Content Warning: This story will contain violence, gore, and other dark and mature themes.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Elder Scrolls series or anything within it; Bethesda does. I also do not own this cover art. It was made by the talented "sleepyhaze" over on Deviantart!

A/N: Hello! As I've noted, this story is set in the events of my other fic, Bound Beyond Death. Unlike BBD, which is written strictly as a journal by Mathieu Bellamont, this explores the views of other characters, showing their thoughts on Mathieu and detailing pieces of the story that Mathieu's POV didn't vividly describe or mention at all (Some parts may also be all 3rd person.) Thus, you might want to read BBD to know what's happening in future chapters! This chapter doubles as another start to BBD (Whether it's a better or worse start is up to you,) but beyond this the stories are set randomly in various chapters of BBD. I'll give a note of when it's set beforehand.

Anyway, I've said enough. Whether you've read the other story or not, I do hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think. :)

Bound Beyond Death: Stories Unknown
Questions - Ralof's POV

When I had first glimpsed the man, I'd have believed he just crawled out of the grave. He sat unconscious across from me on the wagon, head bobbing lightly to the the rocking and bumping as the horses hauled us along. His hair was muddy brown, mussed, and hung like knotted vines over his face. Was he a man? A mer? I couldn't tell at that time. What was clear to me was the scrapes, cuts, bruises, the rips and tears in his frayed robe that revealed them. They definitely weren't made during the ambush - they looked too healed to be recent - though they were still hellacious. Dried blood stuck to his robe, what once seemed black now worn into grey. As I looked on, I had many questions. Maybe he was a mage - a necromancer even? I've seen enough of them while traveling to know their general looks. What was he doing before crossing the ambush? Was it in part to his injuries?

...I put many things in great detail, then. I asked myself questions and reminisced to open my mind. The sights, the sounds, everything there was I noted as much as I could, with what little time I had... Especially the people. Ulfric and the other two men in the cart with us. We all looked so different. We were all different. But even if the ragged man was a thief, whether the unconscious man was a necromancer or conjurer or not even a mage, judgements did not matter; in that moment we were all brothers in binds heading to the same fate.

I didn't expect to escape my fate. Much less, because of a beast I only thought real in the old children's stories and legends...

But well, I'm here now, aren't I? Alive and back home. And I don't think I entirely have the dragon to thank for that - but the same battered and bloodied man I shared the wagon with minutes before the dragon came over Helgen, who was saved by the chaos in a hair's breadth of being executed but who I thought was too weakened to survive longer. How could I have known? He first opened his eyes as if he never once saw the light; he stumbled in his first steps as if he was a newborn foal. I didn't expect that I'd meet him again when I was escaping into Helgen's keep. Or that he'd be so proficient with a slew of weapons after some time adjusting to them. But he did. And honestly it was quite the marvel. Seeing someone so pained, pushing through with such determination, it reminded me of many of my brothers on the battlefield who'd fight until their very last breath.

So too did our enemies battle without relent. Imperials, spiders, wolves. Once we fled through the tunnels and he decided to accompany me here to Riverwood, we entered wounded. It could've been worse. I don't think you'd have seen me again if I had faced them alone.

Ah, how to thank the stranger? I thought whatever he needed for his impending travels and maybe a place to stay until then would be good enough.

Days passed. We healed and settled in. I came to know this strange man in that time; his name, Mathieu Bellamont. A breton hailing from Cyrodiil. He said he was a mercenary, and that he'd adapted to different weapons through his jobs. It surprised me at first. Someone so lean wearing merely a robe wasn't how I'd typically imagine a mercenary, and bretons largely had a penchant for the arcane. Bah! But here I am again with my silent doubt. I saw this breton cleave a man apart with a battleaxe! That should show me.

Yes, I still held many questions about him. You said I should be satisfied with those few answers - but well, you've seen it yourself, how strange Bellamont could be. The day after we arrived I overheard him questioning folks. Odd questions... With some he was simply talking about Skyrim and the town, but with others he'd ask things that should be common knowledge by now. At least I'd expect so for a Cyrodiil citizen.

I noticed Mathieu speaking with Delphine at the inn one day. From what I know Delphine was just making small talk with him when topic changed to the history of Cyrodiil.

"...When the deadra invaded... The Oblivion Crisis..."

It was a murmur to me. I was a couple seats away from them - I didn't dare eavesdrop. But for some reason I heard those words. I glanced over.

"So somebody finally put an end to that -"

I saw, for a mere second, the man snapping his mouth shut and his eyes widening, as if he said something he shouldn't. Delphine gave him a hard look then - and as swiftly as I could blink Mathieu's expression turned into a look of hate. Another blink. It was gone.

"Well, of course." Delphine said. "I'd be damned if a war raged for two centuries. We'd likely still be living in the Third Era had it not ended."

Strange questions aside, Mathieu had been quiet in the time he spent here... Timid, I'd even say. He'd pause and stammer often when he'd speak. But when he wasn't asking around he'd rarely approach anyone. Often I'd see him lost in thought, staring down the river or the path northward, or sometimes he'd be at a shaded spot writing in a journal. I made it a point to sit with him in those moments. After all, me and the man have shared the same experience; perhaps we're the only survivors. And I may have died if it weren't for him, you know? So I thought it only right to talk to him. Befriend him. Learn a little more, even if we never met again. I still had my own questions to ask.

Just recently I caught him by the river. We talked. I eased him a little, and he seemed completely fine, until I said this -

"I've been curious about you, friend. If it's alright, I have to ask... What happened to you before you walked in on that imperial ambush? All those gashes and scrapes and tears in your robe could not have been made by the imperials alone. Looked like you had them for awhile."

He gazed at me. Strangely. Blank, inscrutable - then again, that's how he usually seemed to look save for once or twice - but I could imagine clouds and haze before his eyes as he took his time to give an answer.

"I... I, don't remember..." He paused. "...I don't remember when it was, but I obtained them in my travel to the border. From usual mishaps. And the occasional wild beast."

"Yes, I guess that's to be expected. Then do you remember when you got that scar?"

Apparently he didn't know what I spoke of. He looked confused! But it was the only one I saw on him, and I traced it with my finger to show him; a long, thin line across his throat ending a little ways under his ears. His throat had been slit. In all the battles I've been in I don't think I've ever seen such, to have somebody survive something so fatal! I was shocked. Yet so was he, inspecting his reflection in the rippling waters silently. Stunned. It was a strange moment, I find. Surely you couldn't survive a knife in the throat and simply forget... Yet it was like he never noticed it. Why was that?

"Happened on a job."

We were silent for minutes more, I being patient and he, well, just silent. Then we carried on as if I hadn't questioned him. So be it, I thought. Whatever happened might've been a painful memory and I wasn't going to help him relive it.

Then after some time, I asked something different. A simpler question. I thought it may be an easier one for him to answer.

"Ah, so... I was wondering what brought you to Skyrim in the first place. Was it your mercenary work, or the war troubles back home?"

A defeated sigh. But I didn't expect for him to grab the collar of my shirt, force me towards him. His voice turned threatening, his whispering in my ear sounding much like the hissing of a snake,

"Look. Stop asking questions I don't know the answers to. It's easy enough to lie, but if only you've experienced what I've been through you'd understand how haunting it feels... So enough of it. You don't need to know who I am." As quickly as he yanked me in he released me and once more shifted his gaze to the water. "... I believe I've made enough of a fool of myself in this town, anyway."

That was the last time I talked to him before he disappeared. You remember, of course. You had locked the doors and secured the windows that night when we all were settled in, and when we woke Bellamont wasn't there, a slew of provisions missing, yet the doors and windows seemed untouched. That morning Alvor also said to me that some new weapons were stolen from his house... I can guess who did that. After all, I didn't need to know who he was, eh? It's easy enough for him to lie. Perhaps he wasn't a mercenary. A thief, maybe. Or something else. But questions can only do so much for me now; I have a feeling I won't ever find out. Whether he went to Whiterun as I suggested, or he traveled off on his own accord, I won't be in Riverwood to cross his path.

... Yes, sister, it's come that time again. As you read this I've already taken my leave back to Windhelm, as it were years ago, to fight for Skyrim. I know this letter is lengthy, but it'll be the last you hear from me for awhile... If ever. I wanted to share a story of the past few days for me. A glimpse of what transpired, as only two people may ever know. And of that man - Mathieu Bellamont. A friend and a stranger.

If you ever see Bellamont in town again, sister, tell him that I wish him luck, whether he becomes the hero of a people, lives on in a plain life, or he dies rightfully by the hands of justice.

A/N: Had some difficulty with this one since Ralof isn't a very uh, defined, character? Took me awhile to finally think of a good progression of the story while putting it into something that sounds like him maybe. I feel like I may not have put more attention on parts that needed it, or vice versa, and the ending might feel rushed, but I'm glad I at least completed it. :)