Author's Note: This story is based on one of my more developed Skyrim characters. Having already played the main quest lines, I decided to give my new character a very specific background to guide his decisions and define his motivations. While it's set in the canon universe (as accurate as I could be, anyway) I do add in details where none were provided. If limited information was available but unclear, I chose the best fitting interpretation for the story.
The title is from the poem Courage by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, because I felt it was appropriate.
I have very definite plans for where the story is going to go, and for those questioning the romance category, give it time; it will certainly pick up as events unfold. I rated it M for future content; Skyrim touches on very dark themes, and I can't see the story continuing without addressing them.
I hope you enjoy it!
Where by the Boldest Man
Introduction
An explosion of fire burst through Helgen's hefty wooden gate, shattering it like a vase on cobblestones. Bjolmi barely had enough presence of mind to throw himself down behind a nearby stone wall, narrowly escaping the crimson plumes of the beast's fury. The heat of the flames was unbearable, unfurling before the creature's jagged maw and licking at the fleeing soldiers like a million scorching tongues; but Bjolmi barely noticed it. He was too preoccupied with the creature's bellowing voice. He more than heard it: he felt it. It berated him like an angry gale, and echoed between his ears until he thought his skull would burst. Clasping his palms to his head provided no relief, though he tried none the less. The sound was so wholly penetrating even a deaf man would have felt its power.
A sudden torrent of wind whipped about him as the dragon took flight once more, accompanied by the gut-twisting crack of roof beams ripped free by the creature's gleaming ebony talons. Gathering his remaining courage, Bjolmi rose to a crouch and began an awkward, huddled run towards the barracks door, unwilling to sacrifice caution for the sake of speed.
He heard the screams of grown men behind him, men weathered in battle and bloodshed, crying out in terror like helpless babes. Part of him wanted to turn round, to take up the sword of a fallen guard and help the pitiful contingent of soldiers defend the keep. Fortunately for him, his legs remained practical in the face of such an idiotic temptation to heroism and kept on running.
The courtyard turned black as the dragon swooped low overhead. Startled by its proximity, Bjolmi caught his foot on a fallen beam and pitched face first into a pile of cinders. Pain blossomed down the left side of his face and he choked on a mouthful of ash. His hands flew to his face and felt beads of moisture welling there. His left eye burned and refused to open. When he took his hand away, he could see it was smeared with blood. His vision swam for a moment, limited as it was, and when it cleared he looked past his hand to the pile of cinders he had fallen into. His heart stopped cold when he realized it was the corpse of an Imperial soldier that had caught the full strength of the dragon's merciless breath. Crying aloud, Bjolmi scrambled away from it, coughing and spitting and fighting the urge to vomit. He pawed at his face, trying to wipe away the soldier's remnants, but the ash stuck fast in his blood and sweat. The world turned blurry behind his tears.
"You there! Get up!" The voice came from behind him, barely audible above the dragon's cries. "Quickly now, before it returns!" Bjolmi felt himself being lifted roughly off the ground. He did his best to push himself upright, but his legs felt weak and unsteady. He was spun round to see the face of one of his fellow prisoners, the flaxen-haired one he'd sat next to on the journey to Helgen. Ralof, they had called him.
"We must find cover," the man said, shaking Bjolmi by the shoulders. "This is no time for cowardice from a son of Skyrim. Muster your courage, man, and move!" Bjolmi obeyed, willing his legs to stumble after Ralof. His body felt drained of energy and yearned to collapse, but somehow he found the strength to keep moving. His heart pounded; his lungs ached. He stumbled again, but Ralof's hand shot out and grasped his collar, hauling him upright, and they resumed their flight.
The dragon circled above them, blasting jets of fire at the few structures in the fort that remained standing. It caught sight of Bjolmi and Ralof as they neared the barracks, and with a cry that chilled Bjolmi's bones veered straight for them. The door was nearly within reach when the sky darkened above them and the monstrous beast dropped out of the sky, landing heavily atop the barracks itself. The earth shuddered from the impact and loosed stones rained down from the parapet, stopping the two men in their tracks.
The wyrm was massive; the size of two or three mammoths put together. It leered down at them with keen red eyes, its horned head tilted menacingly atop a viper-like neck. Its fangs extended well below its lower jaw, and Bjolmi could have sworn that despite the length of its scaled snout, it wore something akin to a smirk.
Bjolmi knew what came next. The monster's jaws would open, spread wide to reveal the gaping abyss of its belly, and then it would descend upon them and swallow them whole. It was all too familiar.
"Go on then, creature!" Ralof shouted defiantly. "Do to us what you will, and be damned to Oblivion!"
The dragon smiled, baring numerous jagged teeth that were longer than Bjolmi's forearm. A rumbling sound began in its belly, shaking it from the inside out. This was new: it seemed to be laughing at them. When it had amply expressed its amusement, it leaned forward until its head hovered direclty before the two men, inspecting them with one massive red eye. Twining threads of smoke curled from its nostrils as they expanded and contracted with the rhythm of its breath. With its black wings retracted, folded flat against the sleek contours of its body, Bjolmi thought it truly resembled a worm. For some time all was still.
Then the dragon spoke.
Its voice was deep and powerful, pulsing with life—or perhaps death. It spoke only three words, but they contained more force and meaning than all the languages of Tamriel combined:
Do-vah-kiin!
The sound rumbled in Bjolmi's toes, up through his knees and belly, and shook his jaw. He reached instinctively for Ralof in order to steady himself, but his companion had disappeard. He was suddenly all alone.
Looking up, Bjolmi found the dragon smiling. Then it opened its obsidian jaws and swallowed, not just Bjolmi, but Helgen, and the whole world with it.