Sun's Dusk had gone and passed a few weeks ago. The frost was beginning to settle in; the winds carried whispers of winter which filled in the empty corners of Leifr's shack. He had all but recovered from the incident with the giant - physically, at any rate. The giant had ripped open a hole inside of him in the shape of his parents and Leifr wasn't sure that anything would ever plug the void. Work didn't seem to do it - the potatoes lay under the hard-packed dirt, weeks past their prime. His hoe had been ditched outside since the day of the attack and the metal blade was discoloured bloody copper with a heavy coat of rust. Leifr knew if his parents were around to witness his apathy that he'd be beaten and some days, when the wheat withered and fed the insects, he could swear that he could almost hear their lectures. That in itself was as much a reason as to why he let his father's legacy rot away.

In his dreams, Leifr was able to see the blurry faces of his parents but never once was he able to talk to them. The moment he realized he was in a dream was always when he woke up and although he couldn't remember exactly what he was about to say, his heart would always throb painfully in the mornings. In this way, sleep was only a temporary solution and anyway, Leifr found out that too much sleep would grant him a splitting head-ache. Food and drink remained plenty in his house -as his father had a habit of stocking up the larders- but it was a necessity that Leifr would often ignore until his stomach felt worse than his mind.

The event that had transpired took up much of his thoughts but try as he might, Leifr wasn't able to come up with a clear timeline of what had happened. It was all a blurred memory; a giant mash of fear and anger. He would have forgot about his saviour if it hadn't been for the potions and sword that they had left behind - luckily for Leifr, no one had seen fit to question him about them. The bottles were unlabeled and Leifr didn't dare try them out in case they contained something malicious. The sword was of unusual make. Its steel blade was midnight-black and the handle was carved out of smooth wood. A weapon that Leifr would have dreamed of owning in happier days that now lay discarded besides his nightstand. In the days that passed, his tale of defeating the giant had grown from the humble 'one for one' story to Leifr single-handily slaying the beast with a single shot between its eyes.

Mralki had checked up on him a few days into his solitude but had since stopped - he had his own inn to worry about. Besides a visit from the village head, Rorik, who had transferred ownership of the farm to Leifr's name, he had been left alone to his own devices. The meager sack of gold that was his inheritance laid abandoned on the floor; the note from the Jarl had been discarded in a similar fashion. With no friends and no neighbours to talk to -not that he would have been receptive to their advances- Leifr slowly grew used to becoming the local hermit. Once or twice he gleaned some sick pleasure from denying Lemkil shelter in his home but he always felt worse afterwards when he spied his neighbour attempting to rebuild his house; always alone.

When Evening Star arrived, Leifr found the chill breeze to his liking. Even with Rorikstead's almost magical prosperity, there was a nice crunch to the soil wherever the villagers walked. Some days, they would wake up to find a small film of ice covering puddles on the road - they were lucky that this was the extent of Skyrim's cruelty. It was a common joke born out of pity for the wretches up North, that their beard's beards wouldn't have enough hair to keep them warm.

Still, Rorikstead had moved on from the disaster and hard feelings were melted with the upcoming festivities. The New Life Festival, held on the 25th of Evening Star, was rapidly approaching the village and preparations had already begun a week before. They bustled about like ants, baking pies and cakes and brushing up their fine clothes. Leifr watched the proceedings in disinterest and even rolled his eyes when Rorik declared he had hired a travelling troupe of bards to come play. Banners went up, torches were lit, and generosity managed to join even the worst of enemies to become acquaintances - if not friends.

The day before the festival, it seemed that the villagers had finally remembered the lad left behind in time - Leifr. It was at cock-call they pounded on his door before finally breaking in. Leifr had the look of a dead man all wrapped up in his sheets like a draugr. However, not even his filthy hair could deter the jolly mood of the villagers and after a few seconds of hesitation, they bore Leifr out to wash and trim his greasy locks and to otherwise get him cleaned up.

"Stop it," Leifr had said. "Just leave me alone. Mralki, this is none of your business - what do you mean it's time? Time for what?"

Leifr's protests were weak and in vain and soon enough he found himself dressed in new clothes that smelled slightly of starch. His teeth had been brushed and his hair was pulled back into a clean braid that kept it out of his eyes. All in all, Leifr looked like a new man - reborn again save for the dull expression he carried. Although he had tried to retreat back into his house for the night, Mralki had dragged him back to the inn, seemingly determined not to let him fall back into his stupor. There, Leifr spent the night listening to the old innkeeper's complaints that Erik had not found the time nor interest to come back to the village for the festival. Erik, he had said, was a foolish boy who had let his mercenary work go to his head. He had gone traipsing off with strange women and had never felt the need to contact his father since, only popping in from time to time to pick up a few supplies. Leifr only nodded and grunted in agreement; his earlier jealousy of Erik's life replaced with general apathy.

It was late when he finally let sleep take him into her gentle arms.

His dreams were plagued again with the faces of his parents, only this time he found himself in the form of a giant. He wielded Erik's sword which was comically small in his hand and was squeezed grotesquely in his armour. Strangest of all was the fact that on top of his monstrous body, Leifr still retained his human head. Only grunts would come out of his mouth when he tried to speak with his father.

"Ayarg garag gar!"

He stomped the ground underneath his feet and sent the blurred outline of his mother flying. Horrified, he reached out to grab her only for her to disperse in his grip.

"Ayarg garag gar!"

The mist that made up his parent's ethereal bodies rose up, surrounding him, choking him, drowning him until the only thing he could see were their eyes. He screamed then -or tried to- and felt a jerk in his stomach before he hit the ground.

The sheets Mralki had draped over him had somehow tangled themselves around his body and tied themselves around his neck. Leifr gasped for breath and struggled to rip them off. His body felt un-naturally hot and he began to feel his body all over, checking to make sure that he wasn't the monster he had seen in his dreams. Leifr began to feel foolish as he lay back in bed - what would the others say if they found out he was having nightmares at his age? A grown man scared of his own dreams? Leifr allowed a bitter smile to scrawl on his face before he turned over and returned to sleep.

When he woke up, he had no recollection of the night prior besides a red rash on his neck.

The New Life Festival seemed to be grander and flashier this year than Leifr had recalled. As he walked mindlessly around the stalls he watched the festivities with a hungry eye. Even if it had only replaced his melancholy with a deep longing, it was something. It was a change. The tables were groaning from the weight of all the food that had been piled on top: fruit pies, loaves of fresh-baked bread, cuts of cured meat, jugs of ale, and to top it all off, several glazed suckling pigs with fresh apples in their mouths. It was pure decadence that rivaled the tables at Dragonsreach and for once the villagers could eat just like Jarls. He bumped past a small girl carrying a meat pie in her grubby hands.

'Merchant's daughter,' he thought to himself. Leifr eyed her as she tripped and fell, sending the food skidding across the floor. To his surprise, she merely laughed before running back to the table for more. Evidently, harvest had been good -it always was, in Rorikstead- and stingy was not a word that the villagers seemed to be familiar with. Travellers came to the village in a steady stream and each one came carrying different kinds of goods - unusual fare from Morrowind, finely cut gems from Markarth, and clothes imported all the way from Cyrodiil. They had faced a dangerous journey in coming to Skyrim -as the land was locked in a vicious civil war, not to mention the dragons flying about- but their appetites seemed to fare no more for the worse; the tables were significantly relieved of their loads by the hungry merchants.

"Oh! Leifr! What a surprise."

Rona.
Leifr wondered when he had seen her last. A farm-girl that lived only a few homesteads away from him, Leifr had never seen her been rude to anybody. They had grown up together, more or less, but had grown a bit distant as they had matured.

"Yeah," he grunted. "Been busy. How're you?"

"Oh, you know." She idly tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear. Leifr got the feeling that she had grown up in the short while he hadn't seen her. "Anyway, it's so good to see you out again. I felt so horrible, you know, with all the -"

"Just remembered, I promised to help Mralki set the tables. See you, Rona."

"Oh. Well then, I guess I'll see you soon?"

Leifr hastily ducked into the crowd but everywhere he went he was met with familiar face after the other. There was Ennis who offered him a curt nod. Leifr noticed that he was taking special care in corralling his prized goat, Gleda. Then there was Reldith, who clucked her tongue sympathetically at him which made him rather squeamish. Although she had been nothing but kind to him, his father hadn't been fond of the Mer and some of his words had brushed up on Leifr. He quickly excused himself as thoughts of cannibal elves popped up intrusively in his mind.

Aenar, who he'd often lost bets to. Haerdun, Jorunn and Eyja, the merchant triplets. It was a disconcerting experience for Leifr to experience sympathy from those he hadn't even talked to; worse when it was from people he had antagonized in the past. It felt fake and somewhat insulting in a way - but worse than that was the praise he garnered from the crowd.

"Hey - Leifr! It's the Giantslayer! Come, ha-"

"Is it true? I mean, y-"

"Don't look like a warr-"

"Look, Mam, look! There's tha-"

Leifr hurriedly pushed his way into Frostfruit Inn, where he knew Mralki would help usher him away from public view - at least, he hoped.

The inn was packed full of weary travelers who had journeyed far just to taste the fruits of Rorikstead's fertile soils. Their fur cloaks were matted with dirt and their wares littered the floor so that the wenches would trip and fall. High pitched laughter broke through their rumbling voices and clinking plates every now and then. Rorik himself would have been proud to see and hear the guest's compliments but Leifr had no interest in hearing their comments. All he was after was a nice, quiet room where he could spend the rest of the festivities in peace.

"Mralki," he shouted above the din.

"A minute Leifr, give me a minute. I've got customers to serve."

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. He made his way over to the bar before seating himself in an old stool next to an elf and two traders. The men smoked out of wizened old pipes and spoke in quiet whispers. He rest his head on the polished wood - for some reason, Frostfruit Inn had a homely sort of feeling to it to the point where he could relax even amongst the crowd. He watched as Mralki began to usher the servers out with large trays overflowing with mead and roasts of every kind.

"Good town, this. You from around?"

Leifr could sense the elf trying to initiate a conversation with him but he wasn't in the mood to reciprocate.

"S'alright. Seen better," he mumbled.

"Yeah? You must get around," she took a swig from a stained water-skin which reeked something awful, "but somehow I feel different."

"Right."

"Yeup."

Where was Mralki? Leifr could sense the people's attention slowly being driven towards him as he sat. Their eyes pierced like daggers at his back; a dozen drunken buzzards all hungry for a story he didn't wish to tell. He rubbed his neck nervously as the hair on his arms began to stand up - a sure sign of things about to go downhill.

"Oh sure I know 'im! Why, 'es righ-ova-dere. Shall I get 'im for you? Nice lad, really, I'm sure he'd appreciate some small talk, sure!"

Leifr overheard a bar-wench, Sonje, pointing him out. He cursed her silently and stood up to leave but it was then Mralki slammed a glass on the table, slopping ale everywhere. He sat back down with a flushed face but declined the drink. The last thing he needed was alcohol to enhance his nightmares which were sure to come tonight.

"So... what's up, Leifr?"

"Nothing. You got a room?"

"Sorry, lad. You know how it is near holidays," he shrugged and took a swig of his own, "inn's close to burst. I suppose it's good for business - least I get enough coin from travelers."

Leifr sighed. Although he hadn't enjoyed the festival as much as he had when he was younger, he wasn't looking forwards to spending his night in his drafty shack. The noise had helped distract him and Leifr found that it was comforting to listen to people speak - just so long as it wasn't about himself.

"Look, Leifr. I know it's a hard time for you right now... with your parents gone and all," Mralki spoke quickly, as if scared he would offend him in some way, "but it's good to have you out again, you know?"

"Mmm."

"I'm serious, Leifr. You've always been close to my son - I don't like seeing you hurt like this. Being alone - it's not good for the spirit."

Mralki paused and when it became clear that Leifr had resigned himself to his lecture, he carried on.

"I know what you're going through, lad. My wife, Anja, left me when Erik was just a babe. It was the darkest days of my life," he spoke moodily before downing his tankard, "truly, it was. A man can only be as strong as his convictions and back then - everything I believed in, every single one of the Divines had failed to keep my wife safe. I was a right wreck then. Even when I had Erik to take care of... I just couldn't."

"I remember waking once, just to stoke the fire. And you know what?" Mralki carried on without a hitch - he knew Leifr wouldn't ask. "The damn thing had been out for days and I'd never noticed. Thought I'd lost Erik - gods, he was cold. And even then, even after all I put her baby through, I just couldn't care enough to do anything else. You want to know how I got past that? Friends, Leifr, friends. I owe everything to Rorik - he managed to get my head on straight alright. So," Mralki gripped Leifr's hand, "don't try to hold the world on your shoulders. You need help, just reach out - you got it?"

"Got it." His voice was slightly strained as if he were holding back a dry sob. What the kindly inn-keeper had seemed to forget was the fact that Leifr had wanted to reach out - he just couldn't. It was as if a spell hung over his head; a smothering cloud that surrounded him everytime he tried to break out of his grief.

Mralki coughed and pat his back awkwardly. It was as if he knew Leifr was about to cry and to save him the shame of public weeping, he quickly switched subjects to one less emotional. Judging from his excited tone, it had been something he had meant to show Leifr for days. "By the way, take a look at this. A message from our Jarl himself. Thought you'd be interested."

With that, he left Leifr alone to browse over the scrunched up note - after all, he was an innkeeper and tonight was a festival to remember.

Leifr unfolded the paper and read:

By order of Jarl Balgruuf:

To all able bodied men and women of Whiterun Hold. The giants located at Bleakwind Basin have been harassing and attacking citizens and visitors.

A reward will be offered to anyone who kills them.

-Proventus Avenicci

"Fuck me," Leifr whispered. Even Mralki, who had no doubt seen the potions and sword laying next to him, believed that he had killed the giant. Or was he giving him a way out? A way to focus his anger on the monsters that had attacked his family? Though Leifr had no true experience fighting giants he very quickly began to imagine himself taking on Bleakwind Basin. Dashing in and out between a giant's legs before bleeding them out through a cut in their ankles. His heart beat faster and his arms felt weak even though he hadn't moved from his stool - his imagination was just too vivid. Wiping his palms on his pants, Leifr stuffed the bounty note in his pocket before he raced home.

He spent the rest of the night reading and re-reading the missive and changing his mind with every line that he read. He had heard of bounty hunters before, men and women who killed wanted criminals for coin. Groups like the Companions, who were mighty warriors for hire. Leifr knew of rat-catchers and wolf-hunters; it was no long stretch to think to giant-hunters. It was so simple - how had not thought of it before? He heard the celebrations slowly die down as the moon came ever closer to the ground - Leifr missed the gift exchanges that would no doubt be happening now. He wondered briefly if anyone was looking for him, perhaps with a parcel meant exclusively for himself, perhaps Rona who wasn't so bad to him - he blushed and was glad that she wasn't there to read his mind then.

When dawn broke the night at last -like an egg filled with paints had cracked across the twilight canvas leaking rays of purple, yellow, orange, and red- Leifr had finally settled on a decision. His eyes were bloodshot from staying up but for the first time in many weeks, a smile was stamped firmly on his tired face. Not only had he decided to go to Bleakwind Basin but he had also avoided his nightmares for one night. It was a start.

Leifr had strapped on the sword the stranger had given him and at once was filled with a sense of purpose. It was quite a different experience from rushing a giant unprepared to having a bag full of potions and a sharp blade - Leifr felt strong, stronger than he had in weeks. His anger had been honed as much as his sword and he directed it at the monsters who had broken his family apart - the giants.

"Mother, Father, Sissel, and Britte," he recanted out loud, "so that's four people it took from me. Four lives for four giants, d'you think that's fair?"

The silence that followed was all the answers he needed. Leifr grabbed his pack -he had planned carefully and stocked it with the potions, blankets, a shaving kit, a few candlesticks, a waterskin, a flint, and a small pouch of coins- and left for the world outside. He could pick up food from the feast's leftovers and there was a spring that he knew of close by, which he could use to wash up and fill his waterskin.

"Good-bye, Father. Mother. I'll always love you even if I never said it much, you know that? I'm sorry I didn't take care of your farm -I know how much it meant to you- but I'm going now. I'll come back in a few weeks, if everything goes alright, okay? And Sissel - I don't know if you can hear me now but you'll always be my sister. Britte can be too, I guess. She wasn't all that bad, was she?"

The words came pouring out his mouth before he could stop them - but he didn't care. A defiant voice rose up in his head. Let them hear me, it spoke, let them see. I don't care. They hadn't given a shit about him before the festival, hadn't come seen him when he needed them most - "I'll be back, I promise!" He shook his head clear of all thoughts, refusing to let himself become the hermit again and with one last look, left.

As Leifr mingled with the hung-over merchants who were now leaving Rorikstead, he picked up a few pieces of bread and cheese before stuffing them in his bag. He refused to look back at his village and instead pre-occupied himself with hiding from the villagers - he was in no mood for tearful farewells. With his sword and cloak covering his head, Leifr looked for all the world just another mercenary.

Which, technically, he was.

"This is the adventure you've always wanted, isn't it?"

Leifr had never once imagined that his dream would become his nightmare.