Chapter 2

Is This Just Fantasy?

[Author's Note: Marcus is heavily into denial about his situation, so he's being a jerk about it, but give him time. He's had a rough couple of days.]

[See the end of the chapter for more Notes.]

Riverwood wasn't much bigger than Helgen had been. There was a smithy, a general goods store, an inn, a smattering of homes, and a large lumber mill. It was to the mill that Ralof headed. Short introductions were made all around, and Ralof told his sister Gerdur and her husband Hod about the dragon attack that day.

They were appalled and shocked, and very grateful to Marcus and Tamsyn for having helped their kinsman. Gerdur insisted they stay with her family until they were rested up enough to move on.

"I do have a favor to ask," she said, hesitantly. "The Jarl needs to know about what happened at Helgen. If Riverwood comes under attack by dragons, we're defenseless. Would you go to him in Whiterun and beg him to send men here to defend us?"

Marcus said nothing. He really didn't want to get involved. He just wanted to go home. He didn't even know where this Whiterun was, and he sincerely doubted he'd be allowed in to see this Jarl…what did she call him? Balgruuf, that was it.

"Of course we'll go," Tamsyn said before he could stop her. He glared at her and she made a gesture with her face and shoulders that clearly asked, "What?"

"Thank you," Gerdur said gratefully. "I need to get back to the mill before I'm missed."

"I'll let them into the house and…you know…show them where everything is," Hod offered.

Gerdur smirked. "Help them drink all our mead, you mean," she chuckled. She left them to return to the mill, and Tamsyn told them she'd meet them there, she had some things to do.

Marcus followed Ralof and Hod back to the house where Hod broke out some bottles of mead. Now this was more like it! Marcus had never had mead before, but he knew it was a wine made from honey. It went down very smoothly, and he was tempted to overindulge, but he had a feeling he needed to keep his wits about him. On the other hand, maybe if he passed out drunk, he'd wake up back home in his own bed. It was something to think about.

By the time Gerdur returned home, her brother and husband were exchanging all kinds of uproarious stories, with her son Frodnar chiming in now and then about practical jokes he'd pulled. Marcus was chuckling in the corner, but said little. The men tried to draw him out and get him to tell stories of his own, but he didn't know anything he could tell them that wouldn't make them think he was stark raving mad.

Tamsyn returned shortly after Gerdur and began helping her prepare supper, despite Gerdur's insistence she could manage. The two women chatted easily in low voices and very soon served up some hearty beef stew, fresh-baked bread and wedges of some kind of bleu cheese. Marcus didn't realize until he sat down how hungry he was. The mead was going straight to his head, and he thanked his metabolism that he was a quiet drunk, not a boisterous one.

After supper was finished, Gerdur and her family asked their guests again about where they'd come from and what had brought them to Skyrim. Marcus was at a loss for words. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound crazy.

"I'm from High Rock," the red-haired girl said. "I came to Skyrim because I'd heard about the College at Winterhold, and was heading there to study." She looked over at Marcus. With a look of almost apology in her eyes, she invented a background for him on the spot. "Marcus is a mercenary. He's returned recently from Black Marsh, having worked for some Argonian merchants there. Not all Imperials are soldiers, you know," she added as an afterthought.

"And it was just bad luck you both stumbled into that ambush your kinsmen set for us," Ralof nodded to Marcus. "Well, I don't hold much for magic, Tamsyn. Not many Nords do, I think you know. But I'm certainly glad you used it today. Setting that oil alight and burning those damned, faithless Im—uh, I mean, the enemy soldiers—was a stroke of genius!" There was no doubt about the look of admiration in his eyes. So, he had the hots for her, did he? Marcus shrugged inwardly. If they wanted to bump uglies later tonight, that wasn't his business. He had a wife at home to get back to. Except now his traveling companion had practically promised they'd go out of their way to notify some lord about the dragon attacks. Great. Just great.

"Do you know any stories?" the boy, Frodnar, asked. "I've heard all of Uncle Ralof's stories already."

"You haven't heard half of them," Ralof chuckled. "I've got plenty more—"

"But he's too young to hear them!" Gerdur cut in sharply, shooting a glare at her brother.

"Awww, Ma," Frodnar protested.

"We'd better listen to your mother, Frodnar," Ralof grinned. "If she turns me out tonight I could get captured by Imperials!"

"You wouldn't do that, would you Ma?" the boy asked, fearfully.

"No, of course not," Gerdur assured her son, "as long as he behaves himself." Here she turned a withering look on her brother, who just chuckled.

"I know a story," Tamsyn offered.

This lightened the mood, as everyone settled down, and Tamsyn began to speak. It wasn't too long before Marcus realized she was telling them the story of the Disney movie "Mulan" that his daughters had enjoyed when they were younger. Tamsyn changed the names and places, but it was still the story of a young woman who took her father's place when their lord summoned the men to defend the kingdom. He had suspected for most of the day that she was as displaced as he was, that she belonged here in this Skyrim no more than he did, and now he was convinced.

Maybe she knew how they could get home again. It was worth a shot. But before he could think about how to broach the subject, the good food, the warmth of the fire, and his comfortable position stretched out on the floor took their toll after the day he'd been through. He fell asleep before the red-haired girl finished her story.

It was well into the middle of the morning when he woke up. Hod was the only one in the house.

"Where is everyone?" he mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Thought you were going to sleep all day," Hod grinned. "Gerdur's at the mill, Ralof left early to rejoin his company, and that companion of yours, Tamsyn, is outside gathering alchemical ingredients. Or she was, last I saw."

"I didn't mean to sleep so long," Marcus mumbled. "May I have something to eat?"

"Help yourself to some bread and cheese," Hod offered. "I think I've got some ale left over from last night."

"Any coffee?" Marcus asked.

Hod's brow furrowed. "What is that? Some kind of Argonian drink?"

Marcus remembered then that Tamsyn had told them he'd recently worked for some 'Argonians'.

"Yeah," he lied. "It's brewed from a bean; strong, black and very good for helping you wake up."

"We don't have anything like that here," Hod shrugged. "We've got mead or ale."

"I'm not really looking for a hair of the dog this morning," Marcus frowned.

"Stump's outside," Hod said, confused. "But I don't know what you'd want with his hair. It's not like it's an alchemical ingredient."

"Never mind," Marcus said, giving up. "I'll just have some water."

A half-hour later he was outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. Looking around he couldn't see Tamsyn anywhere. A small wave of panic flitted through him. She seemed to know what was going on around here, and he really needed to talk to her. He hoped she hadn't taken off on her own yet.

A ringing sound of hammer on metal caught his ear, and he wandered over to the smithy to ask the blacksmith if he'd seen Tamsyn.

"Tamsyn?" the smith asked. "Small, curvy, red-haired girl?"

"Yeah, that's her," Marcus affirmed. "Have you seen her?"

"She took off a while ago with Faendal."

"Who's Fayendahl?" Marcus asked, mangling the name, and irritated at the girl for abandoning him.

"He works at the mill. Bosmer. Good man, and a fine archer. I heard her ask him for a few pointers, and they headed out of town. That was an hour ago. They should be back soon."

Disgruntled, Marcus fumed silently as he watched the smith, who said his name was Alvor, as the man worked the steel into a fine blade. He realized he'd left the sword he'd used in Helgen back at Hod and Gerdur's house. Something told him that might not have been a very smart idea. He retraced his steps and knocked on the door. Hod answered and let him in, waiting quietly while he gathered his meagre belongings together.

"Are you and the girl leaving for Whiterun today?" Hod asked him.

"I don't know," Marcus admitted. "I haven't seen her yet to know what she wants to do."

Hod chuckled. "We always wait on the women to make a decision, don't we?" he grinned. Marcus allowed a shared smile.

"Yeah, my wife's like that, too," he said.

Hod looked confused. "I thought we were talking about your wife. Aren't you two married?"

Marcus blinked. "Who? Tamsyn and I?" He shook his head vehemently. "No, we're not. We just escaped Helgen together. We're not married!"

Hod stumbled to apologize. "I'm sorry, I thought—never mind. Well, Ralof will be pleased. I know he was taken with her, but thought you two were together. He left before he could make a fool of himself."

Marcus gave a mental shake of his head. So that's what was bothering the big blonde guy. He thought he was encroaching! Too bad he didn't say anything earlier. Marcus would have been only too happy to set him straight.

It occurred to him to wonder if Tamsyn would be scorned for traveling with him as an unmarried woman. He didn't want her to get hurt or ruin her reputation. He didn't know what the moral temperature of this place happened to be. Blowing out a breath in a heavy sigh, Marcus shouldered his pack and said good-bye and thanks to Hod, leaving the house and heading back out to the main street.

He decided to wait at the smithy, since it provided a clear view of the road out of town, where Alvor had indicated Tamsyn had gone with this 'Fayendahl' character. As he chatted with the smith, however, he became more and more engrossed in the man's work, and before he knew it, he was asking if he could help in any way.

Alvor was more than happy to take Marcus up on his offer, and immediately put him to work crafting an iron dagger. It was a lot harder than Marcus thought it would be, and took much longer than he expected, to the point where he forgot to watch the road. When Alvor was finally satisfied with the dagger, after Marcus sharpened it on the grindstone, he showed the younger man how to work with tanned leather to create a helmet made of cured hide. A few more pointers on getting the fit right, and Marcus donned the helmet for the first time, proud of himself, and impressed with how well it fit his head.

"Nice job," he heard a woman say and turned to see Tamsyn standing nearby. With a shock he realized it was nearly evening. He had worked the rest of the day away at the forge!

"How long have you been there?" he demanded. "And where the hell have you been?"

"Picking up some things to sell," she said. "Faendal and I went to a mine nearby taken over by bandits and cleared it out. They had a bunch of useful things there."

"And you didn't tell me?" He knew he sounded peevish, but he didn't care.

"You were sleeping," she said bluntly. "Don't worry. Half the proceeds are yours. We'll need the coin to buy better weapons, armor and spell books."

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, it's almost night now," Marcus said sarcastically. "It's too late to keep your promise to Gerdur and go to Whiterun."

"We're not going to Whiterun just yet," Tamsyn replied.

"We're not?" Marcus asked, perplexed. "Why not?"

"Because there's a couple of things we need to retrieve from Bleak Falls Barrow," she said, leading him away from the smithy. "Come on, let's go sit by the river. We've got some things to talk about."

"Suits me fine," he grumbled. "I've got a lot of questions for you, too."

"I've no doubt about that," she said wryly.

Tamsyn led Marcus down to the river's edge where the rushing roar of the water would make eavesdropping difficult for anyone casually walking by.

"Okay," Marcus said, unable to keep the anger from his voice. "What the hell is going on here? Where are we? Who are you? And how do I get back home again?"

"One question at a time, please!" the red-haired girl protested. "First of all, you're in 'Skyrim'. The…video game?" she added when he looked confused.

He stared at her for a long moment. "I don't know what that means," he said finally.

"Didn't you ever play it?" she asked.

Marcus shook his head. "No. Never heard of it. Maybe my kids might have, but we didn't really get into that. So you're from the same place I came from?" he asked.

"I'm going to guess that I am," she said. "In the cart, and before…before the dragon attacked, you started asking to speak to supervisors and borrow a phone. I guess you thought we were at some Renaissance Faire or something."

"I don't know what I thought," he muttered. "I certainly never expected they'd actually behead me! Did they really do that?" He turned to her with haunted eyes. "Is all of this real?"

Tamsyn's face looked bleak. "They really did it," she said quietly. "And this is our reality now."

"Well not for long," Marcus said brusquely. "How do we get back?"

"I don't think we can," she said, not meeting his eyes.

"I don't believe you!" he said angrily. "You're holding out on me! What aren't you telling me?" He grabbed her by the arm and shook it without realizing it. Inwardly, he was appalled at himself. He'd never hurt anyone in anger before, especially a woman. But right now he was feeling very much lost and afraid, and the fear made him furious with himself.

"Let go, you're hurting me," she said quietly. She didn't resist, but if she had he didn't know what he would have done. As it was, he dropped her arm and put his head in his hands.

"I just want to go home," he sighed. "My wife has to be wondering where I am by now."

"Marcus," she said gently. "What's the last thing you remember before you woke up in that cart yesterday?"

He thought back. In a sudden flash of panic he realized his memories of his former life were becoming harder to grasp.

"We were coming home from a party," he said hesitantly. "Lynne was driving because she hadn't had as much to drink as me." He closed his eyes, shutting out everything around him to try to bring it into focus more clearly, but he couldn't.

"Anything else?" Tamsyn asked softly.

"I'm trying…I can't…quite remember," he whispered, so subdued she had to strain to hear him. "I remember getting into the car. I remember the oncoming headlights seemed awfully bright that night." Whatever he almost grasped slipped away. He slumped in defeat. "I can't remember any more."

The girl next to him said nothing for several moments. "Do you remember how old you were?" she asked. "Or what you did for a living? Where you lived?"

"Yeah, I remember those things," he answered. "I was an IT technician. I lived in Des Moines. I was….I was over fifty, I think. I know we had kids and grandkids. What about you?" Not that he cared very much, given the circumstances, but she had asked about him, so he felt obligated to return the favor.

"I was very old," she said. "I was in a nursing home. No one came to see me. I couldn't get out of my wheelchair without help. I could barely take care of myself."

"That's horrible!" he exclaimed. Looking at her now, she seemed to be no more than nineteen or twenty. It was hard to imagine her as an old woman.

"It wasn't all that bad," the girl replied. "It was a very good nursing home. The staff were very kind. It was an expensive place to live, I guess, so my family must have had money. They made sure I was taken care of, so they didn't have to."

"How could you live like that?" Marcus asked, appalled.

"I had a choice?" she threw him an angry look, but the anger soon faded. "I used to pass the time playing 'Skyrim'. It gave me a virtual escape. I could still manipulate the controller, and there was nothing wrong with my mind. It kept me quiet so the orderlies could take care of the problem residents."

"So that's how you knew to stop on the stairs yesterday?" Marcus asked. "And how you knew what we were going to face before we even got there?"

She nodded. "I played a lot of 'Skyrim', Marcus. And now it looks like we're in the game itself."

"How is that even possible?" he demanded.

Tamsyn shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe the gods have a sense of humor."

"You mean God," he corrected her. "And I don't think He had anything to do with this."

"Don't be so sure," she said cryptically. "For now, let's concentrate on how we can get out of this."

"You've got some ideas?" he asked eagerly. Anything to get out of here and get back to where he belonged.

"I do, but you're not going to like it," the girl replied. "You see, we came here right at the point where the game begins. You wake up a prisoner with an unknown past in a cart with three other men, bound for Helgen and execution. You don't even have a name, race or gender until that Imperial lieutenant, Hadvar, asks who you are, and he sees you're not on his list."

"But we didn't do anything," Marcus protested. "That Captain sent us to the block without even a trial!"

"Because that's how it's scripted in the game," she explained, sighing. "Anyway, when the dragon attacks you're given an opportunity to escape, and to follow either Hadvar or Ralof out of Helgen."

"Hadvar works for the ones who were trying to cut off our heads, remember?"

"Yes, I know, but depending on the choices you make, you can either join the Stormcloaks or the Imperials. There's a lot of back history created for the game that's apparently very real here."

The shadows lengthened as she filled him in on the conflict between the Empire and Skyrim, and how the Aldmeri Dominion fit into it. Marcus shook his head at several points, finally saying, "But this really isn't our fight, is it? I mean, once we figure out a way to get home, none of this will matter."

Tamsyn hesitated. He picked up on that right away.

"Okay, so there's something else you're not telling me," he accused. "Come on, give."

"You're not going to like it," she hedged.

"I haven't liked anything I've seen or heard since I woke up with a mammoth hangover yesterday," he said sourly. "Out with it."

"I think the only way out of this is to beat the game."

He blinked. "You can't be serious."

Tamsyn shrugged helplessly. "It's the best I've got. At least I know enough about the game to know what's ahead. There's just one thing I don't know."

"What's that?"

"The player in the game is supposed to be a hero of Skyrim known as the Dragonborn."

"I repeat my previous question," Marcus said sarcastically.

She sighed in exasperation. "You know, you're acting like this is all my fault. I'm just as much a victim here as you! It doesn't help when you get snide with me."

Immediately he felt ashamed. She was perfectly correct, and he had been acting like an asshole.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely. "Please tell me who or what a Dragonborn is."

So she told him, and Marcus wondered what the writers of the game had been smoking when they created it, but he held his peace while she told him about being able to Shout and having to slay dragons.

"And you think one of us is this Dragonborn?" he inquired finally when she was finished.

"Pretty sure," she said. "After all, I knew Lokir would die. I thought I could change that much, but he panicked and…well…you saw what happened. And Ulfric isn't the Dragonborn in the game, though he does know two of the Dragon Shouts."

"What about Ralof?"

She shook her head. "Ralof is one of the ones who helps get you out of Helgen. He's not the Dragonborn. Quite honestly, it has to be one of us."

"So how do we find that out?" Despite himself, Marcus was curious to know where this would all lead, and Tamsyn seemed to know.

"Well, a chain of events happens from keeping our promise to Gerdur, to alert the Jarl in Whiterun about the attack on Helgen."

"Won't they already know?" Marcus asked. "That happened yesterday."

"But there were very few survivors," Tamsyn pointed out. "General Tullius and the Thalmor who were with him get out alive, because you meet them later in the game. But they're not going to make a special trip to Whiterun to inform the Jarl. Ralof can't, because he's a Stormcloak, and Whiterun Hold is held by the Imperials in the Civil War."

"There's got to be other people," Marcus protested, but the girl shook her head.

"Just the Dragonborn, except at that point in the game, they don't know they are yet."

Marcus mulled this over in his mind. To beat the game they had to play along. There was a distinct advantage to having someone along who knew what to expect, but if it turned out she was the Dragonborn, she certainly didn't need him along for the ride. So why was he here?

"Alright," he said finally. "Let's just say for the sake of argument that I believe all this horseshit. One of us may be this Dragonborn. What if it's you?" he demanded. "How does that get me back home?"

The sun had set by this time, and he couldn't see her face in the growing darkness, but her somber tone told him what he'd feared in his gut.

"Marcus," she said softly. "I don't think you can get home. I think you died. I think your car crashed and you died."

"That's a lie," he barely whispered. "That's a lie!" he roared, leaping to his feet. "I'm still very much alive," he gritted out, "in spite of the fact that people are trying to cut my head off; despite the fact that a fucking dragon—a mythological creature, mind you—drops down out of the sky and decides to flame-broil me; even despite the fact that wolves and bears attack out of nowhere and they've got spiders here the size of Volkswagens!"

"You don't need to shout at me," she said stiffly.

"And that's another thing," he said, really getting worked up now. "How can anyone shout someone to death, like Ralof and Hod were saying last night? How could either one of us be this Dragonborn character? You said he's supposed to be some Nord hero, but neither one of us is Nordic. From what you've told me, we're both Americans!"

"Marcus, I'm trying to explain it to you," she protested.

"Well you're not doing a very good job, honey," he sneered. "I've had enough of this. I want to go home, now! If you've got anything to do with this, you'd better do something now and get me out of here!"

Tamsyn shook her head sadly. "I told you before, I'm as much a victim in this as you are. The only difference is that I know I died." She got up, brushed herself off and turned to walk back to the main street. "When you've calmed down, come to the Sleeping Giant Inn. I don't want to impose on Gerdur and Hod again. I'll rent us a couple of rooms." She walked away and left him standing there. At the corner of the mill she turned and called back, "You might want to turn in early. We're going to have a busy day tomorrow."

Fuming, Marcus stayed where she left him, clenching and unclenching his fists. He wanted to punch something, but there was nothing nearby he could hit that he wouldn't end up breaking his knuckles on. This whole situation was ridiculous! Somebody, somewhere, knew what was going on. If it wasn't the girl, then he needed to start asking people, even if they looked at him strangely. Someone was bound to break character and admit this was all some weird, elaborate hoax. Well, he wasn't going to fall for it.

Except it seemed so damned real.

Marcus walked along the riverside for an hour, turning it over in his mind, but he just couldn't figure out a way to get out of this so-called 'reality'. Finally, weary of thinking about it and finding no solutions, he turned his steps towards the inn, the 'Sleeping Giant', Tamsyn had called it.

Inside, several faces turned to him as he entered, before resuming their evening activities. Alvor was there and waved at him, but Marcus wasn't feeling very sociable. He waved back politely, but turned to find out who was in charge of the place. He didn't see Tamsyn anywhere.

"Are you Marcus?" a tall, slender blonde woman in a blue dress asked him.

"Who—" he'd been about to ask 'Who wants to know?', but thought that would be rude. Admittedly, he was in a foul mood, but the woman had done nothing to deserve his temper. "Yeah, I'm Marcus," he said. "How'd you know?"

"I'm the innkeeper here," she said smugly. "It's my business to know. I'm Delphine. You came into town day before yesterday with that red-haired Breton girl, Tamsyn?"

Marcus nodded. This woman sure knew everyone else's business!

"She's already retired for the night," Delphine told him. "Your room is right next door, the one on the left. If you need anything, just ask."

"I need a stiff drink," he muttered.

Delphine smiled. "Orgnar can fix you up with one of those," she said. She nodded to a large, hairy man behind the counter. "Just don't ask for ale; it's off, and I need to get a new shipment in."

"Thanks," he replied as she moved over to some kind of strange table to one side of the hall and began crushing herbs in a mortar and pestle.

Deciding against the drink, Marcus opted to just hit the sack. It had been a troublesome day, and his muscles were still sore from pounding on metal and scraping leather. He closed the door of his room and fell into bed without bothering to undress. He was asleep before he hit the pillow.

Everything seemed to swim in front of his eyes, and he heard Lynne's tinkling laughter as he tripped over his own feet.

"Had a little too much tonight, have we?" she giggled.

"I losht count, so it doshent count," he slurred.

"Here we are," she encouraged him. "Into the Rover we go."

"Yall haf ta pour me in," he grinned.

"You're too big for me to do that. I could get Dave out here to help me."

"Nah," he shook his head, and immediately regretted it as everything whirled around him. "He'sh had moren me."

"Easy does it!" his wife exclaimed as he launched himself into the passenger seat and crawled around to a sitting position. He fumbled with the seat belt, but she laughed again and playfully batted his hands away.

"I'll do it," she said. "Or we're never getting home tonight."

He must have passed out for a few moments, because the next thing he remembered they were driving down Route 70 toward home. The glare of the oncoming headlights hurt his eyes, and he gave a soft moan.

"Awake, sweetie?" Lynne asked.

"Barely," he mumbled.

"You were out for an hour. We're almost home."

"I don't feel sho good," he complained.

"I can imagine," she sympathized. "You know you should never mix the grain with the grape—" Her voice broke off as she exclaimed in horror, "What is that idiot doing?"

There was a jolt and he was thrown forward, slamming against the seat belt and being flung against the door as Lynne screamed and slammed on the brakes. Everything after that seemed to go In slow motion as twin beams of light flooded their car, the front end crumpled up to the dashboard, glass splintered everywhere and a searing pain filled him. The last thing he heard was a bang as the airbag deployed.

When awareness returned, he realized he was floating somewhere above, looking down on himself. The Range Rover was a crumpled piece of metal compacted against the front end of a semi-truck rig. Red and blue lights flashed all around, and men in black raincoats with fluorescent yellow stripes were taping off the area.

At one side of the road a man was sitting with a bloody nose and a gash on his forehead. He was crying. "I only took my eyes off the road for a second, I swear."

"He's lying," Lynne said next to him. "He fell asleep at the wheel. He'd been driving for fourteen hours straight already."

Mark looked down and saw her broken body next to his. Strangely, he felt calm. "How do you know that?" he asked her, completely sober.

"I looked at his manifest," she replied. "Mark, I think we're dead."

"I think you're right," he said. "So what happens next?"

"I'm not sure," she replied. "I was expecting a beam of light or something—" she broke off as a rumbling roar shook them. The people below seemed not to notice.

"What was that?" Lynne asked, fear in her voice.

"I don't know," he said, shaken.

The roar came again, and out of the darkness came a palpable blackness, with gleaming red eyes.

"MARK!" Lynne screamed, clutching at him. He held her as close as he could, and tried to put her behind him, but the out of the darkness came an evil voice.

"Meyye!" it said. "I am Alduin. You cannot hide from me!"

Something wrenched his wife from his arms, and the last thing he heard was Lynne shrieking his name as her ghostly form was rent to ribbons.

He awoke gasping for breath. His heart raced, and he felt his blood pounding in his veins. A sense of urgency told him he needed to find a bathroom, but there was none here. He settled for the bucket under the bed, the unsavory encrustations telling him that was its purpose.

What a horrible dream! Then cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and he sat on the bucket again as his bowels emptied themselves.

That was no dream. He remembered now! The bright headlights, the awful impact, and the sensation of being thrown out of his body. And then afterwards, the horrible roaring darkness which stripped his wife away from him. She was gone, he knew that now. Something had taken her from him and obliterated her soul. Something that called itself Alduin.

He staggered out of his room and into the main room of the inn. The bartender – Orgnar, was it? – was behind the bar, wiping down the wooden counter. Did the man never sleep?

"You look awful," Orgnar commented gruffly.

"I feel awful," Marcus mumbled in shock.

Orgnar rummaged behind the bar and brought out a blue glass bottle and a couple of small glasses. "Here. This one's on the house," he said. "Don't tell Delphine." He poured a small amount into each glass and pushed one towards Marcus.

The younger man managed to chuckle as he saluted the barkeep. "I won't tell her if you don't." He knocked back the drink, then gasped as the burn filtered its way down to his stomach. "What is this stuff?" he wheezed.

Orgnar grinned as he finished his glass. "Colovian brandy," he said, refilling the glasses. He waved off Marcus' attempt to pull some coins from the pouch at his belt. "I said this one's on me," he reminded Marcus.

"That was the last drink," Marcus frowned. "This is a new one."

"Still on me," Orgnar insisted. Then his face grew somber. "I heard you yell a little bit ago, before you came out. Must've been some nightmare."

"It was," Marcus admitted, unaware of the helpless, confused look on his face.

"Wanna talk about it?" the dark-haired Nord asked.

"I don't know where I'd start," Marcus muttered. "You probably wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"What's to believe?" Orgnar snorted. "It's just a dream, right? Probably sent by Vaermina."

"Who's Vaermina?" Marcus asked, puzzled.

"Daedric Prince of dreams and nightmares," Orgnar said shortly. "Probably best not to talk about her too much right now. Don't wanna call attention to yourself."

Marcus decided not to pursue this line of conversation and instead asked Orgnar, "Do you believe in an afterlife?"

"What, you mean after we die?" Orgnar asked. At Marcus' nod he replied, "Yeah, sure, most of us believe in Sovngarde. Don't you? Oh, wait, that's right. You're an Imperial. I don't know what afterlife they believe in."

Ralof had mentioned Sovngarde on their way to Helgen, Marcus remembered. "I don't know what Sovngarde is," he admitted. "I've been…out of the country for a while." He drank the second brandy down, and had to admit it was calming the jitters he'd experienced from the nightmare. It was going down much smoother this time, too.

Orgnar snorted. "Every true Nord knows about Sovngarde," he said. "We're told about it from the cradle. Any Nord who dies bravely in battle gets a chance to go there."

"And it's a nice place?" Marcus couldn't help but ask as Orgnar filled his glass for the third time.

"Far as I've been told," Orgnar rumbled. "Have to say I've never been there myself. I've heard it's non-stop drinking and wenching, if you're into that sort of thing. Guess there's a lot of good men and women on both sides of this war finding out for themselves what it's like now."

Marcus nodded soberly, but could find nothing to say to that. He didn't know a whole lot about the particulars of the civil war that seemed to be going on here, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in it, though Ralof had urged them both to join up with the Stormcloaks.

They sat in companionable silence, drinking brandy and listening to Sven play quietly on his lute. Finally, Marcus blurted out, "I dreamed I died, and my wife with me." What made him say that, he didn't know, but Orgnar had been kind when he didn't have to be, and was sharing some really fine brandy with him.

"And where's your wife now?" Orgnar asked. "I take it that's not her in the other room."

Marcus shook his head. "No, she's not—we're just—we escaped Helgen together," he finished.

Orgnar's eyes widened, but all he said was, "Well, no wonder you're having nightmares." He poured them both another brandy, and Marcus was feeling a warm glow in the pit of his stomach where before there had been only a hollow emptiness.

"I don't know where my wife is now," Marcus admitted unhappily. "Something tells me she's…gone. That it wasn't a nightmare, but a memory."

"I'm sorry," Orgnar said quietly. "Maybe you'll see her again in Sovngarde, then, or wherever it is that Imperials go when they die."

Marcus shook his head. "No, I mean, she's gone. Something big, dark and evil snatched her away from me, and I…I couldn't feel her there anymore. It called itself 'Alduin'."

The glass Orgnar had been holding dropped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the stone floor. His rugged face went pale behind the dark beard, and his eyes widened in fear.

"Don't say that name here!" he whispered harshly.

"What?" Marcus blinked. "Why? Who is Al—"

"I said don't say that name here!" Orgnar said louder and more forcefully. He dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper. "Don't you know? That's the World Eater! Everyone in Skyrim knows about the old tales, how he's the harbinger of the end times!"

Marcus just stared at the man helplessly. Orgnar was not a small man. He was tall, broad, one might almost say 'brutish-looking', and he certainly looked like he could hold his own in a pitched fight. But right now the big man was practically shaking.

"We won't talk about this again," Orgnar growled. "And I think you need to return to your room." He took the bottle and the glass Marcus had finished and disappeared into a back room. He didn't come back.

Marcus went back to his room, more confused than ever. Who or what was this 'Alduin'? And why did he have the huge Nord bartender shaking in his shoes? As he lay back down on the bed, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, he thought about Tamsyn in the next room. He was certain she would know, if she was right and they were truly inside some video game. He resolved to talk to her in the morning.

[Notes: Next up: Bleak Falls Barrow. Marcus gets a few more combat pointers from a more sympathetic trainer, and learns a few more things about himself.]