Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He notices that something is different before he can even open his eyes. 

First; it feels like he’s moving. He very certainly remembers falling asleep on his couch for a nap, so this should not be the case.

Second; the air smells like dirt, trees, the musk of the wilderness. Since his apartment smells like dust and lemon air freshener, he can deduce that he is no longer in the place that he had fallen asleep. 

Third; there is a repeated sound of hooves on cobblestone, which…? Does not bode particularly well, seeing as he hasn’t even seen an actual, living animal with hooves since those mountain goats at the zoo two years ago. 

Dominic opens his eyes, and finds himself in a horse-drawn carriage. 

And, strike… game over. He’s definitely not where he’s suppose to be. Looking around himself now, he mentally adds a note of urgency to the thought: He’s really nowhere near being where he should be. 

This scene, though, is familiar. For a moment Dominic is unable to feel anything but absolute bewilderment. Then the god-awful headache of the century hits, and he lets out a quiet groan. 

“Hey you,” the man sitting across from Dominic pipes up, as if on cue, because it is. “You’re finally—“

“Awake, yes, thank you Ralof,” Dominic grumbles. “And about ready to kick some Thalmor ass.”

The other three men in the cart with him appear a little startled at his claim, but both blondes give him knowing and sympathetic looks, though Ralof is also confused. 

“How do you know my name?” The man asks, “I haven’t even introduced myself.”

This. 

The wooden floorboards of the cart beneath them. The passing trees, and trotting horses and looming, brooding soldiers that surround them. 

This is his stage. 

The very thought soothes the rapid beat of his heart for just a moment. For a moment, he’s able to breathe easier. 

Dominic feins a wounded expression, leaning back as if to take more room for himself to process this revelation. 

“Ralof, you… you don’t know me?”

“I… no? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Are you… are you serious?”

Uncertain, Ralof sends an uncomfortable look toward Ulfric, who in turn is leveling an intense stare at Dominic. 

“I’m afraid so, friend.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dominic snaps, drawing upon his utter bewilderment of finding himself in this situation to begin with. “If you—If you don’t even remember who I am , don’t call me that.”

The nord carefully chooses not to speak to that, and Dominic lets himself get a good look at his surroundings. 

Trees, trees and more trees. A path that is more dirt than cobblestone, overworn with years of use. There’s a deer up ahead of them, beyond the line of Roman-reminiscent soldiers upon their horses. It stares at them as their progression approaches, before darting off into the trees. Dominic, in a moment of hysteria, kind of wishes he could go with it. He’s not looking forward to laying his neck out on a chopping block covered in the blood of who knows how many corpses. Think of all the medieval diseases that dance along the pumping veins of these unwashed people. 

What a strange thing to be worrying about right now. 

“—this isn’t happening.”

God, Dominic wishes. He wants to be back in his apartment right now. 

“Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?”

Dominic shakes his head slowly, tuning them out. He turns his head just enough to see that Ulfric is still staring at him with a heavy look made grim by the glare of his brows. 

Dominic scoots over closer to the man, until their shoulders are almost touching, and ducks his head down. 

“Just making sure,” he says under his breath, “but I’m assuming you don’t know who I am, either?”

Ulfric Stormcloak stays still and silent, staring endlessly, and for a long while Dominic thinks the man might just refuse to answer him altogether, which wouldn’t even be out of character for him, to be honest. But, after a minute or two passes, Dominic earnestly staring back at him and waiting, the leader of the Stormcloaks gives a slow shake of his head. 

Dominic very carefully keeps his face blank, but tenses his shoulders up. He turns to look out past Lokir’s shoulder, at the trees that are steadily passing them by, and lets out a quiet huff. 

“I’m not sure what to feel about that,” he says to himself, pitching his voice quiet and with some level of feeling. He quirks a mirthless grin, “Maybe... relieved?”

Loud enough, however, for Ulfric to hear it. Ralof glances over at him too, and Dominic fixes his expression into something a lost man would wear. 

There’s a dip in the road a while later, and Dominic sees the gates of Helgen rise in the distance, getting closer with every minute of silence that passes by. The cart ride is longer than he remembers it’s suppose to be, but perhaps that is what’s more realistic. Or, he’s just woken up earlier that he was meant to. He isn’t sure. 

He isn’t sure about any of this. 

Horses off to the left, the Imperial General stares across the road at them as they’re carted by. Ulfric looks away from Dominic long enough for their eyes to meet, and there’s an almost anime-moment of lightning zapping across their connected glares. Laughter bubbles up Dominic’s throat, and he just barely presses it back down. Not quick enough, Ulfric’s gaze snaps back to him, and now Ralof and Lokir are staring, too. 

Dominic shakes his head at all of them. He’s a little hysterical, he won’t lie to himself. There’s a feeling of panic biting constantly at the very edge of his senses. 

He bows his head and brings up his bound hands to press against his aching cranium.

“I-I don’t remember how I got here,” he mutters, perhaps a bit too loudly, and another weak laugh spills out of his mouth. 

There’s a whack at the back of one of his shoulders, and he sits up to find a soldier leaning over from his horse, eyes narrowed. Dominic blinks, and there are white letters floating brightly in the air above the man’s head. That’s a… very video-game like feature, for the otherwise very real world he found himself in. 

“Shut up,” the soldier mutters, and Dominic stares at him for a moment, before leveling an acidic glare back. 

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do, Tyson Amaranthe,” he spits out, and the soldier rears back with a look of surprise. 

Dominic scoffs. “Let me guess, you don’t know who I am.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, before Tyson the soldier wordlessly shakes his head. Dominic throws his bound hands—did he mention that they’re bound? It’s very uncomfortable—into the air and gives a stressed sound from behind clenched teeth. 

“Of course .” He says. 

He glares at the wooden floorboards of the cart and doesn’t look up again until they’ve arrived at their destination. 

The chopping block. 

The child asking his father what was going on made something sick squirm around in Dominic’s stomach, and for a moment he tries to firmly ignore it, before he finds out he just can’t, and looks up with a look of nauseated dread upon his face. 

“I… I don’t…” he looks back at the house the kid had been herded into, and then up at the sky. Already there’s the sound of very distant thunder echoing across an otherwise completely clear blue sky. Dominic knows it isn’t thunder. 

Nobody else does, and they won’t until it’s far too late. 

He sucks in a breath, and lets it out again too quickly. He squeezes his eyes shut and gives his head a little shake. A mistake, because it just causes his raging headache to step it up a couple notches. He wants to clutch at it, but his hands are bound —he lets out a half frustrated, half fearful groan. 

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Easy,” is murmured into his ear, and he’s hauled to his feet. 

He opens his eyes as Tyson the soldier, with an odd, unnamable expression under his helmet, gives him a push toward the open end of the cart. Everyone else has already climbed down. He feels the other men staring up at him, and Dominic takes another breath and just barely doesn’t stumble on his way down. 

Did Haming the kid survive the destruction of Helgen? He doesn’t remember. He’d never followed Hadvar, always Ralof. Did Haming’s father? Dominic… doesn’t believe so. 

Dammit . 

Dammit, dammit, dammit.  

With hysteria bubbling up his throat again, Dominic looks up at Hadvar as his name is requested, and huffs a laugh. 

“I can’t… believe this,” he says, and then, “I’m Dominic . Dominic Moriah. But, you don’t remember that either, do you, Hadvar?”

Ralof jerks away, just slightly, like he’s been slapped. He manages to stay in line, be he’s throwing a searching look over his shoulder at Dominic now, just shy of completely bewildered. 

Hadvar is demanding answers, asking him what he means. The captain lady who dies very quickly in the prologue is looking increasingly irritated, and Ulfric is still staring at him with gleaming eyes and an unreadable expression on his face. Maybe it’s the gags fault. 

Dominic doesn’t know what he even wants to do, here. But, it’s best to keep his options open, right?

Maybe he’ll die. 

He might just fucking die . 

“He’s not on the list, Captain,” Hadvar finally says, when it’s clear Dominic isn’t going to answer. 

“Forget the list,” the bitch says, Dominic has always hated her. He glances up, and the words Denisa Hardolf float above her head. “He goes straight to the block.”

Hadvar pauses. 

“But—“

“Straight to the block,” Hardolf commands, and Hadvar looks a little bit uncertain, a little bit sick. 

“By your orders, Captain,” he says, and then turns to Dominic—

“Do not tell me that you’re sorry,” Dominic tells him, quietly, firmly, and Hadvar swallows. “Do not.”

“Go and stand next to Ral—that one, the blond one,” the imperial says instead, and Dominic thinks it’s telling how he can’t manage to get Ralof’s name out. 

He takes a step back and, under Tyson’s escort, goes to stand next to Ralof. Next to Ulfric. Who still stares. Dominic very consciously doesn’t look back at the man. 

Doesn’t he have other things to worry about? Ah look, there’s Tullius, perhaps—yes. Ulfric has a new subject to glower menacingly at. Dominic’s shoulders relax just slightly, now that those eyes aren’t drilling into him. 

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” Tullius begins, and Ulfric’s eyes narrow. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and ursurp his throne.”

Ulfric growls, making an aborted movement to lunge forward. The surrounding imperial soldiers raise their weapons, but the man’s muscles just spasm and he stays in place. 

Tullius’ face remains stoic, but he looks hateful. “You started this war—“

Dominic goes ramrod straight. 

“—flung Skyrim into chaos. And now, the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

He can’t help himself. He scoffs, loudly. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

The town center goes quiet. At his shoulder, sword drawn, Dominic can hear Tyson the soldier swallow. 

Hardolf bristles. “How dare —“ but Tullius holds up a hand to quiet her. 

The general doesn’t move for a long moment, but eventually he turns to pin Dominic with a hard stare. 

“What was that, prisoner?”

Dominic considers him for a moment, considers his situation, but—fuck it. 

“My name is Dominic, Tullius, you know that—ah,” he stops, and then gives a despairing chuckle. Ralof, Tyson, and Hadvar all shift uneasily. “...Nevermind.”

“No, continue,” Tullius’ stare is boring a hole into him. The man’s face is even more unreadable than Ulfric’s was, but that’s okay. Dominic knows how to read people. Tullius is insulted but inquisitive—that’s good. Now, if only—

“Do you honestly believe Ulfric started the war?” Dominic asks. “Because he didn’t.”

There’s a mad chuckle. A few voices call out, enraged—Dominic ignores them, and so does the general. Tullius is almost amused. 

“Obviously you were not there to see, but that man is a kingslayer, a murderer—“

“Well, yes,” Dominic says simply, and Tullius frowns. “I’m not saying he isn’t a jackass—he is.”

Tullius’ lips quirk up at that. From behind him, Dominic can hear the insulted muffled curses Ulfric is spitting at him.  Serves the dick right, honestly. 

“But killing Torygg—that didn’t start the war. This war’s been brewing since long before that, and you’re trying to tell me that none of you have figured it out yet?” 

“Figure out what,” Tullius’ voice is dark, and promises pain. He’s no longer amused. 

“This civil war is just the fallout of the war before it—The Great War? You know, the one against the Aldmeri Dominion? That war?”

“That war is over ,” Tullius says crossly. 

Dominic rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure , with the White-Good Concordant, right? The peace treaty both sides signed to end the war, when both sides were down and weary— Let me tell you something for a moment, General. Both sides of the war were run ragged, that’s true, but at the time the Empire had the high ground. We all know that. Those elves knew that, too. And we all know the treaty was signed because everyone was tired of war , yes? Can I ask you something, General?”

Tullius leans forward, sneer across his face. “Your time is running short, for however long you planned to stall—“

“Tullius,” Dominic says, voice carrying a commanding note that makes the General and surrounding soldiers go stiff (dear old dad had been a marine, a sergeant, too. Dominic’s been on the receiving end of the boot camp instructor voice enough time to pick up a nuance or two). Looks like soldiers are still soldiers despite the world they come from.  

He levels his voice out again. “Tullius, how do you defeat an enemy that is greater than you, outnumbers you?”

Tullius’ lips press together. “How does that have anything to do w—“

Dominic leans forward, dark smile stretches across his face. “You divide and conquer.”

Captain Denisa Harolf is scowling. There’s a sound of metal against metal and Dominic suddenly has a sword pointed at his throat. Tullius doesn’t move to stop her. “What in the name of all the divines are you talking ab—“

“The Dominion was never looking for peace with the White-Good Concordant, and they certainly aren’t now,” Dominic shrugs, careful of the blade point at his skin. “Why fight a losing battle when you can lull your enemy into a false sense of security, establish embassies within its borders to fill with your own forces, and word a treatise that gives you a level of control of the situation? And then, you just keep taking .”

The floor is his now. He has the attention of everyone from Tullius to Ulfric to the damn Priestess standing behind the headsman, who has yet to pick up his axe. Dominic keeps one anxious eye on the sky above, wondering how much time he has left. Surely… he’s pretty sure it should be up by now. He’s been a little long winded. Where is that dragon?

“The Thalmor are our allies,” the captain says. 

Dominic gives her a searching look. For all her bravado, the woman doesn’t look nearly as convinced as she’s trying to sound. 

“The Concordat was some pretty murky waters, Hardolf,” he intones gravely, watching her jerk back, lowering the sword just slightly without meaning to. “It’s full of fanciful wording and polite prose, but at the end of the day, what it really does is give a foreign power the right to send their own agents into our territory, and summarily execute our own citizens for following our own damn religion.”

Silence. And then the sky rumbles. 

Dominic’s heart picks up speed. And he sways. An arm stretched out to steady him, and he looks back. Tyson. Dominic still isn’t sure what’s going through the guy’s mind, his face his difficult to read with the beard in the way. 

Tullius is clean shaven, however, and he is positively contemplative. 

“There were extenuating circumstances, peace relied heavily on compromise, else the treaty wouldn’t get the time of day from either nation.” The general tells him. 

“Right,” Dominic scoffs. “The enemy you’re at war with comes up to you under a flag of truce to bring you a treaty they wrote, promising an end to hostilities, but only if you let them come into your borders and kill your citizens for worshipping any god that they don’t agree with.”

Tullius’ jaw works. He’s grinding his teeth. 

Dominic takes a moment to appreciate how hard all these people’s brains are working in this town today. Clearly they don’t normally get this sort of exercise. He can almost see the stream coming from all their ears. 

“Now, of course, when your right to worship your own gods is legally revoked from you, you get upset over that. It’s understandable.” Dominic shrugs. “We were getting by easily enough in the beginning, reporting about the lack of Talos to the Dominion even as our statues of him stood tall—what could they do? Their hands were full of the rebellion of Hammerfell and they were still rebuilding their forces after the finale of the Great War. Things came to a head, however, when someone finally pressed the issue.”

Dominic turns to pin Ulfric with a disapproving glare. The man rears back, looking offended even with the gag, and the feathers of the stormcloaks standing bound beside him are obviously ruffled. Dominic shakes his head at them. 

“From what I understand, the Jarl of Markarth promised you freedom of worship should you rid the hold of the Forsworn—underneath the Concordant, he didn’t have the power to promise anyone anything of the sort. Of course, the Dominion would double down on him for even thinking of it, and they did, didn't they? By that time, they’d rebuilt their forces to the point where the Jarl of Markarth relented to their demands. I’m sure that upset you, Ulfric. Perhaps enough to go through with campaigning a rebellion, yes?”

Ulfric spits out something, but the gag makes it unintelligible. The man growls in frustration. Dominic watches him for a moment, and then shrugs. “A rebellion? Against the promise of the concordat? That, of course, gave the Thalmor the right to exercise their given permission to purge Talos worship. And they did. They are. Everything to bring the Talos situation to head, going just as planned, I imagine.”

He turns to raise an eyebrow at Hardolf, who looks like she’d just ate a lemon. “Of course, now we have a civil war on our hands; one side is a rebellion sapping resources from an already war torn empire—an empire which, by obligation of its recent peace treaty, must expend even further resources to combat this rebellion. Furthermore, Skyrim is in a unique position in said empire. It connects three separate territories under the empire together. Should it manage to secede, the Empire is effectively shattered . The only standing military in the world that is strong enough to stand up to the might of the Dominion, broken irreparably.”

“What are you getting at here,” Tullius says, and his voice is weak—he’s thinking, and he’s coming to the exact realizations that Dominic wants him to. Dominic brings his shoulders up a bit, just under his ears, and holds them there, tense. He ducks his head low and gives it a slow shake from side to side. 

“Is it not frighteningly obvious, my friend? Like I said, the Aldmeri Dominion may have brought forth the Concordant, but they never intended to bring peace with it. And now we, Skyrim, in our naïveté and self-centered obliviousness, have walked right into their hands, playing to their tune like we are puppets on a string.”

People are looking around at each other, some with wide eyes, others with heavy frowns. A few glare down at the dirt beneath their feet. The sky rumbles ominously overhead as these people consider his words, and Dominic is once again struck by the wonder that Tullius is still letting him speak. People don’t tend to like it when you try and change their opinion and perspective with facts. Dominic’s learned that the hard way, back home, over and over again. 

But nobody stops him. 

“So yes, Ulfric killed our high king, and he certainly should experience the consequences of that crime, but,” Dominic’s shoulders drop, and he brings his hands up to press the rope against the throbbing spot at the side of his head. “I… I’m sorry. I am just so confused about why we are fighting family …. When the true enemy is so clearly obvious.”

There isn’t anyone who speaks, for a long moment. Ralof is looking between Ulfric and Hadvar with a flummoxed look on his face, and Hadvar is staring down at the ground like he thinks it’ll give him all the answers. Tullius has his fists clenched, knuckles white. He’s breathing steadily, deeply, controlled, but he looks absolutely pissed. 

The sky rumble again, louder this time, and Dominic can just barely make out the voice of a dragon in it. Hadvar’s hears snaps up, eyeing the sky with suspicious and unease, and Dominic ignores the light touch at his elbow and falls to his knees. 

Time’s up. 

“What’s that noise ?” Hadvar presses out, stressed and upset. The revelations Dominic just served don’t seem to pair well with the ominous ‘thunder’ and Hadvar looks to be at his wit’s end. 

“It’s thunder,” Hardolf grumbles, and stalks forward a step to strike her sword out at Dominic—his binds. 

The ropes slice clean in half and fall to the ground, and he rubs at his wrist faintly certain they shouldn’t have cut that easily. Then he gives a mental shrug—must be the video game mechanics.

“It’s not,” he mutters, vision blurring for a second. He says it with a note of urgent wonder, as if he’s just realizing it. 

Tyson helps him to his feet—apparently Tullius has given the word. The sky rumbles again, and Dominic gives a hysterical laugh. 

“What?” Hadvar asks.

“It’s not thunder,” Dominic says, and that’s when Alduin himself comes falling out of the sky and into the overhead tower with an almighty roar. 

Dominic sucks in a sharp breath, before heaving himself to his feet. He uses Tyson’s grip on his elbow as leverage, and shoves the man back behind him, taking a few stumbling steps forward even as the rest of the people present are scrambling backwards with terrified screams and crying curses. 

“Tullius,” he shouts, “Hadvar, Ralof—Ulfric. Have your people get everyone out.”

He doesn’t get an answer, and he looks over his shoulder to find them staring at him from several hundred feet away, gaping incredulously as they watch him stumble forward toward Alduin. 

“ Now !” He demands. “Don’t use the gates! Hadvar, is there any alternative—“

There’s a rumble from above his head, like thunder but laughing , and Dominic knows he’s out of time. 

He spins around and lifts a hand out as if to hail the mighty beast above them. But what comes out of his mouth isn’t something anyone else but the dragon can understand. 

“ Het , Alduin!,” he calls, as loud as he dares, just loud enough to be heard over the screams, in the tongue of dragons. Dominic is a language geek, and the internet was a wonderful place full of knowledge and learning opportunities that he’s going to sorely miss. “Great dragon, eater of worlds! I greet you!”

The dragon’s huge head — it’s… so much bigger than the game had ever made it seem to be—tilts down at him. The size of the dragon completely eclipses the tower it’s sitting upon, the shadow of his bulk casting darkness across the entirety of Helgen. It’s like looking at a great predator hawk perching upon the smallest strand of hay. Dominic isn’t sure how the stone and mortar is able to support the great thing’s weight. Even as he watches, stones crumble continuously as if they were merely water running off the edge of a cliff-side. 

Standing tall, wings spread as if to show off his monstrous size to which they are merely ants in comparison, the dragon blocks out the sky from his sight. This, Dominic thinks, this is what comes to mind when someone says the words World Eater . Not that copy-and-pasted dragon sprite with extra horns the game had passed off as such. No, that… pales in comparison to this. It’s so hysterically inept, he almost wants to laugh . 

Dominic’s breath is coming in clipped, harsh pants. He’s terrified. He’s never been so scared in his life. He’s not sure what he’s doing here. What’s he doing ?

“I- I know of your plans to destroy this place— May I humbly make a request, if it pleases you?” He asks, in shaky Dovahzhul. 

The king of all Skyrim’s dragons leans forward, off the crumbling lookout tower he’s using as a perch. He angles his great head downward, so that he can eye Dominic up and down like a lion would a flea, and he snorts. 

Despite being two hundred feet away, the breath from the dragon’s nostrils blasts Dominic with heat and ruffles his hair, and forces him back a step. He kind of wants to cry. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but—

A glance over his shoulder. Hadvar and Haming’s father are lifting the young boy into the doors of the keep, all three of them throwing looks toward Dominic and the dragon with harried, wild eyes as they move hastily to disappear into the levels below. There are Imperial soldiers and Stormcloaks running all over the town, ushering the citizens out of their homes and all of them racing in the direction of the keep, just barely managing to not look like headless chickens. Everyone is remaining eerily silent in their stark terror. 

“Who are you, to presume to know me, and speak my name? A joor ?”

Alduin’s voice is deep, dark. It feels like the decibels of it rise up from the very depths of the ground under Dominic’s feet, as if echoing throughout the multitude of caves systems that Dominic knows lie beneath the land before coalescing together and hammering at his ear drums. His hearing is ringing oddly.  

“Perhaps,” Dominic replies, out of breath. “But you feel familiar to me, great dragon. Like I should know you. Who am I to question that?”

Another huff of humid, heated breath makes Dominic’s eyes dry. He blinks rapidly. A play, this is just a… play. 

“Regardless of forces at work that you do not understand,” the dragon rumbles, “how dare you think to stall me from my prey? I shall just devour you as well, mal gein .”

“But why ?” Dominic pleads. “If you mean to consume the world as you are intended to, why kill these humans before then? Can you not graciously allow them to live until the end of times? I know now with your arrival here that our time left on this earth is short-lived, but must you end us before our doom even arrives? My lord, I’m only asking for clarity—what is your intended point in this?”

A hissing sound emanates from the coal black scales. Dominic squints—the obsidian things are shifting ever so slightly, not unlike the feathers of a bird might. He jerks his gaze back up to the dragon’s face, and has to swallow down bile at the cold look of amusement in the monster’s eye. 

“This is to be an example,” Alduin tells him, settling down on his haunches like a cat would, just before it pounces. “A heralding call, and a warning of what is to come. An announcement of my arrival, and the imminent demise of you lesser beings.”

Dominic takes a breath. “I understand, great dragon. However, would it not be wiser to allow us to leave? You will destroy their home regardless, that I know… is that not enough? For them to disperse across the land and bring first-hand accounts of your great destruction and immovable might to the rest of us?”

“Hmmm,” Alduin squints does at him, head lowering even further as if to peer at his smaller form more closely. And then, the dragon rears his head back and—for a terrifying, heart stopping moment, Dominic is truly convinced he’s about to be eaten, right then and there. 

But instead, the World Eater only laughs. The rumbling, belly-deep sound rolls over every surface of the town and bounces off the hills of the valley around them. Dominic feels it reverberate in his very core, and can’t help but tremble. 

“Why should I, mal gein ?” The dragon asks, obviously entertained. He leans in even further and suddenly he’s much too close for Dominic’s poor heart to bear. “Tell me a reason why I should bend to your inane request. Convince me.”

Dominic stares up at him. The inky blank of the beasts snout is a hairbreath away from his face. He can’t stop shaking, and he doesn’t even think he’s breathing anymore. 

His hand lifts without his permission, and he touches fingers to the scales. They’re smooth, warm beneath his skin. They twitch, pulsate, like something alive—because it is, he realizes. This dragon is real, alive and—

Absolutely completely capable of using his skeleton as a toothpick. 

“I said you were familiar to me, great one,” he tries to say it louder, but his voice is weak, almost to the point of not working. “You feel as I feel, deep inside myself, only stronger. Much stronger. A hundred thousand times more than just the small spark that flounders confusedly in my chest—my soul. I’ve…” He trails off, sounding dazed. 

Damn. He sure hopes he’s the dragonborn and this isn’t some weird alternate universe type of thing going on. 

He’s going to die. What is he doing? He’s going to die . 

No, no, no, he can do this. He was top of his class in theater. He can do this. Shakespeare, Hamlet, MacBeth, the Iliad shorts—

Special effects never had a live, breathing dragon the size of a skyscraper, though. 

No, he can—

“I’ve never had that side of myself feel so... awake, before,” he finishes, and swallows. 

The eye blinks at him. It’s perhaps five times the size of the doors to the keep. A thin, transparent film slides across the gleaming, intelligent orb, before the scaled lid shutters closed, and then opens again. 

Dominic can’t read Alduin’s face—it’s too inhuman, too big, too draconian. He can’t decipher the minute shifts in the musculature. Do the brow ridges raise with surprise and puzzlement, as with humans, or does it mean something else entirely? He isn’t sure, and it makes him uneasy. He’s not used to not being able to read someone. 

Dragon, or no. 

Alduin snorts underneath Dominic’s hand, flames licking out but not reaching beyond the beast’s teeth. One of the smaller teeth is as big as Dominic’s entire body. His muscles all tense, he wants so badly to jump away and maybe even scream, but he locks down on himself, and only gives a violent spasmodic twitch. His hand feels like it might be going numb. 

“ Dovahkiin ,” Alduin breaths into his face. It’s like standing in a desert. Dominic is sweating profusely. “Yesss, I can smell it on you now, the dragon's soul that lies within your small, breakable, mortal husk. What makes you think this will convince me, mal gein ?”

Dominic tips himself forward and presses his forehead to the scales. They’re so warm, they’re searing, they almost burn. He feels like he can curl up and go to sleep and finally get some actual rest of the like he hasn’t experienced for years. 

“Whyever you wish to do your given duty now, be it out of spite and malice or honor, I care not, great lord. I simply beg that you stay your fire from our lives this day, and I’ll not willingly stand against you should we meet again—as it is surely not my place.”

“A grave thing for one such as you to promise to that which I am,” Alduin growls, “and how am I to know if you would keep your word?”

“I’d sooner die by my own hand than break a promise,” Dominic says haltingly. His voice cracks at the end in a sob, his fear and distress shining through at last despite his attempts to bury it. “And a promise to you, of all beings? Should you take retribution against me, great one, could I even stop you?”

The scales pressed against his head pulse with heat, and Dominic’s entire skull throbs painfully. He pushes himself up with a quiet whimper and finds himself stumbling a few steps back, only able to stare up at a creature that, on a whim, could end him then and there. 

“Please, lord,” he says, prays really. He’s not sure if he’s asking Alduin or a god that he isn’t even sure is there anymore. “I know it is not my place to ask, but I find that I must.”

“I will bathe all who I find in fire,” Alduin tells him severely. Dominic cringes in on himself, and that giant snout presses forward to shove him back a few steps. The scales that come into contact with his chest burn like molten stones straight out of a smelting oven. He cries out, cutting himself off harshly before a curse can slip free. 

“I see that all the rest of your joor have retreated back into their flimsy stone den. If you are cunning enough to lead them to freedom outside my gaze... then I will spare them this day. But their home is mine, and will perish.”

“You are most gracious, Alduin.” Dominic breathes, unable to believe his luck. What is the catch?

“Hm, yesss,” Alduin flowers at him, eyes glimmering. The amusement there is faded, replaced by something else that Dominic is unable to name, something more serious. “Their lives are returned to them for now, should you succeed.”

He presses in again, and smooth hot scales collide almost gently with Dominic’s chest. He swallows down the hysterical noise that wants to tear out of his throat. The body heat of a dragon is nearly overwhelming. 

“You, however, dovahkiin …” The ground shakes with Alduin’s rumbling laughter, tremors climbing up Dominic’s legs and settling in his hands. He clenches them into fists, but they still shake. 

“You are mine , live or die.”

“Yes,” Dominic whispers back, voice weak and his entire being full of a sick kind of horror, but what else can he do but agree? “Yes, great dragon.”

The scales—each one nearly as big as Dominic himself—pressed to his chest pulse once more, before Dominic finds himself being shoved back roughly. 

“Leave, now.” Alduin commands, straightening up to tower once again over the town and the valley beyond it. “It will be decided next that I lay my eye on you, if your fate is to end in fire.”

Dominic shakily climbs to his feet from where he’d landed breathlessly in the dirt, and turns. He looks over his shoulder at the glittering eye that stares down at him with something indescribable in its depths, and bows his head. 

Pivoting entirely, he jogs over to the entrance of the keep, and pushes the doors in. They open, the entrance hall is completely empty. Dominic takes a moment, ignoring the garbles and jumbled thoughts of the beginnings of a panic attack that rip at his mind, and tries to remember the route to the tunnels that lead out into the valley.

Helgen is standing around him, for now, daylight still peeking in through the still functional windows of the keep. Dominic pauses for a moment at the landing of the stone stairs that lead downwards to catch his breath, and marvels at the strange circumstance his actions have led to, to not have him running like a frightened mouse through brimstone and fiery death. 

Yet. 

He stumbles forward and makes his way down into the keep. 

Chapter Text

Ralof’s hands are slick with sweat and clammy, clenched with white knuckles around the handle of the axe he’d been allowed from the ex-prisoners belonging that had thankfully made their way inside the keep before the executions had begun, before—

Before that great terror of legend had descended upon the town. 

They could hear the rumbling voice of the thing even through the layers of stone above their heads, replying to whatever it was that the confusing, impossible man who has ordered the evacuation is saying. It rumbles through the bedrock and shakes the very foundations of the keep. The women and children of Helgen that had been ushered inside by Imperial soldiers and Stormcloaks, together , are whimpering and clutching each other. The room is veritably packed with people, of all races, all of them clinging to one another and terrified out of their minds. There is barely any room for Ralof to shift on his feet. And yet all of them— Ralof and his comrades included— are too afraid to make a noise louder than a squeak. 

Ralof isn’t sure about Dominic. He’d been convinced that the man was innocent of the war before he’d woken on the cart. It’s unfortunate that he and Lokir had gotten caught up in the Imperial ambush that had been meant for them, and it was unfair that they would be put to death with his men and tried as war criminals without even a farce of a trial, but that’s just how it was in war, sometimes. It is almost never fair. 

And then, Dominic had known his name. 

And Jarl Ulfric’s. Then, there was that Imperial soldier, Tyrn? Something. And Hadvar, too— and General Tullius, and his captain….

There’s something going on there. Something confusing, something most probably mystical. For, it almost seems as if Dominic knows them all, but they do not know him. Or rather, they have forgotten him. 

And after what he’d said about the war… Ralof doesn’t want to believe any of it, but it makes an awful, horrible sort of sense, so simply put that he doesn’t know how he hadn’t guessed at it before it was pointed out to him. From the looks of his men’s faces, and— yes, even the Imperial soldiers seem caught flat footed by the revelations. 

Ralof isn’t sure. It’s a puzzle, that is for certain. One he isn’t sure they have time for, as they huddle all together beneath the keep. 

“He said something, before the dragon distracted him,” Maya, the heavy arm of their party before the ambush, is saying. She’s standing before a terrified little girl and her mother, who curl into the security of the stone wall and shake. “He didn’t finish, but… something about an alternate… is there another way out of here, besides the front door?”

“There’s tunnels everywhere, it’s Skyrim,” Tullius says stonily. He’s been unhappy ever since they successfully convinced him to release Jarl Ulfric, who is now overseeing the organization of the petrified townspeople over to Ralof’s left, just above a staircase that leads even deeper into the keep. 

“When that dragon decides to finish what it came for, however…” the General continues, voice grave. “It will not matter how deep we venture, the cave system beneath Helgen will become our tomb.”

Another rumble like thunder shakes the stone that encases them. It sounds unmistakably like a dark, heavy laughter. Nearby, a woman sobs. 

Ralof shakes his head. “But tunnels must lead somewhere, perhaps out of the town itself? If we can get out of the city limits, we may have a fleeing chance.”

He turns. “Hadvar! You were stationed here— do the tunnels below the keep lead anywhere?”

Despite their animosity in their later years coming to a head recently with the war tearing away whatever childhood memories had tied them together before, Hadvar looks almost relieved to see Ralof. It’s a decidedly strange feeling, because Ralof experiences that same relief when Hadvar comes striding over, none too worse for wear. 

This war really has pit brothers against brothers, hasn’t it?

“There’s a tunnel that leads out of the town itself,” Hadvar confirms when he gets closer. He salutes his general who nods, and then goes into parade rest. “The path is a bit perilous, unused as it is. I’d recommend sending scouts ahead to clear the way for the townspeople.”

Tullius thinks on it, then nods. Then he grimaces, and begins to make his way over to Ulfric. 

“The plan is to use the tunnels for evacuation, Stormcloak,” Ralof hears him say, and feels nervousness build within him. As much as he loves his Jarl, the man can be as obstinate as a troll on a good day. Hopefully—

Ulfric only glares at Tullius, but thankfully nods his head jerkily in assent. Ralof relaxes as the two leaders of opposite sides of the war turn to work… if not together, then alongside each other, in getting the citizens up and ready to depart from their temporary halt. 

The ground shakes again. As they are below ground level, it causes the entire room they are in to tremble. Ralof’s gut clenches as the children whimper as a group. 

There’s a sudden unlatching sound at the door. Several of the soldiers and his comrades twitch at the noise, drawing arms. Ralof’s nerves light on fire and he spins around, hand yanking his axe out of its holster, at the ready as the doors swing inward. 

Thankfully, it’s not an enemy. It’s not... well, it’s not a dragon that wouldn’t even fit in the keep to begin with… of course. Ralof’s nerves must be too high strung. 

He holsters his axe once more, walking over with the Imperial soldier— Terone? Tannis?— to welcome Dominic into the room and help to shut the doors once more on the empty keep behind him. 

“How are you still alive,” Hadvar asks, aghast, and Ralof turns just in time to see the red haired impossible man double over on himself, gasping for breath. 

He shares a look with— Tyson! It’s Tyson— and hurries over to grab one of Dominic’s elbows, holding the man up and keeping him from collapsing. 

“O-One moment— I’m sorry,” Dominic pleads. He’s shaking like a leaf beneath Ralof’s hands. His face is a bit red, and Ralof can’t decide if it’s because of his shuttered gasping, or something else. “Just a moment to... to catch my breath, please.”

“Take your time, friend,” Tyson says quietly, and then he and Ralof haul him over to where Hadvar’s leaning against the wall. 

Tullius comes jogging over almost as soon as they sit Dominic up against the stone. He comes to a crouch before the man and surveys him with a furious scowl. 

“Are you insane, man?” The General spits out. “What possessed you to go and play bait and distraction to a bloody dragon of all things?”

Dominic blinks up at him, almost quizzically. “Well, the fact that I am the only one here fluent in Dovahzhul? Of course, I know Ulfric knows some, but only for shouts, not for conversing. Besides, he was gagged, so he wouldn’t have been of help anyway. Or, do you perhaps mean the fact that we have an entire town of innocent people here whom he was about to set fire to— I figured we could use all the time we could get from however long I could stall him with conversation.”

“What did you talk about?” Maya asks, voice hushed. The rest of the room is similarly silent, listening. 

Dominic takes in a gulp of air, and Ralof realizes he hasn’t taken his hand from the man’s arm, because he can still feel him trembling. The tremors have yet to slow. 

“I—“ he starts, and then huffs a nearly hysterical laugh. “I was negotiating with him, I suppose you could say.”

“What the hell can you negotiate with a dragon ,” the Imperial captain at Tullius’ shoulder— the one who, Ralof recalls with a sneer, had been all too eager to send Dominic to the chopping block despite no evidence to suggest he deserved it— demands. 

Dominic tilts his head back. It comes to rest against the wall with a quiet thunk, and a great grimace of pain comes across the man’s face. 

“Dragon’s are intelligent beings,” he says quietly. “I just had to find out a way to convince him we were worth more alive than dead.”

“What did you promise him?” Tullius asks, eyes grave, and it makes Dominic laugh at the general. 

“Of you all? Nothing. Right now, he’s amused enough at our tenacity that he’s agreed to spare us our doom, but on a condition.”

“And what is this condition,” Ulfric finally speaks up, voice low and commanding. 

Ralof watches silently as Dominic turns to consider his Jarl, and for some reason he feels that the red haired man finds the Stormcloak leader lacking , in some way. 

“We can’t be using the gates,” Dominic informs them all. “He will roast any soul he sees with his own eyes still within the town limits. We are to evacuate out of his sight. And we must do so quickly. Dragon’s can be short-fused and quick to change their minds should they grow bored— it’s all there in any legend you’ll read of them. I do not trust him to keep his word if we are to take all day.”

Tullius shakes his head. “Of all the— negotiating with dragons .... Hah. I’ll be.” He says, quietly, and then moves to stand to his feet. Ulfric joins him, face boasting a mulish scowl, and they go to address the people. 

Ralof turns away from them, to watch Hadvar haul over what’s left of the ex-prisoners confiscated belongings. Something in there is Dominic’s, Ralof realizes, and then hits himself— of course, the man didn’t come to them dressed in beggar’s rags and without a herb on him. No one was foolish enough to venture out into the wild’s of Skyrim without being prepared. 

“Here,” Hadvar says, huffing at the effort it took to drag the chest over. “Whatever you had on you before your arrest is likely in here, or what’s left of it.”

Domino glances up at Ralof’s childhood neighbor with a strange look in his eyes. His face is unreadable to Ralof— he’s never been the best at reading people, but even so, Dominic’s face is eerily blank of all his thoughts. The puzzling man dips his head down in thanks and hauls himself to his knees and, with Tyson’s help, pushes back the lid of the chest to rummage through the leather sacks inside it. 

There’s not much left. Most of the belongings the chest held had already been redistributed to their owners. All that Ralof can see now is a set of black, studded armor, a nondescript sheathed sword, and a belted pack. 

Dominic stares down at the items for a long, thoughtful moment. He looks like he’s studying them, almost, but for what reason Ralof can’t even begin to guess. If they’re his, surely he’d recognize them?

Reaching down, Dominic lifts the armor out of the chest and sets it in his lap. He lets out a shuddering breath of effort, and swallows. 

The man is still trembling like they are caught in a blizzard. Ralof frowns. “Are you well?” 

Dominic shakes his head. “I just stood before a dragon of legend with no armor or weapons at my hands, only my words, and honestly? I thought I was dead already. I— I am still terrified , despite the fact that I am no longer in such immediate danger.”

“That’ll do it,” Tyson murmurs, eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline, and his words cause Dominic to huff a weak laugh. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and then grimaces. “I suppose I ought to gear up before we start heading out.”

Tyson nods, and together he and Ralof haul the shaken man to his feet. Ralof reaches down and digs the sword out of the chest, holding it off to the side until Dominic has secured his armor over the prisoner rags— despite the clothing, the armor covers nearly all of it, and for a moment Ralof can see the regal, commanding, and almost lethal presence of the man at his best. 

And then, Dominic winces, brings a shaking hand to his head and sucks in a broken breath, and Ralof remembers again that the poor man is seconds away from suffering a battle terror. The dragon speaker splays a hand over his chest and curls inward just a bit with a grimace. 

Ralof’s seen the best of warriors fall to the ground, shaking like newborn calves whilst in the throes of battle terrors, eyes sightless and experience waking horrors that only they can see. It brings even the strongest to their knees, and Ralof knows that, despite their negotiated safe passage out of this mess, there’s is still a dragon that sits several stories above their heads, and it appears even Dominic himself knows full well that they do not have time for him to let himself fall to such a hallucination. 

He hands over the man’s sword when a now black-clad hand reaches for it, and the three of them turn just as the last of the townspeople are ushered down the stairs to the next level. 

“I’m going to head on to the front,” Dominic murmurs to them, steadying his own feet beneath him and beginning to stall to the descending stone steps. “As much as it pains me to admit, Tullius likely has questions. As do you, I suppose.” 

“Oh, questions aplenty,” Ralof begins cheerfully, as he and a quiet Tyson follow at the man’s heels. The Imperial soldier has a disgruntled look on his face, as uncertain as Ralof himself feels. “But then again, should we survive this, there will be time for an interrogation later, I assume.”

Dominic huffs out another laugh. It’s still weak, short of breath, and Tyson and Ralof quicken their pace to keep up with him as he dodges around the terrified citizens that are making their way down the steps. 

They come to a pause at a corner, and Dominic goes still. 

“Ah,” he says, voice dark, and Ralof peers around the wall to see what’s got him so grave.

Oh. Ah, indeed. 

General Tullius is pressing demands into a great masked brute, expression furious as the Imperial stands between his supposed leader and the— Ralof swallows— Stormcloaks the man has strung up on the wall behind him. There are a few cries from the children, the mothers hiding their offspring behind them and ducking further behind the present soldiers, who have weapons at the ready. 

“I said, Grimor, set them loose,” Tullius spits, shouting. His fist is clenched at the handle of his sword. He has yet to draw it completely, but Ralof can see it’s a close thing. “Regardless of the fact that I am your superior , there is an emergency situation here that calls for an evacuation of the town in its entirety. That means—“

“Oh,” Grimor the torturer hisses back, “and that means my prisoners must go too? I think not, General. They are down here for one reason only, and that is to die for their crimes. If death comes to them from above or at my hands, does it make a difference?” 

Ralof feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He steps to the side, in front of a husband and wife pair, and pulls free his axe from its place at his hip. 

Dominic and Tyson exchange a glance with him, before the two of them begin to inch their way forward, coming to stop just behind the general. 

Ulfric is in the back of the group, providing protection at the rear of their massive escort. He’s still a ways up the stairs, and from where he stands Ralof can see that his Jarl is spitting mad. 

“I will not say it again,” Tullius says quietly, and Grimor throws his head back and laughs. It’s an eerie sound that echoes in the quiet dungeon, and sends cold chills up Ralof’s back. 

Dominic steps forward, placing a hand to the general’s shoulder. “Tullius,” he begins, quietly, gaze fixed on the mad torturer and sword drawn of its sheath. It’s a beauty, smooth steel that can cut just by looking at it. Dominic’s eyes flicker to a point in the air above the general’s head, before he continues. “...Aedrian. I’m sorry, but… I think he’s more monster than man, now.”

“He’s in our way,” Ulfric calls from the back, baritone gravelly and furious, even as Tullius stares at Dominic with some level of shock. “He needs to be put down.”

“As if I am a dog ?!” Grimor roars suddenly, surging forward, and there are shrieks from the townspeople while the general and Dominic flinch back from him. “You would execute me for doing my duty, you lowlife Stormcloak scum? Have you poisoned the minds of my comrades with your filth?”

Dominic shoves Tullius behind him, weapon at the ready. He eyes the general, and the man sends the mysterious dragon negotiator a slow, aggrieved nod. 

“A dog, a dog for the Empire! Well,” the insane Imperial giggles, reaching down to heft up a battle axe from the table at his hip. One of Ralof’s kinsmen groans pitifully from the wall behind the monster. “At least I was a good dog. A guard dog, and I’ll rip you all to shreds for coming into my chamber, as I should.”

“I’m sorry,” Dominic says quietly, and as Grimor lunges at the general with a laugh, he steps out of his way, to the side, and brings his sword up at the precise moment to make contact with the imperial’s unguarded throat. 

He collapses with a gurgle. The children that are hidden in the center of the townspeople start to cry in earnest. Dominic regards the fallen torturer with a blank expression, in a moment that to Ralof seems to stretch on for an impossible length of time, before he sheaths his sword and steps passed him to reach up for his victims. 

“Tyson—“

“I’ve got her,” the soldier says, welcoming the first into his arms, turning to make his way back to the rest of their progression. 

Ralof hurries forward to help Dominic with the second. He swallows bile as he recognizes a friend— Folnir Whitestake— and the state the poor man is in. 

Dominic is similarly disgusted. “I see that the Thalmor’s gracious offer of training did well for Grimor’s work methods,” he says simply, and Ralof feels sick. 

“Have we any medical supplies on us?” He asks as he gets back to the others. Their group of scouts— two imperials, two Stormcloaks, and a Helgen guardsman— start ahead of them into the next room to clear the way out. 

“There should be something in the next room,” Hadvar begins hesitantly, and is interrupted by a scout rushing back, arms laden with bottles of potion.

“Health,” the town guardsman grunts, shoving the red ones toward Ralof and Tyson, before scrambling his way to the general to report. 

“Perfect,” Ralof sighs, relieved. He sets his burden on the ground for a moment to uncork the vial, and carefully opens Folnir’s mouth to pour the magical concoction in, carefully massaging his throat to make him swallow. 

“Do we have any other injured?” He asks when he’s done, slipping the empty glass container into a pack on his belt. 

Tyson is handing his own unconscious Stormcloak off to an actual Stormcloak, and once he’s free he comes back over to hover anxiously over Dominic, who stands at the edge of the room, shoulders hunched and head bowed. Ralof blinks, and leaves Folnir propped against the wall— he’ll be safe for now— to hurry over to the man. 

“Dominic,” he says urgently, suddenly remembering how off-kilter the man has been. It isn’t just because he’d faced a dragon— while terrifying, yes, that isn’t enough to cause all this stumbling and dazedness. 

“I’m sorry,” Dominic says faintly, fingers grasping weakly at his hair. “I-It’s my head, I think—“

“He’s been hit, up here,” Tyson says, hand hovering over a point of Dominic’s skull. There’s blood there, dried into his hair. Amongst the red strands, it’s almost hidden, but there’s blood down the side of his neck, and shoulder, too. 

It’s a lot of blood. Ralof isn’t sure how they hadn’t noticed it before. Dominic has been swaying and stumbling around since he’d woken on the cart ride to Helgen. 

And to think, he’d reunited the imperials and the stormcloaks as brothers in arms, saved them all from the headsman, and talked down a dragon with that head wound. 

There’s the smell of burning on the wind that drafts down from the waterfall that cuts a stream through the cave they’ve exited into. Ralof flinches as a roar echoes across the cavern. 

Dominic, as well, seems increasingly stressed by the whole situation. The dragon’s roar doesn’t help— the head wound either, probably. The man grits his teeth and says, “We need to keep moving, who knows when he’ll change his mind.” 

Ralof straightens up. He looks toward his jarl, but finds his gaze meeting Hadvar’s instead. Hadvar, his childhood rival. A friend of sorts. They’d grown up together, in—

Hadvar sends him a nod, and turns back to direct the flow of traffic to the left. 

“Riverwood is not far from here,” Ralof says. “There certainly won’t be enough room, but if we make haste I do think we’ll be able to get everyone behind the gate before that beast is finished making Helgen his stomping grounds.”

“Good,” Dominic says, voice airy. Ralof turns in alarm. 

“That’s… good.” The man repeats, and would have gone crashing to his knees if Tyson hadn’t been hovering at his elbow and caught him before he could collapse. Ralof rushes over to help lower him to the ground, but the man is unconscious by the time his head meets the dirt floor. 

“ Dominic ,” Tyson says, and then stands up. “We need another health over here!”

Head wounds tend to be hard to judge the severity of, especially if they make the skull soft like Dominic’s feels beneath Ralof’s probing fingers. The man should have taken a health potion the minute he’d woken up, but… well, their arrest and subsequent cart ride as prisoners had probably made that impossible. And then the dragon came. 

He glances up as General Tullius rushes over with a red vial, and swallows thickly. How long has it been since the wound? Hours? 

“Feed him this, and quickly, we need to move.”

“Sir,” Tyson begins urgently. “Riverwood is the closest village with any fortification to speak of. Before he collapsed, Dominic agreed our best bet was to get the evacuees behind its gates.”

Tullius nods. “Have someone support him, our way out is to our left, across that bridge—“ the man lets out a stressed sigh, more of an expulsion of air, and runs a hand through his sheared hair. “If only it were wider…. Our time runs thin.”

Tyson immediately slips one of Dominic’s arms over his shoulder, jutting his chin out to where Ralof had left Folnir against the cavern wall. 

“I’ve got him,” the Imperial says, obviously, almost challengingly. 

For a moment Ralof feels both insulted and bewildered, but he shakes the feelings away and pressed the health vial into the soldier’s free hand and hurried back to carefully lift his downed comrade over his shoulder. He absently wonders what that had been about as he follows after the slow queue of people that are being led across the short bridge over the stream. Thankfully, their progression is made faster when a number of their warriors decide to forgo the bridge and hop along the rocks and ledges within the stream to make it across without clogging the way. 

All in all, fleeing Helgen went surprisingly well, without more than a handful injured, and Ralof would have called it an easy trip had it not been for the surprise bear in the cavern at the end. 

Chapter Text

It takes them a day to get to Riverwood, all of them together. 

Perhaps, had they been alone, or of a small travel group, it would have taken only a fraction of the time, but they were an entire town of villagers, used to a stationary life, and a contingent of soldiers from opposite sides of the war attempting to work together for the first time and organize said refugees…

It was a trial and a half, to say the least. 

Morale itself was at a low, considering the circumstances. These people had just lost their home, perhaps the only one many of them had ever known, and these soldiers— they’ve all had their world view upended like a chamber pot across the suite floor by a man who, though a prisoner at the time, had then gone forth to convince a dragon of legend to not only stall its vicious attack of fire, but to allow them all safe passage out and their lives spared. 

And considering that said savior had yet to awaken from unconsciousness, pale and quiet— no, it was the furthest thing from reassuring. 

Tyson has begun to lag behind a bit, so  during their next break in walking, Ralof sets Folnir against the trunk of a tree and goes over to help lay the man’s burden on a hastily rolled out bed mat from one of the soldiers’ packs. Ralof slides on his knees over to sit at Dominic’s head, to get a better look at the head wound. It’s still bleeding, sluggishly, though it looks like it may stop soon. 

Ralof rips off the end of the sleeve of his shirt and unhooks his waterskin off his belt, wetting it and then carefully pouring the rest onto the wound to wash it clean. 

He presses the rag against the gash, carefully— the skull here is too soft for him to feel comfortable about applying any sort of actual pressure for fear of doing more damage— and sets to work at removing the clumps of drying blood from Dominic’s similarly-colored hair. 

A hiss from Tyson makes him look up. He’d worked Dominic’s chestpiece free for easier breathing, as Dominic had begun to sound like he was fighting for each gasp in his unconscious state. The Imperial is staring down at Dominic’s bared torso with a look of fear on his face, and Ralof quickly glances down, only to recoil. Terror lances up his spine. 

“I knew I smelt burnt skin,” someone says gravely, and Ralof turns rigidly to see the general standing over them and looking grimly down at their mysterious dragon tamer. 

Behind him, a woman lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, hand flying to her mouth in horror as she peeks under the general’s elbow at their savior. She turns and scurries away, disappearing into the thrones of other villagers, and Ralof sighs wearily, knowing the news will be spread around in minutes, to sow even further low morale. 

He looks back down at Dominic, and grimaces. Burnt is a good word for it. Dominic’s midsection and chest are a mottled red, the skin peeling back in some places and blood oozing out of cracks beneath the flesh. The depth of the burn looks to go down almost a centimeter in some places. Ralof has seen roasted rabbit meat look better than this. 

“How in the world did he get that?” The captain— Dominic had called her something as if he’d known her too, what was it, Harding?— asks from a couple feet away, aghast. 

Tyson pins her with a Look, Ralof’s going to have to attempt that one in a mirror sometime, it’s marvelous, and says, “He was talking down a dragon… where do you think ?”

She flushed, “Well, I know that . I asked how! ”

Tullius kneels at Dominic’s side, reaching out to pull the tunic up a bit more and get a better look at the wound. There’s a scowl on his face. “I’d say he took a breath of dragon fire straight to the chest, but… it doesn’t look like scorching from flame.”

Ralof tears off his other sleeve. He raises his voice, “Is there any health potion left I could soak this in? We need it over here now!”

He sees his Jarl poke his head up above the rest of the crowd— it’s not hard to spot him, the Nord towers over even other Nords on a good day— and starts to make his way to them through the throngs of stressed and near-hysterical villagers. 

Ulfric raises both brows when he catches sight of the burn. 

“I’ve got one here.” He tosses a red vial to Ralof, and then goes to kneel on Dominic’s other side. 

“I have heard dragon scale is hot to the touch,” Ulfric says. “Perhaps it is much hotter than legends ever claimed, to cause… this .”

“What was he doing to get a burn like that on his chest, tackling the damn thing?”

Tullius shoots his own captain a Look that is perhaps even more severe than Tyson’s had been. Now Ralof knew where the soldier had picked it up from. If the man hadn’t been his sworn enemy for the past who knows how long, Ralof might have been tempted to ask for lessons. 

“That beast was bigger than anything I’ve ever seen alive and moving of its own volition,” says the general. “It’s head was, I’d say, larger than a royal suite of the Blue Palace— it would perhaps be more correct to say that our friend here got a bit more roughed up during his ‘negotiations’ than he allowed us to believe.”

Tyson looks unhappy to hear it. Ralof shrugs off his own discomfort of the idea and focuses on covering the majority of the horrific burn with his potion-soaked sleeve and pressing it into the site of injury. There are hissing and sizzling sounds as the concoction begins to sink in and do its work, that makes them all wince in sympathy. At least the man isn’t awake for it. 

“Maya has some makeshift bandages that are far cleaner than that rag you’re using,” Ulfric says quietly, standing. “I’ll go and get some.”

“I’ll stay here,” Ralof says uselessly, and presses the potion soaked cloth against the particularly nasty swelling across Dominic’s diaphragm to hide his embarrassment. He’s always flat-footed around his Jarl. 

The amused look Tyson is giving him doesn’t help. Ralof tosses the other man a glare and turns his focus to Dominic’s wounds. 

The group of them are quiet for a long while, sitting there together under the beating Whiterun sun. Windhelm is far cloudier than many other holds, even Riften, and Ralof is much more used to slogging it through several feet of snow and wolves and enemy camps than trekking through these grassy forest lands, for all that he had grown up around these parts. 

Moving the makeshift poultice to another area of the burn, Ralof sits back on his heels and thinks ahead of their current refugee advancement, to his hometown of Riverwood. Kind his sister may be, but he can’t for a second think that she won’t be cross to have an entire other village's worth of people, plus not one, but two troops of soldiers, both from different sides of the war, holing it up in their quaint little lumber town.

By the Nine, forget cross . Gerdur will be near impossible to deal with! 

He is curious, however, to know what her take on all of this will be. She’s always been a bit more particular than Ralof ever was, more one to observe and analyze than to be commanded and take arms. It’s probably why she’d not followed him to join the Stormcloaks like he’d so humorously suggested that one night before he left. Frankly, he’d never seen her so miffed with him until then. She isn’t a fan of the Imperials, no, but neither is she a fan of the war itself. 

Perhaps, in that, she and Dominic would get along. 

“Here’s this,” his Jarl’s baritone gruffly says, and a partially winded roll of fabric bounces in the air right before Ralof’s face. 

He reaches one hand up to snatch it out of the air, ripping off a good portion to pour out the remainder of the health potion over. Tossing his repurposed tunic sleeve aside, he gets busy with carefully patting the fresh poultice across Dominic’s torso, making sure to saturate the worse-off spots first before moving on to the shallower burns. A louder sizzling fills the air once again, and he looks up to see Ulfric make a grimace before turning to wander off into the mass of people ambling uselessly around them. 

Ralof glances over at their mysterious savior’s face. It’s twisted, the dark red brows furrowed and teeth bared in a pained grimace even in the man’s unconsciousness. His stomach twists in sympathy as he settles in to again pay audience to the sound of slowly mending flesh beneath his hands, wishing he could do more. 

Once the wounds close up entirely and the skin begins to lose the burnt redness, Ralof tosses the soaked cloth aside and reaches for the rest of the roll. Tyson has been across from him the entire time, surveying but not needed. Now, he kneels down to help him lift Dominic into a sitting position so Ralof can wrap the makeshift bandages around the man’s chest and abdomen, folding it into itself once he gets to the end. 

“Here,” someone says, and they turn to see the women who’d run away in a cry earlier, when they’d first discovered the burns. She looks much more put together now, determination painted over her worn and weary face, and she has a bundle of fabric clutched in her hands. She thrusts it out to them. 

“It’s a tunic,” she explains, voice rough. “My husband had it in his travel sack, he managed to grab it when the alarm to evacuate was raised. It’s light enough that it won’t aggravate his wounds. It’ll protect him from the elements until we get to Riverwood.”

“That’s very kind of you, ma’am,” Tyson’s quiet voice says over Ralof’s head. 

She gives the man a tumultuous smile that doesn’t quite reach all the way across her face as he takes the tunic from her and passes it down to Ralof, who silently gets to working Dominic’s unresponsive arms through the holes of it. 

“He saves us from death by dragon,” the woman says, and a level of wonder peeks in at the very back of her voice, like she still can't rightly believe it. Neither can Ralof, really. “A spare tunic is the very least we can give him.”

Tyson thanks her again, and Ralof watches from the corner of his eye as she disappears back into the rest of the townspeople. Now that he’s watching, he spots quite a number of them glancing over with quietly reverent gazes when they think they aren’t being watched. 

It’s true, he realizes. Dominic is these people’s hero . Though his methods weren’t quite the Nordic way of bravery through battle and shows of might, and therefore quite unconventional even for an Imperial— though the red hair and tan skin makes Ralof think the man might have some Redguard in him— what matters is that it worked . This man talked down a dragon , and it’s because of him that all of these people, hell, likely even Ralof himself, still yet live. 

Ralof looks back at the man he has propped against his shoulder, whilst Tyson, who was only hours ago Ralof’s sworn enemy in war , ties the front of the donated tunic closed. This impossible man who acts like he knows them, who can convince two sides of a civil war to lay down their arms if even just for the moment, who can successfully negotiate for the very lives of an entire village with an almighty beast straight out of legend, who put down an insane man with a battleaxe whilst suffering near crippling burns from that very dragon….

Ralof thinks that a man like Dominic only comes around once every other age. For a man that can turn the tide of a war using only his words, what will he do next?

Ralof isn’t sure if he should be looking forward to it, or dreading it. 

“We’re breaking camp!” The call rings out.

Ralof jolts, leaning back on his heels to glance over through the crowd to where scouts are dashing around the general— as stoic and regal as ever, that one. He may have been the enemy, but Ralof wasn’t one to kid himself. Tullius held himself unfettered by anything…. well, almost anything. A certain injured redhead and his dragon-negotiating ways comes to mind. 

Next to him, Ralof’s Jarl looks surly and sullen, not unlike a pissed tavern patron, and something in Ralof curls up just a little bit in— no, it’s not shame , perish the very thought, but none of the stormcloaks Ralof knows have ever said that their leader ever carries himself with poise. Perhaps haughtiness, but that’s certainly not a comment one should make aloud.

“Ralof,” Tyson says.

The blond Nord climbs to his feet, shaking out the pins and needles that plague his legs from kneeling so long. He glances over at the other man, and then his arms, which are held out, and considers the fact that Tyson has already carried their patient for hours now. 

“I could carry him for the next leg, give you a rest,” Ralof offers, and Tyson’s face doesn’t exactly change expression, but Ralof can feel the man’s displeasure even so. 

“No,” he says shortly, and leaves it at that. 

Ralof sighs, and works together with Tyson to heave Dominic’s dead weight into the Imperial’s waiting arms. With the wounds behind on the redhead’s front, placing him against Tyson’s back isn’t the best idea. They’ve healed some, but not enough. Best not to risk aggravating them any more than they already are. 

Maya steps up beside Ralof as the freshly organized townspeople are corralled forward, children and women at the center, then the men, and finally the soldiers and Helgen guards walking their perimeter to protect against any attacks, be they bandits or Skyrim’s aggressive wildlife. 

“How is he?” His comrade asks quietly, eyes following where Tyson has stepped ahead of them. 

Ralof scratches the back of his neck. “I take it you’ve heard about the burns?”

Maya scoffs. “Nobody here hasn’t . Are they as bad as they’re saying?”

“Depends on what they say,” Ralof shrugs. “They were bad, though, yeah. But better with some health treatment, but he’ll be hurting for a week or two after this for certain.”

Maya winces. “Ah. Well, from the looks of it, Riverwood is only two hours walk ahead of us. The sooner we get that man into a bed, the sooner he can recover.”

Ralof nods, and she grins at him suddenly, getting her battleaxe over into his shoulder. 

“And,” she adds, “the sooner we can get some answers to his mystery!”

Ralof can’t help but laugh. “Aye,” he says. “I expect quite the story from him.”

He glances at the path behind them. The distant echoing thunder (of dragon roars, an actual dragon ) had abated an hour ago, but the anxiety and leftover churning inside Ralof’s chest has him looking over his shoulder even now, worrying that the damn beast had changed its mind after all, as Dominic had warned, and was about to come swooping down with avarice to snatch up his evening meal. Their entire group, Ralof thinks, would make a nice appetizer for a Devil so monstrously huge as that dragon had been. 

This time, too, their miraculous dragon tamer would be unable to help, injured and unconscious as he is. 

Hopefully the dragons of legend are more honorable about their words than that. Hopefully. 

Ralof tightens his hand over the handle of his axe, and follows after their progression. Maya is right. The sooner they make it to his hometown, the sooner they could all recover. 

“But you all made it out safely?” Gerdur wrings her hands around the handle of her axe, before absently yanking the thing out of the stump she uses for wood chopping. 

“Relatively,” her brother agrees from where he sits a few feet away, on another stump, not used for woodchopping, watching her. He wears simple leather trousers and a plain roughspun tunic. It’s odd to see him out of his uniforms. It’s odd to see him at all, actually— it’s been what feels like ages. 

“A few injured, here and there, and Dominic, Folnir and Sasha have yet to awaken, but, well, it’s only been a day. I give it another before the health potions start to do their job.”

Gerdur’s mind thinks back on the man currently bedridden in the guest room back in her home. Guest room is putting it very loosely— it’s Ralof’s room, for when he’s actually home, but he’s staying at the inn with his Jarl and the general and a few others for the time being, so the room had been open for the injured. By group consensus, they’d all decided that their mysterious savior would get the dubious honor. 

And mysterious isn’t even the half of it. Gerdur wonders how she’d feel, if a stranger came into town and adamantly claimed to know them all despite the fact that they did not know him. She’s not certain, and she’s less certain whether she won’t find out when the man finally wakes up. 

“In any case,” Ralof continues, “we got the last stragglers out before the damn beast finally started his path of destruction through the town. There was a point, just before the first rain of fire, where he flew over our heads. Never before have I seen anything alive so monstrously huge. I swear , Gerdur, he looked down at us, I could feel his gaze, and I thought for certain we were goners. But he just glided past us, to breathe flame upon those poor peoples’ homes instead.”

“Least it wasn’t those poor people themselves ,” Gerdur mutters, hauling another block of wood onto the stump and hefting the axe high above her head. She brings it down with a sound of exertion, and it splits the wood clean in two.

A bloody dragon , of all the stupid things the world could throw at them now. Imagine .

Footsteps come sounding across the sturdy wooden planks that have been laid over the stream, and Gerdur looks up to see an Imperial soldier jogging toward them. Ralof jumps to his feet, but doesn’t reach for his axe. Instead, he just looks wary and expectant, perhaps a little confused, but that’s just how it is now, isn’t it? Divines know Gerdur’s certainly confused at the current situation they've all landed themselves in. Her knuckles go white on the handle of her axe, but she turns to her wood as her brother greets his once-enemy. 

“Tyson,” he says.

“Ralof,” the soldier replies, halting a safe few feet away from them. “Folnir is awake. Your jarl sent for you to be the one to debrief him on the... circumstance.”

“Right,” Ralof murmurs, brow furrowed. “Any issues so far?”

“We’ve kept Imperial presence away from the inn, General Tullius has sent the captain and officers to the camp outside the gate. He asks that he be allowed entry into your sister’s home to check up on Dominic.”

Gerdur makes a face at that, but smooths it out before the two men turn to look. 

“Sister? I know it’s not ideal, and I wouldn’t dare ask if it weren’t—“

“Oh, begone with you,” she waves a hand. “None of this is ideal, but when has it ever been? Yes, he can check up on the boy. That man’s a mother hen if I’ve ever seen one— and I have .”

Tyson frowns, but her brother’s face breaks into a badly-hidden grin, and that’s what she’d been going for. 

“Many thanks, Gerdur—“

“I said be gone with ya!”

He laughs, and nods his head at Tyson. The two men make their way across the stream, and Gerdur watches them go for a moment before she lifts another block of wood into her stump. 

The Imperial General Tullius, in her home of all places. Divines, what has the world come to?

Chapter Text

When Dominic wakes up he’s sore all over. Worse than when he had a good go at the gym but forgot to stretch afterwards and his body is punishing him the following day. Somehow worse than that. 

He lays there for a long time, eyes closed, knowing that the very second he moves from this position he’ll be in for a world of pain. It’s all there in the odd, over-rested stiffness of his limbs, and the weak protests traveling up his spine. 

He hopes someone got the license plate of whatever truck had hit him. He will win this insurance case, he deserves to. 

After a few minutes, he lets out a big gust of a sigh, and begins the process of rolling himself over into his front. He knows how this goes. He’s experienced the aftermath of one beat down or another plenty of times in his life. He wonders who he’d pissed off this time, and how bad, because— ow . This is worse than usual. Way, way worse. 

Dominic hisses, pausing in his movements as the shirt he’s wearing— it’s strangely heavy and rough— drags across his chest, sparking a sharp, ragged pain there. 

His eyes pop open, and he glances down at himself, and then freezes. 

Oh. 

Oh, it hadn’t been a dream. 

Dominic, already half off the rough spin mattress that feels more like burlap than any fabric he’d want to sleep on, slides the rest of the way down, careful to avoid rubbing against his chest area, and falls quietly to his knees on slightly misshapen wooden floorboards that haven’t seen a day of polish in their life. 

Everything around him is so far away from the modern life he was born and raised in that for a moment, Dominic just sits there, and attempts vaguely to wrap his mind around every single minute difference there is. 

There’s a lot. 

“Ow, ow,” Dominic hisses under his breath, eyes stinging sharply as he brings a hand up to pull the shirt— tunic, it’s a tunic — away from his raw, throbbing chest. He looks down into it at his skin, and blinks rapidly in an effort to dry out the tears before they can escape his eyes. 

Oh, no wonder his chest and stomach and, well, entire front side hurts so badly… It looks like a worst-case scenario picture they’d put in an elementary class health textbook about abrasions and burns. 

Dominic curls inward on himself, slowly, lower and lower until his forehead meets the edge of the bed, and then he just sits there, eyes squeezed shut and trying to figure out where in the goddamn hell he’d gotten such an injury from. 

Alduin flashes across his inner vision, the real deal colossus and not the prissy little video game sprite, and Dominic sniffles. 

So, he’s in a video game. Except it’s not a video game, it’s very extremely real , and apparently dragons can be absolutely scathing to the very touch, like glorious beings of fire and sulfur very much should be, in Dominic’s humble opinion. 

Of course, dragons being so much more badass and magnificent than any legend back home could properly dictate is actually sort of the reason he’s suffering right now, so maybe the experience was a little less cool than it would otherwise be. 

Dominic brings a hand up to press over his mouth and smother the short, tiny, slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles up his throat and tries to escape. Who is he kidding? He met a dragon! The dragon, too, in Tamriel at least. That’s so cool. 

But his chest hurts, so Dominic shifts until he’s kneeling properly on the slightly uneven floorboards and curls in on himself even more, pressing his forehead into the roughspun sheets that cover the bed, and bringing his hands up to clasp above his head in an effort to keep them from fidgeting with the injury that mars his torso. It’s a bit of a trial, but he knows that rubbing at the burns will just make them worse and hurt more later, so he does his best to keep himself very still, and works on distracting himself with something else. 

It’s easy to find a topic to obsess over, he has a plethora of them to choose from. Video games come to life! Dragons, he got to talk with a dragon! The self study on Thu’um.org actually had come in handy and applied to real life. Take that, Maria— !

Dominic swallows down the sudden limp in his throat. 

Maria, his best friend. Back home, at least, meaning she’s not in this world, and Dominic —Dominic is here, meaning —

Maria is back home, and Dominic is here, with absolutely no idea how the fuck he’d gotten here, inside a goddamn video game, and Maria is not in the video game, of course not, she’s back home where she belongs like very one else except apparently Dominic — she’s not here, and neither are Dominic’s dogs, or his other friends or his classmates at the college or his professors or, hell, even his taekwondo instructor. They’re all back home in the world that Dominic was born in, where this place is simply a fantasy, and Dominic is here, not there, with no idea how to get back. 

Dominic sucks in a deep breath of air in a shaky attempt at steadying himself. If her lets himself continue like this, he’s going to panic and have a little episode all to himself inside his own damn head, and he’s not really sure if he has the energy for that right now. On top of whatever the fuck Alduin did to his chest, he’s tired, all the way down to his bones. 

Pressing his face into the burlap — is this bedding or a potato sack, Dominic really wants to know — he tries his best to slip into meditation like the instructor at the dojo taught him, back when he was still a scrawny teenager with anger issues and difficulty experiencing his emotions. 

He still has difficulty doing that, actually, which is why Dominic still keeps up the practice. It really does help to clear his mind and think through things one at a time. 

Alright. He’s in a strange land, all by himself, with nobody that he really cares about in the same universe. Possibly. He could be hallucinating this entire experience, and he’s actually just lying in a hospital somewhere, comatose and hooked up to beeping machinery like a vegetable. 

His abdomen twinges painfully, and Dominic reluctantly reconsiders that idea. Didn’t the saying go, if you felt pain, then it wasn’t a dream?

His eyes water traitorously, and he breaths in a deep breath through his mouth, and then lets it out slowly through his nose. Doing this a few times, he manages to stave off the influx of tears. 

Okay, so he’s probably stuck here, alone, and he'll definitely cry really, really hard about that later, but only when he’s absolutely positive nobody is about to walk in on him. He’ll need a few hours for it, at least. Maybe also a few miles in between him and any other living person, just to be safe. 

Where was that cabin Astrid takes you in the beginning of the Dark Brotherhood quest line at, again? Wasn't that abandoned? Perfect.

He gives his head a shake. He’s getting way ahead of himself here. Focus, Dominic! Empty your head, c’mon, empty it —

A few minutes pass by of him kneeling there, on the slightly uneven floor, just simply existing for as long as he possibly can. He casts every single ounce of his attention toward following his own breathing, as the air enters his mouth, travels through him to fill his lungs. And then he follows it back out again, exhaling through his nose as slowly as he can. He’s not entirely sure how long he sits there, he’s definitely not trying to count the time, but that’s when it happens. The exact moment he finally achieves a state of not-thinking-about-anything. 

Something bright and gleaming and cold pierces through his eyes, and Dominic jerks back. 

Except, he doesn’t move. Or, his body doesn’t move. He’s still kneeling against that bed, on the rickety wooden floor, eyes closed and chest aching, but —

Dominic looks down at himself, seeing himself even though he can still feel his eyelids shut over his eyes. It’s weird, that when he looks down at himself he’s see-through like some sort of ghost. When he looks up again, he sees the entire universe laid out before him. 

There are stars as far as the eye can see, clustered together or sparkling distantly alone in the deep black. Nebulae of every color imaginable arch gracefully across his vision, and it’s breathtaking. If he squints, he can just make out a faint, faraway light that could be mistaken for a star, but Dominic’s enough of a space nerd to know it’s probably a planet or satellite of some sort. There’s another one, way to the left of it, slightly smaller, and then he spots another even further away, toward the right and up a bit, and Dominic is spinning, floating amongst all of this, just being a part of it all, and it’s magnificent. 

And terrifying. He feels small. Also like he shouldn’t be here. Also, like it’s impossible for this to be a place in a world that feels as real as this one, because there are large, white words that hang there in the air right behind him when he turns around. They’re set against the starry backdrop, like they’re somehow more important than the universe, and the sight of them makes something hot and anxious fill Dominic’s stomach, because that, right there, is —

That’s a menu screen. 

He’s — he’s in the fucking —

“Oh my god,” Dominic whimpers quietly to himself. Not in this body, this weird ghostly astral projection he’s maneuvering around in this separate realm of space, but in his physical body that he’s still kind of inside of. He feels his mouth move just slightly, hears his voice just barely work. It breaks halfway through his exclamation, and Dominic feels like crying. 

Instead, he floats there, and watches as the floating white words that are arranged in a sort of compass sink down from in front of him, angling slightly until they’re just below him, and Dominic feels himself fall in space for the barest, briefest of moments, only for his ghostly bare feet to come to stand against the compass. 

It’s the floor now, apparently, Dominic thinks just a touch hysterically. 

He blinks back the stinging in his eyes, and decides to walk forward, following the glimmering word that says SKILLS.

A video game. 

He’s in a fucking video game. 

Yeah, he’s figured it out before, of course, but apparently it’s really just hitting him now, that he’s in a goddamn fucking video game oh my god what the hell. 

Dominic flinches still as a sense of weightlessness falls over him, as if a liquid is being poured over his body, soaking him. There’s a familiar, loud, almost deafening swooshing sound as all around him, white motifs set before sparkling constellations sweep into existence. They form a circle around them, and they are impossibly vast. He has to crane his head back to look at the one in front of him, helpfully labeled DESTRUCTION in white letters just beneath it. And beneath that, in barely smaller text, is the number 32. 

That… that doesn’t seem right. 

Suspending his disbelief for the moment, Dominic considers the number. If that’s… his level. If that’s his level, shouldn’t it be way lower than that? He’d just gotten here, to Skyrim (from his home where he belongs and would really like to return to, now, please), and he’s been unconscious for most of his time here so far. He’s never had magic in his life, since it didn’t exist back home, so how the hell would Dominic have a level at all, in a school of magic he doesn’t even know how to use? 

He turns, looking at the next constellation, the one that says RESTORATION. He’s not sure what he’s expecting — maybe he’s hoping something about this whole thing will make even a lick of sense — but no, instead he looks below it and sees the impossibly high number of 56 gleaming almost cheekily up at him. 

Yeah, no, this doesn’t seem right. 

Dominic spins around, looking at each of the constellations in turn. Each of them has a number beneath it, some higher than others. Some, like the one beneath the constellation for HEAVY ARMOR , are respectively small, but others, such as the number for ENCHANTING , are bigger than Dominic feels they rightly should be. How the fuck does he have an 82 in enchanting when he’s never even held a real battleaxe or soul gem in his life? 

And then there’s SPEECH, over there in the corner. Maybe it makes the most sense, actually, or maybe it’s the sparkling little 100 underneath it that is the last straw that breaks the camels back.

Dominic huffs another hysterical laugh as he turns on his heel and walks out of that little universe room, right through the space between the constellations for ARCHERY and BLOCK. 

He finds himself standing back in the center of the compass, in all his ghostly glory. There’s a tingling sensation that’s infecting his legs, from all the kneeling he’s doing right now, and the distinct separation from his physical body and his mental body once again makes Dominic’s head hurt like a bitch. 

He turns toward the left, where he knows there to be magic. He’s still having a lot of trouble wrapping his head around the whole idea, and part of Dominic (okay, more than just a part ) thinks this is all a joke, but as he walks along some invisible, star-studded pathway, slowly columns of white text hang down into his view. 

The one to his left says Firebolt, and the one directly beside it says simply Flames. Beneath it is much, much smaller text, and a lot of it. He’d have to squint in order to make it all out. 

He tilts his head back, experiencing the odd sensation of moving his astral body whilst his physical body is stone still. He resolved to return to this room at a later time and read the descriptions of the different spells. They look a bit longer than he remembers them being, so maybe they work differently in this real life than they do in the game. It would be nice to get an explanation for something in this strange new fantasy that his life has become, at least. 

Dominic reaches out to touch a finger curiously to the glimmering S of the second one, and then jerks back with a cry that echoes back and forth in his own head when a pillar of fire erupts where the word hovered in the air.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s been expecting. Holy shit.  

Dominic shakily waves his hand through the air, despite not having felt the heat. The very sight of fire being so close to him made the muted pain that pressed against his chest redouble its efforts of making him as uncomfortable as it possibly can. He resists the urge to rub at it, even though he’s not sure it would do anything. The burns are on his body, not his… astral body? 

Hm. What the fuck. His life is so weird. What the fuck.

Why him? Really?

Dominic glances around at the rest of the room, taking note of the other words that hover motionlessly there in the air. There’s more healing spells than there are anything else, which now that he thinks about it makes sense, what with his strangely high restoration number. 

One in particular catches his eye. There in white and plain English is Dragonskin, which is a decidedly Breton trait. Does that make Dominic a Breton? Or is it just that Bretons are the closest translation to the human race in Tamriel? 

Weird. Dominic has always had a thing for Redguards more than any of the other races. That’s kind of a bummer. 

There’s also Soul Trap, off to the right, which he guesses is to go with his even more insane number in enchanting, and a particularly bright text off to the left that spells out Clairvoyance. He stares at that one for a moment, before slowly making his way back the way he came. Maybe… he’s come back later and read all of it. But Dominic is tired, and he still has two points of the compass to explore. 

This time he wanders right, into the inventory. 

Unlike the other points, nothing really changes this time. There are two columns of faint starlight that gleam down before him. In one, is a very short and to-the-point list of armor. The other column just has a single word in it. 

He goes up to the list on the right, first. The text grows a little bigger when he steps toward it, and he can read the items listed. 

Studded black chest plate, leather boots, studded black greaves/cuisse, and face scarf. 

The exact ensemble that he’d most regularly equipped in the hours upon hours of his last playthrough. 

He knew he’d recognized it all when he’d opened that chest that Ralof had directed him toward back in Helgen. This was the armor his player character wore in the game. His favorite set, that Dominic had reprogrammed and merged two different crafting mods to create, just for a specific aesthetic. It was so much more awesome looking in real life than it was in game graphics. 

He’d gotten to wear his own armor. That was so fucking cool. Almost as cool as getting to meet and see and talk with an actual fucking dragon. 

Well, actually, no. Not even really awesome armor could beat that. Even if said dragon had given Dominic a really painful burn.

Guess dragons can be assholes, too.

Instead of the usual white text, the list of armor is grayed out and faded. He has to squint a little bit in order to even make their words out. He stares at them for a moment, before deducing that this means he doesn’t currently have them with him. Which, in all fairness, makes perfect sense, as he hadn't been wearing them when he’d woken up. Below the grayed out armors, there’s Basic tunic and Basic trousers in white, which is what he’s currently wearing, he supposes. 

Next to all of this, toward the left in its own separate column, sits the single grayed out word of Nightreaver. His sword. 

His sword, that he’d used not too long ago — how long had he been asleep for, exactly? — to slice the throat of the mad torturer in the basement of Helgen keep. 

He wonders where it is. 

Dominic avoids looking down at his hands, translucent and see-through in this odd astral plane as they are. He’s afraid that if he looks, he might see them dipped in red. 

Something acidic and sour builds up in the back of his throat, and Dominic swallows it down with effort. He can’t — he can’t do this, here —

Something in his head jerks, an odd pressure bearing down on his brain for the barest of seconds. It’s nauseating, how fast it clears away, and Dominic feels like he’s been drenched in ice water as he blinked his eyes open, completely dry, in the room he’d woken in. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head against the mattress and glances up from the corner of his eyes. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt your prayer,” a woman with sandy blond hair tells him, “but we really need to be changing those bandages of yours.”

Dominic blinks up at her. He thinks about the way that he’s kneeling, before the bed, with his hands clasped before him, and realizes that maybe praying is exactly what it looks like. Huh. 

He pulls his hands apart from each other and branches them against the edge of the bed. His first attempt to haul himself up fails, and the woman tuts quietly as she buses forth to help him up to sit on the mattress. 

“How long were you kneeling there, man?” She asks, seeming equal parts aghast and impressed. “Well, nevermind that. Off with that tunic, now, there we are…”

Dominic lets her manhandle him (gently) out of his shirt and sits as still as he can while she sets to work spreading a cold, red-tinted cream across the burns on his chest. The first application makes him shiver, and he resists the urge to stare down at his own garish injury as it’s slowly covered by the concoction, that smells like an odd mix between cranberries, grass, and something sweet. 

“What’s this?” He asks, wearily, and gives in to the energy thrumming beneath the nerves of his limbs just long enough to bring a hand up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. 

The woman glances up at him. “Health poultice mixed with honey so it goes into the skin easier.”

“... What kind of health potion?”

“Hm. I think this one was made with blue mountain flowers, juniper berries, and imp stool.”

“Oh,” Dominic says. “Well, thank you.”

“No need for that,” the woman replies, wiping her hands off on a rag and pulling a ball of wound bandages out of her dress pockets. “You got this while ensuring the rest of us avoided becoming dragon food. Seeing that you heal is the least I can do to repay you for your bravery.”

Dominic coughs, hoping that his embarrassment at the surety in her kind words doesn’t show up in his cheeks. “I-I see…”

She gives him a small, knowing smile, and he looks away toward the barren wall of the room while she slowly begins to wind the cloth bandages around his torso.

“You’ve got quite the group out there who’ve been waiting for you to wake,” she says conversationally a few minutes late, as she’s tying off the end of the cloth. “Many are quite eager to speak with you.”

“Oh?” He says, voice level. 

She nods. “You’ve caused quite the stir. General Tullius of the Imperial army stays at the town inn three rooms down from Ulfric Stormcloak. It’s been three days, and nobody has been killed in the night yet. People say we’ve got you to thank for that, and I think they’re right.”

Dominic blinks. “I’ve been asleep for three days?”

“Four,” says the woman, “counting the day it took us all to get here from Helgen.”

He shakes his head. “What… what’s happened? Since then? No, no, wait.” He gives her a sheepish smile. “I apologize. Here you are treating my wounds, and I don’t even know your name.”

The woman gives him a surprised look, before she laughs. “In all honesty, I was half expecting you to already know it. You seem to know a lot of folk, who don’t know you back. I’m Melania,” she speaks aloud the name that floats a foot above her head. 

Dominic very consciously doesn’t look up at it. 

Instead, he grins. “It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Melania. 

She’s a young lady, maybe just a bit older than Dominic, with long, straw-colored hair pulled back into a low bun. She gives off the air of a young mother, reminding him a bit of his friend Maria back home. 

Back home —

Melania smooths her skirt out, and then stands up from where she’s been sitting next to him on the bed. 

“Since you’re awake now, I would bet that you’re hungry.”

Dominic is starving, but he’d also like information before he’s left to himself again. 

“I am,” he agrees, “but quite hungrier for a few answers, if you have the moment?”

“Oh, of course!” She says, face going just the faintest hue of pink. “You’re probably wondering where you are, aren’t you? We made it to Riverwood without losing a single person, all thanks to you. The soldiers have set up temporary encampments just outside of town— one to the south for the Imperials and another for the Stormcloaks to the north. I believe they thought it best to keep them separate for now. Even with what you said before, things are still quite high strung between everyone.”

“I would imagine so,” Dominic says. Habits die hard and messy deaths, and war is something that can foster unease between people for even decades after the fact. And with this civil war still technically in full swing, he’s glad they’re not trying to rough it in close quarters, especially with civilians in between them. 

“As I said, General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak stay in the town inn with their officials. I haven’t seen much of Ulfric, thank the nine, but the general likes to go about town and see what can be done for the refugees.”

Dominic sends her a sly smile. “A supporter of the Imperials, are you?”

Melania blushes, this time. She gives a stern cough and straightens up. “I’ve had a few days to think about what you said. We all have. And I agree with you! But that doesn’t change the fact that, like you’d said, it was Ulfric’s actions that exacerbated the situation!”

Dominic cheers at her words. “Yes, you’re right on that. And just between us, I’m not the biggest fan of Ulfric myself. However, standing together to present a unified front against what is truly a threat to Skyrim is what’s most important, here.”

Melania sags. “Well, yes, of course. But…” here, her voice turns to a mutter, “Ulfric Stormcloak... is such an ass .”

Dominic blinks, and then bursts into laughter. 

“Ow, ow,” he gasps, tears of mirth gathering at the corners of his eyes as he chuckles and holds a hand to hover over his chest. 

“Oh!” Melania hurried forward. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, you just made me laugh, is all.” Dominic snickers. “He is, isn't he?”

She smiles at that. “The house you’re staying in now belongs to the sister of one of the soldiers that was by your side during the dragon attack and evacuation— the Stormcloak, Ralof?”

Ralof’s sister’s house? He brightens. “Oh, Gerdur!”

Melania gives him a long, quiet look, like she’s debating whether or not to tell him that Gerdur remembers him just as much as anyone else here does— which is not at all. The sight of it sends a short thrill through Dominic’s chest. It means this whole thing is working, that she believes the story he’s trying to tell these people. 

Maybe he should feel guilty about pretty much lying to all of them, but instead all he can find in himself is a rising sense of exhilaration. 

He decides to take pity on the poor girl and just say the words himself. 

“I guess it’s too much to hope that she, at least, remembers me,” he lets his shoulders drop just a little, and pastes a self-deprecating smile across his face. 

“Well…” Melania grimaces.  

“Yes, alright,” Dominic sighs quietly, leaning back until he’s half lying on the bed. “You were right, I’m absolutely famished. Three days will do that to a person, I suppose, won’t it?”

She gives him a small, sympathetic quirk of the lips, and bows out of the room. 

“Yes, there’s a broth over the fire right now. I’ll bring a bowl of that up along with a potion for your head.”

Dominic blinks, lifting his head to watch the door close quietly behind her. His head?

Melania must have sent out the word he’d woken up when she went down to fetch the broth, because a few minutes into his first meal in Skyrim, the door to the room Dominic is set up in opens to admit the graying head of the Imperial General himself. 

Dominic meets his gaze for a moment, lowering the small roll of bread from his mouth. It’s good bread, soft and fresh, and the crust has a satisfying crunch to it, but there’s just something missing. It’s saltier than Dominic is used to, maybe. 

“Hello, Aedrian,” he says, and watches the quiet series of emotions that plays across the general’s face at the name. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“I was actually here to check in on you,” the older man says, stepping fully into the room. “Do you know, you have a whole crowd of people that want an interview with you?”

Dominic gives him a pleasant smile that doesn’t give anything away. “So I’ve been told. Are you yourself one of those people, I wonder?”

“I am,” Tullius admits, sitting himself down in the empty chair that’s pulled up to the small table in the corner of the room. 

It puts him about three feet away from where Dominic is propped against the headboard of the bed, two rather flat pillows all that’s between his back and the rather uncomfortable wood logs. 

“I’m sure you have plenty of questions for me,” Dominic starts off in empathy. 

“Yes. The first of which, I’d say, is aimed at your mystery.”

“My... mystery?”

Tullius raises an eyebrow at him. “Son, you come out of nowhere already knowing half all of our names, while nobody seems to have a single clue as to who you are.”

“Ah, yes,” Dominic swallows. “That.”

He glances down at his lap, where his hands are resting there, lifelessly wound around the bread roll, and heaves a sigh. 

Where to begin?

There’s a long beat of silence, where Aedrian watches the young man before him stare down into the half-eaten roll of bread cradled in his lap. The boy gives a quiet sigh and reaches over to place it in the empty bowl that sits on the tiny bedside table to the left of his bed. 

“I haven’t been in Skyrim for little over a year,” is the eventual murmur that breaks free of the redhead’s obviously reluctant lips. “I left, for business, and I—“

Here, Dominic pauses, and glances up, befuddlement swimming in his eyes. 

“I haven’t been gone for more than a year,” he quietly reaffirms. “So why? Why has everyone forgotten me?”

Something uncomfortable rises in Aedrian’s insides. He’s always been a man to follow his gut, and right now it’s telling him something isn’t quite right. He surveys the young, able man that sits in front of him, takes in the hunched shoulders and heavy head and at the hands that wring each other out in his lap. 

He scoots his chair forward just an inch, and leans in a bit. 

“What do you mean, forgotten? Did we all know you before?”

Dominic lifts his eyes up again, and Aedrian is treated to the experience of the awkward and uneasy feeling of being on the other end of the broken, vaguely incredulous gaze of a young man that has lost too much. 

Aedrian has been a general for a long time. He’s seen the look before, in countless soldiers’ eyes. He’s seen it in his own eyes when he catches his reflection in the mirror. 

In Dominic, however, there’s just something else about it. Like the young man hasn’t quite found himself able to accept his loss. 

“I used to be a soldier for the Empire,” Dominic whispers. “Before the White-Gold concordat. I started so young, I didn’t know what I was doing, but you helped me. You were there whenever I fell. And every time it happened, you pulled me to my feet, dusted me off, and told me to give it another go, and another, until I got it right. You were there to watch me climb the ranks. You were the one I knew I could go to when I needed advice. And you were the one who told me when it was time for me to leave. And now,” the boy chokes, on his words, bringing up one of those limp hands to press over his eyes in shame. “Now, you — you’re saying you don’t even know who I am, Aedrian!”

Aedrian stiffens at the sound of his given name, one he so rarely hears spoken aloud. That’s a special honor he doesn’t give many people, so who in Nirn is this kid to come out of nowhere and use it like this?

“You knew me, didn’t you?” Aedrian murmurs.

Dominic pushes himself up to regard him guardedly. “I’m sorry?” 

“Before all this… you knew me more than just the mentor you say I was. You keep slipping up, calling me by my given name — a name I rarely give out, even to many of those that I may call my friends. We must have been close, for me to divulge it to you.”

Dominic doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He keeps his inquisitive, searching green eyes leveled at the furs that cover his legs. His hands clutch at each other in his lap, fingers of one drumming restlessly on those of the other.

“I called you my friend,” Dominic agreed, so quietly, and something about how his voice is pitched makes a wretched feeling pull viciously at Aedrian’s gut. The man just looks so… lost might be the right word. “Then again, I called many people currently in this town my friends, and now… we are not even passing acquaintances, in their eyes.”

He looks up, and the expression on his face is a step worse than just another troubled young man. “It’s like I never even existed. How am I suppose to know if I’m even real, if the people I held so close to me can’t even ...”

Aedrian isn’t able to stop himself — he gets to his feet, and places a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I can’t claim to know what you’re going through, Dominic, and by the looks of it I truly wish I never learn it for myself. There is something going on that is beyond the powers of mortals such as ourselves, and for that reason I find myself in fear for your sake. You have my condolences, though I know they can’t possibly help you.”

Dominic startles, a hand raising to press over Aedrian’s hesitantly. A weak, mirthless grin dances across his face. “I’ll overcome it, somehow. It’s not like I have any other choice. But… no, your words do put me at ease, if only a little bit. To know that you don’t quite disbelieve me, even though I know that what I claim likely sounds insane to you, it… relieves me. It gives me some hope. So, thank you.”

Aedrien can’t help but smile down at him. “You’re welcome. And, if it’s any consolation, I do look forward to getting to know you again, until such a point returns that you are indeed my friend.”

Dominic swallows, and the smile he sends the General this time is a bit more real. 

Chapter Text

“You’re awake!” Ralof notes loudly, needlessly, when he sees the redhead who’s name is on the lips of all of Riverwood and then some, finally sitting up in bed. 

His smile shrinks a bit when he realizes who else is in the room. 

“Ah, General,” he greets awkwardly, giving the man a slow nod. “I’m sorry, I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”

“You may as well stay, now,” Dominic says almost glumly, waving him into the room before Tullius can get a word out.  “I remember promising you answers too, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Ralof says, slowly reaching back to shut the door behind him. He shoots another uncertain glance at the stoic general before moving over to sit himself down at the very edge of the bed, away from Dominic’s legs. 

“You did, actually,” he forged on determinedly. “Are you finally going to tell us how you seem to know us?”

He watches Dominic bow his head, looks at the dark and dead look the man aims at the hands he’s folded into his lap, and feels himself grow grim. Ralof had been right, there is something going on here. Now, to just find out what . The only one with any answers here is Dominic, though, who seems so tightly wound that Ralof is beginning to worry they won’t be getting those answers after all. 

“Um, sorry,” Dominic gives himself a shake and then looks up at Ralof with a small smile. He looks tired. 

The general leans back in the chair he sits in and folds his hands over his stomach. “I’ve already been told your reasons. Perhaps I can debrief the others, while you focus on resting. You look like you need it.”

Ralof feels disappointment claw its way up his throat, but he fights it down. With the way that Dominic sags against the headboard, and the fluttering of his eyes, the other man looks seconds away from passing out on them again. He glances over at the near empty bowl on the night table beside the bed, and sees a vial of cloudy red liquid, still stoppered. He stands up and goes over to lift it into his hand. 

“Were you suppose to take this?” He asks suspiciously. 

Dominic jerks his head up, like one who’d been on the verge of dozing would, and stares at him. After a few seconds, he moves his eyes over toward what Ralof’s holding in his hand, and those green eyes of his widen in surprise. 

“Oh, yes,” he says. “Melania brought it up with the meal, I… I forgot. She said it was for my head?” 

Dominic glances over toward the general, and then to the potion, and then back to Ralof. He looks confused. “My chest, I understand. But why would I need one for my head?”

Ralof pauses, trading a startled look with Tullius. He turns back to Dominic and says, “Well, you had a nasty hit, right there to the back of your skull.”

Dominic straightens up from the pillows, a hand flying to grope at the back of his head in surprise. Ralof reaches forward and pulls his hand away from the site of the injury. “I did?”

“It’s mostly healed now,” Ralof tells him with uncertainty. “But you could use another health potion to finish it up. Head wounds like that can be unpredictable, so it’s best to take care of them as soon as you can. Do you really not remember?”

Dominic blinks, and slowly pulls his hand free of Ralof’s. He sits back against the pillows again, and has a rather thoughtful look on his face. 

“I remember having a headache,” he admits. “But, well, there was quite a lot going on at the time. I didn’t really put much thought to it.”

“You already had it on the ride to Helgen,” Ralof says, and both the other men look up at him. He sits back down, handing the vial to Dominic and then scooting away to give them man some space. “So, you must have gotten it before then. How’d they get you?”

Vial held loosely in one hand, Dominic stares at him blankly. “What?”

“Well, you must have been taken prisoner by the Imperials for a reason. Jarl Ulfric and I were in that cart because we are Stormcloaks. That other man, Lokir, he was arrested for horse thievery. What crime did they accuse you of, crossing the border illegally?”

“That’s hardly an offense worthy of the chopping block,” Tullius notes, a touch of gravity to his voice. Ralof feels a little vindicated by the fierce scowl making its way across the general’s features. “Horse thievery, either. At most, those crimes would warrant time spent in the dungeon. Do you recall who it was who led the soldiers that arrested you?”

“We were taken by an ambush,” Ralof replies grumpily. “But it was that captain of yours.”

“Hardolf?” Dominic interrupts, a frown on his face as well. He tosses his arms, vial still in hand and corked. “I was surprised when Hadvar read the names. Neither Lokir’s nor mine was on it, and yet she still sentenced us to death. Crossing the border without permission should have at least garnered a trial… not that I can remember crossing the border.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” he returns shortly. “I don’t. I remember leaving Skyrim, but I do not ever recall returning, and yet here I am.”

Ralof leaned forward. “Maybe it was that head wound of yours?” He asks, looking pointedly down at the vial Dominic still has yet to take. 

The redhead blinks at him, and then glances down at it. He stares at it for a moment, before shaking his head. 

“I forgot again,” he says, very quietly. 

Ralof and Tullius both are silent as he uncorked it and carefully throws its contents back, swallowing the concoction without complaint. Ralof knows by the cloudy appearance that it hadn’t been one of the good-tasting ones, but Dominic shows no signs of disgust save for the minute shiver that runs through his shoulders. 

He gives his head another slow shake, and then sets the now empty vial inside the bowl on the side table. 

“I don’t think it was the head wound,” he finally says. “May I ask the date?”

Tullius blinks. “Sundas, the twenty-first of First Seed.”

Dominic goes still. “First Seed?”

“Aye.”

“I’m missing at least a month,” the man whispers, one hand going up to rub fretfully over the lower half of his face. He looks up again. “The last I remember, Sun’s Dawn was just beginning.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the head wound?” Ralof asks hesitantly. 

“It wasn’t ,” Dominic snaps hotly, crossing his arms over his chest again. He glares down at his knees. “It was early Sun’s Dawn! I was far to the west, doing — something , I can’t remember what, but it was important. And now it’s nearly the end of First Seed, and somehow I’m back in Skyrim, and people who I’ve known for most of my life suddenly haven’t a single clue as to who I am! ”

Ralof sits back, eyes wide as he watches Dominic huff out a lungful of air, only to suck it back in and hang his head, fists clenched so tightly that tremors wrack his arms. Across from them both, Tullius watches the man with studying gaze, face set so grimly that Ralof can’t help but take it with the utmost seriousness. There’s the barest trace of sympathetic concern that sits across the general’s brow. 

Perhaps not a head wound, indeed. 

“I’m sorry,” the mysterious man whispers into the silent room, and Ralof watches their dragon whisperer with a close eye. 

“I’m just... so, so confused ,” Dominic breathes out in despair. His shoulders are hunched, and he leans back into the pillow as if in defeat. “I wasn’t gone that long, barely a year… that’s, that’s not enough for everyone and all of my friends to forget my face and name. So why?” 

He looks up, brows furrowed, and Ralof has to swallow past the lump in his throat when he sees the man’s eyes, flickering and shiny and vulnerable. 

“Where did you go for that year?” Tullius asks, leaning forward from where he sits in the chair beside the bed. He has his own brows met right over his eyes, a look of deep thought upon his face. 

Dominic slowly shakes his head. “In the beginning? As I’d said, Cyrodil. I was training soldiers. It wasn’t for very long, though — certainly, it wouldn’t have taken a year. Past that?” He pauses. 

“Past that?”

“I… I’m not entirely certain,” the man whispers. “I know I was doing something , and it… it feels important. But, like I said before, for the life of me I can’t remember what . Or even where .”

Dominic looks up, the green in his eyes made more apparent for how wide they were with his anxiety. “Nor do I remember how I came to return to Skyrim. However it happened, Aedrian, it wasn’t by my own choice. I can feel that much.”

The general sits back for a moment, eyes closed in thought. He goes to stand after a minute of this, heaving himself up from the chair like he can feel each and every one of his bones, and they’re all complaining. For as young as Ralof is, the plight of that is something he can sympathize with. War is most unkind on the joints and doesn’t much care for age. 

Tullius steps over and rests a hand on Dominic’s shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. 

“As before,” he tells the man, “though the memory of you has vanished through some unknown means, you are still here. More memories can be made, and I look forward to them. Perhaps, eventually, we will be able to solve this mystery. If it is my help that you require, you need but to ask.”

“And mine,” Ralof injects quickly. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on here, but Dominic has saved them from a dragon. If that didn’t make him a friend, Ralof doesn’t know what would, and he always lends a hand to friends who need it. 

A beat of silence, as Dominic stares at them both wordlessly. After, a tiny smile breaks over his face like the sun peaking out from the clouds. 

“Thank you, both of you.” He murmurs.

Ralof moves to stand as well, once Tullius starts for the door. He goes over and grabs up the empty bowl, picking out the partially eaten bread roll. 

“Are you going to finish this?”

Dominic makes a face. “I don’t think I could eat anymore. I apologize.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Ralof laughs. “More for me!”

Dominic raises a sardonic eyebrow at him when he bites into the now cool bread, but Ralof is a little proud of the quiet laugh that he managed to bring forth from the currently morose man. And, he’d gotten a snack out of. A win for both!

“I’ll debrief the rest of them on the situation, as I’d already promised,” Tullius says from the doorway. 

Dominic sends him a nod, and then sinks down against the pillows. 

“Thanks,” he yawns. “Oh, I’m really tired.”

“That’ll be the health potion kicking in, finally.” Ralof says, a mirthful smile on his face as he watches the other man shift around until he’s curls up in the bed’s furs like a particularly sleepy saber cat. “That one you took was of the stronger mixtures, but it sure does make a fellow drowsy.”

“That’d have been nice to know before you made me take it,” Dominic yawns again, casting him a mock grumpy glare. 

“Ah, but you were already tired before! Resting will make both that and the poultice for your burns work faster, so indulge yourself while my sister still allows you to, friend!”

Dominic snickers sleepily against the pillow he has trapped in his arms. “Gerdur can be scary, can’t she.”

Ralof swallows slightly, smile faltering, but thankfully Dominic has already dozed off. He licks his lips and takes a step back. He gazed down at the slumbering dragon speaker with a thoughtful look. He had been a friend, hadn't he? Not only to Ralof, but to his family, it seems. 

Don’t call me that. If you don’t even remember who I am, don’t call me that . 

Ralof stuffs the rest of the bread roll into his mouth despite the sour feeling in his stomach. He shuts the door quietly behind him. 

He wonders how he’d feel, if everyone he knew and cared for suddenly forgot his very existence. 

It just makes the sick feeling in Ralof’s chest worse. 

Potions really are something. 

Dominic is up and walking around the very next morning with barely a twinge in his abdomen where the burns had once been. The skin there is still a little red, with the pinkness of new flesh, and occasionally the back of Dominic’s head will ache just the the slightest bit, but for the most part he’s healthy and hale once again. 

It’s nice. Riverwood is nice. The lukewarm air of First Seed is nice. Skyrim’s air is so fresh that it has the faintest sweet taste to it every time Dominic breathes it in, free of the pollutants of the modern age. That’s nice too. 

What’s even nicer about being allowed to walk around town? There’s a dog, and Dominic gets to pet it. He’d nearly forgotten about Stump. 

Which is sad! In every open-world RPG Dominic ever played, he’d vowed to pet or interact with every single dog he came across. Stump was no different. The dogs in Breath if the Wild are particularly nice, since the programmed behavior of their AIs was particularly detailed. There was that one time in Fallout 4 that Dominic had pressed the wrong button while trying to learn a new controller and had accidentally kicked the dog that you can bring along as a companion. 

He never forgave himself for that. Even just thinking about it now makes Dominic cringe, and fills him with the urge to run to his xbox and plead for forgiveness. 

Oh wait, he can’t. His xbox is all the way in another world. 

Dominic grumpily turns his thoughts back toward the cold, wet nose currently pushing itself into his palm. He smiles to himself as he smooths his hand back over Stump’s head only for the dog to push against it again, eager for another pet. 

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Dominic cooes, scratching the mutt behind an ear and grinning when it sends the back leg kicking like an automatic machine gun. 

Fuck, he misses his dogs. 

Stump rolls over onto the ground, the signal for belly rubs, and Dominic indulges him immediately, crouched as he is on the side of the road that paves straight through Riverwood. It’s a quaint little village, bigger than the game makes it out to be of course, but not big enough to be counted as a town like Helgen had been. Still, it was pretty good for a lumber mill. The population was at least double what it was in the game, but Gerdur was still somehow the top gun. Woman has some real guns on her from all the wood chopping she spent her time doing (and also all the time she spent knocking together the heads of the more hoodlumish villagers — a certain young bard comes to mind).

There’s a young lady a little ways down the road that keeps glancing back at him and grinning, but Dominic ignores her. What? He loves dogs. 

He misses his boys. Yeti the black lab with a forehead that was too big for his breed, and Duke the rottweiler who was too handsome a dog for his own good. They’re both such good boys, Dominic trained them up from puppies himself. They’ve been together for years. He wonders how they’re doing, now that Dominic has been unwillingly kidnapped by the higher powers of the universe. 

Wait. 

Who’s taking care of his boys, if Dominic isn’t home? He hadn’t exactly prepared ahead of time for a long trip or anything. No dogsitter, didn’t tell anyone he’d be gone, did anyone know he was missing yet? He’s been here five days already. Does that translate the same across time and space? Who’s fed his boys in the five days he’s been gone?

His eyes water. Oh shit. Not here, okay, Dominic, bro, chill. It’s fine. Maria checks up on you randomly all the time, like the upstanding mother hen, Mom friend that she is. Chances are, by now she’s realized something up and also taken care of the dogs. They’re gonna be fine. You’re the one out here facing dragons and drinking strange concoctions made out of mushrooms and wildflowers. 

Dominic should be worrying about himself. 

His boys are fine. They have to be. The worst they can be is just missing Dominic as much as he misses them. 

Stump whines and presses his nose into his cheek. He’s reared back on his hind legs, with both fore paws on Dominic’s bent thigh. His tongue drags against Dominic’s cheek and the dog gives another whine. 

Dominic blinks back tears. Oh fuck, he loves dogs so much and he misses his boys even more. He can’t cry . 

“You alright there, fella?” 

He wills his eyes dry as he tilts his head back, squinting carefully against the sun to focus on the silhouette standing above him. It’s a familiar face, brought to stark and realistic life, arched brows and high cheekbones and a small beauty spot to the left side of her smile. He can see why the bard and the elf archer squabble over her so ardently, now. She is pretty. 

“I’m fine, Camilla,” he says in greeting. “Dogs are just… so good.”

Camilla laughs. “That they are. Am I a friend of yours too, then?”

He blinks, and then stands up hurriedly, giving the disappointed Stump a final pat on the head. “Oh! Um, yes. I-I apologize. It must be… incredibly strange, to all of you.”

“No need to be sorry,” Camilla assures him. “Melania’s told me what happened. Actually, why don’t you help me carry these crates back to the shop? If you were a friend, I’d like to get to know you.”

Dominic pulls back, giving her a long, startled stare. He wonders for a moment what she’s thinking behind her polite and friendly smile. “Oh. You don’t mind?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” She gives him an amused wink, and Dominic shakes his head with a laugh. 

“Where are these crates, you say?”

It’s a bit of a walk, and a nice workout for Dominic’ arms, thought he’s surprised to find out he can lift more than he knows he’d have been able to back home. Is this another mechanic of the game coming into play? Is this what it feels like to have a stamina bar in real life? 

He shakes the thought away, following Camilla back to her brother’s store. 

Once they get there, she directs him to set the crate he’s carrying over on the counter, and then does the same with her own. She grabs a crowbar from behind the counter and gets to work prying the two open, and then tosses the lids off onto the floor. 

“Um,” she says sheepishly when he laughs. “I’ll pick them up later, I swear!”

The two of them make themselves busy with stocking the shop with the new goods, Dominic taking careful note of where each certain thing is placed. He pauses, looking down at the vambrace he’s holding in his hand, and then back up at the display in the window, ignoring the empty pedestal that’s suppose to hold the golden claw. 

“This is a lot of armor that you two have here…” he comments hesitantly. 

Camilla lets out a big breath, wiping the sweat off her brow as she glances over. “Oh, yeah. Armor’s been a bit more sought after around these parts, lately, since everyone’s worried about those damn burglars, so we’ve started carrying more of it than we usually do.”

“Burglars?” He asks, contemplating whether or not he really wants to journey down into a cold crypt full of dusty zombies. There is a word wall down there, and that stone Farengar in Whiterun will likely ask for later, but it’s not like Dominic has absorbed any dragon souls yet, so the wall would probably be useless to him right now. 

He carefully avoids the very thought of killing a dragon. He’s not sure what he’ll do once he gets to Whiterun, and has to fight one for real. 

“Oh, they’re just terrible. Came in the night and raided our shop like they owned the place! They took my brother's prized possession, and he’s been in a snit about it ever since! I’ve half a mind to go up to the Barrow and retrieve it myself, just to get him to stop going on and on about it!”

Dominic can’t help but laugh at the tizzy she’s worked herself into, dark bangs flying around her face as she blows them out of her eyes in frustration. 

“I thought something was missing from the display. Did they take his claw?” He asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, and she turns to give him a small look of surprise, before shaking her head. 

“Ah, right, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” She says with a self-depreciating chuckle. 

“You know, there's nearly two whole troops of soldiers camping outside the town right now,” he tells her conspiringly. “If you put up enough coin, I’m certain that a few of them wouldn’t mind going up to Bleak Falls and taking care of the bandits, look around for the claw. Ralof would probably volunteer, even.”

“He would,” she agrees, grinning in delight. “Oh, why didn’t I think of that? You’re brilliant.”

“I am,” Dominic gives her a smug little bow, and she laughs, waving her hand at him. 

“I’m sorry,” she tells him sheepishly. “I invited you along with an ulterior motive, and here I am already foisting my problems off on to you, and not even the one I wanted to!”

Dominic perks up. He knows exactly what she’s trying to get at, here. “Don’t apologize, Camilla! You know that — well,” he grimaces, “I suppose you wouldn’t know, but I’ve told you that you can talk to me about anything, and I’m not going to take it back now just because you don’t remember. I’ll listen.”

“Will you?” She asks brightly. “I wanted an unbiased opinion, and I couldn’t think of a single person better suited for it.”

“Just because you don’t remember me doesn’t mean I don’t remember you,” he tells her dryly. 

Camilla blushes. “Oh, well, that’s true. But, if it’s all the same, I would like to complain about it.”

“Are Sven and Faendal giving you trouble again?”

“How did you know?” She gapes, and then blushes harder when he gives her a knowing look. “Right. Yes, yes they are, and it feels like they’ve gotten even worse about it since the new season.”

He levels her a stare. “You’ve talked to me about them before, you know. You don’t recall, of course, but I told you to talk to them about it instead of just letting them fester like that. Have you?”

“No! They’re so annoying!”

“But have you told them that?” He narrows his eyes and gives her a little grin. “Have you told them that their behavior isn’t appreciated? Faendal at least may back off. I can’t say much for Sven, though, he’s a bit of an ass.”

“He is,” Camilla agrees with an explosive sigh, leaning back against the counter heavily. They’ve just about finished unpacking the crates. “It’s only... they’re hard to talk to, when they’re like this. Things were so much easier when we were all kids. I actually liked them back then!”

“People change with age,” Dominic says amusedly. “In any case, Camilla, I hope you realize you’re part of your own problem. I know you don’t want to see it like that, but this would all end if you just picked one of them, or told both of them to stuff it.”

She bites her lip. Dominic sets the vambrace’s twin down on it’s appropriate rack and leans back against the counter himself. He crosses his arms across his chest and directs a pleasant and polite gaze out the window at the bustling village outside. 

Riverwood is bigger than he’d been led to believe by the game, yes, but it still was built to specifically accommodate the people who lived here. There was Sleeping Giant’s in, but it only has so many rooms. The refugees of Helgen are packing themselves like sardines into the homes of sympathetic and kindly villagers, setting up shelters around the lumber mill and between buildings for the ones who couldn’t find an house with room for them, and the rest are outside the walls of the town, camping out with the soldiers and getting by with menial tasks to pass the time. Riverwood, right now, is incredibly crowded, and most likely much louder than any of its residents have ever heard it. It’s quite the sight to see. 

“I don’t want to drive them away,” Camilla says quietly. 

He turns his head to look at her. She has her hands clasped before her, two fingers folding with the fabric of her dress, and her head is aimed down to gaze at them. 

“They’re my friends,” she continues. “We’ve all known each other forever, and I care about them both, even if Faendal can be a bit much and Sven’s a right oaf, sometimes, but… They’re both my friends. I don’t want to lose one of them by choosing the other, or both of them by choosing neither.” 

She looks up, and there’s a dampness to her pretty brown eyes that make them look like pools of molten bronze. “I wish none of this romance bullshit had ever happened! I wish things could go back to how they were before, when neither of those idiots knew what marriage even was! ”

Dominic winces inwardly, and reaches out a hand to place on her shoulder as she les out a little sniffle. He hadn’t meant for her to get all emotional, he’d just wanted to make her see how she was feeding into her own problems. 

But, Dominic guesses, he can’t know every facet of everything inside and out. Camilla is a smart and independent girl, more so in real life that her character in the game had been. Of course she’d have her own unique perspective of things, and emotions make people act in all sorts of ways. 

“I know I’m repeating myself,” he starts quietly, “but have you told them… any of this?”

“No,” Camilla sniffs, bringing a hand up to rub at her face. “They’re too busy throwing a pissing contest with each other over me, and saying I’m theirs , and nobody ever even asks me at all!”

“Right,” Dominic rubs at her shoulder a bit, and then holds in a sigh when she turns to hide her face into his chest.

He brushes away the knee jerk reaction of pulling away from her, and instead maneuvers his arms to rest across her shoulders. He gives her a firm little squeeze, because hugs always make things better. 

“Well, being the best friend that I am, how do you feel about knocking those two numbskulls together and reading them their rights?”

Camilla’s head pops up and she stares up at him with big round eyes. “What? You’ll come with me?”

“Maybe they don’t remember,” Dominic winks at her, “but I’ve done it before. You need to talk to them, though. I know you’re scared of hurting your friendships with them, but if you continue like this, leading both of them on, then eventually things will get ugly between all three of you, and there won’t be any coming back from it.”

Camilla’s eyes flush with a fresh round of tears, but she sniffles them back before they can fall, and lifts a hand to wipe away those that already have. She gives her head a determined nod. 

“Right,” she says shakily, and Dominic gives her a firm pat on the back.  

“There we go, that’s the brave and fierce Camilla that we all know and love! Do you need time to prepare?”

“No, it needs to be now, before I loose my nerve.”

“Understood, my lady.”

She giggles wetly. Dominic pulls away from her, and walks in over to the storefront. He holds open the door and looks back at Camilla with a grin. 

“After you.”

Chapter Text

In the end, it doesn’t take much to persuade Faendal and Sven to knock their antics off. They find the bard arguing with his cantankerous mother on her porch, and the elven archer practicing his art in the woods between the two soldier camps. 

Dominic and Camilla tag team the two dumbasses and drag them off across the stream and behind the lumber mill, while the workers are in town during their lunch break, for a private conversation. 

Like Dominic has predicted, Faendal caves easily in the face of Camilla’s true feelings on the entire matter. The Bosmer looks immediately chastised, shoulders hunched in a guilty manner as the woman he claims to love goes off at them both about their less than attractive behavior. 

Sven, on the other hand, is a bit more work. Like the ass that the man is, it takes more time to chop away at the shell of toxic masculinity he hides behind and get the idea that Camilla is sick of his macho act through his thick skull. He keeps scoffing and nodding along exaggeratedly while Camilla leans into Faendal, but looks outraged when she turns to do the same for him, nevermind that it’s for the same reasons. 

Dominic stands behind Camilla and acts as her silent support, arms crossed and eyebrow raised whenever either of the men glance past her at him. 

In the end, it takes the collective intervention of not only Dominic and Camilla, but also Faendal, to help Sven get his blonde head out of his rear and back into the world again. The men both agree to go back to just being friends with her, and let her decide eventually if she ever wants to marry either of them. 

Sven finally admits to them that his mother isn’t going to be pleased that he’d failed to woo Camilla into their family, but he does agree it would be nice to put the romance farce behind them. Turns out, he was being pressured into the deal.

“Don’t get me wrong, Camilla, I do love you,” he says. “But I wasn’t really ever planning on acting on it until that old bat demanded it of me.”

Camilla crosses her arms over her chest. “You never listen to her! Why now, of all times?”

“She wouldn’t shut up about it!” He complains. “Every day it was always “Camilla would make the perfect daughter in law” this, and “if you don’t marry her before I die then you get nothing” that! I finally just told her I’d already wooed you so she would stop nagging me about it!” Sven scratches the back of his head sheepishly, glancing over at an unamused looking Faendal. 

“I didn’t really mean for it to get this far,” he admits. “But I guess if you say it enough, you start to believe it yourself. I was a right jackass, wasn't I?”

“You were,” both Camilla and Faendal day unanimously. 

Dominic presses a hand over his mouth to chuckle, and turns to look sardonically over at the wood elf, who goes a bit pink in the face. 

“Ah, that’s not to say I wasn’t ,” Faendal says apologetically. “I fed into this bullshit as much as you did. I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” Sven allows, shoulders slumping dejectedly. 

Camilla claps her hands together, looking incredibly relieved. It shows in the smile that she’s trying ardently to keep from splitting her face in half. 

“Well!” She cheers. “Now that that’s all taken care of, shall we four go grab a drink at the Sleeping Giant? Just like old times.”

Dominic blinks. Faendal and Sven glance over at him hesitantly. 

“Like old times?” Sven asks, gesturing to the redhead who didn’t really lend all that much to solving the problem — Camilla has really taken the reins into her own hands there, and he hadn’t been needed after all. When that girl really got going...

“Oh,” Camilla says, turning to look at him. “Boys, this is Dominic. He’s an old friend of ours.”

“Is he?” Faendal inquires, looking rather befuddled.

“Didn’t you hear the news going ‘round about the hero of Helgen being a forgotten man?”

Sven’s jaw drops, and he hooks a thumb at Dominic. “This is him? The dragon speaker?”

“Well, as it turns out, we are of the ones who forgot him,” Camilla says, rather solemnly. She reaches out a hand to give Dominic’s shoulder a fond pat. “I figured that, as a friend, it’s likely you’ve been drinking with us at the in before, isn’t that right?”

“A few times,” Dominic admits cheerfully, enjoying the flabbergasted looks he’s garnering from the other two men. “Not frequently enough for it to become routine, I’m afraid. I’ve always been a bit of a traveler.”

“All the more reason for us to catch up!” Camilla suggests, and then turns a stern eye at her friends, who jump and hurry to agree, one voice on top of the other. 

Faendal shoots Sven a narrow look, that’s returned by a half-hearted sneer. Looks like they’d always been competitive against one another. Poor Camilla had just been caught in the middle this time. 

Dominic resists the urge to scoff. Romance. They’d chosen such a poor competition.

“Follow me, my lads,” Camilla calls, already making her way around the far side of the mill. 

“ Oi ,” Sven shouts.

“We are not your lads ,” Faendal replies, exasperated, and the two men race after her. 

Dominic laughs. 

The entire week spent in Riverwood is nice and relaxing, for Dominic at least. Sure, there’s still the tension of war in the air, and the Imperials and Stormcloaks that wander the town and camp nearby struggle to act civilized with one another, and the townspeople watch them all with a close eye even as they work double time trying to keep the lumber village running with such a large influx of inhabitants. 

Many of the Helgen refugees have made plans to travel onward and settle in the bigger cities. A large number of them are going for Whiterun to plead reparations for their homes from the Jarl, while others have decided to start afresh in different golds altogether. Dominic’s heard several of them talking about following the soldiers back to their headquarters. Honestly, he doubts the ones who wish to follow the Stormcloaks will make it three days in the blizzard-infested Windhelm. 

There are many still that wish to stay in Riverwood. It’s close enough to Helgen that they already know the lands fairly well, and so it won’t be much of an effort on their part to get used to the change. These are mostly family units with children whose parents don’t want to put them through the struggle of caravaning it across the lands of Skyrim in search of a new home. 

This, however,means that Riverwood’s lumber mill has been working double time, with several volunteers from both the village and the refugees lending a hand to chop trees, haul the lumber, and prepare the wood for the houses that will be required for the new residents. 

Looks like Riverwood is getting an expansion. 

There hasn’t been too many complaints about the new inhabitants that he’s heard. Most are glad for the change, as it means more friends, more hands for work in the community, and more children for the few that Riverwood has before to play with. Dominic expects romance to be in the air within the next year as new people find each other, and then there will be even more children thereafter to add to Riverwood’s growing population. 

He’d like to be out of their hair before the start of that. 

Luckily, it seems his chance to leave with a group instead of alone is already here. 

“You’re going to Whiterun?” Dominic asks, hands wrapped around a wooden tankard of mead. 

Mead is such a curious drink. Dominic can’t count how many people he’s known who just assumed that it was the old age version of cheap beer, but that wasn’t even close. It was actually a rather pleasant wine made from fermented honey and seasoned with several warm spices. It reminds him a bit of chai tea, but much sweeter, and it tastes best when it’s hot. 

The alcohol content in mead, also, is higher than beer and most wines back home, so Dominic makes sure to keep his intake to a reasonable amount. 

“Yes, the people want to bring the dragon and Helgen’s destruction to the attention of Jarl Balgruuf,” Ralof tells him, nursing his own tankard of mead. “It was decided just last night that the Imperials would escort the ones who’d like to move to Whiterun whilst on their way back to Solitude to report to Jarl Elisif. They asked that a handful of Stormcloaks accompany them as a gesture of goodwill.”

“And you volunteered?” Dominic asks curiously. 

“I did,” his friend says. “I figured, if we actually want to end this civil war so we can focus on the real enemy, then a gesture of goodwill is the first step to mending the bridges between our own people.”

“Then I must commend you for both your intelligence and your bravery,” Dominic tells him, lifting his tankard in a short salute. “It’s difficult for some people, to have their perspectives changed so suddenly and violently. That you’re willing to look past the fact that these people were your sworn enemies just the other week, and accept the changes as they come shows that you truly care for your country.”

Ralof blushes at the praise, hiding the bottom half of his face behind his drink. “You’re too giving with your kind words sometimes, Dominic. I’m only doing what I think any good man of Skyrim should.”

“That’s why you deserve my kind words, my friend,” Dominic laughs. 

Ralof looks away from him, ears burning. Dominic decides to give the man a moment to collect himself, and glances around at the inside of the inn. Sven plays a jaunty tune on his life over in the corner, surrounded by a group of patrons who laugh and sing along to parts of his song, occasionally giving each other a friendly shove when someone gets the lyrics wrong. There’s an ever larger group, all packed together like sardines around the fire pit, chasing away the chill of the night that manages to sneak inside and swapping boisterous tales. It’s rowdy and alive, bustling with faces. 

For all that their homes and most of their possessions and livelihoods were just destroyed in dragon fire, the people of Helgen are fitting in quite nicely among the populace of Riverwood. They were neighbors, of sorts, after all, so many of them already knew or knew of each other. More so are the ones who have decided to stay and settle down here. They frequent the tavern and mill more than the ones who are bound for Whiterun, eager to grow into the community they’ve promised themselves to. 

There is still sadness in them, but Dominic figures he’d also be a bit upset if his apartment complex burnt to the ground because of a giant flying lizard of legend. 

His childhood home, on the other hand… Dominic figures he’d have handed the address to that hellhole to Alduin himself. 

“I’ll be going with you, then,” he says, and Ralof swings around to stare at him. 

“You’re coming?” The man asks in surprise. “What brought this on?”

“Did you think I would stay in Riverwood forever? It’s a lovely village, Ralof— and about to become even lovelier with all of the new additions, but I’m a wanderer at heart,” Dominic says. “I’m not one to stay in one place for so long.”

“Well, you will certainly be welcome to join us. I don’t think there’s a man there who'll refuse you, if you decided to come along.”

“Then that settles it, doesn’t it?” Dominic beams. “It’s far better to travel in company than it is to tough it out there alone, with the bears and the cave trolls.”

Ralof shudders, taking a bracing gulp of his mead. “Bears,” he mutters, and then makes a face and goes for another drink, “ trolls . Augh.”

“I’m glad we agree!”

They leave for Whiterun two days later. Dominic spends the final day doing a few rounds of the village to say goodbye to all the friends he’s made, both new and ‘old’.

Camilla is very disappointed to hear that he’s leaving, and drags him off for a midday drink with Faendal and Sven. She demands that he come back and visit as soon as he can. He promises he will. 

Faendal pulls him aside after and thanks him quietly for the hand he had in helping the three of them patch up their friendship. Dominic laughs, claps his shoulder, and tell him that he’d barely done anything.

Sven waves him over to the porch of his home, and gives a friendly farewell, but not quick enough to void his mother, who bustles out the door to see who’s come by. 

“So you’re the dragon tamer they’re all yappin’ ‘bout?” She nearly hollers, seemingly incapable of an inside voice. 

She looks him up and down with a critical eye, and then harrumphs loudly. “I saw it, you know! It flew right on overhead this town on its way to Helgen. I told Sven, but this fool boy didn’t believe me!” Here, she reaches up with startlingly rapid reflexes, and yanks Sven down to her level by the earlobe. The man yelps. 

“See?” She shouts in the poor Nord’s ear. “Your momma’s righter than you think! Maybe if you listened to me more, you’d have a better time of it than getting yelled at by your supposed fiànce!”

Sven cringes, eyeing Dominic with a pleading look. The redhead inches away from the house and gives the man a wave goodbye, before leaving and sparing him any more embarrassment. 

“You’re going to Whiterun, too?” The children ask him in dismay when he tells them after they cajole him into a game of tag. Apparently, if Stump the dog thinks you’re okay, then that makes you good in the kids’ books. 

Dominic has to admit, he’s sad to say goodbye to the little monsters. 

“Unfortunately,” he tells them, knelt down to their level as they line up for hugs. “The life of a traveler is never stationary. I’ll be back to visit in no time, though, you’ll see!”

Finally, it’s the next morning, and Dominic is up with the sun, dressed in armor and helping the soldiers load carts with provisions for the journey. A hunting party had gone out earlier in the week, and returned with enough game to be smoked and dried for the departing soldiers and refugees. Ulfric and his people aren’t due to leave for Windhelm until the following week. 

“That’s the last of it,” Tyson the Imperial soldier says in that quiet way of his, dusting of his hands. He glances over at Dominic, like he hasn’t been partially avoiding him all week, and then shrugs. 

“You’re coming,” he notes, and there’s an odd note of relief on his words. 

“Of course I am,” Dominic replies, arms crossed. “I go where the excitement is. Besides, I have business in Solitude.”

Tyson raises an eyebrow. 

“Personal business.”

Tyson stares at him without a word.

Dominic narrows his eyes at the man, and then grins. “ Maybe I’ll eventually even tell you!”

The big Imperial gives an exasperated shake of his head, and turns to go join the leftmost wing of soldiers that are lining to flank the progression of townspeople and carts. There’s another wing of them off to the right of it, but Dominic makes his way up toward the front and aisles up beside where Tullius is prepping a horse. 

“I’m following you lot all the way to Solitude,” he announces when the graying man glances his way. 

“Are you now?” Aedrian Tullius grunts. “Why would that be?”

Dominic makes a face. “Ugh. Why do you people keep asking me? Isn’t it my business?”

“Aren’t we friends?”

“Ouch,” he gasps, holding a hand up to his chest. He widens his eyes just the slightest. “Low blow, there, General.”

Tullius turns his head to look at him for a moment, and then grimaces at whatever he sees in Dominic’s face. 

“You’re right,” the man says. “I apologize.”

Dominic shakes his head. “No, it’s fine… is there any place you’d like to put me?”

Tullius regards him for another long moment, looking like he wants to say something. Eventually, he gives a tiny shake of his head and turns to stare out across their rather crowded caravan. 

It’s not as big as the progression of refugees and both Imperials and the smaller Stormcloak troop had been, but it’s definitely sizable for the longer route toward Whiterun. The scouts have estimated their trip to take at least four days. And that’s if they miraculously don’t run into bandits or the wrong side of Skyrim’s wildlife along the way. 

“That cart toward the middle there, to the right side,” Tullius points out. Dominic squints at it. “Take a seat beside the driver and keep a lookout off the path for anything that might hide to ambush us.”

Inwardly, Dominic dances a celebratory jig. He doesn’t have to walk! 

“Got it,” he says, and moves to make for the assignment. 

A hand on his shoulder stops him, and he glances back at Tullius and blinks. 

Tullius stares at him silently, face doing a complicated expression underneath the stoic mask that Dominic isn’t sure what to make of. Finally, the General gives his shoulder a squeeze and sends him on his way. 

“Try not to hit your head, again,” he’s told. 

Dominic huffs. “That was one time,” he mutters under his breath, and pretends he doesn’t see the smile it puts on Tullius’ face. 

Chapter Text

Video game stamina is really something. 

Dominic leans over, cupping his hands together and dunking them into the stream. He brings them up and closes his eyes, splashing the cold mountain water into his face, and tilts his head downward with a sigh as it washes away all the sweat and dust of traveling along an unshaded road for two days under the beating Skyrim sun that hangs directly overhead. Droplets trickle down into his collar, but instead of being irritating they lend an extra kick of refreshment that helps to chase away the heat. 

Isn’t Skyrim suppose to be cold? Not in spring, apparently. 

Dominic braces his elbow on his thighs for a moment, staring at his broken reflection in the water at his feet. 

In the game, it takes only a minute or two of full sprinting to make it from Riverwood to Whiterun. In hindsight, that’s incredibly unrealistic, as Dominic should have already guessed before all this. Whiterun is a good two days journey from the area of Riverwood and Helgen. With a troop of soldiers on foot, escorting carts and a slew of refugee civilians? Take that estimation and double it, maybe tack on an extra day to give some wiggle room for the odd wolf attack, because there’s plenty of those as well.

In any case, they’ve been at it since early yesterday morning — it’s noon of the second day, and they’re not even halfway there, and even if Dominic has spent most of the journey riding one of the carts, he’s tired. 

He could be more tired, sure. It’s not like he’s exhausted. But it’s boring. The scenery that passes by as the cart moves at a snail’s pace doesn’t ever really change , all of Skyrim looks the fucking same , and hours can go by like this. It makes Dominic want to hop off the wagon and join the soldiers on foot, just to give himself something to do . But then, Tullius assigned him here, after Dominic has asked for an assignment, and it would reflect badly on his character now if he were to desert what’s essentially his post so early in the trip. 

There had been two animal attacks already, both wolves. Dominic was only able to help with one of them, and that’s only because one leapt for the throat of the man sitting next to him, the driver of the damn wagon. Dominic has barely a split second to reach behind them for his sword, bring it to the forefront and jab the creature straight in the throat, causing it to fall back with a yelp that so strongly reminded him of a hurt dog that it made Dominic wince. 

That three seconds of action was exhilarating, but that’s all he’d gotten, since the soldiers had pretty much taken care of the wolves before Dominic could even think to hop down and lend a hand. 

On one hand, he’s thankful they’re so efficient. Wolves are so much like dogs that he isn’t entirely sure he could intentionally bring a weapon against one, even if it were to attack him. 

On the other hand… God. He is so fucking bored . 

Dominic pushes himself up to his feet and gives his head a shake to dislodge the droplets of water that still cling to his hair. He heaved a great big sigh and turns away from the stream, drawing the back of his arm across his eyes to wipe the excess water from them. 

For now, the rest of their convoy had set up a temporary camp on the side of the road, to take a quick break in their travels in order to give the horses and soldiers rest, and prepare a simple lunch. 

Dominic purses his lips and hopes that he can get away with just having some of the venison jerky leftover from the Riverwood hunting parties, and some water and bread. He carefully doesn’t look toward where the carts are circles around the cooking area. The carcasses of the wolves that had attacked them earlier had been piled onto the lightest cart by the soldiers who’d slain them. Now that they’ve stopped, they hang over the hastily dug cooking pits, impaled in spits to roast. 

Dominic… is not going to eat dogs. 

Maybe these Skyrim barbarians are used to it, with all their Viking inspired macho energy and simple ease of the quaint olden days where any creature can be a food source, and all the more to them and their way of life, but. 

Dominic is not going to eat dogs. 

He gives his head another shake, hair flinging water everywhere, and stifles a laugh when someone makes a disgruntled noise. 

He turns around and sees Ralof squinting at his, rubbing a hand down his face. 

“Did you have to do that?” 

Dominic grins. “Well, I heard you come up behind me, and had to think fast.”

“What have I ever done to you?” The man complains. 

“Well, now, that’s a trick question, isn’t it?” Dominic laughs, but makes the end of it a little too harsh. He coughs and scratches at the edge of one of his eyebrows while Ralof stares at him. 

“What?”

Dominic shrugs, turns back around to face the copse of trees in the shade of which a group of soldiers have chosen to relax. 

“Nothing.” He says. “Nevermind”

There’s silence between them for a while, slightly awkward, and Dominic feels bad for putting it there when they’d been bantering easily the whole trip before, but. He does have a role to play here, and it’s very important to stay in character. 

Finally, after a few minutes of suffering the uncomfortable quiet, Ralof turns back to him again, apparently unable to let it go. 

“Really,” the Nord presses. “Tell me what I said wrong.”

“You didn’t!” Dominic jolts a little, turning to him with wide eyes. He never intended for the man to think it was his fault. “Really, it’s not — you’re not — you didn’t. I swear, it’s just me being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Ralof narrows his eyes. Dominic cringes a little when the blonde crosses his arms across his chest like a beefy wrestler. “Tell me.”

“I just thought,” Dominic says a little miserably, “that even if you had done anything to me, well, it’s not like you’d recall it, would you?”

Ralof’s face takes on a strangely stiff look, like he’s trying to keep his eyebrows from scrunching together. The corners of his lips curve downward.

“It’s as if there are tomb traps all around you,” Ralof comments, guiltily, and Dominic hunches his shoulders, “and one may trip them, never knowing where they might hide.”

“I’m sorry,” Domic starts, but the blonde man waves him off.

“Don’t be,” Ralof says. “It’s not your fault, and neither is it mine. It is just something we will have to learn together.”

Dominic blinks at him, a little surprised the man was taking it so easily. Even in modern day America (or perhaps especially there), the concept of triggers was difficult for many to wrap their minds around, more so if they themselves didn’t experience them.

“It’s — It’s not, um... vexing?” Dominic isn’t able to stop himself from asking. His shoulders tense up a fraction when Ralof looks at him. “I mean, I’m… I’m sure it can be tiresome.”

Ralof treats him with a rather unimpressed look. 

“Of course not.” The man’s face softens slightly when Dominic only continues to look helplessly back at him. “Dominic, truly, it’s not a bother. It will just take some time to get used to.”

Dominic looks back at him, still unsure. “Alright.”

Ralof looks like he’s going to say something else, but they’re interrupted by the sound of shouting.

The two of them both whirl around to find the soldiers all on their feet and yelling, scrambling away from the trees they’d been resting under. Several of them have their weapons drawn, and all of them look greatly alarmed. 

“What on earth…” Ralof begins, and then stops. 

He must see it at the same moment Dominic does, because they both take a few hurried steps back and watch with wide eyes as a monsterous bear comes crashing through the trees, jaw open in a deep-throated snarl. Dominic is perhaps two hundred feet away, and he can still see the sharp points of its needle-like teeth. 

It gives a deep roar that snarls against its throat, jaw hanging open. Dominic is frozen for a sharp moment, watching wordlessly as it tramples through the cooking pits, tossing one of the spits across the clearing and swiping it’s enormous paw at one of the Helgen refugees unlucky — and slow — enough to be within its reach. The man screams as they carve bloody furrows across his throat and chest.

Something acidic crawls up Dominic’s throat as he watches, small and slow, just like it had in the dungeons of Helgen Keep in the face of the mad torturer Grimor. He swallows it down. Dominic forces himself to keep his eyes open and vigilant even as the bear rages forth to maul two more refugees, despite the soldiers swinging their weapons at it. There’s a dagger sticking uselessly out of it’s meaty shoulder, only making the creature that much more enraged.

Ralof lets out a vivid, harsh curse, jumping to his feet and dragging Dominic up with him by the arm. He shoves them both away from the wagon, probably intending to scramble for the cover of the next one, but Dominic can already see that they’re moving too slow.

His hand flies to the handle of his sword, automatically drawing it from its sheath in one fluid motion before his brain can catch up with what he’s doing, because apparently he has a combat autopilot now, and the bear has chosen to direct its charge toward them . 

Ralof shouts in alarm, but Dominic doesn’t look at him, bracing his feet against the ground and bending his knees just so, eyes locked on the approaching bear. It’s eyes are small, bead like, black and gleaming in the shine of the sun. Dominic thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should be afraid, but he isn’t. He’s calm. This bear is barely as big as one of Alduin’s talons. 

He’s pretty sure Ralof has already backed off and is yelling at him to do the same, but the bear is advancing quickly. Dominic keeps himself still, balanced on flat feet, blade at the ready. The bear is roughly ten feet away in its charge when the muscles in his legs decide it's time, and Dominic springs to the side a few steps. 

It charges right past him, and he digs his heel into the earth, flipping his sword around to hold above his head, that tip pointed downward. He springs forward and brings the blade down with all his strength against the junction between the thing’s skull and neck. 

There’s a snarl that’s abruptly silenced, and the beast goes limp. It’s velocity hurls it’s body forward a few feet, though, and it rips Dominic’s sword from his hands. The bear is dead before it hits the ground. 

He pulls back with a wince, and rubs at his wrist. He stares down at what is essentially his second kill in this new world — hell, in both worlds — before ambling over with a sigh and getting to work tugging his blade free of it’s corpse. At least it’s an animal this time, and not a person.

The clearing is eerily silent in the wake of the bear’s rampage, and Dominic keeps his eyes on the dirtied edge of his sword, the black blade making the dripping crimson appear burgundy where the coating of it is thinner.

There’s an incredulous scoff from next to him, and he peeks up to find Tyson staring at him with a glint of exasperation in his eyes.

“Do you fear absolutely nothing?” The man asks, almost rhetorically. 

It makes Dominc grin a little, and he yanks a cloth from his pocket to wipe Nightreaver clean. 

“The dragon was bigger,” he excuses, and it makes a number of the caravan still huddled behind the wagons nearby give slightly hysterical laughs.

“Health, please!” Comes the call, and Dominic grimaces at the reminder of the bear’s three victims. There’s a bustle of activity as everyone seems to burst into action all at once, someone chasing down the half-cooked wolf carcass the bear had flung to the side, presumably for a later snack once it had finished taking it’s irrational anger out on all the people, and others bustling out to help right the wagon that had been knocked to its side, contents needing to be reloaded. A few of the soldiers come to gather around the bear and poke its body with the tips of their swords, nudging it this way and that, apparently trying to decide what to do with it.

“Are you alright?” Ralof asks from his side.

Dominic glances over at him. The Nord’s hands twitch forward like he still wants to grab him and yank him behind the wagons, despite the bear no longer being a threat. His eyes look harried.

Inside, Dominic softens, just slightly. “I’m fine, Ralof,” he says. 

“Are you sure?” Ralof presses, and Dominic frowns, about to say the bear hadn’t even touched him, when he notices how the man’s gaze is directed down at Dominic’s wrist. The wrist he’s returned to holding tightly in his other hand, now that his sword is sheathed.

It twinges, and Dominic winces, remembering how the bear had ripped his sword from his hand, how his wrist had been wrenched by the movement. 

“It’s probably just sprained,” he dismisses, but Ralof looks unimpressed.

“All the more reason to wrap it,” the Nord says, pleasantly, before reaching out to take him by the elbow and drag him over to where the medicine wagon is.

Dominic’s shoulders tense, as he looks ahead and sees the three bear victims laid out on the ground near it. They’re being worked over now by what looks like two of the medics who are also Tullius’ soldiers, and Dominic really doesn’t want to get in their way for something as silly as a twisted wrist. 

He shakes Ralof’s hand off, coming to a stop right beside the cooking pits. He scrunches his nose up as the smell of simmering wolf meat wafts up at him, and instead focuses on Ralof, who has turned back to frown at him. 

“It can wait,” he says, firmly, when the blonde looks like he’s about to demand it. “They need to focus on those people, over there. I’ll go and see about getting it wrapped only after they’re in the clear.”

Ralof looks unhappy at that, but doesn’t say anything against it, probably seeing the sense behind Dominic’s words. 

There’s a familiar scoff, and suddenly Tyson is standing at his other shoulder. The combined diatisfied frowns of both men make Dominic want to fidget under their gazes. Which, what? It’s not like he’s done anything wrong.

“The meat’s done,” Tyson announces, instead of commenting on Dominic’s ultimatum of getting medical attention like he obviously wants to. “Come and grab something.”

“I ate earlier,” Dominic replies immediately, causing Ralof to turn on him with an outraged scowl. 

“No, you did not ,” The Nord scolds, and Dominic bemoans his entire life and every choice he’d ever made in it to lead up to this moment, as he’s dragged bodily by two very strong Vikings toward where people are literally eating the cooked flesh of the ancestors of his dogs.

He’s sat down on the ground amongst these feasting barbarians , watching wordlessly as they all settle in for a quick lunch.

I don’t want to , he cries silently in the safety of his own mind, watching hollowly as Tyson serves up a plate and hands it off to Ralof, before turning to build another, putting bread and cheese and ripping off pieces of meat with his fingers from the main source that still sits over the fire.

Dominic’s eyes water, and he swallows down the lump in his throat. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck —

He stands to his feet. Tyson and Ralof both blink up at him with nonplussed expressions, as if they can’t see what’s wrong with this picture like Dominic can. Hellll no, nope. Absolutely not.

“Dominic?”

“Bye,” he blurts out, and turns on his heel.

“Wh — Dominic? Hey!”

“Come back and eat!” Ralof actually sounds insulted. Dominic had just watched him bite into dead dog , though, so it doesn’t matter because he’s never trusting the man again. Tyson either. Hell no.

“Can’t.” He says stiffly, over his shoulder, and takes a step away from them.

“Dominic—”

“I have to go,” he insists.

“Go where —?!”

“Have to go pray,” he says, the idea lighting up in his head. This is actuallly the perfect chance to explore more of the astro-projection menu room in his mind — fuck, it sounds weird when he says it like that — and avoid having to consume the poor mutilated bodies of the first coming of dog.

“What?”

“I haven’t since Riverwood,” Dominic tells them, much more alive now that he has a game plan. “That’s too long. I’ll eat later, bye.”

Tyson and Ralof both stare helplessly after him as he marches his way past the line of wagons and into the very treeline the bear had burst forth from, seemingly without a care in the world. He half looks like a man fleeing from something.

The two men glance at each with uncertain expressions, plates held in their hands as they sit before the cooking pits.

“Maybe he isn’t hungry,” Tyson says slowly.

“I didn’t take him for the praying sort,” Ralof says, picking halfheartedly at his bread. He blinks at his fellow, and shrugs. “Maybe that’s why he’s so damn lucky.”

“Favor of the Divines?” Someone comments from behind them, and they turn to see the general himself there, staring over at the trees Dominic had disappeared into with an unreadable expression. After a moment, Tullius glances down at them and gives a tight, close lipped smile. 

“That’s something that I think I can believe,” he finally says, stepping toward the fires to serve a plate for himself.

“It would explain a lot, actually,” Tyson grumbles, ripping his bread in half.

Ralof glances down at his plate, not really feeling all that hungry anymore.

Chapter Text

Dominic walks until he finds a tree whose roots are fat and gnarled, bulging up out of the ground far enough to form a natural bench. These kinds of trees were always his favorite to climb as a child, young enough that he could still be carefree and ignorant of the world around him, back when the only thing that mattered was how far up he could get before his mother would start yelling at him to come down. 

He nestles himself between the roots and sets his elbows against the one in front of him. Clasping his hand together, he leans forward until his head rests comfortably between his arms, closes his eyes, and lets himself drift. 

It’s pleasant, sitting here and not thinking about anything. The dirt is loose and soft beneath his knees, covered with a natural padding of moss. The scent of earth and bark follows behind each breath as they enter his lungs, and Dominic allows himself to just quietly exist for a long while. 

It’s not often that he’s able to do this outside of meditation. Dominic’s mind is sharp and analytic, he’s always thinking about something, always taking apart this thought or that and never stopping to just be . Before he’d been taught mediation by his dojo instructor, Dominic would occasionally think himself up into a frenzy, unable to stop , leading to anxiety attacks that would concern his mother so much that she would take him to a child counselor, who was actually the one who first suggested he take up mixed martial arts. 

It was initially meant to be an outlet for his energy, give him something to focus on that wasn’t his ever-running thoughts. But it wasn’t until his instructor recognized the speed at which he thought, how worked up he’d make himself even while practicing kata, and made him take up meditation that Dominic was finally able to get a measure of control over his own mind. 

After seeing the effects on her child, his mom had kept paying for the lessons even after his father had expressed his displeasure at what he’d seen as an unnecessary drain on their funds. It was one of the things he’d actually witnessed his parents fight about. Usually, they’d kept it behind closed doors. His mom was a stubborn woman, however, and when she put her foot down, she didn't budge. Dominic continued with his instructor all the way up until he turned eighteen, by which he took over the payment for his classes himself. 

Feeling himself breathe, Dominic finally turns inward and examines the state of his mind from the position of an outsider. It’s easier to sort his thoughts this way, when he’s not entangled inside them. He sorts each worry from big to small into categories, tags even the wispiness of emotions with a name and tucks them away, until he’s left with a blessedly empty space in his center, which Dominic lets himself settle back into. 

As soon as he lets go, he finds himself back in the universe, surrounded by stars and standing on a compass rose with four labeled directions. 

Of the four rooms in the menu, Dominic had only had time to explore three before he’d been woken up by Melania. Even then, it was only a cursory survey. Today, he pivots on his heel and follows the arrow directly behind him, watching as the universe momentarily wraps around him. 

The star-studded floor beneath his feet swirls in a great burst of nebula before being shouted by a thick mist that balloons in on itself like a mountainous landscape. Dominic reaches out with the hand of his astral body and swipes it through a particularly tall curling branch of the mist, and in the next second it all clears out of the room, revealing a massive, detailed map of Skyrim beneath his feet that sprawls so wide Dominic can’t actually see the edges of it from where he stands.

He kneels, presses his fingers to it. There are slightly raised bumps where the terrain changes, the biggest one at the Throat of the World, a few feet away to his right. He’s standing at a specific point of the map, and he realizes after doing some mental estimations that it must be where he’s located on the physical plane. That’s neat. 

He just has to glance up a bit to find their caravan’s destination, and the second he sets his gaze upon it, the city of Whiterun unfolds like a scene in some sort of pop-up book, except far more three-dimensional. He takes a step closer to it and is fascinated to see that the entire city is laid out before him in intricate detail. From the farms outside it’s gates all the way to the lofty spires of Dragonsreach, which is a lot grander than Dominic remembers it being in the vanilla game. Must be one of the castle mods he added. And isn’t that a wild thought, that the reality he’s found himself in has been partially crafted by modifications he himself added to it? 

Whiterun itself appears to be a city of a much larger scale as it was in the original Skyrim game, as well. Having already seen Riverwood and how it differs from what he’d expected, Dominic assumes that the size of Whiterun correlates with the idea that the population of Skyrim in reality is far bigger a number than the game could have ever really handled with its outdated code. And, again, there’s the fact that if one mod has taken form, there exists the possibility others have as well, and this Whiterun could also be a result of one or more city mods making it seem so much more than vanilla Whiterun ever could have been.

Dominic is actually a little excited to finally get to Whiterun, and see in person how different the city is from what he originally expected. 

He raises himself to his feet, and glances around him at the rest of the map in hesitation. He’d love to explore it a bit more, see what other changes there are to find, but he only has so much time before the caravan is set to move on, and Dominic still needs to get on to his next order of business. 

He leaves the Map room behind him, promising himself that he’ll give it another look once they come to rest in Whiterun, and follows the left arrow into the Magic room. 

He avoids the row of Destruction spells that are so innocently on display and makes his way over to the glaringly bright letters of Clairvoyance. More importantly, to the wall of smaller text that sits innocuously beneath it. 

Finally, he gets to look it through. It’s only a few paragraphs, and it reads like an excerpt out of some sort of textbook. A lot of it’s mostly just a vague overview, but it still gets the point across. Coming away from it, Dominic is a little bit stunned, because this opens up a lot of opportunities for him that he isn’t quite sure what to do with it. 

One part stands out to him. If he were to use Clairvoyance on a person , he would be able to get a peek into their life . He could see some of their past, some of their character, some of their impressions.

It seems like it would be an insanely huge breach of privacy. Dominic isn’t sure he’d be comfortable using it even on an enemy. How can you justify prying into someone else’s mind like that? Dominic can barely understand his own mind, most times, and he’s not about to invite anyone else to try. 

And then there the fact Dominic, for all the skill points he has toward the different branches of magic, has absolutely no idea how to use magic. What if he does it wrong? Can he do it wrong? Is it easy? Is it hard? What does mana even feel like? Does Dominic even have mana? Where the hell does it come from? What even is the science behind the magic of Nirn?

Maybe it’s a bit too early to be attempting to contemplate the universe. 

Dominic is slammed back into his physical body without a warning, and he flinches so badly that he almost topples over the twisting tree root he’s kneeling beside. 

A weight in his shoulder steadies him, and he glances to the side to find Tyson staring down at him with furrowed brows. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” the soldier murmurs. “Only, you’ve been out here for two hours. People were starting to worry.”

Dominic blinks blearily up at him, unable to summon a single thought for a moment. Tyson looks more concerned the longer the silence stretches, and eventually the redhead gives his head an awakening shake. 

“Ah, yeah,” he says, smartly. “... Two hours?”

The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip marginally, and Dominic blinks down at it. He reaches up and places his own hand over it, savoring the feeling of warmth that seeps into both his shoulder and his palm, before grasping it by the fingers and regretfully peeling it off. He feels a little out of it. Maybe he should practice with entering and exiting the menu room? If it’s able to make him feel this unbalanced when he’s interrupted, then he either needs to get a handle on it or give up the idea of being able to access it anywhere he isn’t completely sure of his own safety. 

Which, in Skyrim…. as of now, is nowhere. 

Tyson’s still frowning down at him, though, so Dominic summons up his best reassuring smile and uses the hand that he still holds to pull himself to his feet. Tyson takes his weight in good humor, the frown smoothing out to his usual stoic expression as he helps Dominic stand up. He turns immediately afterwards and begins to walk back to the caravan, and Dominic follows after him with a quiet laugh. 

After a few steps, the Imperial glances over his shoulder to catch his eye, and asks, “You didn’t notice the time passing?”

“Hm?” Dominic blinks at him, and then considers the question seriously. Had he noticed the passage of time while he was inside the menu? Now that he thinks about it, even with the time of day and the date itself displayed clearly in the corner of the map room… “Well, no. Not really.”

“Not really?”

“I didn’t notice,” Dominic says, slowly, quietly. He clasps his hands together in front of him and stares down at them as he walks, running a thumb over his knuckles. 

He doesn’t realize that Tyson has stopped walking until he bumps into the taller man’s back. Dominic makes an aborted sound of surprise and takes a step back, looking up into narrowed gray eyes. 

“You pray often?” The soldier asks, crossing his arms over his shoulder and raising a single eyebrow down at him. 

Dominic, for some reason, suddenly feels like he’s facing his middle school principal. That was, after all, the last time he’d felt this particular brand of emotion: an odd mix between sheepishness and anxiety. 

“Um,” he says, reaching over to rub at one arm as he ducks his head down without meaning to. 

He doesn’t pray often, no. Dominic has never really been described as a devout man. His father is Catholic and his mother — well. 

Really, he’s spent his entire life wondering why his parents had married each other in the first place. In any case, the pairing of them had produced a kid like Dominic, and at the end of the day, Dominic is straight out of belief in anyone but himself. 

He realizes he’s taken too long to answer, and looks up to find Tyson shaking his head, almost—apologetically?

“Never mind that,” the taller man says. “It’s none of my business. Sorry for asking.”

Dominic opens his mouth, ready to assure him that there was nothing to apologize for, but then he stops, realizing that this is an easy out. If Tyson thinks Dominic is uncomfortable talking about his ‘faith,’ then he will be unlikely to question him about it again. And the less bullshit Dominic has to make up for this role of his, the less he’ll have to remember, and the easier it will be to stay in character. 

A tiny frisson of guilt opens up in his gut, the knowledge that he’s a liar, because all Dominic has seen of Tyson has been nothing but good — but Dominic presses a hand to his stomach sternly, sealing it up with ruthless determination. He doesn’t have time for guilt. Plus, there’s no reason for him to feel bad! This is his best bet at surviving in this world that isn’t his. 

Besides, giving himself a role to focus on keeps the looming mental breakdown at bay, so that’s nice. 

Tyson is still watching him with those shrewd dark eyes of his, and he takes Dominic’s movements in a different light. 

“You missed lunch,” he says, voice a step away from chastising. Dominic lets a sheepish smile stretch across his face. 

“I have priorities,” he says, and then makes a face. “And I don’t like wolf meat.”

Tyson appears a little exasperated at this, and it makes Dominic smile a little more genuinely. 

“There is other food! Also, they’ve just finished cooking the bear, so you can have that instead. Just… eat?”

Dominic blinks up at him, surprised at the plaintive tone of that last part. He ducks his head and kicks his boot forward into a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the dirt. He glances away from the imposing Imperial soldier before him and crosses his arms. 

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, then tilts his head to the side. “They cooked the bear already? It’s only been two hours.”

Tyson shrugs. “Fire spells work quickly.”

“And it’s not charred?”

“Our mages are very practiced at their craft,” Tyson says defensively. Dominic holds up his hands in surrender. 

“I don’t know the first thing about magic,” he says, voicing the same thoughts he’d been ruminating over for apparently longer than he’d initially assumed. “But, that’s very handy to have, while camping in the wilderness, I would guess.”

“It is,” Tyson agrees, seemingly pleased if the twitch at the corner of his lips is anything to go by. 

He turns on his heels and begins to walk again, and Dominic chases after him, hand still pressed flat against his stomach. He is famished, now that he thinks about it, and it’s a great relief to hear there’s now an alternate selection of meat to choose from. 

He follows Tyson back to the campsite, stretching out the pins and needles that still tingle along his legs from kneeling for so long at the base of that tree. Once they step out through the foliage, Tyson doesn’t give him a moment to breath before he grabs him by the elbow and drags him over to the cooking pits that are already being dismantled and covered up with the same dirt that had initially been dug up to create them. 

People wandering around straighten up as they pass by, many of them looking relieved to see them. They’re awarded smiles and a few called greetings, but are left alone. The soldiers they encounter all salute, and then go about their business. Maybe Tyson is a rank above them? 

There’s a little boy on the fringes of the crowds, hiding behind a woman’s skirts. Dominic can feel the kid’s stare burning a hole in his back, and wonders what’s going on in that little mind of his. When Dominic meets his gaze, however, he jerks back and hides completely behind the woman who Dominic is going to assume is his mother. He’s not quick enough though, that Dominic doesn’t catch the scowl on his otherwise cherubic little face. 

Hm. 

Tyson sits him down on a conveniently placed bolder and then stands there rather sternly for a long second, giving him what Dominic would describe as a Mom Look, before leaving him there to seemingly go hunt down whoever it is that has been put in charge of the leftovers. 

It’s barely been a minute before someone sits themself beside him, and Dominic sends General Aedrian Tullius a wide grin. 

“Sorry if you need me for something,” he says cheerfully. “Tyson told me I’m not allowed to get up from this spot.”

Tullius raises an eyebrow at him, mouth set in an unimpressed slash across his face, but the lines at the corners of his eyes betray his amusement. 

Dominic laughs. 

“Private Amaranthe is a good soldier,” the general praises. “A good man, as well. I have overseen the careers of hundreds, and it’s not often that someone has what it takes to be both.”

That makes Dominic quiet. He thinks about his father back home, and can’t help but agree wholeheartedly. “Some aren’t really meant for the power that comes with being a soldier.”

“Some.” Tullius agreed. Dominic can feel the general’s eyes as he looks him up and down. “It takes a special person, I’ve come to find, who can handle the responsibility and power without letting it go straight to their heads. Tyson Amaranthe is one such person.”

“He’s a great guy,” Dominic eagerly agrees, sitting up as he spots the subject of their conversation heading back over with a plate of food balanced in his hands. “I know him, you know? From… before. I haven’t actually told him. I’m… not sure why. Though, I do think he’s long since guessed, himself, even if we’ve yet to actually speak about it. But Tyson — he’s good. He has a truly noble heart inside of him, and… that’s more than I can say for a lot of people.”

Tullius looks over at him. Dominic meets his stare head on, keeping his expression as impassive as he can, but he can’t really hide the note of truth from his voice. Because, this really is his opinion on Tyson, even if he’s only really known the guy for a few weeks at most. Dominic being rather well-versed in reading people aside, someone with a character such as Tyson is obvious and apparent pretty much from the get-go. They have nothing to hide from the people around them because they themselves are honest, and therefore have no need of facades. 

Unlike Dominic. It’s something he’s always admired about people like Tyson, maybe because it’s something so unachievable for Dominic himself.  

“You have a sharp eye for the nature of people,” says Tullius. 

“I just go with my gut instinct,” Dominic replies, smiling. “It’s usually foolproof!”

Tullius huffs, which is about as close to a chuckle as the man will get, Dominic has learned. “Usually?”

He lets his smile turn mischievous. “Well… there’s been a few times I’ve misjudged someone enough that there were… consequences .”

He thinks about Maria, and how they’d first met. Hearing the story behind that, no one would ever have believed that just a few short years later, they’d end up as each other’s best friend. 

Had been. 

Dominic still has no idea how the hell he got here. And as long as that is true, he will never know where to start in finding a way to get home. 

A weight settles itself in his lap, and Dominic blinks out of his thoughts to find a plate full of food set on his knees. There’s a helping of meat that smells amazing, a chunk of bread paired with a similarly sized chin of cheese, and a side of wild vegetables that Dominic thinks might have been gathered by the refugees along their journey and fried up alongside the meat itself. His stomach grumbles. 

He looks up and finds both Tyson and Tullius staring at him. 

“What?”

“Is bear,” Tyson says, pointing at the meat. “Not wolf.”

Tullius frowns, obviously confused, and Dominic’s shoulders slump. He feels some tension that he hasn’t even noticed was there falling away from him in the face of Tyson’s considerate nature. The man really is too good. 

“Thanks,” he says, making sure to give him a big, beaming smile to show his gratitude. Tyson blinks, and then looks away with a grunt. 

Tullius watches them, giving Tyson a nod farewell as the soldier salutes him and then stalks off without another word. Dominic huffs a quiet laugh. He rips a piece off the bread, pairs it with a bite of bear, and shoves it all into his watering mouth. 

The general turns to Dominic, and raises an eyebrow. “Not a fan of wolf?”

Dominic shakes his head, swallowing the food. “I don’t, hm. I don’t eat canines.”

“Oh.” Tullius says. 

After a moment, where Dominic shoves a few more bites into his mouth and stops himself from groaning in satisfaction now that he’s finally doing something about the hunger twisting his stomach, the man speaks up again. “May I ask why?”

Dominic blinks at him, a little surprised. “I just. I’ve owned dogs that I became very attached to, and wolves remind me too much of them.”

Oh, his boys. He misses his boys. He misses his good boys so much .

And Maria. He supposed he misses Maria too. Just, not as much as he misses Yeti and Duke. 

Dominic shoves another mouthful of meat into his mouth and chews. Belatedly, he realizes, isn’t he the one who took down the bear? Does that mean he’s eating his own kill? That’s a little off-putting, at the same time as it makes the meat he’s eating all the more satisfying to taste. 

Must be the hunter’s mind that dwells within all humans rearing its head, there. It was something his mother used to tell him stories about. Something a little pleased curls within Dominic’s chest, that he finally gets to experience it.

Anything that makes him feel even the slightest bit more connected to his mom just makes Dominic want to smile no matter what the situation is. 

“I wanted to ask another thing,” Tullius speaks again, drawing Dominic out of his thoughts. 

The redhead drops the bread back into the wood of the plate and looks at him. “Yes?”

“You joined the caravan because you have business in Solitude, correct?”

Domini huffs. “Did Tyson tell you? Loose tongue, that man. Yes, I’m headed toward Solitude, and since you are as well, I figured I’d just come along.”

“I am his general,” Tullius reminds, both parts amused and stern. “Though, if you’re expected in Solitude, would it not be faster to journey there yourself? You could be halfway there by now. Given the foot traffic and amount of people, caravans are very slow.”

“I didn’t say I was expected,” Dominic says a little too sharply, and winces. “Just that I have business there. And given what that business is… Well, I’ll just say I’d rather take the slow way.”

“Are you in trouble?” Tullius stares at him. “Is it with the law?”

Dominic levels him a look. “You met me at my execution, Aedrian.”

The man actually looks a little sheepish, at that. Or he would, if the gray at his temples and the stern disposition didn’t make him look so constantly dignified.

“Be that as it may, you are pardoned. You have nothing to fear from the Legion.”

“I know that,” Dominic sighs quietly. He picks up the bread and starts to tear little pieces off, dropping them back onto the plate without eating them. “It’s not the Legion I’m afr — I mean , I know that already, so you don’t have to tell me. I kind of figured, from the fact that I haven’t been arrested yet.”

Dominic ducks down his head so that Tullius can’t see his face. He can feel the general’s stare, though, and quickly picks up a big bite to shove into his mouth for an excuse to not talk. 

Tullius, however, has no reason not to continue. “And yet, something in Solitude has you nervous enough to purposefully delay your journey there.”

Dominic looks up and meets his gaze, taking a long moment to chew and swallow the meat before he chooses to reply. 

“Why does it matter to you?” He says, and then balks at his own nerve. “I mean, that is to say — Well, I didn’t mean to imply —“

“All I want,” Tullius interrupts quietly, “is for you to know that, if you are in any sort of trouble, you can come to me with it and I will help you.”

Dominic stops. 

He can count the number of people who have offered Dominic the sort of safety and support that Tullius just has on a single hand. For Tullius, a man who has only known Dominic for only a few weeks, a man Dominic has only known for a few weeks, who Dominic has been lying to about having known for longer…

He doesn’t regret it, what he‘s done. What he’s doing even now. This is how Dominic survives, and in a world such as Skyrim he will need all of his wits about him and his fingers in as many pies as he can possibly stick them into. Dominic refuses to feel ashamed of himself for looking out for Number One. 

But just because he won’t feel ashamed, can’t regret surviving — that doesn’t mean he can’t feel just a little guilty, a little bad, for pulling the wool over the eyes of genuinely kind people like Tullius and Tyson and even Ralof. 

“Aedrian,” he starts, setting his nearly empty plate to the side. “Just because you’ve forgotten me… Just because I told you that you knew me before — Just because I knew you for so long… I don’t want you to feel obligated to help me, to look after me just to honor a relationship that you can’t even remember having. That was then, and this is… it’s different, now. I’m a stranger to you, and you don’t have to —“

“Will it matter at all, the fact that I want to?” Tullius asks. He’s got his eyebrow raised again, and he doesn’t look at all impressed with Dominic’s speech. “The fact that I would lend you aid not out of any obligation, but because that, in the time I can remember knowing you, I’ve come to be fond of you?”

Dominic falls into silence. He brings up a hand, presses the back of it against his mouth, and stares out across the campsite at all the refugees and soldiers milling about, letting his gaze go distant. 

Tullius observes him quietly for a long moment, and then gives a shake of his head, a look on his face like he’s just confirmed something that has been plaguing his mind for a while. 

“You do not have to tell me what it is that bothers you so about Solitude, but I’ll have you know that, should you but ask, you shall have my help with whatever it is.”

“It’s not trouble,” Dominic says, finally, letting his hand drop back into his lap. “I don’t want you thinking I’m in some kind of trouble when I’m most certainly not. It’s just personal. I am… anxious about something, and hoping against what I already know to be true.”

He closes his eyes and rubs at them with his fingers. 

Tullius watches him, lips a thin line, and then says, “Someone you know in Solitude?”

Dominic flattens his hand out to cover his eyes with, and sits still for a long second while allowing himself to think about how excited Maria would be, if she was here with him, inside their favorite world. 

In fact, Maria has written multiple stories in which this very scenario that has become Dominic’s very real life happened to one of her characters instead. She’s really into writing fanfiction, and living out her daydreams through what she often calls ‘her kids’ was one of her favorite methods of escapism. Dominic isn’t much of a writer himself, but he does read, and he’s played beta reader and editor to the majority of her works. He’s witnessed how many ways this sort of thing can go wrong. How it can go well. How it can go both ways. Though, no matter how good of an author his best friend may be (and she’s an excellent one), it doesn’t even touch on the real deal. 

Nevertheless, however terrifying it was to be standing before a living, breathing World Eater, Dominic knows deep in his bones that Maria would give anything just to be here with him and experience all that he’s experiencing now.  

He stands up from the boulder and makes a grab for the plate. 

“I’m sorry,” he says a little thickly to the still-seated general. “I actually don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Dominic,” Tullius gently reminds him, and the redhead nods a little jerkily before turning away. “I suppose I’ll see you later, then?”

“Sure,” Dominic manages, and then he’s walking away. 

That… could have gone better. 

Or, actually, Dominic thinks to himself when he glances back and finds Tullius staring after him with a thoughtful look on his face, it couldn’t have gone more perfectly. 

All it takes is a tiny, little seed to grow a forest, after all, and Dominic considers himself to be a man with a green thumb in that respect. 

He’s fastening the arm bracers of his armor, getting ready for the caravan to take off for the very last leg of their journey to Whiterun, when the little boy he’d noticed earlier finds him. 

The kids mother from before is nowhere in sight and, in fact —Dominic realizes when he glances around for her — no one else is, either. This clearing by the water has a nice little tree cover for privacy, which is the reason why Dominic chose it, seeing as how he’d realized he could use a quick wash before they took off. 

But this means that it’s just Dominic and the kid, and judging by the look this little tyke is sporting, Dominic is starting to think this is suppose to be a confrontation of some kind. He’s glad the kid at least gave him time to get dressed, first. 

He remembers the glare the child had aimed at him earlier in the day, and presses his lips together to keep back the smile that’s tugging at them. The kids obviously pissed, showing his amusement would only make him more upset, and Dominic doesn’t really want to deal with an upset and furious toddler right now. 

Well, okay, he thinks, eyeing the tiny boy who stands before him with his hands at his sides, curled into fists so tiny and tight that his poor little knuckles are bloodless. Not really a toddler , per say. He looked to be, what, seven? Maybe eight? 

The boy glares up at him, jaw clenched, and Dominic smothers the urge to pat him on the head, knowing that it wouldn’t be appreciated in the least. It’s hard, though, because for all that this kid is trying so hard to hate him, his poisonous scowl is more of a disgruntled pout, and it’s adorable. 

“It’s all your fault,” the boy grumbles mutinously, little fists clenched at his sides. “The town would still be there if it wasn’t for you.”

Dominic really has to hand it to him, the kid is doing a commendable job in holding himself back from just recklessly flinging himself at Dominic with his little fists flailing. He shakes his head and squats down in front of him so they can meet eye to eye.

Dominic raises an eyebrow. “I can see why it would seem like that,” he says. “Personally, though, I’d blame the dragon. He’d really decided to attack your village all on his own. Little thing like me wasn’t about to change his mind.”

The kid’s eyes narrow at him. Dominic can see that he wants to reject his words, but it’s clear to both of them that he doesn’t know enough about the situation to really deny Dominic’s claims. Young doesn’t necessarily mean inobservant. In fact, in Dominic’s experience, it means just the opposite. Kids are smarter than adults tend to give them credit for. 

“You did though,” the boy says.

“Hm?”

He shifts on his feet. “You changed its mind. Ma and Pa say the dragon was gonna eat all of us, but you convinced it not to.”

“Well,” Dominic shrugs his shoulders. “I didn’t do a very good job of it, did I? He still destroyed Helgen, and now you have to travel all the way to Whiterun and make all new friends because most of yours stayed back in Riverwood or went somewhere else.”

The boy frowns, shoulders hunching and glaring at the dirt beneath their feet, and Dominic feels himself soften a bit. 

“I’m right, aren't I?” He asks quietly, bracing his elbows on his thighs and lifting a hand to rest his chin on his palm, gazing at the boy calmly as he fidgets and refuses to look back at him. 

“Hmph,” the boy says, chin wobbling traitorously. Dominic winces internally when he realizes the kid’s eyes are watering.

He sighs and sits back on his heels, glancing up at the sky. “Yeah, moving to a new town to live with people you’re not used to can be really upsetting,” he offers sympathetically, hurrying on when it looks like the kid’s gonna turn on the waterworks. “I do have a question for you, though.”

“Are you gonna ask me if I’d rather we’d all been eaten and the village destroyed?” The boy asks, voice tight. “Because that’s what Ma and Pa and all the other adults keep asking me when I talk to them about it, and it’s stupid . Of course not .”

Dominic blinks. “Not that that isn’t an entirely valid question that should be considered,” he says slowly, “but it’s not what I was going to ask you.”

The boy finally looks up at him, eyes watery but no longer threatening to overspill. He just looks an odd mix of irritated and confused and upset. “What?”

“What are you going to do now?”

The boy stares at him like he’s gone mad. “... What?”

Dominic quirks his lips. “I mean, you just suffered a tragedy, kid. Your home was destroyed by a dragon, but you’re still here, so now you have to figure out what you’re going to do next.”

“Um,” he looks a little overwhelmed at the idea, and Dominic sighs. 

“What’s your name?”

The kid glances up a little sheepishly. “Aric.”

“Hi, Aric,” Dominic smiles, and feels victorious when the kid’s mouth turns upward the smallest amount in return. “Your entire life is going to be different because your family is moving halfway across the hold and away from all your friends. How are you going to deal with that?”

Aric sucks in a deep breath, still looking like Dominic has just popped a surprise exam on him that he didn’t even know he’d had to study for. Dominic feels a little bad about it, but this is something he really needs to think about, because otherwise Aric is just going to stew on his trauma and get more and more upset at the situation and his lack of control over any of it, until he isn’t able to handle it anymore. Dominic’s been through this sort of thing (though maybe not quite at this level) enough times to know how it goes.

“How about this,” he says after a while, when Aric still looks like he’s mentally bluescreening. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get to Whiterun?”

Aric gazes at him with wide eyes. “Um.”

“It doesn’t have to be something important or life-changing,” Dominic gives a little laugh. “It can be something small, like exploring the city or trying new food.”

Aric’s face takes on a contemplative look, and Dominic shifts onto the balls of his feet, urging his legs not to fall asleep, because he knows this is gonna take a while. Kids tend to think very deeply on simple questions like this, like they’re an essay question on some college final. If you ask a child what their favorite color is, best be prepared to wait fifteen minutes and then receive a thesis statement thereafter about why the topic coincides perfectly with the subject of prehistoric dinosaurs. 

It’s some minutes later, while Dominic is watching the reflection of the trees in the river, when Aric finally, hesitantly speaks up.

“I heard that the Companions are in Whiterun,” the kid says, eyes lighting up with a faint hint of wonder. “I would… I mean, I’d like to see them.” 

“Do you want to join the Companions when you’re older?” And possibly become a werewolf, he doesn’t add. 

Aric frowns, answering slowly. “I… I don’t know. They’re amazing and Pa says they’re really strong warriors, but... “ He glances down at his feet. “I’m not sure if I’d be good at that.”

“That’s a question to revisit when you’re older, I guess,” Dominic says, stretching out one arm in front of him with a yawn. “What next?”

Alric blinks. “Huh?”

“When we get to Whiterun, you want to see the Companions. What about after that?”

“I guess…” Aric bites his lip nervously. “Um, I guess I’ll introduce myself to the kids that live there. See if… if any of them want to be my friend.”

“Charm the locals, admirable goal,” Dominic winks and tries not to laugh at the way it makes Aric’s cheeks flush.

There’s a yell, and they both glance over to see Hardolf ordering the soldiers to get the carts rolling. Everyone is packing up their breakfasts and strapping boots on. Seems like the next day of their trip is about to begin.

Dominic heaves himself up, wincing at how his knees protest at being crouched in one position for so long. He stretches his arms above his head for a few seconds and smothers another yawn. He glances down at Aric, blinking when he realizes the kid is staring up at him with an expression Dominic can’t name. Kids can be the hardest people to read at the strangest of times, because all other times they’re like open books. 

“What?”

Aric purses his lips, before glancing at the ground. He’s rubbing at his arm in an anxious way. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “Um, I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Dominic asks, confused.

Aric makes a face. “For blaming you about Helgen. Saying it was your fault. Sorry.”

Dominic laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “Kid, I don’t care if you blame me. In fact, you have my express permission to blame me all you want.”

Aric frowns up at him in bewilderment.

“I’m not going to say that it’s the healthiest thing for you to do,” Dominic shrugs, “But I’m also not going to tell you how you should feel. If you’re angry at me, regardless of the reason, then that’s just how you feel, and it’s not like I’m going to tell you you’re wrong to feel that.”

Aric still looks confused, but he squints up at Dominic suspiciously. “But everyone else tells me I shouldn’t blame you because you’re the hero.”

“What happened in Helgen already happened,” Dominic shrugs. “I did my best to avoid as much destruction as I could manage, but the only thing I was able to do was convince the dragon not to kill everyone, and even that wasn’t guaranteed.” He crosses his arms over his chest and gives the kid a serious look. “We’re lucky we all made it out of there without anyone dying, Aric. Your home was destroyed, and now your entire life is never going to be the same. You’re allowed to feel upset and angry about that, and sometimes our feelings make us think or believe things that might not make sense or seem right to everyone else. That’s okay.”

Aric’s eyes well up with fresh tears, and Dominic withholds a groan. He nearly jolts in surprise when the kid lunges forward and wraps his arms around Dominic and buries his face into his stomach, sniffling quietly.

Dominic presses his lips together and holds in a sigh, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It trembles beneath his fingers, and he shakes his head, giving Aric a few long moments to get it out.

Once the shaking dies down a little, and Aric sucks in a heavy breath, Dominic pulls carefully away from the kid’s arms and crouches down in front of him once more so they’re on the same level. He flashes a knowing smile to the tear-stained and blotchy face and the eyes that are looking anywhere but his.

“We good?” he asks, and holds out his arms when Aric gives a wobbling nod.

The kid tilts forward and wraps his arms around Dominic’s neck in a vice-like grip. Dominic’s glad he made sure to take a breath beforehand, because it’s like being strangled by a boa constrictor. He’d forgotten how unnecessarily strong children can be.

“Alright,” he says after a while, and sighs as quietly as he can when Aric only holds on tighter, pressing his face into Dominic’s collar. 

He hooks his arm around the kid’s legs and scoops him up from the ground, standing in the same fluid motion. Aric lets out a little squeak of surprise, but his grip doesn’t loosen in the least.

“Let’s get you back to your ma and pa,” Dominic says, and turns away from the river to begin the short trek back to the wagons, which are all lined up and ready for departure. 

Refugees and soldiers alike wander around them, tugging horse to and fro to attach to the wagons and saddle up for the mounted escort, tying up the final loose ends of the camp. Dominic makes a few rounds of the site with slow, measured steps to give his current burden some more time to pull himself together. When Aric finally stops sniffling, and has pulled his face away from Dominic’s neck to rub his hands furiously over his reddened eyes, he starts looking around for the couple he’d seen the boy with earlier.

“Tell me if you see them,” he says to Aric, who nods quickly and starts looking around as well, if a but shyly since it’s still visibly obvious in the blotches on his cheeks he’d been crying. 

A few of the people that they pass in their search give the sight of them together these odd, knowing smiles that Dominic doesn’t really get. Are they all happy that he made this kid cry, or something? Skyrim society is really fucked up. They eat dogs and like it when kids cry. What’s next, do they kick baby kittens, too? Dominic wants to go home.

Finally, Aric straightens up and points over to their left, at the second-to-last wagon in the progression. “That’s them!”

Dominic hefts him up higher on his hip and mimics him with his free hand, pointing as well. “Onward,” he says solemnly.

Aric blinks at him, and then bursts into giggles. “Onward,” he says, and then his eyes sparkle mischievously, “— noble steed.”

Dominic gasps lightly. “Is that an insult, warrior?”

“Never,” Aric grins, so big Dominic wonders if his face is going to split in half.

He huffs. “I think, perhaps, that it was, and now I must declare you my enemy.”

“No-o-ooo,” Aric laughs. “I can’t fight you!”

“Sadly, you must,” Dominic shakes his head in mock sadness as they approach the slightly frantic-looking parents. Oops, looks like he’d monopolized enough of Aric’s time.

The man sees them firsts, and his eyes go wide as he hurries over to meet them halfway. The woman with him, his wife and Aric’s mother, apparently, jerks her head over to see what had caught the attention of her husband, and gasps, chasing after him.

“Aric!” The man says sternly, frowning rather severely at the boy in Dominic’s arms. Aric shrinks against his shoulder, face contrite. “I’m so sorry, ser, was he bothering you? Aric, I thought we told you to leave him alone!”

Dominic blinks, and lets loose a long and theatrical sigh, inwardly reveling in the way that it makes both parents pale slightly. Aric side eyes him with the beginnings of betrayal, and Dominic wants to laugh.

“Unfortunately, he is now my mortal enemy,” he says with a straight face, tilting his chin up a little.

The parents both pause, staring at him in horror and bewilderment. Dominic glances at Alric from the corner of his eye and meets the kid’s gaze. A second later and they’re both laughing. 

“No, I’m sorry,” he says, struggling to stop grinning. “He wasn’t bothering me at all. In fact, we had a lovely conversation, didn’t we Aric?”

“... Yeah,” the boy says shyly, hunching his head down until his shoulders are nearly in his ears. He turns a bit and hides his face against Dominic’s collar, and the redhead smiles down at him. 

“I think it’s time you rejoin your parents, however,” he says, making sure the words sound regretful. “And perhaps we should try not to wander off from them again, hm? It looks like you scared them a little.”

“Oh,” Aric says, glancing over at his parents and frowning. He wriggles a little bit, and Dominic immediately lets him drop from his hip, swinging him down in his arm until his little feet can reach the ground again. 

Aric shuffles over to stand before his parents and ducks his head. “Um. Sorry.”

“Young man,” his mother starts, taking in a deep breath. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

It makes Aric shrink down even more, appearing impossibly tiny. His mother shakes her head, letting out the breath in a great big sigh, and reaches forward to snag her errant son by the shoulder and pulling him against her in a loose hug.

“I really do hope he wasn’t any trouble,” she says fretfully to Dominic, a weary smile across her face.

“No, he was fine,” Dominic assures her. He presses a hand over his mouth to cover another yawn and shakes his head. 

“We told him not to bother you,” her husband reiterates, rather pointlessly. Dominic watches him run a stressed hand through his already mussed up hair, and feels a little bad that he’d kept Aric for so long.

He crosses his arms, a small smirk playing across his lips. “Is it because he blames me for Helgen?”

Both of them blink at him in astonishment, before turning outraged eyes on their son, who’s already hiding his face in his mother’s skirts in embarrassment. 

“ Aric ,” the mother begins, gearing up for what looks to be an impressive scolding.

“I don’t anymore!” the boy yelps. He peeks his face out of the fabric to cast Dominic a desperate, pleading look, complete with wide eyes, and Dominic tries very hard but he caves immediately because he’s always been a sucker like that.

“I don’t mind at all, really,” Dominic interrupts. He uncrosses his arms and brings up one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “We’ve already discussed it at length and I think we’ve come to an understanding. Right, Aric?”

“Right,” the boy agrees immediately.

The father frowns, casting Dominic an uncertain look, and opening his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by a shrill whistle. 

Dominic is very careful not to let out the relieved breath that builds up inside his chest. That’s the signal for departure. 

“I’ll need to head up front, then,” he says, and gives Aric a little wave. Aric sheepishly returns it. “I suppose I’ll see you all later.”

“We apologize for him, again,” Aric’s mother insists, and Dominic barely resists rolling his eyes at her, beginning to feel a little annoyed. He instead forces his face to shape into a pleasant smile.

“Like I said, he was no trouble at all.”

He turns on his heels and leaves them behind him, jogging alongside the wagons with the big wheels that are nearly as tall as Dominic himself already beginning their slow cycles of motion. He finds one near the middle but closer to the front with a spot open and grabs the corner of it to haul himself up.

The driver, a young man barely younger than Dominic himself, startled at his arrival, but directs a beaming smile at him when he realizes who it is. Dominic coughs, really hoping that his face isn’t as flushed as it feels, and silently settles down in the seat beside the — well, teenager. The guy looks at him with stars in his eyes, reigns gripped probably too tightly in his hands, and Dominic tries not to sigh. 

Maybe he should have picked a different wagon. But it’s too late to get up now, because they’re already moving.

I drew Dominic a while back, it’s sketchy but here’s my boy:

Chapter Text

They finally reach Whiterun around noon the next day. 

It’s miles of farmland that takes hours to walk, probably made slower with the inching progression of the carts with the still-injure bear victims. The hope was that the hospital being run adjacent to the temple of Kynareth would be willing to take in three extra patients. 

They crest over a hill with the sun beating high over their heads and a loud hollering roar echoing off the small hill valley they’re about to descend into. 

“Oh, shit,” Ralof curses, and hops off the siding of the cart he’d been perched on, reaching a hand for his ever-present axe. “Do we have any archers with us?”

Dominic watches silently as Tullius glances over to where Maya is vibrating in place, battle hammer already drawn at the ready. The woman has been complaining, loudly, about being bored for the past two days. 

“There’s someone fighting it!” One of the Helgen villagers cries, standing up from his cart and pointing wildly into the distance. 

Dominic squints against the sun, shielding his eyes with one hand. The giant is easy to make out, even from this far. It’s size is enormous, standing out against the scene like someone has photoshopped a regular-sized person, dressed as a caveman, into a photo of a valley. Just really, really well done photoshop. That is moving, roaring and swinging it’s club around at the three much tinier figures that are nipping around it’s ankles. 

Just beyond the ongoing skirmish, sits a large city nestled into the belly of the valley. It sprawls out in a much larger size than Dominic remembers it being, vast even confined within its high outer walls. A thrum of excitement rings in his chest. He can’t wait to explore the differences. 

The giant gives a bellow of anger, and hops up and down in a move that Dominic recognizes from the gameplay, called the Giant’s Stomp. In reality, even though their caravan is still three miles away, the ground beneath their feet trembles just slightly. 

Damn. 

“Hm,” Dominic says, peering at the scene. He wonders how the hell he’d forgotten about the giant and the Companions. They are par for the course of any new playthrough. 

Maybe, and he really wonders, the fact of the world around him being real, and the people he’s been interacting with this entire time all their own persons — maybe it’s thrown him off, made him forget, even slightly, that this was all once a game to him, and that he actually knows what might happen next. 

He feels like, at this point, the game script should have been thrown out the window already. But maybe some things have to stay the same?

“You coming?” Ralof asks, glancing up to where Dominic sits still perched on the cart siding. He’s got his axe in his hand and ready to chop off some giant toes. There’s already a good group of Imperial soldiers hurrying ahead to go and aid the obviously struggling Companion trio, the lot of them led by a visibly excited Maya.

Dominic tilts his head to the side, before sliding off the cart and attaching Nightreaver’s sheath to his belt. 

“I guess,” he says, and tries to sound nonchalant, but he knows it comes out a little troubled, and Ralof gives him an odd look for it. 

“Is there something wr—?”

“Nope, lets go,” Dominic steamrolls over him, grasping the man by the shoulder as he walks past and tugging Ralof after him. 

The fight, once they get there, does not go like how Dominic thinks it will. 

He’s not entirely sure what everyone’s plan is, really. The Companions has apparently decided that the way to go was hacking away at the giant’s ankles as it danced to and fro like some poor soul walking on hot coals, but it was clear that hadn’t been working. They were getting kicked away more often than landing a hit of their own. 

So, when the soldiers arrive at the scene, the archers fall back and take aim for the giant’s head, likely hoping for a lucky shot clear into the massive man’s eyes. Mostly, their arrows act as irritants, the giant batting away at them like they’re particularly annoying flies. 

Dominic ducks under a swipe of the giant’s hand, holding Nightreaver loosely in one hand and entirely unsure of what to do with it. He eyes the way Maya is hunkered down off to the side with Aela the Huntress, holding a heated discussion instead of bashing the giant’s kneecaps in like she’s clearly been itching to. Suspicious! Dominic starts weaving his way through the barrage of slashing swords and axes and hammers and makes to head over to the two fierce, badass women, when suddenly his feet are no longer touching the ground and there’s an odd tightness in his chest that makes it difficult to breathe. 

“Oh fuck,” he says quietly, eyes wide and hands grappling uselessly at the slowly tightening fingers of the giant as they clamp down around his midsection and lifts him up into the air. Nightreaver, in an unfortunate happenstance, is pinned neatly against his side. He can feel the edge of her blade digging ever-so slightly into his armor, hilt digging painfully into the space between his shoulder and armpit. “Oh shit. "

“ Dominic ,” someone calls, sounding almost exasperated. That voice belongs to Tyson, he’s pretty sure. Dominic is so sorry , Tyson, for continuously causing problems. Next time, he’ll make sure to look out for the giant making grabs at unsuspecting swordsmen!

The giant brings the fist in which he has Dominic clutched to eye level, and Dominic is treated to his first up-close look at one of the many standard Skyrim antagonists. Besides wolves. And bears. Wolves and bears, though, have nothing on this big brute of a guy. 

The giant looks human enough, really, if a human was blown up to times fifty size and had the forehead of a Neanderthal. There’s a raised ridge just above his eyebrows, an interesting design of dots and dashes and curved lines that form a strange crown across the width of his brow, and Dominic wonders if it has some sort of meaning. There are similar collections of raised lines and designs in the skin across the giant’s chest and arms, which are on full display in the Skyrim sun, and are also rippling with such muscle mass that it makes Dominic cringe and glance back up to meet the big guy’s eye. 

They’re neat though, the part of his brain, way in the back — the part that’s always been separated from the rest of Dominic’s brain in the way that it never really participates in the fight or flight response and doesn't ever seem interested in adrenaline at all — comments absently. They kinda look like scars, so maybe the giants do this to themselves? As some sort of cultural thing? Maybe like how some native tribes back home practice scarification for ritual reasons or even for identification. Fascinating. 

What’s not fascinating is how Dominic is slowly being crushed to death even as the giant is lifting him higher and closer to his face. What’s he going to do, eat him? 

Dominic is so not having a good time. 

Someone lets loose a battle cry, and Dominic’s eyes widen as an irritated look crosses the giant’s face, and the fist he’s currently trapped within tightens to the point where Dominic’s isn’t sure whether his lungs have collapsed yet or not. 

“Wait!” He yells. “Ralof! Tyson! Tell them to stop!”

“What?” Someone hollers back, sounds like Ralof. “Are you crazy? It’s going to eat you!”

The giant looks even more grumpy at being called an ‘it’. Dominic squirms but can barely move. The sounds of fighting coming from below him die down a little as everyone (mostly the caravan soldiers, who have by now apparently decided Dominic’s tactics are trustworthy) allows for confusion to set in, but not completely. There are still people hacking away at the giant’s legs, still a few arrows flying to get caught in the big guy’s hair, and Dominic can feel his guts start to debate whether or not they should yeet themselves out of his midsection and up his throat. 

“Trust me!” He yells with what he’s pretty sure is going to his last breath. “Just— Divines , you guys, please stop making him mad!”

He’s not exactly sure what he’s going to do if they listen. It’s not like he has a plan. If they don’t listen, though, he’s certain he’ll be crushed, or eaten, and Dominic did not survive facing Alduin himself just to become a giant’s midday snack. 

There’s a few grumbles, but Dominic listens as his breathing slowly cuts out on him as Tyson, Ralof, and several of the Imperial soldiers go around and call for a ceasefire, while Maya loudly talks a furious and confused Aela and her two twin sidekicks down. Thank god he has a reputation with these people. If they hadn’t seen him convince a goddamn dragon not to kill them all, they’d probably have just ignored his request. 

He plasters on his most charming smile and beams up at the giant, who looks rather puzzled at his reaction to being in mortal peril. The hand currently crushing him in its fist pauses on its ascent, loosening just barely enough for Dominic to draw in breath to speak. Perfect. 

“Hello there! What’s your name?”

Down below, he can hear someone gripe out an incredulous phrase, but they’re too far away to make out the words. Someone else quickly and rather loudly shushes them, and the battlefield is overcome by a rather awkward sort of silence as all the warriors with their weapons who were asked not to fight the giant standing right before them try to figure out what to do with themselves now. 

Dominic coughs, his smile beginning to make his cheeks ache, but he ardently maintains eye contact with the giant and tries his best to exude friendliness. 

After a long, long moment of awkward staring, the giant opens his mouth. In a slow, deep rumble, it speaks .

“Name…” he says, and someone below them bites off a surprised curse. The giant glances down at them, but Dominic squirms around in the big guy’s fist until he turns his attention back to him. Now that the giant isn’t scowling murderously, and has proven he understands whatever the hell the common language in Skyrim is, he kinda looks like he can be talked into some kind of deal. Thank god. Thank the Divines? Dominic is thanking someone. 

“Name,” the giant says, and pats himself on the chest three times with an open hand, “Kog-ra-thuc.”

“Nice to meet you, Kog — may I call you Kog? My name is Dominic.”

“Meet… Kog,” the giant rumbles, his huge wide eyes looking a little misty. They’re a warm brown color. “Nice… Hi.”

Oh my god , Dominic breathes in through his mouth as slowly as he can. 

He clears his throat, wiggling around a little until he’s able to free his arms from the giant’s now mercifully slack grip. He heaves himself partially out of the grasp and perches on the curled junction between the forefinger and thumb, which now that he’s paying attention is about as long as one of Dominic’s legs and thicker around than his waist. Oof. 

Taking another breath to calm his racing heart, he beams up at the giant — at Kograthuc. 

“Sorry about my friends,” he says brightly, gesturing loosely with a hand at the armed soldiers and the trio of Companions gathered in a ring around the giant’s feet. They still hold their weapons in their hands, but most of them look a little unsure at what to do with them now that the battle has been abruptly paused. 

“They’re jumpy and they like to fight,” he continues, “so they’ll attack whatever moves. Also, I think you made them a little nervous when you came so close to the city! Can I ask where you were going?”

The giant grunts, directing a narrow stink eye down at the befuddled warriors that are beginning to more resemble lost kindergarteners, and points with his free and at the far end of the hill valley. Which is, pointedly, in the opposite direction of Whiterun. Dominic raises an eyebrow. 

“Camping,” Kograthuc says. “Herd.”

Mammoths! Somehow, in all the excitement, Dominic forgot there are actual mammoths in Skyrim. He swallows down the sudden burst of excitement and nods his head understandingly instead, shoving aside the realization. 

“I see, I see,” he says. “You were taking a shortcut!”

Kograthuc grins. It’s a big thing, full of crooked teeth that have never seen anything close to a dentist, but it’s adorable. One of the front ones is missing. He looks like a huge blown up picture of a first grader, baby chub in the cheeks and everything. 

“Faster,” the giant grunts, proud of himself. “To herd.”

“Very clever of you,” Dominic laughs, and reaches down a hand to pat the back of one of the giant’s knuckles. 

Kograthuc watches him with curious eyes, and then grins again, bringing his free hand around to carefully press a single finger into the top of Dominic’s head. 

Dominic goes still, waiting to see what will happen, and hears someone below him make an alarmed sound. Except, all Kograthuc does is tap Dominic’s head once, twice, and then brings his hand away with that big toothy grin still in place. 

Dominic almost wants to cry. What the hell? How is a guy so ginormous, strong enough to crush Dominic’s head like one would a grape, so adorable?

Dominic clears his throat. “Your shortcut kind of scared my friends,” one of the warriors below snorts quietly, and Dominic studiously ignores it, “because you were so close to the city. They thought you were going to hurt people, because you’re so much taller than us.”

Kograthuc grunts once, blinks blearily in the direction of Whiterun over his shoulder, and then nods his huge, hulking head. 

“Other shortcut,” he booms out, and Dominic nods.

“That would probably be for the best, yes. Thanks for being so understanding!”

The giant hums, a gravelly sound, and Dominic waits, but nothing happens. They’re back to that awkward silence again. He pats the giant’s knuckle once more and gives the big guy another smile. 

“Hey, um,” he tilts his head to the side. “Would you mind putting me down now, Kog? It’s a little too high for me.”

Kograthuc blinks don at him, ponderously for a moment, before his face turns downward in a — yep. That’s definitely a pout. That is a full-blown, wide-eyed, lip-jutting out pout. Kog, buddy, please . Give Dominic a break. You’re gonna kill him.

“Friend,” Kog says stubbornly, and the fist that Dominic is balancing on tightens around the legs he’d neglected to pull free. “Friend, now… Domi. Stay.”

“Nine divines,” Dominic breathes out, pressing a fist to his mouth to smother a besotted grin. Do not adopt the giant. Dominic, do not adopt the giant. Do not .

“Wish I could, Kog,” he shrugs, “but I have some business to take care of, so I have to go.”

Kograthuc rumbles, fingers gripped around Dominic’s legs almost painfully. He can hear the soldiers gathered around Kograthuc’s feet ready their weapons for another fight, but nobody moves yet. He wonders if they’re curious to see what happens next. 

What is Dominic, a soap opera? 

Well, he is an actor…

“But I can visit!” He lifts up a bracing hand, nervous butterflies flapping their wings in his stomach. Kograthuc pauses. “I’m busy now, but I can always visit later. That’s what friends do, right?”

“Right,” Kograthuc echoes, deeper. He stares down into Dominic’s face, expression a strange mixture of a stubborn pout and a half-glare.

Dominic wonders if Kograthuc is only an adolescent giant, or maybe giants only develope mentally up to a certain point, and then remain childish compared to other ‘civilized’ races for the rest of their lives. It would... explain a lot, he thinks.

He tries to move his legs, but they’re still pinned by the grip of the giant. 

“Kog, buddy,” he tries, forcing himself to keep his tone level and calm. That was a very important factor when dealing with children on the brink of a possible tantrum. Kograthuc’s tantrum would just be several levels more life-threatening and destructive, for Dominic and all his friends below. “You’re going to have to put me down now, so I can leave? And then visit later?”

“Visit later,” Kograthuc repeats, like he’s turning it into a command, before the giant slowly crouches down and lowers Dominic until his feet touch the ground. It’s done with surprising gentleness. 

Dominic tries his best to get his bearings before Kograthuc lets him go to stand on his own, but unfortunately his legs buckle the minute he’s released. Kograthuc makes a low sound and goes to pick him back up, but Dominic quickly scoots aside and waves the big guy away.

“No need, you just crushed my legs a little bit, I’ll be fine.”

“Sorry,” Kograthuc seems to wilt, and Dominic clears his throat and determinedly aims his gaze away from this giant, hulking child that is looming over him. Look away, Dominic. Look away. Do not coo at the puppy dog. Now is not the time. “You better hurry on your way, bet your herd is waiting for you. Don’t wanna be late, Kog!”

Kograthuc blinks down at him for a long moment, and Dominic can just see the cogs (ha) slowly turning inside that ginormous cranium of his. The giant slowly gets to his feet, expression brightening in realization after being reminded of his apparent duties. 

“Herd waiting,” he agrees, and takes his first step away. “Domi visit later.”

“Yep, I will definitely do that.”

“Ok,” Kograthuc finally relents and waves a hand over his shoulder. His attention seems to already mostly be on the thought of his mammoth herd. “Bye bye to Domi.”

“Bye,” Dominic waves back, feeling a little nonplussed as he sits in the dirt, doing his best to rub the feeling back into his legs as he watches the enormous being carefully step over the ring on warriors around his feet and begin to make his way to the far side of the valley. 

Once Kograthuc has cleared away a few steps and has begun to ascend the first hill in his path (thankfully not in the direction of the waiting caravan, which Dominic can see peering over the crest of their own hill to the south), there is a sudden scramble of action as the soldiers all breath out sighs of relief and sheath their weapons, and Dominic is crowded. 

Two arms wind around his back and help him to his feet. He winces at the pins and needles sensation clawing up each limb, but gratefully accepts Ralof and Tyson’s aid in standing.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ralof is laughing breathlessly as if he’d just finished running the five hundred yard sprint. Dominic feels like that’s unfair, seeing as how he is the one who had nearly been crushed. “I cannot believe you. Are you actually insane?”

“I literally almost died,” Dominic says. “Leave me alone, man.” He sucks in a deep breath, holding it in for a moment, and then releases it, giving his head a slow shake.

Tyson cuffs him upside the head, albeit gently. Dominic still whines at the action, though, and the Imperial gives him a severe look. 

“You need to stop doing these things,” he scolds. “First a dragon, and now a damn giant? What’s next, a Daedric prince?”

Dominic’s shoulders tense, and his smile becomes strained. “Please don’t joke about that,” he begs.

The two men cast him an odd look, faintly concerned at his sudden anxiety, but they’re interrupted by the approaching trio of Companions, who are trailing behind a grinning Maya. 

“Ho’ miracle worker!” The Stormcloak slaps him on the back. Dominic winces. What is it with these people and hitting him?! “Did you befriend that dragon in Helgen too? Is that how we all survived?”

Dominic blinks at her, and then blanches. Befriend Alduin? Where would he even begin in such an undertaking? “ Him ? You must be joking. Kograthuc is absolutely an outlier and should not be counted.”

Vilkas scowls. “What the hell is an outlier.”

“He means,” Farkas says, voice a timber softer than his brothers but just as deep, “that what just happened was a fluke.”

Vilkas elbows his twin in the ribs. 

Ralof turns to gape at Dominic. “You mean you didn’t know that would work?”

“He was a giant!” Dominic defends himself, frowning at the blond. What is he, an idiot? “I didn’t even know they understood Common!”

“I was almost expecting you to start conversing with it in the Giant language,” Maya admits, a mirthful gleam in her eyes even as Tyson and Ralof both blink dubiously at her. “What? He knows dragon! Who knows what else he can speak!”

“It’s called dovahzhul, say it right!” Dominic complains loudly. 

Aela snickers at all of them, and then steps around Maya to approach him. “What’s this I hear about a dragon?” She asks, curiosity gleaming in her eye.

Dominic slumps against Tyson’s side wearily. The Imperial adjusts his grip to better take his weight. His legs are starting to wake up but he’s suddenly tired as hell and it’s only a little after noon.

“Ugh,” he says. “Have you heard what happened to Helgen, at all?”

Aela looks over her shoulder to exchange looks with her shield brothers, before turning back and shrugging. “Only that it was torched to the ground. I guess there is word that a dragon was involved, but not many believe it to be true.”

“There definitely was a dragon involved,” Dominic admits.

Ralof eyes him suspiciously, and then rolls his eyes in exasperation when Dominic doesn’t add anything else. He shrugs out from under Dominic’s arm, leaving poor Tyson to bear all of the redhead’s weight.

“Helgen was attacked by a very large dragon in the middle of—“ Ralof pauses here only slightly, before continuing in a level tone,” —the day. It came out of nowhere and was about to lay waste to the town and all of its inhabitants when this madman,” he gestures at Dominic with a lazy wave of his hand. What an ass, “convinced it not to.”

The Companions stare blankly at Ralof for a moment, and Maya bursts into laughter.

“What,” Vilkas begins, sounding befuddled and flustered like he thinks they’re being pranked or something. Dominic feels for him. “You’re saying the dragon just changed its fucking mind?”

“Well,” Dominic says. He gestures over his shoulder at the caravan slowly making its way down the hill to catch up with them now that the giant is out of sight. “That there is a good number of the villagers of Helgen. Seeing as how they no longer have a home, we figured we’d bring them to Whiterun to plead for aid from their Jarl. Some are following us on our way to Solitude.”

“We evacuated the villagers while the dragon tamer here was working his miracle,” Maya boasts, slapping Dominic on the back again. He scowls at her, but she just grins. “So the only casualty was the village itself!”

“I was going to ask,” Farkas behind a little hesitantly, looking between her and Tyson and Ralof. “There’s a war going on, isn’t there? Are you two prisoners they released to help with the dragon?”

“Oh, no,” Dominic tells him a little too cheerfully. “We were definitely going to be executed. But then the dragon attacked.”

“But before the dragon attacked," Maya continues just as cheerfully, “Dominic convinced us all that the war is just a front for a Thalmor conspiracy. General Tullius and my Jarl Ulfric, who were both there, struck up a ceasefire, and now my friend Ralof and I are Stormcloak ambassadors, and we’re traveling to Solitude to begin setting up the peace talks with Queen Elisif.”

“You’re joking,” Aela bluntly guesses, eyebrows scrunched together as she looks between the two of them suspiciously. 

“We sure aren’t,” Dominic assures her. Tyson and Ralof exchange tired looks behind his and Maya’s backs. 

“There’s General Tullius now,” Dominic points with a smile, waving in greeting as the armored, harried salt-and-pepper man approaches them a few yards ahead of the first cart. “Have you ever heard of that man making a joke in his life?”

“I can joke,” Tullius complains, appearing a little affronted. 

“No,” Dominic shakes his head. “I won’t believe it. You, having a sense of humor? Tyson, quick, tell me another one.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” the bearded soldier grumbles. And then, “The General isn’t one to jest.”

Tullius huffs and looks away from them, eyeing the three Companions, who are watching this exchange avidly. 

“General Tullius,” Aela greets respectfully. He nods at her, and she continues, “these three are Stormcloak, no? They say they travel with you amicably?”

Dominic blinks, and then scoffs loudly. “I’m no Stormcloak. Sorry Ralof, and Maya, but your leader is an ass and I wouldn’t be caught dead bearing his name in any form.” 

The two actual Stormcloaks cough, glancing at each other sheepishly, but they do nothing to refute his words. Maya shrugs.

“They speak the truth,” Tullius says, arms crossed over his chest and entire bearing screaming ‘no-nonsense’ as always. “We journey to Solitude to bring the Queen up to date on the matter. We were hoping to spend rest in Whiterun, and inform Jarl Balgruuf of the attack on his hold.”

Aela glances between the lot of them. She watches as the soldiers who came to aid with the giant rush around to help the caravan carts over an inconvenient ridge in the road. She looks back to them and shrugs apologetically. Both Vilkas and Farkas look uncomfortable. “They won’t let you in.”

Dominic already knew this, but he crosses his arms over his chest and watches as his companions all frown. 

“Why’s that?” Ralof asks. 

“It’s a decree by the Jarl. The gate guards screen anyone trying to enter the city, and if it’s someone involved in the war, they’re turned away. Nobody but residents, merchants, and civilians have been in or out in months.”

“Temple Kyraneth was accepting injured Imperial soldiers just earlier this year,” Tullius frowns contemplatively. “I had no word that such a thing changed.”

“No, that’s the same,” the Companion amends. “The priestesses pretty much twisted Jarl Balgruuf’s arm until he agreed to allow them to continue to run the hospital as it has been. Patients from the war are brought in through a different entrance, though, and are sent on their way as soon as they’re healed.”

“He’s going to have to get over it,” Dominic says. He peers at the tall walls of the real life city of Whiterun only a few leagues away, and just barely resists rolling his eyes. There is no war in Ba Sing Se, huh? “We’ve got tens of refugees from one of his very own towns in need of aid. The changes in the state of the war aside — though I’m sure he’ll want to know of that too — at least he should care about the Helgen villagers.”

Aela looks a little unsure. She glances over her shoulder at the twins, who remain silent. 

Tullius surveys the three of them, and glances at Dominic for a moment. He turns on his heels and says, “I will bring this new information to the headman. One moment.”

Dominic and the others stare after him, as the general leaves them and approaches the front cart of the caravan. There’s a middle aged man with gray hair and a mustache that Dominic vaguely remembers visiting him in Gerder’s guest room back in Riverwood. He’d grabbed Dominic by the hands and had tearfully and repeatedly thanked him, for about fifteen long and arduous minutes before Dominic had thrown a bewildered glance at Ralof, who had proceeded to silently laugh at his predicament before escorting the emotional headman of Helgen out of the house. 

Dominic shakes off the uncomfortable memory in time for a tiny hand to grab the hem of his tunic and tug. 

He glances down, and smiles. “Aric!”

Aric stares up at him, and then wordlessly lifts his hands. 

Dominic huffs out a laugh, before leaning down to scoop the boy up into his arms. 

“I saw you,” the boy says, eyes round. “The giant lifted you up and then patted you on the head and set you down.”

Dominic snickers. “Yeah, that was Kograthuc. We’re friends now.”

Aric stares at him some more, silent and cherubic little face completely serious, before he breaks into a grin and slowly shakes his head. 

“You make a lot of strange friends,” the kid says with a bright laugh. “You’re friends with a bunch of soldiers, and a dragon and a giant and—“

“There’s more?” Dominic blinks, smiling but confused. He can’t think of anything else that had happened.

“And assassins,” Aric sees fit to remind him.

“You know, I don’t remember befriending any assassins. When did that happen?”

Aric shrugs. “Lokir the horse thief told me.”

“Well, he lied,” Dominic reaches out and taps him on the nose. “And you’re still calling him that? You people need to leave him alone, he only stole one horse.”

Aric giggles, curling a little arm around the back of Dominic’s neck. 

“Oh, hey!” Dominic realizes. He turns back to find Ralof, Tyson, and Maya watching him with these small, soft, and frankly irritating smiles that Dominic decides to ignore, but more importantly the three werewolves that stand a little awkwardly to the side. “We’re not even inside Whiterun yet and you’ve already seen your Companions!” 

Aric looks dubiously at the three warriors, who stare back at him, nonplussed, and turns back to look at Dominic with that blank expression kids get when they’re trying to be polite and their thoughts are anything but. 

“Yeah,” he says, not sounding all that much enthused. 

Dominic presses his lips together to try and hold off a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “Did I ruin their impression for you?”

Aric tilts his head to the side, and then smirks. “A little bit,” he admits. 

Dominic laughs.

“Oi,” Vilkas says, looking kind of insulted, but Farkas chuckles and Aela bursts into laughter.

“To fight such a fearsome opponent in battle is invigorating,” the fierce woman says, a statement for which Maya sends her a large grin that she returns. “But to defeat that same opponent with only your words? That is a far more impressive feat.”

“He stole our battle right out from under us,” Vilkas grumbles irritably, turning away slightly and crossing his arms. All it does is make the big, burly man look like he’s pouting. 

Aela rolls her eyes. 

Tullius returns a few minutes later, the headman at his heels. The mustachioed man beams gratefully over at Dominic, who steps neatly into Ralof’s shadow, successfully placing the blonde between him and the headman. Ralof glances over his shoulder at him with a raised brow and a smirk on his face. Dominic shifts uncomfortably and then sticks his tongue out at him. Aric giggles, and Ralof’s shoulder shakes with his silent laughter. Asshole. Well, Ralof , not Aric. Aric is an angel and Dominic is glad he’s here. 

“We will approach the gateman and plead our case,” the general tells them. He shrugs his shoulders, red imperial cape curling behind him. “We should not have to do so, but we cannot change a Jarl’s mind over the safety of his own hold.”

He then turns to Dominic. “We would like for you to come with us.”

Dominic leans around Ralof to blink at him. Aric sits silently on his hip, watching the adults with curious little eyes. 

“Me? Why?”

“Out of everyone in Helgen that day, you were the one to come closest to the dragon. If we achieve an audience with Jarl Balgruuf, your first hand account will lend credence to our witness.”

Dominic presses his lips together. Deep down, he knows that Tullius isn’t going to be able to get inside the city. Even the Helgen headman’s case is doubtful, just because he and the other villagers have gathered under the direct protection of Tullius and thus the Imperial Legion. Honestly even Dominic’s chances of getting in right now are incredibly slim.

He can’t say that, though, so he nods his head in agreement. “Of course.”

He drops Aric off with his parents, much to the child’s disappointment (“But I want to go, Ser Dominic!” “Maybe next time, kiddo.”). They leave the caravan to catch up slowly behind them as they grab a trio of horses and make their way to the gates of Whiterun, which loom in the distance the closer they get. 

Approaching the city, Dominic can already see several contrasts to the game model. The battlements on the outside of the wall are no mere wooden constructs, but just as stone as the wall itself, and built into it. There are towers at each corner — or so Dominic assumes, as he can only see the two in the side of the city walls that face him. Stone staircases go up and down, and he spots a multitude of Whiterun guards traversing them, their metal helmets glinting in the sunlight. 

It's only a few minutes of riding to reach the gates, and Dominic is relieved. He’d ridden plenty of horses as a kid, mostly when his mother took him to visit the reservation and learn more about his heritage (much to the consternation of his father), but it’s definitely been a good few years since his last ride, and he’s already feeling it. A pair of guardsmen come down to meet them just before the gates, which themselves are ornate wood instead of stone. Which makes sense, he supposes. They would be much lighter to open and close. 

“Halt!” One of the guards calls, raising up a hand, and the three of them come to a stop. Dominic clasps his hands together behind his back and watches Tullius exchange a glance with the headman (Dominic takes a moment to glance above the man’s head for his name, which is Fjord Svorinsen. He shelves the name for later).

“State your name and your purpose.”

Dominic eyes Tullius, who looks like he’s about to step forward, and quickly does so himself before the general can get there. The man sends him an irritated frown, but steps back and allows him the stage.

Dominic determinedly ignores the way his chest warms at that show of trust.

“Dominic Moriah. We come from Helgen.”

The guards, who were looking awfully bored, their words monotone (Dominic once held a security guard job, he can absolutely relate), perk up a little, life gleaming into their eyes through the slits in the front of their helmets. 

“Helgen, you say?” The one on the left says. “We heard it burnt to the ground!”

Dominic thumbs over his shoulder at the caravan still slowly approaching, now about three leagues away. “We managed to evacuate it. These are most of the refugees. We come to ask aid from Jarl Balgruuf, for his misplaced people.”

“Only most?”

“Some stayed back in Riverwood. Some yet will advance to Solitude with us when we leave here.” Dominic shrugs. “Headwoman Gerder of Riverwood asked me to come and request more guards from the Jarl, and we both agreed that he might want to know of the dragon roaming his hold.”

“Ah, the dragon?” The guard on the right spoke up. “We heard about that too, but it seemed too hard to believe. You’re saying it was actually a dragon?”

“He sent the damn thing away himself,” Fjord huffs, arms crossed, and Dominic resists the urge to groan. 

“This is the headman of Helgen,” he quickly introduces for the guard’s benefit, before they have a chance to ask. “Fjord Svorinsen. He’s here on behalf of the refugees. We really need to see the Jarl.”

“Jarl’s decree says nobody involved in the war goes in,” left guard (Dominic glances above him for his name, too. Might as well collect.) says. He gestures at Tullius. “I know you, General. Apologies, sir, but we cannot grant you entrance.”

“I thought not,” Tullius accepts with a short nod. He reaches out and rests a hand on Dominic’s shoulder— wait. 

“That’s why I’m sending my message with him. He’s here to speak for Riverwood’s headwoman, and I grant him voice to speak as well for the Imperial Legion. As he is not a soldier of the legion, and therefor not affiliated with us—“ here, Tullius glances sideways toward Dominic. There’s a quiet expression on his face that almost looks apologetic. Dominic determinedly looks away from it. “That should be alright, yes?”

“Well,” the guard on the left exchanges a dubious glance with the guard on the right.

“Kyvor, come on,” Dominic says, tensing his voice slightly like he’s run out of patience.

Left guard jumps a little and pins him with a confused frown. The line of Tullius‘ shoulders straightens out like a wooden plank. Fjord’s face morphs into one of uncomfortable sorrow (honestly the man is so open and easy to read it makes Dominic feel a little awkward).

“How do you—“

“I did see the dragon myself, and Gerder is worried it might target Riverwood next if it’s decided to stick around. Fjord’s got people to worry about — Jarl Balgruuf’s people. If the general wants to slip in a message in between all that, does it matter?”

Speech 100 , Dominic thinks, and raises his eyebrow at the bewildered and slightly flustered Kyvor. His buddy on the right is glancing over at him with a narrow look. 

Kyvor shakes away his confusion after a moment, taking his hand off the handle of his axe. “The both of us will escort you directly to Dragonsreach. No detours. Once your business with the Jarl concludes, we will escort you directly out of the city, unless our Jarl decides otherwise.”

Right Guard nods, helmet clinking against his shoulder armor, and Dominic smiles. 

“No nonsense, as always,” he says approvingly, and inwardly laughs at the confusion abounding in both guards as they struggle not to question him even further. 

He turns to Tullius, lips twitching. “Appointing me messenger? Anything specific you want me to relay?”

Tullius shakes his head. “You already know what we want to relay to the Jarl. Just bring him up to speed. I trust you not to turn it into a spectacle.”

Trust. Dominic does his best to command his stomach to straighten out from the pretzel it’s trying to imitate, and tries not to swallow. 

He lets his shoulders drop, and tilts his head back with a groan. Tullius raises his eyebrow at him.

“So, I have to go talk to Balgruuf?” He —complains. It’s definitely a tone of complaint. 

“Do you not have a good opinion of him?” Tullius asks curiously, eyebrows furrowing. 

Dominic blinks at him, startled. “Oh, no! He’s a great man, it’s just—“ He closes his eyes, defeated. “.... His children...”

Allowing himself a brief moment of wallowing, he opens his eyes to find not only Tullius, but also the two guards, watching him in amusement. 

“Aye,” Kyvor’s partner chortles. “They’re right brats, aren’t they?”

“One sweet roll too many, I think,” Dominic says, good-naturedly, and even Tullius cracks a smile. 

The general bids him and Fjord a temporary goodbye, walking over to where they've hitched the horses a few feet off the trail up to the gates. Dominic turns back to Kyvor and crosses his arms. 

“Lead on,” he says, and feels his mood lift slightly at the uncertain and floundering look that the man shoots him in return. 

Chapter Text

Kyvor and his partner, who Dominic with a quick glance above the man’s head learns is named Gunnar, lead them both along the express route to Dragonsreach. Dominic doesn’t really have a chance to see much of the city itself, just glimpses of a vast, bustling marketplace the closer that they ventured toward the center, and then of course there was the trolley the two guards had them board to skip over the majority of said market. 

A trolley system, in Whiterun. Even going into what he knew was the trade capital of a very different Skyrim than what he knew with an open mind, Dominic was certainly blindsided. For a moment, he was transported back into Old Town, Chicago, and it was enough to give him a case of whiplash.

All in all, the trip takes upwards of an hour, and that’s without making any stops along the way. It doesn’t feel like an hour, surrounded by so many unfamiliar sights that he has to pretend he’s already seen before. The entire ordeal is oddly stressful, and by the time they’re climbing up the steps to Dragonsreach, Dominic’s nerves are feeling a little frazzled. 

Seven flights of stairs, compared to the two in the game — Dominic is tired, he’d rather find a bed to go pass out in, but isn’t that what all of them of the caravan, villagers and soldiers and all, are feeling? And they won’t have any beds unless he and Fjord can convince Balgruuf to grant them asylum. 

He can suck it up for a while more. 

Kyvor and Gunnar lead them over the bridge that crosses the moat and into the great double doors of the castle, which are pried open by a group of three guards who are doing their best not to look too excited at their otherwise very boring shift being interrupted by Things Happening. 

Dominic feels like he can relate, just a little bit. He can still remember how mind numbing a ‘lookout’ post can be, back in the many summer boot camps he’d been forced to attend when he was younger.

His dad had claimed it was good for a growing boy to learn discipline, self control and responsibility. His mother hadn’t agreed, vehemently so. It was one of the many things that they would argue about behind closed doors where they thought Dominic couldn’t hear. 

Sometimes, he finds that he’s amenable toward the experience, if only because it’s given him tougher skin and teeth to bear in certain circumstances. He’s had to fall back on several of the habits and skills that had been hammered none-so gently into his skull during boot camp a lot so far, in his stay in this new world. 

Some things, like hunting and camping in the wilderness, and long journeys through rough terrain on foot or by horse — those he already had plenty of experience in, thanks to his mother’s insistence that he learn about his roots. His childhood lessons regarding life on the open plains has in fact been one of the reasons why he’d excelled the way he had during the field exercises during the later bootcamp summers.

Things like decoding the mannerisms of the Imperial soldiers he’s been hanging out with, though? As well as semi-passing as one of them himself? He wouldn’t have been able to pull something like that off without the militaristic experience his father had so ardently instilled in him.

He refuses to be grateful, but he will admit (if begrudgingly) that the skills are coming in handy a lot as of late.

Entering into Dragonsreach is an experience, just as entering into the city itself was, even if he hadn’t gotten to see much of it yet. There’s a flight of wide, stone stairs set a hundred paces in that span the width of the entire parlor, leading up into the main floor of what is obviously a throne room, or rather a hall. Torches line the outer walls of it, and a massive chandelier made of what looks like wrought iron and antlers hangs from the ceiling. The fire light from both bathes the hall in a warm glow that is both illuminating and yet somehow still dim enough to make it feel ominous to a stranger — which is what Dominic is, and it seems Headman Fjord as well. 

And at the very back of the hall, past the four grand feasting tables of heavy wood, the benches of which are peppered with handfuls of people here and there partaking in hushed discussion; elevated on a raised dais, in the arms of a stately seat, is the rather imposing figure of Jarl Balgruuf himself. 

Honestly, if Dominic didn’t already know the guy was secretly a big papa bear of a man, he’d be nervous. 

… He’s still nervous. 

And beside him, so clearly is Fjord. The man is close to outright trembling as he is gestured forward by their guard escorts, jaw stiff, and Dominic finds himself incredibly sympathetic. 

“My jarl,” Kyvor says, his gruff baritone echoing, caught in the curved ceiling of the hall. “The headman of town Helgen is here to speak with you.”

“Let him come forward, then.” Balgruuf replies, eyes sharp and intent as he stares down at them from the throne. 

The guard hesitates as he takes a step back, Gunnar shuffling Fjord forward to speak. As the headman shakily gives his greetings, Kyvor glances over his shoulder at Dominic, a frown pinching between his dark, bushy brows. 

Dominic catches his eye and, silently, gives the man a minute shake of the head, barely moving. He hopes his meaning makes it across.

It seems it does. Kyvor stares at him for a good ten more seconds — long, crawling seconds in which Dominic feels all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up — but then the guard is turning away, looking back at the throne, and says nothing more while Fjord continues to state their case. 

Well, the Helgen refugees’ case. Dominic isn’t here to represent them, so he can’t count himself amongst them right now.

“A dragon, you say?” Jarl Balgruuf hums throughtfully. He’s leaning forward in the throne now, elbows set against the armrests and hands folded before his mouth. “We did recently hear word that Helgen was burnt to the ground, with no casualties. If it was indeed a dragon of legend, I must say that I am quite surprised not one villager’s life was taken in the attack.”

To the jarl’s right, a woman crosses her arms and lets out a quiet huff. Her skin is dark as night, her ears tapered into a sharp point, and she wears a rather foreboarding ensemble of leather and steel armor. Dominic recognizes her from these characteristics alone as Irileth, housecarl to the Jarl himself. He doesn’t even need to glance above her head, though the dark sunset hair pulled up into a high ponytail that falls down her back to disappear from Dominic’s sight, and the deep cape of burgundy that hangs from her shoulders are both new to him. The sword that is buckled to her waist has a wicked-looking hilt, and Dominic can almost feel the cut of it’s blade all the way from here, despite it sitting nicely within its sheath. 

Still, her expression is one of incredulity. She doubts Fjord’s story, which isn’t much of a surprise. Her character was always one for no nonsense, and the people of Tamriel hadn’t seen a dragon in hundreds of years. 

Jarl Balrguuf, though, is apparently gracious enough to suspend his own disbelief, however, and he listens intently as Fjord goes on to explain. 

“We evacuated the town before the dragon decided to start destroying it,” the headman admits. He casts a sheepish look tinged with clear admiration over his shoulder, directly at Dominic. Oh joy, he’s certainly been looking forward to this part. Not. 

Fjord turns back to Balgruuf, who is now peering past him toward Dominic himself, both eyebrows raised ever so slightly in curiosity. He’d really been hoping for a little bit more time to prepare himself for his part, but it looks like Fjord’s speech is coming to a close. Dominic will have to step onto the stage himself in just a moment, and he takes in as much of a breath as he can without it actually looking like he’s bolstering himself— which is exactly what he’s doing. 

“The dragon agreed to leave us be if only we could escape our own home without it spotting us, which we managed with the tunnels from under the keep,” Fjord looks quite proud of this bit, and he doesn’t seem to notice the way that Balgruuf’s eyebrows have shot up to his hairline. 

“You spoke to it?” The Jarl asks, leaning back in his throne and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Dominic resists the urge to grimace. Closed-off body language is the last thing he wants from his audience, right now. Fjord, you were suppose to loosen the Jarl up for him, not make the man lean toward waving the entire debacle off! 

No going around it now, though. The headman is already gesturing excitedly toward him, and Dominic withholds a sigh as he steps forward. 

“Well, not us exactly. Ser Dominic here spoke to it whilst we went to sound the alarm for the rest of the town. He managed to negotiate.”

“Did he now,” Balgruuf says slowly, turning his stare in its entirety from Fjord to Dominic, now that he has come forth. “And who is Ser Dominic, might I ask?”

“Since you don’t know me already,” Dominic speaks up, his spine straight and shoulders back, “then introducing myself will bring no recognition to you, I’m afraid. Dominic Moriah is my name, Jarl. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Again, he doesn’t say aloud, but leaves it so very heavily implied that he’s momentarily concerned he actually did. 

Nobody here will catch it other than Fjord, of course, seeing as the headman is the only one with the context of Dominic’s strange reverse-amnesia story, but that’s enough. 

It’s the littlest parts of an act that matter the most, as the story itself is built by them, brick upon brick. 

Beside him now, Dominic catches the look of sorrow and sympathy that the Helgen Headman directs his way. He also catches the way that Balgruuf and Irileth, both in their own micro expressions, obviously catch this interaction. Dominic can already see the wheels turning inside their brains as they wonder what’s that about? 

A job well done. 

“And you as well,” Balgruuf echoes his niceties. He tilts his head to the side. “Though, your introduction leaves much to be desired, I must say. I have many questions.”

“I expected that you may,” Dominic allows, bowing his head down, before raising it and curling the edges of his mouth up into a polite expression. “The situation itself is certainly a very confusing one. I will do my best to answer them.”

“The foremost question, I suppose, is surrounding your presence here in my court. Headman Fjord, I understand, but you are a stranger who, excuse me if I am incorrect, are not affiliated with my Helgen at all?”

“You’re not incorrect,” Dominic replies. “It’s true that I am not of Helgen. Actually, I have been sent here as an emissary of sorts for the platoon of Imperial soldiers that are currently resting outside your gates.”

“Ho?” Balgruuf says, suddenly very interested — it’s all in the way he sits up in his throne for once, one arm braces against the rest, the opposite hand curled into a fist. The light in his eyes has gone dangerous, his voice low. “My word was that the war not touch my city of Whiterun. I do not believe that you were not aware of this.”

The jarl pauses fractionally, and then turns a glower upon their guard escort. Fjord shrinks back from the gaze not even directed at him, and Dominic has to force himself not to wince. Kyvor’s side-eyeing him with a rather upset glare, and this is going to take some quick thinking. 

“In fact,” Balgruuf says stonily. “I am certain that my guards are all aware of this. Please, allow me to repeat my initial question then, at large. I’m quite curious as to why Ser Dominic is here.”

Before Kyvor or, rather, Gunnar can manage a weak response, Dominic takes another step forward. He squares his stance out and lifts his head up, dismissing the previous deference that he’d held himself with. He brings up all the memories of standing in parade before a sergeant, all the recollections of a conversation with his father, because he knows that beyond whatever else, Jarl Balgruuf used to be a soldier. He’ll recognize this, at least.

“I am here to speak for the Imperial Army outside your city, Jarl Balgruuf,” he says, blunt and to the point. The Jarl blinks at him. “Though I am present here and now as their spokesperson, I hold no affiliation with them myself. All those with ties to the war have indeed stayed outside your walls, as per your decree.”

Dominic pauses, staring up the dais. He keeps his face blank for just a moment, in an effort to communicate the truthfulness of his words. 

He watches as the Jarl tilts his head back and looks down at him from his higher ground. His stare had become more intense the second that Dominic had started his method exercise, and so he knows with certainty that Balgruuf sees exactly what he wants him to. 

Dominic allows himself to smile. He is very careful to keep it a gentle one. 

“There isn’t a man out there who wishes to bring the war to you or your people, Jarl Balgruuf. Please take my presence here as testament to that, at least.” He says, softening his voice just a bit for sincerity. “If they did, I do believe that the General would have come himself, regardless of any decree.”

“Tullius is out there now?” Balgruuf asks, his surprise for once playing clearly across his face. Irileth lets out a startled sound that she quickly masks. 

Dominic dips his head in affirmation. “Jarl, he is the one who sent me. I bring word from him, if you would hear it.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Even the collection of people who had been conversing amongst themselves across the feasting tables when they’d first entered have gone completely quiet. Dominic resists the urge to glance over his shoulder at them. He can feel their stares boring holes into his back. Irileth herself seems just as determined to kill him with her gaze, despite the fact that Dominic can’t spot anything but inquiry from her — or rather, is it a silent demand for him to answer all her questions, despite her not saying a word? 

The jarl’s stare, however, might be the heaviest of them all. There’s too much within it to really make note of all of it. Curiosity, upset, wariness. Dominic thinks that Balgruuf might be warring with himself, and almost pities the man. 

Although. If you’re going to be lord over what’s essentially a dukedom, you have to be prepared to make difficult decisions. 

Dominic finds that he doesn’t envy Balgruuf in the slightest.

Finally, Balgruuf allows himself to once again relax against the back of his throne. 

“I would like to hear Tullius’ message,” he decides, voice tired. “Tell me, then, Ser Dominic, what does the Imperial General have to say to me?”

“It’s more along the lines of an announcement, really.” Dominic begins carefully, eyeing the man. He looks exhausted, and he hasn’t even said anything. Hopefully, Dominic isn’t about to be laughed right out of the castle. “I’m here to inform you that the war, by mutual agreement of both General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, has been halted.”

There’s a beat of silence, where no one seems to even dare breath. 

“I’m sorry?” Balgruuf says. It’s more of a whisper, really, and he looks like Dominic’s just slapped him with a fish. 

Dominic digs a finger behind the top of his chest plate, prying it up enough to pull out the folded piece of parchment that Tullius had handed him before they parted ways at the gate. He holds it before him and gives it a little wave. 

“Temporary pact between them, signed and sigiled by both, until a more permanent document can be drafted. Their actual destination is Solitude, to bring the news to the Queen, but we stayed along as escort for the Helgen villagers, so the General figured he might as well inform you now.”

Dominic thinks he might be speaking a little too quickly, a little too nonchalantly for them, because they all look like they’re still several sentences behind in the conversation. 

“I’m sorry,” Balgruuf says again. “Could you repeat that? That’s a damned peace treaty, between Ulfric and the Imperials, that you’re holding there?”

“When you say it like that, it is rather unbelievable,” Dominic muses lightly. Seeing the look of consternation this bring to not only the jarl, but also his terrifying housecarl beside him, he again waves the parchment in the air. 

“You’re welcome to read it, if you’d like?” He offers, smiling in apology. “That is why I brought it with me.”

Balgruuf states at him for a moment longer — really, Dominic is getting a little sick of all the prolonged eye contact going on in this room. Is this really what politics are? Thanks, he hates it — and then the man sighs deeply. 

“Bring it here,” he waves in gesture. With his other hand, he massages his brow as if to stave off an impending migraine. 

Dominic feels for the man, he really does. 

Kyvor sweeps past him, just barely a hairbreadth away from knocking their shoulders together. He must still be grumpy from earlier. Dominic hurriedly holds the parchment up for him to take, and gives the man a beaming smile, hoping to assuage any hard feelings. 

Kyvor huffs at him, as if disgusted, and really that just makes Dominic want to smile even bigger. His cheeks kind of ache, actually. But Kyvor, for some reason, reminds him of Duke. Big, burly, thick eyebrows, and grumpy when he’s embarrassed. 

Maybe it’s a little rude of him, to compare the guard to one of his dogs, but Dominic digresses. People are animals themselves, there’s always gonna be similarities somewhere. 

Kyvor climbs up onto the dais and holds the parchment out for Balgruuf to take, head bowed in deference over a fist held against his heart. 

“My jarl.” He defers.

Balgruuf takes the document out of his hand, thumbing open the wax seal and flipping the parchment flat against his knee. His eyes scan across the words written there, and his brows climb steadily higher as he reads. 

There’s a minute or two of fidgeting and impatient shifting amongst the thanes — at least, that’s what Dominic figures some of those people at the feasting tables are, the rest perhaps guards or court officials — before Balgruuf reaches the end of the document, and runs his fingers over the signatures and wax stamps at the bottom of it. 

“It’s real,” he mutters, and then raises his eyes to the top and begins reading it for a second time through. 

His utterance alone is enough, however, because the entire court explodes into furious whispers and murmuring. Irileth, for some reason, looks like she’s swallowed a lemon.

Fjord steps sideways into Dominic’s space. His shoulder presses up against the redhead’s, and Dominic glances up at the man — he is taller than him, but unfortunately Dominic has discovered that this is par the course of the people of Skyrim. He’s just short, compared to them. 

(Maria would say that he’s short compared to everyone, but Maria is fucking wrong, okay? Maria is just freakishly tall! Dominic is totally average in height. Except for when he’s in goddamn Skyrim, apparently.)

Fjord leans in, voice hush in a whisper. “You’re awfully good at audiencing a Jarl, ser. I was quaking in my boots, myself!”

Dominic sighs. He quirks his lips and reaches out to pat the man on the shoulder.

“Everyone gets stage fright, good headman. You deal with public speaking enough times, and you get over it eventually.”

Now leave me alone, he silently begs, because no matter how he looks at him, Fjord always wears that same, hero-worshipping gaze, and it’s always directed at Dominic, who certainly doesn’t deserve it. Dominic is not a hero. He’s a professional liar. 

That’s the opposite of a hero, isn’t it? He of all people does not deserve Fjord — or the rest of the Helgen people’s — admiration or gratitude, whatsoever. 

Unfortunately, Fjord seems to be looking for a chat. 

The man tilts his head and asks, “Do — did you work a lot, with courtly matters and the like?”

Ah, a past tense. Dominic eyes Fjord silently, stiffening his smile. 

“Not particularly,” he says, shortly, and watches as Fjord’s shoulders tense in guilt.

The man is too easy to read. Which makes him far, far too easy to manipulate. 

He shouldn’t be talking to Dominic at all. The further from him that Fjord stays, the better.

Which makes it more annoying, that Fjord is very insistent to stay close to him. 

Why.

“I apologize,” the man says, hushed and shoulder hunched. “I didn’t mean to imply —”

Dominic sighs again, more deeply this time, already tired, and waves a hand to quiet him. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, casting a wan smile that Fjord very obviously doesn’t believe. “Really, Fjord. Just… leave it be, please?”

The headman watches him closely for a moment, brunches scrunched in — is that worry? Forget it — before he finally gives in. 

“Alright….”

“I’m just tired,” Dominic says, feeling like a horrible person. 

He tries to smile at the man, for real this time, but he’s not exactly sure how it comes out, because Fjord looks about as convinced as he was the first time. 

Instead, he turns away, just in time to meet Kyvor’s gaze from where the guard has been studying him — both of them, Dominic realizes, likely since he’d stepped back to join them after handing the document over to the jarl.

It’s very probable that the guard had overheard everything. 

Dominic holds his eye for a moment longer, before lowering his gaze. 

He turns away from Kyvor’s stare to face the throne again, and watches as Balgruuf finally folds the parchment back up and gestures to Irileth, who steps forward to take it from him and walk it back over to Dominic.

He has to hold himself very, very still to avoid actually gulping when she nears, because Irileth is very, very scary, and Dominic knows exactly how terrifying she can be. 

Or maybe not. This world has surprised him plenty of times. Maybe Irileth is even more terrifying in real life?

The very thought sends a shiver down Dominic’s spine. 

He accepts the parchment from her with a steady hand, and looks her in the eye without flinching, no matter how much he wants to quail in the face of her piercing, judgmental stare. 

She turns on her heel and stalks back to the dais to stand beside the throne. Dominic lets his lungs know that it’s okay to start breathing again, the threat has passed. 

“The news that you bring me is confirmed,” Jarl Balgruuf says, watching both Dominic and Fjord carefully. “All of it.”

Dominic watches him back, and then smiles brightly. 

“Didn't I say it would be?” He asks, perhaps a little too cheekily if Irileth’s sudden frown is anything to go by. 

But Balgruuf only huffs, and is that a chortle? He isn’t smiling, per say, but he looks a lot more relaxed than he has in their entire encounter. The closed body language from before is, while not completely gone, far more open than it had been.

“Even with that confirmation, I still find it rather difficult to believe, you must understand.” Balgruuf rubs his fingers through his hard thoughtfully a few times, before he gives a decisive nod. “Yes, very well. Ser Dominic, I would have you return to him with my own message, if that’s alright. I know you said you weren’t affiliated, but I think he’d more readily accept my word if it came from you.”

“I have no objections,” Dominic says, and lowers his head and shoulders in a brief, but far deeper now than he’d given before. He rises with a pleasant grin on his face. “I’m happy to be of any help, Jarl Balgruuf.”

Finally, Balgruuf returns his smile. It’s a small one, but it’s there. 

“You know, I do think I believe you on that,” he says, and sits back. “Tell the General I’d like an audience with him. If he would follow my men here back to Dragonsreach so that we may speak face to face, I would prefer a verbal confirmation from a primary source regarding the document you’ve shown me .”

“Understood,” Dominic says. “Is that all?”

“I believe so. If you would return to the gates promptly — I would meet with him sooner, rather than later. My housecarl, Irileth, will escort you back. Headman Fjord.”

Dominic steps back so that Fjord can step forward. The man is still somewhat unsteady and nervous, but far less shaky than he’d been before. 

“My men here will show you to an inn of your choosing, so that you may set aside rooms for yourself and yours. Fear not, my own coffers will be covering the cost. As there are a number of different inns in Whiterun, I will leave it up to you where you install those from Helgen.”

“You have my thanks, my Jarl,” Fjord bows deeply, right at the waist, with a fist held over his heart. “The thanks of all of Helgen!”

Balgruuf smiles, again, and this one is much warmer. “You are my people, after all,” he says solemnly. “And I watch out for my own.”

Fjord babbles another gratitude, but Dominic is already stepping away. Or, rather, he’s forced to hurry out in order to catch up with his escort, who is already halfway to the doors. 

Irileth spares him a look over her shoulder, expression neutral and giving nothing away. Perhaps that’s what makes Dominic, someone who is so used to being able to easily read people, so wary of her. 

“Come,” is all she says, short and to the point, and then turns to face away. It’s clear that she expects Dominic to follow.

He doesn’t really foresee any conversation happening between them while they walk. That leave plenty of time for Dominic to overthink everything that has happened, which is fantastic, because —

Ugh.

The trip back to the gates, Dominic thinks morosely, is either going to be very quick, or very, very long.

Long trip or not, a bath after all of it is a wonderful thing.

Dominic soaks until the water grows lukewarm, reveling in the absence of the thin coating of travel dust that previously had covered his skin. He’s so glad to be clean again, even if his fingertips have wrinkled like prunes. 

He towels himself off and gets dressed again, this time in only a light tunic and a pair of trousers. There’s no reason to go about in a protected city like Whiterun decked out entirely in armor, so he might as well save himself the trouble, especially seeing as he has no plans to even step outside the inn tonight. 

Sure, he could just equip it all in a split second using the menu inventory, but Dominic has decided that sort of thing best be left for an emergency solution, instead of making a habit of it. 

Tomorrow is a different story, though. Dominic isn’t sure what it is, instinct or something else, but there’s something in his gut that tells him he needs to be prepared before breakfast. 

The dragon, probably. 

Whatever. That’s a worry for future Dominic. 

For now, he steps down into the tavern and smiles when he’s immediately — and loudly — hailed over to a table by Ralof and Maya.

“Dominic, over here!” The Stormcloaks cry, and he rolls his eyes at the looks they're garnering for themselves. Couldn’t they have dressed down, at least? They’re wearing the full soldier ensemble, and it’s definitely gathering attention. 

The tavern at least is a somewhat familiar place. When given the choice of inn, he’d named off the only one in Whiterun that he knows the name of. 

The tavern itself is spacious, with a higher ceiling than he can recall it having, and plenty more tables than it’s game version boasted. At least three staff wander amongst their customers, and the woman manning the counter flits to and fro from it and the kitchen behind her, calling the shots. The tables are rife with all sorts of demographic. There are plenty of Nords, of course, but groups of other races dot the chairs as well, from Reduard, to Bretons, to a group of Argonians nestled in a corner. At a lonely table near the door sits a hulking she-orc, burly arms crossed over her chest as she silently watches the going-ons of the rest of the bustling patronage. 

(Dominic makes a note of the lack of Khajiit he sees before him. It’s a little disheartening, even if he had expected it.)

The Bannered Mare Inn and Tavern is apparently a rather popular place, and Dominic had been given a knowing look when he spoke its name. Ralof and Maya had been all too happy to follow him back into the city and join him for dinner. 

“Dominic!”

He sighs. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

At least they’re useful for something, though, because the second he sits himself down, a plate full of food is slid before him, and Maya slams down a full tankard of something — most likely mead, who is he kidding — beside it. 

They grin at him.

“Hungry dragon tamers better eat up,” Maya jeers playfully, hoisting up her own tankard, which is clearly not her first. 

“I did no such thing,” Dominic complains, reaching for a roasted leg of chicken. “Don’t go spreading lies, people will get the wrong idea.”

“You have another word for convincing a bloody dragon of all things to spare the lives of men?” Ralof asks seriously, quirking a brow. He at least appears mostly sober. 

Dominic leans back in his chair and takes a bite of poultry. It’s delicious, and he thinks he can begin to see why this place might be considered at least four stars. 

He catches the looks his companions are still leveling him, and can’t help but scoff. 

“Sorry if I must disillusion you of my apparent greatness,” he says, “but that dragon did not do anything that it did not want to do. I was merely distracting it. Playing bait, if you will.”

“Your so-called game of distraction saved the lives of everyone in that town,” Maya suddenly pipes up with uncharacteristic severity. 

She slams her tankard back down onto the table, and Dominic startles, blinking at her as she leans across to peer closely at him, her expression solemn and in direct contrast to her earlier cheer. 

The sound garners the attention of several nearby patrons, as well, and their corner of the tavern quiets down a level more as eyes peer their way in interest. Dominic casts his tablemate a look of annoyance, but she’s unrelenting.

Maya, in fact, reaches over the table to poke a finger into Dominic’s chest. Perhaps he should have worn the armor after all? Ouch, Maya. 

“There isn’t a single person in that camp outside, or villager safely behind these Whiterun walls, who considers what you did for them anything short of an act of heroism.” She says.

Dominic sinks in his chair and groans.

“No, no.” Maya wags a finger at him. “Somebody rescues an entire town, and an entire contingent of soldiers and their prisoners as well, from something like a dragon, all on his lonesome? That’s a hero, Dominic.”

“I swear,” he grumbles, arms crossed and treating her suddenly smug look with a glower. Ralof chuckles from beside them. “Now you’re just out to embarrass me.”

“Is it working?” Maya winks, but then her expression grows serious once more. “I don’t care how much the attention bothers you. You need to accept that, to the people of Helgen, you’re their savior.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dominic complains, despite the fact that he did indeed do a lot of things. 

Otherwise, a lot of things in this world would currently be much different. The war, for example. Ralof and Maya would be back in Windhelm right now, if it was still ongoing. 

Damn. He really is a catalyst, isn't he? Dominic can’t say he really enjoys it. 

“Really now?” Ralof says, and he and Maya both give him a look.

Dominic throws up his hands. “Whatever! I’m hungry, so let me eat, you pests.”

They laugh at him. He needs new friends. 

He gets about fifteen minutes more of a rather companionable quiet, before a large hand thumps down on their table, and a presence looms behind him.

For fucks sake. Can’t he get a moment of peace? Just one day, that’s all he’s asking. 

Dominic takes another bite from the bread he holds. He tilts his head back as he chews on it, and is confronted with the sharp cheekbones, intense eyes, and the green-blue complexion, of the orc that had been sitting by the door earlier. 

“I hear,” she says, voice deep enough that Dominic feels it’s rumble in his bones, “that we have a dragon tamer in the house tonight.”

Dominic blinks up at her. He rights his head and pins Maya with an accusing stare.

“I hate you, Maya,” he says flatly.

She snickers back at him.

Dominic returns to the orc. 

“You heard wrong,” he tells her. “No dragon tamers here. Just a pair of embellishing Stormcloak gossips.”

Ralof makes an affronted sound, but Maya keeps laughing, and the orc lady raises an amused eyebrow. 

“Looks like pretty boy here is a bit too humble,” she says, standing up and crossing her huge, muscular arms. Dominic tries his hardest not to stare. He’s pretty sure he fails, because her grin sharpens. 

“I think everyone’s heard of you by now.” She goes on, much to Dominic’s horror. She huffs a laugh. “Big town, but the news travels fast. Hadn’t exactly heard about the dragon before now, though. No, people were talking about the thing with the giant, right outside the walls.”

“His name is Kograthuc,” Dominic defends, before it can occur to him that it won’t really help his case. 

In fact, it makes of his current companions pin him with various shades of amused stares, all three of them grinning like he’s the funniest thing in the world  

He really needs new friends. Ralof and Maya kind of suck. 

The she orc just looks even more interested than she’d been before. Dominic eyes her bulging biceps, and a growing suspicion of who, exactly, she is — or rather, what she’s here for — begins to niggle at his brain. 

She confirms it, seconds later. 

“Somebody strong enough to subdue a giant? Sounds like something I want a piece of. Come brawl with me, then, pretty boy. Ten silvers says I win!”

Dominic looks over the brim of his tankard at her.

“A money bet?” He asks, raising a brow. “That’s boring. What else will you get if I lose?”

She pulls up short, and Dominic can hear Ralof groaning into his hands behind him. He smirks. He glances briefly above her head to catch her name, a brightly gleaming Shakdur — best to let her introduce herself before he uses it, though

“Hn,” she intones, and then suddenly grins down at him with a rather vicious bearing of her teeth. “I win, I take you to bed. How’s that?”

Dominic— 

Dominic pauses, caught off guard.

Oh?

Behind him, he hears Ralof choke. There’s a muted thumping sound, and Dominic glances over his shoulder to see Maya pounding on the man’s back. He snickers, and turns back to his new friend. 

“And?” He asks, slyly. Dominic is — he is tired, he knows that. It’s been a long journey to Whiterun already. But— “If I win?”

Shakdur eyes him up and down. 

“Well,” she finally grunts, arms once more crossed over her chest. “What do you want?”

“Hm,” Dominic glances up at the ceiling with a thoughtful smile. “I win, and I get double the pot. Twenty silvers,” he raises his drink and down the rest of the mead, setting the empty tankard down on the table with a thunk. “—and I’ll take you to bed.”

Shakdur blinks at him, her dark eyes going a little wide, and Dominic is pleased to see that he’s managed to surprise her. Ralof is wheezing, though, and he’s a little worried for the man’s health, if he’s being honest. 

After a moment, Shakdur pounds a fist into her hand, a gleeful grin stretching across her face. 

“Seems to me like I win either way.” She crows, pushing away from the table. “Let’s dance, pretty boy!”

“Dominic, no.” Ralof tries, sounding a little strangled. 

Dominic hauls himself out of his chair. 

“Dominic, yes.” He says cheekily, and follows Shakdur back to her corner of the tavern. 

There’s already a small, anticipating audience crowded around in a circle, waiting for the show. Dominic comes to a stop just inside of it, and begins to stretch his arms. 

Shakdur backs a few steps away and squares off, expression fierce and grin bright and excited. Dominic can relate, because he’s the same. Already, he can feel adrenaline pooling in his chest, sending sharp spikes out into his extremities. 

The crowd around them is a shifting mass of impatient movement, and somebody calls out, “Ugh, get on with it!”

At the front, the innkeeper is watching them with a dissatisfied gaze, arms crossed and looking none too happy with what’s going on. However, she makes no move to stop them, or even call out, so Dominic supposed it must be fine.

He shakes out his arms, then brings his fists up at the ready. He cocks his head to the side and catches Shakdur’s gaze. 

His lips curl into a smirk. “Ladies first?”

Her answering grin on more of a snarl of bared, sharp teeth with a hint of tusk jutting out from behind her lips. Dominic shifts his stance and feels the excitement thrumming inside him.

“You’ll regret it, pretty boy,” she warns, and lunges forward without any other warning but that. 

Shakdur is head and shoulders over him, and her arms are long to match. She has a much wider area of reach than Dominic does in comparison, and so he makes do by ducking and weaving in and around her punches. 

She strikes out, and Dominic steps away from it. He leans his head back so that her fist just barely touches the air before his chin. Shakdur follows up her miss with the other first, forcing Dominic to duck underneath it. 

He rushes forward, head down and shoulders tensed, putting most of his power into his legs and a lower center of gravity. With this, he rams into her side, pushing her back and clearing the way for himself to slip around her and out of the corner he’d accidentally allowed her to back him into. 

Dominic has faced opponents larger and stronger than him before, both in the dojo and out on the streets. He knows how to brawl, and he knows how to turn their strength and build against them. But Shakdur is an entirely different creature than he ever fought before — literally speaking — and he knows he’s going to have to play this one mostly by observation. 

Which, much to the annoyance of the crowd, involved a lot of evasive maneuvering, and a lot less fists meeting flesh. 

“Stop running and face her like a man!” Someone calls, and Dominic nearly rolls his eyes. 

“And lose my jaw?” He calls back, ducking out of the wave of another swipe. “Sorry, but no thanks!” 

The crowd jeers, but, rather tellingly, no one else makes a similar comment. It seems they all agree with him. He resists a laugh. 

Dominic dives forward to avoid the lunging she-orc, rolling onto his shoulder and back to his feet, spinning around before she has time to face him again.

“A little slow there?” He risks teasing, and Shakdur lets out a low growl. He can feel the baritone chords vibrate against the soles of his feet. 

Fists clenched, she rushes at him again, one punch after another. He ducks and avoids all of them. The two of them circle one another, looking for any opening.

“If you’d stay still,” she finally huffs, and he grins at her. 

“What, and get hit?” He shakes his head. “I’m not here to lose!”

Well. He’s not really here to win, either.

Shakdur barks out a laugh. She lowers her center and comes at him from there. Dominic finds himself unable to fully escape her reach this time, and receives a blow to the shoulder that nearly takes his breath out of him. He’s sent careening back and few steps, and the crowd bursts into a loud cacophony. 

“Ouch!” Dominic grins, but doesn’t allow for a pause. 

He rushes at her himself, from down low as well. She strikes out at him, but overreaches it — her frustration evident, despite landing a hit just seconds before. 

There’s not much a larger opponent can do, when you get right under their legs. 

Dominic wraps his arms around hers, gripping them tightly from behind the knees. He leans his weight into his hold and pushes forward with his legs, shoving at her.

Shakdur stumbles back, but doesn’t go down. She aims an open handed strike right in between Dominic’s shoulder and neck — a rather debilitating blow, especially with the force she’s putting behind it. 

Luckily, he sees it coming, and so he lets go of her legs, twisting his torso around until he can roll around her and break free of their grappling. 

Her momentum is still there, though, and it causes her legs to get tangled. She falls to the ground with a loud oomph, and their audience cheers and whistles piercingly. 

Shakdur glowers at him, getting her legs back underneath her. Before she can rise, though, Dominic smiles winningly and, with a fist knocked back, delivers a solid blow directly to her jaw.

Her head snaps back. She catches his extended wrist in an iron grip. Shakdur attempts to use that to haul him into another grapple, one that Dominic can’t allow — he won’t be getting out of that one when she’s got the advantage on him. He spins, instead, and strikes at the inner part of her elbow as hard as he can. He ducks out from under her arm, and twists it behind her back. She hisses and lets go.

They step away from each other. 

“Nice,” Shakdur comments lightly, and launches herself at him.

Dominic’s caught off guard. He hadn’t actually expected her to throw all her weight at him, but he really should have. As it is, he doesn’t have time to avoid the arm that she wraps around his waist — his entire waist, his mind screams at him, and honestly he doesn’t have time for that right now, shut up brain — and uses to haul him up and off his feet entirely. 

He fights her grip, squirming as she hauls him up over her shoulder. The crowd is veritably roaring, now. He kicks out at her and catches a solid hit on her shoulder, and another at her jaw. He almost gets dropped. But Shakdur’s grip is like titanium, and Dominic’s world tilts as he is thrown over her head and slammed back-first onto a nearby table top. 

The patrons sitting there jump away, laughing wildly and jeering. The tableware clatters, and Dominic thinks he might have a piece of pottery down the back of his shirt. 

Maybe he should have worn the armor. 

He brings his legs up, knees to his chest, and kicks out as Shakdur advances, digging his heels into her gut. She wheezes, falling back a bit, but the orc is unrelenting and she’s crowding him back into the table again before he has time to blink. 

Dominic’s ribs twinge uncomfortably, and he freezes, disappointment boiling in his chest. 

He can see so many opportunities even now where he could turn this to his favor, but if he did he knows his sensei would hop dimensions somehow just to kick his ass. Dominic knows better than to continue a spar or fight when it’s very likely he’s straining some sort of injury, even if he hadn’t realized there was an injury beforehand. 

“Hey,” he grits out, most of his focus on using his legs to keep Shakdur at bay. She’s heavy, and he can feel the table shaking underneath him from their combined weight. “Hey.”

She eases up, just a bit, frowning, and he gives her a strained smile.

“I’d love to continue,” he apologizes, “because I’m having great fun here. But something’s off with my ribs, so—”

Luckily, Shakdur’s face smooths out in understanding, and she’s off him within the next moment. 

“Right,” she says, looking slightly disappointed. 

Dominic lets out a heavy breath of relief, the strangling pressure in his chest lessening now that he’s not being ground into a table top. He lets his head fall back to thump against the wood, his legs hanging off the table, and wonders if Kograthuc’s rather deadly grip had cracked a rib or two without him realizing. 

Then, Shakdur’s face is hovering over his. There’s a big green hand waving in his face, and he accepts it with a tired grin. The orc hauls him up off the table and they both throw apologies to its occupants, who wave them away with excited smiles upon their faces. 

“Food and a show?” Chortles the elderly Redguard, whose dinner plate Dominic is pretty sure is shattered down the back of his shirt and is now poking into his lower back. “My, that makes the night.”

He sighs, untucking his shirt and grabbing the hem of it to shake it out. Pottery clinks to the wooden floor, and their slowly dispersing audience (now that the brawl is obviously done with) break into roaring laughter. He has to smile.

Suddenly, Shakdur is looming over him, and that sharp grin is back on her face. 

“I guess that’s my win, innit?” She says.

Dominic returns the smile, shaking his head in good humor. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I’d have liked it to be a clear victory, but,” she shrugs, stretching out her neck until it pops. “Hurt ribs need to be babied.”

“If I’d known they were hurt, I’d have just said another time,” Dominic admits sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his hair to make sure there wasn’t any pottery dust or shards tangled in it. “Sorry about that.”

“Eh, no worries. We’ll just have to go again when they’re all healed up.”

They trade grins, the smiles a mixture of anticipation and threat. Dominic is ecstatic. 

“We definitely will,” he agrees, already looking forward to it. 

She leans down into his space, expression fierce as her grin. “I’ll see you tonight, then?” She asks, and there’s something in her voice that seems just faintly uncertain.

Dominic grins right back, just as fierce. He can feel her breath on his face. 

“Whose room am I sleeping in, I wonder?” He replies cheekily, and Shakdur’s smile widens, the uncertainty disappearing. 

“Shakdur Taak,” she introduces, pounding a fist into her chest. Then, she reaches out a hand toward him.

Dominic accepts the handshake, pumping it once. Her grip is strong, her hand nearly encompassing his own. His stomach flutters. “Dominic Moriah.”

“Room 32, Dominic Moriah,” Shakdur tells him, a mischievous light in her eyes that gives Dominic a sharp, electric feeling of anticipation. 

“See you then,” he says, and she laughs.

They turn away from each other, returning to their tables. At the front, the woman manning the counter at least looks relieved that no furniture had been destroyed in the process. 

He plops back down into his chair from before, and takes a deep gulp from his tankard. It’s a lot lighter than it had been when he’d left, and he eyes a snickering Maya with a narrow look. 

“You drank some of it,” he accuses, and the Nord cackles at him. “How dare you. Is nothing sacred?”

Maya is nibbling on a branch of grapes, and she rolls her eyes at him. 

“Hey,” she says, shrugging, “you left it unattended! It was going to go cold. I had to save it!”

Dominic scoffs, reaching for the bread he’d left unfinished earlier. 

“Dominic,” Ralof says, leaning in. His voice is plaintive. “You were serious, before? I thought you’d been joking.”

“Serious about what?”

“About—” Ralof waves a hand in the direction of the door. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll eat you alive? Orcs are — well, obviously they’re the aggressive sort. Maybe you shouldn’t, uh, go, just because you lost a bet.”

Dominic pauses. He glances over at the still-floundering blond, and says, “Ralof.”

“I— Yes?”

Dominic squints at him. “That’s racist.” He says flatly. 

This time, even Maya looks at him in confusion.

“What?” Ralof asks, puzzlement clear across his face. 

Huh. Do they not have that word here? They certainly could use it, with the sheer number of widespread prejudices that run amok in this world. Dominic finishes off his bread slowly, thinking about how to otherwise word his accusation. 

“You’re looking down on her because she’s not a Nord.” He finally says, flicking his eyes back over the table to pin Ralof with a sharp look.

Their area of the tavern quiets, and a few heads turn to survey their table, most of the faces looking vaguely stunned. Is calling racist behavior out some sort of taboo in Skyrim, or something? Whoops. Dominic doesn’t give a shit. 

Ralof, though, looks scandalized. “I wouldn’t— I— looking down on—? I wasn’t!” 

Dominic leans back in his chair, crossing on leg over the other. He raises an eyebrow in the face of the blond’s spluttering. 

“Yes,” he says, pointing a finger at him. “You were. What’s wrong with her being an orc?”

“It’s just,” he looks uncomfortable. Maya, across the table, looks like she’s having the time of her life watching her comrade flounder. “She’s…. It’s a little strange, is all, isn’t it?”

“What is? Sleeping with someone from a different race?”

Ralof shifts. He glances down to stare into his tankard. “Well, yes.”

“That’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it,” Dominic leans back in his chair. “There’s half elves everywhere. Imperials and Nords get together all the time. I’m half Breton and Redguard, myself.”

“Well,” Ralof squirms on his chair, glancing around the room. People avoid his gaze, and he’s getting zero help from Maya, who now just looked purely entertained. The Stormcloak looks down at the table, cowed. 

“Anyway, I feel a little sad for you.” Dominic says, popping a grape into his mouth. “You’re missing out.”

“What, you sleep with any orcs before, o’ mighty dragon-whisperer?” Maya asks, leaning over the table.

“Plenty,” Dominic boldly lies, and Ralof’s head jerks up.

“You haven’t!” He says in denial, aghast. 

Dominic picks up a cube of cheese off the plate in the center of the table, gestures at the blond with it, and then bites into it. He grins. 

“I have. Orc’s are great in bed. You should try it sometime.”

“Divines,” Ralof says, lowering his head to thunk it against the table. “You haven’t a lick of shame in you.”

“It never ceases to astonish me,” Dominic laughs, “how absolutely prudish you Nords can be.”

Maya cackles, and Ralof looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Dominic downs the last of his mead, and considers the night well lived.

Well, for now. It’s only half over for him, isn’t it? He has a good time to look forward to, after all. And it’s definitely been a while.

Dominic can’t wait. 

Have a smirky boy on your way out ~

Chapter Text

Dominic ambles down the stairs and into the tavern the next morning, letting out a deeply contented sigh as he stretches his arms over his head in order to straighten out the kinks ( heh ) in his back. His spine gives a satisfying series of pops, and he lets his arms drop back down to his side. 

His back hurts, damn. 

Dominic’s lips curl upward at the corners, amused. It’s a good kinda hurt, though, so he can’t really complain, can he?

He must have slept in a little more than he’d intended to, because the light that filters into the tavern windows is a little paler than that of the early morning sun, and the tavern itself is already bustling with foot traffic. He chances looking across the room at the table he’d eaten at the night before and starts in that direction when he sees that Maya and Ralof are already sitting there. 

Ralof glances up at him as he approaches, and ducks his head down immediately, averting his gaze with a thickly awkward air about him. The blonde coughs lowly, as if he isn’t sure whether to greet him or not. 

“You’re awake!” He eventually settles upon.

Dominic pounces.

“And you look like you’ve been waiting for me!” He says with some measure of delight. “What is it, Ralof, did you want to hear how it went?” 

Ralof looks like he’d rather be swallowed by the ether. He eyes Dominic up and down, and squints at him a little judgmentally.

“Are you planning to brawl her this morning, too?” He asks, and Dominic palms at the front piece of his armor. 

“Felt that my ribs could use the extra structure,” he just says. “And it would be odd if I didn’t wear the full set, you know? Besides,” he leans down and taps a finger to the table with a grin, “this way I might win myself another night, you know?”

Ralof’s face burns bright red. Maya lets out a guffaw, clapping her comrade on the back as the man ducks his head and appears to be trying to become one with his own chair. She shoves a tankard into the open table and gestures at the empty seat. 

“He might not wanna hear, but I certainly do! Come on now, dragon tamer, give ol’ Maya all the dirty details you can spare.”

Dominic slides into the seat, leaning Nightreaver against the side of the table and resting his back against the chair with some measure of relief. He eyes the tankard with mirthful suspicion.

“Little early to be drinking,” he says, “unless I accidentally slept the entire day away, but I don’t think that I have. And, Maya, I do believe that our definitions of appropriate table talk might differ slightly.”

“Thank the Divines,” Ralof groans, going as far as to fold over himself and plant his forehead against the wood grain. 

“You’re so dramatic,” Dominic says, at the same time that Maya slaps him on the back and says, “Quick being a milk drinker, Ralof.”

The two of them exchange grins whilst Ralof continues to grumble into the table. 

“Also, it’s never too early to drink!” Maya says, lifting her tankard and taking a deep draw from it in example. Slamming it back down, she wipes the foam from her mouth with the back of her hand and smirks. “It’s milk, though. Good for the bones, they say. Every warrior’s best friend! Besides mead.”

“Who’s the milk drinker now?” Ralof gripes.

“Don’t be such a nimby, and drink yours.” Dominic chides, gesturing to the tankard full of the creamy, white beverage that so obviously hasn't yet been touched. He lifts his own and takes a swig, only to lower it when he realizes they’re both eyeing him oddly. 

“What?” He asks.

“What’s a,” Maya pauses, squinting, “what’s a ‘nimby’?”

“Uh,” Dominic says. He takes a deep pull from his tankard and then shoves a thick crust of bread into his mouth as he thinks it over. That’s a modern slang term, now that he thinks about it, isn’t it? Is it? It has to be, if it has confused the both of them.

Problem is, Dominic doesn’t know what a nimby is, either. Where’d he even pick it up from? One of the guys on the streets? In the dojo? Back at boot camp? Highschool? It sounds too angleterre to be from the rez. 

That’s what happens, when modern society can just make up words and everyone will accept them as the newest slang. It’s been absolute torture, holding back all the memes that no one in this world will understand. He’s had so many opportunities. 

He shrugs. A mystery, then. Might as well tell the truth. Better to build an act upon yourself than a character who holds no true existence whatsoever. Makes it more believable, doesn’t it?

“I don’t actually know,” he admits. “I heard it somewhere, I think.”

“In Cyrodiil?” Ralof wonders.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Dominic says, and Maya blinks at the both of them.

“When were you there?” She asks, curious, and Ralof sends her a look whilst Dominic lets his brows shoot up in surprise. 

“I thought at least Ralof would have told you,” he says, rubbing at a brief yawn with his hand. He turns his gaze down to his plate. “That’s where I lost my memories, presumably.”

Maya stares at him. He can feel her eyes digging holes into the side of his skull. 

“I thought everyone else lost their memories of you .” She says, tone questioning. 

Dominic stills. He looks up. 

“I mean,” he says slowly, “I can’t find any other way to describe what seems to have happened, so yes.”

Ralof reaches over and raps the backs of his knuckles gently against Dominic’s skull. He ducks out of the way and sends the blonde a narrow look, but it’s ignored as the two Stormcloaks exchange communicating looks. 

“Dominic is missing about a couple month’s worth of memories, himself,” Ralof says quietly.

Maya’s eyes widen. She leans forward into the table. When she next speaks, her voice is hushed. 

“What do you think happened?” She asks.

Ralof side eyes Dominic from where he sits perpendicular to him. Dominic catches his eye, and then turns to stare uncomfortable across the room at nothing in particular. 

He wonders what sort of explanation Ralof has imagined for the entire thing. 

People tend to do that, fill in the gaps for themselves. Often without any prompting, even! It does wonders to help an act, especially an improv like this, but it’s hard to keep everything straight when you can’t exactly read your audiences’ minds. 

That’s the risk of it, though, Dominic thinks. There’s something thrilling about it. And, if whatever they come up with doesn’t end up fitting with what you’ve got already sorted out, it’s a simple thing to deny it, because you never actually said anything. 

“Nothing good,” Ralof eventually ends up saying.

Dominic sits back in his chair and releases a slow, quiet breath, his hands braced against the table edge absently. Ralof looks away from him and Maya turns to stare down at her food in contemplation. The topic is shelved.

They tuck into their breakfasts in a slightly-less-than comfortable silence. 

One that Maya quickly grows sick of, because a few bites into his fish, she’s once again leaning in, this time with an expression full of mischief. 

“So, how did you sleep, Dominic?”

Ralof groans, covering his eyes with his hand as if that would stop him from hearing anything more. 

Dominic cracks a smile, and then grins in full, leaning in as well to say, “Well, Shakdur wouldn’t even let me in her bed until she’d shoved an entire health down my throat.”

“Ooh,” Maya waggles her eyebrows. “Sounds promising already... Oh, it was for your ribs, right?”

“And whatever else required it, I guess,” Dominic shrugs, tapping at his chest, and her eyebrows shoot up in understanding. 

“Are you alright?” Ralof asks in concern, finally taking a bolstering sip of milk. “I forgot to ask last night, what with all that happened, but the — ah... Kograthuc certainly had quite the grip on you then, didn’t he?”

Dominic gives the man a warm smile. While Ralof certainly was raised with the traditional Nordic prejudices, he’s a kind man at heart and he does try his best where it counts, doesn’t he? He’s not entirely sure what his expression is doing right now, but Ralof takes one look at him and turns pink, looking away.

Dominic chuckles, smoothing a hand over his face. “No, I’m fine. I think the health I took last night straightened out anything that he did manage to crush.”

“And you went to talk to the Jarl like that,” Maya shakes her head, looking genuinely perplexed. “And then you brawled with an orc!”

She blinks, and then smirks sinisterly, giving him a wink. 

“And then, you brawled with an orc,” she adds, again but with nuance, and Dominic bursts into laughter. 

Ralof sets his tankard on the table and covers his eyes with both hands.

“Please, stop talking,” he demands, sounding incredibly pained.

Dominic and Maya trade twin looks of mirth, before choosing to settle down and allow their tablemate to eat the rest of his meal in peace. 

The quiet meal is far more companionable after that. 

It’s an hour later, give or take a minute, that Shakdur comes trooping down the stairs herself, still groggy with sleep. She gazes around the tavern with bleary eyes, spots them — or him, rather — and comes over to plop down into a chair she drags over from a nearby table, without a lick of hesitation. 

She looks at Dominic, bright and chipper, and groans, running a large hand over her face to clear away the last vestiges of sleep. 

“How can you have so much energy after all that?” She asks, incredulous.

Maya looks like Christmas has come early. She edges her chair toward him conspiringly and eager. “All that, ho?” 

Dominic waves at the orc. “I always have boundless energy after a good night’s rest!” He says mischievously, and Ralof groans, burying his face into his hands. 

“I’m going to leave,” he says, plaintively. “I’m going to go eat breakfast with Tyson and General Tullius in the camp outside the city, instead of here with you two.”

“The two men of our caravan just bursting with plentiful, engaging conversation,” Maya deadpans, truly unimpressed.

Ralof rubs wearily at his eyes, but can’t hide the twitching of his lips. Dominic snickers. 

“I’m Maya, by the way,” Maya introduces herself, holding out a hand toward Shakdur, who eyes it for a moment before accepting it. 

“Shakdur Taak,” the orc says. 

Her fingers wrap all the way around Maya’s entire palm as they shake on it, and Maya looks down at their intertwined hands with a thrilled expression. 

“I hope you had fun last night,” the Nord leers, and Shakdur blinks at her in surprise before throwing her head back and booming out a laugh. 

“I thought you Nords preferred to keep all that behind closed doors,” she wonders, and reaches out to steal a piece of fish from Dominic’s plate. 

He blinks, and then slides his tankard over toward her. She grabs it with a grin and downs it in one gulp. He shakes with suppressed laughter, eyes twinkling as Ralof grumbles. 

“We do ,” the blond says miserably, folding his arms on the table. “Maya is just….”

“Maya is just fun ,” Maya says, sniffing haughtily, “whilst Ralof and everyone else is a bore.”

“I’m Ralof,” the man directs at Shakdur, cheeks pink as he peeks up at her curious expression and then looks awkwardly away. 

“Nice meeting you,” Shakdur says, and Ralof ducks his head. 

“You as well,” he says, and turns back to his food, clearly at a loss of what else to say.

Shakdur glances over at Dominic, who meets her gaze with a smile. 

“Ralof just recently experienced a sort of paradigm shift,” he says. “He won’t be for conversation yet for a bit longer, I think.”

“Para-deem?” Shakdur asks, brow scrunched.

“Para-dime,” he corrects. He leans back in his chair and threads his hands together behind his head. “State of perspective.”

“Ah,” she says, and looks toward Ralof with a hint of humor in her eyes. 

“Not that I’m a Nord,” Dominic says, “of course. So, I wouldn’t really know.”

“Of course,” Maya and Ralof both echo, one cheeky and the other dully, but both of them equally sarcastic.

Shakdur looks between them before cracking a grin, a small tusk peeking out from underneath her lip. It’s adorable. 

“What?” Dominic asks, tilting his head. He spears a cube of cheese on his fork — he’s getting a little tired of cheese, honestly. He would like some more fruit, please. What happened to the grapes from last night? — and pops it into his mouth. 

“I don’t think there’s a single thing about this world that you don’t know,” Ralof says, shrugging. 

It hits a little close to home, even despite Dominic realizing that he actually knows next to nothing about this world, in fact. 

He stares at Ralof for a long moment, surprised. Then, he shakes his head and points his fork at the man.

“Except,” he says, rather obviously, “for all the things that I don’t know.”

Ralof squints at him. “And those are?”

Maya snickers into a closed fist even as she hands a plate of food over to Shakdur, who is watching the exchange with curious eyes and a loose, absent grin on her face that Dominic is beginning to realize is just her default expression.

He throws his hands up, nearly exasperated. “I don’t know, I’m not a Nord! Also, there’s our underlying mystery to consider, but we aren’t talking about that, are we?”

Shakdur appears confused, but Maya and Ralof eye him suspiciously, and Dominic rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, I don’t know where the dwemer went,” he reaches, and that makes them both smile. 

“You don’t?” Maya has the gall to sound humorously disappointed. “Aw, I was hoping—“

“You weren’t,” Dominic scoffs, and she trails off into laughter. 

There’s a sudden commotion at the front of the inn that makes them all jump, heads jerking toward the entrance as the door bursts open with a slam. The previously bustling tavern goes silent as heads swivel around eagerly to watch whatever drama is about to unfold. 

Dominic suppresses a sigh when he realizes it’s Irileth, and she’s got all of her armor on this time. Her expression is even more severe than it had been back on the keep.

“I’m here for Dominic Moriah!” The dunmer housecarl demands of the room of suddenly silent tavern patrons, and eyes immediately turn toward their table. 

Wow. Sell outs. Rude!

Shakdur lets out a low whistle, leaning down to his level.

“What did you do?” She whispers. “Never seen her so pissed before.”

“That’s… not her being pissed,” Dominic replies just as quietly. He goes to stand from his chair.

“What?”

Dominic steps away from the able and raises up his hand. 

“I’m here,” he says, and suppresses a flinch as Irileth’s steely stare snaps to him. “What’s the matter?”

The Jarl’s housecarl eyes him for barely a second before stalking over. The extra armor and the predatory stride rings every alarm bell in Dominic’s subconsciousness, but he stands his ground until she reaches him. Even if he really, really just wants to run away. 

She wastes no time getting to the point.

“There is a dragon flying over Whiterun,” she says to many gasps from the rest of the tavern. “As you have prior experience with one, Jarl Balgruuf requests that you attend the guard party heading out to deal with it.”

The eyes of their audience make Irileth twitch, and Dominic decides it would be best to get her out of the limelight, as she clearly doesn’t enjoy it — but, first. 

Dominic watches her closely, keeping the line of his shoulders tense. He plants a frown on his face. “A dragon? Did they say what color?”

“Does it matter ,” Irileth impatiently spits. 

The cold aloofness from yesterday is all but vanished, but Dominic knows it isn’t because she’s mad. Well, she is , but it’s not really anger spurring it on. That’s fear, fleshing in her dark black and red eyes. She’s scared, and it’s pissing her off, so she’s snapping and being aggressive where she might not have otherwise. In light of this revelation, Dominic does his best to put his healthy fear of her behind him, at least for today. 

“It matters.” He tells her, with all seriousness, and pretends he doesn’t already know the answer to his question. 

Irileth huffs out a breath and turns. She ducks back out of the inn and the door swings quietly shut behind her.

“Guess it’s luck that you came down prepared for the day,” Maya says lowly, punching a loose fist into his pauldron. She looks tense, and she and Ralof both stand at his side and watch the door warily. 

Dominic pulls away from her slightly, an uneasy expression on his face. He’d already figured he’d be facing Mirmulnir, but knowing ahead of time and being faced with its certainty now is different. He feels like he hasn’t had any time to prepare himself. He’s not sure if he can . 

Alduin alone was enough to almost terrify him to a very real death. His adventure had almost ended before it had even begun, solely due to a fucking heart attack. This dragon will be smaller — oh god, he hopes that lore point stands true even in this heavily modded world — but it will still be bigger than Dominic, and Dominic has never fought a dragon before. 

At least, not outside of a video game. And, as this world has seen fit to prove to him, time and time again, this isn’t a video game. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Maya gives it a squeeze as he looks up to meet her gaze. 

“It’ll be fine.” She says, solemn. “Ralof and I, we’ve got your back.”

“What?” Dominic asks wearily, confused.

Ralof raises an eyebrow at him, like he thinks he’s some idiot. He nudges Dominic in the side with his elbow. 

“We’ll be going with you, of course.” He says, like it’s some foregone conclusion, and before he can think to monitor his own reaction, Dominic feels himself go pale. 

“Oh, no,” he waves his hands distractedly, glancing at the tavern door. They can all hear Irileth interrogating one of the guards that had come with her outside. “Y-You don’t have to — I mean, you were both in Helgen, you saw what they — I, I wouldn’t ever ask any of you to go through that again, not for my sake.”

This time, they both stare at him like they think he’s an idiot, and the look is far more potent. He blinks rapidly, confusion and worry swirling in his chest. 

They’re real people, Maya and Ralof. They won’t respawn like in the game, if they get hurt. One fatal blow, and they won’t come back. That’ll be it. Two people that Dominic has spent weeks talking to and getting to know, just gone forever. 

They could die . 

Dominic could die.

He feels a little light headed, and steps back to retake his seat with a frown.

Maya and Ralof both immediately pull up their chairs directly next to his and follow his lead. Their thighs press into his on either side. 

Shakdur, who has been watching them converse with a deeply thoughtful, sharp stare of examination, places herself back in her empty chair on the other side of the table, and doesn’t move her eyes away from their little trio once. She doesn’t say a word. 

“It’s not for your sake, then,” Ralof says, blatantly fibbing, a superior expression on his face even as he rubs the pads of his fingers together in a nervous tick. “It’s for our own sakes.”

“Otherwise, we’ll lose years of our lives just worrying about what crazy stunts you’ll pull out there,” Maya pitches in. Her hands are clenched down at her sides to stop their trembling. 

Dominic can read people. Sometimes it’s a curse rather than a gift, because these people are his friends and they’re just as scared as he is, and to Dominic it’s so clear as day that he could never pretend to miss it. They’re both terrified. 

But they’re coming anyway?

“You don’t need to.” He tries again, a desperate feeling clawing at the inner walls of his chest, like something’s trying to get out.

“We’re going, Dominic.” Maya looks upset with him. He can’t figure out why .

He bows his head, shoulders hunched. 

“Okay,” he whispers, and that’s when Irileth barges back into the room.

There’s a scowl deepening the lines of her face, and she walks directly over to them with hurried steps.

“They’re not sure,” she says gruffly, “but they think it might be green. The glare of the daylight makes it hard to tell.”

Dominic allows himself to release the tense hold of his muscles, his shoulders dropping slightly. He lets out a quiet breath. 

“Not black,” he says, and climbs to his feet. “That’s... good.”

“How is it good?” Irileth demands, looming impatiently by the entrance with her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s a damn bloody dragon!”

The tavern patrons are eyeing her with intimidated quiet. Maybe it’s not only Dominic, then, and Irileth just has that effect on everyone. 

Dominic reaches for Nightreaver, and hooks the sword onto his belt. Ralof and Maya launch up from their unfinished meal, both rushing upstairs to ready themselves and retrieve their own gear. 

He shakes his head. “It’s good, because that means it’s highly unlikely that Whiterun will end up as Helgen did.”

The silence in the tavern at his words is stifling. Irileth looks uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. 

“How can you be sure?”

“Just trust me,” Dominic tells her as he joins her at the door. “As long as it’s not black as night, this is a dragon we have a fighting chance against.” 

The housecarl eyes him severely for a long moment, eyes thoughtful and judging all at once, before nodding her head in a stiff, jerky movement. She shoves her way out of the inn and barks at the five guards standing outside to get moving.

“See to your assignments!” She shouts, and Dominic does his best to settle his nerves and swallow past the thick lump of rising panic in his throat as he moves to follow after her. “We’ve a dragon to educate on the city’s superior defences!”

The tavern patrons begin murmuring nervously to one another. There’s a tight line of tension in the room, like a rubber band stretched too tightly, and as Dominic approaches the door, he realizes that it’s not only the inn, but an atmosphere that hangs ominously over the entire city itself. 

His nerves are on fire with anxiety, almost to the point that it’s physically painful. 

“Hey!” 

A deep voice calls out from behind Dominic in the eerily hushed yet completely populated inn, and he looks over his shoulder to see Shakdur staring at him with a grim expression. She raises a fist up and nods at him.

“Good luck.” She bares her teeth, and this time it isn’t a grin.

Dominic draws in a breath.

He gives her a bright smile, forcibly relaxing his shoulders. Now is not the time to let anyone know that he’s actually afraid. He’s already dropped the ball too much here, and inciting mass panic in the public because their fabled ‘dragon tamer’ is scared of a dragon won’t do anything to help the situation. 

He’s terrified, and he hasn’t even seen the dragon yet. 

“Thanks!” He calls back with a level of cheer that he absolutely does not feel. “I could use all that I can get!” 

He turns around and leaves, and as his feet hit the cobblestone, he sends up his first actual prayer to the higher powers of this world. If they had any hand in him being here, then hopefully they might, perhaps, have a vested interest in keeping him alive?

Divines... please, make sure I don’t die.

Chapter Text

Guards mobilizing, they gather at the entrance to get ready to set out to meet the tower guards and patrols. Just outside the gate, Tullius and Tyson arrive out of breath along with fourteen other Imperial soldiers from the camp down the road.

“We know that our welcome here is hesitant and only upon good faith,” Tullius says, a broadsword hooked on his armor, “but my men here have at least an idea of how to conduct themselves under dragon fire. If you’ll have us.”

Irileth crosses her arms and gives a firm nod. 

“To save lives,” she agrees. “Here are my squads; assign your men as you see best.”

Tullius raises a hand, and the soldiers around him grow quiet. They look like a bundle of nerves, but Dominic supposes the idea is correct — they’ve at least seen a dragon before, know what sort of destruction they’re capable of. They might keep their heads a little better than the Whiterun guards and thanes who are currently white as sheets. 

“Dominic.” Tullius calls, and Dominic lifts his head and steps over to the man. “Amaranthe will lead a group alongside you.”

He feels himself pale a little, but nods as firmly as he can. Tullius claps a hand to his shoulder before pulling away. 

“Make your judgments swiftly and with a cool head,” the general advises. He then jogs off to oversee the gathering of another squad.

“It’ll be fine,” Tyson says quietly from Dominic’s side. He raises a helmet up to fit over his skull and then arches his brow at him. “You’ve handled a worse dragon.”

“That was with a head wound, my judgement was absolutely impaired.” Dominic argues weakly. “This time I am very clear headed and can see how truly insane my choice of actions were, in hindsight. I might not succeed in a similar fashion as I did in Helgen.”

“Might,” Tyson points out, a wry smile almost hidden behind his beard, but it reaches his eyes. 

Dominic elbows him in the ribs. Pity that the man is wearing armor, and can’t feel it. 

“You won’t succeed the same way. Every battle is different; you can’t expect things to always follow a pattern. Like you said, the giant was an outlier, and so probably was Helgen’s End.” Tyson belts his axes to himself, running his hands along their sheathes. “What you did before won’t work again, so try something else.”

“Try something else.” Dominic echoes uncertaintly. “Right.”

Tyson watches him, head canted to the side. He doesn’t say anything more, though, and then Tullius and Irileth are calling to move out, so they both turn away from one another and fall into step with the troops. 

“The patrolmen and rangers are out there already,” Irileth is shouting above them all from the back of a horse. Another has been brought out for Tullius, and a few thane had already arrived with their own steeds. The lot of them ride on ahead, as a sort of forward company, Dominic assumes. “We are to regroup with them at the far watchtower, overlooking the western farmlands, which have been uninhabited for years now. Less chance of collateral damage or deaths this way. General Tullius will take to the south side, follow his lead as if it were my own. I myself take the north end. Keep your eyes to the skies and your senses alert! Move out!”

The fields that surround Whiterun petter out into unmaintained farmhouses and ranches the further westward they move. The buildings become slightly dilapidated and overgrown as they make it to the halfway point -the watchtower being a good ways more away from the city, it’s quite the hike, especially at the speed they’re trying to maintain. 

Just as Dominic is finally able to make out the form of the tower in the near distance, a ear-shattering boom erupts, followed by a muffled roar. He winces, along with those around him, and they all glance to the side and wave away at the smoke that suddenly envelopes them. 

For a moment, Dominic thinks they’re being targeted with dragon fire, but as the smoke clears he soon realizes that he’s mistaken. 

There, a few paces away, are three men dressed similarly to the Whiterun guards, though their armor has a few distinct differences. They all stand around what is clearly a cannon set up a good few feet in front of them, and they’re covered in smudges of soot — gunpowder. That is gunpowder. 

“Huh,” Dominic voices, a little stunned (he’s not sure why he’s more surprised over this than the freaking trolly carts in the city, but he is), and stands there staring for a second before Tyson reaches out and yanks him along. 

“I wish we’d had those, back in Helgen,” he gives in explanation to the look the man is giving him. 

“Whiterun Ranger specialty.” Tyson answers gruffly, shaking his head. “Would it have helped?”

“With ‘Helgen’s End’? Not likely.” Dominic shakes his head, then motions with his chin at the sky. “But, look. This guy is much smaller than that one, and it’s definitely making me feel a little better about our chances.”

Eventually, they get to the point where they have to make a break for it. It’s become clear that the patrolmen and the rangers have been working with the cannons and their archers to corral the attacking dragon toward this specific watchtower, which makes a great load of sense more than the dragon in the game just choosing to attack the pretty much abandoned tower when there was a fully-stocked city of people literally right down the road. 

“Do we have any archers?” Dominic turns Tyson, who holds up two fingers even as he pulls one of his axes free of its sheath. “Great. Send them with me and we’ll head up the tower. When our opponent has the sky, we need to be as high as we can be in order to have a good shot.”

Tyson nods. “Lovell, Volgast! Follow Ser Moriah.”

Two soldiers leap out of their group’s arrangement, bows already drawn — oh, scratch that. One of them has a crossbow, even better! They both hike it over to Dominic and stand on either side of him, each of them nodding in greeting as he meets their gazes. 

“Let me guess,” Dominic pitches, pointing at the woman. “Volgast? And the other one is Lovell.”

Slowly, the two soldiers grin at him. The woman waggles her eyebrows. 

“Oh, nice. Usually, people’s first guess is that I’m Lovell, and he’s Volgast.” She says. 

Dominic frowns. “So am I right?”

“Nah, mate. I’m Lovell.”

“That’s not true,” the man with the crossbow immediately complains. “ I’m Lovell. She’s Volgast.”

“Oh, jus’ bloody get on wi’ it, Lovellogast,” a nearby Imperial soldier shouts gruffly. “I’sa godsdamn dragon up ‘ere, yeah?”

Though he’s absolutely enraptured by this superbly strange dynamic the two have going on, Dominic tilts his head toward the soldier in agreement. “He’s right, I’m afraid. We do have to be getting a move on. With me, then, Lovellogast.”

Far from offended, the two archers exchange frankly delighted expressions, and don’t mind a step in hurrying after him for the tower that looks just ahead. 

The air around them echoes with yelling and the twinging of bowstring. About every fifteen seconds another canon goes off, and Dominic truly feels for the state of his ears. 

He pats the sheath of his sword, a little glum that anything he might try with Nightreaver is pretty much a no go so long as the dragon — hm, what was its name again? It’s been a while since he started a new playthrough — remains airborne. 

Ducking into the entrance of the tower, he’s met with a flurry of activity. 

“Hey!” He hollers over all the noise. “Excuse me — can anyone spare a bow? Arrows?”

A passing guardsman shoves the mentioned items into his hands without much fanfare, scowl heavy. “Twenty in that quiver,” he says. “Make ‘em count, we’re running low as it is.”

“Understood.” Dominic nods, winging the bow over his shoulder and buckling the quiver to his belt as he makes his way toward the staircase towards the back of the room. “Lovellogast, we’re headed toward the very top. Can you make do with that?”

“Battlements seemed good for groundcover,” the bowman replies, looking uneasy. “Not so sure against a beast in the air. What if it decides to land on us?”

“You’ve got a blade, don’t you?” Dominic asks.

The two archers share a look, and the woman replies with a grin, “Aye, two pretty scimitars to carve up ‘is hide with!”

“Use those, then,” Dominic grins back a little grimly, just as they reach the top of the staircase. 

As they make it out into the open air once again, Dominic hopes to any higher power listening that his apparent archery skills work the same way as his surprise sword skills do. He does have some skill with a bow and arrow thanks to his mom and her childhood friend from the rez, but it’s been a while. A long while. Too long of a while. He regrets, now, not visiting as often as he could have. Should have.

Well. That’s all in the past now, isn’t it? It has been for a while, and he won’t be getting any chance to rectify it. Best to just stop thinking about it for now.

Here’s to hoping, then, that the video game bullshit has invaded his life’s physics just enough that his archery skills are a little better than he recalls them being back home. 

Above the tower, the dragon turns in a tailspin to narrowly avoid a cannon projectile. It roars in anger and swoops low at the tower itself, jaws snapping just out of reach. Dominic feels the wind buffet him from all sides, a blast of heat like a hairdryer on full blast times seven, and foolishly closes his eyes against both it and the terrifying sight of such sharp teeth so very close to breaking him in half like a toothpick. 

Luckily, the moment is past when he opens his eyes, and he is greeted by the site of the dragon climbing higher in the sky to avoid a volley of arrows from the archers both on the ground and the tower itself. Lovell and Volgast are watching him with raised eyebrows. 

Dominic snickers, shrugging. “Sometimes you just hope for the best?”

The two soldiers blink, and the woman bursts into laughter while the man heaves a truly tired sigh. 

Dominic gestures them away toward the battlements, and moves forward to take an open spot for himself. He slings his bow off his shoulder and gives the string a few tugs, testing the tension. Determining it to be fine enough, he slides an arrow out of the quiet at his side and notches it, taking a stance. Finally, he turns his full attention to the sky, searching. 

His target is about five hundred feet to his left, diving down to breath fire at a group of grounded soldiers and guardsmen. Dominic slides to the next opening of the battlement, pressing a knee to the stone and taking aim. He just has to sit tight, until the dragon comes closer. Five hundred feet is a little bit too far for a bow this lightweight, with an arrow this —

Dominic frowns. He pulls the bowstring back, raises it up higher to sight down along the arrow. Scales obscure his vision abruptly, and he aims ahead of the only break amongst the gleaming green and lets the arrow fly. 

It sings through the air, tunneling through the soft meat of the dragon’s glistening yellow eye. The great big thing lets loose a pained screech that sounds far different than the intimidating roars of before, and everyone on the ground and the tower yells in a triumphant cry.

Lovellogast appears suddenly at his shoulders. The woman is pouting. 

“Lucky first shot.” She proclaims, and then stations herself in the lookout to his right. 

“Of course it would be you,” the man bemoans from the lookout to Dominic’s left. 

Instead of sounding offensive, it’s almost like he’s trying to reassure them. He angles his crossbow directly above his head and, without even looking up, fires off a shot. His expression is unchanging even as the dragon, who was turning midair above their heads, gives another shriek that echoes across the plains. 

“I’m bound to miss some,” Dominic says, staring at him with wide eyes. If he hadn’t heard the bolt hitting into flesh and scale himself, he’d think he had just hallucinated all of that. “You, though… You’ve never missed in your life, have you?”

“Lovell has the eyes of a hawk,” the woman claims, loud and certain. She points her nose into the air. “I’ve never seen him make anything but a bullseye.”

“So, he is Lovell,” Dominic interjects, just to be sure.

“I’ve missed once,” the man says, seriously, shuddering. “When I was eleven. Also, I’m Volgast, can’t believe I have to keep saying it.”

Dominic would throw his hands up in exasperation, but he is currently holding a bow, and so he just notches another arrow to the string and makes a face at both of them. 

“If I had to deal with you daily,” he says, “I might actually have befriended that assassin by now.”

“So, that was only a tall tale?” The man checks, and the woman rolls her eyes and shushes them. 

“Beast is coming back around, be at the ready!”

Dominic ends up firing off a number of shots, but none of them really get the bullseye — or, rather, the dragon’s eye — that was his first arrow. Lovellogast, it turns out, is apparently the best archer duo in the imperial legion, because both of them snag the majority of their arrows in the leathery, plated wings of their enemy — and it’s true, that the man never really misses, not once. 

He’s down to three arrows now, though, and the dragon is still high in the air, circling above the tower. Dominic is pretty sure they’ve only made it angry, and haven’t done much else. He purses his lip, and shoves his last few arrows toward the woman to his right. 

“Take these and keep at it, both of you. I’m gonna check on something down below.”

“So the dragon tamer says,” the woman arches a brow, accepting the arrow. 

“Not sure if this’ll do much taming,” Dominic snarks. “Likely will only piss him off.”

This makes the woman grin wildly, and the man gives a loud groan. 

“I should have stayed in Cyrodiil and become a baker like ma wanted.” He wallows. 

Dominic ducks away from the battlements, taking the steps back into the tower two at a time. He approaches one of the guardsmen stationed on the ground floor, who seems to be acting as some sort of quartermaster.

The man stalks across the floor, pacing back and forth with great strides, checking a piece of paper in his hand as he shouts orders out at the young guardsmen — barely teenagers — who ferry armor and ammunition from the racks to the door. There’s crates full of plain white packages, arranged in simple bricks, all shoved off into one corner. If Dominic hadn’t seen one of the rangers break one open into the loading slot of their cannon, he’d mistake them for bricks of cocaine.

Listen. That’s really what they look like, okay? He lived in Chicago, okay? Dominic’s seen bricks of cocaine before. 

It was on accident, of course. He’d been biking down by the industrial district and happened to glance in the open door of a warehouse loading dock. He got out as fast as he could, and he’s still alive now so he doesn’t think any of the guys inside actually noticed him.

It’s not cocaine though, it’s gunpowder. And Dominic needs it. 

“I need a cannon,” he says to the quartermaster, stepping to the side as the man swings around and pins him with a narrow look. 

“You’re not a ranger,” he barks. “Sure you know how to use it? We need all the cannons we have in use and making a difference, out there.”

“I know how to use it,” Dominic lies. He’s only fairly certain that he can guess at how to use it. It’s the same, isn’t it? “We need one up top, though. We’re getting nowhere with them all on the ground.”

The quartermaster turns his glare down at the ground. Probably in thought — Dominic is starting to think that’s just the natural set of the man’s face. 

“Listen, I’ve got a ranger up there as well, if it makes you feel any better about it.”

“We’ve got one in here,” the quartermaster eventually says, eyes flicking over to the corner with the crates. “Just finished banging out the dents. Had a caved in rim, but it should aim fine now. Fallowy! Bring that cannon over to the stairs and help this man haul it up top!”

A blond teenager pokes his head up from among the crates. He’s crazy-eyed with dragonfear — like most of the others from Whiterun are — but he still manages to pull an incredulous expression, eyeing his quartermaster and then the stairs and finally Dominic himself. 

To the credit of the teen and the Whiterun guards as a whole, though, Fallowy doesn’t give a single complaint. He wheels a cannon out from the crates and over to the base of the staircase, where Dominic meets him. 

Together, they lift the cannon up the stairs one level at a time, taking breaks when the dragon flies by and bashes against the tower’s outer walls, causing the entire building to shake. Stone particles rain down from the ceiling with every instance of abuse. By the time they reach the top, they’re both out of breath, Dominic’s arms ache to the point of being numb, and they’re covered in stone dust.

Fallowy peeks out over the battlements, and then ducks as the dragon swoops overhead. A few feet away, the man from the Lovellogast duo fires a bolt from his crossbow and it sinks into the fleshy part of the beast’s hind leg. 

Fallowy scampers back toward the stairs, tears in his eyes. 

“I hope we never meet again.” He tells Dominic before disappearing back into the tower as fast as his shaking legs can carry him. Dominic supposes he can’t really fault the kid. 

“Lovellogast,” he calls as he wheels the canon over to the battlements. They both look over at him and brighten at the sight of the new weapon. “Please tell me you know how to use this thing.”

“Not a clue,” the woman says, brightly.

The man shrugs. “M’ not a ranger,” he says, and Dominic heaves a sigh. 

A glance around the roof, though, reveals that he hadn’t in fact been lying when he’d said there was a ranger up here with them. Just a few lookouts away there stands one, lightning fast as she notches arrow after arrow along her bowstring. Most even make a hit. 

“Hey, ranger!” Dominic calls, and waves a hand toward the cannon when she glances over her shoulder at him. “Got something for you!”

The ranger’s face breaks into surprise. She lowers her bow and scampers over, eyes wide. 

“How’d you haul that thing all the way up here?” She asks. “You’re not hiding an orc around here, are you?”

“Left her back at the inn,” Dominic replies mournfully. “Figure she needed a rest after last night.”

The man from his archer duo wheezes, choking on laughter, and his partner’s jaw drops, eyes popping. 

The ranger just looks at Dominic, mouth quirking to the side. She shakes her head and swings her bow over her back. 

“Tell me about it later,” she says, and damn are all Nord women just that nosy? She’d get along great with Maya. “Help me pour the powder into this slot here.”

They get the cannon loaded up, and Dominic turns to go back downstairs just in time to see a fiercely scowling Fallowy emerge once again from the tower depths, three cannonballs balanced precariously in his arms. 

“Wonderful,” the ranger says, taking one from him to roll into the mouth of the cannon. 

“I thought we were to go our separate ways forever,” Dominic says, dryly.

Fallowy dumps the other two cannonballs at their feet, and stabs a finger at him as he stands back up. 

“Boss says to make them count, or he’ll skin your hide and make little satchels out of it.” The teen relays aggressively. 

Still pointing, he sends a cautious glance up at the sky and then practically throws himself back down the stairs. 

Lovellogast stares after him. 

“S’up his ass?” The man asks, frowning, and the woman shakes his head. 

“Can’t be more than a little’un, Volgast,” she says with mock sympathy. “Poor thing, leave him be.”

“Stop stealing my name, witch.”

“Right, sorry Lovell.”

“Didn’t I say to stop?”

“I’ll skin both of you and give the hides to the quartermaster for those satchels,” Dominic says over them in amusement, and the duo smirk at him. The ranger snorts. 

“It’s ready,” she says. She gives the butt of the cannon a big smack with green palm and turns to the three of them. “Now, one of you climb up onto the battlement and play spotter for me.”

“Don’t you mean play bait?” The man asks, aghast.

“I gotta know where to point this thing, and the lookout is built for archers , not the fat arse of a cannon,” the ranger says flatly, pointing at the battlement’s admittedly narrow gap. “Not a whole lot of room to maneuver. I need some eyes above to look and tell me what I’m aiming at.”

“Lovellogast, keep doing what you’ve been doing.” Dominic says, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing sharply. He then lifts a leg and plants one foot up on the battlements. “I’ll be your eyes, ranger.”

“It’s Jeslihn,” the ranger says.

“It’s Dominic.”

“Nice to meetcha.” Jeslihn replies, and stabs a stoker into the back of the cannon. “Hope your eyes are good.”

Being up on the battlements instead of tucked behind their somewhat meager protection is a bit more thrill than Dominic was looking for, but he squats down and keeps his eyes peeled anyway. Watching the dragon — its name begins with an M, he’s pretty sure — as it swoops down and basically plays with the soldiers and guardsmen on the ground is a bit of a hit to morale, but ever so often the rangers down there manage to fire a cannonball just right in that it packs a bunch into the dragon’s head or it’s ribs. By now, Dominic is pretty sure the thing has one massive bruise under all those pretty green scales. He doesn’t envy it. 

Still, there’s a point where his station here becomes almost boring. Since they got the cannon upstairs and fitted into the battlement, the dragon has only dive bombed the tower three more times, and it’s already been going on fifteen minutes. It’s like it knows they’re lying in wait for it. Dominic’s legs are becoming tired, and the sheer drop off the side of the tower below him is starting to make him a little dizzy whenever he glances down. 

He shifts out of his crouch, standing up tall and tensing the muscles in his leg. What a thing to happen, the dragon finally decides to swoop again and Dominic’s legs fell asleep in the meantime. No. Not happening. 

But, as he stands, the dragon picks that time to swoop down in a steep nose dive, directly for him. Maybe he’s still mad about the arrow to the eye. Still, what an asshole, M-something! Like, maybe chill?

Domini yelps, launching himself off the battlements. He slaps a hand to Jeslihn’s shoulder, pointing up.

“Directly overhead, straight up! Fire there —! No, wait!” Dominic’s eyes widen, and he helps Jeslihn point the cannon slightly to the left, off center of the quickly approaching dragon. “Right there!”

“Firing in three!” Jeslihn cries, striking the wick against the rough material of her inner gauntlet. She holds the burning flame aloft over the backside of the canon. “Three! Two!”

“It’s here, it’s here, it’s here!” The man from the Lovellogast duo shrieks, throwing his hands over his head. “Fire! Fire!”

“One!” Jeslihn stuffs the wick into the canon. “Fire!”

Dominic claps his hands over his ears, wincing as a deafening boom shakes the top of the tower. Lovellogast both falls straight off their feet into a heap on the ground, and maybe that’s a good thing. Because —

Just beyond the muffling of his palms, Dominic hears the enraged screech of the dragon as the cannonball, burning hot from the ignited gunpowder, makes its mark upon its right wing, tearing through the leathery skin of the limb’s underside and exiting out the back, leaving a gaping, shredded hole in the wing. 

The dragon careens off to the right, but it had already been coming at them from above with great speeds, and when the cannonball hit it had very nearly been upon them. So it crashes into the tower battlements, crushing stone beneath it. 

Dominic feels the stone beneath his feet give way, and he blanks out in sheer terror for a moment, entirely certain that he’s about to die. 

The tower begins to crumble under the weight of the dragon and the velocity at which it crashed into it, and it’s taking Dominic and all his archers with it. He scrambles backwards, tripping over the two unused cannonballs and grunts as he lands on his back. He stares up, dust and stone raining down around them, just in time to meet the now one-eyed gaze of the dragon they’d just shot out of the sky. 

Dominic breathes in, dust filtering in through his nose and throat. He’s gonna die. 

Crushed by a collapsing tower or gutted on the teeth of a very pissed off dragon. Either way, Dominic is going to die.

Hey, it’s been fun, at least?

He got to sleep with a very buff Orc lady, that was cool. 

Dominic is about to just close his eyes, when suddenly they’re pierced by the sudden sunlight. The tower stops shaking, and when he squints he realizes the dragon is just… gone. 

“What the fuck?” Dominic complains — he’s alive, why is he complaining?! — and Lovellogast stumble past him to race toward the half-crumbled battlements, gaping over the side. Jeslihn remains kneeling on the floor, looking stunned. 

“He just fucking —“ the man makes a gesture with one arm, grabbing at the air and then jerking it back. “To a bloody dragon!”

“Where did he even come from?” The woman asks, shellshocked. 

Scrambling to his feet, Dominic winces as the movement now not only pulls at his ribs, but makes his spine make a loud protest. Great, he feels old. He braces his palms against the battlement, nearly leaning out of a lookout entirely to see all the way down — he wobbles for a frightening second as a loose stone beneath his foot almost gives way — and peers out at the scene below. 

And what a fucking scene. The dragon that they just shot out of the sky has been dragged down to the ground, finally. It’s surrounded by a group of soldiers who are keeping their careful distance with spears and swords and weapons of all kinds pointed toward their fallen enemy, and it’s pinned to the ground, thrashing wildly beneath the massive hands of a giant. 

A very familiar giant. 

“Kog?” Dominic shouts, bewildered. “What?”

Kograthuc looks up at him and grunts loudly amidst the dragon’s pained and outraged shrieks. 

“Domi,” he says, and waves a hand in greeting. “Hi.”

The dragon tries to take the chance to escape his hold, and the giant quickly lowers his hand to pin it back down again. M-something roars in rage.

“Bad.” Kograthuc mutters gutterly down at it. 

“Oh, uh,” Dominic flounders, and then settles for waving back. The archers on the roof all stare at him incredulously.  Jeslihn aims a befuddled glance toward Lovellogast, who only smirk grandly, as if they’d predicted this outcome all along. 

“Hi, Kog.” Dominic settles for. “Thanks for your help? Can you— Can you hold him right there? I’m coming down?”

“Hold down.” The giant echoes. “Sky lizard.” 

One of the roof archers gives a strangled laugh. 

Dominic takes that for agreement. He hops away from the tower’s battlements and hurries over to the stairs.

The ground floor of the tower is almost opposite of its previous state. The quartermaster and all of his young guardsmen assistants are silent, and they stare at Dominic with wide eyes and gaping mouths as he jogs over to the entrance. He ducks his head at their attention and clears his throat as he exits the tower. 

On the ground, Maya and Ralof almost teleport to his side, Tyson not far behind them. Together, they approach the site of the dragon — and his giant captor — with caution. 

“Heyyyy, Kog,” Dominic begins, flashing the big guy a hesitant smile. “That was, uh. A really great thing you just did, there. You really helped us out, thanks.”

“Kog helped Domi,” the giant rumbles, a pleased smile taking over his face. It’s a toothy thing, the gaps prominent. “Sky lizard… mean.”

“Yep, he was being mean, so you’re a real hero here.” Dominic gives a weak laugh, lifting an arm to run through his hair as his mind whirls like a machine, thinking up plans of action and just as quickly discarding them. “Kog, could you do me a favor and just… keep holding him there? For a bit?”

Kog grunts. He glares down at the still hissing and spitting dragon. “Holding sky lizard for Domi.”

“Thanks for that, pal.” Dominic gratefully says. He tosses a glance over his shoulder at his friends, who all have matching expressions of resignation on their faces. 

“What?” He asks, defensive. 

“Go.” Ralof says, looking exhausted. “Just. Go talk to the dragon. We all know that’s what you’re going to do anyway.”

“We’ve got your back if things go south!” Maya cheers, hefting up her battlehammer. She considers the scene for a moment, and then amends, “Kograthuc has your back!”

“Little Bighammer right,” Kograthuc rumbles, and Maya’s face breaks into a delighted expression. 

“Yeah,” Dominic hedges, eyebrow raised. He tilts his head, and then pivots and makes his way over to the dragon.

For his part, their downed enemy has settled under Kograthuc’s hold, and eyes Dominic warily as he approaches, it’s right eye closed around an arrow.

“Qahnaarin,” the dragon rumbles, displeased. 

“You call me that,” Dominic replies in dovahkiin, watching as the dragon’s brow ridges raise in surprise, “but it was my comrade who shot you down. Surely the honor should then go to her?”

“A noble inquiry,” the dragon says, huffing out a warm breath. “But no. That one’s soul is mortal. Yours is a little more, however, isn’t it? A little more like mine.”

Around them, Dominic can hear the Whiterun warriors reacting in incredulous and wonder, and being reassured by nearby Imperial soldiers. He tilts his head and doesn’t remove his gaze from his conversation partner, and the dragon huffs again, hot breath blasting at Dominic. It’s a lot, but still not as much as Alduin. The difference between a regular dragon and the World Eater is a sure thing. 

“Qahnaarin or not, you stand awfully close. So certain that I won’t stretch out my neck and snap you apart? That I won’t breathe out and incinerate your flesh? I’m due a bit or two of my own, after you’ve struck me twice.”

“You’re down, and the battle is over.” Dominic says tightly, narrowing his eyes. He takes a step closer, to make a point, and the dragon only watches him. “You’ve even honor-named me Vanquisher. To attack me now, when we talk peacefully, would do you and your name a grave dishonor.”

He cants his head to the side thoughtfully, crossing his arms. “From what I know of dragon culture, that’s not something anyone would want, is it? Especially if I’m right in my suspicions.”

“And what are those suspicions?” The dragon asks, voice shaking the ground.

“That the dragons are returning to Tamriel. Correct me if I’m wrong, but were you not all dead?”

“Hmm. Not all. Not the one who mattered most. And now he comes, raising our kin to take to the skies once again, the only one who can. You may have struck me down, Qahnaarin, but you would be mey, a fool, to think that this is in any way a victory.”

“Someone is a sore loser,” Dominic observes humorously, and the dragon releases a long, smoking sigh. 

“You have significantly stronger arms than I.” He says, glancing with his good eye up at Kograthuc, who remains silent but is staring down at his captive with a curious gaze. 

“You’re the one who started this battle,” Dominic points out, and the dragon concedes with a grunt. 

“Be that as it may, I’m only speaking the truth. I am only one dragon, while there are many more of my kin who will rise, and rise again no matter who strikes them down.”

“But here, today, I have beaten you ,” Dominic says as firmly as he can. “And you have yet to give me your name, despite honor-naming me yourself.”

“My manners must be a bit lacking, after so long being buried dead.” The dragon says, sarcastic. Dominic furiously scolds himself when it makes him want to smile. “Forgive me, my name is Mirmulnir.”

“Drem yol lok, Mirmulnir.” Dominic greets wryly. “I have bested you in battle, by your own admission. Will you not listen to what I have to say?”

“I am listening,” Mirmulnir grumbles belligerently. “I’ve been listening this entire time! Speak, mal gein.”

Dominic leans in, brows furrowed. “Leave this city and it’s people alone, for it is under my protection. Vanquished by me, do not return to it.”

“There will be other dragons.” Mirmulnir points out.

“And I am talking to you.” 

The dragon huffs, steam curling up from its snout. At least it’s not smoke. Dominic thinks he can take that as a good sign, maybe?

“Fine.” Mirmulnir says. “Fine! I’ll leave this city and it’s blasted joor be. But I cannot promise that for the other cities. There are a lot, and I have my orders. You may have defeated me, but you are not my king.”

“I know who you take orders from,” Dominic says, taking a step back. “Now, give me your word.”

Mirmulnir stares, and Dominic raises his brows. 

“Did you think me stupid?” He asks. “You’re a hotheaded one, and that’s a joor expression for recklessness. Give me your oath, and I’ll have my friend release you.”

“My oath,” the dragon seethes, like its angry. He hems and haws, but Dominic only stands silently, arms crossed, and eventually the beast settles back down. “Very well. I give you my most sincere oath, upon my very bones and that of my ancestors, that I will do as Qahnaarin requests and not attack nor bring harm to the inhabitants of this here joor city.”

Mirmulnir stretches out his neck, brings his head closer to Dominic, and Kograthuc tightens his grip on the dragon. Mirmulnir pauses, wincing in pain, and then treats Dominic to a one-eyed dry look. 

“Tell your big fahdon to ease up a bit, if you want me to establish this oath. Or do you not know what you’re asking, here?”

The last part is stated with a teasing tone, and Dominic sighs, raising one hand up. 

“Kog,” he says carefully. “Ease up just a little. You’re crushing him.”

“Hmph,” the giant harrumphs, but gentles his grip nonetheless. “Sky lizard was trying to get away.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Dominic assures the big guy. Inhaling a steadying breath, he takes a step forward and puts himself right into Mirmulnir’s reach. 

If the dragon wants — if the dragon is lying — he could open his maw and snap Dominic up, easy. He could end Dominic right here, right now, and Dominic would have let him do it. 

But he doesn’t. Instead of baring his teeth, Mirmulnir tilts his head down, the top of his snout just barely brushing against the ground. He moves it foreword and carefully pressed his brow directly to Dominic’s forehead. 

There’s a blast of heat that encompasses all of Dominic’s head and chest, but strangely enough it isn’t hot. It feels like it should burn, but it doesn’t. There’s a flash of light, there and gone again so quickly that he might have imagined it, and then Mirmulnir is moving away. 

“My oath is sealed.” He says. “You may trust my word.”

“I find that I do,” Dominic breathes, starstruck. He felt… What was that?

He’s not sure. 

“So then, will you let me leave?” Mirmulnir pulls back so that he can look at Dominic with his only good eye, as large as a small dinner table and gleaming gold. “Or will you have your friend here strike me dead, as is the right of the Qahnaarin?”

Dominic stares at the dragon for a long moment, and that large eye stares back at him, unblinking. The slit pupil is honestly a little unnerving. He clenches his jaw and dips his head down in a single nod, closing his eyes for a short moment. He lets out a sigh.

“Thank you, Kog.” Dominic says. He opens his eyes and turns his stare into his giant pal, who grunts in curious acknowledgment. “You can let him go, now.”

There’s sounds of shock and incredulousness from the hold guards that still have their weapons aimed, but the Imperial soldiers and Stormcloaks all noticeably remain silent, eyes trained on Dominic as if waiting on his signal. He maintains eye contact with the giant, not looking at his fellow fighters. After a few moments, Kog reluctantly releases the dragon and takes a short, heavy step away. 

Murmulnir gives himself a shake, scales sizzling and shifting as they right themselves. He climbs to his feet and gives his injured wing a hesitant stretch.

“Many thanks,” he says, baritone booming in Common tongue this time, much to the voiced shock of everyone else present, “dovahkiin.”

Dominic turns his frown back to the dragon. He grits his teeth, straining his jaw in a purposeful show of reluctance, clenching his fists at his sides and keeping the line of his shoulders tense. 

“Sure,” he finally huffs, belligerent. 

Then, he takes a step forward, leaning into the dragon’s space. He’s a huge beast, but his head is lowered enough for Dominic to stare him in the eye as he bears his teeth. 

“Now.” He says lowly. “Kos vod.”

Miurmulnir releases a puff of humid breath in his face, likely out of amusement. He dips his hulking, scaly head down in an imitation of a nod and spreads his wings. Within a few beats, he’s back in the skies and soaring away. 

“The hell are you thinking, letting it get away?” Irileth shouts. She breaks free of the ring of warriors and stomps up to him. Her expression is fiercely enraged, and why wouldn’t it be? She’s scared for her home. 

The dunmer points an accusing finger in his face. “It’ll turn right around and head to the city!”

“No,” Dominic says slowly, staring after the fleeing dragon. He unclenches his jaw and carefully relaxes. “He won’t be coming back.”

“How can you be sure?” Irileth demands, finger stabbing into Dominic’s chestplate. 

He glances at her. Wordlessly, he raises Nightreaver into the air and drops her into her sheath, then turns and begins walking away through the crowd of soldiers and guards — and rangers — that surround them. 

“Kog, thank you for your help.” He calls up to his friend, and smiles warmly at the toothy grin he receives for the words. “I’m very happy you came. But, it’s getting late, won’t your herd need to be moving soon?”

“Nighttime,” Kograthuc bobs his head up and down. He raises up from his crouch and stares down at him with a pair of frankly heartbreaking puppy dog eyes. “Domi promise to visit.”

“I did promise,” he agrees. “I won’t break it.”

“Okay,” Kograthuc settles. “Bye-bye.”

The giant waves a huge hand and stands up fully, careful to step around the little people that are gathered around them (the Whiterun guards and rangers are keeping a mile between them and the giant, but strangely enough the Imperial soldiers and their two stormcloaks barely bat an eye and only shift away nervously). The giant tiptoes his way out of the battlefield that the tower has become, and starts making his way toward the hills further to the west. 

Dominic, after a moment, suddenly wonders why the big guy was here to begin with. Maybe he heard the dragon roars and was curious? 

Within the soldiers, General Tullius meets his gaze, and holds it. The stare is long and the expression intense, but after a few moments the man turns on his heel without a word and begins to make his way back to his horse. 

Dominic turns toward Whiterun in the distance and starts for it. The sun has sunken low in the sky, and he wonders desperately where ye day has gone. Had that entire fiasco really taken all fuckin day? Mirmulnir, you ass. Dominic is starving. He’s fucking exhausted, his arms and legs both feel like hello, and his ribs and spine are twinging again. 

“Hey!” Irileth stomps after him. “It’s a fucking dragon, you maniac! All it cares for is destruction!”

“My,” Dominic huffs out, frown returning. He doesn’t look back at her, but keeps walking. “You must have confronted many dragons before this, to know so much about them.”

“And you have?” The dark elf guard captain scoffs. 

Dominic lets his lips twitch up into a small smile. He sets his eyes on the looming wall of Whiterun in the distance, and doesn’t answer. The Imperial soldiers that had come to aid them in the battle have already begun following his lead, trooping back toward the city, right on Tullius’ heels. Tyson approaches him instead, and he’s treating Dominic to a Look, for some reason. Come on , Tyson, it’s not like Dominic wakes up every day asking for this to happen!

Ralof and Maya both come to flank him on either side, and Dominic sees the Lovellogast duo just behind him. They both cast him a narrow smile, wiggling their fingers at him in hello. 

“Trust Dominic when it comes to dragons, Captain.” Ralof is saying, a little helplessly. “At this point, I rather think he at least sort of knows what he’s doing. If he says the beast will not return, then it won’t.”

Man . Such trust in his dragon taming abilities, these people have. Especially since they’re all kind of over exaggerating the circumstances, just a bit. As far as any of them are concerned, Dominic has only confronted one other dragon before this. Hardly a dragon expert.

Dominic suppresses a larger smile, and hooks Nightreaver back onto his belt. It would be terrible , if he didn’t actually sort of know what he was doing. 

Kinda. 

“He’s bound by his oath, now,” Dominic announces, making sure that his voice carries. It quiets the murmuring that has begun to pick up amongst the gathered guards and soldiers. 

“Excuse me?” Irileth asks, scowling. She’s already started stomping after them. 

Dominic looks over his shoulder at her, and smiles. “An oath, in dovahzhul. A dragon’s word is something they cannot go back on. For as long as I still draw breath, that dragon will never come to darken the steps of Whiterun again.”

Irileth looks like she’s struggling to comprehend his words. “So, should you die? What then?”

Dominic’s smile turns cheerful. He faces forward again and shrugs, keeping his voice light and unbothered. 

“Well,” he says brightly. “I suppose I should start looking for a path toward immortality, then.”

There’s a smack. He glances toward his left to find that Tyson has brought a hand up to cover his face, and is side eyeing him with a flat expression.

Dominic grins. 

All be told, he is very relieved that he didn’t have to kill a dragon today. He’s been lowkey stressing over it since before they got to Whiterun. 

Chapter Text

“So you’re the mysterious dragon tamer everyone’s been gossiping about these days.” 

Dominic raises his eyes up toward the heavens. It’s a grand struggle to keep himself from sighing, but he eventually gains victory over this inner demon. 

He looks back down at the little girl who stands before him, and tilts his head to the side. 

“Gossiping?” He asks. “About me? But I’m rather boring. No idea what they’d talk about.”

Beside him, Ralof snorts into his fist. Dominic casts him a flat look and the Nord looks away from him. Not fast enough, though, that Dominic doesn't see the tiny grin at the corner of the man’s mouth. Annoying. 

The little girl’s got her arms crossed over her chest, and her nose raised into the air in a snooty fashion. For how tiny she is, she’s doing a great job of giving off the impression of looking down on everyone around her. Some real points for the sheer level of brattiness. 

Given the fact that Dominic is currently walking through the halls of Dragonsreach, he’s pretty sure there’s only one name for her. 

Although, hey, maybe he’s wrong. Whiterun is bigger than he anticipated, and the castle is more populated than he would have guessed. Maybe there’s some visiting noble with a daughter?

He glances back at the girl, whose eyebrows are raised in a look he’s seen somewhere else before, and very recently too. 

Nah, he’s pretty sure he’s right. 

“How can you be boring?” The girl asks. 

She waves a dismissive hand, as if to say ‘perish the thought’, and it might have even been cute if Dominic hadn’t heard this girl mistake him — or rather, his dragonborn character — for a new servant every time he ventured into ‘this skeeverhole of a city.’ 

“They’re calling you the hero. What’s boring about that, ser?”

“You are being a suspiciously gracious host,” Dominic tells her in amusement. He watches as her face scrunches up in confusion. 

“Suspiciously? But I am a gracious host! Besides, it’s rightly beneficial to greet a hero such as yourself with aplomb.”

“You’re using a lot of fancy words there, Miss Dagny.” Dominic replies dryly. “Are you sure that you know what they all mean?”

A guard standing against the nearby wall directs a sharp cough into their shoulder, and then stands straight as if nothing had happened when Dagny’s head whips around to stare at him.

“Hmph. Anyway.” The girl turns back to him and casts her gaze over Dominic as if she’s grading him for some test. He raises an eyebrow. “Welcome to Whiterun, I suppose, Ser Moriah.”

Her greeting was said in such a way that it sounded more like ‘see, I also know your name without you telling me!’

Dominic blinks, and then presses his fist against his lips to smother his grin. She truly is a brat, but… it’s weirdly adorable. 

He drops his hand. Tilting his head back, he laughs. Dagny startles when Dominic bows at the waist to her, peeking up at her from under his bangs with a warm smile. 

“With a greeting from a noble young lady such as yourself, I foresee my stay in Whiterun being a grand one indeed.”

Dagny blinks at him as he straightens back up. Dominic offers her a hand, and she seems to give herself a little shake. Hesitantly, she reaches out and accepts his hand, and then gasps when Dominic leans down and brushes a kiss to the air over her knuckles. 

“Well met, Miss Dagny.” He grins. 

Dominic releases her hand and then steps back very casually. He tilts his head to the side and, as his grin fades back to a smile, he watches the eyes of Jarl Balgruuf‘s only daughter go very wide, and her face very, very red. 

Dagny gives a cough. Then another. She gives a hurried curtsy and says, “Well met!” The girl then spins around and dashes out of the hall. 

Dominic gives it a moment to be sure, and then snorts. He ducks his head down and presses a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter.

“Very smooth.” Ralof says dryly from beside him, arms crossed and brow raised. 

“Listen,” Dominic chuckles, lifting a hand as if to ward the man off. “It’s the only way to deal with her. She thinks she’s a little princess, and she’s spoiled like one too. If I treat her the way she secretly wants, I’ll receive way less instances of ‘accidentally’ being mistaken for a servant.”

“She wouldn’t do that…” Ralof raises a brow. “I mean, isn’t she the Jarl’s daughter?”

“She would.” At the entrance of the hall, Kyvor’s got his arms crossed over his chest. “Then she’ll tell you to get her a sweetroll, and throw a tantrum when you tell her that you’ve got patrol to get to.”

“Or, she’ll tell you not to forget,” Dominic tilts his head back to put his nose into the air and gazes down at them from behind it, “that she likes her meat rare .”

The guard on the wall coughs again, this time into his gauntlet. It sounds a lot like laughter. 

Kyvor tilts his head to the side, gazing at Dominic thoughtfully, while Ralof just shakes his head.

“So, you’ve been to Whiterun quite a bit.” The Stormcloak says. “Enough to be very familiar with it?”

They continue down the hall. 

“Not very recently, no.” Dominic says slowly, peering at the two men from the corner of his eyes to gauge their expressions as he speaks. “In fact, a lot has changed since I was last here. I was a little startled when we came in yesterday.”

Kyvor grunts, shaking his head. “You’re talking about the railcarts. If you want to know what that’s all about, seek out the court wizard. It’s already been over a year and he still can’t stop raving about them to anyone who will listen. He’ll be glad to have you.”

“That does sound like something Farengar would be excited about.” Dominic agrees. 

“Hm.” Kyvor says, glancing Dominic up and down with a thoughtful look. 

A thrill races through Dominic’s chest, and he takes a careful breath. Ignoring the way that Ralof is suddenly peering rather closely at his face, Dominic grips his elbow tightly, mimicking a subtle self-soothing action. 

The guardsman is eyeing Dominic sideways. 

“About that…” Kyvor begins slowly. “Do I know you?”

Dominic snorts. “Hm. Given recent experience — no, probably not.”

“Probably not?” Kyvor frowns. “Then… do you know me ?”

“Yeah.” Dominic waves a little bit absently. “Hi.”

From the corner of his vision, he sees Ralof pressing his face into both his palms, shoulders slumped. 

Dominic narrows his eyes. What? 

“ How do you know me?” Even Kyvor is beginning to sound exasperated with his non-answers. 

Dominic wants to pout. Rude, everyone here is so rude. 

“I’ve met you before, that's all.” He grumbles. “Hey, do you need to know? Just because you don’t remember, now I need to tell you? Well, I don’t want to.”

“But —“

“Does it really matter?”

Ralof gives a loud sigh, and steps in between the two of them. “Ser Kyvor, I apologize, but if you don’t mind then perhaps I can explain it all to you later? It’s only…” Ralof glances toward Dominic, who curls his hands into fists and looks away. “Well, that is, if you don’t mind.”

“Hm.” Kyvor pauses for a moment, and Dominic can feel his searching stare on the side of his head. “Well…. Sorry to bother you then, Ser.”

“It’s not a bother at all!“ Ralof is quick to assure him, and suddenly Dominic feels guilty, because isn’t that exactly what it is? To both Ralof and Kyvor? 

Except, it’s all on purpose, too. Dominic drew Kyvor in with misdirection, and now Ralof is stepping in on his own to help Dominic keep his role stable without even knowing the truth.

Dominic slows his steps and frowns down at the floor, where his feet have come to a stop. 

It’s just a way of survival. He needs to remember that. 

It’s particularly hard lately, though, when these people all around him have proven and continue to prove that they aren’t just characters. 

Well… it’s not like Dominic asked Ralof to volunteer, right? 

Ralof did that all on his own. 

Dominic presses a hand over his eyes and purses his lips tightly. 

Damn it all. 

“Dominic?”

He flinches. Straightening up, Dominic coughs lightly into his palm and then lowers his hand, meeting Ralof’s concerned look with a sheepish expression. 

Beside him, Kyvor is frowning. 

“I won’t ask again, if it’s like that.” The guard says, sounding a little bit like he’s regretting something. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s — I’m sorry.” Dominic says tiredly. “Really, I don’t… It’s not that you can’t know, it’s just that I’m tired of having to explain it again and again , and….” He scrubs at his face with both hands, sighing roughly. “I’m sorry, it’s rude.”

“It’s not rude .” Ralof refutes him, sounding irate. “It’s perfectly understandable, given the circumstances. Actually, Dominic, why don’t you go on ahead? I said I’d tell him anyway.”

Dominic groans. “Ralof, you don’t have to do that—“

“I want to, you dolt.” Ralof kicks him in the leg, and Dominic jerks back, hissing. “Go on, get.”

“Ow! Don’t kick me —!”

“Go on!”

“Okay, okay! Ow! Ralof!”

Well, that’s that then. Best not to think about it at all.

Actually, best to forget about this and think about something else entirely. 

Dominic hops on one foot for a few steps, casting a glare back at the Stormcloak before turning and making his way out of the corridor and into the larger hall of Dragonsreach. 

He’s grateful to the blond, nonetheless. While he does feel bad, Ralof did volunteer, and one less time repeating himself is more time for Dominic to pursue other avenues of interest. 

Such as, well, the fucking trolley system in goddamn Skyrim. 

The more that he thinks about it, the more confused he gets. The only conceivable place in all of Tamriel to find anything like such a contraption would be the various Dwemer ruins that spot the map. At least, that’s what Dominic would have thought before he entered the fair city of the dragon-trapping castle. Not only does Whiterun have trollies, but they have an entire s ystem in place that is clearly used by the general public and has been around for, if the context he’s gathered so far is correct, at least little over a year. 

Thankfully, this fits in with the character history that Dominic has vaguely implied to anyone thus far — the fact that he hasn’t been in Skyrim at all in the last year, and was presumably traveling largely outside of the country for an indeterminate amount of time beforehand, as well. 

Given all of this, it’s not exactly weird or suspicious that Dominic was surprised over the fact that Whiterun has not only invented a brand new mode of public transportation but also has had it installed and widely used as a part of everyday life as well. 

The thing is, it also speaks for the future that he was surprised at all. Just because his ignorance has been thankfully excused this one time doesn’t mean that the next big thing in this fantasy world that Dominic doesn’t expect isn’t going to bite him and his self-given role in the ass. 

He needs information. 

And the best place to get information? 

Obviously, that would be a person who loves the sound of their own voice. 

Now, there’s multiple levels of these types of people. They can know nothing themselves, and be generally useless aside from a few key points that they don’t even realize they have. But what Dominic requires in this instance is someone on the far other end of the spectrum — chatty, and in a position to know a lot about everything. 

Which really describes Farengar Secret-Fire to a T. 

Luckily, the court mage’s study is in the same general location as Dominic remembers it being, even with all the extra additions of reality. He steps in through the large, doorless threshold and finds the hooded man he’s looking for buried deep under a good few towering stacks of paperwork, muttering away. 

Dominic leans against the door post and crosses his arms, head tilted to the side as he watches Farengar in his element. Maybe he’s a little basic, but Farengar’s always been a favorite character of his. It’s probably the sarcasm, Dominic has always been incredibly weak to dry wit, especially if it’s from an awkward and flighty personality. There’s just something that’s really funny about the combination that always puts him at ease. 

“So comes the mighty dragon tamer, here to grace my humble offices.” 

Dominic is drawn out of his thoughts as Farengar finally addresses him. He glances up to see the mage set aside the parchment that he’d been furiously scribbling notes in, and finds the man gazing up at him from the shadows of his hood. 

It’s a nice hood, too. The textiles are kind of fashionable. Dominic will have to see if he can get one for himself, later. Though, probably not in the same purple Farengar is decked in. Maybe a nice, muted teal. Ah, but maybe that would be expensive?

Hm… Dominic doesn’t really have much money, does he? 

Blinking, Dominic tilts his head to the other side. Does he have any money, at all? 

Hm. 

“What brings such a remarkable individual such as yourself here?” Farengar brings Dominic’s attention back to him. 

A wide grin steals across Dominic’s face. 

“You flatter me more than I expected, Farengar.” He says. “Surely, I’m not anything enough to catch your interest.”

“The rumor mill would say otherwise.” Farengar leans back in his seat and sets aside the charcoal stick he’d been writing with. “It’s good that you came here. I was going to ask that you visit me, as I have something to request of you.”

“Oh? Secret-Fire wants a favor from me? Do tell.”

Farengar squints at him, eyes examining him up and down. Dominic might have felt like he was being checked out, if he didn’t already know that Farengar probably had no idea what his gaze could be mistaken for. 

People who bury themselves in books tend not to, after all. 

“You’ve dealt with, if the rumors are to be believed, two dragons now.”

“Dealt with is really a bit of a stretch.” Dominic admits. “But yes, I have witnessed two, now.”

“If I weren’t an old acquaintance of Helgen’s headman, I might not have put much belief in the rumors. Fjord has told me a lot about you.”

Dominic pauses. He presses a palm against his forehead and then drags the hand down his face, cradling his jaw in exasperation. Fjord, huh? Not that guy again. 

“He exaggerates far too much.” He warns. 

Farengar is smirking at him. “I know. But he’s also a terrible liar with the imagination of a particularly observant bird. That is to say, he’s not one to make up anything too fantastical to be true. So, I’ve heard all about your dragon escapades, Ser Moriah, and I have something of a proposition for you.”

“Mm, you’re propositioning me?” Dominic rubs at his chin and laughs. “Okay, I’ll listen.”

He laughs again when Farengar casts him the driest of dry looks and rolls his eyes. 

“I’m after an artifact that might lend a bit more knowledge on the topic of dragons, should I be able to decipher it.” The mage says, and Dominic drops his hand down to lean forward with an interested look on his face. “It’s a stone tablet, buried in an old Nordic tomb that’s actually rather close by. You could call it a Dragonstone, perhaps. On it are records of ancient dragon burial sites. Curious, isn’t it? Hidden within a grave, a map to numerous other graves.”

“I think it’s more curious that you want that map to numerous other graves.” Dominic says, staring at Farengar with his arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me your thoughts?”

Farengar pauses. He glances down at the desk he sits at, the veritable mess as it is, covered in loose pages of parchment and a number of scrolls and worn, faded tomes. 

To Dominic, it sort of looks like a conspiracy board, just laid out on a table instead of being strung up. 

“Dragons haven’t existed for centuries.” Farengar begins slowly, peeking up at Dominic from under his hood. “So long, in fact, that they have been demoted from fact to fiction. If you’d asked me only a few months ago if I believed that dragons still existed, I’d have called you a fool.”

“You’d call me a fool today, as well.” Dominic points out dryly. “It isn’t like you care for a reason?”

A snicker steals out of Farengar’s mouth, and he raises a fist to cover it with a cough. “Well.”

“Well!” Dominic echoes slyly. Then, “ Still existed?” He asks, raising a brow. 

A smirk. “Stories don’t just come from nothing. I wouldn’t have admitted it back then, but I’ve never discredited any of the myths.”

“Hm.” Dominic tilts his head, and then nods. “Fair enough. Now, what’s this about a map?”

“Yes, the dragonstone. It actually isn’t that far, perhaps a week’s trip. Near Riverwood. That mountain to the northwest?”

“I was just in Riverwood.” Dominic stated flatly. 

Farengar blinks. “Well, then you know exactly the place I speak of, don’t you?”

“Bleak Falls Barrow.” Dominic shrugs. “Farengar, I’ll be honest with you. A group of fellows from the soldiers just outside the city right now went through and cleared the place out just recently.”

Farengar sits up. He presses his hands flat to the desk and stands, pinning Dominic with a steely eye. 

“Did they find anything?”

“A lot of draugr, I’m sure.”

The mage waves a hand. “That’s to be expected. What else?”

“I haven’t quite sat through and listened to their tale, now that I think about it.” Dominic admits, a little sheepishly. He probably should have, but he’d been busy being ‘reintroduced’ to Riverwood by Camilla, Sven and Faendal. “I do believe I heard something about a large stone wall, with carvings etched into it? I could ask the men that went if they found anything else like what you’re talking about, I’m sure they’d greatly enjoy regaling me with their adventure.”

Dominic had initially spared a thought toward asking the soldiers if they’d found the dragonstone during their dungeon clear, of course. He’d ended up not doing so, however, due to anxiety. 

Not the nerves of talking to them, no. The nerves that came from the foreknowledge he has on this world, on this story. And the idea that, by taking the dragonstone to Whiterun on purpose, Dominic would be tearing apart a can of worms that he never wanted opened in the first place. 

What if it was like a key that opened a door? Dominic hadn’t ventured down into Bleak Falls Barrow for a reason, and it wasn’t entirely because he was still recuperating from his chat with Alduin. It also wasn’t because he wasn’t ready to see any zombies. 

Well, maybe a little. 

It was similar to the reason that Dominic had been a little on edge the entire journey to Whiterun, especially so once they came across the fight against the giant, against Kog , just like you did in the game quest. 

The possibility that other things might go exactly as they did in the game, with Dominic helpless to stop it all — helpless, but to follow along to a script outside his own choice and control…

He’d really rather not. 

It’s different, if it’s a play. It’s different, because it’s real . 

“That would be wonderful.” Farengar nods decisively. “Please do. I’d hear all about it myself, though I’m not sure I’d truly want to. They just go down there to fight the draugr, have a little adventure for themselves, did they?”

“In fact, they ended up going through it in search of a family heirloom that had been stolen by a company of bandits.” Dominic gently scolds. 

“Hmph.” Farengar scoffs, looking back down toward his sprawling research. “The noble hero type, then.”

Smothering a chuckle, Dominic slides into the room. He settles himself into a chair on the other side of the table from Farengar, and regards the mage with an inquisitive stare. 

“I’ll make my way out toward the encampment this evening to ask them about the tablet. Actually, I came here for a different conversation.”

“I give the mighty dragon tamer a dragon-centric investigation, and it’s not good enough for him.” Farengar muses mockingly, running at his chin in sarcastic thought. “Now that’s curious.”

Dominic presses out an aggrieved sigh. “It’s annoying to be called that, especially seeing as how it’s absolutely not true in the least.”

“Oh, so he is humble , too.”

“Stop that.” Dominic narrows his eyes. He rests his chin on his fist, elbow planted on the chair’s wooden arm. “Dragons cannot be tamed, so I find the moniker very silly. That’s all.”

“That’s all.” Farengar nods, but Dominic can tell the mage isn’t convinced, and he nearly groans. What is up with everyone? He dreads the day that one of the dragons catches wind of this stupid nickname the joor have been calling him by. They wouldn’t be pleased in the least. More like pissed off, in fact, enough for another Helgen incident. 

“So?”

“Well.” Dominic purses his lips, still feeling a little irritated. “See, I haven’t been in Skyrim for over a year, closer to two. I was taken by surprise when I came into the city proper the other day. It’s changed a lot.”

“You don’t strike me as one for small talk,” Farengar points out with a soft frown. 

“And you struck me as one who can read between lines a bit better than you’ve shown.” Dominic has to laugh. He covers his mouth with his fingers and grins into them, eyes crinkling in humor, though on the inside he’s a bit annoyed that Farengar is making him come right out and say it plainly. “I’m asking about the trolley system?”

“Oh.” Farengar coughs, glancing away for a moment. Then, his eyes brighten under his hood, and he takes his seat again. “Oh, yes! Isn’t it brilliant? It’s the result of the civil engineering study program Jarl Balgruuf signed off on with MIT two years ago, and it was just put into effect at the beginning of last year.”

“Mm.” Dominic makes a sound of interest, staring at the mage with a look of appreciation. Inwardly, however, he’s yelling indecipherably. “With MIT?”

MIT? Is it the MIT Dominic is thinking of? No, it can’t be. He’s in fantasy, magic Viking land. There can’t be an MIT.

“Yes, the Institute has a faction of students that are focused on the practical application of civil engineering — that is to say, how can the knowledge gained from the study of dwemer ruins be used in the modern age?” Farengar explains, a light of excitement in his eyes that hadn’t been there even when he’d been talking about the Dragonstone. “The trolley cart is only one of their projects, and I must say it has improved the quality of life for a great many people. It’s a wonderful thing.”

The Institute . 

“I can’t say I paid much mind to the results of the Institute’s studies,” Dominic says slowly, mind going at breakneck speeds with the new information he’s gleaning. “Which is remiss of me, now that I think about it. While I admit my attention was elsewhere for the most part, well… isn’t it very interesting, actually? Something you’d only ever be able to see deep in the ruins, but now it’s used by just anyone wanting to go for a quick trip to the middle market. Actually, that’s kind of insane.”

“It’s extremely fascinating. I won’t bore you with the particulars, even if they are simply marvelous to consider — despite being a year, I am still captivated almost as much as I was by the results of the plumbing circuit project that revolutionized the average statistics of city cleanliness in Skyrim.”

So, that's the reason behind the oddly modern plumbing he’s seen at the inn!

“Farengar,” Dominic laughs, eyes lit with a near burning fire that definitely wasn’t slightly hysterical whatsoever, shut up. “You could never bore me with the particulars. I love listening to you talk. Please, continue.”

The mage coughs so hard that he sputters, eyes riveted on a small spot against the far wall and face a ruby shade of red. 

As bewildered by the apparent technological advancements that this Skyrim has against the Skyrim that Dominic is more familiar with, he still can’t help the smile curving up at the corners of his lips. 

It’s just a lot of fun to be sincere toward people like Farengar — sarcastic, dry humor and a personality that’s just shy of abrasive, but they can’t take a compliment for the life of them. 

With a bit more prodding, Farengar opens up like a book — an encyclopedia, if you will — of all the different projects that MIT, the Markarth Institute of Technologies, has instigated over the last two decades. Along with the two big winners, that being the trolley system and the ‘plumbing circuitry’ that is now widely-used in most major cities in Skyrim. There were also various smaller projects that did not gain as much fame or traction but were no less interesting or ingenious. Steam houses, a concept for conveyor belts, heated floors, and there was even a roomba. It wasn’t called a roomba, of course, but it was definitely a prototype of a roomba. For fuck’s sake. 

What Dominic found most confusing about all of this, though, is the small fact that a lot of this technology was simple reverse-engineering and inventiveness that went hand-in-hand with… well, magic. 

As far as Dominic knew, magic wasn’t exactly a top career in Skyrim. In fact, he distinctly recalls it being not at all that popular? Just look at the College of Winterhold, severely underfunded, which was majorly due to the fact that the study of magic was not seen as worth the time or effort to the greater populace. Dominic just finds it incredibly difficult to suspend his disbelief that the people of Skyrim, who in the source material he’d learnt from disliked magic to the point that it was nearly ostracized by certain groups, would let mages run about conducting studies out in the open. That they would then take the results of such studies and make them easily accessible commodities in every establishment. These products of magic, something that was the subject of mistrust and scorn to the vast (Nord) majority…. 

Actually, that might have something to do with it? 

In the game, a good percent of the NPCs you come across are strictly Nord, which Dominic is sure was just laziness on the part of the game developers. However, in the month he’s been here, Dominic has only been to three settlements and the ratio of people he’s met has been… well… a lot more diverse than that. 

It wasn’t even just the fact that there are other races — though there’s the distinct lack of Khajiit, which he still finds disappointing — but the fact that a lot of the people Dominic has met and seen in this fantasy world are clearly the product of mixed parentage. 

Sure, the prejudices are still there, that much is plainly obvious. Dominic can’t fool himself into thinking there aren’t any — all he has to do is recall Ralof’s reaction to Shakdur’s flirting back at the tavern. But, there’s a lot more people, of a lot more variety than just your basic flavors. 

It’s enough that Dominic, with his Redguard red hair and darker skin but with the wrong bone structure underneath, isn’t too out of place at all. 

It’s kind of a relief. 

More than kind of. He didn’t let himself think about it, not with a dragon after his ass in the beginning.But in the quiet moments in between, Dominic is glad he hasn’t had to explain and act his way through accusations of being Too Different. Or just wrong altogether. 

He dealt with that enough back home, he didn’t want to deal with it in Dragonland too. 

Dominic rests his elbow on the table in front of him and pillows his chin back into his open palm, watching with a small smile as Farengar animatedly continues his lecture about the numerous advancements that MIT has brought to society. Why, if the mage wasn’t a proud alumni of the College, he might have sought a career for himself in Markarth! As it is, just witnessing the revolutionary studies of the MIT students is a joy enough. 

Maybe that is it. 

With a more bountiful diversity, the caged walls of segregation are a lot more lax, and societal progress is only born from the minds of people who don’t have to worry as much about such things. 

It’s good to hear. Secretly, he’s been a bit worried, especially after that conversation back at the tavern, but it seems he was thinking too deeply about it after all. 

But despite his relief, he has to admit. In the end, that’s just another difference between this world and the one Dominic thought he knew everything about. 

It’s just another glaring hole in his knowledge, a flaw to his cover, his role . 

What the hell is he supposed to do if he can’t play his role correctly, convincingly? After all, his audience is the entire world. Its every person he’s met so far and will meet going forward. He can’t allow even something like this to slip past him. 

So, connivingly enough that he’ll probably feel bad about it later, Dominic takes advantage of Farengar’s eagerness to finally have an attentive listener to grill the mage about as much as he can conceivably get away with. 

After all, someone who loves to know a lot about everything and doesn’t often get to show it is the perfect unknowing informant. 

Chapter Text

Dominic exits Farengar’s study feeling like his head has been stuffed with cotton. 

Or, maybe all of him has been stuffed with cotton. He’s been feeling weirdly stiff ever since Mirmulnir had flown off into the sunset and left him to deal with all the joor politics. He’s walking steadily on both feet, sure, but all Dominic really wants is to lie himself down on one of the many ornate benches that line the corridors of Dragonsreach and take a nap.

Regardless of how he might feel now, Dominic also leaves Farengar’s study feeling a lot better prepared for the world than he had going into it. He hadn’t gotten a crash course on everything different than the vanilla game he was familiar with, but…

He knows the stage a bit better now compared to before when he’d been stumbling across it near blindly, and with better knowledge of the stage comes a more rounded-act from all characters that walk it. 

In Farengar, Dominic’s found a spot of reassurance. He can stand upright again and isn’t as afraid of tripping anymore. It could still happen, of course — it always can. But Dominic is good. He’s damned good. He knows it, and everyone he’s ever acted with knows it too. 

This world is a grand stage, and Dominic refuses to let it get the better of him. 

Maybe it’s that stubbornness in him. The kind that he learnt from his mom. But just the thought of losing to — to whatever this crazy situation he’s found himself in — it burns . 

It makes Dominic kind of angry. 

He breathes in slowly through his nose, pressing his eyes closed for a brief moment to pull himself out of this introspective state. That’s personal and, right now, Dominic is —

Dominic isn’t sure.

Dominic is on stage . He won’t slip up, he can’t. There was no rehearsal, and this is all improv, but that’s always been his strong suit. 

He makes his way to the massive, double carven wood doors that make up the entrance to Dragonsreach, and it’s as he’s crossing the meal hall — is it more of a lobby, almost? The throne is kind of right there — that he is accosted by a member of the audience he acts for. 

“Ser Moriah!” A jovial man dressed in a smart-looking navy blue robe calls out to him, one hand raised up in greeting. And to show off a number of shiny rings, too. “A blessed day it is, to run into someone like you.”

Ah, pandering. Dominic smiles, a beaming thing that brightens his entire countenance and lowers the guard of the person at the other end of it. Jovial man — some official, maybe? — blinks, and then widens his own smile as if he’s trying to match Dominic friendliness for friendliness. 

Simpering fool; that’s a type of person who is always fun to talk to. 

“Someone like me?” He asked, cheerfully. “And, who might that be?”

Jovial official waves his brightly bejeweled hand dismissively. “My! Your feats are a little too heroic for you to be so modest, young man! A hero should own up to his reputation, don’t you think?”

And your rings are a little too heavy for you to be swinging your hand about so avidly, sir? Dominic coughs politely into his fist and keeps the pleasant expression on his face. 

“A hero — which I am not, sir — is still a person, no? Arrogance is such an unattractive trait,” Dominic shakes his head, pleasantness transforming into a showman’s sorrow, “I would never dare to overstep my station.”

“A funny thing to say, for one who can tame dragons.” Jovial official replies. 

His bright eyes examine Dominic’s face for any sign of — well, anything , really. That’s kind of how this game works. 

Dominic blinks. He then frowns, and says, “I’m no dragon tamer, sir. Also, you have me at a disadvantage. Am I allowed to know who you are, or is this conversation to remain so unfair?”

“My manners!” It’s the jovial official’s turn to cough, and this time he looks rather sheepish. “You must forgive me, I was so excited to meet you that I got ahead of myself.”

“It happens to the best of us.” Dominic graciously nods.

“I am Lord Barnaby Hjoffingr.” He’s told. “I manage the council seat of the Cloud District. I can’t tell you how pleased I am with your timely arrival to Whiterun. Why, it was almost a divine occurrence! Fate!”

Instinctively, Dominic fights down the grimace that wants to twist at his mouth. Cloud District. That bougie place, so elite. Or, at least, Nazeem seemed to think so. That man talked out of his ass, though, and every line of dialogue was voiced so condescendingly that it reminded Dominic of one of his friends at the dojo’s idiot uncle who occasionally would come by and talk about the trust fund he had overseas. 

Bleh. 

Dominic’s heard about the Cloud District too often to react any other way, really. If only he could never hear about it again….

If only he could Fus Ro Dah Nazeem straight out of Whiterun….

Hm. He lives here now, though. If he did that now while this world is real, it would count as aggravated assault, wouldn’t it? That would make Dominic a criminal, right?

Dominic eyes Lord Barnaby Hjoffingr with a calculated stare, silent just long enough that the man is starting to look uncomfortable. 

“Pleased to meet you as well.” Dominic finally says. “Anyone who can manage the Cloud District must be quite the person himself.”

Lord Hjoffingr puffs out his chest like a turkey, proud as a peacock. 

“There, there. No need to flatter, my boy!” Hm, gross! Dominic wants to leave now, actually. “I really just wanted to —“

“Oh, my!” Someone else pipes up, the gasp straight out of a period drama. “Is that Ser Moriah? How delightful!”

Suddenly, several other voices join in, all climbing over each other as the other nobility that meander around the great hall of Dragonsreach realize the celebrity in their midsts and start to migrate over. Crowding him. Oh, yes, truly delightful, really! 

“What are the chances, really—“

“You are the dragon tamer I’ve heard so much about? Why, your reputation precedes you—“

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind lending an ear, I’ve some concerns myself about those scaly beasts!”

“Ser Moriah, would you mind—?”

“You wouldn’t possibly remember me, would you, dear?” 

At the last one, Dominic stiffens his expression a bit, and takes a small step back. He’s still smiling, and while it looks the same as before, the energy behind it is altogether different. Less pandering, more chilly. More unamused. 

“Well, I—“

“That’s enough, Lady Enois.” A gruff voice says. 

A rather burly man, tall and dressed in simple but well made gambeson, has one hand on the arm of the noble lady who had spoken. 

She makes a face at him, half pout and half displeasure. “Now, Thane Roviir, don’t be like that!”

Thane Roviir just shakes his head solemnly. He doesn’t even look in Dominic’s direction, half turned away. 

Good man. 

Lord Barnaby coughs, eyes flitting from Dominic’s stiff expression to Lady Enois to the thane and back. “Ehem, Ser Moriah…”

“I apologize.” Dominic cuts him off, smile shrinking down to something less stainuous to maintain. “I have matters to attend to.”

“Well — Yes, ser, of course, but—“

“I’ll take my leave now.”

Lord Barnaby’s voice fails him after being interrupted a second time, and the official only bobs his head in a nod, looking uneasy. Thane Roviir gently pushes the noble lady back, and she allows him, looking regretful — not in the way that she feels bad, but in the way that she’d made a play and it hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped. In fact, the other nobility around them are looking toward her with frowns and shaking their heads. 

“Some people just have a lot of nerve,” one of them mutters. 

Dominic squares his shoulders and turns his head to look toward the door. He removes his arms from where they’ve been crossed over his chest — body language is a very important factor, after all — and doesn’t look back at the group when he walks out. 

“I hate bureaucracy.” He grumbles under his breath.

“Well, it loves you.” 

Startled, Dominic raises his head and blinks. 

Two people stand outside the doors of Dragonsreach, leaning against a pillar of the outer gate. Their postures are identical — irreverent and almost rude, gaining the baleful stare of the two guards that are stationed at the entrance. 

“Your a shining star in their eyes, milord.” The woman of the pair says, gleeful. “Fresh meat, if you will!”

“I won’t. Also, I’m no ‘lord’, so stop that before it gets out of hand.” Dominic says, brows raised. “What are you doing here, Lovellogast?”

The man shrugs off the pillar, the woman quick to follow his lead, and they both walk up to him. 

“General wants to speak with you.” The man says. 

“Wants to talk about the dragon, I’d wager.” Says the woman. 

“Wants to check up on you, too. He’s a mother hen, if anyone is.”

“Corporal Amaranthe takes after him well, it really shows.”

Dominic squints. “I thought he was a private?”

“Got promoted, he did.” The woman beams. “Good on him, too. He’s always been a hard worker, that one.”

“S’about time, really.” The man nods. 

“Oh, that’s great.” Dominic says, surprised. 

“Sure is. Now, we’re here to escort you.” The man says. 

“But, I know where the camp is?” 

“The general wants to talk to you today, not later.” The woman explains. “You go down bunny trails, we let you lead and we’ll get to the camp after sundown.”

Dominic gapes. “What — I do not!”

Lovellogast exchanges a glance, brows raised and looking supremely amused. 

“We heard about the falmer den on the road to Whiterun.”

Wow. “That wasn’t my fault.”

“The troll cave, too.”

Dominic pauses. 

“I had nothing to do with that.” He says, unconvincingly. 

The woman squints. “There was also the hounds, on the way to Riverwood.”

“I was literally unconscious for that entire trip.” Dominic scowls. 

The two snicker, and start down the walkway to the bridge that crosses the moat. 

“Then we ain’t here to escort you.” The woman says. “Just along for the ride. Seems like it’s always fun with you around, and we been quite bored since you scared off that dragon, haven’t we, Volgast?”

“Sure have, Volgast.”

“I didn’t scare Mirmulnir off, I — Ugh . Nevermind.” Dominic throws his hands up in frustration, fighting off the smile that’s curling unwillingly at the corners of his mouth. 

“Hurry up, ser.” The man calls over his shoulder. “Don’t get lost, now.”

“Prats.” Dominic mutters, quickening his step to catch up and leaving the two very bemused guards behind. 

Despite knowing the way to the Imperial encampment — which, yes, Lovellogast, he does — Dominic allows the pair of rogues to lead him through the city. 

And there are bunny trails. Lots of them. And Dominic isn’t the one to go down them, no — these two numbskulls are the real culprits. 

“We just following in your great and mighty footsteps, ser.” The woman demurs grandly, arms full of firewood. 

“A hero helps all, be they noble or peasant.” The man’s tone carries the same somber note that is in everything he says, but Dominic can see the mischievous glint in his eye as he follows a step behind them, arms laden similarly with logs. “And, word is that the dragon tamer is a humble man! This is just the job.”

“I’m not a hero.” He complains for the nth time. “Didn’t we have an appointment with Aedr— the general? You two are just bullying me. I’m going to complain to him.”

“You saw that old bag.” The woman casts him a woeful expression. “She has a bad hip! Couldn’t even walk to the door. Their house be cold as tits. Her grandboy was right to ask us to do this for them. Who else?”

“We were there,” the man nods. “Had to be us. How would you sleep at night if you didn’t?”

Dominic’s arms burn. Wood’s heavy, okay? His legs burn, too. He’s done a lot more walking (and running, goddammit) today than he’d expected. His core, as well. His ribs are twinging again, and he’s tired. 

He’d fought a fucking dragon this morning, what else? What else?!

“I drop these logs and then we go to the gates.” He warns. “We have found a lost dog, broken into someone’s manor to retrieve a stolen heirloom — which totally won’t have any consequences for us later, I’m sure — and uncovered a burglary ring in the lower market. It’s almost sundown, and it’s your faults. I am officially out of bunny trail ability. My bunny trail schedule is booked, and this was the last one. Take me to Tullius, or I will cry right now.”

“I bet you cry pretty.” The woman laughs. Then yelps and goes down in a cascade of firewood when Dominic stretches out a leg to trip her. 

“Probably.” The man says.

He makes no move to help his partner up, just walking on to deposit his own armful into the tiny woodshed that sits adjacent to some old woman’s shoddy little side-market house. 

Dominic does the same, letting the small cut logs tumble out of his arms and onto the stack. He rolls his shoulders, wincing a bit at the increasing stiffness that these last few adventures have added to them, and turns around to find the man dutifully helping the woman pick up her fallen logs from the dirt. 

Dominic snorts. These two, as wretchedly awful as they are, are cute in a way. Their dynamic is frankly fascinating to watch from the outside. And good for a laugh, there is no doubt of that. 

Just… not at Dominic’s expense, please?

Next time, he’d prefer to observe their little show from a standpoint that’s further away. A lot further away. 

“That’s the last of it!” The woman calls happily to the little boy that watches them from the door of the house.

The kid grins and waves back, shyly ducking out of the house and running up to them. He presses a roll of warm bread into each of their hands and then dashes back into the house, disappearing. 

“Ooh, freshly baked.” The man cooes, and proceeds to stuff the entire thing into his mouth. 

“Thank you, granny!” The woman shouts into the house, waving her roll. “Smells delicious! Stay warm, now!”

Dominic raises the roll up to his face and takes a whiff. Fresh bread is the best… he takes a bite and hums, a little less annoyed than he was just a moment ago. 

Still. “No more. Take me to the camp. Now.”

The man tugs on the woman’s arm, dragging her away from the bread making granny’s house. 

“Baby’s tired, Lovell.” He announces. “Time to go.”

“Gotta get him back to the mother hen.” She replies seriously. “So he can look him over and stop pacing the camp. Making the rest of us right paranoid, he is.”

“Right you are.”

“Why, thank you, Lovell.”

“I’m Volgast.”

“Oh, what a coincidence, so am I!”

Dominic groans.

The tent that’s been set up for their revered general is a rather nice one, furs laid out on the tarp covering the dirt ground and lining the walls. A table sits to one side, a series of papers and a book or two laid out over a thick cloth map. There’s a cot set up behind a pair of standing curtains on the other side. 

Tullius sits at the table now, one leg crossed over the other and head cocked to the side as he looks Dominic over with a steely gaze as the redhead stands there in the middle of the fur carpet and wonders when this will get to the point. 

Not that he doesn’t want to stay and chat with Aedrian, his friend, of course not! Dominic is just tired. That cot over there is looking more and more tempting as the seconds tick by. 

Tullius finishes examining Dominic’s face, and leans back in his chair, brows creating a deep furrow of his forehead. Dominic thinks it just naturally sits like that, though, and isn’t necessarily indication of a true frown. Aedrian Tullius is, after all, a rather severe man to begin with. 

“What are your plans, henceforth?” He suddenly asks. 

Dominic blinks. “Hm? My plans?”

Tullius nods. “I know you were intending to travel to Solitude with us after Whiterun. Is that still true?”

“I am going to Solitude.” Dominic replies immediately. “That hasn’t changed. I just figured it would be easier to go with the caravan than alone.”

“A den of falmer is much easier to handle with comrades.” The corner of Tullius’ mouth twitches upwards. 

Dominic crosses his arms, feeling greatly aggrieved. 

“You should fire Lovellogast.” He advises seriously. “They’re terrible.”

“Volgast and Lovell are experts in their field.” The general replies. “They’re two of my best archers. As… comedic and aggravating as they can be, it’s better to have them on hand than not.”

“Better to have them where you can keep an eye on them, you mean.” Dominic guesses. 

Tullius shakes his head, but he’s smiling, so Dominic considers himself correct and moves on. 

“Is that all you needed me for?”

“I’m composing the supplies manifest for the coming journey.” Tullius says. He picks up a charcoal pencil and writes a note on one of the papers on the table. “We have many mouths to feed, but even just one person changes the numbers by a good amount. It’s better to be prepared than to not.”

Dominic nods. Then, he purses his lips and lowers his head to think. 

“The supplies will come from the market?”

“At Jarl Balgruff’s expense.” Tullius says, and Dominic’s head shoots up to see him watching him closely. “The talk you had with him regarding Helgen stirred up patriotic feelings, it seems, and he desires to help the refugees in any way that he can. If that means dipping into his coffers a bit, then — we’ll, it is not as if he is lacking in that regard.”

“That’s kind of him.” Dominic replies automatically. 

Strictly speaking, it’s the least Balgruuf can do when these are his own citizens who have been displaced from their homes and lost everything they had. But to supply the soldiers who are escorting them out of his hold as well, when before Balgruuf had sternly wanted nothing to do with them…

That surely had nothing to do with anything Dominic had said to the man. Tullius himself was surely more to thank. 

“The coffers of Whiterun are renown to be quite fat.” The general says quietly. 

“So I have heard.”

He’s still watching Dominic with that stare, though. “One more mouth won’t change much.”

Oh. 

Dominic ducks his head, gaze averting to the floor. He feels a flush crawl across his cheeks, and he clears his throat a few times before falling silent. 

Tullius seems to see a little too much, sometimes. 

It makes Dominic almost afraid of the man — because, in that sense, if anyone is to ever see through Dominic’s grand lie, it should be someone like this. 

Staring at the floor, he says quietly, “I really am going to travel with the caravan. I wasn’t going to go alone.”

“The wilds have been a level more dangerous than in recent years, per surveys from the rangers.” Tullius replies. 

Dominic glances up at the man through his lashes. Tullius is turned, no longer facing him, but perusing the various papers that litter the table before him. He shuffles through a few, and doesn’t look up. 

“It’s better to leave the thought of traveling solo behind for now, whatever the case may be. It’s as I said; one more mouth to feed won’t make much of a difference besides in the numbers.”

“Of course.” Dominic replies. He closes his eyes, saying, “I prefer company, anyway.”

Tullius clears his throat. Dominic peeks and sees the man watching him in amusement. 

“Yes, that is all I wanted to speak about.” The man says. “Now, I hear that you were intending to teach the men a new game. I hope the gambling stays at a minimum.”

“The gambling, sure.” Dominic brightens. “Money doesn’t mean much for this one. I can’t promise there won’t be any bloodshed, though.”

Tullius glances at him, brow raised. 

“It’s always a possibility in Uno.” Dominic explains cheekily. 

Tullius sighs out a sound of amusement, before waving him away. 

“I’ve work to do, still. Begone with you.”

Dominic gives a very crisp salute, and turns on his heel to exit the tent. 

He pretends not to see the smile that stretches across the general’s face on his way out. 

Chapter Text

Soldiers are the same in any world. The bad ones. The good ones. The apathetic ones who might as well be the bad ones. 

Luckily, Dominic has seen less bad ones and mostly good ones here in this world, which gives it one leg up on his homeworld. Corruption ran rampant back there, and he had a front row seat to it. 

His front row seat has moved theaters, though. There’s a different play on, and the noticeable differences have actually been an overall nice experience. 

Not counting the falmer den, and the wolves. 

And Lovellogast. 

The point is, though, that Dominic had gone into the group of imperial soldiers gathered around the campfire with certain expectations born of his experience with soldiers back home, and he has to say he’s been pleasantly surprised. 

There is a distinct lack of uppity assholes!

That’s not to say there aren’t a good number of grumps, typically with bushy beards — every group has them. And beards. 

Dominic absently rubs a hand over his chin. 

Really, he feels a little naked, clean shaven while surrounded by all these thick and luscious beards. 

Look, that man has a grand collection of gorgeous braids in his! How very on-theme of him. 

Viking-Chad slaps a card down on the ‘board’ — a cheese cloth that’s been spread flat on the ground — and runs a hand underneath his beautiful braids. 

“Queen!” He crows. “That’s a skip!”

The soldier sitting to his left groans, half the deck held precariously between his hands. 

“Gerard, how many more of those you have? I’m gonna lose if I don’t get rid of any these lil’ bastards!” 

“I think you just got a bad bout of it today, Phineas.” Vinny, who sits next to Dominic, chuckles as she shuffles through her own hand. “Ger, what’s the house?”

“Oh, lessee…. Spades.”

“Ah, damn.” Vinny’s shoulders slump. She reaches for the draw pile. “You think because I’m sittin’ next to him Phineas’ luck is rubbin’ off on me?”

“Oh, fuck you—!”

“My turn!” Dominic chimes in, bright grin affixed. 

The soldiers eye him carefully. They have learned not to trust him when it comes to the game. They had started strong with ten men, and these three are the last standing. 

The chatter of their fallen compatriots grows quiet, and the defeated soldiers draw in tighter to encircle the group, peering down to see what might happen next. 

It’s not necessarily your regular game of uno. For starters, Uno cards don’t exist in Skyrim — but regular card decks do. The game plays easily enough with the trick cards assigned to the face cards.  

Dominic did have to create a rule, though. Quite a number of soldiers were interested in playing, but they only have one deck, so there aren’t a lot of cards to go around. Dominic amended that if someone is to acquire more than twenty five cards in their hand, they’ve lost the game and are thus out of the round. 

It did make it go a bit faster than your typical Uno game, so Dominic abolished that rule once the players got down to four, and the game reached the home stretch. 

This is also, coincidentally, when the most bets begin to be set. 

Dominic has decided he’ll forget to tell Tullius about that part, if the general is to ever ask. 

“I was just thinking, Gerard,” Dominic begins thoughtfully, playing idly with the card positioned on the top of his stack. “You’re being awfully mean to poor Phineas there…”

“Oh, Divines,” Gerard with the Braids scoffs. “He deserves it, you know!”

“Fuck off.” Phineas grumbles mutinously, struggling to hold the many cards he’d been cursed with. 

Dominic chuckles. 

He likes to play this game with his hand in a stack, his chosen strategy organized so that his next play sits at the bottom, covered by the rest of the cards. This makes it not only easier to hold, unlike poor Phineas’ problem, and it keeps the curious soldiers that have already been defeated from peeping and whispering around. 

Sliding the bottom card out from his stack, Dominic flips it over and places it on top of the pile.

“Ace!” Someone from the crowd hoots, and Gerard groans amidst the jeers it garners. “Pack ‘em in, Gerard!”

“Draw four, wild.” Dominic grins. “Let’s go with house of clubs.”

“Dammit, dammit…” Gerard grabs sullenly from the draw pile. 

“Taste yer own medicine, eh?” Phineas huffs. “Sour, innit?”

Beside him, Vinny stares down at Dominic’s hand with narrow eyes. 

Dominic grins. 

“Also!” He says, grin crawling into a smirk and everyone turns toward him once again. 

He holds up his last card. “Uno.”

“Godsdammit.” 

“Aw, fuck, we’re never gonna win at this rate…”

“What’s this, the fourth game? It’s rigged, it’s gotta be.”

“Ay, get off. You're just bitter because you were the first to go in game one and game two.”

“Shut up —!”

Dominic laughs. 

They go around again, and Vinny catches him with a queen of hearts, causing Dominic’s near victory to grow to a hand of three. That gets her a lot of slaps on the back and a promise of mead later from someone Dominic had beaten out of the round early with a little bit too much enthusiasm. Whoops. 

It’s a few more rounds before the game ends, Dominic conceding victory to Vinny while Gerard and Phineas bemoan their crushing defeat. The soldiers are all tearing to go another round, but Dominic begs off this one — it’s been a long fucking day, and he’s exhausted. 

He’d probably be less tired if it weren’t for Lovellogast, really — less sore, no doubt. Dominic did a lot more walking than he was anticipating today and now he is paying for it. 

Dominic leaves the soldiers to their fun, waving away a few offers of mead and one offer of someone’s tent — and he’s not entirely sure it was innocent. They weren’t bad-looking, either. If only he weren’t so tired…

He’s halfway back to the general’s tent to let Tullius know that Dominic was headed back inside the city when his chest got a little too tight. 

Dominic’s steps slow to a stop. He frowns, and presses his hand lightly over his diaphragm. He’s been having some tightness since they’d gotten to Whiterun, but it was never this bad. 

At first he had figured it was the leftover adrenaline from the dragon battle. In reality, it started before that. He hypothesized that it must have been strained muscles from the entire debacle with Kograthuc. He had gotten squeezed pretty tightly; any more and Dominic was sure the giant would have broken some ribs. He got off lucky. 

Except….

Dominic presses tightly against his chest, and is surprised by the rough cough that is forced out of him in doing so. He swallows thickly and rubs at his throat, becoming nervous when the oxygen won’t come in as easily as was before. 

Dominic blinks spots out of his vision, and he realizes he has fallen into a crouch against a stack of horse feed. He digs his fingers into the scratchy burlap of the bags, and hauls himself up to his feet. 

Too fast. Dominic’s vision flares white. The world shifts under his feet, like a rug has been pulled out from under him. He can feel the tug of gravity dragging him toward the ground. 

He’s about to eat dirt — he can almost already taste it — when a hand grabs him by the back of his shirt and hauls him up to prop against something not unlike a brick wall. 

A warm brick wall. 

Dominic tilts his head back and squints. “Uhm… Tyson?”

The newly-appointed corporal grunts. Dominic can see through bleary vision the hard stare he’s being treated to from under those thick eyebrows. 

“Every time I see you, something’s wrong.” Tyson mutters. His eyes narrow. “Are you cursed?”

“With good looks, yes.” Dominic replies immediately, a little breathlessly. “And a… charming personality. Keen intelligence, as well. Oh! And —“

Tyson shakes him a bit, still holding him by the back of the tunic like one would hold a misbehaving kitten. Dominic’s head spins. 

“And, uh,” he gasps, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “A lack of.. breath…”

There’s a pause, barely more than a second, before Dominic feels the world shift again — Tyson is sitting him down against the feed bags. 

Hmm, they’re oddly comfortable. 

“Are you injured?” Tyson asks, a little demandingly. He looks rather unimpressed. “I thought you saw a healer after the battle?”

Dominic blinks, and frowns. “For what? I didn’t get hurt during the battle, Tyson. I was fine.”

Tyson stares at him. 

“You should still see a healer after a battle.” The soldier lectures, eyebrows at a sharp incline down to meet in the middle. “Did you —?”

“No.” Dominic shakes his head. 

He shifts against the feed bags and winces slightly. There’s a building pressure against his lungs, and it’s very uncomfortable. It’s like he’s being buried under a massive weight. Dominic doesn’t like it. 

“No, I mean —“ Tyson taps Dominic’s shoulder to get his attention. His expression looks severe. “What about after the giant? Did you?”

Dominic blinks dots away. “Kograthuc didn’t hurt me, Tyson. I mean, almost, but I took a health potion, so I’m fine.”

“You took—?” Tyson rears back, and for some reason he looks aghast. “You can’t just take a health potion when you’re injured and call it good, Dominic! They’re aids for healing, not an immediate cure!”

Dominic frowns. “Oh.”

His head tilts back to rest against the burlap and he gazes up at the sky. Skyrim has a gorgeous night sky. You’d never be able to see anything like this back home.   

Tyson makes an impatient noise. 

“Divines… ” The man sighs. “Here, get up. I’m taking you to the temple.”

“I don’t wanna get up, Tyson.” Dominic says. “I’m tired.”

The soldier’s frown softens. “I know. Sorry, Dominic, but you really need to get seen by a healer.”

And with that, Tyson bodily hauls Dominic up and hooks one of his arms around his shoulders. 

So Dominic does make it to Tullius’ tent, finally, but it’s not all by his own power. 

Well, the ends justify the means, right?

“I left him alone for five minutes.” The general flatly voices when he sees them. 

“Sir.” Tyson nods his head somewhat formally. “It’s come to my attention that Dominic has not seen a healer.”

Tullius raises an eyebrow.

“Since Riverwood.”

Dominic curls into Tyson’s shoulder a bit at The Look Tullius aims at him after hearing that. He feels like a kid who's been caught skipping class. 

What is with this man and making Dominic feel like he’s some kid?

Tullius pushes away from the desk. He leans forward in his chair and plants his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled and a tired-looking expression of gravity on his face. 

“Let me see if I understand this correctly.” The general says. “You are barely half a month healed from being roughed up by a dragon — the dragon, if I’m to believe the legends — and you not only fight off a giant —“

“I didn’t fight Kog—“

Tullius holds up a hand. Dominic quiets, bottom lip jutting out mulishly. 

“You were manhandled by a giant, and then near immediately went to fight another dragon.”

“Which I won, by the way.” Dominic points out. “If anyone is keeping track. Peacefully resolved, not injured, no healer needed.”

“Oh, trust me. There are plenty of people ‘keeping track’.” Tullius says ominously. 

Dominic squints at him. That’s suspicious! Why would he say it like that?!

Dominic hopes he hasn’t just made himself a bed, here. He’d hate to lie in it. 

“The point is,” Tullius says, “you have been through hell, young man, and you haven’t seen a single healer? Riverwood does not count.” He ads before Dominic can even open his mouth. “Melanie was not certified, she was a washerwoman!”

Dominic closes his mouth again. He thinks about it all, and then shrugs lightly. 

He… doesn’t really have anything to say? He hasn’t realized. 

He did not think he needed it.

Dominic holds a hand to his ribs, and considers the reality — that his lungs are unable to contract fully, and breathing is hard. It didn’t necessarily hurt , but it was… concerning. 

Maybe he did need a healer. Something more than just potions. 

Maybe that was his issue, too. Dominic is still — still — thinking of this place as the video game he knows it from. Despite everything he has already experienced, Dominic lacks one thing everyone else he’s met here already has — the common sense of the world.

He isn’t from here. He doesn’t know how it works. 

He keeps making assumptions, and it’s going to end up getting him in serious trouble, soon .  

Dominic’s teeth press down into his bottom lip as he glances thoughtfully down at his midsection. 

Maybe it already has. 

Dominic reaches out and tugs at Tyson’s sleeve. 

The man leans down, expression attentive. “Dominic?”

“You said you were taking me to the temple.” Dominic says. He tries to not sound like he’s pouting as he pointedly avoids Tullius’s stare. “Why are we here? Just for him to yell at me? You’re mean, Tyson.”

Tyson looks wholly unimpressed — like usual. Man, it’s hard to get under this guy’s skin. 

“There is a hierarchy of command here that most of us try to respect.” Tyson patiently explains. “I need permission to leave the camp.” 

“I could be dying .” Dominic argues plaintively, eyes wide and glossy. “Would you still take time to get permission, if I was at death’s door?”

Tyson doesn’t bother answering, which Dominic thinks is quite rude. It’s a legitimate question!

“Consider that permission granted, Corporal.” Tullius says, sounding exhausted. “Get him examined. Let us hope this fool hasn’t spelled himself crippled due to his own stubbornness.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tyson nods his head in place of a salute, arms full as they are. 

Dominic really does pout this time, as he is hauled back out of the tent and into the crisp night air. 

Tyson drags him all the way through Whiterun’s walls and bundles him onto a trolley bound for the Temple of Kynareth. With seven other stops before theirs, the ride takes half an hour, but it’s a much shorter journey than it would have been on foot. 

Less jostling for Dominic’s poor lungs, as well. They’re getting heavier and heavier. 

He’s also feeling incredibly cold. Dominic tugs despondently as the too-light material of his tunic and wishes he had a coat or something. 

“What’s wrong now?” Tyson asks.

Dominic tosses him a sour look. 

“I’m cold. This shirt is too thin.”

“It’s a warm night.” Tyson frowns. He reaches out a hand to press to Dominic’s brow. “And you should be more grateful. That tunic was donated by one of the Helgen townspeople. They were worried about the burns on your chest, so they found the lightest tunic they could find that would not aggravate your wounds.”

Dominic blinks. He looks down at the shirt he’s wearing. He rubs the material of his sleeve between his fingers and purses his lips. 

He hadn’t really thought about where the clothes had come from. He’d just woken up in them, and carried on. They had been his only set for the journey to Whiterun, and even now — which isn’t all that uncommon, especially among travelers. You pack light for the journey and wash in rivers along the way, it’s more efficient. Changes of clothes were for the wardrobes at home, which Dominic doesn’t have. 

Dominic didn’t have clothes, either. It’s only reasonable, that the ones he is wearing didn’t just spawn from the ether. 

It’s not a fucking video game , Dominic. 

“Oh.” He says quietly. “That was… very nice of them.”

Tyson smiles slightly. “That’s what I said. They were happy to be able to help.”

Dominic nods slowly. He presses a fist to his mouth and coughs into it. 

A splatter of bright red paints his knuckles and thumb. It feels hot, like fire.

Dominic stares. “Um…?”

Tyson’s expression tightens. He presses a hand to Dominic’s shoulder and helps him stand up. 

“Come on, this is our stop.”

Dominic allows the soldier to lead him off the trolley and across the stone path to the temple. He doesn’t even look where he’s walking, too busy staring dumbly at the blood covering his hand. His blood. From inside of him. 

Not injured , my ass! What the hell is this?! When the fuck did this happen?

Did Dominic contract some sort of disease? He doesn’t exactly have any vaccinations for Skyrim’s plethora of illnesses. Well, neither does anyone else, probably — who knows, maybe the mysterious MIT has a medicine course and they’ve solved that issue — but Dominic wasn’t even born here! He doesn’t have the natural immunity.

Oh god, he had the Dawnguard DLC installed. What if he gets vampirism?

“Of course. Right this way.”

Dominic blinks out of his panic and finds that they are already inside the temple. 

It’s bigger than he remembers — like everything else in this godforsaken world — and the decor is understatedly grand but still somehow humble. Rows of stone beds like the main room that they stand in now, and tall pillars hold up the vaulted ceiling. 

The front opens up to the courtyard, and Dominic can just see the leaves of the Gildergreen moving in the wind and glittering faintly in the moonlight. 

Definitely befitting of the strongest of the sky deities. 

“Hello, dear.” An older woman dressed in the priestess robes of the temple is smiling at him. “With us now, are you? Why don’t you take a rest on this bed here while I have a look at you.”

Truthfully, Dominic has never handled doctors or hospitals particularly well. He was in and out of them as a kid, overly rambunctious and… disobedient. 

As a teen, he was completely reckless. The motorcycle he had now is not exactly his first — he barely came away in one piece from the first. 

As an adult, he never trusted the staff. There are too many memories of a time where a child was sitting on an examination table while his father loomed over him, talking with the doctor. 

They never listen to the kid. 

Dominic rubs a hand over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. 

Fuck, he’s tired. 

He lies down on the bed. 

Actually, for stone, it’s very comfortable? It’s not cold to the touch like he expected, and there’s a strange, invisible cushion padding his back from the hard surface. 

Dominic closes his eyes. If he ignores the quiet murmuring coming from other parts of the hall, he can almost imagine he’s in his bed at home. 

It just feels cozy, for some reason. Safe. 

“M-My goodness! ”

Dominic withholds a sigh. He peels his eyes back and glances over to the priestess, who was staring down at him with an astonished look, one hand held over her mouth. 

Oh, fuck. It’s true, isn’t it. He’s caught the vampire plague. 

Catching his eye, the priestess smooths out her expression and calmly lowers her hand. 

“Young man,” she says. “Might I ask a question?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Right this moment, are you in any pain?”

Tyson is right there so immediately the man may as well have teleported. There’s a scowl on his face, and it’s directed at Dominic. 

It’s not like Dominic asked to become a vampire, Tyson! He’s innocent! 

“What do you mean?”

The priestess shakes her head silently, looking at Dominic. 

“Well… no, actually? It’s a little uncomfortable, like a pressure bearing down on me. It’s hard to breathe — that’s why he dragged me here, actually. I guess my legs are sore, but I did a lot of walking today. Other than that… I wouldn’t actually say it hurts at all?”

Dominic can’t quite name the expression on the priestess’s face. There’s definitely some confusion there, and a thin line of horror. He can even see morbid fascination. 

“But, there’s something wrong?” Tyson presses. “He’s actually injured?”

The priestess frowns, looking between them worriedly. 

Dominic tilts his head back to peer up at them. 

“Am I dying?” He asks. 

“Oh, heavens no!” The priestess hurriedly waves her hands, as if to physically dispel the idea. “No, I just… there’s quite a bit of damage, dear, and you… You have just shown no sign of feeling any of it?”

Dominic stares at her. 

“What kind of damage?” He asks slowly. 

The priestess presses her lips together. Not quite nervousness — that’s just befuddlement. She isn’t sure what to make of him. 

Nonetheless, she dutifully lists out all his ailments. 

And it’s quite the list. 

Minute fractures spider along the bones of both his legs — no doubt from tussling with a giant toddler — and three of Dominic’s ribs are broken. One has managed to pierce both lungs, somehow, which explains the difficulty breathing and the coughing up blood. 

“Then, there is a horrid burn that has not quite had the chance to heal completely, it is…” the priestess continues, hand hovering over Dominic’s chest, “..here. There is some inflammation, it could be on its way to being infected.”

Dominic’s eyebrows shot up, whilst Tyson glared at him. “I thought that was basically done healing, though?”

“Hm, the top layer perhaps.” The priestess touches a finger to Dominic’s chest. There’s a brief pulse of — something , energy? Magic ? — and then she smiles. “The skin has many layers. There are some underneath that still require care. May I?”

Dominic has absolutely no idea what she is asking to do , but given the circumstance he is willing to go out on a limb and say it’s to help him. He gestures to himself, lying on the stone bed. 

“I’m all yours, ma’am.”

The priestess blinks, and then chuckles lightly. “Quite the charmer, are you? Now, allow me to ease some of the… discomfort that you are feeling, and then perhaps we can see if we can’t find the reason you are not feeling this pain, hm?”

Dominic lays back against the stone and allows the priestess to do her thing. His attention is captivated entirely by the sensation of — it must be her magic — as it runs along his limbs. It’s almost a soothing balm slowly encompassing his body like a blanket.  Not stifling, but definitely there . And moving . 

It’s kind of freaky. Dominic hasn’t decided if he likes it or not, but he doesn’t hate it. 

He closes his eyes to focus more on the sensation. Maybe if he can figure out how he feels in relation to someone else’s magic, he can figure out how to tap into his own? That he apparently has? 

Learning via observation, and all that. 

If closing his eyes also blocks out the unhappy look that Tyson is directing at him, then… well. 

Dominic has always been the type of person to kill two birds with one stone.