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“Even the Dragonborn Can Bleed” Belethor/M!DB, 2a/?

[(Anonymous)]

Humming to himself, Ardbur crouched by the bandit leader. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, her lips slightly parted. The dragonborn wiped his sword clean on her leather jerkin. He noticed the gold chain around her neck was familiar. He’d sold it to Belethor a fortnight ago. He ripped it off her neck and stood.

“By the gods,” Belethor murmured. “Have you no mercy?”

Ardbur glanced over his shoulder. “I let some of them live. That was mercy.” He approached the bloody shopkeeper. “How badly are you injured?” he asked, keeping his voice curt.

“Not…” the man groaned. “Not too badly.” He had a hand pressed against his bloody chest.

Ardbur crouched beside the shopkeeper. He pried Belethor’s palm away so he could inspect the wound. “Damn. I left in such a rush I didn’t take any potions with me. You’ll have to hold tight until we return to Whiterun.” The dragonborn patted his pockets. “I have a few things with me to patch you up. Let’s get your tunic off.”

Ardbur helped tug the torn and bloody tunic over the shopkeeper’s head. “I thought,” Belethor gasped, “I thought for a moment you were going to trade your life for mine.”

“Did you?” Ardbur asked, smiling absently. Other than several darkening bruises, Belethor did not have any broken bones. Although the dagger slice over his chest bled profusely, it was not life threatening.

“All I could think was what a poor trade that would be. Keep in mind this is coming from the man who would sell his own sister—”

“—if he had one,” Ardbur finished. He began to laugh.

Belethor muttered under his breath. “Ah, the mighty dragonborn finds the idea of sacrificing himself for a simple merchant humorous,” he said.

Ardbur frowned. “If I thought myself so important, I wouldn’t be here. You know better than that, Belethor,” he chided.

Belethor snorted. “You take yourself too seriously, man. That’s why everyone in Whiterun avoids you.”

Ardbur scowled. He tore a piece of material off a bandit’s shirt and dampened it with water from his canteen. He held the cool cloth against the man’s skin, cleaning away the dirt and blood.

“You’re more tightly laced than those damned shiny boots of yours,” Belethor muttered. When Ardbur offered him the canteen, he shut up and drank deeply.

“Am I?” Ardbur asked. He glided a hand down Belethor’s abdomen. The shopkeeper was soft where the warrior was muscled. Ardbur could still feel a core of strength. Belethor wasn’t to be taken lightly, as his struggles along the road to Duskenvale Cave had proven to the bandits.

The shopkeeper jumped as the other man’s touch wandered, almost choking. He shot Ardbur a strange look. The dragonborn only smirked and tossed aside the bloody rag. He grabbed the man’s belt and tugged him close. Their faces almost touched. “You need stitches. Think you can take it?”

“I’ve been kicked and thrown around like a ragdoll for the past eighteen hours,” the man said. “I imagine I can handle a few stitches.” He pulled away and sank back against the cold stone wall. He glared at Ardbur. “Yes yes, I know it must amaze you that we common mortals might have as much tolerance for pain as you.”

“Now who’s being tightly laced?” Ardbur asked. He withdrew a needle and a bundle of waxed silk. He brandished them with a wicked smile on his face. “Let’s all be thankful I won’t have to cauterize the wound.”

Belethor blanched. The stench of smoke and death lingered in the chamber. Nearby, the vests of burned men and women still smoldered. The mere mention of fire was enough to bring distress rushing back into the merchant’s eyes.

Ardbur went to work, leaning over the man’s side. “You’ll need to drink a healing potion as soon as you can,” he said. “Who knows what filth those bandits had on their weapons. An infection might kill you.” Needle and silk slid through flesh. “In any case, this should speed up the healing.”