Disclaimer: *checks bank account* Nope, don't own Skyrim.

Chapter Warnings: An f-bomb is dropped.

This one is fairly short compared to the last few. I wondered for a while about padding it, but there is the quantity / quality correlation to consider...

Chapter Thirteen: The Proverbial Molehill

Zahra was sipping jazbay tea — it was more commonly used for wine, but also made a fine brew — and internally bemoaning the lack of coffee of any kind in Skyrim, when János burst in the front door. He was sweaty from the forge and he still held an iron dagger (Zahra knew his skill extended far beyond this, but iron was what he made when he wanted to beat Oblivion out of something) clenched in his hand. "They're coming! Maea and Briarlin are almost here — just saw the signal on the south road."

The pair's signal, being a fire arrow shot into the air followed by an ice spike, was one Zahra had heard the others (including Irén, as this was before her disappearance) discussing late in the "Bannered Mare Months" when they were all desperate for something to focus on and anxious to be out of inn living. She hadn't thought anyone would actually use their agreed-upon signal. Or that János would remember the specifics.

"Are you sure it's them?" She set her tea down on the table, then, thinking better of it, picked it back up and took a gulp. The tart drink burned on the way down, but at least she felt a little calmer. That had been a good thing a mere two hours previously, when János had taught her about her new status in Nord culture. Goodness, the hero worship…

"Fairly sure. Who wastes flaming arrows by shooting them straight up? Could start a tundra fire. Speaking of which…" He ducked outside.

Zahra stood and, clutching her teacup, followed him.

The fresh air, nippy already with the promise of winter, made her shiver and wish she had grabbed her shawl. In Skyrim, autumn and spring were so short as to be nonexistent, so she hardly had a chance to wear anything but thick fur-lined armor to fight the cold, or light leather for the glorious "gadfly-lived" summers. A shame — she liked that shawl.

Two dark figures slowly approached from the south, on the worn path between the hills. With a bit of squinting Zahra could tell one was a great deal shorter than the other. Many more seconds dragged by before she could make out their clothes, and minutes before they got close enough for Zahra to feel comfortable waving at them. Briarlin half-heartedly waved back — well, it was more like a flop of the hand — but Maea scowled and limped faster.

That was when Zahra saw they were both covered in mud splatters and had red splotches on their skin.

"What the fuck happened to you?" János said as he shoved open the gate for them.

"Do not even—!" Maea cut herself off to scratch furiously at one of the many bites on her arms. That was what they were, of course — bites. Dozens of insect bites, inflamed and swollen. One, along Briarlin's jaw, was three inches in diameter, and apparently the Bosmer was having an allergic reaction for one eye was practically crusted shut. The other, bloodshot, went in and out of focus even as she looked at him.

"Oh," was all she could say for a few seconds. Then, mercifully, her instincts kicked in and she ushered them inside, yelling for Caïn.

~o~

Maea and Briarlin awoke, within minutes of each other, late that evening. Late enough to delay travel to High Hrothgar until the morning, but having seen their state Zahra was glad to have stayed. She'd been able to get some things done in the meantime, like an inventory of her traveling gear and a trip back into town for supplies. She'd had to slip into Belethor's just as it was closing, to avoid the stares, but she was as ready as she'd ever be now. Unless someone invented an arrow that could kill a dragon in one hit.

Even sitting around the table after a 12-hour uninterrupted sleep, the new arrivals looked like they would fall over and never get up. Maea, in particular, was a vision slathered in the cream she'd made for insect bites and minor wounds — Zahra would have chuckled if she wasn't so wound up with curiosity. What on Nirn have they been up to?

"Maea, is this the right one?" Côme poked his head around the door to the alchemy lab, holding a vial with a green liquid inside.

"Gods, yes, give it here." Maea snatched it up. "The miracle coffee substitute. Briarlin, you should have bought all the beans in Cyrodiil before we crossed the passes, you know that?"

Briarlin nodded tiredly – he had been given that lecture dozens of times – folded his arms on the table and put his head down.

Maea slapped his ear, drawing a strangled noise from the Bosmer's throat. "Don't fall asleep! Here, you can have some of this. Tastes awful, though."

When Maea's eyes were bright as a squirrel's and Briarlin's face was no longer an interesting shade of algae-green, Zahra figured it was time to break the news. "Okay," she began, "there's a long version and a short version of this story. Which–"

"Short first, then long if I need more information," Maea said. Zahra supposed she shouldn't have expected anything less from the pushy manmer woman.

Briarlin shrugged.

Zahra sighed. "Fine. I'm supposedly a hero chosen by Akatosh to slay dragons." It really does sound ridiculous…

"That is… What? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" Maea was eying her now, probably wondering whether the coffee substitute was spoiled and she had just been dumped into some kind of Skooma trip.

Briarlin, for his part, just looked confused. Probably was prepared to believe her, bless him.

"I thought so too. But I can use the Voice and everything. Or, at least part of the Voice. It's dangerous to use in here, but when you're feeling up to it–"

"Now," Maea snapped.

Oh yes, her perfect little world is disrupted. What about me having to deal with this? It's not like I wanted it. But Zahra got up and led them outside to the encroaching dusk, where she took a breath and Shouted to the evening sky. The Word seemed to fly past her lips easier each time; she wondered if her mind would ever get used to having such power even as her body did. It scared her.

"Ah." Maea was staring at the spot where the wave had dissipated, fear in her ice-blue eyes. She glanced at Zahra, then back. "Was that the… the Voice?"

Zahra shook her head. She didn't want to believe it herself. "János seemed to think so. And I'd consider him as close to knowledgeable on the subject of ancient Nord heroes as any of us can get. So unless this is a rather elaborate joke on the part of some Daedra or other, I can't come to any other conclusion than that I actually am Dragonborn. Born to kill dragons."

"You? But why—"

Briarlin nudged her just enough to make her cut off. Before she could start talking again, he made a cutting motion — stop — and then a few other furious, excited gestures. You, I, heard. Water. Tree. Speak. His manner of communication took getting used to, which was why he rarely used it in front of strangers, but Zahra pieced the translation together easily enough. They had heard something in Riverwood. Gossip?

"Oh!" Maea said. "Yes, I remember. An old woman in Riverwood was raving while we were there — something about dragons returning and the 'hero born to eat the World-Eater' as she put it. Thought she was nuts, to be honest. But… Helgen was a smoking husk when we passed through. Dead bodies everywhere. Was that really…?"

"Come inside," Zahra said, and so the tales were exchanged.

~o~

"I'm heading for the Throat of the World tomorrow. The Greybeards summoned me, János and the Jarl both said I must answer," Zahra said, talking more to her newly-filled tea cup than her friends and allies around her. She could hear the wooden tone to her voice; it made her flinch, and eyebrows furrow around the table, but mercifully no one mentioned it. The realization was just sinking in — her life would never be the same — and she supposed, in a detached way, that she was in a depression. Which was why she didn't want to travel alone.

Everyone had been brought up to date, including the story of the strange encounter with the would-be High King and Ralof, both of whom Tac and Caïn remembered from Helgen, and later encounter with no less than four Spriggans (hence the bites). Maea had also slapped Caïn (twice) for 'making' her go out and patrol the border. The cousins' relationship was almost as dysfunctional as her own estrangement from her family, Zahra thought. Briarlin was rolling his eyes the whole time behind Maea's back.

Speaking of the manmer, she eyed Zahra for possibly the fifth time in as many hours. "It's a trap."

"Of course it's a trap—" Caïn. She was going to strangle him, the paranoid bastard.

János had gone still, mouth twitching, and Zahra feared a shouting match even as she wondered what, specifically, was bothering the normally unflappable man. Côme came to her rescue, cuffing his brother with one hand and patting the Nord's shoulder with the other. Caïn shot him an offended look, rubbing his face and mumbling something that she — luckily for him, probably — did not catch.

Bless the sane, Zenithar, she prayed as her eyes rolled skyward again. She mustered her best authoritative-command voice. "It is not a trap, both of you shut up. I am leaving first thing tomorrow, no arguing. And János is going with me." The Nord started, blinking. "It is a long trek around the Throat, and I don't know how long I'll be gone. Keep busy and off each other's throats. Côme, I'm putting you in charge of job distribution and such. Even if there aren't any bounties here, head down to Falkreath and check. Keep your eyes open for dragons everywhere you go." If it was true that she was supposed to kill dragons, she might need to respond to sightings. "I will expect a status report when I get back."

"Of course, Zahra," Côme murmured, pink touching his cheeks.

"Good. Don't worry too much about it, you'll do fine. János, be sure to pack tonight, we won't have time come morning."

"Yeah, love. Can do." And with that Zahra rose from the table, stretching her aching muscles. She wasn't looking forward to this, but duty, no, destiny called, and she wouldn't be running away again. Not with a burning Tamriel and the World-Eater himself waiting for her if she failed. She liked existence too much to let that happen — if she could help it.

Review, please? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Progress is going slowly on the end of A Voice in the Wilderness; I've gotten stuck in writing the later scenes, like those in Part III: Close to the Wind, where more politics and intrigue comes in to play (aka the fun part for me and hopefully you too). It's getting to that point, m'chéris. But I do have three more chapters already written to post before I run out, so I'm probably just going to space sharing them out more so I can get sufficiently ahead. It won't be terribly long between each post up to the end of A Voice in the Wilderness, but after that, no guarantees. Part II: Irons in the Forge is something I want to be far into before I start sharing, to minimize retcons and plot abysses. (Yes, I thought it was "abyssi" too. No, it is not, in fact, "abyssi." Such a shame.)