"Quit daydreaming and attack already, Boy!"
Do'kir snapped back into reality. He found himself standing on the open grass just a few yards away from the house, an iron sword in his shaking hands. And standing not far off was the brute Nord who had shed his steel-plated armor in favor for commoner's clothes; a plain brown tunic and pants.
"Sir Tallowhand, Khajiit is… Khajiit is not sure about this…" Do'kir croaked as his words trembled like the iron sword he held in his quivering hands.
"Calm your nerves, Boy," the large Nord commanded. "You couldn't strike me even if the spirit of Talos was guiding those flimsy twigs holding your sword." Sir Tallowhand crossed his arms and glared down at the cowering cat. "Now, come at me with everything you got! I need to see what I'm working with here."
Do'kir returned him a nervous nod and tightened his grip on his sword.
Do'kir analyzed his foe. The Nord was armorless and weaponless; a simple and easy kill when you have a sharp sword in your hands. And yet… somehow Do'kir still found himself cowering under the warrior's fearsome visage; intimidating size and bulk, scars etched into every part of the man's skin that, with a single glance, told the fierce battles the warrior fought and survived, and his cold, steel-blue eyes sent shivers down his feeble soul.
The Nord boasted that Do'kir wouldn't even leave a scratch on him, but still, what if he injured the Nord? Or worse, killed him?
Do'kir's thoughts then strayed to the young child watching not far off with worried eyes.
If Do'kir killed the Nord, who would be strong enough to protect Cereza, his Little One?
It was a waiting game between the two. Silence perpetuated the air. Nothing in the world seemed to move.
Then, surging with a mighty battle cry, Do'kir charged at the Nord. If he could not rid himself of these fears, then he'll overwhelm fear with anger! Anger that he was reduced to a mere slave! Anger that he was ripped away from his family! Anger that he failed to protect the one thing most precious to him in this cruel world! With his blade raised and now only a few inches away from the cause of his despair, Do'kir channeled all his rage into a downward slash he envisioned would cleave the Nord into two.
Sir Tallowhand sighed in disappointment.
With swift movement, the Nord pivoted on one foot, disappearing from Do'kir's line of sight and letting the blade graze inches above his chest. The Khajiit failed to control his momentum as he stumbled in his last two steps before falling flat and nearly impaling himself with his own sword.
"Pathetic," the Nord spat.
Do'kir spat out the grass from his muzzle and charged again.
The Khajiit swung his blade with all of his strength and anger again and again, and yet, the Nord dodges every swing like they were that of a flailing child. With every failed swing, his rage began to falter, and fear and doubt once again dominated his mind. His sword at last fell to the ground as his arms were ablaze with burning pain. Do'kir's body followed suit as his shriveled lungs desperately grasped for air. A broad shadow then loomed over the cat. The Khajiit mustered what little strength he had left to lift his gaze towards the Nord.
Do'kir immediately regretted it. It was like gazing into his Mother's face after he accidently let loose the horses, or when he accidently shattered one of Father's expensive vases, or when he was caught stuffing himself stolen sweets his sister nabbed for him. She wasn't angry… just… DISAPPOINTED. The cat wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die.
"We have a lot of work to do," was all the Nord said before trudging off.
"How will this make Khajiit a better swordsman?" Do'kir couldn't help but ask. He stood in the middle of living room where the Nord tasked him to spread out his arms to form a sort of T-pose while holding a bucket full of rocks in each hand.
The Nord took a big swig of mead before taking a seat at the dining table. "Before I start teaching you how to wield a weapon, I first have to make sure you can even hold one," he explained after letting loose a drunken belch.
Sounds simple enough, Do'kir supposed. "How long must this one to hold this pose?" he asked.
"Until I say so," the Nord responded, his words slurred by the alcohol.
Do'kir sighed and said nothing more.
This will be no problem at all, the Khajiit thought to himself. Do'kir felt hardly any weight at all with the scant amount of rocks in the buckets. A smug grin graced his muzzle. If training was this easy, he'll be wielding a sword like a true warrior in no time.
Time passed.
Fur drenched in sweat and shaking arms on the verge of breaking off, Do'kir's mind fired constant curses at the Nord who sat so leisurely on the dining table. Some of the curses were even made up and simply a jumbled mess of words- anything to help him ignore the two boulders he held with each hand. Do'kir glanced out the window to see how much time has passed, only to discover that the sun had not budged an inch since his torture began. He shifted his focus back on the Nord hoping for him to spare mercy. Unfortunately, much to the cat's dismay, the Nord was already snoring in his seat, an empty mead bottle in his hand.
For a brief moment, Do'kir considered abandoning his training. Surely, the Nord didn't expect him to hold onto these buckets of rocks until he woke. But the night of how helpless he was when Cereza was attacked replayed in his mind, steeling his resolve and tightening his grip on the buckets. Do'kir swore to himself to become stronger, even if that means holding buckets full of rocks then so be it. He was prepared to go through the darkest depths of Oblivion if it meant obtaining the power to protect his Little One.
He was not prepared, however, for ten tiny fingers tickling his ribs.
"Tickle fight!" Cereza laughed behind him.
"Not now, Little One!" Do'kir shouted before biting his bottom lip to suppress his laugh.
"Aww…" the child groaned and abandoned her assault. She moved in front of him and asked with hands behind her, "What are you doing?"
"Training," he answered before resuming his stoic expression.
Cereza retreated to laying down on the soft fur of the bear carpet. Occasionally, she would switch between reading a book to drawing pictures.
Do'kir closed his eyes and sighed, lifting his head towards ceiling. He tried to ignore the pain burning in his arms, but it proved to a futile effort. The pain crept through the cracks in his mind, tormenting him into giving up. He needed a distraction.
"How was school, Little One?" he asked.
"Boring," she said. "We only have one teacher, and it's Ms. Athlock, the lady you met on the first day. She teaches some math and English, but her lectures are almost always about Skyrim since we live so close to it."
"Are you getting along with your fellow students?"
The quill in her hand froze. "They're… ok, I guess…"
Do'kir's eyes sharpened into a skeptical leer. Even trolls can sound more convincing. "Tell Khajiit the truth, Little One."
Silence befallen the two when she didn't give an immediate response, but when she lifted her eyes to meet Do'kir's, their gazes locked. Do'kir's look of cut the bullshit broke down her will. "I don't think everyone likes me…" she finally admitted. "Well, not everyone. Ms. Athlock always tries to make sure no one makes fun of me. And then there's one girl I sit next to. She doesn't hate me, but I don't think she likes me either."
"Hmmm," Do'kir mumbled, deep in thought. He was worried considering last time he checked, High Elves and Nords don't mix. And oil was thrown towards the fire of animosity between the two races when the Altmer banned the worshipping of Talos. Ms. Athlock's strange kindness and this other student Cereza mentioned eased his worries, but only by a bit. "Did you finish your homework?"
"Nah, I'll do it later," she said as she went back to her drawing.
"No, you'll do it right now," Do'kir said firmly.
Cereza pouted back at him. "Make me."
It only took a few seconds for Do'kir's stern glare to break Cereza's will once again. The rest of the day was spent with Do'kir aiding his master's daughter with her homework, never breaking off his pose.
"Careful, Little One, when dividing a number by fraction, have the denominator switch places with the numerator and change the division symbol into a multiplication symbol," Do'kir told Cereza.
"Yeah yeah, I know, Kitty! You don't have to keeping reminding me," Cereza grumbled.
"Khajiit is reminding you because you forgot. Look back at problem three," Do'kir advised.
"Oh," the child said, realizing her mistake and scribbling out her answer.
When the last remnants of orange sunlight faded away, Do'kir finally remembered to look out the window. He watched as the scarlet sun disappeared beneath the horizon of the darkening forest, leaving only the dim illumination of candles as their only source of light.
It was that moment that Nord woke up with a loud snort. The man squinted his eyes over Do'kir. "Oh," he said with a yawn. "You're still doing that? Was only gonna make you hold those buckets for an hour or two. I guess should've told you before I fell asleep. You can stop now if you want."
The buckets fell to the ground with a loud bang, startling both Nords, but the Khajiit's expression remained unreadable.
The Nord raised himself from the table. "Whelp, I think it's bout time I get dinner ready. Daughter, help me out."
'Ok, Papa!" Cereza jumped off the ground and was running off to the kitchen until the meek voice of Do'kir drew her attention.
"Um, Little One?"
Cereza turned around and noticed Do'kir remained in his T-pose position, dread across his face. "This one can't move his arms…"
"The legs are just as important as arms!" Sir Tallowhand shouted to Do'kir. A sturdy rope was tied to a bale of hay, and attached to the other end was Do'kir with the rope tied around his waist. "I want fifty laps around the house, now," the Nord demanded.
"Fif-fifty?" Do'kir choked out.
The Nord raised an eyebrow. "Did I stutter?"
"N-No, Sir Tallowhand. But Khajiit thinks fifty laps is-"
"THEN LET'S MAKE IT SIXTY!" the Nord boomed. "OR DO I HEAR SEVENTY?"
Do'kir flung himself onto bed, the moonlight illuminating his crumpled body.
Khajiit would rather be on fire than suffer through this, Do'kir thought venomously. Every muscle in his body was writhing in agony, and there were at least two places in his body where his muscles were locked in a state of grotesque convulsion.
Do'kir silently cursed the Nord and his training. When this training started, each day was either carry a bucket of rocks or run how-many-laps-I-feel-like while tied to hay, but in recent weeks, it was now a combination of both where it left his body on the cliff's edge of death. And the push-ups, sit-ups, and squats he had to at the end of the day felt like the Nord was trying to kick him off that edge.
"Kitty?" a small voice asked behind him.
His body screamed in protest, but Do'kir managed to roll his body to the other side and face Cereza, the moonlight bathing her small body in a gentle glow.
"Look what I got on my math homework!" She held up a piece of parchment where every numbered problem had a checkmark next to it. "I got them all right! Thanks, Kitty!"
She beamed him a bright smile, a smile that reminded him what he failed to protect, and what he wanted to protect right now.
Do'kir, nude, had returned to the forest's small oasis to wash off the sweat and grime he collected from today's training. He readied to dive into the cold pool of water until he took notice of his reflection. He noticed that his fur was a lot shaggier now, no doubt from spending so long in this land's frigid temperature. But despite that, his body was more filled out now, the outlines of his defined muscles clear as day. It's like all the fat he accumulated from stuffing sweets into his belly had melted away.
Do'kir traced a finger across his stomach.
And by the Twin Moons… did he have… abs!?
Do'kir stood in the open grass, the sun on his back and the towering Nord in front of him. "No training today, Sir Tallowhand?" Do'kir asked. He was glad he didn't have lift rocks or haul hay this time, but the fierceness in the Nord's eyes told the Khajiit not to be so foolish.
"Hand-to-hand combat," the Nord said bluntly. "In a real battle, you won't always have your weapon at hand. A true warrior is prepared to fight, with or without a weapon."
"Kitty, what happened to your eye?" Cereza gasped. She had just finished class, and was about to run up and hug Do'kir when he came to pick her up, but his black, swollen eye looked like it was to pop from any form of contact.
Do'kir gave her an assuring smile. "Training," he told her.
"Ms. Athlock?"
"Hm?" The Altmer woman's focus was buried in the pile of graded papers on her desk until she noticed the small, Nord child standing next to her, head to the ground and hands behind her back. "Still here, Child? Class is over."
"Can you teach me how to do healing magic?" the child quickly blurted, her eyes still glued to the ground.
"What brought this on?" the Altmer asked, perplexed.
"Kitty, started doing a lot of training with Papa, and I always see him so hurt and tired when he comes to pick me up. So, I want to learn how to heal him like you did last time he got hurt."
Ms. Athlock closed her eyes and rested her chin on a finger, deep in thought. "It is a bit early for me to teach magic to you children… but if it's to help you and that young Khajiit then… very well. I will gladly train you in Restoration magic."
Cereza's eyes shot up from the ground and into the warm smile of her teacher. "Thank you, Ms. Athlock!"
"No need to thank me, Child. Just remember to stay in class every lunch for lessons in Restoration magic."
A solid punch collided with Do'kir muzzle and knocked him into the grass. Do'kir wiped the blood off his snout with his arm, staining the fur into a darker crimson, and glared daggers at the towering Nord who responded with a smug smirk. He raised himself off the ground, but small hands on his arm tugged him back.
"Wait, Kitty," Cereza said, worry in her eyes.
"Little One?"
The child said nothing more. Do'kir watched in amazement as faint, golden came to life in the palms of her hands. She placed each hand on his cheeks, closing her eyes as the golden light intensified. He felt the pain from his bruises and the soreness in his muscles recede, but before they could disappear completely, the golden light faded and Cereza fell into his chest, exhausted.
"Sorry I couldn't heal you all the way. Don't have a lot of magic…" she mumbled into his fur.
"Don't apologize, Little One," Do'kir assured. He petted her hair and laughed. "When it is I who should be thanking you! Who taught you Restoration Magic?"
"Ms. Athlock, the nice teacher who healed you when you got hurt."
Do'kir had another question ready, but Sir Tallowhand's patience had already run thin. "Get up, Boy! Your training's not finished yet!" his voice bellowed.
"The sword… it's much lighter the last time this one held it," Do'kir gasped in awe as he gave the iron blade a few swings. "Like wielding a feather…"
The Nord smirked, like an artist proud of his greatest masterpiece. "It's the strength training, Boy. Now that I'm confident you can hold a weapon, it's time I start teaching you how to wield it."
Over the months, Do'kir honed his skills with the blade. For any weapon, never falter in the path of your swing, he recalled the Nord telling him. Every strike should be done with strength and confidence, lest you lose power in your attack and fail to deliver the killing blow. By day, whether it be through howling winds, pelting storms, or frigid snow, Do'kir's determination endured the harsh environments as he mastered the sword. And by night, he was back in his room doing push-ups with one arm with Cereza resting on his back, doing homework he was happy to help with.
Satisfied with his work, the Nord resumed his trips away from home, but whenever he came back, he sparred with the Khajiit to check his progress. The Nord often had to correct the Khajiit by telling him his grip on the blade was too tight or too loose, that his stance was either too wide or too short, or that he was putting too much power into his swings that would make it hard to control his momentum. But the more they sparred, the less frequent those mistakes became, and the more the Nord found himself to be actually enjoying their practice bouts.
No longer was Do'kir the frail slave he had been. He was a warrior now, a warrior dedicated to protecting the sweet smile in his Little One.
But that all changed one fateful night.
Do'kir fell to his knees, his bloodied sword his only source of support to lean on. Vicious claw marks were scattered across his body that leaked pools of his own blood, staining the grass below, but despite all that, his determined gaze remain fixated on the beast in front of him.
The wolf-like beast prowled on all fours, its razor-sharp teeth and claws glinting dangerously under the light of the full Twin Moons.
A werewolf, a beast Do'kir thought existed only in the stories his mother told him.
He could tell the beast was weakened. It clearly hadn't eaten in weeks as Do'kir could see the bones protruding through its grey hide; however, that didn't make the beast any less dangerous. The beast was just as injured as Do'kir, or perhaps even more so, with wounds cleaved open by his blade where gushing blood matted its dark fur, but its rabid hunger had left it unfazed by its wounds.
The beast snarled, causing Cereza to whimper behind him cling tighter to his fur. Do'kir snarled right back.
Then, without warning, it pounced.
Swiftly, Do'kir pushed Cereza away before he sprang upwards to meet the beast head on, his blade raised and aimed to pierce through the monster's heart. They collided mid-air. Do'kir felt his blade sink through the beast's flesh, and unimaginable, burning pain in his shoulder.
The two fell to the ground with the heavy, dead weight of the beast on top of Do'kir. With a pained grunt, he pushed the beast off him.
Cereza quickly rushed to his side, golden light ready in both hands. Thanks to her constant training with Ms. Athlock, her magicka reserves had greatly improved, allowing her to close up most of the gashes scattered across Do'kir's body. But one stubborn wound refused to close.
It was the bite mark on his shoulder.
"Why can't I heal this?" Cereza said, forcing more power into her healing, and yet the bite wound persisted. Eventually, Cereza had to abandon the attempt as her head grew faint from overexertion.
But Do'kir wasn't paying attention. His gaze remained fixated on the full Twin Moons overhead. Never had he realized how beautiful they were… how their light caressed his body in the most pleasurable way… how their light urged him to hunt…
... to kill…
And it was that moment, Do'kir realized what he had become.
Author's Note
Hey everyone, I'm not dead! Sorry for procrastinating for so long! School is such a pain. Even if I don't mange to finish this story, I at least want to finish the next chapter considering what just happened at the end. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and you can help my motivation by fav and following this story.
Also, I'm happy Byleth is in Smash.