Writer's Notes: Erik/Dragonborn is the main pairing, focusing more on Erik's point of view. The story loosely follows Skyrim's Main Quest in the first arc, concluding in a second arc with the end of the Civil War.

Before he was called Erik the Slayer, there was a name that scorched all tongues, and as the long dead gods of the sky soared once again, so too did the legend: Dovahkiin.

Young eyes set their gaze on the eastern roads of Skyrim. Waiting, watching the sky where it touched the edge of the world, hoping to lay eyes upon the prophesied hero. Fate would unite them as he earned the name of Slayer. He would see the rise and fall of empires, the fulfilment of a soaring prophecy, and the forging of a sacred vow that would endure until the end of time.

This is the tale of Erik of Rorikstead and the legendary hero he chose to serve until the end of his days.

Hahnu Do Keizal

by Toasted Panic

Prologue

Aan Kiini Hahnu

(A Child's Dream)

Erik learned of Whiterun from one of the soldiers who patrolled Rorikstead. It seemed entirely by accident—when the tall, brawny man grabbed Erik by the scruff of his neck, stopping him from wandering into a giant's territory. He grunted to himself, "By Talos, no lads back home were as thick-headed as you, boy." This momentarily made Erik forget his game of soldier patrol. Looking up with raised brows at the man whose face was covered by a shiny steel helmet, Erik couldn't resist asking, "Lads back home? Where do you live?"

The soldier seemed to glare and grunted as he pushed Erik towards the village, "The capital city of this hold—Whiterun, out east. Didn't your father teach you these things? Run along and stay out of trouble."

It never occurred to Erik that the soldiers had homes like him and his father and the other village people—they always just seemed to wander about—let alone that they had homes in other places. He'd always just admired them for the way their regal garbs and spears and shields seemed to shine, even in the winter sun. Erik often pretended that he was one of them, making a game of their routine patrols, mimicking the way the soldiers made marching look so important.

Before Erik could ask him more questions, the soldier turned on his heel and resumed his duties. The words "capital city" rang tinkling bells of curiosity. Erik felt his chest swell with exhilaration, keeping him from standing still. There was only one place to have his questions answered.

He galloped like an excited colt, up the hill towards Frostfruit Inn. Barging through the wooden door, Erik spotted his weary father behind the counter, polishing flagons. Mralki glanced up at the intrusion and heaved a sigh when he saw his son bolt towards him.

"Have you done your chores yet? Erik, it's been hours since I told—"

"Father! Father! Do you know about the capital city? Do you know about Whiterun? One of the guards told me he was from there, but I've never seen a place like that. So I thought I'd ask you—have you been there? Are all soldiers from there?"

Taken aback, Mralki did nothing but stare at his young boy for a moment before shaking his head and setting down the rag and flagon he had in hand. "Slow down, Erik. One question at a time. What's all this talk about soldiers and Whiterun?"

"I was playing outside by the road, and one of the soldiers told me he's from the capital city—Whiterun—but what is that?"

Surveying the quiet inn to see that it was empty, Mralki gently took his son by the shoulder and set him down at a table. Sitting next to Erik, his father's tired eyes looked older and more wrinkled in the firelight. For a moment, the walls were filled only with the crackling of the firewood.

Then Mralki began his tale of Skyrim, of the nine holds, of their capital city, Whiterun, of the jarls and the castles they resided in, towers jutting into the wide sky, roofs taller than their inn.

Erik found it best to ask his father more about Whiterun every night before bed. Mralki obliged him, each time telling his son a different story about the city. He spoke of the temple of Kynareth and how its shrines miraculously cured you of sickness and wounds; the great and oldest hall of Jorrvaskr, where the brave Companions resided; of Gildergreen, the once beautiful tree that stood in the Wind District; of the surrounding farms and breweries beyond the walls, where their mead and ale came from.

With each new day Erik became more and more enthralled. He dreamed of walking through the cobbled streets of Whiterun, looking up at the castle that towered over all the rest of the city.

Only then did Erik become curious of the strangers who stayed in their inn. He never bothered with them before—they never seemed as important as the soldiers who marched about in their gleaming armour. Now he wondered where in Skyrim they had travelled. Where did they go home to? Were they inn keeps, merchants, smiths like the city folk his father talked about?

Erik asked them when he could, as he was helping around the inn. Most of the travellers didn't seem to mind. He then found out about the worlds beyond Skyrim. Possibilities, each more endless and exciting than the last.

Once, he was gifted with a large leather map by a traveller who had dark brown skin and black hair, darker than any Erik had ever seen on a Nord. His name was Aristide, and he was an Imperial Courier. When Erik asked Aristide what that meant, he explained that he delivered very important messages and packages all over Tamriel.

"So you get to see all these places?" Erik gasped, gesturing to the map open on the inn table.

Aristide nodded with a smile, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's all I ever get to do. As wonderful as it is though, sometimes I'd rather settle in a quiet village like this, with a nice lady and my own bed to come home to."

Erik missed Aristide's wistful look and scowled, smacking his palms on the table. "You don't want that! It's awful and dull here—nothing to see but crops and cows. If I could do anything I wanted, I would see all there is to see and never farm another day in my life."

Laughing indulgently, Aristide ruffled Erik's red hair. "Ah, what am I saying, you're young yet—of course settling in a cottage with a woman isn't the first thing on your mind. Tell you what though, boy. I'll leave you this map of Skyrim, so if one day you do happen to catch a horse-cart out of here, you'll know where to go. And how to find your way back. I'll even show you how to read it."

"Thank you," Erik beamed.

Pointing to a spot on the map, Aristide said, "This here is Rorikstead, where we are right now."

"Where's Whiterun?"

"Here." Aristide moved his finger far to the right.

Erik groaned. "That is very far away."

Aristide smiled consolingly. "Not so much when you have a horse."

When Aristide was long gone, Erik spent most of his time with his leather map. He took corks from the empty ale bottles in the inn and pretended that they were little soldiers, positioned all over the map, guarding villages and castles. It was his favourite game, and his father would always have to pry him away from the map to get him to weed the field and clean the inn.

Erik grew to resent Rorikstead as the expanse of fields and hills beyond it called out to him. There was so much more, farther than what he could see, so much more than what he'd known throughout his life—and here he was, farming.

Upon turning three-and-ten years, Erik told his father that he would be of further use elsewhere.

"I'm not suited to tending the soil," Erik complained in the darkness of their bedroom. "I should find my calling outside of Rorikstead, father."

Mralki frowned sadly without his son seeing. "Erik ... we don't have the coin for all that. Once we do though, perhaps one day."

Erik imagined a rich traveller riding into the village one day, a noble in fine garb who would bless their inn with patronage. He hoped it would happen soon.

Erik woke, startled by screaming and sounds of clashing steel and iron. Mralki leaped out of bed, opening the closet at the corner of their small bedroom. He pulled out a steel war hammer.

"Stay here and bar the door, Erik. Don't make a sound," his father ordered, voice hard but calm.

Erik scrambled out of bed, eyes wide with terror. "Father, what's happening?"

Mralki strode towards the door with one last glance at his son. "Do as I say." His gaze softened as he pulled the door open. "I'll be back soon." He left without another word.

Confused and frightened, Erik moved to do as his father said. He barred the door and sat on his bed, listening to the loud voices outside. His ears strained to listen, to make sense of the chaos outside the inn walls, his heart pounding madly inside his chest. He must have fallen asleep, because when he came to consciousness again the village was silent.

Hurriedly, he got out of bed and unbarred the door, running out into the inn on his bare feet. No one was around, the rooms strangely void of their guests. Erik made his way to the front door, immediately picking up on distant voices in the village. Pulling the heavy door open, he was greeted by a sight he had seen before.

Bodies lay in the road, surrounded by pools of blood. Bodies of strangers, bodies of soldiers, bodies of men and women dressed in strange armour. Swords and axes splitting open heads and spilling bellies. The air smelled like cold morning dew and metal.

Erik froze in the doorway.

He could see his father in the middle of the village, weary and pale, war hammer in hand. It looked clean. Mralki stood with others from the village: Lokir, Rorik, Jouane, Ennis, and Lemkil. They spoke with a soldier and their voices carried in the wind.

"Damn bandits fell upon us in the dead of night ..."

"... killed two of the folks stupid enough to run out of the inn ..."

"Curse those bastards to Oblivion. They'll pay for this."

The soldier spoke up, his voice gravelly. "Most of them managed to escape. I've sent word to the jarl. No doubt his steward will send out a bounty in a matter of days. The savages will pay for this."

Mralki nodded. "Aye, and if any mercenaries stop by, I'll be sure to pass along the news at the inn." His eyes lifted and met with Erik's. It was then that Erik felt the cold wetness on his cheeks.

From then on, Mralki refused to talk about the world beyond Rorikstead. He insisted firmly that Erik do his chores instead of having his head up in the clouds with his map and cork soldiers. Erik couldn't understand and it made him miserable. He hated picking weeds and harvesting the crops. He loathed baking bread and polishing the flagons. There was nothing else he wanted to do except escape elsewhere.

"Have you learned nothing, Erik?" his father asked, exhausted after telling Erik to polish the plates he hadn't cleaned properly the first time. "You must get these silly ideas of travel out of your head—there are dangers out there that you don't understand. You saw enough of it the other day."

"I can be brave," Erik muttered, scrubbing a plate. "I'll be strong and kill those monsters."

Mralki's face hardened. "Not another word."

Erik cried quietly that night, refusing to let his father hear his disheartened sobs. He refused to give up his dreams of far away places—more than ever, Erik wanted to leave his village. He wanted to take his father's war hammer and smite those who brought death into Rorikstead.

When his father was out in the field one day, Erik snuck into their bedroom and opened the closet containing his father's war hammer. He tried to lift it, but his thin arms couldn't bear the weight. Erik barely moved the hammer and he was filled with new despair. How could he ever hope to fight the bandits that attacked his village if he couldn't even lift a weapon?

He moved about the next few days slow and lethargic, filled with disappointment at his own weakness. Erik began to abandon his map and cork soldiers, leaving them untouched underneath his bed.

Seven nights after the bandit attack, Erik noticed while cleaning a table that a stranger had paid a visit at the inn. The Whiterun soldiers' armour paled in comparison to the kind that the stranger wore. The plates gleamed gold and green and sparkled brighter than spring water in the sun. The sword at his hip matched the rest of his garb, clinking as he strode to Mralki at the counter. The man was tall like a Nord, and had pale skin like one, but something about his wide set features and amber eyes told Erik that he wasn't from Skyrim.

He watched as the man and his father talked quietly over the counter. Mralki produced a slip of paper and handed it to the man, who then took a seat at one of the tables and waved over at Erik.

"A flagon of Black-Briar mead," he said in a voice that sounded like music. He tossed Erik a gold coin and waited silently for his drink.

When Erik brought a flagon back to the stranger, the question seemed to tumble right out of his mouth, "Are you a soldier?"

The man burst out laughing, long and loud, almost spewing his mead everywhere. "A soldier? Me? Why in the nine would I do that?"

Erik frowned. "Because it's an important duty. The jarl has soldiers guard villages and castles."

He laughed even more and something about the sound of his voice was oddly pleasant, like the warmth of a fire. "That it is, boy. But it doesn't pay nearly as well as being a sellsword."

"A sellsword?"

The man nodded, waving his free hand around. "A sellsword. A mercenary. O'course, it takes more skill than being your run off the mill soldier, but you don't have to answer to no captain or anything. Getting paid by nobles to hunt down someone they don't like, do a really nice job of cleaning them off the face of Nirn. Or just regular bandit hunting for some jarl who can't be bothered to have one of his own get up off their backside. That's the job I'm here for. And it pays quite well." He downed the last of his mead and stood from the bench. Rummaging through his pack, the man in the shining green armour addressed Erik once again, "I shouldn't be gone long. Have a bed ready and warm for me before midnight."

The stranger dropped a handful of gold coins on the table, more than enough for a week's stay at the inn, and strode out into the night.

At that moment, Erik knew how he would get out of Rorikstead.

Writer's Note: This is my first Elder Scrolls fanfiction, so while it might not be littered with veteran experience, I hope you enjoy reading it nonetheless :)

The title "Hahnu Do Keizal" is dragontongue, translating to "Dream of Skyrim." If there is meaning to be gained from it, I hope I can communicate it well in future chapters. So yes, multi-chapter story :)

Responses are always appreciated.