Pyrophobia

Ralof had finally fallen asleep after doting on me all day. He seemed a little distant while nursing my remaining wounds and my hangover. It had been a while since I'd had the luxury of alcohol (A caravan of Nords returning to their homeland had stopped by the village and sold us mead for close to nothing) and I'd overdone it yesterday. Had I embarrassed him somehow? Had I said something disturbing? Maybe, had I revealed something about myself that inspired pity in him?

All right, the last option wasn't true. I knew that because I'd been completely open with my past so far. If he didn't pity me before I got drunk, he had a heart of stone.

But maybe we'd seen his sister when he dragged me home and she'd gotten mad at him for letting me drink myself into a stupor in my condition. It wasn't really his fault—he'd been staring at me all night, sure, and talking to me, but he didn't pay attention to my drinking at all, or else he probably would've stopped me.

My brow furrowed when I considered another option. Did he perhaps feel…guilty? Was it possible that he said something (did something?) he knew I wouldn't like, and feared that I would remember? That would explain the resistance against repeating the events from last night, and the constant care I'd received from the moment I woke up. Did he think I'd actually remember and tried to spoil me as an apology, or did he do it out of actual care for my wellbeing?

Maybe I was looking into this too much. Maybe it was just that we were friends in the past and had had a good time at the bar last night. Maybe he knows how bad a hangover can be and just took care of me because I was his friend. Maybe I should get some sleep.

Unfortunately, Gerdur had asked that I go to Whiterun in the morning to tell Jarl Balgruuf of the dragon attack and request that protection be sent for the people in Riverwood, and the sun had started its slow ascent across the sky.

I sighed, rubbing my hand across my face in an effort to lessen the incredible weariness that had settled in me at the sight of that damned morning star. I sat up in bed and stretched, having laid in the same position on the mattress without having gotten any actual sleep, and threw my legs over the side. I looked at Ralof, who was curled up underneath his own blanket against the early morning chill that had settled in the air. I smiled fondly—although I'd seen this particular Nord kill several Imperials, some Frostbite Spiders, and an aggravated bear, he looked strangely harmless when asleep. I shook my head and stood, now wasn't the time to think about how Ralof look while sleeping.

I walked over to the place where my armor hung and pulled on the gear. The blood stain was gone from the heart and sewed together neatly. The trousers had also been fixed from the slash marks that bear had left. The creaking of the bed stole my attention and I looked back to Ralof's bed. He hadn't woken up, but he seemed to be shivering rather violently. His armor hung by the wash bin, still wet, so I guessed that he'd gone to bed without clothes. I sighed, the thought that a Nord should be used to cold weather crossing my mind, before I took the blanket off my own bed and draped it across his body. It took a moment for Ralof to stop shaking and he unconsciously burrowed himself deeper into the sheets. I stifled a laugh and walked towards the door, walking out into the cold and knocking my boots against the ground.

It was going to be a long walk to Whiterun.

I approached the grand double doors of Dragonsreach. The guards didn't try to stop be when I entered, but I stopped when I opened the doors to the sound of an argument going on between the Jarl and some of the people surrounding his throne. I walked up without fear, not caring about what this man had to say about my armor (I'd gotten several jeers from the guards on my way in, but no comments…yet) or my ruffled appearance.

"Stop!" The Jarl's housecarl stops me, pointing a rather dangerous-looking sword at me. "State your business with the Jarl of Whiterun!"

I looked down at the tip of her blade passively, lowering the point from my line of vision with the tip of my index finger, "I've been told to give this message to the Jarl directly."

"Whatever you can say to the Jarl, you can say to me."

This Dunmer was beginning to get on my last nerve. I could feel my upper lip curling in a way that I knew would expose my feline fangs if I let myself get out of control. I suppose the Jarl noticed my annoyance and called off his housecarl.

"It's okay, Irileth, I want to hear what he has to say."

I didn't cast the woman another glance and walked past her, stopping when I was in front of the Jarl's throne. The man had an annoyingly relaxed posture, and I had the sudden urge to draw a weapon and attack him to teach him not to be so comfortable in the presence of strangers.

I didn't, but I did feel my nose twitch slightly.

"There has been a dragon attack on Helgen," I said with no emotion, my arms tense with the chance of an attack. This was enemy territory. It wasn't right—I wasn't safe here, I could sense it in the blood of those around me. I wasn't welcome.

The Jarl seemed to snap at this, spouting words at the man standing to his right side. I ignored the conversation until another question was directed at me.

"Where did you hear this from?" The Jarl asked. I suppose I should've been listening, as distrust had settled in the Nord's expression.

"Oh you know," I rolled my eyes. "I had a good view of the dragon when I was being burned alive at my own execution."

"Execution?" The Jarl asked. "You're a rebel?"

"No," I replied. "I wasn't at first. But the Imperials don't know the difference between a rebel and a refugee, so I decided to make it easier on their narrow minds and be both. I was near the border hunting Elk and I was categorized as a rebel because I was so obviously a part of the Stormcloaks those Imperials were taking into custody, though I lacked the weaponry, heritage and proper armor to do much rebelling."

The Jarl didn't reply, but just set his lips into a straight line that betrayed his aggravation.

"Riverwood requests protection. They're in the most immediate danger of the dragon and don't have anyone to keep it from slaughtering everything in its path."

"Irileth," The Jarl said. "Dispatch some men to Riverwood at once."

"As you wish, my Jarl."

I smiled and turned away from the Jarl, walking down the steps and passing the extravagant dining table set out. There were many dishes sitting on it that had gone cold already, and that made me angry.

"You're disgusting," I hissed, my eyes snapping to the Jarl, whose own eyes had gone to mine.

"Excuse me?" He said, obviously offended by my insult.

"You're going to let this food rot here? You sit there in your godly throne while some people are starving. You don't even have the sense to eat what you're given and be thankful for it. You dare even be relaxed in the presence of a stranger who could very well take your life!"

"What if your point?" The Jarl asked through gritting teeth.

My hand had slipped into my armor while I was speaking and I gripped a throwing knife. It left my hands and flew through the air. A look of fear crossed the Jarl's face before the knife stuck in his throne, just to the right of his ear.

"My point is that you shouldn't take those things for granted when they can so easily be removed. I'll gladly take on any men you send to me for my death. At least I'll know I didn't take anything for granted."

With that, I left the shocked Jarl and his Steward to their business. Irileth entered just as I left, and asked what had happened. I could see her face when she noticed the knife that could've gone into her precious Jarl's skull had I been the murdering type. None of the guards acted, as their leader had not given them any direction.

I could only think that if it had been my Jarl that had nearly been injured, I would have killed the criminal before my Jarl could take a breath to scream. Perhaps I was the murdering type after all.