4.
The Dragon and the Lion
Daniello awoke under a thin frost of snow. The stars sprawled out across a violet sky, and after several moments, consciousness seeped in, while his blood seeped out. A chill shuddered his chest (or was it the brush of death?), and in the aftermath of misbegotten decisions, the overwhelming urge to live sent him forward. His hands gripped the frostbitten stone; mind, body, and spirit intent on surviving. This is not me. I do not die gently in the cold night.
In the faint dark, he saw Rokon standing over a battered man. Fists rained down, and with each strike the bandit's face made a meaty, wet thunk.. Blood ran down his cheeks, tracing along the curves of bruises and lacerated skin. The Orc raised his fist, his knuckles swollen and stained red, A heartbeat later, he bludgeoned the bandit's face in two.
Daniello's body trembled.
Rokon hobbled across the snow. He placed a hand on the axe - the very same axe buried in his shoulder. His body wrenched, his throat let forth a vicious growl. The axe went reeling across the stone in streaks of blood.
"Can you walk?"
Daniello blinked. "Can you?"
"Aye," Rokon said, his words rasped. He shuffled over, a giant that could unnerve even a grizzly, and gripped Daniello by the collar with a iron-like grip. With one great heave, Daniello felt himself lifted like a child, cradled in the Orc's arm.
"No - " Daniello kicked, and felt a spasm of pain in his stomach. His muscles clenched, and he let out a cry.
"Put pressure on it," Rokon said, his voice haggard. "We must… We need to get to Whiterun."
Then, Daniello remembered. Before the darkness of a dreamless sleep embraced him, he heard it - no, felt it. Thunder. A booming roar that quivered the ground, stirred the birds from the trees, and unturned the cogs at the heart of Nirn itself. The ancient words from the stories, arcane and familiar all at once, had been spoken - no, shouted. Daniello's heart quickened in his chest, booming almost nearly as loud as Rokon's warcry.
"It's you," he croaked, sounding more a mouse and less a man. "Is it really…?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I do not know."
The pain endured, aching at first, and at times, in spasms. With each shock, his body clenched, and he felt the rush of blood seep through his leathers, while the endless burning sensation lingered. You stupid boy, Daniello thought. You're crying, damn it. "I am sorry."
"The fault is not your own," Rokon said softly. "Don't speak. You'll worsen your wound."
Daniello wiped his eyes, and left behind a wet streak of blood on his nose. "Where have you been?" The tears came again, and at first he appreciated the warmth, until the wetness grew cold and crisped on his cheeks. "My grandfather used to tell me stories about you. There used to be a new one every day… Then, they stopped." Stop talking, boy. No one cares about your grandfather.
Rokon stalked down the mountainside, his labored, frosted breaths ghosting before his gnarled lips. "Stories?" In spite of the frigid cold, there remained a warmth in the Orc's voice.
"The overlord under Bleak Falls Barrow," Daniello said. "You battled the Overlord under there, in the mountain - and how you battled the Daedric Prince of Nightmares in the forgotten dream… The duel with the dragon atop the Throat of the World, and -"
Rokon shushed him. "Enough." That was the end of that. In silence, they continued down mountainside, through gentle snowfall and the light breeze of winter. At times, Rokon heaved, his breathing labored, but the old bull had the willpower of struck steel. In spite of the wounds that plagued him, Daniello never once felt the Orc stumble or shift his weight. Once set to a task, Rokon appeared to never sway.
"Thank you," Daniello said after a time, as the farms of Whiterun came into view. The words sounded meek coming from him.
Rokon bowed his head, but said nothing.
Outside of Whiterun's gates, the guardsman called them to a halt. "City's closed, gentlemen," he said, eyeing both Daniello and Rokon curiously. "Something to do with the vampire scares."
Vampires? Daniello felt his belly twist. A fleeting memory came, one of Caspius tearing a man's throat out, and the immortal look in his eyes.
"I am only returning home, guardsmen. My wife lives just beyond the Blacksmith," Rokon said.
The guardsmen relented, though he looked certain that no Orcs lived in Whiterun. Only several paces down the dark, empty street, they turned to a house with golden lit windows, where he rapped a certain pattern on the door.
A woman answered. Daniello felt his lips twitch when he saw her. A tall, Nordic lady with broad shoulders, wide hips and a pair of dark eyes that could bore a hole through a sheet of iron. Her ebon tresses were gathered carelessly in a cotton string, and the humble nightdress she wore caught the glint of moonlight with an azure glow. To call her beautiful would have been an understatement.
"What happened?" Her eyes narrowed. "Come out of the rain, Rokon. You look half dead - what have you gotten yourself into, now?"
"Bandits. The boy needs more attention than I." Rokon started into the home. In the center of the room sat fire topped with a pot of simmering stew. The walls were decorated in Imperial banners, weapons, shields, and in the corner of the room, beside a stocked bookcase, sat a suit of polished armor by the likes Daniello had never seen.
The woman took Daniello from Rokon's arms with so little as a huff. Her arms were better described as bands of metal, corded with thongs of tethered rope. Her touch, however, lacked Rokon's delicacy, and as she laid Daniello on the rug beside the flame, he felt a spasm of sharp pain in his abdomen.
"Lydia, please," Rokon said as the woman wrenched bloodied furs off his shoulders. "I'll live. Tend the boy."
"Quiet," Lydia said, her lips pursed into a thin line. "Sit, Rokie. I'll find a basin of water." She turned to Daniello. "Hold that wound tight, child. I'll need to burn it clean of rot." In a flash, she disappeared up the stairs.
"Who is she?" Daniello asked.
Rokon stripped off his tunic. There seemed to be no place along his bear chest that was unburdened; his flesh appeared to be a tapestry of scars, burns, and poorly healed gashes. Entire chunks seemed to have been gnawed off the Orc's frame, while the thin strips of sliced flesh along his throat - dashed across his bulbous adam's apple, told of would-be assassins and cutthroats. "She is my sworn shield."
Daniello accepted his answer, even if it waned in explanation. Given the recent events, he had no desire to pry, and so his attention diverted to the corner of the room, where the armor stood, erected by a mannequin underneath. The metals caught the glint of the fire with a curious golden hue, yet it was the helmet that caught his attention the most. An intricate carving sat atop; a bone-colored dragon with wings sprawled, tipped in jeweled onyx, and folded defensively around the face of the helm.
The stories were real, he found himself thinking. Not as they were told, but… they were real. Perhaps it was the aching wound in his belly, or the sudden realization that dreams do come true, but Daniello found himself crying all over again, yet now his tears were dried beside the fire.
"Boy?"
Daniello wiped his face. "Yes?"
"Would you like to ask me something?" Rokon asked.
In spite of himself, Daniello found himself nodding eagerly. Everything. I want to ask you everything.