Pyrophobia

As I left Whiterun, I turned away from the trail leading back to Riverwood and stalked into the expansive fields and tall grass. I stabbed an Elk as it fled from a wolf further in, then made quick work of the wolf. I skinned both the animals with practiced ease and cut the meat from the fat and bone. The wolf was skinny, but it provided nice hide and would be useful for leather. The Elk had broken its antlers sometime in the past and had rendered them useless, so I didn't bother cutting them off.

I shouldn't have been as angry as I was, but it seemed to cloud my mind and block out anything else. I'd always been annoyed by someone wasting food—the occasional travelers that threw half-eaten supplies from their caravans, those Nords that had almost disposed of those cheap Meads, and finally the Jarl, who had left food to the buzzards and hadn't seemed to have touched a bite of it.

I had felt the unbearable urge to teach him how quickly these things can be taken away. Drought and famine can swoop down at any time—especially with the war and the sudden dragon plague. Death comes swiftly after starvation. I'd learned not to take whatever I had for granted from the village. People had died in my arms before, my mother being one of them.

Maybe that was the reason I felt so strongly about not wasting food. My own mother had died from not having enough, and the Jarl was just throwing his away. That would explain the rage, but not the death threat. It was too late that I realized I was probably going to be arrested the moment I returned to Whiterun. If I ever did. I hadn't been in Whiterun for very long, but I had a feeling that throwing a knife at the Jarl was a big no-no.

As I continued my walk, I noticed that I'd come very close to a ruined guard tower that over-looked the plains that surrounded Whiterun. My breath caught at the sight of small fires, but they seemed to be surrounded by dirt, so it was unlikely they would spread. Despite this, I was careful to distance myself from the tower, too traumatized by the burning I'd received from the first dragon to even risk being near a flame. Gerdur hadn't even lit a fire in the house until I'd fallen asleep, and it was always out before I woke up.

I turned sharply when I heard footsteps in the grass and I saw several Whiterun guards and the housecarl, Irileth, marching across the plain. Fuck.

"You there!" Irileth shouted as I tried to figure out where to hide. If it had been a forest, even a marsh, I could've hidden somewhere. "You are going to help us track down this dragon, understand?"

Dragon? I promptly collapsed to my knees and started praying to all nine of the Divines, "Mara, Akatosh, Arkay, Dibella, Julianos, Kynareth, Stendarr, Zenithar, Talos! Anything but a dragon!"

"Get up!" Irileth demanded, approaching me and pulling me up by the collar of my armor. She seemed to have ignored the prayer to Talos, or possibly have expected since I pretty much admitted to being a Stormcloak in the Jarl's presence. She just shoved me towards the ruined tower and my heart sunk.

A dragon had been there. With my luck, it could turn out to be the same dragon from my execution—not that I'd gotten a good enough look at the hellish beast to recognize it (excuse me, but I was too busy not decomposing while conscious), but I feared it might recognize me.

Before I really knew what was going on, I had a guard-issued bow and one-handed axe shoved at me. The quiver felt heavier than the one I'd had for hunting, and the bow string was too tight for my comfort, and I'd never used an axe unless you counted Ralof and I in the cave, when we'd fought off the Imperials—I really didn't considering I'd picked up one Imperial's bow and quiver and used it. I must've left it at Gerdur's, or possibly dropped it while being half-carried to Riverwood.

I did my best not to pass out as I waited in silence. Irileth and her guards had gone in search of survivors and I waited by the half-crumbled arch. How was I going to face the dragon? I was so frightened by my first experience with one, I couldn't even see a flame without feeling the distant burn from my execution, my flesh slowly crumbling from my bones as it died off and peeled.

I shuddered, trying to steer my thoughts from fire, when I heard the screech. It was just as I remember it, but had twice the horrifying effect. I hid under the arch and started shaking, the hot tears that rolled down my face only reminding me more of the dragon's inferno. The ground shook violently and I felt something breathing on me. I turned, only to be met with the dragon's head. If I were any more insane than I already was, I would've believed that it was laughing at my tears.

I scrambled to flee the beast's path, but was blown forward by a sudden current. Dragons, apparently, had a very powerful breath. I landed hard on the ground and lifted my head. Everyone seemed to be trying to kill the dragon, but it didn't seem interested in their arrows and swords. Its eyes were focused on me.

It may have been childish, but I so wished for my mother to be here. At the same time, I was happy she was dead at this instance. I wanted her comfort, but I didn't want her to be in the dragon's path, either. Perhaps Ralof, who knew how to fight—but I realized that if I was forced to want one person to be standing in front of this beast, it was exactly who was standing here.

I wouldn't wish a dragon's locked gaze on my worst enemy.

My body seemed to recognize the situation from my years of hunting and, by the time my mind had caught up, I already had an arrow pulled back in my bow, aimed right at the dragon's soft eye lids. The arrow flew without my permission, burrowing itself in the dragon's eye and making it shriek again. It thrashed around, completely destroying the arch and blasting fire into the air. I moved without thinking, jumping onto the injured beast's neck and making my way to its head. Almost effortlessly, I dug my axe into its skull, watching as it stopped moving before its good eye rolled back to look at me and it fell limp.

There was silence as I removed my axe from the dragon's skull, and picked off the good scales from its hide. Almost instantly, after I'd gathered my last scale, its skin began melting away until there was nothing but bone left. I fixed my eyes on some that would sell greatly at a local shop, but stopped. A wind was surrounding me, colors of all sorts that wove themselves in and out of my flesh. There was a feeling of rightness, as if I'd been born just to have this feeling. As if the only purpose in my life was to kill these monsters and feel just like this.

There was a murmur of excitement among Irileth's men until she turned and snapped at them.

"Quite, the lot of you!" She went ignored, the group of guards approaching me and forming a circle. The colorful wind had disappeared, and I now felt stronger, somehow. Like killing that dragon had been so natural, it had made my mind and body more…able.

"You just survived a Shout."

"You absorbed its soul!"

"Are you the Dragonborn?"

The last question made the men all go silent, before bursting with excitement. They repeated the question, as if I knew the answer any more than they did. They crowded even closer until Irileth pushed them apart.

"I don't care about any of this 'Dragonborn' nonsense! All I see here is a dead dragon and the man who killed it—nothing more, nothing less."

In a strange way, I was thankful for Irileth's apathetic attitude towards my apparent soul-capturing abilities. For some reason, it felt as if this should be more private—that I should be able to do this without an audience. Without saying anther word, I turned and walked away, picking up the bones from the dragon and stuffing them in my pack. Some, I was forced to carry, but it was only a short walk to Whiterun from where I stood in the plain.

I wanted to badly to be back home.

I arrived at Riverwood hours later, tired and numb and just…I'm not sure. I just wanted to sleep, but I knew deep down I wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. It was horrible to be as tired as I was and live with the knowledge you won't be dreaming.

Ralof stood just off of the town's entrance, having changed clothes to seem like less of a Stormcloak threat and more of just a normal citizen. He approached me as I walked towards him and, wordlessly, he put a hand on my shoulder. My frame shook and I let out a sob, involuntarily.

Dammit, men didn't cry! They especially didn't cry without reason, and not in the arms of their friends. Or was this the safest place to shed my tears?

It didn't matter. I found myself being hugged by the blonde Nord, his eyes facing the same direction they had been before. I allowed myself to cry freely, even if I didn't know why. Because of the dragon? The Jarl's wasteful nature? The strange wind and assumptions by Irileth's men?

I pulled apart after a few minutes, rubbing my eyes until they felt raw and dry. We walked in silence to Gerdur's house and Ralof forced me to sit at the table by the fireplace. There was a warm flame there, and I found myself shaking again, thinking of what would happen to this wholly-wooden house if that flame were to get out of control.

Ralof saw my shaking and quickly extinguished the fire. His apologies fell on deaf ears as I turned away from the empty fireplace and put my head on the table, resting on my arms. I was so tired, but my eyes refused to get heavy and give me peace.

"Do you want something to eat?" Ralof asked.

"I killed a dragon," I said suddenly, tracing patterns into the wood with my index finger. Ralof's eyes widened and he sat down in front of me, quietly requesting details. I spilled the entire story—the Jarl's annoying and wasteful habits, my hunting, the ruined tower, Irileth's quest to kill the dragon that had destroyed the tower, the dragon remaining fixated on me the entire time, my own ability to somehow overcome conscious unwillingness and killing the dragon, the strange winds, and Irileth's men's proclamations that I must be what they called "Dragonborn".

"Wait," Ralof said. "They called you Dragonborn?"

"Yes. I'm not quite sure what it means. It sounds familiar, but I can't remember where I could've possibly heard it from."

"It's a legend, just like dragons were up until the execution. It's supposed to be a mortal who is favored by the gods and given the soul of a dragon. It's said that they are the only ones truly able to kill a dragon and have it stay dead. They absorb a dragon's soul and use it to Shout, and speak in the dragon's tongue."

"That explains…The wind. But I haven't felt as if I could speak in a dragon's voice."

Ralof tilted his head, "How do you feel?"

"Tired," I replied. "But I can't fall asleep. It's…bothersome."

"Perhaps it's just the excitement. You just killed a ferocious dragon, after all. You might need to wait for the feeling to wear off before you sleep."

"Or I could get a sleeping draught. But that won't help much, since I'd sleep through tomorrow as well. They always affected me strongly."

"I'll keep that in mind," I didn't quite like the malevolent smile on Ralof's face, but I settled with an insulting hand gesture in place of a retort. "Now, do you feel like you can eat? You haven't had a meal all day."

"Yes," I was starving, in fact, but hadn't noticed. I handed over the Elk meat and Ralof set to cooking it, adding a nice broth from some his sister already had. I waited patiently as he filled two bowls with the Elk meat stew and handed me one, placing the other in front of himself. I ate slowly, not wanting to rush into it and become sick. Ralof didn't touch his and, when I finished mine, he gave me the other bowl. I made quick work of that, as well, and leaned my head on the table.

An few hours passed as Ralof and I talked with each other. Eventually, my eyes finally got heavy and I felt myself slip into unconsciousness.

Then I was in front of my childhood home. The little cottage, built from stones, stood proudly before me. Father was kneeling on the front steps, his arms open wide and his fur looking especially soft and welcoming. I ran to him, feeling myself enveloped in my father's warmth. He brought me into the cottage and I heard Manna singing. She took me into her arms and settled me on my bed, singing a lullaby.

"Divine gift to me,
Just the way you are.
A beautiful child,
From a distant star…"

Manna was fading, her face thinning away until just her skull remained. Her voice, as quiet as it was, continued singing.

"You are so sweet and pure,
Just the way you are.
Manna's precious jewel,
Daddy's rising star…
You're the Divine's gift to me."

Suddenly, it was no longer Manna's voice, but the piercing shriek of a dragon. I scrambled away, curling up upon myself and weeping. Manna was dying, and I could hear Daddy's voice calling for me, to be the man of the house and take care of my mother as he was dragged away by Imperials.

Then the house was on fire. But our cottage hadn't caught fire…Had it? This was wrong. Very wrong.

"Godrael? Goddy?"

I slammed into the floor, groaning and still half-asleep. The dream was over, and I felt slightly more secure than I had. It took me a moment to realize that it was Ralof calling my name, having pulled the sheets from my bed and sending me to the floor.

"You looked like you were having a nightmare," He muttered, helping me up and into the bed. Night had fallen and Gerdur and her family were all asleep in their own beds. They seemed to have missed my unconscious episode.

"I was. It was awful."

"Well, it's over now. You know none of it's real. Maybe we should get to bed before we wake the others."

If only Ralof had known that my nightmare had been real. My mother haunted me with her tale of how the Divines sent me to her. My father cursed me by telling a child how to be a man. The dragon, most of all, followed me everywhere, all too real for me to find peace in sleep.

I laid there until the sun rose, cursed by those I loved and followed lovingly by that which I hated the most.

END

Note: My friend told me it was a little ironic that Godrael was praying to Akatosh, while he had a horrible phobia of dragons and fire. I laughed, then felt bad, then laughed again. Now I need sleep.