There he was alone, and separated from his unit. I watched him for some time, and began to notice little details. He was a Nord for one, a son of Skyrim, likely once a proud warrior. But now he was a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a warrior. That is when I noticed it, an oozing wound upon his side. It was colored wrong, a strange purple highlighting the veins around it. They left him with a large chunk of cheese and a bottle of something. How strange it seems, that this once strong man’s last meal would be so meager. Worthy of a beggar at most. Creeping closer I smell his wound, the poison permeating in the air.
“Already smells like death,” I whisper absently, assuming he was already expired. Much to my surprise he let out a groan and looked up.
“Well… Aren’t… You… Observant…” He said with a wheezing cough. I looked embarrassed as I loosened the grip on my spear. He recovered and spoke again. “Damn elves… Damn… Forrest. Take off my helmet, it is stifling.”
I tilted my head to the side like an owl. Looking him over I found him fascinating, even though I had watched many Nords pass through the wilderness. He tried to give off the air of command as he stood there dying painfully, enemy before him. With a nod I removed his leather helm and tossed it aside. His red beard was fascinating, eyes looked dull. The fire that used to burn slowly turning to cooling coals. His sword lay all but discarded by my feet. His eyes flared as my hands gripped the handle.
“That sword has been a part of my family for so long. Strange…” His thought was lost into a fit of coughing. Each hack sounding worse than the one before it.
“It is beautiful.” I said as much to myself as to the dying man before me. Strange, how I had been told of this fearful enemy. Monsters from the North, who hate elves was only matched by their love of fighting and death. Yet here was one, dying before him, not on the field of battle. Funny how normal he seemed, as if he was just a man as lost in the world.
“Do you want it?” My eyes snap to him in surprise.
“Why?”
“Because… No one is left.” He was so morose, it almost hurt.
“What is its name?” I appraised the sword again, it was beautiful.
“Gloom…” He broke out in a groan. From what I knew about my people’s poison techniques, he was almost done.
“Please,” he begged. “A gift for a gift.” He looked at my spear, desperate for the quick end. Sometimes I think about what this conflict has done. Sometimes I wonder what it means to be resigned to fate. Sometimes I think about that Nord, dying before me. Without a name, I only know him by his sword.
I left him my spear.
