Pyrophobia

Ralof

I watched in silence as Godrael crept through the trees. An Elk stood, unaware, below him. The dumb animal was plump and meaty, but very fast. Its antlers were in perfect condition, even though its hide had gotten a nasty scar from something in the past. As Godrael would say, leather isn't made to look pretty, it's made to protect your sorry ass from another's sword.

Even if you didn't know him, by the way he effortlessly jumped from one branch to another without the Elk even twitching an ear, you could tell he was part Khajiit. Nords just didn't move that gracefully, nor did we possess such lithe figures. If we did, I admitted, we'd probably freeze. But Godrael seemed just fine, dressed in a plain shirt and trousers he fashioned himself from a wolf hide. I'd tried to insist he wear his new armor (made from dragon's hide, and decorated with the beast's scales) but he'd only said that an Elk wasn't worth that kind of protection.

As soon as Godrael was over the fat creature, he dropped down. In the split second it took for him to land on its back, its head snapped up. Godrael worked too quickly for my eyes to follow, and had already broken its neck by the time my brain caught up. I joined him in skinning the hide and cutting the meat, leaving a carcass of bone, fat and organs.

We went home with the bounty, Godrael cooking some of the meat for our lunch and preserving the rest with salt and sticking it in a pan of snow. He commented on how we could preserve food for longer than his village could, since if we put it outside without heat, it would freeze on its own. We laughed and left for the blacksmith, who had told Godrael upon his first visit (seeing him make the dragon's hide armor) that he could use his forge any time, if he shared the leather. He started working the hide into leather, talking with me while he worked.

Just as he was about to finish the leather, the door connecting the main house to the forge opened, and someone walked out. I didn't look, but I could guess who it is by Godrael's tense shoulders and grim expression.

"Hadvar."

"Godrael."

I didn't speak, just sat by Godrael and waited for him to finish the leather. He'd stopped working on it and had his hands clenched in his lap.

"Stormcloak scum," Hadvar hissed, though he knew as well as I do that he couldn't prove either of us were Stormcloaks, especially Godrael. Any documentation of our capture with Ulfric was destroyed along with Helgen, and Godrael would've been marked down as a refugee illegally crossing the border, anyway.

"Imperial bastard," Godrael said, going back to working the leather. "I forgot to thank your superiors for imprisoning my father and killing my mother. I so enjoyed watching her starve in my arms."

"Perhaps if he hadn't been a rebel—"

"You mean a Khajiit?" Godrael interrupted, not looking at Hadvar. "Letting his family worship who they wished and doing no harm himself? Being in Skyrim, legally, since he married a native? Oh yes, he was a damned dirty rebel."

Hadvar didn't reply with another comment on rebels, but cleared his throat, "There was a delivery for you. Lucan brought it because you weren't at Gerdur's house. It's on the porch."

With that he disappeared into his uncle's house, and Godrael spared a little smile.

"Why are you smiling?" I asked.

"Am I the only one who thinks that's funny? He knows that the Imperials did wrong by my family by imprisoning my father—he just tries to use the Stormcloaks against me."

"It's not working very well."

"Which is why I find it funny. I'm done with this, I'll give some to Alvor and pick up the package. Who sends me things, anyway?"

On the way to the porch, Godrael joked about how the ghosts of the Imperials he killed sent him a cursed suit of armor. I laughed, but stopped when Alvor answered the door. The two traded pleasantries and Godrael gave him the tougher pieces of leather and kept the thinner ones for himself. He said he planned on making some armor for Frodnar, since he was going to become a man soon.

"That sounds like a good idea," Alvor said. "If you have the time, I wouldn't mind you making some for my daughter, also. But my wife doesn't need to know about it. Dorthe often pretends she's a warrior fighting off monsters and Sigrid thinks it's unbecoming of a lady."

Godrael laughed, "I wouldn't mind at all. Not to worry about Sigrid, I didn't plan on telling Gerdur either."

For some reason that I would never understand, Godrael had such a way with people. Alvor was serious, dark and, to be truthful, a bit scary. Until Godrael spoke to him, I'd never even seen the man smile. Godrael had somehow found a way to even get him to joke around, becoming friends with him despite Alvor supporting the Imperials and knowing Godrael planned on joining the Stormcloak's side of the fight.

Alvor went back in his house and Godrael looked around the porch. There was an oblong crate with a note attached, To the Thane of Whiterun, Godrael. He knelt by the crate and opened the top, a grin spreading across his face when he saw its contents.

"It's an axe!" Godrael said, gripping the wrapped handle of the weapon and pulling it from the crate. It was a large, two-handed, double-headed war axe. Godrael didn't seem to have any trouble with the weight and rested it on his shoulder.

"When are you ever going to use that?" I asked, laughing slightly. "I bet the Elk would run faster if they saw you coming at them with that thing."

Godrael laughed and bent down to take the note, "It seems I've been promoted from attempted assassin to Thane," He continued reading the note in a ridiculously regal voice. "To the Thane of Whiterun, Godrael. It has come to the Jarl's attention of your dragon slaying abilities and, in hopes that you will help the fair city of Whiterun again, he has dubbed you Thane of Whiterun, appointing the soldier, Lydia, to be your housecarl. You've also been given permission to purchase property in Whiterun and all crimes committed there have been pardoned. Many thanks, Jarl Balgruuf and his court."

Godrael frowned, all humor gone from his face, as he read over the letter a second, then a third time.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"They want me to slay dragons for them," He said quietly, looking at the axe as if it was tainted. "They even engraved a dragon on the axe. Bastards."

"What makes you think they want you to slay dragons?" I asked, reaching for the letter. He gave it to me, setting the axe back in the crate.

"It says that I've been brought to the Jarl's attention for my dragon slaying abilities. This wasn't to thank me for killing the one dragon, it's to bribe me to kill more."

I could see his point. The axe was a good bribe, I could see it in the way Godrael stared at it—as if being forced to give back the tainted weapon felt like having his heart ripped from him.

"It's a beautiful axe…" He said, kneeling and stroking the blade. "I wish the Jarl would've just wrote that it was for slaying the damned dragon and been done with it. I might've even helped with a few considering the gift—if it wasn't just a fluke the first time, that it, and I'm able to kill it without thinking too much again. But not it's…"

I hated seeing Godrael so sad. It was a petty sadness, but understandable. Godrael hadn't had any luxuries in life after his mother's exile and death—unless you counted the cheap Mead he was sold by the Nords, but it was most likely expired, so I didn't. Of course he would fawn over something so expensive and beautiful that he had received by doing something he'd admitted felt natural. It was similar to being given gifts for breathing. And now he was being forced by himself to return it because it was tainted with bribery.

"Wait," I said. I took a piece of coal from Godrael's pocket and scribbled down words on the fine, white parchment before handing it back. "Read it."

"To the Thane of Whiterun, Godrael. We commend you for slaying the dragon and, in hopes that we can repay you the Jarl, has dubbed you Thane of Whiterun, appointing the soldier, Lydia, to be your housecarl. You've also been given permission to purchase property in Whiterun and all crimes committed there have been pardoned. Many thanks, Jarl Balgruuf and his court."

Godrael stared at the paper, my own scrawl no doubt looking pathetic next to the Steward's careful handwriting, before reading it over again. There was a small smile before he started laughing hysterically.

"I know my handwriting isn't the best, but there's no need to laugh at me," I said, feigning an insulted expression.

Godrael was now laughing so hard he couldn't stand on his own and had to lean again my shoulder, beating my back with his fist and his shoulders shaking. I felt something soak through my shirt. Dear Divines, I'd made him laugh so hard he was crying!

"I've made the Thane of Whiterun cry! Just what would Lydia think, Godrael?"

He almost floored at that, now making no sound and his shoulders shaking with muted laughter. Each time he sucked in a breath, he sounded positively asthmatic. By the time he calmed down, his own difficulty breathing seemed extremely funny, making him laugh even more. Eventually, I calmed him down enough that he just chortled under his breath, coughing to cover the chuckles—albeit poorly.

"Do you think you can keep the axe?" I asked, picking up the weapon. I had a bit more trouble with it than Godrael had, but that was mainly because of an arrow injury I'd received after he'd collapsed in Helgen. I'd spared him the detail then, and I did now, just moving the handle over to him. He lifted it easily, resting it on his shoulder and admiring the professionally done wrapping and the details of the blade.

"It's a lovely weapon. How do you think it would look with blood on it?"

That made me laugh almost as hard as he'd been laughing. I'd half-expected him to say "Imperial blood", but it would be unwise since we're still on Alvor's porch. They were friends, but even the best of friends have lines that shouldn't be crossed. Alvor knew that Godrael had killed Imperials, but knowing and being told are two different things.

"Beautiful. Blades never look as good as they do with gore on them," That makes me think of how Godrael looked after killing the bear. His face was still burnt then, but it was easy to imagine his healed one in the place of the damaged one. Blood on his cheek, a grin on his lips, an easy stance as he held up the bear skin proudly. He'd never killed a bear before—they were too rare in Cyrodiil when you were that close to the border—and he couldn't wait to taste the meat. The bear was fat and had just stored up for the winter, which would've made pretty good meat. But he'd been tired, and I'd just salted the meat I could fit in a pack and we'd moved on, Godrael hanging onto that hide even when he'd collapsed, gripping it unconsciously like a childhood blanket.

I snapped out of the thoughts when I see Godrael smiling at me.

"Thanks, Ralof," He said. He kicked the lid back over the crate and turned away. "I suppose I should go thank Lucan for delivering it and everything."

We walked to the Riverwood Trader in companionable silence. Godrael had strapped the axe to his back, admiring the axe head that hung between us every so often. I was suddenly happy I'd had that idea to get him to keep the axe—he seemed so happy with it, and it was painful to see that hurt puppy expression on his face.

Upon arriving at the Trader, Camilla informed us that her brother was out. We didn't ask why—it wasn't any of our business—but Godrael fell into a conversation with her. I'd made an effort at first to keep Godrael away from her, since Camilla is known to have many suitors, and enjoys the attention from them very much. She, true to her reputation, tried to coerce Godrael in a proposal of marriage, but ended up talking with him about random things. Eventually it became clear that, when confronted with the proposal, he would bring up something unrelated. They became fast friends after that.

As Godrael laughed, I realized that I wanted, very badly, for him to always be this happy. Godrael's face, posture, and personality all called for constant happiness, and it always seemed to break him when he was sad. He wasn't created to be sadness, he was made to be happy.

I resolved right then, that I would do my best to make that possible.

Lucan running in and immediately beginning an argument with his sister over a stolen claw didn't help my mission in the least.