A/N:Welcome to my newest fic! Skyrim is one of those games that will NEVER get old, and a recent play-through I did gave me a few ideas that I couldn't shake. NOTE: This will NOT involve the Companions storyline, nor any in-game plot. It takes place in the same timeline and region, but the focus is on this original story. That said, sit back and enjoy!
I do not own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls Franchise. Wish I did, though.
I leave this book as my final testament, the last statement of my past and my identity before I pass from this world to the next. At least, that is the primary intent; I am certain that this tome will be examined and studied for many an age after I quit my mortal life by scholars, mages, and of course, people of faith. Sadly, I must disappoint all of those who search this book for answers to the many questions that would compel them to seek it out and read its contents, as even I have struggled to put into words and proper context that which I have learned. I do not claim to possess great wisdom—only a unique perspective. Thus, the only way that I can currently conceive of to properly pass on my knowledge and the lessons I have learned to future generations is to place it in the form of an autobiographical novel. With any luck, it may just provide the enlightenment for which those who read this book are searching.
~Fenras, Hunter of Hunters
4e 201
The child was different, and not in a good way. On that, everyone in Rorikstead agreed.
Fenras was the son of Greta, a local Nord woman who practically wandered into town with the babe cradled in her arms years ago; she never spoke of where she came from, nor did she ever name the father. She rarely spoke to the other villagers, either; outside of tending the fields alongside the rest of the village, she spent most of her time inside her house with Fenras. At first, this self-chosen isolation garnered pity from her neighbors; "Perhaps," they would say, "her husband died a sad death, and her grief keeps her indoors." Others suggested a less tasteful origin for the boy; a child of rape whom the mother grew to love in spite of the horrors of the act that bore him. Whatever the reasons, however, this pity was met only with continued silence and distance, and eventually pity was replaced by annoyance at this strange woman's social reticence.
It didn't help that, as mentioned before, her child was a strange one. From the moment the babe could walk, he had a temper fierce as a beast; when angry, he would bite and scratch. At other times, he would be seen sneaking up on random villagers and surprising them from behind—which would not be too alien a pastime for a child, if not for the fact that there was no playful laughter upon a successful jump scare. No, the boy would smile, then frown, then look puzzled—as if he himself did not know why he had done such a thing. And then the boy would simply wander away without a word.
The livestock in the village seemed rather wary of the child as well; whenever little Fenras went out to play, the goats, chickens, and cattle would quietly edge away from him as he passed, or huddle in tight groups... almost as if they sensed a predator in their midst. In addition to all of this, Fenras had a rather frail physique for the first few years of his life. It was clear that the boy was being fed regularly, but for whatever reason food, regardless of what it was or how it was cooked, seemed to pass right through him. Then, Greta began to purchase meat from the village store at a regular pace... but rarely was smoke ever seen coming from the chimney on such days. From that point on, Fenras was no longer frail and sickly.
The boy was strange, indeed, and strangeness in a small, isolated town such as Rorikstead was hardly acceptable. Even so, this would not have come to anything aside from the odd nervous glare from his peers... if not for one fateful day, shortly after Fenras turned eight.
"Mama, who was daddy?"
Greta looked down at the wide hazel eyes looking up at her through the bangs of scruffy black hair. This was a question that had come up plenty of times before. In her defense, she honestly didn't know—at least, not at the time that it happened. As the years went by and Fenras grew, however, she grew to suspect the identity of the man who practically swept her off her feet, then vanished without a trace.
"I told you, little one. He was a hunter. He slew a sabrecat that attacked me, and we fell in love." Or perhaps I did, she thought.
Little Fenras tilted his head confusedly, as he always did when asking questions. "But where is he? Is he hunting?"
The little face frowned at her silence; fortunately, she knew the best way to distract him.
"Hush now, Fenras. Here, eat your breakfast and you can go play."
Placing a plate of raw meat on the table, she smiled at the wide grin on his face as he ate. After having a quick bite of bread for herself, Greta took her son's hand and walked out of the house into the daylight. As she let go of Fenras' hand and began walking toward the general store, she noticed the absence of her neighbors' stares—a strange thing, as those stares were practically a daily ritual. Looking around, her eyes eventually landed on a crowd of the villagers surrounding a young Imperial man wearing the robes of a Vigilant of Stendarr. The Vigilants were held in high regard throughout Skyrim; defenders of the people from the threat of the daedra and their wicked followers, pious men for whom faith itself was their armor.
At least, that was how the rest of Skyrim saw them.
Vigilant Fastus was of rather average height and build, with light brown eyes, auburn hair, and a slight stubble on his chin that seemed somewhat out of place on such youthful, fair skin. Fastus had first introduced himself to the village less than a year ago, having just finished taking his vows and begun his wanderings, intent on doing the will of his God. Rorikstead had suffered greatly in recent days, with growing rumors of vampire activity in the province leading up to an attack by an actual vampire that threatened to slaughter the town; without hesitation, Fastus slew the dark creature, earning the adoration of the village in the process. Since that time, Fastus had become a regular fixture in Rorikstead, giving regular lectures and sermons to the townsfolk. In this last aspect, the villagers agreed, he was knowledgeable beyond his years. What often began as a simple conversation in the streets would quickly turned into a lengthy discourse on the evils of the daedra, and the need to combat their dark worshipers wherever possible, and today was no different.
"...and so, my good villagers, you need not be a Vigilant to practice vigilance. Indeed, you must be ever-watchful, for the foul worship of daedra can be found anywhere, even in the most unlikely of places."
"What sort of madness would drive anyone to worship monsters, Vigilant Fastus?"
The Vigilant smiled. "Ah, an excellent question, my good man! Depending on the Prince in question, there could be any number of reasons. Ambition—the desire for power is tempting to any wicked man or woman, and they often care not for where they attain it. Wrath—Princes such as Dagon and Malacath often draw the attention of those seeking vengeance on their enemies, and that can drive people to darker and darker deeds. But the foulest motive, in my mind, is lust."
Gasps arose from the crowd; Fastus was quick to raise his hands to settle them down, though.
"I only speak truth, good people. There are, indeed, those who even LIE with summoned daedra—and it has even been documented, though rare, that a Prince himself might mate with a worshiper, producing an abomination known as a demiprince—"
More gasps.
"No, I fear I am not exaggerating. Demiprinces are rare indeed, but they exist; you may know them by strange and alien behavior, and by the frightened response of animals to their unnatural presence, among other signs."
That sentence hung in the air, leaving an uncomfortable silence. For, as fate had it, little Fenras was wandering alongside a fence, the goats on the other side quickly rushing to the opposite side of their pen to escape from him. Greta had just made her way to the boy and taken his hand, hoping to guide him away from the gaze of the crowd before they noticed anything unusual. All too late.
"Hey, Greta, you never did tell us who the kid's father was."
She froze. Her blood froze. "None of your business, Mralki."
Another voice spoke up. "Hey, did you see those goats? They've always been afraid of the kid..."
And another. "The boy bit my little girl one time. Sissel still has the scar..."
And another. "You don't think..."
"Who was the father, Greta?"
"You know something!"
"Brat was always weird—"
Pretty soon the whole crowd was shouting over each other. Suddenly, Fastus raised a hand, silencing the mob with a commanding tone.
"ENOUGH! Clearly, Stendarr himself guided me to this village. From what you all have said, it is rather obvious—this woman is no less than a fornicator and a witch, and her whelp an abomination upon Nirn."
Greta took Fenras by the arm and tried to flee, only for the mob to charge and surround them. Her worst fears were confirmed by Fastus' next words, delivered with eerie calm.
"Prepare a fire. We shall send her back to her master."
Her cries went unheeded as they dragged her and Fenras away; her child was screaming for her, but the bonds they tied around her wrists as they lashed her to a log prevented her from holding him, the gag in her mouth muffling whatever pleas for mercy she could think of.
Her final thoughts as the flames began to rise were for her little boy, screaming for his mother at the top of his lungs as he struggled against his own restraints, the next intended victim.
As her muffled cries filled the air, Fastus turned to the terrified and traumatized child, raising his torch in preparation for the next burning. "In the name of the Eight Divines, I purge the world of your filth."
In that instant, Fenras felt a rage grow within him. With a sudden burst of strength beyond his size, he pulled with all his might, tearing the ropes holding him to his pyre and leaped at the Vigilant, eliciting a startled shout from the man as the torch was dropped. Fenras hardly knew what he was doing; something else had taken over, and with a shriek of rage he bit into the Imperial's forearm, tearing a chunk of flesh from the man before running.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. He still didn't know what he was doing. All he knew was that he had to run.
And so the boy ran, and ran, and ran, until he could run no longer. He had just enough time to look back at the pillar of smoke in the far distance before exhaustion took him and he passed from consciousness.
[Awaken, pup. You are not safe in the open.]
Fenras came to in a start; the voice faded from his memory as a dream, leaving only a vague urge to stand and start moving. Looking around, he saw that it was still dark, though the faintest traces of sunrise gave him a sense of foreboding. He did not know why; for all that had happened, he was still merely a child of eight, the burning of his mother and the hateful shouts of the villagers fresh in his mind.
[Stand and move. South. Safety awaits there. They will not have stopped looking for you yet.]
The boy did not consciously hear the mysterious voice, nor would he have understood the meaning of "South". All he knew was that he had to run, that there was danger nearby, that he had to go in a specific direction as if something was pulling him towards an unknown destination—and that the destination in question would be safe. Scrambling to his feet, he wiped the tears from his eyes and began obeying the strange urge that grew stronger with each footfall; when torches appeared in the distance, accompanied by angry shouts, he began to pick up the pace.
[The cave. Enter it, pup.]
As the shouts faded into the distance and the first rays of sunlight began to peek over the horizon, Fenras ignored the fear of darkness and ventured into the mouth of the cavern. To his surprise, there was light coming from within after a brief trek through the stony halls; his surprise turned into wonder as he approached the light to find a thickly-wooded hollow within the cave, the walls of stone surrounding it reaching towards the open sky to hide it from the outside world—a natural sanctuary from civilization. Wandering around, he spied a small pond fed by a waterfall; he had not known it before, but he suddenly felt thirsty. In spite of that thirst, however, he hesitated—was the water safe to drink?
[Drink, pup. The water is clean.]
Heeding the mysterious feelings, he dropped to his knees beside the pool and lowered his head to the water's surface; he stared for a moment, wondering how to drink without a cup to hold it until another strange feeling told him what to do. Slowly, he stuck his tongue into the clear water and began lapping it up as an animal would, his pace quickening as he became used to this method of drinking. Soon he had drunk his fill and sat back, looking up at the sky; all of a sudden, his memories of what had transpired returned, along with the terror and grief... and before he knew it, he was wailing as a babe, the tears beyond his control.
He was startled out of his fit by movement in the nearby brush; turning around, he saw a large number of wolves approaching cautiously—an entire pack. Fenras reeled back in fear, crying out; the larger wolves flinched at the sound, but did not attack. Indeed, their reaction seemed more along the lines of pity, as if they saw nothing more than a lost and frightened wolf pup—though an odd element of minor reverence was also present. The pack parted as a large she-wolf emerged carrying a still-bleeding rabbit corpse, her visible nipples and the pups following her indicating motherhood; the wolf slowly approached the frightened child, nuzzling him to calm his fears. To his shock, he seemed to understand the gesture almost as a form of speech, as clear as if actual words were spoken—though the voice was not that of the one that led him there, instead carrying the sensation of a parent soothing her child:
Little princeling—you need not fear us. I will protect you; the pack will protect you.
Tears still in his eyes, little Fenras wrapped his arms around the wolf's neck and nuzzled back, his cries slowly subsiding to sniffles. Before long, he had calmed down almost entirely, and the she-wolf responded by dropping the corpse in front of him, communicating once again with a huff and a nudge:
Eat, little princeling. Live. Survive.
A hunger came over him; with no hesitation, he bit into the corpse, tearing its skin and eating its raw meat, blood dripping from his mouth as he did so. Soon, the rabbit was little more than bones with a few scraps of fur and tendons remaining; a yawn escaped him. The wolves surrounded him, pressing against his sides as the pups snuggled up to him as well. He couldn't have kept his eyes open a minute longer, and soon he was fast asleep.
He dreamed of a strange, almost ghostly form that seemed familiar somehow, but he would not remember it.
Four months later
Wake, little princeling.
Opening his eyes and yawning, Fenras sat up, the comforting feel of the pack-mother's fur against his nude skin nearly lulling him back to sleep before she nudged him again; obeying, he rose to all fours, sitting much as a wolf would with his hands between his feet. Something felt different.
It is time for you to leave us, little princeling; leave the cave but remain at the entrance. Another will come for you; do not fear.
In spite of his time among them, little Fenras did not feel fear at the communication, though a slight pang of sadness went through him as the pack left into the bush. He obeyed his pack-mother's final command, crawling on all fours towards the mouth of the cave and sitting on the grass outside the mouth, waiting patiently; he did not have to wait long, however.
"Hm? Well, hello there, little ja'ma.* What are you doing out here all alone?"
A khajiit in hunting gear approached from the road, putting his bow away and kneeling in front of him with a concerned expression; a small twinge of fear passed through Fenras before he recalled the pack-mother's reassurance. Slowly, he opened his mouth and began to speak, his voice cracking slightly from disuse.
"Wh-who... are... you?"
A smile from the stranger. "This one is known as J'Darro. What is your name?"
"F-Fen...ras. Fenras..."
"And where are your parents?"
The boy stopped, looking down sadly. He struggled not to cry.
"...Oh. This one sees," said J'Darro, clearly understanding the meaning of the prolonged silence. "Do not fear. Take J'Darro's hand—poor ja'ma, you must be so cold without clothes. This one will care for you from now on."
Hesitating for a brief moment, Fenras took the Khajiit's hand and stood on two legs for the first time in months. J'Darro led him through the woods to a small camp with a tent, a campfire, and hunting supplies; several deer skins hung from a tanning rack as well.
"Sit in the tent and cover yourself in the bedroll, Ja'Fenras; this one will make some clothes from the skins that you may wear until he can find proper clothing for you."
Fenras did not understand why this stranger appeared when he did, nor did he know how his pack-mother knew of his arrival. Only one thing mattered at the moment—he knew he was safe. He would be safe with J'Darro, safer even than with the pack.
* I looked up an online fan dictionary of Ta'agra (the Khajiit language) to add a little more authenticity to J'Darro's dialogue. Here's a translation of one of the terms I used:
Ja'Ma—made from two words: "Ja'", which means "young", and "ma", which means child. I made up this compound word from those two; in essence, J'Darro was calling Fenras "little one".
Ja'Fenras—Obviously, "young Fenras". I couldn't have him not use the main character's name, could I?
Now, I'm well aware that, at least to my knowledge, the Vigilants of Stendarr have never burned anyone at the stake, but Fastus is not your average Vigilant; also, J'Darro finding Fenras was no coincidence—but you'll have to wait until a later chapter for an explanation. In any case, as this chapter has made clear, this is going to be a fairly dark fic compared to my other stuff. Read and review!