This is just something I'm trying out, I guess. I haven't written fanfiction in a while, but I liked this and wanted to post it as a one-shot. There might be more of it later because I love this character, but we'll see what happens. Let me know what you think!
The sky was gray - which was weird, because it was the middle of summer in central Skyrim and although it snowed heavily in winter, Aanon had never seen it this dull at this time of year. He had noticed it this morning and, not being very superstitious, he didn't think much of it. Maybe he should have; if Delvin had been there, he would have said something along the lines of, "Watch yourself out there, Khajiit. Looks like a storm's coming," in the same way he always spouted his nonsense.
Now, sitting in the back of an Imperial carriage with two Nords he didn't know, and one that happened to be the moron who got him there, he couldn't help but feel that old thief's superstitions weren't so off. Aanon had been sent by Brynjolf to test this new recruit, get a job done in Falkreath - a little town where the guards didn't do much and the Jarl was just a corrupt little shit. It would have been fine if Lokir hadn't seen someone he knew and flipped out. The damn idiot tried to steal a horse, but scared it and it dragged him halfway across town - and of course the guards found him with a trail of gold spilling out of his pockets. Aanon would have left him there, if Lokir hadn't sold him out and led the guards straight to him.
And of course, sat in the far corner from Aanon, napping soundly. Unlike the other two in the carriage he was scrawny with dark, scraggly hair. His lips were thin, his skin a sickly pale with gaunt shadows under his eyes. He and Aanon had switched out their Thieves' Guild armor for commoner clothes to blend in, and those were now torn and dirty. Their weapons, too, were still somewhere in that creepy little town. It would be hell escaping from whatever prison they were taken to next, but Aanon at least had no intention of taking Lokir with him this time.
The two burly Nords next to them in the carriage didn't seem to even notice Aanon and Lokir existed. One was looking out toward the horizon over the sloping hill behind them. He wore light padded armor with a blue sash across it, identical to the man to Aanon's right. The only difference in their attire seemed to be a scarf over the face of the blond to his right, as well as an extra bit of fur around the collar of his armor. This man was looking down at his hands, and because of the way his hair hung over his face, Aanon can't quite make it out - not that he really cared. Soon, he would be going back to Falkreath to get his stuff - and Lokir's, fuck that guy - and heading back to the guild in what could only be described as his greatest shame.
Lokir started to stir, lifting his head and blinking in the dull light of the day. He groaned when he noticed Aanon, making eye contact for a few seconds, blue eyes meeting soft amber. He opened his mouth to speak to Aanon, but the Khajiit gave him a scowl he would likely never forget. His mouth closed and he sighed through his nose.
The man's attention was pulled to the Nord across from Aanon when he turned to Lokir and said, "You're finally awake. It's unfortunate that you have to come to now."
"Now…?" Lokir repeats groggily. He frowns at the man. "What do you mean, 'now'?"
"On our way to jail," Aanon told him with a low huff.
"Jail?" The blond's expression darkened. He gave a soft breath and shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor of the carriage. "No, I'm sorry … not this time." The stranger nodded to the Nord with the scarf over his face. "That man there - that's the rightful King to Skyrim. Ulfric Stormcloak. That the Imperials caught us means … we're off to Sovngarde now. And so are you."
Aanon nodded, his eyes going to the sky. "Of course we are," he groaned. Perhaps they were … but who knew where a Skyrim-born Khajiit went after he died. He had to get out of here.
Lokir's breath seemed to catch in his throat as he heard the ominously familiar name. "Ulfric Stormcloak? Gods, no. This can't be. I just stole a horse, that's it! They can't kill me for that!" The Nord's eyes went wide as he looked at Aanon again, his expression ripe with panic. "What have you done? Why didn't you stop this? You could have just told them we were with the guild! You're good at that! Why are you-!"
"I can't do that every time!" Aanon hissed back. His ears folded back, the three round piercings in each falling flat against the sides of his head while his lips pull back in a snarl. "I did tell the guard, and he said we would be transported to the nearest town. They didn't mention that they'd be stopping a group of Stormcloaks later."
"You didn't think to ask?"
"Ask what?" Aanon chuckles now, shaking his head. As he brought out a single claw from his index finger, he mocked his companion. "Hey, are we going to pick up any Stormcloaks today? Golly, that would be mighty inconvenient. You think these guards care if they piss off a thieving Nord and his cat? No!"
Lokir looked like he was about to open his mouth to retaliate, but just as soon as he did the blond piped up, "That's enough. Our lives are short enough now that this bickering means nothing." His tone was solemn, but even in hopelessness was a stiffness in his voice that shut the useless boy up. Once all was quiet, he continued. "I am Ralof, of Windhelm. And what of you two - thieves?"
Aanon's eyes flickered over to Lokir as, once again, he opened his mouth - but the man quickly closed it when he noticed Aanon's cold stare. Still watching Lokir, he said to Ralof, "If you know we're with the Guild, you don't need our names." He sent a sideways smirk to Ralof, looking his way now. "A man like you wouldn't hesitate to kill us in a normal situation."
"Aanon…" Lokir sighed. Aanon dropped his head instantly, shutting his eyes for a moment as he resisted the urge to throttle the recruit. "If we die here … what's the point? You said it yourself, this is unexpected. We're not getting out of this one."
"Maybe you're not," Aanon scoffed. He struck the ropes around his wrists with a single claw. As they fell to the floor, now almost as useless as Lokir, he went to stand. "I am."
"Wait!" Lokir cried. "No, you can't just leave me like this!"
"I wouldn't," Ralof said in a warning tone to Aanon … and with that, they passed under a large, arch - and were in Helgen. The scenergy changed drastically from wild, winding dirt roads to stone walkways lined with houses on either side.
Aanon swore. It was too late. They were already there.
The carriage was parked against a wall. Each prisoner stood and walked to the end of it, stepping down to be registered by a couple of Imperial soldiers waiting for them at the base. Soldiers, Aanon noted, not guards. The Khajiit quickly wrapped the rope back around his wrists, holding it together under his hands. It was a special kind of dread he was feeling here … but showing any of that now would be acknowledging anything Lokir said. Honestly, nothing was worth that.
The sky seemed weirdly darker here. Seemed like his imaginary version of Delvin was right to be worried today. Thunder crashed somewhere in the distance, and Aanon wondered briefly if it would be raining when he died. He hated rain.
When he stepped off the back of the carriage there were two soldiers there - one with steel armor, one with leather. They asked him his name, and he gave them a fake one. They asked him if he was with the Khajiit caravans. As he lied yes, the first Stormcloak was brought to the chopping block. Aanon felt his stomach twist when the human's head fell into a basket and his body was pushed away. He was nothing now; would be remembered as a soldier who died on his knees. Did that mean he would get into his precious Nord Sovngarde? His comrades seemed to think so.
"Gods…" Lokir was trembling beside him. "I-I-I was just trying to make a life for myself outside of Rorikstead. When I left … they said … they said nothing would be the same for me, and now… by the Eight, what have I done? What have I done?"
Aanon's jaw clenched. He looked down at his hands and realized he, too, was shaking. He had been in situations where he could die before, but … honestly, it was usually his own fault for using a poison that wasn't strong enough, or getting too close to a mark. The closest he had come aside from this was when Mercer had betrayed the guild and tried to kill him. Even that, though, wasn't just a random chance of bad luck. This almost seemed like a joke Nocturnal must be playing … as if Aanon would wake up soon. Part of him hoped he would, but the way his stomach felt now told him this was all as real as it seemed.
One horrible second later, the soldier who had called the first guy to the block now pointed one heavily armored finger at Lokir. "Next," she said, "The one in rags."
Aanon swallowed and, in an unexpected turn, his chest tightened. He had hated Lokir for the entire time they had known each other, and he might be willing to watch him die any other way, but now … now, he was just a sobbing, pathetic mess. For the first time since speaking to Nocturnal in Nightingale Hall, he tried to contact his goddess. Seems like I'm next. I guess you're not going to save me, since you're not a huge fan of the Thieves' Guild, but … if you wanted to, that would be great.
"Oh, no," Lokir gasped. When Aanon looked back at him, he had tears streaming down his face. "No, gods, no. That's me, isn't it? I can't die like this."
"Hey…" Aanon said, and Lokir stopped blubbering for just long enough to wait for some sort of hope or inspiration to come out of his companion, though their time together was short. Aanon took a soft breath and said, "Don't piss yourself."