Skyrim: Legend of the Dovahkiin
Crimson Fang, Silver Hand 1
He was sitting in the mead hall of Jorrvaskr, his friends and comrades seated on either side of him. Torvar drained yet another large mug of mead, slamming the cup on the table with a belligerent whoop when he finished. He placed his boot on the table and began singing a verse of a song the Harbinger had never heard. Athis took that moment to join in the drunken reveling of his friend, albeit a bit more subdued in his ministrations. As ever, Njada violently interjected herself into the mix, threatening them with a beating if they spilled anything on her. Ria watched on with an expression of amusement all the while encouraging the two to continue, as she always did whenever they were all together.
Aela and the rest of the Circle laughed and raised their mugs in the air, egging the whelps' actions on even further. Despite himself, Spartacus could not help but let a ghost of a smile creep across his lips as he watched the spectacles unfold around himself. It was days such as these he was most fond of. Days where Skyrim and it's people had no need for the services of the Companions, days where they didn't have to trouble themselves over finding some fool who'd wandered into a spider infested cave, days where they could take a break from their training and discipline and simply enjoy what little moments of peace they had.
The loud crack of thunder suddenly ripped through the mead hall before, all at one, Jorrvaskr was violently blown to pieces by an unknown force. Spartacus had felt himself lift off the ground for mere seconds before slamming onto the ground and being buried in the debris. As he began climbing his way out of the wreckage that was once his home, anger swelled inside him. Whoever or whatever had done this was going to lose body parts for this attack. Pain suddenly shot through his lower body and he quietly noted that a large chunk of wooden shrapnel had lodged itself in his abdomen. The Nord grit his teeth and continued to push his way through the torched wreckage, the throbbing in his abdomen barely registering in his brain. As he made one final push through the debris and his head emerged from the ruined hall, Spartacus was greeted with a horrifying sight.
Whiterun, the city that he had come to call home, whose Jarl and its people had taken in and welcomed him as one of their own, now lay in flaming ruins. The bodies of the citizens lay strewn on the stone streets, bloody and broken. Spartacus struggled to his feet, clutching at the wooden steak that had embedded itself in his body. Warm blood flowed freely down his legs and onto the cold scorched stone beneath him. The Nord turned his attention back to where he stood and swore. The once great mead hall of Skyrim's Companions, now stood nothing but a flaming wreckage of what it used to be. The artifacts of the Companions that came before them, the mounted weapons of defeated foes and the banner which bore the image of their greatest and most prized possession, Wuuthrad, all lay broken and burned to nothing. Around him, lay the bodies of his friends. Ria, Farkas, Vilkas, all the Companions lay dead at his feet; their bodies scorched and almost unrecognizable.
The Nord could waste no time grieving the loss of his friends however as he suddenly sensed a sinister presence. Spinning around on his heels, The Nord came face to face with a strange individual. Spartacus could only stare confused at the man who had appeared in front of him. The armor he wore looked to be made out of lizard skin and bone of some sort, though the material looked unimaginably strong. His Face was hidden within a helmet that sported a mouth guard of the same make as the armor, obscuring any distinguishing features he might have.
What the bastard looked like mattered little to Spartacus, Though. All he cared for in that moment was seeing the man dead. The young Nord unsheathed his swords and lunged forward, the pain from his wound all but forgotten. His sword met only empty air as the man easily dodged his attack. Spartacus pressed his assault, trying to limit his opponents ability to counter attack. The armored stranger was fast, impossibly so, as he weaved in and out of the young Harbinger's every attack. Spartacus found himself becoming more and more frustrated as more of his attacks failed to strike down their target. His frustration quickly turned to pain as the stranger drew his arm back and rammed the wooden shrapnel still lodged in the young Nord's abdomen even deeper inside him.
The Harbinger yelled out in agony as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his already grievous wound. The armored stranger took the Nord by the collar of his Cuirass and threw him out of the ruined hall and down the stone steps leading to Jorrvaskr. Spartacus rolled twice before finally skidding to a halt. The Nord groaned and cursed as he struggled to lift himself to his feet. It was at that very moment a sudden wave of exhaustion swept over the young Harbinger, and he knew what had caused it. He had been hemorrhaging blood ever since the shrapnel had lodged itself in his body, but he never removed it since doing so would only cause him to bleed out faster that he already was. Now it had been driven deeper inside him and there was no doubt it had caused massive internal damage. His strength was rapidly leaving him and his body was starting to grow cold and pale, a feeling he knew all to well.
Spartacus felt his legs go limp and he once again found himself back upon the ground in a growing puddle of his own blood. He managed to prop himself on his elbows and look up just in time to see armored stranger make his way up to him. The man stood silent and impassive, never once uttering a single word even as he looked down upon the young Harbinger.
The two men glared at one another for a brief moment, and in that time Spartacus felt a sense of strange familiarity toward his enemy. The armored stranger then began to slowly remove his helmet, and the young Nord's face slowly twisted into a horrified gape.
It was him.
The one responsible for the destruction of Whiterun, Jorrvaskr and the death of his friends was… himself. His doppelganger glared at him with a look he had seen before, one that was filled with nothing but utter hatred and malice towards all of mortal kind.
It was the glare of an angry Dragon.
Spartacus stared back, shocked and terrified at what he saw. "Wha—how… how is this..."
That was all the young Harbinger managed to say before his other self opened his mouth and flames engulfed him.
Spartacus' eyes opened. The nightmare was worse than the one he'd had in Whiterun. His body, nay—his entire being—right down to his very soul, hurt like it had never hurt before. Pain rippled through his body as he adjusted to a more comfortable position. It had been a few weeks since he killed the Dragon Sahloknir and had his face to face with the World Eater himself. Weeks since Alduin had dropped him from the sky and nearly killed him.
"Niid, Zu'u Prodah Hi Wah Krif, Ahrk Dir!Zu'u Laan Hi Wah Meyz Mul, Dovahkiin. Ahrk Fod Hi Dreh, Zu'u Fen kriin Hi, Ahrk Gevahzen Wah Pah Daar Dii Thu'um Los Zok Mul."
The Dragonborn shut his eyes and sighed deeply as he remembered the wyrm's words. Though he had absolutely no idea what the Dragon God had even said to him, the tone in which he spoke told him everything needed to know.
It was a challenge.
A challenge from one Dragon to another. In his heart Spartacus knew that was the only reason Alduin hadn't killed him right there in the dirt. He could've easily ended the Nord's life, then live up too his moniker of 'World Eater' and destroy the whole of Nirn. Instead, the Dragon chose to spare his life. He wanted the Dragonborn to know he could have killed him, that his life was at the mercy of the very being he was prophesied to destroy.
Spartacus thought back to that day, to the fear he felt as Alduin's scarlet eyes bored their way into his very soul. He'd known fear before, had felt it often in the many battles he'd taken part in back in Cyrodiil. But what he felt when he faced Alduin was far worse. The Dragon wasn't just trying to terrify him, he wanted to completely annihilate him. Everything he was, everything he would be, all nearly obliterated by the mere glare of the Dragon God.
And then he left, leaving the Dragonborn broken in a pool of his own blood. The next thing he remembered right before he passed out was Lydia, Eloa some guards and a woman in mage robes rush to his aid. The days that followed were a blur of pain and disorientation. He spent the majority of his time in the care of a women by the name of Dravynea, a Dunmer mage who worked worked on the mines. She spent the next week using what little Restoration magic she knew mending his bruises and broken bones as best she could.
When she was certain his external wounds were sufficiently healed, she moved on to his internal injuries. Dealing with those was easier said than done, the Dunmer had come to find out. The damage to his insides were severe, so much so that she wondered how the young man was still alive. So extensive were his injuries that she had been forced to use her strongest healing potions, yet even those had to be used in small doses. Injuries healed by potions could be painful, depending on the severity of the wounds. Using an entire bottle of powerful healing potions on someone with injuries like the young Companion would cause him even more pain than he was already in, and the last thing Dravynea wanted was to cause harm to the man that had saved Kynesgrove.
Spartacus' thoughts then went back to everything Eloa had reveled to him after the attack. It came as no surprise to the Nord that the woman had been using the name Eloa as an alias. After all, he'd used plenty during his days back in Cyrodiil when the situation called for it. But he had been downright astounded when she removed the amulet she wore and her entire physical being changed from that of a curvaceous Imperial to a middle aged Breton woman.
"Your name's not Eloa, is it?" he had asked.
She revealed to him that her true name was Delphine, one of the last surviving members of the Blades. She told him everything. The original role of the Blades as the protectors of the Dragonborn, their war and eventual defeat at the hands of the Thalmor, and her mission in Skyrim. She seemed to think the Dominion had something to do with the return of the Dragons, that they purposefully unleashed the Wyrms upon Skyrim to keep it, and therefore the Empire, weakened.
Spartacus, though no stranger to the Dominion's nefarious machinations, had expressed serious doubt on any involvement from the Elves. He remembered the terrified expression of every individual who was in Helgen when Alduin attacked, and even the greatest of actors could not mimic the fear had seen. Elenwyn made a mad dash for cover, her face twisted in absolute horror, while her guards had pissed themselves right before the Dragon incinerated them.
Delphine however remained unconvinced, and departed to investigate the matter further, telling the young Harbinger she would contact him when she had a solid lead. After he had recovered a sufficient amount of his strength Spartacus set out with Lydia to Ivarstead, intent on completing the task they had given him. His Housecarl had protested, suggesting that he wait until his wounds had fully healed before setting out. He knew she was right. That he should allow himself ample time to recover from his battle, but his growing impatience to return to the Greybeards for answers had superseded any rational decision making.
Agony. That was what their ride to Ivarstead had been to the young Dragonborn. His ribs ached at any movement he made, and his insides felt as if they were going come apart at any moment. But it was a tolerable agony, so Spartacus staunchly ignored it. This hadn't been the first time he'd worked though injuries and considering the path his life was taking at the moment, knew it wouldn't be his last. He would endure. The moment they'd reached the small town and hitched their horses Spartacus gathered a few supplies and made his way up the mountain, leaving Lydia to once again wait for him inside the Inn.
Despite his injuries it had taken him the better part of a day to reach the Monastery, made easier by the fact that neither wolves nor trolls had made their homes upon the path since he'd last cleared it. There was a staggering increase Pilgrims who traveled the paths, likely there to meditate upon the stone tablets that marked the mountain's ascent. He was pleased to see that no one had attempted to reach the summit. Though he wore his dark hooded cloak to hide his identity, the last thing he wanted was a group a people to bombard him with questions as to why he was entering the Monastery.
His reunion with the Greybeards had gone about as well as he expected. After he'd given them the Jurgen's horn, they placed him in the middle of the Monastery and proceeded to complete his Training.
"Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."
Spartacus found himself regretting not allowing himself time to heal for a second time as the words of the Greybeards slammed into him. His vision flickered and blurred, and he found himself on the very edge of unconsciousness. Butthe Dragonborn endured, for if he could not withstand the voices of men, he wouldn't stand a chance against a Dragon. Spartacus straightened himself and stood against the boom of their powerful voices, ignoring the pain of his body. Then, it was over. They named him Ysmir, Dragon of the North, and truly recognized the young Nord as Dovahkiin.
Spartacus barely acknowledged the title as he told them what had transpired in Kynesgrove, the resurrection of the Dragon Sahloknir, and his defeat at the hands of Alduin himself. A look of understanding passed over Arngeir, and the Greybeard then explained to the young Nord what he himself had known deep down. As he stood, he was no match for the World Eater or any of the higher ranking Dragons in Alduin's army. If he wanted to stand any chance against the Dragon god, he would need to venture out and find the words of power that lay scattered across Skyrim. Only then could he stand on equal ground with the Dov.
It would not be easy, Arngeir had told him. Alduin's return had stirred the dormant evils that lay within the darkest reaches of Skyrim's farthest corner's.
"Be wary, Dragonborn," he had said. "Many of the evils in this land hold loyalty to the World Eater, and will stop at nothing to end your life in the name of their master. But it is not only the dead and supernatural dangers you must fear. For there are those among the living who would use you, and by extension your power, for their own twisted causes."
Spartacus hadn't been the least bit surprised by the last part of Arngeir's warning. People had tried to use him for his sword skills alone, and that was before he discovered he was some mythical dragon slayer. He could only imagine what would happen if it became common knowledge that he was also Dragonborn.
"But if you keep a clear mind, and remain true to the teachings of the Way of the Voice, you will overcome even the greatest of challenges."
Spartacus broke from his reverie as he heard heavy footfall and Lydia entered the room, a small bottle in her hand.
"Your medicine, my Thane."
Taking the small phial, the Nord downed the contents in one go before tossing it aside. Spartacus sat still, letting the healing potion work its way though his system, wincing a bit as his insides were further mended.
"Thank you, Lydia," the Nord said as he rose from the edge of the bed and moved towards his belongings. "Gather your things, we're leaving."
The Housecarl nodded and headed out the door and towards her own room before turning to face her Thane. "Are you well enough to ride comfortably, Thane?"
"Not entirely, no," he answered, strapping on his sword belt. "But I can ride with considerably less pain than before."
A thoughtful look passed over the Housecarl before she nodded in agreement. "And where are we headed to next, my Thane."
"Back home, to Whiterun," He said, and put on a simple sleeveless shirt. "I've been away from my duties as Harbinger for too long, and there are things I need to discuss with my shield siblings before I set out on my…" He paused, not knowing what to call what he was setting out to do. "Journey."
"Very well, Thane. I'll gather our supplies and prepare to head out."
Spartacus grabbed his hooded cloak and wrapped himself within it. He wore simple clothes consisting on a sleeveless shirt, leather pants and boots. He decided not to burden himself with his steel armor as they rode back to Whiterun to make it easier on his body and recovery. As he finished packing the rest of his belongings, Spartacus' thoughts went back to the last thing Arngeir said to him before he left the Monastery.
"Though great forces will attempt to stop you in your journey, the greatest challenge you will face is yourself. Power, as they say, corrupts. Kings are often the greatest examples of that very saying, as many who obtain power refuse to part with it, and often go to terrible lengths to keep it. You carry the power of the Dragons. Which is, as some believe, absolute power. And absolute power—"
"Absolutely corrupts." The Nord finished. Arngeir nodded.
"As you gather the words of power and absorb the souls of the dragons you slay, you will obtain a power other men would sacrifice everything to obtain. But beware, young Dragonborn, for every power has its price. The question is, will you be able to pay it? Will you be able to gain such power and still keep your sense of self without succumbing to your darker nature?"
Spartacus knew what the old man was trying to tell him: Don't turn into a prick once you discover more words. Honestly, he'd heard such dire speeches from so many of his past mentors when he set out on long missions he wondered if there was some sort of conspiracy against giving him any form of a decent farewell. Why was it that old men insisted on being so negative about everything? They could never just tell them that their road ahead would be difficult and full of danger. No, they needed to speak in cryptic riddles.
The Dragonborn brushed the thoughts aside and headed out the room. Whiterun awaited, and he needed to inform the Companions on his plans.
Finally, after god knows how many years of procrastination on this one chapter, I'm back. First off, let me apologize to anyone who read or still reads this story for that long ass gap between chapters, I kinda left it on a cliff hanger of sorts. There are various reasons behind the stories hiatus, the main ones being work and video games. As with any job i get so burnt out when my shift ends that i'm never in the mood to do anything other than hop on my PS4 and game my ass off, and even then i sometimes don't even wanna do THAT. Also, it's been a bit difficult to find proper motivation to continue writing, especially when work sucks the life right outta you.
There's also the fact that though the story WAS on Hiatus, i never explicitly stated that it was, so i apologize for that too. To be perfectly honest i never truly stopped working on the story, as i would come back to it every now and then, but i would always go back to something else as well.
In regards to this chapter, it's pretty 'Meh' in terms of action and excitement, and serves only to move the story along to set up the next chapter. One that i promise is going to be FULL of bloody action. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this chapter and decide to stick around for future installments.
~Bang