A/N: I changed the title from "Darkness Falls, and I Will Rise", but don't worry, it's the same story! :)
A loud rumbling noise filled the air. It sounded more like a roar deep in the throat of some enormous creature; like a dragon. The one little word shook the ground, making it feel like the whole world split into two halves. Dovahkiin, dovahkiin, dovahkiin—it echoed through Skyrim with a weird, eerie sound.
Méra stood with her gaze towards the starry sky. The smoke burned her eyes, the smell of blood filled her nose, and as the sudden wave of shock left her, the pain slowly returned to her body.
"Let's keep going," Vilkas tugged on her hand but didn't move yet.
The calling of the Greybeards reached them when they walked past the Gildergreen, and now they stood there like their feet were glued to the cobbled stones. Unlike the Plains District, this part of the city remained untouched—as if nothing happened.
He put his arm around her waist to give her a little push, and Méra winced from the pain when she made the first step. She took small and sharps breaths, she clenched her fists, and she bit her tongue to keep her painful moans in. She wasn't sure how she could walk up the stairs without collapsing, but the next time she dared to take a deep breath, she was already inside the warm halls of Jorrvaskr.
Vilkas let her go and turned to her. She avoided his eyes and her face was as pale as the moonlight. He could practically feel how much pain she was in, and it quickened his pulse.
The door burst open with a loud bang. Farkas hurried over to them, panting heavily. "Are you two okay?"
"Find Danica," Vilkas said without answering his question. "Tell her we need her help now."
Farkas sighed, extending his arms. "I'll try, but there are a lot of injured—"
"I don't care!" Vilkas roared; his features hardening. "Just bring her here."
Without waiting for his brother's reaction, Vilkas took Méra's hand again and led her across the hall, down to the basement, then through the long corridor. Every step was harder to make with her swollen leg and Vilkas wanted to pick her up, but when he tried, she hissed from the pain in her ribs. He put an arm around her, letting her lean most of her weight on him while he helped to walk her into his bedroom. Vilkas wanted to lay her down, but her back hurt too much so she remained sitting, gripping the edge of the bed.
Méra bowed her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and let out a shaky breath. She didn't remember when she last felt so overwhelmed; the last time she felt so many different emotions almost at once. The physical pain was nothing compared to what she felt inside; swirling, powerful, stormy.
When she lifted her head, Vilkas sat across of her in a chair, arms crossed over his chest and staring off into the distance. His eyes quickly found hers, as if he sensed she was watching him.
"Did you know about this?"
Méra felt so weak she didn't even have the strength to be mad after his absurd question. "No," she said firmly, her icy gaze staring into his blue eyes, and Vilkas felt a cold shiver running down his spine.
She tried to straighten her body but stopped midway in her movement with a painful whimper. Vilkas clenched his jaw, his leg bouncing up and down. He watched as Méra searched for something in the little pouch that was tied around her waist, but sighed when she looked into it. Each of the vials broke; the potions and poisons mixed together.
"Thank you," Méra said after a few minutes of silence. Her voice was hoarse, quiet.
Vilkas frowned. "What for?"
"You saved my life," she looked down, shaking her head like she still couldn't believe it. When was the last time someone risked their life for hers? Besides, so far it didn't seem like Vilkas would do something like this for her.
"Well," Vilkas smiled, leaning back on the chair. "Guess you owe me. Again."
But Méra's features remained confused still. "Why are you doing this? Why do you care about me?"
Vilkas swallowed hard. It was a question he asked himself many times by now but never thought about it enough to find the answer. He was afraid of it, even though he didn't admit it to himself. "Shouldn't I?"
"No. You probably shouldn't." Méra replied weakly, remembering how she lost everyone she ever cared about.
Vilkas opened his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say, it stuck in his throat. The door of his bedroom opened and Danica stepped in, shooting a furious look at Vilkas before her gaze fell on the woman on the edge of the bed. Her features went from annoyed to worried. The healer made Méra stand up, helping her out of her clothes. After she took her hooded cape off, Danica looked angrily at Vilkas again.
"And what are you still doing here? Out! Now."
"I don't think she's that shy, ma'am," the companion tried to joke, but Danica gave him a look that made him leave his own room immediately.
Méra lost track of time. She felt like an eternity had passed since the healer arrived, trying to mend her broken bones and clean her wounds. The bowl of clean water was dark now, the grey piece of washcloth red from her blood. There were open wounds on her back, her thigh bone and three of her ribs broke, and she suffered a mild concussion. Danica could heal most of it with spells, though not entirely. However, she could do nothing with the burns on her arm. Spells and potions helped little to none on injuries left by a dragon.
For the lack of a better option, she put herbs on the wound and gauged her forearm—at least it relieved the pain. She sighed and wiped her forehead. "I'll come by tomorrow and bring the Court Wizard with me. He probably knows more about dragons than I."
Méra bit back a groan. She would rather poke her own eyes out then let that crazy wizard come close to her.
The priestess left soon and Méra lowered down on the bed. She wanted to wait for Vilkas, but in the moment her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A blunt noise woke Méra up. Her eyes shot open immediately, searching for the source of the noise, but everything was silent in the dimly lit room. Her pulse raced, she felt disoriented, and her head throbbed with pain. She closed her eyes again, letting herself drift back to sleep—but then she heard the noise again, and now she was wide awake.
Someone knocked, she recognized. Slowly, she fought herself up in a sitting position, keeping the furs and blankets around herself. "Come in," she rasped out; her mouth dry as sandpaper.
Vilkas quickly shut the door after he stepped in. He looked worried and sleep-deprived, his hair messy and dark circles under his eyes.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, pulling a chair closer to the bed and dropping himself down.
Méra gave the tiniest shrug. "Like someone who just killed a dragon."
"You slept for two days."
"Yeah, I feel like I did," she said, rubbing her temple. She rested her back against the wall but she immediately leaned away with a hiss; the stone was cold like ice against her skin. Méra shuddered and pulled the covers tighter around her body. There was no fireplace in Vilkas' small chamber and only bandages covered some parts of her.
The companion told her that Danica and Farengar were there yesterday, but he only let the healer in so she could change her bandages and cast some spells. Méra didn't remember at all; the sleeping potion that the priestess gave her must have been truly strong.
"It's full moon tonight, so I'll leave for a couple days," Vilkas said. "Don't disappear while I'm away."
Méra arched an eyebrow. She wasn't sure she felt strong enough to even leave this bed, let alone to disappear. Then again, she remembered, she had survived worse. The thought almost made her laugh. Oh, don't worry about me. It was just a dragon, I've survived worse. She chased her thoughts away.
"And what should I be doing here?"
"Rest," Vilkas replied instantly. "Try to figure out your next step."
The next step. Méra felt her heart skip a beat, and Vilkas heard it too. Now that she was awake, she had plenty of time to think about this whole Dragonborn-situation. The simple thought made her shiver—not because it scared her, not because it surprised her, but because everything made sense now. As if she didn't just become the Dragonborn, but it had always been there, somewhere deep, buried inside her. And now it's awakened, and she couldn't ignore it.
"Are you okay?"
Méra cleared her throat. "I'm fine."
Vilkas didn't believe her, but he didn't pester her. "I have to go. Tilma will bring you food and anything you need," he stood up and pushed the chair back to the corner. As Méra followed his movements, she saw her sword was there, leaned against the wall. "Your armor is with Eorlund, our blacksmith. He'll fix it but he'll not give it to you until I'm back," he said with a wink, making Méra roll her eyes. If she wanted to leave, she could easily steal it and leave before anyone could notice.
After Vilkas opened the door, he turned back to her. "Don't let the others intimidate you," he said, but seeing the amused expression on Méra's face, he quickly added, "And please, for the love of Ysgramor, don't intimidate them."
The sun almost disappeared behind the mountains when Vilkas left Jorrvaskr. The heavy rain cooled down the warm summer day, filling the air with its musky scent. He stepped inside the Underforge, running his palm down his wet beard.
Farkas, who leaned against the wall, now straightened his back and flashed a grin at his brother. "Did you get a goodbye kiss?"
Vilkas only gave a small glance from the corner of his eye but didn't stop; he continued his way deeper into the cave where the others were waiting for him. They were suspiciously silent this afternoon.
Skjor, who stood between Aela and Kodlak, stepped closer to Vilkas. His features were hard, worry and maybe even anger deepened his wrinkles; his voice hoarse, and yet, it had a nice lightness to it. "Are you sure it's a good idea to leave her alone while we're away?"
Vilkas nodded. "You can trust her."
"Well, I don't," Skjor replied, furrowing his brows. "And you shouldn't either. You barely know her."
Vilkas glanced at his brother, who cast his eyes down. He knew his twin could be the only one who spoke about them, about her. He didn't say anything, so Skjor went on. "I don't care what she is or what you feel for her. You shouldn't let a stranger into our halls."
"Skjor…" Aela said softly, sighing. She didn't want them to get in a fight right before the transformation, knowing well it could easily lead to some ugly scenes later.
But Skjor's eyes rested on Vilkas. He could see right through him as no one else could; better than his brother, better than Kodlak. "You can't risk our safety for a woman."
"I don't risk anything for anyone," Vilkas snapped. "She's heavily injured and she needed a place to stay. Should I have left her out on the streets?"
"We're companions, not priests or healers. Our job is—"
"What exactly?" Vilkas cut him off so sharply it startled Skjor. There weren't many people who were brave – or stupid – enough to talk to him like that. "I'm here to help those who need it, and Méra needs it."
Skjor opened his mouth to answer, but Aela stepped between them, extending her arms to push them away from each other. "That's enough," she was looking at Skjor; her voice rough but her eyes soft. "I think our brothers and sisters can take care of themselves."
Skjor barked a laugh. "I can't believe you agree with him," he said, then looked at Kodlak. The harbinger was eerie silent the whole time—the whole day, actually. "Are you not saying anything?" He asked with clear disdain in his voice.
He let out a slow, deep breath; eyes darting between the two companions. "We should support the Dragonborn. Letting her stay is the least we can do after what she did."
Skjor sighed but didn't say anything. He shook his head and made his way towards the exit: the one that led out of the city. Aela and Farkas followed him, but Kodlak stopped next to Vilkas and patted his shoulder.
"Trust your instincts, Vilkas. But never let them blind you."
He held his gaze for a few seconds until he couldn't. If he trusted his instincts, he would have kept away from Méra a long time ago. He didn't forget—he had a bad feeling about her since the very first time he met her. And yet, he threw his instincts out of the window and kept her close. You're making a mistake, a little voice told him from the back of his head.
He ignored the voice that night, and deep down, he knew he will ignore it for the rest of his days.
Méra spent the following day in bed. As Vilkas promised, the maid checked on her multiple times a day and brought her food, though she told her she's more than welcome to eat upstairs with the others if she wanted to. Thankfully, Danica told her she must stay in bed for a week, giving her the perfect excuse to avoid everyone.
While she lied in the chilly chamber, Méra had a lot of time to think about what happened. There were so many things in her life she could never understand, but now every piece fell perfectly into place. The whispering, her death, Durnehviir's words, the prophecy.
The prophecy about Serana. Neither of them understood it and besides the Moth Priest, everyone thought it was just made-up. But now, it all made sense. When dragons return to the realm of men. She wondered if it was truly about her. After all, she died and she came back.
She desperately wished she could speak to Serana. It had been a long time since she really, truly missed her, but now the feeling burned a hole into her chest. She would listen to her, she would understand her, she would help her figure out what she should do. She would follow her anywhere.
Well, maybe not anymore, Méra thought and tightly squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to fight her tears back, but she couldn't. She spent the rest of the day under the blankets, silently sobbing, leaving her food untouched and acting like she was asleep when someone knocked on the door.
The second day after the Circle left had passed much better. Her burned arm healed very fast, and it shocked the priestess. "It isn't normal," she kept murmuring under her breath, frustrated as she couldn't find an explanation.
Méra could finally get up and take a walk around the room. If she had any clothes besides her undergarments, she would have tried to go upstairs. Vilkas' chamber was cold and she was dying to feel the sun on her skin. It reminded her of the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, which was also underground and she never knew it was daytime or deep in the night.
She opened the wardrobe and tried to find something to wear. Vilkas didn't have many clothes, but they were all too big for her to even try. With a defeated sigh, she looked around the room. There were books and maps everywhere. It surprised Méra: warriors like him weren't famous for their love of reading. She even found a diary—it was tempting, but she fought back the urge to read it.
Ria visited her on the third day, right after Danica left. Just like the last time they met, she couldn't stop talking this time either. Méra forced a smile, nodded or hummed an answer when it was necessary. She didn't feel like talking, especially not to a stranger. She hoped the girl would take the hint sooner or later—she didn't.
At least she learned a lot about the aftermath of the dragon's attack. The gates and a part of the high stone walls had been completely destroyed; the Plains District heavily damaged. Mostly soldiers and guards died and a few dozens of citizens, but considering what happened, it could have been much, much worse.
They already started to rebuild the city: Jarl Balgruuf had no time to waste while they were in the middle of a war.
"Can you do something for me?" Méra asked quickly after Ria stopped talking about the damages but before she could start talking about something else.
"Oh, of course!"
"I need something to wear. I want to leave this room but…"
Ria squirmed in her chair. "Well, Vilkas said we shouldn't let you go…"
Méra rolled her eyes. She wondered if Vilkas really believed they could stop her. "I won't leave. I just want to take a walk upstairs."
Ria hesitated, but left a minute later to find something for her. Méra took the advantage and quickly drank the rest of her sleeping potion that Danica left there for her, and when the young companion returned, she was already sleeping.
When she woke up hours later, Méra found a plain, dark green dress draper over the wooden chair. She tried it on, surprised that it was perfect for her.
She left her sword in the room, but slipped the dagger into the belt that hugged her waist. Her thigh still hurt with every step, but it was nearly not as bad as before; she didn't even flinch from the slight pain. The long, dimly lit corridor stood empty and silent; she could hear the echo of her footsteps.
Vilkas sat by the long table, poking the bowl of stew with a spoon. The transformations had been exhausting and painful, and somehow, he always lost his appetite. This full moon was tougher than usual. He couldn't remember much, just bits and pieces. Sometimes he thought it was for the best.
The main hall was quiet after Jarl Balgruuf stepped in with his steward on his right and his Housecarl on his left. He still stood close to the door, talking to Kodlak in a quiet voice. Vilkas knew if he focused on them, he would be able to hear them, but he didn't even try. He was too tired.
The door of the basement opened and closed, and he looked up at the noise. Méra walked up the stairs, slowly, hiking the long skirt up with one hand. It never ceased to amaze Vilkas how gracefully she could move, with such light steps and delicate sway of her hips; he couldn't take his eyes off her.
Méra pulled out the chair next to Vilkas and carefully sat down. "Stop staring at me like a hungry wolf," she said, pouring some wine into a goblet.
Vilkas shifted, looking away from her. "I didn't… I just…"
Méra couldn't stifle a laugh while she took a sip from the drink. She leaned closer to him, resting her palm on his shoulder and her chin on the back of her hand. He had dark circles under his eyes and a fresh cut across his cheek. "You're adorable."
Vilkas wriggled his shoulders free from under her touch. "I see you feel better."
"Much better," Méra nodded. As she watched Vilkas, she had to realize her mood lifted at the moment she saw him. She hated to admit it but she missed him, and the thought made her squirm in her chair. "When did you come back?"
"About an hour ago. I went to see you but you were sleeping."
Méra's eyes wandered around the room. Most of the Companions were up in the hall at this late afternoon; even the Circle. While Vilkas and his brother looked exhausted and even weak, Aela and Skjor seemed to be just fine. Méra knew well why. Those who fought against the beast blood had a worse time during the transformation than those who didn't. She wanted to ask Vilkas about it, but then her gaze stopped on the Harbinger and his guest.
"What is the Jarl doing here?"
Vilkas shrugged. "Don't know."
"Does he come here often?"
"Once in a blue moon," he replied. "If he wants something, he sends his steward."
"I heard they were talking about the dragon," Farkas, who sat across them, leaned closer above the table. "I hope he doesn't want our help to rebuild the city. We have more than enough problems already."
Vilkas nodded in agreement, giving a meaningful look. There had always been jobs to do around Skyrim, and never enough companions. Besides, the Silver Hands almost never let them rest.
Soon enough, Jarl Balgruuf took a seat by the end of the long table. Before Kodlak joined him, he sent everyone down the basement—except the Circle. Méra made a motion to stand up, but the Harbinger told her she could stay.
Somehow, she could feel it meant nothing good. What have I gotten myself into, she thought with a tired sigh before she packed her plate with food and downed a goblet of wine.
"I don't know what to do," the Jarl said, running his palm over his face. Méra noticed he looked at least ten years older than the last time they met. "As if the Civil War wasn't enough, now we have to deal with dragons. I'm not stupid. I know it's only a matter of time before the Imperials or the Stormcloaks attacks us now, while we're weak."
"Normally I'd suggest to ask for the king's help, but…" Kodlak trailed off, and the hall went silent.
"I need more soldiers to protect my city," Balgruuf said. "But our best people left to fight in the war."
"Jarl Balgruuf," Kodlak Whitemane spoke up again, his arms folded on the table. "The Companions have never taken sides and we won't start it now. We will help as much as we can, but we won't take a part in this war. However," he exhaled deeply and leaned back in the chair, his features hardening. "You could choose a side, and maybe you should consider doing it until it isn't too late. I know you've been trying to stay independent, but as a leader, you need to know when to swallow your pride and ask for help. You're risking thousands of lives. I think you and I both know there's only one way to stop this war: fighting it. You can't just stop it. No one can."
The Jarl cast his eyes down, staring at his feet for a few seconds. When he lifted his head, he looked dedicated. "There's someone who might."
Everyone followed his gaze and all eyes stopped on Méra. She arched an eyebrow, looking around the table like she wasn't sure it was really happening; though deep down, she counted on it. "Me?"
"You're the Dragonborn, yes? A legend. People will listen to you and follow you anywhere."
Méra let out a breathy chuckle and put her goblet down. "So you want me to do… what exactly? To talk to Ulfric and Tullius and convince them to stop fighting? I'm afraid no one has the power for that."
"I want you to become the High Queen."
Once again, the room fell so silent Méra could hear her own, rapid heartbeat. She didn't take her eyes off the Jarl, mostly because she didn't want to see the others' reaction. It took all of her effort to choke back a laugh, but the idea was so absurd. So absurd… and yet, it made her wonder if the Jarl knew who she was.
"My apologies," the steward broke the silence, raising his hand and shaking his head. "But are you sure it would be a good idea to make a queen of someone we know nothing about? All because of some tale?"
"At this point, Aventus," the Jarl sighed, his eyes filled with worry. "I'd rather take the risk. This war has been already going on for too long. We can't do this anymore—not now, when we have much bigger problems. No one has seen dragons in centuries. We need to strengthen our defense all over Skyrim, but we can only do that if we stop the war first. Besides, I cannot really imagine anyone worse than Ulfric and Tullius."
I can. Her name is Elenwen, Méra thought bitterly, and suddenly, being a queen didn't seem such a stupid idea anymore. I could drive the Thalmor out once and for all, I could kill them all, I could take revenge. These thoughts clouded her mind for a few seconds and she clenched her fists under the table so hard her knuckles went white. Kodlak's hoarse voice shook her out of her thoughts.
"I'm not saying it's impossible. However, I thought Ulfric doesn't let the Moot happen."
"That's true," Balgruuf nodded. "But I believe he could be convinced. If there's anything in this world that Ulfric respects it's the Way of the Voice. The Dragonborn might be able to convince him."
"Even if she could," Irileth spoke up this time from the Jarl's left. "Why do you think people would choose her? I don't know much about this Dragonborn situation, but I do know that Skyrim always chose someone to rule from a royal family."
Jarl Balgruuf looked Méra in the eyes, and now she was sure he knew it. He knew who she was. A cold shiver ran down her spine, hoping he won't reveal her secret. "Dragonborns used to rule, Irileth," he said. "It was a long time ago, but Nords respect them nevertheless. More than you think. Maybe it's nonsense for you and a childish tale for Aventus, but not for us."
"Respect," Méra said with a short, sharp laugh as she lifted her gaze up to the ceiling. Everyone turned to her again, waiting for her to continue. She shook her head, before she looked at Balgruuf. "Tell me how many people sit on the Jarl's chair just because they chose a side. Not because they believe in their cause, oh no; only because they could gain power. Do you know what would happen if I would go to the Moot? They would laugh at me. I have no money to share. I have no lands or cities to give. What do they care about respect or traditions when they can have a whole city to rule? You overestimate people, Jarl Balgruuf."
"I might do," he said after a long, strained minute of silence. The Circle watched them with bated breath. "But I don't want to give up. And right now, you're our best chance."
Méra shrugged. "You could always just choose a side. Whatever you decide they'll help you to protect Whiterun."
"It isn't only about Whiterun," the Jarl said a little louder than he intended. "If I join, the war won't stop, and we need it to stop! The Imperials and the Stormcloaks are fighting over a land that's already ours, tearing it apart in the process. They weaken us until they we have no chance left against the dragons. You are the Dragonborn—you might be the only one who could stop this. If you can't, if you won't, then who will?"
Méra jumped up so quickly a sharp pain jolted through her leg. She kicked her chair back, right into the hearth in the middle of the hall. "Then let them destroy it," she said the words so calmly and yet with so much anger in her eyes that no one dared to say anything. "What do I care if the dragons burn the whole world down? This place is corrupt, sick and rotten. I'll never fight for it."