I did not relax until the cold wind at my back no longer smelled of Whiterun City.
The wagon clattered roughly along the old stone road, jostling me rudely as I leaned knotted shoulders against the sideboard and propped my feet up on the empty bench opposite. My gaze drifted slowly over the trees as we passed them. Their silhouettes cut dark slats through the hazy brightness of early evening; the indistinct tangle of light and dark forming the full extent of my vision.
I fingered the grip of my bow, letting the curve of ashwood rest in my lap. So far it had been a quiet journey. No ambushes. No armies. No dragons. My lips twitched as I considered how different this cart-ride was from my last. My hands had been bound, then, for one. This was the same road — the mountain pass through the Jeralls — but I was heading in the opposite direction. And instead of playing the mistaken addition to a mass execution, I was intentionally preparing for potential suicide.
Delphine's desperate plan still echoed in my ears.
Infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy.
I whistled lowly, and smiled when the birds flittering in the pines overhead twittered a reply.
This was a new beginning, I told myself; the first strong step of the Dragonborn. My hand unconsciously tightened around my bow at the thought, as though I'd heard an enemy in the distance.
Dragonborn. For months I'd avoided the title. Shrugged it off, buried it; told no one, and heard it pass only a handful of lips. Yes, I had felt dragons die. I had slain them with the raw power of my voice; devoured their very souls. I had run my fingers over their ancient carvings and felt words of power form on my tongue, the natures of which men, mer, and beastfolk could not so easily fathom. But that didn't make me a hero. I was just Lir, the Valenwood runaway, more savage than sentient. Lir, Jorrvaskr's newest whelp. Lir, the coward.
I was.
Now I was the Dragonborn.
None of the rest mattered anymore.
My fingers found the spine of the book nestled reverently in my pack, the leather of its binding gone soft with age and use. I knew the rough-cut pages and unstamped cover marked it a crude and unremarkable thing, but the value I placed upon it was not in the leather, or the parchment, or even the words within, for I could not read them. No, it was enough to know that the book had been his. The father I would I'd had. The father I'd lost, the father I'd wept for losing. Without him, I was not Lir. I was not really a Companion. He had marked me one; called me worthy. Worthy of the honor and glory of Jorrvaskr.
But when the honor and the glory had gone, so had I.
The air brushed against my cheeks, and ruffled my shorn-short hair like a patriarch's hand. I moved until I lay on the cart's floor, head propped on my pack, where the haunting breeze of our movement could not reach me.
The cart horse whinnied lightly, and I heard the jingle of the leather harness as the mare tossed her head. The driver, Bjorlam, clucked at her soothingly. There was a moment of pregnant quiet from him, and a self-conscious instinct prickled my scalp.
"Long ride to Riften," Bjorlam remarked in his unruffled way, voice dipping in volume as he turned his face back forward. I realized belatedly he had glanced back at me; his sole and somber passenger. "Why not say something?"
I breathed deeply the musk of horse, the dirty-mint of pine, and the snap of mountain chill. A new start, I smiled; every end of me alive with the freedom of it, as though I were a horse, myself- unsaddled, unbridled and ready to sprint across the open tundra.
"What do you want me to say?" I laughed, leaning my head back toward the Nord; politely aiming my eyes toward him despite their uselessness. My brother had told me, before I'd put the Rooted City behind me, that my eyes had gone "full moon" white as the years had passed. Called them eerie to see. My parents had discouraged my meeting people's gazes, for fear of making anyone uncomfortable. But in Cyrodiil- and now Skyrim, as well- I'd learned that most people preferred you look them in the eye, to better see your face even if the sentiment wasn't exactly returned.
"Well," Bjorlam said thoughtfully, the leather reins flicking gently in his hands like a punctuation, "you're a Companion, aren't you? You've gotta have stories."
My chest depressed as he spoke, breath gusting from me like I'd been kicked.
I could see in my mind's eye what was left of the Circle; gathered, grieving, in the Underforge. I could see them – Aela, Farkas, Vilkas – expecting me to join them in mourning around the great stone chalice that stood in center of the secret chamber. When Eorlund told me they were waiting, I had nodded as if it were my intention to seek them out. But I had slipped like a thief into Jorrvaskr, instead. I'd pulled my pack over my shoulder, lingered only long enough to retrieve the book from Kodlak's drawer- a last, best memorial- and left.
By now they must have realized I was gone.
"Sure," I said, my voice too empty to really break the pause I'd taken. "Sure," I said again, with more strength. Abruptly, I grinned; the motion pulling on the scar that split my right cheek.
A memory whispered to me in the voice of a Valenwood shaman: Where one tail ends, yet waits an open mouth. Back then I had believed the maxim was a warning, reminding me to always be on guard for danger. Now, it seemed more like a doorway; a reminder that an end was also a beginning, and an invitation to accept that life was about change. Like the change from smith, to vagrant, to sailor, to criminal, to warrior— to, perhaps, hero.
"Sure, Bjorlam," I said stretching, and settled more comfortably on the rattling cart floor. "I'll tell you a story."