Skyrim is a fascinating game for a lot of reasons, but one thing that’s been on my mind lately is its portrayal of marriage. You see, I decided to marry Aela the Huntress, and so began a series of events that — I’ll be honest here — hit a little too close to home.
To be perfectly fair, Aela wasn’t my first pick. No, Vex of the Thieves Guild has that honor. I mean, there’s simply no girl like a Riften girl, am I right?
The thing is, Vex simply wouldn’t have me. In retrospect, there are several possible reasons for her refusal, though I stand by my initial assumption that she’s just racist against Argonians. If only she’d been able to snatch up a copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid at some point during her misadventures of thievery and corruption, though, she’d understand the sorts of erotic pleasures that lie in wait for her, the kind of pleasure that can only be granted by one of the Argonian race.
But that’s neither here nor there, now is it? So I moved on, and I found myself enamored with Aela the Huntress. She had simply everything I look for in a woman. She’s beautiful, a bit on the wild side, and one of the fiercest warriors in all of Tamriel. Of course it doesn’t hurt that her attire is impractically skimpy. (I feel like the whole “being a werewolf” thing practically demands some sort of “doggy style” joke here, but I’m going to refrain for now.) But Aela, she jumped right into my arms, seemingly honored that I would even consider her as my bride.
So we performed all that Ritual of Mara nonsense (though I’ve actively distributed pro-Mara tracts, I would hardly call myself a true believer) and moved into Breezehome in the bustling city of Whiterun.
But it wasn’t long before I started sensing an unspoken disturbance in the home. I started reading into the particular way she’d address me as I returned from my various adventures. “Hello, my dear,” she’d say, as she always had, though I was beginning to detect a hint of sarcasm buried in these words. I’m just being paranoid, you say?
Well, the real clincher, the thing that really boils my blood, even as I type these words, is that I’ve come home a few times to find that old man Belathor lingering in my kitchen. He doesn’t stay long. No, he winks his little skeever on out of the house as soon as he catches the slightest whiff of my presence.
Now, I realize Belathor may have some good excuses as to why he’d show up at my house. Aela is running a fairly successful shop, after all (and she certainly seems to have money for me whenever I ask for it.) But I’m beginning to grow skeptical that the relationship between Belathor and her is more than just business.
I think Aella is cheating on me.
Now, I guess I can’t really blame her. I leave her home alone for weeks at a time as I go adventuring with a sassy young lady named Lydia (who is “sworn to carry my burdens,” if you know what I mean).
But I can’t say it doesn’t bother me. That’s right; even though this entire scenario happened on my television screen, it still bothers me.
And it probably shouldn’t. Maybe this is just an indication that it’s time to shut the thing down for a while and, you know, have a real life. The problem is, Skyrim isn’t really the type of game that lends itself to just putting the controller down and walking away.