I met the Dragonborn twice after we parted ways.

When I returned home, I kept the stories of our travels a secret. There was no point in dwelling on the days of the past when it had all been just a delusion, and I wanted to put it all behind me. At the same time, I couldn't wear my heart out on a sleeve to my colleagues. I couldn't tell anyone; the men wouldn't understand, and the women would gossip and make it worse. We're warriors, after all, with hearts and wills of cold steel. Opening up and bawling my emotions out like some sop-eyed milkmaid would only destroy the little that remained of my reputation; I refused to answer the nagging questions about what had happened, and over time, they let me alone.

My friends told me that I had become different. Rightly so. I had become more quiet, more reclusive, but I can't say that my days were badly spent. The Jarl had gifted me with a raise in the wake of my service to the chosen one, as undeserved as the title was, and so I had amounted a tidy sum of money in my absence. It was a pleasant surprise. I began to develop interests and hobbies, lurking in the kitchens and picking up recipes to improve my cooking, or dabbling in unarmed combat from time to time with Aela of the Companions, with whom I hunted every so often. I even had a brief fling with the sitar, though the slender strings proved to be no match for my battle-hardened fingers.

The first time I met the Dragonborn was six weeks after my dismissal, in Riverwood.

Around a month and a half after my return, scouts reported sightings of a dragon looming south of the river. The Jarl sent me, Raven-wing and Gehari to keep watch in Riverwood; more precisely, to put the hearts of the villagers at ease. We set off, arrived, and made ourselves familiar with the town. Alvor remembered me faintly, as did the owner of the general goods store; they were surprisingly understanding when I told them I was no longer with the Dragonborn, and kept quiet about it to my immense gratitude. As we were there as a reassurance and not a force, we were free, rather, encouraged to mingle with the locals. It gave Whiterun's authority a friendly face. Alvor's - not Aldur, as I thought it was - daughter took a liking to me, and when we were not training, I played with her, usually harmless games of tag around the village or scaring chickens and watching them flapping away with squawks. Those were blissful days, and I savour them now more than ever.

It was the second week of our dispatchment to Riverwood when the Dragonborn showed up, laden heavily with loot. He was still wearing the same armour as before, although he had a new set of maces, orcish by the black gleam of the metal in the midday sun.

I managed to avoid him seeing me as he conducted his dirty business around town. To be precise, I told my friends that I was going into the woods for a walk, and hid in a bush, planning to wait until he had left before reappearing. Duty called, though, and I found my plans sorely crushed.

There was an ear-splitting roar. There were screams and the sound of a pot shattering, dropped to the ground. There was the sound of rushing wind and a snarl.

A dragon was attacking the village.

I shoved my way through the throng of panicking villagers, quickly taking in the situation. At the gates, the dragon circled the air. It was a cunning one. It dived at us, breathing ice breath, before perching itself on a roof. When it had rested its wings for no more than twenty seconds, it took to the skies again, where none of us could attack it properly. We only had a short window of opportunity to attack it, and even then, our swords were useless - we had to rely on our arrows, which made paltry scratches against the thick hide of the dragon. None of us could fire an arrow upwards and reach that height, let alone give it enough force to penetrate its hide.

In the chaos, the Imperial guards had stepped in, too. Everyone with a bow was firing madly, including the Dragonborn.

"Stand back!" he roared, facing the airborne dragon. "Fus Ro Dah!"

The Shout ripped through the air and slammed into the dragon with a force so powerful that it was audible. It thudded against its torso and the dragon lost balance, dropping to the ground with a crash. We charged up to it as soon as we saw it fall, and starting hacking at it like mad. The dragon tried to chase us off with a wall of frost, but we were prepared for its tricks. We had been equipped with enchanted shields for the very purpose of closing the distance between us and it. Dodging its wing beatings and its snapping jaws were a lot harder, though, and a moment's carelessness caused Raven-wing to collapse as a fang tore open her arm.

"Raven-wing!" I screamed, rushing to her side. Gehari noticed and ran over to give me cover as I dragged her away with one hand, fumbling for a potion with the other. The stopper refused to open; I had no choice but to break the vial with my grip. The life-giving water, mixed with fresh blood, dripped on to her gash and my own. I brushed the glass away quickly. It was odd how fast my hand had healed, but I was certainly not complaining. If I could still draw my arrow, then I was fine with it happening. I turned back to the dragon, which had taken to the skies again. It was well and truly enraged now, and rained ice from its unparalleled advantage above. The blows were not as forceful, but the persistent, unavoidable cold bit against our skin and armour. Our swords started to chip. Our eyes started to sting. With a growing dread, I realized that the dragon was actually using tactics - it was going to prolong the fight and outlast us. It could keep up the offence. We could not.

The Dragonborn let loose a battle cry. He whipped out one stave after another, casting spells that lit up the very earth, summoning floating Atronachs and coursing arcs of lightning. The one-man army was sending wave after wave of magic up at the dragon, but it was not good enough; he had never been good with the arcane arts, and his summons were weak slaves that vanished with a new wave of dragon breath.

The dragon swooped down and landed, nearly breaking the roof. It poured vengeful blizzard to the village below before making its clumsy way down to the ground, squatting in the centre of the road. That was when it spoke, and I heard its words like that of the dragon so very long ago:

"Dragonborn. You defy nature!"

The Dragonborn was the first to rush forward, only to stumble as his brashness was rewarded with a direct blast of ice to the face.

"You defy destiny, and you shall pay."

"Then make me!" yelled the Dragonborn, draining flask after flask of potion and standing stronger with each. He Shouted at the dragon with an intensity I had never heard before. It was much more raw, more desperate, more primal than I have ever heard of before, and definitely more powerful. It was so strong that it picked up the dragon and tossed it on its back. The Dragonborn seized the chance and leapt after it madly, hammering his maces on any exposed part in sight. He was screaming as he literally tore the dragon into pieces, breaking joints and shattering bones with each swing. As the dragon breathed its last and began to crackle into ash, he was still at it, crushing its ribcage, until the dust finally settled and he collapsed, panting heavily.

We watched silently as the Dragonborn straightened himself up. He made his way back to solid ground with a stiffness in his legs, like he had just aged thirty years; he kneeled down and loosened a couple of bones and packed them away before casting his emotionless face at us.

"Is this the power of the Dragonborn?" "He absorbed its soul!" "I've never seen anything like it!" murmured the crowd. I tried my best to stay hidden.

The Dragonborn walked over to us slowly. No running nor jumping, just walking. He made his way over to Alvor's smithery and bent down.

My mind turned numb when I saw that Alvor was dead.

He laid there, pushed by some strong force into a corner. He was crumpled up, as if his spine had been broken, and that was most likely the case. He had died with a greatsword in his hands, one of his own crafting. His eyes were closed and his lips were twisted not in pain, but in surprise. He was covered in glittering crystal, and there was no pool of blood gathering around his body. He had, most likely, been killed by the dragon.

"Lydia, what's going on?" blurbed the little girl as she waddled up to me. I looked up and saw her mother, standing stock still, frozen. A quick glimpse at the child's hand showed me thick lines of red upon pale skin; her mother had been holding her hand in a vice grip, and had probably only let go at the shock of her husband's demise.

"Lydia, what's wrong?"

I never did give her an answer, now that I come to think of it. All I did was hold her tightly, the tightest I've ever held anyone since the day my parents died, and sobbed into her hair. We sat there in the dust, long after the crowd had dispersed and the Dragonborn left - but, according to Gehari, not before stopping to look at me with that vacant expression of his, and Gehari claims to have heard him whisper: "It's my fault."