh air has never tasted sweeter, Sofia thought. The doorway faced
northwards, and the trail that connected to it likely led down to the River
Road. The River Road led to the White Plains, where just about every road in
the whole province of Skyrim passed through Whiterun.
While Sofia gathered her thoughts, weighing her options, the gruff voice of
General Tullius interrupted her. “Prisoner, or whatever your name is-”
“Sofia.”
“Sofia, yes… I trust you know you can’t follow us any further than the main
road. I have to maintain secrecy of movement, and you aren’t a part of the
legion. I will let you keep the armour and weapons requisitioned for you, as I
would not have you stumbling naked and unarmed through the wilds of Skyrim, but
you must leave, as soon as the path is open.”
Though stumbling naked and unarmed through Skyrim’s wilds while also quite
drunk was almost a pastime for Sofia, she didn’t need to tell the general that.
“Thank you,” she said, consciously omitting his ‘sir.’ He glared at her
briefly, but decided that wasn’t worth his energy to pursue, and turned away.
Almost as an afterthought, he paused, and asked, “You don’t know for certain
what happened to Ulfric Stormcloak, do you?”
“I saw him after the dragon showed up, and I didn’t watch him die. He might be
alive, he might not.”
Tullius considered that for a moment, then turned walked away for good.
Before Sofia could leave, Hadvar approached her. “Riverwood isn’t far to the
north, if you need a bed. If you hurry, you might make it before dark. If you
need a bed, tell my Aunt Delphine at the Sleeping Giant Inn that I sent you.
She’ll let you stay a night for cheap if you tell her I made it out of Helgen
alive.”
“Thank you, Hadvar,” Sofia said, though she knew well that his kindness was
just so that she could deliver a message, but the generosity was still better
than her usual lot. “I’ll make sure to tell her. Wait- you’re from Riverwood?”
“No, I grew up in Whiterun, but my father and his brothers all are. Delphine is
my Uncle Torbard’s wife.”
“Ralof was from Riverwood.”
Hadvar cast his eyes down. “I know. I knew him, when I was young. I wish he
hadn’t turned on the Empire.”
Sofia nodded in sympathy. “Shit luck, I guess.”
“Shit luck,” he agreed.
“Captain Hadvar!” Tullius shouted. He and the other men were forming up along
the trail.
“Thank you, and good luck,” Hadvar said, peeling away to rejoin his men.
“You too,” Sofia replied. 
What a strange day. 
 
 
 
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!