The Melancholic Epilogue: Chapter II

Silence. Fjolnir hated silence. The stillness of the air, the unbroken, nonexistence of activity, the inevitable noise that would make the Nord jump regardless of how greatly he steeled himself- it was simply too much to bear. Such is why Fjolnir also hated midnight, and the shadowy quiet that it entailed.

It was silence that the Dragonborn dreaded, and it was precisely that which he received. No matter how he tried to toss and turn atop the furs of the bed, he could not force his mind to succumb to the sweet gift of sleep. Funny how that works; dragons have in innate desire to dominate, yet Fjolnir Sword-Quill could not so much as control his racing mind for but an hour's worth of sleep. Rather, it was a losing battle- one that he lost every single night, and one that he barely walked away from come dawn. Not to say that he was entirely without a worthy solution…

Thankfully, the bottle of mead that served as his "sedative" was on the end table where he had left it the night before. One quick swig was enough to calm his nerves somewhat, though sleep still proved just out of his reach. Thus, Fjolnir was left with no other choice but the most obvious- to sit there in bed, alcohol in hand, and wait until Vaermina came to collect his dreams in Quagmire for the night. No matter how long it took, tonight would not be another sleepless night.

Come, now, you Daedric harlot! That's it. Yes…take me to your embrace this night. I can feel your presence. Thank you, Vaermina…

Wait a minute…

The Dragonborn felt his body drifting between realms, and the warmth of the darkness overtaking him. He was seconds from being released from the night's troubles when a stifling, dreaded foe came to impede his progress: a long, unexpected, terrible, ghastly…yawn.

This is why people don't worship the Daedra openly, I tell you. For now, I can think of another place that you can stick your Staff of Corruption, Vaermina. Sweet dreams, you pubescent-voiced sleep-fiend! Molest me no longer, you snowback! Sleep is for the weak anyways…

Fjolnir was just about to give up when that abhorred silence was finally broken. Not by him, this time, but by…something. He couldn't make out the sound properly, but the Nord was certain that it was that of footsteps. A most unwelcome sightseer…

With grace befitting a drunken Dovahkiin, Fjolnir stumbled for towards the door, forcing himself into a silent, clumsy sprint so that he may make it there before his little "guest." The Nord was just about to go into battle unarmed when he suddenly realized the imprudence of his decision. He rectified that error by grabbing the nearest thing in sight, praying that that trusty tool would not let him down.

This knife has torn apart many a plate of venison; let's see what it does to scurrying mice and plotting thieves. With this thought in mind, his grip on the kitchen utensil tightened in unison with the rest of his sword arm. With bated breath, Fjolnir was prepared to strike when the door opened. The door's swinging might have been gentle, but Fjolnir was anything but. Like a vicious sabre cat, he lunged atop the would-be intruder, knife pressed up against her neck.

"My Thane!" Fjolnir's housecarl exclaimed.

Lydia's voice was a welcome reprieve from the night's terrors, yet there was a quiver that Fjolnir could not miss, no matter how inebriated he might have been. Quite awkwardly, Fjolnir rose to his feet, followed by his dear Housecarl.

"Where were you?" he asked quietly, the sharpness in his voice evident.

"You…this morning, my Thane, you sent me away to the market for some errands. Surely you haven't…"

"I did," Fjolnir interrupted. "I'm sorry. I had forgotten."

"I also noticed that you had replaced the candles from yesterday- I had to stumble about in the dark to get here," she complained, rubbing at the area where Fjolnir's knife had been. "Don't tell me that you've been in here all day…"

"I have," he replied brusquely. "I've sat here and waited. Then, when the time for waiting was long past, I tried to fall asleep. Both of those are two more battles that I have lost."

"What exactly were you waiting for?"

"The call."

"The call?" Lydia quizzically reiterated, her confusion plain for the shadows twinkling in the moonlight to see.

"Yes, the call. Alduin was one of them. Every bounty that I have undertaken was also one. I've no other trade but what I can stab with my sword, and yet I'm told by Proventus every single day that there are no bounties to be had right now. 'No dragon sightings today, Thane,' he tells me. 'I never thought I'd live to see the day that Skyrim was such a bastion of safety!' Or, my personal favorite: 'Perhaps you hunted them to extinction? Whiterun could not be safer, with the Dragonborn of legend as its champion.' Well and good, but what in the name of Oblivion am I supposed to do, when I don't have a fucking trade anymore?"

By the end of his rant, Fjolnir was breathing through gritted teeth. Fire was in his veins, and all that he could see was red. Scarlet, infuriating crimson, the vibrant hues of suppressed fury, of raw emotion bursting like dams. Fjolnir could not say how long he had been yearning to say this, but the catharsis was not as sweet as he imagined. That, of course, just made him angrier.

Hesitantly, Lydia asked, "What of the autobiography that you were planning on publishing?"

"What of it?" Fjolnir retorted, the flames of his vehemence being kindled by the reminder. "It went nowhere! The thrice-damned thing died past page one! No matter where I go, whatever I do, these damned rumors always get around faster than I do! Regardless of what I write of, all I'm doing is preaching to a choir that's been trained to 'ooh' and 'ah' at my beck and call! I can't write about my fight atop The Courtesan's Bane anymore! I can't regale the people about how I killed a pirate captain atop his ship in the Sea of Ghosts!"

"And the legend of the Dragonborn! Everyone knows it, everyone gossips about it, and it's as stale as the bread in the Bannered Mare! What am I, now? Have I fallen so low that I wait to save the day for a lot of defenseless peasants and asinine guards?"

"You…you're the Dragonborn; you are the champion of Skyrim, the slayer of the World-Eater. All of Skyrim- no, all of Tamriel would be lost without you." Lydia's argument, as Fjolnir noticed, was verging on being one of pure, innocent pleading. It was futile, however. Innocence was not welcome in Breezehome; naiveté was but a sinful pleasure. None of it had a place in Fjolnir's dwelling.

"Oh, yes. They would have been lost without me. And now? It's like I'm some novelty from a bygone era- a time when the world wasn't safe, and when everyone didn't have wet nurses to clean up after them whenever they pissed themselves. I'm like a rusty blade now, Lydia. All of those swords that I went through in my travels? The world's tossed me aside just like all of them. What use does the world have of a warrior, during a time of peace? Of a writer of battles, when the world wants to recover from the wounds of a war?"

Crestfallen, the dejected Nord sharply exhaled as he bowed his head. "The future belongs to the meek, now. The world doesn't need its Dovahkiin anymore. 'The Born Hunter of Dragonkind,' in the tongue of those wyrms. A tongue just as dead as the dragons who wielded it, and the Dragonborn who killed them."

Lydia was about to protest his remark, but Fjolnir silenced her with a wave of his hand. "We will speak no more of this. Thank you for the groceries, as always. And…forgive me for the inexcusable attack. Do not let me keep you any longer. I myself must see if sleep is indeed impossible this night. You may leave."

With an obedient "Yes, my Thane," Lydia closed the door behind her, and went, presumably, back to her own quarters. With her exit, Fjolnir was left alone once again. Except, of course, for his dear friends. Ironically, the dreaded silence returned to the room once again, like the soft touch of a comforting friend. They were not alone, however. Misery loves company, after all.