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Paarthurnax looks down at him one day and asks him how he’s doing.
Arandrys doesn’t look him in the eye.
“Fine.”
He isn’t. Each morning he wakes to claw marks covering his body, as if he’s trying to claw his way out of his own skin. His nails grow to sharp points easily capable of slicing flesh. Were he a Khajiit, perhaps that would be normal. But he’s an Altmer. He should not have claws.
He encountered a bandit on his way up the mountain, this time. Demanding gold or belongings. He’d just grinned and whispered Krii Lun Aus . The poor fellow had collapsed to the floor, eyes blank. Death in three words had seemed fitting, for the time.
His skin itches, sometimes. It feels harder than it used to be. Whenever he uses his Dragon Aspect he can feel the scales as if they were apart of him. Sometimes he even feels just so wrong . To big for himself. Missing wings and a tail. His body no longer feels like his own, as if he were wearing a mask he couldn’t take off. It ached.
The Dragonborn doesn’t feel like a Mer anymore. Whenever he graces the battlefield his fury is endless. No enemy survives anymore. He calls lightning from above, dancing around the strikes and laughing as his enemies are fried alive. Unrelenting force, when aimed correctly, caused his enemies to lose limbs or explode against whatever surface they hit. He can tear up houses from the foundation. The power he wields scares him.
There is no peace in his life anymore. Most of his time is spent atop the Throat of the World trying to make some sense of what is happening to him.
Few Dovahkiin have lived as long as you. Perhaps your soul simply aches for the correct body.
He curls next to Paarthurnax and buries his face in his hands. Why him? He didn’t want any of this.
He itches a growing patch of scales on his forearm and falls asleep to dreams of Tamriel burning by his hand.