The screams entered his mind unbidden and unhindered by the distractions of the waking world, for dreams give no mercy but the dawn. Tartham saw the dragon again, it's terrible maw and rancid breath, wreaking havoc on men, even if some of those men had intended to remove his head. He looked into the beast's eyes, and saw the raw red rage within, all consuming and all powerful at once. Tossing in his sleep, he once again heard the terrible roar and felt the searing fire on his flesh. A foul, rough and crackled voice entered his mind.
"You can run from me for now, little elf, but you will come to me soon enough, whether or not you would choose it. I dare you now, little Altmer, come and find me."
Quite suddenly a hand, which he imagined was the dragon's great claw, grabbed his shoulder.
He woke startled in a cold sweat, and on the defensive as he'd been most of his life, he took the weapon from beneath his pillow.
However he found himself in an unfamiliar room in a real bed and staring at a very startled Ralof. His face brought back the events of the last 24 hours.
"Easy, Master Elf, you remain safe here. No harm shall come to you under my roof," he said calmly, his hands raised in surrender.
Sighing heavily, he rolled onto his back and let the sword drop from his hand.
"I'm sorry, Master Ralof, I should not have acted so quickly," he apologized.
"Don't fret on it. I think we're all a bit jumpy after yesterday," the man said grimly, remembering the great dragon.
Tartham hummed his agreement as he rose from the bed he'd been so kindly given for the night and began donning the armor and gear he took from the fallen in Helgen the day before.
"In any case, my sister bids you eat with us before you depart for Whiterun," he offered.
Tartham paused in putting on his belt and sword.
"You have already done a great kindness to me, I shouldn't think to trouble you any further."
"Nonsense," said a brunette woman joining Ralof. "One night is not near enough troubling for the man who saved my brother's life."
Tartham half smiled. "You underestimate my actions, Mistress. Your brother was much more aide to me than I was to him I'm sure."
"In any case, I must warn the Jarl of the dragon attack and that Riverwood remains unguarded as soon as possible. It is the least I can do to repay your kindness."
~Whiterun~
Tartham paused on the steps returning from Dragon's Reach. He could see the whole of Whiterun from here. It was a fair sized city for Skyrim, though not as large or grand as Solitude in the north. He had never gone that far North himself, but sometimes stories were all a man needed to hear.
"You, High Elf," he heard behind him.
He turned to see the Jarl's guard, Irileth, the Dark elf, coming toward him. She stopped on the stairs and pulled him aside.
"I don't know what you're planning, or even if you're telling the truth about Helgen and the dragon. But just so you know, I'll be keeping a close eye on you. And if I suspect mischief, I will not hesitate to act," she warned fiercely.
Tartham's lips twitched in a half smile that did not reach his emerald eyes. The comment only reminded him yet again that he was an outcast no matter where he might go.
"I would expect any different. You wouldn't be a proper guard if you didn't watch me," he agreed. "That said, you may watch me all you wish, Mistress Irileth, but you find nothing but the color of my skin with which to incriminate me," he added.
Leaving her with a less than delighted expression, he continued down the stairs and drew his hood again to hide the race he was so scorned for.
Though he still carried some things from Riverwood, the Barrows were far from the safety or comfort of civilization. Tartham would have to stock up on food and supplies…a horse would be helpful too. So here he was in the lower market region of Whiterun. Ahead of him, at a fruit stand, he spotted a young woman with a shock of spiky ebony-blue hair cropped at her shoulders. Tucked in her worn boots, he saw the glint of a knife. She wore simple traveling clothes, black tunic and pants. From his angle, Tartham could see neither mark of rank nor status, which probably meant very little or no status. When she turned, Tartham witnessed the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.
She seemed simply to browse the fruit selection, but Tartham knew her intention all too well. He'd been in her position far too many times.
She would have gotten away with it too…if she hadn't run, which only served to alert the vendor of her theft.
Still, she made it almost across the plaza before a guard caught her.
"You again, brat. I swear this time you'll go to the dungeon," he snarled.
When she tried to struggle from his grip, he grabbed her roughly by the hair and forced her down on her knees.
Tartham didn't quite know why he did so, but suddenly he found himself calling out to the guard.
"Wait! I'll vouch for her! Let her go," he said.
The guard stopped and slowly turned back to the high elf.
"You would take responsibility for this low-life little thief?" he questioned.
Tartham nodded. "And pay for the apple she stole," he said with a glance to the surprised vendor.
Quickly recovering from his surprise, he took the allotted coin Tartham offered.
"Very well then, elf," he said with a sneer. "She's your problem now." He pushed the girl to the ground toward Tartham and walked away.
"Did he hurt you?" Tartham asked as he bent to help the strange girl on her feet.
She refused it. "No, and I didn't need help." "Why in Oblivion did you do that? He could have killed you," she asked.
Tartham shrugged, sizing up the girl.
He shrugged. "Then he could have. I do not fear Death." "I was ready to die a long time ago," he added darkly.
She looked taken aback. "So you just save random strangers and have a death-wish?"
Her tone was mocking. Tartham half smiled, but his tone was as somber. "Consider it trying to redeem for past mistakes...alot of them," he said. "As for you, you shouldn't steal. Find a way to make an honest living."
She stared after him as he started walking away, then she hurried after him.
"So what do you do then, as an honest living?" she asked.
"What business is it of yours?" the elf returned.
"You vouched for me. You are responsible for me. I have to stay with you," she pointed out.
He stopped. He hadn't thought of that part.
"Damn," he cursed, wishing not for the last time he'd minded his own business.
"You don't want to be where I'm going," he said tersely and started walking again, toward the city gates.
If she heard the warning in his voice, she ignored it.
"Where would that be?" she pressed, hurrying to catch up with him again. They neared the city gates now.
"The Barrows. It's dangerous."
Not even this seemed to deter her at all.
"Then we go together, and protect each other," she stated. "Besides, leave me here and I'll either be caught and killed this time or I'll just follow you anyway."
Finally he stopped and looked at her. He scrutinized her slight, agile frame, as if deciding how difficult she would be to kill.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Jira."
Tartham sighed, pulling a spare dagger from his belt. "Well, then, Jira, take this. You won't kill many Draugr with that little kitchen knife of yours." He tossed the weapon to her and walked on through the gate. It might even be nice to have someone to talk to besides a mute horse…providing she didn't die. Too many had done that lately.
It took Jira a second to realize what her new companion's gesture meant. Once she did, she was quick to snatch up the dagger and hurry after the high elf.