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1: The Poem
I am in the middle, the center, and the highest.
Men pursue me, but women as well.
Above me, there is no one.
Below me, there is everyone.
I am only forward and direct.
And everyone is to my next.
I have many faces: most you can see, some you can't, and some well-hidden.
I can defeat anyone.
Because I am in everyone.
I am what you secretly wish to be.
I am you.
It's only when you're not me,
That you stop being you.
"The Greybeards must've huffed some magical troll fat."
"You don't know the answer?"
"By Talos, who knows... Peace? Love? Spirits?"
"Ask a hundred men, you get a hundred answers..."
The pair smiled at each other. Proventus Avenicci – steward of Dragonsreach, and High Council member of multicultural Whiterun – had interacted with many folk, but young Nelkir was his clear favorite.
True, the boy's father was Jarl Balgruuf – and Proventus' master – but Nelkir's acidic tongue, sharp mind, and jovial nature endeared him to many citizens. Unlike Balgruuf's other, spoiled abominations of offspring - Nelkir was innocent and true. He knew he was different from his siblings, and thus grew up as somewhat of a renegade. Additionally, he loved to cut tension, and state his opinion bluntly: a valuable trait in mundane High Council meetings.
A crashing noise.
Proventus grinned at Nelkir, who facepalmed as the pair jointly glared at Balgruuf. The normally dignified Nord was spinning wildly, in the center of Dragonsreach Hall. Surrounding the Jarl, several onlookers leered and giggled at the antics.
"He's had a few too many," Nelkir growled, pacing towards his father. He felt a bit stiff in his ornate blue vest, but felt confident in them.
The boy groaned. Dragonsreach rarely felt as magnificent as the namesake – but this night was an exception among exceptions, as the Dragonborn was in attendance. Appropriately, decorations were extravagant - golden banners embellished every wall and crevice. The twin tables sandwiching the fire were laden with abundant food: expensive meats, imported sweets, and the finest fruit from Riverwood.
To balance the opulence, Jarl Balgruuf had paid for several dancing jesters, along with poets. Not that the crowd minded – about two hundred of Skyrim's most powerful and wealthy nobles packed Dragonsreach's oakwood walls, so a flurry of constant chatter overwhelmed any jokes or poetry.
The central attraction however, was a massive, ten-foot tall inscription engraved in mossy stone – a poem gifted by the Greybeards. It adhered to the wall behind the Jarl's throne.
The same poem Proventus and Nelkir were ridiculing before. The boy laughed.
Nelkir reached his father behind one of the twin tables. The Jarl was suffocating the patrons of Dragonsreach with long-winded stories - they were clearly feigning interest, which Nelkir's father misread as genuine amusement.
At least they look good, Nelkir thought. Dazzling red robes and jeweled, sequin pearls – these people are so –
"Ah, speak of the devil himself!" Balgruuf roared, hastily pulling Nelkir towards him. "I was just speaking about you, son of mine! Now look, Lydia... is he too wet behind the ears for marriage, or not?"
Nelkir chuckled awkwardly as his father squeezed him to embarrassment. Not this topic again, he thought.
"Your father was just telling us about your... failed courtships," Lydia informed, dark-haired, sharp features accentuated by her fiery orange robes. "Is it true that you – wet yourself before one of your brides-to-be?"
A burst of laughing followed. Nelkir growled in muted breaths.
"Thick blonde hair, tall frame, and a handsome – albeit boyish appearance..." Balgruuf started, description forcing another groan from Nelkir. "You'd think my boy would be easily betrothed!"
"We got married very early," a tall, pale man noted, grabbing a woman close to him. "Fourteen!"
Other couples surrounding Balgruuf began to shout out.
"Twelve!"
"Sixteen!"
"Seventeen!"
"Two!"
Nelkir was startled by the last one. He turned to Balgruuf in anxiety.
"I'm only eighteen," Nelkir growled. "Or do you keep forgetting, father?"
Balgruuf sighed. "I know, I know... but son, surely you must be feeling... a need to meet someo – "
Nelkir groaned again, leaving.
"Attention, attention! It is time for the mighty Dragonborn of legend to make a speech!"
The entire crowd stopped. This was a difficult feat, considering that most of the people currently in Dragonsreach were unaccustomed to being interrupted.
"By the Gods, Irileth, stop doing that," a thickly-built, tall man approached, walking near Balgruuf's throne at the front of the Hall. "It's excessive."
Nelkir watched the entire crowd watch the Dragonborn. Unlike tough guys Nelkir knew – and being the Jarl's son meant you knew many of them - the Dragonborn was a quiet, gentle soul. He possessed enormous power, Dragon Shouts, and an arsenal of Dragonborn tools – but had the softest, quietest voice of all men. He always spoke in deep metaphors, and never addressed a question before pausing for long spans of time. He had an enormous hatred for violence, even letting several of his compatriots perish in the past due to his non-combative philosophy. The Dragonborn – actual name Hafthor Ironside – rarely participated in politics, and preached love, calm, and empathy endlessly.
"This poem is a personal favorite of mine," Hafthor noted, shaking his arms at the stone tablet. "It emphasizes how what we stand for – love and mercy for all – are completely opposite to Alduin's evil: destruction and hate!"
The crowd cheered with fierce applause. Nelkir groaned, having predicted every word.
"Before I say anything, I'd like to tell everyone here how amazing they all are," the Dragonborn noted. "It's an honor to meet the best, brightest, and most noble of Skyrim in this very room!"
A second wave of clapping and applause ensued. Nelkir rolled his eyes.
It was fantastic, kind words – but the Dragonborn was also complimenting two or three confirmed gangsters, including the notorious Maven Black Briar. Nelkir caught a quick glance at her, seated at the table surrounded by her entourage of black-robed thugs.
"Now, I'd like to thank you all for the donations made tonight," the Dragonborn emphasized, waving his hands around. "It will go a long way... a long way to help my group and I, defeat Alduin and restore peace to all of Skyrim!"
Again, huge cheers. Nelkir chuckled, finding the sycophantic clapping alike to the monkeys' antics he had seen outside Whiterun's imposing barriers – they would leer and jump in the air at the sight of a human, but would quickly devolve into reticent solemness once alone.
"A bit of an air-headed speech, if you ask me."
Nelkir was shocked, recognizing the voice. He snapped around, green robes flailing as he saw a woman behind him.
She was tall, with extremely pale skin and strong, matured features. Her jet-black hair was barely hidden by a dark purple robe and hood, accentuating her lavender pupils.
Nelkir recoiled. "Serana? But – why – "
"Tell Balgruuf to call off his men, right now," the vampiress growled, grabbing Nelkir's wrist with excruciating precision. "The only reason I'm not telling him directly is because of the Dragonborn's presence..."
"Tell him!?" Nelkir whispered, wrist reddening. "Tell him what?! Why are you even here?! This event is private to – "
"He'll know what it means," Serana hissed, letting go of the boy. "Now, be a good little son and go tell your father, alright?"
Nelkir scowled as Serana left, quickly dispersing into the crowd. He was unable to make her out for long, as she quickly revolved out of the guests and out of Dragonsreach.
. . .
Crushed deep beneath Skyrim's expansive ground – there existed a cave.
To an outsider, the cave felt generic. It was ambiguously dark, and heightened – with an elevated ceiling standing just shy of two hundred feet in the air, propped by stone pillars. A flurry of insects and critters waffled about the cavernous expanse, faint hums and buzzing overwhelmed by the sheer size of emptiness. The cave appeared decorated, although the art felt inhuman – dark lithographs and scribbled handwriting dotted various corners of stone, giving an impression that few creatures lived here.
Except for Dragons.
Two dragons currently stood in the center of the cave. One was enormous and black, with heavy wings and a dignified darkness that enveloped its crusty talons. The other, orange-colored and magnitudes smaller – displaying a humble, bowed expression of the head.
"Enough with the bowing, Gorm," Alduin growled in thunderous bass tones, his massive black scales flexing at the flattery. "Have you nothing to do?"
"I came here to deliver a message, Master," Gorm spoke, gently poking his orange, jagged head up. "The Dragonborn and his crew intend to ambush Revna at Markarth."
Alduin grinned, piercing teeth flaring in overt aggression. "Reyna is one of my most trusted lieutenants – old girl has killed at least four hundred men by herself..."
Alduin smiled, recalling the clinical brutality of Reyna in the past.
"But these aren't normal men," Gorm informed, voice cautious and submissive. "This is the – Dragonborn! And his crew have – "
"I'm confident Reyna will take care of him and his gang of fools," Alduin confidently declared. "Do not bother me with such vanity, Gorm."
The smaller dragon respectfully bowed again. "I am sorry, master – but I could I – indulge your curiosity?"
Alduin laughed, shaking his head to start several large bursts of wind. "Gorm, after I told you not to was - very well. Indulge."
"What do you think of this?" Gorm extended, holding a small stone tablet in his mouth. "Our good spy swiped it from that idiot Balgruuf's Throne earlier today."
Alduin examined the tablet, frowning at the lengthy scribbles.
"I am in the middle, center, and highest," Alduin repeating, humming to himself. "Poetic stupidity. I'd expect no less from the Greybeards – demented old fools..."
Alduin turned away in anger, emitting a deep, gutteral growl that brought Gorm's head down once more.
"I do not care for worthless riddles, Gorm – and thus do not care about the answer."
Gorm nodded.
Alduin turned back, malice spreading across his scaled features. "I am the highest. That is what I know. The rest of the creatures will learn to obey me – even as bring about destruction... and healing for their world."
Gorm nodded in appreciation, or perhaps fear – and oftentimes, he failed to perceive the difference.
. . .
"Tell me, Lydia... how did you enjoy the festivities?"
The tall, dark-haired woman coughed and briefly smiled behind the large, armored man. They were both riding atop a red, scruffy stallion, trotting past the outskirts of Riverwood and on the way to Markarth.
"I enjoyed it, of course," Lydia continued, squeezing her arms tighter around the Dragonborn's metal torso. "Can't say the same for you, my Thane..."
"Yes," the man replied, smiling. "I've never been one for extravagances..."
Lydia chuckled. In her short two years of working alongside the Dragonborn, who was Thane of all Holds, conqueror of countless draugr, vampires, and giants, and one of the powerful people in Skyrim... it felt awkward to see such honors go completely unnoticed by Hafthor himself. Instead, he kept an aura of seemingly infinite compassion and mercy. He hated flattery, even going so far as to avoid taking credit or spreading important messages entirely. Hafthor apologized frequently – oftentimes, when it wasn't even his fault.
Lydia smiled. She was enjoying the ride – they were taking the scenic route, through a pleasant pine forest - brushes and horseshoes could be heard rambling against the dirt. Following the pair were the Dragonborn's entourage, cracking jokes inaudibly.
"Lydia, I must confess something to you."
She gulped, never enjoying that tone. She perked her head up, frustrated at the inability to see Hafthor's face.
Hafthor kipped the horse faster. "After we reach Markarth, and slay the dragon there... you and I must part ways."
"What?!" Lydia let out, baffled. "Uh – apologies my Thane... did I do something wrong?"
The Dragonborn merely sighed.
Lydia growled. "Hafthor! Did I do something wrong?"
The usage of his name seemed to trigger a response.
"It... wasn't my decision," Hafthor continued.
"Lies," Lydia spat, eyebrows furrowing in anger. "You always get to decide."
"Balgruuf came to me with a request," Hafthor attempted, shaking his head. "He said – he said Eorlund asked you to head the Companions."
Lydia gasped, confused. It took her several moments to process this, examining any situation where the actual smith of the Forge would request her presence.
"He says he saw some dream," Hafthor argued, noting his companion's silence. "I – I'm not aware fully. But you should go and – "
"Unbelievable," Lydia cut across harshly, snarling. "I'd better tell the other housecarls that you shed companions easily..."
She felt a bit guilty for that, but anger was overwhelming her. "The old fool dreams much. Why believe his visions now?"
Hafthor shook his head. "I'm sorry Lydia, I trust Eorlund's judgement. If there's something in your destiny... that lies in Whiterun, then – "
"Just hold your tongue, Dragonborn," Lydia snarled, looking away. "Like you always do."
The housecarl turned her attention to the grassy meadow they were passing. Lydia tried to find comfort in those flowers, trying to savor what little time she had left before returning. Truthfully, it made no sense – what could Eorlund Grey-Mane want with a twenty year old girl?
. . .
Castle Volkiar was practically impenetrable from the outside.
Upon request of its property owner, the structure had been fortified with moats and smoky-grey walls. These billowy stone towers extended hundreds of feet in the air, encircling the castle. The second layer of defense was unintentional – whether due to Harkon's inattention or sheer vacant space, wandering ghouls and the occasional horker now "patrolled" Volkihar's perimeter.
Once inside, the mood changes instantly.
Castle Volkihar was home to thirty or so vampires. These denizens were split into different sections of the castle – Harkon and his daughter resided in the "Royal Hall", while the others took rooms around the Castle. Decorations were sparse, but purposeful – brown and green banners dangled from the ceilings, and every space had long tables, a small kitchen, and a passageway into another section of the Castle.
The luxuries of the Royal Hall surpassed all else. The room had crimson-colored walls, with spiraling tiers of chandeliers attached to the top ceiling. The central dining table was long and opaque, with a brown color entrenched in the wood. At the head of the table, a massive, grey-skinned vampire with a jagged head and long purple robes sat in silence. He glared at the vampiress across from him, sitting in anxious tension. The woman was flanked by another vampiress, who was adorned in far cheaper orange robes. Despite only currently housing Harkon, a vampiress, Serana and her 14-year old brother – the Hall had twin tables set perfectly, so that a long stretch of oakwood separated Harkon from his daughter.
"I know you saw him, Serana," Harkon growled, banging his fists on the table. "Don't lie to me!"
"I saw no one, Father!" Serana spat, orange flares coloring her irises. "I delivered the message to Balgruuf as you asked, and then I - "
"You saw him!" Harkon yelled, standing up.
"Um, who – Lord Harkon?" the vampiress to Serana's right asked in feigned concern.
"Be silent, Luna," Harkon spat, moving closer to his daughter. "You know who I'm talking about. Bjorn."
Serana attempted to appear confused. "Daddy – who?"
"That boy with the Blades," Harkon growled. "That skinny little milk drinker..."
"You'd think I would ever contact a Blade?" Serana yelled back. "The same people who hunt us!?"
Harkon leaned back, smiling while crossing his arms. "You've always been one for – sympathy, Serana."
The vampiress to Serana's side – Luna – quickly rose to her defense, trying to help make the conversation more light-hearted.
"I was with her the entire time," Luna emphasized. "I saw her speak to Balgruuf's so – I mean Balgruuf..."
Serana subtly punched her friend, frustrated.
Harkon shook his head, smiling. "Serana – you spoke to the Jarl's son?"
Serana tried to deny this, but quickly gave up.
"I – I – sorry," Serana tried. "I didn't mean for – he was just there, okay?"
Harkon sighed, putting a withered grey hand to his head. He had tried his best to put this matter to rest before, tried to ignore the countless reports from his comrades who swore Serana was meeting with some armored, dark-haired boy from across the pond. Particularly worrisome was the fact that he was a Blade – the one group whom all of vampire-kind was sworn to destroy.
. . .
Nelkir sighed.
The morning after a large party in Dragonsreach, the clean-up crew had to work overtime to make sure everything was in its proper place. Half eaten sweet rolls, stains on the ornate wood flooring, and random grafitti drawings littered the hallowed walls and banner of the Hall. The worst part was Balgruuf – the Jarl had clearly hoped that his only son would help out, something that Nelkir did only with a passing interest.
That was, until Proventus had urged the boy to assist the maids and house servants in cleaning up all the trash. Nelkir found this particularly humiliating when he knew for a fact that his father was sleeping upstairs in his room, snore audible even across two floors and several feet of wooden walling.
Nelkir was somewhat proud though – dressed to work in his shabby brown tatters, he had successfully sweeped the Royal twin tables, restoked the grand fire, cleaned his father's throne and polished some of the floor. He estimated perhaps fifteen more minutes of cleaning Farengar's lab, then off for a very well-deserved rest.
"Excuse me?"
Ugh, Nelkir thought. Please don't be Proventus please don't be Proventus please don't -
He turned around, pleasantly surprised.
The voice had come from a new arrival. Nelkir scanned the young man in front of him – he had to be close to his own age, with some freshly-grown stubble coating his smooth but square face. He had ordinary brown eyes, but they were deep-set and well-made. He was carrying a light smile, but appeared to be reticent otherwise.
"Sorry to disturb you sir," the man emphasized, offering a slight bow. "But erm – is Commander Irileth here?"
"She is," Nelkir quickly responded. "But she's doing morning meetings with the guards. Probably out in the city now."
"I see," the man denoted. "Apologies."
Already, he turned to leave. Nelkir quickly stretched out his hand, grasping the man's arm back.
"Anything you want me to pass onto her?" Nelkir asked. "Yanno – in case you don't find her?"
The man narrowed his eyes. "You know her?"
Nelkir grinned, unsure of how this newcomer didn't know who he was.
"Intimately," Nelkir responded. "She's father's right hand man – erm, well, woman."
"Father?" the man asked, confused before realization hit him. "Ah – you're Balgruuf's son. Apologies."
Again, a mildly apologetic bow followed. Ordinarily, Nelkir hated excessive deference – yes, he was one of the Jarl's sons – but this man's apology was more out of respectful formality than zealous worship. It felt calm and dignified – dissimilar to how some villagers fell to their feet after realizing who Nelkir was.
"Nelkir," Nelkir offered, extending his hand. "I'm one of the Jarl's sons, but try not to hold it against me."
"Kaja," the man smoothly replied, shaking with a smile. "I'll try not to."
"What brings you here then, Kaja?" Nelkir asked, grinning. "Work? Or just a wanderer?"
"Bit of both," Kaja answered smoothly. "But more work. Commander Irileth has been issuing posters all around Skyrim."
"Aspiring guard, eh?" Nelkir asked, putting a hand on his hip. "Where do you hail from, traveler?"
Kaja merely smiled back. "Falkreath."
Nelkir laughed heartily. "Not used to the big city, eh? Country boy like yourself... well, I wish you the best, Kaja of Falkreath."
The man smiled, turning to leave once more. He had barely gone ten paces before Nelkir called out again, curiosity peaked.
"Hey," Nelkir asked. "Whaddya make of that?"
He pointed at the giant poem inscription, still seated in the front of the room. Kaja took a moment to narrow his eyes, pursing through the long inscription.
"Could mean many things," Kaja asserted pensively.
"Well obviously!" Nelkir noted, exasperated. "What does it mean for you?"
Kaja smiled, turning down his head. "Truth."
Nelkir turned his head up in silent acknowledgment. "Funny. Hadn't heard that one before."
Kaja shrugged his shoulders. "We're all different."
Nelkir watched the man stride quickly out of Dragonsreach, either because he genuinely had things to do or because he wanted to avoid another question.
A/N
Greetings mighty traveler!
Welcome to The Straight Way. This story is based on a moral concept close to my heart: in all things, prefer a straightforward approach.
And I've decided to make this simple, yet powerful concept into a fic. Here's some salient points:
[1] 100 Chapters (eventually): I'm trying to make this a fic worth binging/following in the future (hence arcs, continuing storylines, etc etc...) so if you're in the mood for that, try this!
[2] Big Cast: Lots of names in 1st chapter alone. Expect arcs. :D
[3] Metaphors and Deeper Meanings: I love this. I'll try my best to have my writing have many layers (onion-mode activated) but keep it simple in a superficial sense. The deeper you read, hopefully the more you'll enjoy it.
[4] Update Frequency: once every 2-3 weeks. I'll tell ya if I got to post-pone it otherwise.
Important Note: I can assure you I have no political agenda/lean in this fic, other than natural human bias. I chill with all political orientations, and am generally chill around just about anyone (barring extremists) But, no, I'm not a centrist LOL. While I think one could definitelytake away political messages from this – I assure you it's an unintentional byproduct, not my focus. My interest is in philosophy and how worldviews are shaped – not politics. :D However, considering that the former influences the latter, perhaps it's inevitable :p
And that's all you need to know. Give it a chance. ;)