They still ask you know. Ask what happened. When he came…
Nobody seems to tell the same thing, they're all different. The Imperials speak of him coming to their aid, saving the land from the king slayer Ulfric. The Stormcloaks speak of him destroying the scourge of the Imperial scum. The mages in the north speak of him becoming Archmage, while the thieves in their webs and sewers tell stories that he could seemingly disappear in front of your very eyes. The companions tell stories that he could fell beasts and giants with the might of his very voice. Even whispers in dark corridors are told that he was the slayer of the emperor himself. The stone temples at the throat of the world echo his name every day, as a call for his return.
Dovakhin. Dragonborn.
The call for the lost. The last echo of their fallen hopes and ambitions. Every day wavering each day he does not return. People ask. People panic. People die.
The first years, they were the most difficult. The dragon corpses littered the streets; even they seemed to call his name as the wind rushed through them on cold nights. Men, Women and children alike mourned for him, for his return, we depended on him. We needed him and he left us.
We soon stopped hoping for him. Most of us anyways, the throat of the world still called his name, daily, then weekly, then monthly.