The village's gates swayed open without purpose, their rotten wood blackened by the flames of a World-Eater lost to time. A shadow passed between them without pausing to observe the crumbling fortifications or old piles of debris. The ghost merely pulled his ragged robes tighter around himself as he scurried and shivered in the winter stillness. Even in this era of change, the eternal cold endured; a constant across millennia, indifferent to the changing of gods and kings. Though this was not the bitterly familiar chill that had put an ache in his bones since Hearthfire. This was a sudden snap, a plunge into frigid darkness.
The kind of weather that reaped the lives of the old and weak in scant minutes or seconds. Past years fell on the ghost's shoulders with all the weight of the Throat of the World, in numbers that almost challenged the number of dead Skyrim's hungry soil had claimed in recent years. And his weakness demonstrated itself with almost every action. He struggled to open the door to the ruined keep, and then slipped inside, a mindless scavenger seeking warmth.
Winter's hand pulled at his back and fluttered the folds of his tattered cloak before the door fell shut again. Snow dripped from his worn boots as he leaned forward and rested his hands on his thighs, panting like a tired animal. His lungs burned. Even in here, the air held the promise of death, and the cold stone walls pressed in on him like a dungeon of ancient Atmora.
The ghost cursed and plodded downstairs to the kitchen. Every step on the rough stone steps sent prickling needles through his numb feet - his shoes amounted to little more than scraps of leather. Fire, warmth, that is what I need. The shelves of the larder had long since been picked clean by prior vermin, but there was still plenty of rotting wood to sacrifice to the hearth. The ghost tossed an old chair leg on top of the cinders of yesterday's fire, sending a cloud of glittering gray into the air; for a second he stood enthralled, glimpsing the shores of a certain island where the world itself had once bent to his command, his very name carved into the stones of its creation. The dragon in him stirred with interest, but his many pains forced him back to reality. It would be the work of long minutes to set the fire going properly.
His fingers trembled as he attempted to summon a spark from the flint. He mostly tried to avoid thinking, to ignore the mocking memory of thousands of meager fires in a hundred other vermin nests spread across Skyrim's southern border. If only he had been alone in his exile, he might have found some way to endure the years. But they were always lurking, the scavenger and the dragon, like circling carrion-eaters avid for any signs of vulnerability. He wondered what they were truly waiting for. Was he not ripe for conquest?
Several minutes later, the fire crackled with faint life. The ghost sat back on an old barrel and stared into the flames, ignoring the burning in his bloodshot eyes.
For nearly three seasons, Helgen had served as his refuge. Bandits once inhabited the ruins, but by the time the ghost crept in the only signs of them had been their rat-gnawed bones scattered throughout the village. That had been a fortunate happenstance. In his current state, he was not confident in his ability to defeat anything larger than a mudcrab. A group of vagabonds, even poorly trained and lightly armored, would have left him a bloody mark on the snow. To think he had once bent the children of Akatosh to his will...but no, best not to linger on the past.
Nine years ago - oh, see how the memory pains him, but he makes himself go to it regardless - his ruin was wrought at the summit of Apocrypha, when the First Dragonborn had faced the Last in a battle whose shockwaves must have been felt across the planes of Oblivion. And the Last Dragonborn had killed the First, hadn't he? So had the Skaal been told, and the Telvanni Master Neloth, and those few others who had ever even known the name of the Traitor...what was that name, again? Again, he preferred not to linger on such things. There was no purpose in reopening old wounds when the present provided him agonies enough to spare.
He closed his eyes and banished the memory, grimacing. The scavenger constantly pulled him into the present, often by necessity. There was always the next fire to think about, the next meal, the next voice to flee from, the next corpse to loot for food or supplies. The ghost loathed his life, and what he had become, but it was useful that this manner of living did not leave him much time to dwell on the past. That was the sole worth of the scurrying creature he had let nest inside his mind.
The dragon, on the other hand, had demonstrated no use beyond torment.
There were books in this village, books aplenty, scorched tomes of black pages that crumbled to dust and cinder against his fingertips. Sometimes the ghost would sit by the fire with one of them and read to himself, murmuring nonsense for hours to an audience of none. None but the scavenger and the dragon, neither of whom had any use for literature. He would close his eyes and recall the unparalleled libraries of Apocrypha, the gathered information of the known and unknown world. The books had belonged to Mora, in truth, but so had he, and the ghost had spent centuries poring over the tomes and relishing in the simple pleasure of boundless knowledge.
These books had been blessed by dragonfire. The ghost had dominated the dragons, had made himself their master...hadn't he? But no, that was not important. What was important was that no dragon would have done to him what Hermaeus Mora and the Last Dragonborn had...no. Silence. Nothing more about that. Alduin, the World-Eater, Eternity Taken Wing, would have granted him the peace of death.
A sharp noise shattered his reverie. Yes, noise from the upper level; the thud of footsteps; human movement. An enemy. The ghost smothered the fire with an old blanket, knowing he could do nothing to banish the lingering warmth from the ashes. Become nothing, hissed the scavenger. The ghost drew the hood of his cloak over his face and retreated to his hiding place in the shadows, where he buried himself under many voluminous sacks of moldy straw. Footsteps started down the narrow stairway, and rough voices followed with them. Others had come before: treasure hunters, poachers looking for a place to clean their kills, other scum like himself. Always the ghost watched from the darkness and waited for them to withdraw after finding nothing of worth.
"Still don't see why the guard can't take care of somethin' like this." A burly Nord in heavy gray armor came down the steps. Wolf motifs covered his thick pauldrons, and the hilt of a greatsword peaked over his left shoulder. Black warpaint crossed his eyes, and a dark goatee covered his chin. "Seems like whelp work, Vilkas. Not even worth polishing my blade."
"I'm always telling you. There's sometimes more to a contract than just the battle and the gold." What appeared to be a reduced version of the first man followed after, carrying a torch. He carried a sword at his hip, and a shield on his back. The ghost narrowed his eyes as he watched from amidst the straw sacks. This one was smaller, more slender, but still undoubtedly formidable judging by how he carried himself. A brother. No, more than that...a twin. He had known twins once, he thought, who lived underneath a lake of ice, though the dragon in his head withheld the memory of their names.
These men were clean, well-kept, as were their weapons and garb. Where the lines on the ghost's face told stories of hunger and desperation, the lines on the faces of these brothers followed the shape of their smiles. They were well acquainted with laughter, with song and celebration. They were everything he had never been and would never be.
"Not to me, brother." The big man stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking around the scorched chamber with apparent disinterest. Both of them wore the face paint, but the larger man's eyes cast a dull sheen through the markings. His twin glanced around more attentively, his gaze quick, missing nothing. This one is perhaps the more dangerous.
"As a member of the Circle, Farkas, you have to keep these things in mind," Vilkas began, and Farkas sighed as if in long-suffering. "There's an entire world outside the walls of Jorrvaskr. Jarl Hrongar could have sent his soldiers to clear out Helgen, but he asked personally for the Companions to investigate. To refuse would have been a stain on our honor. We depend on Dragonsreach for more than you know."
They ambled through the room, appearing to be in no particular hurry. Vilkas stowed his torch in a rusted wall sconce There were no signs of current habitation: the ghost slept on the cold stone floor, and fed all his refuse to the fire. His sole keepsake was well hidden behind a loose wallstone. Leave me, you brutes.
Farkas frowned. "Why us, though? Couldn't we have sent one of the whelps? I know Sofie was lookin' for any excuse to get out of Jorrvaskr."
"You're too soft on that girl. She already takes on so much work that the others are beginning to resent her. Besides, Hrongar would've taken that as an insult." Vilkas crouched down, touching one of the ghost's charred books. "It would have appeared as if we considered the job beneath us."
"You're saying it ain't?" Farkas leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed. "Beneath us, I mean. You saw those Imperial milk drinkers in the Mare. It was probably a skeever what scared them away from this place."
What the brute didn't know, the ghost mused, was that skeevers were wise enough to find warmth and food even in the harshest winters. A skeever, master of stealth, would never have called down this fool's brigade on its hiding place. Were that I possessed the wisdom of rats, I would have fled after startling that party of scholars.
"Probably," Vilkas agreed wearily.
"I liked Hrongar better when he wasn't Jarl. He never drinks with me anymore. And he's no fun to hunt with, always claiming the largest game for himself."
"Aye." Vilkas stood and searched the shadows, his brow furrowed. "His brother was better for us, there's no denying that. Should have been Vignar that took Dragonsreach after Balgruuf's death. Maybe that's what did him in, being denied the Jarlship. Hrongar's too hot for a fight."
"Wait. What's wrong with that?" Farkas asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he was also fond of constant strife.
"Nothing, if you're an icebrained Companion. But when you've got an entire city to protect...one of these days, Hrongar is going to drag Whiterun into a battle it can't win."
Farkas slammed his fist against his palm. "And on that day, we'll fight on the walls in glorious combat. Songs will be sung of our spirited defense. Children will be named after the honored fallen."
"Alright, Ysgramor, enough of that," Vilkas said, but with a slight grin on his face. "We came here to do a job. Let's try to give Hrongar what he's paying for."
"I don't see no bandits to kill. No wizards or bloodsuckers, either. Not even a sabre cat. We woulda smelled it by now."
"Hmm." Vilkas drew closer to the hearth. The ghost's heartbeat quickened. "The survey team claim they were surprised by a gray shadow. Maybe some lingering spirit. After what happened to this place, I'd be surprised if there weren't some vengeful dead. We've all heard the rumors of the supposed 'ghost of Helgen'."
"Well, I brought my silver," Farkas said. He drew a shortsword from his hip and tossed it from hand to hand. "Sharp and shiny."
His brother glanced at him. "Be careful with that."
Farkas just snorted and continued his handplay.
Vilkas returned his attention to the smothered hearth. He carefully pulled off the dank blanket the ghost had used to quench the flames, and rested his hand on the blackened chair leg.
"Ah. Still warm." Vilkas' hand fell to the hilt of his sword. "Last time I checked, ghosts don't need to light fires to stay alive. There was someone living here. Hours, maybe minutes ago."
"They ain't here now," Farkas chimed in unhelpfully. "Maybe we spooked 'em off. I don't see any grub or leavings."
Vilkas turned, staring into the dark passage leading to the rest of the ruined keep. He scratched his left ear. "Scavengers travel light. In this kind of weather, staying out too long will have you facing Tsun before sunrise. I don't think our little ghost would risk it. Not with an entire village full of hiding spots within his reach."
Farkas walked up to his brother. "So whaddya wanna do? Search every shadow and corner for some half-starved weakling? There's no battle for us here, brother. No honor. We did what Hrongar asked. If we leave now, we can reach Riverwood before nightfall."
"You go look around that collapsed tower near the front gate. I'll search further into the keep. If you haven't found anything by sundown, return here to wait for me. Remember: eyes on the prey, not the horizon."
"Yeah, yeah." Farkas sighed and began climbing the steps to the ground level. "You owe me for this one. A barrel of mead from the Mare, at least. Maybe two barrels, if I finish the first..." His voice trailed off as he ascended.
The smaller brother lingered in the kitchen for a minute, as if listening for any sign of furtive movement. The ghost did not give him the pleasure. After Vilkas had finally disappeared into the darkness, the ghost slipped down from his hiding place and started to shove scraps of wood into a canvas sack. He also pried off a wallstone to retrieve his keepsake, and stuffed the object down the back of his grimy robes.
That wretch Vilkas had been right; the ghost wouldn't last long in the forests, not without a fast fire. Survival was purely a matter of chance now. If he could slip out of the village without the bigger oaf taking notice, if he could find a dry place to make camp before the snow buried everything, if he could light the kindling with his strike stone before his fingers numbed to the point of uselessness…if he allowed the scavenger to take full control, he might just live through the night.
Running away, once again. The creature he had once been, the First Dragonborn, taunted him from some far away place in his mind. This was the dragon he carried with him.
MAHLAAN DOVAHKIIN, HI DRUN PAAK WAAH HIN ZEYMAH. HI BOVUL NOL JOOR MED FIN LIR HI LOS. PAAK, PAAK NAU HIN KRENT ZII.
No matter that the ghost could no longer understand the words. The seething wash of malevolence and disdain that caught his breath short in his throat and seized his heart in an ebony grip made the dragon's meaning clear.
The ghost swayed on his feet, his hands shaking. He dropped one wooden bowl, then another. The dragon's voice increased in volume, drowning out his heartbeat.
VOBALAAN DO DINOK. NID KOD FAH LAAS. PAAK, MAHLAAN DOVAHKIIN, PAAK. RII VAAZ ZOL.
He tossed the sack aside and slammed himself against the stone wall, stunning the dragon in place. His bruises had scarcely healed from last time and old pains sharply awakened. The sudden flashes of pain frightened the dragon. It was the only way to silence it, the only way, do you understand? The ghost threw himself at the wall until he felt blood trickling down his face and the voice in his head had retreated back into the depths like a beaten hound.
The ghost grimaced, blood smeared across his teeth, and stumbled over to his sack of kindling.
Enjoy your search, Companions. He spat a glob of red into the darkness where Vilkas had disappeared.
He'd intended Helgen to be his nest for the winter; now he would have to go farther south, maybe even cross the border into Cyrodiil, if he wanted to survive. The thought of living among Imperials, of even sharing a country with them, summoned bile at the back of the ghost's throat. The Nords of this era were a pathetic shadow of their former glory, but at least he could claim distant kinship with them. There were still traces of the dragons' power here, in the draugr crypts and burial mounds that dotted the landscape. The ghost had never lived in a land without monumental signs of the dragon's former dominance over mankind. Along with the cold, it was one of his constants.
He was up the steps to the entry chamber and heading towards the door when two steel-clad arms wrapped around him.
"Got ya!" Farkas squeezed, and by some miracle bones were not shattered. The round metal shape of the ghost's keepsake pressed against his back like a branding iron.
"Good work," Vilkas said, coming up the stairs. "Looks like practicing our hidden signals wasn't such a waste of time after all, eh?"
The ghost snarled and spat like a trapped rat, squirming in Farkas' grasp.
"Oh, no. Don't do that," Farkas warned, and tightened his grip. The ghost hissed between his teeth, but then went limp in the brute's arms before he was squished into netch jelly.
"So this is the vengeful spirit that frightened off the Imperial resettlement team." Vilkas stood before them, taking a measure of the ghost. "It's fortunate you didn't kill any of them, or it would have been Farkas' steel that greeted you."
He glared, trying to set Vilkas ablaze with the power of his hate. A decade ago, it might have worked.
"Let's get a look at you." Vilkas brandished his torch and tugged back the ghost's threadbare hood. Then he took a step back, covering his nose. "By Shor…"
The ghost had bared his face to no living soul since attaining priesthood. Thousands of years ago, he might've been considered handsome, but the loss of immortality combined with years of living rough had done him no favors. His hair grew as wild as a snow thrush's nest, reaching down into his unkempt beard; both run through with gray streaks like rot in a field of wheat.
"Tell me...what are you? A broken man from the Civil War? The fighting's been over a long time, you know. Or a bandit, down on his luck?"
"Is he a wizard?" Farkas asked, squeezing a little tighter. "I don't like wizards."
"If he had any spells, I wager he'd have used them on us by now. Am I wrong about that?"
He seethed internally. The younger brother was clever, far too clever.
Farkas wrinkled his nose. "Whatever he is, he stinks like an old barn. I ain't holding him no more."
The ghost fell to the ground in a heap. His limbs ached, and he knew his skin would purple within minutes where Farkas' grip had been tightest. These days, he seemed to bruise as easily as a Breton peach.
"So, not a mage." Vilkas made a thoughtful sound, looking down at the ghost. "Perhaps a former resident of Helgen, returned to his ruined village. You don't want the survey team to begin resettlement plans, because it will mean tearing down what little that remains of your former home."
The ghost had not spoken in years, so what came out of his mouth the first time was an indistinguishable croak.
"What was that?"
"False," The ghost rasped. The words came slowly, after all this time. "You flail...in the darkness of your ignorance. I see a loyal hound sent to clean up an inconvenient mess. It is not yours...to reason why."
Farkas grunted. "The Jarl doesn't give a damn why he's here, brother. And I don't, neither."
Bafflingly, infuriatingly, Vilkas smiled. "You're right. I doubt Hrongar truly cares. I was just indulging my curiosity, is all. Not enough people in Skyrim think about what they're doing, what's happening around them. The consequences of their actions. Maybe that's why so many died, in the war and what came after. Our ability to reason is what separates man from beast."
The ghost had little patience for brute philosophers. "This one calls you...Harbinger. But that title belongs to the one called Kodlak Whitemane. I suppose you must be a usurper."
"No." Vilkas' voice went cold. "Kodlak was lost to us years ago. How did one such as you come to learn the history of the Companions?"
"I once had all the knowledge of mortal minds within my grasp. There is nothing more your master can do to me. My ruin was wrought at the hands of gods."
The two brothers exchanged glances.
Farkas spoke, "Uh...let's just get him to Dragonsreach, let the guards and Jarl sort out all the rest. No one paid us to find out his life story. Besides, this place gives me the creeps. I don't wanna stay here."
"Yes," Vilkas replied, although his gaze still lingered on the ghost. "We should get moving."
Despite Vilkas' confidence that their prisoner was magically impotent, they still bound his hands behind him with strips of tough leather. A couple of tentative movements was enough to tell him he wouldn't be wiggling free anytime soon. Farkas lifted the ghost off the ground, set him on his feet, and pushed him towards the door.
A wall of cold greeted him outside. He cringed, stumbling back, but Vilkas' hand caught his shoulder. The Harbinger looked past him, to the ruined village washed in gloomy evening sunlight and falling snow.
"What's the hold up?" Farkas asked from behind them.
"The poor bastard's going to freeze to death if we try to make it to Riverwood tonight. We'll have to stop at the Guardian Stones, set up camp till morning."
"Sure. Whatever you say, brother. So long as we leave Helgen behind."
Vilkas took the lead once they were out of the keep, and Farkas brought up the rear. The brute's steel boots crunched in the snow; a startling sound in this smothered wasteland. It served to keep the ghost moving forward, despite his torments, out of wariness of what Farkas would do if he fell behind. He didn't seem nearly as interested in keeping his prisoner alive as Vilkas did.
"Don't even think about running off," Farkas said, as if sensing his thoughts. "I'm big, but that doesn't mean I'm slow. Could crush you in a second."
Vilkas chuckled, and spoke without turning around. "Stop torturing the wretch. I'm sure he's suffering enough, wearing only rags in this kind of weather."
"I will not...will not run away," the ghost told them through chattering teeth. "I fear the cold night n-near as much as I d-do an arrow in the b-back."
"Huh," Farkas said. "Sure you're a Nord?"
"Maybe he was raised elsewhere." Vilkas glanced back at them. "Somewhere warm, perhaps?"
The ghost remained silent. If nothing else, he could deprive this glorified mercenary of the knowledge he so obviously desired. This one would make a fine servant for Hermaeus Mora. I wonder if my old master has yet found a new champion, with both of his Dragonborn servants dead or lost. News of the Last Dragonborn's demise, acquired nearly four years ago from a discarded copy of Black Horse Courier destined for a desperate campfire, had brought him surprisingly little comfort. The dragons were eternal, but those mortals cursed with their souls often burned out quickly, like candles left burning until they became cold pools of wax. Only the ghost's purgatory in Apocrypha had spared him an early grave.
Without response from the ghost, conversation died as they trudged up the snowy road away from the ruins of Helgen. The air bit mercilessly, and his tattered clothes did little to insulate what warmth remained in his thin body. He mumbled curses in long-dead languages, low enough so that the twins could not hear. The dragon and the scavenger lurked in the periphery of his mind, docile for the moment. Vilkas, Farkas, and their prisoner continued on towards the Guardian Stones in frigid silence, leaving the fate-stricken village to the dead and gone.