Dear Diary,

I am now convinced that the Dragonborn is not normal. And I'm not talking about chosen-one-not-normal. I'm talking about seriously not normal.

First off, though, I should explain what he is, in case I forget (not likely, but you know how it is with weapons and heads). The Dragonborn is a hero of legend who can use a power called the Voice. It focuses their strength, or something, and projects it via their voice, just like dragons and their fiery breath. Dragons can resurrect if killed only conventionally; the Dragonborn, in addition to his Voice, can absorb the felled dragon's soul and thus kill it permanently, gaining its power in the process. He is the newly-made Thane of Whiterun, due to his heroic act of saving the town in said manner, and, for most intents and purposes, my lord (ugh).

I'm writing this in the middle of nowhere as we speak. You see, the Dragonborn enjoys trekking of the direction-less variety. It's as if he feels nothing carrying the weight of his armour, though that may be in part because I'm carrying everything else. We left Whiterun in the morning and followed the dirt path to… here. We're on the edge of a forest and I've built a small fire, because if I didn't, he would certainly not. I mean, who sleeps like that? One moment he's prancing around like a fairie and the next, he stops stock still, staring into space. And what happened was – you won't believe this – he fell asleep in his armour. Standing up. Just like that, without care for any wild beasts that might attack, rain or shine, bandits or rogue wizards. He just stopped. He didn't say anything to me either! As good of a fighter as he is, not even the Dragonborn can escape death while being completely unconscious.

I will grudgingly admit that he fights well, though the lack of reservation in killing is disturbing. In the late afternoon, we ran into a pack of wolves. More precisely, we spotted them. Without a word, he withdrew his maces and charged at them, dispatching all five one swoop after the other. They slashed at his waist and legs with a vengeance. He did not care. Either he has some extremely good armour or extremely thick skin. Maybe it's a Dragonborn thing, the ability to ignore pain, because those wounds looked painful. So he kills the pack of wolves without a word and proceeds to skin them, one by one, and it's strange how fast he did it. It felt as if all he had to do was wave a hand and off the pelt went.

Later on, we ran into a fort of bandits. We were outnumbered ten to two, and that was only considering the ones patrolling outside the gates. They saw us and came after us. We were easy pickings after all. The Dragonborn turned to run, the only sensible thing I've ever seen him do, only to turn back after leaving the fort some distance and charging back at them, maces swinging like mad. That was when I understood how this man could have felled a dragon.

My guess is that his retreat was a tactical choice, to avoid the archers that would have been the end of us. He lured them away from the group and, when they were all grouped together, he shouted:

"Fus!"

The grass rippled and the trees shook as the wave of force burst and slammed into them. Standing right behind him, I could feel the power push against my limbs. Was this the power of the famed Voice? There was no time for that, though. He ran forward; so did I, and we swung and hacked for our lives. Now that we're not dancing on the border of life and death, I notice that the Dragonborn's style is surprisingly, almost painfully basic. It's the same swings every time. A swing with the left, or a swing with the right, or some outwards-ripping swing with both. Sometimes he does a series of swings, finishing with a spectacular spin that would knock out even the most hardened battler... if he actually made contact with the enemy's head rather than missing wildly. Even so, I was impressed with his endurance. Apparently, his lack of sensitivity applies to swords as well. I saw clearly how they tore at his armour, how the blood spilled out. It would take the will of a Nord forefather to push on with those injuries.

Just when I'm about to go over and help him, he turns to me and tells me in that non-voice of his to give him all the food.

I believe I attempted to say "What?", like any normal person would, except that my mouth was dry and my head was spinning. I had been careless and there was a long gash along my right arm, where a rogue got lucky with a dagger before getting intimate with the tip of my sword.

Somehow, I manage to process it and obey. He takes all the loaves of bread - eight, ten, twelve, it doesn't matter - and the raw meat he stole from the pantries of Whiterun's citizens, and the cheese, and begins to eat them all.

Let me take a moment to assure you that yes, this is all true. No, I have not been eating the Dragonborn's mushrooms. Yes, the Dragonborn went and ate a small sackful of food. In the middle of a fight.

And the most amazing part was that his wounds began to heal, right in front of my eyes.

The scratch on his hand, the deep cut on his back, the exposed, torn area around his thigh. As he stuffed his mouth, the wounds closed, not fully, but still! How can you explain that? How can anyone explain that? Perhaps it is an ancient magick, though the fact that it runs on groceries is laughable and utterly ridiculous. Perhaps the Dragonborn has greater latent powers than the legends know of. Perhaps Talos decided to visit and bless him, heavens know why though. I don't know. I don't want to know.

His wounds heal just enough for him to finish the battle, and there we stand, the two of us, bathed in blood and surrounded by the slain.

He looks at me and then raises his hands. They fill with light, bright, yellow, blessed. I know what that is - the "Healing Hands" spell that Farengar dispenses to the sick when paid enough. I close my eyes, heart pounding, trying to brace myself to receive this magic...

...and it never comes. I risk a look and find him basking in it, like a pig in slop.

Sure, he took the brunt of the damage, and yes, it is his magic after all, but one would expect one to be more appreciative of the companion that risked her life for his aimless prancing - which got us into this mess in the first place!

Strangely enough, I am fine now. The gash is gone, as with any scratches and soreness. Maybe not the soreness, but my wounds are no longer here. It must be because of him. Thankfulness to whom - or what - thankfulness is due, I say, and I am at peace with not understanding how in the name of daedra this came to be.

He stripped the dead of their armour and weapons. We obtained around two hundred gold coins, which is twice as much as I have saved up. I don't know what he wants to do with all the leather boots and helmets, but at least they're light. The extra swords are just pointless. He only has two arms. It's not like he'll sprout more like an octopus, right?

Of course not. No. No, I say, and do you hear me, Mother Gaia? No! This cannot be, and if he does, I swear that I will lop off every single one and some.

Even so...

I'll kill the fire and hide under the pile of extra suits. The beasts know better than to come near the scent of bandit, and bandits know better than to come near a pile of fresh loot, for fear of the looter. It is time to sleep, and, if I am lucky, when I wake up, I will be in my barracks in Whiterun, thankfully free from the incomprehensibility that is the Dragonborn.

Love,

Lydia