Chapter 48: The Final Trial
"Wherever you are, whatever you face. I love you. Remember that."
His words drifted to me through a fog of waking. My eyes opened and I blinked a few times, still bleary enough around the edges that I wondered whether I had shifted from one dream to another. Hadvar's voice and the warmth he loaned me faded as the haze of sleep cleared, and the ceiling swam into focus. The perpetual chill of Hrothgar brushed my exposed cheeks. My eyes adjusted to the drab darkness swiftly enough, and I searched the line where the bricks were consumed by shadows too distant to penetrate. For a few seconds, my mind remained blissfully clear of thought.
A gale surged over the mountain, battering the outer walls of the monastery with fierce howls of protest against the obstruction. The rattle of the glass in its window frame; an urgent, frantic tapping, seemingly desperate for my attention, brought me back to where I was. With a groan, I rolled over and bundled my blankets around my neck, wishing that I could remember the details of the dream I had been having, for just a little longer.
The words Master Arngeir had spoken to me the previous night drifted back to me instead.
"Your shield-brother's recovery has been swift. Tomorrow, we will discuss your final trial."
These two odd statements were all the elusive old man had said with a pat to my shoulder before he had shuffled off to bed. I had blinked after him dumbly, confused but too weary to phrase a question before he had departed.
Trial? No – final trial? Was my training...somehow nearing its completion? We had been amongst the Greybeards for no more than two weeks. And, of course I was relieved that Farkas was well again but, what did his health have to do with anything?
You are wasting time, I reminded myself pointedly.
Aching with weariness, I forced myself up, pushing the blankets and furs aside as I eased my feet to the floor. I was wearing two pairs of socks, so the chilled flagstones couldn't shoot ice along my legs – I had learned that horrible lesson on my first morning here.
The cold of Skyrim had never bothered me, for it brought with it a fresh, invigorating air. My mother had often sighed over the conditions outside, being a native of the milder Wayrest, but Giselle and I, while we had certainly felt the cold, had never let it weigh us down. Solitude was chilly and gusty and it was often too cold to snow in the heart of the city, being so densely populated and so close to the sea, but...the Throat of the World took winter to another level. The weather was so extreme that I wondered if Farkas and I had unwittingly crossed through some portal during our climb, and were now existing in a strange, largely colourless alternate realm. My Skyrim had never been this cold.
Though, having travelled so little in my youth, perhaps I did not have a broad enough basis for comparison. For all I knew, the high, glacial mountains above Solitude were the same as here, or worse, if such a thing were possible.
Farkas was lying on his bed with his hands crossed behind his head and his eyes closed; relaxing, for he could never properly sleep while the wolfblood coursed through his veins. I wondered as I regarded him, and not for the first time; how could the beast maintain this constant vigil without a moment's rest? Why, even in these safe quarters, did it feel a need to be on alert?
He glanced toward me when I rose and the corner of his mouth lifted in greeting when I croaked good morning to him.
"Not yet. You can go back to bed," he rumbled quietly; his focus flickered back to the ceiling. "Sun won't rise for another hour."
"Mm-mm," I shook my head floppily, palming my eyes as I yawned.
Farkas said nothing while I rose and threw my coat over the layers I had slept in, but he spoke when I grabbed my satchel and made for the door.
"How hard can a couple of letters be?" he asked. "You're losing too much sleep writing them," he sounded grumpier at this last.
I rested my hand on the door arch and blinked at him. My shield-brother hadn't moved, but he had craned his head back to watch me go. "You should write to him too, you know," I countered. "I know that you worry about him, and I am sure your brother would not object to hearing from both of us."
Farkas grunted as he turned back to stare at the ceiling. We both knew that he was not the letter-writing type. "Just, promise me you won't tell him about the troll."
I mumbled my assent. I had already decided that Vilkas didn't need to know, but I wagered that Farkas didn't want him to know for different reasons to me. "Rest well, brother. I'll be at the bench seat-"
"Yeah yeah," he waved his hand toward the door, his eyes already closed again. "Go, enjoy your quiet time, while it lasts," he added, less rude than before.
I will. I managed a brief smile at him, even though he could not see it, and then stepped into the hallway, clicking the metal door closed quietly behind me.
As I turned to face the long, dim hallway, I sucked in a breath of cool air and closed my eyes, practising my centring technique from my days at the College, which had served me so well since, in such a variety of situations.
Alone, I told myself calmly. The notion simultaneously thrilled and terrified me.
My socked feet made no sound on the large flagstones as I made for the bench seat I had claimed on the morning I had decided to write to those we had left behind. Had Farkas not been able to sense – or smell – my feelings, he might have insisted on coming with me, for he was close by at almost all other times. Gratefully, while blunt on many matters, my shield-brother understood that this single hour before dawn was the only hour that I could call my own, in what had become a rigorous regime from the first day I had awakened in our dormitory. This hour was a time, and a solitude, that I had come to treasure during the fortnight we had dwelt at High Hrothgar.
When I had left Hadvar in Riverwood those weeks ago, I had thought I would lose who I was to the Greybeard's tutelage. But now that I was here and wholly focussed on learning what a Dragonborn should be capable of, I did not feel so different from who I had been two weeks prior. As with any education, the Greybeards were merely expanding my skill set and adding to my knowledge, not discarding parts of me to fit their information in.
And so while I could have certainly used the extra sleep, once I realised that I wasn't a changed woman; that I was still entirely Celeste, and that the Greybeards weren't trying to mould me into somebody else, I found that I craved this single hour that I could call my own.
My bench seat flickered into view. The hearth on the far side had burned down to a couple of glowing lumps, but it was not unrecoverable. To this end, I threw some peat into the centre, and prodded with the poker to bury them so they would catch alight.
The seat wasn't particularly significant or private, and I wasn't sure why I had grown fond of the spot, but I had. There were six other bench seats just like this one in the monastery; plain grey stone laid with fur, butting up against the wall. This seat, my seat, faced a window that offered a southerly aspect along the path that Farkas and I had ascended. The view was always partially obscured by ice and snow blown onto the window pane, and if the hearth remained warm for any length of time it would steam up, just like any other window in the monastery would.
I approached the frosty glass and grasped the sleeve of my coat in my fingers, rubbing against it in circles to peer into the strangeness of outside. Squinting beyond my reflection, I saw snow being washed over the peaks, reminding me, as it often did, of an ocean swell. The crags and boulders were dark, irregular shapes, silhouetted by a slightly lighter, inky sky and its greyed horizon. In the darkness above twinkled a few bright stars, though they were difficult to see from the window. The final remnants of what looked like a pink aurora, lined in orange and green, rippled in the corner of my view.
My breath fogged the glass and I rubbed at it again to drink in the sight for a moment longer, while I was at liberty to do nothing but observe. I wished to see more of the aurora, but going outside to watch was out of the question; I would die of exposure within minutes at this time of night.
While I could have easily spent my entire hour staring at the heavens lost in pensive thought, I truly did have work to do, so it wasn't long before I returned to the bench seat and opened my satchel. Within it were inks, quills, and parchments; a few covered in writing, but most blank.
I grabbed one of the larger nearby books to use its hard cover as a writing surface, and withdrew my three letters; to Lydia, Vilkas, and Hadvar.
Wearily, I sighed at the latter, unfolding it and staring down at the page.
Dearest Hadvar, it read.
That was all I had. There were so many things I wanted to tell him – and to ask him. But every time I formed a sentence in my head and moved to commit it to paper, I would falter. It was never adequate. Nothing I could piece together would express how much I missed him, and how sorry I was for what had happened. Furthermore, I wondered if any letter I wrote would even reach him if? Would it be stolen, as all of his letters had been? Surely not if Giselle was behind the theft, for she was in no position to continue paying whoever she had employed to carry out the task.
And if Giselle wasn't responsible for stealing your letters?
Frustrated, I placed Hadvar's letter to one side yet again, and opened the one I had been writing to Vilkas.
It was not quite done – yet. It was eight pages long and growing, and I was determined to finally finish it that morning, so that I could place it and Lydia's in the supplies chest with some coin for Klimmek. He was scheduled to make a drop today, and would take any letters in the chest with him, to forward on. If I missed him this morning, I would have to wait another week to send them.
You might deliver them yourself, if you succeed in your final trial and the Greybeards dismiss you.
What had Master Arngeir meant? I had learned much in a fortnight but in no way did I feel ready to venture out as the Dragonborn and start...whatever it was that I was meant to be doing. I was still none the wiser. Shuddering, I tried to push the reminder from my mind.
My eyes scanned the page I had been penning the previous morning to distract from the uncertainty I felt over my future.
The Greybeards have devised a training schedule that, unsurprisingly, focusses on the Way of the Voice from the time the sun rises until the moment I go to bed. By the light of the day, whichever Master has been assigned as my mentor works with me to hone my thu'um. My abilities are wanting finesse, and Master Arngeir assures me (for the others only speak to me with hand signals that I barely understand) that the more I practise Fus and Ro, the greater control I will gain over my instincts. Knowing how to speak words of power is not enough; as with any song that might have taken me weeks, sometimes months of practise to perfect, the Way of the Voice requires a similar level of dedication to attain the power I should be able to wield as one of the Dragon Blood. Apparently.
I sat back, wondering what to tell him next. The training I had received so far was not as intimidating as I had worried it might be, for I had been focussing on my voice for as long as I could remember. It was far more taxing than anything the Deans at the College had ever required of me, however I didn't feel Vilkas would appreciate me whining about how tired I was over what he would probably consider 'a little hard work'.
Propping the book against my knees and leaning back over the page, I tried to simply keep my momentum going:
As well as practising Shouts, there are breathing techniques to learn – ones that will help me to reach my thu'um with greater consciousness, and more swiftly, and others to quiet my mind to all else, so that I might focus wholly on the words when I call upon them. I am finding it difficult to reach this state consciously as my thoughts continually distract me, but Master Arngeir tells me that, as with everything else they are teaching me, mastery will take only persistence and time.
Once it grows too cold to remain outdoors, I study from an enormous pile of books that were assigned to me the first morning after I arrived. The Greybeards have an impressive book collection, with titles the likes of which I have never heard of. You would love it – you would lose yourself in their books for months, perhaps even years. Each I have been assigned thus far has been a biography of a past Dragonborn; first Saint Alessia, then Reman Cyrodiil, and now, Tiber Septim.
Again I sat back, glancing over the three names briefly. Their biographies had taught me that they had been three extraordinarily brave people, and their deeds had elevated them to...well, more than legends. They had become leaders, and Gods. But their stories were littered with mythology. I often wondered what was real, and what had been created by those who penned the tale to serve as some lesson to the reader.
Ugh. I could not fathom that some day, someone might write my biography, and that it might be collected amongst theirs. What fabulous lies might be woven throughout it?
And how much of it will be true?
Squirming on the bench seat, I set aside the book, letter and quill, and rose again to check how close dawn was. Wiping the condensation from the window, I saw that the very edge of the horizon was now lined in the brightest pink, which turned pale and then inky blue again almost at once, like two thin lines smudged swiftly across a dark canvas by a wet brush.
Half an hour, if that.
Closing my arms around myself and shivering unwittingly, I leaned my forehead against the frosty glass.
"Come back to bed – stay the night, and then we'll-"
I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to will Hadvar to me. He had told me that he needed me, and I had left him. And now I longed for him – to hold him, breathe him in, and to never let go. To know that he was safe; to stand beside him while he grieved his uncle's loss. I missed his ready smile; his calm intelligence that always grounded me. He had been the one to make the situations we faced less intimidating, and if only we could be together I knew that we would both be able to move forward with hope. He had thanked me for seeing the man beyond the uniform and list, but he had always seen me; the woman beyond the accolades. He expected nothing of me; certainly nothing that could be compared to the deeds of the previous Dragonborns. Yet he somehow had the power to make me feel as though I could climb all of the mountains looming before me.
His family. His attentions should be on his family.
Of course it was true, but it still pained me to think it. Where was he now? It had been over two weeks since the dragon had attacked Riverwood and torn his family in half. Had he gone back to his post with the Legion after his week of leave had ended – a week that should have been ours? What had he and Sigrid arranged for their futures? Would they remain in Riverwood, or move on to somewhere else entirely? And, where might that be?
Perhaps he has already written of this, but his letter never reached you.
Gritting my teeth and pushing myself off the glass, for it was too cold to remain pressed against it for long, I returned to the fire and bench seat and sat with a frustrated flounce. I had to finish the letter to Vilkas, and with a sudden blaze of determination, the words came thick and fast.
It occurs to me that Hadvar might be in Whiterun at this time, having taken up his post as Praefect and representative of the Legion to Jarl Balgruuf.
Should you cross paths – could you give him my regards? Let him know that I am here and well – share anything in this letter that might interest him – and tell him that I long to write but don't, because I fear my letters will be captured by our enemies, yet again, before they reach him.
I miss him, more than I can possibly express, and I dearly hope that he and his family are -
Hesitating, stared at the blank space after the word are. I hoped that they were what? Well? Recovering? No word or phrase that came to mind could express the depth of my desires and regrets. What I hoped for most was to turn back time; to go back to the morning Hadvar and I had journeyed to Whiterun; to go with Lydia to Riverwood instead. I would engage the dragon before it had drawn a single breath against those I loved, and I would destroy it.
Safe, I eventually settled.
I dearly hope that he and his family are safe.
It was not enough, but it would have to do. Signing the letter off, I folded it hastily and stuffed it back into my satchel with Lydia's. I needed to get ready for training – no, my final trial, whatever that meant.
Morose with longing and anxiety intertwined, I had a sneaking suspicion that there would be nothing final about it.
–
"Your armour will be warm enough, once we get moving," Farkas advised. "Pack everything else. Or leave it behind. Whatever suits you. We'll be back – eventually."
I stood in the doorway with a hand on the arch for support, staring at my shield-brother in disbelief. Had I not been holding myself up, I might have crumpled into a heap onto the floor.
Ustengrav. We were leaving High Hrothgar to undertake my final trial, and going to a tomb on the other side of the province, south east of Solitude. Of all the places in Skyrim! No sooner had Master Borri taught me the Shout Wuld, which meant whirlwind and allowed me to run as swift as the breeze itself, that Master Arngeir had instructed me to journey to the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller and retrieve an artefact – his horn – as my final trial.
Farkas and I had both been unable to conceal our surprise, but asking Master Arngeir for more information had been pointless. It seemed that he knew what was ahead of me in this regard, yet he was reticent to tell me of anything I would face.
–
"Many a mortal before you has failed on this trial. The recovery of Jurgen Windcaller's horn is paramount to the progression of your training, for it will examine both your mind and heart in a manner which we are unable to do. Traversing its depths may even open your eyes to your destiny. It is not for me to say. It is a sacred path that you must tread. I caution you to proceed with due respect. Only a Dragonborn may succeed, and should your power transform into arrogance, you will never return to us."
"Why wait until Farkas was well enough before mentioning this?"
"There are many evils before you. Does your aptitude for the dragon tongue give you the ability to face such dangers on your own?"
"Of course not – I'm not an idiot."
"That is our hope."
–
Hope, I echoed dumbly in the recesses of my mind, with my eyes on my shield-brother.
Farkas was hastily stuffing things into his backpack; the clothes and smaller weapons he had brought with him. After the initial surprise he had expressed outside when Arngeir had instructed us to leave, he had grown resolved, but in a twitchy kind of way that made me nervous.
"Have you been to Ustengrav, brother?" I asked. My voice left me in a dispassionate whisper.
Farkas cast me a silvery sideways glance. "Nope. You?"
"No," I huffed. I hadn't really been...anywhere, had I?
"A bit of an adventure for both of us then," he replied easily as he sealed his pack. "We'll stop in Ivarstead for some food, yeah?"
"Hmm," I agreed idly.
"Maybe someone in town will have a horse we can borrow?"
"Mm," I barely heard him.
"Sister?" he rested a hand on my shoulder.
I had thought he was still by his bed. My attention captured, I blinked hastily and glanced up. "Yes, I know. I need to pack," I shrugged him off and hurried into the dormitory.
He hmphed and returned to his bed, only to shoulder his backpack and make for the door.
"I'll be along in a minute," I told him quietly.
"Mm-hmm."
Click.
Wait – the sound roused me from my sluggish thoughts and I glanced to the door. Had I...offended him? Closing my eyes in defeat, I sank onto my bed for a moment and made an effort to come back to where we were. Of course I had offended him. I was being useless and unhelpful. He was taking control and facing the task ahead, as was required. There was no time, no reason to overthink this path we had been set on – it was simply a job that needed to be done.
I could repair things with Farkas on the road. We would certainly have time enough to talk, even if most of it was me talking and him listening.
While it was easy to think this, it was not easy to action. Something, some uneasiness continued to tug at me, drawing me inward when I should have been focused. I made myself rise and mechanically stuffed my belongings back into my pack.
–
The dulling haze of disbelief I had felt since I had risen persisted, even as the day grew warmer.
Farkas and I descended the seven-thousand steps in relative silence. While I was, for the most part, consumed by my mute confusion, the pass had grown icier as the weak sun did its best (and failed) to melt the snow, and we needed to watch our step, to ensure we didn't slip.
During one of the brief moments we had spoken, I had apologised to Farkas, but my shield-brother had merely cast me a confused glance and grumbled, "For what? You didn't know this was going to happen."
It hadn't been what I had meant. "No, I mean – I was rude to you," I widened my eyes at myself, glancing down to ensure that I placed my feet on the snow, instead of the slippery, exposed rock. "Back in our room. I didn't meant to be."
"You were?" he paused, turning back with a frown and a furrow.
I rolled my eyes at him. "Yes," I wanted to shove him, but he was too far away.
"Huh," was my shield-brother's reply as he turned around and resumed plodding through the snow.
My mind itched as I stared at his back. "I um, shouldn't have been so distracted," I persisted. "I'm sorry."
"You worry too much." Farkas waved his hand.
Still frowning, for he had not responded in a way I had anticipated, I let the matter drop.
By the time we reached Ivarstead it was mid-morning. We stocked up with supplies at the inn, but further enquiries determined that there wasn't likely to be a horse we could hire any closer than the Whiterun stables.
"Might call in at Whiterun to get a couple," Farkas commented with a broad grin as we left the township, heading north along the main road. "That'd cheer you up, wouldn't it?"
My heart leapt in my chest and I choked on the very air I had been breathing. Coughing and fending off Farkas' concern, I realised that this, this was why I was having such a hard time coming to terms with Arngeir's request.
When I had left for High Hrothgar, I had resolved myself to the knowledge that all I loved would be out of reach for years, possibly decades. I had said good bye, possibly forever. I had agreed to being holed up at the Throat of the World. But – barely two weeks into my training – I was to venture down and into the thick of life again. Close and free enough to drift to those I loved; to risk being distracted away from my destiny.
And how many more would die if I gave in to my longings?
No, I stared down at my shaking hands. Straight to Ustengrav, then back again. This assignment changes nothing.
I could not deviate from my path, even if it was forming in strange, unexpected ways before my eyes. No matter how close I came to those I loved, I could not, would not go to them.
What happened to living each day?
The words I had sent Hadvar's way made me want to simultaneously laugh and cry for the memory they invoked, and of course, Farkas felt the conflict within me.
This time, he decided to speak up. "Okay," he stopped in his tracks, taking hold of my shoulder and urging me to face him. "What was that?"
Caught amidst my thoughts, I huffed and lifted my hands, glancing up to the skies in desperation. "Farkas, am I to have no privacy-?"
"Guess not," he cut in steadily. "I might have ice for brains, but this," he poked my shoulder with a thick finger, "is not you," he growled. "Where is my Harbinger?"
"You don't have ice for brains," I glared, rubbing my shoulder childishly. "And – you know where our Harbinger is. He is back in Jorrvaskr."
"Wrong. Don't change the subject."
"You brought it up," I lifted my eyebrows at him.
Farkas grunted in frustration. "I can't argue with you. You will always win," he glanced away, resting his hands on his hips as he observed the way ahead.
"I don't want to fight," I admitted quietly.
"Yes, you do," his silvery gaze drifted back to me. "You're like a caged animal," he nodded toward me. "Blaming yourself for stuff you didn't cause, refusing happiness because you feel you don't deserve it. You're just like Vilkas was, before you came along. And," the corner of his mouth lifted, "I know how to help."
He lowered his hand to hover over the handle of one of his swords. "How's your arm?"
Unconsciously, I took a step back. "Wh-what?" He didn't mean – why would he want to spar now?
With a whisper of steel against leather, he drew his blade – his actual blade, that he had used to cut down ice wraiths and bears and Shor knew what else. "Those old men on the mountain top make you deaf as well as soft?" he drawled. "I asked you a question."
"Farkas, put it away," I hissed, glancing both ways along the road. He'd draw a guard to us if he kept this up.
"Make me," he challenged with a smirk as he tossed his sword from one hand to the other; his eyes darkening in part challenge, part actual danger.
With a curse, I realised he wasn't going to stop. I had reminded him of Vilkas, he had said. Perhaps this had been how he had helped his brother through his own rough patches. But I was not a wolf!
He swung his sword in a broad arc, and I had just enough time to dart back and duck down to avoid the blow. My hand flew to my hip where my largely untouched shortsword rested.
He hmphed in displeasure. "Thought so. Getting soft."
"Getting soft?!" I huffed as I drew my sword with barely enough time to grasp the handle in both hands to block his follow-up blow. The steel clanged loudly and my arm muscles protested as the jarring sound rang in my ears and shook me from head to toe. Gritting my teeth, I tried to push him back, but it was like trying to move a mountain. I'd always been soft.
"Yes, getting," Farkas pulled away, shifting his feet to execute a short jab that I had to scoot off the road to avoid. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself."
I glowered and gripped my sword handle tighter. Before I could reply, he swung at me again, and I ducked and lifted my blade; the edges glancing off one another with a whispering hum.
"I don't feel sorry for myself," I managed sullenly as I shuffled backwards, my boots forging a path through the roadside leaf-litter as Farkas leapt down to join me.
"Don't believe you," was his monotone reply before he sidestepped and thwacked me on the behind with the flat of his sword.
The shove was enough to topple me, and I landed on my hands and knees, wincing as I drew myself up and turned to face him. "I don't," I insisted. "I feel sorry for..." I faltered, my eyes flickering over him as I searched for the right words. He grew hazier around the edges as tears obscured my vision.
Farkas had the grace to look taken aback for a second. "Hey – I didn't – don't cry," he blurted, lowering his sword.
Righting my grip on my own, I clenched my eyes closed in an effort to dispel the agony. Anger bloomed within me in its place; dark and furious, like a thunderstorm. "I destroyed his family, Farkas," my eyes flashed open, and I launched myself forward, swinging my attack.
He blocked swiftly. "You blame yourself for what happened to Alvor?" he asked quietly.
"I thought more about my own needs and wants than anybody else's, as usual," I grit my teeth as I pushed off him and used the momentum to swing again. "And the cost was..." I couldn't finish my sentence. Instead, I growled out my next attack. Why couldn't I explain myself? I was a bard, for Shor's sake!
Farkas blocked the move idly. "Suppose you blame me for Kodlak's death, then," he mumbled.
That was unfair, and I faltered; chilled at the reminder. No. But –
Narrowing my eyes at him, because suddenly I could see what he was doing by bringing Kodlak up, I shook my head and stepped back, positioning my feet to correct my balance. "That's different," I whispered.
"How?" he fired, flicking his hair out of his eyes as he righted his stance. His fingers flexed around his sword, tightening their grip. "Go on. I'm the dumb one. Explain it to me," his eyes flashed amber.
I puffed bleakly in the face of his sudden intensity; my own subdued by the uncharacteristic fury from my ordinarily steady shield-brother. My temple itched, and I wiped a drop of sweat from my brow with the back of my hands; my sword handle still clenched between them.
It was different, but I was at a loss for what to say, so I swung into one of the forms Farkas had taught me to buy myself some time.
With a frustrated grunt, Farkas met my attack and flicked his wrist. In a whir of steel, my blade pinwheeled from my hands and thudded into the undergrowth with a dull rustle.
When I glanced back up from where it had landed, Farkas was still glaring at me; his blade raised and poised.
"We're going to Whiterun," he grumbled over the top of his sword. "Unless you can give me a really good reason not to."
Biting my bottom lip, I glanced from the tip of his sword to my shield-brother's eyes, and shook my head in entreaty. "I – I can't – I can't stray yet again from my path. Only more will die if I do," I pleaded.
Growling in frustration, Farkas stood and sheathed his sword with a shove. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say," he stepped around me with barely a glance. "Dumb doesn't suit you."
I watched him closely, feeling hollowed and bared at the same time. He leant down; picked up my sword, and weighed it in his hand for a moment.
"I don't understand," I admitted to him. And I didn't; how were my concerns dumb?
When seemingly satisfied with my shortsword, he sighed and turned the blade around, offering me the handle. "Like you said. You aren't a God, Celeste. Stop trying so hard to be one."
Gingerly accepting the blade and sheathing it, I was again uncertain of how to respond.
He didn't seem to require a response. "C'mon," he nodded toward the road with a flick of his head. "Bit of a walk ahead of us."
Trailing after him, I mused over his words, or his lesson, or whatever that had just been. I felt wretched, if I was honest; Farkas had been trying to help, to lighten the mood or let me work out my anxiety against him through exertion, and what had I done? It seemed that I was determined to remain bleak, as though to spite myself.
And – he was right, about many things. With my head full of the life and times of previous Dragonborns, these two weeks with the Greybeards hadn't healed me of my grief over what had been lost and directed me toward the future at all. Thus far, it had only served to heighten my sense of inadequacy, and of loneliness, leaving me unable to obtain the peace of mind Arngeir had explained would be required to truly master the thu'um. It had dragged me down with a weight of responsibility.
How, I questioned myself closely? They have done nothing but taught you how to fine-tune your thu'um, and provided you with resources to try and understand this purpose rationally. Just as you wanted. You are doing this.
Okay, so I had dragged myself down. And why?
"Blaming yourself for stuff you didn't cause, refusing happiness because you feel you don't deserve it."
Farkas had been right; this wasn't like me at all, but it reminded me of who I had become when I had been alone in Proudspire Manor, after Giselle had left. Which, now I thought about it, was exactly what I had feared would happen when I went to High Hrothgar.
I had exiled myself. Even with Farkas by my side and the Greybeards tutelage, I had pushed myself into bleak loneliness. But, as I had found out in Solitude, I was no good to anybody when I retreated from people.
"Okay," I sighed, to myself as well as Farkas.
My shield-brother turned to regard me, but waited; his expression even.
"We'll stop by Whiterun," I told him plainly. Actual hope swelled in my chest as I said it, and I found myself smiling as I added swiftly, "But we can't stay for long."
The corner of Farkas' mouth rose. "There you are."
–
It had snowed in Whiterun Hold. While we had walked swiftly after Farkas' impromptu spar, it was still a long journey on foot, and when we reached Whiterun the city was eerily quiet, thick in that time of night where it was difficult to pinpoint the hour.
The last time I had seen home had been the day after the battle. The earth had been churned and soaked with blood. Now, it looked like an entirely different place. The clumps of whiteness, made sparkling blue by the moons high above, covered all. Coming back felt right, but also made me nervous; while I had not changed, I felt as though Whiterun might have without me.
As it would be impossible to hire a horse until the stables opened, Farkas and I made directly for the city, and once within (to the quiet bemusement of the two gate guards), I wasn't certain of where to go first. To Breezehome, Jorrvaskr, or to Dragonsreach? I wished that I could burst into all three at once.
"Jorrvaskr," was Farkas' predictable response, but he followed up with a reasonable; "Vilkas is the only one who'll be awake at this hour."
"Right," I yawned my reply and let him take the lead through the streets. As much as I wanted to go to Lydia and Hadvar, I did not truly want to wake them, and I was so tired that I doubted I would be able to talk sensibly with either of them for the moment.
You don't even know where Hadvar is.
Surely, as the Legion's representative and Praefect, he would have been given a room in the barracks. He might be abed a mere five minute walk from me at this moment. My heart fluttered and I tried to dampen my nerves with my slow, calming breaths. Let him sleep.
When we reached the Gildergreen, Farkas hesitated, tilting his head as he regarded the overturned ship beyond us. "Huh," he mused.
"What is it?" I drew up beside him, glancing to the building for myself; the fine lines of the hull blurred by the snow. Nothing seemed amiss.
"I was wrong," Farkas grinned. He set off again, arcing around the building and making for the training yard.
About what?
I trailed after him and realised just how tired I was; the day had been so very long. I toyed with the prospect of staying up on stamina potions, or perhaps asking Farengar to cast some sort of revival spell on me, but - no, that would mean going to Farengar and asking him for assistance, which would only result in an intolerable smugness, and very likely, a request to assist him in turn. And I did not have the time to help him with his codex for Delphine.
The sound of wooden sword hitting sword drifted to me from the yard. I frowned, peering through the darkness. One of the forms was Vilkas, that much was clear, but it took me a moment longer to recognise the other, for I had only seen him in one place before, and had not truly expected to see him so soon, if at all.
"Erik?"
The young redhead did a double-take and stared at me, half way through a move. It was a break in his concentration that Vilkas exploited at once; flicking his practise longsword from his grasp.
"All right, I yield!" Erik held up his hands, gasping for breath. A smile grew on his face as he glanced between his instructor and us.
Vilkas grunted in annoyance. "Far too easily distracted, whelp. Put these away," he tossed his practise blade to the ground before Erik's feet.
"Sorry," Erik ducked through his grin as he bent to retrieve the swords.
Vilkas huffed and turned, crossing his arms in the process. "Brother," he nodded to Farkas in greeting. His eyes settled on me next, and his glower was betrayed by a small smirk. "Harbinger. I didn't expect to see you back so soon."
"Harbinger?" Erik sounded confused; the practise swords clattered as he all but dropped them. "But I-"
"Ignore him," I managed through a laugh.
"We missed you too, you grumpy old oaf," Farkas grumbled, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Vilkas in a bone-crushing hug.
Vilkas chuckled and patted Farkas heartily on the back before they withdrew. The glower was gone, and the smile Vilkas gave his brother filled me with fondness for the pair. "I thought my mind was playing tricks on me," he told Farkas in his quiet, lilting rumble; his hand still on his larger brother's shoulder.
"Lady Dragonborn," the greeting came from my left. I turned from the twins with a smile on my face, and stared up to the young man, who had lowered his head toward me in bow. He looked just as he had in the Frostfruit that night; full of wild, hopeful energy and idealistic yearning.
My grin widened as I extended my hand to him. How was Vilkas able to be gruff toward this earnest brightness? It was like kicking a puppy. "How wonderful to see you again, shield-brother."
"Oh – still just a whelp," he lifted his head. "I haven't been able to..." uncertainty crossed his features as he took my hand. "Um. I'm not sure – do I kiss this, or-"
I managed to reign back my amusement as I shook his hand. "That won't be necessary," I wrinkled my nose at him. "Why has Vilkas got you working out here in the middle of the night?"
"He didn't make me – I mean, I asked him for help," he glanced toward Vilkas uncertainly; placed his hands on his hips. "Well. I asked Njada, but she said no," he lifted his eyebrows briefly as he lowered his eyes. "Sort of," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
I could imagine exactly the sort of 'no' Njada would give him, and winced on his behalf.
Vilkas stepped up beside me. "We're done for tonight, pup."
"Yeap. Of course – I suppose you three want to talk, anyway," he replied brightly, grinning as he waved his hand. "Thanks again, Harbinger!"
"Night," I called out after him as he leapt up the steps.
"Good night!"
"Keep it down," Vilkas drawled warningly.
Erik hissed apologies from the verandah before disappearing inside of Jorrvaskr and shutting the door very quietly behind him.
"Reckon he'll cut it?" Farkas asked in a murmur. "Seems kind of..." he trailed off.
"Enthusiastic, to a fault," Vilkas supplied dryly, then shrugged. "Yeah, he'll be fine, if he doesn't get himself killed on his first job."
"I was going to go with 'young'."
"He's not that young," I snorted, then crossed my brows as I sideways glanced at Vilkas. "And you make sure he doesn't, okay?" my eyes drifted back to the doors in wonderment. "He's only here because I suggested the Companions to him. I can't believe his father agreed to let him go," I mused.
"Oh, I know," Vilkas crossed his arms, shuffling around to face me. "He told me all about the night he met you, and of the stories you told him. Some days, you're all he talks about. You made quite the impression."
He was more amused than frustrated and could no longer squash my smile despite the teasing lilt to his tone. I closed the space between us, throwing my arms around his neck. "I am more relieved than you can realise, to see that you are well."
"And you," Vilkas returned the hug, then pulled back, ducking down to my level. "But, why are you here? Had enough of him already, have you?" he flickered Farkas a glance.
"Watch it," Farkas grumbled. "You don't know what I've had to put up with."
"Passing visit," I replied, sending a sorry smile Farkas' way. For a moment, I had forgotten about why we had come. I tried, really tried, to not let it crush my spirits. For now, no matter how long it lasted, I was home. "We need horses. We'll be off, once the stables have opened."
"But – where?" Vilkas stood, lowering his hands as he looked between his brother and I. "Why would the Greybeards need horses?"
"C'mon," Farkas stepped up beside us, throwing his arm around his smaller brother's shoulder to guide him. "We'll tell you all about it inside," he sighed.
"Right," Vilkas sounded a little baffled.
"Or, our little bard will," he thumbed in my direction. "I need an ale."
"Of course you do," Vilkas murmured flatly.
"What? It's been weeks."
"Actually, I could use some sleep," I admitted as I clopped after them up the stairs. The merest prospect of a bed had me yawning again. "But, here," I tugged my pack around and dug inside for the letter I had finished the previous morning. "This will tell you," I waved it toward him idly, "what we've been doing," I hesitated to yawn again. "It's for you."
Vilkas looked down with curiosity at the thick, folded parchment, and turned it in his palm. "What is it?"
Righting my pack, I stepped past them and pushed at the back door. "A letter?" I all but laughed as I held it open for them.
The moment they were within, Farkas breathed in a deep breath and closed his eyes; his face a picture of contentment. "Shor's balls, it's good to be home."
Vilkas shot me an unimpressed look. "I can see what it is. Why did you write me a letter if you were coming back to deliver it?"
I sobered a little. "I didn't know we'd be coming back until this morning."
Vilkas frowned but I could explain no more. The mead hall was warm – too warm – and my eyelids felt heavier at each moment. Murmuring a promise to tell him everything in a few hours, I bade them good night and trudged downstairs.
There was no light ready to go so my room was dark, but I didn't care. Fully clothed in my armour, I fell face-first onto the slightly dusty bed with a flop, and gratefully gave in to my weariness.
–
When I woke, there was light. Just a weak flicker, from a candle in a handheld sconce on my far bedside table. I could hear the dim hum of murmuring voices not far off, and the scuffle of chairs and feet from the mead hall above. And – I was actually warm.
Jorrvaskr, I smiled.
Turning to face the door, I listened, staring at the closed panels. Who had brought the candle? Tilma?
"She's awake," it was Farkas' voice, and he sounded relieved. Approaching footfalls followed, then there was a rap on the door. "Celeste?" he called. "It's past midday."
It was like an arrow to the chest. With a curse, scrambled off the bed and grabbed my pack, charging for the door and flinging it open. Midday? We had meant to leave for Ustengrav the moment the stables had opened!
With wild eyes, I stared between Farkas, Vilkas and – Lydia!
My eyes widened even more as I glanced over my housecarl for half a second. With a squeak, I dropped my pack and launched forward to hug her tightly. "What are you doing here?" I gasped into her shoulder.
Lydia laughed in bemusement and hugged me back, "I could ask you the same thing, little one. Farkas tells us you are bound for Ustengrav?"
"Yes," withdrawing suddenly, my eyes settled on my shield-brother. "Why didn't you wake me?"
He remained expressionless as he stared me down. "You needed sleep more than the Greybeards need some old horn," he murmured in a droll tone. "The horses are ready when you are."
Lydia's hand was still on my arm, and she squeezed it gently to draw my attention back to her. "Do you...have to leave straight away?" she asked quietly. "The Jarl would...doubtless appreciate you calling on him, and Lucia, Sigrid and Dorthe would all-"
My head swam as I glanced back to her swiftly. "They're here?"
Lydia nodded, smiling encouragingly. "They're staying with us in Breezehome, for a time, while they work...a few things out."
Thank the Gods for Lydia. They weren't alone. They were safe. She could protect them, while I was unable to. I closed my eyes and sighed with relief.
"And Hadvar?" I managed as I cleared my throat and turned back to my friends. "You haven't mentioned him. I expect the Jarl gave him quarters somewhere in Dragonsreach?"
The swiftest of glances passed between Vilkas and Lydia. It was enough of a hesitation for me to realise that it was odd that he had not come to Jorrvaskr as well, to wake me.
"Does...he not know I'm here?" I tried, though couldn't mask my caution. Surely, the Jarl is simply keeping him too busy to leave. You will see him at Dragonsreach.
Vilkas shook his head hurriedly, but it was more out of dismissal than in answer. "Peace, Celeste. He is well. He isn't in Whiterun, that's all. He left about a week ago."
"A week ago?" I echoed, crossing my brows. That was when his leave had ended. "Shouldn't he have been coming to Whiterun a week ago?"
Vilkas shook his head again, but Lydia stepped in hurriedly. "Okay," she began quietly, uncertainly. "Try not to despair over this but – he turned down the Whiterun post."
"What?" I whispered. A chill to rival the one I had endured daily at the Throat of the World seeped into my chest and gripped my heart. "Where is he?"
"He returned to Solitude for reassignment, so – who can say? Sigrid hasn't heard from him yet, but she expects to, any day now."
My frown deepened. "...Why? Why would he go back? He was looking forward to this post."
"He was looking forward to a lot of things," Farkas cut in.
I knew he was trying to be helpful, so I repressed the urge to glare at him and focussed instead on Lydia. "I don't understand," I whispered, shaking my head helplessly.
"Because," my housecarl sort of shrugged and opened her mouth to say more, but no sound emerged. She was seemingly at a loss for what to tell me. "...he felt that he could be of more use there than here, I think?" she said eventually, very quickly. "I wish I could explain it to you properly. He didn't tell us much."
I just stared at her while I caught up to what she had said.
"Though, when he hears you stopped by, he might regret his decision," Vilkas added in a drawl.
Calm down, I schooled, barely hearing Vilkas. I wasn't sure if I wanted to burst into tears or Fus something into a wall. This is Hadvar's career. Hadvar's life. He is an intelligent and measured man who has never given you cause to question his actions. He knows what he's doing.
Turning my eyes to the flagstones while my mind continued to race with questions, I nodded briefly and forced myself to speak with as much rationality as I could muster. "All right. I am very sorry he's not here. Did he give...no indication of where he might be posted?" I glanced between Vilkas and Lydia.
My housecarl regretfully shook her head. "I assume that the General will put him back on special assignments. It's what he's good at."
"Okay. So, no post then," I surmised, glancing down again. I took a deep breath; tried to calm my racing heartbeat, even if I couldn't ease my mind. Hadvar being or not being in Whiterun did not change what I had to do today. I would just have to...to find the words and write that letter to him, and send it to Castle Dour for him to pick up, on his next pass through. Provided that the fiend who had stolen his letters had given up on their endeavours, of course.
Whiterun had not been meant to be, for either of us, it seemed.
"The thought of reaching out to you helped ease my loneliness."
Special assignments. That meant he would be alone. Again. Hastily I regarded Farkas and forced a smile, speaking in an effort to ignore my thoughts. We had to get moving; the tightening in my chest would never ease while we remained. "Okay. First the Jarl, then the Ebonhands," I began to walk the hallway that would lead up to the mead hall, and out of Jorrvaskr. "Do you want to come with me, or should I meet you at the stables?"
"We'll meet you there," Vilkas murmured for his brother; his voice slightly suspicious. "You've got all the company you need for now."
My footsteps were being echoed. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Lydia in step behind me.
"Okay," I nodded briefly to her. "Thank you."
She nodded in return, tightening her lips. "Any time, my Thane."
–
The visit to the Jarl was over in five minutes. Balgruuf was visibly pleased that I had called in on my way past, though did not detain me when I explained that I was on a task for the Greybeards as part of my training.
My visit to Breezehome felt just as short. Lucia had practically fallen upon me on the doorstep with a hug, and then scrunched her nose up as her eyes had flickered to my tangled mess of hair, asking if she could braid it while we took lunch. Sigrid was as welcoming as I had ever known her to be, and seemed even more comfortable in the cottage than I had been. But, Dorthe was visibly withdrawn and sat by Sigrid's side the entire time; her eyes on Lucia's motions as the little girl smoothed and separated then intertwined my hair. I felt that she stared more as a distraction, than out of interest.
It was clear that her mother was maintaining a strong front for both their sakes, but that Dorthe was struggling. Briefly, while Sigrid asked how my training was progressing, I caught a blankness of expression in the woman, too; a drifting of her attention, but with a blink and a small shake of her head, she was attentive, and smiling again.
Eventually, when Lucia patted my hair deftly and climbed down from the back of my chair, and my plate was cleared, I knew that I would have to leave. Before I rose, I asked the question that had been eating away at my tenuous calm. "Did Hadvar mention why he turned down the Whiterun post?" I tried to ask with nonchalance. The crackle in my throat might have given away my concern.
Dorthe glanced up to her mother sadly and shook her head. "He...just said he wanted to bring an end to the war," she said in a small voice.
Sigrid sighed and closed her eyes. "Hadvar is not good with good byes, as I am sure you are well aware. This...decision of his," she looked up to me. "Throwing himself into his work. It is how he deals with loss."
"That's what I am having trouble understanding," my words sounded more like an entreaty. "He would have been able to throw himself into his work from here."
"It's as I said in Jorrvaskr," Lydia shrugged from across the table as she cleared the lunch things; one of the first times she had spoken since we had entered Breezehome, for she had left the talking to Sigrid and I. "He knows that he would have been useful here – but believes he can be of more use, out there. Actively working against the threat day by day instead of sitting safe inside a wall filling out paperwork and talking with the Jarl," she shrugged and the corner of her mouth wrinkled a little as she turned away with laden arms.
I nodded, subdued. As usual, it sounded as though Lydia had it right, and at a loss for his actual reasoning, I would have to accept this explanation, whether I agreed with it or not.
Before long I bid Lucia and the Ebonhands good bye from the door step and shrugged on my pack, making for the main gates that led out of the city.
The snow had hardened over the course of the day, and with no more fallen, it was beginning to take on that sheen of grime that old snow drew to it. A pair of guards were chipping away at ice with pickaxes in the shadows of the guardhouse, talking with gusto about a recent bounty that the Jarl had issued.
I smiled fleetingly at their exchange. Despite not knowing where Hadvar was, I did not regret the visit. It had been good – renewing, even – to see everybody.
Lydia accompanied me to the stables, where Vilkas and Farkas were, leaning against the fence with their elbows propped on the top rung. Their backs were to the road and their eyes were on the field of horses trying to graze through the compacted ice.
I was loathed to separate them. The twins turned at our approach, and Farkas swung the gate open for us.
"Thank you," I smiled, glancing between the pair. "You know-" I began shrewdly.
"He's going with you," Vilkas cut in with a half-smirk and a knowing look. "Don't waste your breath."
I rolled my eyes at his presumption, despite the fact that he had guessed correctly. Behind me, Lydia muffled her laugh with a cough.
Stowing our packs on the mounts Farkas had obtained while I had slept, I glanced toward the city; my eyes drifting up to trace the lines of Dragonsreach capped with snow. Perhaps we could call again, on our way back from Ustengrav? Sigrid might have had word from him by then.
After embracing both Lydia and Vilkas, and promising that we would return soon, Farkas and I mounted up and guided our horses out of the yard.
Yes, I decided, with a smile on my lips as we waved good bye and called out a few final farewells. Yes, I would call in on Whiterun at every opportunity; not as a deviation from duty, but as a service to my soul. Because I was still Celeste Passero, and I needed them, all of them, if I was going to make it through this with myself intact.
"Might make Ustengrav by nightfall, if we ride fast," Farkas spoke from atop the grey he had chosen for himself while we warmed the horses up at a slow, even plod.
"Good," I agreed, nodding with my eyes on the horizon. "The sooner we have the horn, the better. Is there anywhere near Ustengrav that we can stop for a rest, on the way back?" I turned my gaze to him. He knew the land better than I, and there was no point in denying it.
Farkas cocked his head in thought. "There's Solitude, if you-"
"Anywhere else?" I cut in swiftly. Going back to my former home was...quite out of the question, for the time being.
He let my edginess pass with a grunt of disgust. "Yeah. Morthal."
–
Farkas had sensed a cluster of people long before we had reached Ustengrav, so we left the horses in the woods, and made our final approach on foot.
The night had grown cold, but it was a damp kind that made my hair cling to my skin. It was very dark, for it was cloudy both overhead, and below, but that did not keep Farkas from picking out our path to the tomb. Mists snaked around our ankles as we walked, obscuring our feet. My bow was in my fist, and an arrow was placed, but my eyes continued to drift down as I worried that we were about to unknowingly pitch into a great hole in the ground, hidden from sight, despite Farkas' superior senses guiding us.
I should have been more worried about the people ahead of us, but my mind did not truly settle on who they might be or what they might be doing at the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller until the sound of an explosion tore through the dullness of the night.
A bright light beyond us lit up the mists, turning them orange, and both Farkas and I instinctively ducked to watch the fireball as it arced up, then fell.
Farkas cursed under his breath, then motioned for me to join him, still crouched.
I darted to his side as the sound of shouting and steel meeting steel escalated. Lowering myself down to one knee, I gripped my bow handle tighter. "What's going on?" I whispered.
"They're attacking each other," Farkas hissed. "Should be over soon."
"Who are?"
"Who cares?" he grumbled, grimacing as another fireball streaked into the sky, leaving a glowing trail in the fog as it descended. "Not our problem."
I frowned at him. "It is if they're after the horn," I pointed out through a strained whisper. "Shouldn't we," I nodded in the direction of the fracas, and lifted my bow briefly, by way of explanation.
Farkas shook his head, and lifted his finger to his lips.
With an uneasy sigh, I turned back in the direction of the battle. We couldn't see any of it – the conflict was unfolding over a rise between us and the tomb – but I could hear everything. The shouts – the screams.
I shuddered, and not from the chill. Leaning up to Farkas, so that my voice would not travel, I hissed; "So we're just going to sit and wait for them to tear each other apart?"
He flashed me an annoyed look. "There are only three kinds that fight over tombs. Bandits, vampires, and necromancers," he spat. "Trust me, sister," he grumbled as his eyes darted back toward Ustengrav. Another ball of flame shot through the mists; the glare from it briefly turned Farkas' face red. "We don't want to tangle with them. But be ready to fire," he added steadily. "Whoever's left might try to run."
"Right," I assented, lifting my bow and shaking my head swiftly to try and clear it. I had to remember where I was – what we were doing. What Skyrim had become, in the wake of the civil war. The Legion could not be everywhere, policing...everything. And all kinds of people took advantage of that.
As Farkas had predicted, the battle was over swiftly enough. Nobody fled over the rise to discover us, and my arrow remained poised and ready to fire, even as Farkas made a motion with his hand that it was safe for us to proceed.
Beyond the rise was the hallowed tomb I had been tasked with venturing into; an ancient burial mound; the circular, bricked lip barely rising above the ground.
I hastily covered my mouth and nose as smoke brought the smell of charred flesh to our position. Around the entry to the tomb were the lingering remains of fires, lighting up just enough to reveal the twisted, scorched bodies of Shor-only knew who, littered around the exterior.
"All clear," Farkas murmured before he ambled on toward the burial mound as though we weren't walking through a war-zone. "Winner must have gone inside."
I cursed as I jogged to him. "What if they are after the horn?" I asked him.
"Then we'll ask them real nicely to stop looking for it," he cast me a wry half-smirk as he unsheathed his swords.
With a huff and a final glance around us – whoever had done this might not be so easy to 'convince' – I followed Farkas down the crumbling stone stairs. My lack of fear surprised me; instead I felt only an edgy resolve. How much had I really changed since I had ventured into Bleak Falls Barrow with Faendal?
You can shoot a bow now, I reminded myself. And you are armed with three dragon Shouts.
All right, so when it came to sneaking through ancient Nordic tombs, I had changed.
"I don't mean it, by the way," Farkas faltered as he placed both swords in one hand, so he could use his freed one to open the door. Haltingly, he glanced to me. "Promise me that you won't try to reason with them?" I could see that he wanted to say more.
I understood his hesitance, though I found it difficult to voice its cause around the butterflies in my stomach. "I promise," I nodded with a wry half-smile. I had understood his meaning the first time.
"Great," he turned back to the door and pulled. "Let's get this over with," he grumbled.
–
And just like that, our quest, and my final trial, was over with. The necromancers we had followed into Ustengrav had been taken by the draugr they had woken, we had engaged the remaining undead, and Farkas and I had made our way to the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller.
The headstone, carved with a depiction of the fabled horn at its top and a dragon in flight at its base, was empty of the item we had sought.
"Where's the horn?" my shield-brother asked the obvious.
The journey through Ustengrav had been a blur of necromancer spells and rattling skeletons; of starry blue-eyed draugr lumbering awake and traps laid both recently and long ago being sprung.
Farkas and I had stuck to the shadows, watching the chaos unfold ahead of us. From what I had been able to determine from snatches of conversation, the necromancers were excavating a part of the tomb. Learning this had relieved me; they hadn't been able to get to the horn. They might have been trying to dig a way to it, but they had not reached it.
And, neither had we.
Speechless, I passed Farkas the scrap of parchment I had found on the plinth with a grunt of frustration.
Dragonborn-
I need to speak to you. Urgently.
Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll come to you.
-A friend
A friend?!
"I don't get it," Farkas drawled, passing the note back; his eyes watchful. "Is this your sister again?"
"No, this isn't Giselle," I snapped, gritting my teeth. I snatched the parchment and turned away from him so that I wouldn't rage at him. He didn't deserve that. This wasn't Farkas' fault.
Had this friend asked me to meet them anywhere else, then yes, I might have assumed it was the work of my sister. That Giselle had somehow found out about the horn and had known that I would come to her and Ulfric to retrieve it.
"Then – who? Who would do this to you?" my shield-brother continued in quiet bemusement.
I seethed as I marched away from the resting place of the forebear of the Greybeards. My eyes fell on a tall, arching wall of grey stone beyond it, and I veered toward it at once. If I couldn't Shout at something, perhaps learning a new word would appease my vexation.
Reading Riverwood had told me all I had needed to know. No, not just Riverwood – the very Inn that she owned. I couldn't fathom how she had made it to a tomb that only I should have been able to reach. How had she gotten past the necromancers and draugr, not to mention the locked, barred doors without Wuld? Why couldn't she have simply come to me at High Hrothgar if she wished to speak urgently, rather than wasting my time and risking our lives in a hostile Ustengrav? And what did she want with the horn of Jurgen Windcaller?
"Delphine Comtois has the horn," I spat out.
"But that's – you're sure?" he called.
Nodding in frustration, I stopped before the tall stone wall, my eyes flashing with anger as I reached forward and touched the blue flames dancing out of the scratchings. Oh, how it must have tormented Delphine, to stand before this wall of script, not being able to understand any of it.
But then, I didn't understand what the writing meant either. I only understood the dragon tongue when it was spoken to me.
As it was being, right now, though the voice was not of a tangible creature, but something higher that came more as a feeling. A new word pulsed through my fingertips and flowed through my arms, swirling with a cool rush of clarity as the word Feim; and its meaning, fade, coiled and settled in my mind.
Farkas' footfalls fell heavily on the stone pathway as he jogged to my side, seemingly oblivious to the ethereal brightness settling around me. Or perhaps learning a new dragon word was old news to him.
"Now, that's a name I had hoped I would never hear again."
A/n: Celeste has a habit of lingering in places she shouldn't be for chapters at a time - it was a real struggle to make her move, but I got there.
Also if anybody is interested, I've written a one-shot follow up to my Oblivion fic/Sarina Passero's story, titled A Picture of the Past - you can find it on my author page.