Chapter Text
There were few things that Lucien Flavius didn’t understand. While he was first and foremost a rising scholar on the Dwemer, he considered himself quite adept at a multitude of things: biology, history and folklore, and even physics (oh, how he absolutely detested physics). A problem-solver at heart, yet he was still stumped.
No amount of mentorship from the brightest minds of the century, countless hours scrutinizing a dusty tome authored by a long dead man (the state of the literary canon disgusts him, but that is a discussion for another time), or even spending their rest periods dissecting actually dead draugr would prepare him for, well, whatever this is.
Okay Lucien, you can do this.
He’d massage little circles into the palms of his hands to try and calm himself down but it’s been a week since they were supposed to leave Whiterun and Inigo was out selling off the useless junk they had accumulated for who knows how long and they are so behind schedule and the Dragonborn was, quite simply, an immovable force that refused to leave their home.
By the Eight, he was panicking.
Lucien decides that enough is enough and goes to creak the door open, wincing at the awful sound it makes. Another bowl of tomato stew has gone to waste - he memorized the angle he left the spoon at, he even lined up the bowl with the little wooden markings on the nightstand and determined that it was in fact left untouched for the past few hours.
Was it his cooking? Maybe it was his cooking.
But then surely the Dragonborn would have at least tried it? Perhaps they’ve gotten so paranoid that they suspected that Lucien would poison their food - there were certainly no shortage of assassins that have made attempts on their life.
But surely, if they thought that Lucien was an assassin, they would’ve gotten rid of him by now or had Inigo shoot an arrow through his knee so the both of them could escape together. Did he forget to heat up the food again? Last time he did he used his flames spell but managed to catch the bowl on fire and… Oh, he’s getting sidetracked.
The prophesied Last Dragonborn, savior of Tamriel, was sick. Or were they? No fever, he’d already checked. No signs of a cold or pneumonia, no broken bones (Lucien figured they had some unknown skeleton god watching over them, he had no idea how the Dragonborn managed to fall from those heights and manage not to break any bones. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing they’ve encountered), no rash, no gastrointestinal issues (thankfully), nothing. The lack of physical symptoms simply astounded him.
Perhaps it was some sort of invisible illness that sapped even the strongest of the strong’s strength, turning them into lifeless husks? Is the Dragonborn going to turn into a vampire? A draugr? A vampire draugr? He had no clue and by the Divines he was going to get to the bottom of this.
And Inigo! That blue abomination (he says this affectionately) infuriated him so, giving him a cheeky smile and a wave as Lucien asked, no, begged Inigo to share any ideas on what he could do. Inigo had simply replied, “Just stay with them, my friend. You do more than you know." As if that were any help! He’d been doing that all day, and nothing! If he hadn’t known any better, he would think that Inigo already knew what was going on.
With a deep sigh, Lucien made up his mind. Time to get to the bottom of this.
Step 1: Observation
Lucien starts by listing out the facts:
1. Excess Sleep - They have slept an average of 16 hours a day for the past three days.
2. Loss of Appetite - They have refused to touch food for over 48 hours.
3. Anhedonia - They seem to have lost interest in things that they would normally find joy in. Lucien had asked them every day for the past week if they were in the mood for a boardgame with a 0% success rate. The month prior, they had been playing several games a day.
4. Fatigue - Even the smallest tasks seemed to drain them completely. Lucien had finally been able to get them to take a bath yesterday. They immediately took a two hour nap, despite having just been woken up.
5. No Physical Causes - Lucien could not discern any physical cause. The Last Dragonborn is as physically healthy as they can be.
He twirls his quill around, eyebrows scrunched in thought.
Why is the Last Dragonborn acting like this? Is there even a name for such a cluster of symptoms? Oh, he is absolutely regretting not reading more about the various ailments that afflict Skyrim's people.
His fingers go tap tap tap on the table.
Beyond that, Lucien Flavius realizes he is frightened. What is happening to his friend? They're one of the strongest and bravest people he knows and seeing them in this state pains him deeply.
If Lucien could figure out the nature of this... condition, he'd have better ideas on how to help them.
Step 2: Question
The room is completely silent, save for the rhythmic scratching of Lucien's quill as he reviews his notes. He can rule out physical ailments: no amount of healing or potions would restore them back to their normal self.
Perhaps it was a curse, something magical in nature? Lucien had considered this several times, but he couldn't quite detect any magical influence surrounding the Dragonborn. He wrote letters to all of the court wizards he possibly could. He wrote to his father. He wrote to his professors. They were all pleads for guidance, a new lead, anything. Can these couriers be any slower?
Lucien adds several more scrunched up balls of paper to the poor, poor already-overflowing wastebin sitting in the corner of his room.
He might as well be writing nonsense at this point.
Besides, the Imperial can already feel a major headache coming on, no matter how many times he rubs his temples or tries to clear his mind. Doesn't matter. He has to push through for his friend. And so, he considers the same maddening question for the umpteenth time:
What is causing the Dragonborn's sudden shift in behavior?
He can't figure it out. Why can't he figure it out? What kind of scholar is he? Lucien scours the depths of his mind, desperately trying to revisit every conversation, desperately trying to uncover any hidden clues, desperately trying to pinpoint when the flickering in their eyes faded to cold, pervasive emptiness. Anything.
Everything is a jumble now. His brain buzzes with confusion until — oh. He could've sworn he just heard someone whisper his name but it is the dead of night and he is all alone, that couldn't be the case. It's all in your head, Lucien. Pull yourself together!
Wait a second.
All in your head.
Inigo would tell him this whenever he was overthinking something (which was quite often), trying to calm him down. Lucien had always thought the term was somewhat dismissive, but now? It takes on a whole new meaning.
He frantically scribbles out a new question, hand far too shaky:
Could the Dragonborn's affliction be psychological instead of physical?
He can feel his heart beating faster and faster as he underlines "psychological" once, twice, thrice. Lucien has never heard of such illnesses, much less read about them. Was there any research on them? He didn't know. This is uncharted territory, and that both terrified and excited him.
A deep breath. He writes one final question:
How can I help the Dragonborn heal their mind, not just their body?
Step 3: Hypothesis
Lucien Flavius rubs his eyes, mind racing with countless possibilities as the sun peeks over the horizon. Oops. Inigo is going to lecture me again about staying up too late, I just know it. He continues writing. Oh well! There are bigger things at stake here.
First, let's write these with the assumption that the illness is psychological in nature. Lucien sticks his tongue out in concentration as he commits words to paper:
Hypothesis 1: The Dragonborn is burdened by the immense pressure of being, well, Dragonborn.
The Imperial sighs as he considers the words he just wrote. Being touted as the famed hero to save all of Tamriel must be absolutely exhausting. He rubs his eyes again. Lucien can't imagine having that much responsibility placed on his shoulders, he would most certainly collapse under all that pressure and be flattened like a pancake. Metaphorically, of course.
The Dragonborn's withdrawal from nearly all activities of daily living certainly points towards a form of avoidance, almost as if they are rejecting their role as Dragonborn. It's not unlike how some drink to forget.
Lucien continues, willing the fog in his brain to clear:
Hypothesis 2: The Dragonborn has experienced far too many traumatic events, culminating in a shift in behavior.
He blinks. Once, twice. He can feel his eyes straining to read the words he had just written, but Lucien, you have to keep going. Do it for them. There has been an awful lot of violence, death, tragedy, you name it, throughout their adventures. It certainly has been taking its toll on Lucien, too.
Perhaps, a defense mechanism? A way to cope with the relentless horrors they see on a daily basis? But a piece of the puzzle is still missing, and after several rejected hypotheses, Lucien begins to write once more:
Hypothesis 3: The Dragonborn feels isolated as a result of their unique powers and destiny.
This... Hurts. It makes sense, but it hurts. Lucien tries his best to be there for the Dragonborn, he really does. But it all feels for naught when the Dragonborn would simply give him a weak smile and fall back asleep for the rest of the day.
And besides.
Lucien admits that he will never fully understand what it's like to be Dragonborn. It doesn't matter if everyone in Skyrim supported them, no one would ever know the depths of what they are going through.
Wait a second, what day is it? He can feel his brain fogging up again. He jots down more notes, drawing arrows between fragmented ideas in a desperate bid to make sense of it all. His hands are absolutely stained with ink, smears everywhere.
Honestly, these all sound like perfectly viable explanations. But the worst part is that even if they are true, where would he even begin searching for treatment?
Lucien struggles to keep his eyes open, vision blurring as he gazes at his now completely illegible handwriting. Okay. Maybe he can lay his head down for a couple of minutes.
Before he knows it, he feels the weight of his head on his desk, sunlight trickling through his window as he reluctantly gives in to sleep.