#lokir

The air was cold. It was always cold this time of year. Grey clouds filled the skies, casting a blue haze on the world. the trees swayed with every bluster of wind, each gust whistling in the leaves. The horse’s hooves thundered on a dirt road. 

The cart hit a rut, jarring those bound inside. Serpentine eyes snapped open and Breyth Martin Alarenzin Septim jolted up, startling those other men in the wagon. 

The last dragonborn met the eyes of every man with feral eyes. The crystal blue of Ralof, the fearful hazel of Lokir, the muddy brown of Ulfric. 

A small amount of tension drained from Breyth’s shoulders and he leaned back against the sturdy wall of the wagon. He waited for those five words, the ones that would confirm his hopes.

“Hey you,” right on schedule. Breyth’s eyes flicked up to Ralof’s face. The blonde nord was still wearing his stormcloak curtiss, showing off his muscular arms. He looked worried, perhaps unnerved by Breyth’s obvious elation. “You’re finally awake.” a smile pulled at the little dovahkiin’s lips. He nodded, trying to hold down the giddy excitement he felt. 

“Yeah, I'm awake.” he said, more to himself than Ralof. He could hardly suppress a giggle. Perhaps Akatosh hadn’t abandoned him after all. Breyth tipped his head back, watching the clouds as he listened to the familiar exchange.

“You were trying to cross the border, same as us and that thief over there.” Ralof nodded to Lokir, a spindly nord man with greasy mouse brown hair. Said thief snapped his attention to Ralof, sitting bolt up.

“Damn you stormcloaks!” he spit at the nord, settling back down against the cart. “Skyrim was fine until you came along, Empire was nice and lazy.” Lokir's eyes betrayed his fear, like a trapped prey animal.

‘Funny, I didn't notice such things the first time.’ the dragonborn mused silently. He supposed it was due to the fact he was aware of his nature. He understood what Paarthuranx had meant now. Whether he liked it or not, he was a dovah and that was his nature. Lokir continued, shifting uncomfortably under Breyth’s predatory gaze. 

“If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been half-way to Hammerfell by now.” the horse thief glared at Ralof as his eyes began fogging with tears. 

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” the nord retorts curtly. Breyth snorts, catching the attention of all the men though they say nothing to him. 

‘Oh Akatosh, if they only knew.’ he smirked to himself.  He just waits for the next words.

“SHUT UP BACK THERE!” the imperial soldier barks from the front where he drove the horse to Helgen. 

‘All in good time my friend’ the last dragonborn thought with a wicked smirk. He cast a glance at Ulfric, who was watching him intently. It took all Breyth’s willpower not to tell the kingslayer to shove it, but that could wait until Akmirra was back at his side. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Lokir asked, taking notice of the deep glares exchanged by the two voice-masters. Ralof straightened immediately.

“Watch your tongue!” he hissed. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!” Breyth couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Ulfric Stormcloak was no more fit to be the High King than Delphine was to lead the blades. At the thought of that she-daedra, Breyth absently raised his bound hands to his throat.

The suffocating feeling was gone, but a dull pain still lingered. He just hoped his shouts were unaffected. He shuddered and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand. The terror on Lokir’s pale face was evident. 

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion!” he shrieks. “But if they’ve captured you…” the horse thief trails off, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. “Oh gods, where are they taking us?” Ralof sat back, all fight drained out of his body.

“I don’t know,” he spoke quietly, turning his gaze to his Jarl. “but Sovngarde awaits.” Breyth let off an involuntary shiver at the mention of the realm. It was not a place he ever wanted to see again.

He let his attention wander away from the men and to the skies. That’s when he saw it. excitement flared in his chest again and this time he didn’t shy away from letting out a small laugh.

The ebony form of the World-Eater soared far overhead, as graceful as only a dovah could be. 

Perhaps Alduin was above the carriages the last time as well, Breyth simply hadn’t looked up before.  Not that it really mattered, that was the past. Though he had to confess, the thought that Alduin was nearby Helgen was a reassuring one. 

Briefly, Breyth wondered if the dragon remembered the way he had. He hoped so. Allying with such a powerful dovah would no doubt prove useful. 

As the teal eyed dragonborn watched the mighty World-Eater glide out of view, Lokir’s voice pulled the last Septim back to the men in the cart. 

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.” the horse thief sobbed. A twinge of pity stung the dovahkiin’s heart, knowing the gods wouldn’t be answering the man from Rokistead. 

They were just entering Helgen. Breyth took a moment to soak in the little hamlet, before it would be turned to cinders by the World-Eater’s wrath. It was a quaint settlement with very modest buildings, not unlike the rest of Skyrim’s towns and villages. 

One thing that stuck out to him was that Helgen felt dead. Like the village itself knew of its fate and was resigned to it. People were bustling about, a child asked to watch the soldiers, the sound of animals spills through the air. Yet for all the activity, Helgen lacked life. 

Lokir sobbed. The last of the dragon god’s children couldn’t stop the bitterness welling up in his chest, though he said nothing. The gods would not be giving anyone aid, not Lokir, not little Helgi, not Brojnolf, not this entire gods forsaken town.

‘Father may have thrown me back here,’ Breyth dug the heel of his boot into the old wood of the cart’s floor. ‘But I’m on my own now.’ 

Ralof was recounting a tale of juniper berries and youthful lust when the cart came to a stop. Only then did Bryeth realize, he still wore the studded armour he’d donned in Sovngarde. Perhaps more had changed than he first noticed. 

They were ushered off the carts, one by one called to the block. Lokir tried running, as he had before, he was cut down by archers the very same way. The stormcloak with blood red hair lost his head, angered by the priestess calling to only 8 of the divines. 

The familiar bellow echoed through the morning sky. The captain barked her orders, though Breyth wasn’t listening. Just following the familiar motions, kneeling before the headsman. 

He took a deep breath, words forming in his mind. The axe was raised, screams erupted through the small hamlet. The world-eater landed gracefully on the watchtower and all hell broke loose.

“VEN GAAR NOS” the words slipped free from his lips, drowned out by the dovah’s powerful roar. The headsman was thrown into the air, right into Alduin’s waiting jaws. The dragonborn smirked before falling back into the ‘helpless prisoner’ role, if only for Ralof’s sake.

 He flipped Ulfric off before jumping to the inn. Ran with Hadvar, just as he had before. It wasn’t until he stood between the two men, taking the familiar step towards Hadvar, that something different happened.

“DOVAHKIIN.” the booming voice of the world-eater filled Breyth’s ears, making them perk up. He raised his teal gaze, moving to turn. “BO NU.” 

“I wait outside Riverwood.” the dragonborn whispered, knowing only his fellow dovah would hear. 

“FUL FEN ZU’U, KIIR.”

The elf smiled, running to join the legionnaire at the keep’s door. Things were about to change for Skyrim, of that Breyth was absolutely sure.

ven gaar nos - cyclone shout

bo nu - go(fly) now