She had made it to Riverwood.
By the gods, she was almost burnt to a crisp in the process, but she had made it to Riverwood, and on to Whiterun, in one piece. If it weren't for Ralof's directions and Jarl Balgruuf's hospitality, she would've been in even more trouble.
When she first met the Jarl of Whiterun hold, she could see the curiosity behind his gaze, just as she had seen it at Helgen, behind the face of that Imperial name-calling soldier, and in the eyes of Jarl Ulfric.
Since she left the safety of Gerdur's house, she had been doing all she could to pick up information about the Civil War in Skyrim. She listened to citizens' conversations, eavesdropped near the doors of the guard houses, and even pocketed a few pamphlets at that Breton's shop in Whiterun.
Oh well, she thought. He was a son-of-a-bitch, anyway, and it won't hurt his business any if I just take a few things. Not only did she end up with a few informative pamphlets, she managed to snatch a steel sword and a new set of leathers. The past few years on the streets of Cyrodiil had left her with exceptional, erm, acquiring skills. That's it. She could acquire things extremely well.
The pamphlets made for good reading as she climbed the mountain to reach Bleak Falls Barrow. Apparently, that Jarl Ulfric had murdered the High King of Skyrim using an ancient power known only as the Voice. He and his Stormcloak rebellion declared war on the Empire, to fight for Skyrim's independence.
So they were rebels, she thought. She heard a sound from far off and folded the pamphlets, sticking them in her shoulder bag and unsheathing her sword from its scabbard at her side. As she prowled along the snow-covered path she could see the glow of a fire through the trees. She heard mumbling and figured it would be best if she remained unseen.
When they discovered her, she killed mercilessly, without a second thought. There wasn't much that went through her mind as she fought through Bleak Falls Temple. When she discovered the dark elf Arvel, she slit his throat before she cut him down. His pockets were full of gold, to her liking, and the claw was there. She was glad to think of the reward she would receive from those traders in Riverwood upon the claw's return.
As she cut down the draugr lord in the Bleak Falls Sanctum, she thought of Cyrodiil. She thought of the lush, warm climate. She thought of the days on her Aunt Lydda's farm, chopping wood and tilling the soil. She thought of milling the grains and dunking her sieve in the cool water of the stream. Her Aunt was obsessed with gold.
Perhaps that's why she was so quick to sell me off, the woman thought, as she met the slashes of her undead opponent. When a Khajiit caravan had passed through and offered Lydda gold for her young female companion. Lydda accepted, glad to have the burden of the girl taken off her shoulders.
The girl thought she was going to become a bed-slave. The girl was afraid that she would have to lay with those dirty, thieving cats.
But the girl was wrong.
The Khajiit used her as a serving-girl, at first, but as the cat-folk began to warm up to her, they taught her the arts of Speechcraft and Sneaking. They taught her how to search pockets in a busy crowd, and how to get the best of a man thrice her size, with only a blunt dagger.
When the girl was in the shadow of womanhood, the Khajiit tribe was murdered. Just like her parents had been murdered. Just like Aunt Lydda, as she would later discover, had been murdered. Her suspicious nature had her believing that someone was trying to chase her out of Cyrodiil.
The girl, who had become a young woman, spent the next few years attempting to learn more about her parentage. She knew only what her terrible aunt had told her; her mother had travelled to Skyrim and married a Nord, and the pair of them had returned to Cyrodiil after the girl was born. After the girl's mother, Aunt Lydda's younger sister, had come to the farm with her family, they were killed by bandits on their way to the capital. Lydda was left with the infant girl.
She suddenly thought of the dragon. That huge, black, hulking, beautiful creature. The way its skin gleamed in the sunlight, the way it seemed to bask in the fire that it produced… The way the people fled from it was almost captivating, in its own way. If she didn't know better, she almost admired its furious power.
She was sure that she would never forget the rage she felt when the Imperial captain announced she was to go to the block. Rage turned to silent, bitter hatred.
She swore that she would never forgive, because she would never forget. She had never forgotten anything.
It all happened so fast after that, for her. She followed that Stormcloak, Ralof, through Helgen Keep and all the way to Riverwood. She met Ralof's sister, Gerdur, who sent her on to Whiterun. That was a new experience for her. Sure, she'd been to the Imperial City a handful of times in her youth, but she spent most of her time in Cyrodiil on her aunt's farm or traveling with the Khajiit. And they never stopped anywhere for long.
She loved the air of Skyrim. It was so cold, it was almost cleansing. She could see mountains in all directions, outside. The snow was beautiful in its own, silent way. It was nothing like the dampness of Lydda's farm. There was no Imperial tower to be seen, anywhere, and it was relieving.
As the now grown woman finished off her draugr challenger, she was brought from her thoughts. There was something pulling at her, enveloping her. She heard distant chanting, as if a battalion of warriors was reveling in her success.
She turned, towards a curved wall behind her. The chanting was coming from the wall. She approached it, sword drawn, but there were no enemies to be found. There were etchings on the wall. They were words. Ancient words. The woman didn't know what they meant, but she could clearly read them.
One of the words was glowing.
The chanting grew louder in her head as she got closer to the word. She ran her fingers over the letters and inhaled sharply when understanding flowed into her. She knew this word, she'd heard it before, somewhere… She knew the word. She felt it move through her as the chanting reached a climax in her head. Fus. She rolled the word around on her tongue. Fus. It felt right.
With a jerk, she withdrew her hand. What was that, just then? What was that strange, calm feeling that had washed over her? She shrugged, turning away.
The Dragonstone was with the draugr, just like the wall of words had said it would be. The woman collected it carefully and fashioned a set of straps to tie it to her back. It would be much easier to take it back to Dragonsreach that way.
As she descended the mountain path, the true cold of Skyrim began to seep into her skin. She loved it. The muggy warmth of Cyrodiil had always bothered her. She did not like the feeling of her clothes sticking to her skin.
The wind only cut deeper as the sun finally fell below the horizon. Even as she saw the rooftops of Honningbrew Meadery and Battle-Born Farm, she could still feel the freezing wind whipping against her cheeks. As she followed the path towards Whiterun Stables, she thought she heard a commotion in the distance. It was hard to see in the dark, but she could make out the forms of three people. They were fighting against something very tall and lanky. The woman didn't know who they were or what they were fighting, but she suddenly wanted to be a part of it. She hoisted the Dragonstone up higher on her back and drew her sword, making her way towards the group.
The three people felled their target before she could reach them. She was disappointed, but not overtly. She sheathed her sword and was prepared to turn away, but a voice behind her captured her attention.
"Well, that's taken care of. No thanks to you," a female voice said, as a huntress with blue war-paint emerged from the darkness.
"You didn't look like you needed any help," the woman replied quietly, glancing at the huntress's two followers. They were inspecting the body of the giant creature.
"Certainly not. But a true warrior would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant," the huntress said haughtily, gesturing to the thing sprawled behind her. "That's why I'm here with my Shield-Brother and Shield-Sister." The woman saw the two followers look up.
"A giant?" the woman said, curiously, looking at its corpse behind the huntress. The huntress raised an eyebrow.
"Have you never seen a giant, stranger?" the huntress asked, hoisting her bow up on her shoulder. She called to one of her friends. "Farkas! Come here!"
The woman watched as a large man with steel armor and a greatsword on his back came over. He had dark hair and strangely silver eyes. The woman noticed that he and the huntress had a similar ferocity about them.
"What is it?" he asked in a gruff voice. The huntress slightly smiled.
"Can you believe that this milk-drinker has never seen a giant?" the huntress chuckled, looking at the woman. "Are you from Skyrim?" The woman shook her head, no.
"Well, an armed woman traveling alone in a foreign land must not be a cowardly one," the huntress said, giving an approving smirk. "My name is Aela, and this is Farkas. My Shield-Sister over there is Ria."
The woman supposed that she too should introduce herself. "My name is Sif."
Aela smiled at Sif as Farkas silently watched the two of them. "If you value honor and glory, you should seek out the Companions at Jorrvaskr," Aela said, the smile still on her face. Farkas raised an eyebrow at Aela's statement, but didn't say anything.
"Hey, we should head back," came Ria's voice, from far behind. Sif observed that she was packing the giant's toes into a leather bag.
"You should come with us to Jorrvaskr, traveler," Aela said. The three of them set on the path toward Whiterun. Ria trotted forward and joined them.
"Aela, what would Kodlak say? We can't just bring her with us," Farkas finally spoke. "Skjor and Vilkas won't be happy, either."
"Oh, gods damn your brother. Sometimes he's too critical for his own good," Aela shot back, causing a growl to rumble up from Farkas' chest. Ria chuckled to herself.
Sif tried to smile, she sincerely tried, but something had prevented her from feeling joy. Something must've happened to her, when she was a child. Sif never felt remorse, she was never guilty for anything, and she could do anything she wanted without a second thought. She had never screamed, she had never cheered or joined her Khajiit comrades in song. She had lived her life silently, and she was content to die silently, when the time came.
The four of them made their way to Whiterun. Aela and Farkas were quiet while Ria rehearsed her telling of their tale; killing a giant was no small task, and the three Shield-Siblings did so without struggle. Aela joined in Ria's rehearsal, and as Sif quietly followed them towards the Cloud District, they seemed to get their story straight.
"You have been quiet this entire time, stranger," Aela said, as she stopped under the Gildergreen. "Do you not have your own tales of victory?"
"I don't much care for boasting," Sif said, quietly. Her eyes connected with Aela's. They were the same color as Farkas'.
"Ah! A woman who lets her actions speak for her. I knew there was something I liked about you," she said approvingly. Sif noticed that Ria had climbed the steps towards a lodging house behind them; Sif assumed that it was Jorrvaskr.
"Aela, we have to go. Skjor will want to hear our story," Farkas grumbled, crossing his arms. Aela ignored him. She instead looked into Sif's eyes, as if she was searching for something there.
"When your duties bring you again to Whiterun, you must meet Kodlak," she said with a firm nod. "The old man would like to meet you."
"Aela." Farkas was growing impatient. She growled at him and turned away from Sif, joining him as they walked up the steps towards the mead hall. Farkas tossed a look over his shoulder at Sif; it was scrutinizing. He was looking for something, too.
Sif wished that she knew what everyone was searching for when they looked at her. It had been happening all her life; when she entered a crowded room, there was a sudden queer hush. When she looked into someone's eyes and spoke, they fell silent, as if their words had been stolen. If someone had the courage to look at her (for not many did), they always looked for something.
Sif shrugged it off. She ascended the steps towards Dragonsreach. Once inside, Farengar thanked her for retrieving the Dragonstone, but before he could introduce Sif to his mysterious hooded acquaintance, Irileth informed them that Jarl Balgruuf received reports of a dragon nearby. Sif would've been amused at Farengar's excitement, if she knew something of casual amusement.
"So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?" Sif heard Balgruuf say. When she and Farengar finished ascending the steps, she saw it was an unnerved guard that he was speaking with. The guard had taken off his helmet, revealing yellow-blond hair and frenzied eyes. He was clutching an amulet in his right hand, so fiercely that Sif could smell the blood pooling in his palm. There were drops on the floor, emitting a metallic scent.
"Tell him what you told me," Irileth urged the shaking man. He looked at her with fear in his eyes. "About the dragon," she clarified.
"Uh…That's right," he cleared his throat. "We saw it coming from the south. It was fast… Faster than anything I've ever seen."
"What did it do? Is it attacking the watchtower?" Balgruuf persisted. Sif could detect worry in his voice.
"No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life," he looked up at Sif, then to Irileth. "I thought it would come after me for sure."
Balgruuf nodded. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it." The boy bowed profusely, before retreating down the stairs on unsteady legs. Sif watched his blond head disappear. Balgruuf continued. "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."
"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," the dark elf replied. Balgruuf nodded.
"Good. Don't fail me."
Sif watched as Irileth disappeared and Balgruuf turned to address her. The light from the chandelier threw his face into perspective. Sif had the chance to admire the man's honorable stance, his effortless grace, and his unbendable will. It reminded her of that Jarl from Helgen.
"There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend. I need your help again," Balgruuf said, stepping towards Sif. She suddenly felt crowded. "I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."
He stepped forward again and put a hand on Sif's shoulder. She would've felt warmth, but she didn't. She only felt his hand, coupled with an inherent emptiness.
"Take that axe, and consider it a gift from my personal armory. It will help you defeat the dragon," Balgruuf gestured to the display case against the wall. "And, Sif." She looked at him. "Please, be careful. We've lost too many fine warriors already." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and removed his hand, sulking away into his quarters.
Sif approached the display case the Jarl had indicated and lifted the glass top. There was a large two-handed axe, with a leather handle. It was enchanted; even those with an untrained eye could tell. Sif disliked the heaviness of it, but she took it anyway, not wanting to slight the Jarl by ignoring his kindness. She believed his faith in her was misplaced, but she would do her best to fulfill his wishes.
Her purpose for coming to Skyrim was not only to escape Cyrodiil, and whatever was haunting her there. She knew her father was a Nord, and she knew he once owned a sprawling farm in the north-eastern area of the province. She didn't want much, she had never wanted much in her life, but she did want to know a little more about the circumstances of her unfortunate infancy. If she helped Balgruuf, she might have better means to travel northward. She understood that the northern territories were terribly cold, perhaps if she could find a proper guide and some warm clothing… Balgruuf would help her, if she helped him.
If not Balgruuf, perhaps that huntress and her sullen, wolfish friend would help.
She met with Irileth's forces at the gates of Whiterun, and though the Dunmer warned her against proceeding on her own, she did so. She raced across the plains, prepared to brandish her new axe, excited at the thought of seeing another dragon. Sif had never been excited for much, but the magnificence of a dragon did not fail to stir her unused feelings. If only she were to possess such terrifying power.
She came upon the watchtower, but was immediately warned away by a Nord hiding near the entrance. The place was in shambles. As the Nord shouted to Sif, the sound was drowned out by a metallic roar overhead. It shook Sif to her very core. She knew the dragon was back, but it was a different one than the dragon that attacked Helgen. They sounded different. As the huge beast passed overhead, she noted that this one's scales were lighter, with a bronze tint. Definitely a different dragon than the one at Helgen.
Sif dove under a cropping of rock as the dragon swooped over and released a blast of fire. She felt the heat of it through the stone, and she felt the ground shake as the beast landed. She heard shouting as she emerged, axe in hand, and saw that Irileth and her guardsmen were finally arriving. Sif rushed forward and swung, the beast roared in frustration as the axe smacked him across the nose. He snapped at Sif and she jumped back, swinging again. This time, it cut him, and thick, black blood sprayed everywhere as he roared and took flight.
"Bring it down!" Sif yelled. She could feel rage welling up inside her. Arrows flew from behind her as the dragon released another blast of deadly fire. She heard several men scream in agony; the smell of burnt flesh was apparent on the wind. "Bring it down, now!" Sif yelled again, her voice becoming a commanding force. As the arrows sailed, the dragon once more came crashing down.
Sif brandished her axe and began to hack at its wing. The dragon roared, reaching back and snapping at her. It caught her arm and her side, drawing blood and tearing her armor, but with one final swing, she buried the axe in the creature's forehead.
"Ah, Dovahkiin, it is you," the dragon purred. At once, his eyes connected with Sif's and she felt a tugging deep in her soul. "I thought it was. Drem yol lok." The dragon appeared to be speaking to no one but her. "I am proud to die by your hand."
Flecks of the dragon's skin began to flow away in the end as he closed his ember-colored eyes and exhaled deeply. Sif was speechless as more and more of his skin began to peel off and blow away, revealing age-old yellow bones underneath.
Suddenly, a warmth enveloped her, like the warmth she felt when she heard fus. She closed her eyes, she opened her palms. Again, she heard the distant chanting in her head, like an entire hall of warriors was celebrating her victory. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the dragon's bones before her, and she felt the word welling up inside of her.
"FUS!" she Shouted, suddenly. A blast of air came from her mouth and tore a path into the sky. She didn't know whether it came from her stomach or her heart, but she knew that she had just spoken the dragon language.
And she felt that there were more Words for her to learn, yet.
