"You alright now?"
John gave a wordless nod as he sat down. He stared down at his clammy hands. He honestly didn't know what to feel. The sight of two moons was enough to drive his mind into a frenzy.
There was no way that Winston, or really, anyone he knew of, would think of joking with him like this. For one, it wouldn't make any sense to put two moons into the background. He'd obviously see it, so what would have been the point of doing so?
No. There was absolutely no reason to do so. Moreover, the moons looked too real to be anything but. There was no way that any of this was a studio or something similar. Unless they built something to one of those movies that Helen and he watched, where the character had been unknowingly filmed his entire life.
It was either that, or it was the inconceivable, impossible, unthinkable thought that he was in another world.
But there were humans here. Humans that spoke English. Humans that wrote in English. They had accents, sure, but who didn't?
"Come on, let's get you to bed, alright?" He was nudged from his thoughts as Alvor gently shook his shoulder. John fought the instinct to shrug it off. These people weren't actors. They really were what they were.
And that terrified him.
He silently allowed the husband and wife to guide him to a bed. It was layered with a mattress that had seen better days, and the wood was rotting slightly. The pillow was one that had been recently stitched back together, with an untrained hand if the feathers he saw sticking out were any indication.
He'd noticed these, only because he needed to come to grips that he might be in an alien world where people spoke English.
"Look, John, we can talk tomorrow," Alvor spoke, but his voice was distant compared to John's thoughts, "Just rest up, you hear?"
As the door closed, John could hear faint mutterings of how the assassin was obviously still delirious from blood loss.
He knew the signs of blood loss. All of this was too real to be a hallucination.
John closed his eyes and tried to sleep, a faint plea echoing in his mind as he did.
…
When morning came, and John was still in the same state that he was in, he was forced to accept his situation. As much as it didn't make any sense, he knew that Helen would be furious if he let himself be dragged into depression like this.
Slowly, he made his way out of the small room he was in. The sun was just barely peeking through the sky, but then again, he'd always been an early riser.
He spotted Sigrid cooking something in a pot, having been awake earlier than even him. He couldn't bring himself to be surprised - from what little he knew of history, getting up early was a rule of thumb. It only took a moment before the woman spotted him.
He watched as she smothered a look of alarm.
He got that a lot.
"John, good morning." Sigrid tried to smile, but it came off as more of a grimace.
"Morning."
"Are you feeling better now?"
"...Yeah." John's eyes wandered to the pot, the smell admittedly making his stomach rumble in desire, "Sorry. About last night, I mean."
Finally, Sigrid's smile came to be a bit more natural, "Don't be. Alvor said you might've still been confused after that nasty head injury you had."
That was the first time that John had heard of this, "Head injury?"
Sigrid nodded solemnly, "When Alvor found you, you had a massive wound on the back of your head. Nasty, that thing was." John touched the back of his head, and could feel the telltale signs of scarring on it. Scars that he didn't remember getting.
"How long…?"
"Oh, a couple of days." Sigrid tasted what she was cooking, before adding what John thought to be salt, "Would've been longer had Lucan not restocked his healing potions recently."
That last bit was said so nonchalantly that John almost missed it, "Healing potions?" Those two words reminded him of those old board games that they would advertise. Fantasy games that he never had time for, but heard of regardless.
There was no way that such things would exist in the real world. The idea that there would be a potion that could heal a head injury just like that was laughable.
Then again, the two moons in the sky were supposed to be impossible as well.
Sigrid heard him, and mistook it for something else, "Ah, you're opposed to healing potions then?" She sounded fairly disappointed. Had it been someone else, they might have felt like they failed their own mother, John thought with a snort.
"No, just surprised." Healing potions, even if they weren't the real deal, must've been expensive. To use such a thing, on a stranger no less, was an act of altruism that John felt he didn't deserve, "Thank you." But he would take it regardless.
There was no greater insult to someone than refusing what they freely gave.
"You're welcome." The housewife motioned to him, "Now eat, you need to regain your strength if you want to be healthy."
Hearing a woman that was likely younger than him tell him that was a breath of fresh air, "Yes ma'am."
The sound of the outside soon became louder and louder. The hustle of people, cheering children, hooves on stone. Metal being grinded, the fires of a forge.
It was a medieval morning, the likes of which John had not once thought of seeing.
He still didn't fully believe what was clearly in front of him. And yet, the feeling of knowing that this was real settled more and more into him.
"John? You're up?" Alvor's voice sounded from his side. The assassin turned his head to the right, where even a good few meters away, he could feel the heat coming from a bit of coal.
"Yeah."
There was an awkward silence between the two, as Alvor made his way towards him. John didn't mind it. He wasn't much of a speaker to begin with, preferring to let others do the talking. He didn't, after all, need words to do his job.
Alvor apparently didn't feel the same, "How are you feeling?" The blacksmith attempted some small talk as he leaned on a wall with his arms folded.
"Better." John nodded in response. And he was, despite the lack of sleep. Certainly, the cool, rural scent that this place had had done wonders.
With no smog in the air, it was refreshing to breathe in. Unlike New York, whose atmosphere smelt like burnt cigars, sewage, and rat shit, Riverwood was the complete opposite.
The river, which likely had something to do with the name of the village, carried the scent of spring water. The vegetation, of which you would never find anywhere outside of certain parks in the Big Apple, added to a scene in words he couldn't explain.
How could he, when it was the first time he saw anything like this.
At least, the first time outside his particularly rich clients and their extremely opulent tastes.
And there was the suspicion once more. It just looked too real for John. Even considering the apparent existence of healing potions, this place just looked too good to be true.
Too good for someone like him.
For a moment, he once more entertained that Winston did, or at least had a hand in, getting him here. He banished the thoughts as soon as they came.
Unless Winston managed to get more than one child to participate in a facade, then John would consider the children playing with a particularly sad looking ball to be real.
The manager was a lot of things, but John knew that he was above using children like that.
"Alright," Alvor nodded, and John snapped back to reality, "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
"I won't."
"Oh, and feel free to look around. Riverwood's friendly enough for most people."
"Thanks."
John turned from Alvor as the smith walked away. The assassin wouldn't be forgetting the man's actions any time soon. Alvor was under no obligation to help him like he did.
John was very much in his debt. And he always paid back with interest.
"Do you need anything?" The words spilled from his mouth. Despite his lack of experience regarding any smithing, John was determined to help this family of theirs. And unfortunately, he wasn't exactly good with cooking.
The smith looked back at the assassin, eyebrow raised in surprise, "You want to help?"
"I wouldn't be offering if I didn't."
"Huh. Usually only Dorthe helps me out, but another hand wouldn't be unwelcome." Alvor nodded to John to follow him. From beside the forge, he nabbed an apron and tossed it at John. The man caught it deftly, eyebrows raised.
Alvor laughed as he saw the reaction, "Ha! You thought I'd be letting you do something easy?" The smith grinned as John snorted.
"Something like that, yeah."
"Bah, here in Skyrim, you-"
DO VAH KIIN
A thunderous wail echoed throughout the entire village. Panicked screams as the very earth rumbled. Animals wildly thrashed around, the river splashed a fountain of water towards the forge.
The very sky seemed to split, as the very clouds were cut in half. What looked to be a fairly cloudy day turned completely clear in the span of a few short moments.
"Shor's bones!" Alvor steadied himself as he almost fell down. His head swerved to the mountain that loomed near them, "The Greybeards! By the Eight, what is going on?"
"Greybeards?"
The blacksmith turned to the man, to see that he had not fallen over like some of the folks of Riverwood. Instead, the dark-haired man was crouched low, his right hand grasping something that wasn't there, and his eyes scanning anywhere he could see.
"John?"
Realizing that there wasn't any immediate danger, John slowly relaxed his stance. Belatedly, he noticed that he had been trying to grab a gun - a gun that wasn't there. He shook his head softly. There were more important things to worry about than a gun right now.
"What was that?" His voice was soft, but firm. Anything that could do something like that was bad news in his eyes. Around them, he could see that the people were slowly collecting themselves, casting worrying glances at the mountains near them.
The Nord furrowed his brows, "What - ah, right. Foreigner with a head injury." Alvor sighed as he made to pick up the various tools that had fallen to the ground, "Those were the Greybeards, a group of monks that practice the Voice. They live on top of the mountain here, the Throat of the World."
John hesitated to help him. His body was still high on adrenaline, the sudden shock of what happened driving him to overdrive. He had felt his entire body rumble from that little fiasco. He hadn't experienced anything like that before.
And Alvor was saying that it was done by humans?
"Are we in danger?" That was the real question that needed to be answered here. Something like that couldn't have been good news. Alvor frowned as he used a pair of tongs to drag another pair out of the forge.
"Can't say. Haven't heard of the Greybeards doing anything like this before." He shook his head, "Divines have mercy, what is this world coming to? First Helgen Keep gets burnt down by a dragon, now the Greybeards do this?" WIth one last shake of his head, Alvor sat down and started inspecting his work area for damage.
Meanwhile, John stilled as he heard one, single word come out from the smith's mouth.
"Dragon?"
Commissioned by: brutalcrab
A/N: Between this story, and Anomaly, I feel like I'm going to be writing about dragons a lot more than I expected lmao.
Thank you to my newest patrons: Gabriel, Francis Daniel Cua De Leon, and Ricardo Jesus Rojas Rojas.
And a special thanks to: Oliver vazquez, brutalcrab and Tassimo. Thank you for your support, it means a lot!
