Chapter Five: A Good Death
Borgakh
This chapter got both longer and a bit more serious than I originally intended, but it's not always sunshine and roses in Skyrim, even for our upbeat Dragonborn.
I've added a little more of my take on Orcish ritual/tradition here. In the game, you meet the Old Orc seeking a good death because he feels he can't be useful anymore, but I've added some of my own reasons for why orcs might be wandering Skyrim seeking a "good death."
We meet the orc out in the wilds of Skyrim, sitting beside the road in a pile of dead saber cats. I know what he is as soon as I see him - an outcast. He is a broad, muscular orc with large tusks and a streak or two of gray in his coal black hair. He sits on a rock beside the path, sharpening his axe. He wears simple fur armor without a shirt, putting the thick muscles in his arms and back on full display. A warrior.
A lone warrior.
As orcs go, he is strong and attractive, even with a few years on him. He is an older orc - but not old enough to be seeking a good death purely for the sake of it. Orcs that do not become chiefs or choose to pursue life outside of the clans often disappear and seek a good death when they feel they have outlived their purpose. It is a way to appease Malacath when your life has been lived too quietly. But, for an orc still in his prime - and this orc is, despite the gray in his hair - seeking a good death can mean only one thing. He has committed some atrocity and is seeking to make amends. He has done something dishonorable. He has shamed himself and his clan and seeks to make up for it in blood. My natural instinct is to draw the warhammer on my back, but I restrain myself. No matter what he has done, the orc is not a threat. At least, not yet. But I keep my eye on him as we draw closer.
I don't think Brand notices him, because he is doing that thing where he walks backwards on the road to talk to me. How he does it never ceases to amaze me. Not because I don't have the coordination for it, but because I do not understand how he places his back to the world and does not feel exposed. I suppose when you are the Dragonborn, there's not much out there that is a real threat. That, and I am always watching Brand's back, whether he knows it or not. There is not much in Skyrim that could get close to him without my notice.
And so, I watch the orc.
The orc stands up as we get closer and walks out into the road. If Brand doesn't turn around, he's going to run into him. I smirk under my helmet and nod absently as Brand rambles.
"So, Borgakh, I think we should take a trip to Markarth. I know it's a long way, but there's some weird stuff going on out there, if the rumors are to be believed. I mean, cannibals, and daedric nonsense, not to mention something about the mine out there -"
Brand stops abruptly as he runs into something. Namely, a mountain of an orc warrior. His eyes go wide for a second, then he shoots me an annoyed glare. He knows I would warn him if he is in any real danger. His hand barely strays toward his sword as he spins around.
The orc doesn't seem phased. In fact, from the amused look on his face, he might have been in on my little joke. I nod my head in greeting. The orc nods in return. Fully armored as I am, I doubt he knows I am a fellow orc. I don't speak so as not to give myself away yet.
Brand steps back and looks up at the orc. The orc is even taller than I am, which means Brand is dwarfed. He barely comes up to the orc's shoulder. A smile tugs at my lips. I always forget how small Brand is when it is just the two of us. I have gotten used to his height. The orc stands with his axe unsheathed and held by his side. A gesture that shows he is alert, but not threatening us.
"Little elf," he says.
The tips of Brand's ears flare red, the only indication of his indignation. It is one of the signs I have come to find betray Brand's emotions.
"Yes?" He tilts his head.
The orc takes a moment to survey Brand. "You are the one they call Dragonborn?" he asks.
"Yes. I am. And you are?"
"Dro Grabul."
Brand waits for the orc to add a house name, or at the very least, a warrior's epithet, but he does not.
"Well met, Dro Grabul," Brand says, but there's a slight question in his voice. He shoots me a glance and I lift my shoulders slightly. "Were you looking for me?"
"Perhaps," Dro Grabul says. "I am seeking a good death. Can you give that to me, Dragonborn?"
"A good death?" Brand quirks an eyebrow. "Is that what those were for?" Brand points at the saber cats.
"They were not good enough," the orc says simply.
"I can see that." Brand says dryly.
Brand does not know orcish tradition like I do. This practice of seeking death would seem odd to him. Elves tend to be ardent seekers of life. I have found most cultures do not dance as close to death as the orcs. Though I venture to say the Nords come closest to understanding the concept of an honorable death. They, at least, believe that a warrior should die with blade in hand.
"Malacath demands that orc warriors die honorably. In combat. Not when they are old and grey and useless. So, I seek a good death."
"Ok." Brand puts his hands on his hips. "But why?"
Beneath my helm, I sigh. Of course the Dragonborn would ask why.
The orc looks stunned for a second, as if no one has ever asked him this question before. They probably have not.
"Because Malacath demands it," the orc says, as if that makes all the sense in the world. It does. And it does not. The more I travel with Brand, the more I realize that the orcish tradition of single-minded devotion might not always be the best course of action. I have never personally talked to Malacath. Part of me wonders if he really does demand death like this.
"Yeah, I got that," Brand says. "But why now? Why you? You don't look like you're near the end of your life."
The orc looks away suddenly, then back at Brand, so fast that I almost question it.
"I have outlived my usefulness, little elf. You would not understand. When an orc passes his prime, he is no longer of use to himself or his clan. He might as well seek death."
Brand tilts his head, like he is not satisfied with the answer, but he does not challenge it. Instead, he asks, "How am I a part of this good death?"
"Because, you are the Dragonborn. Meeting death at the hands of a legend is good."
"I'm not an orcish legend," Brand says.
The orc pauses for a second. Then he shrugs. "I imagine that Malacath does not care where the legend comes from."
"You seem to be in pretty tight with Malacath."
The orc shrugs. "Perhaps. Will you give me a good death, elf?"
Brand sighs and looks around. "Here? Now?"
"Why not?"
I tap Brand on the shoulder. He looks back at me with a questioning look. I tilt my head toward the side of the road. He turns back to the orc. "Perhaps you will give me leave to consult with my...partner...before I answer?" he asks.
The orc eyes me for a long moment. But then he nods. "Of course." He steps back toward the pile of saber cats.
I pull Brand over to the side of the road.
"He's lying," I say as soon as we are out of earshot of the orc.
"How do you know?"
"He's not that old."
"That's what I said. So what does that mean?"
"He's an outcast."
Brand motions with his hand for me to go on. "Borgakh, orcish tradition is never that simple. What does that really mean?"
"It means he disgraced his clan. Maybe murder. Or maybe he challenged the chief and lost. Whatever he did, it means he owes loyalty to no one. As far as the orcs are concerned, he is the walking dead."
Brand stiffens a little at the venom in my tone. "That bad, huh? So, should I kill him?"
I shrug. "That is up to you. But I should warn you about the orcish tradition of a good death."
"Sure."
"It is a fight to the death."
Brand gives me a deadpan stare. "Really? A fight to the good death ends in death?"
I punch him in the arm.
He grins.
"He will expect you to fight without your Dragonborn powers," I continue.
"OK, so I just use my sword."
I shake my head. "No enchantments. No magic. Nothing but sheer strength."
"Well, darn, I'm not a very good death if you take away all my flash and pizazz."
I put my hands on my hips and stare down at Brand.
"You know I hate it when you do that," he says. "Take off the helm. Please?"
"I would, just so you can see the intensity of the stare I am giving you right now, but I do not want the scum to know I am an orc."
"Ooohhh, I see."
"Precisely."
Brand sighs. "So, I'm supposed to duke it out with this guy?"
"No, you can use a weapon. Just...a natural one."
He looks at me incredulously. "What's unnatural about my sword?"
"Well, the fact that it's made of glass for one."
"That's not...oh, screw it. Fine. Then what do I fight with?"
"My warhammer."
Brand looks thoughtful. "I think I can do that."
I sigh. Loudly. We both know he can fight with my warhammer. He's done it before.
He grins at me. "So, how do we approach this one?"
"Pretend you know nothing about orcs or what I just told you," Borgakh said. "Ask him under what terms he fights and what that means. Get him to tell you the rules. That way, he'll think he's got an advantage over you. And, I'll know if he twists anything to his favor."
"Borgakh!" Brand gives me a look of mock astonishment. "Are you suggesting subterfuge?"
I look away and mutter something about how Brand is rubbing off on me.
Brand laughs and sheds his backpack, pulling out the leather helm Shuftharz made him a few weeks ago. He's slowly been accruing a full set of her black leather armor and he's got the cuirass, helm and greaves now. He puts the helm on, hiding his red mohawk. I think the helm makes him look fierce. It curves back in the shape of a dragon's head, with curling silver horns on either side. The nosepiece is engraved to look like fire.
Then Brand steps out into the road. "Alright, Dro Grabul, I accept. I'll be your good death."
Dro Grabul smiles, a wicked looking smile. "Excellent," he says.
"Under what terms do we fight?" Brand asks.
"The terms of Malacath," Dro Grabul says.
Brand gives a little half-shrug. "Sorry, I'm a wood-elf. What are the terms of Malacath?"
Dro Grabul's smile looks more like a sneer. "Typical, you elves, so focused on your own culture that you can't be bothered to learn anyone else's."
Brand frowns, but he doesn't answer.
Dro Grabul continues. "Orcs fight on strength alone. An honest, clean fight. No magic, no interference. Just the two of us and a judge. Your partner can be the judge."
"Alright," Brand nods and draws his sword. Lightning flickers along the length of the enchanted blade.
"No magic," Dro Grabul snarls.
"Not even an enchanted sword?" Brand asks innocently.
Dro Grabul shakes his head severely.
Brand looks over at me with a somewhat confused expression. I have to hide a laugh. He's laying it on thick.
I pull the warhammer off my back and offer it to Brand.
"I can't use that," he protests.
I'm trying to figure out how to answer Brand without speaking, but Dro Grabul beats me to it.
"Are you afraid, little elf?" he taunts.
Brand scowls. "Of course not. But that thing's nearly as tall as I am."
Dro Grabul shrugs. "You are the Dragonborn, are you not? You'll think of something."
"Why does everyone keep telling me that?" Brand sighs. But he steps over to me and hands me his sword, hilt first. I put it at my belt and hand him my warhammer. He grips it in an awkward two-handed grip. He's exaggerating his clumsiness - but not entirely. He has fought with my hammer before, once or twice when we were in a tough spot. He can lift it without trouble, but it is longer than it should be for someone of his height. Which means he has to compensate for the extra length when he makes a swing. But it also means he can keep the Dro Grabul at more of a distance. The orc is only armed with a battle axe, which, while sharp and deadly, is shorter than the warhammer and doesn't have as much raw power.
Dro Grabul watches curiously as we swap weapons, one side of his mouth drawn up in a half-smile.
Brand winks at me and returns to his ready stance in the road.
"No Shouting, Dragonborn," Dro Grabul says.
"Shouting is what I do best, you know."
Dro Grabul makes a sound in the back of his throat like a grunt or a growl. I don't know if he means it to be dismissal or agreement. "No magic. No Shouting. Are we clear?"
"We're clear. No magic," Brand makes a show of resting the warhammer on the ground so he can draw an X over his heart with one hand. "Promise."
I step up to the side of the road. "Are the contestants ready?" I ask.
Dro Grabul studies me for a long moment, then he nods. Brand gives me a fierce grin.
"Begin!"
Brand staggers back, his right arm in close to his side and heaves in a deep breath. Despite his shorter reach, Dro Grabul has landed several hits and although none of them were deadly, they wear Brand down.
Brand has landed a few blows of his own and Dro Grabul favours his left leg, but he powers through it as if the injury is nothing. Orcs have a fair amount of battle stamina, and a rage can induce even more, but I am starting to suspect this orc has some unnatural aid. After all, I am fairly certain that I see bone poking out of his left ankle.
Brand is a great warrior in his own right, but he was right. When you strip him of his abilities as Dragonborn, he is simply an exceptionally quick and strong wood-elf. Pitting him against an orc isn't unfair, per se, but he is at something of a disadvantage. Under normal circumstances, I would not be concerned about him fighting an orc, but if Dro Grabul has an unfair advantage, then who knows what else he will do to win?
I will not let Brand's lifeblood stain the Skyrim roads this day.
But I am honorbound not to intervene. If I do, then Dro Grabul cannot regain his honor. If I do, then I tarnish my own honor.
But what good is honor if -
A yell from the fighters brings my attention back to the fight. Brand shouts a battle cry and whips the warhammer toward Dro Grabul's head. Instead of trying to deflect the blow, as anyone would normally do, the orc steps forward so that he is inside the arc of the hammer and takes the haft on his neck. He grunts, but he brings his axe up for a deadly swing.
Brand abandons the warhammer to let it complete its arc on its own and drops to the ground, rolling out of the way of the axe and behind the orc, where he grabs the warhammer off the ground. He rises to one knee and crouches for a second, watching the orc. Then his eyes flick up to me.
There's a question there. Is this normal?
I shake my head. Not even a raging orc should be able to take a swing like that. Even though the orc took the strike on the haft and not a direct hit from the hammer, the weight of the hammer should have been enough to break his neck. At the very least, it should have put him on his knees.
"Do you give up, Dragonborn?" the orc taunts.
"No."
"Then why do you hesitate?"
Brand stands up slowly. He could move faster, but he gives the illusion of succumbing to his injuries. "I call respite," he says.
The orc's eyes flash.
I'm impressed. Brand is using the rules of an honorable duel against the orc. In any contest of strength, the fighters are allowed one respite each. A short break in the fight to gather their wits and strength. I didn't think Brand knew about that.
"There is no respite in a duel to the death, Dragonborn," Dro Grabul sneers.
"There is in a duel to the good death, Dro Grabul," I say.
He turns slowly to look at me.
I cross my arms.
"And what would you know of a good death, judge?" he sneers.
I pull off my helm and give him my most charming smile.
Orcs don't really go pale like humans do, but I swear Dro Grabul gets a shade or two lighter.
"Fine," he growls.
I nod. "Respite is granted. Five minutes."
Dro Grabul retreats to his pile of saber cats again. Brand comes to stand by me. He is breathing hard. Harder than he should be. I look him over. He has a few minor wounds, but nothing that looks deadly to me.
"What do you think?" he asks. He pulls off his helm and runs his fingers through sweat-damp hair. He props the helm under one arm and rests the warhammer on its head, leaning casually against the haft. He looks relaxed, at ease, but I can see the underlying tension in his posture.
"Skooma," I say.
He looks at me in surprise. "Really? I thought you orcs were above that kind of stuff."
"We are," I snarl.
"You sure it's not just oakenform or something?"
"Orcs are not natural mages. I would bet on skooma before magic," I say. "What do you think?"
"Enchanted axe," he says.
It's my turn to show surprise. "You sure?"
"Yeah. I feel like I could sleep for a week. He's got an enchantment on the blade. I don't know how he managed it without making the axe glow, but he's barely scratched me and I feel like I've been slapped by a giant."
I resist the urge to give Dro Gabul my best death stare. The cheater stands across the road, impassive, axe held loose at his side, watching us.
Brand takes a slow, deep breath. "So, do you really think he's trying to kill me or -"
"Yes."
"Alrighty then."
"What will you do?" I ask. "By the rules of Malacath, I cannot interfere."
"Mm-hm. But, by the rules of Malacath, once the rules are broken, then anything is fair game, right?"
I look down at Brand sharply. "How do you know so much about the rules of Malacath all of a sudden?"
"Hey, I read some of the books we find in the tombs, you know."
I chuckle. "Is that what you do when you can't sleep?"
He looks oddly serious as he answers. "Sometimes." He puts his helm back on. "If my calculations are correct, we're at four and a half minutes."
Across the road, Dro Grabul smiles and swings his axe.
I nod. "So, what's your plan?"
"Simple. Do what I do best."
"But you promised -"
"I promised not to use magic. He asked for strength and strength alone. I think he forgets that my strength comes from the dragons. Let's give this sucker a show he'll never forget."
I smile. "Let's."
The fighters return to their positions. Brand stands with his feet apart, shoulders back, the warhammer held crosswise in front of him. Dro Grabul stands casually, weight on one leg, hips canted, his axe down by his side. Cocky. Assured.
He does not even try to hide the fact that he stands on his injured leg as if it is no big deal. Skooma, for sure. A simple mage's spell, like oakenform, can prevent damage, but it cannot dull the effects of pain. Skooma, in large enough quantities can block pain from the mind for a while. When coupled with an orc's natural battle rage, it makes for a nearly unstoppable deathless warrior. For a few minutes anyway. Which is probably why Dro Grabul was so opposed to a respite. The longer he has to fight, the less effective his skooma-induced rage will be.
Perhaps Brand has put those pieces together too, but I wait with baited breath as the fighters face each other.
"Are the fighters ready?" I ask.
Both give me a nod.
"Then begin."
Dro Grabul rushes Brand like an enraged bull right out of the gate. There is no holding back. He rains blows on Brand like an orc possessed. Brand barely has the speed to deflect them all, but he does, even though he is forced to give ground to do it. He finally finds an opening in Dro Grabul's swings and he lashes out with the butt-end of the hammer, catching Dro Grabul in the stomach. The orc warrior lets out his breath in a huff, doubling up for a moment.
Instead of pressing his opening, Brand steps back. "It's starting to wear off, isn't it, Dro Grabul?" he taunts.
"What?" Dro Grabul straightens up, wiping spit from the corner of his mouth. "What are you talking about, elf?"
"The skooma." Brand grins. Under his black helmet, the expression is positively devilish.
Dro Grabul's eyes widen before he can stop them, but he brings his expression under control quickly.
"You insult me!" he roars. He charges again. Again, Brand deflects the blows, all the while giving ground to stay out of the way of the axe. What is he doing? I want to shout at him, but I do not want to risk breaking his concentration.
"On the contrary!" Brand shouts in between swings. "You insult me, Dro Grabul! You ask for a good death and then you cheat! Do you know what that means? By the code of Malacath, do you know -"
Brand does not get to finish his sentence. Dro Grabul roars with animal fury and charges Brand with his shoulder. Taken by surprise, Brand raises the warhammer and takes the full brunt of the orc's charge. There is no way that he can withstand a charge like that, not without a shout. Sheer size takes Brand off his feet and throws him to the ground as Dro Grabul crashes into him like a running bear. Brand lands on his back a few feet away, winded, but otherwise unhurt.
Dro Grabul straddles him and raises his axe over his head. "Even you are not enough for a good death, little elf!" he snarls.
I draw Brand's sword, but I will not make it to them in time to stop what is coming.
Dro Grabul's axe descends.
I yell.
"Mul Qah Diiv!" Brand shouts. The ethereal aspect of a dragon suddenly springs up around him, glowing in vibrant blue, red and gold. The horns of the dragon aspect sweep back over the horns of his helm and his arms and chest are covered in ghostly, glowing scales.
He blocks the axe right before it would have sunk into his chest, catching the blade on the haft of the warhammer, held crosswise over his body.
Dro Grabul shudders with the force of his own swing, eyes widening in surprise and fear as he realizes that he is up against a force of nature. "You...you cheated!" he snarls. "You promised not to shout!"
"No," Brand says. "I didn't. I promised not to use magic. This isn't magic, Dro Grabul. This is the power of the Thu'um!" He shouts the last part and Dro Grabul flinches from his voice.
Brand pushes the warhammer up, forcing Dro Grabul's axe to rise. Then he sits up, rising smoothly from the ground, pushing the larger orc back the entire time. He rises to his feet until the two are face to face. And despite their height difference, Brand seems to loom over Dro Grabul.
"Do you yield, Dro Grabul?" Brand asks. His voice is sharp and loud and I fight the urge to cover my ears. I know that the Thu'um is powerful and that it can force those of lesser will to bend to it. It can even kill by sheer strength of the speaker, if the Greybeards are to be believed. Dro Grabul's knees shake, but he still keeps Brand's warhammer at bay, his axe locked with the haft of the hammer.
"This...is...a fight to the death...Dragonborn," he snarls. "I will not yield."
"It will not be a good death, orc," Brand says. And there is something sad in his voice, something powerfully melancholy. Perhaps it is the Thu'um again, but I almost feel like crying.
Brand speaks again. "I ask one more time, do you yield?"
Apparently Dro Grabul does not. He growls and jerks his axe back, unlocking the two weapons and renews his attack with greater fury than before. Even with the dragon aspect, Brand takes a few hits, but they ring off of his ethereal scales like water off a roof. The axe throws sparks every time it strikes dragon scale.
Brand does not give ground any more. He pushes Dro Grabul back, ever closer to the saber cats, raining blow after blow until Dro Grabul can barely bring his arm up to block the warhammer anymore. Brand's next swing takes the axe clean out of Dro Grabul's hand. The orc howls and holds his hand close to his chest. It looks broken.
"On your knees, orc," Brand says.
Dro Grabul glares at him, but he stumbles to his knees, compelled by the raw power in Brand's voice. I have never seen Brand use the Thu'um like this before. I have never seen him more powerful, more angry, more terrifying. I can understand why the Dragonborn was sent to slay dragons. Right now, Brand looks as if he could slay anything.
"Do you wish for mercy?" Brand asks.
Dro Grabul lifts his head and spits on Brand.
Brand looks up at me and his gaze is immensely tired. "Judge?" he asks.
"It is done," I say and nod once, the signal for the fight to end.
Brand nods once in return and brings the warhammer down in a bloody, terrible arc. Dro Grabul crashes headlong onto the road, in between the two saber cats.
"Malacath rest his soul," I say.
We give Dro Grabul a proper burial and although I hate to say it, we find an empty skooma vile in the pouch at his belt, along with a few scrolls for enchanting. What we do not find is any sort of clan sigil or note about his family. Brand and I are perhaps the only ones who know that this poor soul has died.
And so it is with somber steps that we start back down the road. We only get a little ways away before the dragon aspect wears off. Brand stumbles as the scales flicker and he diminishes, back to himself, back to a slight wood elf in bloody, black armor. He gasps, as if someone has just thrown a bucket of cold water on his head and his knees buckle. I manage to catch him before he hits the road.
I sink to my knees on the dusty road with Brand cradled in my arms. He lets his head drop against my shoulder, his breathing shallow, as if all of his energy was suddenly sapped in an instant.
"Are you alright?" I ask.
He shudders and grimaces. "I told you it was an enchanted axe," he murmurs. And that's when I notice the blood, almost invisible against his black cuirass, flowing from his left shoulder.
"You're wounded," I say.
"Yes. He did get a hit or two in."
"But, the aspect…?"
"That's why my arm is still attached to my shoulder right now," he says, the hint of a smile flickering at his mouth. "It doesn't stop damage entirely. But it does absorb a lot of it."
"Stupid elf," I say.
"Hey!" he protests weakly. "That's not fair."
I rummage in my satchel for a healing potion and pull it out. "Drink this."
He does without much complaint, even though he grimaces at the taste. Then he settles more fully against me. He looks exhausted. Being Dragonborn might give him a lot of powers that normal elves do not have, but I sometimes forget that it does not make him invincible. Still, I do not think he should be this worn out from the fight.
"Brand?" I ask softly.
"Hmm?"
"What did you do back there?"
He is quiet for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"With your voice? When you told Dro Grabul to kneel?"
"Oh," he says so quietly I almost do not hear him. "That." He takes a deep breath. "I used the Thu'um. But not like what the Greybeards teach. Not like the shouts. There's a...power to it. I don't really know how it works, myself, but it's something I can feel in my chest, like a well about to overflow. I can tap into it, but…"
"But it takes your strength to do it," I finish.
He looks up at me, surprised. "Yeah. How'd you…?"
"I was watching," I say.
He sighs.
"For being an elf, you can be terrifying, you know," I say.
He laughs softly but there's something sad in it. "That's all part of being a Nordic legend, I guess." He pushes himself off my shoulder and sits up. There's a little more color in his face now that the potion is starting to work.
I can hear the unspoken words as he stands up. But that is the part I do not like.
I stand beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
Today we won. But not all wins are victories. This took something from Brand. Something I am not entirely sure how to put back.
But he still gives me a smile when he looks up at me. For the first time, I notice a little pain behind the light in his eyes. And I wonder how much I really know about the Dragonborn, this wood elf who paid my dowry, the man I have come to call friend.
And so I make myself a promise as I fall into step beside him. That whatever happens, I will not leave him. Because he might be Skyrim's most powerful legend, but at the end of the day, he is just a little elf and sometimes he needs a shoulder to lean on.
I might be a gruff warrior, but I also have shoulders.
And so I will stay.
Always.
