Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #4
🕑 Added 2025-10-16 10:15:16 +0000 UTCThe walk back to the road was a short, grim procession. Around them, the warrior’s comrades—a dozen men and women draped in similar dark metallic armor or thick, practical furs—moved with quiet efficiency, finishing off the last of the bandits and securing the area.
The clatter of steel and the occasional final cry echoed, but the warrior paid them no heed. His entire focus was on the child in his arms, who had now subsided into silent, shuddering tremors, exhausted by his first true tears.
His mind, however, was already churning with a problem far more daunting than any bandit ambush. How in Oblivion do I raise a child? The thought was a cold weight in his gut. He knew the heft of an axe, the strategy of a shield wall, the lore of his ancestors.
He knew nothing of swaddling, of milk, of the fragile needs of an infant. The logistics alone were a nightmare.
His deliberations were cut short by the nervous shuffling of the carriage driver, who had been following him like a anxious shadow.
“Excuse me… er, sir?” the man ventured, wringing his hands.
The warrior frowned as he turned, his expression making the driver flinch. He already knew what the man wanted. “Have you been paid?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
The driver sheepishly shook his head. “No, sir. The… the mercenary was to pay me upon reaching Falkreath.”
The warrior offered a curt, businesslike nod. “You’ll be paid the standard rate for the journey from the border to the town. For your trouble.”
The driver’s expression didn’t change much, lingering in a state of pinched anxiety. Much to the warrior’s growing frustration, the man didn’t move.
“What else do you want?” he asked, the impatience clear in his tone.
The driver nervously pointed a trembling finger toward Marcus’s motionless figure, lying where he had fallen.
“Him, sir. He… he came from Bruma. A Legion man. He should be taken back to his kin, given proper rites. But…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. “Hauling a corpse over the border, with the war and all… it can get complicated. Risky.”
The warrior’s face darkened. He understood the unspoken request: hazard pay. He looked from the driver’s fearful face to the body of the veteran who had died protecting the child he now held. Honor demanded it.
“Fine,” the warrior gritted out. “You will be paid more. But only if you swear to the Divines that he reaches his kin. His armor, his weapon, all his possessions intact. He is not to be looted and dumped in a ditch. Do you understand?”
The driver nodded rapidly, a wave of relief washing over him. “Of course, of course! I swear it! I swear before the Nine that he’ll reach his kin with all his possessions!”
He trailed off, his shoulders slumping slightly as he added, “In truth, sir, I… I don’t feel comfortable asking for coin over this. It’s a foul business. But the war… it’s made things difficult. A man needs to make a living.”
The warrior’s face softened a fraction at the driver’s honest admission. The man was no vulture; he was just trying to survive in a shattered world. He gave the driver a firm, approving pat on the shoulder. "You're a good man. Now, go tend to your horse. It looks frightened."
The driver nodded gratefully, the tension finally leaving his frame, and rushed off to calm his skittish animal.
Left alone for a moment, the heavy dread began to creep back into the warrior’s mind as he looked down at the small, silent form of Torin. The infant’s earlier cries had ceased, leaving behind a profound, watchful stillness that was, in its own way, just as disconcerting.
Again, he was interrupted, this time by a familiar, gruff voice.
"Hail, Kodlak. What do you have there?"
The warrior—Kodlak—turned to the speaker.
It was a man named Ulf, dressed in practical leathers and thick furs, a sturdy bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows fletched with bone on his back. His thick hair and beard were a shock of white, but fiery red streaks still lingered stubbornly within, a vivid remembrance of a fiery youth long past.
Kodlak returned the greeting with a nod. "Hail, Ulf. This is Torin. A poor soul who has lost his caretaker to these filth." He gestured vaguely at the fallen bandits.
Ulf’s sharp eyes moved from Kodlak’s face to the child, noting the protective, almost possessive way the older man held him.
A glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. "And what do you intend to do with the child, Kodlak? Use him as a new whetstone?"
Kodlak’s face turned troubled. "I intend to care for him."
Ulf let out a short, sharp chuckle. "Askar might not approve of a babe crying through his evening mead." He then shook his head, his expression turning more serious. "Do you even know how to care for a child? The last living thing you cared for was that mangy wolfhound, and it ate your favorite boots."
Kodlak scoffed, though there was no real heat in it. "Leave the Harbinger to me." Then, his confident facade cracked, and his expression became one of open, troubled admission.
He lowered his voice. "I know you've been caring for your Aela since her mother passed... Could you... could you return to Jorvaskr for a while? To help me with him?" He looked down at Torin, his brow furrowed in helplessness. "I'm out of my depth here, Ulf. Truly."
Ulf sighed, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He looked back towards the woods, clearly reluctant to be drawn from the wilds. Still, after a moment, he gave a curt nod. "Aye. I can do that, but only for a while."
He crossed his arms, his gaze growing distant. "Aela's mother wished for her to be raised in the wilds, a huntress, not a city-bound milk-drinker. I won't have her forget the song of the wind through the pines."
Kodlak scoffed, though a trace of a smile touched his lips. "Well, I'm sure you and your daughter will survive a month or two within the walls of Jorvaskr. The mead is good, and the company is better."
Ulf just grinned at him, a flash of white in his fiery beard. Then his eyes, sharp and assessing, turned back to Torin. "So, do you intend to raise him as a Companion? To swear the oaths?"
Kodlak raised Torin in front of him, holding the infant up as if gauging his mettle. The baby, for his part, stared back with that unnervingly calm expression.
"Why not?" Kodlak replied. "Even as a cub, he's strong and healthy. He's survived a bandit ambush and lost his caretaker without breaking. I'd say he'll make an excellent shield-brother to your Aela once he grows a few hairs on his chest."
Ulf caressed his bearded chin thoughtfully, his eyes scanning Torin's sturdy limbs and broad frame. "He does seem big for a babe," he conceded, a note of approval in his voice.
Kodlak slowly cradled Torin back into the crook of his arm, his movements growing more natural by the minute. "He's heavier than he looks, too."
After a moment, his smile faded, replaced by the solemn duty of the moment.
He looked over the clearing, at the bodies of the fallen. "Come," he said, his voice low and firm. "Let us give the dead their rites, and return to Whiterun, old friend."
The decision was made. The path was set.
...
Inside Jorvaskr's living quarters, I lay on a small bed on the ground, completely and utterly immobilized by the fabric swaddling my body.
I stared blankly at the gigantic little girl with a wild mane of red hair sitting next to me. A big, goofy grin was plastered on her face as she looked me over.
She reached out a grubby finger and pinched my cheek, hard. A surge of pure indignation flared within me. She proceeded to make a series of exaggerated, cross-eyed faces, all the while chattering in that same gibberish I was slowly starting to parse.
"...so quishy!" she cooed, poking my stomach. "A little milk-drinker! You don't have the face of a warrior. You have a potato face!"
If I could make any sounds besides "gogo" and "gaga," I'd give this little ginger demon a piece of my mind. I'd tell her that my face was perfectly proportional for an infant, and that her definition of a "warrior's face" was probably just someone who smelled bad and had a lot of scars.
Unfortunately, I was trapped in a silent, fleshy prison.
It's been a month since... since Camilla passed. And as much as I'd like to say that the passage of time was enough to make her loss easier, it didn't.
Thinking of her, which I often did, never failed to make my heart ache with a hollow, guilty pain. It always brought back the profound, suffocating sense of helplessness I felt as I watched the life fade from her eyes.
Still, my mind is no longer plagued by the same all-consuming dark thoughts that filled it during the first few days. Back then, I couldn't help but see my own existence as a curse.
Not only am I an imposter in this body, but I'd barely been a few weeks into this world and three good people had died on my behalf. First Helga, my mother, then that mercenary, Marcus, and then poor, kind Camilla.
The weight of their sacrifices felt like it was crushing me, a debt I could never repay and a burden I never asked for.
I'm not proud to admit it, but yeah... I broke under the grief. In a fit of despair, I even tried to stop eating. It seemed like the only form of protest, the only control I had in a world where I had none.
What else could I think or do in that situation? It was a stupid, infantile gesture, but it was all I had.
Luckily, Kodlak Whitemane was not a man for infantile nonsense. He didn't coddle me or try to soothe me with meaningless sounds. He saw my refusal to eat for what it was: a stubborn, self-destructive streak.
The man, with a grim, patient determination, would simply hold me firm and basically force the milk down my throat whenever I acted out.
There was no malice in it, only a blunt, unwavering resolve that I was going to live, whether I liked it or not. It was infuriating, but it was also, in a strange way, a solid anchor in this chaotic new life.
Eventually, I began to accept the simple, brutal fact that Kodlak had imposed on me: I had to continue living. Giving up wasn't an option he was willing to entertain, and his stubbornness slowly overwrote my own.
The memory of Camilla's final moments, the way she just gasped my name instead of asking for help... it also helped me... man up. Or, I suppose, baby up.
Thinking back on it, it almost felt like she wasn't just identifying me. She was trying to tell me that no matter what I was before, I am Torin now, and I should continue to live as such.
It's probably just my own selfish mind trying to justify my continued existence, grafting a noble purpose onto a tragic death, but it's the only way I had of coping with this... this mess.
But that's enough about my existential dread. On a more wild note, it turns out, I didn't travel back in time to inhabit this body, or get sent to some random medieval world.
I was in the Elder Scrolls universe. More specifically, Tamriel, Skyrim.
Yeah, even a baby would recognize that keep—Dragonsreach—towering over a tall, walled city in the middle of a vast plain. The fact that Kodlak, and by extension me now, lived in an upturned ship called Jorvaskrr confirmed it beyond any doubt.
The pieces had finally clicked into place, forming a picture that was both terrifying and absurdly fantastic.
As for my current situation, well, it's a direct result of that. And the little ginger demon currently tormenting me was Ulf's daughter, Aela. As in, the Aela the Huntress, when she was just an obnoxious little girl who took tormenting infants as a hobby.
I honestly didn't know what to make of this situation, or how completely crazy it was.
But I do know one thing. I am so going to bully this little girl once I'm able to walk. I'll hide her favorite bow, put snow down her armor, the works. It’s a goal. A petty, beautiful goal.
Which would probably happen a lot sooner if I wasn't swaddled like a damn burrito all the time. I can't even roll over. It's humiliating.
I really don't like it here, I thought furiously, as Aela, future legendary Companion, continued to pinch my cheeks with a triumphant grin.
Comments
Wicked_Fiction
But you'll forget... and then it will hapen again and again... I don't regret my actions and will never stop.
Potato
I will never forgive you
