So, we get a little bit of a glimpse into our Dragonborn's past in this chapter and it is actually a past I came up with for Brand in an alternate version of his story where he ends up in Skyrim and joins the Thieves' Guild (this story is not posted, just one I drabble with sometimes). Obviously, I didn't stick with the Thieves' Guild part here, because that doesn't quite fit in, but his origins are based off that idea. And, it ended up tying in with the actual Skyrim opening pretty well (which wasn't something I originally intended, but managed to fit together as I was writing.) Enjoy!


Chapter Six: The Dragonborn at Home
Brand

If there's one thing I've learned about Borgakh (and to a lesser extent, Lydia) it's that neither of them are big on privacy. Perhaps it comes from living close to other warriors while on campaigns or, in Borgakh's case, from living in the clan-style orc stronghold, where everyone is family, but neither one of them are the least bit embarrassed by walking into my room at all hours of the day or night, regardless of what I'm doing. Lydia at least has the decency to tell me she'll return if she catches me in the middle of bathing or dressing, but Borgakh? Well, if Borgakh walks in on me, she just stands quietly in the corner of my bedroom until I'm done. And sometimes she'll carry on whatever conversation she came to have with me as if it's the most normal thing in the world to chat me up in the buff. Which, I guess, being used to such close-quarters as the orc strongholds, is probably something that happens quite often in the longhouse.

But it's a habit I'm not entirely used to yet. Elves are a lot more solitary than orcs (and even Nords) and I still find it odd that either one of my female companions will just barge into my room whenever they have something to say.

This morning, Borgakh walks up as I'm about to get out of bed. I hastily pull the sheet back over myself, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, and try to make it look like I was nonchalantly sitting here. At least I don't blush.

Borgakh pauses at the foot of my bed, taking me in, and then she takes in the pile of clothes beside my bed. She gives me a knowing look. "It's nothing I haven't seen before," she says. "There's not much difference between orcs and elves down there. Except for size." She grins wickedly.

I decide not to make a joke about being well-endowed. She'd probably take it literally and start comparing me to the size of said orcs. "Good morning to you too, Borgakh. I don't know about you, but most people knock before barging into other people's bedrooms."

"If you kept your door closed, I would," she says matter-of-factly.

I stare at the doorframe critically. I usually leave the doors to my room wide open, much to Lydia's chagrin. It's too much trouble to open and close them all the time when I'm usually running by the house, dropping off a few treasures, grabbing a few needed items, and hitting the road again. The fact that I even manage to keep the front door closed is nearly a miracle. "Touché."

Borgakh puts her hands on her hips with a wide grin.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit then?" I ask.

Borgakh snorts. "The fact that it's ten in the morning."

"So?"

"So, were you planning on sleeping all day?"

"Maybe I was." I shrug. It's rare that I get a day to myself, a day to sleep or relax without being summoned to somebody's court, or whisked off to fight a dragon, or given a bounty for a bandit-infested cave. Some days, the Dragonborn needs sleep. And when I first woke up this morning and heard rain pounding the roof of Breezehome, I decided today was a good day for sleeping in.

Borgakh looks slightly disgusted, like I suggested that we commit some sort of crime. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen her in bed later than 7am. How she does it, I'm not entirely sure, because I've also seen her burn the midnight oil, reading books in the living room by lamplight long after I've gone to bed. And she's still awake, alert, and armored every morning (usually before I am.)

Today is no different. Borgakh stands at the foot of the bed, fully armored. "You won't get anything accomplished sitting in bed like that."

"Sure I will. It's called relaxing," I say. "You should try it sometime."

Borgakh rolls her eyes. "You have a massive pile of bounties sitting on the shelves downstairs, at least three summons from various Jarls, a couple of death threats from I forget who this time, and a request from Danica Purespring to do something about the Eldergleam and you want to relax?"

I pretend to think it over carefully and then I give Borgakh my biggest, most charming grin. "Yes, that's exactly what I want to do."

Borgakh grumbles something under her breath.

"And it's what you're going to do too," I say.

She glares at me.

I gesture at the roof, as if to indicate the heavy rain.

"Rain never killed anyone," Borgakh says.

"But I'm sure it's rusted more than its fair share of good armor," I waggle my eyebrows.

Borgakh rolls her eyes. "Ebony doesn't rust."

"Right, but you don't have an entire Ebony suit yet," I point out.

"Orcish steel doesn't rust either."

"Borgakh, don't make me do this."

"Do what?" she asks, mock innocently.

"Order you to relax."

"Under what authority?" She arches an eyebrow imperiously.

"Mine," I said, letting a little bit of the Thu'um slip into my voice.

Borgakh blinks at me. Then she smiles, but it's Daedrically devious. "Oh, so that's how we're playing?"

"Yes," I say. "Because I for one am taking the day off."

"Fine. I'm going downstairs." She says it like it's a battle challenge, but she's hiding a grin as she spins on her heel and leaves my room.

"Hey, Borgakh, close the - oh, nevermind," I sigh as she walks downstairs leaving the doors wide open. I can see that Lydia's door is also open, which means she isn't in her room (unlike me, she has the sensible habit of closing the door when she doesn't want guests). I get up, close the doors loud enough that Borgakh will hear downstairs, and throw on a pair of pants.


When I get downstairs, Borgakh is sitting by the fire reading a book. She is still wearing parts of her armor, but at least she has taken off the chest plate so that she looks mildly more comfortable. And she isn't armed (although her sword and bow lean up against the chair she's sitting in.) I shake my head. She truly doesn't know what it means to relax.

I walk over to our food cabinet and start rummaging around for some breakfast.

"Where's Lydia?" I ask.

"Out," Borgakh says. "She said she had some errands to run."

"In this weather?"

"Like I told you before, rain never killed anyone, little elf."

I sigh loudly and then let out a little exclamation of joy. There's a plate of sweet rolls and honey treats sitting on the edge of the table, and from the smell of them, they're fresh.

"Did Lydia make these?" I ask.

"No, I bought them this morning at the inn before I woke you up."

I glance over at Borgakh, but her nose is buried in her book again.

"They would've been warmer if you'd gotten up sooner," she says absolutely dead-pan.

I laugh and grab a plate from the cabinet, filling it with an assortment of the sticky treats. I grab a bottle of mead and join Borgakh by the fire, curling up in the chair opposite her. I dig in.

Across the fire, Borgakh makes a tutting sound.

"Wha?" I ask, my mouth full.

"You are eating sugar for breakfast."

"You bo' 'em fer me."

"Swallow," she says sternly.

I do and grin at her.

She sighs in mock exasperation and looks back at her book.

I eat a couple of treats and take a few swigs of mead. Then I ask, "Whatcha reading?"

"One of the Nordic histories. About Talos. Seems to me he was a dirty old man." She frowns. "How does that get one ascension and godhood?"

I shrug. "I dunno. We elves don't put much stock in Talos. The Thalmor consider it heresy to worship him."

"And you?" Borgakh asks.

"I don't really know. I figure that's something the gods can sort out among themselves. I don't worship him, though, if that's what you're asking."

"Who do you worship?" she asks.

"The Eight," I say.

"You elves like to complicate matters."

"Complicate them?" I raise an eyebrow and take another sip of mead, then dig into my last sweetroll.

"Having so many gods. How do you know which one to worship on what day? How do you remember who presides over what? I prefer the simplicity of one god."

I shrug. "I guess it's easy when that's what you've been raised to do. Personally? I probably don't owe as much allegiance to the gods as I should, although I can't say I've ever been reprimanded for it. The gods are fickle creatures. I've found that they're as like to help as to give you cryptic advice and look the other way while you get devoured by something nasty in the wild."

"You do not have much faith in your gods, elf."

I feel strangely uncomfortable at Borgakh's proclamation. "Carrying a sword helps," I say.

"Do you not feel closer to the gods, being Dragonborn?" she asks. At this point, Borgakh has abandoned her book entirely and it sits closed on her lap.

"I...I don't know," I admit. "Should I?"

Borgakh shrugs. "Perhaps. It seems to me that the Thu'um is something god-like. That you have been blessed beyond the scope of a normal mortal."

I wasn't sure how to answer her. She was right, as usual. I was obviously more than a mortal and in some ways nearly god-like. Were my powers invested in someone more tyrannical than myself, like Ulfric Stormcloak, the Dragonborn could become a nearly unstoppable god. Maybe that's how Talos ascended, or at least convinced a nation that he was a god.

"But why me?" I ask aloud.

"What do you mean?" Borgakh looks puzzled.

"Why me? Why am I the Dragonborn. I'm not a Nord. I'm not even a good guy!"

"You seem like a decent man to me," Bogakh says. "For an elf," she adds with a sparkle of laughter in her eye.

"I haven't always been," I say.

"Is that where the marks come from?" Borgakh asks.

"Marks?" This time, I do feel heat rush to my cheeks. On good days, I nearly forget that not all the scars on my back come from battles. Borgakh is observant and has seen me shirtless often enough to notice. But her gaze is on my wrists now and I look down, seeing the faint scars that are usually covered by strips of leather or cloth, or my gauntlets. I'd completely forgotten to cover them this morning when I hastily dressed and joined Borgakh downstairs. Not that this is the first time she could have seen them, but it's the most obvious time.

"You don't get those from a sword," she says.

I sigh. "I was...a thief, back in Valenwood," I say.

"Your homeland?"

I nod. "I was a pretty good thief, too, and I got a reputation as The Raven. My calling card was a single black feather and I was hired by everybody from petty merchants to nobles to obtain goods and redistribute wealth."

Borgakh doesn't say anything, she just looks at me solemnly, her face an unreadable mask. She doesn't look angry, per se, although her resting face is rather stern, especially with her tusks. I squirm a little in my seat, but I continue. I've never told this story to anyone in Skyrim and there's something freeing in telling it now. That and deep down, I want Borgakh to know. It's only fair if she's going to travel with me permanently (which seems more and more likely as she hasn't left my company yet.)

"It did not last, did it?" Borgakh interrupts my thoughts.

I smile grimly. "No. I was young -"

"You're still young, elf," she quips.

"Younger."

She lifts her lip in something that is almost a smile.

"I got cocky and robbed a high priest one night. And then the next night and then a third time and I got away with his holy relics. I lived like a king for the next few days, hopping towns, pawning fingerbones and pieces of some dead saint's robe. Except that I was way too obvious and a snitch ratted me out. They caught me dead drunk in an inn at some ungodly hour in the morning. I couldn't have resisted even if I wanted to."

Borgakh was frowning now. I felt something inside me sink, but I was this far in the story. Might as well continue.

"I spent a few months in the castle dungeons, at the mercy of the high priest, who was especially fond of the whip." The words were nearly a whisper now. I unconsciously reached up to my shoulder, where the faded scars began, stretching all the way to my hips. They were the faintest of my scars now, not entirely visible beneath the newer marks of sword and claw unless you were looking for them, but they were still there. I still felt them beneath my fingertips.

"You were a prisoner," Borgakh said softly. She glanced at my wrists again with something akin to horror in her eyes. While there's no race in Skyrim who would submit willingly to chains, orcs are those perhaps most offended by the idea of being contained.

I nodded, clearing my throat a few times before I found words. "Suffice to say, I paid for those holy relics twice over in blood."

"That is cruel."

"That's life." I shrug.

"It should not be."

"I thought orcs liked spilling blood," I say cheekily. Perhaps it comes from my own embarrassment, perhaps it is to rile Borgakh and see what she says.

She takes a deep breath through her nose and her fingers tighten on the arm of her chair, but her voice is steady when she speaks. "Orcs do not spill blood needlessly. We are warriors, yes, but we do not believe in torture or violence for the sake of violence. If I kill a man, then he deserves it. If I fight, then there is good reason. Only honorless knaves spill blood as if it were water." Her eyes flash and I remember the orc I fought a few weeks ago, the one seeking a "good death." The outcast.

"Sorry," I say.

Borgakh waves a hand at me as if to say it is nothing, but there is still a spark of anger in her eye. We sit in silence for a moment, neither of us quite sure what to say.

"So how did you end up in Skyrim, then?" Borgakh finally asks.

I stare into the fire. "Prison caravan," I say finally. "Valenwood has a nasty habit of sending the criminals they tire of torturing out into the wilderness to live or die as Kynereth and her elements see fit. I was one of the lucky few who got carted up to cold, frozen, desolate Skyrim." My voice drips with sarcasm.

"And yet, you are still alive," she says.

"Can't argue there."

"How did you survive?"

"Honestly? I almost didn't. When the prison caravan finally released us, we were in the middle of a forest somewhere, no provisions, hardly enough clothing to stay warm, no weapons. Our jailers simply tossed us out of the wagon, hands still bound, wished us luck, and disappeared."

"There were others with you?"

I nodded. "A few."

"What happened to them?"

"I don't know. None of us stuck around long enough to find out. We split ways, too afraid that the others might try to kill us, I guess. After all, we were all criminals." I smile wryly.

Borgakh shakes her head. I'm not sure if it's with disappointment or disbelief.

"So, then what?" she asks. "You found a town?"

I chuckle. "Hardly. I found Ulfric Stormcloak and a group of his advance scouts. They grabbed me out in the woods, nearly frozen to death, and started accusing me of being a Thalmor spy. At this point, I nearly didn't care. But while the Stormcloaks were arguing about what to do with me, an Imperial patrol rode by and captured all of us. They took us to Helgen."

"Helgen? You mean the city the dragon attacked?"

"The very same," I said.

"You were there when the dragon came?"

"Technically, the dragon saved my life. I was on the headsman's block when he showed up. Turns out the Imperials aren't very picky when it comes to who's head they lop off. They lumped me in with the Stormcloaks."

Borgakh gives me a sly look. "And you still want me to believe that the gods haven't intervened in your life much?"

I pause for a minute. I'm not quite sure how to answer that.

"So, you get off the block, I take it," she prompts me to continue.

"Uh, right. I was waiting on the axe to descend when the dragon swooped out of nowhere and landed on a nearby tower and everybody just sort of forgot about beheading me."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, then I escaped Helgen with an Imperial soldier named Hadvar, who took me to Riverwood and gave me supplies and suggested that I warn Jarl Balgruuf of the return of the dragons and that's kind of how it all started."

"When did you figure out you were dragonborn?"

"After I talked to Balgruuf and a dragon landed near Whiterun. I joined a party of guards led by Irileth to go and fight the beast. When we killed it, I absorbed it's soul. And while I was still reeling from the fact that I had the power of a dragon buzzing around my skull so loud I could barely see straight, the White run guards are fawning all over me like I'm some sort of hero. Iritileth had to get them to back off and give me enough space to breathe."

Borgakh is smiling at me now. "So, overnight, you went from criminal to hero."

I can't help but give her a smile in return. "Something like that."

"See, Brand, you're not so bad. Everyone has a past. Some of them are more desirable than others, but the past is not what's important. It's what we do now that's important. And now, I see a selfless elf who tries to do his best to save a world that's not really even his."

"Borgakh -"

She holds up a hand to stop me.

"There are a lot of people who would have stopped long ago," she says. "Or who would have taken this chance at redemption as an excuse to continue in their old ways. But you...you're different. You chose to take the hand the gods gave you and let them pull you to your feet and set you on a new path. I think you listen to them more than you think," she says.

"I'm not -"

"Shh, little elf. Do not ruin the moment." Borgakh grins widely, eyes locked on mine.

I look away first, feeling oddly laid bare by her frank assessment. And yet, it's a feeling I don't entirely mind. It feels good to have finally told someone my story. Even better, I told someone who didn't instantly accuse me of abusing my power, or run from my past. I have to admit, orcs do have a refreshing sense of redemption and believe heavily in giving people a chance to redeem their honor. They will also be the first to persecute liars, traitors, and double-crossers, but it's not for lack of offering a chance at forgiveness.

"Now, what say you we find a better book to read," Borgakh says, "and spend this forced relaxation together?"

I laugh out loud, head back. "No one's forcing you to sit here, Borgakh."

"I know." She grins at me. "And perhaps I have time for another story before I must find some sort of work to do. After all, I think it's raining harder now."

"That's the spirit, my friend!" I cheer. "And would you, perhaps, also have time for a mead to go with your story?"

Borgakh mutters something under her breath, but she takes the bottle that I go get from the food cabinet without complaint. I settle down on the floor next to her and open my second bottle of mead as Borgakh searches the bookshelves for a suitable tale.