Not Alone (A Skyrim Fanfiction)

Chapter 23

     I sat in a corner of Candlehearth Hall, which had luckily escaped any damage.  Many surrounding buildings had not been so lucky, and a few people had died in the fire caused by the flame atronach.  The guards had worked half the night to put out the rising flames, and now many angry people had gathered outside the Palace of the Kings, demanding to know how a force had entered Windhelm of all cities and attacked the people right in the heart of it. 

     Not that I was thinking of any of this, of course.  I reached for another bottle of mead and downed half of it in one draft, my hand shaking slightly.  I would end up having far too many before the night was done, I knew, but I couldn’t take the headache caused by my frenzied use of the Death Shout any longer.  The buzz of the liquor was the only thing that stood between me and the skull splitting agony of the headache that had been going on since the night before, and I would drink until it killed me to keep it away.  I had spent the entirety of the day curled with my head between my knees in my room, and I couldn’t deal with it anymore.

     And it wasn’t just my head, either.  My shoulder also ached, the same one that Relonikiv had stabbed nearly a month ago.  It should have been long healed by now and I didn’t understand why it kept flaring up, but right now I could think of nothing except that it was multiplying my discomfort.

     The mead alleviated the pain but did nothing to stop the memories.  Gods, it had been years since I’d lost myself so completely.  What if Brynjolf or someone else from the Guild had been there?  I knew in that state I would have killed anyone who came too close.  And I had, too.  Everyone assumed the three guards who had also been found in the circle of death I had created were killed by the Summerset Shadows, but I knew better.  I had killed those guards with my uncontrolled Death Shout, and I would have done the same to anyone else who might have tried to approach me, be it friend or foe. 

     My head twinged painfully again and I finished off the bottle, almost dropping it as I went to set it back on the table.  I didn’t care if I ended up with a hangover headache as long as this Shout-induced one went away.

     A tear tried to escape down my cheek and I swiped it away angrily, wincing at the pain the sudden movement caused. 

     I couldn’t stop picturing Aetra’s death, that last expression of surprise and confusion and fear.  I had seen it a hundred times before on the face of every Stormcloak soldier that had died in battle, and I guessed one day soon I would wear it myself.  What was it like, that last second of life in which you realize you’re dying?  Did it hurt, or did all the pain and suffering life caused just fade away?  The souls at rest in Sovngarde had not seemed to be in pain or have any regrets.

     Aetra’s death hurt, sure, but it was everything on top of that that caused me more pain than the headache.  I was sick of people around me dying because of mistakes I had made. 

      My parents had died because I couldn’t run just a little bit faster.  Mirjoln had died because I left all those years ago.  Vipir had died because I had allowed him to go into that shop instead of me like we had originally planned.  Frea and her entire village had died because I failed to defeat Miraak in Apocrypha.  Last night Aetra had died because I told her it would make Brynjolf suspicious if she left the city. 

     I knew what survivor’s guilt was, but every single one of these cases was genuinely my fault.  No matter how powerful I became or what Shouts I learned I could never protect anyone, only get them killed.

     “By Talos, you look terrible.” 

     I would know that voice anywhere, and normally I would be thrilled to greet its owner, but right now I could just manage a small smile as I looked up from the empty bottle of mead at Ralof.  “Well, I feel worse.”  I rubbed my eyes.