The trees themselves seemed to weep. Even from this distance every beat of the dragon's wings stripped the leaves from them and thrust them to the ground like children's playthings, concussive thumps and roars splitting the sky to herald Ingrahsu's arrival. Master-Battle-Air, the dov called her, but today she had another name: Dinok-haalvut, death-touched. For she was the prey of the Dovahkiin.

The Dragonborn filled his lungs in preparation, feeling the Thu'um swell in his throat. "Bo ahrk dir!" he roared up at the circling flash in the sky. Come and die!

Ingrahsu's response shook the mountain. "Yol wah hin qeth!" Fire to your bones! The air screamed against her wings as she rolled and dove, her tail lashing the air in the speed of her descent. She roared down to earth like a bullet, and the Dragonborn slammed the hilt of his sword against his shield as he readied himself to meet her, dragon blood boiling with the thrill of combat and the joy of the kill. He could hear the would-be heroes behind him dropping their weapons and fleeing like frightened skeevers – not that he blamed them – and the astonished cries of the onlookers as Ingrahsu hurtled down towards the earth.

He watched her near, then opened his mouth to unleash the cut of a shout, the blade that would slice her wings from the sky. This wouldn't even be a challenge.

"What did he say?" Frodnar asked, kicking his boots together in excitement. "Did he use the dragon language?"

"You're not letting me finish," Auldan said, amused.

"Is it a secret?" This from Dorthe, who was pretending not be equally enthralled by the story. "Or do you just not know?"

"Do you think I was alive in the days of Tiber Septim?"

"No…"

"Then you caught me. I don't know what he said. No one knows the Words of Power but the Dragonborn and the Greybeards."

"So are you just making stuff up? Are you making up the dragon language parts too?"

"Well, of course. Do you think I actually speak the language of the dragons?"

"No," Frodnar said reluctantly. "But it would be cool if you did."

"That it would."

The thunder of his voice slammed and tore at her scales, and she spiraled, but did not leave the air. Instead, she opened her scaled maw and blasted him with a holocaust of flame, and he ducked frantically behind his shield, mind hammering. This was not how things were supposed to go. His Thu'um felt so weak, so helpless when it struck dragon scales, even though it could blow a man across the ground and bend trees like bowstrings. How was he supposed to use his voice against such a foe? The first dragon he had slain, the weakling who dared to face him at the cliffs of Sancre Tor, had been mostly luck, as its scales had buckled easily under the Dragonborn's hammerblows; but hitting this dragon felt like tossing feathers at a brick wall. The people of the hold were counting on him, and he couldn't so much as bring her down to his level.

He spat to hide his fear, projecting confidence for the benefit of the terrified civilians sheltering behind the city walls, and faced Ingrahsu as she wound through the clouds above like a great white snake, readying another blast of flames. There must be some way to get her down, or at least quench the fire in her belly.

"Couldn't he just lure her into the water or something?" Dorthe asked. "That would stop her breathing fire."

"I'm not finished yet."

"Well, hurry up!"

Ingrahsu hurtled down into view, thunder shaking the earth as her voice burst from her throat. "Yol… toor shul!"

Fire blazed from her mouth a second time, baptizing the trees in eye-searing orange and blue and licking the ground around them. The Dragonborn knelt under his shield, arms shaking with the effort of holding off the ear-popping inferno. He was still fighting to think of a way out of this, something that would not humiliate him, the Chosen One, in front of all these onlookers.

And then, to his relief, Ingrahsu suddenly flared her wings and descended, claws tearing at the dirt as she alighted on a crumbling outcrop. Immediately the Dragonborn sprang up from his hiding place, charging forward with his shield held out in front of him, sword raised high.

Ingrahsu's rumbling laugh pounded against his eardrums. "You think you can best me?" The next blast of flame nearly drove the Dragonborn to his knees, and he felt the shield growing hot in his hands, the leather and metal beginning to sweat. He clenched it as hard as he could through the pain, squinting through the smoke. Her hulking white shape was getting closer, nearly close enough, now within sword range – he reared back with one strong arm –

Then he howled in frustration as she beat her wings to take off again, buffeting him backwards in the process. He couldn't fight this way, not when she could fly and he was hopelessly chained to the ground. It was one of many times in his life he envied the dov.

He filled his lungs again as she rose higher, desperate to bring her back down.

Frodnar laughed. "I wonder how he did it. You think someone could really fight with just their voice?"

"They say Ulfric Stormcloak did," Dorthe said pointedly.

"Hang on," Auldan said, amused. "I'm almost done."

He said it with force this time, yet the dragon only laughed and shook off the blow.

"The strike of a flea," she taunted, hovering above him. Her shadow covered him like a shroud, the dragon blotting out the human. "Your Thu'um is weak, and mine is strong. Feel the power of a true dovah!"

The Dragonborn readied his shield as she opened her jaws, dripping with blue flame –

"Dorthe! Time for bed!"

"Noooo!" the girl whined, turning to see Sigrid standing on the porch. "He was just getting to the good part!"

"I'm sure he was." Sigrid smiled at the sight of them sitting outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, the tall, seemingly intimidating hooded man surrounded by chirping, overeager children. "Auldan, are you filling her head with stories again? There's enough boyish thoughts in there as it is."

"Stop saying that," Dorthe said poutily. "Anything a boy can do, I can do better. And I like Auldan's stories."

"What was this one about?"

"Tiber Septim!" Frodnar said enthusiastically. "How he was a Dragonborn and killed dragons!"

Sigrid's expression hardened – slightly, but enough. "Don't let the Empire hear you telling those stories, Auldan."

Auldan smiled benevolently. "What's wrong with a few tall tales here and there? They're not hurting anyone."

"You know about the ban."

"I'm not indoctrinating them into a Talos cult. I'm just telling them stories. Nothing more."

Sigrid shook her head wearily. "I know. Just be careful who comes along while you're talking about the conquests of Tiber Septim. Not everyone will be keen on listening."

"Can you tell the other one?" Frodnar asked, bouncing on his heels. "Tell the one about the wizard and the beehive!"

"Yeah," Dorthe said. "I like that one."

"I think your mother has had enough of me for one day." Auldan smiled at Sigrid, who beckoned Dorthe inside. "Besides, my voice is getting tired."

"Will you come back tomorrow and tell more stories?" Frodnar looked up hopefully as Auldan stood, dusting off his cloak. "You'll still be here, won't you?"

"Of course I will." Auldan knelt down to pet Stump's head, and the dog panted happily.

Frodnar tilted his head. "Hey, Auldan?"

"Yes?"

"How do you know all this stuff? Where do all these stories come from?"

"A lot of books. Have you seen my library?"

"No."

"Here." The hooded man slung his messenger bag down from his shoulder and opened it, revealing thick piles of dusty tomes with names like The Aetherium Wars, Spirit of Nirn, Yngol and the Sea-Ghosts and The Dragon War. "This is my collection."

"Whoa!" Frodnar touched the cover of Songs of Skyrim. "What's this one?"

"This is where some of my stories come from." Auldan lifted the book gingerly and opened it, showing Frodnar the thick yellow-orange pages. "Here is my favorite – the song of the Dragonborn." He cleared his throat and recited, in a way that made it clear he had memorized it long ago, "Our hero, our hero, Claims a warrior's heart, I tell you, I tell you, The Dragonborn comes."

"I know that one!" Frodnar said earnestly. "There was a bard who came here once and sang it."

"Yes, it's not very common anymore. It's a shame – the Nords are very fond of that legend." Auldan tucked Songs carefully back into place and slung the bag back over his shoulder. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Frodnar."

"Hey, Auldan?"

The man turned, smiling benignly. "I'll never get any sleep at this rate."

"Do you think the Dragonborn will come back?" Frodnar looked at him with a new expression – wariness, excitement, hope. "My uncle says there's going to be another one. He says the war is a sign."

Auldan rolled this around in his mind for a moment. "I think the Nords can be superstitious," he said at length. "But it's possible."

Frodnar laughed. "Aren't you a Nord, though?"

"I look that way, yes. But I'm actually Breton."

"Cool," Frodnar said, with an utter lack of judgment. That was one of Auldan's favorite things about children – they were almost always completely sundered from the emotional baggage, illogical grudges and ingrained stereotypes of adults. He always prayed they would stay that way. There were Nords who had spat at his boots because of his heritage, especially because he had also chosen the path of a mage; those two factors in combination had made him the target of some rather unsavory remarks. Fortunately, he was also quite good with a bow, and the large longbow strapped to his back tended to deflect most outright threats.

"Well, I really should get going," Auldan said, smiling as Frodnar made the obligatory "awwww!"

"Okay," the boy groused. "Good night."

"Good night, Frodnar."

They parted ways, Stump trotting cheerily along behind Frodnar. Auldan looked around the village one last time, as though checking for eavesdroppers, before quietly entering the Sleeping Giant, the door shutting with a gentle thud behind him.

The moment he entered, he knew something was up. To be specific, that thing was Orgnar – he was up out of his chair and shouting at a burly, armor-clad man whose face Auldan couldn't see from this angle.

"I know you stole it!" the Nord yelled, waving a meaty finger like an executioner's knife. "If you don't give it back right now I'm calling the guards!"

"Easy!" the man snapped back. "There's plenty of sweetrolls like this in Skyrim – how do you know this one is stolen?"

"Because I saw you steal it!"

"Take it easy! Did you actually see me do it? How do you know it wasn't someone else?"

"You've got that damn stovepot on your head! I would recognize you anywhere."

"Anyone could wear a helmet like this, not just me."

"Stop stalling! I know it was you!"

Auldan coughed, feeling a need to intervene; Orgnar could have quite a temper, and he had no desire to see broken teeth strewn across the floorboards the next time he walked in for a drink. "Pardon me."

Orgnar turned to glare at him. "Good, you're still here. Will you please tell him to give back my stolen merchandise before I knock his lights out?"

"I didn't steal it," the man said stubbornly, turning so Auldan could see him. He was immediately recognizable as a Nord; the shield-corner jaw, burning blue eyes and horned helmet could not belong to anyone else. His blond hair was threaded in the tiny, witches'-finger braids that all Nords seemed fond of, and he was currently looking much more muscular, tall and intimidating than the slightly-less-burly Breton liked to admit.

"Orgnar, did you actually see the theft?" Auldan asked, silently wondering if the warhammer and swords slung across the man's back had any Breton blood on them. "Was it him?"

"Yes! For the love of Ysmir, I saw the man pick up that sweetroll and walk away without paying for it. Do you need any more proof than that?"

"Did anyone else see it?"

"Well – as a matter of fact, Embry's been here the whole time." Orgnar raised his voice, calling to the slightly-drunk-looking man who sat glaring at his empty mug in the corner. "Hey! Did you see this man steal a sweetroll a little while ago?"

"Yeah," Embry said grumpily, his gaze never leaving the mug. "I thought you were taking care of it."

Orgnar slammed his fist on the counter in triumph. "Told you! Now give it back."

"Fine." The Nord thrust the roll at him in a way that suggested it had done him a great personal wrong. "Have the damn sweetroll back. It's only two septims, I thought you wouldn't miss it."

"It's the principle of the thing that matters, not the price," Orgnar snarled, plucking the roll out of the Nord's hands. "I'll be taking this back now. Although I probably can't sell it, since it's got the stink of your thieving hands all over it."

"Hey, you watch your –"

"There," Auldan said hastily. "The debt is settled now. No one is going to start any fights, all right?"

"Only if he gets his ass out of my inn," Orgnar intoned flatly.

The Nord glared. "Fine. I wouldn't want to stay in this garbage heap anyway."

"Yeah, go stay somewhere where you can put your smelly paws all over the counter. Try Riften!" Orgnar shouted at his retreating back. Then, to Auldan, "Your generation is so frustrating, you know that? Just think you're entitled to everything. Not you, of course, but some people."

"Right," Auldan said, amused. "Who was that man?"

"Think I know? All I know is he stole from me, and that means he's never allowed back." Orgnar spat on the floor. "Good riddance, I say. He can take his thieving backside straight to Sovngarde for all I care."

"Did he come here today?"

"I don't know. What, you think I keep track of everyone who comes in here?"

"No, but I know you, and you always know more than you're saying."

"Look, he arrived this morning by carriage, I've never seen him before, and he's dressed like he thinks a platoon of hagravens is going to drop out of the sky at any moment, so I'm guessing he's a mercenary or one of those adventuring types. That's all I know, all right? Now are you going to stand there pestering me or buy something?"

"And?" Auldan knew there was more, and sure enough, the huge Nord relented.

"…And he was asking about a golden claw. Don't know why he wants it, but I think I saw something like that down at the trader's. Wonder if that's where he's headed next."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful."

"You going to buy something?"

Auldan smiled. "Well, I suppose I wouldn't mind a room for the night. And how many of those sweetrolls do you have back there?"

"Finally, an honest customer." Orgnar motioned to a door on the far side of the room. "That bed is ten septims. Sweetrolls are two apiece."

"Sounds like a good deal to me." The Breton faithfully counted out his septims and slid them across the table. "And tomorrow I'll take three rolls, in a bag if you can. Good night, Orgnar."

"Good night, Auldan." The big Nord watched the wizard-ranger head off to his room, a little curious as to what he was doing back in Riverwood. Of course, he'd grown up here and the place had sentimental value to him; but now, in the height of a bloody civil war, seemed like an odd time to come visiting home, especially since there wasn't much here to see. What had drawn him back? Closure, lost love, money, fame? Or just curiosity?

Whatever it is, I hope he finds it, the Nord mused, arranging glasses on the back counter. He's a pleasant fellow, always good with the children.

The next thought curled through his mind slowly, making his deft fingers pause on the rim of a wineglass. I wonder if he's heard about Helgen.

Everyone had, of course; it seemed like Hilde in particular could talk about nothing else. She rattled on about dragons to anyone who would listen, whispering about the great black wraith that she alone had seen and waving her thin, ragged hands in the air like a hagraven to illustrate her horrific vision. "It had wings like a tempest, a breath like a storm. When it spoke, its voice shook the mountains! The Greybeards themselves must be trembling in their beds!"

Foolish talk of a foolish old woman, he thought. But it unnerved him nonetheless.

One good night's rest and a hearty farewell later, Auldan was heading down the street with a bag of fresh sweetrolls in hand and the morning sun warming his black cloak, mulling over the appearance of an iron-helmeted stranger in his quiet little town. Granted, he traveled quite a bit these days, and things had changed in his most recent absence. Frodnar and Dorthe began crawling, then running, then following along behind him begging for sweetrolls; houses were built, forges lit, and men and women he called family had gone to Sovngarde, or wherever it was the Nords believed the spirits went. But no matter how different it seemed nowadays – a little darker, perhaps, a little more solemn – Riverwood was still his childhood home, and anything that disturbed the peace was worth investigating.

Like, say, a thieving Nord who dressed and talked like an adventurer but had the shifty eyes of a Riften pickpocket. Auldan didn't like the look of that one at all, any more than the Whiterun guards had liked the look of him the first time he'd wandered into the city in his wizard robes. He found himself wondering what the man could want with a golden claw; he couldn't recall the trader ever having something like that on his last visit, so it must have been a recent addition. But where on earth would the smooth-talking, mostly harmless Lucan have picked up such a thing?

He waved hello to Hilde, who snapped back, "Comb your hair!" Then he spotted Frodnar and Dorthe weaving through the streets, nimble as frostbite spiders spinning webs, filling the solemn atmosphere of Riverwood with their laughter and running footsteps.

"You can't catch me!" Dorthe sang, darting behind Riverwood Trader to avoid Frodnar.

"Get her, Stump!" Frodnar called, running after her. The dog looked up tiredly, blinked once, and laid its head back down. Auldan smiled at the weary old beast, so big he might have been half-skeever but with a soft tongue and happy eyes; the Breton had always had a soft spot for animals. Noticing his interest, Stump struggled to his feet and wandered over to the wizard-ranger, who knelt down to ruffle his scruffy ears and slip him a bit of jerky from his travel rations. The dog wolfed it down happily and nosed Auldan's hand for more.

"Sorry, friend, that's all I have." Auldan tangled his fingers in the dog's fur, wishing not for the first time that he could find such a loyal companion. The dog followed Frodnar everywhere like a raggedy shadow, never leaving his side even when the boy slept.

On their second circuit through the town Dorthe spotted Auldan and waved. "Hi, Auldan! Want to play tag?"

He smiled and rose to his feet, shrugging off his messenger bag and leaving it on the Sleeping Giant's porch. "I'm going to get you!"

"Ahhh!" She fled like a startled fox, and he ran after her with Stump hot on his heels, their feet pounding the cobblestones. Despite wearing a dress, she was remarkably fast, but she gave her position away with her taunting and giggling. Frodnar elected to hide behind barrels, crates and wagons, laughing and sprinting off when Auldan got too close.

Alvor, the blacksmith, stopped to watch the Breton chase the children around, chuckling to himself. Who would have thought the grim-looking ranger-wizard, so serious in his youth, would turn out to be a gentle storyteller who took time out of his day to play games with children?

When the game finally wound down, and Dorthe plopped down on a step in exhaustion, Auldan opened his bag and offered her one of his sweetrolls. "Do you want one?"

"Yay! Thanks." She began licking the glaze off happily, and a panting Frodnar soon returned from his hiding place to claim one of his own. They watched raptly as Auldan moved books around in his messenger bag, finally emerging with a thick tome that he opened and laid on his lap.

"What's that one?" Frodnar asked. "It looks old."

Auldan showed them the peeling yellow cover, faintly branded with the emblem of a silver dove. "It's a spell tome. I use these to learn magic."

"Show us a spell!" Dorthe said earnestly. "A really cool one!"

"Yeah, can you make things invisible? That would be great for my pranks." Frodnar grinned fiendishly. "No one would see me coming."

Auldan glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then snapped his fingers. A tiny ball of blue light winked to life in his hand, hovering just above his shoulder like a will-o'-wisp. "This one is called magelight."

"It's so pretty!" Dorthe breathed. She reached out to touch it, and giggled as it flickered out. "Another one! Do another one!"

Auldan obediently clicked his fingers again, then waved his hand, making the magelight dance in circles around Dorthe. She tried to grab it, laughing. "Stop that!"

"Hey."

The Breton looked up, and immediately shut his spell tome, scrambling to cover it with his arms. A guard stared down at him, hand on her weapon; her face was invisible through the eye holes of her helmet, but there wasn't much doubt who she was looking at.

Auldan stared back, his heart clenching and unclenching slowly in his chest. He could not remember ever seeing guards here before, not even during heavy bandit raids. What were Whiterun soldiers doing here, in a little border town on the edge of the world?

"Watch yourself, Breton," the guard said coldly. "Don't go burning down any buildings with that magic of yours."

"He wasn't hurting anybody," Dorthe said defiantly. "He was just showing us some magic."

"It was a little magic light," Frodnar put in. "That's all it was."

"You from the College?" the guard asked, still staring at Auldan.

Auldan stared determinedly at his boots. "What's it to you?"

"I'd watch yourself if I were you. We don't take kindly to magic around here, especially since your school has a habit of blowing Winterhold apart every few centuries." She took her hand off her weapon. "Good day to you."

The three of them watched her go. Only when she was well out of earshot did Frodnar venture, "Why don't they like College mages?"

"Did you really train at Winterhold?" Dorthe badgered. "Is that why they don't like you?"

"Yes, I trained at Winterhold," Auldan relented. "I am a member of the College. And there are some people who find that fact… uncomfortable."

"I don't think it makes you a bad person," Frodnar said, frowning. "You seem all right."

"Thank you. That means a lot." Auldan put the book away. "What are Whiterun guards doing here, anyway? Do you know?"

Both the children gazed at him, their eyes as wide as a sunstruck Falmer. "Didn't you hear?" Frodnar breathed. "Did they not talk about it at the College?"

"I've been gone for quite some time, I'm afraid."

"Helgen was destroyed," Dorthe said. "Just a few months ago. They've been sending troops here ever since, to protect us."

"What?" Auldan's mind reeled as he attempted to process this. It felt like only yesterday he'd walked the streets of Helgen, visiting friends and buying supplies. How could it just be… gone? "Was it the Stormcloaks?"

"They're saying it was a dragon." Frodnar watched his eyes, clearly waiting for a reaction. "Do you think that's true, Auldan?"

No wonder the boy had been asking him all those questions about the Dragonborn. He was worried about the rumors – the stories of the dragon that had laid waste to Helgen. Auldan shook his head, stunned into silence. Had he really been sequestered away so thoroughly at the College, so oblivious to everything but his studies that all this important news had flown right over his head? "This is very bad. If that's true… if the dragons are coming back…"

"What does it mean?" Dorthe said nervously. "Are we going to be okay?"

"Yes, we're going to be fine." He was quick to reassure her, but he had no idea if Riverwood would also fall to dragonfire. Over my dead body, surely. "I'm going to figure out what's behind all this. Don't worry about anything, okay?"

"Okay," Dorthe said, but she didn't look convinced. For the first time, the words of the village storyteller held no comfort for her. "I'll try."

"I have an errand to attend to now," Auldan said, rising and adjusting his messenger bag. The dragon crisis made his little investigation, once the hunt for a sweetroll thief, more pressing than ever. He had a Nord to find. "Thank you for the game."

"Bye, Auldan," Dorthe said, and Frodnar echoed a halfhearted farewell as the Breton stepped down from the porch and headed towards the trader's, steeling himself for a conflict. He had no idea if the Nord was even still here, or whether he'd found the golden claw he was looking for, but if he planned to steal from Lucan, he would have another thing coming. The man didn't look strong, but he carried an iron mace at his hip, and he had connections with thugs and ne'er-do-wells all over the hold. Even on his most mischievous days, Auldan had never dared to swipe so much as a wedge of cheese from the wily merchant and his sister, Camilla, the village sweetheart.

He cautiously opened the door, and was immediately struck by the sound of raised voices. "Well, if you hadn't just stood there like a buffoon instead of running after him, we wouldn't have this problem, now would we!" Lucan stood behind the counter shouting at his sister, who stood with her arms folded, looking every inch the offended maiden. "Would we?"

"I didn't see you jumping up to stop him, Mister I'm-So-Strong!"

"Because he was threatening to hurt you, you empty-headed nitwit! And now look what's happened – our most prized possession, snatched from right under our noses! I bet the whole town will be laughing at us soon."

"Ah, hello?" Auldan inserted tentatively.

They both stopped at once, seeing a customer. "Oh, hello," Lucan said awkwardly. "How can I help you?"

Behind him, Camilla stamped her foot and stormed up the stairs in a huff.

"Er, I couldn't help but overhear…" Auldan began, but Lucan cut him off.

"The nerve of her! Thinking that I could take on a warrior like that. She might as well ask me to wrestle a bear with my bare hands!"

"What happened?"

Lucan sighed. "Some bandit barged in here, held a sword to Camilla's throat, and demanded my golden claw. I gave it to him – what else was I supposed to do? And he ran off."

"What did he look like?" Auldan had a sick feeling in his stomach. He should have stopped him, should have recognized the signs. "Was he a Nord?"

"Oh no, he was a Dunmer."

Auldan sagged with relief. The claw was still missing, naturally, but at least he didn't have to blame himself for it. "Did you see which way he went?"

"Yes, I did. Straight towards Bleak Falls Barrow."

Auldan's blood turned to ice. Oh no. "You don't seriously think…"

"Funny, some big Nord came in here last night, just before the claw was stolen. He wanted to buy it from me, but he didn't have enough money, so I sent him away. You don't think the two are connected, do you? You think maybe he sent a hired man in to swipe it?"

"I don't think so, but it's possible." Auldan shook his head to clear the cobwebs, make himself think things through. "Listen, if you want me to try and get the claw back…" He was already orchestrating a plan in his mind, mentally equipping himself with the gear he would need and trying to recall the layout of the place from when he'd explored it with Ralof as a child. The two had made a habit of sneaking out during the night, and their adventure in the barrows had almost cost them their lives and sanity; they swore never to go back there again, not even as adults, and since then Auldan had never laid a hand on those great doors. He hadn't even been tempted when rumors of draugr, treasure and magical artifacts inside began to spread. That was how much he despised the place.

But now he was being asked to go back there, to the infested, dark boneyard that haunted his nightmares. Why couldn't the bandits have laired in a forest somewhere, or a nice cavern by a lake, instead of a forbidding crypt high on the mountaintops?

Nevertheless, there was a dragon crisis going on, and now seemed as good a time as any to shake off old fears. It was time to venture back into that nightmarish crypt and finish off the darkness within, once and for all. He would need preparations, of course – supplies, ingredients, potions…

The door slammed, startling Auldan out of his thoughts. He turned, expecting Orgnar, or a courier, or the overly suspicious guard from earlier, come back to question him again. But to his mixed surprise and horror, it was the Nord who had stolen the sweetroll, clad in his iron armor and still carrying his weapons. Does this man ever take a break?

The Nord entered and kicked the door shut behind him. "I hear you've had a robbery," he said, with no preamble. "Where are they? I'll get back what they stole from you."

Lucan stared. "And just who might you be?"

The Nord did not smile. "Fredrik." Then, at Lucan's still-incredulous look, "I'm an adventurer. I'll tear apart whoever you tell me to."

"Oh," Lucan said, apparently flustered. He looked between the slight Breton and the massive Nord, as though mentally sizing them up, before settling on the Nord. Auldan tried not to look offended. "Yes, well. I would appreciate some help. The thief stole my golden claw and went to Bleak Falls Barrow."

"What?" The cry that tore from the Nord's throat startled them both. "He took the claw?"

"Yes, he did. I thought perhaps that might interest you, seeing as you were so interested in it yesterday –"

"I'll see you later." Fredrik started to leave, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Also, do you know if anyone here is for hire? I need someone to carry my things."

Auldan didn't hesitate. "I'm available." He wasn't sure if he was intending to keep an eye on the Nord, or just hungry for some adventure after a few days of relaxing in inns. "I'll work for cheap."

"You," Fredrik repeated, disbelievingly. "Help me."

"Well, that's the idea…"

The Nord snorted. "I don't need help from you. You ratted me out earlier to that innkeeper."

"Yes, well, you were stealing."

"It was just a sweetroll! No one was going to miss it."

"Look, I was just helping you out. Orgnar can get angry, and you don't want to see him when he's angry."

"Yeah, well, I could have taken him."

"I'm sure you could have. I was just being proactive."

Fredrik scowled. Auldan was sure he was going to say no, but then, to his surprise, he said tersely, "You won't bother me?"

"Not even a little," Auldan said solemnly.

"And you won't complain?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"…Fine. You're hired. Just carry this, and don't get in my way." Fredrik thrust his bag at Auldan, who caught it hastily, gasping as the air was forced out of his lungs. What do you have in here, a horker? Nevertheless, he kept a straight face as Fredrik clumped down the steps, assorted swords and warhammers rattling on his back, still looking sullen. He only briefly turned to hold the door open, so the staggering Breton could descend the steps. "And I want one of those sweetrolls you have there," he said, as Auldan righted himself and tried to nonchalantly ensure his left lung was still working. "For compensation."

"Here." Auldan proffered the last sweetroll hopefully, and Fredrik took it, still muttering about how physically and mentally superior he was to Orgnar in every way. "So you know where we're going?"

"Of course I know where we're going. You think I'm an imbecile just because I wear armor?"

Auldan waited patiently.

Fredrik looked left, then right, then left again. Then he ground his teeth. "Okay, maybe I don't know where we're going. Lead the way, will you?"

"Gladly." The Breton took the lead, and the massive Nord tromped after him, still growling about how it was just a few septims and the man probably made enough to buy a house in Sovngarde. For a man who had asked Auldan not to complain, he was certainly doing an awful lot of complaining.

The road to Bleak Falls Barrow wound around the mountain slowly and lazily, cutting sharp across rocky fords, wolf dens and skeever hollows; Auldan knew from experience that the trek would be long, frustrating and cold enough to make even a hardy Nord shiver. Adding to his general malaise was the fact that he had no shortage of scintillating conversation and casual racial profiling to enjoy, because it took exactly ten seconds for Fredrik to ask, "So you're a Breton?"

Auldan sighed. Here we go. "Yes."

"You come from High Rock?"

"Yes, but I've spent most of my life in Skyrim."

"Oh." Then, a few steps later, "In Riverwood?"

"…No, but I grew up there. I still consider it my home."

"Are you a wizard?"

"Yes, I trained at the College of Winterhold."

"You have one of those funny last names?"

"My last name is Metonius, if that's what you mean."

"Weird." Fredrik's boots crunched in the snow.

"Yes," Auldan said drily. "I imagine it is."

"What was that like?"

"Hm?"

"Growing up in Riverwood, not being a Nord."

"It was hard," Auldan said, surprised that the seemingly emotionless Nord was taking an interest at all. "Not everyone accepted me, but I made friends. Me and Ralof got along when we were younger – but he's taken a side in the war now, and I refuse to choose between bigots and dictators, so we're not close anymore."

"Mm."

"Where did you grow up, Fredrik?"

The Nord grunted. "Whiterun."

"That's interesting."

"Mm-hm."

The rest of their trek went in silence; Fredrik stalwartly ignored the gradually increasing slope of the mountainside, while Auldan busied himself with trying to find a comfortable position for Fredrik's massive, hefty pack. First he tried just carrying it on his back, but his spine began to crackle and he switched to carrying it over his shoulder. Then his shoulder stabbed and complained, so he settled for awkwardly slinging it half over his back, half over his shoulder in an effort to evenly distribute the pain. Hopefully he could drop this in a dark corner somewhere when they reached Bleak Falls Barrow, but he doubted that Fredrik would let him – he'd been hired to carry the man's burdens, after all. His extremely heavy, logistically frustrating burdens.

Suddenly Fredrik stopped. "This is it, right?"

"Yes, we're here." There were the towering grey monuments, looking for all of Skyrim like a giant, frozen ribcage half-buried in the snow. Acid rose in Auldan's throat as his gaze slid over the all-too-familiar carved stones, the cut-stone steps and gaping maw that led into the dungeon's depths. He hadn't missed this place, and it never failed to crop up in his nightmares. "Welcome to Bleak Falls Barrow."

"It's smaller than I expected," Fredrik said dismissively. "Given all the townspeoples' stories."

"I think you'll reconsider once we're inside." Nevertheless, Auldan had to admit it wasn't quite as terrifying through adult eyes. To his younger self, those looming juts of stone had seemed to brush the sky and command the world; but now there was something sad about them, like a thing long dead. "Now, this is an ancient Nordic burial ground, so there will be draugr – I can promise you that. And there are plenty of other darkness-loving creatures that make their homes here."

"Easy," Fredrik declared, already striding up the obsidian steps. "They'll all fall under my hammer."

"And remember there are bandits here, too. Including the one who stole the claw."

"Uh-huh."

"There might even be frostbite spiders, or – what are you doing?"

Fredrik stopped to blink at him, his foot on a step. "I'm going inside."

"Don't you think we might need a plan?"

"I have a plan," the Nord said, staring at Auldan as though he was a particularly dull child. "Find the bandit who stole the claw and kill him."

"And if we run into monsters?"

"Kill those, too."

"Traps?"

"Dodge them."

Auldan shook his head, unsure whether to be incredulous or annoyed at himself for expecting anything different. He never went anywhere without preparation, let alone an ancient burial ground teeming with corpses who hadn't quite made it to Sovngarde; but in true Nordic fashion, Fredrik seemed ready to smash first and work out the details later. "You sound very sure of yourself."

"This isn't my first dungeon," Fredrik said, scowling. "I'll be fine. Now come on."

"…Fine," Auldan relented, starting up the stairs. "But if we both die in there, I'm blaming you."

Hopefully the man knew what he was doing, he thought grimly. Otherwise this Nordic burial chamber might gain its first Breton.

Snow crunched under their boots as they approached those yawning iron doors, handles crusted with frost and rust. Nothing stirred but the wind, yet Auldan felt distinctly uneasy as they stood before the entrance to the barrow, as though he'd just stomached some bad ale. His grandmother used to say that his family, the proud members of House Metonius, were just as attuned to spirits as magic, and could lift the veil between the world of light and the white abyss; and if Auldan had been superstitious, which he wasn't, he would have vowed on her grave that there was a moldering presence behind those doors, a lurking shadow. And if he had also believed in ghosts, which was of course preposterous, he would have sworn there was something in Bleak Falls Barrow that made his very soul shiver. "Fredrik –" he started, as the Nord reached for the handle.

The warrior gave him a very patient look. "Yes?"

"Do you… feel strange?"

"No," Fredrik said, clearly under the impression that the man sworn to carry his burdens had forgotten his mind somewhere on the road. "Not at all."

"…All right then." Auldan watched as Fredrik heaved open the huge iron doors, feeling an odd twisting sensation in his throat. What was he expecting to find? Leering corpses, skulls impaled on spears, fresh bloodstains on the walls?

Fortunately, he saw none of those things. Only darkness loomed before them, somber and complete, which Auldan supposed was better than the alternatives. "Come on," Fredrik said flatly, stomping inside. The Breton had no choice but to obey, stepping carefully over cracks in the stones underfoot and praying that the draugr had all rotted away and the thief had been caught by a trap. Fredrik's pack was getting heavier in his arms by the minute, and he desperately wanted this adventure to be over, if not simply because of that odd, creeping feeling that washed over him every few seconds like ice water. What's wrong with you? he scolded himself. You're a wizard, and a ranger, and here you are cowering like a child. Yet he couldn't shake the eerie, icy sensation of dread – the knowledge that they should not be here, and the fear that only death awaited them.

The gods don't like this place, he decided. And I don't think I like it much either.

He'd always presented himself as a logical, reasonable person, assuring the curious that he wasn't superstitious and didn't subscribe to the tales of the old gods. What a hypocrite he was. He jumped at shadows when no one was looking, and listened raptly to the stories of witch doctors and deadspeakers, devouring tomes about Akatosh and daedra and draugr slayers. He feared the gods just like any other man, however little he liked to admit it.

But he was horrified to see Fredrik spit on the floor. "I don't fear ghosts," he declared. "This place is just a bunch of coffins. Let's find that claw and get out of here."

"I think you should have a bit of respect, at least," Auldan said. "Many of your greatest warriors and heroes were buried here."

Fredrik scowled, reluctantly. "True."

They regarded the vast mouth of darkness before them, the silent hall of ghosts. Or at least, it was until Fredrik took a cautious step downward; then Auldan heard a distant shifting, a movement not unlike a dead man turning in his grave.

Fear gripped his heart with icy talons, but he managed to swallow his panic, keeping his hold on the Nord's heavy knapsack. Fredrik, meanwhile, was scanning the darkness with a sharp eye, one hand on his great iron warhammer. "Can you fight, wizard?"

"Yes," Auldan said, already sliding Fredrik's pack onto his back to free his hands. "I can fight."

"How well?"

"Well enough."

"Good." Fredrik drew his hammer, gripping it with tight, meaty fingers as he descended. Auldan stayed right behind him, feeling the familiar tingle of magic in his palms as he summoned the inner storm; magicka pounded through his veins, as though his blood was on fire. Fire and fury, his old master whispered in his mind. Ice and blood. That is what you shall give them.

Fredrik paused suddenly, at the bottom of the stairs. "You go first."

"What?" Auldan studied him, amused. "Is the Nord finally scared?"

"No," Fredrik said testily, clearly offended at the suggestion. "You've been here before, haven't you? You know the layout of this place better."

"But however shall I protect myself if the draugr come?"

The Nord bared his teeth, unamused by Auldan's adopted helpless-maiden tone. "Remember who's paying whom."

"Fine, fine." Auldan stepped in front of Fredrik, readying his magic. "I'll be the bait."

They entered the first room, a wide natural cavern scattered with rocks and debris; Auldan looked around, awed by its strange, eerie beauty. But Fredrik was tense as a bowstring, a vein pulsing slowly in his neck. "We're not alone," he muttered. "Stay sharp."

"Got it." Auldan dropped to his knees, ready to sneak, but the Nord had other ideas. He stalked briskly into the cavern, towards the faint echo of voices in the distance.

"…and I says, girlie, that kid ain't mine," an oily voice said. "Gods know she won't be seeing one rusty septim from me."

"Damn right," said a deep, husky voice, and Auldan heard fire crackle and hiss. "You boys want some of this skeever or no?"

"Fuck you, Bronn, I ain't eating skeever," a slurred voice said, clearly drunk. "Tastes like boot leather, it does."

"Well, it's all we got until the boss comes to his senses. Did you hear him with that fucking door?" The oiled voice mimicked a soft, foolish whimper. "Oh, I can get that door open, I have the key now! I have the key!" They all laughed, their voices bouncing strangely around the cavern.

Then the laughter stopped. "Who the fuck are you?" the drunken man demanded. "Where –" His voice was cut off by the sickening crunch of bone, and shouts rang out, weapons and shields clanging loudly in the bandits' haste to grab them. With a roar that shook the corpses in their tombs, Fredrik swung his hammer a second time, caving in the deep-voiced bandit's chestplate and sending him sprawling to his knees, coughing strings of dark blood.

Auldan jumped up from his hiding place, lightning bursting from his fingertips to electrocute the third man. Screeching in pain, he dropped his sword and fumbled for a dagger at his belt, but Fredrik was already on him. The Nord's hammer burst the man's skull like a watermelon, raining red gore across the campsite and dropping the headless body like a sack of apples. Suddenly the cave was ominously silent.

Fredrik lowered his blood-streaked warhammer, looking satisfied. "They had it coming."

"You are… very efficient," Auldan said weakly. The three bodies were barely recognizable as human. "Do any of them have the claw?"

The Nord knelt to sort through the bandits' pockets, with a practiced ease that made Auldan more than a little suspicious. "Don't think so, but they have gold." He hefted a leather purse, grinning like a fool.

"That's dead men's money," Auldan hedged. "Isn't that bad luck?"

Fredrik scowled. "I thought you weren't superstitious."

"They're your traditions, not mine," he fired back. "I was just pointing it out."

"Mm." Fredrik tied the purse to his belt, and Auldan heard septims jingling merrily. "Well, I'll be keeping this, and the ghosts can try and take it from me."

Auldan sighed; there was no point in arguing with him. "It's your decision, I suppose."

Fredrik stepped over the corpses towards the next tunnel, and the Breton trailed reluctantly after him, watching for more bandits – or, gods forbid, the draugr that still haunted his nightmares.

It seemed to get steadily colder as they descended, a chill that sank into Auldan's bones and made his teeth sting. If Fredrik noticed, he gave no sign; if anything, he seemed almost cheerful, whistling tonelessly with each heavy bootfall. He carried a tune about as well as his warhammer did, and each high note scraped against the storyteller's ears like a rusty dagger. "There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead…"

Finally Auldan couldn't take it anymore. "Would you please stop that?"

The big Nord scowled. "Stop what?"

"The singing. No offense, but you're no bard."

"And you're supposed to be quiet."

"Right." Auldan subsided into silence again, watching the Nord as he picked his way through the tunnels. He still didn't know what to make of this man, the walking mountain of muscle with the brutal efficiency of an assassin and the clever fingers of a thief. He was a contradiction in every sense.

"Auldan," Fredrik said suddenly, making him jump. "Tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Do you believe in the Dragonborn?"

Auldan frowned, pondering the question for a while. "I've heard the stories, and the songs," he said at length. "I hope they're true."

"That's a no, then. Figured you didn't." Fredrik noticed a chest nestled by the bandits' sleeping bags, and jiggled the lock. When it didn't budge, he took out a pick and started working on the keyhole, fast and practiced; and at this, Auldan finally had to ask.

"You clearly have experience picking pockets and locks," he said. "Where did you learn it?"

"That's none of your business." Fredrik popped the chest open and triumphantly hefted a bag of gold from inside, jingling it at Auldan. "How's this for a haul? And we're not even halfway in yet."

"Mm-hm." Auldan watched him strap the bag to his belt. "What about you? Do you believe in the Dragonborn?"

"'Course I do. I'm a Nord." Fredrik plopped down on a chair and took out a cloth, wiping the blood off his warhammer. "Let's rest for a minute. Gotta clean the missus."

"The missus?" Auldan asked, bemused.

"My hammer." Fredrik patted the head proudly. "I call her Betty. The only woman I've ever loved. Beautiful, isn't she?"

"You Nords are very strange," Auldan muttered, but he sat down in a chair across from the man; it was nice to relax for a while, and his back ached after lugging the Nord's heavy pack around all day. "Have you taken a side in the war? These Stormcloaks and Imperials?"

"Pah." The Nord spat on the floor. "The Imperials all have elven sticks up their asses, and the Stormcloaks still believe in our traditions and ways. Sometimes you have to break a few old norms to get things done, is that so hard to comprehend?"

"I agree with you on both counts," Auldan said wryly, and then noticed the fire had burned out. He snapped his fingers, and a flame burst eagerly to life; Fredrik jerked away on instinct, cursing loudly.

"Warn me before you do that, all right?"

"Sorry." Auldan warmed his hands by the fire, watching the Nord curiously. "So what would you do, if your family made you pick sides?"

"Don't have to worry about it. I don't have a family." Fredrik shrugged, as though it didn't really bother him. "Never wanted one, anyway."

There was something about the way he said it, the offhand, casual way, that broke Auldan's heart. Despite everything he disliked about this man, he felt the tiniest amount of sympathy for him. "Surely you don't mean that," he said. "There must be someone you hold dear to you."

"Bah." Fredrik patted his hammer. "Betty's the only one who matters to me, and that's that."

"I see." Auldan looked at the fire, and then found himself saying, "I never liked my family much, either. I come from a long line of noblemen who wouldn't know a new idea if it drove a dagger up their nose. That was why I left – because I wanted to get away from their politics and their expectations and their plans for me. I wanted to be my own man."

Fredrik nodded slowly. "I respect that. Independence is a good thing, nowadays." Then, eyeing Auldan uncertainly, "Is that why you told me you like Skyrim better? Because you don't want to go back to your family?"

"Yes," Auldan admitted. "Among other reasons."

"Fair enough." Fredrik chuckled for the first time since Auldan had met him, and the wizard stared at him in amazement, wondering what had prompted this sudden change in the stoic warrior. "I never liked Skyrim, even though I grew up here. It's too big and too mean and too damn cold. But it's home."

"It's home," Auldan agreed, and for a while they sat together in their makeshift camp, watching the fire and feeling a strange new kinship with each other.

Then Fredrik sighed and rose, shouldering his warhammer. "We should keep going. That damn claw isn't going to find itself."

"Agreed," Auldan said, but studied the Nord thoughtfully as the big man gathered up his things. He suddenly realized he'd seen a new side to the warrior-thief-assassin. What else was hiding behind that stovepot helmet and those grim, world-hardened eyes?

He didn't know, but now something made him want to find out.