Failure. It was all he was and all he ever would be. It haunted his footsteps and followed him like a menacing shadow, darkening all that was good with its foul taint. He couldn't escape it, no matter how hard he tried. No matter what he did, he failed. Every time.
Of course, most of the residents of Skyrim didn't see it that way. They saw him as their savior. He was the brave man who faced the greatest evil the land had ever seen and returned triumphant. In their eyes, he had done and could do, no wrong. To them he was perfect, and that only made him feel worse.
He had messed up, time and time again. That wasn't saying that he had never done any good, he had. It was just that for each grand and fabulous thing he did, too many suffered for him to get there. After the deed was done, everyone would praise him, telling him that he had saved them again. He wanted to scream at them, beg them to realize all that had been lost and how much more he should have been able to do.
He had saved the College of Winterhold, but he had failed to prevent Savos Aren's death. If he had been faster in getting back from the dwarven ruin, he would have been able to stop Ancano. Instead, he had limped back to the College because he had failed to avoid the swing of a Centurion. He had failed, and yet they praised him as a hero.
That wasn't the only time. He had defeated Mercer, but only after allowing him to steal from the Guild for months. He had slain the Silver-hand, but he had failed to stop them from killing Kodlak. He had destroyed Alduin, but only after he had laid terrorized Skyrim. All of these times he had failed, yet no one could see. No one could see how much suffering was his fault. No one could see how much he should have done…
He was the Dragonborn. He should be strong enough to face every enemy and protect the people of Skyrim. His people. He tried, oh how he tried, but he always fell short.