The ridge of hills went on for miles, and Harald walked down the slope toward the valley floor, scrambling on scree slopes and fording streams. The pines were orange and the valley plains brown with the summer's growth except for a few square green fields that had been cleared for cattle to graze. Winter had not yet come, but the crowned storm that heralded it was on the wind, and it blew impatient cold all around Skyrim.
Harald did not go down fully into the valley, for he wanted to maintain a good view of the place and kept his walk along a path about half way up the ride on one side, looking down through trees to a great river. It was not so large as the Bjousale that fed the Illiac Bay, but certainly it was wider than the Wind River which flowed through Wayrest. That river had been tamed by centuries of building and masonry in canals, locks or other works, and the Wind River served Wayrest as a faithful attendant. This river though wound and pooled as it pleased, and it seemed men had to work around it, for the pastures were all of strange shapes, navigating around the marshy ground at the river's bends or having to conform to its course.
While this place wasn't much settled, clearly someone went about enough here to make the path he'd been following. He expected to find some crofter's house, or perhaps a hunting camp where men might rest after their pursuits, but so far he'd seen nothing. Here and there he saw sheep in the high pastures or sure-footed goats clambering about the rocks that poked out of the hills now and again, but he'd yet to see any men, which seemed strange to him. Neither Stormhaven nor Colovia had been the most populous of kingdoms, probably due to their number of hills and forests, but even in Stormhaven whenever he'd gone walking there was always a village within a few miles. Perhaps the men of Skyrim were all in the cities? But, thinking about it he'd never heard tell of great cities in Skyrim, fortresses and holdfasts certainly, but Master Vinothren had said the Imperial City had once held over a million souls (and the elf had said wryly, even more bodies), and certainly he'd never heard of any city in Skyrim matching that.
Then again, Master Vinothren had also told him that most of those who'd once lived under the White Tower's shadow had moved away, and whole neighbours had been converted into farmland with the stones of walls and timbers from houses used to repair the rents caused by various battles. Over the last hundred years the city had been plundered several times and had turned inward, cannibalising itself.
The boy knew that in the past more people had lived in cities, but that during the widespread destruction of the Oblivion Crisis and the Demonmarch some cities had been destroyed entirely like Snowhawk near the city of Solitude, and others merely damaged, with the people scattering. This had led to swathes of refugees and wanderers, who had had to keep wandering as the Stormcrown Interregnum's conflicts scourged Tamriel, and the Great War against the Aldmeri afterward.
It seemed a shame to Harald that such ancient and storied places would now be so decreased. Was this a sign? Certainly he'd acknowledged the night before that the Divines had some plan for him, and that he'd been placed in a certain location and in a certain time for some purpose. But if the gods wanted him to build surely he'd have face some sort of architectural foe rather than a draconic one?
He briefly amused himself thinking about fighting some sort of malevolent enchanted bridge, but then returned to more serious matters.
Since his revelation he'd been constantly looking about for signs and portents. He'd not caught any of the faces that followed him, though he'd sometimes tried to watch for them out the corner of his eyes. But he had seen other things. First, on waking and walking in the mountains he'd seen a bird of prey standing on a rock devouring a serpent. At first he'd not thought much of it, but with the other things he'd seen he couldn't ignore them anymore. He'd been sat under a tree taking a rest before tackling another hill and a few leaves had fallen from the tree as he leant back against the trunk. He'd not know what sort of tree it was, but it dropped large starburst leaves. They coated the ground around him in a soft mulch but two fell, floating through the northern air, buffeted by the winds, straight into his hands. Normally the leaves seemed to have five points, but these two fell together, one on top of the other so that it seemed like one nine-pointed leaf. That had made him think of the bird and the serpent earlier… The bird was Kyne, for she was often represented as a hawk in the old customs, or so he'd heard, and the snake he thought was probably meant to be a dragon, for again in the old texts he'd read the words were used interchangeably, probably because of the dragon's scales and evil eyes.
Kyne had slain dragons by giving Men the voice ages ago, and here she was again. Thinking on it he couldn't decide what he was meant to make of it, other than the obvious, there was no call to action, the hawk hadn't pointed helpfully in some direction with its wing or spoken to him as one might expect a messenger of the Divines to do.
Perhaps it was merely watching over him? Had he not called out for Kyne to guide him in his last moment before the dragon's breath overcame him?
He'd sat under the tree with the nine-pointed leaf in his hands as it had fallen. He thought again and realised that there had indeed been many such signs since he'd started up that treacherous path through Pale Pass into the Old Kingdom. First had been the journey itself. Surely that had been foolish for him to go up the mountain and try and reach Dive Rock to look out over Cyrodiil? Had the Divines moved him to do so? Perhaps… He remembered the ghost up on the glacier, he'd fallen down the mountain and he must have lost consciousness for a time, but as he'd passed into sleep he remembered a pale column of light. What had that been? A spirit or apparition? Or merely some atmospheric reflection of light off the ice that had coalesced in a portentous but entirely natural manner?
The faces he'd been catching certainly had been signs. Harald was again unsure what exactly of, but they seemed to come out of the earth. He'd first seen them leering at him in the cave he'd hidden from the dragon in. Were they the land spirits? The people of the lands around Wayrest called them boggarts and they were said to live in boulders and cause mischief but he'd never heard Master Vinothren credit their existence. In any case why would such a creature have an interest in a boy about to die cold and alone up on a mountain? They'd followed him down the mountain, and he'd seen one clear as day once he bent his mind to doing so when he'd sat in his furs that morning after waking from his dream, and had he not dreamt them when he lay in Helgen? The earth had risen up, sucking him under like a foul mire, bringing him deeper.
The boy thought again as he sat under the tree, and a single drop of dew fell from above, splashing on his nine-pointed star in his hands.
My son you are Beloved of the Earth
Harald leapt to his feet, panting hard. The sound of water on the cracked leaves clamouring like a bell in his ears. Even though he'd been thinking about it before he wasn't ready for the pressure from all around him, as if he was swimming in a strong current.
He took his pack and left that place quickly, marching on away into the hills. He hadn't seen Whiterun yet, and the steady rhythm of boot on track calmed him after his experience. It had happened again, somehow he'd induced the feeling as he had that morning under the hawk-stone where he'd slept. He'd been tired after the morning's walk, had he fallen asleep under the tree? Or was it a message from the gods, what did they want from him? As he crested the brow of the hill he felt the north wind roaring, almost enough to knock him over and he shuddered. A shiver ran up his spine. He wasn't cold, the part-burnt furs he'd taken from the caravan in Colovia still warmed him, no, it was unease, but then the wind turned, this time coming from behind him. It wind blew softly through his hair, tugging and teasing it out of the tail he'd kept it in for the last few weeks and he stopped and closed his eyes, no longer struggling as he had against the north wind.
Kyne was in the wind and with him then, here was her embrace, the embrace of his parents, the breath of Kyne, the gale of Shor.
The gods had promised Harald a golden path. The next sign was the clearest he'd seen that day and he followed it as the Divines wished him to.
Up through cracks in the hills Harald came, striding north, bow in hand, the shadow of his future. Up to the last hill, child of the mountains and the earth's wrath. The day drew back and the sun began to sink to its rest, off beyond fallen Yokunda. In the dusk he came to it, the wreckage of a house. It wasn't grand or elegant, but it had once been strong, with thick walls and proud windows. It stood among saplings, as if when those who lived in it had moved away and stopped tending the grounds nature had returned. There was good stone there, standing in a long rectangle among the trees. It had rained and the stones were slick with it, glistening in the fading light. The boy approached, the doorway high enough for even a tall man to step though without stooping, though the door itself was gone. Within he found old rotten beams and piles of stone detritus lying about and he saw that the house must have once had two floors, as there were hearths half way up the short sides of the rectangle as well as on the ground level.
Over one hearth Harald saw an ancient horned skull. The bones were pearly white and the horns black, and some of its features were indistinct from ages of wear. The skull hung there off an old nail in the stone, no doubt rusted away almost to nothingness by now, but still strong enough to bear the weight of its charge.
"Morihaus!" he exclaimed, "Your hall lies in ruins!"
The man-bull's skull was a little above eye height to the boy, but there was a slight depression in the ground next to the hearth so when he went to it he had to look up. He'd read countless stories of the hero, whom they called the Breath-of-Kyne, consort to Alessia the Slave-Queen. God-sent son of Mara, from who's loins had sprung the line of Emperors, first Belharza, who himself was the father of Minotaurs, then through him Reman the Light of Man, and then after him Tiber whom the world came to know as Septim. Down down down came the blood of the bull, running as and through rivers across the world to Uriel the Ultimate and St Martin the Dragon.
And now the bull's home was in ruins, just as Tamriel and the Empire were.
Soon it began to rain and Harald left his pack in one of the hearths safe from rain and went to gather wood for a fire. It was not a great flame, but it was enough to cook a little food for the night, and though he might have wanted more ordinarily it was enough. He thought for a time, staring into the fire, considering whether he should try and summon up the faces that followed him again. Apart from the flame the hearth was dark and only a little moonlight shone on the piles of stones around the ruin, the rain pitter-pattering.
He clenched and unclenched his hand, looking at it, and then the fire. Before he'd been half-asleep, or rather half-dreaming, but he kept himself awake now, still staring into the fire. It wasn't large, but not was it small. If he thrust his hand into the coals would it burn him? Dragonfire had, but then the Divines had restored him. Would they do so now because of his faith in them? Or would they scorn his doubt?
He lunged forward. But as his hand approached the flaming core a great wind blew through the ruin and the fire seemed to retreat from him as the wind pulled it away. Harald retracted his hand at once, shocked and confused.
He frowned and filled his heart with resolve, thrusting forward again, grasping one of the glowing pieces. For a moment he felt nothing but then his flesh burned. His hand opened on its own, nothing more than a reflex, and he swept it down to a puddle of water than had collected between two stones next to him. The water cooled the pain, but it had already begun to throb painfully.
Harald regarded the fire again, slowly flexing his hand as he had before, the pain coming with each beat of his heart. He could see blisters forming across his palm and fingers already and he made to soak it again. Was there a god of fire? Kyne and Shor kept the wind between them, and Stendarr the seas. What of earth and fire? Mara for earth perhaps because of the honour farmers did her, and could it be Akatosh for fire? Akatosh was the father of dragons certainly, but Shor was their enemy. Had the wind blown away the fire away from him? Protected him? Or had the fire retreated? It went back to the mystery of how he'd survived the dragonfire, or rather how he hadn't and had rather burned and then been renewed.
When previously he'd bent his thoughts to Kyne and Shor now he considered their mirrors. In the sanctioned Imperial pantheon Mara was the wife of Akatosh, for the men of Cyrodiil and her colonies found it pleasing to imagine Akatosh as a man not a dragon. But Harald was a Nord and so had his father and grandfather been, and Ivar had taught Harald the ancient legends. Among the Nords in Skyrim and the warrior-cults of the Legion Akatosh was the brother of Shor and his survivor after the later scarified himself to make the world. Akatosh was the overseer and protector, a great dragon above all. Shor was a man with a man's faults, rage against enemies, greed and lust for the possessions of others, and he kept several wives. The rain was Kyne's tears at Shor's death, while Mara was her sister and handmaiden in grief.
Harald remembered his dream the night before, how Kyne had become his unknown mother, extending great wings across the horizon, how his father Red-Cloak Robert, Legionary and adventurer had become the Glad-of-War, the howling Shor. He remembered when he'd first journeyed to Wayrest and he and Master Vinothren had stopped for the night at an abbey and he'd crept into the chapel and seen Mara in stained glass, the most beautiful sight he'd seen in his life. Did Mara also watch over him? Had she since that day?
But he could reach no resolution, and without it he crawled into the hearth beneath the bull's skull.
That night he dreamt again, but this dream was less distinct. He saw two great spheres, one black and the other white. They seemed to hurl through the void, changing colours and hues, reflecting and absorbing light, but never becoming indistinct till the very end of the dream. They faded away and there was only the void. It seemed to Harald that it stayed like that for a long time, there was a rhythmic thumping, a heartbeat, and he heard muffled voices. In the last moment of the dream there came a light, only the slightest candle flame, but slowly at first, never wavering, never fleeing, the fire became the sun.
When he woke upon the next day the forests whispered his name. He stood and turned to Morihaus.
"Father of the Empire." He spoke, staring at the skull, "I will rebuild it."