“Do we really have to keep him in shackles? He’s not going to hurt anyone.” I heard the voice as if through water, distant and distorted. Part of me recognized it as that of a friend, but I paid it no more heed than the cold iron clasped around my wrists, or the filthy stone floor I sat upon.
“Tell that to Iratian. You saw what he did to him.” Another voice, vaguely familiar, but the words were just air. My soul was empty, a void that nothing could enter. I dared not think or feel. I dared not even look at my hands, and risk the blood reminding me of what I’d done.
I don’t know how long I sat there, staring out the barred window, or at the dark stone walls, or the thick iron door. The voices came and went, sometimes farther, sometimes right in my ear, but why should I care?
Exhaustion overtook me. It could have been hours, days, even weeks. Time held no meaning in that small space, that protective fortress that kept me safe from the world that had nothing left for me. I woke with a vague sense of motion, and knew I was no longer in that safe place.
I blinked, and found myself in a room not much larger than my haven, a hard wooden chair numbing my rear. “Arinbjörn.” The voice was loud and distorted, accompanied by a high, piercing tone, shattering the veil of my emptiness, jerking my gaze to the table before me. My chained wrists sat there, but I couldn’t recognize those hands as my own. Too much white. Not enough red. I stared at them in wonder. “Galvon cleaned you up.” The voice seemed quieter now. More clear. The tone faded to nothing.
“He has always been a good friend.” It took a moment for me to realize those words were mine. I looked up and saw two men: An older Imperial, all lightly-tanned skin and dark hair with streaks of gray, sitting across from me; and a Dunmer, a dark elf with black skin, tapered ears and red eyes, standing behind him. I recognized the latter as Galvon Verano, a close friend among the Bruma city guard, roughly my own age. The identity of the speaker, the seated Imperial, took a moment longer, but I pulled the name up as if through unyielding muck. Gerich Armina, captain of the guard. Both men seemed shocked that I’d spoken.
Perhaps they expected me to continue speaking, but my lips were dry and my throat raw. Strange. My face felt wet enough. They waited expectantly, but I could only stare back.
“Arinbjörn.” It was Galvon who spoke this time. “What happened?”
That high, piercing tone returned. I winced, raising my hands to my head, trying to keep it out.
“By Akatosh, not again.” The words grew more distant and distorted, the tone building as a hot pain in my head. “Arinbjörn, you have to tell us what happened.” I gasped as the red liquid dripped from my hands once again.
“Remember Eria, Arinbjörn.” Oh, my sweet Eria. “I know you’re going there soon. Tell us. Tell us what happened.”
My lips moved of their own accord as that dark memory returned, unbidden. But I couldn’t go there. No, not yet.
* * *
The white-hot tone turned into sounds of battle. One of my allies called my name, and I spun just in time to deflect a goblin’s dagger with my shield. I roared and charged, pushing the goblin back, back, back. As a Nord, one of the fair-haired, fair-skinned humans from the north, I am not a small man, and my heavily muscled, over six and a half foot frame carried the goblin easily under my momentum. Its eyes were wide in fear, but it was helpless. Something broke with a harsh crack as it hit the cave wall, caught between a rock and a hard place. I let it drop to the lichen-covered cave floor, back bent in an unnatural angle.
I turned, seeking my companion who had warned me: Cyrus, one of the dark-skinned men known as Redguards. He waved a torch and a longsword deftly, keeping a group of three goblins at bay. I ran to join him, careful not to slip on the slick stone. My axe came down hard overhead, catching a surprised goblin at an angle between the neck and shoulder. The goblin screamed, but I could still hear the sickening wet sound as I tried to pull my axe from it. It wouldn’t budge. A backhanded shield blow to the head silenced the goblin, and my axe came free.
I looked up in time to see Cyrus pull his sword from the second goblin. The remaining one turned and ran, ascending toward the mouth of the cave. I dropped my axe and shield, pulled the bow from my back, and carefully lined up my shot. The goblin didn’t get to see the light of day.
“Good shot.” Cyrus clapped me on the back. I returned my bow, grabbed my axe and shield, and together we made our way deeper into the cave, toward the sounds of continuing battle.
“That’s all well and good, Arinbjörn, but we really need to know what happened with Eria and Iratian.” I turned to look at Cyrus in shock, but he didn't react to the distorted voice or the shrill tone that accompanied it.
“Can’t you see how hard this is for him? Let him get to it!” That tone, so loud and high-pitched, seared white-hot into my head.
“He’s running out of time. If he doesn’t give us an answer soon, the Count will give us no choice but to execute him.” The searing white filled my vision. “Who knows when he’ll go silent again? We have to seize on this. Now.”
* * *
The searing white turned into the dim light of a campfire, the piercing tone into crackling embers and boastful voices. “Ah, but you and Arinbjörn missed the best part, Cyrus!” Buryag gro-Ghorush, my dark-green-skinned orc companion, said. I looked up from cleaning my axe and sword for a moment to see him swelling his chest with pride, holding his massive warhammer high in victory. Some would say his grin was unsettling in the flickering firelight, with his typical orcish underbite and large, sharp teeth.
“Ah yes,” Ziniira said. She was a cat-like Khajiit, her fur black as night, and her green eyes glinted in the firelight. “One of the goblins was throwing around fireballs. Buryag took one full on the chest.” She purred a laugh. “You should’ve seen the surprise on that goblin witch’s face when Buryag just growled through it and crushed her skull with that clumsy hammer of his.”
“Clumsy? Hah!” Groyag flexed. Ziniira purred another laugh, and Cyrus and I couldn’t help but join.
“We all saw Arinbjörn abandon his shield and tear through that last group of goblins with his axe and sword, though.” Cyrus said. “Now that was a sight to see. Arinbjörn the Bold, indeed!”
I smiled in appreciation, but turned my attention back to cleaning my weapons. “It was a good battle by all,” I said. “We all fought well, and now the Orange Road is once again safe for travelers.”
“And that means we’ll get our money,” Ziniira added.
I laughed a deep belly-laugh. “Indeed.”
“And thanks to you, sweet Ziniira, and those blessed eyes of yours, we found the fiends right away!” I looked up in time to see Cyrus give the Khajiit a wink. She simply smiled.
The compliment was well-placed. We had expected it to take at least four days to find the goblins. There were a lot of places near to the attack sites that could hide a group of raiders. But Ziniira’s tracking skills had led us to the cave on the first day, so we would be returning to Bruma a full three days early.
The thought of returning home early warmed my heart in a way that the campfire never could. I set my axe and sword aside to engulf Ziniira in a great bear hug.
“Okay, okay, too tight,” she gasped.
I beamed as I put her down. “Sorry Ziniira. I just can’t wait to see Eria’s surprise when I’m home so early.”
She spoke, but I couldn’t hear her response as the searing, white-hot tone filled my head again. “What’s happening?” Those voices. I raised my hands to my temples, trying to rub the pain away.
When I managed to wrench my eyes open, I saw my hands covered in blood. “I think he’s going there now.” I blinked, and the blood was gone. The searing pain chased away all possible thought. There was only white-hot light.
* * *
The light and the pain cleared away, leaving the quiet, torch-lit streets of Bruma. A thin layer of snow rested on the ground, as was common this far north and this close to the Jerall Mountains. It muffled my heavy footsteps as I made my way past stone houses and shops. I sensed that something lingered just beyond my consciousness: that searing tone, the high-pitched sound, distant as the far off light of an approaching sunrise.
The others had headed to the Jerall View Inn for a drink, but most of the city was already sleeping. I was pleased to see my dear friend Galvon walking his route, and quickly explained our early return. That high-pitched tone grew a bit louder in his presence, tickling my consciousness, but it was still easy to ignore. “Ah, but I won’t keep you,” Galvon said. “I’m sure you miss Eria, and I know she’ll be happy to see you.” The tone faded away again as he continued on his route, and I continued onward to the house at the end of the street, where it began to wrap around behind the chapel.
The white-hot tone returned suddenly and in full force as I opened the door, but I didn’t react. I felt a harsh pain on top of the searing heat, like my head repeatedly hitting stone. Hard. I heard a chair and table fall. “Oh my… Arinbjörn! Stop!”
I removed my boots at the door, remembering the last time I’d tracked snow and mud into the house. There was a certain beauty to an angry Eria, like the blizzards of my homeland: both fearsome and breathtaking. Regardless, I only forgot to remove my boots once. I learn from my mistakes.
I felt four strong arms pulling me back. Still, I struggled.
I quietly made my way up the stairs, careful not to wake her and ruin the surprise. I grinned wide as I opened the bedroom door. My jaw dropped.
From my view at the doorway, I could only see a man’s sweating back, and Eria’s legs wrapped around him. Then everything went red, my muscles exploding into thoughtless action. The harsh impacts resumed. I pulled the man off my wife and threw him to the ground. Eria screamed, pleading with me, trying to pull me off of him. I didn’t even look at her, just brushed her aside. “Damnit, get more men in here! And call for Jesan!” The man only struggled for the first two punches, but I continued anyway, punch after punch after punch. I felt bone giving way, but the searing white heat coursing through my veins could not be denied. The pain in my head was excruciating. I wondered if my skull would burst. I welcomed it.
Eventually, strong arms grabbed me under my shoulders. I tried to elbow the man responsible, but the angle was wrong. Still, he couldn’t quite budge me. I continued tenderizing the wicked man’s face. “Arinbjörn, it’s me! Stop! Stop!” Galvon’s voice did what his body couldn’t. I let him pull me to my feet. That’s it, hold him down! My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath. “He… he…”
My rapidly-hammering heart stopped as my eyes fell on Eria, her naked body lying near the wall, the back of her head bleeding. I broke free from Galvon’s relaxed grip and ran to her. “Eria... my sweet Eria…” I cradled her head in my arms, unsuccessfully trying to stop the bleeding. I crushed my nose into her long black hair, ignoring the smells of blood and sweat as I breathed deep. I kissed her soft lips, willing her to awaken. But when I gazed into her distant brown eyes, I knew it was too late. I roared, rage and sorrow mixing, spilling hot tears onto her still-warm flesh. My body convulsed as the tears came again. I begged for her forgiveness.
* * *
My head swam as I came to. I squinted at the torchlight, wondering why it seemed so painfully bright. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed an old guardsman with graying hair crouching over me. He gave my face a few light slaps. “We can’t have you falling asleep, now.” I felt his other hand on my forehead, an energy tingling from his aged palm. My head was spinning so much that I barely recognized Jesan, the oldest guardsman in Bruma, and the only one who’d studied healing. I wiped at my stinging eyes and was startled at what I saw. Blood was trickling down from my wrists, where my shackles seemed to have dug into them, but that wasn’t the shocking part. My hands had come away with more blood on them. I looked around in a daze, ignoring Jesan’s fussing. I saw more of the blood on the stone floor nearby and yet more on the wall. And the small room was quite crowded: Two other guardsmen stood alongside Galvon and Gerich, all four men sweating and visibly exhausted. None of them were bleeding, though. All of it was mine. Good.
I locked eyes with Galvon. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I only meant to push her out of harm’s way. I’d never mean to hurt her.”
The Dunmer grimaced. “I know, my friend. I know.”
* * *
They brought me back to my cell, where I knew I awaited my execution. Whether I’d meant to or not, I’d killed two people. The fact that they were both adulterers was significant in Imperial law, but not enough to warrant my freedom. I didn’t feel I deserved freedom anyway. And I could never think of Eria in such terms. My beautiful, wonderful Eria.
Jesan came by twice a day to tend to my head. His restoration magicka worked wonders in staving off my migraines – the result of my self-inflicted head injuries – but I couldn’t understand why he wasted so much energy on me. He was old and frail, and had little to spare, and I would be dead soon enough anyway. But what I saw in his eyes, as in the eyes of Cyrus and my other Fighters Guild comrades during their frequent visits, gave me the answer: pity. It made me feel ashamed.
Galvon came by several times a day, and I was grateful to have someone to really talk to. He told me that the man I’d killed was Iratian Valerius. I hadn’t taken the time to recognize him in my fury, but I knew him. He was a shopkeeper, an Imperial my own age. A small man. He never had a chance. He, too, had a wife, even a child. Galvon promised he’d send them my condolences. I knew it wasn’t enough. Nothing could be.
Mostly we talked of Eria, though.
“She knows you’d never mean to hurt her,” Galvon said during one of those conversations.
“I meant to hurt him, though. And clearly she had at least some feeling towards him.”
“Don’t say that, Arinbjörn. Don’t say that. She loved you dearly. You know that. Remember her for that, not for her final moments.”
That brought the ghost of a smile to my lips, but only a ghost. “You know she could never do wrong in my eyes. I will always love her. My perfect Eria.”
“I know. Look, Arinbjörn, if I’d ever even suspected—“
“I know you wouldn’t have let me find out that way, Galvon. I know.”
We both fell silent.
“I missed her funeral, didn’t I?”
“Yes. We tried to wait, but you were unresponsive for weeks.” Despite the recurring headaches, I was thinking much more clearly since my… episode. Still, at times like this one I wanted to throw my head into the wall all over again. I barely fought the urge.
A week after my episode, Captain Gerich came with Galvon, and I knew my time was up. I stood to meet them, ready to be led to the gallows. Gerich opened my cell door and then just stood there, looking at me. I towered over him, but I still felt small under that gaze.
“For four years you’ve lived in Bruma, Arinbjörn the Bold,” he said. “Before this incident, I never would have thought we’d ever be here. As a member of the local Fighters Guild, you’ve served the city well in that time. Every guard under my command knows you as a good man. Many as a friend. Yet what you’ve done is terrible, and the law is clear.”
I nodded in agreement, my face a rock. I wept on the inside. Eria.
“But you’re still young, with so much life ahead of you.” He unlocked my shackles. “Too young to die for a tragic mistake, a moment of passion.” To say I was speechless would be an understatement. I couldn’t even form a clear thought. I just looked on in confusion as he put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to do great things, Arinbjörn. I know it. You’ll find your redemption.” I shook my head. There could be no redemption.
“You must go quickly,” Galvon added. “Cyrus is waiting just north of the city. He has your equipment, and supplies for the road.”
“You could both be executed for this,” I finally managed.
“You’re a strong man, Arinbjörn. You overpowered us and took my keys.” I took them as Gerich held them out, but it didn’t feel right.
“I don’t deserve this.”
Their eyes filled with that emotion that brought me so much shame. “You don’t deserve death.”
“Go home, son of Skyrim.” Gerich didn’t request. He commanded. “Leave Bruma behind.”
I obeyed. But it felt so very wrong.
-----------------------------------------------------
Did you enjoy the prologue? Then please support my personal story blog idovahkiin.com! If you subscribe or follow it on Facebook or Twitter, then you'll be sure to get updates to my character's story first.
Whether you want to bother with that or not, thanks for reading! That's ultimately all I want: readers!
Do you agree with their decision to let Arinbjörn go free? Comment below, and feel free to debate! Of course, you may comment about anything else relating to this part of the story as well! What do you think will happen next? Will Arinbjörn ever get over his guilt? Discuss!
Comments