25
"Heroism is not only in the man, but in the occasion." - Calvin Coolidge
9th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 204
Dovahkiin
When the Dragonborn had first met him, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had seemed tense and curt in his words. Now, though, Dovahkiin was appreciating those traits. It meant he took them seriously when they explained the severity of the Malustarii threat. Of course, it didn't stop him from being politely incredulous at the news that not one, but two Hold capitals had been sacked.
"You say Markarth has been destroyed as well?" he asked in dismay.
"Yes, my Jarl," confirmed a Khajiit trader.
Dovahkiin could scarcely believe it himself. What about Kaius? He and his squad were headed that way last I heard… What if he's dead?
"And you know this how?" inquired Balgruuf.
Dovahkiin was standing next to Proventus, the Steward, hearing the report from this cat- man. The Khajiit took a deep breath before continuing. "This one's caravan passed into the Reach a week ago. We met with heavy trouble from Forsworn, but managed to push through to where we could see Markarth… It was in ruins. The buildings were crumbling; the great doors were lying apart from the rest of the broken wall, and smoke rose nonstop from inside the city. At that point, this one's companions decided to bring news to the nearest Holds."
"Thank you, Khajiit. You've done us a great service. Please accept this gold as a gesture of my gratitude."
Proventus huffed in annoyance, clearly not approving of Jarl Balgruuf's careless distribution of their gold supply, but the trader was already waving him away. "Nonsense, Jarl Balgruuf; Letting the Khajiiti enter your cities has been a reward enough."
Jarl Balgruuf shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well. You Khajiit were good at convincing me and the other Jarls."
Suddenly Dovahkiin had a nagging suspicion of just who had "convinced" the Jarl. The sneaky fur ball! Still, he had to wonder exactly what tactics Jag used to persuade them. Blackmail? Threats? Or just plain bribery? Dovahkiin shook his head in disgust.
The Khajiit exited Dragonsreach with a last fascinated look at the skull of the dragon Numinex that adorned the wall above Balgruuf's throne.
"Well, Dragonborn," said Jarl Balgruuf, stroking his golden beard thoughtfully. "As Thane, what do you propose we do?"
Dovahkiin shrugged. "Try and pull in your citizens to Whiterun. I'll wager it'll be safer closer to the city than in Rorikstead or Riverwood. Have the guards challenge all who venture through the Hold and arrest anyone who fails to identify Just… Be cautious."
"That seems extreme," said the Jarl's steward, Proventus Avenicci. "I mean, how do we know these Malustarii are real things? It seems unlikely that the Falmer would ally themselves with giants and bandits, Jarl Balgruuf."
"Proventus! Don't forget that the one who brought us this information is the Dragonborn."
Proventus nodded wearily with the air of someone who has suffered long and with no appreciation. The Dragonborn, for his part, all but glared at the steward. The man was constantly pushing for caution, had been ever since Dovahkiin came to Whiterun. Not that it wasn't useful. Sometimes his wary nature convinced the naturally hotheaded Nords away from a bad decision. But now it was unwelcome.
"Dragonborn, what is your proof for those creatures being allied?" asked Jarl Balgruuf.
Dovahkiin sighed inwardly, knowing that he would've had to present his proof eventually. He admired that about Balgruuf. The man was a true Nord, despite what any Stormcloak would say. In the Dragonborn's opinion, Balgruuf's decision to side with the Imperials was well founded.
The man had cared little for one side or another, but when remaining neutral was no longer an option, Balgruuf chose the faction that was more likely to win and therefore safeguard his city as much as possible. Dovahkiin would've fought with the Jarl to protect Whiterun if it weren't for the Legion's standing orders to capture him for the Thalmor.
"Dragonborn?"
Dovahkiin jolted out of his reverie. "My Jarl? Oh, right. Yes. Let's see… We have the eyewitness accounts of myself, my housecarl Lydia, the Harbinger of the Companions, Legate Kaius of the Imperial Legion."
Granted, Dovahkiin hadn't heard anything from those last two in about a week, but he was sure they were out there. From what he had gathered about Morden, the vampire would celebrate the deaths of such powerful enemies. He wouldn't keep it a secret.
"Anything else?"
"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf. We also have a letter from Morden to a member of the Silver Hand, urging them to attack members of the Companions. And if some of your men wish to travel to the ancient Nordic ruins known as Labyrinthian, they would find a draugr army of massive proportions. Balgruuf, I believe they're massing for an attack on Whiterun."
That got Balgruuf's attention. The man gazed at the floor in front of him, eyes unfocused. He appeared to be thinking intensely, but as to what, Dovahkiin didn't know. "Then we will take all precautions. Proventus, as of now, Whiterun is at war. Irileth," he said, turning to his housecarl, "Take teams of guards and investigate all major landmarks nearby. The more Malustarii we can destroy before they attack, the better."
Irileth nodded firmly, as did Proventus.
The Dragonborn breathed a deep breath as he exited Dragonsreach. The smoky atmosphere was almost unbearable to him, and he was intensely glad to be back outside where the air was pure and raw. At the top of the steps, he paused, arms outstretched like he was about to take flight.
"Wuld!"
He shot forward, and for a few moments, the Nord was about as close to flying as one could get without riding on the back of a dragon. The wind whipped past his face, but his mouth was set in an exhilarated grin. Then he dropped like a stone and landed on one of the wooden arches arrayed around the Gildergreen.
He clambered down and jogged the rest of the way to Breezehome, where Lydia was just finishing packing their belongings for the next trip. Stenar was back at Jorrvaskr, finally reunited with Aela the Huntress.
Dovahkiin slammed open the door and strode in, fending off Meeko with one hand. The dog jumped up on him in a frenzy of paws and slobbering tongue. "Hey, boy," Dovahkiin said amusedly to his dog. If Meeko had resented them leaving him in the care of the Gray- Manes while they were off adventuring, he forgave the Dragonborn the second he walked in the door. But that was how dogs were. Stupid, but unswervingly loyal.
Speaking of loyal, there was Lydia bounding down the stairs. "Hello, my Love. How did it go?"
"I convinced him," Dovahkiin answered simply. He sank into a chair and tore into a grilled pheasant breast.
"Is everything ready?" he asked his wife.
"Yes. We can resupply in Ivarstead once we get there."
"Good…" Dovahkiin trailed off, unwilling to say the next words. After studying him for a moment, Lydia completed his thought.
"You want us to leave now?"
The Dragonborn nodded. "Aye. I'm just as tired as you are, but time isn't on our side."
"Has it ever been?" Lydia quipped. "We were just as much in a rush against Alduin. I still can't believe…"
"You can't believe I killed him?" asked Dovahkiin. "I know, I can scarce believe it myself. The World Eater, the god of Destruction, dead by my hand. I'm glad, of course, but it seems like he fell a bit easily."
Lydia went upstairs and came back down with their packs. She slid one near her husband's chair and adjusted the straps to her own steel armor. "Come on, then."
Dovahkiin tossed the bone to Meeko, who happily snapped it up, his tail wagging. After Dovahkiin got his pack on, they headed for the door. But Meeko beat them to it and was nosing against the crack, whining plaintively. The Dragonborn glanced at Lydia, asking her without words. She stared back. "What? I don't care if he comes along."
"He's your dog," reminded the Dragonborn.
She sighed. "Alright. Meeko, heel!"
The dog barked happily, and followed them closely out the door, out of Whiterun, and along the seemingly endless road.
They followed the White River for a good while until the farms had been left behind. Valtheim Towers drew nigh, a structure that the Dragonborn had long urged Jarl Balgruuf to make it a guard outpost. Sadly, the idea had been rejected due to a shortage of men.
Dovahkiin was familiar with these towers, having retrieved a special sword from there for a Redguard living in Whiterun. There were two spires, one for each side of the river. A bridge spanned the gap and connected the two.
Dovahkiin squinted. Someone was walking back and forth on the bridge, silhouetted against the evening light. Bandits had already crept back into this place? That was bad. Last time, they mugged travelers by the road until he and Lydia came along.
"Lydia," he said, pointing to the bridge. She nodded and put a hand on the Axe of Whiterun at her belt. As they drew near the base of the tower, they could see a scruffy woman in fur armor stirring something in a pot.
When she saw them, she unsheathed an iron axe and sneered, "Alright, that'll be three hundred gold as a toll or I'll gut you like a fish!"
Lydia raised her eyebrows in incredulity. Meeko snarled fearsomely. The Dragonborn replied, "Three hundred seems like an awful lot to ask of us. Do we look rich to you?"
"I don't care! We've got to get gold for our patron." snarled the bandit. "I'm not going to ask again."
Morden, Dovahkiin thought. Why am I not surprised? Lydia took out her bow instead and nocked an arrow. She pulled the string back and shot, not at the highwaywoman, but at the bandit on the bridge who was staring at the spectacle. It hit his cheap armor and he collapsed quietly.
The bandit in front of them gave a cry of anger and ran forward, but Dovahkiin Shouted, "Yol!" and a short pillar of fire erupted from his maw. The bandit was understandably disoriented, and Dovahkiin took this time to spring forward and shove his sword through her chest.
There were more voices up in the tower, so the Dragonborn and Lydia shrugged at one another and entered the nearest one. Meeko stayed behind to finish off the first bandit. The wooden ramps that led upwards seemed quite flimsy, but they held as the duo thundered up them. Dovahkiin took a left that led out onto the bridge, and Lydia continued climbing to the top of the tower.
Dovahkiin saw at least three more Malustarii bandits on the other side. One was waiting above the corpse of his fellow in the middle of the overpass. Another was on the bank with his bow drawn. A third, who wore steel plate, hung back and observed.
Before he had taken another step, a body plummeted from above and hit the ground in front of him. He glanced up in time to receive a thumbs- up from Lydia. He started cautiously across the bridge, shield held in front.
The nearest bandit charged him.
"Fus!"
The bandit stumbled and Dovahkiin shoved him over the edge. The bandit screamed and flailed as he hit the river below and plunged towards dangerous rapids. With that out of the way, the Dragonborn proceeded. "Lydia," he called back to his wife, "Aren't you going to even try to shoot them?"
There was no response. "Lydia?"
He risked glancing back, and his blood went cold. A Dark Elf in some sort of Chitin armor was pressing a knife to Lydia's throat. To make matters worse, they were standing on the very lip of the tower, which could mean a very nasty fall if one of them slipped. Dovahkiin's mind went nuts with anger and fear.
How dare they defy him! He had the soul of a dragon, and had killed a god! When emotions seized control of him, the dragon souls he devoured felt like they were churning inside him, adding their own voices and anger to his inner turmoil.
Kill them! Kill them with fire!
No! Kill the weaklings with frost! Your revenge is cold, Dovah!
Destroy the woman, Dovahkiin. She is weak. She will get you killed.
Pain! Fire! Destruction! Unleash the Thu'um!
All these souls inside of him were on the brink of making him use his Voice to reduce everything to rubble. He opened his mouth—
Just then, the Dark Elf spoke. "Alright, Dragonborn. Give it up. We've got your housecarl, and we'll kill her if you don't cooperate!"
How original, one of the more bitter souls hissed. There was no choice. As much as he hated to do it, Dovahkiin placed his sword and shield on the ground. It was a small comfort to know that he still had his Voice, because the bandits knew it too.
There was a scuff of leather on rock behind him. Just as he started to turn, something smashed into his head with enough force to knock his helmet off. His vision winked out for a moment, and then he was on his hands and knees, fighting the urge to vomit. Lydia screamed in what? Anger? Alarm for him?
Someone jerked him upright and bound his hands. A gag was stuffed into his mouth. A memory returned to him. This was how the Imperial Legion treated Ulfric Stormcloak after they captured him near Helgen.
The Dunmer remained at the top of the tower with Lydia. "Good. Lord Morden was quite clear on what to do with you. All we have to do is summon him here, and he promised me I could watch him devour your soul!" He cackled.
Dovahkiin's mind whirled in panic. What could he do? No Voice, no weapons, and Lydia was incapacitated. Best case scenario, they let her go once Morden arrived. Worst case, the Malustarii tortured her in front of him. He wouldn't put it past them, either.
There seemed to be no way out for him. He closed his eyes and prayed. He had always felt a particular connection with Talos, who was a god ascended from the man Tiber Septim (who also happened to be Dragonborn). Talos, if this is all I am meant to do on Nirn, I will be satisfied. But if there is any way you can spare my beloved… I ask that you do so. Nords are meant to die in battle, not execution. Please.
He opened his eyes. The Dunmer was working some sort of dark magic to communicate with Morden. The Dragonborn tried to contact the other Alliance members via the magic communication that Virali had invented, but it didn't work. The only voices he heard were the dragon souls, which had subsided a bit because of his terror. Apparently, it wasn't a natural emotion for dragons, but the Dragonborn felt it more times than he cared to say.
The Dunmer looked behind him and yelped in surprise. Then he fell, clutching the ice spike protruding from his back. The two bandits behind Dovahkiin were obviously angry and frightened at this unseen enemy. For an instant, the Dragonborn thought Jag had somehow come to rescue him.
The next instant, pain was all he knew. His vision turned a bloody red. Tears sprang from his eyes, and an unearthly scream pierced the air. He fell forward on his face, no longer thinking about Lydia, the bandits, or even Talos. All he cared about was the agony in his left knee. He managed to look at it and was shocked to see an ordinary iron arrow in the back of his knee.
The Malustarii in steel plate was yelling soundlessly at the archer, who looked frightened at what he'd done to Dovahkiin. Their boss wouldn't be pleased. Then they had passed him and were running to the tower where Lydia had disappeared inside. As soon as the archer got close to the doorway, there was an explosion and he was blown backward off the bridge.
The steel clad bandit raised his sword and swung at something inside the tower, and sprang back to avoid a sword thrust. Then he was forced back another step, and another, until Dovahkiin's rescuer appeared in the doorway. His first thought was: Who—Aagghhh!—Is this?
It was a man in an interesting hodgepodge of armor. He had a steel plate helmet, but wore elven armor and wielded a silver sword. His orcish shield was upraised to parry the blows of the Malustarii. When he slashed at the bandit, Dovahkiin could see numerous amulets around his neck.
Something moved at the top of the tower. Was it Lydia? No, it was another Dark Elf in steel armor. She hefted a glass bow and aimed carefully at the combatants on the bridge. Something about her face seemed familiar, but even as the worst of the pain began to recede, Dovahkiin couldn't place it.
The Dark Elf fired. The arrow pierced the bandit's cheek and caused him to double over. Dovahkiin's rescuer kicked the scum in the face, and when the Malustarii went sprawling, he finished him with a flourish.
Dovahkiin rose unsteadily, wincing when his bad knee shifted position. The man lowered his sword and shield and came closer. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"
Dovahkiin nodded in understanding. The man sheathed his sword and slung his shield across his back. After freeing Dovahkiin's arms and removing the gag, he looped one of the Dragonborn's arms over his narrow shoulders and supported Dovahkiin's weight as best he could. When they reached the tower, Lydia and the Dunmer were waiting. By their stances, it was clear they were both wary of each other.
Meeko lay by Lydia's side, whimpering occasionally. The dog's haunch was covered in blood. Dark Elf bastard must have stabbed him, thought Dovahkiin groggily. But Lydia must have healed Meeko, because he seemed to be all right.
The man helped Dovahkiin sit on a chair. "Do you have any potions?" he asked.
The Dragonborn nodded, indicating the packs he and Lydia deposited when they attacked the Malustarii. Lydia rifled through them and brought Dovahkiin a large healing potion, which he downed gratefully.
The pain diminished. His mind cleared. The arrow dropped to the floor, and upon inspection of the wound, it looked a week old and almost fully healed. He stood up. "My thanks to you, stranger. We owe you a great deal for our lives. What is your name?"
The man removed his helmet, revealing a darkly tanned Imperial. He wiped a hand over his brow and said, "Blahzeel is my name. Jenassa here is my hired sword. Who are you?"
"Well met, Blahzeel," replied Dovahkiin, feeling the unfamiliar name on his tongue. "I am the Dragonborn, and this is Lydia, my housecarl."
"Dragonborn?" asked Blahzeel. Dovahkiin expected him to gawk or fawn all over him, but Blahzeel just took a step closer, scrutinizing his face. Then he said simply, "Yes, I've seen you in Whiterun. You get a lot of attention."
Dovahkiin snorted. "It isn't my choice, but yes, I suppose I do."
The Dark Elf, Jenassa, broke in. "I don't fancy standing around waiting for that fellow to show up."
"What fellow?" asked Dovahkiin, his mind momentarily blank.
Jenassa kicked the body of the other Dunmer that had held Lydia hostage. "This n'wah here said he was alerting someone, right? Someone called Morden?"
Dovahkiin's face must have been as pale as Lydia's, because Blahzeel's eyebrows knit with concern. "I take it you know him," he said. "C'mon, Jenassa and I are camped in a cave nearby. If you want, you can stay for the night. But I warn you, it's just a hole in the wall."
Dovahkiin and Lydia agreed silently and limped after Blahzeel and Jenassa into the deepening twilight.
When Blahzeel said their cave was just a hole in the wall, Dovahkiin didn't think he meant it literally. Apparently Blahzeel and his sellsword had taken a bounty on a pair of giants located at Guldun Rock and discovered a tiny cave in the camp. Once they cleared out the odds and ends the giants had stuck in it, it was just big enough for the four of them, plus Meeko at the entrance.
"Alright," Blahzeel began. "Why don't you tell us more about Morden and why he sent a Morag Tong assassin after you."
"What?" exclaimed Dovahkiin and Lydia.
Jenassa had brought out a flask unlike any the Dragonborn had seen before. It must've held some liquor from her homeland, because she took a sip and sighed appreciatively. Then she eyed the pair of them and said, "The man who took your housecarl hostage was a Morag Tong assassin. His armor was of their make, and he was a Dark Elf, which is primarily the race of the Morag Tong. If you have a Writ of Execution on you, that could be very bad."
"I'm sorry?" said Lydia. "A Writ of Execution?"
Jenassa sighed again, but this time it was in fatigue. "A Writ of Execution marks someone for death. It is the contract that the Morag Tong makes with their employers. Back in Morrowind, the Morag Tong's killings are legal so long as they surrender themselves to the guards immediately afterward and prove they have a Writ."
Dovahkiin nodded. "I assumed Morden would try and have me assassinated sooner or later, seeing as how I'm the only Dragonborn apart from him."
Blahzeel held up his hands. "Whoa, are you saying there's more than one Dragonborn now?"
"I believe so. One of my…" he paused, unsure of what to call Jag. "…Allies saw Morden use the Voice."
"Gods above." Blahzeel shook his head. "It looks like you could use some better armor, Dragonborn. That stuff you've got on now didn't stop those bandits."
"Malustarii," Dovahkiin automatically corrected. "That is what they call themselves. They follow Morden. And yes, you're right, but there are more important matters to worry about than my armor."
"Dov!" broke in Lydia. "Your health is important! You're not doing the rest of us any favors by getting yourself killed for the cause of speed."
He frowned uncertainly. The armor he had on was what had gotten him through thick and thin. It was as much a part of him as the Thu'um. But they did have a good point; it was folly to continue on as he was. There was one problem.
"We'll have to backtrack to Whiterun."
"That's fine, " replied Blahzeel with a smile. "Jenassa and I have to head there ourselves. We can keep you company."
"Then it's settled," said Lydia. "Let's get some sleep for now."
And so it was that their party trooped all the way back to the city, much to the Dragonborn's dismay. Somehow he had to make up for lost time and get to High Hrothgar as soon as possible.
Along the way, he chatted with Blahzeel, and learned a surprising amount from the quiet Imperial/Redguard mix. Blahzeel's parents had died when he was a boy, but when questioned how, he grew quiet and didn't speak of them again. From then on, he was on his own. He had grown up on the streets of the Imperial City, doing odd jobs until he had enough gold to become an adventurer.
He met Jenassa in the Drunken Huntsman in Whiterun, which explained why she was so familiar. Dovahkiin wasn't by any means an expert on relationships, but he could tell from the way they spoke to each other that they were in one. Or maybe it isn't a relationship at all, Dovahkiin thought to himself, amused. Perhaps it's a perk that comes with hiring her.
After they entered Whiterun, they decided on consulting Eorlund Gray-Mane rather than Adrienne Avenicci. "I suppose if you're buying new armor, you might as well get it from the best blacksmith in Skyrim," joked Blahzeel, pointing to the Skyforge. "Jenassa and I will meet you there." They ran ahead up the streets.
"Where do you think they're going?" asked Lydia.
"Dragonsreach." grunted Dovahkiin. "They've got to collect their bounty."
They ascended the steps to the giant eagle, which was staring fiercely over the plains. Eorlund Gray- Mane noticed them, but didn't greet them until they were directly behind him. "Well met, Dragonborn. What brings you here?"
The old man had a grizzled mane of gray hair and his face was permanently ruddy from his forge. It was clear he wasn't much in the way of words. His responses were typically short and to the point.
"I'm looking for some armor. Got any ideas?"
At this, Eorlund turned around and, after his initial astonishment, let out a hearty bellow of laughter. "Ha! I never thought I'd see the day. Last time I told you to upgrade your armor, you refused."
"I know," Dovahkiin said exasperatedly. "Recent events have changed my mind."
"Got stuck, did you?"
"Something like that. Listen, every other blacksmith in Skyrim would jump at the chance to make the Dragonborn armor. You'll be famous!"
"Already am."
"Eorlund…" Dovahkiin grumbled. "Can you make me armor or not?"
Eorlund let go of the bellows and threw up his hands. "Fine, fine! The first thing we've got to do is decide on what to make your armor out of."
Lydia perked up. "I'll be right back!" She sprinted away down the steps, almost running into Blahzeel and Jenassa, who were coming up.
"What's that about?" asked Jenassa.
"I don't know," admitted Dovahkiin. "She must have had an idea." Turning to Eorlund, he said, "I don't know all the types of materials. What kinds of armor can I make?"
Blahzeel cocked an eyebrow. "That's easy. There are hide, iron, steel, Imperial, dwarven, orcish, elven, ebony, glass, and daedric." He ticked them off with his fingers. "Did I miss any?"
Eorlund looked impressed. "You a blacksmith, boy?"
Blahzeel shrugged shyly. "I dabble."
Eorlund nodded. "I think you got most of 'em. There are two more I heard of that are found up in Solstheim. Chitin, which is made out of bug materials, and something quite rare."
Even as Eorlund spoke, Dovahkiin remembered his adventures on the ashen island. He met the Skaal, a reclusive people who dwelled up north on Solstheim and befriended them. In turn, they told him of an ancient smithing technique that allowed them to make the legendary armor.
Together, he and Eorlund said, "Stalhrim." Eorlund nodded again. "Unless you want to run up there and find Stalhrim material, I can't make that for you. I have none of that or Chitin. I should be able to make the rest of those armors for you. Which will it be?"
Dovahkiin thought aloud. "Hide, iron, and steel are too weak. I don't think Orcish suits me, and elven would give the people of Skyrim the wrong idea. Glass seems too flashy. I don't want to be confused with Kaius or some mercenary if I wear ebony." Then, to Blahzeel: "No offense, of course. We all have to make a living somehow."
"None taken," the bounty hunter replied easily.
"That leaves daedric armor, which is honestly atrocious. That is what Morden wears," he explained to Jenassa and 'Zeel.
"Wait!" Lydia came puffing up the steps, a large sack slung over her back. Whatever was inside must've been extremely heavy, because it seemed about to tear the seams apart. "I have what you need, Dov. Remember how we've always wondered what to do with all those bones of the dragons you've slain?"
At that moment, the sack broke. A whole assortment of gleaming ivory dragon bones and scales fell and hit the floor with a disproportionate amount of noise. They all stared in amazement. Lydia gave Eorlund a challenging smile. "Well? Prove you're the best blacksmith around. Make armor out of dragon parts."
It was a daunting task, because dragon bones were notoriously hard to handle and craft with, but then Eorlund gave the barest hint of a smile. At least, he wasn't scowling as much. "Alright, lass. But this might take a while. Boy," he said, addressing Blahzeel, "I'll need your help with this. Everyone else, fetch me some firewood."
From that point on, they were all Eorlund's apprentices. He ordered them to do everything from retrieving firewood to heat the Skyforge to sawing dragon bones with precise measurements.
Dovahkiin observed Blahzeel and Eorlund closely, trying to take in their techniques and learn a little something. The heat from the forge eventually forced Blahzeel to remove his helmet and chestplate. Eorlund didn't have a problem because his clothes were meant to leave most of his upper body exposed. Despite it being Last Seed and pretty near winter, both men were sweating.
They worked on through the night, the only conversation between the five of them being grunted instructions from Eorlund or murmured questions from Blahzeel. Dovahkiin felt his eyes growing heavier. Even the rhythmic peal of hammer on metal had become more of a lullaby. The stone beneath him was softer than he thought, and his body sank into it like a boulder in water…
He dreamed he was in some sort of ruin. Unsurprising, since he'd explored more of them than he cared to remember, but this one was different. More… Eerie. The air seemed to hum with compressed power. He reached for his sword and instead found a strange staff on his back. At the business end of the staff, three faces were carved into a strange sort of wood. One of the faces looked joyful, one was enraged, and the other was decidedly unhappy.
Having no other weapon, Dovahkiin hefted the strange staff and walked down the halls of this frigid place. He went through a room with four skeletons arrayed around a statue of a spiky daedric glove. He proceeded nonchalantly past an alcove that held a large forge glowing with magical runes. None of these mattered to him. He beheld a locked door, and felt a rising sense of apprehension: Whatever he was after lay behind this.
He squeezed the staff in his hand and felt a rush of power from it. It felt strange, alien; He got the sense that it was not from this plane of existence. The staff fired a glowing red orb. When it hit the door, the door shuddered and collapsed in on itself. When it finished shrinking and morphing, there lay a book on top of a goat cheese wheel.
He glanced down at the book as he passed. It was The Lusty Argonian Maid. For some reason, his dream-self didn't feel anything at these strange events. His emotions were detached for the time being. As he walked into the room, a strong voice sounded in his mind: "Will you not leave me be, sorcerer? Must I be forever apart from solace? Very well. I will oblige."
In the center of the room was a pit ringed with a low stone wall. Turbulent blue liquid writhed and swirled, casting turquoise sparks upwards. Dovahkiin kept the staff handy and peered into the pool.
The liquid cleared until it showed a picture so clear and lucid, Dovahkiin was sure he could jump in and be a part of the image. It showed Argonian armies marching with root-like spears held out in front of them.
Across the dusty plain they came, thousands of them, and in the background, the Red Mountain belched smoke and fire. The whole sky was blackened and red with fire and ash.
Some leagues ahead of these armies strode a lone Argonian in dusky armor. In the assassin's wake lay the bodies of Dark Elves in expensive robes. Somehow, Dovahkiin could tell this lizard was a Shadowscale: One of Black Marsh's feared secret agents. The view grew closer to the Shadowscale's unblinking eye. Closer and closer it came, until he pierced the eye, and the scene changed…
This time, it showed High Elves in gilded armor pushing a piece of parchment towards an elderly Imperial. The man looked at the paper and raised his eyebrows at the elves, asking them a calm question. They replied, and though it was too indistinct to hear them properly, their voices were cold and forbidding. The Imperial nodded in exhausted acceptance and signed the paper. Dovahkiin squinted to make out the heading at the top of it. White Gold Concordat.
This wasn't what he wanted to see. These scenes were all in the past. Dovahkiin fired the staff, and the liquid swirled faster…
He saw a great black dragon circling over a town. Something sparked in his sluggish mind. Alduin! Which meant… Yes, this was Helgen. Where his journey as Dragonborn truly began. He saw two men leap out of a tower into a burning inn, a Khajiit as dark as shadow slinking along beneath Alduin's boiling maw, and a Dunmer running away from the carnage, shunting aside women and children in his haste.
He saw the same Dunmer with red war paint in spiky tribal tattoos on his face, walking into Markarth. He saw the Dunmer thrown into prison, escaping with Forsworn, and winced as the elf was abandoned by his fellows, left behind just as he had left Helgen's citizens behind to save himself. Dovahkiin felt a surge of hot anger at the scene, although he couldn't explain why.
The Dunmer was then wandering the hills of the Reach, lighting things ablaze for no reason and alternating between cackling, swearing, and weeping. Dovahkiin's anger grew. Just as he raised the staff threateningly, the scene changed.
A Khajiit (who the Dragonborn now recognized as Jag) was running at top speed across rooftops, cradling something shiny in his arms. Below, the guards gave pursuit as best they could, but were soon left behind. The scenes changed rapidly now: Jag was dueling a Breton man atop a huge statue of an elf. As the Breton fell, Jag jumped after him. The man tried to rise, but Jag withdrew a dagger and a soul gem. He plunged the knife into the wounded Guildmaster and watched as his soul was absorbed. Then it was Jag in his Dark Brotherhood robes approaching the same man who had signed the White Gold Concordat. Again in Jag's furry hands were the knife and the soul gem.
The scene shifted to an Imperial in ebony armor. Kaius! Dovahkiin observed him slaughter entire legions of Stormcloaks, snipe vampires with a crossbow, and plummet from a horse drawn wagon into a freezing river, where he sank down into murky depths…
Now Dovahkiin's emotions were unbridled, and he tried to cry out in alarm at the harshness of Kaius' predicament. Next was Stenar, who was observed changing into a werewolf and ripping unfortunate people apart. Then he was a man again, and dived in front of Kaius in time to receive a flash of light that made him scream in agony.
Virali was seen twirling orbs of magic between her hands. She read spellbooks and solved mysteries. Then she was sprinting across a crumbling bridge before she fell for what seemed like an age and was being swallowed by a darkness that rose up to claim her.
This was the near present, not what he wanted! Dovahkiin's rage grew, and in the back of his mind, voices babbled. Yes, they were dragon voices, but not those he was familiar with. He shot the staff at the pool of liquid again, and this time... Excellent.
He saw Jag assassinating another man clad in the same purple robes as his predecessor. Kaius, now wielding a blade that shone with radiance, delved down into a tomb. Serana was just behind him. They entered a dark chamber, and all at once, blue light glowed from the eye sockets of hundreds of undead draugr. Stenar roared in defiance and slashed his way through bandits and scum, emerging on the other side holding an ancient double sided axe with the carving of a screaming elf on it. Even Virali was there, talking to a strange Khajiit on top of a mountain in the Reach! He was so overjoyed to see her alive, and yet?
Now came the worst vision of all. He saw himself being held up in the air by Morden in daedric armor. He was choking, trying to wrench Morden's glove away from his neck. Morden summoned a ball of lightning in his other hand.
The voice rang out as the visions died. "What you have seen, necromancer, is merely a shadow of what might come to pass. Your enemies are weak, it is true, but grow overconfident and they will render unto you the worst form of death… Which I sincerely hope happens."
Dovahkiin heard movement in the shadows around the pool. He looked, but nothing was there. He leaned over the Augur of Dunlain and saw his face in his dream. It was the Dark Elf, red war paint standing out against his startlingly white eyes. Dovahkiin wanted to scream. He was Morden? Impossible!
Something detached itself from the shadows and ran at him. He started to turn, but then a skeever leapt up to his face and clamped down. He could feel the large rodent's sharp claws digging into his skin, its mangy fur crawling with plague, and its beady red eyes so full of rage. He screamed and his dream ended.
"Dov?" A familiar voice, warm against the chilly morning. He jerked awake as if someone splashed cold water in his face. Lydia was crouched by him, smiling gently. "Good morning, my love."
"Good morning," he replied, squinting against the watery sunlight that shone dimly through the thick clouds. It looked like more snow was due in Whiterun. "Where's Blahzeel and Eorlund?"
"Blahzeel went to get some rest. I offered him the spare bed in Breezehome, but he said he'd already rented one in The Bannered Mare. Eorlund is on the porch in Dragonsreach with your armor. He says he won't sleep until you see it, so you'd better hurry."
Dovahkiin nodded, more alert now that he had a purpose. "Have you seen it?"
Lydia nodded, face impassive. But her eyes gave her away. They were bright with excitement.
"Well? What does it look like?" he asked as they jogged up the steps to the Jarl's palace.
"I'm not going to spoil the surprise," she winked.
"Aggh!" he complained. "I thought you were supposed to be my servant! As your Thane, I order you to tell me about my armor!" He wasn't serious, but it was good to relieve some of his excitement by talking to her. They were passing by the Jarl's throne, and Balgruuf nodded in greeting.
"As your housecarl and wife, I advise you to wait and see," she shot back, holding open the door to the Dragonsreach Great Porch.
He stepped out and immediately saw Eorlund at the far side of the Porch, which was the size of the indoor main room. There was a gleaming suit of armor on a bust next to Eorlund, who beckoned to them impatiently. "Come on, come on, I haven't got all day!"
As they drew near, Dovahkiin could scarcely believe it. Eorlund and Blahzeel had truly created a masterpiece. The helm was dark and vaguely shaped like a dragon's head, complete with swept back horns. The gauntlets and grieves were made of interlocking dragon bones that looked tough enough to withstand any impact.
The chestplate was the best part. The shoulder pauldrons were large and swept off his shoulders, giving him a broader, almost wing-like appearance. At the tips of them were claws and fangs. Fused dragon bones made of many separate dragons had been put together into an impenetrable cuirass. It had small ridges and depressions in it, which Dovahkiin wasn't sure of. They may have been flaws in the armor, and they sure as heck would make it tough to clean.
But he put it on as quickly as he could. It fit him perfectly, as they had taken his measurements the night before. As Eorlund placed the helm on his head, a rare smile split his face. "Good. It is to your liking, I trust?"
"The best! You have my gratitude, Eorlund. If you ever need anything, just say the word."
Eorlund considered. "Some septims would be nice."
"Of course!" laughed Dovahkiin. "And you shall have them very soon. But for now…" he turned to Lydia. "My dearest, I want to make for High Hrothgar as soon as possible. I'm going to summon Odahviing once again to aid me."
She nodded. "I'm ready."
"No," Dovahkiin said gently. "This is something I must do alone. Remember, you cannot go with me to speak to Paarthurnax."
She frowned. "I can at least accompany you to the doors of the monastery."
Dovahkiin shook his head. "Odahviing can only carry one." It was a bold lie, and Lydia was no fool. She knew as well as he did that dragons were strong enough to carry at least two people, probably more.
She sighed. "Alright, Dovahkiin. But take care of yourself, you hear me?" He pulled her close and kissed her. She was so warm, Dovahkiin didn't want to leave her behind. But the Greybeards hadn't been comfortable with an outsider in High Hrothgar, and all in all it was probably safer in Whiterun.
"Goodbye, my Love."
He turned and braced himself. "ODAHVIING!"
Lydia disappeared back into Dragonsreach. Dovahkiin waited for several minutes, gazing out over the northern plains and up to the mountains. An echoing roar rang out over the plains. Dovahkiin gave a small smile as he watched his friend fly closer to Whiterun.
Odahviing landed heavily in front of the Nord. "Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin," he rumbled. "Many moons have passed since we have met. I hope you do not intend to trap me here once again," he rumbled, glancing apprehensively at the large iron bar that the Dragonborn had used to ensnare Odahviing before.
"Drem Yol Lok. No, I haven't summoned you recently. You are a dragon, Odahviing. Not some cur that I would presume to call to my side. But I need the wings of a Dovah once more, to reach High Hrothgar and speak with Paarthurnax."
"Zu Fen Aam Hiu Mahfaeraak, Dovahkiin. I will serve you forever, and gladly. Climb on. We go to see the Old One." Odahviing beckoned.
Dovahkiin hopped on Odahviing's neck and they took off, soaring away from Whiterun just as the first guard ran out of Dragonsreach to see what the heck was going on.
Dovahkiin wished he had brought a cloak. His Nord blood may have insulated him against frost, but it didn't seem to be doing anything against the vicious winter wind that whipped across Odahviing's back as they ascended like a pair of gods into the heavens. Just as Dovahkiin's breath became labored with the altitude, High Hrothgar emerged from the clouds. They couldn't see into the courtyard, but Dovahkiin could see smoke rising. That was odd. The Greybeards didn't often make fires outside for themselves.
Then Odahviing landed in front of the monastery, and Dovahkiin hopped off. "I'll be needing a ride back down," he said apologetically to the dragon.
Odahviing made an agreeing rumble in his throat, and settled on his limbs to wait. Dovahkiin opened the door.
Immediately, he could tell that something was wrong. The braziers that were normally lit with warm coals were overturned and scattered across the floor. The Dragonborn frowned and put a hand on his sword. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner to the common room, where the four Greybeards had formally recognized him as Dragonborn and done much of his training.
A Greybeard lay dead on the floor.
Dovahkiin trotted over and knelt down beside the old man. It was Wulfgar. His chest did not move, but he wasn't fully cold yet: A sign that he had been killed fairly recently. Arrows stuck out of his chest, pinning his gray robes to his chest. Dovahkiin closed his misty eyes gently.
The Dragonborn straightened and looked around. A small blood trail led off into a wing of High Hrothgar. Now he pulled his sword gently from its sheathe and held it ahead of him as he walked.
A hammer blow rang out up ahead. The Dragonborn edged up to the council room where he negotiated a temporary truce to the Civil War with Kaius, Stenar, and their leaders.
An elf in chitin armor raised his hammer again and hit one of the stone chairs. A Morag Tong, thought Dovahkiin. That's what he had to be, seeing that he wore the same armor as the elf he saw the other day. The ancient stone cracked and chunks of it fell on the floor. It confused Dovahkiin. What's the point of him destroying the chairs? He thought.
The elf muttered to himself, "Do they even know how long it'll take to bring this place down? Why can't that damned dragon use its magic to destroy it? Why me?"
"Diin!" A blast of ice engulfed the elf, who stiffened and fell over. Dovahkiin kicked the frozen hammer out of the elf's icy hand. Deciding that he didn't have the time to wait for the assassin to thaw out, he Shouted, "Yol!"
A short gout of dragon fire hit the frozen Morag Tong. The flames were so intense that the ice encasing the assassin melted away fairly quickly. He gasped and sat up. "Ah! By the Three, that burns!"
Dovahkiin knelt on his chest, touching the tip of his sword against the Dark Elf's throat. "Stay down. Now listen up, assassin. You're going to tell me what you're doing here. You're going to tell me everything you know about Morden and his plans. And then you're going to run for your life."
The Dragonborn couldn't decide whether to let the man go free or not. It would be a big risk, but he was a man of honor, and found it hard to kill an unarmed enemy. He felt that it drew him closer to people who were messed up in the head like Morden or even Jag.
The assassin shuddered in pain. "What did you just do to me, fetcher? I feel like—gah!—like my skin is freezing and burning at the same time.
Dovahkiin hit the assassin with the pommel of his sword. "Tell me!"
The Morag Tong winced at the blow. "Alright, alright. Just my luck that I get bleedin' captured… Morden is going to attack Whiterun in exactly one week. He's sending draugr and giants mostly, but he's supplemented them with some mages. He's sent us, the Morag Tong, to assassinate the Greybeards and Paarthurnax."
"And did you?" demanded Dovahkiin. "Does Paarthurnax lay dead?"
The Morag Tong's crimson eyes shifted to something over Dovahkiin's shoulder. That was the only warning he got. Dovahkiin jerked to the left, and the sword that had been plunging for his back faltered. It still had enough force to hit the assassin on the floor.
He yelped in pain. The other assassin, who was wearing her cowl that covered her face with what looked like luminous goggles, lunged at the Dragonborn, who kicked her away. He raised his shield as the female swiped at him again.
As the elf on the floor made a grab for his fallen sword, Dovahkiin shifted his attention and stabbed downward. The unfortunate elf was pinned to the floor for a moment by Dovahkiin's blade.
The woman edged around Dovahkiin's shield. Then she stabbed at his greaves. Dovahkiin lowered the shield, but it had only been a feint. As he crouched, she whipped her sword upward. It skated over the side of his helmet and would've probably wounded him pretty badly had he been wearing his old armor. Dovahkiin decided to end this.
"Fus Ro Dah!" She flew backward and hit a column, which collapsed under the strength of his Thu'um.
Dovahkiin nudged the motionless assassin with his boot. If she was still alive under all that rubble, she was no threat anymore. But if there were more assassins, they would've surely heard his Shouts.
He ran to the doors that led to the outer courtyard. As soon as he started to push it open, a thought occurred to him: What would Kaius say if he could see how the Dragonborn was fighting? He would be appalled at this lack of caution. So he raised his shield as the large door rumbled open.
He was glad he did so. Immediately, two arrows hit him. One broke on the center of his shield, and the other hit just below it. But it had hit his cuirass and ricocheted off the dragon bones. He saw his attackers, four of them, standing around the courtyard. And there—
By Talos. Another dragon. It was so odd that an unfamiliar dragon was here that his eyes had initially passed over it. But the fiery orange that signified an elder dragon could not be missed. It stared at him fiercely. "Yol!"
He dived away from the door as more arrows and dragon fire filled the area he had just stood in. Before they could track him, he bellowed, "Odahviing!" Not a Thu'um, but a normal shout, one that he was sure Odahviing would hear from the other side of the building.
To buy himself some time, he Shouted, "Ven Gar Nos!" and a cyclone ripped over the snow into the Morag Tong. They went flying, and Dovahkiin hunched behind his shield as the elder dragon prepared to attack.
Odahviing soared over High Hrothgar and landed on the enemy dragon before it had time to take off. The elder dragon tried to squirm and move Odahviing off, but the latter dug in his claws and bit the back of the elder dragon's neck.
The dragon screeched, a horrible sound, while the Morag Tong rushed Dovahkiin. He charged to meet them, no longer having to fear their blades and magic. He was Ysmir, and he had the armor and soul of a dragon. The poor Dark Elves didn't stand a chance.
As the last assassin's head hit the snow, Dovahkiin was already running forward. Odahviing still had the enemy dragon pinned, so Dovahkiin plunged his sword into the elder dragon's widening eye.
The beast writhed and the Nord went sprawling, coming up with a mouthful of snow in time to see the dragon's mighty head hid the ground. Its misty eye closed halfway, but was stopped by the sword protruding out of it.
Odahviing climbed off and glanced around. "Krosis Fah Nust Dinok. It is a pity they died."
They? Dovahkiin wondered, pulling his sword out of the dragon. Its body disintegrated and the first streams of its soul flowed into Dovahkiin. As always, it was quite distracting because he saw the rush of all the dragon's experiences as a faint imprint before his eyes. He's not regretful for the Morag Tong's deaths, is he? He followed Odahviing's gaze and saw what the red dragon had meant by his strange comment.
Another Greybeard, Borri, sat with his back against a wall, holding his gut. His head was bowed over his chest, but Dovahkiin could tell he was dead. Next to him were the corpses of two Morag Tong assassins who'd been ripped apart by his Thu'um. Dovahkiin was astounded they hadn't heard this fight across the land, since the slightest whisper of a Greybeard's Voice was enough to make Tamriel shudder.
Einarth lay in the center of the courtyard, his body charred until it was almost unrecognizable. It was clear the dragon had killed him."So much for the pacifist Way of the Voice," Odahviing said bitterly. "If they had dwiin, steel, perhaps they would have stood a better chance."
Then fear struck the Dragonborn. He put away his sword and sprinted across the ruined courtyard, up the slopes of the Throat of the World. Odahviing took off and soared over his head.
Sure enough, a blood trail started up, widened, and ended in the huddled form of the last Greybeard, Arngeir. The man had watched Dovahkiin assume the mantle of hero. And here he was, cut down like a chicken as he fled to warn Paarthurnax.
Paarthurnax! Dovahkiin resumed running, hoping desperately that Paarthurnax simply hadn't been up here when the Morag Tong attacked, or that he'd fought them off. But as Dovahkiin rounded the icy bend to the tallest point in Tamriel, a keening wail mingled out with the wind.
Odahviing was next to Paarthurnax, his voice filled with grief. What struck Dovahkiin first about the scene were the scores of bodies that lay under thin coats of snow. Paarthurnax had not gone down without a fight.
"Niid! Niid! The Old One is gone. Nivahriin Fahliil!"
As Dovahkiin dropped his shield and sank to his knees in numb anguish, he felt Paarthurnax's soul beckon to him. A scale or two started to burn on the ancient dragon's hide.
NO! He didn't want to absorb his mentor's soul. Dovahkiin scrambled away as Paarthurnax's ivory bones were exposed. Odahviing roared in shock and dismay as Paarthurnax's colorful soul flowed towards the Dragonborn.
"Niid!" Cried Dovahkiin again and again, surprising himself with the use of the dragon language. He saw faint visions of Paarthurnax's early years; how he had acted as Alduin's right hand in enslaving mankind, the atrocities committed against heroes and villains alike, and then his later years. Dovahkiin felt indescribable feelings. Terrible sorrow, leaping joy, and other things subtle but strong enough to move him to tears. He wept, but Paarthurnax's soul just flowed and flowed and flowed. His years atop the Throat of the World had been spent in quiet contemplation. In fact, he had spent millennia waiting for Alduin's return. All these years flowed sluggishly into the Dragonborn's soul.
He shuddered as the last vestige of powerful soul entered him. On his hands and knees now, he threw up violently. He despised himself and all that he represented at that moment. What was he? A hero no better than a necromancer? Both of them stole souls for power. Though sometimes violent and dangerous, dragons were still living creatures, right? What right did he have to their very essence for eternity?
He shook his head. The dragon souls were restless. It was probably them who were causing these feelings. He staggered to his feet and saw Odahviing staring at him. Dragon faces were not the most expressive, but he knew Odahviing was horrified. He glanced at Paarthurnax's skeleton grinning broadly at him.
"Dovahkiin…"
Dovahkiin could not control his emotions any longer. "Yol Toor Shul!" he spat a stream over fire over the Throat of the World. After he was done, he hunkered down in the snow and took off his helmet. What was the point of being a hero if he couldn't save someone as powerful as a dragon?
Then, slowly, a thought occurred to him. He had seen Alduin perform a Shout at Kynesgrove, Rorikstead, and other places. It was a Shout to bring dead dragon back to life. It took him a second to remember the Words of Power used, and he also added a word of his own.
"Slen Sil Tiid Vo!"
Paarthurnax's soul streamed out of his own. He felt himself forgetting all that the ancient dragon had done in his lifetime. If Odahviing had been surprised before, he was astounded as he saw Paarthurnax's soul returned to his body and flesh regrow on the old dragon's bones.
As the process ended, Paarthurnax jerked and his eyes opened. "Dir Volaan, Fahliil! Vukein! Sos!" He quieted as he saw the dead around him. "Dovahkiin? Odahviing?"
Odahviing let out a happy trumpet. "Old One! You are back!" Well done, Dovahkiin! This is indeed a Sahrot Krongrah, a mighty victory."
"Back?" asked Paarthurnax. "Where was I?"
"Dead, Thuri. You were slain by the assassins."
"Slain?" repeated Paarthurnax, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "I had the impression of soaring…"
"The Dovahkiin returned your soul and flesh to your body."
Paarthurnax stared at Dovahkiin for ten full seconds without speaking. Then: "You have mastered your Thu'um, Dragonborn. I am most impressed. But what of the Greybeards?"
"They were also killed by the assassins," Dovahkiin answered regretfully.
"Hmm. Krosis. I feel… Rejuvenated. My body is young and whole again. My thanks."
"Don't mention it," said Dovahkiin. "But Odahviing, we must be going. A massive army is about to attack Whiterun Hold. We must prepare them."
Paarthurnax and Odahviing made similar growls. "Let us be off, then!" said Odahviing.
Paarthurnax watched as he clambered on the red dragon. "Dovahkiin, it seems your plight is worse than we thought. I will round up any dragons who will listen. They will fight for you yet."
Dovahkiin and Odahviing took flight, soaring away from the wise old lizard and into the clouds, his will bent on preparing Whiterun for the fight of its life.
Dragon Glossary: Fahliil- elf
Sil- soul
Krosis- sorrow, regret
Fus- force
Ro- balance
Dah- push
Slen- flesh
Tiid- time
Vo- undo
Yol- fire
Toor- Inferno
Shul- Sun
Thuri- master
Volaan- Quickly
Dir- die
Diin- Freeze
Ven- wind
Gar- unleash
Nos- strike
I think that's all of them. By the way, Blahzeel is a submitted OC from Pir84lyf who will most likely appear in my other fanfics as well. Thank you, Pir84lyf! As always, thanks for reading, everyone. See you next time.