Chapter 19 – The Heart's Mysteries

When night fell, the two of them set up camp inside a small cave a short distance off the path through the mountains. It was with considerable trepidation that Kjartan explored his surroundings, as he knew from experience that caves such as these were often home to trolls, bears, and even more unsavoury creatures. To his relief, the cave was small, and the only living things inside were the glowing mushrooms on the walls, which bathed the walls and floor with a pale blue light.

As he began setting up magical wards near the entrance, he could not help but think of their battle with bandits earlier that day. In particular, the image of Serana sinking her fangs into the man's neck played over and over in his mind despite his efforts to turn his thoughts elsewhere. He could not say why it bothered him so much. She made no secret of what she was, and were it not for her the bandits would have slain him easily. Perhaps the image of her as a vicious, bloodsucking predator was simply too different from the woman he knew…and desired.

Yes, Kjartan thought to himself, there was no point in denying it any longer. He wanted Serana. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to press his lips against hers, to feel the warmth of her body next to him. And at first he felt ashamed of this, as if he had violated some unspoken agreement between them, but he soon came to realise that the heart wanted what it wanted, and the head usually had very little say in the matter.

Once again his mind wandered to the memory of Marasa, even though he knew such thoughts would lead nowhere good. Why had she made no effort to contact him? Since coming to Skyrim a terrible doubt had gnawed at him, a whispering fear that she had never really cared for him at all. He thought about all the times they'd made love, and how she would always be gone in the morning. It had been painful to wake up after a night of passion only to find his bed empty, but he had never been able to muster the courage to ask her why.

And not once had she ever told him she loved him. He knew that most Dunmer would rather give away an arm of a leg than give away their emotions, but would it have been so difficult to utter but a few words to express her fondness for him?

He had been young, naïve, and desperate for affection. Perhaps Marasa had sensed his loneliness, and used him to satisfy her own desires. If that were true, he thought with no small amount of bitterness, then she was just one more person who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end.

"So I'm curious, Kjartan," Serana said as she began making a fire. "You mentioned some Nord love story about Fjori and Holgeir. Do you know any others, by chance?"

Kjartan carefully finished laying down the last of the magical wards. If anyone tried to creep in here while they were sleeping, he figured, they were in for a nasty surprise. "Why? I thought you didn't like love stories."

"I don't. But I'm morbidly curious about what people think is romantic these days."

"Well, let's see," he began. "There's the tale of Ragnar the Cruel, a vicious, bloodthirsty warlord who meets a shieldmaiden named Hilda on the battlefield. Naturally, they immediately try to kill each other, and they wind up fighting each other for three days and three nights – this is a recurring theme in Nord romances – and then they realise that they have come to love one another. Unfortunately, the realisation hits Ragnar just as he splits Hilda's head open with his axe, and the story ends with him weeping over her body while picking bits of her skull and brains out of his beard."

"How beautifully romantic."

"I'm not finished yet. Ragnar is so overcome with grief that he throws himself on her funeral pyre. But since he didn't die in battle, he is not reunited with her in Sovngarde, and his soul is doomed to wander Tamriel forever."

"How wonderfully uplifting."

Kjartan began pacing about the cave. "There's also the tale of Ragnar the Fell-Handed, the strongest warrior in The Pale. One day he meets the beautiful shieldmaiden Griselda, and he immediately despises her. However, their village comes under attack, and they are forced to fight together in the shield wall. During the battle, he comes to love Griselda, but then his berserker fury overcomes him, and being unable to tell friend from foe he cleaves her head from body. The story ends with him clutching her severed head in his arms while he weeps bitterly."

Serana stared at him. "That's the same story as the first, only even more grotesque."

"Well, how about the tale of Ragnar the Grim? He was a young warrior who had only recently killed his first opponent. One day, while sharpening his sword on the grindstone, he sees the shieldmaiden Brynhildr watching him. Thinking that she is mocking him, he springs to his feet and challenges her to a duel. They fight for three days and three nights, and when they are finally too exhausted to fight they realise that they have come to love another. But just as Ragnar is about to bed her, a dragon swoops down and devours them both. It is a tragic end, but the story assures the audience that Ragnar and Brynhildr did not digest well, and gave the dragon a terrible case of flatulence that made it rather unpopular with other dragons for some time."

"Do any of these stories end happily?" she asked. "Do any of them involve someone who isn't named Ragnar?"

"Nords don't like happy endings. But they like the name Ragnar, I guess." He sat down beside her and stared into the fire. "There is one other love story I know. It also ends tragically, but it is amusing, at least to Nords. It goes something like this: there was once a warrior named Eyvindr who fell in a love with a woman named Signy. Evyind poured his heart out to her, but she refused to give him her affection unless he faced down a frost troll in battle. So he grabs his axe and runs off to fight one, which promptly tears both his arms off. But even after facing a frost troll in battle, Signy would still not give him her heart. 'I shall not love you until you face a giant on the field of valour,' she says. So off Evyind goes to fight a giant, but before he can even swing his axe the giant picks him up and rips off both his legs.

"Somehow Evyind gets back to his village despite having no arms or legs, but Signy still does not love him. 'Face a werewolf with a blade in your hand, and my heart shall be yours,' she tells him. So once again Eyvind goes off to face the enemy, and when he meets the werewolf it suddenly grabs him and rips off his head. Despite his terrible injuries this he returns home, and even after all he's suffered Signy is still unconvinced of his worth. 'Go and fight a hagraven, and I shall love you forever more,' she says. Now, by this point Eyvind has no arms, legs, or body, just a head. Still, his courage is undiminished, so he charges off to find a hagraven, and when he does, she picks up him up, rips his eyes from their sockets, and then feasts on his brains. When his family learns of Eyvind's terrible fate, his father just sighs and says, 'That foolish boy! He should have quit while he was a head.'"

She looked as if she were fighting back both laughter and a deep desire to murder him. "I'm not the storyteller you are, Kjartan, but even I could come up with a better love story than any of those."

"Oh? Then let's hear it!"

Serana looked away. "I have an idea. How about a story about a man and a woman who meet in the unlikeliest of circumstances. While someone might say they were very different people, they were far more alike than either of them realise, and they soon developed a rather friendly rapport despite the world around being filled with madmen and imbeciles."

Without thinking, his began digging his fingers into the dirt. "What? No fighting? No bickering and arguing?"

"None. You see, it turns out that they actually like each other, and want to spend time with one another."

"Hmm, well, I can tell you right now most Nords will turn up their nose at this. They'd probably think it was rather lewd."

She ignored his protests and carried on. "Eventually the woman grew quite fond of her companion. But alas, the art of subtlety was lost on him, and he remained infuriatingly blind to her advances. He was not foolish or stupid, but for reasons unbeknownst to her he was hopelessly blind to the obvious. She began to suspect that she'd have to tear off her clothes and scream 'Take me!' before he'd get the hint."

Again, one half of his mind was desperately trying to convey something to the other half, but the message had somehow gotten lost along the way. "How does it end? I mean, Nords generally expect their romances to end in tragedy."

"That's the part I haven't figured out. I imagine that, at some point in the story, they'll wind up sharing a bed and then they—"

"They hold hands?"

She gave him an odd, knowing look. "Oh, they'll do a lot more than that, believe me."

Kjartan could think of nothing to say and continued staring in the fire. Serana reached over and took his hand into hers, and then quietly rested her head on his shoulder.

Something in his mind was jarred loose, and a thought sprang into mind. Was it possible that she desired him the way he desired her? When he had first agreed to sign on with the Dawnguard, he would have laughed at such an outcome. He had never given much thought to vampires before recent events, but he'd always assumed that they were, without exception, bloodthirsty fiends whose souls belonged to the devils of Coldharbour.

"I just hope no one decides to pay us a visit during the night," he said, glancing at the entrance to the cave. "I know it's absurd, but I can't stop thinking about Elisif's thugs dragging me off to the temple of Mara in the middle of the night and forcing me to marry her at the point of a sword."

"What is she like, anyway?"

"The jarl? I can't say I know her very well; I only spoke about five words to her at the peace conference. They call her 'the fair,' and she's certainly easy on the eyes, though I don't care much for redheads."

"Obviously," said Serana. "You're much more of a brunette person."

"I don't think she's a bad person," he continued, "and she's not really a traditional Nord, which can only be a good thing if she becomes queen. And as much as I hate to admit, she's not wrong in wanting to marry me, at least from a political standpoint."

"Have you ever considered that maybe that's not the reason she wants to marry you?"

He frowned. "Are you suggesting she's actually in love with me?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" she asked, leaning away from him. "Kjartan, I get the feeling you don't think too highly of yourself."

It was a simple statement, but it cut him deep. He opened his mouth to protest, only to realise before a single word escaped his throat that there was nothing he could say to refute her. "You're right, I don't," he said, sighing. "I like to tell myself that it's to keep me from tripping over my pride. But the truth is that I never felt like I deserved anything I had. I grew up with the sort of comforts most people could never imagine, and what did I do to earn it? Being born to the right family? What did I do to deserve being the Dragonborn? Nothing at all! When I was facing execution in Helgen, did I escape through my own wits and cunning? No, I escaped only because Alduin turned the town to cinders. And everything since then has been a variation on that theme…I just stumble my way from one calamity to another, avoiding death only through luck."

Serana turned to face him. "And does that matter? We have far less control over fates than we like to imagine, Kjartan. It was only luck that you found me in that crypt and not one of your 'friends' in the Dawnguard. What do you think would have happened then? Either they would have cut me to ribbons, or I would have been forced to kill them."

He laughed weakly. "Yes…fortunately for you, you were found by the worst vampire hunter in Skyrim."

"No," she said, inching closer. "I was found by someone who is kind and sweet, and who…" She reached up and touched the side of face. "…has such beautiful eyes."

Before he could answer she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, lips that were soft and warm as blood. Without thinking he wrapped his arms around her and held her body close, and for a brief moment he did not feel the bitter cold of the night air.

But it was not long before the doubt and the self-loathing returned, and he pulled away from her.

"Kjartan, please…"

"Serana, you…you're an immortal, ageless vampire, and I…well, I'm not. Don't you want someone more like you?"

She smiled at him. "You mean like those sycophants in my father's court? Kjartan, I don't want 'someone like me.' I want you."

"Me?"

"Yes! Is that so hard to believe?"

He did not answer. There was no need to. Instead he simply touched his lips to hers, and Serana answered by pushing him onto his back and kissing him with even greater insistency. Yes, she desired him; how he could have failed to notice all this time? The idea of finding love in the arms of a vampire was absurd, yet was Skyrim not a land governed by absurdity?

"You're always so cold, Kjartan," said Serana quietly. "Wouldn't you like someone to keep you warm at night?"

An image flashed into his mind of the two of them beneath the bedsheets, locked in an embrace while a blizzard raged outside. "Yes, I would," he said at last. "And every morning I would want to wake up beside her."

She kissed him once more, and he no longer felt the cold.

It was strange, Tullius thought, that the Nords, who never ceased boasting of their martial skill, had never developed any affinity for mounted warfare. The rugged, densely forested terrain was certainly a factor, but some of it was assuredly the result of the Nords' stubbornness. They were some of the most fanatically hidebound people he had ever encountered, defending every absurd cultural practice by declaring it to be some "sacred Nord tradition" dating back to King Harald or Ysgramor or whoever. Trying to explain to a typical Nord the devastating power of a cavalry charge, or the great effectiveness of mounted archery, was about as effective (and painful) as banging one's head against a boulder.

From his horse, Tullius gazed out over the city of Windhelm. Beside him stood three dozen Imperial Battlemages, which accounted for nearly every Battlemage in Skyrim. Nords were nothing if not predictable in battle, and Ulfric was no different. They had beaten the Stormcloaks to their last bolthole, and honour dictated that Ulfric die fighting rather than surrender.

But there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind that things would not be so simple, that there would be final bout of insanity he would have to deal with.

Before coming to Skyrim, Tullius had regarded the country as little more than a frozen backwater that had somehow been passed over by the last thousands years of progress. The measure of a culture's success, as far as he was concerned, was how well it travelled beyond its borders. In the Imperial City, people read Breton romances, enjoyed confectionaries from Eslweyr, and marvelled at the swordsmanship of Redguard warriors, but no one paid any mind at all to the Nords. Their songs and sagas were of little interest beyond Skyrim, and their food and drink was regarded as a bad joke. ("How do you know when a Nord is showing great hospitality?" went an old joke. "They invite you into your house and don't offer you food.")

None of this, however, could have prepared him for the madness.

It was possible, he knew, for an entire country to go completely insane. It had happened on Summerset Isle, and it was happening in Skyrim. An entire people throwing reason to the wind and embracing their worst impulses, as though objective reality no longer held any appeal to them. What could be done about such a thing?

The Imperial army had positioned itself in a narrow pass just north of Kynesgrove. With the White River on their left flank and a sheer rock face on their right, the Stormcloaks would be forced to attack uphill and in a narrow defile.

At last, the enemy arrived. They appeared from around a bend in the path, a shifting mass of blue and grey slowly making its way towards them. While there was little that could surprise Tullius, even he was shocked at how few men Ulfric could muster. By his reckoning they could not number more than two hundred or so, and it was clear that they fully intended to march to their deaths.

But as they drew nearer, he saw that something was terribly wrong.

Ulfric was at the head of his army, as was expected. But what was not expected was that the man would be stark naked.

"What in Oblivion?" he exclaimed. Tullius glanced over at Legate Rikke. "Do you know what this is all about, legate?"

"I…I don't know, sir!" she stammered, and there were murmurs of laughter among the ranks. "Most Nords would sooner cut off their right hand than appear undressed in front of someone."

It struck him that Skyrim would be any excellent posting for any up-and-coming commander who wished to rise through the ranks. Here was a country where the absurd, the deranged, and the thoroughly unpredictable were everyday occurrences, and it was a true test of an officer's abilities if they could persevere in such a thoroughly challenging environment.

Ulfric's army was hardly worthy of the term, but Tullius wasn't about to celebrate his victory just yet. A corned animal was dangerous, and it was entirely possible that Ulfric had some trick up his sleeve.

"Let's hope he doesn't decide to give a speech," he said. "And remember, make sure you have him gagged after he's captured. You know what he did to Torygg."

To hear the average Nord tell it, Ulfric had used the Thu'um to blast the High King into bloody pieces, but those who had personally witnessed the killing offered a more prosaic account of events. Far from shouting him apart, Ulfric had merely knocked him on his back with the Thu'um and had then proceeded to run him through. Still, he was a dangerous opponent, and not to be underestimated.

It lasted but a few seconds, but there was a moment where Tullius almost pitied the man. He had lost everything: the war, his reputation, most of his followers, and soon his life. It struck him that attacking the Imperial Legion in this manner was tantamount to suicide, and it seemed to him that the entire history of Skyrim was filled with last stands and heroic sacrifices, most of which were probably unnecessary.

The Stormcloaks started banging their swords and axes on the shields, and then they charged towards the Imperial line, screaming and bellowing like madmen. But the men under Tullius' were not wet-behind-the-ears recruits, but hardened soldiers who had already faced such foes before, and they stood steadfast as the enemy drew nearer.

Tullius looked to his left and right. "Battlemages!"

In perfect harmony, the front ranks raised their hands, and a barrage of brilliant red light flashed across the battlefield. Instantly, Ulfric and his comrades fell to the ground, utterly immobilised by a volley of paralysis magic. A sensible commander would have prepared for such a possibility, but the Nords had never understood or appreciated how magic could turn the tide of battle. It was why, in battle after battle, they had been routed by the Thalmor, and it was why the would lose here today.

What followed was less of a battle and more of a slaughter, as the battlemages advanced upon their hapless enemies and began putting them to the sword. Such was the totality of their paralysis that they could not even scream as they died. Ulfric, however, would be spared. There would be a public execution, the Emperor's justice would be served, and this time there would be no dragon to save him.

He leaned towards Legate Rikke. "When you bring Ulfric before me, be sure to put some clothes on him. We don't need to be dragging him around with all of his inadequacies there for everyone to see."

"Yes sir!"

"I'm hungry."

Aela growled in displeasure. "Farkas, you spent the entire morning stuffing your face. How can you be hungry again?"

"Yeah, well, climbing a mountain is hard work, you know."

They had spent the last few days travelling to the Throat of the World, and still no one had explained to Farkas what they were doing. He knew full well that he wasn't the sharpest axe hanging on the wall, but that didn't mean someone couldn't at least inform him as to why he, Aela, and Vilkas were trudging up the side of a mountain.

The cold wind whipped at his skin, but he made no complaint. He was a Nord, after all, and though he was hardly an expert when it came to the laws of Skyrim, he was certain that anyone who grumbled about the weather was subject to immediate execution.

"Thinking I'm going to start writing my book," he said to no one in particular.

Vilkas snorted. "You. Writing a book."

"Yeah, it's gonna be about vampire hunters," he said, failing to notice the mocking tone of his brother's voice. "But it's gonna be realistic, if you know what I mean."

"No, we don't," said Aela. "Perhaps you'd care to enlighten us?"

Farkas cleared his throat. "The problem with stories about vampire hunters is that they're all the same. Some milkdrinker decides he's going to hunt vampires, and it's all blood and guts and peoples' heads coming off. You know, the stuff that makes a story good. But then he meets this one vampire lady with a great rack, and the next thing you know he's in bed with her. I can tell you right now that this just doesn't happen."

Vilkas looked over at Aela. "No, before you ask, I don't know where my brother's sudden obsession with vampires came from. He thinks half the people in Whiterun are bloodsuckers."

"Never hurts to be cautious," Farkas said with a shrug. "And could someone tell me what we're doing, again?"

Aela spoke through gritted teeth. "For the last time, someone set Kodlak a letter threatening to reveal the secrets of The Circle, and they said to meet him atop the Throat of the World. And if you ask that question again, you're going to be on latrine duty for the next two weeks."

Farkas laughed. "Joke's on you; I never use the latrines. I go where I please, like an animal."

"This, Farkas," said Vilkas. "This is why no one respects you."

The path of the mountain grew narrower, and they higher they went the thinner the air became, until Farkas found himself short of breath. "Any idea who sent the letter?"

"Kodlak says that it was someone close to the Dragonborn," Aela said. "Apparently, that was the man we encountered just outside of Whiterun, after fighting the giant."

Farkas stopped in his tracks. "Wait, are you saying he was the Dragonborn?"

For once, his question was not immediately greeted with mockery. "I could hardly believe it myself," said Vilkas. "I've heard it said that the Dragonborn is twenty feet tall, with eyes that burn like fire and arms as thick as an oak tree."

There were a great many tales told of the Dragonborn that has passed in one of Farkas' ears and out through the other, and a number of them were considered scandalously ribald by polite Nord society. One such tale suggested that the Dragonborn was in possession of truly godlike sexual stamina, and had already fathered three dozen baby Dragonborns in the past month. (This story didn't make any sense to Farkas, because he was pretty sure that women couldn't bear children in such a short length of time. Then again, he had never been able to figure out where children came from in the first place).

At last the pathway up the mountain levelled out, and through the blowing snow he could make out the faint outline a grey stone building. This was the High Hrothgar, or so Farkas had been told, though no one had ever bothered to explain to him who or what "Hrothgar" was. This was where the Greybeards lived, those dedicated their entire lives to studying the Thu'um. Like many things in Tamriel, this made no sense to Farkas. Why would any one study such a powerful magic and then choose not to use it? Would someone without grey hair or a beard still be called a Greybeard? If a woman joined them, would she be called a Greybeard?

So many questions. So few answers.

Ahead stood a man, clad in strange, close-fitting armour that was red and black all over. His hair was white with age, and Farkas distinctly remembered seeing this man somewhere before, but the effort of trying to dredge up the memory taxed his brain beyond its capabilities.

"Arnbjorn," Aela snarled. "I should have figured it was you who sent that letter. Was your life in the Dark Brotherhood so dull that you had to provoke us?"

The look on his face was one of utter confusion, an expression Farkas was intimately familiar with. "What in Shor's name are you talking about? I never sent any letter."

Vilkas reached for his sword. "Then why have you come here, atop the Throat of the World?"

"That's none of your business," he growled, putting his hand to his axe.

No one spoke for several seconds, and Farkas began wondering if he should summon the beast within. The problem with the transformation process, however, was that becoming a wolf inevitably resulted in his clothes being shredded, so that when he returned to a human form he would be as naked as the day he was born. And like most Nords, Farkas possessed an instinctual revulsion to nudity, and he was beginning to wonder if that was what people meant when they described lycanthropy as a curse.

"So are we gonna fight or what?" Farkas said.

He glanced over at his companions, and he knew at that moment that some serious bloody carnage was about to unfold. The beast blood wanted death, and Farkas had no choice but to obey. Arms and legs began to swell and grow, tearing through his tunic and breeches. Fingers became claws, teeth became fangs, and skill became a writhing mass of fur. It was as though a red cloud had descended upon him, and there was no other thought or aim but tearing someone apart and feasting on their innards.

Farkas was, after all, terribly hungry.

The three of them leaped upon Arnbjorn and began ripping him apart in a savage frenzy of bestial fury. It was madness in its purest form, but Skyrim was a land of madness, and Farkas revelled in every moment of it. Teeth and claw tore through flesh and bone, and when it was over there was scarcely anything left of the man but a large, red stain in the snow.

When the beast blood cooled, Farkas found himself sitting on the ground, completely naked. Aela and Vilkas were already getting dressed, and suddenly he felt terribly ashamed.

"Where did you get those clothes?" he asked, in a tone reminiscent of a petulant child.

"We brought them with us, in case something like this happened," Aela answered. "I think you would have learned by now that clothes and armour don't survive the transformation."

Now dreadfully embarrassed, Farkas crawled along the ground to the remains of his attire. He grabbed what was left of his breeches and then stood up, holding the ragged piece of fabric in front of his groin. "Well, what am I supposed to do now, huh? I can't go walking all the way back to Whiterun without any clothes on."

But neither Aela nor Vilkas had any sympathy to spare. "Then consider this a lesson. Maybe next time we go out to fight someone you'll be better prepared."

With considerable effort, Farkas managed to tie his torn breeches around his waist in a manner that, while not exactly comfortable, would hide his shame from disapproving eyes.