Other than the eerie green light coming from the holes in the ceiling and six Thalmor—both mages and soldiers—pacing back and forth along the walkways, the Vaults aren't that bad. It could be worse.

My first thought is too not gather so much attention, and my second thought is why no one warned me that the Thalmor were already down here searching for the hiding Blade. I knew they were already in the city, but I hadn't realized that they'd already gallivanted down into the Vaults. I vaguely wonder if the unusual people back in the shady tavern were trustworthy or not; my initial and immediate answer is a strong 'no'.

It doesn't take ages to get past every single pacing Elf, but it does take a long time to be silent. I try to move about as swift as a mouse, or at least as quietly as I can in iron armour. The fact that I'm countless times bigger than a mouse makes it even more difficult, but I force myself to think like a mouse, despite how strange it might be. I stay along the walls and in the bits of shadow, watching and listening before moving.

After a time, it doesn't seem very silly at all, especially when I come up right behind a Thalmor mage and cut her throat before she has time to raise the alarm or fry me senseless with her spark spell.

The door leading out of the Vaults and into the Warrens is at the bottom, and I can see the entrance from which I came if I stand in the spilled oil on the floor. I approach the door carefully, a little frightened of what might be on the other side. The dull ring of a female voice and the humming of a man are the only sounds, other than distant clamour and groans. What is most chilling about this exploit is how quiet it is and how everything can be heard. I can hear a conversation carrying out between two of the Thalmor soldiers as I pass through the door and carry on beyond.

"Bucket, stone, inkpot…no, no," comes the garbled words of the woman; the way she scrabbles about and mutters can only define her as the blind woman Brynjolf mentioned. I steer clear of her as I enter a well-lit room. I see her sitting on the floor behind an iron gate, clutching a bucket and a ruined book. She begins to mutter the names of her possessions again.

I look around, wondering where Esbern might be. I see a set of stairs that lead up to a higher section, and as I climb, I glimpse a man sitting beside a fire. He's wearing a chef's hat and a bloody apron. My stomach clenches as he looks at me and flings out his hands aggressively.

I turn away and see a large, heavy door with a single slat in the center. I approach and the sense that Esbern could be behind it becomes a clearer thought. I hesitate momentarily, recalling Delphine's words: Tell him to remember the thirtieth of Frostfall.

I knock twice and say, without being too loud, "Esbern? Hello—are you in there?"

The slat, which happens to be a sliding window, is yanked open after a dragging minute with a squeaky hiss, and I see a pair of wide old eyes staring at me. "No, go away."
"Esbern, I need to talk to you," I persist.

"What…no," he stutters. "There's no Esbern in here. Go away!" he slams the window shut and I just stop myself from groaning in anxiety. This has just been a day of things not going as planned.

Desperate, I turn to my last and only possible option to convince the old man's mind. "Esbern. Delphine told me to tell you to 'remember the thirtieth of Frostfall'."

Silence lingers for a very long moment, and when the sliding window scrapes open again, I feel a burst of relief upon noticing the startled joy in Esbern's eyes.

"Delphine," he croaks. "She's alive? After all these years…she's still…? Oh, hold on a moment," his voice becomes gruff as he shuts the window and disappears from sight. I listen to his scrambling fingers and the sound of more than a dozen bolts being undone. I feel my eyebrows rise higher and higher as the clanking continues, and I start to feel worried as the slam of each one unlocking rings off the wet stone walls.

At last, the door scrapes open with a horrible screeching, the metal base grating against the floor and on my nerves. Esbern stands in the opening, his round little face deep lines of wary wrinkles.

"Come in, come in quickly, so that they will not find us," he ushers me in hurriedly, beckoning me with frantic little motions. I make my way in, bending slightly at the waist to avoid bumping my head against the low hanging doorframe. I notice that, as Esbern closes the door behind me and I straighten, I am taller than the man.

Esbern is short and stout, his skin wrinkled and stretched, his eyes hollow and his mouth a drooping sag. His head is balding rapidly, his scalp freckled, his jaw slack and weak. He looks tired and frail, and he stands with a slight bend, a curve to the spine. He stares up at me in curiosity.

"How is Delphine?" he asks me, a fondness entering his voice. He must miss her, which surprises me. Delphine hardly made mention of him when I spoke to her, only that she was eager to have him found. I wonder what exactly are the terms of their relationship.

"She's fine," I say, not exactly knowing what Esbern wants to hear. "She's running a tavern in Riverwood."

This seems to crack the little old man up; the smile that splits his face into half a dozen more lines brings a tender grin to my face.

"I'm astonished to hear such a thing. Are you certain that we are talking about the same person?" he asks once he calms, rubbing humoured tears from his eyes. I nod and he chuckles again. "Well, it's good to know she's safe. How did she know I would be down here?"

"Common sense," I say. "I found a dossier of you in the Thalmor Embassy, and Delphine pointed me to Riften. She figured that there was someone here who knew their way around."

"I suspect one of them folks from the little tavern directed you to me?"

"Uh hmm," I reply. "But I think we need to go. Now. The Thalmor are here and they're looking for you, Esbern," I push a bit of urgency into my tone and Esbern's face suddenly falls. He turns away, shambling across the slick floor to a chair beside a desk. He sinks into it, joints popping loudly, and stares at a collection of papers on the surface.

"Esbern?"

"There's no use, child. What difference will it make to remain here or to venture out there and risk being seen? All of this," he gestures to the air around him. "Will be gone long before next year."

"What are you talking about?" I gape at him. Has he truly fallen off of his nut?

"Don't you realize it?" a sudden strength enters his tone turning his voice into a booming command that should belong to a man, not a half-starved paranoid elder. "Don't you see the world around you? Alduin has returned and he will eat the world, just as the prophecy says. There is no hope."

"Alduin?" I murmur. "Is that the…black dragon?"

Esbern nods irritably. "Yes, yes. The big monstrous creature foretold to destroy the world. The son of Akatosh and the God of Destruction, they called him. And he has returned from the beginning of time to finish his work."

I approach Esbern, wondering what to say, or how to say it. All I know is that I, the Dragonborn, can defeat dragons and that I'm meant to save the world. This dragon—Alduin—this nightmare that started all of this for me, is the reason I'm here. I wonder how things would have been if he didn't exist, or if I didn't. I stare at Esbern, feeling myself become lost in the agonized curves of his brow and jaw, and thoughtlessly say, "There is hope."

"Hmm? What are you jabbering on about?" he starts, glaring at me.

"I…Esbern, I need to tell you," I come around the desk and crouch in front of him, taking his wrinkled hands. He looks confused and suspicious, but I know that telling him will change his mind, open his eyes, and perhaps give him light.

"Esbern, I'm the Dragonborn—the Dovahkiin. I'm…I'm here."

For a moment, I believe the old man didn't hear me, but I know when he's understood. His eyes glow and his face beams, and he leans forward abruptly in the chair spluttering, "Is this true? You really are…ah. We must go."

"I'm here," I repeat dumbly, stunned as he stands and starts to dart about his room, gathering an armful of papers as he goes. He at last dumps them into a pot, lights a torch and sets the papers ablaze.

"What are you doing?" I exclaim.

"We mustn't leave clues for the Thalmor. This is all very important," he prods at the smoldering pages with a long iron stick. "We must remain ahead of them and get to Sky Haven Temple."

"Where?" I can hardly hear him over the scraping of his stick on the pot. He shakes his head, peeking into the pot with a satisfied grunt, then rushes to the little chest at the base of his bed. He pulls out a pair of leather boots that appear to be at least three decades old, and a fur cloak. He tugs it all on, tucks a slip of aged paper into a pocket, weighs a coin purse, then turns to me with a smile. "Alright, let's go."