"TIID KLO UL!"
Slow Time tempered the flow of the world to a crawl and turned it a pale, bright blue color. Elenwen stared hatefully at the draconic Argonian walking towards her. All else moved at a snail's pace, if not slower.
Sal sheathed Dragonbane and swung his Blades Shield over his back. His allies dispersed to pursue the surviving Thalmor into the forest.
"How…" Elenwen managed to breathe through her broken body. "How could you do this to me?"
Sal did not answer, only walked around Elenwen and crouched beside her. He removed his Dragonbone Helmet and put it aside on the ground. Then he gripped Elenwen roughly by the hair and forced her head upwards, his other hand clenching her chin.
"Behold, Elenwen." He forced her to stare across the battlefield, littered with the corpses of fallen Thalmor. "Behold the failures your actions have brought upon your head. Behold the fall of the Thalmor."
All color drained from Elenwen's face. She tried to turn away, but Sal tightened his grip to keep her head in place.
"No…" Her heart sank in her chest. Every breath pained her failing lungs. "I did not bring this upon myself. You and those…savage anarchists did it. We…are innocent."
"Innocent?" Sal growled hatefully. Dragon's fire flared in his eyes. Thin gray smoke shot out of his nostrils in disgust. "You whipped and tortured me. You caged my Housecarl like an animal. You kidnapped innocent hostages. You ripped the Thu'um and my Dragon Soul out of me, and profaned my body. Captain Valmir forced me to crawl on my hands and knees like an animal. You desecrated a sacred shrine to Kynareth, the Goddess of Nature. You and your Thalmor got everything you deserved. Now you pretend to play the victim? You are not innocent in this matter, Elenwen. There's more than just Argonian and Dragon blood on your hands."
"You're going to pay for this," Elenwen seethed through gritted teeth. "I can still fight you."
"Fight me?" Sal crushed the urge to laugh deep inside himself. He removed his hands from Elenwen, shaking his head in complete disbelief. "You're dying, Elenwen. You're beyond even your own help now. No magic can combat the power of a Dragon or a Dragonborn. No matter how manufactured, imitative, and fabricated your magic is, it all pales in comparison to natural power gifted by the gods."
He took her hair in a vice grip and lifted her head. "I thought you of all people understood by now: you cannot truly kill a Dragon. We are the children of the great Akatosh himself. Our Blood, souls, and bodies all spring from our Bormah Tiid, our Father Time, holy Auri-El. Dragons are made to dominate; and dominate we did, over the Thalmor. A red sun shall soon rise over Skyrim. Punished Altmer blood will water the plains of Eastmarch."
"Boethiah! Molag Bal! Mephala!" Elenwen shouted to the skies, as if the moons and stars themselves could hear her. "Hear my pleas! Crush this insolent Argonian! Shatter his bones! Tear his flesh! Devour his heart! Banish his souls to the nethers of Oblivion! He did this to me! Make him suffer the consequences of his disobedience—Aaauuuggghhh!"
She howled as Sal slammed his Dragonplate Boots down hard on her ribcage. Two nauseating, sharp cracks betrayed one rib on either side snapping cleanly in two. Elenwen could only lie still as a brand-new stabbing pain coursed through her entire body, the flesh around her chest slowly swelling and turning tender.
"Do you honestly believe that the three worst Daedric Princes in the world will be willing to answer your cries for help?" Sal growled. He scraped the sharp edges of the dewclaws on his boots along Elenwen's body, tearing her robes and scratching her sensitive skin. "After you manipulated them for the Apocalypse Anathema? I highly doubt they'll be charitable after you used them and their power for your own ends. They'll probably want all that power returned in full, and at a heavy price."
He turned away from Elenwen for a moment and rubbed his chin, thinking. "I wonder what that will be like? An eternity of torture in Snake Mount, Coldharbour, and the Spiral Skein? Not quite alive, but not quite dead, either. It's too horrifying to imagine, if you ask me."
"This…" Elenwen winced and shut her eyes tight in pain with every sporadic breath. "…isn't…over, Sal-Gheel."
Thin metallic blood filled her mouth, flowing into the small spaces between her gums and teeth. She tried to summon a quick Healing Spell to ebb the pain in her chest, to no avail. "I will avenge myself and the Thalmor for this treachery!" She spat blood everywhere with each word. It floated weightless in the air or dripped down her chin. "I'll haunt you to the end of your days, Sal-Gheel!"
"Look at yourself." Sal gestured incredulously at the ambassador. "Your body is broken beyond repair. You're bleeding out. You've got two broken ribs and the rest cracked. My wings punctured your skin straight through. My Thu'um is keeping you alive and able to speak properly because I am willing to do so. Death is already on its way to collect you. It'll reap your soul and the souls of your soldiers like a farmer reaping a summer harvest. It's only a matter of time."
"You should be the one dying!" Elenwen pointed a feeble, accusing finger at Sal-Gheel. "You who dared to hurt me! If anything, death should be reaping your soul instead of mine!"
"Oh, believe me, it tried," Sal snorted in derision, folding his arms over his Dragonplate Cuirass. "It came to me in the form of an old adversary of mine, named Miraak, the First Dragonborn. But you saw that I reaped him, not the other way around. Believe me, if he were the one standing here right now, you wouldn't have a skeleton left after he's finished."
Elenwen tried to roll over onto one side. But the stabbing pain in her ribcage shot indescribable pangs throughout her body. She cried out with every small movement, and eventually lay spread-eagled in the ground in utter defeat.
"No…I don't deserve to die. I deserve the Elder Scroll. I deserve the power of the Thu'um for myself. I deserve all of Skyrim. I deserve the obedience, the servitude, and the subservience of all those who live upon this crude and primitive land. Why can't I have all those luxuries I have worked so hard for? I deserve that!"
"Bold of you to make those statements," Sal stared out across the plains, no longer bothering to give Elenwen so much as a sidelong glance of acknowledgement. "Ask yourself: what do you truly want?"
"I want what was promised to me!" Elenwen seethed bitterly and spat out blood.
"Oh, please, Elenwen!" Now Sal let himself laugh, cynically, callously. "Don't humor me. You've never worked a day in your entire life. I never saw you shed a single drop of blood during that entire battle, until I impaled you. I never once saw you shed a tear of sorrow over your fallen soldiers, or exert a bead of sweat from defensive effort."
He suddenly made a small "huh" sound, and placed a hand over his mouth, thinking. "You know, now that I think about it, I don't remember you doing very much during the party at your Embassy, either, other than cozying up to your guests and slacking off. You think you deserve everything you ask for without putting in the work and effort for it? You want something in this world, Elenwen? You've gotta bleed, sweat, and cry for it."
"What…about…your…surrender…to my…slavery?" The breathless Elenwen held a frail hand to her aching chest: her lungs were already steadily beginning to collapse.
"Are these not the faultless souls you took prisoner?" Sal spread his arms over the battlefield to the entrance of the Eldergleam Sanctuary. "Are these not the people you tried to kill? Am I not the Argonian you tortured, desecrated, and left for dead? Are we not the ones who deserved this victory?"
Then he spread his arms over the corpse-ridden battlefield. "Are those not the Thalmor you personally recruited to aid you in your so-called noble cause in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion?"
"Victory?" Elenwen gritted her teeth, grimacing as warm metallic blood coated her tongue. "Stop deluding yourself, Sal-Gheel. I may have personally recruited them to help in my cause, that is true. But the fact of the matter is, they were, all of them, a means to an end. My end. I didn't truly care about any of them; not even one."
"So, that's it, isn't it?" Finally, Sal turned back to her, an offended, icy, disciplined rage etched across his face. "Everyone was only a means to an end. They were all puppets, and you pulled their strings. Nothing but scapegoats for you to blame for the problems that you caused. You manipulated them for your own selfish purposes. No wonder this all came down upon your head. You don't truly care about anyone in this world except yourself. Your ego won't allow you to think or do so otherwise."
He glared with a dark and vengeful glower. His lips contorted in a furious fanged snarl. "That's why you failed, Elenwen. That's why you will die alone, unmourned, and unremembered."
"No—" Elenwen tried to say. But Sal knelt and clamped his hands over her mouth.
"That's enough out of you, Elenwen. You are nothing. You deserve nothing but dust and ashes and blood."
He stood up and pressed his foot on her crippled ribcage. "Goodbye, Elenwen. May the Daedra have mercy on your soul."
He turned his back on her for the last time. The pale blue color faded from the world. Time resumed its natural speed.
In that instant, Elenwen's body collapsed. Her muscles fell limp. Her heartbeat slowed. Her eyes slowly misted over. Her lungs deflated. Blood dripped from her mouth.
She perceived the crystal-clear visages of the Daedric Princes in the pitch-black shadows of the starless night sky. They lifted the bodies of the fallen Thalmor into their mouths, disappearing into yawning portals in the backs of their throats.
Elenwen tried to scream. But no sounds came forth. Molag Bal opened his mouth wide to devour her.
"Run for your lives! It's the Last Dragonborn!"
Thalmor stragglers sprinted at breakneck speed through the dark overgrown forests of Eastmarch, not daring to stop or look back over their shoulders. The Last Dragonborn stalked behind them from the shadows. Fangs and claws bared, he spread his wings wide and unleashed an earsplitting, bloodthirsty Dragon's roar.
He lunged onto two unlucky Justiciars too fatigued to carry on. The talons on his wings pierced their robes and punctured the skin beneath. He threw them hard onto the ground, ripping and tearing at their robes and flesh with savage ferocity.
A Thalmor Warrior charging with a Glass Sword made him stand up. He ducked, stepped backwards, and drew Dragonbane to parry the blow. A quick use of the Disarm Shout dissolved the poor sword to dust. He slashed his hapless enemy's armor open at the stomach, wrenched the Elven Helmet off his head, and slammed his face hard into a tree trunk, cracking his skull. Leaving his three victims to die, Sal bolted deeper into the forest.
He passed by numerous charred corpses, victims of Odahviing's devastating fire breath. The trees, grass, and shrubbery were curiously unscathed. Dozens more had their armor cleaved to pieces, their flesh and garments slashed open by spectral weapons.
One breathless Glass-Armored Mage tripped over a log in the dark and fell on her face. Sal seized her from behind and severed one of her carotid arteries using his Iron Dagger. Then he pounced on an Archer and impaled him on his wings against a tree trunk. He unleashed another predatory roar into the forest depths as his skewered prey fell to the ground.
"Zu'u aav hi, kruziik zeymah!" he praised his Ancient Dragonborn, who had appeared from the undergrowth to his left, and he resumed his bolting run at its side.
The Thalmor who had managed to escape hurled themselves through the forest. They tripped on their feet and over each other in their desperate, futile bid to escape. Sal's powerful roars followed them into the arms of four specters.
"At long last!" Ulfric Stormcloak bellowed as he slew enemies left and right using his Steel War Axe of Cowardice. "Revenge! Revenge for the Last Dragonborn! Revenge for Lydia of Whiterun! Revenge for the pilgrims of Kyne! Revenge for the sons and daughters of Skyrim! Revenge…for me!"
"Hahahahahaha!" Hakon One-Eye roared with delirious laughter, pumping his Ancient Nord Battle Axe in the air. "Victory, my friends! We have emerged triumphant! Ah, it was most glorious to fight in Tamriel once again!"
"The Thalmor have paid the ultimate price for their profanities against the Dragonborn and his allies!"Felldir the Old sheathed his Ancient Nord Greatsword and applauded the fearless efforts of his numerous allies. "My mortal friends, it was the most profound honor to fight alongside all of you! We will sing heartily and proudly of this grand victory when we return to Sovngarde! We shall eat and drink to your good health and long life in the Hall of Valor!"
"May all those who watch from the realm of the gods envy us on this fateful day!" Gormlaith Golden-Hilt banged her Ancient Nord Sword boastfully on the face of her Steel Shield. "Rejoice, my shield-brothers and sisters! We have won both the battle and the war!"
"I am glad I chose to participate in this epic skirmish as well!" The Ebony Warrior brandished his Ebony Sword of the Vampire and Shield of Fire Suppression through the air in wide arcs, before sheathing them. "My purposes were all fulfilled in life, but here I found new motivation in death! All thanks to the Last Dragonborn, praises be to his noble name!"
"Speaking of whom," Protos pointed to the other side of the undergrowth. "Here he comes now!"
The Last Dragonborn himself emerged from the shrubbery, followed by his ancient counterpart. His wings were folded neatly over the back of his armor. Breathing in deep, Sal-Gheel raised his face to the skies and spread his wings wide.
He unleashed a full-lunged, full-throated, draconic roar of furious triumph and a plethora of unleashed emotions. Odahviing did the same from the back of the forest, uniting his voice with the Dragonborn's. The Ancient Dragonborn, lacking a voice, simply pumped its Nord Hero Battle Axe in the air in a rhythmic manner.
Lydia raised her Steel Sword and Shield and yelled out a rejoicing cry at the top of her lungs. The Three Tongues, Ulfric, and the Ebony Warrior immediately followed suit. Alfarinn roared with laughter and clapped his hands, exultant and victorious. Misty neighed and stamped her front hooves happily on the ground. Branhael and his Bandits turned to each other, all shrugging in honest confusion. Then they too raised their voices and shook their weapons in the air.
"By the thousand scales of Satakal!" Branhael immediately knelt on one knee on the ground after the yelling and roaring had died down, bowing his head in humble submission. His Bandits followed suit. "Truly, you are the Last Dragonborn!"
As the sun rose over Eastmarch in the early morning of the 25th of Last Seed, the heroes had set up a moderate campfire, set safely away from the Eldergleam Sanctuary and encircled by a ring of rocks and stones. Alfarinn and Lydia sat by it warming their hands. Misty feasted on grass nearby. The Bandits sat a short distance away, using magic to heal each other's battle wounds, after which they began to loot the corpses of their enemies. Odahviing perched in silent vigilance on the roof of the Sanctuary.
"Is it over?" Sond, Asta, and Maurice Jondrelle stepped anxiously out of the Sanctuary, surveying the corpse-ridden battlefield and the heroes alive and well. "Is it finally over?" Asta asked Lydia.
"Yes," Lydia sheathed her sword and nodded to assuage the trio's fears. "It's all over now. The Thalmor are dead, exterminated. You can rest easy now."
"Praise be to Kyne!" Sond fell to his knees, his hands clasped and his eyes shut in prayer. "Praises be to all the gods of Skyrim!"
"We must pray," Maurice Jondrelle nodded profusely, turning to return inside the Sanctuary. "We shall spend the morning in invocation to give our thanks to Kyne."
"We will cleanse this holy place of the Thalmor's sullying," Asta told Lydia while the other two returned into the Sanctuary.. "They befouled it with their demonic magics, and were punished for it. Do not worry about us; we can take care of everything. This place will become sacred to Kynareth again."
Lydia couldn't wipe the bright, relieved smile off her face as the pilgrims disappeared.
Sal came out of the forest carrying a fresh stack of firewood, which he dropped on the ground beside the fire. He straightened up just in time to catch a bolting Lydia in his arms. She hugged him tight around his neck as he spun her around, and his wings took her in a comforting embrace.
"Are you alright?" he asked as they pulled apart, holding her by the waist. "Are you injured?"
"I'm all right," Lydia soothed him by stroking his face the way he liked it. "A few cuts and bruises, but nothing they couldn't fix." She nodded over at the Bandits.
"Oh, thank the gods," Sal exhaled in relief and took her in another hug. "When the Thalmor dragged you out of the Sanctuary, I was so worried…"
"Honestly, I was more worried about you than myself," Lydia confessed, kissing his cheeks in relief. "How's the new look?"
Sal gave his wings a sidelong glance and chuckled awkwardly. "I'm…still getting used to it. I guess this is what it must feel like to be a real Dragon."
"It's a damn good look for you, Sal," Lydia ran her hands down Sal's Dragonplate Cuirass in awe. "Especially the wings. You should keep it. What about Miraak?"
Sal tapped his temples, smirking. "Silent, for now. Probably won't be long before he starts complaining, though. I'll be able to hear him in my head, so if I start talking to myself at random times, just know that I'm trying to shut him up."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Lydia laughed, returning her arms around his neck. "And the Elder Scroll?"
Sal reached underneath his Dragonplate Cuirass and removed the Elder Scroll from his waist. It glowed with an otherworldly power in his hands. "It didn't get a scratch or a dent. Not that it could."
Lydia stared at it in open-mouthed awe, then gave Sal a smile and nod of approval. Sal pecked her on the forehead and returned the Elder Scroll to its place.
He turned to his Ancient Dragonborn. It had silently accompanied him while he'd been gathering firewood. Now it stood close to him and Lydia during their reunion.
"Bo," he commanded with a graceful wave of his hand. "Grah oblaan."
The specter bowed and nodded formally before vanishing into the night. Dragon Aspect faded from Sal's armor, leaving it bare.
A thoroughly healed Branhael sauntered up to them from the crags. He wore a freshly-looted Elven Helmet on his head and Gauntlets on his hands. He fiddled with a small handful of gold, which he put in his pocket. "It was an immeasurable honor to fight alongside you in this fierce battle, Dragonborn."
"Please," Sal held up a gentle admonishing hand. "Call me Sal-Gheel; or Sal. And you are?"
"Branhael Shroldom!" Branhael put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest proudly. "I come from the city of Sentinel in the Alik'r Desert of Hammerfell! You already know that I'm the proud leader of this group of Bandits. Please allow me to repeat that it was an honor to lend our aid in this battle against those wicked Thalmor!"
"I am eternally grateful for your help, Branhael Shroldom." Sal gestured at the campfire. "You and your Bandits alike. Come have a seat by the fire. I want to hear your story."
Branhael called his Bandits to sit around the fire, and they gladly obeyed. Each sat down in tired relief in front of the lively flames. They were newly equipped with Elven and Glass weapons alongside their Iron and Steel, which they either sheathed or laid aside on the ground.
"So," Sal sat down last between Lydia and Branhael. He folded his wings neatly over the back of his armor. "I want you to tell us everything. What brought about your change of heart?"
Branhael scratched the back of his head bashfully. "Well, the simple answer would be that we seriously hate the Thalmor. You know, that whole 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' idea?" He dropped his hand in his lap and scowled darkly. "They're extremist, racist, stuck-up, pompous Elves who think they are better than everyone else. They reminded us of…well, us, but taken to the extreme. But that's hardly answering the question in full."
"Did my beating in the Bannered Mare make you come to your senses?" Sal asked, trying not to sound sardonic, but mild.
"Yes and no," Trebuvinius explained, stoking the fire with the blade of his sword. "We were surprised by how kindly and forgiving the Whiterun Guard treated us in the city dungeons. They motivated us to want to become better characters in return."
"We got the missive from Commander Caius." Lydia laid her head on Sal's shoulder, and the Argonian wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close to his side. "You were released from the dungeons on good behavior. Was that true?"
"It was, every single word," confirmed Protos, nodding, sounding sincere. "We wanted to become better, to make amends for our shortsighted misdeeds, and improve ourselves little by little. We wanted to become more like Sal-Gheel."
"So, the guards let you out of the dungeons on good behavior," Sal observed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "What did you do after that?"
"We didn't leave the city at first," Heimkvir continued the tale. He pulled one leg up to his chest and hung one arm over his knee, the other down by his side. "We started to focus on making it up to the people for our mistreatment. Everything we endured in the Bannered Mare and the dungeons really made us recognize the error of our ways. So, we started working to set things right."
"Little acts of selfless service for the townspeople to start," Rahnrion picked up the storytelling. "We carried heavy crates and boxes, fed chickens and cattle, bought food and drink for the poor and homeless, swept the shop floors and the walkways leading up to Dragonsreach, unloaded and organized incoming store shipments, and a lot more. You know, the kinds of things you guys would do."
"That's wonderful." Now Sal grinned brightly, truly awe-inspired. "I'm honestly glad you were all able to do those things. It'll go a long way towards bringing the people of Whiterun to forgive you. If I'm ever visiting there again, which I reckon might not be far off, I'll be sure to put in a good word for you with Jarl Balgruuf. Maybe he can be moved to grant you all complete amnesty. You might even be able to get a career as unofficial defenders alongside the town guard, who knows?"
"That'll be awesome, won't it, guys?" Branhael's eyes lit up, and the others nodded and murmured their assent.
"How did you end up in Eastmarch?" Lydia inquired.
"Hunting, foraging," Jobaiska answered, proudly patting the weapons hanging on his waist. "Fishing, gathering alchemical ingredients. Our pursuit of a pack of skeevers led us to Eastmarch. Unfortunately, they escaped us in the darkness. It dawned on us that we could in no way find them again in the dark of night. So, we resorted to traveling through the forest to find a place to safely set up an overnight camp."
"That's when they ran into me," Alfarinn elaborated further. "I met their company not half a mile into my search for Misty. It took some convincing, even though I remembered them from the Bannered Mare. Eventually, though, they helped me understand that they meant no real harm. I asked them to help me find Misty. We found her safe and sound some three or four miles northwest from where the Thalmor ambushed us. But I feared the worst when we returned to the carriage to find you two gone. We went looking for you immediately."
"And the rest, as they say," Jobaiska proclaimed, grinning triumphantly. "Is history."
"Sal-Gheel," Branhael now looked Sal square in the eyes, although he often glanced away several times fearfully. "We wanted to apologize." He spoke in a steady voice. "For everything: our behavior back in the Bannered Mare, not believing you when you claimed you are the Dragonborn, and for just being all around self-serving jerks."
He met Sal's eyes again, looking honest. "We realize now that we stepped out of line, and what we did was unlawful to you, to your Housecarl, and to the people of Whiterun. We understand if you still hold grudges for us. After all, you did give us what we deserved."
He would have gone on, but Sal held up a hand to stop him. "No. We hold no grudges against any of you. You've more than redeemed yourselves tonight. You all have my forgiveness."
"And mine the same," Lydia nodded with a warm and empathetic smile. "You're forgiven."
"And mine as well," Alfarinn added, his smile supportive.
The Bandits breathed a collective sigh of relief. "Thank you…" Branhael closed his eyes and whispered, dropping his head in relief, his voice laced with heartfelt thanks. "Thank you both…"
"I think your motivations as Bandits are well-founded," Sal patted Branhael comfortingly on the shoulder. "But use your aggression in its proper place. Those threats you made to me in the Bannered Mare? Those demands you made against the Whiterun people? Use them against those who deserve it. You will know when, where, and of whom to make them."
When Branhael looked up in confusion, Sal winked and tapped the side of his head. "You'll know for sure, like a sort of instinct."
"What will you do now?" Alfarinn asked, looking round at the group of redeemed Bandits.
"For the future," a determined grin spread across Trebuvinius' face, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Steal from the rich, give to the poor. We'll still be Bandits, but the good kind; vigilantes, if you will. Protect the weak and innocent, provide for the impoverished and destitute, and stamp out injustice and wrongdoing wherever it may lurk. We'll defend Whiterun Hold from other evil Bandits, preserving its beauty and its people from their bloodthirsty urges. Any lawless Thalmor gets in our way, we'll crush their skulls and bleed them dry!" He hit one fist into his palm and grinned broadly.
"Your enthusiasm is unmistakable," Sal nodded his agreement, but there was a certain caution in his voice. "But take care that you don't mistake confidence for bravado. Confidence you can use; bravado gets you killed."
He pointed at himself and Lydia. "Lydia and I once served in the Imperial Legion. We've seen firsthand the effects of bravado outweighing confidence. We've lost many good soldiers and close friends that way. Use confidence and bravado in equal measure, but also know when to take a step back and use your mind over your gut in each situation."
When they opened their mouths to object, Sal empathetically added, "I simply don't want anyone to suffer as I have."
"We understand," Rahnrion nodded back. "We'll look out for each other, and we've got strength in numbers, and plenty of magic." He raised his palms, and bright Sparks coursed through his fingers.
"Not to mention, these new weapons we looted from the Thalmor should also help." Heimkvir patted the Glass Hand Axe that hung on his belt alongside his Iron Mace. "But it is always useful to have backups, which is why we are hanging onto our old weapons as well."
"We know what we're doing," Branhael winked reassuringly. "As long as we travel, fight, hunt, and stick together, we know we can achieve anything."
Sal looked sideways at Alfarinn, who nodded affirmingly. "Told you they're good at convincing."
Sal couldn't deny the Bandit's assertiveness and confidence. "In that case," he reached underneath his Dragonplate Cuirass and untied his Iron Dagger and sheath from his belt. "I want you to take this."
Laying the dagger flat in his palm, he offered it to Branhael, who stared at it quizzically. "It's got no special enchantments on it or anything like that. But it's been with me for the last year. I forged it myself at Alvor's blacksmith forge in Riverwood, back when he taught me the basics of smithing. I used it against Alduin the World-Eater, in the Civil War, and during my time traveling through Solstheim and the Daedric realm of Apocrypha. Now I think it's finally run its course with me."
Branhael looked up at Sal, puzzled. "You want me to have it?"
"Yes," Sal asserted, holding it out to the Redguard. "I don't think I'll need it anymore, not with all the power of the Thu'um that I now wield as the Dragonborn. Besides," he unsheathed Dragonbane with his other hand and waved it through the air. The Akaviri blade crackled and sparked to life in his hand, to the wide-eyed wonder of the others. "I've got Dragonbane, too, and only I have the strength and fortitude to wield it."
Branhael reached out to take the Iron Dagger, but hesitated. He bit his lip, unsure of himself.
"Take it, Branhael," Sal prompted. "Think of it as something to remember us by. It'll be better in your hands than in mine."
Unable to deny the truth of Sal's words, Branhael took the dagger and unsheathed it. Its white metal blade glowed in the orange firelight. He wrapped his hand around the hilt and weighed it in his palm. The other Bandits looked on in awe and nodded approvingly.
"Thank you," he looked up at Sal, holding the dagger close to his heart, then sheathing it. "I promise I will put it to good use. It'll see much more action in our hands than it ever could in yours. We won't let you down."
"I know you won't, Branhael," Sal smiled proudly. "Your display of strength and brutality against the Thalmor has proven to me that it belongs in your hands better than mine. Whenever you use it, think of us."
"We will," Branhael climbed to his feet; the other Bandits picked up their weapons and followed. "You can count on us."
"And if you're ever in need of our services," Protos sheathed his new Elven Sword and swung his shield over his back. "Send us a letter. The Couriers will know to find us at the Valtheim Towers. That's where we situated our base of operations."
"We'll keep you in mind, always," Lydia lifted her head from Sal's shoulder and nodded at each of the Bandits in turn. "If we're ever in Whiterun in the future, we'll look you up."
Branhael hit an armored fist to his heart and bowed his head in thanks. "Thank you all, for everything. Well…" he stated after a long exhale. "I guess it's time for us to get back to whatever we were doing before all this chaos went down with the Thalmor."
"We won't be staying around here much longer ourselves," Sal also stood up, and Lydia and Alfarinn followed. "We've got our own business to take care of."
"Right." Branhael nodded to show his understanding. "Take care, Sal-Gheel. You two as well." he regarded Lydia and Alfarinn.
"Be safe out there," Sal held out his hand. "Keep your guard up, watch each other's backs, and stick together. Follow your instincts, but also listen to what your heart and mind tell you. If you ever need our help, find us at Windhelm or Whiterun."
Branhael took the Argonian's hand in a firm grip and shook it vigorously. "You have our word, Sal-Gheel. Farewell."
Everyone exchanged goodbyes, then one by one, Branhael and his Bandits disappeared into the forests of Eastmarch from whence they came.
Sal approached Alfarinn, who had stepped away from the fire to check on Misty. "Are you okay?" He clapped the Nord carriage driver on the back. "I'm sorry about what happened to your carriage."
To his surprise, Alfarinn shook his head. "Nah, it's no big deal. It's just a carriage."
"But…" Lydia came abreast of Sal, a worrying disbelief on her face. "Without it, you could be out of a job. The repair costs could be expensive. You'll be unemployed; homeless, even."
"My carriage is replaceable," the nonchalant Alfarinn waved a dismissive hand through the air. "My girl is not."
He pointed at Misty, who lifted her head up at the mention of her name, swallowed her mouthful of food, and rested her head affectionately on Alfarinn's shoulder. Her owner laughed and brushed his fingers through her mane in return.
"Besides," he continued, pulling out a large coinpurse from his belt and tossing it in the air. The sound of jingling coins as it landed back in his hand was unmistakable. "All of this gold I looted from the Thalmor will be more than enough to cover the necessary repair costs, and still have plenty leftover to buy some new accessories for myself and Misty. Serves them right for carrying money around in their pockets, when they should have carried more weapons." He smiled fondly at Misty as she resumed eating grass nearby, and tied his coinpurse back around his belt.
"Good," Sal put his hands in his trouser pockets underneath his Dragonplate Armor. "One less thing to worry about."
"Sal," Alfarinn averted his gaze and timidly approached Sal, wringing his wrists. "About what Wilhelm and I said back at Ivarstead…"
But Sal placed his hands on Alfarinn's shoulders. "Don't fret about it, Alfarinn. While I know you and Wilhelm didn't exactly have the purest intentions, I've already forgiven you in my heart. It would do me no good to hold grudges, against you, Wilhelm, or Branhael and his Bandits."
Alfarinn inhaled a deep breath, then exhaled out through his mouth. He looked Sal in the eyes and smiled as bright as the campfire. "May Kyne bless the ground you walk on, and Ysmir safeguard your steps!"
"Same for you, Alfarinn." Sal firmly clasped Alfarinn by the shoulders and shook him encouragingly. "May the halls of Sovngarde ring with songs of the mighty deeds of you and your fearless Misty against the evil Thalmor!"
Misty returned to Alfarinn's side, having eaten her fill of dinner, and Alfarinn looked over her saddle and reins for any signs of damage or looseness. "Where will you head now?"
"Lydia and I still have one last responsibility to take care of," Sal conjured up the Elder Scroll from behind his back to show Alfarinn. "Will you and Misty be alright without us?"
Alfarinn nodded, and Misty neighed affirmatively. "We know the way back to Windhelm from here. If we get back home before you do, I'll be sure to check in on Shahvee and the others, and let them know you're okay."
"Thanks, Al. We really appreciate it." Sal nodded and turned back to Lydia. Alfarinn went to extinguish the fire.
"The Thalmor may be gone," Sal began, Lydia listening raptly. "But there's still Alduin to deal with." He tapped the side of his head. "He's been up here the entire time, in the back of my mind. I believe the Elder Scroll may be the key to ridding my mind of him once and for all."
"But how are we going to get back to Ivarstead, better yet the Throat of the World?" Lydia rubbed her chin, wracking her brains. "Without Alfarinn's carriage, we have no way of traveling there quickly, and Misty doesn't have the space or the strength to carry all three of us on her back. We don't have the luxury of time to travel on foot, either."
"If I may tinvaak, Dovahkiin," Odahviing politely interjected from the roof of the Eldergleam Sanctuary. He had stayed completely silent during the post-battle discussions at the campfire. Sal and Lydia turned their eyes and ears to him. "Sahrot zin. Great honor to be your Grah-Zeymahzin - battle-companion. Now I wish to be of ahmik – service – to you one final time. If you and your spaan-briimah - shield-sister - would but climb upon my back, I can fly you straight to the Monahven."
"That's right!" Sal snapped his fingers in remembrance. "We can fly on Odahviing's back, just like he flew me to Skuldafn so that I could face Alduin in Sovngarde! How about it, Lydia?"
But Lydia drew back in anxious fright. "I don't know about this, Sal. You know I don't like extreme heights, especially that high up on a Dragon's back."
"Lydia…." Sal took Lydia's hands in his own and drew close to her, squeezing them to comfort her. "I'll be right there with you, to protect you to make sure you won't fall. You'll be okay. Just hold onto me and you'll be fine."
Lydia gulped, but Sal's kisses soothed her nerves. "All right. I'll go with you on Odahviing's back. But if something bad happens to me, it's on you."
They both climbed upon Odahviing's back, Lydia in front nearest to the Dragon's head, and Sal behind with his arms wrapped around her waist.
"Go on!" Alfarinn climbed on Misty's back and took her reins in his hands. "Fly the skies of Skyrim upon the great Dragon!" He could not contain his laughter at the awesome sight. "You won't get an opportunity like that ever again! Cherish it while you can! We'll meet you back at Windhelm!"
"Goodbye, Alfarinn, Misty!" Sal called back to him and Misty. "Ride safe! Give Shahvee and the others our love!"
"Ah!" Odahviing proudly spread his wings and pushed himself up into the air. "Koraav brit Keizaal zeim miinne dov! Behold beautiful Skyrim through the eyes of the dov!"
Lydia closed her eyes and screamed, leaning down and holding tight to Odahviing's spines, shutting her eyes tight. Sal spread his Dragon Wings and laughed heartily as they lifted into the skies of Skyrim. He held Lydia tightly around her torso as Odahviing took to the skies. Together, the three of them sailed away to the Throat of the World.
