Work Text:
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of Hetalia's masterful tomfoolery and Skyrim's beauty.
Warning: Fluff with a Pinch of Angst
Short Tale Characters:
-England/ Arthur Kirkland
-America/ Alfred F. Jones
~New Life Story~
Short Tale 4
Do you remember your life before Skyrim?
I try hard to forget.
What of your friends and family?
My books were burned…my family presided over the execution.
Do you ever miss home?
The questions would be never ending until he turned his back and walked away.
Since coming to this horrid province marring the face of the planet, he found himself only willingly keeping the company of those who couldn’t care less about his life. He had spent his first years in Skyrim with the Thieves Guild in Riften, acting as just another pickpocket drifting from one crowd in the market to the next. When he had filched enough money he disappeared, moving like a shadow between caravans traveling north. Along the way, he had discovered through trials that he was the Dragonborn – Akatosh’s champion and harbinger; and yet, even with this knowledge, he continued conducting his life in secret. When he finally reached the College of Winterhold, he passed himself off as just one of a number of hopefuls looking to earn their way into the hallowed halls.
He never wanted to be seen, heard, or known until he deemed it necessary. Such were the laws of a life that had kept him alive in a world that didn’t want him to be.
But silence took a heavy toll. The memories demanded an outlet, and when denied voice they came in the form of nightmares. They always began so sweetly; enveloping him in the smells of the gardens he once kept, of the castle libraries and his mother’s perfume. He could feel the sunshine and cool misty mornings found only in the highlands. It was calming and familiar, it was the world he was born and raised in.
It always saturated his heart with grief before breaking it when he opened his eyes to the cold darkness of exile.
To help cope with the pain and loneliness of his depression, he began keeping journals. It started during his first semester at the College of Winterhold, where he would spend hours before bed writing until he passed out from exhaustion. Over time, the benefits of his nightly ritual began to show and the practice became permanent.
There was something oddly soothing about writing his own life’s story and having something of a routine again. Where he lacked social company, he had his pen and paper, and the consolation of knowing their hours together would be blissfully free of questions.
It had been almost a decade since those long nights at the college and almost a year since he’d been without sentient company. Alfred of Rorikstead was indeed a unique man, but asked questions just like everyone else Arthur had ever met. When his continued silence made the questions stop, the mage breathed easier and actually began seeing Alfred’s company as…pleasant. He appreciated that he and Alfred seemed to have come to an unspoken understanding that history between them was limited only to the moments they shared. From their extraordinary meeting along a fire ravaged mountain path to this tranquil campsite a few days outside of Falkreath, it was all Arthur felt they needed to know about each other.
Which is why he found himself paralyzed when he first came upon the sight of Alfred lying partially inside the tent, and reading one of his precious journals.
He felt the heat of anger and betrayal rising, as it colored his cheeks. The firewood in his arms tumbled to the ground and his feet began to move without thought. His fists clenched and when he finally managed to sharply inhale a breath to shout, he heard Alfred’s voice softly sounding out words.
“I won…wonder if-it-will f-fright-en him… I-have-only once be-fore f-ought a dragon-with-com..pany…”
Arthur stopped cold and his anger was sharply curbed when he remembered: Alfred could barely read.
While he knew Alfred must have been taught the basics at some point, he hadn’t utilized his skills enough as a mercenary to keep his proficiency. He recalled the first time Alfred had seen him performing his nightly ritual and watched as pure awe and reverence lit up the man’s face. The strange elation and subsequent rain of questions had irritated Arthur at the time, but he soon learned that Alfred really did understand the power of being able to read and write, and only wished he could. It was the only thought able to quell the deep sense of invasion, and his pent up rage left him in a sigh.
“Find anything interesting?”
Alfred’s concentration broke and he stiffened in an instant. Arthur felt a slight pang of sympathy, as he knew Alfred had literally been trying so hard to read that he had lost touch with his heightened senses in order to focus. He felt even worse when Alfred turned shocked and guilt-ridden eyes on him, then the spew of rapid apologies began.
This time, however, Arthur didn’t want to hear them. He gently nudged the half-Nord’s side with his foot before taking a seat beside him, earning a look of apprehension when he gave a small smile and nodded towards the journal still in Alfred’s hands.
“You can answer my question…and I promise to answer yours when you’re done.”
~Fin~