A/N: Am I back from my ungodly long hiatus? Probably not. But this chapter has been sitting around half-finished since I posted the last chapter, so I at least wanted to get it out here.
RECAP:
Our Dragonborn, the Khajiit werewolf Ri'Shima Firemoon, leader of the Firemoon Pack in Markarth, has been tasked with retrieving the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Meanwhile, in Markarth, Shima and the pack were attacked by strange cultists serving a man called Miraak, and for Ri'Shima, the prospect of another Dragonborn opens up as many new oppurtunities as it does new dangers. Shima and her female packmates (Raen, Ren, and Uvela) stopped in Whiterun on the way to Ustengrav, and Ri'Shima was officially inducted as a fully-fledged member of the Companions.
Chapter 14: Dragon of the North
I expect the trip to Ustengrav to take nearly two whole days on our rented horses, and for it to be relatively uneventful. As the sun is setting on the first day, I am proven wrong on that second point, because the roar of a dragon cuts through the air. After leaving such a challenge unanswered on the way to High Hrothgar, I turn us to tracking this one down. An old dirt path leads us past a hunter's camp and up a mountain, where I am surprised to find the dragon absent. My night vision, heightened by a dragon's eyes, allows me to eventually pick out the wyrm's silhouette in the distance; I'm amused to find it harrying several draugr who have wandered away from a tomb at the base of the mountain.
We set an ambush for the beast. The others retreat out of sight back down the path, and I press myself into the shadows of the World Wall that marks this dragon's lair. Fear begins to mount in my chest as the dragon turns and approaches, because even if they have been ordered to keep their distance, my packmates will be in danger. That fear dissipates when the wyrm begins to land atop the World Wall, and the familiar thrill and rage of battle between dragons takes over.
With some very lucky timing, I knock the landing dragon from the back of the Wall with FUS RO, using werewolf strength and Khajiit agility to leap to the top of the Wall and drop, sword flashing, onto the back of the floundering dragon. It twists and roars, and I get in a few solid hits before a hind limb slams me into the wall. The dragon's neck arches, fire pouring onto me, but the Ebonyflesh enchantment that Ren put on me and the Resist Fire potions she had brewed for the trip take the brunt of the heat as I roll away.
It is, all in all, the easiest fight I have had with a dragon. We have four people and the element of surprise, and I note that I in particular am becoming more efficient at this. Raen and Uvela combine arrows and ice spikes to tear the membrane of the wings, and whenever it passes overhead, I match each gout of fire with one of my own. Ren passes us potions in the few seconds when the wyrm wheels away, and uses her magics to heal and shield us when she can; she even tries a paralysis spell, but the dragon only shudders as it flies.
Eventually, it is forced to the ground, and I lay into it with flames and sword and Shouts. In a few hard-fought minutes, the battle is won, and I claim a soul and the Word. Night has truly fallen as we fought, and we spend another hour collecting what bones we can carry. The girls send me odd glances throughout the process, the emotions of each different, but stemming from the same fact: that they have finally witnessed what it means to be Dragonborn, in all it's bloody and supernatural glory. It's shocking how quickly I have gotten used to killing legends and absorbing their souls, something that seeing their faces reminds me of all over again.
We talk little of it, and make camp in the shelter of the World Wall for the night. We are off before sunrise the next day, cutting down trails and through the wilderness in a straight shot towards Ustengrav. We arrive about an hour before sunset that day, and for once I'm having some good luck, because we find that the bandits occupying the tomb have come under attack by necromancers. We hang back, and as the necromancers push their way into the tomb, we follow in their wake. By the time the intruders are finally defeated by the resident bandits, we are halfway through the crypt, and the four of us make quick work of the remaining marauders and draugr.
Perhaps two hours later, I come stomping back out of the tomb, crumpled note in hand. All this way, all that time in a fucking dungeon, for nothing. Uvela, Raen, and Ren are on my heels, equally annoyed- perhaps moreso, given that I at least got a Word out of this misadventure.
"It could very well be an ambush." Uvela points out as we trudge back towards our horses. "If Miraak has travelled the traditional path to be named Dragonborn, he knows that the Greybeards would send you here."
"I know. But I need that Horn." And when I find the 'friend' who took it, I'm going to wring his neck.
"Why ambush you in an inn and not the tomb?" Ren asks.
"I don't know. There were bandits in there." I think aloud. "Its not that hard to sneak one person past them to steal the Horn, but getting multiple people past them, and then waiting for gods knows how long for us, that would be harder to do."
"If it is a trap- and I don't think it is- we have at least three days to plan." Raen puts in as we swing into our saddles. I lead us north, toward the old shack that the Dark Brotherhood sometimes uses as a safehouse.
"I was meant to return to Understone Keep in three days." Uvela sighs. "Calcemo will be displeased."
"If he remembers." Ren signs.
"Well, there is that."
"Riverwood is only walled along the roads. If this is an ambush, and they have lookouts, that's where they'll be." I say as we begin to ride. "We can travel through the wilderness, circle around and slip in from the hillside. If we can get to the Sleeping Giant without being seen, they'll be caught off guard."
"It's a very public space to set an ambush in." Raen points out. "A lot of witnesses."
"That only makes it less likely, not impossible." Uvela returns.
"It also makes them more dangerous if it is an ambush." I add. "It means that they don't care about collateral damage."
Raen purses her lips, unconvinced, but the subject drops. We reach the Brotherhood safehouse within the hour, and I take the first watch, sitting on the ground in front of the door to ensure that nothing in this gods-forsaken swamp tries to eat our horses. I'm perhaps ten minutes into my vigil when the familiar drain of energy hits my head, and Martin's ghostly form appears beside me.
"You could have warned me about Miraak's henchmen." I say without preamble, and he blinks owlishly.
"I did not know. I cannot foretell the future. I know only what Akatosh tells me."
I grunt, unconvinced, and say, "Is Miraak like me? Dragonborn?"
He is quiet for a long time, contemplating. Finally, he admits, "He is the First Dragonborn."
I flinch, hard. So the First meets the Last, the voice in my dream has said.
"Are you alright?"
"Someone called him that in a dream I had. I didn't… I thought that the first vision, with Alduin in Riften, that that was a fluke. Specific divine intervention." I scour my memory, unsettled by the flashes of nightmares I find. "Are they all real, then?" I ask quietly, unnerved.
"Sometimes, dreams are just dreams." Martin begins gently, soothingly. "But for the Dragonborn, sometimes they are more. Dragons are more in tune with the Currents of Time than mere mortals are, and it is not impossible for the Dragonborn to glimpse the Current. They say that my father foretold his own death in this way."
"Comforting." I say without real thought, absorbing this information quietly. I know that I've had other such realistic dreams since absorbing my first dragon soul, but now I remember little of them. There was one in a ruin, wasn't there? A ruin, and Mercer, and a sword flashing down… I shudder, try to focus on something else. To that end, I ask, "What'd you come to say?"
He is quiet for a minute, choosing his words. "I realize that the altercation in Markarth has left you and your family shaken-"
"Get to it, Martin."
"You will find a friend in Riverwood, not an enemy."
"A friend doesn't steal my shit and leave me wandering through a gods-forsaken dungeon looking for it."
"Retrieving the Horn is the traditional rite of passage for a Dragonborn to be recognized. By taking the Horn and leaving the note, she assured that the person she meets is likely to be the real Dragonborn."
"She. Good to know." I say.
"Shima," Martin says sternly, "You cannot alienate this woman. You will need her."
I grind my teeth together. "In what way?"
"She will lead you to a weapon." He doesn't take time to think about these words, I note; they have been rehearsed. My jaw starts to hurt from the tension in it. It's easier to control people when you only tell them what you want them to know, I remind myself as I look into Martin's calm, concerned face.
"What kind of weapon?"
"A valuable one." he says vaguely. He may be dodging the question because he doesn't want me to know, but something about the cast of his face and set of his body hints that perhaps he himself doesn't even know. I cock my head, evaluate him for several seconds.
"Alright." I finally say. "I'll play nice with the Horn Thief." At least until I have this weapon.
He sighs deeply. "I would prefer that you play nice in perpetuity, but I suppose that would be too much to ask."
I smile wryly. "That depends on how much I like the woman."
Another sigh. "Very well. Take care, Shima."
He vanishes, leaving me alone in the swamp once again- though now when I sink into thought, I am scouring my memories, searching for forgotten nightmares. How many foretell the death of people I love? How many are just creations of my own mind? The night drags by, and I don't wake the others for their turn on watch; my mind turns to the voice in my dream, the one that mentioned the First Dragonborn. I scour my painfully-average knowledge of history, trying to place just how old being the First makes him. Saint Alessia was a Dragonborn, and she lived thousands of years ago. For him to predate her…
Please let him be an elf-wizard and not a lich, I beg, shuddering at the thought of one of those floating draugr-Tongues being a true Dragonborn.
Because of the lycanthrope tendency for restless nights, the others awake before dawn, and we are riding south again as the rising sun coaxes a thick wall of mist from the ground. As we ride, I tell them what I have learned of Miraak, and Uvela goes quiet.
"To be the First dates him to the last years of the Merethic Era, or perhaps the beginning of the First. To live that long… he has extended his life by some unnatural means. We can only hope that it was through some form of stasis, and not some form of necromancy."
"Maybe it's some kind of Dragonborn magic." Raen suggests. "Akatosh being the god of time and all."
"Is that suppose to make him more or less dangerous than if it were necromancy?" I ask. Raen looks thoughtful for a moment, and opens her mouth to respond, only to be caught off by loud, frantic barking that makes my horse jolt underneath me, spooked by the appearance of a dog.
"Fucking mutt!" Raen curses, fighting her horse into turning in sharp circles in an attempt to keep it from running. In between calming my own horse, I notice the way that the dog's head instantly lowers at the sound of raised voices, wagging his tail nervously and pacing at the edge of the road as though waiting to come closer. When we've gotten our horse to stand still, he eases forward, whining loudly.
"You are lucky that you didn't get kicked by a horse." Uvela admonishes. "Now, shoo. We don't have any food."
The dog is one of those tall, wiry-haired hunting hounds like the ones raised by Banning in Markarth. He's dirty and very skinny, but by his submissive and placating body language, he's obviously someone's pet. He paces nervously, whining, wanting to approach but wary of the horses; after a second, he backs in the direction he came from, looking behind him and whining pointedly. Ren cocks her head and swings from her horse.
"He wants to show us something." She signs.
"And?" Raen asks testily.
"He belongs to someone. They could be in trouble."
Raen looks like she wants to repeat her phrase, but holds her tongue; they all glance to me, and I sigh. Why am I suddenly expected to rescue everyone? I'm just supposed to kill dragons.
"Alright. Let's see what's going on."
I swing from my horse to take the reins of Ren's, and she eases up to the hounds and holds out her hand. He is instantly lickng and nuzzling into it, tail wagging frantically, and Ren smiles in a way that we rarely see now, one hand alighting in healing energy as she pets him.
After a few seconds, the dog is all too eager to lead us into the swamp, and we follow a game trail for several minutes. I'm just starting to think that we may be on a wild goose chase when the cabin comes into view. We approach it cautiously, but werewolf senses reveal no threats, and the hound goes straight through the door. Ren glances to us and eases in after him, and we tensely wait for her. Several minutes later, she walks out with a journal in hand, a grim look on her face. The hound follows her a second later, whining pitifully and looking back at the cabin.
"His name is Meeko. His owner died. Rockjoint." She signs, slipping the journal into her saddlebag. She looks around at all of us and adds, "He's coming with us."
Uvela and Raen glance to each other, and then to me. Ren crosses her arms, looking at me expectantly. I shrug.
"What's one more dog? If there are cultists after me, it might be a good idea to have one around that could bite more than an ankle."
Ren smiles slightly and nods, swinging back into her saddle. The hound, Meeko, hesitates when we turn our horses to leave, glancing back to the house and whining pitifully. Ren whistles, and with one last forlorn look at the cabin, he trots alongside the horses as we continue our journey south.
We make good time, and by sunset of the next afternoon, we are within sight of Riverwood. We stick to the trees and travel along the river as though headed towards Bleak Falls Barrow, crossing the river and approaching the town from the south. Then we veer into the forest to loop around the town wall as night falls, reasonable sure that our approach hasn't been spotted.
We tie the horses outside the Sleeping Giant and leave Meeko guarding them. After days on the road, an inn should be a relief, but we are all tense at the uncertainty of what the Horn Thief will do. Ren and Uvela go in first. Twenty minutes later I enter, leaning on Wolfsfang, and find Alvor and his wife having dinner at a table near the entrance. They flag me over, and I spend the next thirty minutes chatting with them until Raen enters.
When my Imperial companion has settled near the hearth with a mead, I say goodbye to Alvor and make my way to the bar.
"Evening," I greet, setting ten gold down.
"Ah, it's you." The owner, Delphine, says. "You're that stranger that came through with Hadvar." My face wipes of merriment, and seeing the expression, she adds, "I'm the inn keeper, its my business to keep track of strangers."
"I'm the Thane of Whiterun, not some shady mercenary." I grouse, and roughly slide the gold across the table. "I'd like to rent the attic room."
Her eyes flicker passively over my face, but my werewolf hearing picks up the slight increase of her heart rate. "Attic room, eh? Well, we don't have an attic room, but you can have the one on the right. Make yourself at home."
I regard her cooly, then nod and turn, sending subtle reassuring glances to the girls as I head to the room. I leave the door cracked behind me, and lean against the wall in front of it, waiting. Ten, fifteen minutes later, and the door eases open to admit Delphine. She seems unsurprised to find me waiting, and shuts the door behind her without turning. When I only glower, she breaks the silence.
"So you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing-"
"You better have a damn good reason for all this." I snarl lowly, straightening from the wall and placing both hands on Wolfsfang's canehead in front of me. "Start talking."
Her eyes flicker around. "Not here. There's a button in that wardrobe against the wall. Press it."
I cock my head. "No."
A bemused smile just barely cracks across her face.
"I'd say that it's smart to be paranoid, but if you trust me that little, you were a fool to walk in here."
I pull my lips back in a smile that shows too-sharp teeth. "I've got three people out in that bar. Perhaps it was foolish of you to isolate yourself with me."
The smile wipes from her face. "Look, I'm actually trying to help you. I just need you to hear me out. Just… follow me." I don't sense a lie in the words or hear one in her heartbeat, but when Delphine takes a step forward, I still instinctively take a small step backward into a readier stance. She holds her hands up. "I'm just going to press that button."
I narrow my eyes, but we circle around each other so as to maintain distance as she crosses to the wardrobe. It's tall, nearly touching the ceiling, and when she opens the door and touches the top inside corner, the back of the wardrobe slides away, revealing a staircase descending out of sight.
"Follow me." Delphine says as she begins her descent, and despite the prickle of unease at the base of my neck, I do cautiously follow her down. We emerge into a small stone room, the center dominated by a table with several maps and a single open book. There's a chest against the wall next to it, and Delphine crosses to it.
"Here. I think you're looking for this. I'm sorry I had to take it, but I had to make sure this wasn't a Thalmor trap." She explains, drawing something from inside and setting it on the table. It's a large, black warhorn with Dovahzhul runes carved across it, and though I immediately recognize that it must be the Horn of Jorgen Windcaller, I cock my head as I pick it up and turn it over in my hand. Is this the end of a dragon's horn?
"So," Delphine begins, and I slip the Horn into my enchanted pouch. "The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn. I hope they're right."
"Unfortunately, they are."
"I hope so, but you'll forgive me if I don't assume that something's true just because the Greybeards say so. I just handed you the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, does that make me Dragonborn too?"
Rage flickers to life in my chest, and I lay my cane across the table in front of me, one hand around the hilt and the other planting onto the wood next to it as I lean forward. "Listen very carefully to me, Delphine," I snarl, low and dangerous, and Delphine regards me icily, "If the Greybeard's word is enough to get my family attacked, it will damn well be enough for you."
You cannot make an enemy of this woman, Martin's voice repeats sharply in my head, and I ignore it. Delphine's expression is cold and hard, but her head cocks slight.
"You were attacked for being Dragonborn? The Thalmor, I assume?"
I'm caught off guard by the mention of the Thalmor. "No, it wasn't. And it was less about being Dragonborn, and more about not being the Dragonborn they wanted. What do the Thalmor have to do with anything?"
"When don't they have to do with something?" She shoots back bitterly.
"What, did you steal my shit and drag me across the province to swap conspiracy theories? Why the hell am I here?"
"I didn't go to all this trouble on a whim." She snaps back. "I needed to make sure it wasn't a Thalmor trap. I'm not your enemy. I already gave you the Horn. I'm part of a group that's been looking for you- well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is."
My lips switch towards a snarl, and I squash my anger down. "Why?"
"We remember what most don't: that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer. You're the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul." Permanently? Non-permanent death is an option? What, are all dragons necromancers? "Can you do it? Can you devour a dragon's soul?"
"I've had seven."
"Seven? Gods. Well, good. Then you'll have no problem when you prove that to me."
Simmering anger turns to rage in an instance, and I slam my fist down on the table hard enough to splinter the wood. Delphine jumps back at the sudden sound, a dagger appearing in her hand from under the table.
"I am the fucking Dragonborn!" I shout. "And I do not have to prove that to you! You either accept that now, or I'm out." We glare at each other over the table, and though her lips press into a thin, angry line, Delphine eventually nods. "Now cut to the damn chase and tell me what's so important."
"Dragons aren't just coming back. They're coming back to life. They weren't gone somewhere all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors." Her predecessors? She's a Blade, then? "Now something's happening to bring them back to life, and I need you to help me stop it."
For a second, I simply take this theory in, and mutter, "Really? I never sensed necromancy from them..." And I'd hope that someone- Martin, Paarthurnax, the Greybeards- would have mentioned that by now if it were so.
"It might not be necromancy, not really. Dragons cannot truly die if their souls remain intact. Regardless, it's true. I've visited their ancient burial mounds and found them empty. And I've figured out where the next one will come back to life."
She slides a map of Skyrim across the table to me. Several black lines mark what I assume to be the locations of these burial mounds, with several of them penned over in red ink, red dotted lines drawn between them to illustrate the pattern.
"The red ones have already been hit-"
"Your map is wrong." I interject bluntly. "I'd bet my life that this one west of Whiterun held the dragon that attacked the watchtower. And this one to the north of it, at the base of Eldersblood Peak. I killed a dragon there a few days ago, so I'd bet that mound's empty as well."
Delphine frowns deeply, marks the locations I pointed out. "That changes things. It was following a pattern, moving north up the eastern border..."
"Moving north? So you know for sure which ones were hit first?"
"I have an idea of which were hit before others." Her tone is testy, almost defensive.
"If you don't have a concrete order, there might have never been an actual path of travel. The first dragon attack was at Helgen. Whiterun is one of the closest burial sights from that. It could have been hit within a few days of Helgen, and then he retreated east, to these mountains in the Rift." I point to the cluster of mountains that border Skyrim's eastern edge, and the empty burial mounds along it. Thinking aloud now, I add, "He could have something there, a lair or a temple, that he wants to keep returning to, so he started hitting all the burial sites near that." If I'm right, though, that radius is growing. Eldersblood Peak is the farthest west. How long before he gets to Markarth?
"He? You know who's doing this?"
I glance over to look her fully in the face, almost sorry that the Blade is about to learn of the impending apocalypse.
"It's not just dragons that are returning. It's the World-Eater. Before he attacked Helgen, there hadn't been dragons in Skyrim for millenia. He's doing this." How he's doing it is the question. Is it something any dragon could learn? Something I could learn? That's a dangerous thought that I quickly push away.
"You've seen him resurrecting other dragons?" There is almost, almost a note of challenge in her voice.
I think of Kynesgrove, and the way that Sahlokniir appeared in Alduin's wake. "Not directly, no, but-"
"It's just a theory, then. If you ask me, I think the Thalmor are involved." I blink, stunned, and she fervently continues, "The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war is basically over. Then a dragon attacks, Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now dragons are attacking everywhere, indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened. The empire is weakened. Who else gains from that but the Thalmor?"
"You're kidding, right? Even the Thalmor aren't that stupid."
"Maybe not. But even if they aren't involved, they'll know who is. If we could just get into the Thalmor Embassy… Problem is that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach me a few things about paranoia…"
I'm starting to think that that would indeed be impressive. So, calm but serious, I say, "You say that your order slew the dragons. That makes you a Blade, but your people haven't been dragon hunters since they killed all those dragons. Hell, they haven't been anything since the Great War ended. So why do you want to get involved so badly? Dragons and Dragonborns haven't been your business for a long time."
"It hasn't." She consents. "But the Blades were also meant to be dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. Since the last Dragonborn Emperor died, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now dragons are coming back. A new Dragonborn is being named. Our purpose is clear again."
Oh, how I hate the devotion in her voice, the determination and expectancy in her gaze. I have seen this before, seen drowning men grasping at anything that will keep them afloat, and I don't want to be pulled under in the attempt. But Martin said that I will need her, so I can't wash my hands of this paranoid, desperate Blade like I would want to. Instead, I scan her features, evaluating just how much she needs this.
"You served the Dragonborn." I repeat, and see wariness break through the other deep emotions on her face. I lean forward again, no aggression, but all serious confidence. "If you want the Blades to be as they were, I can give you that. I can make you into dragonslayers." There is something on her face, some kind of hope in her doubt, that says she wants to believe me. "But if you want the old ways back, Delphine, you're getting it all back. You'll serve me, not the other way around. You don't know me, don't trust me. I'm not Alessia. I'm not Tiber Septim. But two months ago, I also wasn't the famed Dragonrider, Thane of two Holds. Serve me as the Blades of old served their Dragonborns, and when I kill Alduin and write my name in history, I'll take your order with me."
I have her. I know I do even though the wariness never drops from her face. The Blades are a dead order. They aren't seeking a purpose. She is. She needs a cause to swear to. She wanted that cause to be the rebirth of the Blades, and all I need to do is confirm her hope that I am that rebirth. As a person, she may or may not like me, but as a figurehead, as the idol that breathes life into a new Blades? She is willing to follow that.
Delphine is quiet for a long, long moment. Then she says, not quite sarcastic enough to be dismissing the idea, "What, do you want some kind of oath?"
"I want loyalty. I want the final word on all of our big moves. Right now, I want every scrap of information you have on the dragons."
"I've told you all I know. All I have are these burial sites, and a hunch that the Thalmor are involved."
I run a hand through my hair. "Let's assume that they do know something- which is still a bit of a stretch for me. You want to hit the Embassy, but do you have a way in?"
"I'm not sure yet. I have a few ideas, but I'll need some time to pull things together… Give me a week, and I'll see what I can do."
In the back of my mind, all I can think that that is a stupid, stupid idea, but out loud I say, "Alright. Me and my friends will stay the night here, seeing as I already paid for a room. We'll take the Horn back to High Hrothgar in the morning. Would you mind making me- lets see- nine copies of this map of yours?"
"Nine? I can... What are you planning?"
"I'm going to send one to each Jarl, see if we can get some kind of organized resistance to the dragons being resurrected. If Alduin can raise them faster than I can kill them, we'll be in real trouble."
"Hmmph. If Alduin really is the one raising them, that might just get us dead guards. And the Stormcloaks could just ignore it altogether. They've got wanted posters of you all over the Old Holds."
"Gods, don't remind me. Going east of Whiterun is almost more stress than its worth. I'm always having to keep an eye out for Stormcloak patrols."
"What did you do to get the Stormcloaks after you?"
"What did you do to get the Thalmor after you?"
She gestures around. "I'm a Blade."
"Oh, come one. If you think they're after you in particular, you must have done something. Assassinate some officers? Sabotage some supply lines?"
"These friends of yours," She says, pointedly changing the subject, "Can they be trusted?"
More than you, I think automatically. Instead, I say, "I head a… a group. We're a family. I trust them with anything."
She doesn't seem convinced, but nods anyway. "I'll have your maps ready in the morning, Dragonborn."
"Thanks. I'll find you before I leave." I reply as I turn, by now only distantly annoyed that people use that title as though it's my name. When I emerge back into the inn, the girls have all shifted to closer seats, and they relax fractionally to see me alive. I beeline for the table that Uvela sits at, and motion for the others to join us.
"Should we assume that this means she didn't try to kill you?" Uvela asks, sweetly sarcastic, as the others converge.
"Things might be easier if she had." I rub the heel of my hand against my eyes, only just starting to realize how big things have just gotten: dragons are being resurrected, and I've sworn to rebuild a scattered and hunted organization. And then there's the matter of the burial sites, and what- if anything- we should do to try to defend them from Alduin. I explain everything that passed between me and Delphine in short order, and when I'm done, there is a long moment of silence.
Uvela, with her vast knowledge of history, eventually says, "The resurrection of dragons seems very plausible. Though some dragons have undoubtedly survived in hiding, a vast majority of them would have been slain during the Dragon Wars. I do also doubt the Thalmor's involvement. In four eras, dragons have never been resurrected until Alduin returned. If the Dominion could do it, they would have done it when they were seizing power in the Isles, or during the Great War."
"I know. But Delphine is set on this trip into the Embassy, and I get the feeling that our relationship is going to be fragile for a bit. I've already refused to kill a dragon in front of her, and if I refuse this too, she might not trust me enough to keep helping."
"Her help ain't that valuable so far." Ren sniffs. "All she has is paranoia about the elves and a map that you coulda gotten from Farengar. If you're gonna be in charge of the Blades, you should prove it. Overrule her and cancel this plan. It's more likely to get you killed than it is to get you something useful."
You will need her. She will lead you to a weapon. Martin's voice replays intrusively, insistently in my head, and by now I recognize even this as a subtle form of communication from my ghostly grandfather.
"I think that's a no from my ethereal babysitter." I tell them dryly, tapping my head pointedly. Though Uvela was the one to assure me that this odd arrangement with my ancestor is indeed possible, Raen and Ren look unnerved by the reminder of it; if the boys hadn't seen Martin during that day in Kynesgrove, they might think I was losing my mind, no matter what Uvela says.
"Do you even want to be in charge of the Blades?" Ren asks, pointedly changing the subject.
I snort. "Hell no. And the first reason is that, at the minute, 'the Blades' are literally just Delphine. But if I'm not in charge of her, I get the feeling that she'd think she was in charge of me." Like the Greybeards think they are, my mind adds bitterly, Even though all they were good for was getting me to Paarthurnax. At least the Blade will bring me some mysterious weapon.
Uvela cocks her head at me. "You did not tell her about Miraak's-" she glances to where Delpine again stands behind the bar, lowers her voice, "-status, did you?"
"He didn't really come up, just his followers. Why?"
"Be careful with the knowledge of what he is. The Blades serve Dragonborns, but they are not above disposing of one to install another. They have instigated more than one coup within the Septim bloodline."
I cock my head. "Really? I didn't think the Blades had it in them."
She lets out a small, bitter huff of laughter. "All you think of the Blades comes from Kjor's stories of his father and grandfather. The things one tells their children would not include such… realities."
There's deeper emotion there, deeper personal history. Like most of us, Uvela rarely talks of her past, but for a second her disdain for the Blades seems to nearly rival her hate for the Thalmor. My imagination flashes through the hell it would be to go from being held under the boot of the Thalmor, to fighting to survive as an Empire- that sees all Altmer as the enemy- marches through your land. Did the Empire's efforts give her a hope for a better Alinor that they themselves quickly crushed, or was she already disillusioned enough to just see them as another wave of oppressors to have to navigate?
Outwardly, I nod. "I'll keep it under wraps. I wonder if she'd make him kill a dragon in front of her, with how many fanatics already think he's the First."
"Hah, yeah right." Raen replies. "He obviously don't like people questioning his title, if he'll send people from another province to kill you."
"Do you still want to go after him?" Ren signs apprehensively.
"Course I want to, but it's not like I have a choice. He'll probably keep sending those creeps in masks until I stop him."
"Shim," Uvela implores, "You need to approach him cautiously. I cannot emphasize enough the power he might have access to, to have lived all these years."
"I'll be careful, Vel. I don't plan on getting myself killed anytime soon." Nor do I entirely plan on trying to kill the man, if I could instead find a way to drag him into fighting Alduin with me.
We order dinner and wander into lighter topics of conversation. It's already fairly late, so we eat quickly and play several rounds of bolder-parchment-shears to decide who gets the bed in the room I rented. Ren wins it, and the rest of us cram our bedrolls into the limited space beside the bed. As the others settle in for the night, I pull parchment, ink, and a quill out of my pack, and head back into the tavern to begin drafting a letter to send to the Jarls. After a few rough drafts, the body reads:
I am Ri'Shima Firemoon, declared Dragonborn by the Greybeards. By now I am sure that you are all aware of the dragon crisis, either by rumor or by firsthand experience. I regret to inform you that this crisis is being headed by Alduin the World-Eater. If you do not believe this, or do not want to believe this, ask any survivor of Helgen. If you can trust his word, Ulfric Stormcloak was there as well, and should corroborate this claim.
I am writing to warn you that the World-Eater is resurrecting other dragons from their ancient burial mounds. Attached to this letter is a map of all the burial sites known to me right now. Do with this information as you think best, but know that I cannot be everywhere at once, and that collective action is needed if Skyrim is to survive this dragon crisis even somewhat intact. I will also warn you that Alduin can continue to resurrect the body of any dragon that I do not kill myself, so I suggest scattering the remains of any dragons you do kill, or at least moving them away from populated areas.
I will try to give you more information as it becomes available to me. If you care about your people, or even your own life, I implore you to consider carefully what I say. The return of the dragons is a bigger threat to Skyrim than either the Stormcloaks or the Empire, and as such I will provide this information to the Jarls of all nine holds regardless of their political alignment. In return, I hope that my own alignments will not dissuade you from trusting in my advice. Where dragons are concerned, I answer only to Akatosh.
-Ri'Shima Firemoon the Ruthless, Dragonrider, Thane of two Holds and the Dragon of the North
In truth, some part of me says that if the Stormcloak holds don't want to listen, then I'll happily let them burn as the consequence of their own stupidity. But I know that Kjor would argue that I should at least give them fair warning, and, logically, I know- and hate- that we're more likely to burn together than we are to survive apart. The line about Akatosh I throw in in the hopes of making myself sound more respectable, and because I know that the bitterness I feel about Akatosh won't come across in writing.
I read the last of my rough drafts over once more and, satisfied, put it away to be proof-read by Kjor, Balgruuf, and Igmund. If he were here, I would take it to Elrohir first, and a dull ache goes through my chest at the thought. It's well into the wee hours of the morning now, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and pull out another sheet of paper. Here I write:
Ulfric,
I have some information about the dragons. If, despite all evidence to the contrary, you are actually a smart man, you might want to do something with it. It should arrive soon. Say hi to Galmar for me.
xoxo
Beneath that last line, instead of my name, I draw the same insignia I painted in blood over his throne all those weeks ago: a flaming moon with a wolf's paw in the middle. This letter I fold up with the intention of slipping it to a courier when we get to Ivarstead. Then I stand, stretch, and nod to Delphine as I slip back into my room. She looks up from the map she's drawing on to nod back.
We rise early the next morning, but Delpine is already up- or still up. We have a quick breakfast, and then I join her at the bar, where she hands over nine copies of her earlier maps, albeit without the dotted lines she drew on the original to describe the assumed pattern of attacks.
"Meet me back here in a week. I should have something on the Thalmor by then." She says, then adds, "And keep an eye on the sky. This is only going to get worse."
"Trust me, I know." I reply, thinking back to that first vision I had after Martin found me, where I walked the ruins of Markarth and then Riften. "Thanks for the help, Delphine."
She nods. "Of course, Dragonborn."
The girls and I feed Meeko and mount up, heading south and cutting through the foothills just south of Helgen before looping up to Ivarstead. We arrive in early afternoon, and after some back and forth about the Greybeard's dislike of visitors, I'm allowed to go up the mountain by myself if I take Meeko with me. I part with my packmates at the inn, and an hour later, I and the hound push into the halls of High Hrothgar.
Arngeir and two of the others are meditating in the central room just outside of the entrance hallway. The hound immediately bounds up to them, tail wagging in a blur. Arngeir glances at Meeko with annoyance.
"This is not a place for beasts." He tells me sternly. Behind him, Borri lavishes attention onto the hound, obviously delighted.
"I have your Horn," I say, ignoring the comment as I pull the item from my backpack.
"Ah, well done. You have now passed all the trials. Now, it is time to recognize you formally as Dragonborn." For a second, I blink owlishly. After getting attacked by Miraak's people and arguing with Delphine, I'd forgotten that I still haven't been officially titled. "Wait here."
Arngeir disappears deeper into the monastery, and I call Meeko over and make him lay against the wall, out of the way of whatever is going to happen next. Arngeir quickly reappears with Wulfgar, and the four Greybeards spread out around me.
"You are ready to learn the final Word of Unrelenting Force, 'Dah', which means 'push'." Arngier explains. Wulfgar steps forward then, whispering the Word and imparting it into the stone in front of me. I take a breath, step forward, and concentrate on the writing beneath me, watching as the lines blur, start to almost make sense, and then the rush of pale light brings the word to my mind. "Master Wulfgar," Arngeir instructs, and as they did in our previous training, Wulgar nods, and a burst of gold-white light flows through the air between us, pulled toward me as if by gravity. The meaning and power of the word floods into my chest as much as into my head, a kind of think-feeling that is completely unique to learning Shouts.
I take a deep breath, letting the Word settle into me. Arngeir looks at me expectantly, and I step to the side to see down the hall to the main doors, and Shout, "FUS RO DAH!"
The familiar thunder-like clap is still there, but the sheer volume surprises even me, bouncing off the stones as the building seems to vibrate around us. Meeko yelps and jumps to his feet, whining and looking around uncertainly.
Arngeir nods approval as the sound fades. "You have completed your training, Dragonborn. Perhaps you should put the hound outside. We would like to Speak with you."
The way he says 'speak' tells me he means Shout, and I nod and lead Meeko outside, giving him some comforting pats on the head. "It's only for a few minutes, buddy." I say soothingly, but the minute I slip back inside and shut the door, I hear him whining from the other side. When I return, the four Greybeards are still standing on each side of the room, varying levels of solemn awe and pride on their faces.
"Stand between us and prepare yourself." Arngeir instructs, and my heart immediately begins beating faster. I get confirmation that that's warranted when he continues, "Few can withstand the unbridled Voice of the Greybeards. But you are ready."
Then they begin to Speak as one, and I understand why the other three are loath to even whisper. The sound is thunderously, deafeningly loud, filling the space and pressing in, the sheer force of the vibrations pushing in on my body and mind. I stagger, teeth gritted, vision blurring and flashing nearly white as as the words swell and fall around me. When they fall silent, it is an almost instant relief; oddly, my ears don't ring as I'd expect them to. I blink for a second, take a deep breath.
For once, Arngeir looks pleased with me. "Dovahkiin." he greets, with respect and a small bit of pride. "You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you." In my peripheral, I see the other Greybeards give slight bows, and despite everything, the smallest hint of pride trickles into my chest. All I've already endured for being Dragonborn, and I, an orphaned Khajiit still barely tolerated in some parts of this land, am officially the Nord's fabled hero.
The thought sours almost immediately, for all the same reasons.
"Is that it?" I ask, looking around to the other Greybeards. "Isn't there anything else you can teach me?" If they can't do anything more for me, I don't know if I have a better plan than finding Miraak and going along with Delphine's schemes in the meantime, and each of those prospects fills me with a certain level of unease.
"You have learned so much already, Dragonborn. Growing your gift too quickly would be dangerous." Arngeir explains gently, and my lips twitch back toward a snarl before I school my face. Growing my gifts quickly is all that's keeping me alive with these goddamn dragons. He catches the expression, and adds, "But there are many Words of Power in Skyrim, carved in the Dragon tongue. Even from here, we can feel the Thu'um resonate from them. Finding these lost Words would be a sufficient test to temper your abilities with experience. Perhaps later we will hear one of the lost Words. For now, you should rest."
I take this in. "Could you teach me to sense the Words?" I'd rather cut out the middle man in this process.
He smiles, a rare sight to me. "With great time, yes. But I sense that time is not something you believe you have."
My mood sours immediately. "No, not really. More time just means more dragons to kill."
For a long second, the speaker of the Greybeards is silent. "Have you perhaps considered not killing them?"
At first I just stare, blinking owlishly. "You're kidding, right? They're attacking holds, killing people-" For one heartbeat, I see Elrohir's face, feel the snap of bone reverberate up my arms. I take a deep, shaky breath. "No. I hadn't considered it."
"Dragons are not beasts, Ri'Shima. They are sentient beings-"
"I know what they are!" I snap, nearly shouting, and Arngeir pauses, the patience on his face creeping just slightly towards annoyance.
"The Way of the Voice is a way of peace." He begins again, tone gently imploring. "You share a completely unique way of communication with the dragons. Use it, instead of indiscriminately shedding blood."
"If dragons were open to peace, they wouldn't be burning holds."
"They are sentient beings. Like us, they choose their actions. Right or wrong, peace or violence. Like us, they can learn a different path."
"You think the World-Eater is going to learn to sit on a mountain and meditate because I say pretty please?" I shoot back, annoyed by the entire ridiculous proposal. "Paarthurnax is an exception, not a rule. Dragons aren't made for peace."
"And yet Master Paarthurnax has chosen it, despite what he made for."
"Well good for him! But some of us don't get that choice. Some of us lose everything if we don't do what we were made to do, and I was made to kill dragons."
"Dragonborn-"
"I'm done talking about this, Arngeir." I snap, already turning toward the door. "I'm going to send what I know about the dragons to the Jarls, and then I'm going home to figure out how we're going to survive this mess."
"Ri'Shima, wait." He interjects, and despite my better judgment, I pause. He mulls something over for a second, then says, "You should speak with Paarthurnax again. Seek out his wisdom on the destiny laid before you. I do not know how you reached him last time, but I can teach you a way to clear the winds from the path so that you might reach him."
And you said you didn't have anything else you could teach me, I think bitterly. I grind my teeth and nod.
"Thank you." I say, and Martin would be proud at how level the words come out. "I'll be back to talk to him soon."
Arngeir recognizes the compromise. We both know that he would prefer I go to Paarthurnax now, but I don't have the time I would want to have to go over everything in detail with him. Necessity demands that I send my letters out to the Jarls as soon as possible, and that means returning to Whiterun and Markarth to get Kjor, Igmund, and Balgruuf's opinions on it. Hopefully, I can also get the latter two to add some kind of seal or other mark of support to ensure that the letters actually reach the Jarls and, if they do, are taken seriously. Another pettier part of myself also doesn't want to talk to Paarthurnax now precisely because Arngeir wants me to, and because our mutual dragon companion might agree with him over me.
"Very well, Dragonborn." Arngeir concedes. "High Hrothgar is open to you whenever you wish to return."
"Thank you. I should be back in under two weeks." With that, I turn and walk away, slipping out of the doors of the monastery and into the freezing night air. Meeko immediately jumps to his feet to greet me, and I pat his flank as we start back down the mountain. It's just past midnight when we reach the inn, and Meeko and I slip into the room my packmates have rented. I'm asleep within minutes of climbing into my bedroll.
In my dream, I'm flying. Red scales glint beneath me, and white wings flap to either side of me, and I lean my head back and hold my arms out and just feel the rightness and the freedom of the air flowing around me.
"I warn you, once you have flown the skies of Keizaal-"
The voice, deep and smooth, cuts off, and suddenly all I can see is inky blackness. A different, more familiar voice speaks, echoing around me, seeming to come from everywhere at once.
"This is the only way, Dragonborn. The only way I can be free."
Though I do not speak, I hear my own disembodied voice bouncing around me. "You could come with me."
Miraak laughs harshly. "And trade one master for another? I am done being a pawn. I am the master of my own fate."
I jerk awake in a cold sweat, breathing hard. My packmates begin to stir around me, themselves light sleepers, but a few murmured reassurances having them rolling over and going back to sleep. I lay awake, running through what I can remember of the dream, wondering if or how much of it is real- or will be real, in the future. Every second that passes before I fall back asleep, every time I replay the words the only way, the more the need to meet the First Dragonborn carves itself into my chest.