Bus Ride Fantasy

Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More

The Name of a Warrior

I have been called many things.

Tormund White Hair, on account of the bone-color my mane took when I was eighteen and spent a month lost in the tundra north of Winterhold. Some say that is when my heart froze over, and has yet to thaw.

Tormund the Massive, for my size and stature. Even among a room of Nords, most men’s eyes are level with chest. This name is not an original one, but it is one of my favorites.

The Hammer of Whiterun was given to me when I agreed to fight with the Imperial Legion to defend that city from Jarl Ulfic’s incursion.

The Stormcloak Scourge was chanted on the lips of guards and soldiers during the battle, as I leveled wave after wave of attackers like a frost troll knocking off the heads of children in some monster’s version of amusement.

And Tormund Kinslayer. My last name. The one I will take to Sovngarde . This, they gave to me after it was discovered how much of my family I put into the ground that day: five cousins, two uncles, all of my brothers.

And one father.

People say they heard me calling for them. Snarling their names while the bloodlust burned within me, hot and relentless. I could not say for sure if these rumors are true. I will not deny them outright. Perhaps that is answer enough.

General Tullius promoted me after the battle. Quaestor Tormund. This is a rank, though, not a name. People will use it to my face in the practice yard and the barracks. But in the mead halls, when I am elsewhere, I know the names they call me by.

My true names.

There are not many Nords in the legion. Not in Skyrim, anyway. I’m sure some have gone off looking for adventure and warmer climates aboard an imperial warship, but ever since the fighting broke out, any Nord that didn’t grow up within the walls of Solitude mostly stayed out of things or went over to Ulfric. Even if they didn’t, they at least muttered and cursed the Cydrodiil tyrants with mead-soaked breathe before they slept each night.

So it was that my arrival in Solitude was met with surprised eyes and uncertainty. A giant, born in the heart of Windhelm. A warrior of great renown.

It would have been the same as a Dark Elf coming over to Ulric’s side, I suppose. Why fight for a people who spurn you? Why turn your back on the blood in your own veins?

I have my reasons.

But they are my own. Tullius did not ask questions after he heard the song of my hammer, so I did not offer up any more answers.

The war will be over soon, I think. We have marched on Riften and we have marched on Winterhold. Soon we will march on Windhelm itself. My home. I heard a group of men discussing it one night in the barracks. Sound carries in those stone rooms. The Imperials did not know I was listening.

“What do you think the ole’ Kinslayer will do when we reach Windhelm?” One of them asked. He sounded drunk.

“Go yelling for more family members to crush, is my bet. Just like Whiterun.”

“Does he have any left?”

“Might be it’s just women, but I doubt that’d stop the swing o’ his merciless hammer.”

“Don’t be so sure. Might be the Giant Nord will finally turn on us when his feet touch home. I’ll be keeping a bolt locked and ready, just for him.”

One of them laughed. “He’d catch your midget bolt and stick it so far up your own ass you’d taste the tip. No, that man is colder than ice. I bet he’s the one to cave Ulfric’s brains in. And I bet he walks back out the throne room without so much as a word or an ounce of warm blood in his veins.”

“You weren’t at Whiterun. You didn’t see what he’s like in a battle.”

They continued on for some time. Speculating about my future.

I have done some speculating myself. Might be that I will be the one to kill Ulfric. Once we march on Windhelm there is no uncertainty in his doom, and it is hard to think of a person who would reach him before me, the way things go. I suppose that would earn me another name. Tormund the Kingslayer.

One letter to wash away the blood of my family and replace it with that of a king. It does not seem like a fair trade.

But after he’s dead, it won’t be the door back to Windhelm I walk through. It will be his private quarters that I go to. Up and up, and into his bedroom.

Where I will meet Lilana again, the girl that Ulfric stole from me.

The girl that my family turned their backs on when I asked for their help.

And when we are standing together again in the same room, after all this time. After the sun has set and her husband’s blood is finished sinking into the carpet downstairs. After the men start drinking to celebrate the survival of The Empire. After I have looked upon her pale blue eyes and run my rough hands through her silken-gold hair.

I will ask her to say my name. The one that only she knows.

And we will decide what comes next.

4 comments on “The Name of a Warrior

  1. elspethaurilie
    October 26, 2012

    This is so poetic. Part of me feels like I this is all I need to know about Tormund. The prose is so tight, his story is contained and perfect here. But of course, part of me wants to know his whole story. And, what comes next.

    • Fargoth
      October 27, 2012

      Thanks! This one I’m not sure I’ll continue at all…although the next story, Beginner’s Luck may get a repeat touch or two!

  2. ericanorth
    October 31, 2012

    Wow. This was so emotional. I think one of the things I love the most about your stories is how much more connected I feel to the people of Skyrim after reading.

  3. Pingback: A Thousand Dead At Sunrise | Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on October 26, 2012 by in Skyrim Fiction and tagged , .
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