The Serendipity of the Wyvern

The window shattered, a translucent rain of glass shards heralding the moment. One loud crash, the emergence of a glittery sea of shining debris, then silence. Dreaded, woeful, anxious silence filled the darkened room soon after. Each glared at one another, weapons at the ready. For whatever reason, that day, one relented.

"Go," he said. His foe stopped dead in his tracks at the word. Glares turned to understanding stares that did more than any exchanging of words could ever do. The words he said to his foe next were…strange…to the tongue. Their meaning is for him to carry alone, however. Him…and the man that escaped that day. An act of mercy, or a cruel curse?

Minutes passed, time caring not for such careful contemplation. Not a moment too soon, the door flung open. Two figures replaced the thick oak door's place in the doorway. "Where did…"

"My Thane? My Thane!"

Noise. Fjolnir hated noise. That damned intrusive din that rebelliously disturbed him no matter how vehemently he fought against it. Silence and noise. Isolation and congestion. The Nord did not know which one was more annoying.

Refusing to expose his eyes to the blinding light of morn, Fjolnir deigned to at least respond to his Housecarl's concerned verbal prodding.

"What is it, Lydia, my dear steel-clad maiden?" his drunken voice bellowed, the dialect that he used no longer that of the universal language of the drunken vagabond, but now infinitely more coherent and understandable.

"The Jarl has put out a bounty on a dragon!"

That got Fjolnir up and moving. In one deft movement, the Dragonborn was on his feet, staggering towards the chest that he had long since stored his armor in.

"Where?" he shouted back excitedly. "Oh, how I could hug you, Lydia! Where in the name of Shor's chest cavity is that foul beast?"

"It was seen flying near Valtheim Keep, as of an hour ago."

Fjolnir wasn't entirely sure who was happier right now- Lydia or himself. Lydia certainly seemed overjoyed, and it was hard to see why not. Being cooped up with and his brooding self for two weeks, and their idea of an adventure reduced to an excursion to the market, this was like some hopeful echo from the olden days of their exploits.

And Fjol? This marked the first time in an entire month that he had felt some resembling happiness. Before, his every action felt…repetitive. Radiantly monotonous, shiningly dreary, Gods, it was a stimulating case of apathy! Interesting disinterest, even!

Everything almost felt new again. It was like some mystical vim had ensnared the world, and turned Fjolnir Sword-Quill back into that amicable drunkard that had been sent to the chopping block so long ago. That same Nord that once wrestled a fisherman's son off of a ship in the sea, that same warrior-writer that had practically single-handedly ended the Stormcloak Rebellion was reborn in this one moment. Life was no longer a simplified set of ordinances; gone were the days were a "day" was a series of eating, drinking, pissing, and sleeping. Today, a day was murdering a dragon and eating its soul for lunch.

"If I were you, Lydia," he said, "I would likely head to mine own room."

"Shall I stay behind, my Thane?"

Fjolnir laughed. "Well, if you care to see me in but a loincloth, then by all means, stay in here."

Lydia, upon hearing this unexpected bit of jest, blushed in a very…unbecoming…manner.

"I…I apologize, my Thane! I did not at all mean to intrude! I…will just be going now…"

"Indeed. Oh, and make sure to wear the plate this time. Leave that savage, cowhide-lined steel in the chest."

Fjolnir's dear Housecarl, who had been trying to make a quick escape to avoid further embarrassment, stopped dead in her tracks and turned again to look at her fellow Nord. "I am to accompany you, then?" she asked, evidently confused with Fjolnir's lack of clarity in his directions.

"Of course! That's what I said, wasn't it? This is a monumental moment in my life, you know. I'd invite Serana and company to come along too, but we've little time as it so happens. So yes, armor yourself properly, and meet me downstairs when you feel like you've got everything. Can't have you and I dying because someone forgot their fire-resistant amulet, now can we?"

"I…thank you, my Thane."

"Fjolnir, my dear. Unfortunately, I'm not the High King of Skyrim, so calling me by my so-called 'title' doesn't have the same ring to it," Fjolnir chortled.

With no more friendly banter to exchange, the two went about with their preparations. Lydia returned to her own room, and Fjolnir unlocked the wooden chest where he had stored the armaments and armor that had been allowed to gather dust and other grime for so long.

He couldn't help but cough, then, when the container was fully opened. The miasma of dust irritated his eyes some and he had to fight the urge to sneeze while waiting for his sight to recover. Dust, of course, being the third thing that he hated, alongside silence and loud noise.

Luckily, his armor was in far better condition than he had expected. The scaled steel shone as bright as it once had with a little bit of polishing. Patting down the leather and shaking it proved useful in ridding the breastplate of the fine film of dirt that had accumulated on it. Doing the same with the gauntlets and boots, Fjolnir could finally recognize the glorious raiment of war that he had once strode off into battle in.

If there was one benefit to sleeping half-naked, he realized, it was that actually dressing in much of anything took far less time than if he had bothered with tunics or the like. So, strapping on the scaled armor took but a minute or so, Fjol's trained hands going through the motions as they so often had. The same was true of the gauntlets and boots. In less than ten minutes or so, Fjolnir Sword-Quill was quite literally dressed to kill.

Next, then, was his killing tools. His trusty shield was propped against the chest, so Fjolnir simply grabbed it and dashed out of the room and bounded down the steps, his footsteps thudding with as much anticipation as was carried in himself and- presumably- in Lydia, as well.

Fjolnir had to admit that Breezehome wasn't quite as…neat as he might have wanted it to be. The dining table was in disarray, with many utensils and empty bottles of mead and every other kind of filthy kitchen apparatus strewn about. To his right, the adjacent room in which the alchemy table and bookshelves was in equal disorganization. His half-assed attempts at alchemy were plain for all to see, what with so many useless potions and tonics scattered around, as well as various ingredients simply left to accumulate in a most unsafe way (bone meal, fire salts, void salts, and vampire dust should probably not be left to collect in the same bowl, after all).

Both in that room and over by the door to Breezehome, the books were just about the cleanest thing in the entire house. Certainly, they were all stacked on top of one another, but their pages were lovingly tended to, and Fjolnir himself was quite territorial of his collection of tomes when he had the rare visitor enter his domain. If he had any hope of being a writer, of course, he would have to keep his literary knowledge and general gift with words as sharp as possible. Whetstones of the mind, these wondrous tomes were, and they were guarded as such.

There, lying adjacent to the door and another mantelpiece filled with volumes of wizened words, was his beautiful weapon rack. There, he had placed his two gorgeous armaments, his gleaming steel, and his legendary tools of the craft of warfare. First, he took his dagger. Fjolnir almost cringed at how cold it was, and lamented at how terribly unused it had become. Such a weapon, after all, deserved far better treatment. A blade of this craftsmanship deserved to be bathed in the blood of his foes, not drenched in a sea of dust! That, he supposed, would change today. For as he gripped the supple leather of the hilt, he vowed that- before all was said and done- this dagger would taste dragon blood once again.

Depositing the blade onto his sword belt, Fjolnir was hesitant to wield the true beauty that hung in front of his eyes. The sword was sleek, its blade sharp enough to strike him blind just by glancing upon it, and its very steel luminous. Fjolnir had once dabbled in blacksmithing, but never did he ever come close to forging something as fabulous as Skyforge Steel. The weapon itself was a relic from his early years- of a mere seven days spent about warriors that he once thought were like himself. Today, this same killing tool did not stand for companionship or justice or whatever pseudo-philosophical metaphor that warrior-poets often dreamed up; this blade was his. It stood for him. This was the Dragonborn's sword. Its very nature was that of its owner- of a slayer of dragonkind. Today, it would do as much. The middle-aged Nord silently swore it to himself, and to his sword.

Ceremoniously, Fjolnir Sword-Quill slid the blade into its scabbard, soothed by the gentle scraping of leather and steel against one another, their own friction working together in housing such a dangerously beautiful implement. With that small bit of ritual completed, he was finally ready to slay a dragon for the first time this month. Well, he would be, as soon as he grabbed the knapsack lying near the door. But, alas, he still had to wait for Lydia.

Poor girl, Fjolnir lamented to himself. Admittedly, he was…not the best of Thanes. Certainly, he was a hero of Whiterun and perhaps all of Skyrim, but leading was not his forte. Perhaps out of pity or some guilt, the old sellsword had opted to bring her along occasionally, though he himself likely got her into more trouble than she dare find on her own. He was used to traveling and fighting alone; his dear Housecarl was accustomed to taking orders, and acting on her own instinct (which always tied back to serving as a guardian to her Thane, as was her duty). Needless to say, that never worked out.

Whenever Fjolnir would devise a scheme, he now had to come up with some inane role for Lydia to play. And, thanks to his lack of familiarity with joint efforts and "teamwork," these roles he assigned often undermine the original plan in the first place. Other times, a lack of communication would lead to Lydia being cornered by savage bandits or left behind somewhere in an ancient Nordic crypt. Meanwhile, the Dragonborn always fought onwards solo, unaware that his protector was now in need of protecting.

And that was just in their travels. At home, Fjolnir proved more burdensome, somehow. Maybe it was because he never had need of a servant. Maybe it was because ordering about someone who was trained to be high-maintenance and malleable was too much of a hassle. Or, maybe it was because Fjolnir just didn't care. But, for whatever reason, the Nord always proved distant and aloof in their brief moments of respite. Oh, he certainly joked about and jested with his fighting companion, he knew, but there was still a lack of…connection…between the two. They were practically trapped within a master-servant relationship, truth be told. How could they possibly connect when her very job was to die for him? That morbid thought always hanging in the background, that grim realization that her days could very well be numbered…

And he was taking her with him, now? Fjolnir truly wanted to dash his head into the wall as he considered this. He was practically leading her to her death right now. Yet why was he still calm, still content, still willing? No, uncaring.

Fjolnir sharply sighed. The more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him. And the more it gnawed at him, the more he thought about it. Like an endless cycle, these thoughts of doubt and blame just sapped at his will. More and more, his love of battle was twisted into a fear of death. Not his, though, but of those around him. Most immediately, it was that of Lydia, but most people about him seemed to meet tragic, sometimes even ambiguous ends. He had no idea where Ka'Liar was, and countless explorers likely cursed him in their final breaths as many an adventure descended into skirmishes for survival.

"My Thane?"

Dread washed throughout every fiber of Fjolnir's being. Lydia's gentle tapping of the shoulder felt as subtle as the bone-crushing force of a mace. All would be well, he knew, until they arrived at Valtheim Keep. Then…

He could stop this, he realized. If he had the nerve, he could tell her to stay behind, to look after the house until he returned, anything but this. Just one sentence was all it would take. Just one, singular, sole sent-

"Fjolnir?"

"Yes?" he said blankly, his thoughts still floating about somewhere other than here.

"Shall we depart?"

Silence filled Breezehome. Not a peaceful quiet, but a deafening, thunderous void. Slowly, the Nord looked at Lydia, examining her, for lack of a better phrase. She looked…fearsome, truth be told. Adorned in the finely-crafted steel plate that they had acquired during some random escapade, the thought of her possibly being torn apart by a dragon seemed like some impossibility. But, for all the armaments in the world, for all the strength that Shor in Sovngarde could grant her, she could scarcely hold a candle to the Dovahkiin. Even other dov for that matter. This could end but one way. Why couldn't he just say it, though?

The word was not his own- the voice belonging to someone else. Some malevolent force controlled his action like some grotesque puppeteer. One word. One word that would end in but one way.

"Yes."