A/N: I'm being pressured to write/upload this, goodness. This is why the LoTR fanfiction has not been updated in a while. I'll try to get chapter three up soon, I promise! (Of course, when I decide to start writing it-) Anyway, I love Skyrim to absolute death; it's my life right now. SO, I wanted to write an AU fic! This chapter includes a stupid 7-year-old child and a Dovah who only has pity for small mortal being. Upon anyone's request, things may be added/changed/edited. I would love if mistakes were pointed out, please! In that case, R&R!
It was painfully cold.
Of course, it seemed like that was all she knew nowadays – cold, hunger, pain, fear. A seven-year-old child forced to stay out, living in a small cave underneath the Throat of the World.
At least, that was what she called the entire mountain, though the Throat of the World was the very top. The farthest she had ever gotten up was about a foot off of the ground, before she slipped and fell back down. After that, she hadn't really wanted to get any farther up.
All she had was a small blanket from her parents before they were killed, and a sack full of a few supplies she had stolen – a bandage, some bread and cheese, a water flask. Even though she had only been away from Riften for a week, she was already beginning to feel like she was gone forever.
Inside of the dark, damp cave, the young Nord girl coughed and brought her knees up to her chest, hugging her blanket. She definitely didn't know the time and she barely remembered the day, as her mind was more focused on the cold that nipped at her feet, nose and cheeks.
The only thing the child could see was the storm that was raging outside, throwing white this way and that. The cave she was in wasn't that far in; it was only large enough so that a fire pit could be fit along with a few people. She assumed that someone had come and mined this out a long time ago.
Shivering for – literally – the sixteenth time that day, she closed her eyes and wiggled her toes in an attempt to keep the feeling in them. When she had ran away from Riften, the only thing she was wearing were the clothes on her back and the boots on her feet. Now, her boots were torn and battered; and her clothes didn't offer any protection. This was the first real storm she had encountered, and she regretted leaving now that she was facing a challenge.
She reached over and opened her pack, frowning when she picked up the flask. It felt too light, and when she shook it, she couldn't hear anything sloshing around inside. With a loud sigh the child put it back in the pack and took out the last piece of bread, taking a small bite.
The storm outside was slowly but surely letting up, revealing a blurry view of the snow covered world outside. The child had saw an abandoned camp while she was on her way here, maybe it would have some good supplies that were left behind?
Though the storm was still dangerous, she stood up and draped her blanket over her shoulders. She wasn't entirely sure if she'd be able to find the camp, but she'd sure try.
As soon as she took a step out of that cave, the wind and snow began to attack her. Her hair was thrown into her face and her nose, fingers and toes were attacked viciously, leaving her entire body near frozen in a matter of seconds. Taking in a deep breath, she began to trudge through the snow.
She squinted and let out a yelp as she almost tripped when her foot was sucked into the snow. She quickly steadied herself, took in another deep breath of the freezing air, then lifted her foot and continued to make her way in the direction she thought the camp was in.
The snow at came up to her knees, and the Nord child feared that it would only get higher and higher. As she slowly marched through the snow, she realized that she didn't remember the exact location of the camp.
She stopped in her tracks, and then turned to look behind her. She couldn't even see the cave behind her anymore. All around her, all that could be seen was white.
"Oh no." She muttered under her breath, wiping her eyes with her sleeve in an attempt to get the snow out of them. Shaking her head, she began marching through the snow again, attempting to pick up her pace.
She continued to march for minutes on end, the minutes eventually turning into hours. She was beginning to get exhausted, and she then realized that she probably was not going to find this camp. She stopped and looked around, attempting to take in her surroundings – though there was nothing to take in except the white that fell to and covered the ground.
The Nord child could no longer feel her toes or her fingertips; it felt as though they had fallen off. Every breath she took was painful, the cold air entering her lungs like knives. No matter how much she objected, soon she found herself falling to her knees, coughing and groaning. Her face felt like it was on fire, and putting cold hands against it made it burn worse.
She was tired. Extremely tired. She had never, ever been out in the snow this long. Usually, her mother or father would come out and tell her to come inside to warm up near the fireplace. She had never known the true effects of such a harsh weather condition.
Her eyelids felt as though they had gained a thousand pounds, and she was struggling to keep them open.
"People die every year in the snow," her father would always say, "because they didn't prepare before they went out in it." Slowly, the realization came to her that she would be one of those idiotic people.
After a moment of staring blankly, she fell to her side, curling up in the fetal position slightly in the snow. She shivered, and before she knew it her eyes were closed. She tried to open them, but it became clear that she wouldn't be able to. Slowly, the sounds of the world around her got quieter, and before she fell into slumber, she swore that she could hear the sound of beating wings hitting the air . . .
Storms didn't bother dragons that much.
It got in their eyes, sure; but they usually managed to blink it out and continue on with whatever they were doing.
One dragon in particular flew around in the worst of the snow storm, near the Throat of the World. He had flown this way many, many times; he did not need perfect eyesight or weather.
The dragon's name was Odahviing, Alduin the World-Eater's right hand dragon. His scales were a darkish crimson red color, the snow tainting the color with white dots.
He really had no clear objective as to where he was going; as long as he was away from the mortals that attempted to take him down with cheap arrows and broken swords. It was pathetic, in all honesty.
He slowed to a stop and lowered himself down near the ground. He had not seen a single sign of life – no deer, rabbits, other Dovahs, or even mortals. Were they really bothered by this storm?
He narrowed his sharp eyes and looked down, examining the ground below him. It was all white, not another color to be seen.
Or so he believed, until the Dovah saw the faint black shape moving slowly through the snow.
Odahviing watched it with slight curiosity; what was it? It stumbled and fell a few times, until he decided it was, in fact, a mortal.
Oh, how mortals were stupid! He watched as it stumbled one last time, before falling onto its side. The Dovah noticed that it was . . . small.
A child? He wondered, lowering himself further.
He was not kind, or generous, or caring – but he had a strong spot of pity for small mortals. He knew it would freeze, and that thought alone made him feel . . . somewhat guilty, knowing the way the child would die.
He landed carefully next to the mortal child, extending his neck and examining it closer. A girl, who wasn't properly dressed. She seemed to be unconscious, and he let out a sigh. Oh, how he would hate himself after this.
"Yol," Odahviing said quietly, turning his head to the side so the fire did not harm the child. Like most dragons, his stomach heated up at the use of the flames, and he once again let out a noise of irritation. He slowly moved up against the child's body and made sure that his stomach was up against her, before putting his wing over her to protect her from the elements. If he could frown, he would've – he didn't really care to be keeping this child alive, but pity overcame him.
He felt the child shift unconsciously beneath his wing. The Dovah felt a certain . . . warmth that never left her hands. Like a fire or a power was flowing through them. He hadn't thought humans could have hands like that. It was strange.
He let out one last growl, angry at himself, before getting comfortable in the snow and watching the mortal underneath his wing.
He still didn't care much for the creatures.
A/N: Have mercy on my soul, reviewers.
Mercy.