Hi everyone!
Sorry it's been a while, not gonna lie, I've been in a bit of a slum. But I'm back to writing now and got this one done.
So, enjoy!

Erik the Slayer - Part Two

Feet, grounded. Knees, bent. Balance, firm. Shoulders, ready. Axe, steady.

Inhale for breath. Hold. Sharp exhale begins the move.

Right foot, push down. Left foot, stand firm. Knees, lower my weight. Stability. Thighs tighten and turn. Hip, twist forward. Pull strength from the earth. Waist, tighten and bend to commence the swing. Torso, follow with momentum and add strength to the swing. Left shoulder, pull. Right shoulder, push. Arms, flow, guide, and aim my strike.

Exhale ends. Stop. Reverse every muscular function.

Right foot, cease and lift. Left foot, push and halt. Knees, straighten and reverse. Hinder. Thighs, push against original momentum. Hip, reverse twist and aerate the effort. Waist, complete standstill and forced immobility. Torso, stop the momentum with an oppositional jerk. Left shoulder, pull. Right shoulder, push. Arms, maximum effort, hinder and stop my strike.

Hold.

Slow inhale ends the move. Return axe to side.

Right swings—ninety-seven.

Feet, grounded. Knees, slightly bent. Balance, firm. Shoulders– a sudden new scent in the air; a twitch of my head, a whiff; the smell of… stale mead, and tavern food stuck to old woolen clothing. Too familiar—of course—who else?

"You're up early," I responded, relaxing and focusing back to continue my practice, "and you shouldn't sneak up on people, Erik." I buried my foot in the grass and rested my fingers over the handle as I turned my axe and switched my practice stance.

"I… I wasn't ¨sneaking up¨ on you." He sounded defensive and surprised behind me as I heard him carefully approach. Until he abruptly stopped. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would come speak to me?"

"Ah," he let out obviously and the sound of his steps through the grass returned until I could ignore the sound of him taking a seat.

Left foot, forward. Axe, on my right. Inhale… Right foot, shoot forward. swing through the motion and… stop.

Left swings—Ninety-seven.

Exhale. Axe, back to my side. Rest. Focus.

Focus… it was suddenly hard to focus: I could hear him; his clothes scuff uncomfortably to find seat on a stone; his feet, digging through hard grass for balance. I could hear him dig through his sack as I tried to refocus. Tussling around. Searching. I could feel him watch me. I could feel his eyes on my neck.

Ignore it.

Left foot, forward. Axe, right.

Why do I feel stiff?

Inhale.

It felt odd, having him watch me. Being watched training in Jorrvaskr, that was fine. It was unavoidable by nature. Expected, even. But out here? In the middle of Shor-knows-where it felt different. I could almost hear him watch me. So… distracting. It shouldn't be.

Ignore it.

Right foot, arms, forward, and pull through the swing! Swing! And stop!

Right swings—Ninety-eight!

Still, I hear his breathing. Feel his eyes. An annoying sensation creeping further up my neck, digging beneath my skin.

Exhale through a clenched jaw. Sharp, exhale—ignore it. Left foot forward, focus on my torso, build strength—his annoying breathing. Axe on my left—I feel him watch! I heard him smack his lips as he wettened them.

"What?!" I let out, spoiling my stance and siding my axe—dropped its head to the ground with a heavy thud in front of me as I turned to face him.

He was sitting on a stone not far away and twitched back, surprised at my voice, and lifted his head with big confused eyes. "I?..."

I looked at him for a moment, until he broke eye contact for the awkwardness he must be feeling and looked around with a cramped and naive look on his face before he looked back at me.

"You…" he started thoughtfully, "You use your legs a lot more than I thought with that."

My legs? I looked down, Shor knows why, and looked at my axe as I lifted it.

"In the swings… I mean."

I sighed—reluctantly reminded myself to relax; there are no dangers out here, Erik least of all—and looked back at him.

"Axe like this," I started, feeling calmer, "my legs, waist, and torso does most of the work. My arms do little more than aim my swing, guide it."

"Aim?" he asked, surprised. "You don't use your arms to swing that thing?"

"I do. But, not really," I answered, looking around, feeling the cool morning breeze against my face as I watched the treeline. I looked back at his big-eyed expression. I couldn't tell if he was surprised or if he simply didn't get it. "It's too heavy," I explained, seemingly to no avail—his face remained the same. "Sure," I continued with a heavy breath, "I could use my arms alone to swing it, but that wouldn't give it much power. My swing'd be hasted, weak. I need to use my entire body for a decent swing."

"The strength of your entire body," he mumbled slowly and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he did so.

"Something like that," I responded and he straightened back up with that youthful spark in his eyes.

"With a body like yours, I'm pretty sure you could cleave a man in half!"

I gave him a sudden sideways look at the comment. It sounded brutal when he said it like that, vulgar. But he wasn't wrong. Still, he had said it with such pure honesty and appeal that it made me uncomfortable. Or, perhaps, slightly embarrassed. Either way, it felt strange. And that look in his eyes? It was disturbingly familiar. "Something like that," I repeated lowly and turned my head away to look anywhere but at him.

It was quiet for a while. I listened to the wind, the insects. Smelled the scents of the surrounding trees, the pollen and sap in the air. Mountain flowers. I could hear sounds from the road, chatter from the wagon, and smell the distant smoke of an early fire. Cooking. Guess people were waking up. Making breakfast. We're probably leaving for another day on the wagon soon.

I looked back at Erik to end the prolonged silence, it was getting stiff, and found him looking at me with the same big-eyed expression as earlier. I recognized it now. It was a look I usually ignored; the same look children had on their faces as we walked down the streets. That look of awe as they got to see a Companion with their own eyes—a thing to brag pridefully about to their friends. Is that how he sees me? A thing to brag about?

I shrugged it off, looked down, feeling the weight of my axe in my hands as I briefly lifted it off the ground and down again, not knowing whether I should sigh at him or shake my head.

I looked up from my brow, "Wanna give it a try?"

"Hm?" he let out with a questioning high pitch, straightening his neck.

I sighed: am I truly doing this? Entertaining a child? A man-child at that? I guess I am: "You wanna give it a swing? My axe?"

"Ah, by Shor, no," he exclaimed to my surprize and shrugged back on his stone, waving a dismissive hand: perhaps he wasn't that much of a child then "If I lift anything heavy I'm just gonna throw up again, and that thing's as large as me."

Hm—it wasn't that large.

"¨Again¨? It's been two days since you stopped drinking, how can you still be hungover?"

He grunted a tired groan in response and drew his hand through his copper-hair. I decided to walk over—I wasn't about to remain a statue for him to admire, it already had me feeling uncomfortable as is.

I placed my axe against the stone he was sitting on and looked at him as he rubbed his eyes and awaited a response. But as he looked back at me with a forced smile I looked away. Looked at the treeline. Don't know why.

"I guess we're getting old," he joked, "can't drink like I used to." He chuckled and I saw his dismissive smile in the corner of my eye as he waved away my comment.

Getting old? Might be a joke, but it was even more of an ironic statement coming from someone who so clearly hung on to his younger years. By Shor, I sound old.

"Eaten yet?" he asked. I looked over. He was holding out bread with ham for me.

"No," I said with an exhale. He reached it out toward me. I accepted it, placed it on the large stone he was sitting on and turned my focus to unbutton my vambraces—not like I'll get more training done now.

"Wow, those look impressive," he said, pointing at my vambraces as I looked over, still holding my fingers over the buttons off my forearm. "I saw them earlier, but not this close."

"These?" I asked, unbuttoning the left one and handed him one.

He eagerly accepted it with another exhilarated but low 'wow' and took it in his hands to study it up close. Touched it.

I watched him try it on, but no matter how much he tightened it his forearm was far too thin for it to fit—something that made him chuckle to himself as it slid and hung slack around his arm. He turned it face up, held it in place as he looked and felt it.

"It's a wolf head, isn't it?" he asked and looked at me, "A wolf's face?"

"Yeah," I answered, barely glancing over as I continued to unbutton my second one.

"Maan…" he continued by my side as he looked back at it, "It even has teeth."

I ignored him again as I kneeled down and tucked it away into my bag, removed my gloves and tucked them in as well before I sat down fully—legs crossed—and reached for the bread and ham to take a bite.

"Why is it gray?" he asked, "I've never seen gray metal?"

"Skyforge steel," I answered as I chewed. "It's part of Companion armor—the wolf armor," I said and looked over the spring-flowery grass as I ate. The chatter from the road—over the small hill—was louder now. People talking, laughing. No more sounds of fire and cooking. The tiny scent of their bonfire felt heavier, wet, and… a thin and salty odor I knew far too well, they had pissed on the fire.

"We should get going," I uttered, mouthed the last piece, and reached out my hand to take back my vambrace.

"Meh…" he started, "I doubt we're in such a ru…" his voice died away as he looked over.

"What?" I asked. But once I realized he was looking at my hand I drew it back, looked away, and, for some reason, clenched it by my chest.

"Y– you're–" he started hesitantly.

"It's fine," I interrupted sharply and lowered my head as I slowly unclenched my fingers to look at that pale scar—my Scar of Vengeance. "It's an old wound." Still, old or not, it began to ache.

"Wha–? No I… I mean…" he mumbled, searching for words. I could feel him look at me. I could also feel my jaw go tense, my face, go tense, my back, go tense. "I meant… you're still wearing your ring?"

My mind went silent: my ring?

I looked up my hand, the few centimeters needed to reach the beginning of my finger, and looked at my ring. So that's what he had reacted to? Not my scar. And, suddenly, my chest felt heavy as I touched it with my thumb.

"Yeah," I exhaled lowly as I looked at it. Looked at my golden ring and sighed, feeling seconds pass in silence.

"I'm… sorry. When I heard, I–"

"It's okay," I said without taking my eyes off of it, "It's a long time ago.

"A long… time ago?" he mumbled beside me. "I guess, for some. But… perhaps not to you?"

Again: silence.

Silence as I looked at the ring on the finger on my aching hand. Silence so deep I could only hear myself swallow. Hear my own heartbeats. Hear my teeth rub against one another as my jaw slowly clenched for the sudden slow-building pressure in my face.

"Yeah," I let out in a single involuntary breath and folded my fingers into a fist, slowly reaching for my chest to feel my fingers grab the necklace beneath my tunic, the warmth of her ring, and the dulling pain slowly subsided with every beat of my heart. Again, seconds passed in silence until I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I tilted my head and saw his hand in front of me, holding small rough-looking brown balls.

"Honey nuts?" he asked, "I bought them earlier when we were in town. They might have dried up a bit though."

"No, I…" I started as I let go of my necklace and looked over at his uncomfortably soft smile, "I don't like sweet things."

"¨Don't like–¨" he suddenly took on another look, tilting back in his seat as he withdrew his hand, "since when?"

"Since… ever?"

"I know, but… honey nuts? I mean, they're not that sweet."

"I don't like them," I told.

I looked away with another sigh, that familiar feeling filling my body, the feeling of… nothing. That uncaring emptiness that spoke hollow. Apathy.

A sigh: since when?

I'm tired.

"I'm back."

"You're late! I made you carrot cake."

"Carrot cake? That's been a while."

"Yeah! I thought it appropriate. So sit down while it's still warm."

"Yeah, I'm just… gonna wash my hands first."

"Oh come on. It's getting cold."

"I'm not kidding! Eorlund had me clean soot out of every corner of the Skyforge that wasn't smoldering, I have blisters and all. Give me a minute . . . there, done."

"Here."

"Mhm… mm?"

"Something wrong?"

"I don't… It's a bit sweet, isn't it?"

"Carrots are sweet."

"Yeah I know, but… It's good, but… it's a bit sweeter than usual, I mean."

"I made it the same way I always do."

"You didn't add sugar?"

"No? Tastes the same to me."

"I don't know. It just… it actually tastes a lot sweeter than usual, you sure you didn't add any sugar?"

"Of course I am. You don't like sugar anyway, why would I?"

"Hm."

Never really thought about it. But it's a 'wolf' thing, isn't it?

"Who's Krev?" I suddenly heard a chewing voice ask, and my breathing stopped.

I looked aside, saw that copper stubbled chin face forward as he ate, seemingly looking at nothing in particular until he looked down at me from his stony high-seat—my legs felt warm beneath me, my chest felt heated.

"I mean…" he continued, not carefully enough, as he looked at me with those dumb blue eyes. "I know it's… it's not who you married, I know that. But you, eh, you said her name earlier, the other day? Screamed it, actually, before I woke you?" He better learn from my silence. "Old flame?"

"Old fl?– No," my voice came deeper than intended, or perhaps it wasn't deep enough. The burning in my legs demanded me to stand as it grew up my neck and ears—into my jaw—so I rose, slowly, watched him as I did so, hopefully, I'd see him realize his mistake. "Old flame?" my voice repeated out of my chest, seeing his face turn submissive, and cowardly, as I stood tall above him, looking down at a boy of a man, "No," it murmured, "She is no such thing. Confuse her as such or even mention her name once more and I'll care not for spoken promises nor old friendships, I'll end you where you stand."

There was a silence on his part, intrusive and protruding, as I looked down on him, feeling my hand clench skyforge steel: when did I grab my axe? It matters not.

"I…" he started, stuttering, but his voice died in his throat as quickly as my head tilted left: the driver shouted commands from the caravan, still, I held my eyes on him.

"We're leaving," I said sternly, stated, growled: this conversation was done!

I turned and walked, lifted my axe over my shoulder to hear that unsatisfying 'click' as it sheeted itself behind my back—the sound that told me I hadn't killed anyone yet—if he'd follow or not, I couldn't care less. Best he stays!

But follow, he had, as I took my seat on the wagon, holding the bag I had left behind over his shoulder. I didn't look at him as he heaved it onto the ride and climbed aboard.

"Everyone here?" the driver asked, "Ready to leave?"

"Leave now, or don't leave at all!" I murmured, gritted teeth and eyes steeled forward.

I could taste the copper; my palm pounded; my chest and neck burned: ¨Old flame?!¨

I sat as stone as the wagon began to roll and rumble as it drove into scaly landscapes. Steep mountains growing all around as it went on, tall enough on our left for the morning clouds to block out the tips and low enough on the right for the morning mist to hide the growing river beneath.

Needless to say, it was a quiet ride from now on. And I wholeheartedly preferred it that way.

Why? Just why? I thought as I walked through the high grass. By Ysmir, felt like all I did lately was sigh and snark at myself. "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached him, kneeling with his head low by the edge of the cliff.

The view reached far over the landscape from here. Fields, forests, swamps to the far right, the Karth River that flowed from the left, into the center, and slithered out like a broad snake into the Sea of Ghosts all the way over the horizon. And Solitude, the city itself, sat proudly atop the mountain that arched like a giant bridge over Karth river. It made me wonder: who would willingly build a city over an arching cliff if not only to impress? Furthermore, impress who then?

This is the closest to the Capital of Skyrim I've ever been.

I remember from my childhood how we could see the top of the blue palace by the horizon if we climbed the right hill. But now, I could see the entire city stretch over the mountain like an arm wrapped over someone's shoulder. The roof of the palace was polished so cleanly that it reflected the color of the sky—I suppose that's why they call it the 'blue' palace. But I saw not only the palace, I could see every single building that made out the city in the distance. Taller than the walls. Too many to count, but… my eyes could see them all.

There was a wall around the city—like every other—taller than those of Whiterun: why have high walls when you're already atop an arching mountain with only one reachable side? I thought I'd feel awe at the sight, but, truth be told, I felt close to nothing. It's just another city. Whiterun? Whiterun had lost its charm once I got to know the city. And Riften, well, the charm of Riften was a dangerous thing.

"I'm praying," Erik answered, mumbling begrudgingly with his chin slack against his chest, his hands resting closed but relaxed over his thighs as he sat on his legs and feet.

"You pray now?"

"Sometimes." he drew for air. "But… I started to figure since I'm actually doing this—going to war and all—some praying can't hurt, can it? And we'll reach Solitude tomorrow, won't we? So I doubt I'll have the time then."

"Probably not." I watched the view for a while, took in the silence until I looked back down, looked at that rust-copper hair that ran down his neck and head, covering the side of his face as he sat tilted. "Who're you praying to?"

His back gave a slight shrug as he held back a single laugh, "If you hadn't left Rorikstead you'd know the answer to that."

"Kyne?"

"Nah," he answered and lifted his head, tilted it, and looked up at me. "You don't pray?"

It took me a second but the answer came certain: "No. Why would I?"

"It can't hurt to have the gods' favor, you know."

"We've never really cared much for the gods."

"We? Companions don't pray?"

"Why would we?" I started, looking out over the vast landscape. Away from him.

"You don't believe in the Gods?"

"It's not… it's not that we don't 'believe' in them. We just don't rely on them. We fight, or fought, to honor warriors of old—Ysgramor, Ysmir, Wulfharth, so on—to live up to their legends. To walk in their paths. To one day reach Sovngarde and join them as equals."

"Why?" he asked innocently. It drew my sight back.

"Why do we honor them?"

"No, no," he shook his head, "Why don't you place your faith in the Gods, I mean."

I sighed, looked away once more. The sky was blue. "If we placed our faith in the Gods then we couldn't claim victory for our own, could we? If we pray, and win, it's thanks to the Gods. Not us. It's not our victory, we didn't win, the Gods made us do so. So why pray when we should believe and trust in our own strength?"

"Beeeecause it helps?" he let out in remark, making me look back once more. By his face, I could tell he believed it, believed his own statement—not so sure I did.

"Does it though?" I asked.

"I mean… If you pray and something happens, then it does. Doesn't it?"

"Sure, but if you don't pray and something still happens, it doesn't. Does it?"

"Well," he said, tilting his head side to side before looking back forward, toward the city. "Better than praying to old, dead, men as you do."

Old?– "We don't– We don't pray to them. We fight to surpass them." he shrugged his shoulders as he sat, either ignoring me or disbelieving me—doesn't matter—"Screw it," I said and sighed, "Men can't surpass gods, so what's the difference?"

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he said calmly, still facing forward.

"Hm?"

"I mean…" he turned his head to face me and lowered his voice before continuing, "Tiber Septim did it, didn't he?" he eyed behind him, throwing a look over his shoulder toward the wagon and the others before looking back with a lean to whisper, "You know… Talos."

"Talos?" I responded before looking away—didn't blame him for whispering, considering… "Well, if one believes such things."

"You… you don't believe in Talos?"

"I don't know about Talos, but I don't believe a man could ever become a god."

Why could they? All legends become overrated with time before they are forgotten—Ysgramor was probably considered a god as well, thousands of years ago, before his name descended into casual legend. And a thousand years from now he'll be all but forgotten while Tiber Septim will be the next legend. Time is time, it affects more than the living.

The wind smelled of dirt and grass… a hint of distant salt. Nothing else. Green, spring, fresh, grass.

"I believe," he said stubbornly.

It was quiet for a while, he looked back forward, I did the same. Hard to tell what he was thinking, either way, nothing of our conversation was related as to why I was here, and that reminder came only with another sigh:

"So… yeah," I started, turning my head to the mountains on my right—strange, how hard this felt, uncomfortable; It's been so long since we were friends, truly friends, it shouldn't be hard. But for some reason it was. "About… about yesterday. I'm sor–"

"Naah, I'm the sorry one," he interrupted lowly, discreetly, to my surprise, pulling my reluctant attention as he looked down and sank further onto his knees, almost going slack in his arms as his fist rested on his thighs. "I mean…" he mumbled, drawing a breath and a sigh, "I knew you'd change when I heard you'd come. I just… I didn't know just how much…"

I didn't expect him to be the one to apologize. I didn't know how to answer. Is there even an answer?

"But…" he continued as I looked down on him, "I'm beginning to see."

See what? is what I wanted to say, but I didn't. Still, it felt unnerving.

"I mean… you never were the scary type. But yesterday?" He fell quiet before continuing, "You can be quite intimidating when you want to be, you even speak differently. Heck, not gonna lie, I almost shat my pants… and, for a second there, you had this… look in your eyes. As if they were glow–"

"You're imagining things," I said.

"Hm? Yeah…" he said and fell silent. "Must have been the sun." He slightly turned his head, not enough to completely look at me, "Guess you had to do that a lot when you were with them? Scare people?"

I looked away. At the city. "Something like that."

He let out a long nasal breath "So yeah, I'm… I'm sorry about yesterday," he said, face sunk back down—completing the sentence I had originally intended. "I… I won't bring it up again…" he continued and straightened his back as he gave an effort of a confident sit, "But if you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen."

I looked over at his back.

"So just like that? You forgive me?"

"Isn't that what friends do?" he said and looked over, "forgive one another?"

My jaw felt tense, shoulders too. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked forward:

Just like that? So easily? Why was he like that? So casually forgiving? Not at all like the Companions—¨Stay tough. Deal with it. Face your problems. Move on…¨

Was it because he was not a Companion? Is this how normal people act?

She… Ysolda, too, forgave easily.

I drew a long inhale, felt my chest rise, and continued with a long exhale.

Why? Why is it that he so continuously insists on reminding me of her?

"Let's go," I told, "Piss-break's over."

"Look, look!" someone shouted excitedly, "Dragon Bridge!"

I was still tired. The sky was still dark blue. The 'Golden Hour' was still far away. Erik gave me a shove I didn't need and pointed forward with audible excitement. "By the Nine, have you ever seen anything like that?" he said in awe.

"No," I let out in a single breath as I saw the view before us.

Dragon Bridge—I've heard of it, but I never suspected—a large, wide, and long bridge that arched over the ravine. A booming waterfall on our left as the wagon rolled onto the stone, a waterfall that thundered down into the ravine below where the beginning of Karth River took form, hidden in the roaring mist beneath. The stonework beneath us, besides us, and above us—massive stones that sat together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—looked older than any stonework I've ever seen, ancient, mossy, yet strong. Well, maybe not older than the Skyforge—but Eorlund frequently cleaned the Skyforge, this bridge didn't look cleaned of age anywhere else but where the wheels of wagons had chafed away the moist moss and dirt.

But none of that was as impressive as the thing facing us, a large, gaping, head of a dragon. Carved in stone. It was as large as the wagon itself, larger even—I could easily imagine it leaning its massive head down to consume us all in its wide maw of teeth, or suddenly spew fire to engulf us. I never thought I'd see such a thing; it was a sight of wonder.

As the wagon rolled on and the head of the dragon came above us, I strained my neck to see the underside only to discover another head facing the other way. It was equally stunning. I didn't even realize the town in front of us until the bridge was far enough behind that buildings came into view on our sides. And once they did, and I looked to the left… even in the pre-morning sun, the view was astonishing.

Dragon Bridge, the name of both the bridge and the town, sat on the edge of a ravine turning into a straight-down cliff. I could see so far. Flatlands, stretching on the other side of the river beneath us, reaching out into lush forests. Snow-covered mountains far away, a protruding spine that cleaved the land as it ran along the horizon, and somewhere, on the other side of those distant mountains, perhaps even past the horizon, I knew Whiterun was… I'm so far away now. So far away from home.

Perhaps my travels to Riften had been just as far away, but that path did not hold this view, it never gave the same reach of perspective—how high up were we?

The wagon returned to rock beneath us, the sounds from the wheels grew rowdier as we crossed the bridge and once again rolled onto uneven cobblestone.

People were chatting eagerly on the wagon, making remarks on the bridge. Some even stood up, holding the shaking edge of the wagon as they pointed at the view.

"Be quiet back there!" the driver shouted angrily over his shoulder, "Or do you want to wake the entire town?!"

The thought had struck my mind, it was early, sure, but that no one was here to greet us? No more recruits waiting for their ride? I doubt there'd be room but… no one? Still, we continued along the abandoned road between the dark windowed wooden buildings. Not even the inn had light within it as we passed.

"We're not stopping?" someone asked as if to answer my thoughts.

"Solitude's barely an hour from here," the driver responded. "Anyone recruited from this town probably left yesterday."

Made sense: I looked at the passing buildings. For some reason, this town reminded me a little of Riverwood—the sound of a river, the wooden buildings. Even the mountain wall by its side gave a resemblance. But look the other way, and the distant view together with that downward ravine and the ancient bridge quickly told otherwise.

The sun was rising. The sky was turning green by the horizon. shifting to yellow, red, orange, light blue, and then deep purple going black as I followed it up across the sky. Above us, I could still make out the stars. It was beautiful.

Warm, golden light had begun to hit the rooftops. Except for the sound of the wagon, the horses, It was quiet… too quiet. This was something a certain annoying someone would have plenty to speak of. speaking of: I looked over to my side, at Erik.

He sat with his elbows on his knees, his mouth pressed against closed fists as he stared forward at nothing with a… grim expression? Not a face I had seen him wear before.

"Erik?" He didn't react. "Everything okay?"

His eyebrows twitched: "If…" he began to slowly mumble into his fists—I could hardly hear him, "If Solitude's an hour away from here, by foot? Then we'll be there in less than that."

"I guess," I answered. But his expression didn't change. Still, he looked forward with a frozen look as we rolled past the buildings.

The look in his eyes? His expression? I had the feeling I knew what it was.

And as I looked around, he wasn't the only one. Most of the others, if not all of them, suddenly had dark looks in their eyes. It was worry, and it was fear, growing on their faces. Had they all first now begun to realize the purpose of this ride? What it entailed. Was it first now truly sinking in that we're going to war?

The things he told me yesterday: ¨…since I'm actually doing this.¨ Even praying. I guess it was sinking in for them. What they felt, it's only natural.

I drew in wet morning air for a deep sigh, crossed my arms over my chest, and looked back at him, "Are you afraid?"

"Afraid?!" he reacted surprisingly, lifted his face from his fists and looked straight at me as his expression washed away as if it had never been there: the nervous look in his eyes broke away like dispersing mist and he straightened up, and that childish glow of his returned. "Are you kidding me?!" He stood up, sharply. Clenched fists in front of him as he looked at me with a big expression. "Isn't this what we wanted? To get out of Rorikstead—away from home—and finally see the world? To travel the world? We're going to war!" he shouted. His reaction had me surprised, I even felt locked looking at him. And everyone else looked to feel, do, the same as he turned for them. "We're gonna be soldiers! Warriors! The things we'll see, the things we'll do? The glory of battle! The taste of war! People will cheer when we return! Sing songs in our names! Alive or not, they'll honor us throughout history! So… Afraid?!" he looked back at me with an eager spark in his eyes, "How could I be afraid when this is what I've always wanted? My father already had– Our parents already had their Great War! And didn't I tell you already… you've had your adventure. It's my turn now, and by Shor, I intend to enjoy it! And when we return, when this war is over and they welcome us back, then they'll welcome us all back as heroes of Skyrim! And every song in Rorikstead will start with 'Erik the Slayer!'"

People stood up, cheered at him. He roared at them and they roared back. Smiling, eyes and all. All of them. Yet I remained, arms crossed over my chest, watching their celebration. I had to wonder–

"I said be quiet back there!" the driver shouted successfully. They all went silent, awkwardly so, and squeezed back in their seats with thin lips and teasing faces. Erik gave a grinning look that could only be described as 'oops' before he, too, sat back down beside me.

Yes… I had to wonder: how did he do it? Instill motivation? And why? How did he turn faces into cheer so easily when they not thirty seconds ago showed fear? As childish as all of that was… heh… childish indeed. He had acted just how a child who's managed to step into a children's story would.

So why did this all feel?– He, feel?…

The mind of a child… Seeking adventure…

Hm. Is it really that much different from how I felt the first time Skjor allowed me a deadly contract? Was I like that? Before?

Perhaps there's something special about him after all…

I leaned back, rested my neck against the edge of the wagon as the last buildings left the side of my view.

Something special, eh?

If there is, then that something special is something I lost a long time ago:

Innocent naivety.

Once the sun had started, it rose as quickly as ever. The only colors left on the cloudless sky was yellow and blue, and I could already feel sunshine reflecting off of the stony mountainside on our left as the sun blinded those who sat opposite me. Not to mention how it warmed my neck.

Somewhere behind me, down the steep hill, I could hear a rooster call out morning over the near distant sound of the Karth river. And if there's a rooster there have to be people. I guess we're reaching civilization again. But I didn't need the sound of a rooster to figure that one out—the gates of Solitude were in view.

There were people in front of us. A group of Imperial soldiers, judging by their armor, hailed us to stop. The driver shouted for us to keep silent and the wagon slowed down to a standstill as we approached the T-shaped intersection, a smaller road breaking off to the right and down the hill. I could see some buildings down there.

The driver spoke briefly with the soldiers, explained why we were here and showed them his papers. One of the soldiers eyed everyone on the wagon from the road, counted heads and studied us. He had tired eyes. They had probably been here all night, guarding the checkpoint, waiting to be relieved of their duties by the dayshift—gate guards in Whiterun and Riften alike usually had the same look in the morning.

The driver soon took back his papers as the soldier was done with them and the soldier gestured for him to move on, and, again, the wagon took on motion to climb the forward road. The city was in front of us. First, we passed a massive outer gate that arched over the road with guard towers on each side and entered an inner ward, then, we closed in on the primary gate—an impressive iron gate the size of a building.

The walls of the city were far larger, greater, and higher than I had believed from a distance, carved stone the size of hay bales placed so tightly on one another they might as well be fused together—a wall twice or thrice as high and impressive as those of Whiterun. We strained our necks to look up at the height of it, looking at archers above that looked down on us. They were so high up that I couldn't even make out the details of their faces. And my eyes were better than most. But I could see the bows in their hands as they leaned over the edge, bows with nocked arrows.

The shouting of more guards hailed us, they lifted hands and made warning gestures. More papers were exchanged—the same ones as not thirty seconds ago I assumed. Made me wonder: what's with the security? Nervous-looking guards on the walls? Double-checking paperwork? Wasn't it obvious we were recruits? And for the main gate to be closed during daytime? Something's not right here.

A loud whistling rang out from one of the soldiers and the archers on the wall backed away and disappeared over the edge. The driver took his papers back and a loud metallic rattling could be heard from inside the walls, moving chains, and the heavy city gate began to move and a wide city opened up before us.

The first thing to hit me was the smells: freshly baked bread, spices, flowers, and bird droppings. It smelled like a grandmother's home. The sound of cats, and doves, and… a screaming crowd.

There were people everywhere, en masse, as we rolled into the city. Could be a hundred. Could be more. A shouting, cheering, booing crowd. Forcing the wagon to stop as they took up the streets. The driver shouted for them to disperse, but they paid us no heed—their focus was set elsewhere, to our right: we all shifted in our seats, turned our heads to see what all the rush and fuss was about.

There were people in uniform on a stage, no, a platform. Soldiers leading a man toward the center of it—hands tied behind his back, face covered by a rough wheat sack. The crowd made a rising noise as they led him to a large knee-high wooden block and pushed him down hard on his knees behind it so he faced the crowd.

"What's going on?" Erik said, standing up to see.

I grabbed the railing and rose, easier to see over the crowd.

The two soldiers had positioned themself on his sides behind him, standing straight. But it was the man on his left that made me realize, a third man. A large hulking man—almost as large as me—in black clothing and a black sack over his head, cut-out holes for his eyes. He was holding a large, flat-edged axe beside him.

It wasn't hard to figure out what was going on: "It's an execution," I said.

"What did he do?" Erik asked.

"Hush," I gestured—as if I would know—as a fourth soldier walked up the stairs by the side of the platform and calmly headed for the center. He was holding something, papers, and wore a long cape with the Imperial insignia embroidered on it in gold. Dark brown, neck long hair and full beard. Unlike the others, he was neither clean-shaven nor did he wear a helmet. He also looked a lot older. Must be someone important. An officer, I assumed.

He stopped beside the prisoner, didn't even look at him as he lazily eyed his papers and flipped some pages. He glanced over the loud crowd, even gave the wagon a look, and looked up at the wall on his left, "Lock the city gate!" he shouted for the men on the wall. It barely took five seconds for the sound of chains to return, and the iron gate began scraping the stone floor as it slowly shut.

As soon as the gate was fully closed he turned for the two men on stage, gave a gesture and one of them reached out and pulled the sack from over the prisoner's head.

The crowd grew louder as his face was revealed; a red-haired man with an angry bruised face. "Traitor!" they screamed, "Stormcloak sympathizer! Betrayer!" they booed and threw old fruit, stones, and ugly gestures at him. Screamed insults and curses.

He bitterly looked away, protecting his face from their incoming hatred and rot, still, a stone managed to draw blood from his forehead as he bit his lip.

"Enough," the caped soldier, the officer, spoke to the crowd as he raised a casual yet warning hand. "Roggvir," he continued and turned for the prisoner as the crowd dampened, "You helped Ulfric Stormcloak escape this city after he murdered High King Torygg," he continued in a monotone voice while looking down at his papers as if he was reading a line straight out of them. "By opening that gate for Ulfric you betrayed the people of Solitude as well as the Empire. For your crimes your punishment will be execution by beheading." The crowd grew louder again and the officer finally lifted his head from his papers and looked at the prisoner. "Any last words?"

"He's a traitor!" someone screamed, "he doesn't deserve to speak!"

But the officer ignored him and kept his eyes patiently on the prisoner, the prisoner who lifted his head and looked over the crowd with a stern and bitter expression.

"There was no murder!" he shouted angrily, "Ulfric challenged Torygg! He beat the High King in fair combat!…"

"Liar!" someone interrupted.

"Such is our way!" the prisoner shouted over him, "Such is the ancient custom of Skyrim, and all Nords!"

The crowd grew louder, booed louder, screamed and roared insults as they, again, took to throwing rotten fruit and rocks at him as he, in turn, spat blood on them. But I saw a few that didn't. People with uneasy faces that averted their eyes, gave discreet nods at him and clenched their jaws in silent rebellion. People that looked nervous and afraid. They agreed with him, didn't they? But they were a minority, and minorities tend to remain silent when one of theirs are being made an example of.

So the rumors were true, Ulfric really did kill the High King. Was Njada right? ¨...Ulfric's no Murderer. He values honor, the old ways, and respect. He'd never resort to straight-up murder.¨

Was he right, the prisoner? If Ulfric followed Nord custom, he'd be in the right. But in the eyes of the Empire?– Screw it, this is why we don't deal in politics—eyes on the prey, not the horizon. Besides, my side has already been chosen. Just another contract; no need to think of the why.

Again, the officer gestured calmly to silence the crowd, "Guard. Prepare the prisoner," he said.

The black-clothed man stepped toward him.

"I don't need your help!" the prisoner spat as the executioner stood over him.

"Very well, Roggvir. Bow your head."

He gave the crowd one last angry-eyed look, probably cursed them all. "On this day…" he spat between bloodied, gritted teeth," I go to Sovngarde."

He bent down, placed his chest and pressed his ear against the slab as he faced the officer. The executioner took his position and the crowd went dead silent as he lifted his large axe—parents, covering the eyes of children that should not be here—and without a single ounce of hesitation, he cleaved down and the prisoner's head dropped onto the stage.

For a moment everyone was silent, watching. But as soon as the officer began to leave the stage and the soldiers began cleaning up the mess—grabbed the head and threw it in a bucket—the crowd began to chatter and slowly disperse: back to work.

It was silent on the wagon, I looked around: probably the first time they saw someone die. No, I could see the shock and horror on their pale faces as they stood beside me, definitely the first time they saw someone die.

If reality hadn't struck them earlier it ought to do so now, for I doubt this is the first impression the Empire had intended.

There, I hope you liked it.

Now that Erik's introduction is finally fully complete, what do you think of the little fella?
Leave a comment and let me know, Shor knows I love those.

Now, I have the next chapter to get working on.
Till next time.