Pyrophobia
The call came in early morning. I wasn't asleep, as Hod hadn't been forced to sleep in the shed for once and was snoring so loud it shook the house. I'd been sitting in bed, carving the bow for Frodnar when I heard it, and I almost snapped the bow in half. I set it down and listened to the thundering above me.
"Do-vah-kiin…" The sky seemed to draw the word out.
The others had woken up, but only Ralof stared at me. I'd read about the strange voice I'd used in the Barrows and realized it was similar to the Shouts of dragons. I told Ralof, and he admitted that a lot of evidence seemed to be piling up about my identity. He knew what the word meant, as did I. I breathed shakily and pursed my lips.
Who could've known that I'd used a Shout? Irileth's men, I'd heard, had forgotten my incident with the dragon soul. They now think it was merely a hallucination and that I could never be the Dragonborn. I was too young, apparently, even though Dovahkiin are born with dragon blood. And Hadvar hadn't really seen anything, as he'd entered the main chamber after I'd read the word, and Arvel was dead. It was disturbing to think that anyone knew something that I was sure was completely private.
"What was that?" Gerdur asked, rushing to her son's bed and comforting him.
"It was nothing. Maybe just a lightning storm. I'll go check the weather," I said hurriedly. Ralof got up, too, insisting that he check with me. We both got out of the house as soon as possible. It was actually raining, but the last time I check, rain clouds didn't call for the Dragonborn.
"What in Oblivion?" I breathed, putting my face in my hands. I didn't feel the need to cry, but I was frustrated. I didn't know what was happening, nor did I have any control over what had happened as of late. From what I've read, the Dragonborn absorbs a dragon's soul and uses it to use the Thu'um. They were supposed to fight dragons, and kill them. That was what they were born to do.
Dragons frightened me to my very core. Giants? Easy. A Sabre Cat? Practically a kitten. Frostbite Spider? Creepy but manageable. Damn, even a Troll is simple in comparison. But Dragons make me freeze, make my insides turn to nothingness. Their power, strength, fire…
"I have no idea," Ralof said. He was leading, and directing me to the bridge just outside the village. It was a nice place to speak, and I could see the fish bounding out of the water as the storm pounded the water.
"I understand it," I said. "I'm the Dragonborn. I've absorbed a dragon's soul and I've used a Shout. There's no denying it now. But if there's suddenly this dragon epidemic, and I'm the only one who can kill them permanently…Skyrim is in trouble."
"You killed the other dragon," Ralof said.
"What if I can't do it again? What if it was just an accident and I just get myself killed the next time I face a dragon?"
"What went through your head exactly, the last time you met a dragon?" Ralof asked, stopping on the bridge and leaning on the raised edge. I climbed on the highest point of the ledge, right next to Ralof, and let my legs hang over the water.
"I don't know," I sighed, thinking back. "Hunting and…Fear. I remember thinking that it was my hunting experience that saved me, and made it easier. But…"
I shook my head and Ralof put a hand on my shoulder. I looked at him and he smiled, "I think you'll do fine. You just need to practice."
"How am I supposed to practice for the fire, Ralof? I can't even stand the sight of a flame, let alone fight a monster that breathes it. I just remember how it felt to be burned so severely, and I freeze. I can't move, or think."
Ralof's eyes widened, "You're still scared of fire?"
"You would be too if you'd nearly died!" I defended.
"I didn't mean it that way," Ralof said. "I just didn't know. I'm sorry."
"Why me?" I whispered. "Why not someone more brave, that could actually battle a dragon without shaking in his boots?"
"You didn't shake in your boots," Ralof said.
"You obviously weren't there."
Ralof didn't reply. We ended up sitting on the bridge for hours. I caught some fish as they jumped out of the water, and Ralof busied his hands with skinning them. We made minimal conversation, and I noticed that Ralof didn't mention the call for the Dovahkiin, or my inability to be what I was born to be. By the time we decided to head back home, the sun was rising.
"Ugh, what is that?" I asked suddenly, just as Ralof was gathering the fish meat to leave.
"What's what?"
"That horrible smell. Like…Blood and decomposing!" I covered my nose and hissed, looking down the trail by the other side of the river, searching for the source of the smell. I was answered with a horse-drawn cart, carrying a Whiterun guard guiding the horse and several dead animals in the back. I gagged and Ralof pulled me behind his back. I argued as he kept me standing behind him, insisting that I could take care of myself, but Ralof just hushed me and allowed the guard to approach him.
"What is your business in Riverwood?" Ralof asked. I could feel the anxiety rolling off of Ralof, and I wondered if he, possibly, had any bounties after him in Whiterun.
"I'm here for the Dragonborn. He's been requested by the Jarl," The guard said. "Would you happen to know who that is?"
Ralof looked at me over his shoulder and I nodded. Slowly, he let go of my wrist and I stepped around him. The guard looked shocked, as if he hadn't known I was standing behind Ralof, and I rolled my eyes. There wasn't that much of a height difference between Ralof and I, and it wasn't as if I'd been crouching. Whiterun guards were very observant.
"What?" I growled.
"You're requested to come to Whiterun," The guard repeated. "You are the Dragonborn, right?"
"Yes. Why am I supposed to come to Whiterun? The last time I was there, I nearly skewered your Jarl, I was under the impression my return wouldn't be that welcomed."
"The Jarl send a letter saying all crimes are forgiven."
"Forgiven, not forgotten. And I haven't forgotten that your Jarl disgusts me. Tell him to screw off."
The guard dug around in the pouch on his thigh and removed a piece of paper, "It is concerning the Greybeards' summons."
Ralof blinked, "That was the Greybeards?"
"Ay."
"Who are the Greybeards?" I asked. Both Ralof and the guard gave me strange looks. "Okay, I was raised on the run, in Cyrodiil for most of my life. Excuse the fuck out of me for not asking my mother for a bedtime story while we were dodging the Thalmor."
"They're the masters of the Voice, Godrael. They live on the Throat of the World. On High Hrothgar. If they're requesting you, they must've heard your Shout."
"Well…What does that have to do with Jarl Useless?"
The guard coughed, "Jarl Balgruuf has made the trek up the seven thousand steps before. He wishes to speak with you in order to prepare you for your journey."
"He just wants on my good side so I don't let his city get burned down by dragons."
"That's what I was thinking," Ralof said, glaring at the guard. Ralof, for whatever reason, was more defensive of me when he thought I was being taken advantage of. It usually had to do with shopkeepers and the like that tried to cheat me out of my money. Since I haven't been in Skyrim since I was five, and I've been living off of my own hunting, I didn't know much about haggling. Ralof insisted on coming with me every time I went to buy something, and this seemed no different.
"He is trying to lend a helping hand, so that you both might have a peaceful…arrangement."
"He's trying to use Godrael," Ralof argued. "I'm going with him."
Inwardly, I sighed with exasperation. While it had been a comforting thought at first that Ralof would always have my back, I'd failed to realize that it would mean his constant presence around me at all times. I couldn't even go hunting alone anymore, because Ralof insisted that a Sabre Cat might attack me from behind—even though he'd seen me kill several before, and it was always with practiced ease.
On the outside, however, I just shrugged, raising an eyebrow at the guard.
"The more the merrier," He didn't sound very merry, but I figured he'd been told to get me to Whiterun at all costs. I mused that perhaps I should've asked for something larger, like money or jewels. But what would I do with all the money it would take for me to be convinced to stand the Jarl's company? And I wasn't the jewel-wearing type.
"We have to tell Gerdur," I said. "If you don't mind, I'm sure it will only take a moment."
Gerdur, it seemed, was resistant against letting us leave. I'd just gotten back from the Barrow yesterday morning and I'd been gone all night 'checking the weather', ("Only prostitutes stay out that late at night! Is that what you're doing now? Being a prostitute?") and she still hadn't tended my wounds. Eventually I talked her into it, smoothly explaining that it was the Jarl himself that had requested me as an offer of peace after he'd offended me the last time I was in his presence. She reluctantly gave us the blessing to go, and we travelled back to the guard.
The trip was long, and Ralof had ripped part of his shirt in order to make a mask for me since it was obvious that I wouldn't make it to Whiterun without throwing up if I continued to inhale the stench from the decomposing animals in the cart. I almost declined the impromptu mask, but I took it anyway, knowing that Ralof's shirt probably smelled better than a dead Skeever.
The road was bumpier on a cart than I would've ever liked to know. Truthfully, I could've made it to Whiterun on foot faster than the cart. Which was sad, since I stopped constantly to shoot animals and catch fish. We arrived in mid-afternoon, and I removed my mask and got as far away from the cart as I could, approaching the gates.
As with the last time I was here, I was constantly stared at. No one said anything as Ralof and I walked to Dragonsreach, but it was probably because we were dressed in normal clothes instead of Stormcloak armor. The inside was as extravagant as ever, but I didn't miss that the food from the grand table had been removed. It was impossible to tell if it had been taken for my visit, or was only set during actual meals, but I would bet it was the former.
"Jarl Balgruuf," I said boredly, walking up to the older Nord's throne.
"Ah, Dragonborn. So nice of you to come," He replied, smiling tightly and standing.
"I didn't think I had much of a choice. Your guard sounded like he would've followed me around like a lost puppy if I didn't go with him."
The Jarl's smile never faltered, and it was making me uneasy.
"I see you brought a guest."
"This is Ralof," I said, tapping my knuckles against Ralof's chest. "That's all you need to know."
The slight glare the Jarl sent my way didn't go unnoticed, but I just grinned. For some reason, making him angry seemed entertaining—perhaps because it was so easy to do.
"All right then," The Jarl said, clasping his hands together. I noticed the knuckles were unusually white, and it gave me a thrill to know I pissed him off so much. "Well, as the guard should've informed you, I'd like to help you prepare for your journey to High Hrothgar."
I could feel Ralof's constant glare sweeping past my head and directly at the Jarl. If I didn't know better, I could've sworn that Balgruuf was sweating under my friend's hateful gaze. This was an amazing place to be, at the moment. I'd never seen a Jarl visibly sweat before. It was obvious that Jarl Useless broke easily.
I filed the information away and tilted my head, "Help me prepare how?"
"Well, I could give you some armor—"
"I have armor made from dragon hide. I don't think there's much stronger than that."
"Weapons…"
"I still have my axe, and my bow will be more of an ally than any weapon you could possibly provide."
"…Information?"
That, at least, interested me. What information could I get about High Hrothgar?
"Go on," I said, crossing my arms across my chest.
"There are many Frost Trolls, so I would warn you to be prepared. If possible, I would learn how to use fire to your—"
The reaction is immediate and I heard my own voice and Ralof's together say, "No," automatically. The Jarl, for whatever reason, didn't question this. He just nodded.
"And I would pack for cold weather," He finished.
"I can survive fine in the cold," I said, picking at my nails boredly.
"You're Half-Khajiit."
I looked up, "Is that the only thing that anyone focuses on? I'm also Half-Nord, and I was raised in Skyrim and the border of Cyrodiil. I can handle cold."
The Jarl must know he touched a nerve, and I can see that he'll remember it, just as I'll remember each of his weaknesses. If this how it feels to have an acquaintance that feels more like a rival? Each meeting is force-fed civility while we nitpick each other's faults? If so, I sincerely can't wait for my next visit.
"Also," The Jarl said. "I believe that there was a strange Khajiit man that requested to enter the city. It was allowed permission until he…well, he asked to see you. It was just after I'd sent my guard to retrieve you."
I looked up, "Did he give a name?"
"Forgive me if this comes across as racist, but I couldn't pronounce it if I tried. All I know is that he was sent to the camp set up outside Whiterun's walls. He was dressed as a monk, if I remember."
Khajiit religious figures, sometimes called monks by other races, were rare in Skyrim, considering my father's people often fell to petty thievery (and also thievery of the not-so-petty kind) to make ends meet. But in Elsweyr, they were quite common. There was only one monk that would even care where I was, and follow me here.
"I don't believe you," I said. The only monk that would go through all the trouble to follow me here, and even risk his neck trying to get into the city walls, had been imprisoned with my father for unlawful worship. That had been when I was six, the same age I was when I became the man of my house. Thirteen years. It was impossible he was alive. "He's dead. I know he is. He was imprisoned years ago."
"They don't always kill prisoners," The Jarl said. It almost sounded sincere, as if he started actually caring. The, I realize, it was probably just to hit another nerve with me and hope I responded with sugar and not blood.
"No, they don't," I knew that, but what they did wasn't any better. The word torture hung in the air thickly, and we all knew what it meant. If the monk was alive, then it was possible he was insane.
"He's just outside the city walls. You might've not seen the camp, it's a little ways off. Very small. It wouldn't hurt to check."
A part of me suspected a trap, even though it would be a negative move on the Jarl's part. It was instinct to expect the worst, after seeing innocents fall into traps and die slowly and painfully. But Ralof wasn't raised in that world, and he guides me gently to the entrance of Dragonsreach, then the entrance of Whiterun, and finally, we search for the small camp that the Jarl described. I used my nose to my advantage and found the very strong scent of another Khajiit male (a skill that came in handy for my territorial ancestors, and hasn't really helped me until now), which had previously been masked by the scent of rotting animals.
We approach the camp and find it empty. I don't dare to enter it without permission, but Ralof sees no harm. I still smell the Khajiit male, but I feared that my nose had gone crazy along with my mind. Was I just smelling him because I wanted him to be here? Because I wanted some memory of my innocence? Maybe I wanted some hope that my father could still be alive?
A large weight suddenly fell on my back, and I found myself held tightly against a solid body. The frame is lithe and light, with wiry muscles and robes that flutter around me in the breeze. It almost felt like an attack, but after a moment, I realized I was being held lovingly, a purring in my ear and my hair being stroked, like when I was a child.
"It's so nice to see you again, kit," A gravelly, accent-ridden voice told me, strong arms squeezing around my waist. I had a feeling he wanted to pick me up and spin me around like he used to, but I was far too heavy now.
"You too, Ma'keer."
Ralof had just spun around, only to see me being hugged by a Khajiit man. He looked understandably confused.
"Ralof, this is my father's brother, Ma'keer. Uncle, this is my friend, Ralof."
With the introductions done, Ma'keer released me and invited us to sit around the fire with him. Ralof and I, used to such cold weather, are forced to sit back from the flame. I looked away from it, not wanting to tell my uncle of my phobia in fear that he'd feel guilty and put it out, only to freeze himself. Ma'keer explained that he'd been held by the Imperials for unlawful religion to Ralof, who didn't doubt it in the least. He then told us that he'd managed to escape during the public torture of another man imprisoned for murder, when a dragon's shrieks were heard in the distance and all of the guards—having heard about Helgen—went into chaos to try and prepare the village and prison for an attack. He, unfortunately, was unable to save my father, but reassured me that he was alive and well.
"Why did you attack before?" Ralof said. "I mean, why hide in the tree?"
"Truthfully, I was planning to kill the both of you," Ma'keer admitted sheepishly. "But it was only on instinct. I smelled two other males, and my old blood made me think I was in danger. I wouldn't have attacked if I recognized Godrael's scent, but it's changed since he's…He's a man!"
Uncle wrapped me in another hug and I laughed a little. I always remembered him making up for my father's distant attitude by being overly-proud and emotional. I was glad to know that even Imperial prison, daily executions, and public maiming couldn't change him.
"It's understandable, Uncle. I don't blame you. I would've done the same thing."
Uncle smiled and we sat around the fire and talked well into the night. I told Ma'keer of the allegations that I was the Dragonborn ("I always told your father that there was something special about you. It was written in the stars!") and my summons to the Greybeards. He listened in rapt attention, grinning like a fool. I skimmed around my first battle with a dragon, and almost skipped the Helgen incident, but Ralof insisted I tell my uncle of my fears. Ma'keer was sympathetic and even gave me a hug. When he asked if I'd like him to put out the camp fire, I came to a realization that shocked me into silence.
I hadn't thought of the fire, not two feet away from me, for five hours.
END
I've been told that a Half-Khajiit and Half-Nord is a little unrealistic.
First: A man can duel-wield a sword and a fistful of fire, but a Khajiit and a Nord can't have a kid? Seems legit.
Second: You must remember—I RUN THIS SHIT. Deal.
And DAMN. SO MANY FAVORITES. SOOOOO MANY.