Heritage and Heresy

[csb]

Author's Note

 

I first started this tale as a "record" of my adventures while playing Skyrim shortly after its release. It was more of a diary/journal than a novella or short story. As my first play-through ended — and thus my "diary" — I began rewriting it with an eye toward continuity and character perspectives and not as a chronology of quest adventures.

 

I have tried to stay true to the overall tale of Skyrim in this telling, but there were some things about the game's choices that I felt didn't represent how the protagonist, Yvelle, would act; nor represent the outcomes she desired (or at least strove toward). Mainly this is in regards to two Skyrim story arcs — the resolution of the civil war and the either/or aspect of Blades and Greybeards.

 

Mostly however, it stays true to the Skyrim story framework. Moreover, I have stuck (as much as humanly possible) to Elder Scrolls lore — with a lot of help from the content of The Unofficial Elder Scroll Pages wiki. If there is a discrepancy between what is found herein and on the USEP or other TES- or Skyrim-specific wiki, the error is mine.

 

I hope you enjoy this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it — and playing and virtually living it!

 

Disclaimer: Needless to say, this is a copyrighted work. The Skyrim franchise is owned by Bethesda, and this fictional account based on on their game Skyrim is my own copyrighted work. Feel free to link to this, but re-use, re-posting or re-publication is prohibited without my expressed written and signed consent.

 

Feel free to post comments, questions and such here.

[csb]

Heritage and Heresy

The Thoughts, Recollections and History of Yvelle Torhold the Devout

Concerning Being Dovahkiin and What That Should Mean in Future Ages

Prologue

The words of Masters Viarmo and Giraud tug at my subconscious like a child tugging his mother's skirt. If King Olaf's tale could be so fragmented and broken over the Ages, what of my own? An Age hence, what parts of me would be missing from legend? What would be fancy and what would remain of fact?

 

So now the candle flickers, its wavering flame sending shadows scurrying like ghostly mice across the room and across the blank parchments stacked before me.

 

Deny it as I might, more and more the folk, the nobles and the scholars call me Dragonborn. The Dovahkiin. Some part of me suspects — or perhaps vainly hopes — this is not a singular honor, that as I play this role, others are doing likewise: either now, in the past or in days yet to come. I pray the Edda of some future Age will speak of us all collectively and not of me singularly.

 

Master Arngeir's first words to me at High Hrothgar more than a season ago — how time has flown since! — leads me to hope for the former, but it may as likely be the later. I hope for Skyrim's sake, indeed for Tamriel's sake, that the weight of my reluctant donning of this mantle falls not on my shoulders alone. No flawed mortal should have to solely bear such burden.

 

I see that I am meandering in opening my tale. My thoughts are torn in so many directions, running helter-skelter on so many paths, these days. Or may haps it is my reluctance and rebelling against having to wear this mantle others are so willing to foist upon me. Or perhaps it is the lateness of the hour and I merely reflect its storm-wracked dark. Or perhaps it is the snow and sleet hissing against the ice-rimed window that brings my thoughts to so cold a place. Or perhaps it is the distraction of the dancing shadow of the quill upon this parchment, focused more on the vagaries of chance drafts than chance happenings. Or, like as not, it is all of these playing their part.

 

So on to the telling.

 

I am Yvelle Torhold, daughter of a Nord born far from my native land and drawn back to it like a moth to flame. This is my tale told in truth as I have seen it. May the Nine preserve this truth against the ravages of time and the exaggerations of men — and those of bards particularly.

[csb]

Part I. Home and Heritage

1. Homecoming

 

I trod the ever-climbing worn stones of the Imperial road leading from Cyrodiil to Skyrim, following the serpentine route through the Pale Pass from Bruma. Each measured pace was bringing me closer to Helgen and the uncertain meeting of an uncle I'd never met. Every step was also taking me further from a well-worn past and closer to an uncertain future.

 

Father had spoken of Uncle Bjorn often after a tankard or two of ale or mead of an evening. I knew my uncle to be a taciturn towering man of few words but unwavering convictions. His scant words, father had said, bore as much weight in local matters as the ringing blows of his hammer upon a blade on his anvil.

 

Father's fireside reminisces as a child sitting upon his knee was the only heritage of my Nordic roots I learned growing up. Aside from that, I had only tales from other Nords regarding Skyrim and the lands north of Cyrodiil.

 

So onward my feet led me, toward the only family I had left. Or rather, the only I knew of by father's accounts.

 

Father had not spoken of mother much, his lips always tightening into pale, tight-pressed lines whenever I asked him about her. After a score of years, he had felt her loss during my birth still, and though he made no mention of the depth of his loss, the seamed creases that coursed his rugged face spoke of it louder than words could tell.

 

Despite his curt answers to my childhood curiosity regarding my mother, he did not blame her death on me. His had been a stoic, kindly love, freely — if sparingly — given. As the years passed, as I grew from little girl to young woman, I would catch his glance upon me as I prepared our sup and see the distant haunt glimmering by the fire's light in his eyes.

 

It was by his haunted looks and from a few unguarded comments by some of his acquaintances that I came to know that I favored mother in look and build — having her petite Breton size, reddish-hued hair and inquisitive mind and not his imposing Nord fair-haired and solidly stoic bulk. My eyes and manner, those acquaintances of old have said, were his — that is, dark blue and piercing; forthright and laconic. If so, I am blessed to have been granted the best of both my parents' traits.

 

It was while thinking on all that lay behind my feet that I fell into the trap that lay before them.

 

Here my memory fails me. One moment I was thinking of father so newly departed to Sovngarde, and the next came a stunned and fleeting impression of the world gone awry as the bright, crisp morn in mid-Last Seed of 4E 201 went swirling into blackness.

—

I awoke with my head throbbing in time to every lurch of a horse-drawn cart; the squeal of its ungreased axle was a continuous volley of piercing arrows that painfully roused me from unconsciousness. The clopping clangor of horses' hooves both before and behind my ears fell in time to the pulsing cacophonic rhythm in my head.

 

My reeling thoughts became slowly aware of my surrounds before I dared attempting to open my tight-pressed eyes.

 

It was day, either later the same or some other, and from the sun upon my shoulders and the reddish hue that pushed away the black behind my eyelids, morning was closing in on noon. I knew we were headed downhill from my leaning press against the rough planking of the cart against my bare arm — held in place not only by the cart siding, but also by hands that were lashed tight before me. I felt the stout leather cords cut into my wrists, a far sharper but less intruding pain than the dull ache in my head.

 

My helm was gone, as was my studded Legion armor and from the lack of its weight on my left hip, my sword as well. My pack and the other belongings that had hung from my kit's harness were equally absent. I was wearing naught but my well-frayed under-tunic and foot wrappings.

 

I was caught and plundered. But by whom and to what purpose?

 

The world swirled unfocused around me as I dared open my eyes.

 

The blurred forms of three men shared my bound state, but seemingly not my pounding head. My slowly focusing vision confirmed that it was indeed nearing mid-day, that I was indeed in a horse cart, and that my hands were tightly bound before me. The cart I was in, however, was not the only one. In the blurry distance ahead another cart swam mirage-like out of focus. Around the carts were the fuzzy outlines of mounted armored men. My clearing vision noted that it was Imperial armor they wore.

 

My glances to take in the sharpening world did not go unnoticed, the stout blonde Nord across from me remarked on my awakening. His words, much as the now-focused world around me, went on to shed light on my capture. In crossing from Cyrodiil to Skyrim I had evidently fallen into an Imperial ambush and been caught up in the same net as these rebels. In retrospect, I know now that I shared the cart with Ralof of Riverwood, Lorik of Rorikstead and — as Fate would have it — the Jarl of Windhelm, rebel and rival claimant to the throne of the High King, Ulfric Stormcloak.

 

Of the lot of us, Ulfric was not only bound, but gagged as well. For good reason, as I came to learn.

 

By inclination and the ceaseless pounding in my head, I said little, content to offer an occasional nod or shake of my head. Of the group of us, Lorik was most vocal, beseeching in panicked fervor the Divines for rescue from the injustice of falling into a trap meant to snare rebels. I suppose the irony of him being a horse thief was somehow lost on him in the moment.

 

In the exchange between the two men, it became clear that Imperial judgment and arrival in Sovngarde would happen in the very near future.

 

I suppose that my naturally pale face paled further at the idea, try as I might to hide the icy fear that chilled me to my core. I said nothing and the others seemed not to notice or at least give it mention. My thoughts became even more jumbled at that moment and my fear at least served to drive the ache from my head.

 

All too soon for my liking, we arrived in Helgen and not in the manner I had envision on my journey northward. Terror clutched icily at my heart upon hearing a voice call out our arrival and an appointment to meet the headsman's axe.

 

Legionnaires, scouts and a good portion of Helgen's citizens watched our arrival within the gates. More disconcerting was the presence of a Thalmor contingent. What was the Aldmeri Dominion doing here?

 

Even Ralof remarked bitterly about Tullius and the elves, "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

 

I only vaguely remember that Ralof commented on a former flame's mead with juniper berries and how Imperial walls had been a source of security in his youth. Why I remember that above all else in that moment, I have no idea.

 

To say that I was scared out of my wits would be an understatement.

 

The carts drew up in Helgen's inner bailey and we dismounted. The four of us lined up behind our cart, and the other four behind the one that had preceded ours. The thought that there were eight of us and that there were Eight Divines that Imperials acknowledge almost forced a hysterical laugh from my lips as we lined up before list-bearing Imperials.

 

In turn the names were read: first Ulfric's — which by his station was proper — then Ralof's and Lorik's. At that moment the solemn ritual broke as Lorik sprinted for freedom. Evidently his knees were not as weak as mine. Lorik was thus spared beheading, felled instead by a volley of arrows from watchful archers.

 

Then it was my turn.

 

I gave my name with what pride I could muster to the Imperial, hiding my fear behind a toss of my head and an uplifting of my chin. It was bravado, of course: my throat was parched dry and my voice begged to crack. Yet, for whatever reason, the Divines chose a good moment to steady my voice and at least give it a proud and convincing ring.

 

"Yvelle Torhold of ... of Helgen."

 

That brought the Imperial up short, his bushy brows gathered and his glance fell to the tome of names he held in his hands.

 

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman." His voice seemed truly apologetic.

 

Not finding my name writ in his list, he brought attention of the fact to the detail's captain, a scowling Redguard.

 

"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list." His eyes carefully avoided mine.

 

Her icy reply froze my blood.

 

"Forget the list, she goes to the block."

 

The captain's words decreed that there was to be no true justice or reprieve. In her eyes we were all rebels and all equally condemned. But that is the way of Redguards: doing one's duty oft means more than justice demands.

 

"By your orders, Captain," the list-bearer acceded.

 

My mouth opened briefly to voice objection, to bitterly decry the injustice being done, to proclaim that my service to the Empire as a healer on the battlefield to many a stricken legionnaire did not deserve such an end. But my lips pressed just as quickly shut: some stoic aspect of my father lit inside me and I would not profane his name by debasing myself so.

 

"Follow the Captain, prisoner." The Imperial's tone had a sharper edge beneath the thick Nord accent that leeched away what slender hopes I held.

 

I turned my head and spat at her feet.

 

The Divines only know where I mustered the moisture and courage from for my throat was bone dry and my knees threatened to either collapse beneath me or deafen the crowd by their knocking. I answered the Redguard's glare with a narrow-eyed one of my own before being shoved to follow in her wake and join the ranks of the doomed, my ears filled with the almost-apologetic assurance of the tome-bearer that I would at least die among my kin.

 

The IV Legion's commander, General Tullius, was known to me from my years of serving with a Nord contingent as part of the VIII Legion in the southern borderlands of Cyrodiil. At least I knew him by reputation, if not personally — battlemaiden healers of mixed lineage are not known to hobnob with generals, after all. He recited in parade-ground staccato barks his renouncing of Jarl Ulfric's deeds.

 

What more could one expect from an Imperial officer and governor? His every word and manner was parade-ground rigid and filled with sanctimonious condemnation of the gagged Jarl.

 

What follows I set down in what detail I remember, which is to say that I do not remember much clearly. While much of the event is blurred in my mind, there are moments that remain vividly stark.

 

So I ask the forbearance of any scholars or historians who look to this tome as a detailed account of the events that day in Helgen. My thoughts weren't given in that moment to some things that might in some distant day seem historically pertinent.

 

As Tullius was finishing his condemnation of Jarl Ulfric a sound from the heavens rippled upon our ears.

 

All eyes, mine included, turned skyward.

 

How shall I describe the sound, for it was much more than a mere noise of bird or beast? Despite the shortcomings of my memory regarding many details of the day, that sound will remain with me always. For as faint as the sound was, inside me I felt a resonating chord struck, as if some Divine hand had laid itself across the strings of my soul and plucked. That was not my thought at the moment, but came to me only after long reflection.

 

But it was a tangible sound that also harkened to the ear. The first reaction of Tullius and the others gathered around gave proof that it was not just my imagining.

 

The Redguard captain barked her order for the attending priestess to give blessing to our execution and perhaps some last succor to our souls. Even awash in my fear, I could not help but give a brief bitter smile — how many times had I been asked to do likewise before punishment was meted to Imperial enemies?

 

One of Ulfric's men, a burly man in Stormcloak raiment, broke the bestowal of last rites by striding forward toward the headsman, his voice ringing out without fear and more than a bit of disdain that they get on with it for "I haven't got all morning."

 

I fear I laughed then — though lowly and briefly, and driven by my fear — and murmured toward his retreating back, "Don't begrudge Talos' blessing, good man, such a thing is nothing to lose your head over."

 

He did not miss a stride, but I heard his low snort of a mocking laugh, as well as like ones by the Nord to my left and Ralof's to my right, and that brief gallows humor did much to bolster my failing knees. The exchange lasted for all of a few heartbeats and garnered me another glare from the Redguard. With my own death looming near, what had seemed so fierce a countenance a few moments gone had now lost its intended menace. I answered her look with a grim icy smile.

 

The man was forced to kneel and the Redguard's iron-booted foot forced his head upon the well-used block. A basket lay underneath it, as if to gather eggs from a chicken upon its roost. Inwardly, I could feel the oppressive weight of that boot on my own back — a feeling that would be reality soon enough. Again the brown-haired Nord mocked them, invoking his smiling ancestors.

 

Before I could blink, the noon sun glinted on the blade of the descending axe and the man, whose name I do not recall, joined his ancestors. The lifeless body, urged by a callous armored foot, slumped sideways to the ground spewing blood onto the thirsty barren ground.

 

My throat went drier, if that were possible, and my breath was trapped within me.

 

All our eyes turned skyward as the otherworldly sound whispered through the crisp mid-day air once more and tugged at our ears. The reality of impending death lent an imploring hope to my heavenward-searching eyes. But as before, there was nothing there. My fear-numbed brain and ears scarce heard the condemning call for me to advance.

 

A forceful nudge from behind imparted motion to my leaden legs and I lurched toward the headsman.

 

Each beat of my heart thudded loudly in my ears. Every breath struggled against the crushing weight of doom pressing against my bosom. The noon sun seemed to grow into a searing light that was devoid of warmth as — finally — I sent winging to the Divines a rush of silent prayers of repentance and asking of forgiveness for my transgressions real and imagined.

 

Against all my Imperial religious teachings, I bent my will and fate to Talos — whose divinity the Empire had denounced for political convenience, but whom the Nords, by and large, still embraced. My father had maintained his faith in Talos until his last rattling breath. As his daughter, how could I thus do less? Let thy will be done, Talos and see me safely to my father's arms in Sovngarde.

 

Then the actual iron weight of the boot was upon my back, forcing me to kneel at the block. My eyes fixed on the Nord's decapitated head that still bore his final derisive sneer. Unlike that stout soul, words failed me, thoughts failed me. At the edge of my vision, I saw or sensed the great axe sweeping upward. I tried to hold back my tears and bit at my lip to keep from crying out my fear. Forgive me, father.

 

Then the sound came again. Time seemed to freeze as solid as the icy bands that clutched at my fear-frozen heart.

 

There, poised above the looming presence of the headsman with axe upraised — I saw each falling droplet of blood of my predecessor in death frozen in midair — was an immense winged creature. Its reptilian eyes seemed to bore malevolently into mine as it landed with such force upon the nearby tower that the massively-thewed executioner was staggered back.

 

My already benumbed mind was further assailed by a screeching roar that slammed into me with such force that my vision blurred. Though I didn't know it at the time, the screeched words were ones I'd come to know.

 

Then time returned and chaos erupted.

 

I know not how Ralof freed his hands, but I heard his voice distantly as he effortlessly hoisted me from the ground, propelling me forward toward the tenuous safety of the stone tower. Around me came sounds of bedlam as citizens, town guards and legionnaires also struggled to regain some semblance of reason. Like ants in a disturbed mound, they began to respond to the appearance of a raging dragon in their midst.

 

Yes, a dragon!

 

Until this moment, such creatures existed only in myths from a long-past Age, legends of a time from my father's father's father's kin. Truthfully, the meaning of the portent of creatures of myth coming again among men was beyond my ability to grasp in that moment. In my swirling, scattered mind its coming meant but one thing: I was still alive, still able to draw deep a breath of the cool crisp air.

 

And, of course, I was still able to run.

 

Fear lent the wings of a hawk to my heels and sent me dashing into the temporary shelter of the tower. I found myself amid Ralof, Jarl Ulfric and a small gathering of others quicker of mind than those milling and crying aloud in the keep-yard beyond the stone arched entry of the tower. Ralof and Ulfric exchanged words: words wonder-filled, but urgently grounded by the pragmatic need to survive. I felt Ralof's steadying hand guiding me up the tower's stone steps.

 

That is my last coherently clear recollection of my time in Helgen.

 

Thereafter followed a mad whirlwind of devastation, of leaps of perilous faith from tower to rooftop, of dashes in the open desperately driven by dragon-disgorged gouts of flame, of clashes in the tunnels and secret ways beneath Helgen, of caves and spiders and ... ultimately ... escape.

 

Chaos was let loose that day in Helgen and in my mind. Even now my memory still reels from it; even so few months later, it is a jumbled blur in my mind. So the events of the Dragons' first coming shall remain jumbled throughout history unless you who are reading this chance upon some other record.

 

Needless to say, I survived.

 

Also needless to say, the Dragon of Helgen proved to be more than just a mere dragon — as if such a thing is merely "mere." Of this dragon I shall write at length anon.

 

As dusk fell upon the madness that had been my day, urged forward by Ralof's relentless pace and reassured by his presence, we made our way first west and then northwards, descending the serpentine road from Helgen's heights to reach respite in Riverwood. Under the eaves of Ralof's sister's house, I laid my head to rest. While there is much I would wish to say of Gerdur and her husband Hod's generosity and acceptance, the larger tale demands I forego that.

 

As my mind teetered on the brink of exhausted slumber, the murmuring rush of the nearby river singing a nocturnal lullaby to urge me into its embrace, a profound realization also wrapped its arms around me. All my life an inner turmoil about who I was — Nord or Imperial or Breton — was driven from me. I was a Nord.

 

And finally I was home.

 

For all the day's perils, I slipped into sleep's comfort feeling a spreading inner peace and warmth that I had never known before.

 

So ended the first step of a long and trying journey.

[csb]

2. First Lights

 

While my account is not meant to be a day-to-day diary, it is important, I think, to set my first morning down — for it was in that new-born day, with a new lease on life, that shaped much of what was to come. Not as a portent to events, necessarily, but rather defining what I was becoming inside as a Nord. It is this transformation that some merely historical account could never reveal.

 

I awoke at my accustomed early hour; that pre-dawn time when the dark seeps out and color again begins to paint a new day. It is a time when all is still and quiet. Even amid the most hectic of days and amid the most trying of times, no matter what season or weather, that awakening hour has always brought me a moment of tranquility — a time to recompose my emotions and my soul.

 

In that first moment of awakening, I was disoriented. After a few rapid blinks and deep breaths, the jumbled memories of the previous day flooded in. Again I breathed deep of air tinged with night's lingering chill, with wood smoke, with the scent of herbs hanging from rafter beams, and with the accumulated smells that make each home unique. It all flowed through me, as heady an aroma as the wafted incense of any Divine's temple.

 

I then slipped to my knees and offered up my morning litany of prayers to each of the Eight Divines in turn. But this morning's oblations of faith were far different than all too many previous mornings of contemplation and prayer had become. For this morning the flickering flames of my passion and faith were kindled anew, and the litany that only yesterday had been mere rote of habit was now infused with new-found meaning.

 

As I came to the end of my usual ritual to the Eight, I continued my prayers, free to add full homage to Talos. Such prayer had been something denied to me in Cyrodiil. Except on rare occasion in the most secure of places — the small shrine my father kept hid neath our hearth — for worship of Talos was a punishable offense in the far-flung embrace of the Empire.

 

As the last of my supplications and chants fled into the shadows of the rafters above, I felt a great weight lifting from me. Here in the land where Talos was figuratively, if not literally, born I felt my faith in Him take deeper root, free to acknowledge the Divine of my father openly. Or rather, much more openly.

 

I was home and the experience of it was now complete. I felt within me the first stirrings of rebirth physically and now spiritually.

 

My eyes re-opened and I blinked to focus my vision in the early morn gloom of the house.

 

I made out Gerdur's statuesque form rhythmically working the bellows to spark the banked embers into the day's fire. I heard both Hod's and Ralof's first stirrings of awakening beneath their covers. I rose and did not speak as I approached Gerdur. At her glance, I merely beckoned to the bellows she held. She gave me the slightest nod and handed it to me, but I saw the brief glint of approval in her eyes.

Home is where the hearth is. That is what father had said to me often. The fire we light is more than heat for cooking and warmth, it is the fire that fuels our love of our kin. It is the fire that forges the bonds of our blood. It is a beacon of kinship all Nords know.

 

It was no labor, then, to bellows the embers to flame, or after to fetch water from the river or to add leeks, potatoes, cabbage and hare to the pot. Or rather, it was a labor, but it was one of kinship and of love. I felt at home and there were bonds to forge, fires to spark and keep lit, and kinship to find. This is what Gerdur had acknowledged in the merest of nods and glance to me.

 

As my fingers worked at slicing vegetables into the kettle that hung over the fire I became aware of Ralof standing behind me. How long he had stood there watching, he never said. At my glance, he said nothing for what seemed the longest while, merely continuing to observe I as prepared the day's stew. I broke the silence first, speaking quietly, noticing Hod and Gerdur were keeping a respectful distance at the kitchen table conversing in low tones.

 

"Thank you, Ralof. Had it not been for you, I would not be here to enjoy this new morn." My words were quiet and sincere, full of the rekindled love of life that flowed through me with every beat of my heart. But hesitant as well, for I knew not what to say to this man who had so recently been a stranger.

 

"Thank me?" he replied in soft surprise. I heard and wondered at the hint of incredulity that filled his voice. "It is I who should be thanking you, Yvelle. Without you, I could not have overcome the trials we faced beneath the keep. Without the healing touch you gave, your skill with spell and blade, I would have perished there down below."

 

His massive hand came to rest with surprising gentleness upon my shoulder and, in truth, my heart skipped a beat.

 

"Then it seems we have each thanked the other, Ralof. Perhaps that is what friends do." It had taken a moment to gather my thoughts and make reply.

 

"Yes, it is what friends do," came his halting answer. He smiled briefly, warmly and genuinely, as his hand lifted from my shoulder.

 

I mention this moment for a reason and I shall come to the why of it shortly.

 

With the stew on, I gathered the adjoining porridge pot and carried it to the table. Quietly the four of us ate of porridge and thick whole bread laden with butter and honey. A simple sharing of a meal that was at this moment being shared in similar fashion in houses across the breadth and width of Skyrim. Such are the simple bonds that tie, such is the nature of Nord hearts lying where the hearth is. No words were spoken and there was no need for them.

 

This was the unspoken bond beyond mere blood that Gerdur, Hod and Ralof shared; it was part of their essence and of being Nord. This was the bond that now captured my heart, soul and head. Even with that realization, I knew that such an ideal was tainted by the baser side that lies within us all. But a people are not defined so much by individuals, but by their collective beliefs and customs.

 

Various forces were at work within Skyrim to contra purposes. A civil war was pitting Nord against Nord. One side sought to keep ties to the Empire and the other wishing to break free of the Imperial yoke. This was, of course, the primary force. What part the reappearance of Dragons after countless years played in all this remained to be seen.

 

Within the shadow of the rebellion deeper shadows lay, of that I was certain. Perhaps that view was jaded for having seen too much of strife and politics at another fringe of the Empire. Ralof, Gerdur and Hod shared their views on the war. It was no surprise, of course, that they to varying degrees supported Jarl Ulfric's cause.

 

I did find their frank directness a refreshing wind as such openness was not a common thing in Cyrodiil. Having almost had my already short stature shortened by a head the previous day, I was inclined to be sympathetic to their views.

 

But I was also the product of an education and life in Cyrodiil. I had known many honorable Imperials both low- and high-born. Although many said the Empire was a shadow of its former glory, it had splendor and value still. I had, like many Nords, served the Empire; and like most of them, saw that as not only serving Cyrodiil's security, but Skyrim's as well. I had seen first-hand the threat the Aldmeri Dominion represented, the White-Gold Concordat notwithstanding.

 

Yesterday's events at Helgen made me take pause and to question the relationship between the Empire and its northern province.

 

Were we Nords capable of governing ourselves? Were we oath-bound to an Empire that would reject a divine being we held dear; that would use us as the sharp edge of their imperial sword? Were the taxes and Nord blood spilled worth what benefit of trade and association with Cyrodiil brought?

 

As for remaining within the Empire's fold: do their ends justify the means? Did they have a right to execute a person on mere suspicion without fair trial? Or to tax a folk to support a decadent life for wealthy merchants, nobles and royals in Empire's heart? If the heart was failing, was the arm obligated to remain true to it?

 

These were the questions that had my new-found home simmering in civil war.

 

Civil war has a terrible cost. It pits brother against brother, sibling against parent, and man against wife. It is a terrible rending where blood ties are severed by spilt blood. It creates a gaping wound in the heart of a people. What result would the sundering of those ties be? Could Skyrim survive them? Would those pierced hearts mend?

 

It troubled me then as it troubles me now: what did the return of the dragons portend? Was it the end times as the Sagas say? Or was it some other thing?

 

The day went on, full of sun and a cool breeze, almost idyllically so given the dragon's razing of Helgen. I had given both Gerdur and Ralof my oath that I would carry word to the Jarl in Whiterun on the morrow. But not this day, the first day of discovering some sense of my heritage and birthright. They did not press me, understanding, I think, my need to take a breath amid the calm before diving headlong into the storm.

 

The candle gutters yet again and my eyes grow heavy with weariness. But I did say why that brief moment by the hearth fire with Ralof was worth noting, and so I shall.

 

I have always been half.

 

Half Nord, half Breton, half-this-half-that. Half-sized, half-witted, half-of-whatever-jest amid those of greater station or who had roots deeper and who thus could disparage my lack. But those were not the only halves. Folk, and men particularly, gaze upon my visage from the right side and see beauty. But full on, they see I am half-that, too. For from just below my left eye, across the swell of my cheek and running down to the corner of my mouth runs a vivid dusky-rose scar. So among my other "halfs" there is that: half-beauty, half-hideous. Judged always for my half-this-or-that, I suppose I have become over-sensitive to it.

 

But not from first glance til now have I been half-this-or-that to Ralof; or likewise to Gerdur or Hod. By that hearth, touched by a kind voice and a lingering hand, I first felt whole.

 

It was a full day that day in Riverwood, meeting and interacting with its residents. From the dour owner of the trading post to the gruff smith Alvor, I was accepted into their tight-knit community, and like Ralof and his kin, I was not half this or that to any of them.

 

So ended the second step of a long and trying journey.

[csb]

3. Whiterun Runs

 

The next step was actually the culmination of many steps.

 

Having spent my first day, or second if you count the tumultuous beginning at Helgen, content to meet the townsfolk of Riverwood and mingle among them, the oath given to Gerdur to bear word to Whiterun's Jarl compelled me to fulfill my bond. The journey was not especially dangerous, the day was clear, the road well-marked and I felt rejuvenated. Suffice it to say, I arrived at Dragonreach — Jarl Balgruuf's seat upon the high sweeping view that commanded the lands around — as dawn painted its rosy hues across the plains on my third day in Skyrim. Yes, you surmise aright: there are some hours not accounted for, a side trip that I shall mention in due course.

 

I will profess that while first impressions are lasting, they are oft wrong. That is something I should have considered in Whiterun given how I have been perceived time and again. It was a lapse of judgment on my part and not the last one you shall hear in the telling of this tale.

 

For all that many Nords disdain the Imperials, those who practice intrigue at the ears or rumps of various Jarls and persons of power in Skyrim could learn much from the Imperial standards of court treachery in Cyrodiil. In that regard, we Nords can be rank amateurs. Having seen first-hand Imperial politics at work, it made my dealings with the Jarls of Skyrim's nine Holds that much easier. Not that my aching legs and feet would agree, but it certainly did from a loftier vantage of the body politic.

 

So my first impression of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater as I trod the length of Dragonreach's hall, was not flattering.

 

He was a lean and wiry man, dressed somewhat foppishly while semi-reclining lazily on his throne. My first impression did little to reassure me that this Jarl would act decisively on Riverwood's behalf. Gerdur had said he was capable in his stewardship of Whiterun's interests and affairs, but she had also allowed that the Jarl seemed content to straddle the fence regarding the civil war and thereby risk splinters in ballocks and buttocks. That perhaps he was right in doing so, I only came to appreciate later.

 

Despite my impressions, I was virtually septimless and without resources or sponsor. What alternative did I have but to deliver Gerdur's appeal for aid and perhaps offer him what small services I might if that gave him a favorable view?

 

So I trod with purpose toward his throne dais only to be confronted by the housecarl — yet another woman, a stern, no-nonsense Dunmer this time. What was it with these Nords and their fixation on armored bodyguards with breasts? The thought occurred to me at the time that a scholar could have a field day on that topic alone.

 

My first impression of the Dunmer wasn't helped at all by her unsheathing her sword at my approach.

 

"I am Irileth, the Jarl's housecarl, any business you have with the Jarl must come through me," she announced menacingly as her sword rang free, all before I could utter a word.

 

I felt my scar throb with my sudden flush of anger. I took a deep breath to rein in what would otherwise be a scathing retort.

 

"I bear news of the dragon attack at Helgen and Gerdur's call for aid to Riverwood," I said tersely, my anger-squinted eyes fixed on hers. I have always found Dunmer eyes hard to read and Irileth's were no different. The point of her sword, however, told me much that her eyes did not. Be ware of this one, Yvelle-girl, she's at least a hundred-and-a-half-weight of anger wrapped too tight in armor. At the time, I did not know that I had misjudged her anger's weight by half at least.

 

Before Irileth could answer, Jarl Balgruuf straightened some in his casual repose upon the throne and bade me to report. I nodded and shouldered my way past Irileth. If she chose to be a b_tch, I could teach her a thing or two about being one. She marched rigidly and angrily behind and flanked to my left. At least her tactics are sound, I thought at the time.

 

So there I stood, trying to let my anger slip back into its well-spring, feeling the weight of the Jarl's appraising gaze look me over.

 

I fear that his first impression of me was as likely as critical of me as mine was of him. What did he see, after all? Some young, runty, red-mop-headed woman in an obviously scrounged miss-mash of armor and weapons? A scowling scar-faced opportunistic wench? Or perhaps just another callous sword-sell come to curry favor? His ice-blue eyes did not reveal his thoughts of me, but the keen look and furrowed brow certainly told me that mention of Helgen had his undivided attention.

 

He inquired in direct fashion how I knew of the events at Helgen.

 

"My view of the dragon was quite unobstructed with my head being advantageously perched upon the chopping block." My words were as full of outrage and indignation as I could make them without sounding bitter or angry.

 

My reply caught the Jarl and his retinue quite by surprise and it took Balgruuf a few seconds to gather himself.

 

"You were in Helgen to be executed?" he pried, eyes squinted with suspicion.

 

"I was headed to Helgen to see my uncle. The execution was an Imperial afterthought. Perhaps they thought Jarl Ulfric needed a proper escort to Sovngarde." I feigned an indifferent shrug, but I fear I let more of my feelings seep into my reply than I intended, for the Jarl's eyes narrowed further.

 

"The leader of the Stormcloaks was there?" Balgruuf prodded. I sighed. If this Jarl were to repeat with disbelieving question everything I said, this would be a taxing and lengthy interview.

 

"He was. Last I saw, he made good his escape in the confusion of the dragon's attack." I shrugged unfeigned then, struggling to let my anger and bitterness seep back inside me, "I rather had other things to pre-occupy my attention at the time than to be concerned with the Jarl's whereabouts."

 

Irileth glared at me for my impertinence. My eyes met hers for the merest fraction of a second and I let the corners of my mouth creep fractionally upward in that moment. That, dear Irileth, is how b_tch is done and how the tongue is sometimes mightier than the sword.

 

The Jarl, for his part, was a deft enough diplomat to sidestep any Imperial entanglements I might or might not be dragging along behind me. So in a more restrained tone, after he allowed that my "criminal past" was not his concern as long as I behaved in Whiterun, he asked for a fuller account.

 

I related what scant parts of the events of Helgen's destruction I remembered. I also re-iterated Gerdur's call for aid for Riverwood — for that is what I had been word-bound to do.

 

Balgruuf accepted my account and tossed me a bag of coins as recompense for my troubles. He then asked — in the way leaders of state order you by asking — that perhaps I could be of further assistance in a matter of concern to his wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire. I thought at the time the wizard's name was a tad ironic: for if the fire were so secret, why have it in one's name?

 

That the Jarl or one of his advisers needed something done was not surprising. That is the way of politics and power: "Ask not what I can do for you, but rather what you can do for me." I have seen that axiom scribed somewhere in the Imperial City — if not in those exact words — and indeed, they could serve as the prime edict for all political motivations or aspirations anywhere.

 

As I followed in the Jarl's wake to the wizard's domain just off the main hall, Irileth allowed that, "More than one would-be assassin has met his end at the tip of my blade." I ignored the remark for the goad it was.

 

My first impression of the wizard was equally critical.

 

As many mages are, he was full of himself, looking down upon me as being only worthy as some useful means to get what he wanted, that I was but an armed doltard, generally inconsequential, a mere lackey to fetch him a Dragonstone to study. It was only when my questions turned to magic that he seemed to see me in a new light. It made him less pretentious, but only barely so.

 

As Jarl and housecarl wend their way back into the main part of the hall, I weighed what advantage there was in "going to fetch" the Dragonstone or merely revealing that I already had it.

 

This brings me back to my brief excursion while on the way to Whiterun.

 

For while I spent that first day in Riverwood recuperating from Helgen and generally contemplating on my good fortune and praising Talos for the blessing of continued life, I had also chanced to meet the proprietor of Riverwood's trading post and his sister. Actually, the meeting occurred after overhearing them discussing a robbery.

 

On fleeing Helgen with Ralof, we had paused upon the trail, just past the Standing Stones, and Ralof had taken pause long enough to point out to me a ruin upon the mountainside opposite us across the river. Bleak Falls Barrow he named it, as well as wondering how his sister could live in the shadow of such a place. Indications of Fate usually happen by threes: first Ralof spoke of it, then Lucan and Camilla Valerius at the trading post, and then after the fact, the wizard Farengar.

 

Had I known of this beforehand, I would have avoided the place altogether. Or at least tried to.

 

Divine Fate — or providence, if you will — is not so easily sidestepped, however. So en-route to Whiterun, it seemed no trouble at all to find the one or ones responsible for stealing a trinket — the Golden Claw — from the trading post. At the time, it seemed a simple means to return some of the kindness the folk of Riverwood had afforded me.

 

For the most part, it was a trivial adventure. Brigands lurked about outside, a scurvy band that had plundered the Golden Claw from Lucan. After my years of serving with the Legion, they proved to be a small matter and readily dispatched. Entering into the ruin brought — of course — its own share of dangers.

 

Why is it such places are usually skeever or spider infested?

 

I can rather do without confronting the vile things. But they were not anything a bit of divinely-inspired cleansing fire and some deft sword work could not make short of.

 

All of this is rather mundane to anyone given to adventuring or to soldiers who find themselves amid such haunts, and Bleak Falls proved no different at first. In any event, it is not in any wise epic or heroic, merely grinding work in a dank and eerie place.

 

But Fate does not deal one cards for mundane purposes.

 

I was healing myself from injuries received battling a frost spider of immense proportions, calling upon the healing Arts granted to me by Stendarr's grace, when I heard a voice call out to be cut down.

 

The voice belonged to one Arvel the Swift. It was yet another irony in a mounting string of them: for trussed up in the spider's web as he was, Arvel was far from swift. He admitted to the theft of the Golden Claw and appealed to my sense of greed (or so he hoped), promising that he would share the barrow's great treasure if I would but free him.

 

Why he chose treachery and flight, I shall never know. He was not as swift as he thought himself, trying to flee and betray me. I did as he asked and cut him down a second and more final time. I commended his soul afterward to Arkay's keeping. The race oft goes not to the swift, Arvel, but to the resolute.

 

I was confronted by two puzzles along the way and in each case the door puzzles were overcome by prayer and reflection, Julianos seeing fit to enlighten my ignorance with their solution. The cunning of men is no match for divinely-granted inspiration.

 

Between the two the undead waited.

 

Bleak Falls is, after all, a barrow, a place of the dead. And, as is oft common, the dead there are restless. So it proved to be at Bleak Falls; for places of power seem to gather them as a beach gathers sand. Again, it was mostly a steady grind of dispatching them to a final repose in Arkay's name.

 

The final door led at last to an inner chamber. How ancient it was, I cannot say, but certainly beyond my lore gained in temples of the Eight or by my many experiences despite my lack of age. For all the wondrous splendor of its antiquity and cascading waterfalls on either hand, my eye was ultimately drawn to a towering wall graven with runes that were beyond my knowing. I approached warily, mounting steps that lead to a dais bearing the wall and a sarcophagus, which I carefully skirted.

 

At every step toward that wall of words, a chanting grew louder, an inner voice of compelling power. Despite my caution and fears, I felt myself wanting to draw closer. Space and time about me seemed to distort itself and swirl. If it were magic, I had never seen its like before. But such thoughts and impressions came later on reflecting on it; in that moment I was the thrall of that Voice chanting in my head. I stepped closer still and ...

 

I felt torn asunder, compressed together, all-knowing and all-ignorant, blessed and cursed, I felt almost every imaginable contradiction of thoughts and feelings rush through me in but an instant. A rune upon the wall lit itself with iridescent splendor and a word — one ... single... word — jumped out from the wall into my mind's eye. The power of the place swirled around me, through me and into me. I was thoroughly suffused by it.

 

Then within an eye's blink, the rush of power was gone.

 

I confess I stood stunned, not able to even give voice to a prayer to any of the Nine. What had just happened? That befuddled state did not last over-long, my mind clearing instantly at the sound of stone grating upon stone behind me. I whirled, my sword coming to en garde as I did.

 

Arising from the sarcophagus was a dread Draugr. No ordinary barrow-wight this, for even as it arose, I could feel the immensity of its malign power.

 

In all my previous experience, I had never been so sorely tested. Blade and spell it seemed to shrug off, its assault was viciously unrelenting. Then it hit me with ... a Word. The same one from the wall, I sensed, and the force of it sent me reeling and I was at the mercy of its demonically-driven great-axe. The fight was vicious and brutal and it is only by the grace of the Nine that I survived it.

 

Barely.

 

Blood and sweat seeped from my wounds, my armor riven in several places where that foul undead had smote me with the axe. I hastily drank my remaining healing potion, praying that it would be enough to stay my death long enough for me to regain my wits and cast a proper healing spell with Stendarr's blessings.

 

I was so blessed. The elixir bought enough time to decapitate the foul thing.

 

I took pause then to bathe my wounds amid the splashing pools in the cavern, delighting in the frigid embrace of the cold snow-melt waters that numbed my hurts. I huddled there shivering for a time; not from the icy waters, but from the release of emotions and fear-driven thankfulness.

 

It is said that there are no atheists standing amid the carnage of battle. I can certainly attest to its truth.

 

I quit the place as quickly as my aching, tired legs and body would allow. I slipped into Riverwood as evening purpled the surrounding mountains and returned the Golden Claw — which had proven to be the key to the inner sanctum of the barrow — to Lucan and his sister. Then, gladly, I quit their shop and made my way back to the welcoming warmth of Hod and Gerdur's house.

 

Despite her arched brow and the questions burning in her eyes, I staggered past Gerdur, shedding my armor along the way without regard to modesty as Hod and Ralof looked on — eyes equally questioning, but taking semi-averted note as men are wont to do — and collapsed upon the bed. Sleep claimed me even as my head hit the pillow.

 

I awoke long before my accustomed hour and slipped quietly from the house, the questions of the three within would have to await another day to be answered. I made my way without incident in the last of night's gloom to Whiterun.

 

So there I stood, the looted Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow in my kit, weighing whether or not I should hand its weight over to that pretentious fop of a wizard.

 

Three is Fate.

 

My lips tightened as I reached within my knapsack and drew out the heavy Stone. Had not Farengar told me of Thu'um? The power of the Voice? I needn't tell him that it had swirled about me and entered in, but he at least deserved the burdensome rock as reward for knowledge imparted.

 

"Is this the Stone of which you speak?" I offered it up to his view, my casual air belying the peril I had faced to acquire it.

 

To say that his eyes went wide as saucers would be close to the mark.

 

His fingers fairly snatched it from my grasp, his wide eyes fixed upon it, and cradled its weight against his chest. He blinked then and muttered about reward, tossing a heavy purse my way as a stuffed man will toss his dog a bone after supping to his fill. Then he was off to study the thing and urged me to return to the Jarl.

 

So I did.

 

I found Balgruuf in a room beyond the throne dais, conferring with Irileth about matters concerning Whiterun's defense against dragons and the like. I tried to remain unseen, or at least unnoticed, in the gloomier shadows of the room.

 

The rather mundane exchange between Jarl and housecarl was interrupted as soldier rushed in, obviously near-spent by exhaustion. He reported breathlessly that a dragon was assailing the Western Watchtower. Farengar came scurrying in on the soldier's heels.

 

Inwardly, my rush of prayers assailed all the ears of the Nine. Then I murmured a curse beneath my breath. This did not bode well for me or for Whiterun.

 

The Jarl received the news stoically, I admit. Irileth did as well, but that would be expected of so cold-hearted a Dunmer warrior. Amid the news of the attack, the Jarl's words fell upon my ears mostly unheard — or at least all these months removed, scarcely remembered. But I found myself jogging behind Irileth, somehow enlisted in some capacity of having expertise in the fighting of dragons.

 

Fighting one?

 

I had run for my life and had not Ralof and that nameless Imperial not guided me, you would not be reading these words. But in dashing off after Irileth, I had no breath to spare to voice my misgivings to the Jarl.

 

As at Helgen, I do not remember much of the mad moonlit dash across the plain to the watchtower. A vague memory of some impassioned speech Irileth gave while gathering a squad of soldiers at the gates. Honor. Duty. Courage. Or some such words. I had heard similar speeches given by Imperial captains to their own soldiers before many a battle.

 

Then we were off at a run, Secunda above glinting silver-gold off our jangling armor. My tired legs voiced their protest as I jogged to keep pace. In short order, at least by my recollection, we arrived at the tower.

 

There was a larger theme of three I had not seen or considered and the Fate of it was poised to come rushing down upon me. Dragon, Word, Dragon. Thu'um and Fate. Fate and Thu'um. What could it all mean? Who knows, save only Fate itself; and while it hints much, it rarely speaks fully?

 

Upon our arrival, I noted that the tower had been already razed to a large extent.

 

Fires burned hither and yon around it, the scorching attesting to a dragon's devastation. But we saw no dragon and Irileth ordered the men to disperse and look for survivors or sign of the scaly beast. One or more answered from within the battered tower — survivors or those of her own men, I do not recall. For my part, I prayed to Julianos for clairvoyance to provide some inkling from whence the danger would come or to whence it had fled.

 

Perhaps Julianos heard me, but given my lack of insight, I suspect not.

 

Some now call that eve's event a coincidence and some call it Fate. I call it the later, for rarely do portentous events unfold without divine hands shuffling and stacking the deck to their favor. I had learned in the far reaches of Cyrodiil's empire that if Fate deals you a hand, it is best to hedge your bets.

 

In the sweep of my rampant curiosity, and mingled fear and excitement that arose in the moment, I quite forgot that maxim.

 

A keen-eyed archer spied the beast first, my eyes turning to seek it out and found it, a looming shadow against the silvery moon behind. Off my shoulder came my bow, habit nocking an arrow without me giving thought to it. The dark shape loomed, blotting out Secunda to be silhouetted by an eerie silver glow.

 

I loosed the arrow and grabbed for another. I felt my throat constrict and my knees wobble beneath me. Arrow after arrow was loosed, by me, and by Irileth and her soldiers.

 

The dragon swooped, shrieking and letting loose a gout of flame. I sought cover among the tumbled stonework of part of the tower's rampart. The beast managed to get one of the men in its clutches, bore the screaming soldier aloft, and then circled, dropping the terrified man to his death.

 

I tried to swallow and found that my throat was bone dry.

 

Again the dragon dove, bellowing and belching flame. To her credit, Irileth cried out a challenge, drawing the ire of the beast, hunkering behind her shield as flame rushed forth from the dragon. I lept from my cover in that moment, my bow falling as I pulled my purloined Imperial sword free and fell upon the dragon from behind. Adding to the sting of my blade, I called upon Talos and flame erupted from my hand, bathing the scaled creature in a steady rush of divinely-provided fire.

 

Its head upon sinewy neck turned from Irileth and the ebon blackness of its eyes fixed themselves on me. Its jaws opened wide, either to rend me asunder in its grasp or to engulf me in a pyre of flame. Desperately, I thrust with my sword and calling upon Kynareth's providence, unleashed a bolt of lightning down its maw.

 

Dovahkiin, niid! Unlike the screeching dragon sounds at Helgen, I plainly heard the words in his dying shout.

 

Then the dragon burst into flame. Not from any external source — as I have learned since — but consumed by some inner fire as it died 'neath my blade and the white-blue jolt of lightning guided by Kynareth's hand down its gaping mouth and into the depths of its bescaled innards.

 

Time stood still it seemed.

 

As happened at the rune wall beneath Bleak Falls, the dragon's essence swirled around me, pierced me, and filled me, Mirmulnir's — for that was the dragon's name — essence merging with my own soul. The Voice throbbed with power in my head and I opened my mouth to speak the Word that suddenly became crystal-clear in my mind.

 

Fus!

 

A battering wall of energy erupted over a pile of rubble, sending small stones, and the flotsam and jetsam of the rampart's wreckage flying before it.

 

The band of soldiers stood about slack-jawed and amazed; an amazement I shared, but without the slack jaw. One murmured Dragonborn, first in the plain speech and then again in the ancient Nord tongue, Dovahkiin. I carefully sat upon the mound of rubble. Not that I was capable of deep and reflective thought at the moment, but because my knees were threatening to quit beneath me as the aftermath of battle rushed in.

 

Irileth scoffed at the man who had uttered the word Dragonborn, but the gray-bearded soldier remained steadfast and adamant in his belief. She turned her narrowed Dunmer eyes upon me, perhaps seeing through the ruse of my sitting, for she favored me with the merest and briefest of smirks before telling me in a curt voice to report the event to the Jarl whilst she and the men continued to search for survivors and secured the site.

 

I merely nodded numbly, and arising, made my way to the dragon's corpse. I picked around the skeletal remains, prying loose some scales and a bone. Each was heavy in my hands and my body groaned its weariness at the added weight. I said a brief prayer to Zenithar to lend me strength and set off at a relative snail's pace — the bone and scales adding a carapace to my back — trudging along the road I had so recently jogged.

 

As I approached Whiterun's gate, a Thu'um rolling across the plain met my ears, my heart skipping a beat at the sound. Do…vaahhh…kiiin... But I was exhausted through and through, and put the calling Voice aside. So many thoughts begged to rush through my head but were met by the solid resistance of my fatigue.

 

I shall forgo the meeting with the Jarl and the excited-amazed wizard. As reward for my part in the triumphant defeat of a dragon, Balgruuf named me a Thane of Whiterun and gave me a war axe that was considerably enhanced. I nodded and accepted both accolades and title, too tired by far to argue them. I needed a bed, badly and now — and not some flea-infested straw pallet, but a real one.

 

I asked the Jarl if lodging were available for lease or purchase. Before he could answer, his steward, Proventus Avenicci offered Breezehome as available. The price he asked was steep but reasonable. Ah, but of all the Jarl's court, this Imperial sycophant knew how to squeeze every last septim from a coin purse. Though the purchase left me again on the verge of poverty, I now had a roof to put my head under.

 

I gave silent prayer for Zenithar's blessings. In half a week's time I had come further in Skyrim that I'd ever imagined; from chopping block to becoming a Thane of Whiterun. The providence of Divine Fate is abundant indeed when it falls in your favor, provided you survive the bestowal.

 

Becoming a Thane of Whiterun came with other rewards than title, property and trinkets. Balgruuf also bestowed upon me a housecarl. Like the previous bodyguards I had met in Helgen and in Dragonreach, this one was also a woman, Lydia by name. She was a dark-haired and seemingly earnest Nord. The legions beneath my banner now stood at … one. Had Balgruuf bothered to ask my preference, it would have been for a tall, strapping blonde Nord man. Perhaps it is best that he hadn't.

 

My next days were spent running helter-skelter fulfilling tasks for the Jarl's steward, for prominent — and not-so-prominent — citizens of Whiterun, and it seems in looking back, just about anyone who needed a lackey desperate enough to chance Skyrim's many perils for a bit of coin or favor.

 

So I ran them. In short, it was a royal thane in the arse.

 

All to secure some steady ground beneath my feet that did not resemble quicksand in its firmness. I have heard the murmuring since of my detractors who — when my ears are elsewhere — claim that I am a conniving, scheming b_tch. Perhaps they are right in the noun, but I would prefer they chose other adjectives.

 

Of all these mundane tasks, only two are worthy of note in retrospect. Fulfilling the needs of Kynareth — or Kyne to use her Nordic name — is alas not the tale some future Age will recall and perhaps regale. So while restoring Whiterun's Gildergreen Tree was personally rewarding, and to see the Eldergleam in its Sanctuary a singular privilege, it is of dragons and civil war that you no doubt wish to hear.

 

I often wonder why I tarried in Whiterun so long.

 

Some of it was born of my own curiosity, of course. While I am not sure if it kills cats, I can avouch that it almost has killed me, and more than nine times over. But the blessings of the Nine — damn the Imperials and their rejection of Talos — remained with me and while the cat's hairs of my curiosity were oft singed, my skin on the whole remained whole.

 

In the main, however, as in Riverwood, I came to love the place, and more-so its people. Among them I was no longer an outcast, but honored as Thane and the humble servant of Kyne that restored their beloved and flagging Tree. So for a time that was enough to hold me there while I recovered from the bout with the dragon, for in truth, there was as much taken out from me in the confrontation as had been put in.

 

So ended the third step of a long and trying journey.

[csb]

4. Circles Amid the Straight and Narrow

 

I take pause to replenish quills and refill inkwells. The guttering candle flickers, its capricious light glinting off countless facets of ice-rime jewels that obscure the darkened world beyond the pane. Each spark of light calls to mind a step I've taken. But just as the sparkles reflected from frosted glass, the view back on those steps now seems just as distorted.

 

In looking back, all my steps seem to have gone in circles. For seemingly every step I took toward answering the Thu'um that had rushed down from High Hrothgar, other hands tugged me in different directions. So I have taken so many more on different paths. How many times have I crossed and re-crossed the Holds of Skyrim? I have long lost count.

 

I shan't recount every footstep of it. To do so would needlessly clutter the main tale you seek.

 

Suffice it to say that no matter where I found myself, there were always opportunities to — if not outright obligations to — fulfill the needs of the people. Whilst I cannot vouch for others of the clergy, my first duty has always been to the common folk first and foremost. This is true not only here in Skyrim, but it was in the past as well, though more narrowly focused at times on the needs of the VIII Legion during their campaigns against incursions by the Aldmeri Dominion. Oh yes, those still occur, treaty or no. Though it is not considered proper to say so and give the Mer offense.

 

I have mentioned my aching legs and feet, and crossing and re-crossing Skyrim's expanse. It was not always so, there were times when expedience demanded I ride a horse or procure cartage. As time has worn on, I rely less and less on the former, having caused too many to die in providing me transport and the later has been limited by the few towns that provide it.

 

For the most part, then, I have walked, crept and run over most of Skyrim's soil, rock and ice. I know her and she knows me, as do her people. I feel that doing so has kept — and the Divines willing, will continue keeping — me well-grounded, if you'll pardon a feeble pun.

 

I suppose — should history go forward as it has previously — that there may be local legends that conflict with others. I hear the embellished tales already, even though told so shortly after the fact. Divines only know how distorted time shall make them, if they survive at all.

 

In some I may be painted as a fur-clad barbarian swooping relentlessly down on my foes. In others, I may be a wizard of the college in Winterhold, or a peerless warrior of the Companions, or a diabolical assassin of the Brotherhood or a scoundrel thief lurking in the Ratway beneath Riften and plotting no end of larcenous mischief, or perhaps a wandering bard of Solitude's college spreading word and song of my own deeds. In still others, the local brush will paint me with some other stripe — and they shall all be partially true.

 

Perceptions, as I said previously, are oft wrong. They also grow larger with each retelling, either because some bard has seen fit to add their flourishes to it, or because the teller had an ale too many around a camp fire or at an inn. Some I will address as I write this, others you can take for what they are, but I hope you keep in mind time's distorting lens.

 

It seems I digress and meander as much in writing this now as my feet did in traveling it. So on with it.

 

Last Seed had surrendered to Hearthfire like an aging maiden; reflecting in the glow of her former glory, but knowing that the long winter of discontent was coming ever closer. I felt likewise in some regards. While inside me was this burning desire to know the what and why of that Voice, events led me elsewhere for a time.

 

Eventually, however, came the day that a stop by Riverwood faded into mist and distance, and I came again to Helgen. At least for long enough to dispatch some bandits that had taken residence in the town's carcass and lay the abandoned dead to a more final repose in Arkay's name. From there it was mostly northward, trudging ever higher up the steepening shoulder of the Throat of the World. While at the time that path seemed most direct, I later learned it was not the easiest or necessarily most direct.

 

My journey did not go unimpeded. The ongoing civil war kept proper patrols of the roads to a minimum at best. Bandits, ravaging creatures and beasts were plentiful. They were not the only impediment. With each step upward the air grew more bitterly chill, eventually even biting through the layers of furs I wore. The snow swirled and blinded me, whipped to greater and greater frenzy by a howling mad dervish of a wind. At times I was so cold I could scarce feel my body or move my hands to conjure a divinely-granted spell.

 

Seven thousand steps are said to be carved to reach the summit from Ivarstead, but it always seems far more — much, much more, no matter how many times I make the climb. I made each climb in search of what it meant to be Dovahkiin and I while I make each one without complaint, I am humbled that Klimmek of Ivarstead did so time and again with no greater purpose than to deliver dried fish, vegetables and meats to the Greybeards.

 

I came at last to the imposing stone edifice that is High Hrothgar, the place where the Greybeards reflect on the Way of the Voice undistracted by the rest of Skyrim laying beneath the towering peak. Each step in reaching it seemed to remove me similarly from the affairs of the world around. Or perhaps that was merely a thought frozen in my benumbed mind during my ascent.

 

I give thanks to the Nine that it showed itself from the swirling whiteness when it did. In truth, I doubt I could have made it further.

 

My body shook with cold as I shouldered the massive door open and paused in the entry to gather both my wits and my strength. Truly, the journey left me feeling drained and pushed to the edge of my endurance. As pinprick-sharp feelings began to slowly return to my body and thoughts, I noticed first-most the utter silence of the place. Not even the howling winds that raged around Monahven's peak — to use its rightful name in Dragonish that predates the coming of the forebears of Skyrim from Atmora, indeed, perhaps to the Dawn Era itself — dared enter in to disrupt the quiet that was so all-enfolding as to be almost deafening.

 

I staggered on numbed feet past the entryway into the main chamber. For all the almost-reverential reference by Balgruuf, his wizard, and by others, I expected to encounter ... well, in actuality, I didn't know what I would encounter. What first met my eyes were the forms of four wizened men who watched my approach with a deeper sense of silence than the vast hall itself lent to my ear. No temple of the Divines or of the Daedra has ever struck me similarly, either before or since, with the sheer magnitude of quiet that demanded observant reflection than exists there.

 

If I had to use simple words to describe it, it should be that the very place, and the four that awaited stoically for my approach, were the embodiment of the sound of silence itself. I had come to a complete halt just short of the four and a lone figure shuffled, ambled, glided — there is no real word to describe the patient and timeless locomotion — toward me. I tried to still the heresy against silence caused by my chattering teeth.

 

For all the aged and frail impression that eyes alone could perceive in his approach, there also hung on his shoulders a seeming mantle of immense, but unvoiced, power. It was not a thing the eye could see or other senses discern: like the impenetrable silence that reigned in High Hrothgar, it was something only sensed deep within.

 

His words surprised me; first that they were uttered at all in this place, secondly that they flowed from him with a deep and rich timbre, bearing not only the weight of his tone though spoken lowly, but the weight of a seemingly ageless wisdom as well.

 

"So, a Dragonborn appears at this moment in the turning of the Age."

 

I knew not what else to say, so answered simply and as clearly as my chattering teeth would allow, "I am answering your summons, Master."

 

"We will see if you truly have the gift. Come, let us taste of your Voice," he remarked, though the words were spoken softly, they seemed to resonate in the quiet embrace of High Hrothgar.

 

The other three waited stoically, arms folded across their robed chests. I took a deep breath, seeing the word in my mind and ... Fus!

 

The sound of it echoed from the pressing stone walls of the temple, an almost visible force that blew over several urns and snuffed a rank of candles in their iron candelabra. I blinked, surprised still by the power that emanated from uttering the Thu'um.

 

Again the robed man probed quietly, "Why have you come?"

 

"I came in answer to your call, Master," I answered quietly, glad that at least my teeth had ceased their chattering accompaniment.

 

"We are honored to greet you, Dragonborn. I am Arngeir and these others are Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth."

 

For all the reverence the Jarl, his wizard and retinue held the Greybeards, I had expected a greater number. As yet the others had not spoken, Arngeir motioned me toward the one he had named Borri, softly stating that my next test would be to see how quickly I could learn a new Dragon Word, a Thu'um.

 

At Arngeir's gesture, Borri spoke.

 

I say that not as you and I would speak, but as one who has mastered the Voice would. It was more than a word. It was sound and power, and much more; full of rich rolling sound that was ageless and bespoke immeasurable subtlety.

 

Ro.

 

Borri's mere utterance of it graved a rune upon the stone of the floor. I breathed in sharply, the drips of melting snow falling from my furs and cloak sounding loud in the aftermath. Another gesture from Arngeir told me I was to stand over it. I nodded and moved to the markings.

 

As at Bleak Falls, the rune ebbed with a swirling power. Though this time its power did not emanate from the stone, but rather swirled around me from Borri himself. And as before, there in my mind stood a newly etched Word. Ro. Then followed another test, as Arngeir directed Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth in turn to project from themselves a target for me to Shout upon with my new-found power.

 

Fus… Ro...

 

Three times my Voice rang out in the stillness of High Hrothgar. Three times the swirling, projected forces that the three Greybeards put up were swept away by the power of the Thu'um. After the third, Arngeir nodded and his deep rich voice reached beyond my amazed shock of the moment.

 

"In our lifetime, we did not expect to have the honor of meeting or instructing the Dovahkiin," Arngeir's tone was near-reverent, his ageless eyes met mine.

 

Again I could not help but feel the ancient wisdom that lay behind his gaze, but now there was also a glint of something — subservience perhaps? Or perhaps that was merely the result of my still-numbed mind and the poor lighting. However, his further words seemed to imply that I, as Tiber Septim long before me, had been gifted by Akatosh with the blessing of Dragon Blood — though I often wonder now if it is not as equally a curse.

 

He answered my questions about the Greybeards, about High Hrothgar and, of course, about the Voice with patience. His explanations were given as Father to Child, as Master to Pupil. It dawned on me finally that it was not subservience that was within Master Arngeir: it was Purpose.

 

In that moment, my mind dared not — indeed, could not — grapple with why Akatosh would bestow such a thing upon me.

 

After my bout of questions, Arngeir motioned for me to follow Wulfgar and the others. I did so, pacing myself to their slow, steady and measured steps. We emerged from the quiet and gloom of the Temple of the Sky into a courtyard beyond that had not been visible when mounting the wide double sweep of stairs to the front entry.

 

Though snow fell and swirled here, and the wind blew with force, it did not bear the same cold bite I had felt before entering the temple. Or perhaps my mind and body were numbed to it.

 

We moved with economy but haste and arrived beside a stone column. Across the snow- and ice-covered path stood another. Some twenty paces or more away stood an iron gate. At Arngeir's gesture, Wulfgar's Voice rang out, carving within the frigid ground yet another rune that pulsed with his power. Again I was encouraged to stand over it by a motion of Arngeir's hand.

 

As with Borri, Wulfgar's Voice filled me, swirling amid my mind's corridors and leaving behind Wuld.

 

Wulfgar demonstrated Wuld for me, uttering the Thu'um as Einarth uttered a word to open the distant iron gate. In an instant, the deliberate-moving Wulfgar was propelled beyond the portal. I blinked my amazement.

 

Then, by Arngeir's gesture, it was my turn.

 

Wuld!

 

How can I describe the sensation? My body rushed forward as Wulfgar's had. Yet, it was as if it were my mind that rushed beyond the gate and my body merely followed. It was not until my second trip to High Hrothgar that I began to understand why.

 

"I know you have the gift, Dovahkiin," Arngeir uttered as we made our way back toward the temple, "but do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the Path?"

 

"I believe so, Master Arngeir," I allowed quietly, my thoughts in as mad a rush as Wuld.

 

As we entered again into the overwhelming quiet and solitude of the Temple of the Sky, he bade that I retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, founder of the Greybeards and whose mastery of the Voice was unparalleled … except, perhaps, by that of Talos himself. I could but nod that I would undertake this final test.

 

Weariness had gripped me in its tentacles, an embrace neither my mind nor body wished to escape. Arngeir showed me to a bed. Their sleeping quarters proving to be little more than an apse of sorts off the body of the temple itself. My head swirled like the raging snow outside with all that had occurred in my short time here as it sank into the down comfort of the pillow.

 

The Way of the Voice. That has been my way since that day. Full of snares and pitfalls, but I have tried to stick to it.

 

"What is my destiny?" I had asked on that eve that seems forever ago now.

 

"That is for you to discover. We can but show you the way, but not the destination," he had answered.

 

The candle now flickers, guttering amid its own melted wreckage; much like my memories and the tiredness that sputters through me. I must rest before continuing this. At times I wonder why I bother with rest, for it seems no matter how much I get these days, it never seems enough. As if the weight of it is seeping into my bones and my spirit.

 

Damn Master Arngeir. He has kept to his word and the Way these months as a Greybeard ought. He and the others in High Hrothgar have indeed shown me the path. But what good is it to show some mere part, but not its beginning nor its ending? Or to say at all if it is the right path? Arngeir has time and again said it is for me to decide.

 

Does he fear I shall decide wrongly? If so, he does not show it.

 

He should, though, for that fear perches like a raven on my shoulder and crows dire consequence in my ear.

 

So ended the fourth step of a long and trying journey.

[csb]

5. Blooded Brothers

I did not leave High Hrothgar immediately. I paused there for some time. Partly it was to absorb what Master Arngeir had shown and said to me, partly to weigh the landscape that swept in every direction when not obscured by all-too-frequent storms, and perhaps in larger part to set aside a crushing weight that I was beginning to feel settle upon my shoulders.

 

So there I stood on a fair morning, the wind tugging whimsically at my cape and ruffling the fur of my raiment. Skyrim unfolded before my eyes, laid out in its splendor in a rare unimpeded glimpse. From so lofty a place, all seemed tranquil in the lands of the Nords below me. Being so removed from the grit of the details, I took pause to reflect on matters that were not obvious from such a height.

 

Thus far I have made little mention of my faith and only scant mention of the Divines. Indeed, I have sidestepped the two topics that halt most sensible converses: politics and religion. If I could avoid them now, I would. Yet both are central to understanding that moment from your perch in some distant day.

 

In speaking of the fate of peoples and nations, as in anything having to do with Fate, one cannot speak of just one part and yet still clearly see the whole.

 

As in the old fable of the five blind men and the mammoth, if you touch but one part and accept it as the whole, there is a lot of mammoth you shall miss. So it is in understanding Skyrim's three aspects: Dov, Divines and Dealings — or politics rather, but in a moment of literary license, indulge me the sibilance of the three D's.

 

Skyrim's nine Holds — yet another irony! — were evenly spread between those that supported the Empire through Jarl Elisif, and those that supported Ulfric and autonomy. Whiterun was balanced precariously upon the fence politic, with Jarl Balgruuf teetering toward supporting King Torygg's widow. That was the larger picture, perhaps, but its larger scope did not paint the details.

 

As things stood, the rebels had the poorer hand. While many grumbled about the Empire, about Elisif or their local Jarl; that is the nature of people in general. We gripe and grouse about our lot in life, but most often do little to change it. While Ulfric's forces were fierce in their beliefs, they were the poorer equipped, supplied and lacked the numbers. Without some great equalizer, the Empire would continue its rule of its northern province.

 

Were it a matter of some temporary discontent, Ulfric was doomed to fail. But storm-tossed as the surface waters were, the undercurrents were equally treacherous, as many interests stirred the pot of discontent. The painting of it, therefore, was not solely in all black or all white, for the political palette was sufficiently muddied by a multitude of grays.

 

On one hand the white/black of Ulfric or Empire, but over that base lay the grays of disaffected Bretons in their redoubts near Markarth, the suppressed voice of the Gray and others in Windhelm and mostly, in the pent up frustrations of all who lived in Skyrim's folds. The pot simmered and bubbled, stirred by this hand and that, ready to boil over into something beyond any individual control.

 

"Generals like to plan at war," father once said to me, "but never seem to account that such plans go awry when the first shields bash and swords clash."

 

That is the way of war. There is no accounting or planning for its vagaries and who shall live or who shall die. So as the pot politic heated to a boil — each chef trying to flavor the stew to their ends but ignoring the fires that roiled around the kettle — the concoction threatened to erupt beyond anyone's making or wishes.

 

I am speaking allegorically of the dragons, of course. They were the fire that was mounting, quite literally, beneath the pot. That the pot was flavored by the bitter histories of all concern worked more to the favor of the dragons than against. This, to me, is what drove my decision foremost, and I say it to refute whatever account survives into the future regarding my motives.

 

All fear the dragons to one extent or other, for the memories of their tyranny and oppression of mankind, regardless of heritage, lingers still despite the passing of Ages. We were their chattel in a distant day, perhaps a day as distant to us now, as these words are of a day far distant to you. It is important only to know that their tyranny was brutal and thorough.

 

Fragments, myths and legends are what we have now, but the hatred is seared into our souls: be they Nord, Breton, Cyrodiilacs or Yokudan, the oppressive fires of dragons have molded and shaped us all to an extent. The Merfolk as well are not unscathed, and for all the bitter history between the heirs of Atmora and the elven folk, the bitter hatreds of dragons are more bitter still.

 

I do not profess to be a scholar of such histories, I merely recognize that the shapes we see today have been wrought by many hands and purposes. So as I stood there atop Monahven's crown, the unfolding beauty of Skyrim was seething below the idyllic surface of distance. There was history enough and hatred enough on all accounts to keep it ongoing to Age after Age. Unless, perhaps, a larger hatred could meld the bitter spices that simmered to a greater purpose. And there was only one larger, collective hatred: that of the mortal races against dragons.

 

The wind ruffled the stray strands of my hair and my lips pressed into thinner lines as a sudden resolve set in.

 

What I found most unsettling in that moment was that perhaps it was I who could make a difference in some fashion. Master Arngeir knew something and had alluded to some destiny that he would not clarify. Dovahkiin. At that moment, gazing up into Kyne's clear blue sky at the Throat of the World, I felt small and inadequate. And while I certainly saw no clear path, I began to see a destination.

 

I had then an inkling of what must be done as I saw it. I could but pray to Akatosh that what I saw was clear and untainted.

 

Forbear for a moment, as I feel I must now set the matter straight in regards to my faith — indeed, the faiths of us all.

 

From our parents' knee as children we are told of the Nine. If we are fortunate, what we learn at that first temple suffices as the foundation of our faith in something greater than ourselves. Blind faith some call it, but not I. To believe and hope in something beyond knowing, that can lift you from despair of daily drudge or circumstance, is a precious gift. I would not call it blind, therefore, but simple — a wholesome kind of simplicity not born of feeble minds, but rather is born of clinging to a child-like purity and innocence that trusts its fate to the all-knowing. It is an aspect that resides inside us all to lesser or greater extent.

 

Some, like I have been, are blessed further by formal instruction. As with the politics of men, religion too simmers with discord. Discord seems to be the way of Mundus. For is it not discord itself that is central to the affairs and politics of beings that are beyond our mortal comprehension?

 

Each race has its views of the Gods, of course, and the composition and roles within the pantheons differ. But for all the differences, there are so many similarities. Semantics in religion, as in politics, spark fierce debates here in Tamriel and wars have erupted from those interpretations.

 

Faith cannot be argued, it is a personal thing we each hold — our individual relationship between ourselves and our Creator.

 

Religion, though, is argued constantly. Indeed, argued to the point of blows being struck. But among the major religious interpretations; each race's creation story shares commonality.

 

In simplest of terms, the Divine spring from two brothers — which has a certain irony when applied to the political situation in Skyrim now. I speak, of course, of Anu and Padomay. All accounts basically agree that it was their coming into the Void that began Time.

 

It was the act of Anu and Padomay walking among the Void that began it all, for their interactions gave creation to Nir. It came to pass that Anu and Nir came to love one another and Padomay retreated in jealousy and bitterness. From Anu and Nir, Creation was born.

 

That birth, however, was a tragic aftermath of Padomay's jealous rage. For before the birthing, he returned to profess his love of Nir, and when his advances were rejected and she professed her love of Anu, she was struck down in his rage. I know I restate what is known, but it is important, I think, to recount it again here. Creation was born as we all are, amid strife and bitter contention. Is it any wonder then, all these Ages past, that we mirror that aspect?

 

Is it any wonder then that the children of Anu and Padomay — Aedra and Daedra respectively — mirror the struggle of the original brothers? Beyond all semantics of the races, that is the root of it: On one hand creation, love and hope; and on the other, jealousy, hate and despair.

 

That is largely what I saw simmering beneath the flowing form of Skyrim's body spreading outward from my eye.

 

We exist as they were and are.

 

Time, many scholars assert, is a wheel and follows cycles. In all honesty, I do not know this as fact, but I have seen enough now to suspect there is merit to that claim. Amid the tumultuous history of Tamriel such cycles have been borne out: From their common beginning, Mer and Man have been as Anu and Padomay — jealous and bitter of one another, and that conflict continues still, most recently "resolved" (for lack of a better word) by the White-Gold Concordat.

 

To this bitter bubbling brew I must now add Akatosh, one of only two Divines acknowledged by all races in essence of being, if not in name. Further, it is Akatosh — or Arui-El if you are Mer — who is associated with dragons, for is He not also known as the Dragon God of Time?

 

I do not pretend to understand it. That on one hand Akatosh would grant to some mortals dragon blood and yet on the other have created through his first-born Alduin Man's oppression by dragons is beyond my understanding.

 

Lastly, the matter of Talos entered into my thoughts.

 

It was in my contemplation of and prayers to Talos that the beginning of my path was revealed.

 

As with Fate itself, Talos has three aspects. Or rather, three major ones, all of which come to bear at this point in time.

 

First and foremost, he was a true Nord — that is to say, the last of those who came to Skyrim from Atmora. His very name meaning Stormcrown and it is here in Skyrim that he learned and mastered the Thu'um. Master Arngeir has not been specific in details, but I know that as I appeared in answer to the Greybeards' Voice, so too did he. Like me, they named him Dovahkiin. Yet, unlike with me thus far, the Greybeards told Talos — or Ysmir, Dragon of the North as he was oft called after being revealed as Dovahkiin — that his destiny lay to the south. Meaning, of course, Cyrodiil.

 

It is Talos' aspect in Cyrodiil that is more widely known. I shan't recount that, as his rise to power, ultimately as Tiber Septim ushering in the Third Era, has entire library collections devoted to such history. What is important at this juncture, I think, is to point out the ties of his Nord roots and his gift of Dragon Blood by Akatosh. It was this that led the Empire into its Third Age and marks the beginning of a new age of prosperity. After his eighty-one-year rule, that it was his Nord and Dragon Blood that was bequeathed to his progeny and that firmly established the Empire in its full glory.

 

Lastly, and most importantly, is the apotheosis itself. The ascension of Tiber Septim to join the pantheon of Cyrodiil and, of course, Skyrim, as Talos as the Ninth Divine; transcending his mortal origin and achieving divine immortality established a long peace. But his divine nature has never been accepted by the Mer, particularly those of the Aldmeri Dominion and, specifically, the Thalmor. In their eyes it was and is a blasphemy and a heresy that a Man could be elevated so. But as the Empire held sway under the Septims, Talos gained his divine seat and, for four centuries, all flourished.

 

For almost a century and three quarters, the Empire struggled on in the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis; and in the wake of the loss of the last Septim and the Amulet of Kings, the lustre of its previous glory grew ever-more dull. Lands were ceded, the Mer rejoining the Isles and Valenwood, and the Aldmeri Dominion again rose.

 

All this changed thirty years ago.

 

As with the history of Tiber Septim, I shall not recount the Great War except to note two things that arise from the White-Gold Concordat.

 

In order to preserve the Empire, Titus II sacrificed two staunch allies: Hammerfell and Skyrim. And here I must say that the Redguards have shamed us — for rather than abide Imperial betrayal by the ceding of much of their land, they broke from it and stood their own ground. Yet we Nords remained bound to the ailing Empire, despite the grave insult done by sacrificing Talos' divinity to the demands of the elves. Worse than ceding our land, we were willing to cede our souls and our heritage.

 

The insult of Titus II was graver still for ignoring the sacrifice of Nords in defending Cyrodiil itself from being swept aside. It was in defense of the Aldmeri counter-attack in reclaiming the Imperial City that my father lost most of his left arm and thereby met my mother while she tended the wounds of the Nord contingent.

 

Five years later, ironically as Hammerfell forced the Aldmeri Dominion to withdraw from its lands, I was born on the 12th day of Evening Star 4E180 and my mother passed from her mortal life in Tamriel to share in Talos' eternal glory.

 

It is why, for all his many faults, I swore oath to Jarl Ulfric's cause. His shortcomings I hoped to deal with in a future day close at hand, the Divines willing.

 

Need dictates that I set this account aside for a time. Beyond the ice-encrusted windows there are more urgent matters than setting my account straight. I am surprised somewhat looking at this pile of completed pages. It brought a faint smile to my face that for someone who is so vocally laconic that I have had so much to say in writing.

 

I shall take up the rest in the next volume and tell of the three aspects of my particular Fate. Until then, may the Nine watch over me so that I am free to tell of that Fate.

 

So ended the fifth step of a long and trying journey.

[csb]

Part II. Desires, Dragons and Destiny

1. Horny Dilemmas

 

For the longest while I have merely stared at this fresh pile of parchment. My thoughts rush forward and back, filled with events, people and realizations. The pale light of a new day flows in the open window and the air is full of the lingering chill of winter but bears the hint of spring's promise.

 

Much has changed since I saw the path's beginning looking out over Skyrim from High Hrothgar's refuge.

 

And yes, I admit to enticing you to continue reading by alluding to something racy and prurient. I suppose I could have entitled this collection of vellum sheets The Lusty Argonian Maiden, but that title was already taken.

 

I quit the tranquility of the Temple of the Sky reluctantly, but knowing fully what must be done. Needless to say, first-most was recovering the Horn for Arngeir, to pass his final test. Perhaps to prove to him, and to myself, that I indeed had the discipline and temperament to be Dovahkiin.

 

Though, in honesty, I did not know then what that fully entails. In truth, I still do not.

 

As with all things related to dragons, it was no simple task. Before relating the events that transpired let me say that Arngeir did not press me for details. In fact, he has never pressed me for a full accounting of any of my actions. That I had given oath to follow the Way of the Voice has always seemed sufficient — it still gives me pause to reflect, that my destiny and my path are mine to determine.

 

It seemed then, as it does now, that he was content that the test was done. I was Dovahkiin.

 

As I departed the Temple of the Sky that second time, I asked of Master Arngeir one last thing. I must laugh, for it was only the last of that particular visit — I think, mayhaps, he dreads my visits now and the relentless questions that ring about his aged head. If silence is indeed golden, I have squandered a fortune upon his ears.

 

"Tell me, Master, what did you and the others just say to me?" I was eager to know, but also eager to be off. So I fear I was hopping from one foot to the other as I asked, adjusting my kit for the trails ahead.

 

He regarded me for some moments, perhaps amused by my antics. It is hard to tell with Arngeir, he is harder to read than the eyes of a Dunmer; though I do think that his lip twitched with a smile deep in the recesses of the shadow cast by his hood.

 

"As closely as I can translate, Dragonborn, what I said was this."

 

Then he recited, "Long has the Stormcrown languished, with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne; in the name of Shor; and in the name of Atmora of Old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Harken to it."

 

The rich rolling timbre of his voice filled my ears, but the words themselves rang hard upon my mind. I fear my heart skipped several beats. It borders on blasphemy that he names me as Talos was named. I opened my mouth to make retort to that, but stopped at his upraised hand.

 

"Think upon it, Dragonborn. Sky above, Voice within. The meaning will be clear enough to you in time."

 

I closed my mouth and nodded, for it was all I could do.

 

For all the seven thousand steps down to Ivarstead those words echoed in my mind with haunting reverberations. Master Arngeir had to be mistaken; either in the translation or that I was even Dovahkiin. For against the immensity of all that is Talos I found myself coming up very small. Upon the last step, as I crossed the bridge into Ivarstead proper, I think is the moment that the full weight of being called Dragonborn fell crushingly on my shoulders.

Why me, Akatosh? I am not worthy. It was not the last time I would have that thought, but by my recollection, I believe it was the first.

 

When I left High Hrothgar that first time, I had thought my return would be quick. That I would travel to the ruin where the Horn lay, retrieve it — albeit, no doubt, with great peril — and return. That is how my mind saw the path. It is not how my feet traveled it.

 

The road to Oblivion is paved with good intents, Yvelle-girl.

 

Ah, now to the Horn's retrieval itself.

 

From Ivarstead I made my way to Riften. Not because it lay between me and Ustengrav, but because I hoped that there I could purchase a horse. Walking to Riften was a far shorter distance than crossing the width of Skyrim on aching feet.

 

I shall forgo my experiences in Riften for the nonce, except to say that the events there may account for some tales regarding my "belonging" (for lack of a more apt word) to the Thieves Guild there. Instead of purchasing a horse, however, I hired transport by carriage instead.

 

For the most part the weather for once was agreeable, and though the roads were bumpy, we passed without incident — which itself is miracle enough — to Morthal.

 

Again, I omit several dealings while within Morthal's hold for the moment. Suffice it to say that in time I reached Ustengrav. In retrospect, I am not sure which was worse — traversing the marshes, constantly cold and damp, or plumbing the depths of Ustengrav itself.

 

The place itself is an old Nordic ruin — with all that entails.

 

Before descending into Ustengrav proper, there was a pair of bandits and necromancer standing watch outside to contend with. May Arkay grant them eternal rest and forgiveness of their mortal transgressions. Dispatching them was a trivial matter; I only mention it because of events within the ruin itself.

 

So I entered Ustengrav wary for any manner of encounter. Only fools rush in where Dovahkiin fear to tread. Only by virtue of long standing suffrage of my bents of humor did I refrain from laughing at my own joke.

 

Such caution served me well, as I was by and large content to let the draugr, and the bandits and the accompanying mages wreak havoc each upon the other. I was content to tidy up by dispatching the survivors. I pressed afterwards into the ruin's depths.

 

The depths of Ustengrav — like so many other ruins and places in Skyrim — proved to be a world-within-a-world. That is to say, it was an immense cavern-like expanse open to the world above here and there, mixed with the stonework of antiquity. Trees grew amid the dusky gloom, vegetation was busily wreaking its vengeance on the works of Man and all-in-all there was a musky fetidness to the place.

 

At the far end of the cavernous expanse, I encountered my first real impediment.

 

Three stone posts stood before a passageway blocked by three stout iron gates. I cautiously crept by the first pillar, expecting any number of things to happen. The first gate groaned its way open. Likewise, the second gate rose upon passing the second stone. Before I could reach the third, the first closed itself. Then the second closed as the third opened.

 

I tried again, this time sprinting past the trio of stones and toward the gates. I skid to a halt before butting my head against the first as it squealed shut.

 

There are advantages to knowing various Thu'um. The third time I sprinted past the three stones, which triggered the gates open. As I cleared the third stone, I gave voice to Wuld Nah Kest. I was propelled in the blink of an eye past the gates before they could shut.

 

Yes, you note well: I had learned more than Wuld since my first time at High Hrothgar. I shall get to my learning of such words shortly.

 

Beyond the threesome of sentinel gates, was a smaller cave, set with flame traps and replete with a duo of frostbite spiders. Wuld Nah Kest again served me well, propelling me past the traps before they could ignite. The spiders, however, were not so fortunate.

 

I came at last into the inner sanctum of Ustengrav.

 

It was a large room, largely filled with water. As I crept in, dragon-headed stone pillars rose from the water's depths. Ware, Yvelle-girl… Expecting the worst, my blade rang free. My experience with such places had me prepared for the worst.

 

Despite my trepidations, I reached the dais bearing Jurgen Windcaller's horn without incident.

 

Except that there was no horn in the statue's embrace: just a folded parchment where it had once rested. I quickly unfolded it.

 

With a murmured prayer to Julianos, I cast Candlelight to read by without straining my eyes in the gloom of the place and let my eyes take in the scant words of the note:

 

Dragonborn—

I need to speak to you. Urgently.

Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you.

—A friend

It was yet another note from "A friend." Unlike the previous ones, this one had not come by courier.

 

I mulled its contents for some time before concluding that I could suppose and conjecture all I wished, but the answer would only be revealed by traveling to Riverwood. I sighed, backtracked and wend my way down a side passage to the cavern bearing Ustengrav's Word Wall. There it was that I learned Feim.

 

Determined to solve the riddle of the note and, of course, to retrieve the horn, I left Ustengrav and made my way without delay to Riverwood. As if to match my clouded thoughts, it drizzled for the entire journey.

—

I mentioned notes being borne to me by courier.

 

During my travels in Skyrim several letters had been handed to me by courier. Each had been signed by the mysterious "A friend" and the first, as with my thought of unworthiness, found me at Ivarstead. The message spoke of the amazement of the loosing of my Thu'um at the Western Watchtower and hinted that I ought to turn my attentions to a certain place. In each instance, the phrasing was the same, merely changing where I had used my Voice and bearing a hint of where to look next.

 

I read the note and realized that the place was not far from where the Horn was said to rest. Two birds with one stone, my feet will be glad of it. How wrong that thought proved to be.

 

My path was intent on the retrieving the Horn and I thought to head straight to it. But I had not allowed that paths are generally not straight; they twist and wind, often double back upon themselves. As I had at Whiterun, I found my steps tracing and retracing Skyrim.

 

Because of this, a chronological account would be far too confusing, for my purposes shifted as often as the path did and many side paths revealed themselves and led me astray. So from this point, I shall keep this account to various purposes. Bear in mind as you read it, that many overlap in time or proximity.

 

Thus, on my way to Ustengrav, I detoured many times. To Riften and Morthal, as I made previous mention, but also to those places where the mysterious notes pointed. And so it was that the litany of my words grew from Fus, Ro and Wuld.

 

At Ysgramor's Tomb, Raan. At Angarvunde, Mir. And so on, and so forth. As I learned new words and subsumed their power — at the cost of a dragon's life and soul — their use prompted new messages from the mysterious friend. Now, for whatever reason, this friend had entered into Ustengrav and taken the Horn. First, doing so was not a trivial matter, thus this friend was no neophyte; and secondly, was the matter of this erstwhile friend's motives.

 

Conjecture as I might, I could not pierce the veil of the unknown person's reasons despite prayer or contemplation. As the gray of rainy day gave way to black of rainy night, I arrived footsore and thoroughly soaked and chilled in Riverwood.

 

I dripped my way past the door and stood shivering for a time before the fire pit.

 

The Sleeping Giant was devoid of its usual patrons on this chill and stormy eve. Both Delphine and Orgnar said naught; he busying himself restocking the bar, and Delphine swept at the floor with an unenthusiastically-wielded broom.

 

Finally dry, I approached her and quietly asked for a night's lodging in the attic room.

 

Delphine's eyes revealed nothing and her terse reply left me baffled.

 

"We have no attic room. The usual room is available for ten septims."

 

I fished the coins from the purse at my belt, her reply leaving me chewing at my lip. If there were no attic room, why did the note specify to ask for one? At Delphine's dismissive gesture and resumption of her listless sweeping, I made my pensive way to the room and closed the door.

 

Too tired to stow my gear in the provided wardrobe or chest, I let it fall piecemeal to the floor. With a weary sigh I slipped under the bearskin and closed my eyes. Sleep avoided me for a time as the questions What code or signal did that note contain? and What is Delphine's role in this? kept echoing in my tired mind. Eventually, sleep came, even though the answers to those questions did not.

 

A floorboard creaked.

 

With that thought I was instantly awake. I kept still beneath the bearskin and let my eyes open slowly. Startled, I made out Delphine's form in the gloom of the room. She stood just inside the door — Why had I not heard it open? — and seemed to be quietly regarding my sleeping form.

 

Damn it all! My sword was out of reach amid my jumbled clothing and gear on the floor.

 

I readied Zun Haal in my mind and sat up quickly, swinging my bare legs from under the covers.

 

Unperturbed by my sudden wakefulness and springing upright, she simply raised both hands slightly at her sides, palms upward. Instead of using my Voice to disarm an intruder, I let the pent-up power seep from me in a long sighing breath.

 

She waited stoically without uttering a word as I stooped to gather my armor and equipment. As I dressed, Delphine offered her apology for the deception of the note; but that she had to be sure that I was indeed the Dragonborn.

 

"And why," I groused, being in foul humor for lack of sleep and such a rude awakening. My dark-rimmed eyes fixed firmly on hers, "did you have to be sure I was Dovahkiin?"

 

"I had to make sure it was not a Thalmor trap," she answered. From her manner, I sensed there was more to it than that, but let it lay for the moment as I accepted the Horn from her.

 

So, my dear Delphine, how is it a …" Here I paused and ahemmed, "simple innkeeper must be wary of Thalmor traps? I find it rather curious as well that a simple innkeeper would dare enter into Ustengrav and take the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

 

"I will answer your questions and more in good time," she said while staring unwaveringly into my eyes. She gestured that I should follow her.

 

Displeased but eager to get to the bottom of it all, I followed in her wake.

 

What followed rightly began other steps of my journey. Do not fret, all shall be made clear to you in time; but what was revealed to me by Delphine was but one more thread in an emerging tapestry of hands that stirred the pot.

 

So ended the sixth step of a long and trying journey.

[csb]

[removed mispost]

[csb]

2. The Tangled Webs We Weave

 

As paths converged, crossed, doubled back or came to a dead end, two main things concerned me. The two paths that I kept returning to time and again were the civil war and, of course, the coming of the dragons.

 

However, as time and my feet went on, in trying to reach the culminating path to each end, other intermediary destinations kept revealed themselves. As I pursued first one thing and then another, I realized I had to give priority to one or the other. I decided that the sooner the civil war was ended, the more attention that could be brought to bear on dragons.

 

Now in my travels from Whiterun and High Hrothgar I had had occasion to visit most of the Holds already and knew it was time to make my way to Windhelm in Eastmarch Hold and Jarl Ulfric. Or to Solitude in Haafingar Hold and Jarl Elisif; northeast or northwest, both were the centers of the Stormcloaks and Imperials, respectively.

 

As I was in Ivarstead — having just returned the Horn — it was an easy choice to make, for of the Hold centers, only Riften and Windhelm lay nearest. Of Riften I shall relate later, as I have already alluded to having spent some time there.

 

i. Weathering Windhelm

 

To a lesser extent than my trek to High Hrothgar, each step of my trip to Windhelm grew increasingly colder.

 

The hiss of snow stung constantly at my numbed face. That it was not as cold as the raging storms on the face of Throat of the World was small comfort. Freezing cold is freezing cold despite degree — it was still damn cold. I arrived shivering, but without major incident, at Windhelm's outskirts as the dawn of the second day grayed after leaving the relative warmth of Ivarstead.

 

I paused amid an outcropping of boulders to change from my distinctive armor to common garb. Already the tales of dragons and the Dragonborn were beginning to spread like skeever throughout the Holds, and I did not wish to draw undue attention to myself.

 

I smile some now at that. I shouldn't have bothered so much, perhaps, as I am not ten feet tall nor am I quite as wide as a giant.

 

I crossed the long frigid stone causeway into Windhelm proper, entered in but did not make my way immediately to see Jarl Ulfric. Despite Ralof's open invitation to join the Stormcloaks, I wished to see first-hand how this Jarl managed his Hold and people. Though, I'll admit, I was tempted to go straight to the Palace for I hoped to see Ralof there.

 

It was quickly apparent that non-Nords fared poorly in Windhelm. Incognito and dressed in rough traveling garb as I was, and apparently a Breton, I met a reception that was unrelated to the season but just as icy.

 

Dunmer and Argonian folk, I fast learned, had it far worse. The elves were relegated to the slums of the Gray Quarter and the Argonians forced to live outside the city proper in squalid conditions down by the docks. It was only slightly better for Khajiit, tolerated only for the trade they brought via their caravans.

 

That Ulfric allowed this state to exist did not rest well in my mind.

 

It was this that kept me from immediately paying call on the Jarl and joining the rebellion formally for a good part of winter. That left me ample time to intercede indirectly on behalf of many of the city's residents, regardless of the skin they wore.

 

It was in undertaking these intercessions that I first met Brunwulf Free-Winter. Of him, I shall speak more in due course.

 

Unlike a good many Nords of Windhelm, he was very vocal about his thoughts on the treatment of non-Nords. Curious, I made my way to the Gray Quarter, wending through its tight alleys with gutters reeking of sewage spewing from the other quarters, the palace included. There I found the New Gnisis Cornerclub.

 

Despite the ostentatious name, the Cornerclub was as barren a tavern as the hopes of the Dunmer who frequented the place. Most of the gray elves were refugees from Morrowind and Windhelm was as far as their resources had taken them. Here they sat amid the harsh winter, not of season, but of treatment; and mostly they bore it well, if grudgingly.

 

So as winter wore on, I tended errands, mixing among the common folk, coming to know the plight of voiceless Mer and Argonians for myself. Among the tasks, I investigated a rumor about a small boy who was locked away in his family's house conducting rituals to contact the Dark Brotherhood. This, too, I shall discuss later.

 

Around me the worst of winter raged. But Kyne's storms were no more viciously cold than the storms of Men; and the day came when I could no longer postpone paying visit to Ulfric.

 

Misgivings in hand, I trudged the frozen steps and ice-encrusted way to the Palace of the Kings.

 

I arrived amid a blizzard, a storm that ranged inside and out. My thoughts swirled just as cold in my head as the weather that raged around it. On one hand, I sympathized with Ulfric's cause. On the other, I found his lacks a major cause for concern.

 

I should make mention at this juncture that by this point I was already considered a thane in several Holds. I held station and property and all-in-all I was well-regarded among the ordinary folk throughout Skyrim. I say this so that you in some distant day understand that I came to Ulfric not as some commoner or foreigner, but as a person of more than modest influence in Skyrim.

 

Snow and ice dripped from my heavy bearskin cloak as I trod the long well-appointed hall toward the Jarl's throne. As I strode purposefully toward where the Jarl and his right-hand man Galmar Stone-Fist stood discussing Jarl Balgruuf and Whiterun, I could feel the history of the great hall press in on me. Voices of Harald and other kings of yore pressed barely discernible against my ear.

 

The sound, real or imagined, was not quite like the power of a Word Wall. But it served to steel my resolve.

 

As I neared, both men turned to regard me with curious eyes, pausing their conversation to appraise me fully. Encased in ice- and snow-rimed hooded bearskin cloak, I appeared no more than a chilled, slight woman. I stopped before them, and for a moment the Jarl's eyes locked with mine.

 

"I wish to join the rebellion," I said the words evenly and firmly, but my voice was not raised.

 

Ulfric's lips pursed and he retorted firmly, "Only the foolish or courageous approach a Jarl without summons."

 

He paused for a moment, trying to peer into the shadows of my hood. I lifted my hand to push back the hood, and he squinted at my obviously Breton face, "Do I know you?"

 

"We met at Helgen," I said simply. Thus far Ulfric's manner had done nothing to brush aside my misgivings.

 

"Ah yes." The Jarl's voice was tinged with dismissive arrogance. I felt my scar throb. "Destined for the chopping block, if I'm not mistaken."

 

"As were you," I answered evenly but softly.

 

A growl escaped the lips of the massively-thewed lieutenant and he exclaimed angrily, "Who are you to dare speak to Jarl Ulfric so?"

 

I lifted my hand again, undoing the clasp of the bearskin cloak and letting it fall. Today I wore my distinctive armor; the hall's light glinting off the dragon scale links as the rugged cloak fell to the floor. His hands, I noted, were moving to grip the mighty axe upon his back.

 

"I am Dovahkiin. And if your hands move another inch, you shall taste my Thu'um."

 

His hands moved.

Fus … Ro … Dah!

 

His massive frame was sent tumbling across the tiles of the floor. Quickly I turned my gaze to Ulfric as he rose from his throne, his sword coming free as he did.

 

"Was that the Thu'um you used upon the king, Ulfric?" I asked evenly. Timing is everything, and as his weapon drew poised to strike, he paused long enough at my question for my Voice to again resound in the hall.

 

Zun Haal!

 

Ulfric's sword leapt from his hand and skittered loudly across the ornate floor. By Talos' amulet, the timing had been close.

 

"Or was it that, and you killed the king not in fair combat, but cold blood?" My narrowed eyes met his. I heard Galmar Stone-Fist rise from the floor and knew he was again reaching for that mighty axe.

 

"Stay him, Jarl, or my next Thu'um will end this with finality. Do you wish the power of Dovahkiin at your side or at your throat?" My words were as ice cold as my eyes.

 

Ulfric was nothing if not a seasoned and wise warrior. He raised his hand and called out to Galmar, "Hold, my friend. Let us see what this … what Dovahkiin has to say."

 

"Witch!" the warrior hissed. Albeit, I think the first letter he used made the word much more vulgar. I know he wondered at my short, sharp laugh in response. I positioned myself so I could keep an eye on both men. I noted as well that the Palace guards were gathering, their captain's eyes fixed on their Jarl for some sign.

 

"You did not answer my question, Jarl Ulfric. Did your Thu'um stagger our former king or disarm him? I will not ally with a murderer." Though it was a question, my tone made it clear I expected an answer.

 

"King Torygg was staggered," Ulfric allowed tersely. That he did not like this current state of affairs showed clearly in his narrowed eyes.

 

"Then I repeat my offer, Jarl. I wish to join the rebellion …" I paused for effect. "With conditions."

 

"I am listening," he said sullenly. And so he did.

ii. Forsworn Fealty

 

Secunda provided enough light for me to enter into the Reach as a shadow flitting across the lea. This night at least the harsh bite of winter was abated and while the night was cold and crisp, it was more than bearable.

 

It was my first return to the region since escaping Cidhna Mine with Madanach.

 

To make a long tale shorter, suffice it to say I had been imprisoned after being falsely accused of murdering a man named Eltrys in Markarth. As for Madanach, he was known as King in Rags, the leader of the Forsworn Rebellion and was also held prisoner in Cidhna.

 

Yes, I know, yet another rebellion.

 

If details have not survived of the Forsworn or the rebellion into your future Age, suffice it to say that they were of Breton stock, had once ruled and held a good portion of what is now the Reach Hold and fostered a long-held hatred of the Nords, the Empire, the Thalmor and anyone else who were not of one of their tribal clans. It would be somewhat fair to think of them as feral Bretons.

 

Or, as some would say, they were two pints short of a meadery.

 

During the Great War, Madanach saw a chance — with the Imperial forces off fighting the elves of the Aldmeri Dominion, along with a goodly number of Nord conscripts — to reclaim the Reach and declare independence. He gathered the Forsworn tribes and struck at the Nordic defenders of Markarth and held the region for almost two years.

 

In contrast to brutal Nord tradition, the Forsworn's rule was generally peaceful and the former Nord masters were treated fairly well, with the exception of a few who had been especially brutal and hateful in their dealings with the Reachmen.

 

However, that all changed in 4E 176, the son of the deposed Jarl struck a bargain with a much younger, but war-seasoned warrior named Ulfric Stormcloak. Igmund promised the young Jarl free worship of Talos (never mind that this was a violation of the White-Gold Concordat!) if the Jarl's militia would assist in retaking the Reach and Markarth and driving the Forsworn back.

 

Ulfric succeeded, his Thu'um driving the Forsworn from the walls of Markarth and led to the quick retaking of the city. A bloodbath followed, the militia forces torturing and executing captured Witchmen of High Rock. For a quarter century hatred of Ulfric, Nords and Imperials have festered; for all but the past half year, Madanach was secretly (supposedly) held prisoner in Cidhna prison.

 

A bitter irony of the Markarth Incident was that Ulfric was himself betrayed by Igmund into Thalmor hands for his support of the worship of Talos, causing a rift and political fissure that would eventually materialize as the Stormcloak Rebellion.

 

Upon helping Madanach escape, I spent some time among his people at Druadach Redoubt.

 

Why, you ask?

 

In those long hours imprisoned in Cidhna, I spent many hours, when not at forced labor mining silver ore, speaking with the mockingly-titled King in Rags. Over time, some bit of bond grew between us and he shared his tale and I mine.

 

In the telling, I spoke of my mother. He asked a few questions regarding her and I had scant little to offer him about her, except that she was Breton and worked as a healer among the Nord contingent after the retaking of the Imperial City. He asked after my father and I had much more to tell him. He sent me away that night, brows knit in thought.

 

A few weeks went by and a message was passed word-of-mouth among other prisoners that Madanach wished again to speak to me alone.

 

"Little Briar," he said — for that is what he called me, "I have news regarding your mother."

 

I gasped my surprise and urged him to continue, he nodded and regarded me, head tilted and studying every bit of my face, "I knew your mother."

 

"What?" I cried, "How can this be?"

 

"It is simple, my Little Briar. She was my sister."

 

I stared at him mouth agape and he went on to explain how my mother, so gifted in the healing arts that even thick-headed Nords were willing to overlook her "primitive" upbringing recruited her to tend to the fallen in the Great War.

 

And she, of course, met my father. Who, as I learned was not from Helgen as I had supposed, but from Markarth. Uncle Bjorn, I learned, had moved to Helgen from Markarth after father's departure to fight in the Great War, hearing of need for a blacksmith there. It was then that he confided that it was time to escape Cidhna — which was an unheard of thing, no one had ever escaped confinement there.

 

But we did.

 

So I slipped through the night, timing my arrival so that dawn broke red upon my shoulders as I approached Druadach Redoubt yet again. I eased my horse from a thicket and into plain view of the camp's guards.

 

An arrow whizzed past my head and embedded itself in a juniper tree.

 

"Ai!" I cried toward the barricade, "You have the aim of an old woman! I am Little Briar and I seek parlay with Madanach!"

 

"Show yourself!" was shouted back.

 

So I did, dressed as a proper Forsworn scout would be dressed in full tribal furs of the finest crafting. In short order I was bade to enter beyond the barricade and was met by … well, I suppose the proper term would be my uncle.

 

"Still alive, Little Briar?" Madanach called out with mirth, for he knew the path I had to walk as Dovahkiin was a perilous one. Neither of us expected to see the other again at our last parting.

 

"Still the King of Squalid Mud Huts?" I jested back.

 

"Only the finest hides!" he retorted, head back laughing. His humor was short-lived as he leveled his serious, penetrating brown orbs on me. "What brings you to Druadach, Dovahkiin?"

 

"Rebellion," I answered with equal gravity, my blue eyes locking with his brown ones.

 

"Unseat your arse from that beast and explain, Dragonborn," he said gruffly, but his raised brow told me my answer had struck the chords of his curiosity.

 

The two of us moved aside from the warriors and guards hearing, and I spoke with him in low tones about rebellions and independence for a time.

 

"And you expect me to trust that … that butcher?" he fumed after hearing my words, angrily spitting out the last word.

 

"No, Uncle, I expect you to trust me," I said with simple sincerity. He nodded.

 

"Then you have my word, Little Briar. Merely name the hour." I nodded in turn and spun away, vaulting into the saddle. I was exhausted, but the result of this meeting had me exhilarated as well.

 

"Will you not rest here, at least for a little while?" he asked with almost paternal concern.

 

"No," I answered, putting heels to my horse's ribs, "I have miles to go before I sleep."

iii. Blade and Bustier

 

The mists of early morn rose thick and damp, the clop of horse's hooves echoing eerily amid the ghostly tendrils of vapor. Before me, Delphine's form was a ghostly one in the fog. By my estimation we were almost to Kynesgrove.

 

My every muscle was stiff and sore from too many hours in the saddle and my mind insisted on wandering back to the room beneath the Sleeping Giant and what Delphine had revealed to me there. For there, beneath the inn, Delphine hid her real self and purpose.

 

A steep stair had led to a concealed room beneath the Sleeping Giant. The space was simply appointed, the center given to large table on which rested a tome or two and a large map. Various colored pins marked this place and that, though their meaning was lost on me at the moment.

 

So now here we were, plodding through the morning mists. If Delphine were correct, just beyond Kynesgrove we would come upon a dragon burial mound. And further, it would be the site of the next dragon's resurrection. That she had been right about the locations of the Word Walls led me to believe her.

 

Did I trust her? No, not yet and not fully, for there was much that Delphine still had to explain. As much as seeking out this dragon was her test of me as Dragonborn, it was also a test of her veracity. As it now stood, I knew only that we shared an equal dislike for the Thalmor and dragons, and that her information had proven useful in the past.

 

But was it true, were dragons truly being resurrected? Aye, that was the crux of the matter.

 

Tiid fen tinvaak. ¹

 

By the time we reached the outskirts of Kynesgrove, the morning mist had turned into a light drizzle. I confess that my mood had grown as gray as the weather. The weight of the mantle of being Dragonborn was weighing as heavily on my shoulders as the sodden bearskin cloak. Why me, Akatosh? The question echoed without answer in the gloomy recesses of my mind. And not for the last time.

 

At the edge of town we were greeted by a panicked woman, screaming Dragon! at the top of her lungs and pointing frantically uphill. I put heel to Key's² ribs, urging him up the tor at a gallop. The road was slick with mud and wet, Key's hooves sending geysers of brown liquid flying. From the sound of it, Delphine had similarly spurred her mount. I heard the rasp of her sword coming free from its scabbard.

 

The rutted trail switched back on itself near the top and against the scudding gray clouds my eye beheld the Dragon of Helgen. His immense wings were outstretched and he hovered against the gray drizzled background and his zul — that is, his non-Shouting voice — called out over the dragon cairn that took up most of the hill's top.

 

"Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!"

 

The air about took on the tingly electric feel that one gets in a summer storm. The very air was being charged by power — the dragon's power. I reined in Key and vaulted recklessly from his back, pulling forth Zahkrii³ and splashing across the sodden ground at full charge. If the Dragon of Helgen saw me, he paid me no heed.

 

"Slen tiid vo!"

 

The power of the Dragon's Thu'um caused the ground of the dragon mound to swell upward. I stumbled and let loose a profane oath. Impeded by my cloak, I paused long enough to unclasp it and let it fall to the ground.

 

In the blink of an eye the ground rend itself and disgorged yet another dragon. Oh gods! Akatosh, Talos, give me strength! Two dragons! One by itself was a daunting confrontation … but two? I felt fear clutch at my heart.

 

The second dragon roared out with his zul, "Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?"

 

"Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir!" The dragon named Alduin roared back. My feet seemed glued to the clinging mud at the top of the hill. It's ebon dark eyes finally fixed themselves on me, "Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi."

 

The one named Sahloknir took to flight, a single mighty beat of his wings bearing him aloft to join with Alduin. I felt fear's bile gather in my throat. Get me closer, feet, to use my Thu'um!

 

"You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah." Except he spoke, of course, in Dragonish. Alduin's zul was full of his mockery. Fear left me voiceless, but I thought it. Oh yes, Alduin, I spent all those extra days in the Temple of the Sky learning to knit doilies for Jarl Balgruuf's dinner table. Oh yes, I understood full well what the dragons were saying.

 

A mighty beat of Alduin's wings bore him higher and he called out, "Sahloknir, krii daar joorre."

 

"Zu'u drun dinok, Alduin!" I finally found my zul and let my challenge fly. Too late, for Alduin's wings carried him beyond the range of my feeble voice.

Thank the gods! Only one dragon!

 

As if one wasn't enough.

 

Malign glee gleamed in Sahloknir's eye as he swooped down upon us. For in pausing to answer Alduin, Delphine had caught up and stood poised with blade beside me. Fear still gripped me but faint fingers of hope pried at the grasp.

 

Bolstered, perhaps, by Alduin's dismissive disdain, the dragon's approach seemed reckless and disregarded any danger we might pose. Foolish dragon. Calling upon Kyne's blessings, my Thu'um caught the dragon as his wings outstretched to break his descent.

Strun Bah!

 

Thunder rumbled from the leaden skies and as Sahloknir open his mouth to spew or give Voice lightning lanced down from the heavens and rippled across his new-born scaled flesh. The malice in his reptilian eyes changed to shocked surprise. Delphine fell upon the beast with her blade as I moved to the side.

 

"Your shield, Delphine! It is about to breathe!" I yelled as I struck against the scaled armor side of the dragon. A gout of flame erupted from Sahloknir's maw, engulfing Delphine. From my vision's periphery I noted that she had gotten her shield up and most of the flame rushed around it.

 

It's wings uplifted, preparing to take to flight to recover from its surprise.

 

Fus Ro Dah!

 

My Thu'um struck at Sahloknir and his wings fluttered but did not bear him aloft. Again and again Delphine and I struck at him and Sahloknir cried out with anger and pain. Lightning danced over him yet again, as Kyne and Thu'um bent their fury on him.

 

Tiid Klo!

 

Time slowed. I could see the muscles of the dragon's wings swelling, surging to take flight. My blows and those of Delphine struck him time and again. Dragon blood seeped from between sundered scales.

 

Krii!

 

I could feel his life force ebb and the scales gave way more readily beneath our blows. Another gout of flame washed over Delphine and Sahloknir turned his attention to me, crying out in pain and dismay.

 

"Dir, dov!" I yelled, thrusting home with my sword.

 

With a screeched curse, the dragon shuddered and died. Gasping for breath, I let his soul enter into me, subsuming his power … and to Krii was added Lun. Delphine fell to her knees and I turned to her, calling upon Stendarr's mercy, I let my healing magic wash over her, also falling to my knees. Not because my wounds were grievous, but because they gave way in the aftermath of battle.

 

"So, Delphine, you owe me an explanation." I said between gulps for air.

 

"I do, Dragonborn," she said simply, by her words and the dip of her head, accepting that I was Dovahkiin.

 

She told her tale concisely and without embellishment. A Blade. Ah, that explains the Thalmor and the hatred of dragons. She voiced her suspicions that the Thalmor were either behind Alduin's awakening or knew more of it.

 

"And what is it you propose I do, Delphine? Capture and interrogate every Thalmor in Skyrim?" I said it only half in jest.

 

She shook her head, "No, Dragonborn. There is to be a formal gathering, a party, at their embassy. It should be a simple task to get an invitation." She paused briefly and smiled slightly, "I hope you have a formal gown."

 

Oh bother. No, I did not own a gown.

 

So ended the seventh step of a long and trying journey.

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¹ Time will tell. Literally: Time will speak.

² In the Dragon tongue, Key literally means horse. A feeble pun on my part, but what else was I to call him?

³ In the Dragon tongue, Zahkrii literally means sword. I confess that my naming of things is rather unimaginative.