#argonians4lyfe

[the-writing-kestrel-blog]

An Argonian Adoption

This is a series of vignettes about the life of an Argonian warrior and his unlikely adoption of a small human child. I wrote this as a reaction to the bizarre way Skyrim’s children approach the Dragonborn in the game. It started out as a one-off gag and evolved into a 7500 words story, because I suck at brevity. If you like Skyrim, stories about culture shock, or bipedal talking lizards, read on! Warning: some violence and gore, but mostly humor and fluff. 1. In Which Our Hero Encounters a Most Strange Creature

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian stopped abruptly at those words. Turning slowly, not willing to believe what he was hearing, he brought his baleful, reptilian gaze to bear upon a small, grimy, wretched human girl-hatchling.

She had the usual human features – bizarrely flat face, protruding nose, gigantic flaps for ears (not unlike the mammoths he encountered out on the plain). Her hair was long, and it was obvious some attempt had been made to keep it in check, but to an Argonian all hair looked strange and slightly repugnant.

“What did you ask me, human child?” The Argonian hissed, incredulous.

“Will you be my father?” The question was more plaintive this time. The little thing dug the toe of her ragged shoe in the dirt as she averted her eyes. “Please?”

The Argonian had a name that could not be pronounced without a prehensile tongue and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, but in the common Imperial tongue it was roughly translated as “Runs-On-Water”. Even among his own people he was considered to be independent and aloof, and here in Skyrim among the tiresome Nords he was ever more so.

His answer was as could be expected.

“No.”

He turned abruptly and walked away. A few steps later, he looked back over his shoulder, his gill-slits itching slightly as they did when he was being followed. To his shock, the little girl was following him!

“What do you want, human child?”

“Why are you wearing that armour in town?” The girl asked.

The Argonian stared at her. The mismatch of steel plate and chainmail he currently wore was spattered generously with dried blood and gore, the leather straps dried and brittle from the heat of dragon-fire. “What?”

“Your armour! Why do you wear it in town? Do you not have any clothes?”

The Argonian shrugged (a human movement he had grudgingly grown to like for its expressiveness). “No point in going anywhere without armour in this vile country.” Runs-on-Water muttered.

“...Ok,” the girl replied. “Can I have a septim? I want to buy some bread. I haven't eaten in days. Please?”

The Argonian hissed in annoyance and reached for his purse with a clawed hand. “If I give you five septims, will you go away and leave me alone?”

“Yes, sir!”

Runs-on-Water counted out the septims, placed them in the girl's hand, and leaned his reptilian head towards her until he was inches from her face. “Now. Leave.”

The girl squealed and scampered off. Runs-on-Water snorted and turned away. One of the guards was scowling at him. He made a gesture with his claw that implied the Nord's entire clutch were honourless bastards, but the cultureless human didn't understand.

Runs-on-Water stalked away, in a fouler mood than usual, heading to the armourer to get his armour cleaned and repaired.

* * *

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian whirled on the small human child. It was the second time she had snuck up on him in three days. This time, he'd just arrived back in town, hauling a huge bag of charred dragon bones over one shoulder. He was in a foul mood again – lugging hundreds of pounds of dragon bone down from the mountains did that to a lizard – and was in no mood for the child's games.

“Listen, tiny human hatchling. Look at me! What do you see?”

The girl looked up at him – Runs-on-Water knew what filled her gaze. A mottled green and brown reptilian face, eyes the colour of old blood, a half open maw filled with teeth, and a frill of spines protruding from the back of his head and neck.

The girl smiled sunnily at him. “The nice Argonian that gives me money for food every time he comes to town, and fights dragons and bandits and trolls to keep us all safe!”

Runs-on-Water was speechless. He fought dragons because the Hist-forsaken things seemed to stalk him wherever he went these days, and he killed bandits mostly for loot and because they were an inconvenience to him as he went from town to town. He didn't remember killing any trolls lately, but he killed a lot of things and it was possible he was just forgetting.

This impudent hatchling seemed to think he was doing this for her benefit!

“I am an Argonian warrior of Black Marsh. I am descended from Wades-through-Blood, who delved into the Oblivion Gates to fight the Daedra in their own lands. He was descended from Steps-In-Excrement, who defeated Dagoth Ur at the heart of Red Mountain in Morrowind. Why do you think I am your father?”

The little girl laughed! She laughed right in his face!

“I don't think you ARE my father, I want you to BE my father!” She said. “That's why I like you. You're so silly.”

Runs-on-Water, smelling strongly of fire, dragon's blood, and the reek of the road, was at a loss.

“My parents are dead,” The girl went on, oblivious. She went on tearfully. “My mama died not too long ago... My uncle and aunt took over our farm, but they said I wasn't good for anything, so they threw me out. So I have nowhere to go. I was able to beg for a while to get by but...people have stopped giving me money, or even food. You're the only one who helps anymore...so I thought....maybe, since you're the only one that cared...”

The girl looked up at him. She'd deflated during her story, going from a sunny child stating her fate matter-of-factly to a desperate, despairing orphan. Her thin, fragile mask had crumpled right in front of his eyes. Even for Runs-on-Water, who had trouble reading human expressions, it was obvious that the girl was barely keeping things together.

“Your Aunt and Uncle...” The Argonian warrior said.

“Yes?”

“They are honourless scum. To turn away a clutch-mate's spawn in need is a vile sin. In Black Marsh we would have gutted them and hung them from the highest branches of the Hist Trees, as atonement for their dishonour.”

The girl shuffled uncomfortably. “That's...nice?”

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water said. “It is an appropriate fate for those of that ilk. You backwards savages do nothing about such behaviour. It makes me want to vent my poison gland.” The Argonian shook his head. “I must deal with some merchants. When I have sold my goods, I will give you some money for food.” “Oh, would you? Thank you so much!”

Runs-on-Water showed his teeth. “Do not thank me. I do only what is just. Perhaps you barbarians can learn how to be truly civilized, if I but set the example.”

Later that evening, he sent the girl on her way with a coin purse filled with 20 septims. He watched the girl go. Her name was Lucia (what strange names these humans had!) and she told him she was nine years old. He thought back to when he was her age. Climbing trees with his brothers and sisters in the Hist swamp, hunting alligators with spears and poison, taunting slaughterfish. Good, clean Argonian fun, watched over by the dozens of Argonians that lived in his village. No Argonian hatchling ever begged, or went hungry. Not while the Hist spoke their guidance in every reptilian ear. Not when the bonds of clutch and nest held strong.

Skyrim was truly a wretched place. He would have to do something about it.

* * *

2. In which Severio Pelagio Receives Many Compliments on his Fine Property

Severio Pelagio awoke to the sound of someone rummaging around downstairs. A thrill of fear went through him – he grabbed the cudgel he kept by his bedside, scrambled out of bed, and crept downstairs to confront the thief. He might get murdered, or worse, robbed, but he couldn't just sleep upstairs while he let some scummy criminal (probably a Khaajit!) take all his hard-won gold!

When he reached the main floor, he shouted into the darkness. “Who's there? I'll have you know I'm armed, and I have no problems killing a man if I need to! Show yourself, thief!”

A deeper shadow loomed out of the darkness. Severio could just make out the gleam of steel armour, and the red glow of demonic eyes.

Severio whimpered.

“This is a lovely house,” hissed a reptilian voice.

“What?” Severio stammered. “...what?”

“This house is lovely,” the voice repeated, with an odd emphasis on the s. “And you also have a lovely farm, yes? Inherited from your sister, who died tragically not so long ago?”

“Uh...” Severio had expected the thief to flee, or strike him, not compliment him on his real estate investments. “Uh, yes. Both...lovely.”

“It would be a great shame if this house were to burn to the ground. It would be a great shame if the farm were to burn to the ground as well. It would be a great shame if the fields were sown with powdered dragon bone so nothing would ever grow there again. Is this not so?”

“Are you threatening me?” Severio asked, incredulous.

“A great shame,” the reptilian continued, looming even closer, “If someone were to break into your house in the middle of the night, gut you, and hang you from a tree to atone for your dishonour. Yes?”

“Yes! No!” Severio gasped. “What do you want?”

“Your niece. When she comes of age, this farm will be hers. You will make writings that tell everyone it will be so, witnessed by the Jarl. You will care for this farm until such time as she takes it over. Then, when she does, you will leave Whiterun and never return. If you do not do this, I believe a great many shameful things will happen here. Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Then we are understanding each other.”

The reptilian shadow seemed to simply melt into the darkness, and Severio was alone.

He wondered if he could rouse a scribe and a lawyer at this time of night.

* * *

3. In Which Whiterun Learns a Lesson in Argonian Manners

A week later, Runs-on-Water wandered into Whiterun. As usual, the residents gave him a wide, respectful berth. He had done a great many odd jobs, bounties, and other tasks involving violence-for-gold around the city, and so while he wasn't loved, he was granted an amount of honour that most Argonians in Skyrim couldn't dream of.

Runs-on-Water was sure that the armour and the massive two-handed sword helped somewhat.

Lucia, as usual, wove her way through the crowds and towards him. “Hello! Kill any dragons today?”

“No, not today. Only a pack of wolves, four bandits, and a troll.” Runs-on-Water hefted the sack over his shoulder, full of bloody trophies.

“Awesome!” She chirped. The girl had lost the waifish, hungry look in just the past week. Runs-on-Water suppressed an uncharacteristic warm feeling at that knowledge – his septims were feeding the girl well, it seemed.

“You are eating well?” He asked.

“Yes, sir! And I still have plenty hidden away, just in case. I think I have enough to eat for a week!”

Runs-on-Water felt a pang of sadness. The poor girl looked on such a meagre existence as a gift. It was not right.

He made a snap decision.

“Come with me,” He said.

“Okay!”

After selling the wolf pelts (for half price – the massive sword-cuts into the hides hadn't helped in that regard) and the weapons and armour of the unfortunate bandits, he turned towards Dragonsreach, occupying the highest pinnacle of Whiterun.

“Are you going to see the Jarl?” Lucia asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water replied.

“Can I come?”

“Yes. It is necessary.”

The girl squealed in excitement. “I've never been in Dragonsreach before!”

When the Argonian stalked into the main hall at Dragonsreach, the men and women seated at the heavy wooden tables in the torchlit lower hall looked up. It was a diverse group – men and women in armour, some in rich clothes, and a few in the thick robes of mages and wizards. They quickly lost interest, returning to their rich meals and plentiful mead. The dimly-lit stone keep saw it's fair share of the armoured lizard in his comings and goings – he worked often for the Jarl and others in Dragonsreach, and he was nearly a fixture there.

For his part, Runs-on-Water ignored the humans (for the most part, they all looked the same to him) and headed up the steps to the throne to speak to the Jarl.

Jarl Balgruuf was sprawled in his throne, bored, while two of his pin-headed advisors jousted verbally in front of him, as if for his amusement. His head of security, Irileth. fully armoured and hand on her sword, glowered from nearby. She and the Argonian exchanged nods: Runs-on-Water respected the Dunmer woman, but had no use for the rest of Balgruuf's sycophants. For her part, Irileth did not seem to have the usual prejudice Dark Elves had for Argonians. Runs-on-Water returned the favour.

Runs-on-Water stepped unceremoniously between the two arguing advisors and stared down at the idle Jarl.

“Yes, Dragonborn? What do you need?” He asked. This was what Runs-on-Water liked about the Jarl – he didn't stand on ceremony when things needed to be done.

“I wish to buy a house,” he said.

The Jarl frowned. “Oh? I suppose something can be arranged. Speak with my steward-”

“I wish to buy a house now,” Runs-on-Water said, and dropped a heavy sack of gold at the Jarl's feet. “Your steward is a weasel, and I do not like him. He may handle the money, but we will not have words together.”

“Dragonborn, you have done much for Whiterun, but I must demand courtesy-”

“I would also like to make a statement. I would like your scribes to make words that repeat my statement, so that all in Whiterun may read the words of the Dragonborn. Honourable Jarl, you know I do not make many requests, so I ask that you grant this to me.”

The Jarl narrowed his eyes, then summoned a scribe with a flick of his hand. “I will grant this to you, Dragonborn, as a token of my respect. But do not push me further.”

“Thank you, but I promise nothing,” Runs-on-Water said, then turned to the scribe. “Do you speak Argonian?”

“No,” the skinny, robed man squeaked, quaking under the Dragonborn's gaze.

“This will make things difficult. So much lost in translation. No matter. I will get the point across. Make my words here on that paper. I, Runs-on-Water, Dragonborn, descendent of Wades-through-Blood, descendent of Steps-in-Excrement, lay a charge on the people of Whiterun: You are all honourless scum, of the lowest kind imaginable. You reek of vile sin.”

The hall fell silent. The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock.

“You live in plenty while hatchlings roam the street, hungry and without shelter. You break the covenant of the Clutch and the Nest and do not even have the decency to feel shame. Not even the most wretched of my people, in the depths of skooma addiction, would fall to such a level.

“I, Runs-on-Water, must teach you decency. With Jarl Balgruuf as my witness, let it be known that from this day, the young orphan Lucia of Whiterun, who was left to beg and starve on the streets, is my hatchling. She is blood of my blood, clutch of my clutch, and whoever speaks against this will face my wrath. Any harm that comes to her will be repaid tenfold. Any who gainsay me on this will be gutted and hung on the nearest tree in atonement for their dishonour.”

Somewhere in the hall, a spoon fell with a dull thunk. All else was silence.

“Read that back, scribe,”

In a quivering voice, the scribe repeated the proclamation back, word for word. Runs-on-Water nodded. “Thank you, Jarl, for indulging me.”

The Jarl just nodded dumbly.

Runs-on-Water turned to Lucia, who stood stock still, her eyes wide. “Well, hatchling?”

The girl broke into a wide smile and jumped into the air, throwing her arms around the Argonian's neck. “Papa!” She yelled, then, muffled in his shoulder. “Ow. You're spikier than I thought you'd be.”

Runs-on-Water patted her gingerly on the back. “I am sorry, Hatchling. It is my nature.”

Finally, in the silence of the hall, the steward spoke up. “As to the house you wish to purchase...did you, by any chance, want some furnishings with that?”

Runs-on-Water glared at the steward. “I shall furnish it myself, weasel.”

Perhaps predictably, no-one gainsayed him.

4.In Which The Dragonborn Dabbles in Crafting

“Can I come see yet, Papa?”

“Patience, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water hissed in exasperation. “I am nearly done.”

Runs-on-Water found himself seized with a strange giddiness. The house he had purchased was dusty, drafty, and filled with cobwebs and insects. With minimal prodding and a few veiled threats, he had extracted some work from some of the locals, and the place was much cleaner now, if a bit empty of furnishings. In his many years on the road, he had slept in ditches, caves, tents and ruins. Now he had a house, and some deep part of his reptilian soul was nudging him to make it a home.

His hatchling's voice, muffled through the door, was continually pulling him from his reverie.

Finally, he was done. It had been exhausting work – he would sun himself on the roof this afternoon and try and regain his energy. He beamed down at the results of his labours. He felt a welling of surprising feelings – a familial warmth, love, and pride, so different from his usual inveterate grouchiness.

It was disturbingly pleasant.

“Come, hatchling! You may see your room now!”

“Hooray!” she said, and rushed through the door, a wide smile on her face that quickly shifted and turned to confusion. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

The walls of the room were covered in vines, and long, snaking branches covered in moss and old-man's-beard.  The earthen floor had been covered with almost a full inch of leaf litter and loam, and squished noticeably. Through a window partially obscured by vines, dim yellow sunlight filtered through to splash against a large flat stone in one corner of the room. In the opposite corner was what looked like a massive tangle of branches, grasses and vines, but on closer inspection it was more like a woven mattress, with a large depression in the middle.

Lucia looked up at her Argonian Papa. He was grinning down at her, his forked tongue flickering with pride. “I know it is not a proper nest,” he said, “There are no Hist trees outside of Black Marsh, and the soil here is thin, with no clay, so I could not construct a pond. But the nest is woven in the traditional manner, very comfortable. And the stone soaks up the sun well – you need not worry that your blood will cool with this stone in the room!” He leaned closer. “What do you think?”

Lucia looked around the room, back her Papa, then walked slowly over to sit on the edge of the nest. The intricate weaving was deceiving. What looked thorny and frightening was actually a soft, warm place of safety, a refuge from the world.

She looked back up at her new Papa. He was beginning to look anxious, twiddling his claws nervously.

She sighed and sank back into the nest with a smile. “It's perfect.”

Runs-on-Water's gills flared and the scales around his eyes flushed red. He was suffused with a warm glow. “I am glad you like it, Hatchling!”

5. In Which Lucia Learns to Always Read the Label

Runs-on-Water returned from the smith with a spring in his step. It had been a long day – two dragons had attacked him at once earlier in the day, and while the first one died with an arrow in it's eye, the second had taken much tedious hacking with his greatsword before expiring. He was looking forward to getting home, and seeing the Hatchling.

Much had changed in the past weeks. His nesting instincts had kicked in with a vengeance, and while he still wandered far and wide, he was now anxious to return to Whiterun in a way that he hadn't been before. He felt like he should be worried about going soft, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He opened the door to Breezehome and set his burden down next to the door. “Hatchling, I am back!”

Usually Lucia came running as soon as he was through the door. But today all he could hear was an out of tune humming from the hatchling's nest. “Hatchling? Is something wrong?”

Runs-on-Water approached the door, opening it slowly, and put his head in.

“Hatchling, are you- BY THE HIST!”

Lucia was curled up in her nest, grinning manically with wide eyes, arms wrapped tight around a ball of squirming, hissing brown fur. The giant brown rat – a skeever, the locals called them – was obviously nearly exhausted, but it wasn't giving up anytime soon.

“Papa, you're home!” giggled Lucia. “I caught a Unicorn! It tried to sneak in through the back door but I lassoed it with twisty words and some vines and I caught it and now it's mine! It's mane smells like rainbows!”

Runs-on-Water took one look at her dilated pupils the manic grin, and began casting about the room. His fears were confirmed a moment later – an empty vial lay on the floor. The Argonian picked  it up gingerly – it was completely empty, not a drop left.

He rushed over to Lucia, yanked the raging skeever from her grip, and grabbed her face gently in a clawed hand. The skeever, hissing madly, scurried from the room.

“My unicorn!” Lucia shouted.

“Silence, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water snapped. “What have you done?”

Lucia went from laughing one moment to weeping inconsolably the next. “I slipped on the stairs and hurt myself, so I got a healing potion from the cupboard. I was only going to take a sip, but it tasted so nice, and i felt like I was flying...I'm sorry Papa!”

“Hatchling, that was not a healing potion. That was sap of the Hist! It is for Argonians, so that we may hear the whispers of the the Hist trees when we are far from the Old Country. It is very dangerous for humans! Tell, me quickly, am I your enemy?”

“No! You're my Papa!” she shouted tearfully.

“Good, good. Now, do you feel an overwhelming desire to murder anyone?”

“Of course not! Well, except for Braith. I hate her guts.” Lucia mused.

“Ah, yes. The bully. Those feelings are normal and healthy. But do not murder her. That would bring the attention of the guards.” Runs-on-Water leaned back with a sigh. It appeared the Hist sap was not having a bad effect on the child, though the Argonian couldn't understand why. Hist sap usually drove humans into a blind, murderous, hallucinogenic rage. In Lucia's case, it simply made her wish to cuddle giant rats.

“The effects of the sap will wear off soon,” Runs-on-Water told Lucia. “Until then, I will stay with you. Do not trust your senses. For example, you did not catch a unicorn, that was a skeever.”

“A skeever?”

“Yes. It is now somewhere in the house.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The Argonian and the human child sat in the nest for some time. After a while, her racing heart calmed, her eyes returned to normal, and her manic smile faded.

“Ugh. Papa, I feel awful,” Lucia moaned.

“This is an important lesson: do not drink your Papa's Hist-sap. It will do strange things to your mind. Humans cannot hear the whispers of the Hist, so there is no point.”

“But I did hear the whispers, Papa!” Lucia insisted from his lap.

Runs-on-Water's breath caught in his throat. His gills slammed shut. This was impossible! “What?” he whispered.

“The whispers! I heard them! At first it just sounded like branches moving in the wind, but later there were words! They spoke to me!” She insisted.

“...what did they say?” Runs-on-Water whispered urgently. He had to know if this was a true Hist-Sending.

“They said to tell you that you had done the right thing coming to Skyrim. That you were fulfilling the will of the Hist, and that your ancestors would be proud of you.”

Runs-on-Water swallowed painfully. “...and?”

“And they said not to be sad, but that you would never see Black Marsh again.”

Runs-on-Water bowed his head, taking deep breaths. He had known it, had felt it from his gills to the tip of his tail, on the day that he left, but he had not allowed himself to believe it. He would never see the marshes of Argonia again. He would never feel the caress of the humid air of the deep swamps. He swallowed a harsh sob, deep in his chest.

“They said that you would have to carry the Marsh with you, in your heart,” Lucia continued. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Runs-on-Water looked down at his hatchling, his blood-red eyes meeting her deep brown ones. This should not be possible. Only an Argonian should be able to hear the whispers. Only an Argonian should be able to drink of the Hist and keep their sanity.

But then, what had he said? Blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch. Was she not his hatchling now? Did that not make her an Argonian in all but flesh?

“I will teach you what it means to carry the Marsh with you, as it was taught to me when I was a hatchling. It will take...many years. A lifetime. It will be very difficult,” he said. “But we will do it together, hatchling, and that will make all the difference.

6. In Which Runs-on-Water Has the Talk with his Hatchling

The question came one night at dinner time, during a simple feast of venison stew and fresh bread (found in a nearby cave, as was usual).

“Papa, what were your parents like?” Runs-on-Water’s chest swelled, and the gill slits on his neck flared with pride. “My mother was a mighty warrior, with scales like steel, teeth like daggers and eyes that burned in the night-swamp. All three of my fathers were near to her equal in combat, and caught her eye with their skill with the spear and their cunning in battle, as well as the iridescence of their neck scales, aha! Their clutch was a bold one, and they are in my mind often.”

“Papa, did you say you have THREE fathers?” The human hatchling’s brow was furrowed – Runs-on-Water had learned that this meant that her brain was overheating. “How…how does that even work?”

Runs-on-Water chuckled. “Aha, I am always forgetting that your human females take only one mate! It is different in the Old Country, of course. In Argonia, our females prove their worthiness to spawn by deeds of might and cunning, and earn the right to choose mates from among the males. When the spawning season is nigh, the female and her males go into the Hist-swamps together…” The small child listened, eyes slowly widening, as Runs-on-Water explained, in unrelenting, graphic detail the breeding rites of the people of Argonia.

When he was done, Runs-on-Water beamed down at his adopted daughter. “It is a process both beautiful and majestic, yes?”

The child had a pale look about her – Runs-on-Water suspected her throat sacs were malfunctioning – he hoped she would grow out of it. “So…that’s where baby Argonians come from?”

“Hatchlings, yes!”

The girl blinked. “Do…do humans, um… make babies in the same way?”

Runs-on-Water waved a clawed hand absently. “I know little of human mating rituals- It is all so dramatic and strange. How can a worthy female be satisfied with a single drake, or worse yet, produce an acceptable brood of eggs if she has not tested his strength in open combat? But I assume that the ‘making babies’ itself is similar. Except that humans do it in the bedroom, under the covers, and they are obliged to feel shame after the fact.” The Argonian hissed his disapproval.

The girl-child took some time to digest this before speaking.

“Papa?”

“Yes, hatchling?”

“I think I want to be a nun.”

The Argonian was puzzled. Human children were strange creatures with strange minds.  Runs-on-Water reached down and patted her on the shoulder. “I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to, hatchling.”

7. In Which Some Stormcloaks Are Exposed to Argonian Culture

Runs-on-Water stared down at the crudely-scrawled note in his claws, his heart cold with rage, his tail flicking violently in agitation. He read the note again.

The note was as brief as it was infuriating.

DRAGONBORN – WE HAVE RESCUED THE CHILD LUCIA FROM YOUR IMPRISONMENT. NO MORE WILL YOU CORRUPT HER WITH YOUR FILTHY ARGONIAN WAYS. WHEN THE STORMCLOAKS ARE VICTORIOUS ALL YOUR KIND WILL BE CAST OUT FROM SKYRIM OR PUT TO THE SWORD. IF YOU WISH YOUR END TO COME MORE QUICKLY, COME TO BROKENFANG CAVE AND FIND US. LONG LIVE ULFRIC STORMCLOAK, TRUE KING OF SKYRIM!

He crumpled the note viciously in a clawed hand. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his tail thrashed. He turned to his Housecarl where she sat on a chair, breathing raggedly.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Lydia muttered. Her black hair was matted with blood, and her severe features were strained in agony. “There were at least six of them.”

“You did well, Housecarl, to slay two of them” Runs-on-Water said, suppressing his anger. “No one could have done better.”

“You could have,” she whispered. “I should have died before I let them take her.”

“No. You are both still alive, and that is good. And the Stormcloaks are as good as dead,” Runs-on-Water hissed.

“My lord, it is a trap! You cannot go alone! Go to the Jarl, take some guards with you!” Lydia insisted, trying to rise before collapsing back into the chair in agony, her face gone suddenly white as a sheet.

“Yes, it is a trap,” Runs-on-Water agreed. “One that I look forward to springing...on them.”

* * *

“My Papa's going to kiiiillll you, my Papa's going to kiiiilll you!”

Agarmir, the Stormcloak leader growled. “Vilhelm, shut her up!” He snapped to one of his men.

The bearded brute he had spoken to threw up his hands. “Every time I try and gag her, she bites my fingers! I think I might be getting an infection.”

Agarmir spun to where the girl sat, tied securely to a chair. She smiled up at him in an unsettling way. “My father is going to gut you, and hang you from the highest branch of the tallest tree to atone for your dishonour,” She said matter-of-factly.

“You better shut your mouth, girl, or I will do it for you!” He shouted. “When that filthy lizard you call 'Papa' comes here, like the idiot he is, we're going to butcher him like an animal. One day, you'll understand. We're doing this for your own good. For Skyrim's own good!”

Lucia made a show of looking around. “YOU GUYS are going to butcher MY Papa? Have you met him? He's the Dragonborn! He kills dragons and eats their souls! For fun!”

“Even a mighty warrior can be overcome by ambush,” Agarmir said, but he could see Villhelm shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. “And what are you fidgeting about?”

“Well...the girl has a point, boss.”

Agarmir turned away from the infuriating moron and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Villhelm, relax. The entire cave is a web of interconnected traps. We have sharpened stakes, rock falls, flamethrowers, pressure plates that shoot little darts. And there are four of us, all with enchanted weapons, waiting in ambush!”

“But boss...*sklrch gurgle gurgle*”

“Don't interrupt me Villhelm! This 'Dragonborn' is just a filthy Argonian, and no match for a true Nord, much less four of them!” Agarmir pounded his fist into his open hand. “We will kill the Dragonborn. You'll see. He's not so tough.”

Agarmir braced himself for more of Villhelm's stupidity. But to his surprise, none was forthcoming. “Villhelm?” Slowly, Agarmir turned, a feeling of dread overcoming him.

Two things were immediately clear to Agarmir upon turning around. One: Villhelm would never say anything stupid ever again. A man had to have an intact throat to speak, after all. And two: The Dragonborn was a sneaky bastard, and was apparently a master at evading traps.

He knew this because Runs-on-Water was standing over Villhelm's slowly-cooling corpse, covered in the blood of the other Stormcloaks, holding an Ebony Greatsword in his hands.

His eyes burned with rage.

“I don't suppose you'd be open to negotiating the girl's release?” Agarmir asked hopefully.

To Agarmir's shock, the Argonian appeared to think about it. “I think...no. I have a reputation to uphold. I must show Whiterun that I am a lizard of my word.”

Agarmir raised his battle-axe. In the end, he supposed, the Argonian was being very reasonable. A man's word was his bond, after all.

* * *

When Runs-on-Water climbed down from the Gildergreen Tree at the centre of Whiterun, the Jarl and his entourage were waiting for him. The Jarl was tapping his foot impatiently, and had a thunderous look on his face.

“Yes, Jarl?” Runs-on-Water asked innocently.

“Is this all really necessary?”  Balgruuf ground out.

“I did warn everyone,” Runs-on-Water pointed out. “We even wrote it down. There was a decree.”

The Jarl sputtered. “Yes...but...we're in the middle of town!”

“Yes. Very visible. Now everyone can see that I mean what I say.”

The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock. “The children will see!”

“I had not thought of that,” Runs-on-Water acknowledged. “You are right. It will be very educational.”

Indeed, a small crowd of children had gathered around the Gildergreen tree already. They were starting to throw rocks and rotten fruit at what was hanging from the highest branches.

“This is the Gildergreen! This tree is sacred!”

Runs-on-Water nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! It is very convenient that such a sacred tree was ready to claw. It will have to stand in for the Hist trees of my homeland. The Priestess of Kynareth was very understanding.” The Dragonborn leaned closer to the Jarl. “She owed me a little favour, if you must know.”

The Jarl looked at the blood-spattered Dragonborn, and then up at the hanging bodies of the Stormcloaks that had kidnapped his daughter. One of them was wearing a sign around his neck, written in blood:

I TOLD YOU SO

The Jarl sighed. “Just...take them down before they start to smell, alright?”

Runs-on-Water beamed at the Jarl. “You are a most wise and just ruler, Jarl! Thank you!”

The Jarl turned away, saying nothing, and headed back up to Dragonsreach. When he got there, he was going to drink a whole barrel of mead.

8. In Which Hatchlings Grow Up Too Quickly

Runs-on-Water stood on the hilltop, looking out over the small crowd of people gathered in the small glade below. There were not many people here...it was a mix of mostly Nords and Bretons, with a salting of other humans, khaajit, argonians and elves scattered throughout. There had been much grumbling when Runs-on-Water had insisted that the wedding of his adopted daughter would be a small affair. He had flatly refused to invite the Jarls of Skyrim, with the exception of the long-suffering Jarl Balgruuf, and even his entourage had been limited to a few people.

Runs-on-Water had been in Skyrim for nearly a decade, and at last, a kind of peace had settled over the land. The land was still lousy with bandits, but the civil war was over, the dragons were gone, and people were getting back to their everyday lives. He was famous  throughout the province, throughout the Empire, even, and though it had been years since his most well-known deeds, he was still a popular figure. If his scales had dulled slightly, and his eyes were not so sharp, none of the multitude who knew his face were the wiser.

It would be a strange human ceremony. Lucia had desired a traditional Breton wedding, and Runs-on-Water had yielded gracefully to her request. It was her day, after all, and he had looked at it with a sense of excitement and growing dread.

And now, Runs-on-Water was feeling reflective.

“I have killed many men and mer,” Runs-on-Water spoke into the cool evening.

“Errr...” Lars Battleborn, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his fine, imported silk clothing, stood just behind the Dragonborn. Almost everyone was a little nervous around Runs-on-Water, except Lucia. And if you were summoned to a dark hilltop, an hour before you were to marry his cherished daughter, you would be very nervous indeed.

“Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands. Who can keep track?” Runs-on-Water continued.

Lars decided that silence was the best course.

Runs-on-Water spun abruptly, causing Lars to startle and make a distressingly unmanly squeaking sound. “I'm sorry, sir!”

“For what?” Runs-on-Water asked, then waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. I was just trying to explain....I am not...perhaps...a good person.”

Lars found himself nodding before he managed to stop himself.

“I have done my best to raise Lucia. But I have taught her the ways of Black Marsh, and perhaps...perhaps in that, I failed her. This is not Black Marsh...this is Skyrim,” Runs-on-Water shook his head. “If I have done wrong, it is too late to undo. The Hist will judge me, as they judge all Argonians.”

“Lucia is...well, she is very fond of you,” Lars ventured carefully. “I...well I think she's quite happy with how she was raised.”

Runs-on-Water nodded absently.

“And...well, to be quite frank with you, sir, I don't think I've ever seen a Breton woman handle a battle-axe like she can. Why, she puts every Nord woman I know to shame!” He continued. “You should be very proud.”

Runs-on-Water glanced over at Lars. He'd lost the soft cheeks of his youth, and had taken after his father in terms of his height and broad shoulders, but he'd retained his lank brown hair and the eyes of a kicked puppy. No one would guess that the man was a terror on the battlefield. Runs-on-Water wouldn't have believed it, had he not seen Lucia sparring with the boy.

That, at least, had been somewhat in the Argonian tradition. She had challenged (and defeated) Lars in battle, and then immediately afterwords had helped him to his feet and 'asked him out', as the humans called it. She had been mortified when Runs-on-Water had urged her to simply drag the boy out into the nearest swamp and get started on some grandlizards, and insisted on a more conventional courtship.

“I am very proud,” Runs-on-Water said. “Lucia is the only clutch I will ever have. She is no less my daughter than if I had hatched her myself.”

“Yes sir,” Lars answered. “No one doubts that.”

“I have seen to that,” Runs-on-Water said wryly.

“Papa! Papa, are you up here!” Lucia's voice echoed up the hill.

“Here, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water called back. Lars, he noted, looked very relieved to hear his fiance's voice.

Lucia trudged up the hill, holding the green and gold skirt of her wedding dress out of the way as she ascended. The dress was traditional, for the most part, but the pattern had required some modification. For one, Lucia was a little more well-muscled than many young brides, and for another thing, she had needed to be sure she could strap her battle-axe to her back without causing unsightly ruffles. She had grown tall, and strong, but she had kept her sunny smile and laughing eyes.

To Runs-on-Water, she would always be his hatchling.

“Has father been threatening you, Lars my love?” Lucia asked, laughter in her voice.

“No. No! We've just been talking...” Lars replied. “It's been...something.”

“Well, if you're getting along so well, perhaps you would like to marry each other? Or can Lars come down this hill and get married to me after all?”

Lars turned red, and tried to stammer out an apology. Lucia shooed him away. “Go on down, you lump! You have to wait for me at the altar, remember! I'll be down in a moment.”

Lars stuttered out his goodbyes, and headed down the hill at speed, relief evident in every step.

“Humans are strange,” Runs-on-Water mused, when he was out of earshot.

“Yes, they are. We are, I mean,” Lucia replied.

The Dragonborn was silent for a moment, before speaking. “Hatchling, I know things have not been easy for you...”

“Oh, hush, Papa!” Lucia said. “Because of you, I had an unconventional childhood. I was raised by a lizard-man from the darkest swamps on the continent who killed dragons and trolls and Hist knows what else for fun and profit. I've been swinging a battle-axe since I was thirteen. I'm the only human alive who can get by in Argonian, the only one that can hear the whispers of the Hist, and the only daughter of the Dragonborn. I'm not saying it hasn't been...hard, at times. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Would you?”

“No. Well, I could have done with a few less dragons. That became tedious after a while.”

Lucia clapped her father on the shoulder, and then was surprised when he lurched forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. She settled in and hugged him back.

“I worry that I will lose you now,” Runs-on-Water, the Scourge of stormcloaks, Dragon-killer, master of a hundred Shouts, whispered his wretchedness to his only daughter. “You are all that is good in me.”

“Papa,” she whispered back. “No matter what happens, I am blood of your blood, clutch of your clutch, and I will carry the Marsh in my heart.” At this she paused, as if debating whether to continue. “As will my children.” She said meaningfully.

Runs-on-Water drew back, a toothy smile touching his muzzle. “Are you preparing to spawn already?”

Lucia nearly choked at that. “What? No. Well...not immediately. But, maybe...a little sooner than planned. We may have, er, a little bit of a surprise in eight months or so.”

Runs-on-Water beamed. The look on his face reminded Lucia of the day he had built her the little nest in her room. “This is wonderful news!”

“Don't tell anyone else!” she implored, flushing slightly. “The Battle-Borns are a little...traditional about that sort of thing.”

“I will say nothing,” Runs-on-Water agreed.

There was a small, awkward silence. Lucia broke it. “Well, are you ready to escort me down into the glade?”

“It would be my honour, hatchling,” Runs-on-Water said.

As he escorted his daughter, blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch, down to her future husband, Runs-on-Water at last felt at peace. The will of the Hist had been made clear to him at last. He could never return to Black Marsh. But here, with Lucia, he had managed to create a little Black Marsh of his own.

And together, they would carry the Marsh with them in their hearts.

#skyrim #fanfic #fantasy #thewritingkestrel fiction #argonian #humor #i'm sorry #not really sorry #argonians4lyfe