Italicized named mean POV has changed. If there isn't one, Godrael is the POV. Okay? Okay. Pyrophobia
Ralof
As soon as we made it to Gerdur's house, Godrael was close to passing out. He'd been walking too much in his condition and had startled my sister and her husband with his appearance. His skin was dark red in the better places, and burnt black in the worst. His left eye was still closed and he'd learned not to open it in fear of it bleeding. He didn't seem to be able to hear in his right ear and the hearing in his left seemed to come and go at random. He was a mess.
I remembered when he'd been thrown onto the carriage. He'd been knocked out, but when the captain had ordered someone to chase the "one running away", the soldier had been warned of the claws he had. It was obvious to everyone that saw him that he was at least half Khajiit, and that seemed to scare the soldiers and others in the carriage.
I just marveled at how he seemed to be a Nord, but had such a lithe build. His skin was pale, and his hair was dark and heavy, two sections of the hair braided off and curved to the back of his head like a crown. He had two rings in his bottom lip that curved over the plump skin, ending in spaded points that didn't quite meet. He'd been wearing rags and had a low-grade bow in his hand before they'd thrown him in the carriage. After that, they'd thrown all weapons found on him in the nearest river and carried on.
"How'd he get those burns?" Gerdur asked as I settled Godrael on the guest bed in her home. "They look very bad."
"There was a dragon attack at Helgen," I said. "I'll explain later. Your son is watching for the Imperials, right?"
"Yes. He said he'd come tell us if he saw anyone."
"Good," I stood and inspected the burns on Godrael. Gerdur had stripped him and placed his armor in a wash pan to be taken care of later. There were some parts of his body that weren't quite burned and were just turning a gentle red shade. The rest was either blistered or scabbed over, angry burns that were the color of dried blood. I worried most about the skin that looked as if it had died, and his left eye. "I'm going to see if the trader has any cures for burns. If not, I'll have to send someone to Whiterun to see the Alchemist. If it comes to that, I know she'll have something—there were many stories from the others about her."
I took one last look at Godrael's burned face—faintly imagining the healthy skin that had once been there—before I turned and walked out of the house. I made my way to the Riverwood Trader and entered the building, finding Lucan arguing with his sister before hurriedly shushing her. I would've been suspicious of their behavior if there weren't a dying person at my sister's home.
"Hello, Lucan," I said, approaching the counter. "I was wondering if you had any burn remedies available."
"Yes, we have many potions for you to look at," Lucan said with his usual bargain grin. "Is it a minor burn or something a little more serious?"
"Life or death situation, actually," I said soberly, looking at the potion bottles he'd set in front of me.
"Then you might take this," He said, offering the left-most bottle with the label 'Restore Health—potent' "It's ten Septims per bottle."
"I'll take three," I said, wanting to be sure that Godrael would be healed to the fullest extent.
"All right then. Here you go," He gathered three bottles and waited for me to give him his payment. The potions cleared my coin purse extremely well—I only had three Septims left after I'd paid him in full.
Lucan gave me a little salute and a grin, something I didn't return. Despite the way I'd acted around Godrael, I wasn't really in the mood for grinning. I'd just been captured on a mission with Ulfric Stormcloak (who no doubt probably thought all of us on the mission were incompetent), I'd nearly been sent to execution, I'd seen one of my shieldbrothers killed by the axe, and our presence near the border had gotten an innocent refugee injured and, possibly, left him at death's door.
I felt despicable and filthy, having watched Godrael go from a healthy—perhaps even attractive, if I were to admit that to myself—young man, probably just barely of legal age, to the burnt husk of a person he was at the present. The entire walk to Gerdur's house from the trader's was spent loathing myself and finding a suitable punishment for myself after Godrael was adequately healed.
When I opened the door, I saw that Godrael had woken up and was looking at the ceiling with his good eye.
"There are one hundred and sixty-five boards in this ceiling. Did you know that? I wish I didn't," Godrael frowned at the potions. "What's that?"
"Hopefully, these potions will fix you up," I said, walking over to him and helping him sit up. I uncorked the first bottle and held it up for him. In response, he held up his mangled hands. "Oh right, sorry."
Godrael sighed, "I guess the potions are worth a shot. I really can't get any worse, can I?"
"You could be dead," I offered, tipping the mouth of the bottle against his lips and watching his face twist into an expression of agony. His throat must be burned, too.
"That would be an improvement," He replied, his voice even more broken than before.
I didn't reply. It wouldn't feel right to tell him—a near-perfect stranger—that I wouldn't have liked it if he was dead. I wanted to tell myself that it was because I'd feel responsible, since it was the our group of Stormcloak soldiers that had gone past the border and not checked ahead for an ambush and got him dragged into this.
But a real Nord doesn't lie. And a real Nord especially doesn't lie to himself.
Godrael got the first and second bottles down without much complaint, and the lighter red areas of his skin had turned a healthier pink. The scabs had ebbed away and the skin was smooth in most places, but there were still some black skin and a few blisters. It was an improvement.
Godrael, with a bit of a struggle, managed to open his left eye, though it remained a bit swollen. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were blue. For a while, I'd forgotten he was part Khajiit, but those eyes would most likely be a reminder. While blue eyes weren't uncommon among the Khajiit, it was rare to see a Nord with such light eyes.
"Think you can get another bottle down?" I asked, holding up the last bottle. "It might help with the last bit of swelling and the blisters."
Godrael shrugged and looked at me. It occurred to me that if the potion took no effect, it probably meant that Godrael's remaining injuries would be permanent. I could only hope that his eye went back to normal and his skin didn't remain charred and numb.
"I guess. I'm not sure it'll help much, though," He admitted. He didn't wince as much when he swallowed the potion, and I took that as a good sign that he was healing.
Godrael was still for a moment before he pushed me away from the bed and wretched violently. He was bent over the side of the bed for at least five minutes before he finally stopped vomiting and sat up, leaning against the pillow and panting.
"Sorry," He muttered, coughing slightly. "I'll repay you for the potions, but I don't think I can get another one of those disgusting things down to save my life."
"Thankfully, it probably won't come to that," I said. "I think the other two did enough. Can you stand at all?"
Godrael nodded and threw his legs over the side of the bed. I suddenly became hyperaware that he was naked and his skin had turned back to the light flesh coloring it had before. He'd become that attractive young man in the carriage again, and I willed myself to only look at his face.
It seemed that he absorbed enough of the last potion for his left eye to lose its swelling, and his face was ridded of the dark redness that had come with the burn. The only thing that even looked damaged on him was his right ear, which still wasn't receiving any sound from the way his jaw kept putting pressure on that side, as if popping it might help his deafness.
"I think my legs are fine," Godrael said, standing with minimal help. "I think I could even walk. Is there a bar in town?"
"Yeah. It's at the Inn. My sister's husband is very familiar with the place."
Godrael smiled a little, "Good. I need a drink. I'll even buy you one, if you want."
I gave him a grin and nodded, "Sounds good. But, um, you might want to get dressed first."
Godrael looked around for his armor and saw that it was still in the washing bin. The only thing dry were the trousers, which hadn't had blood on them and didn't need to be cleaned. I looked around for a bit and realized that Godrael wore the same size shirt as Frodnar, my nephew. Godrael seemed to miss the insult when I said my sister's ten-year-old had a shirt that might fit him and just accepted that garment.
"A shirt is a shirt, as long as he doesn't mind me borrowing it until the armor's dry."
"I'm sure he won't. If he does, he'll just play a prank on you. He thinks they're bad, but they really aren't."
Godrael laughed, "Reminds me of a child in my village. His name's Lotus…I wonder how he's doing…"
The way Godrael had described his village, it was horrifyingly likely that Lotus had died from starvation during his absence. Godrael had been one of the main food suppliers in his village, and there'd been a recent period where he'd been forced to forego giving himself food in favor of feeding the children and elderly. He explained that, even now, he hadn't had anything to eat in about five days, and he feared his stomach would never distend again.
"It wouldn't be good if I gorged myself now," He said, poking his collapsed belly. "Maybe yesterday or the day before, but if I did right now, I'd throw up again. I learned that lesson the hard way, except it was worse then than it would be now."
"Why?"
Godrael smiled mirthlessly without looking at me, "It felt like I was wasting food. If you could believe it, I thought of eating the vomit so I wouldn't be throwing away the food I'd spent hours hunting and had selfishly devoured by myself. If I was going to eat it by myself and feel bad about it, I was going to make sure it was eaten."
Godrael looked up and saw my slightly disgusted face.
"I didn't, of course, but I thought about it. If that gives any indication of the level of desperation I was at."
"It does," I said, pursing my lips. "Paints a very pretty picture. Now, if you're dressed, we can go to the Inn and get some drinks. They sell food too. But…Don't go overboard, for the sake of the Inn's maid."
Godrael laughed again and nodded, swearing on the Divines he would control himself. We left the house just as Gerdur was walking up and she squinted at Godrael walking past her before a look of recognition dawned on her.
"Now I remember where I saw him," She muttered at me.
"What?" I asked. I was sure we'd never met Godrael before. He did mention coming from Skyrim, but he was most likely from somewhere closer to the border.
"Yes. He used to live right outside town with his mother. I think he had a father, but he never talked about him, so everyone assumed he was dead. He used to call his mother something strange…"
"Manna?" I guessed, remembering that Godrael had had to tell me what he was referring to when he used that word, talking about his family.
"That's it. He used to have foot races with you and Hadvar. He'd laugh when you two started arguing. I don't remember much more about him other than that you were really sad when he stopped coming to town with his mother."
I remembered that. I'd had a friend when I was younger who I remembered having dark hair, light eyes (though I hadn't remembered the exact color) and unusually thick nails. He used to joke that if he wasn't careful about what he scratched, they got sharp, like claws. Then he'd make a sound like a cat, that I remembered being a strangely accurate to the actual animal. I remembered him breaking up the fights me and Hadvar got in over the foot races. I remembered we used to call him Goddy, because his real name was too long.
"It's too bad he got caught up with the Imperial ambush like he did. I'll get his armor cleaned up so he can go do what he needs to."
For a while, I just stared at Godrael as he sat next to me at the bar. He'd ordered some food (couldn't tell you what it was), he'd ordered us both drinks (couldn't tell you what they were), and he'd paid for all of it (couldn't tell you where he'd gotten it). Was he really the same Goddy I'd known as a boy? Was he really that friend that was so happy all the time, had laughed so easily, and had made it a habit to keep Hadvar and I from beating each other senseless?
A thought struck me. Hadvar's behavior that morning when the dragon had attacked had been odd, and I'd been wondering for some time what had caused it. Had he remembered who Godrael was, and hoped that he could save him? Had he remembered that the walking corpse as our childhood friend? Was that the reason he'd begged and pleaded with the half-conscious boy not to go with me?
"You know, with how long you've been staring, you could've painted me. That would last a lot longer."
I looked up at Godrael to see him smirking at me, lips pausing at the mouth of his mead.
"Sorry, I—" I looked down and then back up. "Do you remember when you used to live in Skyrim?"
"Yeah," He said, sipping the mead and poking at his meal. "I used to live around here, actually. I remember that I used to be friends with two Nord boys that liked to argue with each other."
"My sister remembers you," I said. "And I was one of those Nord boys. We called you Goddy."
Godrael bit his lip, "Now I remember. There was that one boy…Hadvar. He used to call you Loffy and argue with you about the rules of foot racing. That nickname was the death of you, I swear."
I grimaced, "I hated that nickname."
"It was even worse when you two got older and your parents started talking about you both getting married in a few years," Godrael said, turning nostalgic. "Then you and Hadvar started disliking each other even more, and when I started siding with you, Hadvar would sing that stupid little song about people sitting in a tree and kissing. And he used the nicknames. Awful."
"That 'Loffy and Goddy sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g'?" I snorted. "That was awful. He got on my nerves sometimes."
Godrael laughed, "Really? I hadn't noticed. All I felt between you two was compromise and friendship."
"Funny."
"I thought so."
We sat there well into the night. My brother-in-law had been near us at the bar, but was already drunk by the time Godrael had ordered his first hard alcohol. We talked about the past and he talked about what life was like after his father was taken away. His mother, a pretty Nord woman by the name of Evette, had taught him the traditional Nord ways and had raised him to believe in Talos and not give in to the demands of his banishment from religion. His father, a Khajiit named Darisha who he'd gotten his hair color from, had also encouraged the freedom of worship, and Godrael suspected that this could've been one of the reasons that he'd been taken into custody.
I realized after we were told by Orgnar that it was tomorrow that I'd never talked to someone for so long in my life. And if I had, I hadn't enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed talking to Godrael. I wanted to keep talking, but it was too late for us to be out, and Godrael needed sleep if he was going to finish healing.
"We should get going," I said, standing and brushing off my armor. I stopped when I heard Godrael giggle and confirmed that, yes, he was most definitely drunk. I slung his arm over my shoulder and helped him up out of his seat.
"Hey, Ralof," Godrael whisper drunkenly as we left the Inn. "I have a secret to tell you."
"Oh yeah?" I asked, humoring my drunk friend. "What's that?"
"You know that song Hadvar used to sing about us sitting in a tree?" He muttered, leaning against me as we ventured across the uneven ground.
"Yeah, I remember."
"Well," Godrael leaned up and leaned his head on my shoulder. "I just wanted to tell you—I really never minded that song."
If Godrael hadn't fallen asleep on me at that moment, I might've dropped him.
