Fire crackled in the hearth. The burning wood glowed and whenever some weaker element collapsed it would send up plumes of new sparks. But among the weakness lay strength. Twice-burnt charcoal and the hard hearts of fallen trees withstood the furnace, outlasting it.

Harald could feel the heat from where he was sitting, a steady glow like the sun on a summer day. He basked in it, pushing away the cold that had seeped into his bones before up on the mountain.

The boy didn't fully remember how he'd gotten there, but he now found himself by the fire in one of the many inns under the shadow of Helgen's towers. The town had been built around the Imperial garrison and its walls were tall, but Harald knew height meant nothing when an enemy could come from above.

All trade coming from the south passed through the town and more specifically through the customs officials, so another stranger didn't raise suspicion, but Harald was still surprised no one had stopped him. Perhaps they took him for a Bosmer, he was short enough…

The mountain and the monster had faded into a dark struggle at the back of his mind. He clearly remembered beginning the trip through the pass, and diverging to find Dive Rock, and later the fury of his pursuer, but after that he'd lost time, and clearly a day and a night had passed before he found himself in Helgen. The fire was clear; he knew he'd never forget it. The fire and a voice on the wind…

"Are you with me father?" he whispered, but there was nothing but the chatter of the others in the common room and the crackle of the fire.

How he'd survived the dragon and what he'd done afterwards Harald could hardly remember. The fire should have killed him, did kill him, he remembered the inferno around him, the pressure and heat, his spirit soaring free, yet here he was, uninjured, even from his fall from the path onto the glacier. But the events eluded him and he could only grasp at shadows, a great leather carcass across the snow, the shattered remnants of its bones, the sharp rocks beneath naked feet and the watchers on the wind as he'd come down the mountain.

Some of his equipment was gone, his fur cloak and his thicker boots, but the rest of it seemed to be intact, still where he'd arranged it in his pack, though he'd found the bag's wooden frame broken, probably from his fall. It was a struggle to think how he'd managed it and his head ached whenever he tried. Had the fire burnt away his clothes? Had he dressed himself from the spares in his pack? It seemed an unlikely thing to have done out on the glacier but here he was. Somehow even his bow had survived and he found it propped next to him at the table.

He shivered and moved his stool around, closer to the fire. The inn was partially underground as was common in the north, with low doorways on both sides of the room going into what Harald assumed were either storerooms or lodgings. However, it was clear the usual patrons had yet to arrive, indeed, aside from an old woman slowly sipping at some soup a few tables away, his corner of the room was deserted. The others around the room were clearly strangers not locals, and he saw two Dumner conversing, one Mannish trader of indeterminate blood and a figure in a hooded cloak sitting by themselves.

Though the room was spacious enough, never in his memory had Harald felt the world so close about him, oppressive, crushing even. The fire felt too hot, yet his body felt too cold, whenever the door opened the light was too bright and the low chatter of the patrons made his head ache. He was suspicious of every sign and portent, from the crack in the table which resembled the nine rays of the Divines to a soot mark on a wall in the shape of a hawk. It felt like drowning, the time between the dive into deep water and the moment before breaking free.

With a start he felt it, or rather, saw it, back on the glacier a light before him, around him, within him, the first gasp of air, the gasp of life. Harald felt again the cold of the snow running around him, the ice beneath him, hot and cold at once, then the wild wind on his face and the raging in his blood. The cackling of the fire was behind him but behind that the song, the shouts and the pounding drumbeat in his ears, the pounding blood, it grew and grew until...

The door crashed open against the wall and a throng burst in, their laugher filling the room. It jolted the boy awake from his reverie and thrust him into the present.

Skyrim had come. The men who'd entered were Nords, tall and strong, their hair braided and their cloaks rich. In Wayrest only knights could wear swords in the city, but here each man wore one openly, their weapons hilted with snarling beasts, bright mail about their shoulders. They greeted the innkeeper warmly and began thrusting chairs aside to bring tables together into one larger one, then they threw themselves down with more laugher.

"Mead! Mead!" they shouted with more laugher and they pounded the tables with their fists.

With each strike Harald felt the pressure building in his skull, the drumbeat crashed again and he felt his face grow hot, a call to war.

Then band celebrated as they quaffed their ale, several of them draining mugs in one long drink and then throwing them down merrily. They quietened after that, a one-eyed greybeard holding court from his place at the head of the table as they others listened carefully to him. As Harald watched them he saw one of the warrior watching him in turn. The watcher was much the same as the others, with the only distinguishing feature being an immensely long beard, braided and tucked into the man's belt. Long hair was uncommon among the men of Wayrest and the sight of it looked so ridiculous to Harald that he was entirely distracted from his aching head. He couldn't imagine how the man had even managed to dress, and an image came to him of this warrior threading his beard through his clothes and mail shirt before following through with his head and the boy grinned at the thought.

The bearded watcher frowned and stood, pulling away from his comrades and walking over to Harald. The boy saw menace in his stride and he felt the heat of the fire on his back again, seeping through his cloak into his core, what was happening to him?

The warrior approached and took up the bow next to Harald. His mouth moved but the boy heard nothing but the pounding in his ears. The man turned to the crowd and held the bow as they laughed and gesticulated back to him. It was as if Harald saw it all from another's eyes, him sitting at the table, the man mocking his weapon, the cackling fire, the world quivering. The bearded warrior turned back to Harald and he felt himself standing, pulling back his hood. The man looked down at him and stopped, he said nothing, shrugging and casting the bow down on the table in insult, turning away, calling something to his comrades.

But Harald's blood was up, he would not be insulted in his own land, not among his own people. He drew breath and the cold air burned his lungs. The stool was in his hands and a cry on his lips and when the other turned back to him he swept the stool forward, all his strength into the strike.

The man's face showed his surprise at the attack, but soon turned to pain as his eyes bulged and he choked, falling to the floor, hands between his legs.

The world sounded again and Harald heard the roars of laughter from the warrior band and the mocking calls to their fellow curled on the floor. It shocked him back to consciousness.

Harald let the stool fall from his hands. What had he done? Why had he done it? He looked down, his brow furrowed, letting himself slump onto another stool. His hands were clenched and he slowly relaxed them. It had been so sudden, he'd felt the heat build in him and moved. It was as if he could see clearly again and he sat in amazement, grasping the bow before him, running his fingers over the wood and leather, grounding himself by the grain.

The felled man had begun to stand, his eyes bright as he glared at Harald but swiftly another came up behind him. It was the one-eyed warrior, older, his face scarred and weathered. He seized the felled man by the shoulders and cast him back toward the band's table with a word. He regarded Harald, his eyes narrowed, frowning with a wolfish brow. He came forward himself, glanced down at the fallen stool and righted it with the ghost of a smile. He looked at Harald again as he sat and pushed his sword's hilt to the side to a more comfortable position.

The man's lips moved but Harald was still wondering at his own actions, he gripped the bow hard and looked up.

His scars were really quite horrific, two long ugly marks beside his nose, jagged and rough as if from a claw, one of them passing through the ruined mess of his eye socket, now more square than round, with the other scar across his temple, through the grey of his hair toward the ear. But even the man's features were nothing compared to the burning embers which had pursued him not a day before.

"Boy." The man growled. "A fine strike boy." He glanced over his shoulder back to his table. "I've never seen one of my own laid out with such a weapon, though it's not one I'd be likely to see in our armoury."

Harald said nothing, the madness of his rage receding. He could almost feel the strength leaving him, the world less bright and deafening, his hands no longer shaking and the cold sweat on his brow.

He regarded the boy, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

It was abrupt, almost rude, but Master Vinothren had always said that Skyrim's roughness had produced a rough people, but Harald hadn't expected to encounter it just yet in a man who, by his metal and dress, was a noble.

"I am Harald of Valland." He replied, using the name the Nords had for High Rock. Master Vinothren had taught him the uses of courtesy. He'd seen the Dunmer use the same technique many times against angry debtors, being excessively formal to reclaim a conversation.

"And let me see," the greybeard began, "You were hard to handle at home so your father sent you here? Perhaps to an uncle or for fostering?"

It was only that the suggestion was slightly wrong that stopped Harald from showing his surprise. It was only after he'd bent his mind toward it that he realised it wasn't such a leap, after all, fostering was common enough, and he supposed he wouldn't have been surprised if the greybeard had guessed he was the son of a sailor or a legionary, both occupations were popular among Nords and many of his race found themselves in far places like Wayrest. Silently he appraised the man on the other side of the table, after all despite his wishes Harald was a stranger in Skyrim and he should hardly begin by underestimating those he met.

"Not to a fostering." He replied. Master Vinothren had also taught him to be taciturn when unsure.

"Where then?"

"Jorrvaskr." Harald said simply.

"Oh ho!" exclaimed the greybeard. "And do you think it likely they'll let you go along there if you couldn't be controlled at home?"

But Harald had read the old tales, "I've been misinformed then, if such men are of no use to Ysgramor's hall."

"Jeek's hall." Replied the greybeard with a sneer. "And while I don't make the same mistake Toki made, you are not a man, and certainly won't be one for a few years."

"Then I'll fight to prove myself." There were many such cases of admission from Master Vinothren's books.

"Then you must hope they have a supply of stools there." And Harald thought the smirk had become cruel. The warrior across from him sat forward, leaning on his elbows and bringing his hands together under his chin. He appraised Harald, then turned slowly back to his table and warriors, then back again to Harald. "If you're resolved in this I'll wish you luck." The warrior remarked as if to dismiss the matter, "Tell them the Trollwaker sent you."

And as abruptly as he'd introduced himself he stood up and left Harald alone.

In his confusion the boy did nothing after the conversation, and further into the evening he merely sat and watched, curled in a corner of the greatroom by the fire, trying to make some sense of the day's events. Night fell swiftly in the winter and others jostled for the fire's warmth, setting their furs out around it and carrying the tables off to make room to sleep. Harald took up station in the corner, curled leaning against his pack, agitated and restless. It wasn't merely the odd conversation with a stranger so interested in the boy's business but the day in general. Memories returned slowly, he'd heard sometimes about men who'd been struck on the head and forgotten themselves, but as he sat there in the inn it seemed as if he were back on the mountain, flashes of light and the cold, his journey down, a path leading to a road and the gates of Helgen.

The conversation with this 'Trollwaker' had been strange, both the manner of it and the subject, but while it unusual the man took such a close interest in his business, Harald hadn't spared a thought for it at the time, still trying to regain control of himself after his rage. He'd been angry before of course, but never in his memory had he felt such a fury, such all-consuming fire, the heat in his face, his blood pounding in his ears and heart thumping. No thought had entered his head, no consideration of what to do, how to respond to the bearded warrior who'd come over to him, he simply stood, no, found himself standing, his 'weapon' in hand, then swinging it to fell the foe. It was as if he'd been in some mortal battle and lost himself in combat.

When he'd trained with Ivar in the salles of Wayrest the legionary had taught him discipline and planning, to train frequently till actions could be performed without conscious effort, to parry and thrust, yet to shackle the virtue of combat carefully, to take no improper action, to never leave himself unguarded. In his attack on Toki it seemed he'd forgotten every lesson he'd had, almost as if he hadn't merely given in to rage as an amateur might, using it as some did to give strength to their attacks, but instead truly been overcome by it, the rage making him stand, as if his body had been, for a moment, no longer his own.

The boy's eyes lingered on one of the stools. He hadn't even heard what the man had said to him before he'd grabbed for the weapon, even if it had been some grave insult there had been no time to register it before he had acted. Harald pushed away the encroaching sense of shame at the thought of what Master Vinothren would say if he'd been there, after all, while it might have been unreasonable in this case he knew it must have been justified, with the feeling itself giving all cause to act. Never had he attacked another as he had there, yet never had he felt such rage.

But then he had felt it hadn't he? Not rage, but still the same feeling of doing rather than thinking, the same action without thought. Up on the mountain, when he'd finally accepted his fate, when he'd made the decision to face the dragon. The same rage had flowed through him, the same pounding drums in his ears and the rising fire deep in his chest.

Despite his thoughts exhaustion eventually overwhelmed him and Harald drifted into sleep. His dreams were strange and without logic, he seemed to fly high above the world, the mountains and rivers below him, patchwork fields and the dark smudges of towns as he flew. Then the clouds covered his sight and he went on into a grey wilderness. The ground was ash beneath his feet and the bones of the earth reached up, grasping at his cloak. With a word he set many to flight but others rose up and knelt, holding gifts in supplication. After trudging through that strange landscape, his toes sinking into the grey ooze around him he came to a great castle and passed through doors reaching to the sky, braced against the firmament. Within sat a cruel-faced warlord, and around him warriors, concubines and priests to do his will. All manner of monsters gathered about the court, hideous in their finery, yet proud and bold. All knelt before the warlord and Harald felt himself draw closer to the high seat, unable to decide between fleeing and going forward.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The cruel-faced warlord laughed and spoke, his voice booming, and the last thing Harald saw before he woke was a cold face, eyes burning, lips dripping fire.