Disclaimer: I do not own any names and/or places pertaining to The Elder Scrolls series. Credit for them goes to Bethesda Softworks, LLC.
Note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction, or at least the first one I have deemed decent enough to share with others. Any and all reviews are welcomed.
I had finally tracked down the man I had been searching for my entire life in this backwater inn far in the North reaches of Skyrim. It was small and simple and situated well off the trodden path of most adventurers, and more importantly far from the piercing gaze of the Altmari Dominion whose Thalmor have been ruthlessly hunting any traces of Talos to extinction.
The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was a wave of heat that rushed past me followed by a wall of smoky air that filled my lungs and threatened to suffocate me until I stepped in and spent a few moments getting used to the burning sting. I cast a glance across the inn, almost immediately spotting the old man a travelling bard had described to me earlier. He wore a dark and heavy traveler's robe, although from the looks of it he looked as though he hadn't done much travelling lately, nor that he would anytime soon. He seemed so ancient and frail that I began to doubt that he was the Dovahkiin I had set out to find.
That bard would be paying for his lies, I thought to myself.
I let my gaze wander around the hazy room, taking notice of the few patrons within, spending time discussing the day's activities before they would head off to their homes and rest up to begin the same work tomorrow. I took this time to recall the tales of the Dragonborn.
I had heard his tale sung in nearly every corner of Tamriel that I had traversed, or at least the provinces that still managed to elude the Altmari Dominion's reaching grasp. Despite the tale's popularity, or perhaps because of it, there were several inconsistencies and it was my intention to know the truth. Dovahkiin as he is known in the tongue of the fearsome Dovah, the dragons which have made a return in the last few decades—Dragonborn in the tongue of mortal man. I should say I was rather disappointed as my gaze turned back to him and lingered there, thinking back to the bard and all the choice words I would have for him when we next met.
I snapped out of my violent dreamwishing just in time to witness the elder man rise from his seat and slowly limp his way to the staircase leading up to the rooms. There he took each step one foot at a time, leaning against the railing for support. It was almost sad to watch him make such slow progress, and I had to remind myself that he had lived far longer than most ever had, almost as long as Tiber Septim before his ascension as Talos. I gave him a few seconds head start before making my way across the tavern to the stairwell, conscious of the sets of eyes following my progress.
I arrived at the base of the stairs just in time to see the old man's trailing cloak disappear around the corner. I bounded up the stairs two at a time as lightly and quietly as such a hasty move could allow and peered around the corner. I thought for a second that he had disappeared out of thin air before I saw the slightest flicker of movement and heard the click of a latching door only a few feet away. I quietly approached the door and put an ear up to the heavy oak. I strained to hear even the most hushed of sounds and I could have sworn I heard something. Loose? Roost?
"ROH DAH!" I jumped back just in time to witness the door being ripped off its hinges by an unseen force that made the very air seem as though it was being torn. Then my world was flipped upside down as I was violently thrown off my feet and slammed into the wall behind me like a ragdoll. My eyesight blurred as tears formed and began to fill up my eyes, and my head swam as I struggled to stand. A cloaked figure approached me with what I figured was a sword, though I couldn't have been sure with my vision obscured as it was. With one hand the figure hauled me to my feet and dragged me into the room through the broken door. The old man inspected my face and arms before tossing me into a chair against the far wall. I sat dazed for a moment longer while my mind reoriented itself. When my vision began to clear and I felt I could look around without causing my stomach to lurch, I brought my wandering eyes down from the ceiling to face the old man.
The old man's cowl had been pulled back and revealed a rough and weathered face, the kind one expected to adorn a seasoned veteran of war. And those eyes—the brilliant blue orbs clouded by the tell-tale milky whiteness that betrayed his blindness still held the sorrowful memories of brothers and sisters lost. The hard and unforgiving lines of his face gave way to a light masking beard speckled with gray. Clearly this was someone who had seen more in a short span of years than most would ever see in their lifetime.
Despite the old man's age and apparent blindness, I would not make the mistake of assuming him weak and unable to see again. Certainly not after the demonstration that has left me sore in places I never even knew existed. Finishing my examination of the old man I swallowed hard and summoned the strength to utter a single word.
"Dovahkiin."
If he was at all surprised that I knew who he was then he showed no outward sign of it. Then again, why would he if he knew I had followed him and then had set up this trap for me. Perhaps he figures I am some sort of assassin sent for him. No sooner had I finished the thought than the old man drew in a carefully measured breath and spoke.
"Tell me, is it common enough an occurrence that you go lurking about after people that I should not be alarmed?" He allowed a wry smile to touch his pale lips, which granted him an almost sinister appearance and it took me a moment to decipher his roundabout question. My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard before answering.
"Forgive me, Dragonborn. I only wished to question you before the opportunity was lost."
"If that is the best excuse you could come up with," the old man growled, "then you most certainly are not helping your case."
"Forgive me again for my poor choice in words," I quickly amended, "I only meant to speak with you, to learn the true tale of the Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin." I hoped he would accept that as a reasonable excuse, for it was my life that was at the tip of his rather sharp and striking blade, made only more apparent as I took note of it.
It was in the brief moment that the old man took to mull over my words that I was able to take in the true astounding beauty of the blade that was inches away from severing my head from the rest of me. The metal was unlike any I had ever laid eyes on, but the markings etched into it were unmistakably Daedric in origin, so I assumed it was one of the rare metals forged from the mix of Ebony and the blood of a Daedra. Despite the rarity of the blade, there was something even more unique about it, something that drew me to it. There was an aura of power eminating from the shimmering runes that instilled fear in the wielder's foes and inspired courage in its allies.
"Perhaps you are still an assassin sent to kill me," the old man's rich voice interrupted my observation of his flawlessly crafted weapon.
"But then you are a poor one at that." The old man sneered at the thought, almost as if he were disgusted by the thought of such an unskilled assassin. I lent his reaction to the sparse rumors that he had associated with the Dark Brotherhood in his colorful past.
No sooner had I finished the thought than he spoke again, garnering my full attention as his voice washed over me.
"No it is more likely that you are truthful in your words and are nothing more than a simple scholar seeking the truth." It was only then that the old man lowered his blade, but I took notice that he did not sheath it. Evidently I was no longer perceived as a threat, but I had yet to earn the trust of the legend standing before me.
Not that I had expected him to break out sweatrolls and Honeybrew mead, I thought, But I had hoped this confrontation to be a little less… confrontational.
Despite my initial regret that the first impression I left on him was soured, I held hope that I might be given answers I sought. After all, he hadn't demanded that I leave yet. The silence stretched on before the old man sighed.
"So what would you like to know?" he asked. Despite his outward appearance, his tone betrayed the impatience within, but I was careful not to take offense. To even be in the Dragonborn's presence was an honor. To be given an opportunity to hear the tale told by the hero himself was nothing short of a dream come true.
"The truth."
The old man didn't seem the least perturbed by my ambiguous request as he replied.
"Yes, you've made that apparent, but what of it? Do you not believe the tales already sung across Tamriel?" His lips twitched ever so slightly into a grimace. It would seem he and I shared a common distaste for the lies that seem to worm their way into history.
"I am unsure of what to believe." I replied with every bit of honesty and sincerity I could muster, which wasn't difficult considering my appetite for knowledge. "For I have not seen nor lived your life."
The old man seemed to accept my answer, and took a seat by a small table before lighting a candle with a Dwemer contraption I had never seen before. He noticed my curious gaze and held it up to me. "I do not know the Dwemer name for it, but I have come to call it a lighter." It made sense, for it provided a means to light things on fire and was far more accessible than a torch. I could not contain my curiosity.
"How does it work?" I asked.
"Ah, that is the mystery, is it not?" his voice sounded saddened by the mere thought that the knowledge would never be reproduced. "I have had no success in discovering its machinations and so have left it at that." He drew it closer to himself and drew his fingers across the surface, as though he were searching for a seam that might betray a weakness in the artifact's defenses. After a few moments he gave up and set it aside.
"My best guess is that it is part magic, part machine," he sighed, "like many of the Dwemer artifacts. I wish we knew more about their disappearance so as to return them to this land." He paused for a moment and drew in a deep breath. "But you are not here for the Dwemer. You are here for my tale. I must warn you it is a long one, and you may not like all that you are to hear, for I have done things that I regret despite their necessity."
I could not say anything to that. Most heroes did, and I was not here to judge. That task would lay with another scholar who had more time to separate himself from the worldly emotions that sometimes overtook us on matters most important.
"I was born in Skyrim," the Dragonborn began, "as I am sure you are aware. Just as sure as I am aware that you already know I was not always the Dragonborn, that I did not discover my own powers until much later, but there are some things that must be addressed to know why I did certain things as I had done them. And that, scholar, is where my tale begins…"
Note: So ends chapter 1, and our protagonist has found what he has bargained for, and more.