Cold nights are the rule in Skyrim. Even in summer, nights barely remain unfrozen. But in winter, even the Nords think twice before staying outside for too long. For when the sky is clear, and the Aurora glows, the temperature gets low enough to kill the unprepared.
It was one of these nights. Wildlife was standing still, the hills and forests of Skyrim were engulfed in silence. No living being was visilble. Apart from one.
Up on top of an unnamed hill, looking up at the northern light, was the Dragonborn. In every inns across these frozen lands, bards were singing his legend, calling him brave, worshipping his skills. They named him the Pleague of the Dragons, the Great Speaker and even the Saviour. Poor fools. No one knew.
For his real name should have been « the Lonely One »...
The khajiit took off his helmet, letting it fall onto the snow, close to two blood-stained swords. The glass-armor fluttering was almost unnoticable under the layers of frozen blood and mud, and the numerous marks of lightning impacts. One looking at this gear would be amazed he was still alive. One looking at his eyes would think life had already gone.
But no one was looking. He was alone.
Clenching his fists, the white-furred man fought back the urge to cry. The tears would have instanly frozen, damaging his eyes. But even that thought was barely keeping them from running. Oblivious of the pain eating his heart and mind, the Aurora lights were continuing their endless dance. He had hoped that the sight and the ice-cold wind would have smoothen his feelings, but they didn't. Not today. His eyes closed themselves and his whole body tensed up as the memories came back.
The first one was Lydia, nearly one year ago, in Whiterun. They had walked by a group of adventurers, not paying attention, till he got struck in the back. The blows were falling from everywhere. Blinded by pain, surprise and terror, he had fought instinctively, struck again and again and again, till he was the last one standing.
The last one. The housecarl was barely recognizable, half her face gone from the sword blow that had killed her. He had stared at her in horror for what seemed like hours, for all their foes were armed with maces and warhammers.
Escaping tears began freezing his eyelids shut. But the Dovahkiin didn't noticed, nor that his jaw tissues were bleeding as he clenched his jaws harder and harder. Opening his hand, he looked at the ring he had hold for hours, barely aware of the pain when he forced his eyes open. The wedding ring was all he had left from his wife, Ysolda from Whiterun, the only human who had showed him kindness. She had never showed disdain or hate, never called him "cat" or "thief". Wherever he was going, humans were behaving racist, spitting in his direction, even attacking him without reason. At every town's gates, he had to negociate his entry, paying the guards for them to open the doors. Doors which where often shut down onto his tail. Spirits! He had even been sent to the block by the Empire, just because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Ysolda was different. She wasn't prejudiced. She didn't thought of him as an animal. But she was gone, also.
That day, a couple of thieves had sneaked into Breezehome, lured by the rumors of gold and magic artefacts. He was traveling, so she tried to defend herself alone. But she got raped, and then killed. It was his fault, again.
Loosing the battle against the tears, the khajiit fell to his knees, grabbing his arms and sobbing, doubled up with the painfull memories.
Ever since, he had lived on horse back, travelling across Skyrim like a soulless body. Frost, his horse, had been his only companion during those long months. They took care of each other: the féline grooming and healing the animal, the animal carrying and even protecting the féline. They had visited countless places, fought countless battles, Frost even finishing a dragon once.
So when the khajiit had killed the last of the Thalmor who had ambushed them, a few hours ago, he had not been that worried. Frost usually fled when he was badly wounded, and they had been through worse. But there was the horse, almost ripped in two by the lightning spell.
The Dovahkiin had been standing there hours long, too shocked to move. Until a fox entered his vision, casually walked to the corpse. And took a mouthfull.
He had lost it.
He would never really remember what happened next. He wouldn't remember the running through the hills. Nor the Forsworn ambush. Nor him running after the survivors. Nor the people he slauthered at their camp. He had killed, killed, and killed again. Wished Death would come for him. And fled once more.
Now, he was laying there, on the top of that hill, broken down and crying. His dragon blood started to bubble, the ancient power of the Dov's concentrated in one word he had known for a long time. Known, but never understood the real maining, like he now did.
Aus. Suffering.
His Shout ripped through the night, charged with all the power of his emotions. If anybody had stood in a mile's distance, he would probably have died out of the force. But he was alone.
The mighty Dragonborn curled up in the snow, whishing he would die, right here, right now. Who would care? He wouldn't.
And he was alone.
All alone.