Chapter Nine: "The Dragonborn Doesn't Get Sick"

Borgakh

Investigate Redwater Den gets added to our list of tasks and bounties after a scruffy Breton approaches us on the road outside Riften peddling a new strain of skooma more powerful than "that Khajiiti syrup." Brand feigns interest and purchases a bottle, despite my protests that we have more tasks than we can keep up with back in Whiterun, as evidenced by the overflowing cabinet in the living room where Brand stuffs all the bounties, letters, death threats, and requests.

Brand points out that we are already in the wilds anyway, so we might as well take a day or two and investigate. And so we find ourselves crouched in the trees outside a dilapidated shack, watching the guard rotation as Brand twirls the bottle of Redwater Skooma in one hand.

"My septims are on vampires," he mutters.

I watch the guards a little longer. They are a lazy bunch, barely more than lookouts, and, I wager, partakers of their own product.

"Vampires? How do you figure that? It could be a very enterprising Khajiit."

Brand frowns. "Could be, but the stuff in this bottle is pretty vile. I did some alchemical tests on it last night" (he shushes my protests that he should have been sleeping) "and I think it's carrying more than a few diseases. The Khajiit might be schemers, but they want live customers. Vampires, however..." he trails off with a shrug.

I grimace. "Free blood supply."

"Exactly." Brand fiddles with his armor and slips out of his bracers and helm. He hands them to me.

"What are you doing?" I ask as he scrubs dirt on his face.

He grins. "Going in. What else?"

"You're going to walk in there unarmored?" I raise an incredulous eyebrow.

"I'm not unarmored . Just less armored. I'll be more believable that way. I'm gonna go ask for some skooma."

I must look more offended than I think because Brand stifles laughter behind his hand.

"I'm not going to partake , Borgakh. By the Eight. It's a ruse."

"I am aware." I sniff.

"Sure, sure." Brand uncorks the skooma bottle and pours the contents out on the ground. Then he puts the empty bottle at his belt, with the pair of twin daggers he opted for on this mission instead of his sword. Though they look like plain elvish quicksilver, the short blades are enchanted with some heavy stamina and health drains. I've seen him fell bears with them before. "Alright, give me half an hour. If the rest of the den is anything like these guys, I should be in and out easy. If I'm not back before then...well, you know what to do."

He winks and slips off through the undergrowth.

I shake my head and watch as he walks up to the guards. After a comical display with the empty skooma bottle, the guards let him inside what remains of the shack.

I start counting.


I give Brand twenty-five minutes.

Maybe twenty.

Then I follow.

For decorum's sake, I leave my warhammer with our horses and take Brand's enchanted glass blade instead. The guards did not glance twice at Brand's daggers, but I figure they might object to a warhammer. The guards do not even react until I am practically standing inside the shack. Only then do they seem to realize that a fully-armored orc warrior is asking them for entrance to their den. They seem much more intimidated by me than by Brand (even though I did leave my helm behind) and there is some murmured deliberation between the two of them before one of them points at my sword.

"You're going to have to -"

"I am taking it with me," I snap. The guard's eyes go wide and he glances over at his companion. He shrugs. Both guards stare at each other cluelessly, then at me. I cross my arms and give them my most intimidating scowl.

"Ok," one of the guards finally relents. "Just keep that thing sheathed, got it? You pull it and we'll have to get rough."

I tilt my head, showing off my tusks. "You are welcome to try."

The guards glance at each other again, but they lead me over to a trap door and open it up for me. I descend the short ladder inside with a quick thanks.

A dirt hallway at the bottom of the ladder leads me to the den proper. If the dirt and wooden room can even be called a den. It is barely more than a cave full of strange red mist. My lip curls.

To my left, a bar stretches across the wall, with iron bars running from counter to ceiling, forming a cage for the dealer inside. Whether it is for her safety or to keep addicts from stealing product, I am not certain. But from the sounds of coughing and groaning coming from the private booths opposite the bar, I doubt most of the patrons have the wherewithal to steal anything. It seems Brand's analysis of the skooma might be more accurate than we realized.

Besides the dealer, there's one other employee in the den - a dunmer attendant in an apron - and another thug-type leaning against the wall by the bar. Nord, probably. All three of them look bored.

I do not see the Dragonborn anywhere.

I walk up to the bar. The dealer comes over to the small slot in her cage and leans on the counter. I notice a door behind her that, presumably, leads to administrative or living quarters.

"Can I help you?" the dealer asks.

"I am looking for an elf," I say. "Came in here about half an hour ago? About this tall?" I hold my hand up around shoulder height.

The dealer gives me a calculating look, then slowly shakes her head. "I have not seen an elf all day. A couple of Khajiit, a Redguard, a Nord, and two Imperials. No elves. Except for Jhamer, there." She points at the attendant.

"I'm looking for a bosmer, not a dunmer."

She crosses her arms and pouts at me. "I told you, I haven't seen any elves. Now, are you buying or not?"

I look around the room. There's no sign of Brand, unless he's in one of the booths down the hall. But to look, I'll need a ruse. I sigh.

"I'm buying."

"Forty septims," the dealer quips.

I raise an eyebrow. That's a steep price for a bottle of useless syrup. But, as Brand is fond of reminding me, he has an almost endless supply of coin. Forty septims is not much to Skyrim's enigmatic Dragonborn, and coincidentally, his friends. I pull the coin out of the pouch at my belt and lay it out on the table.

The dealer makes a show of counting it before she hands me a small vial of red liquid. "Booths are provided for your imbibing pleasure." She points toward the back wall. "We only ask that you refrain from pulling weapons or making a mess."

"Of course."

She smiles at me and there's something almost malicious behind it, but I shake off the feeling and walk down the hall. I glance into the booths as I go, pretending to search for a suitably empty one.

I pass an Imperial in his legate's armor, a Khajiit rolling on the floor in fits of mirth, a woman in farmer's garb staring blankly at the wall, and a suspiciously still face-down Redguard. In fact, I'm quite certain the poor fellow is dead.

I still do not find Brand.

Part of me is relieved that he is not strung out in a booth, but the other part of me is concerned that I somehow missed him. I settle into the last booth in the hall so that it affords me a good view of the hallway and the bar. And wait.

I do not have to wait long before the attendant comes to investigate the Redguard in the booth next to mine. He calls the thug over and I lean back against the wall, eyes closed, so I can listen while appearing to be under the ecstatic influence of my bottle of Redwater Skooma.

"Another one, Jhamer? Good job. What is this, the fourth one this week?"

Jhamer responds in a smooth voice. "I believe so, Ragnard. Help me get him to the pit, will you?"

"Sure."

There's some grunting and sounds of exertion, and then Jhamer and Ragnard leave the booth with the dead man between them. I peek around the edge of my booth. They are careful with the way they carry him, half-propped on Ragnard's shoulder so that it looks like they're only supporting an unconscious patron. They bring him past the bar at the end of the hall and disappear through the door beside it. I glance around. The dealer is busy mixing something at the other end of the bar and is not looking at the booths. Now is my chance.

I leave the vial of skooma in the booth and sneak down the hallway, sticking to the shadows. If any of the other patrons notice me, they are too strung out to comment. The dealer does not turn around. I thank Malacath for this unnatural good luck (and ask forgiveness for sneaking around) and slip up to the door Jahmer and Ragnard disappeared through. I test the knob and smile. I am in luck. It is unlocked.

In moments, I am inside.

Brand was right about the den. As soon as I cross the threshold, I find myself in an intricate cave system that reeks of blood. Vampires. I draw Brand's enchanted blade off my back and ready a spell of ice spikes in my other hand.

Jhamer gets the spike in his chest a few moments later. He rounds the corner, returning, I guess, from "the pit" and takes the spike before he can get much more than an "oh" of surprise past his lips. I feel bad for him, but when he staggers to the floor and dissolves into a pile of ash, I feel less guilty. A thrall. No wonder.

Ragnard comes at me a moment later with a Nordic battlecry. I whirl and block the down thrust of his axe with Brand's blade. Lightning flickers between us. I growl.

"I knew you would be trouble, orc!" Ragnard snarls.

"Where's the Dragonborn?" I demand.

"You mean that little wood elf?" Ragnard cackles. "He's long gone. Venarus has him down in the dungeon. Probably sucking his blood as we speak. For being Dragonborn, he certainly didn't put up much of a fight! In fact, he -"

Ragnard never finishes his sentence as the stroke of my sword relieves him of his head. Unlike Jhamer, he doesn't disintegrate when he dies and his blood spatters my armor. I spit in disgust and step over his body, going deeper into the caves.

After fighting a few more vampires and thralls, I end up in a hallway that looks more like a Nordic tomb than a cave. I can hear the sound of shouting and blades ringing at the end of the hall.

"Not so clever now, are you Dragonborn!" someone taunts.

I hear a grunt that I recognize immediately as Brand.

I start running.

"I know how your powers work! You can't Shout again for another few minutes. So all I have to do is wear you down, little elf."

There's a horrific clash of steal and Brand yelps, then a scuffle and a splash.

The other voice laughs. "Pity you aren't part fish, Dragonborn!"

I round the corner to see a black robed Vampire forcefully shoving Brand into a pool of what looks like blood with a fountain in the center. The vampire, probably Venarus, has one of Brand's arms twisted behind his back and uses his greater weight to hold Brand's head underwater. Brand thrashes, but he cannot break the vampire's hold. I rush forward, preparing a swing.

Just then, there's a muffled Shout from inside the pool. Brand and Venarus are blasted backwards as the water in the pool jets upward. Crimson rain spatters the room. Brand and Venarus split mid-air and tumble across the room in opposite directions. Brand rolls up against the far wall, coughing and gasping. Venarus, unlucky bastard, falls nearly at my feet. I descend on him in a rage. He does not even have a chance.

Venarus soon lies in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood, ice spikes decorating him from chest to groin. Even the unnatural strength of the vampires is no match for an enraged orc. Especially when that enraged orc was a surprise.

A weak cough from behind me grounds me and subdues my rage. I rush over to Brand's side. He is propped on one elbow, coughing up reddish liquid into a sizeable puddle on the floor. He looks up as I walk over and offer him a hand. I haul him to his feet.

"It will be easy, hm?" I raise an eyebrow.

Brand groans.

"Seems the rest of the den was not as stoned as you thought."

"Seems like it," he agrees quietly. I glance at his belt and notice that his daggers are gone. A quick search shows them glinting on the floor near the blood pool. I walk over and pick them up, making sure to avoid Venarus' body on the way. "Seems you were right about the vampires though." I walk back and hand Brand his blades.

He takes them without comment - not even a gloating "I told you so." He looks miserable.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

He grimaces. "Nothing that a bath won't solve. Swallowed a lot of that blood though. I think I'm going to be sick."

I step back slightly.

He staggers forward and braces himself on the wall. For the second time, I watch the Dragonborn turn himself inside out. But this time, it is not his fault. I step up and rub his back as the retching subsides. His vomit is thick with blood. Whatever he swallowed in there cannot be good for him. Brand wipes a shaky hand across the back of his mouth and straightens up, looking haggard.

"Let's get out of here, yeah?" he suggests weakly.

"No argument there."


The true effects of the blood pool surface a few days later.

Brand picked up a few journals while he was in the den, and we glean enough information from them to learn that the blood pool was created by the murder of a contingent of priests of Arkay many years ago. Venarus Vulpis, enterprising vampire, stumbled across the pool quite by accident and learned of its disease-ridden properties. After experimenting with skooma and realizing that he had a way to trap addicts for food, he began luring Skyrim's less fortunate to their deaths in his den.

"Brand, aren't you worried about the blood pool?" I ask as we sit beside the campfire a few nights later. We are about three days out from Whiterun still and Brand looks more and more exhausted and pale the farther we travel.

"Not really," he shrugs. I am pretty sure the motion hides a shiver. "After all, I'm a wood elf. And the Dragonborn."

I tilt my head.

"Naturally resistant to disease, remember?"

"Oh, of course."

"I haven't been sick in...well, since ever. The Dragonborn doesn't get sick."

"But I also bet the Dragonborn hasn't been dipped in a blood pool before."

"Well, no." He shivers again and looks away, as if uncertain. He hides the motion by taking a large spoonful of soup out of his bowl. I tactfully ignore the fact that he ends up spilling some of it on himself. So does he.

"You know, I was thinking," I say, "we're not so far from Ivarstead. Perhaps we could ride there tomorrow and stay at the inn before we go home."

"Why's that?" Brand watches me with suspiciously bright eyes over his bowl.

"No reason," I shrug. "Just thought it would be nice after being out in the wilds for a few weeks."

Brand is quiet for a minute. He sniffs. "That's out of our way, though."

"By a little bit."

"We'll be fine, Borgakh. We're nearly back to Whiterun anyway." He slides a little closer to the fire. I think he is hoping I will not notice, but Brand is so close to the fire now that I fear he might singe his clothes. He fastidiously keeps his attention on his soup.

"Are you cold?" I ask.

His head snaps up and he meets me with a guilty expression before it melts into a half-smile. "Maybe a little," he admits.

"You want me to get you the extra blanket?"

"No need to trouble yourself."

"Brand," I admonish him as I stand up and walk over to my horse. He very meekly lets me get the extra blanket and drape it over his shoulders, settling him at a safer distance from the fire.

"Are you sure you're alright?" I ask.

"Of course I'm alright. It's just these Skyrim nights. So cold."

"We're barely out of the Rift. I think it's the warmest night I have ever felt in Skyrim."

"Well, even a cold night in Valenwood is warmer than a warm night here," Brand says defensively.

I nod, but I watch Brand closely as the night wears on. He doesn't finish his dinner and he keeps shivering, even long after I bundle him into both our cloaks as well. After he falls asleep, I lay a hand on his forehead and am alarmed by how hot he feels. I am no apothick, but I know enough to know that Brand is displaying the classic symptoms of Bone Break Fever at the very least.

I'm not sure the Dragonborn is as immune to the blood pool as he thinks he is.


The next morning, Brand is even worse. He shivers so hard I fear he might rattle himself to pieces and his fingers are swollen at the joints and so stiff he can barely hold a cup. Ataxia, for sure. I have to help him drink the concoction I brew for him. It is an old remedy Sharamph often brewed back at the camp - a mix of health, stamina, and cure disease herbs and potions that resolves all but the worst fevers and aches.

After I get the mixture into him, Brand perks up a little bit, but there is now a wet sound in his chest when he breathes in that I do not like. Rattles? How many diseases can one person get from the blood pool?

"Brand, we are going to Ivarstead," I say as I pack our camp and load the horses. Brand is huddled underneath his pile of blankets, looking miserable.

"W-why?" His teeth chatter so hard, his words come out in stutters.

"By Malacath, because you're sick, that's why!"

Brand gets that look on his face that means he's about to argue my point to Oblivion and back. I almost laugh at him, but I manage to stifle it. It is hardly convincing when he can barely sit up. With all the dignity he can muster, he draws himself up and insists "I'm fine." Although it comes out sounding more like "I'b fibe."

I shake my head. "You are clearly not fine."

"I j-just need a little s-sleep, that's all," he says.

"Says the one who barely slept last night."

"How -?"

"I'm observant. Now quit arguing. We're going to Ivarstead."

"B-but -"

"No buts! You need a healer! And a bed. And another bath."

He hauls himself upright and scowls, but the expression is mitigated by the fact that he cannot stand steady. "Says who? I'm fine, B-borgakh, honest."

I stop and stare at him, hands on my hips. "Brand, what in all of Mundus makes you think you're fine? It's obvious you have a fever, you can hardly stand up, your hands are so swollen you can't hold anything, and you sound like a draugr when you breathe. Why do you keep insisting that you are fine?"

He looks almost as if I physically hit him, blinking in surprise, his knees suddenly wobbly. "Because…" he trails off, as if he does not actually have an answer for me. "I'm the Dragonborn," he finally says, weakly.

"You are sick."

"But the Dragonborn -"

"Is resistant to disease. Not immune."

He looks unsettled at this, and folds his arms over his stomach, hunching down and seeming to shrink even further. Right now he looks barely more than a child and I feel the sudden urge to scoop him up in my arms and hold him. I shake my head. That would be very...undignified. Instead, I walk over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. If I can just coax him to rest, I think he will be alright. "Brand, I really think -"

Brand staggers under my hand. "Oh, gods," he mumbles and lurches forward as his stomach rejects the potions I gave him this morning. He heaves and ends up on his knees, pale and shaky as the last of his food makes an unwelcome reappearance.

I sigh and kneel beside him.

"Do you still think you're fine?" I ask

He groans and half-collapses on me. His eyes are squeezed shut and his breathing comes fast and shallow, his head heavy and warm on my shoulder. I pick him up and carry him over to my horse. Carrying the Dragonborn is beginning to become something of a habit. But I find myself more worried than annoyed as I bundle Brand in front of me on my horse. We're still about a day's ride out from Ivarstead.

Which means an entire day of nursing my foolish, feverish Dragonborn.


By the time we make it to Ivarstead, Brand is unconscious and alternates between freezing and burning up. I push the horses hard and get us to town as fast as I can, doing my best to keep Brand warm or cool as he shivers and sweats. I burst into the inn, with the Dragonborn in my arms and walk straight into the largest bedroom without even asking Wilhelm about it. Lucky for me, the bed is empty. Some of Vilemyr Inn's regulars gasp and jump up as I enter. After all, most of them know Brand pretty well. They step out of my way with "what happened?" and "Is the Dragonborn alright?" but I do not spare them answers as I get Brand settled in bed.

Wilhelm hovers uncertainly by the door. "Borgakh, this is most unusual," he begins.

"I know." I pull the coin purse off my belt and toss it at him. "And we will compensate you for it, but right now I need water, healing potions, alchemical ingredients, and the town's best alchemist."

Wilhelm nods quickly. "Is he injured?" he gestures at Brand.

"No." I sigh. "Just stubborn. And sick."

Wilhelm nods again and disappears. A few minutes later, Boti and I kneel by Brand's bed as Boti mixes herbs in a mortar and pestle. The farmer's wife selects her herbs from a small pile Wilhelm managed to secure, spread out on a scarf on the floor.

"What happened to him, Borgakh?" Boti asks me. She reaches for another herb and I hand it to her. She does not flinch as our hands touch. Far cry from the first time I was in Ivarstead and she barely looked me in the eye. I guess orcs are unusual here and it took Boti a long time to feel comfortable around me. Perhaps it helps that for once, I do not have my armor and am only wearing a plain tunic and pants.

"Blood pool," I say.

Boti gasps. "Those exist?"

"Apparently. He got tossed in one while fighting a vampire and swallowed a lot of blood."

Boti grimaces. "I thought that the blood pools were just Nordic legend. But that would explain why he seems to have several diseases at once."

"Do you think you can cure him?"

Boti looks up at me with a strange expression on her face, half-smile with a knowing light in her eyes. "Yes, dear. I think so. Being the Dragonborn will help him, I imagine." She reaches out and lays a hand on my arm for a moment. "So don't you worry about him."

"I'm not worried," I say gruffly.

Boti smiles. "Of course not."


I walk into Brand's room two days later, carrying a tray of food to find him sitting up in bed, bright eyed and flushed, but significantly more alert. His fever finally broke last night and though he still looks like death warmed over, the potions Boti got down his throat are finally working. His hand shakes only slightly as he gives me a wave and a lop-sided smile.

I scowl at him.

"Why the frown? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Brand." I put the tray down on the table beside the bed and put my hands on my hips.

"Oh, I know that look. You're about to lecture me aren't you?"

"You would deserve it, too, after nearly dying on me."

"Dying? C'mon, it wasn't that bad. I'm feeling better. We're out of the woods, right?"

"Brand, you had at least three different diseases! If you did not still look like a stiff breeze would blow you over, I would punch you in the face." I say, struggling a little to keep my tone stern.

Brand gets a spark of challenge in his eyes and spreads his arms. "Take your best shot."

I walk over and punch him lightly on the arm before pulling him up into a fierce hug. After a moment of surprise, he returns it (though significantly less fiercely). I sit down on the bed beside him and let him go. He leans back against the headboard again.

"You do care!" he grins at me.

"Of course I do. You're my friend," I say.

His grin fades slightly, but there's mischief in those dark eyes. "Maybe I should get sick more often."

"Pull this stunt again, and I really will punch you in the face."

He coughs into his hand. "Point taken."

I smile and make sure to put my tusks on full display as I pick up the bowl of stew that Wilhelm provided. "You hungry?"

Brand smirks. "Why, you want to feed me?"

"Depends. Are your fingers working yet?"

Brand looks down at his hands, which are still a little swollen at the joints. "How big's the spoon?"

"Well, it is not like it is Ysgrimor's soup spoon or anything."

"I thought that was a fork?"

I laugh.

We only spill a little of the stew.