Hahnu Do Keizal
by Toasted Panic
Chapter One
Faal Siiv Qostiid
(The Found Prophecy)
"Hey, you ... you're finally awake."
Eyes slowly blinked open, staring blankly, unseeingly at the wood of the wagon floor. The distant voice spoke again, less hazy this time. There was mist all around. It was hard to see through the blurry grey shapes. Why couldn't she move?
"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there."
Ambush? She could hear horses trotting, wheels rolling against brittle ground. What ambush?
"Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy ... If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."
Skyrim? Stormcloaks? All she wanted to do was sleep. She felt half awake, her eyes drooping, her body sluggish. How quiet it felt, wherever she was heading.
"You there!"
She looked up slowly. Was someone speaking to her?
"We shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the empire wants."
It was so hard to understand. She struggled to speak but her voice refused and all she mustered was silence. She wasn't supposed to be here?
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."
"Shut up back there!"
She wanted so badly to ask. But words ... which were the right ones?
"What's wrong with him, huh?"
"Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
"Ulfric? The jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion ... but if they've captured you ... oh, gods. Where are they taking us?!"
She wanted to ask what was wrong, what was happening, why she shouldn't be there. But all she could do was try and ward off the sleep that loomed over her like a thick, warm blanket. How wonderful it would be to close her eyes, to feel the rocking of the wagon and fall into darkness. How wonderful it would be to have that dream again. What had she been dreaming of before she woke? It was something lovely, like a song and sunshine. Were there flowers and water, too? It had been warm, that she was sure of. And a woman's voice ...
"I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."
She dreamt of a woman's voice. The woman sang a song, a song she knew by heart. But she was so sleepy, it was hard to remember.
"No, this can't be happening ... this isn't happening!"
"Hey ... what village are you from, horse thief?"
"Why do you care?"
"A Nord's last thoughts ... should be of home."
Home.
Sleep took her once more. Instead of the dream of sunshine and song and the woman's gentle voice, all she could hear and see were the black of silence. She stood in the middle, within the vastness of the dark hush, looking up at a sky of nothing, feeling like she should have seen something there. Something familiar.
"A Nord's last thoughts ..." she whispered, "should be of home."
Skyrim.
Home.
Is that what it was? What was she supposed to remember?
Naal ok zin los vahriin wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal.
"Sworn to keep evil ... forever at bay."
She could hear it. The song. The woman was singing. She loved whenever she sang that song. It was her favourite one out of all the songs she knew. The words were so beautiful. She remembered someone saying to her once that it was the only language fit for poetry. She smiled and nodded to the memory. How did the rest of it go?
"Believe ... believe ..." the whispered words struggled to form what came next. They hung in the air for a moment, waiting, still with anticipation. Then, she remembered. As easily as she drew breath, she sang in a small voice.
"Mindok, faal Dovahkiin alokaan."
Believe, the Dragonborn comes.
The waggon jolted to a stop. She woke and suddenly the song was silent, swallowed by wakefulness, vanishing into thin air. They were in the middle of a village with towers and houses. What were the words? What was she supposed to remember? The voices around her were alive once more and she wanted badly to shake them off. They all needed to be quiet. She wanted to hear the song again.
Someone was pushing on her. It was time to get off the waggon.
Her legs felt like water. She followed the others as they stood on firm ground. Where were they? The air smelled like morning, of hearth fire and pine. There were loud voices everywhere, they made it hard to think. One of the men from the wagon was shouting. She could almost smell it—the desperate fear in his voice.
They were calling out names, the people dressed in red and silver armour. They sounded familiar.
"Ulfric Stormcloak.
"Ralof of Riverwood.
"Lokir of Rorkstead."
"NO, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"
He ran. She watched his back getting smaller as he bolted up the cobbled road. Was that his heartbeat drumming painfully, or was it hers against her chest? Everything happened all at once.
"HALT."
"You're not gonna kill me!"
He sounded so far away. It seemed like he would disappear, like his legs would carry him far away. Something, a whisper in her head, told her, "Ru, kril kiir. Ru." Run, brave child. Run. She wanted to shake her head, no, she shouldn't run. She couldn't. It was painful to move her legs. Like running on icy water and shards of sand.
"ARCHERS."
She could barely hear the feathered fletching whistle in the air as the broadhead of an arrow sank shaft deep into the back of the man who ran. Lokir of Rorikstead. That was his name. She watched Lokir fall to the ground. The dull thump seemed to echo. He wasn't moving. She stared. She couldn't breathe.
"Anyone else feel like running?"
The woman's voice pierced the cold air and was met with stunned and fearful silence.
She wanted to shake her head. No. No running. But she wasn't supposed to be here.
"Wait, you there."
Someone else was speaking. The man calling out names. He was speaking to her. She turned to look at him, eyes wide, blank, almost unseeing, the dead body a fixed vision.
"Step forward."
Cold fear bid her to follow the order. Her legs moved, one foot in front of the other. She could see his pale face closely now, the man dressed in silver and red, holding a quill in his hand.
"Who ... are you?"
Her mind drew a blank. A name, she needed her name. But ... which one.
Amativahzen.
No. They wouldn't understand that one. Few people did. What did they call her, the ones who brought her so close to home? The ones she no longer saw around her? Were they dead like Lokir? What should she tell the man? He was waiting, watching her with a face void of expression. What was she supposed to tell him?
Her mouth opened slowly. Her throat felt so dry, it seemed like her voice would crack and come out brittle and hoarse.
"Lanre."
Lahn—ree. It sounded like a song of sand and red hot summer suns, a place by the glowing blue sea, not at all like these cold mountain shadows and soldier pines. She could barely muster a whisper, but there it was in the air, her first spoken word in this strange, familiar place. She needed to remember that name.
"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."
Home? But Lanre wasn't from here. Was she?
"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."
"Forget the list," scoffed a woman in a familiar plumed helmet. "She goes to the block." She was the one who called for archers.
"By your orders, captain ..." The man seemed hesitant, his expression almost sorrowfully apologetic. "I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."
Lanre's heart thrummed frantically, beating painfully against her ribcage. She didn't want to die. She needed to be alive. But why? Why was this happening? Why was she here? Why did they want to kill her? Why did they kill Lokir? Her head hurt, the blood underneath her scalp pulsing, fit to bursting.
"Follow the captain, prisoner."
She complied, willing all the sound to cease. Lanre wanted sleep. It felt like the only thing that made sense. Everything seemed to slow, even the people talking. It was a distorted blur to her, as if she was just now only waking. Or falling asleep again. That didn't seem so terrible. The smell of pine filled her nose. Was this the scent of home, or was it the salt of the warm sea? Skyrim, or some other place she could barely remember? Lanre felt as if she could remember, if only she could lie on the ground and close her eyes. She hated knowing nothing.
What was that sound? It seemed like the sky was speaking to her. How strange. Maybe she was dreaming.
"MY ANCESTORS ARE SMILING AT ME, IMPERIALS. CAN YOU SAY THE SAME?"
No. She was awake. Lanre was almost sure of it.
"YOU IMPERIAL BASTARDS."
"JUSTICE."
"Death to the Stormcloaks."
They all sounded so far away.
"Next, the Nord in the rags."
Lanre looked up. She means me.
She had a vague idea of what was about to happen. The block was visible in the corner of her eye, already covered in warm blood, giving off gentle steam in the cold air. There was a headless body on the ground. Lanre didn't want to smell so much blood.
She stepped forward. Her body was numb. This wasn't happening to her. She wanted to close her eyes and pretend this body belonged to someone else.
Was the sky talking to her again?
"I said, next prisoner."
"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."
The people in armour were addressing her again, urging her to the slaughter. Like a frightened lamb, she kept moving forward on ungainly legs.
The ground felt hard and cold as she knelt. She could feel the warm wetness of the block against her cheek as she turned her head up, gazing at the masked man with the bloody axe. The sky was shining behind his back, making him look like a large fat shadow dressed in fur. She could see the mountains in the distance. They were brighter this time, pale blue against the clouds.
Skyrim. Were those her last thoughts? She could barely remember the place by the sea, the place where the woman would sing that song to her, in a language she knew by heart. All she knew were the pale blue mountains and viridian pines of Skyrim.
The sky roared.
"WHAT IN OBLIVION IS THAT."
The world erupted as black wings burst from behind the mountains. Lanre could hear everything and nothing at once, panicked words and shouts blurring into chaos. The black wings enveloped the tower above her.
She stared, deaf to the world.
Red eyes bore into her, hot and scorching, like black smoke drowning lungs. Death by fire.
"STRUN."
The sky exploded and black clouds swirled, roaring death.
Lanre watched the dragon's red eyes, still as stone. They cut into her.
"Rok gro naal Rah do naal lok," Lanre found herself whispering.
DOVAHKIIN.
She was awake.
Erik swung his sword in one last clean arc. Iron bit down hard into tree bark and pulled away with a brittle crack. His ears filled with his own ragged breathing and pounding heartbeat. Erik straightened his back and surveyed the damage. The pale bark bore the scars of years of hacking and slashing by his borrowed iron short sword, an old one that a Whiterun soldier had no longer needed.
What seemed a lifetime ago, his younger self had painted a rough image of a grown man on the dead tree, a nameless, faceless adversary he unleashed his wrath upon. The paint was weathered by the storms of time and his wild young fury, barely visible now that he was seven and ten.
Wiping cool sweat from his brow, Erik smiled down at the blunt iron sword in his hand. "If you were any sharper, I'd have cut my foe down this time," he laughed brightly, sheathing it at his hip. With a lingering glance at his unmoving enemy, Erik jogged up the hill towards Rorikstead.
The dead tree beyond the hill near Lund's hut was far enough from the village that Erik wouldn't be bothered by prying eyes. It was where he ran off when he finished his chores early—but mostly when he felt like skipping his farming duties for a day. He would grab his sword from his secret hiding place behind the house and sneak off beyond the road, out of sight of anyone. There, he met his enemy almost every day for the past four years, clumsily honing his skills.
"I could surely fend off a bandit now," he said aloud as he hurried up the hill. "If any of those cowards ever attack Rorikstead again, I'll be ready." Erik patted his sword hilt with a grin. "And all the bandits would go running with their tails between their legs! They'd crawl into their damp and dirty caves and whisper to the others, 'Better not go to Rorikstead anymore. We were thrown out by their mighty warrior—Erik the Slayer, he's called. Gods, how terrifying! He moves as swift as the wind and cuts men in half with his greatsword.'" Frowning, Erik raised his hand to scratch his beard. "Of course, I'd have to get myself a greatsword for all that. I couldn't be a proper warrior without one. All in good time, I suppose."
The setting autumn sun was low in the sky when Erik finally managed to sneak back into the inn after putting his sword away. He readied himself to explain to Mralki why exactly the manure had yet to be on the field, but noticed that most of the villagers were gathered around two strangers at a table. They were Nord men wearing hide armour. Their faces were dark from the sun, brightened by the excitement in their eyes as they spoke to the villagers in hushed tones.
Curious, Erik approached, pushing himself in between Lemkil and Rorik.
"What's all this about?" he asked.
Lemkil grunted and muttered to him, "A pack of lies, that's what. Talk of legends and flying monsters—bah, what a bunch of nonsense."
Erik's eyes grew wide. Turning to the two strangers, he asked, "What does he mean 'flying monsters'?"
Before either of the men could speak, Lemkil scoffed and sneered, "Of course only a half-wit like you would be interested. I just told you—it's stark raving madness."
"Watch your tongue," the younger of the two strangers with long blond hair and moss green eyes finally spoke up. "I've never been known to show a naked blade to my elders before, but this time I might make an exception for making us liars."
His companion, an older man with a smiling face and brown eyes, laughed heartily and patted him on the back. "Easy, Willas. We might have seen it with our own eyes, but the news of Helgen is harder to believe than anything else. Might even be easier to believe that the Imperial scum cooked up the story to convince us they hadn't burned the village themselves."
Erik frowned, more confused than before. "Did you say Helgen burned down? How come? What's happened?"
The young man with green eyes leaned forward in his seat, staring up at Erik. "I'll tell the tale true, that you can be sure of. Always have since Jormund and I set out west to flee from that nightmare. And you and I know that Nords flee from no small thing."
Erik was enraptured. He nodded, encouraging Willas to continue.
Solemn green eyes lit up as Willas spoke. "Jormund and I travel between Falkreath and Helgen every fortnight. We're hunters, you see, and whatever we can't sell in the city we try and sell at the settlement. One morning a few days ago, we're travelling up the northeast road to Helgen, and suddenly we hear this hellish roar up in the mountains. Didn't sound like any bear or wolf we've ever seen in our lives. It was loud, too—folk up in Riverwood probably heard. It was that loud. Jormund here thought it was thunder. I shook my head, real slow with my eyes on the sky. 'That doesn't sound like thunder.' Everything went real quiet for a moment. So we decide to keep on walking—but there it is again. It was louder this time, too, I felt like my ears would start bleeding. At this point, we're wondering if it was wiser to head back to Falkreath. There wasn't any time to go on and say so, though—because that's when we heard the screaming. Sure as winter, we knew it was coming from Helgen."
The entire inn was silent with baited breath and even the roaring fire seemed muted.
Willas gave his audience a sweeping glance. "We never ran so fast in our lives. Bows drawn, swords at the ready—we thought we could help those poor people out, whatever it was they were fending off. We got as close as the gates, and by Talos ... my blood ran cold."
Beside Willas, Jormund's cheerfulness seemed to have vanished, his solemn eyes fixed on his companion with wariness.
"The sky was dark all of a sudden, black clouds swirling like an angry storm with flaming rocks raining down. The black thing on top of the watch tower was huge—so large it could have swallowed ten men whole. It had leathery black wings that cast a shadow bigger than a longhouse, horns taller than any man, and glowing red eyes like burning coal. The way it looked down at the village—a gaze like that could turn the bravest warrior into stone. Its fanged black mouth was spewing oily fire, burning everything in sight—gods, the smell ... but the screams were the worst. Death by fire is an ugly thing."
Willas cast his gaze down, gripping his mug of ale hard enough to turn his sunburned knuckles white.
"As I live and breathe—a dragon. A real dragon. My eyes couldn't believe it. Pa used to tell me stories about them, how they've been dead for thousands of years. But there it was in the flesh, the vilest thing I've ever laid eyes on. We knew right then and there that fighting would earn nothing but death, a lost battle if I've ever seen one—and as much as we would have liked to see the halls of Sovngarde, the people in the village still needed help. We rescued however many we could and sent word to Falkreath and Whiterun. Helgen was completely destroyed and the air down south smelled like nothing but ash and burnt rock. The dragon had flown off—gods know where—and neither of us have heard of it since. Jormund and I set out east the next day."
Willas ended with a hasty swig from his mug.
The room suddenly burst into movement and scattered noise.
"But that can't be—dragons are dead!"
"Gods have mercy, what if it comes here to our village?"
"The soldiers won't stance a chance."
"It's all a bunch of horse sh—"
"Those poor people ... having their homes destroyed. Where would they go?"
Erik felt his heart racing. He looked from Willas to Jormund and joined in the foray of words, shouting louder above the rest. "Do you think there's a bounty on the dragon?"
There was a pause that swept a hush over the room. Then it was broken by Jormund's laugh, a snort from Willas, and an enraged shout from Lemkil, "You're dumb as a sack of potatoes, boy. What jarl would call a hunt for a monster like that?"
Erik glared. "I thought you said it was all a bunch of nonsense, you milk-drinking woolsack."
"Why you little—"
Jouane Manette raised his hands in a placating manner with an easy smile on his face. "Settle down now. Lemkil, I'm sure Erik didn't mean that—"
"But I did."
"— and I'm sure that we will all be fine. Just fine. We've done well here in Rorikstead, all of us, even with the empire's war still raging. The jarls of Skyrim must have heard the news and I'm sure something is being done—this concerns all of the realm. However, there's no use for worry, not right now. We must carry on as we always have. It is the best we can do."
Rorik nodded beside his friend. "Here, here. Jouane is right. We haven't even seen the beast—it would be pointless to run around like headless chickens. Best not add to the chaos. We should attend to our tasks instead of chattering and fumbling with our hands."
There was a sense of hesitation in the inn as people nodded their heads and murmured their agreement. The small crowd dispersed and Jouane lingered for a moment to nod in acknowledgement toward Willas and Jormund. "Thank you for the news, and do enjoy your time in Rorikstead," he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "This close to the Reach, well, we are truly blessed to have such fertile ground."
Jormund nodded in kind. "We do what we must. And while we might not stay here long, we'll remember Rorikstead. Perhaps we'll even come back, with, one can only hope, happier news."
"One can always hope. Peace and prosperity are all the good folk of Rorikstead want in life. Good night, lads." Jouane departed, leaving only the guests, Mralki, and Erik within Frostfruit Inn.
Erik wanted desperately to speak with them, but a knowing look from his father forced his legs to move and he proceeded to clear the tables of empty plates and mugs. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jormund and Willas murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Erik tried to shuffle closer to catch their whispers.
"Perhaps we should stay a while. Doesn't look like they have too many guards about the place," Willas suggested in between bites of his brown bread.
Jormund shrugged. "It's peaceful enough with wide open fields. I don't think hunting here should be a problem for us. I don't see the harm in staying, so long as we don't stir up any trouble. Besides, Markarth and Solitude don't seem like good options, what with their high walls and imperial roaches."
Willas shot him a pointed look. "Curb your talk of the empire. Tensions are high these days, and allegiance is a fickle and ill-disguised thing. I don't want to see your head on a spike."
"What can I say, I'm a fearless Nord through and through," Jormund shrugged, chuckling.
Snorting, Willas muttered, "Fearless and careless."
"I couldn't help overhearing—but, you said you were staying? Here, in Rorikstead?"
Willas's green eyes darted sharply to Erik. He narrowed his gaze. "Maybe the old man was right about you—don't you know what happens to eavesdroppers?"
Erik scratched his head. "Well, geez, I'm sorry for overhearing your conversation while, you know, doing my job of cleaning. It's just that nobody ever stays here. People just come and go, and few ever visit again. It makes for an awful and dull life. I'd rather be an adventurer and roam the world. Like you two."
Willas rolled his eyes and went back to his mug, muttering something about naive children, but Jormund spoke, eyeing Erik in a thoughtful manner. "You might consider that a blessing one day, lad. You're young and full of fire now, but one day when you're a bag of old bones like me, you'll pine for a quiet home, a warm hearth with hot stew, and a gentle woman in your bed."
Snorting, Erik sat down at their table, snatching a roll of bread from a plate. "You don't look that old. And I've had enough of that all my life, thanks."
Jormund's face lit up with a wicked smirk. "You telling me you're the rakish type? You look too young for all that mischief, if you ask me. But then again, Willas here had his first girl when he was—"
Willas punched him hard on the arm before he could continue. Erik scowled and said "I meant I've had enough of all the quiet. Rorikstead is full of it."
Jormund rubbed his arm with a barely restrained chuckle. "Ah, but you know what it's obviously lacking?"
Willas sighed wistfully at his empty mug. "Women, that's what."
"Right you are. Nines have mercy, how do you stand it?" Jormund asked Erik incredulously.
Erik fidgeted in his seat. "They pass through. Sometimes."
"Old merchant crones selling cabbage and magic brews don't count," commented Willas as he swiped Jormund's mead.
"City lasses ..." Jormund sighed. "That's one thing worth bearing about those high walls. There's nothing quite like the sight of a woman in a blue dress, hair in the wind while she's selling flowers. Ever seen a pretty young girl out here, lad?"
"The name's Erik. And ... well. Can't say I have, no. I don't think Lemkil's little girls count."
Willas groaned. "We're in a for a long and tedious stay then ..."
"In that case," Erik began, almost nervously, dropping his voice so that Mralki wouldn't hear, "why don't you teach me how to fight? You said you were hunters, right? I mean, it's clear you won't stay here forever ... but neither will I! But while I'm still here, I'd like to do the best I can to protect the village. I mean, it's the least I can do for all the people. And if I want to be an adventurer one day, it would be good to learn. What do you say?"
Willas looked at him thoughtfully without a word. Jormund hummed and stroked his bearded chin. "Your heart's in the right place, Erik. I can say that of few people these days ... Do you have a sword?"
Erik's heart leaped into his throat. "I do! I mean ... it's not very sharp, and it's only made of iron, but I make do with it."
Jormund nodded. "I don't see why we can't show you a thing or two. To tell you the truth, we've a knack for bows, but if it's the basics of the sword you want to learn, we'll suffice. Rise early tomorrow for our hunt and we'll see what mischief we'll get up to in the fields." Standing from his seat, Jormund patted Erik on the back and made his way to a room at the side of the inn.
Willas shook his head, following Jormund's retreating form with his eyes. "He always did have a knack for picking up stray puppies."
Frowning, Erik bit into his bread and spoke through a mouthful. "Does that say anything about you, perhaps?"
Snorting, Willas stood and made his way to his own room. "Maybe you're not as dim as you seem. Good night, Erik."
Grinning as Willas disappeared behind his door, Erik finished his bread, scarfing down another loaf with a slice of cheese before clearing the rest of the table of the leftover food and plates. As he brought them behind the inn counter, Mralki looked up from his coin counting.
"I hope you weren't pestering our guests too much," he chided softly.
Erik shrugged. "Don't worry, father. I just asked them if they needed help with their hunting. So they're taking me with them tomorrow."
Worry creased Mralki's brow. "Erik, you know what I told you—it can be dangerous. And you don't have any armour ..."
"I'll be fine," Erik said, perhaps too sharply. It wasn't as if he couldn't fend for himself. Erik was fully capable of cutting down any foe that crossed his path. He simply had yet to prove his mettle, but that didn't mean he should be looked down upon by his own father. It stung bitterly, the way Mralki was unwilling to see Erik's strength and passion.
Mralki sighed, his gaze downcast. "You are my only son, Erik. My only living kin. Please understand."
Erik turned away, forgetting entirely about the pile of dirty plates in his wake. "Of course. Good night, father. I'll see you in the morning. Don't stay up too late."
He stepped into his room, a small one separated from his father's. He closed the door behind him and changed into his small clothes. Ignoring the awful silence he left beyond his door, Erik climbed into bed, falling fast asleep, anticipating the morning to come.
Writer's Note: I'm having so much fun writing this story :) The song that Lanre remembers is based on the cover of "The Dragonborn Comes" by Malukah on Youtube. Check it out, if you haven't already! It's really cool :)
Using the dragon language is a fun and challenging task. When Lanre is looking at Alduin, she whispers something that translates to: "He is the God of the sky." I hope I did all of the translations right. If not, feel free to send a message my way to offer corrections of any sort :)
Also, I would love to read more Skryim fanfiction. I'm new to the community, so send me a message or mention in a review any story suggestions :) Doesn't matter if it's your own or someone else's, I'd love to read and review!
I hope this chapter was a good read. Until next time.