Summary: Colin didn't know who he pissed off, but he woke up cold and hungry in the middle of a snowy wasteland. Being the Dragonborn really sucked sometimes. [A Dragonborn appears Beyond the Wall story.]
Author's Note: Another huge thank-you to Igornerd and To Mockingbird for going through and helping me edit this chapter.
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Dragonborn in Westeros
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Chapter 3
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Colin Stormcrown
Darkness pressed down all around him. He couldn't see, hear, or even feel. He was lost with only his thoughts for company, denied the bliss of true unconsciousness. He wondered how long it would be before he went mad. He wondered if he was already mad and just didn't know it yet. After all, he didn't even know how long he'd been drifting.
Just as his mind conjured the thought, he heard a man's voice all around him, light and carefree with a familiar tinge of insanity.
I am a shadow in your subconscious, a blemish on your fragile little psyche. You know me. You just don't know it. Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness, at your service!
From the depths of the darkness an orb of light appeared, bright pink and bubbly with glowing tendrils swaying to an unfelt wind.
Oh, great, Colin thought, vicious sarcasm lacing the words. Just what I needed.
Sheogorath laughed, the biting edge to his tone making Colin fear the Prince's usual games were about to take a darker turn. He couldn't help but be reminded of the various ways he'd been forced put his life at risk in the mad quest for the Wabbajack—an artifact that Colin hadn't even wanted and had done his damnedest to get rid of at the first opportunity.
Lighten up, Dragonborn! Sheogorath scolded, thankfully sounding more amused than angered. Don't be such a party pooper! Even poor old Pelagius was more fun than you, and he lost his hip bone! Or was that dear Martin? I can never remember.
Oddly enough, as soon as the subject shifted to Martin (whom Colin could only assume was Martin Septim, holy shit) Sheogorath's voice became distinctly womanly. Normally this wouldn't have been that surprising. After all, the Princes were above the many shackles of mortality, gender included, although there were certain aspects that each Prince seemed to favor.
However, Sheogorath wasn't always a Prince—once she'd been a mortal woman. A great woman, a heroic woman, but mortal nonetheless. With a start, Colin realized that he might be talking to the Hero of Kvatch, who alongside Martin Septim had saved Tamriel from Mehrunes Dagon and put an end to the Oblivion Crisis. That didn't make her any less dangerous, unfortunately. Immortality had taken a heavy toll on her mind.
What do you want, Sheogorath? he asked, doing his best to sound as disinterested and boring as possible. Maybe if the Prince lost interest he'd be left alone.
He could practically hear the Daedric Lord's mocking grin. Oh, nothing much. Just checking in on the favorite plaything of the Divines and the Princes. Poor old Akatosh. He makes the shiniest toys but never gets to keep them for himself.
That was the unfortunate truth of it. Colin was doomed to constant interference from both Divine and Daedra. He was apparently the go-to guy for getting things done on the mortal plane, everything from rescuing Dibella's soon-to-be sybil from some crazy Forsworn to retrieving Azura's Star from a power-hungry (and annoyingly skilled) mage.
So ungrateful, Dragonborn, Sheogorath scolded, in doing so revealing that she/he/it had been eavesdropping on Colin's thoughts. Why, I even served you tea! East Empire Company, too! You were never this rude to dear old Kodlak, were you? Oh wait! You were!
Colin's mind froze at the words, and a simmering rage took hold of him.
Careful, Sheogorath, he all but snarled, his earlier caution completely tossed aside.
The Prince blithely ignored the warning. He had such high hopes for you, that old man. So patient and understanding. And you repaid him by abandoning him to his fate! Marvelous! The madness that fell upon him in his last moments was truly a sight to behold!
SHUT UP! Colin roared. Don't taint his memory with your mockery!
Ooh, did I hit a nerve? Sheogorath gleefully asked. And why would I need to taint his memory when you've done such a good job of it? The Prince cackled with mad delight at her barb, and that moment Colin wanted nothing more than to find a way to rip her to shreds, to make her burn and suffer. But he couldn't move, he couldn't Shout. For all intents and purposes he was as helpless as a child, and that made his impotent rage burn even hotter than before.
And then another voice cut through the mad god's rambling—a woman's, strong and clear like the chime of a silver bell.
Begone, Sheogorath! You shall not harass my Champion any longer!
Where Sheogorath's light had been pink and bubbly, a new light formed—pure white, and near-blinding in its intensity. It shaped itself into the featureless silhouette of a robed woman which proceeded to bodily place itself between Colin and Sheogorath's light.
If he could have felt his body, Colin would have sagged with relief.
Oh, come on! Sheogorath protested. I was only having a bit of fun! The Dragonborn's been so dour lately. I'm doing him a service, free of charge!
Have your "fun" elsewhere, Sheogorath. Leave us!
Meridia's silhouette raised its hand in obvious threat, and an ominous humming steadily built up around them. Sheogorath's light finally showed some form of apprehension as it recoiled.
Fine, but I'll be back! Watch for me, Dragonborn. Look forward to the many joys of madness! Ta-ta!
Sheogorath's light vanished, and Colin was left alone with a far more prickly but arguably less dangerous (at least to the living) Prince.
Wretched fool, Meridia growled. His own followers are completely useless, so he toys with everyone else's!
My Lady? Colin cautiously ventured. Was she going to send him back to his body? He could never tell with the Princes. Even the more predictable ones like Meridia had surprised him on more than one occasion.
Meridia's silhouette turned to him, her head tilting as she appraised him. Conrad somehow managed to shiver despite not actually having a body at the moment when he saw her pupil-less eyes looking him over. It was like staring at a living statue.
Meridia nodded sharply, apparently finished with her unnerving inspection. You, my Champion, have work to do. Awaken, and let this world know my light!
My Lady, what are you—
~o0O0o~
Colin immediately regretted waking up. His shoulder was on fire, throbbing mightily in tandem with his breathing. Every little motion sending lances of pain all across his torso and down his arm. He groaned and opened his eyes, only to find himself surrounded by unfamiliar faces. There were eight people wrapped in heavy furs, five men and three woman, all of them staring at him. After a moment of incomprehension, Colin recognized them as the bandits he'd seen earlier.
And here he was, injured and at their mercy. Sure, he could Shout them all to bits if he really had to, but all it took was one lucky shot, a single arrow or a knife to the heart or head, and he'd be a goner. He felt his heart sink to his stomach when he saw Dawnbreaker propped up against a stone behind two of the bandits, well out of his reach.
Nocturnal, can we talk about this? Can I do some sort of quest for you to get off your shit-list?
Silence, almost mocking in its nature. He bit back a groan.
Oh, sure. Ignore the Dragonborn when it's convenient, Colin grumbled murderously in his head.
"Told you he was waking up," a red-haired woman said to the others. "Saw him moving and groaning like he was having himself a nightmare." Colin dimly recognized her as the same one who'd been pointing an arrow at his face before the army of undead and those ice demons came rushing at them.
Ysolda? Ygrassa? I know her name was Y-something...
Now that he got a closer look at her, he was briefly reminded of Aela by the proud way she carried herself and by the fire in her hair.
That was where the similarities ended.
Aela's voice was strong and clear, and this woman's was raspy and hoarse. Aela was much taller, her muscles perfectly toned from a lifetime of hunting and fighting. The woman in front of him, on the other hand, was merely average in height. While she didn't seem soft by any means (here, Colin recalled how eager she'd been to shoot him in the face), she also didn't radiate the dominant Alpha strength that Aela seemed to possess.
"What do you want?" Colin demanded, his tone far more confident than the situation deserved.
"Oy, stranger," sneered a much less attractive brown-haired woman, her face hideously scarred by what had to have been pox or something like it. "We're the ones who saved your worthless hide. We're the ones asking questions. Tell us what you did back there," the woman ordered, somehow managing to sound both hostile and contemptuous in a way that could have put even Elenwen to shame.
Colin felt his eyes narrow. He did not like being ordered around. He was a Nord, and Nords didn't give respect or obedience where it hadn't been earned. More than that, he was the Dragonborn. If anything people obeyed him, not the other way around.
"Maybe I'll tell someone prettier," he sneered right back, putting emphasis on the word to add the extra edge to the insult. He was immediately forced to fight off a wince as his shoulder sent a reproaching lance of pain down his arm at the movement, but he kept the discomfort off his face. He wouldn't be the first to show weakness here.
The woman, as expected, turned red with rage as everyone around her guffawed at the insult. She looked mere seconds away from trying to rip his throat out with her teeth when a large hand clamped itself firmly on her shoulder. Colin's gaze followed the arm up to the face of the red-haired giant man who he assumed was the leader of the bandits. Tormund, he recalled the man was called.
"Back away, Ullte," Tormund growled, staring her down with a stern expression. "I won't let you kill him."
Ullte glared up at the giant before roughly pulling herself away and moodily stomping across to sit on the other side of the fire. Colin watched her go. He wasn't sorry for what he'd said. If she wanted to be a prick, he'd be a prick right back. Then he frowned as he noticed something strange about the fire, or more specifically, what was actually burning in the fire. It definitely wasn't wood.
"Is that... shit?" he asked. Next to the fire was a respectably-sized mound of what was unmistakably feces. Colin recognized most of it as belonging to elk or reindeer, but he felt a bit queasy when he saw the occasional human variety interspaced here and there. The cold air seemed to be dampening the smell, which was probably why Colin hadn't noticed right away what the fuel was. Thank the Divines for their small mercies.
Tormund followed Colin's gaze to the fire behind him before turning back with a resigned grunt. "Aye, any shit we could find. Far too little out here."
"No man should have to live anywhere you have to burn shit to keep warm," Colin bitterly complained.
Tormund stared at him for a moment before snorting, and slowly, the other bandits around him relaxed a little. "You have the truth of it, stranger. We live close to our land, but she is a cruel wife. Fail to obey her and she kills you."
Colin tried to laugh, but he ended up gritting his teeth at the spikes of pain radiating from his shoulder. If his recent streak of luck was any indication, the wound was probably infected. He made a note to try to get off of Nocturnal's shit-list in the immediate future. "Perhaps you could tell me where I am?" he managed through his pain. "I'm a bit lost."
Tormund stared for a moment. "That depends. Who are you? And where do you think you are?"
"Colin," he answered, raising an eyebrow at the odd question. Why would it matter where he thought he was? "If I knew where I was I wouldn't be asking."
The bandits looked at one another before the red-haired woman who reminded him of Aela answered. "You're north of the Wall, southron. A bit far from home, ain't you?"
Colin frowned. The Wall? The way she said it made it sound like some important landmark. In any case, he'd never heard of it. Unless she was referring to Alduin's Wall which was an extremely well-kept secret. "And what in Oblivion is the Wall supposed to be?"
The bandits all laughed. "Is he playing at being daft?" one of the men snorted.
"Mayhaps he's not playing at all!"
That set off another round of laughter. Colin bristled but managed to reign in his anger. There was a time and place to strike out against insults, and this was not it. Not when he was injured and surrounded with his weapon out of reach. And more importantly, not when simply killing them all wasn't the wisest choice. After all, he was still hopelessly lost and his stomach uncomfortably empty.
"No, really, where am I?" he asked, his face a careful mask of calm. "How far away am I from Whiterun?"
At this the bandits frowned and looked at one another, repeating the name in apparent confusion. "None of us have ever heard that name, southron," Tormund eventually answered. "We have no reason to learn of the lands south of the Wall, save for the so-called 'North'."
Several of the bandits swore and spit off to their sides at the mention of the 'North'.
Southron? What in Oblivion is that supposed to mean? And what's so damn important about a bloody Wall?
"Well, I've never heard of this Wall of yours," Colin snapped, letting his frustration get the better of him. "Either one of us is lying or—"
"Careful who you call a liar, southron," Tormund warned, his voice hard and his eyes flinty. All around him the bandits were beginning to tense dangerously. "We don't take kindly to such insults, especially not from strangers who claim not to even know what the Wall is."
Colin glared, his rage building like a furnace. They were mere bandits, and he was the Dragonborn. He could wipe them out with a word, weaponless or no. Why should they be allowed to insult him? Why shouldn't he just force them to kneel and show proper respect? Why shouldn't he just kill them all and—
Drem. Peace. We come into this world a warlike and destructive race, but we do not have to remain as such.
Paarthurnax's words cut through his thoughts like a breath of fresh air, gently dispelling the haze of aggression that clouded his mind. Colin took a deep breath and forced himself to let his anger go. He closed his eyes, and the dragon within him poised to strike with fire and death reluctantly backed down.
What is better—to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?
Colin huffed through his nose, forcing the last vestiges of his aggression far below the surface. Inner peace, inner calm. Drem. He opened his eyes and found Tormund staring back at him. "Well?" Colin asked, feeling a bit empty now that his anger was gone. "Do I get to learn your names?"
He already knew Tormund's name and Ullte's name, but that was by accident. Besides, it was common courtesy to introduce themselves, and Colin felt a bit at a disadvantage now that he'd already given them his name.
"I am Tormund," Tormund grunted, drawing himself up proudly. "I am Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, and Father of Hosts. Most men know me as Giantsbane." Colin rose his eyebrows, more than a little impressed. Even he didn't have that many titles, and he was part immortal-scaly-winged-lizard-god.
"The woman on the other side of the fire is Ullte," Tormund continued, gesturing as he spoke. He leaned in and muttered in a low voice, "Try not to make her more angry than she already is or she'll gut you."
"Something tells me she'll try anyway," Colin observed, staring calmly as Ullte glared murder at him.
Tormund drew back and shrugged, shooting a warning look at Ullte who scowled back before staring into the fire. "Aye, she might," Tormund admitted. "It is not our way to shy away from blood and violence."
Fair enough. Colin knew plenty of Nords back home who were the same way. Uthgerd the Unbroken came to mind.
Tormund continued, gesturing to the other two women in their group. "The fire-touched lass to your right is Ygritte, and the golden-haired woman next to her is called Siggy."
Ygritte! That's what her name was!
At least he'd been close.
Ygritte and Siggy both stared at him, one with slight hostility tempered with curiosity and the other with sly amusement. Colin nodded his head to each in turn, earning a raised eyebrow and a grin respectively.
The rest of the introductions were quick and uneventful. Aside from Tormund and the three women, there was a squat man with a pug nose called Sigfried, a lanky yellow-haired man named Gunther, and Kurt, a man with a vicious scar that ruined his left eye, leaving an empty hole that hadn't even been covered with a patch.
After he'd learned everyone's name, Colin grunted and forced himself up to his knees, the bandits watching him the entire time. He made sure he was catching enough light from the fire and then carefully peeled back the fur that had been placed over his shoulder, hissing in pain as reddened, puffy, puss-filled flesh was revealed all around his wound. More than one of the bandits winced their sympathy.
Tormund gave a low whistle at the nauseating sight. "We did the best we could, but we had nothing to boil water in, and nothing cleaner than that fur we wrapped you in."
"I understand," Colin grunted. "Besides, it's nothing I can't fix."
Tormund frowned. "What are you—" He trailed off as the hand Colin held over his wound suddenly glowed like he was holding a piece of the sun.
Rays of magical light—golden and brimming with vitality—danced over infected flesh, purging and cleansing the wound, knitting severed tissue back together until there was just unbroken skin with no sign that the injury had ever been there. For his part, Colin sighed with pure relief as the pain first numbed, then vanished altogether in a comforting warmth. Thank the Divines his father had forced him to learn at least one healing spell before he set off from home. He ended the spell, withdrew his hand, then swung his arm about, testing the range of motion, pausing to stretch whenever he felt resistance.
"Gods," Tormund croaked. Colin turned to the man and frowned when he saw he was wide-eyed and pale in the face.
"What?" Colin demanded, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. The man sounded like he'd just seen a dragon pluck someone off the ground. Then he noticed the others were deathly silent. Some had even gotten their weapons in their hands, gripping them so tight that their knuckles were beginning to turn white, and they were beginning to point them at him. Their faces were just as pale as Tormund's, and their eyes, wide and full of terror like they were watching a Hagraven come at them with a sacrificial dagger.
The song of his dragon blood began an ominous hymn in the back of his mind. This couldn't be good.
"I told you!" Colin almost flinched as Ullte screamed out of nowhere, aggressively making her way from the other side of the fire. "I told you he had magic!"
That was the only warning Colin got before she chucked her spear at him with a yell. He threw himself out of the way with a strangled yelp, actually feeling the disturbance in the air as it whooshed past his side and buried itself somewhere in the snow behind him. In the ensuing confusion he acted, shoving Gunther out of his way and rolling under the others' strikes, hearing their crude iron weapons swoosh above him before he bolted forward and scooped Dawnbreaker up.
The blade pulsed warmly in his hands, pleased to be reunited with her wielder. She shone even more brightly than before when he turned around with a snarl, and the bandits all gave him a wide berth at the sight.
"So I used magic. What of it?" Colin challenged, ever so slightly shifting in his combat stance. Damn it to Oblivion, he should have known these people were too jumpy for them not to try to kill him. And this wouldn't be the first group of xenophobic "magic is evil!" Nords he'd run into, even if they were only bandits.
"He's not even denying it!" Gunther spat, scrambling off the ground from where Colin had shoved him, grabbing at his wayward axe as he did. "He's a real witch he is!"
There were fearful mutterings all around. Colin couldn't help but snort despite the situation. "Hardly. This heal spell is the only one I know. Besides, women are witches. Men are wizards." He paused, tilting his head as he considered the title. "Or warlocks, I suppose."
"Liar!" Ullte spat, condemnation burning in her gaze. "We saw you! We saw that great fire you conjured!"
"Stand down, Ullte!" Tormund bellowed, roughly shoving the woman back as he put himself between her and Colin. "Do as I say or I swear to all the gods I'll kill you where you stand."
Ullte hesitated a bit before snarling and standing her ground, drawing herself up as tall as she could in challenge. "Why can't any of you see it?! He's got magic! He's evil! A servant of the Others!"
"He killed Others, you pox-scarred lackwit!" Ygritte hissed, taking her place next to Tormund, her bow drawn and pointed straight at Ullte's chest.
Well. That was surprising, and not unwelcome. Colin didn't think Ygritte liked him very much, but apparently it was good to be wrong sometimes.
"And I suppose you saw him do it?" Ullte sneered, bravely (or stupidly) ignoring the fact that one twitch of Ygritte's fingers would mean certain death.
"I did, actually!" Ygritte sneered right back. "Saw one of them roasting in those big flames of his. Besides, where do you think those swords of ice came from?"
"Tormund, we all saw his magic!" Kurt said, somehow managing to keep his single eye on both Colin and Tormund at once. "Are you truly taking his side?"
At that, everyone turned to the red-haired giant whose eyes narrowed at the blatant challenge. He spoke then with a menacing, rumbling growl, "And if I am? Will you challenge me for the right to lead?"
Kurt's eye widened and he quickly shook his head, appearing to forget all about Colin as he tried to climb out of the hole he'd dug for himself. "N-No, Tormund, I was just—"
"Then unless you can best me you will listen or I'll decide it's too much effort to keep you alive." Tormund turned to Colin, regarding Dawnbreaker as she shone in his hand. "Lower your weapon, Colin, and we shall do the same," Tormund offered, although Colin could see that the man was clearly reluctant to offer peace. Was magic really that hated?
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ultte's pox-scarred face filled with absolute hatred. Colin gladly returned the sentiment. He was really starting to hate this wintery shit hole and everyone in it.