I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Ibnor's eyelids fluttered open, assaulted by a brightness that made him wince. He squeezed them shut, a sharp lance of pain shooting through his skull. Every muscle screamed in protest, a deep, bone-weary ache that felt like his very being had been torn apart and haphazardly stitched back together. A low groan rumbled from his chest, a sound of pure, physical agony.

"You finally awake." A voice, close enough to make him flinch again.

"Dammit. Not again," Ibnor thought, a wave of weary resignation settling over him. 

He forced his eyes open once more, blinking rapidly against the intrusive light. His vision swam, the room a blurry mess of browns and greys, before slowly resolving into focus. A man with a vibrant red hair and piercing green eyes sat beside the bed. The lines around his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he held his head… a fleeting image of Brynjolf flickered through Ibnor's mind. He blinked, and the resemblance was gone, but the impression lingered, a strange sense of familiarity in this unfamiliar place.

He was lying on a narrow bed, the roughspun blanket scratching against his skin. The room was small and sparsely furnished: a simple wooden table, two mismatched chairs, and a single flickering candle casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air was still and close, tinged with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly medicinal.

"Can you understand me?" the man asked, his voice gentle but firm.

"Yes…" Ibnor rasped, his throat feeling like sandpaper. Each word was a struggle, a dry, painful croak.

The man nodded and offered him a wooden cup. Ibnor took it with trembling hands, the cool water within a welcome sight. He drank deeply, desperate for relief, gulping down the liquid until it caught in his throat, sending him into a fit of sputtering coughs.

"Easy there…" the man said, placing a steadying hand on Ibnor's shoulder.

"Thank you… for saving me," Ibnor managed, his voice still rough but clearing slightly.

"Well, I couldn't just leave you to your fate, now could I?" The man offered a small, genuine smile.

"Where am I, mister…?" Ibnor's gaze drifted around the room again, trying to glean any clues about his whereabouts.

"You can call me Virgerd," the man replied. "You're in Ivarstead. Have a rest. I'll check on you later." Virgerd gave a reassuring nod, then turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

A wave of relief washed over Ibnor, the tension draining from his aching muscles. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness claim him once more. The pain remained, a dull throb that pulsed through his body, but it was distant now, manageable. He drifted back to sleep almost immediately.

He awoke again to the faint sound of lowing cows and the distant, high-pitched laughter of children. A soft, golden light filtered through the small window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He pushed himself up slowly, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he planted his feet on the cold wooden floor, a shiver running through him.

He pushed the door open and stepped outside, blinking against the morning light. The sight before him was a stark contrast to the fiery chaos of Helgen. He stood in Ivarstead, a small milling town nestled at the foot of the imposing Throat of the World. The mountain's snow-capped peak dominated the horizon, its reflection shimmering in the still waters of Lake Geir. A fork of the Darkwater River rushed through the town, its current turning the large wooden water wheel of the sawmill with a steady, rhythmic churn. The sound of the wheel, combined with the distant sounds of livestock and children's laughter, created a peaceful, almost idyllic atmosphere.

The town itself consisted of only a handful of buildings, clustered close together near the lake's edge. Chickens pecked at the dirt road that ran through the center of town, and a few cows grazed lazily in a nearby field. The air was crisp and clean, a stark contrast to the smoke-filled air of Helgen. To the east, the dark silhouette of Shroud Hearth Barrow loomed over the town, casting a long shadow that stretched across the settlement. The scene was a picture of quiet rural life, a world away from the dragons, the destruction, and the terror he had witnessed. 

"Had it only been days?" The events in Helgen felt like a lifetime ago. He inhaled deeply, the fresh air filling his lungs, a fragile sense of peace settling over him.

Ibnor spent the next few days in Ivarstead, slowly regaining his strength. Virgerd proved to be a kind and attentive host, providing him with warm meals and tending to his wounds. The quiet rhythm of the town, the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore, and the distant roar of the Darkwater River soothed his frayed nerves. He needed this respite, a moment of peace to process the sheer absurdity of his new reality.

Finally, feeling well enough to travel, Ibnor thanked Virgerd profusely and set off towards Helgen. He chose the southern route, following a winding path that skirted the base of the mountains. The journey was uneventful for the most part, save for a brief encounter with a pack of wolves. They emerged from the treeline, their eyes glowing with predatory hunger, but Ibnor, drawing on some newfound instinct, dispatched them with surprising ease.

As he crested a small rise, Helgen came into view. Ibnor stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. 

"This… this is not my Helgen! What is happening?" he whispered, his voice laced with disbelief.

The scene before him was utterly different from the developing Helgen that he rebuilt. The walls stood tall and proud, the buildings intact, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. The gate was open, and people moved freely in and out of the town.This was the old Helgen, the Helgen before the dragon attack.

He walked cautiously towards the town, his mind reeling. Had he somehow traveled back in time? It seemed impossible, yet the evidence was right before his eyes. He entered the town and made his way to the tavern, the only building he recognized from his brief, chaotic visit. The sign above the door, a painted tankard, was still intact.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into a wave of warmth and the thick scent of roasted meat and ale. A fire crackled in the large hearth, painting the bustling common room in a flickering orange glow. Laughter and conversation filled the air. Behind the long, polished bar stood a broad-shouldered Nord, his thick, braided beard the color of winter wheat, a wide, welcoming smile creasing his weathered face.

"Come in! Come in! Food? Drinks? What'll it be?" the Nord boomed, his voice as hearty as the fire.

Ibnor, still reeling from the impossible sight of a rebuilt Helgen, crossed the room and settled onto a stool at the bar. The wood felt smooth and worn beneath his fingers.

"Do… you have the mead with juniper berry?" Ibnor asked, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.

The Nord's smile widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. "Vilod's Juniper Mead! You've got good taste. A local favorite." He reached beneath the bar and produced a dusty bottle, placing it before Ibnor with a clink.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"That'll do for now," Ibnor replied, picking up the bottle. He hesitated, then plunged in. "Have you heard about the Stormcloaks?"

The Nord's brow furrowed slightly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "The Stormcloaks? You mean Ulfric of Windhelm? What about him?"

"Oh, nothing…" Ibnor said quickly, a nervous flutter in his stomach. "Just heard he… knows the Way of the Voice."

A booming laugh erupted from the Nord, shaking the very rafters. "Aye, that he does. A powerful Thu'um. But a dangerous path he treads, stirring up trouble with the Empire." He wiped down the bar with a practiced hand, his jovial expression returning, though a shadow lingered in his eyes. 

"Though some say he has a point, with the Empire bending knee to the Thalmor and banning Talos worship." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you didn't hear that from me."

Ibnor nodded slowly, taking a hesitant sip of the mead. The juniper's tartness bit at his tongue, a familiar sensation he'd only ever experienced through books. He set the bottle down, the clink echoing in the sudden quiet of his own thoughts. He tried a different tack.

"Speaking of… who's the High King now?" he asked, attempting a casual tone.

The Nord's smile vanished. He stared at Ibnor, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and concern. He placed the rag on the bar, his hand lingering as if he wanted to reach out.

"Are you… alright? You must have been living under a rock. Everyone knows the High King of Skyrim is Torygg, Jarl of Solitude."

The Nord's words hung in the air, a chilling confirmation of the world Ibnor thought he knew. He forced a weak smile, mumbled a thanks, and drained the rest of the mead. The tartness did little to dispel the growing unease in his stomach. He left a few coins on the bar and stepped back out into the cool evening air, the warmth of the tavern already fading like a phantom limb. He needed to get to Ivarstead.

The journey back was a blur. The path, usually a comforting familiarity, felt alien beneath his feet. A sense of dread, cold and clammy, clung to him, growing stronger with each step. When the view of Ivarstead appeared in his sight, his breath caught in his throat.

Smoke billowed into the twilight sky, painting the fading light with streaks of black. The air, once crisp and mountain-fresh, now carried the acrid stench of burning wood and… something else. Something sickeningly sweet.

Ivarstead was ablaze.

He ran, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The once-charming village was now a scene of utter devastation. Buildings were reduced to smoldering husks, their skeletal frames reaching towards the sky like accusing fingers. The air crackled with the hungry roar of the flames, punctuated by the snapping of timbers and the sickening crunch of… bone.

Corpses lay scattered everywhere. Men, women, children – all twisted and broken, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. The bandits had left nothing behind. Not even Virgerd. Ibnor found him near the mill, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky, a crude arrow protruding from his chest. A sob tore from Ibnor's throat, a raw, animalistic sound of pure grief.

He stumbled through the carnage, his eyes scanning desperately for any sign of life, a flicker of hope in the face of overwhelming despair. He had to find someone. Anyone.

Then, amidst a heap of bodies near the general store, he saw it. A slight twitch. A barely perceptible movement.

His heart leaped. He rushed towards the pile, his hands trembling as he pushed aside the charred remains. Beneath the weight of two adult corpses, he found her. A small girl, no older than ten, her face streaked with soot and blood. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. She was alive.

Relief washed over Ibnor, so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He gently scooped the girl into his arms, her small body surprisingly light. She whimpered softly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment, the dark pupils wide and unfocused, before closing again. He held her close, shielding her from the horrors that surrounded them, the warmth of her small body a fragile counterpoint to the chilling reality of Ivarstead's fate.

He traveled east, driven by a primal need to find shelter. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the landscape. Finally, he stumbled upon a small cave tucked away near a secluded pond. The pond, ringed by weeping willows, reflected the fading light like a dark mirror. It wasn't much, but it was shelter.

With no other option, the cave became their home. Ibnor laid the girl down on a bed of soft moss he'd gathered near the pond. She remained unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady. The pond proved to be a blessing, providing a source of freshwater. He fashioned a crude fishing spear from a sharpened branch and managed to catch a few small fish. Clams, nestled in the muddy shallows, added to their meager diet.

The first few days were a blur of worry and activity. Ibnor scavenged what he could from the surrounding woods. He felled small trees and, with painstaking effort, crafted a rough wooden door for the cave entrance, offering some protection from the elements and wandering animals. He hunted rabbits and squirrels, learning to set simple snares and traps. The cave floor was covered with woven mats of dried reeds. A small fire pit was dug near the back of the cave, the smoke escaping through a natural vent in the ceiling. Slowly, painstakingly, he transformed the damp, cold cave into a semblance of a home.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The seasons shifted, the vibrant greens of summer fading into the golds and browns of autumn. The girl remained asleep, an unnerving stillness about her small form. Ibnor tended to her with unwavering care, wetting her lips with water from the pond, keeping her warm with furs he'd managed to acquire from his hunts. He spoke to her often, telling her stories of his travels, of the world beyond the cave, even of Ivarstead, carefully omitting the gruesome details of its destruction. He clung to the hope that one day, she would wake up.

Then, one crisp autumn morning, three months after he'd found her, it happened. Ibnor was tending the fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows on the cave walls, when he heard a small sound. A soft whimper. He turned, his heart leaping into his throat.

The girl's eyes were open. They were wide and clear, fixed on him with a look of quiet confusion. She blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke.

"Nugu… nugu-seyo?" 

The words, though whispered, caused Ibnor to freeze. His back was to the girl, his hand still adjusting a log in the fire. The cadence, the unfamiliar sounds… they tugged at a distant corner of his memory. He'd heard something like it before, somewhere far away, in a life that felt like a dream.

"Eodi-yeyo?" 

The second question solidified the feeling. It wasn't just a random similarity. There was a distinct pattern, a rhythm to the words that resonated somewhere deep within him. He slowly turned, his gaze falling on the girl. She was small and frail, her dark eyes wide with fear and confusion.

"Don't worry," Ibnor said gently. "You're safe."

"Museun mal haneun geoyo? Jeoneun ihae mot haeyo…" 

The girl's response did nothing to clear the fog in Ibnor's mind. He still couldn't place the language, but it was clear she didn't understand him. He pointed to a rough wooden bowl filled with water from the pond, miming the action of drinking. 

"Drink," he repeated, enunciating the word clearly.

Hesitantly, she reached out and took the bowl, her eyes never leaving his. She drank slowly, small sips at first, then more eagerly. When she finished, she lowered the bowl and looked at him.

"Gomawoyo…" 

The word hung in the air, and suddenly, something clicked in Ibnor's mind. Gomawoyo… Where had he heard that before? Then it hit him. 

"Wait a minute…" he muttered, staring at the girl. "Gomawoyo… Thank you! Isn't that… Korean?" He took a step back, a look of stunned disbelief spreading across his face. 

"Holy crap… This kid's from Earth. Just like me!" The realization was staggering. 

Amidst the magic and dragons, he'd found another soul who knew the same sky, the same world he'd left behind. He wasn't alone.

The girl's brow furrowed. She looked down at her hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. Her eyes widened, a flicker of dawning horror replacing the confusion. She brought her hands up to her face, touching her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. Her breath hitched. She looked at Ibnor again, her eyes filled with panic. 

"Museun irieyo? Wae ireoke eoryeojyeotji? Chulgeunhaneun girieotneunde… beoseu…?" She was no longer just confused, she was terrified.

"Yeogiga eodiyeyo? Nugu-seyo? Wae yeogi inneun geojyo?" The questions tumbled out of her, rapid-fire, her voice trembling.

"Calm down… breathe in… breathe out…" Ibnor said, holding his hands up in a calming gesture. "You understand English, yes?"

"Engrish… Yesseu… a rittre…" she nodded, her voice small and hesitant, tinged with a distinct Korean accent.

"I know you have a lot of questions. Me too." Ibnor gestured between himself and her, then pointed upwards, as if indicating a larger, shared mystery. "But you need to recover first. Can you understand me?"

"Yesseu. I… unda stan…" she replied, her English still broken but clearer now, the Korean accent still present.

"Alright. Stay here." Ibnor pointed to the moss bed where she lay, then mimed eating, pointing towards the cave entrance. "I will find food." He kept his gestures simple, hoping to bridge the language gap as best he could. He needed to get her something to eat, something to help her regain her strength. And then… then they would try to figure out just what in the world had happened to them both.

Ibnor left the cave, his makeshift hunting bow and a handful of crude arrows slung over his shoulder. The forest was quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves under his worn boots and the distant call of a bird. He moved with practiced ease, his senses heightened, scanning the undergrowth for any sign of game. It wasn't long before he spotted a young deer grazing near a small stream. He took careful aim, held his breath, and released the arrow. The deer stumbled, then fell.

Returning to the cave, he dragged the deer behind him, the weight a familiar burden. He set about preparing the meat, skinning and butchering the animal with practiced efficiency. He built up the fire, roasting some of the meat over the flames and setting aside other portions to dry. The aroma of cooking venison soon filled the cave, a welcome change from the usual scent of damp earth and smoke.

He offered the girl a piece of the roasted meat, tearing off a small, tender portion and handing it to her. She took it hesitantly, sniffing at it before taking a small bite. Her eyes widened slightly, and she began to eat with more enthusiasm. Ibnor watched her, a small smile playing on his lips. It was a small victory, a sign that she was recovering.

They ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of their chewing. Ibnor kept his gaze gentle, allowing her space to process everything that had happened. He could see the questions swirling in her eyes, the confusion and fear still lingering, but he knew pushing her for answers wouldn't help. Time and rest were what she needed most.

As the light faded and the fire dwindled to glowing embers, Ibnor spread out his furs for them both. The girl curled up on her moss bed, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames. Ibnor settled down near the cave entrance, keeping watch.

He looked up at the night sky, a vast expanse of stars stretching out above him. The familiar constellations of Skyrim were a stark contrast to the memories flickering in his mind – images of city lights, of concrete and steel, of a world that now seemed impossibly distant.

He thought about the girl. Where had she come from? How had she ended up here, in Skyrim? He remembered his own arrival in this world, a violent and disorienting experience. It was… unsettling.

The questions swirled in his mind, a chaotic jumble of possibilities and uncertainties. Was there some connection between their shared origin? Was there a reason they'd both been brought to this place? Or was it just a cruel twist of fate, a bizarre coincidence in a world full of magic and mystery? He had no answers.

Exhaustion eventually claimed him, but even in sleep, the questions lingered, a restless undercurrent in his dreams. He knew that the girl's arrival had changed everything. He was no longer just a survivor, struggling to carve out a life in this harsh land. He had a responsibility now. He had to protect her, to help her understand what had happened, and to find a way, if possible, to find their way back home. Or at least, to make a new one, together.