Hello and welcome to the fifth and final chapter of my fan fiction. Thanks so much for all of the reviews, favorites, sacrifices, ect, ect. This is not an end to the character Alarik, just a brief pause. Don't worry, I still have many plans for Alarik. Many plans. *insert ominous crack of thunder here* I may do another fan fiction about him, but later in his story as Dragonborn. Hope you enjoy it. :D :D
Alarik awoke in a bed, sheets made of the finest silk, and a scruffy, unshaven man looking down at him. Whimpering softly as he propped himself up on the pillows, his head exploded in a white light, feeling like the worst hangover he had ever experienced (others coming from the rare days Torbik had to go out, Alarik would often have a few bottles of the mead his father kept stashed away for special occasions.
"Morning, friend." the small man spoke in a rough, hoarse sounding voice.
"Where am I? Who are you?" questioned Alarik, still feeling like drunken gods rampaged throughout his head.
"Just a healer, here to see that your good health remained good whilst you slept. You see, not many people have had much experience with the Dragonborn."
"Oh" came the reply, before the Khajiit fell back into a deep sleep.
He woke feeling refreshed, but thirsty as one hundred Nords in a mead hall. Spotting a tankard of watered down ale, he swigged it down and unfolded the parchment that had been pinned down by the bottle. It read as followed:
Alarik,
I have examined your ring in great detail, and it seems it is a very old relic, dating back to the end of the second era. I found out who made it and for what reason as well, using methods that must remain a secret. It was made by a very powerful, yet nearly unknown Altmer mage called Aideadilil Silinthar. He created it with the intentions of using it to rule all of Mer kind. What became of that plan, however, I do not know. This ring was made using ancient soul trapping methods. A vast intelligence lurks within that cold band of metal, but I have neither the skill nor courage to let my mind wander within its mysterious depths. It works by altering the very fabric of reality, but I do not know how to use it, and perhaps it is best if no-one did.
Farengar Secret-Fire.
Lying beside this note was the ring its self, twinkling innocently from under the blackened marks. Alarik brought it up to eye level and stared at it. It was obvious that someone had tried to destroy it, but to no effect. Suddenly he heard voices from below his bed chamber, through a crack in the floorboards, a distinguished, haughty sounding voice floating through.
"I need to see a certain Alarik Torbiksson. It is urgent." said the voice. It had a silky quality that made you want to listen to it forever. A guards voice, rough and common, broke the spell.
"You'll need to speak to the guard on duty, elf."
Alarik heard that last word with dread, for who else could it be but the Thalmor? He jumped out of the sheets silently and pulled on the armor he had been wearing yesterday. It still smelled of smoke and ashes. His bow and sword lay on the table across the room. Grabbing the bow and slinging it onto his back, he left his sword behind as it would be too much of a hindrance anyway, and he was much better with a bow, he stopped as he heard the Thalmor agent talk to the guard stationed outside his room.
"Let me past this instance, Nord!"
"I'm afraid I can't do that." replied the guard, as still and steady as a rock. The scraping noise of a dagger being pulled out of a hidden sheath heralded the slight gasp of the surprised guard.
"I'm going to ask again. Let me through, unless you want your guts decorating the walls" The door creaked open, and the elf stepped through, dagger held at his side. There was no one in sight. Above the door, Alarik sweated silently as every muscle in his body quivered from the strain of holding him up, only supported by a thin beam. Very slowly he lowered himself down, and just as his feet touched the floor with a near silent rustle, the Altmer turned around, eyes wide and dagger at the ready. A swift uppercut stopped him in his tracks, and Alarik bound him with the cord from a tapestry and shoved the unconscious Thalmor inside a wardrobe. He walked out of his bed chamber and looked around for any more Thalmor.
"I can assure you, I let no elves into this hall" said the guard outside Dragonsreach.
"Hmmf." said Alarik, not satisfied. Outside Whiterun, he mounted Falion and rode to Riverwood, hoping to consult Faendal about what to do about his small Thalmor problem. When he arrived, the elf was not at home so he hung around the house for ten minutes. Still no luck. Suddenly he heard a great rumbling and echoing noise reverberate around the mountains. Alarik looked wildly about for the source of the sound, and looked at the Throat of the World, Skyrim's tallest mountain. The sound originated from there. Several villagers from about Riverwood emerged from houses to gape wordlessly at the great mountain looming in the distance.
"That's the Greybeards calling the dragonborn" muttered an old woman rocking in an equally gnarled and ancient rocking chair outside her house.
"What did you say?" exclaimed Alarik.
"Well, thats what the legends say that sound is" The old woman smiled up at the Khajiit, not a tooth in her gum.
"And where can I find the Greybeards?" queried Alarik. Wordlessly, the woman pointed up at the colossal mountain.
The road to Ivarstead was long and tiring. As Falion trotted at a steady pace along the cobbled road Alarik could see the sunlight glint of something gold and bright every so often. As the object grew closer, it separated into a patrol of golden clad Thalmor, armed with sharp looking blades. Alarik threw himself off Falion. He grabbed the horses head and looked into his deep, brown eyes.
"Go. Go back to the stables" whispered Alarik. He slapped the horse on the leg and watched him gallop off. Looking around for a place to hide, his gaze fell upon the bank the road rested on. He jumped down from the slightly raised road and crouched under the overhang. He heard the footsteps of the elves as they marched closer past him. As the sound grew louder, it stopped. The cat could hear voices.
"I smell something, comrades."
"What is it? We can't be long"
"I smell... Khajiit" At these words Alarik's heart began to beat twice as fast. He heard footsteps approach and the sound of someone crouching. Slowly, he looked up. He could see golden gaunlets gripping the edge of the overhang, crumbling the hard earth. The elf sniffed, long and hard. And again. Then he stood up and walked back to the group.
"See? Nothing." said the other elves.
"Well, where are we going to find the Khajiit who evaded our assassin?"
"Simple." said a third, slithering voice full of the promise of pain and death. "We have the traitor Faendal. We just need someone to tell dear Alarik that his friends life is at risk."
Alarik's heart tightened as he heard these words, and tightened even more as he realised these Thalmor were not a mere patrol, but a group of elites sent to find him! Then the sound of a limp body hitting the ground met his ears.
"No... Not Alarik." groaned the feeble and weakened voice of Faendal. That was the last straw for Alarik. His friends being put in danger. The angered Khajiit jumped up from below the overhang and drew his dagger.
"Well come get me, you Thalmor bastards!" he roared at the startled Thalmor. In response they drew long, wicked looking swords and moved towards Alarik like well oiled machines.