ch 16 The Dragonborn reflects
Part I: The Cost of a Brother
He woke to the sound of boiling water and the smell of pine smoke.
Warmth wrapped around him—soft quilts layered high.
His eyes blinked blearily open.
Wooden beams above. Fire to the left. The creak of floorboards.
He wasn't dead.
Which, honestly, was surprising.
He shifted.
Every muscle ached.
Not in the I lifted a heavy sword way.
But the I've been sculpted way.
He sat up.
The clothes weren't his.
Simple trousers.
Wool shirt.
No embellishment.
No fur.
No dramatic shoulder spikes.
Just cloth. Breathable. Practical.
He looked into a nearby kettle, its surface reflecting flickering firelight.
What he saw…
Wasn't quite him.
Not the version he remembered.
Gone were the absurd, bodybuilder-tier arms. The ridiculous barrel chest.
What looked back at him was lean, sharp, compact muscle. His face wasn't puffed with vanity—just shaped by survival.
He looked real.
Then—
He saw her
Gerdur, kneeling by the bed across the room.
Tending to Ralof.
The Nord lay still. Bandages thick around his face. One eye covered. His chest rose and fell—but faintly.
She dipped a cloth in warm water and pressed it gently to his jaw.
Her hands didn't tremble.
But her eyes burned.
She hadn't noticed him wake.
Or maybe she had.
And didn't care.
The Dragonborn swallowed.
"Is he…"
She didn't look back.
"He's alive."
Her voice was even.
"He hasn't woken yet."
Pause.
"You nearly didn't make it either."
He looked down at his hands.
At the thin lines where frostbite had almost taken his fingertips.
He remembered the blizzard.
The snow.
The silence.
And dragging that sled through the dark.
"I did it," he said quietly. "I got him back."
Still, she didn't turn.
But her hands paused on the cloth.
And for the first time, he noticed the bandage wrapped around her own palm.
Torn from the cloak he'd left on Ralof.
Blood-stained.
Used.
Part II: What He Owes
She didn't turn immediately.
She pressed the cloth to Ralof's temple one last time, folded it neatly into a basin, and stood.
Then turned to face him.
Her eyes were tired. Red. But not weeping.
She crossed her arms.
And said one word:
"Why?"
The Dragonborn looked down.
Took a long breath.
And said softly:
"I thought I was supposed to be… great."
She didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He kept going.
"I grew up on stories. Heroes with magic swords. Prophecies. Destinies. They always win in the end. Even when they bleed, they… win."
He looked at his hands again.
At the faded blisters and peeling fingertips.
"I thought this world would be like that. That I'd swing a big hammer, slay some monsters, get the girl, and… y'know. Be the one."
He laughed—dry, humorless.
"I didn't realize that bleeding's not just for flavor. That people don't respawn. That cold doesn't tick down HP—it kills."
She still hadn't spoken.
Her face was unreadable.
The fire popped.
He looked at her, almost pleading.
"I didn't mean for him to get hurt. I thought I could handle it. I really did."
Finally, she spoke.
Her voice was low.
"You gambled with his life."
He flinched.
"Yes."
"And yours."
He nodded.
"And now?"
He didn't answer right away.
He thought of the blizzard.
Of the moment he gave up his clothes.
Of the fight with the Draugr.
Of dragging Ralof by firelight through a tomb that no longer had rules.
He looked up.
"I think I'm done chasing glory."
She didn't nod.
Didn't forgive.
But her arms uncrossed.
And for the first time, her voice softened just a notch.
"Then maybe you've got something worth saving."
Part III: The Debt That Matters
Gerdur returned to the washbasin and wrung out the cloth in silence.
Then, without looking at him, she said:
"The treasure you dragged back—the rings, the necklaces, even the loose septims—it covered everything."
The Dragonborn blinked.
"…Everything?"
She nodded once.
"The saw. The repairs. Even the food you ate. You're cleared."
He sat still for a long time.
Letting that sink in.
Then slowly stood from the cot, the blanket falling from his shoulders.
He walked to the hearth.
And said quietly:
"I'm not leaving."
She turned.
Brows furrowed. "Why?"
He looked toward Ralof.
Still unmoving.
Still pale.
"I owe him. More than I could ever repay in coin."
He looked back at her.
"I want to stay. I want work. Whatever you've got."
He smiled faintly. "Preferably something that doesn't involve frostbite or ancient tombs."
Gerdur didn't answer at first.
She studied him.
Not the body—lean now, finally practical.
Not the face—less puffed, more real.
She looked into his eyes.
And saw something true.
"Show up before dawn," she said at last.
"You'll load lumber. Cut wood. Help haul shipments."
"Done."
She stepped forward.
Held out her hand.
He took it.
They shook once.
Firm.
Final.
"Don't expect praise," she said.
"Wouldn't know what to do with it," he replied.
They stood there a moment longer.
No titles.
No prophecy.
Just two people doing the hard thing.
Part IV: The First Shift
The whistle of Gerdur's mill came just after dawn.
Cold mist clung to the trees like spiderwebs.
The Dragonborn stood by the water chute, boots muddy, axe in hand.
He hadn't touched a weapon in days.
But this—this felt different.
The logs were soaked, slick with morning frost.
The first swing of the axe landed wrong—clumsy.
Gerdur didn't comment.
She just tossed him another log.
He tried again.
Better.
By the third, the rhythm found him.
Wood. Crack. Reset.
Wood. Crack. Reset.
He dragged boards. Hoisted planks. Loaded carts.
His shoulders burned.
His back screamed.
And still—he kept working.
Locals passed by.
Some stared.
Others whispered.
The big, dumb Argonian who broke the saw?
Now stacking logs like a laborer?
It didn't make sense.
But no one stopped him.
No one mocked him.
By noon, they were offering water.
By evening, one even offered bread.
Gerdur gave him a nod as the sun dipped behind the trees.
Not praise.
Just respect.
Any that was enough.
He walked home to the spare bunk she'd offered him.
Body aching.
Hands blistered again.
Face streaked with sap and soot.
And for the first time in this world—
He felt tired.
Not from running.
Not from fear.
Just… from doing something right.
Part V: The Axe and the Quiet Man
The room was filled with soft humming.
Not words.
Just melody.
Warm.
Old.
It drifted over the scent of boiled herbs and pine smoke.
Ralof's eye fluttered open.
The light was soft—morning gold.
He shifted.
Winced.
And let out a low grunt.
Gerdur was beside him in an instant.
Her smile wasn't wide.
But it was real.
"You're back," she whispered, brushing a wet cloth across his brow. "Finally."
Ralof licked dry lips.
Tried to speak.
Only managed, "Water."
She helped him sip from a wooden cup.
Then, when he was steady, he whispered hoarsely:
"My axe…?"
Gerdur turned, walked to the small chest at the foot of the bed, and lifted the weapon inside.
She returned with both hands under it.
The Nordic axe shimmered—edge sharp, haft wrapped in black leather, the faint blue glow of enchantment still curling near the runes.
Ralof blinked.
"Where… did you get this?"
She set it gently in his lap.
"The Dragonborn brought it. Said it was yours. Tied it to the stretcher when he dragged you back."
Ralof stared.
"He said that?"
She nodded once.
"He didn't want to talk about it much. Just said it belonged to 'the one who earned it.'"
Ralof looked down at the weapon.
Then at his own hands.
Calloused.
Scarred.
Still shaking a little.
Then—
Softly:
"Where is he?"
Gerdur smiled faintly.
"Come on. I'll help you."
The sunlight outside was gentle, filtered through drifting ash trees and morning mist.
Birdsong carried down from the riverbank.
Gerdur helped him down the steps of the porch, steadying his weight.
And there—
By the chopping block—
He saw him.
The Dragonborn stood shirt-sleeved in simple wool trousers, worn boots, and a pale tunic stained with sap. No armor. No weapons.
His form was smaller now.
Compact.
Every motion efficient.
Measured.
Focused.
Swing. Crack. Stack.
Swing. Crack. Stack.
He didn't notice them at first.
Too deep in the rhythm.
Ralof stood frozen.
The axe in his hands suddenly felt very heavy.
"…By the Nine," he murmured.
"That's not the same man."
Gerdur simply said:
"No. It isn't."
Part VI: The Quiet Thanks
The axe slipped from his hands.
It hit the dirt with a soft thunk.
The Dragonborn took one step toward them—then another.
His feet moved faster.
By the time he reached Ralof, he was half-running.
They stood face to face.
Sunlight behind them.
Gerdur stepped back, quiet.
They just looked at each other.
No words.
Just breath.
One man with a scar that would never heal.
One with arms still marked by frost and bone-deep blisters.
The Dragonborn opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then tried again.
"Ralof…"
His voice cracked.
"I'm sorry."
He stepped back, chest rising and falling.
"I didn't know what I was doing. Any of it. I thought… I thought I was the main character."
He laughed—soft, bitter.
"I thought I was important."
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
"But then I saw you bleeding. And everything stopped making sense. I looked at you—half-dead because you thought I was worth saving."
His lip trembled.
"I woke up that day. And I decided I wasn't going to chase quests anymore. I'm not a hero."
Ralof blinked.
Then stepped forward.
His voice was calm.
Clear.
"Skyrim still needs its hero."
The Dragonborn looked up at him.
Eyes wide.
Tears falling.
"No it doesn't. Not me. Not after everything."
Ralof gave a crooked grin.
"It needs you now. Not the show-off with the hammer. Not the idiot with the one-liners. The one that walked me down a mountain in a blizzard. The one who gave me his clothes."
That broke him.
The Dragonborn dropped his head, shoulders shaking.
And hugged Ralof.
Tight.
Raw.
Wordless.
Tears soaked the edge of Ralof's tunic.
Ralof just laughed.
Not mockingly.
Not cruelly.
Just… joyfully.
Loud.
Unrestrained.
Like someone who never thought he'd hear that sound again.
And for the first time in a long time—
It was enough.