The soul of the just-slain dragon still reverberated inside me. I stood open-mouthed, panting slightly, as I enjoyed the victory.
“Please get me home.” The whiny voice shattered the moment. I turned, to see Sigurd standing aghast at the dragon’s skeleton, holding his hand far away from him as if he had just picked at a rotten sheep’s liver. I came close to killing him then – not for the first time – since I had rescued him from the Falmer’s clutches. Further proof the Falmer’s long sojourn beneath the ground has rotten their brains – because the man is worthless.
There we were, having just stepped outside in the crisp Skyrim morning, fresh snow on the ground. “The road to Whiterun is there,” I had pointed. He looked at me like a puppy. “You can’t expect me to get back there by myself. I’ll be killed.”
It was tempting to shrug my shoulders, and leave him to his fate – but I just knew if I did he would somehow survive and spread the story – and that is something I do not want. A reputation takes time to build, but can be ruined in moments. So I had feigned pity. Somehow I still managed to do so.
“Look east Sigurd, and you can see Dragonsreach. We will be there soon enough.” I walked around the skeleton, selected some bones, and pulled them free.
“What are you doing?” Sigurd’s voice raised with disbelief and I dismembered the skeleton.
“Harvesting. Where do you think I got this armour?” I asked, pointing to my Dragonplate. The man really was stupid.
He shut up after that, and while we completed the rest of the journey to Whiterun an idea crystallised. This coward had ruined my plan to make my way from Solitude to Markath – and worse had just been a whining sop. Surely that deserved some satisfaction. Later, much later, I envisaged standing outside his mean little hut. Picking the lock. Entering, silent, muffled, while Sigurd snores away. Then the moment of decision – change into the beast, or adopt the mask of the Brotherhood, or to wear no disguise at all. Either way wake him with a prick of claw or steel, so he knows death is approaching, and then take from all the life that he has in bloody retribution. I considered using Mephala’s Blade – a fitting tribute.
So I kept myself amused until we were before Whiterun’s gates. After a rest I departed once again, letting Sigurd go back to stacking wood for Belethor. But his days are numbered.