Pyrophobia
I'm not sure what exactly is off in Lucan's head, but he'd decided to hire muscle to take back his Golden Claw from the thief. The thief is a professional, obviously, if he knew something about the Claw that its owner didn't—a couple of morons stupid enough to head into Bleak Falls Barrow without the proper weaponry or armor or preparation for whatever in Oblivion might be up there certainly won't last long.
The brainless group came back missing three members and muttering on and on about the walking dead and purple fire. They didn't even accept the payment for their troubles, just wandered into the forest, talking like crazy men. I hadn't seen them since, but I knew that whenever some insane person in my village went into the forest, they made a nice meal for the local predators.
It took me three days to prepare for the trip up to the Barrow, gathering potions and fixing my best armor (dragon's hide). I didn't want to come out of this like the poor souls Lucan hired, so I took extra precautions with chinks in my armor and weak points in my weapons. To get the Claw back before the thief booked it out of the Barrow, there wasn't much room for error or time to waste.
"I want to come with you," Ralof said as I sheathed my dagger under my sleeve and strapped my axe to my back. "It isn't safe. You just fought a bloody dragon, and you've only just healed from your burns."
"I was healed a week ago," I replied, lacing up my boots. "And you're not coming. You need to be here for your sister. She's against me going all together, I need someone here to keep her calm while I'm gone so she won't send anyone after me."
"What about Hod?"
"He'll just submit to her will and get drunk. And don't tell me he won't because he's done it more than once at my expense."
"Fine," He relented, looking away. Ralof had never been very good at being upset—he just looked really funny when he tried to pout, and it made me laugh my ass off.
I'm not keeping Ralof here for his own good, or even to keep Gerdur calm. Really, it's for my benefit and survival. I can't guarantee I'll come back from the Barrows, and if I brought Ralof, he'd most likely kill himself in an attempt to save my life. I'm keeping him here to keep him safe and remind me what's back home. If he dies, I have nothing to return to. In the village, I stayed alive to keep Jasha and Lotus and Citin alive and well-fed. Now, Ralof was the only thing keeping me from jumping into a river.
My parents are dead, returning to my village would kill me, and I have no other friends to speak of. Ralof is my last hope of coming back from the Barrow.
"You can sit in the corner and cry about it after you return my other knife, Ralof."
The Nord glared, taking an Elven dagger out of his boot and handing it to me, "You shouldn't be using dirty Mer weapons anyway."
"They're of good quality," I defended with a shrug, strapping the dagger to my thigh. "Plus, I got this dagger off of one of those parties of Elves that's always wandering about and killing those who worship Talos."
"The Thalmor patrols?"
"Yes, them. When they walked by, I shouted, 'Hail Talos, the ninth Divine!' That got their attention. The leader tried to stab me but I slit her throat before she could even grab the dagger. I looted it off of her and killed her guards when they attacked."
Ralof was trying not to laugh, since he really didn't see the Thalmor patrols as people anymore. It was funny that I'd provoked them in such a way, really funny that the leader had thought she could get past me with a little dagger, and hilarious that I killed two elves with their own kinsmen's knife.
"You aren't supposed to provoke the Thalmor, Godrael," Ralof said, still laughing. "They might come after you now."
I shrugged again, straightening my armor, "Who's going to tell? I killed them before they could write my name on their little list—why is everyone involved with the Empire have a list anyway?—and they're dead. Even if they were found, no one could know it was me. The only people who saw me even close to there was a band of Khajiit, and they aren't going to send an assassin because of a dead group of Elves."
"True," Ralof said.
Gerdur walked over to us and handed me a set of lock picks, "Just in case." She said, looking at me sadly.
"Gerdur, I'm going to be fine. I battled a dragon, for Divine's sake! A stupid thief won't be any challenge."
"I just don't want to have to worry about you coming back like…"
Like the hired hands of Lucan's. I put my hand on her shoulder, "I won't. I have to leave now."
"You'll come back, right Uncle Godrael?" Frodnar asked from the table, a piece of bread in his mouth.
"Right."
"And you'll teach me how to fire a bow, right?"
I looked at Hod, who smiled, then at Gerdur, who shrugged, "You'll teach him anyway."
"Right. After I come back, I'll even make you your own bow."
Gerdur hugged me again before pushing me out the door. I heard Ralof shout that if I didn't come back he'd hunt me down in Sovngarde and bash me with his shield for the rest of eternity. Hod grunted a goodbye and Frodnar just whined when his mother said, "No, you can't not go to the bridge with him."
The journey was long for the Barrows being just across the river and up the mountain, but I made it by midday. The entrance was old and rusted, and the dead bodies of bandits littered the ground. I opened the door slowly, seeing several dead Skeevers and some skulls. A dead body laid near a bandit camp inside the chamber, the inhabitants going so far as to make a fire and lay out bed rolls.
For a moment I was suspicious that they might have an ambush waiting for anyone exploring the Barrow, but when I heard how loudly they talked and how freely they walked around, I decided they might just be idiots. Plus, I'd seen a Frost Troll not too far away during my trek up the mountain. No one in their right mind would make this much noise in Frost Troll territory, even if they had protection.
I snuck in quietly, thanking my father's ancestors for being so stealthy, and looted a few of the bandit's dead bodies. They had some coin and valuable potions, though I let the weapons be. I didn't need the sound of a blade clinking to alert my presence.
The male bandit had stopped laughing drunkenly and I stopped, fearing I'd been caught, when he belched.
"I need to piss," He muttered, standing shakily and waddling into the shadows. The woman didn't think anything of it and continued laughing to herself obnoxiously. The man hummed as he relieved himself and I snuck up behind him, pulling the dagger from my sleeve.
A knife was held to my throat.
"You should've never come here," A sickening voice whispered in my ear. I was tossed to the ground and the man and woman laughed, clapping like mentally challenged Horkers. I lifted my head weakly to find a dark-haired man standing over me. He was dressed in dark clothing and had soot on his face, which had made him hard to spot in the shadows. He seemed to be a Nord, but it was hard to tell. Imperials and Nords looked the same in the dark.
The man kneeled down and dug his knee into my ribs. I groaned and he grabbed my face, roughly rubbing off the war paint Frodnar had given me yesterday upon hearing of my upcoming quest, "Such a pretty one, you are. You look like a Nord, but you must be a half-breed. Anika, Holind, go deeper into the cave. This little bastard might've brought company like the last morons from Riverwood."
The drunkards stumbled down into the passage, deeper into the Barrow. The man grinned down at me and clamped a hand over my mouth, "Don't want the dirty half-breed telling his back-up he needs help, now do we?"
It's always a shock when you realize you're going to die. Truthfully, I would've preferred to die in anywhere else but Bleak Falls Barrow. In a strange way, it reminded me of home—perhaps because my house was so near it. I was reminded of my mother and father, and of Ralof and his family, who expected me back sometime in the morning. I would never return to them. I would never teach Frodnar to shoot, or keep my promise to Alvor and make the armor for his little girl. I would never see Ralof laugh again, or see Gerdur get mad when I drank too much mead with her husband and brother. I would never hunt again.
The only consolation was death. Peace. Being with my family again in the afterlife.
I felt the man's dagger dig into my arm and cried out. He wasn't aiming to kill me with that, he was just drawing into my arm, like a butcher carving a pig for meat. When he had finished with the agonizing cutting, I saw he'd marked a "V" into my bicep.
"V is for victim, but you probably already knew that," He said, tapping the bloodied tip of his knife to the point of my nose playfully.
I had, actually. Gerdur had told me about a hired assassin that came highly recommended to accompany someone on a dangerous pilgrimage or go after thieves and murderers. He wasn't picky, killing a thief one day and being hired by another the next. Just two things remained the same about him: one was that his employers were always satisfied, and the other was the "V" he carved into the bodies of his victims when they were killed. Sometimes, if it wasn't a time-related venture, he would play with the carving for hours and torture the victim before killing them.
He was insane.
"I wouldn't touch such a pretty face like yours," He said, though I found it hard to take that as a compliment. "Maybe I'll just cut up the rest of you. Though, you look like you could be good for other things, too."
The trouble with professional criminals in Skyrim is that they're well known, so they're unlikely to be persecuted unless they're in a city while committing a crime (and they're never in cities), and there aren't many qualms about sexuality in Skyrim. It isn't rare to see children that are coming of age planning a future with either sex as a partner. The male-female marriage is only the most common because of child bearing.
This man was raised in Skyrim. He had no qualms with having sex with another man. He's a criminal, so I doubt he'd have a problem with forcing me. At this rate, I was hoping he was a necrophiliac and I wouldn't have to be alive for it. I wasn't going to Sovngarde dying this way, so what was the point of caring what happened to my body after I was dead?
"Let's see what's under this fancy armor of yours," He muttered to himself, removing his right knee from my chest only to place his left knee over my throat. He tugged off the chest section of my armor and poked my stomach with his blade. "A bit soft-skinned for a Nord, aren't you? I bet you're part High Elf. High Elves are pretty."
I hissed, insulted to be called such a thing, "I kill High Elves for fun!" I spat, spurring him to press his knee cap harder on my wind pipe.
"Shut up. No one asked you to talk."
He continued to poke my belly until the knife dug into the space between my rubs, cutting the flesh and making me clench my jaw. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my pain, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep my mouth shut.
There was a crash and something near the bandit's camp broke. The knife was removed from my flesh and the assassin stood. He looked around, his head held up like a dog sniffing for trouble. I bit back the word 'mutt' and kept quiet, unable to breathe properly for the moment and in too much pain from my wounds to move. I was losing blood, and I might pass out before he returned, if I was lucky.
I flinched when I felt him hold my shoulders and put my into an upright position, whimpering when the wound on my chest flared and bled.
"Shh," A voice that certainly didn't belong to the assassin said in my ear. "I'm going to help you, all right? Where's your axe?"
"I left it at the entrance to be quieter. I couldn't step lightly if that monstrosity was strapped to my back," I whispered, getting dizzier by the moment. I was set back on the ground and heard the sound of someone sneaking away. I felt the assassin's boot in my side a moment later, and he huffed.
"You're no fun if you die before I can fuck you, dammit," He growled, kicking me harder. I whimpered, feeling my ribs ache. Thankfully, one hadn't broken. Yet. The assassin grinned, stepping on my throat and pressing his heel into my wind pipe. I clawed at his ankle, trying desperately to breathe again, but he just pressed harder. I could feel my brain losing oxygen and my eyes rolled back.
A drop of blood hit me and I looked up. The blade of my axe was buried into the skull of the assassin and he was looking down at me, as if wondering how I'd done it, before he collapsed. I gasped when his foot fell from my neck and breathed greedily, putting a hand over the cut between my ribs.
"I've got it, I've got it," The voice whispered again, placing a gauze patch over the wound and taping it down. "You shouldn't have come alone, Godrael. It's dangerous up here."
My first thought was the Ralof had been stupid enough to follow me, and I would yell at him the moment I could see his face. Maybe slap him, if I really felt he deserved it. He was meant to stay home and remind me that I had something to return to, but now he'd given himself the opportunity to be killed. My eyes slowly cleared of the black spots as my breathing evened out and I looked back up at him, finding his features clearing. But, it wasn't Ralof leaning over me.
"…Hadvar?"
END
Fun facts to know and tell, I'd actually had a hard time not typing the word 'Pyrophilia' when I first started this story. Now every time I actually type Pyrophobia right, I check to make sure it's not Pyrophilia. Because Goddy won't go near fire, let alone fuck it.
And this is LATE LATE LATE and I'm sorry, but I have a life.
GUYZ. GUYZ. IT'S TRUE. I'M SERIOUS. I HAVE A LIFE. JUST SHUT UP.
Stop laughing at me, dammit.
