A/N: Hello everyone! So this is a one-shot that popped into my mind the other night, and it wouldn't leave me alone.

Is it just me, or were you all disappointed in the ending to Skyrim? I mean, it was alright, I guess, but I think it would have been more epic if your character died fighting Alduin. I don't know, maybe that's just the sadist in me (not the sexual kind, weirdo). It would have been a fitting end to the Dragonborn's story.

So in this piece I decided that the Dragonborn knew he would die in the last fight, and he wrote a letter to his Housecarl Lydia. Cue sadness.

And on another note for my other readers, I have not abandoned my story "The Thing You Fear The Most". I have encountered writer's block/I am waaaaay too busy with uni. I will update soon. Maybe. Probably not. But don't lose hope!

Anyways, read on! Hope you enjoy it, and please review with any thoughts/criticism/whatever!

It was late afternoon by the time Lydia returned to Breezehome, weary and shaking, but not from travel or the cold. She grabbed hold of the door handle and paused for a moment, before taking a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp fall air, and pushing it lightly open. The bright midday sun spilled into the small main room, falling across the worn stone floor and lighting up the bookshelves, the chairs, the tables, and all of the Dragonborn's personal items distributed throughout. She stood in the doorway and looked around solemnly.

It was strange, she thought. She'd lived here for years, and this house had always been home to her. A refuge, a place to unwind and relax and forget, if even for a little while, the troubles of the world. This place had been witness to laughter and song and some of the best times she'd ever had. But now it seemed cold and uninviting. Hollow, even. As if all the life had been sapped out. There was a dying fire in the hearth, but she couldn't feel its warmth.

She stood there until the people of Whiterun began to give her curious looks. When she noticed the first of them she was quick to close the door and shut out the unforgiving world. She wanted to be alone.

Funny, she mused, as she shuffled ever so slowly into the house. She was not a very sociable person and had always considered herself a loner. Her Thane had been the same. But like with everything else he'd ever done, he'd changed her, and she found herself of late making friends and talking with people who she had never given a second glance, even though she'd lived here her whole life. But she neither wanted nor needed other people right now.

There was only one person she wanted to see. And he was gone.

She moved into the room stiffly, almost on autopilot, as her mind swirled and raged with these thoughts and more. She didn't even notice herself drop her weapons on the floor with a dull thud, or sit down heavily on the table in the tiny kitchen. She didn't know how long she sat there, unmoving, unyielding, nor did she notice when the fire died and it became so cold she could see her breath.

But she remembered her anger rising inside her, slowly at first, coursing through her veins, until it was boiling and she finally reached her breaking point. With a guttural cry she pushed herself up from the table and kicked her chair back with such force it broke a leg as it hit the opposite wall. She took a jug from the table and, after a moments glance, threw it at the wall. It shattered into a million little pieces and she felt a small pang of satisfaction.

She grabbed another jug and threw it, and then a bowl, and when there was no more breakable pottery in the kitchen, she stormed into the living room and kicked over the stewing pot over the hearth. The remnants of their previous day's supper spilled out onto the stone and kicked up cold ashes from the firepit.

Lydia felt great. No, more than great. She felt elated. Euphoric. Such raw, uncivilised violence was what she needed. And she took it.

Like the worst of Skyrim's winter storms, she tore through the house with unrestrained ferocity. In her wrath she kicked over every piece of movable furniture and laughed when their contents clanged to the ground. She ripped open drawers and threw the clothing and whatever else was inside with a growing force. It was even better when she found something breakable, because that meant she could destroy it. She grabbed all the food in the house and crushed it all beneath her armoured boot, one at a time. She took every single book in the house and piled them up on the firepit. Ripping out their pages had quickly lost her interest. It didn't take her long before she hastily made a roaring fire in the hearth and watched in satisfaction as the pages of the books curled and turned black in the heat.

It's not big enough, her feral mind concluded, and she proceeded to take down all of the weapons on the racks and use them to savagely chop some of the wooden furniture into pieces. Splinters flew and she hacked with such force she broke the calluses on her battle-hardened hands. When she was done she tossed the wood onto the fire and wiped her bleeding palms on her cuirass and it grew so high that it became stifling in the house. I can fix that. She took the axe she used and walked from one window to the next, smashing out the glass with a vicious smile. That did the trick, though. The heat was sucked out and fresh air blew in.

The savage Housecarl stood there in the centre of her violence, breathing deeply of the cool air wafting inside. As much vindication as her episode had given her, it didn't satisfy her enough. And as the monster inside her faded away, she realised this. She slumped against the wall and slid to the ground, and she finally let go.

Time became obsolete again, and the warrior sat there in her agony with her head in her hands until the fire became respectable in size. She worked hard to think of nothing, and she eventually managed that. It was easier not to think because that meant she couldn't feel. And when her mind became dull and blank at last, she glanced up and looked around at her destruction. She felt no shame or pride. She felt nothing.

Through her red and teary eyes she managed to spot a piece of yellowing paper folded in half. It was just laying there on the floor under some shattered glass and an old shirt, and it was a miracle it had escaped her rage undamaged. It should have been burned with the books.

It wasn't far from her foot, so she unconsciously leaned over and picked it up. She mechanically unfolded it and stared blankly at the writing.

Something deep inside her stirred. Her cold heart gave a tiny skip as she recognised her Thane's messy handwriting. But her anger crept back up almost immediately, and with furrowed eyes she automatically crushed it in her hand and tossed it aside, blood from her ruined hands staining it. She cursed the man for destroying her state of being that she worked so hard to achieve. And she spent the next little while trying to build the walls back up. She never noticed as the sunlight died.

But that piece of paper was right there beside her, and it was chipping away at her mental defence. It would not leave her alone, and she found herself glancing over to it more and more. She managed to convince herself that her walls would forever be weak with the hole the paper created. The only way she could patch the hole and be strong was to get it out of the way. So with reluctance she leaned over again and snatched the paper from the ground, irritated. The sooner she read it, the sooner she could forget it.

She unfolded the crumpled paper and smoothed it across her armoured knee. Taking a deep breath, one that seemed to last a lifetime, she started reading.

Lydia,

You know I'm no good at writing, and I'm not really sure why I wrote this, to be exact. I guess it's something for you to keep and remember when the memories start fading and the years roll by, as you and I both know they do.

Ugh. She regretted reading it already.

Where to begin? You know how indecisive I am, too. So forgive me if I ramble. I'm no poet, as you well know.

As I write this, I'm sitting right in front of you now, and you're making stew over the fire like you've done for so many years. You're talking about asking Adrianne to patch up my armour, and how you broke up a fight in the market last week, and of course you are chastising me for not letting you know where I was the past few months. And you're probably wondering why I don't just talk to you. After all, it is my first night back after my long absence. I know you're curious about my journeys, but the stories are long, and I am getting tired, and I have a big day tomorrow. And I know you won't force me to tell you, because even after all we've been through, you still sometimes treat me as your Thane rather than your friend.

So this was written last night. The memories still existed, but they seemed so distant, as if they were merely pictures from a child's storybook from another lifetime.

But I will tell you, Lydia. It is the least I can do. And I did tell you, if all went according to plan. And now you know. You know how I scoured all of Skyrim searching for the Elder Scroll. You know how I delved deep beneath the soil of Nirn to retrieve it. And how I climbed the Throat of the World and used it to sail across time and space to learn the Dragonrend shout from our ancient heroes- the one chance I have at defeating Alduin once and for all.

Yes, she did know. He had told her all about his recent adventures this morning – which also seemed like a lifetime ago – at –

No. She couldn't even say the name. It would certainly break her wall if she heard of that place again.

She continued reading.

But I guess the main reason I write this is because I don't want to mess this up. I'm afraid if we just talk, I'll miss something and beat myself up on my way to wherever it is that dragon we catch leads me. As I already said, I've never been good with words. Not the sentimental kind, anyhow. You're probably laughing at me right now. I know you can't shut me up normally, and you know I could probably convince King Ulfric himself to abdicate and hand me the sceptre. But with things like this, I just can't seem to do it. Not in person, anyhow.

Yes. That stupid man could do anything he set his mind to. But why, why hadn't he come to her sooner? She felt the anger bubbling up again, but she pushed it aside.

By the way, you just handed me a bowl of stew, and I must comment on your spectacular cooking skills. You get better with each passing day.

But enough rambling. See? I told you I would ramble.

Lydia heard a tiny squeak and jumped in surprise. She was shocked when she realised it was a small laugh, and she looked around the room for the culprit. She was floored when she realised it had come from her.

Even when he wasn't here, her Thane could make her laugh.

So here we are - at the end of our long journey. Yes, Lydia, this is a farewell letter if you didn't already know. I leave for Dragonsreach tomorrow morn, and I think you know as well as I that this will be my last journey. One last great adventure, as we used to say.

There it was. Dragonsreach. The last place she had seen her Thane.

She knew. She always knew. She knew from the moment that man had burst through the doors last night, cold and hungry and tired, that there was something off. A change, so subtle that neither of them spoke of it. And he knew it, too.

There was no coming back.

Her walls were crumbling down, but she tried so hard to hold them up.

I never really believed in destiny, not before coming to Skyrim, but these last years have made me a believer. It was my destiny to be captured that day on the border. I was not supposed to die then. I met Alduin that day, my bane and my saviour, and I survived when most others perished in his flames. I came then to Whiterun – my first and truest home. And not long after I met you.

I know you didn't like me when we first met. You were disappointed in being assigned Housecarl to a scrawny Imperial. You thought Balgruuf was insane for letting the 'enemy' have a place in court, however small that place was. And I know it irritated you when I dragged you across Skyrim filling your packs with useless junk to sell to merchants or the odd Khajiit caravan. But with each abandoned cave and Draugr-filled tomb, we became closer. Close enough that I considered you my friend.

Through her watery eyes she laughed again. Yes, she remembered the long hot days of trudging and fighting, and the cold nights filled with hunger and silence. But what she remembered most was the first time he walked through the doors of the Jarl's Keep. She had been disappointed and irritated with him. He was distant and scared and so fragile and wiry she laughed at him secretly, knowing he could never defend himself properly.

But Imperials are made differently than Nords. They are smaller and thinner. Her Thane could handle himself quite well, much to her surprise. And as time wore on, he proved to her his proficiency. And, different though they were, they were much the same, and they grew to be friends.

And as the years rolled by and I stayed at Breezehome less and less, our friendship did not wane, but grew even stronger. Lydia, you were my first and truest friend, and I thank you for always being there.

Yes. She missed those first years with him, but as he grew stronger and well-known, he left her here more frequently. But that only meant their time together was better spent. She smiled at the painful memories.

I was to become Thane of all nine holds, the Harbinger of the Companions, the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild, the Arch-Mage of the College, Stormblade of the Stormcloaks, and hero to all those who call this frozen wasteland home. I would be named Champion to a dozen Daedra. I would crown a king and kill a ruler. I would walk the planes of Oblivion, delve the deepest caverns, and climb nearly to the sky. I would save the sun from a madman, and the Last Dragonborn would meet the First. It seemed as though destiny had great plans for me. The admiration of strangers and friends, freedom from the mundane, all the money and women and property and power in the world. What could anyone else ask for?

But I became angry, and cold, and I know you saw a change in me. I did not want the titles or the fame. I never did. I never wished to fight for this land that accused me of betrayal and deceit and scorned me wherever I roamed all because of where I was born and the colour of my skin.

Her smiled faded as she read this. She was once guilty of prejudice, and she remembered wherever they went, her thane had been ridiculed. People rejected him as the Hero of Skyrim. "How can he be Dragonborn? He's not even a Nord!" "He must be a spy for the Empire. Don't trust him!" "Watch yourself, Imperial!" He was denied help and turned away many times. He was degraded and hated for the crime of being alive.

And she did notice a change in him. He lost his easy-going tone and adopted a new stark one. His lithe gait was replaced with a marched determinedness. His once-bright eyes grew dark and cold. He stopped his jokes and his laughter became rare. And one day he left her without a word.

I never told you this, but I went through some dark times, and I found the family I never had in the Brotherhood. And I was happy, I guess, for a while at least, taking out my anger on those whose time had come. I grew bitter and angry at destiny, and I wished for nothing more than to escape her grasp and forget what I was born to do. And I did in my time with the Brotherhood. But after even those whom I trusted most betrayed me for power and freedom, I fled and I knew then that destiny was a cruel agent. Twice betrayed by the Oculatus. I had nothing left in the world but material wealth, and I know better than anyone how little it is truly worth.

She was utterly shocked to her core. The Dark Brotherhood? Her thane had been an assassin? He had never told her this. True, she would have been furious with him and would probably have beaten his ass. But she would forgive him. She always did.

Why hadn't he told her about them?

She continued reading, shaking her head in disbelief.

So I wandered the wilds for a time, in anger and in doubt, and whether by chance or will I found myself climbing the Seven Thousand Steps once more. And I talked with Paarthurnax, and he said something to me on that cold winters day. He asked me, "What is better – to be born good, or overcome your evil nature through great effort?"

You see, I am not a good man nor a merciful man. If anyone ever told you otherwise, they were lying. Killers and thieves don't make good heroes, and that's all I saw myself as after Bravil.

Bravil. A chill ran up her spine at the mention of that squalid town in Cyrodiil. Her friend had told her about what happened there once. Only once, and very little. And she knew it pained him to recall it.

All she knew about her friend's past was that he had been an orphan living on the streets in the Imperial City, never having met his parents. It was hard, he said, and he barely scraped by. But when he was older, he and his best friend, a fellow orphan by the name of Silas, grew tired of their misfortune and gathered what little belongings they had, taking a group of other street kids south into the wilds. They lived there, earning their keep as mercenaries and performing odd jobs as they travelled from town to town. And they grew up together, and they made a living for themselves. They managed to turn their lives around against all odds.

But something dark grew between Silas and her thane. He never told her what, except that one day something happened and Silas stormed off. A little while later he returned, apparently over his whatever had seized him. But her friend knew something was wrong, and he was proven right.

And the Penitus Oculatus ambushed them one night in the town of Bravil. Silas, in his growing anger and fear, had gone to them, and was promised wealth if he could reveal the location of any conspirators of the Emperor. So he lied and told them his friend, his brother-in-arms, was plotting, along with the rest of their band, an attempt on the ruler's life.

Her thane managed to escape with his life, but not after taking his friend's at the edge of a sword.

What happened with Silas changed me. It burned away any belief I ever had in the goodness of men or in the triumph of light over dark. Most men, good men like Silas, do not act because they think they are wrong. Men can justify anything and do the worst wrongs in the name of what they believe right, even betraying everything they fought for. As I watched the one whom I called brother take no care of my fate and betray me to the Oculatus, I saw then the willingness of weaker men to blindly follow orders of those they admired and feared, even when they were wrong. I saw the weakness in humanity that day, and the resolve of those who had power.

I determined then not be one of them. I ran from that place, and I never looked back. The next job, the next few coins. Don't ask questions, and leave judgment to the gods. I cannot tell you how many I've left dead in my wake since then, nor do I care to know their names or faces.

I am not a force of good or evil, no matter what the stories say, and I have never had any interest in changing the world, of championing any cause. I am simply a man drawn into the maelstrom. Destiny had no place in my world.

But what Paarthurnax said to me that day changed me. For the better, this time. I realised that no man is born good. No, not even the prophesised Dragonborn, the Hero of Skyrim.

We are all brought into this world with evil in our hearts. It is not our fault, but simply the way the gods made us. You can run your whole life from the evils of the world, but you will never escape them, as they live inside you. They grow and fester if you choose to feed them.

And it was then I realised. Destiny had put me upon the path to Helgen, but it was me who chose to go there. I chose to follow Ralof out of that place, and it was my decision to go to Whiterun.

You see, destiny is real and alive in this world. She creates heroes and shapes the future. She prophesises the coming of one to defeat the World-Eater. But destiny is not a matter of chance, like I believed. It is a matter of choice. It is not there to be waited upon. It is to be achieved. Do you think I would be where I am today if I chose to cower behind a wall from that dragon? If I chose to stay at Breezehome for the rest of my days? If I never walked the length of Skyrim times untold?

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves. And our mistakes make us who we are.

I no longer hold any anger towards Silas. He did what he thought was right.

And though there is evil in us all, we can choose to face it and overcome it. There is some good in this world, Lydia. There are good people out there. They are not tyrants or leaders or kings. They are the small folk. The owners of inns who let me stay a free night simply because I had no coin and looked weary. The mothers who chase their children through the streets. The fathers who work long hard hours just so their family can eat another day. The hunters in the wilds who saved me from certain death, even though I was not of their kind. They are the people of Skyrim. They are forgotten, mostly, but I chose then to embrace where destiny had led me and save their home for them.

And so with great effort I set out to become the hero I wanted to be.

And the rest is history.

Lydia's heart ached as she read. She never heard her friend talk like this before. He had always seemed so strong to her. If not in body, then in mind. Her tears began to spill over the brim of her eyes, and she had to blink so she could see clearly.

Do not think I had a bad life, Lydia. I did not. It was rough at times, but who doesn't endure sorrow and pain and the sting of betrayal? No, my life was good. I saw more of Tamriel that most only ever dream about. I met good people, and I talked with dragons and walked with gods. I saw evil as well as good. I made friends and formed families and gave Skyrim back her freedom. What a ride it's been!

I want to thank you for the things you've taught me. I want you to know that as my world unravelled and my skies crumbled, you were there to pick me up. I am not the strong warrior that the legends speak of. I needed your help more than you'll ever know.

I own myself today, because of you. I suppose a part of me will always love you. That's what's most amazing about love, isn't it? There's no getting it back once you give it away. Lydia, thank you for being a part of my life, for being my friend, even for just the moments we shared.

The Greybeards once told me that in the face of adversity, you learn who your true friends are. My time here has been full of challenges and hardships and betrayals, but I am so very lucky to have had true friends like you to face them with me.

I am so deeply grateful to you for all you have done for me. I wish the outcome had been different but that doesn't mean I wouldn't do it all over again.

The warrior was freely crying now.

Thank you for the meals and the jokes and for saving my life more times than I can count. Thank you for being someone I could trust with my darkest secrets, and someone I could be myself around. Thanks for your advice and your wisdom. Thank you also for all the late night talks we had. There was always something about the way you listened that made me feel like the only person in the world, and I knew then that you learned to truly care for me.

I was unfortunate enough to know the bitter taste of betrayal and my experience in Bravil tainted my view of men and their potentials. I was wary and mistrustful of others, and I searched and sought for years for an answer. Then you came into my life and showed me that it is ok to have a friend. And I realised that's all I ever really wanted.

And tomorrow when I depart from Breezehome for the last time, I want you to know that I am sorry I caused you pain in the past. I'm sorry for involving you in my troubles, and I'm sorry I did some things I know you're not proud of. But I'm not sorry for ever having met you. I hope you always remember that.

I'm sorry as well for not telling you this in person. But I need you to read this and remember why I did the things I did. I know you will be angry with me for leaving you without a proper goodbye, but I think this is the way it has to be. When the years come and go, and you find someone and fall in love and have a big family like I know you'll do, you'll read this again and smile and remember me and the crazy adventures we had. Time is a cruel agent as well, and he'll try his hardest erase what was.

I have kept you close to my heart and hope you will do the same. Promise me you'll forgive yourself for letting me go. Forgiveness is something everybody deserves because one day it may be too late.

Lydia could barely read. She was heaving deep, heavy sobs.

As one last request, I ask of you, Housecarl, to deliver messages to all my associated factions throughout Skyrim notifying them of my departure. Tell Brynjolf to choose another Guildmaster. He's got a real talent for picking them. Let Aela and the twins fight it out amongst themselves who will be next Harbinger. Please notify all the Jarls of my retirement. Inform Tolfdir of his new position as Arch-Mage. Tell Ulfric to never stop fighting for his country. I've worked too hard for him to let it go to waste. And please send someone up to the Greybeards, thanking them for all their help. I know you don't want anything to do with the Dark Brotherhood, but can you send them a message? Tell them I forgive them, and they will forever be part of my family.

And now I ask of you, my friend, to move on with your life. Do not weep for me. Life is too short and wondrous for such frivolities. Let your thoughts be ever with the living. You have your whole life ahead of you yet. This is but the closing of one chapter, and I am so thankful I have played a part in it. My story is nearing its close, now, and I want you to see that when it is over, when I am gone and you remain, know that I needed you, loved you, cared for you always.

I regret a lot of things I've done, but most of all that I never got the chance to tell you that, no matter what happens next, wherever my last adventure takes me, I'll never be anything but grateful for every moment I spent with you. And even though I've always fumbled for the right words, all I really wanted to say was thank you. Thank you, Lydia.

Look after yourself, alright? I know we'll see each other again some day. Until then, farewell, my friend. Sovngarde awaits.

-DB

The woman sat there in the growing dark of the ruined house, alone, clutching the wrinkled paper stained with blood and tears.

She was so overcome by grief and her loss that she didn't ever think she could pull herself up off the floor. And she didn't for a long while.

Because how could she possibly continue living when the man she loved was gone forever?

Yes, Lydia had loved him. She had fallen for him. For his eyes, and his smile, and his easy way of life. For his hardships and forgiveness. For every long night beneath the stars, and every laugh they shared together. But he was dead now, and she would never get the chance to tell him.

But then the sun peeked through the window, and she heard people outside. And somewhere out there, the leaves fell from a tree, and a wolf killed a deer, and an orphaned boy arose from sleep. The world went on. And so did she.