Author's Note: What if? What if the Dragonborn is not some outland outlaw but a native son of Skyrim? The prologue starts fifteen years before the opening events of the game. I've been a big fan of the Elder Scroll series since Daggerfall, but this is the first time I've tried to set a tale in Tamriel. And this is the first fanfic I've written without a significant Original Character. For some reason, Tamriel feels wide open, like some wild frontier, more so than other realms I'm familiar with. Does that make sense? From a writerly viewpoint, I'm trying to decide if that's a good thing. Or not. Tell me what you think. Dear, Kind Reader, if you feel the urge, shoot me a review. (See my big puppy eyes?) Feedback is meat and drink to us fanfic writers, you know.
Standard disclaimer: the Elder Scroll series belongs to Bethesda, not me. Alas. This story is presented for entertainment and not for profit.
Prologue: Storm Touched
The unexpected storm roared down from the mountains and slammed into Whiterun like a mace on a shield. Danica Pure-Spring, Kynareth's priestess, could feel the thunder vibrate through the temple floor as she paced. The day had been sunny and mild and now this. This wild, wild night. The acolytes whispered of Kynareth's wrath until, exasperated and more than a little on edge herself, Danica sent them to their beds.
Danica was too restless for sleep. Best to wait out this storm, she thought. The jarl's wife, not much more than a child herself, was pregnant and due any day now. Danica had been called out twice for false labor and she feared her healing skills would soon be put to the test. But when the temple door flew open, letting in a wind that rocked the hanging lamps and made crazy shadows skitter across the room, it was no messenger from the palace but a boy she knew well.
"Thorald, what brings you here?" she asked. "Has someone taken ill?"
He gave her a ten-year-old's gapped-tooth grin. The Gray-Mane clan lived a short street away from the temple but the boy was soaked to the skin. His long hair lay flat against his head in dripping streamers. He had skinned knees (as usual) and the beginning of what she guessed would be a spectacular black eye.
"Olfina burned her arm in the cook fire," he said. "It ain't much but the way she's wailing, you'd think she was dying. Little milk-drinker," he said, in the tolerant tone of an older brother. He gave her another grin. "Ma gave me a septim for Kyne and asked could you give us a jar of your salve."
"We call the goddess Kynareth," she corrected.
"We Gray-Manes say Kyne," Thorald said. "Uncle Vignar says Kynareth is the name foisted on us Nords by Imperial lick-spittles." The boy spoke carefully; this was obviously a direct quote. He already had the memory of a bard, Danica thought. "We Gray-Manes stick with the old ways and the old names." He gave her a sideways look to see if she was angry. It was hard to get angry with Thorald and harder to stay angry; the boy exuded charm. And of course, she had heard all this before. From her own ma and da, in fact. There were many old traditional Nord families in Whiterun but few older or more traditional than the Gray-Mane clan.
"So what's a lick-spittle?" he asked, apparently reassured by the eye-roll she cast him. She laughed and his dimple emerged.
"I have no idea," she said. "Ask your uncle."
"Doesn't sound very nice."
Danica doubted his uncle had anything very nice to say about any Imperial, not since the Great War had limped to its disastrous end. She made a silent prayer that this uneasy peace, bought so dearly, would last. She gave him the salve and walked him to the covered porch. Rain cascaded down the roof in heavy sheets.
"Stay a bit until this slackens," she said. They stood together and watched the sacred tree, the Gildergreen, rock in the wind. A gust sent a shower of wet petals at them like a cold slap. Thorald had long been a favorite of hers. He had a marvelous singing voice for a child so young. His uncle was one of the Companions so Thorald was no stranger to the warriors' mead hall, Jorrvaskr. When the Companions sang, it rang out over the city and Thorald's voice soared high and clear above them all. It was a gift of Kynareth, surely, but one neither he nor any in his family seemed to feel had any importance.
"What happened to your eye?"
He raised a hand to his face. "Oh, that. Grelka punched me."
"Oh, dear. Who's Grelka, do I know her?"
"She's visiting her Aunt Lillith."
"The stable master?"
"Aye. Grelka lives on a farm near Riverwood but her da just remarried and is off on his wedding trip. So she's staying here for now. With her aunt."
"She'll have a new mother. That must be nice for her."
He snorted. "She's mad as fire. Says that's not her ma and she's not going to live with her. Says she's going to stay here. In Whiterun." He made a face.
"Oh dear. She may be a bit upset by the change but she'll get over it."
"Grelka doesn't get over things. She just gets madder. She said she's going to be da's apprentice and work the Skyforge. I told her only Gray-Manes work the Skyforge and she ain't a Gray-Mane. That's when she popped me one. Said she'd do it anyway."
"Are you planning to be a smith like your father?" Everyone said Eorlund Gray-Mane was the greatest smith in Skyrim. Danica was no judge of arms and armor but she had seen his jewelry and it was exquisite.
"I'm going to be a great warrior like my Uncle Vignar," he said. "But it's good when warriors know about steel. I made this, da showed me how." He pulled a dagger from his belt sheath. "See? Good Skyforge steel. It's real sharp too. I can shave with it. When I grow a beard."
Lightning struck, closer than ever. The steel flashed in the glaring white light.
"Put that away!" Thorald gave her a startled look. "You should never wave bare metal around during a thunderstorm," she said, uneasily aware that her voice was shrill.
"Uncle Vignar says the lightning hits the highest thing around," he said. "So it should hit Dragonsreach, not us."
"Lightning doesn't follow rules."
"Uncle Vignar saw a cow hit by lightning once. Out in an open field. He said it was cooked from the inside out." Ghoulishly, he added, "Smoke came out of its hooves!"
Danica gave the shudder he clearly intended.
"I better get home," he said. "Thanks for the salve." He ran down the stairs but stopped under the Gildergreen and looked up. "Thank you, Kyne!" he shouted to the sky.
Static lifted her hair. That was the only warning she got. The crash and the light struck at the same moment, leaving Danica deaf and blind. She screamed, she couldn't help it. There was a sharp smell she couldn't identify and a tingle in her feet.
The tree! Lightning hit the Gildergreen! The goddess of wind and storms had struck her own sacred tree. What could it mean? Her heart pounded. Another flash and she froze in horror. Thorald lay still on the ground.
"Kynareth, no!" He lay in a puddle, covered with battered pink blossoms blown off the tree. Fear gave her the strength to scoop him up and carry him inside the temple. He was limp and lifeless in her arms. But when she laid him on a table near the altar, he took a great shuddering breath. And then another. His bruised eye was a deep purple against his pale face.
"Thorald," she called. "Can you hear me?" She patted his cheek then felt for the pulse in his neck. She had to brush aside the petals that clung to him. His heart beat strong and steady. His lips moved.
"Kyne," he whispered. "Thank you, Kyne."
"Thorald?"
He opened his eyes. His eyes weren't blue but a stormy gray. And his pupils! They were vertical slits like a cat-or a serpent!
Danica recoiled at this blank alien stare. His eyes closed. The priestess whirled at the soft footsteps behind her. It was Ahlam, her youngest acolyte. She was in her nightdress. She rubbed sleepy eyes.
"Has the baby come?" she asked. Then she blinked as she saw the boy. "Is that Thorald?"
"He was very close to the Gildergreen when lightning struck," Danica said. "Come look at his eyes, tell me what you see."
"Lightning struck the Gildergreen? Oh, no!" Her eyes opened wide but then she turned her attention to the boy. "Did he hit his head?" Ahlam asked. She gently peeled back one eyelid and then the other, especially careful with his bruised eye. She was young but had good instincts. She will make a fine healer, Danica thought. "His eyes seem normal to me."
"Normal." Danica took another look. The girl was right. They were normal. Thank Kynareth. Her mind must be playing tricks and no wonder, the fright she had. "Grab your cloak. Run to the Gray-Mane house and tell his parents there has been an accident."
As the days passed, the Gildergreen dropped all its flowers. Then all its leaves. Finally it stood in the town square, a scorched and pathetic skeleton. Pilgrims, who had always been drawn to see and touch Kynareth's sacred tree, now came in even greater numbers as word of this disaster spread across Skyrim. They camped in the square, to the annoyance of the jarl's guards. Ahlam made a sarcastic suggestion that the temple place a collection box under the tree. Some visitors pressed dead leaves in books as souvenirs. Later, bolder pilgrims broke off bits of the Gildergreen's distinctive bark. Even bolder pilgrims used a blade. The poor tree now looked like it had been attacked by starving deer. Danica hoped Kynareth marked these impious souls for retribution. And of course, she had heard endless speculation on what had caused Kynareth's wrath and how it could be averted.
Thorald and his father, on the way up to the Skyforge, joined her for a moment. Thorald had shown no ill effect from the lightning but he remembered nothing of what happened. Danica had come to the conclusion that he had simply fainted.
"The tree looks terrible," Thorald said frankly.
"It breaks my heart," she said. "But maybe next spring it will recover."
"Looks dead to me," Eorlund said. Danica, who always noticed voices, thought his was particularly resonant and pleasing. Perhaps Thorald's talent comes from his father, she thought.
"Trees like this don't really die. They slumber." Eorlund raised a skeptical brow but let her continue. "This tree was started from a cutting of the Eldergleam, which is said to be the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Maybe all Tamriel."
"If it's sleeping, how do we wake it?" Thorald asked.
"I don't know. Perhaps Kynareth will guide me."
"We should go to the Eldergleam. That's the ma, right? Ask her to wake up the Gildergreen. Where is it? Is it far?"
"It's in a sanctuary, not too far."
"We should go. Can we go, da?" He gave Eorlund a look that would have melted stone. The smith gave his son a small smile.
"Maybe. It's a fine tree."
"You've seen the Eldergleam?"
"Aye." He gave the Gildergreen another long look. "But this one's not sleeping. It's dead." His eyes met Danica's. "We should burn it on the Skyforge, in a pyre, as we burned the heroes of old."
The idea of a pilgrimage grew in Danica's mind. And such was the concern in the city over the tree's fate that it took very little effort to make the trip a reality. Lillith Maiden-Loom loaned her a wagon and a stable hand to drive it, so that any who grew tired could ride for a bit. Knowing there would be children in the group, the jarl sent a few guards for security. Bandits seemed bolder each year. And his cook prepared a picnic feast, now carefully packed into the back of the wagon.
A soft breeze ruffled the distant trees and the shrubs that lined the road. Kynareth smiles on this day, Danica thought. The priestess pushed back her hood. The impromptu pilgrimage had started out well enough. The weather was fine and they made good time on the road. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves and with any luck, they'd reach the Eldergleam Sanctuary by lunchtime. She hoped there was enough food for the group had grown beyond her expectations.
The Harbinger of the Companions, the great warrior Kodlak Whitemane had joined the group, as well as several of the younger Companions in their trademark armor. Brigands would have to be foolish as well as bold to attack this cheerful group. Two of the children, Thorald and Lillith's niece, Grelka, strode beside Kodlak ahead of the wagon. While she watched, Grelka gave Thorald a shove that sent him sprawling into the dirt. He bounced back up and made her a courtly bow. Grelka scowled and Kodlak chuckled.
Danica gave a sideways look to Eorlund Gray-Mane, walking beside her. She'd been hoping to speak to him but he'd said hardly two words the whole trip.
"Those two don't get along too well, do they?" she asked.
"Puppy tussles," he said. "They'll grow out of it."
They walked on in silence. Kodlak began to sing. The other Companions joined in immediately and after a moment, Thorald's exquisite voice rose in counterpoint. The priestess shivered in pure pleasure.
"He has a talent," she said.
"Aye, the boy always was loud."
"No, truly, his voice is a gift."
"Any Nord can sing."
"Not like that." They listened as they walked. "It is a gift from Kynareth." She gave him another sideways look. "Kyne, as you say." He blinked at her. "Have you ever thought he might have a calling? For the priesthood?"
He stared. His eyes were more gray than blue and for a startled second, she remembered the flash of serpent eyes she had imagined the night the Gildergreen was struck.
"I have wondered if perhaps Thorald might be called by Kynareth. The way he sings and his perfect pitch, it could be a sign."
"Never been nothing like that in the clan," he said repressively.
"Ah."
"Mostly we get called by the steel," he finally said. "Gray-Manes serve the Skyforge. Always have. We make blades or we use them. Thorald wants to be a warrior, like my brother."
"A warrior." After the horrors of the Great War, where the lives of an entire generation of young men and women had been torched like kindling, why anyone would want to be a warrior was a mystery to Danica. Yet here in Skyrim, it seemed everyone aspired to fight.
Death leads to more death. This couldn't be Kynareth's will.
"All puppies want to be wolves," Eorlund said. "It will pass."
"You think he'll be a smith?"
"He'll come to it. That girl Grelka has more talent in her finger than he has in his whole body. Ten years old and she already has a feel for the steel. But he'll come to it. He's a Gray-Mane. It's in his blood."
Danica could think of many examples where a son didn't follow in his father's footsteps. By his sour expression, Eorlund had one or two in mind himself. So she let the subject drop.
Perhaps his wife, Fralia, would be more receptive.
They arrived at the sanctuary in good time and good spirits. They couldn't have asked for better weather. The sanctuary was built in a huge ring of rock, like a hollowed out hill. One entered through a cleft in the ring. Outside, there were many hot springs in the area and the land reeked of sulfur. But inside, there was a sweet rain-washed scent like the youth of the world. Danica had been here many times but the feeling of awe was always fresh. The long shadowed entry opened into sunlight and there one saw the massive tree. It rose to the sky, with thick branches a vast distance overhead and petals a luscious pink haze amongst the leaves. Over the centuries, massive roots had grown to block the way to the tree. But one did not have to touch the tree to feel its power. Under the Eldergleam's huge vibrant canopy, Danica could feel the watchfulness of the goddess.
A grubby hand touched hers. It was Thorald and the awe on his face was all she could have hoped for. He feels Her. She knew it.
"This is the Gildergreen's ma," he whispered. "She can awaken our tree. I know it."
"I believe so, child. But I don't know how to do so."
"I have an idea."
At this point the driver, laden down with the first of the food hampers, asked where the picnic should be set up and she spent a harried few moments getting the meal organized. Nothing could spoil an outing quicker than poorly prepared or, gods forbid, insufficient food for hearty Nord appetites. She was ready to call the group to gather when she heard Grelka's sharp voice.
"What is that idiot doing?" The girl pointed. All eyes swiveled to the Eldergleam. A tiny figure crawled straight up the massive trunk, arms spread out like a spider working its way up a wall. When she realized it was Thorald, she thought her heart would stop. I'm going to faint, she thought, I'm really going to faint.
"He must be finding handholds in the bark," Kodlak said calmly. "It looks a good fifty feet to the first branch. He has quite a climb before him."
"How, HOW did he get up there?" a Companion asked, a young man with shadowed eyes. Danica hadn't caught his name. "There is no path!"
"I don't know," Kodlak said. "He climbs like a cat."
"I'll get that kitty down," Grelka said darkly. From her back pocket she pulled out a sling. From her front pocket she pulled out a smooth river stone. She gave the sling a whirl. Kodlak, alarmed, grabbed her wrist before she could loose her stone.
"No, Grelka," he said. "That will not help."
"There's nothing else I can do," she whispered.
"Sometimes all we can do is wait and watch," Kodlak said.
"I don't like it!"
"No."
"She couldn't hit him from this distance, surely," Danica said.
"Of course I could," Grelka said.
"She probably could. Get a bit stronger," Kodlak told her. "I'm eager to see you with a bow."
Danica looked at Eorlund. He had said not a word. His face was almost expressionless but with a set rigidity that suggested repression.
One of the jarl's men decided to clamber over the nearest huge root. "Strange," he said. "It's slippery. I can't get over it." He pulled out his war axe. "Gonna hack me some foot holds."
Danica ran to his side. "You mustn't cut the tree," she said. "It is sacred. No normal blade can cut it."
"Jarl will have my head if I don't try to help that boy. I know this tree is sacred and all but a couple of little cuts won't hurt it." He made a short powerful chop. His blade bounced off. He tried again.
His blade shattered. He stared.
"Eorlund, what's this?" he called out. "How can wood be stronger than steel? This just ain't right."
The master smith looked at the broken blade. He rubbed his hands over the unmarred surface of the root.
"If you give me a boost, I think I can get over it," the guard said.
"I don't think so," Eorlund said. "There is another root and another." He turned to Danica. "How did my son get past this barrier?"
"I don't know. I think—I wonder—"
"It was Kyne. Wasn't it?"
"I think so, yes. The goddess's hand must be in this."
He was silent a long moment.
"Then we will hope she does not let him fall."
Several times Thorald missed a hold or his hand slipped. Finally he made it to the lowest branch, big around as three mead barrels. He inched his way up it and then was on top.
"Good job, boy," Kodlak said in a low voice. "That's right, catch your breath." Thorald lay stretched out on the wide branch a long moment. Then he stood up. He began to walk along the branch.
"What are you doing?" Kodlak muttered. Thorald's foot slipped and he went down on one knee. The slope of the branch made a steady rise and the boy started crawling. "That's right, that's better," Kodlak said. He looked over at Eorlund. "When that boy gets down in one piece, I'm going to give him a thrashing he won't soon forget. Hope that's okay with you."
Eorlund just grunted. Danica looked around at the others. Grelka's pale face was the color of plaster. Her freckles seemed to float above her skin.
"Child, do you need to sit down?" she whispered. Grelka turned toward her and Danica was surprised to see tears standing in her eyes. Up to that moment, she had considered her a rather hard-hearted little brute.
"I'm going to beat him bloody for this," the girl whispered. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it firmly. "I'm—I'm going to get something to eat." She stomped over to the picnic and reached into the nearest hamper. She sat on the grass with a sandwich grabbed at random and began to chew with determination. But her eyes never left the climbing figure.
The branch narrowed and Thorald crawled ever outward. The branch began to sway under his weight and still he moved. He inched up one of the side branches like a caterpillar and disappeared behind the leaves. Further and further he went and they stared up, catching a flash of him between the foliage.
"That branch will break under his weight," Kodlak said.
"I don't think—" Danica began and then she caught her breath. A flash of light glittered off the dagger in the boy's outstretched hand. "Oh, no. Thorald, no!" She meant to shout but her words came in a whisper. "He's going to try to take a cutting."
Amplified like on a stage, they clearly heard the snap when Skyforge steel met the Eldergleam's enchanted bark. Thorald's voice rang out in what began as a heartbroken wail and which transmuted into words.
"Kyne, please! Let me help!" His voice held all the sorrow and desperation of youth and it rang against the rock walls that surrounded the sanctuary. The world is sound, Danica thought madly, it's that one clear sound going on forever and ever. A wind swirled around them, an impossible wind in this protected spot. It was a warm wind but persistent. It whipped Danica's robes around her ankles, lifted a litter of dead leaves and dust and brought down a shower of petals from the branches so high above them.
"Kynareth!" Danica breathed. "The goddess is here with us this very moment!"
The wind continued, almost gentle but relentless. Thorald was silent but the wind filled their ears. And then, with a groan like an assault, the Eldergleam's giant branch slowly bent, down, down to the ground.
"Talos preserve us," Kodlak whispered.
"Not Talos, my friend," Eorlund said. "Kyne."
Thorald stepped out from the leaves. There were pink petals in his hair. And in his hands—a branch. He ran to Danica.
"Look!" he said. He held out the slender branch. As they all watched, amazed and shocked, roots began to form until they were a tangled mass. "Da, my knife broke! I couldn't cut this but it came off in my hand!" With a last swirl of leaves and petals, the wind died down and the huge branch, with another great groan, began to lift up to its original position.
And later, after the excitement died down, after the yelling was done (the promised beating postponed) and the food was eaten, the sapling was carefully wrapped in damp cloth and loaded on the wagon. The children slept in the back, Grelka and Thorald curled up like exhausted puppies. Danica matched her stride to Eorlund's.
"That was Kynareth's wind," she said. She almost bounced with joy. She had often felt Kynareth in her heart, but to have Her manifest Herself here, so plainly-it was a true miracle. "You cannot deny it, that boy has been touched by the goddess."
"Aye." They walked on. "Winds of change. They don't bode well, do they?"
"What do you mean?" She was startled by his grim face on what could well be the happiest day of her life.
"When the gods get involved, it's not because good times are coming."
"I hadn't thought like that. I thought—this brought us hope. Kynareth is looking after us."
"Don't need hope when times are good. We lost the Great War. That's bad. But I reckon there's worse coming."
"Worse? Like what?"
"We'll know, when the time comes."
"Now you're scaring me."
"Hrm." He gave her a long look. "Bad times call for steel. Steel in the hand. Steel in the soul." He glanced back at the youngsters in the wagon with measuring eyes. "Going to be a busy time for smiths, I'm thinking. And whatever happens, I reckon my son is going to be right in the middle of it."