A/N: Hallo all! I took a brief break from zombies and decided to delve into Vikings.
This is a wee little backstory on how the tune for Song of the Dragonborn, Age of Oppression, etc. came to be, and takes place shortly before the events of the main game. Sit back and enjoy!
The land of Skyrim is a harsh one, for the winds batter the mountains, like an army rams a gate, and the cold creeps in through doors and cracks of houses like a thief, silent and snatching. The life span of Skyrim's inhabitants is not long for most, and even death comes sooner to the kings and Jarls of the region than others, though they hide in their halls, huddled to the fires, distracted by jesters and feasts and quarrels.
Little notice is given, then, to the old man lying under a rough wool blanket in an anonymous house in Whiterun.
He is not that old, really; though there is white in his beard and wrinkles in his tired face. The wind wears away the body as much as it does mountains, and make the young seem old, and the old seem older still.
The man is dying, but few care.
Though the little house is sturdy, and keeps most of the winter's chill away, it is still cold in the room. It always feels cold here, even in the summer.
The room around the bed where the old man lies is sparse; there is little furniture to speak of, save but a few cupboards for storage, and an ancient, heavy chest in the corner.
And a boy, sitting to the left of the bed.
He watches the old man with worry in his eyes, and with a questioning air around him. Barely has he spoken to the wretched old thing, and yet the man allows no-one else by his bedside; not his daughters, or even his wife, though she nags him so. The boy does not know whether it is honor, or punishment, so he simply sits and waits.
His name is Skakki.
Now the old man stirs, rolling under the blankets, and he turns to the boy. Skakki, startled at the sudden movement, leans closer, listening.
The old man grunts, and coughs.
"A lifetime of adventure behind me, and true Nord I may be." he croaks, the words sounding like a drawn-out sigh. "And yet I die in a shack like a lout, with no honor to my name."
The boy makes a startled noise, amazed to hear the old man speak.
"Grandfather." he protests, his blue eyes widened in surprise. "It is untrue. Were you not a famous bard? Do you not hold the honor of writing the greatest song in Skyrim?"
The old man, hearing this, begins to cough and hack violently, and Skakki thinks it is the end of his grandfather, until he realizes that he is laughing.
"Great honor?" says the bard, his voice dripping in scorn. "It is no honor, boy, to die in your bed like a thrall, or a common peasant farmer. What is a song for my mark upon the mountains, boy?"
"It may not have carved mountains, grandfather, but it is known by every bard in the land." Skakki says, steadfastly.
"They have even made their words to go along with it. I heard there is one with Imperial lyrics being played at The Drunken Huntsman, and Farkas told me there is Stormcloak version, too, that the bards sing at the camps he passes."
The old man grunts at this. "Thieves, the lot."
"The Stormcloaks, Grandfather?"
"The both of them, rebels and Imperials" he replies, shaking his head. "Heed my words, boy: They are naught but two dragons, fighting; it does not matter which one is the victor, for it is still a dragon in the end, left to scorch the earth."
The boy is silent at this, and the old man continues.
"I have no right to call them thieves, though. A song is a song, and it wasn't even mine to begin with."
The boy looks puzzled. "What do you mean, Grandfather?" he queries. "You said yourself that you wrote it."
The bard laughed again, the coughs racking his chest. "Lies, boy, lies; is it not the story-teller's trade to weave deception for men?"
Skakki, however, shook his head. "It can't be. Master Viarmo himself said that never a song had been heard in all of Skyrim, maybe even all of Tamriel!"
The old man smirked, the lines on his face shifting and crinkling. "That's because it isn't from Tamriel, you lout." he croaked.
The boy was taken aback by the comment. "Where did you hear it, then, Grandfather?" he asked, curiosity overtaking his disbelief.
The old man, with effort, looks side to side, as if he attempting to detect any hidden listeners. Satisfied, he leaned over to Skakki, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I stole it."
"From who?" Skakki whispers back.
The man shifts his eyes, again. "From the gods."
"The gods, Grandfather?" the boy asks, doubt in his voice.
The old bard sighed, in a defeated sort of way. "I suppose it's time, boy. I am on my deathbed, and can speak no more lies. Listen, for I have a tale to tell you."
Skakki obediently shifts his chair closer.
"Before I was a bard, boy-"
"I always thought you were a bard, Grandfather."
"What have I told you about the trade of lies? Now stop interrupting."
"Yes, Grandfather."
The old man clears his throat, and starts again. "Before I was a bard, I was a mercenary. Blood-for-hire. I roamed the land, willing to trade my skill for gold, be it slaying a bear for some poor farmer-man, or taking a bounty for a Jarl. It was a harsh life, boy, but it was my freedom."
Skakki nods, eager to hear more.
"One day, I was hired to clear out a group of bandits. I went with some companions, at the time; a mage, a ranger, a cleric. I knew them well, and we thought it would be an easy bit of coin to help fill my mead-horn."
"What happened then, Grandfather?"
The old man shook his head. "We thought we had slaughtered them all, their blood staining our steel, and painting our armor, making our swords sing. But one snuck behind me, and struck me with a dagger soaked with poison."
Skakki flinches, as if sympathetic to the sting of the blade in his side.
"Have you ever felt your life-blood soaking the moss beneath you, boy?" cackles the old man, his voice harsh. "Watched as the world faded around you as your soul slips away?"
The young boy shakes his head no. The bard snorts. "That is because you lead a soft merchant-son's life, boy. Your hands have never felt the roughness of a sword on your palm, or the bite of mountain wind on your face."
To this, the boy says nothing. The bard went on, unperturbed.
"As I lay dying, boy, and the world went dark around me, my last breaths escaping..."
He paused. "I heard it."
"Heard what, grandfather?"
"A song." the bard says, his voice distant.
"A song, Grandfather?"
"Not any song." he murmurs, lost in thought. He turns to the boy again, he sunken eyes startlingly bright. "A song of the gods."
"Gods, Grandfather?"
"Gods." the old man repeats, looking far-away. "The song of heroes, of the slain, that sit across the whale-bone bridge."
"Sovengarde?" the boy whispers, incredulous.
The old man nods. "I heard it. Like stars above me, singing to me...it was the roar of waves, the clash of steel, the beat of drums and hearts..."
He stares at the boy, straight in the eyes, his gaze burning.
"It was the sound of the universe, boy. The sound of it moving."
Skakki trembles in his seat, despite himself. "What happened then. Grandfather?"
The old mans sighs, and shakes his head. "I felt so near...the pain was fading, the music was filling my ears, the sound of the old tongue around me..."
"Old tongue?"
"The words used by the gods to craft the world." The old man says, crossly. "But it doesn't matter. Not here, not now." He shakes his head again.
"Anyways, the pain was fading-and then it came back. Blinding, scorching, back through my side, and I watched the stars fade, and the music drifted away.
"Then, the next thing I knew, the mage was healing my wound. Brought me back from the brink, he said, and Leifsson made me had over part of the loot to the damned wizard, as much as I wanted to break his damned nose."
Skakki suppresses a laugh, partly for the sake of respect, and partly for the sake of his own nose. "What happened then?"
The old man looks into the distance again. "I had to get the song down. Went to every bard in Skyrim, tried to get them to transcribe it. They could never get it correct-they would be to high, or too low, or play it off beat...
"So I grew frustrated. To hear such a song, mangled by the thick hands of imbeciles!" He yells, his anger bringing a slight pink flush to his pale face.
"Eventually, I grew weary of hearing bard after bard tear the tune apart. I left the mercenary group, learned to play the lyre, and wrote the song myself."
"So the music that Mikael plays-"
"Is nothing like the original." The man snaps. "Oh, I tried. Wrote and re-wrote, re-wrote again, but I could never. Get it. Right." He says, pounding one frail hand on the bedsheet with each word. "Even if I did, I would never do it justice to play it alone. It needs to be sung, by a full band! An army! An army... of heroes..."
He descends into coughs once more, and, despite himself, Skakki catches his grandfather's hand and holds it, tight, as the old man sinks into his pillow once more, eyes closed, and breathing heavily.
A heavy silence descends.
Then the old man cracks once eye open, and, with sadness in his whispers, as Skakki leans in closer to hear.
"If only I could hear it again..."
Then his head snaps left , his eyes open and burning again, and he grips his grandson's hand with newfound strength.
"They are coming." He croaks, desperation in his voice.
"Grandfather, who!?" Skakki cries, shaking.
"Them. Darks wings in the cold..." he moans. "May the savior come to us, from afar, and rescue us from the ancient shadow unbound..."
"Grandfather!" Skakki yells again, unsure of what to do.
Suddenly, the old man relaxes; sags into the rough-hewn bed, and sighs, softly, tiredly, deeply.
And he looks to his grandson, a beatific smile on his face, and joy in his eyes, as though he has just heard a tune he has forgotten. His breathing is shallow, and his end is near; yet he seems to feel nothing but gladness as he slips away.
"Do you hear it, Skakki?" He whispers, the pain fading.
"Can you hear the stars sing?"