I'm sorry this took me as long as it did.

But here we are nonetheless. I shortened this chapter down, polished it, and decided to relieve it. It originally ended with the MC arriving in Solitude, but I guess that's an even for the next chapter.
So it's a short one.

I'm not fully satisfied with it, but what the hell.

Enjoy!

Home

Do you know what your brain does when it's been living under the sensation of sadness for too long?
It begins blocking out the emotion, removes it entirely in an attempt of saving itself. And for a moment—at least at first—it makes you feel better.
But here's the thing; your brain is not as clever as it makes itself out to be, it can not block out a single emotion… and so it blocks them all.

You feel no sadness, no grief, no pain or hurt… but neither do you feel joy, anger, excitement, hate, love, envy, eagerness, rage, braveness, panic, confidence, motivation, reason, and so on.
You feel nothing.

But it is more than that: you no longer feel the air enter your lungs as you breath; you no longer feel your stomach working as you eat; you no longer feel your own heartbeats as it forcefully pushes blood through your veins.

You feel hollow, empty, and futile. A scraped-out tree-stump; an empty eggshell. And the lack of it all—that defense mechanism of your brain—no longer makes you feel better. It only makes you feel… gone.

And now, standing where I am, I'd rather feel sad again than live in this suffocating, pressing, dark and lonely place. The void plane of emotion that every day, more and more, seeps at my strength.
That is my constant.

Someone once said: ¨It is emotions that make us human.¨

If that is the case, then what am I?

I wonder now; if I drew my dagger and placed its tip against the scared flat of my hand and pushed through… would I still feel it?

The wind blew coldly from behind us—early insects and pollen flying by—caressing, easy, and slow against our backs . . . but cold. It's still spring.

The tree swayed in front of us—twigs with green nubs that had yet to sprout leaves—caressing, easy, and slow as it brushed . . . I could see it: the wind fighting branches.

Yet the stone stood still.

The sky was blue above us—the sun shone warm and bright at noon—a few white clouds floated here and there... where they wanted to be: Wherever they wanted to be.

The warmth of spring was in the sunshine—caressing, easy, and slow. It warmed our heads. From above, it pressed down on us—with warmth.

Yet the stone was cold.

I could hear the high blades of grass whisper and caress one another as the wind brushed over the reaching fields, patting them down only so they could rise again. The dead and yellow were fading, sinking down to die and give life to the next generation: Green, sprouting, young fields of spring. More insects, searching, early flowers . . . I could hear it all.

Yet the stone was silent.

I hate it…

I hated everything the world had, everything it held: the sensations; the warmth; the sounds.

None of it really exists.

It is gone.

and I dared not touch the stone.

Mara's mercy…

Shor's bones…

Ysmir's beard and Ysgramor's axe…

Why is it? Why is it that the weight of emptiness… feels so heavy?

Looking at this stone.

It's unbearable.

"You okay, my son?" he asked. I felt a soft pat on my back.

Was he always this short: my father? When had I outgrown him? Or was it first now I noticed? Did it matter?

"Any tips?" I asked, eyes on stone. "You were in the Great War, weren't you?"

"I served," he answered plainly, but no more than that.

"You've never talked about it," I said, eyes still on stone.

"No," he said. "People tend to romanticize it, turn it into children's tales—I never wanted that."

"So…" I continued to repeat, eyes still heavy on stone, "any tips?"

I felt his silence on me for a while, until he answered, "You afraid, son?"

"Of nothing," I said. Of that, I am sure.

"That's a shame," he said,sad, almost sarcastically. "Being afraid means you don't want to die."

I turned my head, looked over at him for his comment. "I'm not leaving to die," I said—same thing I told Vilkas before I left Whiterun. Why was this a sentence that needed repeating?

"That's…" he started, looking at me in serious brief silence. Hair as black as my own, eyes as brown as my own… barely reaching my shoulders. When did I outgrow him so? "That's the only thing I want to hear, son," he finally finished.

"Romanticize it?" I said and looked back. Of all the three stones beneath our three, there's only one that gave me pain—yet that's the one I looked at. "I guess you saw a lot?"

"Not really," he said, joining in my vision. "I was a scout."

"A scout?"

"Yes," he said calmly. "Me, and five others… young boys, all of us. all we ever did was crawl through the woods in search of elves. And the second we saw one, we crawled right back to report it."

I didn't look at him, yet I could tell from the corner of my eye that he gave me a smile.

"That's it?" I asked.

"We never saw any fighting—never even bloodied my sword. But we did see plenty of the after-matches." he fell silent. Silent enough that I looked over. "That's the part they never speak of," he continued. Eyes on stone. Not the same stone as me—Rolf, and the Rin. "I never bloodied my sword," he sighed, "Yet I've buried more bodies than I can remember. ¨Clean up,¨ is what we did when we weren't scouting—filling up the mass graves. Men? Elves? Soldiers? Civilians? Woman and children?" He drew for a heavy sigh. "All are welcome to die in war," he said with a sigh, "and all I have buried. That's the side of war I saw… I would've rather bloodied my blade."

"You–"

"It's easy to kill and destroy when you don't have to stay behind to clean up the mess," he said, "And no one gets famous for burying bodies," he finished, turning his head to look up at me with a half-fake smile. "And, since you asked for a tip, just do as told, follow orders and you'll be fine. That's the life of a soldier."

"Do as told?" I repeated unsurprised. "Follow orders?"

By Ysmir, isn't that the same thing as always: one contract before the other—eyes on the prey, not the horizon? As simple as that, eh?

"Are you staying for dinner?" he asked.

"Don't think I can," I answered, "The carriage's only staying for an hour or so, I need to get back to the town center soon."

"at least come say goodby to your mother," he said, turning away as he began to walk.

¨Goodby,¨ eh. So that's the word we're using? I thought as I looked back at the grave. Her grave… 'Their' grave.

How long was it since I was here last? Far too long. Far longer than it should be.

Yes… why does nothing weigh upon me so heavily?

"Get on the wagon recruits!" The driver shouted over the amassed crowd.

¨Recruits?¨ I thought, walking up to the wagon. It sounded ridiculous, laughable, even, and a bit pathetic—the tone he had—as if he was speaking to children. But as I looked around, I began seeing the logic in it. Most of them looked a lot younger than me; few of them had the beginning of a beard.

I recognized none of them.

This is the town I grew up in: the same tavern, the same tiny shop, the same reaching, stretching fields and farms going out over the infinite hills. How long since I was here last, that I no longer knew the people of my own home?

The ones climbing up the wagon? They must have been kids when I left, far too young for me to even have noticed at the time. By Shor, is this what it's like to feel old? I'm not even in my thirties.

I sighed and looked up at the blue sky, feeling the cool air, and tried to drown out the noise of the crowd—all the goodbyes and tears I heard, my mother already gave me enough. It was all too 'over dramatic,' if anything. So why didn't I feel more… worried? I'm going to war, so why is it that I don't feel to care? Don't feel anything? I should feel something, shouldn't I? At least be nervous?

But I don't feel anything—just another contract.

"Ysmir's beard…" a clear, surprised voice uttered behind me—the voice sounded familiar, yet I couldn't place it in memory, "Is that you?"

I took my eyes off the melancholic sky and looked over my shoulder as I turned around to face the source.

A man: freckled cheeks above a ginger-stubbled chin; blue eyes beneath shoulder-long copper-red hair that was single-braided by the ears on both sides. Average built, on the thinner side, but with strong forearms and calloused hands that he held to his sides in presentation—the hands of a farmer.

"Erik?" I asked, to his excitement as his eyes went big and a wide teeth-showing smile formed over his face. I couldn't believe it. I haven't seen him since… since I first left.

"I knew it," he said glad, almost glowing, "I knew it was you!"

"Shor's bones…" I uttered, mentally placing, comparing him to my memories. He was no longer that scrawny wild teenager, and a far further shot from the egg-throwing kid I once knew. "You've grown up."

"Ha! You're one to talk," he said, smiling, "You look like you've had your fair share of adventure—you're taller than your brother ever was, not at all the kid who used to tie my shoelaces. And what's with that axe?" he pointed over my shoulder.

My brother? Shoelaces? Memories washed up in my mind: warm flashes of bonfires and laughter, but also loss and forgotten promises. If I hadn't felt things before, I did so now. But I couldn't decide if it was good or bad. It felt like… suddenly having a lump of hard snow in my stomach.

"You're leaving for the war too?" he asked with big excited eyes, "I heard you didn't have to?"

"I…" I managed, "I am."

"That's awesome!" he said even happier, "We'll have all the time in the world to catch up."

¨Awesome,¨ not the words most people would use. Guess he hadn't changed that much—judging by first impression—he always was the eccentric type.

"You ready to leave, son?" a voice said. I recognized him as he walked up to us, Erik's father—Mralki. I hadn't seen him either since I left, yet he looked the same as back then, albeit aged: same copper hair as Erik, kept short to go with the baldness on top of his head. "I've already put your bag on the wagon."

"Look who I found, Pa," he said, looking over as he gestured at me.

Mralki gave a slow grunt as he looked me over, eyed me up and down. It's been a while," I said.

"At least you've become a man," he answered brashly with hard, deep brows. Seems he hadn't changed much either—same stern and condescending tone as I remember.

"Well, I guess we're heading off, then," Erik said and gave me an excited smile.

"You go ahead son—a word please," Mralki said and looked over at me.

With me?

Erik gave us both a confused look. "I'll… I'll be waiting on the wagon," he said and walked off before giving me a clenched nod.

Mralki stood looking at me as we waited for Erik to walk off. His look felt uncomfortable—I didn't have the best memories regarding this man. But then, that, all of that, was a lifetime ago. At least it was to me.

"I'll just get straight to the point," he started as soon as Erik was out of ear's reach. "Everyone in Rorikstead knows who you are: The farm boy turned Companion. Not a day goes by that your father doesn't bring it up in my tavern." He nodded away toward the crowd by the wagon, toward wherever my parents stood, talking rumors and pride I'm sure.

"He does?" I said, looking at, without seeing them.

"I have a favor to ask."

I looked back at him. He had a commanding look on his face.

"A favor?" I asked.

"My son's not like you…" he said, keeping his expression—I saw where this was going. "he's no warrior. He's a true farm boy—a tavern keeper. The sharpest weapon he ever wielded is a kitchen knife, and the largest, a hoe. You might be the same age, but unlike you, he's no different from those 16-year-olds climbing the wagon right now. He doesn't know the real world, not like me… or you." He looked away at Erik as he climbed the wagon, lifting his bags. "He sees this as some adventure… something that's meant to be fun."

"What's your favor?"

"It is not," he said, continuing on his own sentence as he looked back at me. "There's no 'fun' to be had in war, far from it. I know—as does your father—and you?... I don't think I need to ask, you've killed too—I can see it in your face."

I didn't answer, yet I thought of how my father had said he never killed anyone yet still saw the darker side of it all. Perhaps, in war, one doesn't need to kill to see the ugly, but seeing those killed… ironic and utterly relatable.

I could hear the driver continuously shouting behind me—time's running short.

"What's your favor?" I repeated.

"I want you to watch over my son," he said plainly.

That's what I figured, but: "I don't think that's how it works. I don't think we get–"

"I need you to watch over my boy," he interrupted, repeated, flat out told if anything. "Erik has the mind of a child, unlike you he never left Rorikstead to learn of the word—I wouldn't let him. Perhaps I am at fault, but I wanted him to remain here, safe, until he one day would see that this is where he belongs, home, not out there. The world is a dangerous place. But here we are, and there's little I can do about it now. I'd leave myself, but for some dumb reason I allowed his stubborn self to convince me otherwise."

A promise to protect? Had I not made such promises before—had such people in my life before, and failed. By Ysmir.

Again, I heard the driver shout impatiently. I felt it directed at me this time, everyone else was already on the wagon. "I need to leave," I said, and tuned to do so.

"Promise me!" he said sharply behind me, a plea that stopped my steps. "You were friends, and after you left, he had no other. You may not know it, but he looks up to you, more than I care to admit. Why else would he make such a foolish decision?"

"And you think I can protect him?" I've proven not to be good at that.

"That's the whole reason he's doing this! You don't think he's heard the same rumors as us? How you became a Companion. He's leaving because of you, seeking adventure as you did…"

Seek adventure? I never did such a thing. I only sought… the strength to save others.

"If there's anyone who can… If you're half the man your father says you are, it shouldn't be much to ask. You're a Companion!"

"Not anymore," I said. That statement actually held feelings.

"Please," I heard behind me, pleading with genuinity. "After his mother… he's all I have."

¨All I have.¨ How could I not sigh, such a depressing statement. I felt it.

"Just… just promise you'll look after my boy."

And I felt that sentence too. 'In order to save.'

"Please… he's all I have."

By Shor, why do pleads of old men hold more weight than those from youth?

"I promise," I folded.

The only thing he asked of me, was the same thing I left this place in order to achieve. The things I've failed at… so many times before.

"I promise," I repeated, this time, to myself.

In moments like these, all you can do is… grow calm and exhale, exhale and hope that by the end of it your lungs still crave air.

Bit depressing but I hope you guys liked it. At least it brought the story forward.

I hope I wont take to long before I get the next chapter up, but I'll focus on this one for a while longer since the latest chapter of The Murder of Wayrest turned out as a 30k beast (part of why it took me so long to get back to my main fic) and I don't feel it fair to spend any less time on this one.