AN: It seems I can only really write for two different universes. If this story seems similar to one you've read on FF or AO3, it's because that one was never finished, and I've had a "Fine, I'll do it myself" moment.
Brænna was old, though at first glance you couldn't tell it. And tired too. Tired of the endless days stretching before her, endless horizons, countless days. She'd done everything one could do in Tamriel, and couldn't care less for eternity.
"Hey you, You're finally awake," was her first memory. Opening her eyes, head throbbing, jostling in that bumpy carriage ride to Helgen, remembering nothing but her name. She'd had little time to pity herself, between the execution and Alduin destroying the town, then had come the rush to Whiterun, desecrating Bleak Falls Barrow, and everything since. Marriage. Adopting Sofia and Lucia, her wonderful daughters.
Outliving them all by centuries.
She still kept in contact with her grandchildren, though, she mused, it was more like her grandchildrens' grandchildrens' grandchildren, after all of these years. The only person she really felt like she could talk to was Serana, and she always had her hands full with the growing, more widely-accepted Volkihar clan. Still, they met up every few years to talk about the world, with Brænna trying to convince Serana to step down and see the world.
Today, however, she was alone. She loved coming up to the top of the tower here at the college of Winterhold, to let the wind blow through her hair, to feel. She'd figured out so much of magic here at the top, practicing all of the schools of magic. She had no need for anything anymore. She'd mastered enchanting, smithing, creating works of art that she undersold, though she hadn't sold anything in quite some time.
Gripping the stone parapet, she breathed deeply, lungs filling with the icy summer air of Winterhold. She'd taken her first trip outside the city in months, and was happy to be home. She'd been asked to make an appearance by the current High King (ironically, a descendant of Ulfric Stormcloak) at a reception for the Emperor. Happy for a change of pace, and given that Ingmar Stormcloak had asked her to "Be as imposing or intimidating as you can," she'd of course, ridden in on her old friend Odahviing, clad in the ancient but repaired Archmage's robes, clearly marking her status as Archmage and Dragonborn clearly apparent. The festivities had lasted a wonderful week, and she'd had the chance to meet the new Emperor. Soon enough, though, the festivities died down, and she'd returned home.
It had been a week since she'd walked back through the College's gates, and already that familiar melancholy had set in. She heard the flapping of large, heavy wings behind her, along with the ancient dragon's familiar greeting.
"Hail, Fahdon," cried the dragon, landing gracefully on the College's tower..
"Hail, Paarthurnax," she replied, "What brings you here?" she asked, striding towards her draconic friend, and placing a hand upon his snout.
"I bring Prodah, Warning from afar," Paarthurnax answered, "From across the horizon."
"Summerset?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
"Niid, No, Dovahkiin. Far east off the edge of your world," he answered. "Something stirs in the dark, past Oblivion, past Aetherius."
"What does that mean? What have you heard? Past Oblivion?" she asked, trying to not let her weariness and wariness show. After the Civil War, the Dragon Crisis, and the thousand years hence, she'd grown weary of the constant wars, conquerings, and bloodshed of the world.
"Nothing of note, and nothing more I know, save whispers. Old magics awakening." he answered.
"Thank you for letting me know. Please come back if you hear anything more?" she ask-requested.
"Gah, Dovahkiin," he answered, flapping off into the snowstorm.
Turning back towards the doors to inside, she muttered, "East? What else is East beyond Akavir?" Before she reached the door though, blowing in the wind, she saw something fluttering and flapping. Deftly, she caught it, recognizing an ancestor moth.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked, bringing the windblown moth up to eye level. She opened the door and stepped down the stairs, chattering softly to the moth the whole time. Carefully, she set it down on the Enchanter, then headed to her shelf of atlases and maps of Nirn that she had. Scarcely after opening the first map, though, the moth bombarded her face, causing her to drop the book and fly backwards in an ungraceful heap. Batting the moth away from her face, she cursed it (and all the Daedra alongside) before sitting back up off the cold floor.
"I suppose you think that was funny, don't you?" she asked the insect, who stood on the carpet, staring at her, antennae twitching. It fluttered off towards the center tapestry at the garden. Shaking her head, she picked up the book again, searching for anything east of the ancient continent. Again, though, she was assaulted by the moth, who again flew away towards the exact same tapestry.
Curious now, she stepped slowly, cautiously, towards the tapestry. It was the same as the other two, the eye symbol of the College embroidered into its dark fabric.
She lifted it up, running the strands between her fingers. "It's nothing, just a tapestry," she muttered, before she loosened her fingers. Curiously, the moth dove underneath the tapestry, fluttering between the wall and the fabric. "Oh damn it," she said, lifting the tapestry and ducking her head underneath.
She couldn't have been more startled when, instead of a stone brick wall, a frosted window showing an old, grey-bearded and grey-robed man gazed back at her with wide eyes. She scrambled backwards, accidentally ripping the tapestry off the wall.
Muttering something softly, the figure stared in wonder at the edges of the mirror/window.
"Who are you?" she cried. "What do you want?"
Tapping a wooden staff against the frame, the old man said, "I might ask you the same. Where is Savos Aren?" he asked.
"Dead, Dead for nearly a thousand years - who are you?" she asked, panicking. She'd lived in these quarters for four centuries, and never, not once, had she even suspected this kind of thing had even existed.
"Dead then. I suppose you are the Archmage?" he asked,
"I am," she answered, picking herself up off the floor. "Who are you?"
"Ah. My name is Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey. I was wondering if you could help me find a dragon slayer."