In the Days of the Dragon, in the time after the Last Dragonborn vanquished Alduin, World-Eater, Miraak the First Dragonborn, and the King of Blood, Harkon Volkihar, a rare peace settled over the troubled land of Skyrim.
Those scars created by the war between the Dragon and the Bear filled the graveyards of Skyrim with so many, heroes on both sides, though the tales of their valor and sacrifice were often lost along with their names. Orphaned children, silent victims of a conflict not of their choosing, became a common sight on the streets of towns and cities of the land. Some were lucky enough to find their way into the handful of orphanages, but others were left cold and alone to fend for themselves.
But then, the Last Dragonborn, Thane of the Nine Holds, used the wealth of two-score or more Dragon hoards to gather these children to together into the manors and holdings that were the reward for Thanedom. There, these children were provided for as though born to a Jarl. More than mere food and shelter, the Dragonborn saw to their education and training with sword and spell. They learned letters in the tongues of elves and men and the beast races. They learned of kings and their ancient follies, and of the Divines. The Children of the Dragon they were called in that time, and they would grow to join the ranks of Skyrim's greatest heroes. Their names echo down to us throughout the ages: Lucia the Lioness. Sofie the Wise. Runa the Shield-Maiden. An accounting of their great deeds would take all the singers of the Bard's College a full turning of the moon to recite.
And yet, even in such august company, one star among them burns brightest. The child of night, daughter of silver mists, born beneath twin red moons, she grew from her humble roots to take her place in the heart of Skyrim herself.
Breanna the Brave.
PART 1: HERO WORSHIP
"And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph's shout," Breanna sang to herself as she swept the floor. She hummed the next few bars, not because she didn't know the words – all proper folk in Skyrim knew the words to that song – but because she just liked hearing the tune. There was a rightness to it that captured her imagination, filling her head with thoughts of adventure and glory. Breanna looked through the window of their one-room cottage to make sure no one had heard that. Mother didn't like it when she sang that one. Then again, Mother didn't like anything strange or out of the ordinary.
"That Dragonborn is no hero," Mother would say, pointing at her. "If you had heard what I've heard, you'd never sing tha' song again. Dragons are no friend ta' god-fearing people, child, nor is a man with th' soul of a dragon. He's a force of nature, like th' wind or storm, best avoided until he passes by."
Breanna always took exception to that. For being such a universally acknowledged savior of Tamriel, it seemed that no one would admit to knowing much about him. Or, even if 'he' was a he at all. Some said the Dovahkiin came with the Khajit caravans from Elsweyr, others that he was a masterful archer with the blood of old Valenwood. The old drunk, Sigurd, insisted that the Dragonborn was a Nord, of course. "Who else would Talos Stormcrown be reborn as, eh? A pointy-eared elf? Ha!" he would say between long draughts of honeyed mead.
Oh yeah, well what about Bretons? She never asked the big Nord that for fear of what he might say or that she might give herself away as being of the blood of High Rock. She was proud of her heritage, of being different, even if she had no memories of her birth province. Skyrim has always been her home, since Mother and Father had taken her in at age three. With her brown hair and light blue eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, she could pass easily enough as a Nord when she needed to. This helped when she played with the children from the other farms. Sometimes being in different in Skyrim was not a good thing.
Breanna leaned her broom in the corner of the room and stood at the window. The view of the mountains in the distance was stunning, those great monoliths of grey stone with shawls of mist wrapped around their slopes. In her mind, she flew with the wings of an eagle among those lofty peaks, her soul free to soar. Mother didn't like her daydreaming other. "There's always work ta' be done, an' it won't be done by starin' at the sky."
What a life the adventurer must have! And the greatest of all was the Dragonborn. Ah, to roam the hills and valleys of the Skyrim, defending the helpless, to feel her shoulders clad in steel and feel the thunder of a warhorse's hooves as she charged into battle, now that must be the way she was meant to live! To bring honor to her name and assure her place in Sovngarde, where lord and beggar alike would drink from golden cups in the company of the heroes of old…just the thought of it filled her with rapture. She could taste it at times, and it was made all the worse for the manor house just up the hill from her farm, so close but so far away.
In the space where the rocky plains of Whiterun began to give ground to snow-capped hills of the Pale sat Heljarchen Hall, and its owner was the very embodiment of courage and valor made flesh. Father had once taken his grain up that way to borrow their mill when his own had broken. Breanna had begged him to come along, but he had steadfastly refused her every plea. Even tears had not moved him.
One night when she was seven, a dragon had attacked the manor. Roars had shattered the night as the sleek form wheeled through the sky overhead. At first, she had thought it was a sudden summer storm filled with thunder and dry lightning, but the strange keening wail of the dragon's breath told the tale. Before anyone could stop her, Breanna had slipped out into the night and ran to the old mammoth boneyard as fast she could. She had a habit of doing that, much to Mother's lament. Breanna just wasn't afraid of things the way other people seemed to be. Curiosity was at her core, and that night, when it was over, she saw the manor house from afar, bathed in firelight, though surrounded by a swirling mist. Streamers of purple and pink and blue had danced and entwined like snakes within its depths.
And then a figured appeared there, barely visible, armored and mighty, and she knew that she beheld the Savior of all Tamriel. She might have run closer if Mother's frantic cries for her had not called her back. Mother had made her cut her own switch after that, and sitting down was painful for days.
"Don't ever go down there," Father had told her. "There's nothing up there for you but trouble. Promise me, now." Breanna had been so angry at him at first, until she realized something profound: Father was scared. Him – a strapping Nord who had once served with distinction in the Legion, actually afraid. He had brushed her hair back so gently and made her promise never to go up there. She had agreed, bound now in bands of honor.
Mother didn't let her go wandering at the foot of the mountain, or within the woods. Trapped now like a bird in a cage, the times when she felt free where when Kjoll the bard would come around. He and Father knew each other in the war. Kjoll knew of her pride in her Breton blood. "There are some who think that Tiber Septim was neither Atmoran nor Nord but a Breton who came to Skyrim when he was young. Sound like anyone you know?"
Such was tantamount heresy for most Nords, who thought of Talos as being quintessentially their own. Talos defined Skyrim in many ways, and Kjoll told her that the very thought that he was not one of them was antithetical. She had to ask him what that word meant, but wholly agreed with him once he had explained it.
"Have you ever met the Dragonborn?" she had asked him during one of his visits, his handsome face lit face by the orange glow of their stone hearth.
"I have," he had replied. "During the War."
That's all he would ever say, and no amount of pleading would get him to say any more. He was just as obstinate as Father on that point. And though Mother tried her best to erase any notion of hero worship from her daughter, it had almost the opposite effect. She had fashioned a sword of wood out of a fence plank and made a makeshift sheath and sword belt. In those times when she did slip away, she would take swings at imaginary skeletons and brigands, dodging behind trees and laughing out loud. The whistling sound as it cut through the air was music to her heart.
Just then, Breanna turned from the window and looked towards the place in the corner where she had 'Trollslayer' hidden. A sudden longing to belt on her sword and go adventuring filled her. With one more look out the window, she padded across the room, careful of the creaky floorboards, to her cache. Breanna slipped the belt around her skinny waist, looped it two-and-a-half times, and secured it the end in a knot the way soldiers did. She then hiked up the sides of her long skirt and tucked them into her belt so that she could run more easily.
The door creaked open and she slipped out onto the porch, canny of looking in every direction. Father didn't seem to mind her wanderings as much, but Mother would stop them cold from the start if she had her way. Breanna scanned the distance. Father was at the far edge of the leek field, but his back was to her. The sound of grinding, turning stone told her that mother sat the mill among sheaves of golden wheat.
Perfect.
Breanna cut through the dual rows of apple trees which butted up against the back fence. Past that lay the top of the hill, and the thrill of freedom. In a flash she had vaulted the wooden planks and darted into the copse of woods that sat towards of the mountain. She was prohibited from going to the manor house directly…but, that didn't means she couldn't skirt around the periphery and see what she could see. A mischievous smile grew on her face. Perhaps she could climb a tree high enough to get a good look, maybe even a glimpse at you-know-who.
She cast her eyes to south. In the far distance she could see the outline of Dragonreach perched upon its stony hill, its heights glistening in the day's bright sun. She imagined the fancy ladies and lords at the court there, going about their business, feasting and dancing, listening to bard poetry and music that echoed through that vaulted hall. The Dragonborn had once been there, following those long steps to the golden hall at the summit.
Turning north, she headed to the boneyard, snow crunching beneath her feet despite the warmth of the sun overhead. Down the hill she went to mammoth graveyard, which set in a natural cul-de-sac of grey stone. Poachers had long ago stripped the tusks from the gigantic skulls strewn around the place, but here and there were still tribal murals from the time when Giants had made this their home. They had built great bonefires here, and sat in quiet contemplation beneath the light of countless auroras. Here, Breanna could feel the layers of history here. The years hung heavy about it.
It also had a wonderful place to look down on the stone shelf upon which Heljarchen Hall itself sat. She crouched behind the lip of the rocks, peering around the side. There it stood. The entryway was nearly as big as their whole farmhouse! Stout timbers with masterful scrollwork formed its bones, while white plaster filled in the walls. Pale amber shingles lined the roof, which itself had carved horse and dragon heads at their apex. It might as well have been a Jarl's longhouse, and a magnificent one at that.
She knew it was silly, but seeing the Hall made her feel close to the Dragonborn somehow, even though she didn't even know what race he was, or where he came from. What would it be like to share a hall with him, to drink mead from the same barrel, to eat venison from the same deer? What was he like? She imagined that he was kind, not the cruel force of nature as Mother had suggested.
Breanna crept from her hiding place, moving amongst the hillside down to a spike of stone near a trio of pine trees. Now she commanded an even better view of the hall. Her skin tingled with the thrill. She had never been this close before and her heart hammered in her chest.
Just then the front doors of the Hall opened, and Breanna faded back behind the rock. The man who descended the steps was perhaps the most muscular that Breanna had ever seen. His arms were bare, thick as tree trunks, and he wore a steel breastplate and greaves. On his head, he wore an iron helmet in the style of the Nords, with the downturned horns sprouting from each side. The hilt of a great sword sprang from behind his right shoulder.
Her breath caught in her throat. Could…could that be him? He was taller even than father, a wall of muscle and steel, projecting an aura of power and intimidating in the extreme. She could see little of his features beneath his helmet, not the color of his hair, nor the shape of his face. He did have the coloring of a dark beard on his jaw, but that was all she could make out at the distance.
She watched as the man went to the stable and saddled a spotted black and white stallion. Surely he has servants for that kind of thing, Breanna thought. Then again, perhaps he prefers to do it himself. A lord, but not a lord. Her heart glowed at the thought like an ember. The man mounted his horse and settled into the saddle as though born to ride. Suddenly, his helmeted head turned and looked in her direction. It wasn't fear of the man that made her duck back behind the rocks fully so much as the thought that she probably shouldn't be here. If he were the Dragonborn, he might not appreciate being spied on by a common farm girl. From her hiding place, she heard the sound of galloping hooves fade into the distance. She looked again and saw the man riding north, further into the Pale.
And that is when she spied the book, half submerged in the slush of snow and ice in the shadows of her hiding place, near the base of a pine tree. The cover carried the device of a dragon's head in profile rendered in brass with a red stone in the eye. The flash of crimson had been what had caught her eye. She pulled it free and brushed the ice and mud off of it. Breanna took it back to the bone circle up the hill, and placed it on a flat stone. There, she opened the clasp and peered at the contents within.
The handwriting within was strong and flowing, and every few pages there were diagrams of tombs or statues, even maps with comments annotated in the margins. She flipped through it, and one section caught her eye, labeled: THE EBONY WARRIOR.
He is dead now, and my heart breaks. I have honored his request and taken his arms and armor for myself, and burned his body upon the pyre while I recited the litany of the Ebonarm. I did not wish his life. I sat up until late with him that final night, hearing the tales of his valor. By his prior deeds alone Sovngarde should be his right, even if his blood is of the Alik'r.
But I could not convince him to stay. He insisted on the duel, and even as I struck the killing blow, I saw the relief in his eyes through his visor. I told him that Skyrim could use him, that he could pass on his peerless martial skills to others who would use them with honor. His course was finished, he told me. Nothing was left for him but death. I understand my destiny, my place in Mundus, but at times I grow tired of being the instrument of death. Rest well, Great One, may we meet again in the golden halls of…
Breanna's eyes grew wide at those words. She flipped more pages to another heading, entitled: THE JAGGED CROWN.
I held it in my hand, and temptation followed. After all this time, the dragons have returned and here I with a crown made of dragon bone in my hand, the very symbol of Skyrim's sovereignty. Can that just be a coincidence? In this pointless, divisive war, perhaps I am the one meant to wear it, to bring peace, and deny Alduin his endless banquet of souls.
But is that my fate? To rule? I have the Voice, greater than any other mortal, even Ulfric. If that is his claim to kingship, then where do I fall in that thinking? But could I even serve Skyrim fairly as its ruler? Or is it more imperative that I travel through the…
Breanna took a deep breath. It was his journal! Here, in this book, she was privy to the innermost thoughts of the Dovahkiin himself! Her hands trembled as she scanned through the accounts, seeing only bits and pieces of what the book contained.
- I must permanently sanctify or disenchant the altar down the hill from Lakeview. It seems to continually attract necromancers.
- Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, a better kisser than I would have expected.
- Should I pity the Falmer? Should I attempt to contain them rather than eradicate them?
- It seems that Talos 'mantled' his godhood. Am I, by my very nature, mantling Talos unintentionally? I must research this further.
- When did Miraak turn? Was he always corrupt, or did he become that way over time? What role did Mora play in his descent?
- I've healed those on death's very door, but that one guard's injury still defies all treatment.
Finally, Breanna found a section called: WHO AM I?
Was it blood or fate that made me who I am, or was it both? I look though the ancient texts and I can only wonder. Am I Tiber Septim reborn? Am I the Shezzarine? Am I an avatar of Shor? Was that why his throne was empty when I entered Sovngarde? If so, why did Tsun not recognize me?
And if I am the long successor to Lorkhan, what of my dragon blood? That is of Akatosh, from the line of Anu. Am I the one in which the two cycles coincide, as others have been before me? Or am I merely a mortal with the soul of a dragon, nothing more or less.
Who am I?
Breanna closed the book, and felt the sting of shame. This was not meant for her eyes. This wasn't just a journal, a list of his triumphs and accolades; it was the Dragonborn's diary, containing his doubts and concerns, dreams and regrets. By reading it, it felt like a betrayal of the one figure in her life which served to life her up.
She dare not take it to the Hall itself, as it might look as though she had stolen it. And it appeared that the Dragonborn was no longer there, if that had been him. Instead, she tucked it under her arm and turned her steps to the south and home, back up the hill. A devious thought occurred to her as she walked in the tree line, which mixed with her guilt in a strange elixir. Once Father knew what she had, he would take it back to the Hall.
But…
If she played her cards right, he might want to teach her a lesson and have her apologize in person, which meant that he would have to take her with him. If she just said the right thing at the right time, it might just work out…
Breana paused in that thought as a coal-black raven cawed from a nearby tree. She had been about to vault over the fence, but now she froze in place. Something wasn't right, and her mind worked on what was out of place. For one, Father was no longer among the leeks, even though he swore that he would tear up all the weeds by day's end. Second, she could no longer hear the grinding of their millstone. The silence rang in her ears until the raven cawed again.
She had planned to sneak back into the house as it was, but now…now she had to see what was going on. Breanna made her way around to the stall where Old Sven, their mighty plow ox, lived. It commanded a view of the other side of the farmhouse. The animal looked up from chewing his hay and snorted softly at her. With infinite slowness, she put the book down and peeked over the worn wooden rail. She heard a voice she didn't recognize.
"So, you thought you could hide from us, did you, turncoat?" a man said in a brutish Nord accent. The man himself wore boiled leather armor and carried a jagged sword made of a strange green metal. He was not alone. Five others in similar dress stood in a circle. Father and Mother were on their knees in the middle of that circle with their hands behind their backs.
"What's he talking about, Olaf?" Mother asked Father. "Who are these…people?" Breanna knew she had been about to saw 'ruffians' or 'brigands' or something else, but had thought better of it.
"Old friends of your husband," the lead man said. "From back in the War. Isn't that right, Olaf?" He said with particular emphasis on Father's name.
"I chose my side, Varingar," Father said. "I make no apologies, least not to the likes of you."
The bad man laughed, and Breanna did not like the sound of it, not one bit. "Ho! Ho! You did choose a side. Twice! Did you think that that just because you ran away that we would not find you? Talos has made me his instrument, to punish cowardice from those who turned their back on him, and sided with those gold-skinned abominations. So, are you prepared for the death you've earned, Kasmojan?"
Father spit in the dirt at his feet. "I am a Nord. I'll not beg for my life. If you must spill my blood, do so, but spare my wife. She's innocent in all of this. For the bond we once shared, Varingar, I ask only this of you. Please."
Breanna reached over the stall's rail and felt around. Her hand closed around a solid oak haft. Father always kept a steel war axe outside in case he was surprised. They must have overpowered him quickly. She slid it free, careful not to let the steel head reflect the sunlight in their direction.
"Talos is merciless, traitor," Varingar replied, but looked upon Mother. "She's shared your bed, and is therefore unclean. I'll kill her second, so you don't have to watch. Cold comfort I know, but I'll grant you that at least, for old time's sake."
The man withdrew his strange sword and a glint of red light gleamed down its length. The leers of the others in the circle seemed to grow, hungry for blood. At the sight of them, their intent clear upon their faces, something shifted in Breanna's mind. The man raised his sword to the sky, but Breanna was already in motion. Her light steps over the soft ground muffled her approach, and instinctively angled her approach to minimize the sight lines of the others in the circle. She was behind Varingar in an instant and brought the axe across the back of the man's knee, just where the armor was weakest. She might have been young, but farming made her stronger than she looked, and Father kept the axe sharp enough to shave with.
The man collapsed with a cry of pain, but it was cut short as Breanna brought the axe down in arc, burying it deep in the man's skull. He fell in a red heap at her feet as she wrenched the axe free. The man's death had been so sudden, so unexpected, that the others in the circle were stunned. And then Father was on his feet, tripping one and planting his shoulder into another.
Breanna turned on her heel and threw the axe towards Old Sven's stall. It whistled through the air and cleaved the bar that held him in, quivering deep in the wood. She called to him and the big ox burst from his stall, smelling blood, and charging at the outsiders. The animal bowled over two of the others, goring one and trampling the other with hooves, nearly hard as stone.
In a blink, Father had slipped his hands over his feet and fought with a stolen sword. Breanna felt a surge of pride in him, until something shiny flashed before eyes and her nose and cheek exploded in pain. Breanna found herself on the ground, looking up at a woman with blue tattoos on her face, wielding a steel blade and wooden shield. Breanna couldn't breathe; something was pouring out of her nose.
The woman dropped to one knee and used her shield to pin Breanna to the ground, using her heavier weight to crush the little girl. The pain grew in Breanna's chest, but her cry of pain only seemed to embolden her attacker. "Time to die, little one," the woman said with a cruel grin.
Breanna reached up, with her free arm. There was no way she could match the grown woman for power, but the little girl's hand found the shape of a dagger. Pulling it free, Breanna plunged the sharp metal point through the woman's thigh with a strength born of desperation. The bandit screamed and the weight on Breanna's ribs vanished. Breanna rolled over coughing and gasping, throwing herself back into the dirt as the steel sword missed her head and cleaved into the ground.
Breanna hopped to her feet to face the foe, and drew 'Trollslayer.' The woman bellowed and raised her sword, eyes red with rage. The sword came down like a falling star and only a cast-off plank of wood was there to answer it. But the blow never fell. Something red and silver burst out of the woman's chest just then disappeared. The woman slumped down and Father stood behind her.
"By the Eight, are you all right?" Father asked, his wrists still bound with bowstrings. Breanna nodded and then retrieved the axe from the stall by wrenching it up and down repeatedly. Father had cut his own bonds and was busy cutting Mother's own bindings. They didn't notice her stalk over to the man whose pelvis had been shattered by Old Sven until she stood over him with the axe.
"Please!" the man cried out. "Help me! It wasn't my fault, please!"
Breanna's eyes narrowed. Her voice was the cold of the fjords in deep winter.
"Talos is merciless, traitor," she said, and opened his throat with the edge of the axe. There was a gurgling sound, and then nothing. Bloody and disheveled, her dress torn and now stained dark, Breanna turned towards her parents with the axe still in her hand.
Mother looked at her as though she were a stranger, and leaned into Father's embrace. Father himself was spattered red, but he seemed unconcerned with his own state.
"What did you do, Breanna?" he asked, in horror. "What did you do?"
The cold fire that had filled her veins left her, and Breann felt tired. The pain in her face and nose began to throb and hurt. Tears ran down her face.
"They were going to hurt you," she said, miserably. The sound of her words cut right into her own heart. "I had to do something."
Father took the axe from her and pulled her into a tight embrace. She cried into his shoulder for a time that might have been a minute, or an eternity.
That night, she had been exiled to outside the house while Mother and Father talked. She sat against the northwest corner, where a slight gap under the window's eaves allowed her to hear what they were saying.
"It your fault," Mother said to him with steel. "Yours and Kjoll's. Filling her head with all those stories of battles and glory, and now look at her. It took me two hours to get the blood out of her braids, never mind her dress! It's bad enough that that…abomination has a house down close to us, but now…but now…" her voice trailed off.
"Now our little girl is a killer," she finally managed, and her voice caught.
"She probably saved both of our lives," Father countered, "and you must have very selective hearing if you think any story I've told from the War was about glory. Nothing about war is glorious. And while I have cause to fear the Dragonborn as much as any, I'll not have you speak like that of Talos reborn. It's an ill omen we cannot afford."
Breanna felt more than heard Mother's fuming. At length Mother spoke again, "What do we do now?"
"The only thing we can do; we bury the dead, and put this behind us." Breanna heard father get up and the floorboards creaked as he went to the door. Breanna hopped up and sprinted ten paces away, to make it looks as though she had kept a respectful distance.
Father came outside and called her over. She happily climbed into his arms.
"I just wanted to protect you and Mama," she said. "It's what the Dragonborn would do."
"I know," Father said. "But you're not the Dragonborn, are you? You're my daughter, and not even fully grown yet. While your mother would have me punish you, I will not. Perhaps you are not of my blood directly, but you acted like a true Nord today. I'll not forget it, Breanna. Now, try to put this out of your mind and go get some sleep. If you want to rest through the day tomorrow, I'll allow it, all right?"
"Yes, Father," Breanna said, slipping from his arms. She went inside and Mother was bent over the cooking pot in the hearth. Breanna went to her bed in the corner and slipped under the bearskin covers, feeling under her pillow for the book she had smuggled inside. With everything that had happened, she had thought twice about mentioning it.
Father stepped back in and locked the door. Mother didn't look at him either. He turned and looked in Breanna's direction, though his face was lost in shadow.
"Good night, sweet child," he said. "May the Divines watch over your sleep and guard against nightmares."
"Thank you, Father," she said back, but he didn't understand. Breanna had nightmares every night. But she did not fear them, for even in her darkest dreams she could shape them to her whim.
Nightmares were her plaything.
