AN: I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter overall, but if I try to edit it any more I'll never be satisfied. Doing some things a little different to the game, seeing as Dalla hasn't been to Bleak Falls Barrow and hasn't encountered a Word Wall yet. Also, sorry Lydia fans, but she's not going to be in this story. I never really grew all that attached to her since I - not really knowing what I was doing at the time - accidentally killed her not long after she joined me. Whoops.

Chapter Twenty

aftermath

Her ears were ringing. Knees still weak, she gripped Vilkas' arms as though he were her anchor to the world, her breath shuddering between her lips. He raised his hands to cup her face, his eyes scared. Had she ever seen him fearful before? She couldn't recall. It did little to comfort her.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, tilting her face to look at him.

She opened her mouth, but a quiet voice caught her attention, whispering words she couldn't grasp. She strained to hear, her eyes unfocused.

"I can't believe it!" a guard babbled excitedly. "You're… Dragonborn!"

Dalla didn't hear him.

"In the oldest tales," he continued, looking around to see who was listening, "back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim-"

"Dalla."

"-the Dragonborn would slay dragons, and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed its power?"

She didn't answer, but he seemed unfazed. Could they not hear it? The voice whispered faster, a jumbled chant that sounded almost familiar, if only she could catch the words.

"Ysmir's beard, answer me!"

"There's only one way to find out – try to Shout. That would prove it. According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can shout without training, like the dragons do."

Another guard scoffed. "Dragonborn? What are you talking about?"

"That's right," chimed in another, "my grandfather used to tell stories-"

"Be quiet!" Vilkas snapped, losing his patience. "Dalla, answer me."

With a start, she realised the voice came from within herself. It chanted, breaking into many voices that were somehow all the same. Rising and falling in pitch, finally, one word rose above the others, foreboding yet somehow right. She snatched it desperately from the chorus.

Fus.

The word meant nothing to her. The moment she claimed it, the voice fell silent and she was flooded with relief. The world returned; the cool breeze, the crackling fires, and Vilkas. Solid and warm, he was staring at her with panicked eyes.

"I'm all right," she managed at last, reaching up to grasp his hand.

"Why didn't you answer me?" he hissed furiously. "I thought-"

He gave her no chance to answer, instead pulling her into a tight embrace.

During the aftermath, Irileth had remained oddly quiet, surveying the scene with narrowed eyes. The guard, eyeing Vilkas warily and forfeiting any further attempts to engage Dalla, turned to the housecarl.

"What do you think? Come on Irileth, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?"

She glanced at Dalla, her expression disapproving, before scoffing and turning back to her men.

"Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you know nothing about." She crossed her arms, pointedly looking at the dragon's skeletal remains. "Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn." She shot another disdainful look at Dalla. "Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

The guards seemed disappointed.

"You wouldn't understand, housecarl." It was the survivor from the tower. He seemed steadier now, his earlier fear behind him. "You ain't a Nord."

The elf's eyebrows rose.

"I've been all across Tamriel," she said scathingly. "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm, more than tales and legends."

"Pah," he spat, but no more was said, and they turned back towards Whiterun. Irileth faced Dalla again.

"That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in," she admitted reluctantly. "And I've been in more than a few. I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but…" Whatever her thought, she left it unsaid. "You better get back to Whiterun, right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here."

With a nod to Vilkas, she started off after her men. Dalla finally felt her heart slowing down, her breath steady. She looked up at Vilkas, who still watched her with worried eyes. He grasped her shoulders firmly.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"I – no. Not really. I – what do you think of – of what happened?"

He sighed, once again reaching to lightly touch her cheek.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I think it's time to go home."

She nodded, forcing a smile. Inside she felt disappointed, hopes that he'd have some kind of answer to soothe her dashed.

They found Alfsigr a fair way down the road, ears pricked as she grazed. Her head lifted when Dalla approached, dropping again when she reached her, as though ashamed.

"Should return the damned thing to Skulvar," Vilkas muttered. "What's the use of a warhorse that runs away with its tail between its legs?"

Dalla patted the horse's forehead.

"It's all right," she whispered. "I was afraid too."

Letting Vilkas lift her again, she settled into the saddle, slightly nervous. Alfsigr appeared calm however, the danger passed.

It was getting late by the time they returned to Whiterun, dark clouds rolling in overhead. Awkwardly dismounting, Dalla led Alfsigr to the stables just as fat drops began to fall. Skulvar took the reins from her, and despite Vilkas' grumbling, the stable master kept his septims, and Dalla kept the horse.

They made their way to the city gates, Dalla lamenting the absence of her thick cloak, folded neatly and useless in the chest by her bed. Vilkas was as unfazed by the rain as he was most discomfits, brushing strands of wet hair out of his face.

It poured, when abruptly the sky was broken not by thunder, but a chorus of thunderous voices, echoing and terrible.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

The earth trembled beneath their feet, and Dalla stumbled. Vilkas had drawn his sword, but there was no threat to be seen. They waited with bated breath; all was quiet but the pattering rain.

"What-?"

"I don't know," Vilkas replied, frowning as he sheathed his blade. "Let's just go."

Dalla's eyes crept skywards, raindrops striking her face. Dovahkiin. The dragon had rumbled that word to her in its guttural tongue. A shiver passed through her, one not caused by the biting rain.

By the time they trudged up the steps to Jarl Balgruuf's throne, both were soaked through. Dalla wished for nothing more than to strip out of the sopping armour, toss it away and crawl into a warm bed. The Jarl was not to be kept waiting, however.

"You heard the summons," he was saying quietly to his brother. "What else could it mean?"

Hrongar had no chance to answer. As soon as Balgruuf noticed them approach, he leaned forward expectantly.

"So, what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

Vilkas answered, before Dalla had the chance to even open her mouth.

"The watchtower was destroyed, but we killed the dragon."

Balgruuf nodded appreciatively. "I knew I could count on Irileth. But there must be more to it than that."

Vilkas shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Dalla. He remained silent, his jaw set. He was trying to protect her, she realised. Her heart swelled with affection for him, but as frightened as she was, what happened with the dragon seemed too important to keep secret.

"When the dragon died," she spoke up, and Vilkas closed his eyes with a despondent sigh. She felt a quiver of guilt, but continued. "I – I absorbed some kind of… power, from it."

"So it's true," Balgruuf murmured, his fist pressed to his chin in contemplation. "The Greybeards really were summoning you."

At the mention of Greybeards, Vilkas' eyes snapped open. Dalla, however, was puzzled.

"Greybeards?"

The name was familiar, yet she couldn't quite place where she'd heard it before. Beside her, Vilkas clenched his fists by his sides, apparently trying with great effort to hold his tongue. Balgruuf ignored him, his eyes on Dalla.

"Masters of the Way of the Voice," he explained. "They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

That she did know; the great looming mountain that watched over Skyrim from the south, the mountain she had spent many an hour gazing up at from the Skyforge. The birthplace of mankind, as the stories told it.

She swallowed nervously. "What do the Greybeards want with me?"

"The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice – the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you to use your gift."

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?" Hrongar cried, the large man's abruptness making her jump. "That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar! This hasn't happened in… centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

"Hrongar, calm yourself," snapped the Jarl's steward, who had been watching the proceedings with scepticism clear in his eyes. "What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with the girl? I don't see any signs of her being this, what, 'Dragonborn.'"

Vilkas stirred irritably at her side, but Hrongar seemed livid.

"Nord nonsense?!" he shouted. "Why you puffed up ignorant… these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

"Hrongar," Balgruuf warned. "Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

"I meant no disrespect, of course," the steward said, not looking particularly sorry at all, "it's just that… what do these Greybeards want with her?"

"That's the Greybeard's business," Balgruuf replied firmly, "not ours."

Dalla listened to the people around her as though detached from it all. Apparently forgotten as they argued amongst themselves, she was still struggling to wrap her head around what was being said. Greybeards? Dragonborn? She was a serving girl. She cooked, she cleaned – she didn't go trekking up mountains to learn how to shout at people. She felt very small, in a world that was far too large. She stepped closer to Vilkas, in the hopes that his presence would steady her again. She started when Balgruuf finally addressed her.

"Whatever happened when that dragon was killed, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honour."

Apparently as satisfied as they could be, the Jarl's brother and steward wandered off in different directions, Hrongar glancing once more at Dalla before heading to the kitchens, cursing under his breath. She and Vilkas were left alone with the Jarl.

"You've both done a great service for me and the city," Balgruuf said, inclining his head. "Vilkas of the Companions, I grant you a sum of five hundred septims. May the mead be ever flowing beneath Jorrvaskr's roof," he added with a smile.

Vilkas' eyes widened.

"Thank you, my Jarl."

"As for you, Dalla. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honour that's within my power to grant."

He stood, drawing a silver axe from his belt. It gleamed in the light of the fire pit, ornately carved with a twisting pattern, the horse of Whiterun at its centre. He held it out to her with both hands.

"This shall serve as your badge of office. I am honoured to have you as Thane of the city, Dragonborn."

Dalla felt herself floundering, dwindling even smaller than before. The axe was heavy and awkward in her hands, and it felt obvious to her at least that it didn't belong to her. She felt unworthy, as though she had cheated Balgruuf somehow.

"M-my Jarl," she stammered. "I, Th-thane? I don't know how to be… I didn't do anything! When it attacked, I just stood there, I-"

"Hush," Vilkas murmured, taking the axe from her hands and smoothing her hair.

She expected the Jarl to be angry, offended, disgusted. Instead, his face softened.

"It's a title, more than anything," he said kindly. "Meant as an honour, not an obligation. It doesn't matter who killed the dragon. You did me a great service in assisting Irileth."

She settled somewhat, but still her stomach churned. Balgruuf noticed, and the last traces of formality fell away.

"I envy you, you know," he said with a smile. "To climb the seven thousand steps again… I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that?"

Dalla shook her head, though she suspected the question hadn't needed an answer. A wistful look spread across the Jarl's face.

"High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very… disconnected from the troubles of this world." His face darkened for a moment. "I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." He sighed, but his smile returned. "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Dalla nodded, appreciating his attempt to console her. She gave a low curtsy, before turning away. Vilkas grasped her arm and pulled her from the hall. His hand was shaking and his grip tight, as though he feared he'd lose her should she slip between his fingers.