A/N: Originally written for the Skyrim Kink Meme (a request for an actual dragon Dragonborn). I thought the concept was intriguing, so there ya go.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me. ;n;
Sky, Spring, Summer
(Lok Vah Koor)
When the Dovahkiin steps from the gates of Sovngarde with the blood of a god on her hands, it is into a night so deep and cold she thinks, for a moment, that she has emerged into the Void itself. Frigid wind cuts into her like a knife, numbing her hands and stopping her breath as it drives diamond-bright wisps of snow into the gaps between armor lining and skin.
She throws her arms up mechanically to shield her eyes from the stinging, spitting assault, hunching neck and shoulders down into the collar of icewolf fur encircling her lowered hood. The torrent wraps around the Throat of the World with a wraith scream, swiftly fading; one last howl of defiance before settling in silent drifts and curtains upon the cliffside below.
When she can see again, the sky is full of dragons.
The first time the Dragonborn killed one of them in full daylight (Mirmulnir she took like a thief in the night, too dazzled by the gouts of flame to think of more than stringing the bow in her hands), she wept. It had fallen on her as a thunderbolt from a clear blue sky on the road to Windhelm, calling frost before it as it came in a voice fit to rend the heavens apart.
She was young and arrogant then, she remembers, though the experience had taken place a mere handful of months before. Flush with knowledge pilfered from the bones of its predecessor, she had screamed a challenge in the wyrm's own tongue as it circled above her, bright ribbon dancing dreamlike on the wind. When it died it fell gracelessly from the air, a broken butterfly formed of crumpled wings and an impact that cratered the ground, toppling trees for yards in every direction.
Its bright colors had already been fading when she reached its corpse, eaten away bit by bit as she watched, like a balled-up strip of parchment cast aside into a fire. She had sat by its bleached bones, unaware that she had been trying to push the flickering pieces into place until she looked down at her hands and saw they were coated with soot; unaware of anything except an indescribable feeling of loss.
The dov arrived, like comets, on some alien schedule, governed by whimsy or some incomprehensible machination of the stars, furious and uncompromising and as beautiful as Skyrim itself, and in spite of everything, the world was somehow less for their absence.
One does not easily slay gods, nor weather their passing unchanged.
Paarthunax is before her now, crouching so that they are at eye level just as he had the first time they met. They stand in silence for what seems like an eternity, and in that moment, as time holds its breath in the wake of the gates' closing, their shared grief makes siblings of them.
"Where will you go?" she asks him, plaintively- but what she really means is, Don't leave me alone.
He turns his head to look up first at his kindred, and then beyond them, to the impossibly distant glitter of the firmament. My people are scattered across Keizaal, he replies at length. Without Alduin's lordship, they may yet bow to the rightness of my Thu'um.
He looks at her, then, and she is pinned by his eyes as upon a spear. His gaze pierces past the thin veil of her mortal flesh, and it seems to her as though he may be seeing her for the first time. The blood of the Dov is strong in you, fahdin; stronger than any jul I have laid eyes upon in an age. The ancient wyrm pauses, stalling as he mulls over his own thoughts. It is possible... he muses, dragging the syllables forth in a manner that suggests he is speaking to himself more than to her.
Dovahkiin, Aan Yol Ko Fin Vulom- you are a light in the darkness. If the Dov do not hear my voice, they may yet listen to yours. He allows the weight of his voice to settle on her like a shroud. I ask this: Would you cast off the vestments of your mortal self? Would you come with us, see the world as we do- as dovah?
All around her, the whispers of the other dragons lick at her ears, pluck at her skin: they breathe yes, yes, come, join us in a dozen, two dozen different tones, and her heart lives in her eyes to answer.
She is buffeted from all sides as the dov surround her, the wind of their approach nearly lifting her from the ground. One by one, the air vibrates, thrumming almost tangibly with the force of their combined Thu'um.
They sing to her of the turning of the seasons, of the joy of wind beneath wings and the sun on armored backs, warming ancient skin and carrying them into Kyne's bright embrace; of time and loss and the passing of ages; the turning of hatchlings in their shells and the long slumber beneath the earth, so newly lifted. They sing of Alduin, both first and last among them; of the rise and fall and rise again of his kingdom. Last of all, they sing of her: the jill-ko-jul; the dragon-who-was-mortal. The bright notes weave in and around the World-Eater's dark descant, a counterpoint of triumph and tragedy and perils surmounted.
It winds into her bones and bids them stretch to accommodate them; teases at her arms and bids them grasp the air. She loses herself in the melody, lets her conscious mind slough away like a snake shedding an ill-fitting skin, and does not even notice as the moons sink from the sky.
She wakes to the dawn as the music fades, and as the light breaks on the Throat of the World, it is as if -newborn and naked- she feels it for the first time.
She stretches to greet the sun, and winter light coruscates along armor plating as smooth as porcelain: as purely white as the driven snow. Along the edges of her wings the whiteness captures the dawn, imprisons it within her skin in shades of vibrant gold. Her eyes are a clear and tangible blue: a jul's eyes, full of sorrow, and compassion and limitless strength.
She takes to the air in a swirl of wings, with a roar that sounds like laughter.
Years later, Jarl Balgruuf climbs the steps to Dragonsreach, heading for the Great Porch. He moves more slowly than in days past- his knees bother him now and again, though he tries not to let it show. He is, in truth, only Balgruuf these days; the title of 'Jarl' passed down to his son, and to his son's son.
He makes this climb every year, always on the same day. The guards murmur to one another that sometimes they can hear voices on the balcony. A handful of the younger recruits glance from side to side, careful not to let their commander hear when they say that one of the voices is not always human.
Balgruuf hears the rumors, of course, but pays them no mind. Irileth, loyal as ever, has her orders; they will not pass beyond the gates of Whiterun to reach unfriendly ears.
He settles himself in his chair at the edge of the railing, casting a glance at the chessboard set up in the center of the platform. He has memorized the position of the pieces, waiting out the slow crawl of the year's passing until the game may continue.
Reaching for the pitcher of mead at his hand, he casts a glance to where the sun is climbing into the sky, and settles down to wait for his friend.
He watches for white wings in the blue.