It took Harald five days to reach Whiterun.

He left Helgen at dawn, heading west down through the jagged stony hills north of Helgen. Skyrim was unlike any land he'd travelled through before. He'd seen hills certainly, the road he'd taken through Cyrodiil around the Colovian plateau had been bordered by them, and in his native Stormhaven the northern regions of the kingdom were hilly going up to the Wrothgarian mountains, but in Skyrim there seemed a dozen smaller kingdoms, each split by difficult terrain. It was made worse by the weather, or so he'd heard tell, for the snows would often block up passes completely, with drifts as high as houses. How the Empire had made a single province of it all he couldn't imagine, especially when man might make himself sovereign for a season and be untouchable beneath the aegis of a blizzard.

Before he'd left Wayrest he'd studied the geographical texts in Master Vinothren's library just as much as he had the historical ones, and truly it was as they said, Skyrim seemed a patchwork of ridges and narrow valleys, and he'd walked through the high orchards by rocky crags as he traversed the smaller line of rocks which the locals had named for the shrieking winds than ran through them.

He knew he shouldn't call them that, 'the locals', and he'd caught himself thinking it several times, but his walking also allowed a great deal of introspection and he had much on his mind, not least of which the continued unfamiliarity of the land and his feeling of shame that he called himself a Nord yet went about as a stranger in the country of his longfathers. Truly, they were his own people, or at least they were to become so, and certainly so far he'd been made to feel welcome whenever he'd passed someone on the road or gone through the few villages he'd seen on the way. They'd even given him food or directions, which was more than could be said for the people of Stormhaven who'd always been suspicious whenever Ivar and Harald had passed by on one of their walks.

As he'd been told he was passing through the 'Hold' of Falkreath, which was another name for one of the sub-kingdoms in Skyrim proper. Just as the province of High Rock was itself composed of Daggerfall, Stormhaven, and so on, so too was Skyrim. But as with other provinces they had different names for things and Harald had heard they called their kings 'Jarls', a word close enough to the Breton earls to be familiar to him. He didn't know if they had knights, but he supposed if there were any Jorrvaskr would be the place to find them.

The journey through Falkreath was downhill almost all the way which even as a practiced traveller Harald found pleasant as it meant he could devote himself to observation rather than spending all his energy putting on foot in front of another. Falkreath hold was a large valley bounded on all sides by mountains, the Dragontail ranges to the west, the Jeralls to the south, and others he didn't know the names of. It was a place of hills and forests with only slight touches of civilisation where farmers had carved out their hamlets. The woods were dark, but bright enough around the road north which followed the White river leading from a lake through the length of Skyrim to Windhelm, City of Kings, and on to the Sea of Ghosts.

One day he would see the city of Ysgramor… But more immediately Harald was bound for Jorrvaskr and the plains of Whiterun Hold. Whiterun was known for its agriculture, and he knew much grain and trade passed through it due to the location of the city in the centre of Skyrim and on a large river. The character of the place had after all been one of the reasons Master Vinothren had countenanced Harald's fostering there, for Whiterun was to Skyrim as Wayrest was to Stormhaven, a centre of trade and a comparatively cosmopolitan place within a much more homogeneous region.

Down through a long valley he went before he came to a camp of woodsmen at a bend in the river. They were foresters who'd carried their products to the river's edge to lash them together into rafts and transport for cutting and dressing downstream in mills along the river. While the warriors in Helgen had been merry Harald found these Nords to be dour and humourless, saying little while the boy was in their company. They permitted him to join them though, bobbing down the river toward Whiterun for several hours till they came to an area where the river flowed in strange patterns and currents through a narrow place. While Harald knew boats well enough he'd never been on such a large river and his previous excursions had been limited to the sea. He thought perhaps that place in the river was one of rapids, and now the water covered whatever rocks would normally direct the water. In any case, the boatmen refused to proceed further, deciding to wait until the next day. Apparently there had been a great storm several nights ago and the river was higher and faster than usual which seemed to alarm the men. Indeed, it must have been a prodigious storm to trouble such hardy folk, and Harald was surprised he hadn't been caught up in it himself.

Before long he took his leave of them, following the road north once again. This time he hiked uphill over a ridge toward another line of low mountains that barred the way to the plains of Whiterun. Night closed in swiftly on the heels of day and Harald looked for shelter. While the sun had followed him through the previous days he saw clouds closing in from the east which promised rain. He looked up, shielding his eyes and saw a great rock, a promontory jutting out in the shape of a stooping raptor. The land had been shaken in some ancient age and now the hawk-stone slanted down over a long crack in the mountains. Harald had never seen anything like it, but perhaps such features were common in foreign lands. He went down following a sandy shelf a dozen paces wide running along the cliffs and winding out of sight as it went off north.

Below was a sheer precipice, but even as he prepared his bedding he could hardly see a few feet in front of his face because of the cloud that even now surrounded him. Back when he'd walked in the hills and forests of Wayrest years ago Ivar had always warned against travelling in cloud or mist over mountains, the former legionary hailed from ravine-ridden Rivenspire and was more used to such elevation than most men, but he'd still drilled into Harald a particular care in such treacherous conditions where at any moment a step into the mist might meet nothing but air and a plummet off some blind drop. After all, hadn't exactly that happened up on the mountain before he'd even gotten to Skyrim?

The boy set his gear between himself and the cliff before burrowing into his furs, even if he rolled in his sleep he'd only roll into his pack, not off toward the edge. The mist had passed over him, but he saw another bank of cloud and he was just as wary of it as he had been its predecessor. It moved in, slipping across the hills like a wraith and covering the valleys beyond with a dark river.

He listened as he lay under the hawk-stone, the sounds of earth and sky, creaking boughs and cries of nocturnal creatures running through him as the numbness of sleep spread through his body. He'd had great trouble getting to sleep over the last few days, not because of any bodily discomfort but because whenever he closed his eyes the world seemed to press in on him and he was left with only his own thoughts. It was easy enough to be distracted as he'd been traveling because there had been so many new things to see but when he closed his eyes he only had the blackness.

Harald had been considering destiny. In the years before he'd followed Master Vinothren's direction entirely, trusting that the elf knew best for him. The boy could hardly complain about his upbringing, he'd learnt much after all, and it had been what his father had desired him to do. But he remembered the pull he'd felt toward Skyrim, to the parent and nation he'd never known. Before he'd set off north he'd spoken with Ivar about what to expect. As one of the foreign-born varengir, the old legionary had been in service to foreign lords in Skyrim and beyond its borders, and the soldier had told of how a man's destiny was fixed by the gods, and the day of death inevitable. Because of this Harald had been told he should fight heroically at all times because if it were not the death-day then he would survive, but if it was only valiant death could provide passage across the whale-bone bridge to Sovngarde. Ivar had described different times he'd been in danger, and how in each case how he knew the gods were testing him for worthiness to join his forefathers in Aetherius, whether by Kyne-sent war or Shor-blown blizzards.

The mountain had been part of Harald's destiny. It was clear to him that he had been meant to be there. It had been ordained. He'd been thinking about the gods when he'd first gone up the mountain from the road through the pass, thinking about his father, about Skyrim, but also about the great city to the south, the jewel in the heart of Cyrodiil. The Nordic name for it just meant 'White City', but in Aldermis it was the Temple of the Ancestors, the home of the Nine. He'd wanted to go up the mountain to stand in some high place and see the city, but had the Nine seen this as a sign of piety? Had the dragon been a test or was that fixed as well?

Certainly he'd never heard of a dragon swooping about devouring travellers, but then again if it had been doing so there wouldn't have been anyone living to tell of it. Had it been sent by the gods? Lord Akatosh was the father of dragons after all, no doubt he could command them as easily as Lord Stendarr could command the beasts of the sea.

Harald's thoughts were interrupted by a growing cold, there was a draft over his shoulder where he'd set the furs with less care than he perhaps should have. He didn't want to move otherwise he knew he'd wake further, but he also knew he couldn't sleep with the furs as they were. Making up his mind he shifted to free his arm and drew his cloak further to the front. It was entirely night now, and dark of the moon at that, with only the stars for company.

The Nine had come from the stars, and each one was said to be another god, still watching Nirn and their kin who'd come down to make the world. Master Vinothren had said the folk of Akavir worshipped the stars alongside the Nine… were those far away gods watching him now?

The thought of Akavir reminded him of the Dragonguard, those warriors who'd hunted and slain any dragons they could fine, but who'd later sworn service to Reman. That storied emperor had been the descendant of St Alessia to whom Lord Akatosh had given his dragonic blood, and in turn Reman had sired Talos and the Septims. The Akaviri had formed the early body and later were remembered in the traditions of the Blades who continued their charge up until St Martin had martyred himself in battle against the Daedra, and there were many tales about them as well.

No doubt the Blades would possess great stores of knowledge, for thinking it over it occurred to Harald that he didn't actually know much about the creatures or their habits. Would it be possible to join their order? He didn't think so, for he'd never heard of anyone being accepted. There was a fortress of ill-repute north of Wayrest that travellers avoided which was said to house some branch of that order. Perhaps he might present himself there when he returned to Wayrest. He had intended to be a knight and a hero, and maybe the Blades could aid him, though what exactly they did now that they had no Emperor to guard was as much a mystery to Harald as the dragons they once hunted.

He went over all the dragons in all the tales he'd ever heard of, but it seemed to him that they belonged to an earlier time, back when Falmer had still ruled Skyrim or the Direnni Wayrest. It was unlikely anyone would believe him about the dragon so he'd have to find out things on his own. He wondered who might hold dragonlore, other than the Blades, and remembered that there'd been a battle off Stros M'kai in the Third Era where the hero Cyrus had slain a dragon. There had been a magic sword involved but the boy couldn't remember in what capacity, presumably Cyrus had slain the dragon with it.

But didn't dragons hoard treasure? Perhaps the sword had been part of such a hoard.

Harald's mind turned. The question was whether the Nine had created the dragon as a test, or whether they'd simply willed the dragon be there, drawing it out of whatever cave it'd been lurking in. Never in all the rumours that passed through the docks of Wayrest had he ever heard of a living dragon and he concluded that either it had been keeping to itself, or that the Nine had more directly intervened to bring it there… or at least to bring him near it.

But then wasn't his killing of it equally improbable? He was a good shot with a bow, and Ivar had told him he was progressing well with the sword, clearly the gods had also intended him to slay the beast.

He thought and thought on it and felt his doubts recede. Both the dragon and its death had been impossible. Yet clearly they simply were. They were meant to be, he had been set in that place and an enemy before him, and he had been equipped with a weapon to slay such a creature, despite his armament paling in comparison with the dragon's natural weapons. Even now he could summon up the feeling of the furnace wind as if he faced it again. The earth had shaken and the winds howled, but he'd burned too quickly for the pain to come, so sudden and complete had his death been… But now he lay unharmed and whole.

Harald had prayed before he faced the dragon, he'd called to Kyne to guide his soul, but Kyne was also the goddess of the hunt. Had she blessed him then? Drawn back her storm-veil to guide his arrow as it sought, blood-hungry, for the dragon's heart? He was a child and his bow was fitting for him, it couldn't have pierced the dragon's scales on its own, but then he didn't think the orcish greatbows or Bosmer bitterwood arrows could have either.

If Kyne was the Mother of Nords, Shor was their father, and had he not also called on Shor-as-Talos to bless him while he'd still been in Cyrodiil?

Kyne had given humanity the Voice, that mighty armament to throw down the dragons and take Tamriel. And when he was young Talos had been called to High Hrothgar, called to rule.

Was that his destiny? To go up to the mountain like Talos? Perhaps…

Yet he couldn't forget that he was travelling to Whiterun, a famed city who's king Olaf One-Eye had once trapped and killed a dragon and thus passed into immortality in the annals of the Nords.

Harald did not realise he'd fallen asleep, but steadily his thoughts became sluggish, his father became Talos, eyes glowing spitting fire, while his unknown mother came to be Kyne, her wings outstretched across the horizon.

His dreams went on, and it was as if he flew, knowing not whether he was dragon or mortal man, whether Numinex or Olaf, hunter or hunted. It was like he was born to it and joy filled him as the trees and hills passed beneath his wings.

The sun was rising, and he rose with it. He stood, his harness bright and his hand resting upon his swordhilt. The lusty blade sat for the moment, but soon the sword would fly loose to slay again. Before while he still slept he'd dreamt the moons were gone, and instead a serpent turned in the sky, encircling the world, chocking it. But now dawn came in all its beauty.

They will know you my son, as He Who is Covered in Blood.

The black earth cried out and the sun descended from the moon's place like royalty upon a stair. The stars were its heralds, and they fought the serpent and were extinguished. They lay injured and passed into the earth, life dripping away.

He heard the calls, for they hailed him anew and life-long.

The sword of the earth, the sword of fire flashed out in salute and he spoke…

The boy woke and looked out, the dream clear in his mind. He reached for a sword and felt only the swaddling of his furs, damp with dew. He shrugged them off and stood, but the sun wasn't risen as he expected it to be, for his perch looked west and not east.

Harald stood there for a time, he'd heard the peal of a bell as he woke, or perhaps that had wakened him. He knew there could have been no such bell on the barren cliff, and certainly no bellringer, but he'd heard it still and it seemed to him that it was the most beautiful sound in creation.

A drop of water fell from the roof above him and splashed upon a rock.

He heard the bell again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a face in the sandy floor.

The boy did not start, he had known the face would be there, just as he knew that it would be gone when he turned to it fully.

And there was no face, nor had there ever been, only sand.

Then the bell pealed again and the sun broke over the top of the mountains, flooding into the valley of Falkreath like molten gold.

Harald stepped forward and raised his hand in salute, as he had in the dream. Then he spoke, as he had in the dream:

"Hail the dawn and its son

Chasing away the night

Look upon him with loving eyes

That await his victory"