This is the final part of this fan-fiction series, but not really. Sounds weird, I know. But I intend to show the story of the Dovahkiin and the burning of Helgen. Several characters from "A tale of crossed blades" will re-aper later on in the next series, but I need too show another side of what is going on in Skyrim. You can pretty much see "A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES" as some sort of prologue of the next series. This needs to be done, because I can not have the Dragonborn's own perspective just jump up in here, since the destruction of Helgen happened like a week earlier. Also, this fanfiction is full of cursing and violence and stuff, so if you find such material offensive, do not read this.

A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES PART FOUR, A WOLF TO SLAY THE WYRM

Janella, the refugee

She did not mind the cold all to much, to be honest. Butthen again, her father had been partly Nord, and she had a nice and long bear-fur cloak to keep her warm. No, it is the winds that haunt me she thought. And strong winds they were. The Jeralls were high and merciless, cold and windy. They where currently in a valley, one known as Wolfroar pass. Wolfroar was covered in grass and stone, beautiful mountain flowers grew everywhere. In the middle of the valley was a large lake, one that showed promise of fish and clean, cold water to fill their water-skins. That was good, since Janella was growing tired of eating snow. The Wolfroar pass was maybe two leagues from west to east, and eight from north to south, not a large valley, but not exactly big either.

The wind got worse as they walked, and she found herself staring at her mother's back, trying to concentrate on something comforting as night fell down on them. She looks really bloody skinny. This worried her. Her mother had seemed to grow smaller and more sullen during their travels, and her once warm brown eyes were mere shells of what they had once been. She would stop and gaze into the distance. It was obvious that Janella's mother was still overcome by grief. But she never wept. It would have made Janella feel better if her mother had the fire and strength to scream and cry, but she never did, not any more. She would just gaze around with those empty eyes, seeing all and nothing.

Darius was oddly sullen, as well. He seemed slightly awkward in her presence, as if wondering what to say. And she would often get a weird feeling when they spoke, as if elven maidens were dancing to "Ragnar The Red" inside her stomach while releasing butterflies. But not in a bad way. It felt sweet, and she hated it. That was the way pretty little ladies felt in the songs, when their heroes in golden armour came to rescue them from the ugly little wizard who had locked them up in a tower. That was stupid, since in real life the wizard could probably cook the little knight alive and melt his armour. But songs tended to be stupid, and Darius was no shining hero. And she was most deferentially not a fine little lady in a tower. Not to mention he would probably be dead before they got out of these bloody mountains. No, it was best not to get attached. And I can still have my fun with him in the bedroll, I guess. Just no hearty-hearty. she told herself. The snow started falling more heavily and the night's darkness got thicker. We should find dome bloody shelter soon, or the cold will get us.

Hayna

Divines damn this bloody cold. Hayna had seen what cold winds and frost could do to a man. It had been her first experience with death, and her grandfather had been the teacher. He had been hunting, her mother had told her. Then he got stuck in the forest due to a snow storm, during the hour of the wolf. He had still been alive when he got back to their farm outside of Bruma, but only barely. His frostbite had been bad, and Hayna's father had insisted on taking of his foot to prevent it from spreading. Her grandsire had promptly refused his son, telling him "I will be fine, I will be fine". He never did get fine though. She could still remember how grey and stark and cruel the sky over the chapel had looked the day they buried him. So many had of those I loved have died, and the gods always saw fit to keep me alive. Grandfather, mother, father, Elisa, Balon and now Edrik. Edrik most of all. She wanted to weep, to scream and curse the world, but she had cried herself dry long ago.

"A cave!"

The words jerked her from her thoughts, and she realised that the Colovian was correct: there was a cave right there by the side of a cliff, just a few feet away. The cold was eating her, and her breath was mist, so this shelter was merry news indeed. The three of them pushed their way through the snow storm, towards the place that was now their only hope.

Darius

The cave was warm like a fathers embrace and sweet like a lovers kiss, at least to the three of them. It was not exactly a small cave, but you could at least see the deepest parts of it from the entrance, so there was no risk for surprise Goblin or mountain lion attacks. There was no bone or anything on the cave floor, so no beast had made this cave its nest. Darius helped Janella place out the bedrolls while Hayna prepared the fire. She had a knack for that, Darius had noticed. Maybe more than what made sense in a woman whom was a farmer's daughter and an innkeeper's widow. He could not help but to suspect that there was more to her than met the eye, but Darius had long since decided not to push it.

The cave became quite comfortable after they had set up camp, and the fire quickly warmed it. Darius had hunted a few days earlier, so there was enough food to see them through a few days f hiding from the storm. He had tried to shoot a buck, but he was only decent with a longbow. Janella was better, but her fathers longbow was literally bigger than her, so Darius had hunted instead. The old innkeeper had been taller than Darius by half a head, and he had been stronger as well. That had not improved his own chance of hitting the animals. But his father, Cladius, had taught him how to make traps many years earlier.

I wonder were that old bastard is at now. Last they had spoken, his father had mentioned a desire to retire. But that was before Darius was stationed on Stros M'Kai. and they had only had some brief contact by letter since. He never even met my daughter. Bloody hell, I should track him down and remind him he has a family.

The thought of his daughter brought up bad memories, but he forced them down. She is happy with her grandparents, and that is all that matters he tried to tell himself. But it was painful, knowing that he was as bad a father as Cladius had been during the years when he had been stationed in Kvatch. He remembered the way she would smile at the world, as if everything was a big game that she wanted to win. Thinking of his past made his heart ache, so he simply thought about something else. He had become surprisingly adept at forcing away bad thoughts over the last few months.

When he woke the next morning, it was to the song of storm. The weather had obviously not improved while they slept. Then he recalled last night again, and that forced a grin to his face. He and Janella had made love, and he had enjoyed it even more than usual. Why, he did not know. His first instinct was to kiss her on the forehead before getting up, but that was stupid. That was the sort of thing lovers did, not two people that basically used one another for pleasure, people who might be dead upon the morrow. Forcing himself up from the warm bedroll took more effort than usual.

As it turned out, Hayna was already up. And she was sitting by the fire. As usual, I suppose. He wanted to ask her what made fires deserving of such a tender treatment. When the woman gazed into the flames she had that slightly confused look of someone remembering good days, long past. It intrigued him, but he did not feel it was his place to ask. Darius found the rabbits he had caught in the traps, and began making breakfast as the storm raged outside the cave.

Jon Battle-Born, heir to Stridborg keep

The hooves sang against the grass as Jon led the cavalry charge. The shield wall that thane Hidnurr Hoarhammer's men had formed still stood strong, but they would break before the charge hit them. Some of the men in Hidnurr's army were former members of the imperial legion or the Whiterun guard, of course, but most were simple farm buys who had simply joined up with the "true Nords company", as they called themselves, because they sympathized with Jarl Ulfric, holding no actual experience in combat. They were not cowards, but most were undisciplined, and there courage would break.

The shield wall broke just moments before the charge hit, and the rest should have been butchery. But Hidnurr blew his war-horn and the fleeing men returned to the battle. The sun burned happily up in the sky as the sides collided properly, making the steel on blades and armours shine. Arrows flew, steel kissed steel and horses and men alike screamed in agony and blood lust. Were is that bloody traitor? Jon's did not know any more. The song of battle had already taken him, and he rode down a Hoarhammer carl, crushing him under the hooves of his steed. He heard a scream, and suddenly his horse's front legs exploded in a cloud of blood and bone, and Jon hit the ground hard. He somehow managed to avoid hitting his head into the ground, but he lost his helm somewhere among the rubble of corpses and dropped weapons that were already littering the ground. For a moment, Jon felt sick. But that ended abruptly when he saw a flash of steel.

Jon did not know how he managed to avoid the berserker's furious blows, but he did know that he could not keep it up for long. He caught another axe blow on his shield, which drew splinters of wood from it. It would break soon, and then the berserker would find him and easy victim. Jon had only one real advantage, and that was his mind. The other Nord was stronger, but he was completely taken by blood lust. Jon began seeing a pattern in the berserker's movements. The berserker vasted no time, constantly swinging his large axe from side to side, with a lot of strength but poor technique. Jon had been clever enough to wear boiled leather, and not plate-mail, allowing him to fight with more agility. He waited just until the berserker prepared to make a chop from left to right, and Jon moved in, quick as lightning. He hit the warrior in the face with the hilt of his sword, and quickly split the other man's skull in two with the blade. Jon cried out in pure battle lust, kicking the newly made corpse aside. Another man came at him, but Jon simply parried and impaled the fool upon his blade. And then he killed another. And another. And another.

After what seemed to be hours of fighting one man, a carl, by the look of his armour, a big fellow with long, sand-coloured hair and a large scar, knocked Jon down. For a moment Jon felt fear. He thought of his family, of his friends, of his dog. But most of all he thought of Olfina. What would she think, when the news reached Whiterun? Would she weep, like a little Breton lady from a song? Somehow he doubted that. She would curse him and insult his courage, for leaving her. She would be sad, but she would deal with it like a man, washing it down with mead. The thought made him smile. He closed his eyes and readied himself for the deathblow.

It never came. When Jon opened his eyes all he saw was his brother Idolaf, holding a big, sandy-haired and scared head in left hand. His right was reaching out for Jon, preparing to help him up. Jon took it.

"You are a stupid fucker, you know that Jon?"

"I am aware, yes."

Idolaf smiled and spoke:

"Let's go kill some traitors!"

One man attacked Idolaf at that very moment, but Idolaf simply swung his axe into the man's armo, breaking a sip of blood. The attacker fell don on his knees, and Jon finished him of.

"Men! To me!"

Some fifty Stidborg men and about twenty Whiterun men rallied behind him at command, and they tried yet another charge.

It was successful, and Hidnurr's men finally broke. But some of them still stood, fighting a lost battle. Jon knew what it would take to properly end this. And he also knew that it was a bloody stupid idea.

Jon's blade met Hidnurr's, and the steel sung. Jon kept going, but his arm was sore. Single fucking combat? What was I thinking? Hidnurr's axe flew through the air, and Jon parried.

"Ulfric Stormcloak killed the High King in fair combat! He is the rightful king, damn you! Every true Nord should see this!" Hidnurr argued as they fought.

"Whiterun is neutral, you whoreson! Too attack legionaries is treason towards the jarl!"

"If the jarl does not support us, he is a milk-drinker! No craven shall rule over me!" These words drew cheers and encouragement from the Hoarhammer men.

Their blades kissed again and again and again, but Jon was tiring. I need to end this, and fast! He parried another strike, and this time he simply moved in and stepped Hidnurr right on the foot. The boldness and stupidity of the move obviously caught the thane of guard, so Jon threw a punch to Hoarhammer's face, crushing his nose. He ripped the helmet of the thane's head, punching him again. Hidnurr threw him of and knocked him down, their swords long forgotten. For a while they simply struggled on the ground, both failing to get the upper hand. Jon managed to get up again, but so did the thane. They both found their weapons and swung. Suddenly Jon felt a terrible pain in his chest. The last thing Jon saw before unconsciousness took him was a his brother, screaming in outrage.

Jon's vision came into focus slowly. He was in some sort hospital tent, and and old man with a grey beard and a fat belly was tending to him. A strange, sickening smell, like dead flesh and unclean latrines haunted the tent. It comes from me! He realised, the thought making him feel nauseous. Jon had a feeling that he did not want to see what his wound looked like at the present.

"Did we win? Will I live?"

"Yes and yes, remarkably. You were lucky, I suppose. " the old healer answered, a kind "grandfather" sort of smile on his weather bitten face.

I will see Olfina again.

"Is Hidnurr alive?"

"I would wager not, lad. You opened his chest from left to right, I heard."

"I see. Send for my brother."

"Sir, you are badly injured. Perhaps you ought to rest..."

"It was not a question."

"I am sorry, m'lord. I will go get him immediately."

"That you will."

About five minutes passed before Idolaf entered the tent, a wide grin on his face.

"To bad you did not die. I would have been the heir to Stridborg." His brother said with a teasing voice.

"If you wish to jape, you can leave. I want information."

"What kind?"

"Have you sent Thane Hidnurr's bones back to his family?"

"Why would we do that? The man betrayed the bloody empire?"

"You are such a fool, brother. Whiterun is neutral. We fought him because he disobeyed the jarl, not because of a betrayal against old Titus. The jarl needs the loyalty clan Hoarhammer, and that of their lands."

"About that... We received a pigeon from Dargonsreach this very morning. The jarl has stripped clan Hoarhammer of all fiefs and lands. They do not have the right to be anything better than carls any more."

Jon had not even considered that. The Hoarhammers had ruled over their lands in the western parts of the hold since the second era. Many would be displeased by their fall from power. But I guess just as many will be pleased.

"Who will take over?"

"Some minor lord from their lands who refused to follow Hidnurr in his little rebbelion, I suppose."

Jon nodded. That was the best arrangement they could hope for.

"Jon, I f I may... You should join the celebrations. The men are worshipping you. They say that you risked your own life to defend those of others. You challenging Hidnurr to single combat has made you some sort of hero, in their foolish eyes. I heard a skald claim he would write a song about it. It will probably be a very bad song, but I got a feeling that the entire camp will be singing it before the moons go up. They want to see you, to make sure that you are not dead."

"Jealous?"

Idolaf laughed and helped Jon up to his feet, supporting Jon as he took a few clumsy steps.

The celebrations were wild. Everyone was drinking and singing. For a moment, Jon felt only cold. They are celebrating butchery. Then someone put a bottle of mead in his hand and his doubts went away.

A week after the battle they had finally reached Whiterun again. That was a successful campaign. So why do I feel so empty? He mused as they climbed the steps to Dragonsreach. The large oaken doors opened for them and they entered the great hall.

The hall was very large, the largest room Jon had ever been in. He could still recall when he had entered it for the first time, when he had been only a boy, clutching his mothers hand. The shear size of the room still filled him with awe. It was beautiful, as well. In the inner part of the room stood a large hearth and several long tables, though the tables saw little use when the jarl was not holding a feast. On the innermost wall of the great hall hung the fabled skull of Numinex, as large as an adult Cave-Bear. And under it stood the Throne of Jeek, a magnificent stone seat. And it appeared as if the jarl was holding court.

He was. Officials, thanes and some of the wealthier inhabitants of Whiterun littered the room, though only two people stood near the jarl: the steward, Avenicci, on his right hand, and the jarl's Housecarl, Irileth; on his left. And before the throne stood another figure, one that Jon somehow recognised.

He was about six feet tall, and he had long, though not quite shoulder-length, black hair. He looks quite strong, I suppose, though no one could ever call him stocky. A bit of black bristle covered his jaw. Jon kept getting the feeling that he had meet this man at some point.

And then Balgruuf spoke.

"What happened at the watchtower?"

"The dragon was there, my jarl." The stranger had a lord's voice, hard and unyielding. His voice made Jon think of iron and thunder, with a sip of honey. It could be heard clearly even where Jon stood.

"What happened after it was slain. Details, young man, details."

"Some sort of light came from the dead wyrm, and..." The man swallowed, as if he was accepting a hard truth.

"Continue."

"I absorbed it's soul."

Gods be good...