I started out the next day by misunderstanding the directions I was given and taking the wrong road. Instead of a nice, smooth, well-traveled road filled with merchants (and their guards), virtually guaranteed to be bandit-free, I found myself on a narrow, rugged track that looked less used by the mile. I don’t know what sort of stubborn mindset kept me from turning around since it was clearly the wrong way. I suppose it had to do with my wish to get to Riverwood (and therefore home, as I had, at this point, convinced myself once again that getting to the next step in my journey would magically solve my problems and I would be home, despite everything Rayya had said) as soon as possible, so I didn’t want to waste a day backtracking.

So it was that, as the sun began to set on my fourth day out of Winderhold, I came across what I later learned are the ruins of Irkngthand. I could see fires burning through the crumbled-stone walls so, without thinking, I made for them. It didn’t connect in my brain what sort of people would be likely to be living in what was clearly an ancient ruined fortress, as opposed to a nice solidly-built one, until two men spotted me, whooped, and began to run toward me. I froze in place, uncertain of this greeting, until they got close enough to see details, such as the extreme shabbiness of their outfits, their gaunt frames, their missing teeth (clearly viewable because of the large, jubilant grins on their faces), and, oh, yeah, the swords they were swinging in the air as they ran. My brain did some quick recalculations, came to a decision, and I snapped to my right and began to run.

They  may have been malnourished, but they were still faster than me. Every time I glanced back, they had gained a few more steps. Fortunately one of them had outstripped the other by a good bit – I would not have been able to take two of them. As it was, I had to cheat, at least in the sense that it wasn’t a real swordfight – I would have lost one of those in about five seconds to anyone even remotely competent. I spotted a place ahead where a landslide had, at some distant point in the past, deposited several boulders at the base of the cliff. I darted toward them then, as soon as I passed the biggest, I ducked behind it, drew my sword, turned, and waited.

The faster man had nothing on his mind but speed – turning a corner to find me standing there was clearly something he had not considered. Even so, my little trick nearly didn’t work – he skidded to a stop and I had a heartbeat to shove the pointy end of my sword at his exposed body before he began to lift his guard. Luck or fate or some demigod was with me, because the sword found a gap in his armor and buried itself deep inside his ribcage.

He froze. I watched the look of excitement and laughter in his face crumble like a broken dam, replaced by pain, recognition, disbelief. A single tear formed in one of his eyes before they both glazed over and he collapsed to the ground. The weight of his body tore the sword from my hands. I heard a distant shout but I couldn’t make out words – I just stared at the body as it began to stain the snow at my feet a bright vibrant red. I didn’t realize I had knelt until I found my hands shaking him, as if he was just some guy who had fallen asleep.

“C’mon,” I mumbled. “It’s…you’re okay. Hey!” I shook him again as blood and snow began to soak into the gaps in my leather leggings.

I turned him over with a heave and a grunt. His eyes were as blue as the sky, and so, so empty. He seemed young, maybe my age, maybe even younger. On closer inspection, even my untrained eyes could tell his armor was a hodgepodge of disparate ill-fitting pieces cobbled together. He had been desperate and homeless, forced to live away from society. And I had killed him.

Snow began to fall as I pulled my hands away and clasped them in front of me, not from any attempt at prayer, but just to have something for them to do other than touch the boy’s slowly stiffening body. After a moment, I reached forward again and closed his eyes, as I had seen so many times on TV and in movies. They closed most of the way, but I could still see the barest hint of his eyes. They seemed to stare at me through the narrow slits, condemning me for their condition.

I felt...empty. Raw. The words, "that didn't happen, that didn't happen" kept ringing through my head, a staccato beat playing counterpoint to the images of carnage. I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually my brain realized that if I didn't move I'd be just as dead as the boy. I heaved myself to my feet and peeked around the boulder.

There was no sign of the other pursuer. Presumably he had seen his friend die and had turned back. Probably, I realized with growing trepidation, for reinforcements. I took a deep haggard breath, spared one more look at the boy I had killed, and forced my legs, now stiff and wet from the snow and the blood, into motion.

Luck or fortune or just lack of a wish from the bandits to pursue me further held, for I saw no signs of pursuit as I stumbled through the night. The snow and the bitter cold broke at the same time as dawn, as the downhill slope eased into a grassy valley. I could see rolling hills in every direction (save behind me, where the mountains continued their inexorable march southward). It would have – should have – been a moment of great joy and relief, but so wrapped up in the killing of the boy was I that I barely noticed.

I kept feeling it – there is a visceral…texture, a unique feel, when a blade stabs into flesh. It’s like when the scissors begin to glide through the wrapping paper. No, that’s not it – that’s too smooth. It’s like cutting thicker paper, that sort of crunching the scissors make, that slight resistance to each cut. It’s like that, except it’s centered at the point instead of the base. It’s hard to explain – like the arrow, it’s something you can’t fully understand until you’ve done it. Which I pray you never have to.

Anyway. I walked without really seeing anything until I came to a farm. There was a cart with a broken wheel on the road in front, but I didn’t pay it much mind. What I did do was circle well around the farm until I reached a small hill at the far end of one of the fields. My eyes were so heavy at that point that I just counted it as a safe spot, slumped to the ground, and closed my eyes. I was just slipping into exhausted slumber when it occurred to me that I had left Lysha’s sword behind.

Well, fuck.

Don’t feed the bastards. They’ll just want more.

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