Nilheim is one of many abandoned military watchtowers that are sprinkled throughout Skyrim. It sits on an outcropping at a high point of the plateau that encompasses the Rift. From the top, you can see all the way past the salt flats we had mistakenly crossed to the outcropping of the Velothi Mountains behind which Windhelm hides. If you look the opposite direction, you will see a lake with a large island; Ivarstead sits on the far shore at the base of the giant mountain known only as The Throat of the World, upon which live the Greybeards, who had taught me a (very) little about my Dragonborn powers last time. I wasn’t looking forward to climbing up there again, but that was for future me – there was no point in visiting when there weren’t any dragons about from which to slurp souls.

 

Had I been on my own, this is where my story would have either ended or become a reprisal of my first go-around. Well, okay, this is the second place that would have happened – I would not have survived the witches, either.

 

What happened was this: Kellan and I climbed out of the flats and up the road on the far side, back onto the plateau, then turned on the road toward Helgen that we should have reached at least two days prior.

 

By my (admittedly sketchy) estimation, we still had a solid five to six days to reach Helgen before Alduin made his appearance. By Kellan’s much more solid estimation, it would take only three-ish more days for us to get there. So despite the detour, we were in good spirits. The weather was nice, the going was easy, and my body had started to acclimate to the rougher living; even though we were on a road that climbed most of the way, I felt much less winded than I had at first.

 

I had kept up with my self-promise to exercise (helped in no small part by Kellan, who seemed amused but joined in) and I had some rudimentary feel for fighting with my sword.

 

We crested the hilltop upon which sits the aforementioned Nilheim and came across clear signs of the remains of a bandit attack – a shattered cart lay on its side surrounded by empty crates and a man with a bloody cloth wrapped around his head sat against a stone wall. He looked up as we approached and life seemed to spill into him.

 

“At last! Can you help me? I was attacked by bandits!”

 

“So I see,” I said, all blissfully innocent (read: “stupid”). “Do you need an escort? We’re going by Ivarstead – we can get you there. Or Helgen, if you want.”

 

“No, no, nothing that far! My camp is just up the hill, here. My friends are waiting for me but I’m afraid the bandits will finish me off before I can make it there.”

 

Kellan raised an eyebrow. “Why would bandits attack a man who has nothing?”

 

“I’ve seen them. They left me for dead but I survived and I’m a witness against them. Please! I have money in the camp – I can pay you once we are safely there.”

 

More money is always nice, right? Before Kellan could say anything, I blurted out, “Sure! We’d be happy to help.”

 

“Thank you!” The man rose to his feet and gestured toward the path. “I’m Telrav, by way.”

 

“I’m Sian, this is Kellan. Are you a merchant?”

 

“Well, I’m trying to be.” Telrav laughed as he strolled through the trees. “It is difficult to sell things when bandits have taken them from you.”

 

“I’m sure! I’ve had bad luck with bandits myself, so I totally get it.”

 

“Yes, you never know when you’re going to come across some. Oh, I see my camp, just ahead up that hill! Wait here, I’ll get your payment.”

 

“I…” I blinked, surprised we were already there. We had walked maybe the length of a football field and come out of the trees. The path split; buttressed by a low cliff face, the left side angled up toward the tower, while the right faded up a small hill. I could not see the top of the hill but smoke rose in lazy rivulets from a fire somewhere upon it. “Um. Okay.”

 

I turned to Kellan only to find he had disappeared at some point. I frowned and looked around, still blissfully innocent. “Kellan?”

 

And that is, of course, when the incredibly-obvious-to-anyone-who-is-not-blissfully-innocent trap was sprung in the form of half a dozen bandits brandishing weapons pouring over the hillside toward me.

 

In a way, I was lucky – they clearly wanted me as a prisoner (read: “fuck toy”). Only one had a bow and he did not seem interested in using it on me. I would have been a pincushion in moments for even the most mediocre of archers – targets that stand still are easy to hit.

 

This does not mean arrows were not flying, because they started to very soon after the rush toward me began. The man leading the charge collapsed with an arrow in his neck followed a moment later by the archer I mentioned before. The body of the lead man caused those behind to stumble. Two of them tripped on him and fell; one hurdled him, but then fell himself when he landed on the moving bodies of the two who had tripped. Only the last, who my blissfully innocent mind recognized as my good friend Telrav, had the wherewithal to reroute around the tangled mass of limbs. He raced toward me with a raised war hammer, which is when I finally stopped being blissfully innocent and, instead, became fearfully frozen. For the record, this was not an improvement.

 

I’m not sure where Telrav was aiming the hammer. I assume not my head, because caving in the head of your proposed sex slave is not conducive to a long term relationship. I am guessing he was going for a shoulder, so I couldn’t fight back, or maybe a leg, so I couldn’t run. Instead, I got it in the stomach, but that is only because he let go after Kellan’s arrow caught him in the back. He thudded to the ground as the hammer flew from his grip and slammed into my belly, sending me flying backward but leaving my breath where it was. I spent long painful seconds laying on the rocky ground just trying to gasp in a mote of oxygen. 

 

By the time I had recovered enough to sit up, Kellan had already dragged the corpses of our attackers to the side of the road and was busy stripping them of everything that looked valuable. I limped over and studied their faces. Four men, two women, all of them dressed in bulky fur and leather armor. Compared to many of the bandits I had seen in the past, these seemed relatively healthy. I mean, other than being dead, of course. But they didn’t have the signs of desperate malnutrition I had noticed in others. Apparently their little scam had been profitable. I took some solace in that – it meant I wasn’t the only blissfully innocent person in Skyrim.

 

“Thank you,” I said.

 

“Of course,” Kellan replied.

 

And that was it for our conversation. He didn’t cast recriminations about my stupendously stupid actions or my freezing (once again) during a fight. No lectures or even passive-aggressive stares or sighs. Yet, somehow, I understood his unspoken words: I had to do better or our time together would end sooner rather than later. He was not getting paid to be a mercenary, nor had he signed on to fight six-on-one battles on my behalf.

 

I had to grow up, and I had to do it now.

 

We spent the rest of the day cleaning up, by which I mean we tossed the stripped bodies of the bandits over the cliff into a waterfall below and looted everything we could carry from their camp. Then we went to the tower, where we found five dead previous victims (we also tossed them down the waterfall, but to honor them, we did so more somberly), a cache containing 523 gold pieces (around $150, not bad!), and a seventh bandit, who was asleep in the upper chamber. I bonked her over the head with an iron skillet just as she woke up and she collapsed back to her sleeping furs with a bleeding goose egg on her head but also still with breath. I don't hate all bandits. Just the ones with penises. And the ones who torture me for no good reason. And the ones who torture me with good reason. And the ones who stand idly by while others are torturing me. But not all of them.

 

We made it to Ivarstead late that night, rented a room, made love three times, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning, in a panicked fit, I visited the local apothecary, bought all the birth control potions they had, and quaffed two on the spot, despite the shopkeeper’s protests. You just can’t be too careful.

 

Don't feed the bastards. Feed yourself instead.

 

 

 

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