Pyrophobia

Epilogue

"I'm sorry," I said, stuffing my travel bag with knives and clothing. There was food in there somewhere, no doubt, since Gerdur had been in my bag earlier. Ralof sat on his bed, looking at me sadly as I packed. "I…I can't stay. I just…"

I trailed off, looking across the room at the mirror in the corner. After being in the torture room—for over two months, as I later found out—my hair had thinned and lost some of its color, as stress will do sometimes. There was a fine vein of grey trailing from my roots to the ends. My eyes had sunken in, and held a tint of paranoia and weariness that I would carry with me always. And death, but that went without saying. My cheeks were thinner, as was the rest of me. My tongue had scars from where I'd bitten it to stifle a scream of pain, giving it the appearance of a cave drawing—white lines in swirls and along the bumpy edges of the muscle. I still wasn't able to talk right, even after all these months.

I'd aged twenty years in a month. I looked like Death itself might, if it was a man.

"Why?" Ralof demanded. He'd done everything under the sun to try and get me to stay—he'd promised he'd take care of me, he'd offered money and armor, he'd even confessed love to try and sway me. While that may have changed my mind before, I was different now. I wasn't a suitable husband for anyone. Perhaps if he'd wanted me to stay with him forever, he should've said something before I was almost killed.

"Because…" My brain worked to find the words. I knew why I was leaving, but I wasn't able to get it across to anyone else. "I…I can't…"

"Fine," Ralof sighed. "Fine. You can't give me an answer. Where will you go? Have you even figured that much out?"

I shrugged, "Walk. I'll walk and…where I end up. I'll just…go wherever." I stood, swinging the bag over my shoulder and turning towards the door. Frodnar's bow was hanging on a hook. I remembered how he'd cried and hugged me around the waist, swearing that he'd take an oath of silence. I wanted so badly to smile at that, or cry with him, but I couldn't. I just couldn't…feel anymore.

"You're going to get yourself killed," He said desperately.

One last look at the mirror made up my mind, "Too…too late for that." I turned to the door, adjusting the bag on my shoulder, and reached out to push it open. I felt Ralof tug on my shirt and turned my head. "What?"

He didn't say anything, just looked me in the eyes for a moment. He looked as if he was looking for something, anything, that betrayed any emotion. He wanted me to somehow feel like this was wrong, just like he did. He wanted me to break under his gaze and fall into his arms and cry.

But he blinked and shook his head. That was what I'd been waiting months for—for him to realize that I'm not his friend anymore. I'm not myself now.

Ralof looked down in disappointment and leaned forward. He kissed me in the corner of my mouth before releasing me. I stared at the floor, then lifted my gaze to him.

"Sorry."

"I know," He said.

I opened the door, and I walked out. No one stopped me, no one spoke. Gerdur held back her son as I walked past the mill, silent tears rolling down her face as she told him to be a man. I wandered out of the village, past the trees and river. Not even a wolf dared to cross my path—perhaps seeing my ax or sensing my instability. I stopped on the trail and looked at the sky, coming to the realization that I had nothing holding me back.

I could go anywhere.

BREAK

Once again, I found myself under Ulfric's banner. Days of walking and carriage rides had brought me to Windhelm, facing the magnificent palace that may have impressed me many moons ago. An empty bottle of mead was thrown at my feet with a curse to my father's ancestors from a drunk man. I ignored it and approached the Valunstrad.

"Halt!" A guard shouted. I paused and looked at him passively. Somewhere to my right, a fire crackled and warmed my side. "What business do you have in the Palace of the Kings?"

The guard was a Nord—obviously, as he was guarding a Stormcloak's palace—and was dark haired. I couldn't see his eyes clearly, but his voice was adolescent, though it also held the strength of an officer.

"Ulfric…I…see Ulfric."

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked behind me. The blonde woman from my rescue stood behind me, her shoulders squared and her armor freshly polished.

"This one is cleared for entry, Embry, always."

We were nodded inside, and I followed numbly beside her. She led me through the throne room—which was empty—and to another room, with a large map of Skyrim in the middle and two men arguing inside.

"My Jarl," The woman spoke up, and the two men turned around. I recognized only one, who was Ulfric. The other was a short, stocky man dressed in intimidating furs and weapons. "We found him outside."

Ulfric nodded to me, and I returned the motion. He approached me and looked me over, admiring my weapons and staring in disgust at the scars I received from, as he muttered under his breath, "those Thalmor bastards". When he asked me to open my mouth, I obeyed, and almost immediately afterwards he told me to shut it again. I realized that all of my teeth were either shattered or jagged, and my tongue was no better.

"Have you come to join the fight, Half-Breed?" Ulfric asked, raising his chin a fraction. I thought over this for only a moment before nodding.

"If you don't mind me asking," The man in furs said. "But why would a Half-Breed want to fight for the Stormcloaks?"

I looked at him, now, "My mother…A Nord. She was…Proud. Died…proud…by Imperials," I took a deep breath, steadying myself and choosing my next words carefully. "Only person I'll ever love is a Nord. I want to fight…to fight for them."

"Tell him the oath," Ulfric said. The other man almost argued further, but the Jarl stopped him. "He's survived a dragon attack, Imperials killing his family, and being tortured by the Thalmor. My soldiers tell me he's a worthy fighter, and I believe them. Tell him the oath."

The man in furs sighed and pulled me by the arm to stand in front of him, "Repeat after me, Half-Breed.

"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim..."