The wind whispered through the camp like a lonely spirit seeking shelter from the cold. Large fires roared and crackled with warmth, surrounded by apprentices and scholars huddled together, comparing notes and chattering excitedly about the discovery they had made. The greatest find of their lifetimes, some claimed. The mystery of Tamriel, finally solved, another theorized. The Eye of Magnus had been discovered, and mages both senior and apprentice were eager to uncover its arcane secrets. They crowded around the entrance of Saarthal even after the sun had well and truly set. Ideas swirled in young, eager minds about what arcane secrets they would soon discover, ready to slumber away with ambitious dreams.

And yet, on the far side of camp, Onmund cared little for the mounting fervour. He kept his distance, even from his friends who had joined in on the excitement, spending all evening long debating about what the discovery meant.

Instead, Onmund kept vigil over Alrek. He had dismissed himself from the group, and headed straight to the healer's tent on the other side of camp. There he sat on a forgotten wooden stool, desperate to help: but the healers saw him fit to assist only by holding bottles and passing tools when needed. Strips of cloth were cut and blood-soaked rags were discarded. Finally, the last of Alrek's bandages had been changed, and the healer pulled off his stained gloves.

"He'll live," was all the healer had to say. "Just make sure he doesn't move around too much."

As the healer left the tent, Onmund heard the shifting of blankets on the cot.

"That one's no fun." Onmund was surprised to find Alrek sitting up, his voice still surprisingly strong, as though his injuries had amounted to no more than a bothersome cut. "I liked the other one better, more personable."

Onmund barely heard what Alrek had said, feeling heat prickle along his cheeks when he realized Alrek had been put into the cot with his chest bare. He didn't mean to let his stare linger on the taut, sinewy muscles gracing that slender frame. The way his waist dipped in, so unlike Onmund's own. But as his eyes wandered, they landed on the now clean bandages wrapped around Alrek's ribs.

Onmund frowned at the sight. He remembered how the healers had stitched the wound closed, how his skin had folded over itself, ugly and out of place on someone as beautiful as Alrek. And yet, even after all had been said and done, Alrek still sat up and tried to make jokes.

We should have never gone to Saarthal, he thought bitterly. Look what's happened. This… this shouldn't have happened!

Alrek followed Onmund's gaze down to his torso and pulled a heavy blanket over himself. "Come now, it's really not that bad, I've gotten into worse scraps before with Camille."

Onmund didn't reply. He felt guilty of course, especially when Alrek flashed him a very concerned look. Alrek shouldn't have to reassure him like this, to constantly coddle his discomfort. Alrek was the one that was hurt. It had been Onmund's decision, answering that damnable call. It was because of him that Tolfdir and Alrek had ventured further and further into the ruins. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He should've known better. He should've just turned around and none of it would've happened.

"You're doing that thing again." Alrek reached out to him with a touch. Just gentle enough to take Onmund out of his head and back into the present moment, without startling him.

"What? No, nothing's… I don't know what you're talking about."

"That thing, where you stare off into space." Alrek's voice lowered to gentle, soothing tones. Onmund felt the tips of his ears burn in the cold night air. "Is everything alright?"

Was there any use hiding it? Could he even lie at this point?

"Onmund?"

"I'm sorry," was all he could say, "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"What do you mean? Look at you, you're hurt!"

"I can see that! But last I checked, it wasn't you shambling about the floor with a rusty blade."

"Alrek…"

"You can't keep blaming yourself." Alrek squeezed his knee; a small reassurance. "I promise I'll be fine."

"This shouldn't have happened to you."

"Nonsense. I knew what I was getting myself into. There's a reason Camille and I were brought along for this little venture, and not your average band of mercenaries."

Onmund stewed in his disquiet, but it was clear Alrek refused to let it go on. He dropped his gaze back to the spot of nothing between his shoes, idly studying the pattern of dust and mud that had formed on the leather.

"You helped find the Eye of Magnus." He could hear the smile in Alrek's voice. "That's incredible. And you're only an apprentice! Do you know how many apprentices would quite literally kill for the honor?"

"You don't… understand." Alrek was being very flattering, and very kind, of course. But he was… well, he wasn't a Nord. "Saarthal is sacred to my people, and we disturbed whatever it was down there."

"But the—"

"No."

As much as he would happily kiss the ground Alrek walked on, he had to hold onto his principles. He was a Nord before he was a mage.

"I'm not… I'm not saying what we found wasn't important..." Onmund sighed, and he wondered then if he said the thing both of them were thinking. "But I wonder if our ancestors knew something about the Eye, and that's why they locked it away."

Alrek was no fool, Onmund knew that. He watched his eyes darted about in thought, the way his lips pursed in realization and perhaps… horror? Whatever it was, Alrek fought it down, and before long his charming smile returned to his handsome face.

"I think, and this is purely my opinion, but I think it's a good thing it was you who pushed us down that hall."

Onmund raised a brow.

"That was very quick thinking on your part, you and that wisp. If it hadn't been for the both of you, I might just be half the man I am now." A laugh, morbid and macabre. Onmund blinked in horror at the insinuation, but Alrek just winked. "If we can't find amusement in death, as the saying goes, then are we truly living?"

An uneasy laugh escaped from his lungs and Onmund shook his head and put his hand over Alrek's. "Are all Bretons so bold when it comes to flirting with death?"

"Perhaps not as bold as when we flirt with charming Nord boys."

"Alrek…"

He sat up and moved towards him, despite Onmund's protests. "Why did you stop?"

"Stop?"

"At Saarthal, when you were helping me with the runes, why did you stop?"

"I don't—"

Alrek leaned forward, his hand grazing Onmund's jawline, his breath so close to his skin. All Onmund had to do was tilt his head just so, meet those lips halfway… but he remained frozen in place. He squeezed his eyes shut, and closed his fists at his side.

Alrek, to his credit, pulled away when he realized Onmund's discomfort. "I'm… sorry, was I misreading?"

Onmund couldn't answer immediately, his thoughts confused yet… wanting.

"I'm sorry, that was… that was terrible of me. I'm so sorry." Alrek withdrew into himself, and pulled the blanket tighter around his body.

"No!" Onmund said too loud, too quickly. "It's just…"

Alrek looked to him, the blues of his eyes meeting Onmund's with such an intensity, he was sure he would buckle under that gaze.

"It's just… why?" Onmund's voice was watery, weak.

"Why, what?"

"Why do you want me?"

"Haven't we been over this?"

"I just… I don't think—I don't think you should want me."

"Why not?"

"I don't have anything to give."

"You have plenty," Alrek reassured him. "You've shown me that much, in the short time we've known each other."

He hadn't forgotten the heavy bag of coins Alrek had generously given him at the start of the trip, when he had won their little hunting game. Fifty gold pieces were present and accounted for, not one septim short. He had dreamed, foolishly, that some handsome prince would sweep him away out of poverty and ignorance and lavish him with attention and gold and love.

And now that it was offered to him so freely, Onmund felt undeserving of it.

"Let me ask you this," Alrek tried, "do you want me? If you do, then I don't see why we're dancing around the subject. But if you don't…"

Onmund found his answer. He wouldn't let Alrek finish his thought, not when he knew what he would say next. He brought his hands up and cupped Alrek's jaw, thumbs stroking his lower lip with tender reverence. He was unsure of what to do next. The books that he had read in the dark, of princelings and pirates? In those, the lovers would gaze into each other's eyes, and say beautiful, romantic things to one another.

All the clever words in Nordic put together couldn't tell Alrek how he felt at that moment. So perhaps Onmund would show him instead. He mustered his courage and mimicked what Alrek had done before. He leaned forward, and tilted his head just so…

"By Mara's swaying bosoms! Alrek!"

Camille had burst into the tent.

Onmund and Alrek sprang away from each other as though from a too-hot surface. They sat where they landed, still as statues, and Onmund desperately hoped the others hadn't seen enough to tease him with.

"This one wants to see how badly the draugrs have walloped him." Onmund huffed in frustration under his breath when Camille was followed by J'zargo.

"Nevermind Alrek, is Onmund alright?" And then there was Brelyna. And at her voice, he prayed that none of his friends heard his soft, "Shor's Bones, why?"

The small tent grew crowded in no time at all, their constant chattering drowning out even Onmund's most stubborn, anxious thoughts. A small, selfish part of him wanted to just chase all of them out, damn what they thought, and just be with Alrek. To finish what he started. But… his friends were right to worry about him, and the gentle glances Alrek sent his way was enough to soothe his frayed nerves.

Brelyna and J'zargo fussed over Onmund. Their hands tugged at his limbs and examined them, they clipped his chin and turned his head about. "I'm fine, you two!" he insisted, but they wouldn't relent.

"Look at the bruising!" Brelyna gasped.

"Worse than it looks," J'zargo scoffed. "That's what one gets when one is hairless and pink-skinned!"

In the midst of it all, it was by the merest chance that Onmund darted his gaze back to Alrek, only to be met by Camille's clever, knowing grin.

The stranger from Whiterun had brought news to the village of Kynesgrove. Svana had been named a hero by the decree of Jarl Balgruuf. A small but no less generous offer of gold coins was gifted to the family, but most compelling of all had been a letter from Svana herself.

The letter had already begun to fray and tear at the edges, passed from Pa to Ma to Oma and to Elsie. Each word was studied over and over again. She was alive, Svana was alive! And hailed as a hero, no less, having done a service to a Jarl. It was all anyone in the village could talk about. That evening, the alderman visited and offered the family no shortage of platitudes. "When she returns," he promised Pa, "she'll have a hero's welcome."

But none for Onmund, it would seem. Elsie knew better than to expect more, and even the news that Svana was still alive was more than she could possibly have asked for. When dinner concluded and her chores for the night were done, she couldn't help but hold the letter in her hands once more and read her sister's words. Over and over, as though the more she read, the sooner Svana would be brought home. Not all of the words made sense to Elsie—Onmund had only taught her a little of letters and reading—but what she could make out, she found comfort in.

She rocked herself in Ma's chair with the tips of her toes as she began reading again. The wind picked up outside, howling and whistling; Elsie looked over the edge of the paper and out the window. The night sky had exploded with stars that glittered brightly as the surface of a rocky river.

"Elsie," she heard Oma call from behind, "what are you doing up?"

She folded the letter in her lap. "I'm sorry. I'll be in bed soon, I just wanted to…" She couldn't find the words. "I don't know, it's like… reading it means she'll come home?"

Oma smiled, wrinkles pulling her skin into creases, made deeper by the warm light from the fireplace. "She's never had a way with words, that Svana."

Elsie smiled as she turned her attention back to the night sky outside. "She made it to Whiterun."

"A fine place to be." Oma took a seat beside Elsie. "I saw it only once. Fields like gold, flowers always in bloom."

Elsie couldn't imagine such a place. It sounded magical, unreal. She envied Svana, being able to see such sights. Svana…

She sighed.

"What's wrong, hen?"

"Onmund's out there still…"

Oma had always known what to say. Always knew how to soothe and comfort; little wonder she had been a healer in her youth. "He'll be fine."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

Elsie frowned. "That's not much, Oma."

"I can only think of a few places where he could have gone: either the courts of Windhelm or up to Winterhold."

Elsie remembered Oma's stories of Winterhold. Of legends that lived among the icy caves, and adventurers who sought to return the glory of Atmora. And yet with every retelling of the story, Onmund had never failed to ask, "That's the place with that College, isn't it?"

Oma smiled, settling into her seat, her hands lacing comfortably over her chest. "A hall of mages to study their gifts, built by our ancestors who crafted the world with a thought alone."

Elsie stopped rocking the chair.

"You think he could've gone there?"

"We won't know until he either writes or Svana drags him home. It's dangerous times, all the same. I only hope both of them are safe somewhere."

It was then that Elsie felt it. Prickling at her fingertips, something strange lurched in her stomach, and she felt… anxious. Restless.

"What's the matter, child?"

"I don't know." Elsie reached up to push her long blonde hair back, suddenly feeling hot and cold and disquiet. The world seemed to spin as she tried to make sense of her discomfort.

"Elsie?"

And then, a loud, thundering call from the mountains. Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin! The windows shook, the animals cried and screamed, she even heard poor Frigga fuss and wail. And as those words reached her ears, she felt… at peace.

She lifted her head to look outside the window, and sure enough, other homes began to light up, many of the others came outside with lanterns and weapons, looking about at the sound. It wasn't long before the men of the village began shouting to investigate, arming themselves with whatever they had on hand as they began their search into the darkness.

"Elsie!" Ma ran up the wooden stairs. "Elsie, did you hear that? What was that?"

She didn't turn to face her mother. Her eyes remained fixed on the silhouette of a mountain in the far distance. The Throat of the World. The call had come from the Throat of the World. Gods… what could this mean? The threat of war, and now this? Oh Talos, Son of Man, she recited in her heart. Please bring them home. Please, you have to. Please bring them home.

It was late at night when Onmund heard it: the voice of something old and powerful ripping through the sky and echoing loudly in his head. Like someone had woken him with a herding call, the same ones he'd hear every evening in Eastmarch.

But this was different. Frightening.

Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin!

Primal fear gripped him, and kept him frozen in his sleeping bag.

"Did you hear that?" Alrek said, already sitting up in his cot, eyes alert.

"Hear what?" Camille's voice still rasped heavily with sleep as he stretched from his place on a forgotten chair.

"You didn't hear that?" Brelyna's voice was clear as a bell, unwrapping herself from the layers of blankets and furs she managed to acquire. "Something's going on outside."

"Should we warn the others?" J'zargo sat on his knees, ready to rise.

They had stayed in the relative safety of the healer's tent, grabbing their sleeping bags and blankets and furs to keep Alrek company as he recovered from his injuries. With the new discovery in Saarthal, the other senior mages had called for the apprentices to make their way back to the College. They had gotten all they needed to, and much more.

But now… Onmund's stomach knotted in anxiety. He wondered if they had awoken something deep within Saarthal, if the Eye had truly been protecting something old and ancient, something the mages in Winterhold wouldn't yet understand.

"There you are!" The mages all turned to find Tolfdir peeking into the tent. "Did you hear that? Is everyone alright?"

"We're fine," Alrek said, reassuring and calm, but Onmund saw just how intensely those eyes focused into the darkness. He saw that same, deadly expression Alrek had worn when they'd fought their way through Saarthal. Onmund feared another encounter, or something much, much worse.

"This is remarkable." Tolfdir, on the other hand, couldn't hide his excitement. "That was Shouting!"

"Someone's shouting alright." Camille rubbed his eyes. "Could they do it away from the camp?"

"No, lad," Tolfdir corrected, "Shouting. The Thu'um. A gift from our ancestors."

Onmund blinked. "I… I didn't think anyone still learned the Thu'um." In all the books and stories he had grown up with, the Thu'um had been one of the many gifts taught to Men. Few could master it, and even then the students of such a craft had always been heroes and royals. To hear it after the awakening in Saarthal? Onmund dare not let his mind wander.

"I wouldn't expect anyone but the most devout of the old ways to practice it. But to actually hear it is… remarkable."

When the Thu'um was brought up in stories, it had always been wielded by noble-hearted men with the blood of a dragon running through their veins, with powers so grand it surpassed any definition of magic. He remembered wishing so badly to have been those dragon-blooded warriors. But now, as he faced those very shouts in the flesh of a mortal man, those calls were terrifying.

The mages followed Tolfdir out of the tent and Onmund was greeted by the cold kiss of a freezing night. The other mages and scholars had come out too, consulting maps and compasses to discern the direction of the Shouting, and they all agreed that it had come from Throat of the World. Mages huddled around each other with eye-glasses and strange tools, facing the lone, tall peak standing proudly on the horizon.

Onmund walked up beside Tolfdir, eyes wide and afraid. "What… what does this mean?"

"I don't know, lad."

"Could… could it have something to do with the Eye of Magnus?"

The small, silent pause did not bring Onmund any reassurance. "I don't know." It did not escape Onmund's notice how frail Tolfdir's voice was.

"Will the college investigate?"

"That we will have to see." Tolfdir tightened the grip on his walking stick. "The Greybeards do not so often allow visitors to their sanctuary. Let alone 'troublemakers' like ourselves."

They stared into the darkness for a while longer. Off on the inky horizon, it seemed like someone had answered back; a faraway thunderstorm, distant and rolling.

Tolfdir then placed a hand on Onmund's shoulder, and began a small prayer in Nordic. "Oh Talos, Son of Man, give us clarity. Show us the truth, so that we may continue our journey."

"Do you think…" Onmund asked, slipping into their native tongue. "Do you think we made a mistake?"

"That remains to be seen."

"Are the Divines angry at us?"

"Then we pray that They forgive us for our trespassing."

Onmund remained with Tolfdir in the cold, until they were the last ones there. Between them hung a sense of fear and wonder— shared between them, as Nords.

It was a horror unlike anything she had ever felt. Svana saw the burning body of the dragon, saw how the sky bent and shifted, her vision blurring with colors. Her head pounded with an impossible sort of pain, the kind where she wanted to fall into the grass and scream, and scream and scream. Then the voices came, clamoring for her attention, echoing and booming in their desperation.

YOU ARE CHOSEN! YOU ARE CHOSEN! YOU ARE CHOSEN!

Each voice, each enunciation was like an explosion in her head, loud and unyielding, and she was at its mercy. Sometimes her vision would clear, and she would see flashes of reality. Could feel the cool air of the evening breeze on her sweat-slicked arms, the smell of gore and death. She could hear Farkas call her name, but when she wanted to answer back, she couldn't. No matter how much she tried, she could not even stop her feet from moving. Moving. Where was she going? What was she doing?

Stop, stop, I want to stop. Let me rest, please! What happened? Who is chosen? Me? Am I chosen? Chosen for what?

YOU ARE CHOSEN! YOU ARE CHOSEN! YOU ARE CHOSEN!

DOVAHKIIN! DOVAHKIIN! DOVAHKIIN!

Svana felt so helpless. She wanted to sit in the grass and cry. But her body was not her own. What was happening? She could see and feel her hands tighten their grip on her sword, now slicked with blood down to the hilt. She could see her big, clumsy boots take long, confident strides through the soft, tall grass.

Stop! Stop! Stop!

She felt heat gather in her lungs, her throat closing like in a fever. She stared up at the Throat of the World, focusing at its peak. And then she screamed into the night, shouting words she did not know but understood. She understood. "Zu'u dovah!"

DOVAHKIIN! DOVAHKIIN! DOVAHKIIN!

The voices were old and ancient, just like the mountain they called her from. When her eyes lifted to the stars, it was as though a hundred thousand eyes looked down upon her, judging and waiting, the tension wrung so tight it could snap at any moment.

She answered again, "Zu'u dovah!"

And then those hundreds of thousands of night-sky-eyes blinked all at once, and she could feel herself falling and falling and falling. She felt weightless, and helpless. She saw the moons turn away from her, just as those in mourning would at a funeral, grieving at the pyre of a life taken too soon.

And then Svana landed hard on the grassy ground and the world returned to her in all of its mortal failings. Ugly, brown and stinking of death.

Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.

You are chosen. You are chosen. You are chosen.

I am chosen. I am chosen. I am chosen.

I am Dragonborn.