Kingdom of Aetherius: Forged in Fire

by SmokeyBearHotshot

With the future of Tamriel hanging in the balance, a lone hero emerges who may be able to unite its people once again. He will face not only dragons, but entire armies, assassins, and the pain of his own troubled history. The first book in the Kingdom of Aetherius saga.

1. Part 1

Kingdom of Aetherius

Chapter 1

Dissent

The throne room of the Imperial Palace was dimly lit with the lamps and candles which seemed to dot every available nook and cranny across the large room's carved mahogany walls. Emperor Titus Mede II sat in the same slouched position atop the Ruby Throne in which he had sat almost every day of his adult life. The years had taken a great toll on him, reflected by the many and deep wrinkles which cut canyons across his face as if he was merely some eroded statue in some long forgotten garden.

He sat there, pondering as to what the common folk may be doing, and the various ins and outs of running the crumbling Empire. In his years atop the throne he had thought of various ways to mentally entertain himself, given that his office rarely allowed him to move from that exact spot, lest some sort of tragedy befall him. Ever since the ending of the Great War, some 40 years prior, the throne room had taken on a gloomy, lonely feel, and there were days where he even felt a prisoner in his own court, as his enemies had several agents, generals, and nobles now sitting by his side. It was very much a hollow victory, and he realized he was now merely more than the puppet governor of his own country.

The Aldmeri Dominion, and its cunning, militaristic ruling class, the Thalmor, had made sure that even though the Empire counted the Great War as a victory, that it remained subordinate to the supposedly defeated elves. Mede considered their golden skin and silver tongues a taint upon his hall and all of Tamriel, but at the risk of further open war, headed by the much more powerful Thalmor, he remained silent.

Even his bodyguards had been replaced by the Thalmor. The Blades had been not only disbanded after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, but they had then been hunted down and mostly eliminated by agents of the Thalmor. Now in their place stood the ever watchful members of the Penitus Oculatus. The stood on either side of him in silence, their crimson tunics and black, leather armor serving to intimidate anyone who dared wander too close to the throne.

They were formed in the aftermath of the Blades' dissolution, and were said to have served the same role. The reality of the matter was that in fact they were truly at the beg and call of the Thalmor. Yes, protecting the Emperor was their main concern, but they were also there to quell any sort of opposition that may even come about on the slightest whisper. The all seeing eye on the center of their breast plates' was ever watchful, and never slept.

As Titus was nearing the point of dosing off at the sheer lack of activity in the throne room, its great wooden doors were thrust open by two guards of the Penitus Oculatus. In walked one of the most ominous women Titus had ever had the displeasure of entertaining. Her name was Elenwen, and she was the head ambassador of the Thalmor in Skyrim. She was never pleasant, and took her station as more seriously than anything else. As she neared the throne, he took note that her stiff, blonde hair and dark circled eyes were almost as foreboding as the guards who accompanied her.

"Ah, Ambassador Elenwen," the Emperor's steward attempted to greet her.

"Out of my way, fool. I must speak to the Emperor at once." She pushed him out of her way and did not break stride in her attempts to reach the throne.

"Ambassador Elenwen, what news do you bring of the north? I must say it's quite odd to see you here from Skyrim," Titus said with a cheery tone that was so sarcastic no one in the room could possibly believe as true.

"Emperor Mede, I bring grave news from Solitude. I fear that the grumbling of of war has finally come to a head. It has taken me much too long to get here, seeing as the news I bear transpired a fortnight ago," she said.

The Emperor sighed, but he was curious. "Go on."

"My lord, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak has killed High King Torygg, and is already gathering much support across the land for his illegitimate claim to the throne."

Emperor Mede sat up on his throne. He had heard of malcontent with the ban on Talos worship, but he never dreamed that he would take things so far as to not only kill the High King of Skyrim, but the Emperor's son-in-law. It surprised him. Ulfric Stormcloak had been a gallant and steadfast commander during the Great War, and had it not been for his securing the Reach from the Foresworn, the Empire might well have lost the entirety of Skyrim.

"And you are sure of this, Ambassador Elenwen? You are sure it was Ulfric," he questioned. The High Elf almost looked offended that he'd called her word into question.

"Without a doubt, my lord. I was there. Ulfric stormed into the Blue Palace and challenged King Torygg to single combat. When the king accepted Ulfric shouted some sort of incoherent phrase and sent the king hurdling across the ground with a terrible force. He then pounced upon Torygg and slew him with a single thrust of his sword to the heart."

"And Elisif? What of my daughter," he asked, his voice slightly quivering.

"Ulfric never even looked at her. She now weeps every night over the sea, and nearly fainted from grief when Torygg's body was burned in their barbaric Nord fashion."

Elenwen went on to describe the deteriorating situation in Skyrim for the next few hours. Titus listened, but was growing very weary of the Thalmor ambassador who seemed to want blood to be spilt more than anything. It was unsettling the eagerness and the amount she suggested the Legion move to crush the rebellion and raise Ulfric's capitol to the ground.

There were others whom Titus could send to find Ulfric, but his list of options was running thin. He was fearful to send the Thalmor, given Elenwen's stance on the matter, and he was beginning to feel as if the Penitus Oculatus would not be much of an improvement. The only other group he could think of were his once trusted and skilled Rangers.

The Rangers of the Empire had once wandered the endless wilds of Tamriel from Blackmarsh to High Rock, seeing to it that law and order was upheld in the wilderness and rural farmlands. Its ranks had attracted souls from all walks of life who had never called any city or village home. They were free to do as they would, so long as the word of the Empire be enforced.

However, the Rangers had recently been disbanded, both by an inclusion in the Concordat alongside the Blades, and by an unofficial change in Imperial Legion policy. Titus did miss having their skills and ability to blend into the forests and fields at his disposal, but he himself was an actually an advocate of their disbandment. The Thalmor saw them as having potential to rally against their rule, but Titus had begun to hear whispers of a much more detrimental interference. One which could potentially remove the Mede dynasty from the Ruby Throne altogether.

Somewhere within their grizzled ranks rode one single man who could mean an end to everything Titus had built. He had begun to hear whisperings of a Ranger wandering the northlands who was the direct descendant of Emeric of Wayrest, High King of Wayrest and leader of the Daggerfall Covenant. If this were true, then it meant there was another out there who Titus might risk gaining control of the Empire and uniting the people in the midst of the enveloping dissent.

Chapter 2

Run

Aleron sat near by a window in the upper floor of Weynon Priory, smoking his pipe and thinking on what he was to do now that the Rangers were disbanded. He brushed his long black hair from his face and took a draw from his pipe, releasing the smoke and letting it waft toward the ceiling.

"Good morning," greeted on of the monks who resided at the priory as he topped the steps behind Aleron.

"Ah, good morning, Fredra. You get many eggs today," he asked the plump monk.

"Twenty-two as a matter of fact. I think the hens always do better when the weather turns cold. If you'd like some breakfast I was thinking about fixing some for myself too," Fredra said. Aleron took his boots from the window sill and got out of the chair to follow Fredra back down to the kitchen area.

He already had a nice fire going and started going through a pantry, looking for his cooking utensils. The table had several loaves of bread and various vegetables spread out across its surface, and as Fredra was looking through the cabinet, he retrieved a small slab of salted pork wrapped in a cloth. He laid it on the table and went to work slicing it after locating a knife.

"So what do you think I should do, Fredra," Aleron asked as the monk started cooking.

"Do about what, sir?" He cracked four eggs into a skillet.

"Now that we've been dissolved. I have no occupation, my friend," Aleron said, finishing off his tobacco.

"Well if it were me, I suppose I'd find me a nice quiet place in the woods, maybe built me a cabin, and do some fishing," Fredra replied with a smile.

"Fishing," Aleron laughed. "I think I'd need a little more to keep me occupied than just fishing." Fredra finished cooking their breakfast, and the two of them sat there eating and going over more options for Aleron to pursue.

"So how are you feeling, sir, if you don't mind my asking that is," Fredra cautiously asked after swallowing a large mouthfull of bacon. "Have you had anymore...episodes?"

Aleron softly shook his head. "It's not as if I can't control them, Fredra. It's just that if he's not released now and again it becomes harder and harder for me to go about my normal business. Don't get me wrong, it's been more of a curse than a blessing, but I've come to accept it, if only for its occasional combative uses. But to be honest I'm surprised I've not burst into flame whenever I enter this place."

Aleron's condition was one that was not very common in Tamriel, but common enough to gain fairly widespread renown. He, and several other Rangers, had become afflicted with Lycanthropy throughout the course of their duties. Most of them embraced their new forms, but some of them did not. Aleron was largely indifferent, but as time had gone on, he'd grown more and more accustomed to being able to tap into that energy when need be.

The werewolves in the ranks of the Rangers, however, were not met with the same fondness by those such as the Companions who took the disease willingly. Because they had been afflicted without meaning to, Aleron and those like him were seen as mongrels by other, more organized packs.

"Ah, well, sir, I'm sorry to bring it up. Just trying to make conversation, ya know? Not many of Hircine's folk spend a lot of time here at the Priory. None besides you anyways."

Fredra had a point. Aleron had always considered himself moderately religious. He revered Akatosh with the upmost sincerity, and also followed closely the teachings of Kynareth, being that the majority of his time was spent in nature. However, being that he was now a werewolf, that meant that his soul was forever clutched by the hand of Hircine, the Huntsman, or Daedric Prince and father of all Manbeasts.

"Thank you for the meal, Fredra," Aleron said after gulping down his last bite. The plump Imperial looked up at the rough Breton.

"Will you be off today then, master Aleron," he asked. Aleron looked out the window and then turned back to return up the stairs and collect his meager belongings.

"Aye. I fear I've been down south for far too long. Even though we've been disbanded there still needs to be someone watching the frontier."

Upstairs Aleron went to the bed where he'd been sleeping and began to gather his things. First he donned a dark green, nearly black, jacket overtop his grey shirt and breeches. He then rolled up his thick blanket, gathered up his parchment and quill, and made sure to neatly fold his extra shirts as he stuffed them tightly into his leather knapsack. Before draping his cloak across his shoulders and strapping his pack overtop, he undid the two leather buckles which held his unstrung bow taught against his quiver of arrows. He then slung the quiver across his back and allowed it to hang just below the knapsack.

Finally he came to his sword. It had slain countless enemies through the years from bandits to frost trolls, and it rarely left his side. It was long, but the blade was straight and slender, probably close to four or five feet in all. It could be used to either hack or parry, and its long hilt allowed it to be used with either one or two hands. Even though it looked rather cumbersome, its length evened the weight out across the entire weapon, which made it very light and able to swing very fast.

Aleron wore the sword on his right side, as he was left-handed, and before tying the leather belt off around his waist, reached into the small of his back to make sure his curved hunting knife was still in its sheath under his cloak. It was another perfectly balanced item that served both as weapon and tool. It was capable of chopping firewood, skinning a deer, being used in conjunction with his sword, or even as a ranged weapon in certain circumstances.

Outside his horse was waiting beneath the thatched roof of the Priory's stable. Fredra had always had an immense soft spot for animals, and Aleron was more than happy to leave a horse in his care whenever he came through. The mount he rode on this occasion was one he'd never ridden before. He was a bay gelding, about fifteen hand high, and even though he appeared to be only six or seven years old, had the look of a well seasoned soldier in his eye. He was strong, and had been a cavalry horse in the Legion until he was ridden almost to death by his rather uncaring former master. Aleron had paid notice to the suffering animal as he was about to be slaughtered by a Legion butcher, and had stepped in and paid for the animal's life.

Thinking back on that day, Aleron spoke to his steed. "Guess you really are mine now. Still need to think of something to call you though. Hmm. I'll work on it."

Just then Aleron heard voices coming from the front of the Priory. He knew Fredra had followed him out to see him off, but it was odd that he'd taken this long to come around to the stables. Aleron left his steed where he stood, and then quietly moved to peek around the stone corner of the Priory.

He jutted his head out just an inch, and immediately retracted it like a turtle retreating into its shell. In the brief instant he'd looked around the corner, he saw four Penitus Oculatus soldiers crowded behind a single Thalmor Justicar. The High Elf in his dark blue robes was moving closer and closer to Prior Fredra in an extremely menacing manner.

"Where is the Ranger," he heard the elf roll off of his forked tongue.

"I...who," Fredra responded, his voice trembling.

"Tell us where we may find him! Now," the elf yelled. "We have it on good authority that you harbor his dirt-sniffing ilk!"

Before Fredra could stutter out another false reply, the silvery blade of Aleron's hunting knife came whistling through the air and embedded itself just above the Justicar's knee. He hit the ground with a squeal more dreadful than that of a skewered boar. The Penitus Oculatus soldiers threw off their black cloaks and drew their clunky broadswords as Fredra dropped the basket he was carrying from fright.

Aleron stepped out from around the corner of the Priory and slowly drew his sword. It scraped against the sheath as it was retrieved, and then its blade was left the glisten in the morning sun. He eyed the Imperial soldiers with a look which taunted, Come and take me, before beginning to slowly walk toward them.

The first soldier ran at him and raised his sword as if he would bring it down atop Aleron's head. Aleron simply dodged the blow, and deflected the clumsy blade with the hilt of his own sword. Another then tried to run at him before he landed a foot in the nervous man's breastplate and sent him reeling backwards into his comrade. He then turned to the soldier who had tried to strike him and sent a whirling slash across his gut. The sharp blade of Aleron's longsword cut through the thin leather of the Imperial armor like butter.

"Get up you fools! Fight," the Justicar screamed as he frantically tried to crawl away from the action, the knife still lodged in his leg.

The three remaining soldiers had regained their footing and now all charged Aleron at once. He deflected their blows with his sword, and then buried his shoulder into them when they got to close. It was a furious back and forth of impaling one while knocking his friends back as if making them wait their turn.

"Aleron," Fredra yelled out as the Ranger was pulling his sword from the stomach of his latest victim. He turned just in time to see one of the soldiers about to bring their sword down on top of him. Like lightening, he spun on his heels and slashed upward, cleaving his blade clean through the soldier's raised arm and lopping it onto the ground. The now terrified man screamed in pain, but Aleron did not leave him to suffer long. In the same twirling motion, never breaking his momentum, he thrust his blade through the center of the soldier's abdomen, letting him fall into the dirt.

With his bodyguards all dead, the Thalmor Justicar's eyes were wide with fear. He still tried to crawl, but quickly found himself pinned against the door of the Priory. Aleron walked over to the wounded elf, his gaze never breaking, and just as the Justicar was about to cry out, he buried his sword in his heart.

Aleron sighed as he retrieved the blade. "You can't stay here, Fredra. They'll come looking for their friends. Mark my words."

Fredra, on the other hand, seemed to be at a loss for words. Aleron retrieved his hunting knife and used it to cut a strip of the red silk from the tunic of one of the fallen soldiers. He used the rag to wipe the blood off his blades and then dapped at the few spatters on his face.

"What...what would you have me do then," Fredra trembled.

"Pack your things. I'll saddle your horse, and then you can come with me." Fredra didn't seem pleased with the idea, but he surely didn't want to bear witness to another massacre on his doorstep. He gathered up the basket which he'd dropped earlier and then returned inside to gather his belongings.

Hoofbeats thundered through the forest as Aleron and Fredra climbed higher into the tall Jerall Mountains. The sun would be gone in a while, and Aleron wanted to put as much distance between him and Cyrodill as he possibly could. Fredra was nowhere near the rider he was, and he also had a packhorse in tow, so that had slowed their progress somewhat. Aleron reasoned that he should be patient, however, seeing as he had just changed the poor monk's life forever.

Fog had begun to roll in beneath the pines as Aleron began looking for a spot to camp. It would take them nearly three days to cross the mountains, and then their journey would have to take another turn entirely. Aleron still had many contacts in Skyrim, but he wasn't sure who, if any, remained alive. He best chance was Falkreath, if he was to find shelter from the Imperials, which seemed to want him nothing but dead. There had once been a small hall underneath a tavern in Falkreath which served as a sort of headquarters for all Ranger activities in the southern reaches of the province.

He dared not venture into any of the cities just yet, lest he be picked up even more quickly by an agent of the Empire or the Thalmor. The Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruf, had been a close friend, and even father figure to Aleron from a young age. Whiterun, however, was one of the largest cities in Skyrim, and it was a safe bet to say his enemies would be watching it fairly closely.

It was strangely quiet throughout the forest. There were no birds, no other animals scurrying to and fro. This was odd, and it made Aleron suspicious. He wasn't sure if it was just their presence, Fredra had been talking his ear off for the better part of the day now, but something was causing the woods to be off kilter. They slowed their horses to a walk, and as they did, Aleron pulled the hood of his cloak overtop his head and rode on.

Finally they found a rather sizable overhang of rocks underneath the pines. Before setting up camp, he and Fredra took the saddles off their horses and unloaded the pack horse's supplies. While Fredra went to work dumping small amount of feed into their bags, Aleron strung up a length of rope between two trees to tie them to. There was also a small pond near the overhang, so after the animals had been fed, Aleron lead them over one at a time to drink their fill before even allowing himself to eat or rest.

"Mr. Aleron, what exactly did you do in the army again? Ya know, during the Great War," Fredra asked as he went to work lighting a fire.

Aleron sighed as he gnawed off a chunk of salted beef. "I believe I've already told you that story, Fredra. Several times if I do recall."

"Oh, I know," the portly monk smiled, "but I just thought it'd be nice to hear it again. Ya know, like a campfire story or something?" Aleron chuckled as he realized this was probably one of the few times Fredra had ever been outdoors for an extended period, much less having to sleep there. Before obliging his friend, however, Aleron reached into his pack and retrieved his pipe and the small leather pouch of tobacco. He pinched out a small plug and then stuffed it down into the charred wooden chalice before borrowing one of Fredra's matches to light it. He inhaled the sweet, thick smoke, and then let it waft out of his nose and mouth before leaning back on the rocks.

"What did I do in the Great War? Well let's see," he started. "I suppose when it all began I was no more than 19 or 20? I don't guess my age really mattered, because to be honest with you I can't remember anything before then really."

Fredra sat back against the rocks as well. "Aye, you've never told me that. How can you not remember anything about when you was little?"

"I'm not really sure. Never given it much thought, I don't guess," Aleron replied with another draw from his pipe. "I remember the war, of course, and learning how to be a soldier, but sometimes I don't even really feel as if I was a child."

Fredra watched how nonchalantly Aleron told his story, and it was almost as if his rather naive mind couldn't wrap itself around it. Night was inching closer and closer, and before long he had drifted off to sleep while Aleron sat there, wrapped in his cloak, keeping watch and the fire awake.

It was a clear night, and Aleron looked upward at the glittering white stars in their sea of dark blue. He liked the stars and sleeping out under them. That's not to say that he didn't care for a nice bed beside a roaring fire either, but he had always been comfortable in Kynareth's creation. But then, however, his mind was brought back to the earth, as it was as if the two halves of him had decided to play out for him to see.

While he marveled at the stars and the moons, his gaze immediately snapped downward as he came face to face with a wolf who had snuck up to the edge of the firelight. The horses must've been fast asleep, along with Fredra, and if it wasn't for Aleron being on guard, the wolf could've had its pick of any of them. This particular wolf, though, Aleron started to feel may not have been out hunting. At least not for meat anyway.

"It's been quite some time," he said quietly to the panting beast's beady eyes which reflected the light of the fire. This wolf looked old. It's fur was beginning to turn white in places, and it had that look of weathering many a storm and winter.

"Yes it has, Ranger. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me. Especially considering the company you now keep," the wolf replied in thought, as it gestured to the sleeping Fredra.

"Ah, but you must realized I had many a friend before I met you, Lord Hircine." The wolf chuckled. It wasn't entirely uncommon for Hircine to appear as a wolf, but he usually appeared as either a white stag, or some odd cross of a wolf's body, with the head and antlers of a deer, but standing on two legs like a man.

"Unfortunately your list of friends seems to be growing shorter nowadays. But I come to you with news, my son, so listen and listen carefully. Even though you sometimes seem to neglect me and my gift, I feel I must share this with you," Hircine began. He inched closer to the fire and sat on his haunches. "In one day's time you will cross into Skyrim. Word has already begun to spread quickly of your deeds this morn, and the Imperials and the elves now hunt for you. I cannot say when or where, but be wary of the road ahead, and exercise extreme caution at all times."

Aleron shifted against the rock. "I appreciate this, but why are you telling me something I could've already figured for myself?"

"There's no point in you not being cautious, Aleron. At least not in these dark times. And besides...I love a good hunting story," the wolf said with a haunting glimmer in his eye. As he turned to leave, Aleron was almost certain it had purposefully shown its teeth in a grin.

Sleep would elude Aleron that night. Instead he sat there against the rocks all night long until the pale morning light made its way through the trees. Fredra finally stirred awake just as Aleron finished saddling the horses to leave.

"You have a good night's sleep, sir,"Fredra said with a stretch.

"No," was all Aleron replied before stomping out the campfire and then turning to swing himself up into the saddle.

Their pace was slower that day than it had been the day before. Even with the warning from Hircine, which he was not entirely sure wasn't just a dream, and his lack of sleep, the Ranger felt good about the coming day. It looked like it would be a clear day, and by nightfall they should be near the summit of the mountain range. Even though they were staying off the roads entirely, it wasn't that hard to find decent and gentler ways through the mountains.

About midday, as they were taking a rest, Aleron began to hear hoofbeats in the distance. Not many, and they were faint, but he closed his eyes as tightly as he could and strained his ears to try and make them out. The harder he listened, the closer they seemed to come. He stood from the stump he was sitting on, and drew his sword as Fredra watched in confusion.

"Fredra, to your feet," he ordered. Fredra complied and pulled the small dagger he had in the sheath on his waist. The hoofbeats were nearly on them, and there was nowhere for them to run. Aleron had ahold of his horse, and Fredra the two others, but with a packhorse and the thick brush surrounding them on every side but from where the sounds were coming from, it was a lost cause to try and run.

Just then he saw four horses trotting through the forest ahead of him. At first he couldn't make out who their masters might be, and readied his sword for battle as he gripped his own reins tight in his right hand. As they neared and slowed, however, he lowered his blade, and took a step towards the riders. When he did, Aleron immediately began to reconsider his actions, as the four riders surrounded him and either drew their gleaming blades or lowered their spears until they were at eye level.

They were elves. Not Thalmor, not even High Elves by the look of it, but elves nonetheless. Their wispy heir floated about their smooth and perfect facial features as the wind blew at the edges of their thin green tunics and cloaks. Upon further inspection of his captors, Aleron noticed the crest upon the fastenings of their tunics. It was a single, three-bladed leaf, with a several flowing strands of vines surrounding it in silver. He recognized the crest immediately of that of the settlement of Elvenwood, located in the mountains of southern Skyrim.

The Wood Elves of Elvenwood considered themselves a rare and unique breed amongst the other elves of Tamriel. The majority of those still residing in Valenwood were firmly entrenched in the ideals and practices of the Aldmeri Dominion, and saw themselves, just like the High Elves, as superior to the continent's other races. Those living in Skyrim, however, in a small hidden valley in the mountains, considered themselves the last true elves of Tamriel, and the other races that knew of their existence had even begun to see them as such.

"What business do you have within the wood, Ranger," their leader barked as he jumped down from his saddle. He threw back his silky hood and took the flowing and ornate helmet from his head, letting fall a long cascade of jet black hair. As he eyed the Ranger in question, Aleron noticed his eyes. Their brown pupils were so dark that they were almost as black as the elf's hair.

"I feel as if I have authority to ask the same of you, master elf. The prior and I make our way northward to Skyrim. We seek out my comrades in Falkreath," Aleron finally replied, sensing no real danger from the elves around him. The raised the spears and sheathed their blades.

As he eyed the Bosmer captain in front of him, he couldn't help but try to reason whether or not he had seen him before. Aleron had been to Elvenwood on before, both seeking refuge and seeking solace from the rest of the world, but the soldier in front of him was a new face. Granted he was probably five or six hundred years old, but his extremely youthful features struck Aleron as one who had never before actually raised the sword at his side in anger.

But his not knowing the young captain in front of him was the least of his concerns when thinking of Elvenwood at its inhabitants, especially those members of its guard. As soon as he had seen the crests about their necks, a host of memories came flooding back to him that he had almost thought forgotten.

"Mr. Aleron, what are they gonna do to us," Fredra asked frantically, breaking Aleron's momentary memory relapse.

"Be still, Fredra. They mean us no harm. I think," Aleron replied as the young Bosmer returned to mount his horse. However, he stopped mid-stride and turned to face the Ranger.

"What did he call you, Breton," the elf asked.

"My name is Aleron. Son of Arnand of Wayrest," he replied sternly.

The elf eyed him up and down for a few moments before saying anything else. His black eyes almost burning into the very core of his heart. "I know why it is we have found you here then, Ranger. But a word of warning," he started as he swung up into the saddle. "You will find no love in Skyrim either. From anyone." With that the young elf waved his gauntleted arm forward and the four elven riders sped off through the forest.

Once the elves had been gone for several long moments Aleron and Fredra were back in their own saddles and once again lumbering northward. Fredra finally made his way forward to ride beside Aleron, who sat atop his horse, smoking his pipe, and lost in his thoughts. "Mr. Aleron," Fredra began again. "Why did those elves act the way they did when you told them your name?"

Aleron was still lost, but when he heard Fredra say his name, he was urgently brought back to reality. "What now, Fredra?"

"Your name. Why did the elves take an interest in your name?"

"I'm not sure. I've spent much time either in their care or simply within their realm. Perhaps they simply did not recognize me at first." Aleron hoped such an answer would be enough to put Fredra's mind at ease. The young prior was a bit of a simpleton at times, but even still, Aleron sometimes felt that Fredra understood more than he let on.

"Well it seems like they might've been a little happier to see you in that case," Fredra continued.

Aleron sighed a quick sigh of frustration at Fredra's insistence they keep talking. "I don't know what to tell you, Fredra. I'd never seen him before though if that makes you feel somewhat better about it."

"Not really. I think you're lying to me, Mr. Aleron. To put it rather bluntly. I've kept my mouth shut for the past day or so, but I want to know why those men and that elf came to get you, and I want to know why these elves we'd just seen acted like they knew something I didn't."

Fredra's voice was becoming agitated, and Aleron felt as if it may have been more the strain of the road wearing on him, but he did remind himself that he'd inadvertently pulled Fredra into all this, so it was now his responsibility to see to Fredra's well-being to a certain extent. "Fredra, my friend, I apologize for not being completely honest with you these past few days, and I also apologize for ripping you away from your home like this. I assure you that I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't in your best interest to accompany me."

"But that still doesn't answer my questions. Who are you and why do these bad men want you?"

"Well, I suppose there are a number of reasons," Aleron sighed, dumping out his pipe and stuffing it back into his satchel. "First, I suppose, is because I am a Ranger, and the Emperor and his Thalmor masters have decreed we be disbanded and hunted down like dogs."

"I know all that, sir. But why did they come after you alone like that?"

"That, Fredra, I'm afraid may be related to a somewhat longer and older story than I could ever relate to you in its entirety. But for your sake I'll give you a somewhat abbreviated version of the tale."

Chapter 3

Songs of Old

The old tales of Aleron's ancestry had been passed down and told to him for as long as he could remember, and even though he claimed to Fredra to not be able to remember a childhood, which was in a sense true, he very vividly remembered his father sitting with him by the fire and reciting the stories and legends of his long dead ancestors. Aleron's journey to that particular mountain forest on that particular day had begun ages ago, and the actions of his forebears still impacted him, their only remaining heir.

It began in the Second Era, with the rise to power of the great merchant king of Wayrest, High King Emeric, ascending to the thrown of Wayrest, and the head of the Daggerfall Covenant. Emeric was a great man, a king of kings in the eyes of not only his fellow Bretons of High Rock, but also within the hearts and minds of the Redguards of Hammerfell and the Orcs of long disputed Orsinium. In the space of but a few years, Emeric was able to bring about peace to the great northwestern reaches of Tamriel in a way that not even the emperors themselves had been able to achieve. For the Daggerfall Covenant was not simply a peace, no, it was a harmony. A harmony amongst three distinct races which, for centuries prior, had waged war with one another countless times.

For the first time in ages the cities of High Rock and the Orsimer realm of Orsinium traded freely with the mighty and frugal warriors from the sands of Hammerfell. Emeric's rule was one of fairness and prosperity. His capitol, Wayrest, shone like a beacon from the shores of the Iliac Bay, its white stone walls and towers gleaming in the sun and welcoming both ships and weary caravans alike into its bustling markets. Wayrest's sky blue banners adorned with the silver lion of the Covenant lofted high in the breeze, and it was as if Aetherius itself had descended and taken a place upon Nirn.

The peace, however, was not to last.

In 2E 583, the Reman Dynasty of Cyrodill came to an end, and there was no heir to the Ruby Throne; no one to light the Dragon Fires of the Imperial City.

An ancient malice, which the peoples of Tamriel had thought long since asleep, had been brought back to life by one single family, wishing to see its will carried out across the continent. Family Tharn, who's patriarch was head of the Elder Council, forged a secret alliance with the powerful necromancer Mannimarco. Mannimarco then took it upon himself to raise the dead of the Imperial Army in an attempt to gain control of all of Tamriel. For a time, the Tharn family enjoyed their new position of power within Cyrodill, completely unaware of the fact that they were all being manipulated by the necromancer.

While the Tharns enjoyed their false leadership, Mannimarco used his increasing powers, magic, financial, and now military to create a secret alliance with the feared and loathed Daedric Prince Molag Bal. Once the alliance was bound, Mannimarco turned on family Tharn, and assisted Molag Bal and his minions in an all out invasion of the Imperial province.

Death and decay soon swept over the land, with any who dared resist simply becoming imprisoned and then enslaved by the Daedra. It seemed as if the Ruby Throne would never again see another just ruler. Darkness crept into every corner of Cyrodill, and before long, had begun to seep into the other outlying provinces.

Had it not been for one lone hero, escaping the clutches of Molag Bal and fleeing northward, all of Tamriel would have fallen into shadow. When the weary prisoner finally arrived in Wayrest, he could barely stand and barely speak. The court of High King Emeric convened to hear of the horrors of Molag Bal and Mannimarco, but as they did, news began arriving by courier from the other provinces.

War was well on the horizon, and Emeric knew what must be done. Armies were mustering to the east and to the south. Two other great alliances had been formed; the Ebonheart Pact, and the Aldmeri Dominion. Those which marched westward from Ebonheart were composed of Nords, Dark Elves, and Argonians, who once had been enemies, like those members of the Covenant, but now were united in arms, and sought to claim the Ruby Throne from the evil which now possessed it. From the south came sailed the golden legions of the High Elves, bolstered by their kin, the Wood Elves of Valenwood, and their allies, the Khajiit of Elsweyr.

When it seemed war would be the only option for regaining the peace that they once enjoyed, the silver-clad soldiers of the Covenant formed and began marching southward for Cyrodill and either death eternal glory.

The war proved long and brutal. Battles raged in the mountains and glens, and across the fields of golden barley. In many cases the struggle was brother against brother, as many in their respective alliances bore no ill will to the other races which they now fought. At times there would be massive and bloody battles involving all three different armies, as well as that of the Daedra and the Necromancer.

High King Emeric, however, did not shy from the sting of battle. Unlike his counterparts he led his forces against their foes whenever and wherever they may be found. The silver lion of the blue banners waved proudly above the burned, barren, and bloody fields of once fertile Cyrodill. Even when thrice wounded, Emeric refused to be carried from the field and sailed home to Wayrest. In his eyes, the only way to achieve victory was by standing firm alongside his soldiers every step of the way.

It seemed for a time that victory was well within the grasp of the Daggerfall Covenant, as its armies, battered and torn, still fought valiantly to the last, and laid waste to their foes in the field. When finally the time came for Emeric to finally seize the Imperial City from the clutches of Molag Bal, however, an unknown agent slipped into the ranks to stop the silver lions dead in their tracks.

Even with the slight setback at the gates of the city, Emeric still felt as if victory was within his grasp. While camped across Lake Rumare, a peace conference was called between the armies of Wayrest and those of Ebonheart. The location was decided upon, and Emeric, along with his council, rode to meet their enemy with words alone.

When High King Emeric entered the great council tent, overlooking the vast lake, his eyes met with those of a man whom he had met it battle many times before. His name, in the Nord tongue was Talos, but in the common speech was referred to as Tiber Septim. He was young, much younger than the High King, his long blonde hair falling over his shoulders, and his steely blue eyes penetrating deep into the Breton's soul. Across his shoulders hung a blood red cape, which was fastened with a brooch, adorned with ancient runes which would appear to the common eye as nothing more than haphazard scratch marks. Emeric, however, read the runes for what they were, and took his seat across from the powerful young Nord.

Dovahkiin is what they read, or Dragonborn. This Talos from the north was no mere mortal. He had been blessed by the Divine Akatosh himself, and within the veins of the young Nord flowed the very same lifeblood as that of the dragons.

A truce was declared betwixt the armies, and Emeric rode back to his encampment, confident of the thoughts which now ran through his mind. On the morrow, the great armies would march on the city and put a final end to the evil which hung over it. Once the Daedra and the necromancer had been dealt away with, the new alliance would then crush the elves who were simply waiting for their own chance to claim victory.

But sleep would not find the High King that night. He was restless, and tossed and turned upon his cot. He saw a vision of the coming victory over the city's evil masters and then the elves, but then he saw fire and ruin take their place. Once victory had been achieved by the new alliance, the soldiers of Ebonheart behind their general Talos would seek to put an end to the forces of Wayrest once and for all.

That is when High King Emeric had the most troubling vision of them all. The Covenant would fall, and there was no way for him to stop it. But in the waning hours of the night, a bright light shone all across the king's dreams and left him with a prophecy.

"Your Covenant is doomed to fall beneath the fist of Ebonheart and the men of the north," a kind, soothing voice proclaimed. "But all hope is not lost. For not in your time my king, but in years to come, your heir shall once again take up the sword and the banner of the lion. He too shall wield the voice of the dragons, and ascend to the throne which be rightly thine."

"So you're High King Emeric's heir then," Fredra asked in the middle of Aleron's story.

"Yes," the Breton quietly replied. He adjusted himself in the saddle as they passed beneath a low hanging pine bough.

Fredra appeared to be in deep thought. "But what of your family? Are you the one the prophecy referred to," he finally asked.

"I know not," Aleron said. "And as for my family, well, legend has it that Talos also received a vision that night. For once the battle was won, he challenged the king to single combat upon the field and slew him in the mud."

"But wouldn't that mean you're not his heir then? If he died that is," Fredra inquired.

"No. His queen was with child at the time, and I suppose you could say that's where it all began for me. But once Emeric was slain and Talos crowned, he began an all out hunt across Tamriel for the lot of us. We've survived, obviously, over the centuries, but not before having to scatter across the wilds and live anonymously amongst the beasts of the field."

They rode in silence for another hour before Fredra continued with his questions. Midday was well upon them. "Do any others know of this? Of you, I mean? Being the High King's heir," he asked.

"Yes. But it isn't something I've dealt with often. It has always been known, but as the years have passed along it's become more legend than fact."

"Has anybody ever tried to kill you over all this? Before the other day that is," the prior asked naively.

Markarth smoked beneath the morning sun. An amber glow hung over the great city of stone, and the very air seemed thick with the smells of blood and pain. Aleron sat atop a rock looking down over the ragtag army which had been mustered to drive the Reachmen from the once proud city. Most of the lifelong soldiers had been ordered south in defense of the Imperial City, and all that stood between the violent tribal fury of the Reach and their possible Aldmeri allies were the meager forces which had been mustered from across Skyrim by the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak.

Aleron hopped down from his perch and began making his way through the Imperial camp to where his fellow Rangers had bivouacked. As he passed the hospital tent, he took notice of the mages who tried to lay their healing hands upon the screaming and writing wounded. He was cast out of his trance and almost run over as a caravan of long wagons and their massive horses barreled through the camp and to the front. Upon the wagons were lain enormous wooden siege ladders that looked as if they had only recently been cut from the forest.

When he finally reached the large tent where the Rangers had been sleeping he threw the door back and stepped inside and onto the soft straw which lightly crunched and shuffled beneath his boots. "Where is Bairain," he asked a young Ranger who was in the process of stringing a bow. The young Ranger scratched the fuzz on his chin and then pointed back toward another closed off section of the tent. Aleron nodded and made his way passed his lightly sleeping comrades. Before throwing back the flap he hesitated for a moment, but then grabbed the thick canvas and slung it backwards. He stepped inside, but then paused immediately as his commander meditated near the far wall.

Bairain was old and wise, even though he didn't look his age. He sat there in merely his trousers and boots with his longsword unsheathed and laid across his lap. Aleron was unsure if he had noticed his presence, and then took a step back, as he realized he had never before seen his commander and friend in such a state of unconsciousness. The Nord's back was tattooed from the bottom of his neck all the way down to his trousers, and upon the side of his neck, he wore the same jagged scar which Aleron also claimed. Truly they were now kin by way of their shared beast blood.

"Ahem," Aleron cleared his throat. Bairain twitched back to reality and slowly turned to face Aleron. His left eye was milky white, and a long scar ran from his forehead to his cheek. Unlike most Rangers, his hair was cropped in the style of the Legion.

"I trust you've made your preparations for this day, my friend," Bairain asked in his gruff voice.

"They have been made," Aleron replied as he moved to the stool opposite Bairain. "Any wisdom from the Divines this morn?"

"None from them. Lord Hircine, on the other hand, sends his regards," Bairain said.

Aleron scoffed to himself and slightly shook his head. "I found a spot to look out across the field, and I have to say I hope that someone shows us favor today," he started. Bairain stood up and walked over to a wash basin near his cot. He threw some water on his face and then turned back to Aleron.

"You think this endeavor doomed to fail," he asked. Aleron looked down at the ground.

"I do not know. These men, our army, is not exactly the fighting sort. The Reachmen behind those walls have motivation to fight and a resolve I fear we do not match."

"True. We fight alongside farmers and woodsmen, not soldiers," Bairain replied as he crossed his legs and sat down in front of his friend. "However, we'd best not express those feelings to Jarl Ulfric."

"I would be lying if I said I've come to trust our leader as of yet. I feel as if his heart is in the right place, but I also feel as if he sees his men as expendable."

Bairain stood. "Yes, well, we'd best be off. The jarl has requested a council before the attack. I want you to accompany me."

Aleron and Bairain made their way through the camp and up to the knoll upon which sat Ulfric's great tent. Aleron's mail was heavy across his chest, even with the modifications he'd had the jarl's personal smithy make. He'd had him remove the side portions and replace them with simple leather buckles which held both the front and back together.

Inside the tent Ulfric and his lieutenants had already gathered around the map table and begun planning that day's attack. Beside him stood his most trusted friend, Galmar Stone-Fist, along with Jarl Balgruf of Whiterun, and two Imperial officers.

"Ah, Bairain," Ulfric thundered above the conversations and the noise from outside. "I believe we shall have our prize this day."

"Is that so, Jarl Ulfric? Please do tell us what you've found," the Ranger responded in kind.

"My catapults have already begun battering the walls as we speak," Ulfric began as he pointed across the map. "Once our new siege ladders are in position, we shall begin our assault. The Reachmen have been holding for well over a week, but they grow hungry, as they're probably near to depleting their food stores. With our sheer numbers alone, I feel that we shall claim our victory. But in any case, I would like your Rangers to lead the first assault over the walls. With your skill at the head I do no see how they could stand and rally back."

Aleron stood in silence as the final plans were made. Ulfric's lieutenants seemed as optimistic about the coming fight as he did. Before the council was concluded, however, Bairain asked one final question. "Jarl, if my Rangers cannot break them, what then?"

Ulfric stood with his arms folded an thought for a moment before moving to clap Aleron on the arm. "Ah, but you forget, master Bairain. We attack with all the strength of the wolf...but the heart of a lion." He winked at Aleron before the Rangers turned to leave.

The fight atop the walls of Markarth was a brutal and savage as any Aleron had ever taken part in. His sword had become stained with rivers and splotches of crimson, and sweat poured down from his brow and into his eyes. The men of the Reach could have easily been his kin. Most of them were descended from Breton stock, but they had long since lost any of their old ties to High Rock. Instead the men, and even women, he now faced wore the skins of animals with the antlers of many a slain deer adorning their helmets. They attacked with such screaming fury that even the seasoned Ranger's blood ran cold at their screeching defense.

He cleaved and hacked and stabbed with all his might into the hordes which never seemed to thin or dwindle. Over the walls behind him climbed up and over Ulfric's shaky soldiers, many of which were struck down within seconds. The Rangers had established a loose perimeter around the edge of the wall, and in truth the number of soldiers pouring over almost seemed to equal the numbers rushing to meet them.

As the strength in his arms began to fail from swinging his sword, he dropped back to the perimeter of his comrades and knelt beside them. The Reachmen had begun to be halted as they tried to rescale the wall, and Aleron whipped the bow from his back and began letting his arrows whistle into their tribal masses. They yelped and squealed like beasts as the swift-flying arrows easily pierced the hide of their miniscule armor.

As the melee reached an impasse, with neither side being able to push back the other, a series of thundering crashes began rocking the walls beneath his feet. Just as the Reachmen had begun to rally, the main gates of the city burst open with a crash, and in charged the remaining lot of Ulfric's army. The day, it seemed, had turned in favor of the Empire, and as the ragged soldiers stormed the city, Aleron returned his bow to his back, and stood to rest against the wall. He turned his head just enough to see overtop, and in the field below, all that could be seen was the thundering horde of the sons of Skyrim, funneling down to enter the city gates.

Midday had passed, and the battle was won. Aleron had not moved from his position, and instead simply leaned there, trying to regain his strength and listening to the churning waters of the River Karth as it passed between his section of the battered wall and the mountainside.

"It looks like the old bear was right," Bairain said as he slid over and grasped Aleron's arm. He wiped the still-wet spatters of blood from his face before turning back, but as he did, both Rangers heard an odd sound coming from the Imperial side. It was horn. A horn that they assumed was to be blown to signal victory. Aleron hopped to his feet, and nimbly jumped atop the wall to get a better view of the field. That, however, turned out to be a mistake. As he looked out upon the hills and back to the camp, a faint an familiar whistling caught his ear for merely an instant.

He saw the arrow for one split second before it hit him. It's head thumped into his body in one smooth and swift stroke. The breath immediately left his lungs, and a burning sensation completely overtook his entire right side. It had hit directly where the mail did not protect, and as he dropped to a knee in an attempt to catch his breath, his world began to fade. Blackness crept in from the sides of his eye line, and as he staggered on his knees, he stumbled forward. Bairain's voice could be heard faintly calling out to him, but as he tried to stand, his hand and feet met with nothing, and he tumbled down from the wall and into the frigid, churning waters below.

"Who shot you then, Mr. Aleron? Obviously you lived, but was it more Reachmen," Fredra asked of him like a child wanting to hear the end of a bedtime story.

"I'm afraid not, my friend. I'm afraid not."

He wasn't sure how long he remained underwater. The Karth rolled onward with its rapids a violent fury of rocks and debris. Whenever he would be shot up from the icy depths, he wasn't sure if he was fighting harder to breath against the arrow or the water. The pain which burned throughout his side initially had now started to radiate throughout his entire body. He could feel it all the way from his neck down to his feet, and even the numbingly cold water had no effect on the white hot pain inside him.

The world faded in and out. He began to hallucinate. One moment, or it could have been many, he was walking amongst the stars, and the next he was in a fiery prison with a flaming spear shoved in his gut. When he would come to it still didn't seem like he was completely out of his daze, as the roaring white water seemed to take on the form of a white stag, pleading with him to go under and breathe in deep.

When finally he could hold on no longer he closed his eyes and simply let his body drift off to sleep. It was peaceful. Perhaps the most peaceful he had ever felt. The water around him turned into the soft yet dark blue of the midnight sky, and he let himself sail out passed the moons and around the stars. Hircine, or the Divines, whomever, still had plans for him yet, and just as he was about to pass into the void, his body jerked awake with a soft nudge.

His eyes opened into the muddy gravels of the riverbank. The water was still as cold as it had been however many countless hours or days before, and he tried to heave in a breath, only to have it meet with the searing pain within him. His eyes only allowed themselves to open halfway, and the world around him was hazy. He felt the sand and the smooth rocks against his cheeks, and he also felt them in his hair, his mouth, his ears.

The sun was nearly set, he could tell by the way the light faded from the small pool beside him, and just as he was about to give up once again, a pair of boots planted themselves on the ground in front of him. The owner of the eloquently rounded boots knelt down, and before Aleron had any time to look up a dark green cloak overtook his entire view.

"Who was it? Was it Bairain?" Fredra was on the edge of his saddle it seemed.

Aleron laughed to himself. "I'm getting there. Don't rush me."

The Beast roared within him. It snarled its teeth as the pale moonlight glinted off of them. He could feel it thrash and try to break free. Its claws like razors tore at the black flesh of the void, and it howled skyward, attempting with all its might to run.

"The arrow, it's silver. He is beast blood," a soft white light flickered through the darkness.

"Ro nwaly, Liethlri," another light flickered. Aleron felt soft hands upon his body as the Beast howled once again.

"I know he is in pain, father! We must remove it if we want him to live," the first light said. Even though it sounded angry, there was still a soothing calmness to it. It was like a quick gust of winter's wind, but carrying the scent of incense and slight touch of the coming spring.

"Leave me, Liethlri! You've done your duty this day, my daughter," the second light replied before Aleron's vision began to slowly return.

As his eyes began to open and the Beast began to recede, he took notice of the face above him. It was softly rounded and its pale, white skin seemed almost perfect. Its cobalt eyes shone like sapphires in the dim, dancing candlelight. Aleron turned to look as a wisp of green flashed by and toward what he wagered was a doorway, but all he saw was a long cascade of deep red hair before the door was slammed and he faded away once again.

Aleron awoke.

He shot awake and his eyes darted from one side to the other as he took stock of where he was. As he tried to sit up, darts of pain shot up from his right side. He dropped back down to the enveloping pillow beneath his head and took in several deep breaths. Seeing as he could not yet move his body, he waited for another moment and then shifted his head to look around.

The bed upon which he lay was covered in flowing red and deep greet blankets, and seemed to be carved out of the very wall upon which it say. To his left stood three large and open windows with thin veils for curtains. They caught on the cool breeze and danced slowly along the wind as leaves rustled across the detailed floor. Outside the windows the sun was well up, and it shone it rather violently. He squinted his eyes, and once they had adjusted was able to see the tall trees and even a waterfall in the distance.

"Nice to see you're alive and well," Hircine's voice protruded into the seeming calm.

"Leave me, Beast," Aleron shouted back. The silence that immediately overtook the chamber was all at once great, powerful, and definite.

He lay there for awhile longer before he saw the shadows of footsteps from underneath the door. Pain or no, he jerked around in his bed and frantically looked for his sword. It was lying on the floor beneath him, and he drew it from his sheath. Even with its light weight, in his condition it seemed like it weighed as much as a mammoth tusk.

The door finally creaked open, and in stepped the face Aleron had seen over him from before. It belonged to a tall, thin Wood Elf, dressed in flowing robes, with a single, silver circlet about his forehead.

"You won't be needing that here, master Breton," the elf said with a bit of a smile. "You are safe. Neither me nor my people mean you any harm."

Aleron dropped his sword by the bed and sat up. He eyed the elf cautiously for a moment, considering their two respective races were supposedly at war. "Where am I," he finally, painfully asked.

"You are in Elvenwood, master Breton. And I am Geldiir, lord of this realm." The elf whisked across the room and sat down in a chair beside the bed. "I'll have to admit," he started, "you gave us quite the scare the other night. It was almost impossible to pry that arrow from your side."

"The arrow," Aleron asked, having a temporary loss of memory, but then being swiftly reminded by the panging ache in his side. "Oh. The arrow. Yes, well, I thank you, Lord Geldiir, for attending to me."

Geldiir waved his hand as if it was no bother. "So, master Breton, do you have a name? You are a Ranger, are you not?"

"Yes. And I am Aleron, son of Arnand." Geldiir's eyes widened at Aleron's disclosure of his identity, but only for a moment.

"If I may ask, Aleron, how did you manage to wind up in the Karth with an arrow in your side," Geldiir asked.

"I was with Ulfric and my brothers at Markarth. I'm not sure how or why, but I was shot once the battle had been won and fell into the river."

"I see. Well, if you don't mind my saying so, it's not wise for those of your particular...um...kind to go getting shot with silver arrows."

"You mean werewolves," Aleron sternly replied.

"Yes," Geldiir chuckled, "werewolves."

Aleron moved to sit up all the way and let his feet dangle over the side of the bed. When they hit the floor what he initially expected to be cold stone was actually not stone at all. Instead it seemed to be solid wood, just as carved and engraved as the walls above it. Aleron had rarely seen the sort of floral patterns used in all the carvings, and everything within his chamber was ornately crafted to look as if it was a part of the forest itself. When he thought about it more carefully, the Ayleid ruins in Cyrodill were the only places where he had ever before seen craftsmanship of this nature.

"Lord Geldiir, I thank you for tending to me, but I feel as if I should be on my way. I should not linger here and impose upon you," Aleron said, running a hand lightly over his side.

"To go where exactly? I would not suggest returning to your Legion, if that is where you came from? If you have suspicions that one of your former comrades would see you killed, then I would rest here and recover your strength," Geldiir cautioned. "But in any case, if you must go, I would see to it that you speak with my daughter, Liethlri, before you depart. She was the one who brought you here, and has been most insistent as to the state of your health."

Geldiir left Aleron's chamber, and as the Ranger slowly stood, he realized how long he must've been out of things. His legs wobbled at the knees, and it took him a moment to find his balance. His clothes had been washed while he was gone and his body had been bathed. It was the best he had felt in months. As he donned the last of his clothing and strapped on his sword belt, he noticed more footsteps passing by beneath the door. They were quick and hardly made a sound, but seeing as he was dressed and ready to depart, he opened the door to try and find their owner.

What he saw outside his chamber was amazing and one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. He had heard the stories of the realm of Wood Elves living in Skyrim's southern mountains, but had never before seen them nor their home. Beneath his feet was a carved walkway, much like the floor of his room, and it seemed to be carved out of the side of the massive tree which his chamber had been lain into. These walkways and giant trees seemed to be everywhere, stretching all throughout this part of the forest he could feel he had never before ventured, and probably wasn't meant to. Dozens of feet below, on the forest floor, a stone path had been laid which culminated in a large, circular forum, with a fountain at its center. It's clear waters flowed quietly downward, and reflected the lights from the dozens of ornate lamps which hung and glowed warmly from the very tree branches themselves.

This was a peaceful and hidden place. It was beautiful.

To his left Aleron heard faint steps along the walkway and his gaze snapped over like a hawk's. In that very instant, a certain portion of Aleron's life changed forever, as he came face to face with the most beautiful women he had ever before laid eyes upon. She had stopped in her tracks with one foot still behind the other, and looked at him with her eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly open in confusion, as if she did not know whether to speak or not. Aleron's grey eyes locked in with hers, a deep and brilliant hazel which perfectly captured every color of the forest. Her skin was a pure, soft, snow white, and her lips beautiful and pink as a wild rose. Her deep red hair was truly magnificent and absolutely stunning. It was long and flowing, almost down to her waist, even the two single strands which remained draped down in front of her pointed, elven ears and rain neatly down her sides. Everything about her seemed perfect to him. As she eclipsed the sunlight behind her, her green tunic seemed to turn to black, highlighting her exquisitely proportioned figure, who's curves flowed like the ornate carvings all throughout this valley of paradise.

"Liethlri," Aleron quietly inquired. The she-elf allowed herself to move once more, and cautiously approached him, her expression still somewhat apprehensive.

"I see you are recovering, Ranger," she replied, letting her perfect and pure hand come to rest upon the railing beside them.

"It would seem that way. I am sorry for any trouble I may have caused you. You did not have to bring me here, and I appreciate it deeply," he said. Liethlri did not make eye contact with him, and instead looked out over the forested domain of her people. She looked up to the lamps which hung low and that is when Aleron noticed the light inside them was being given off by not flame but by fireflies. "I had not noticed where those lights were coming from," he started again, trying to make conversation. "This place is most beautiful, milady."

"Thank you for all of the niceties, Ranger. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's nearly time for the guard to change," she replied before quickly brushing passed him and making her way around a corner.

Aleron was in amazement. Liethlri was without any doubt the most beautiful being he had ever come upon in his many years roaming the forests and vales. Her very presence was intoxicating to him, and for the few brief moments she was near, every ounce of pain from his wound disappeared into nothing. He felt warm for the first time in ages. His blood, which had been running cold ever since his transformation, now surged throughout his body in a heated flurry. The way her eyes had bound into his, regardless of the expression upon her face, conveyed a feeling deep within him that he had never truly felt before, and he sensed she had not either.

However, for Aleron it seemed, good things rarely last.

Once he was sure Liethlri was not returning to finish their conversation, he began the descent of the steps which wrapped downward around one of the gigantic trees and down to the forum on the forest floor. He smelled the savory perfumes of pine and fir as he made his way past the fountain, and wondered if maybe he should have taken the advice of Lord Geldiir and stayed for another while in Elvenwood. His mind had been made, unfortunately, and even after assurances of safety there, he wagered it would be safer still for his elven caretakers if he were to leave.

He bid one final, broad glance back at the city in the trees before exiting through the main gate and back into the wilds. I secret he hoped to catch one final glimpse of Liethlri, but he felt in his heart that he more than likely would not. It surprised him then when he actually did see her gracefully descending one of the staircases, her red hair flowing behind her.

"How can this be," he thought to himself as she stepped onto the smooth stone near the fountain. But from behind him he started hearing the thundering of hooves, and his attention turned back to the forest where several riders came charging through. He jumped to the side of the path as their hooves crackled across the stone, nearly trampling him, but then quickly regained his composure. He winced as his side caught another dull jolt of pain.

The pain, he was uncertain, may have been from his wound, but it was more likely that it was the realization that Liethlri had come to see her fellow guards which caused his hurt. She went to work giving orders and conversing with her fellow Eldar, not even noticing Aleron leaning against the gate. He put a hand to his side and adjusted his quiver across his shoulder, but just as he was turning to leave, he felt he would attempt to attain one final glimpse of Liethlri's sheer beauty. When he turned he stopped cold in his tracks. She too was looking at him. She did not smile, her face was stern, but the way her eyes played directly into his captured both of them there in that moment which Aleron knew would be forever theirs.

"Did you ever see the elf girl again? Liethlri," Fredra questioned as he began to unpack the horses. They were now well within Skyrim, but the sun was nearly gone and they still had a long way to go before reaching Falkreath. They decided to set up camp and continue on at first light.

"Perhaps. I don't really know for certain. Sometimes I feel as if it was all just a dream, my friend," Aleron said.

"Oh. Well she sounds very pretty. It's a shame you had to leave her there."

Fredra got a fire going and Aleron took care of the horses. He started feeling as if they had outrun any sort of pursuers which may be trailing them from Cyrodill. It was a relaxing feeling, but that bothered him. No matter, the horses were tired and Aleron was growing a little road weary himself.

Once the cooking fire was going and his bed roll was rolled out, he lit his pipe and watched the fire dance. Within an hour darkness was upon them and Fredra was sound asleep. Spending the day telling his story had overcome him with a feeling of loneliness which had been absent for a long long time. Memories, most of them painful, came flooding back into his mind, and he began to wish that Fredra had not yet fallen asleep for the simple reason of having someone to talk to. He even went so far as to somewhat eagerly wonder if Hircine would make another visit that night.

The smoke from his pipe and the flames of the fire danced with one another into the wee small hours, and Aleron sat there watching them twirl and spin like lovers beneath the moons. The crackling of the wood, their drum keeping the beat, and his breath, the flute whistling a tune.

He missed her, and he sat there wondering if she even still remembered him.

Chapter 4

Dream

Liethlri walked softly across the balcony which jutted out from her chambers. The mild evening of mid-summer was most inviting, and she loved to spend those most treasured nights out beneath the skies. A gentle breeze blew and caused the leaves to rustle across her dainty toes, and her hair to be caught up and momentarily twirled along.

It had been several months since she had found the Ranger, Aleron, and brought him to her father to be healed. Perhaps it was the stir that the war had caused all across the continent, but ever since his expedient arrival and departure, the entire realm of Elvenwood seemed fascinated by the fact that their Lord Geldiir's own daughter had been permitted to bring an outsider into their midst. And not only was he an outsider, but one who may not realize the inhabitants of Elvenwood were in no way affiliated with the Thalmor.

Of course the feeling that stayed with her the most since Aleron's departure was the one she had felt when they locked eyes for the final time. She sensed it when they had first met atop the walkway, but fled before he could see her cheeks beginning to flush. It was a sort of innocence in his eyes which was rather unique and hard to describe. She was certain that he was no stranger to death, and had killed many times, but she saw slight glimmers of caring and compassion which few who had probably seen all he had seen possessed.

Her father, while seemingly happy to help Aleron and see to his health, had also seen the way Liethlri had looked at Aleron as he left. He did not necessarily disapprove of his daughter's actions, but he did somewhat disapprove of Aleron's condition. The elves had spent ages living within and off of the forest lands, but they had not become animals of the forest themselves as the Ranger had. Granted he seemed quite adept at controlling the Beast within, but even still there was now a part of him that no longer remained human.

Compared to Liethlri's father, however, she was glad that her betrothed suitor, Faldil, was not present during Aleron's brief stay. Faldil was an honorable member of the guard, but he was young; almost 200 years younger that Liethlri, which caused her to see him as a child still. He was pleasant and attractive, with jet black locks like her father's and eyes as dark as midnight. Faldil was very much in love with Liethlri, but at that moment in time she could not say she felt the same way towards him. It was always a back and forth as to whether she felt she loved him or not. She could honestly never be certain from day to day.

It troubled her that she was betrothed to spend eternity with a husband whom she wasn't sure she loved. Faldil's jealously and overbearingness also tended to bother her at times. She was the captain of the guard, and had been for years before Faldil had been appointed as her subordinate. She never publicly berated him for any of his actions, but she did make it know to him in private how much she could not stand his trying to watch her every move and be her glorious protector. Truthfully Liethlri would love nothing more to have a husband or lover with whom to care for her every moment and even fight alongside her, but sadly for Faldil, she simply did not see that in him.

While she toyed with her thoughts her attention suddenly became fixed upon the railing of the balcony behind her. She was sitting in a chair looking out at the sky, and as her eyes turned behind her she slowly let a small knife slide into her palm from the sleeve of her nightgown. All of a sudden she turned and readied the knife to throw, but just as soon as it was raised, she stopped herself with a gasp. Her eyes grew wide and she could feel the heat rise to her cheeks.

Aleron was sitting casually atop the railing which had been behind her. He held a single finger over his mouth, and she took notice of the way his grey eyes seemed to match the silvery glow of the stars. He lowered his hand. "I didn't suppose you thought you were the only one who could climb trees, milady, guardian of the wooded vales?" His voice was like a beautiful song unto her ears. It was so calm and smooth.

"You should not be here. I could have you imprisoned for this, Ranger," she sternly replied, yet lowering her knife and turning to fully face him.

"I would hope you would not be so rash, milady. I come only to see your face once more, if you'll permit me. That is my only purpose," he said, hopping down from the railing and taking a few small steps closer to her.

Liethlri did not back away. Instead she stood to look upon him as well. When she did so, her entire body became bathed in moonlight, which showed the true sheerness of the nightgown she wore. It hugged her curves and was a thin white, trimmed around the neck and wrists by golden trim.

Aleron, on the other hand, was wearing much the same as she remembered him wearing when last they met. His trousers, cloak, and tunic were the same mixtures of greens, blacks, and grays, and they were all covered in a fine powdering of dust around the edges. His hair was black, wavy, and shoulder length, and his face bore the scruffy outline of a new beard beginning to form. While she looked upon him, the thought came to her that maybe that was what caught her wandering eye to begin with; his lack of perfection. It was something only seen amongst the races of men. Even though the Bretons themselves were descended from Elvish stock, they had long since begun to favor the rougher traits of men as opposed to the smooth perfection of the elves.

Neither one of them moved towards the other, but that innate curiosity sprang about in both their eyes'. She felt safe with him, and instead of moving closer, she turned and walked slowly across to the other side of the balcony; making sure that he received the full view of what he had come there to witness. It was a bit of a game to her, or at least within an instant it felt that way. She caught herself smiling out of his view because she could feel his eyes start at her feet and work their way carefully up her body.

"So why is it you feel the need to see me again, Ranger? Was there something you needed to discuss which we did not speak of last time," she asked coyly. She had not realized at all that he had followed her until she felt his rough palms gently caress her sides and then wrap around her waist, finally planting his fingers between her own.

"Nothing to discuss, milady. Nothing but to tell you that I have never before seen such a beautiful flower in the midst of the forest," he whispered into her ear. She felt that holding a woman in this was was probably still a rather new experience for him, but it still sent a shiver down her spine which resulting in her allowing her head to lay back and rest on his shoulder.

"Ranger, you should not be here," she whispered, her eyes closed. "We cannot..." she stopped herself, immediately thinking of Faldil. She freed herself from Aleron's arms and looked up at him with sullen eyes. "This cannot happen, Ranger. I...I can't," she started.

Her explanation was cut off by Aleron leaning in and pressing his lips to hers. A rush of euphoria engulfed her, and her initial second of doubt was cast aside as he ran his hand up her neck and brush across her cheek with his thumb. It was over all too fast, and she found herself longing for more as soon as he pulled away. "My name is Aleron, milady Liethlri."

The Ranger was gone just as quickly and quietly as he had come. She leaned against the railing, wishing he had stayed, and looking for her breath. Just as she was about to return inside, however, she saw the door to her chamber open through the curtains.

It was Faldil.

Chapter 6

Chance Meeting of Old Friends

Aleron pulled his horse to a halt to listen. The forest was eerily quiet, save for the faint noise he thought he may have heard in the distance. It sounded almost like voices, but he couldn't be certain.

"What is it, Mr. Aleron," asked Fredra, riding up beside him.

"Hush," Aleron retorted. He closed his eyes and let his ears take over. Moments passed and eventually Aleron's ears became tuned to what were in fact voices, but they were not clam or relaxed. He let his mind escape along the waves of sound traveling through the trees, and his mind's eye began visualizing in a dull blur what was happening. There was an ambush taking place, but he knew not why or by whom. "Fredra, I want you to listen very carefully," Aleron said, hopping down from his horse. "I am afraid there is trouble ahead. I want you to remain here and keep out of sight. If I do not return, keep following this trail north until you meet the river. Make for the village of Riverwood, and I will meet you there."

Fredra did not have time to protest as Aleron pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and sprinted off in the direction of the sounds. He glided passed the trees and over the beds of soft pine needles, each of his footsteps muffled yet he finally reached a small knoll, he dropped to a knee and knelt behind a small boulder. It was an ambush sure enough, with both Thalmor and Imperial troops attacking what appeared to have been a small Stormcloak caravan.

It was in that moment that Aleron had to make a decision. The Stormcloaks were vastly outnumbered, but given his last meeting with Ulfric and the suspicions that he had tried to have him killed, he had no real love for the Stormcloak cause. On the other hand, the Imperials and the Thalmor appeared to be hunting this band of Stormcloaks in the same way they were hunting him. It was also all too real of a possibility that this particular detachment of troops was in the mountains searching for Aleron when they came upon their other enemy.

The screams of the faltering and being quickly outnumbered Stormcloaks echoed through the trees. Aleron heard a Thalmor officer barking orders and telling his troops to slaughter the lot of the Nords. From then on it was an easy decision. Aleron retrieved the bow from his back, strung it, and nocked an arrow. He rose to his feet and drew back, aiming at the gilded High Elf, as he was about to hack down upon a wounded Stormcloak. Aleron let fly, and the arrow whistled through the air, making contact with the elf's gut.

The Thalmor and Imperials were shocked to see their leader fall, and paused for a moment to see where the arrow had come from. By that time Aleron had already relocated and nocked another arrow which was soon sailing into the neck of an Imperial Legionnaire. They tried to pinpoint him, but by the time they realized where the arrows were coming from, Aleron was already gone; moved to another tree or rock. The Stormcloaks saw this lucky window of opportunity and prepared to seize the moment. The ones who could still fight managed to start beating back their foes, and it was then that Aleron lowered his bow before letting another arrow fly.

Out from behind an overturned wagon stepped none other than Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. He had an old looking Nordic broadsword clenched in his fist, and a small buckler protecting the other. With a cry to his remaining few men he rushed forward and began hacking his way into the surviving Imperials.

The majority of the Thalmor troops had been slain, but more and more Imperials seemed to run over the hill in front of the destroyed caravan. Aleron was running low on arrows by this point, but as a horse ran up the hill from the violent fury below, he jumped from his hiding spot and onto the horse's back. He wheeled the protesting animal around, who had no real choice but to comply, and drew his sword before charging into the fray.

It was tight quarters for mounted combat, but every Ranger had been trained to fight just as well on horseback as they could on foot. He commanded the beast with his knees as he let loose of the reins and leaned down to grab a spear that had been thrown aside. Before he reached the thick of the engagement, he drew his whole body back in the saddle, and heaved the spear into the center of a group of Imperials. He heard it make contact with their armor, but wasn't sure if it had penetrated.

For a brief moment he had the advantage, but now that he was out in the open, especially mounted, he was just as much a target as Jarl Ulfric. Just as he was about to reach the Legionnaires another spear came flying in from the opposite direction. It looked for an instant as if it would impale him square in the chest, but instead it dropped slightly and caught the horse's head, dead center. The animal's front legs dropped with a sickening cry, and the momentum sent Aleron hurdling through the air straight for a group of steel-clad Imperial soldiers.

The battle was now hand to hand. The Imperials and Aleron both hit the ground with a crash, and they recovered at the same time, the adrenaline flowing through their veins. With their swords drawn, they all at once pounced towards him. He deflected their violent yet clumsy blows one by one, and tried to go on the offensive with several flourishes that only met with a block from two or more swords. A soldier raised his sword for an attack, and brought it to bear directly across Aleron's face, being blocked by the Ranger's own sword at the very last instant. It did, however, knock him to the ground. He rolled backwards and found himself lying next to a discarded shield. As the soldier readied himself for another blow, Aleron raised the shield and sent his blade clanging off to the side.

Even being outnumbered, having the shield gave Aleron a slight advantage. He could now barrel into the opposing soldiers and knock them off balance long enough to potentially make a decisive attack. The first time he tried this it failed, but the second time he managed to knock two Imperials on their backsides in the dirt. When one of their comrades attempted a rescue, Aleron sprang to his feet and spun around in a flash, his sword finding the gap between the poor man's helmet and breast plate, and severing his head from his shoulders. Blood spurted from his neck and caught Aleron across the eyes; this staggered him and he temporarily lost his focus on the task at hand.

The two soldiers he'd knocked to the ground were now to their feet and enraged at the sight of their decapitated comrade. One of them swung his sword furiously at Aleron from the side, but it was clumsily deflected, with one hand grasping his sword, and the other rubbing the blood from his eyes. Even though it was deflected in one direction, the blade came back from the other, and as he turned to make a retreat, it caught him across the right arm, splitting the skin and exposing the tissue beneath.

He threw his head back and screamed, but as he did something hit him on top of the head with a blow so furious it made his knees shake. He fell to the ground, and the last thing he saw before fading into darkness was a column of Imperial cavalry surmounting the hill.

When he awoke the first thing he felt was the numbing pain near the crown of his head. He looked down at his arm and could see the open gash which was still bleeding, and then followed the blood trails down to his hands to see they were bound together at the wrists. The wagon he found himself in hit a bump in the road, and with the shock came the cracking of his head against the wagon's high wooden sides.

"Bastards, be damned," he cursed as his head throbbed. Looking to his right, once the pain had ceased, caused his eyes to go wide again. Sitting there, just as bound as Aleron, albeit also gagged, sat Ulfric with a look of sheer fury upon his face. Ulfric turned to notice that Aleron was awake, and stared at him like he had seen a ghost. "You weren't expecting to ever see me again," Aleron asked with a sigh of pain.

Ulfric stared back at him with his expressions going bank and forth between anger and confusion. Admittedly the jarl looked much older than Aleron had remembered. His once golden hair was beginning to turn grey in spots and wrinkles had begun to form on his face. That's when Aleron smiled a bit to himself. He had never thought about it before, but he was probably near the same age as Ulfric Stormcloak. The Nords and Imperials aged much the same, only living for roughly 80 or so years. The Bretons, on the other hand, had retained their aging from the long since passed days of possessing much more elvish blood. When he had served under Ulfric at Markarth, Aleron had been 20 years old. Forty years later, he was now 60, but still looked much as any Nord or Imperial might in their mid-twenties.

"Oi, I don't wanna hear any talking back there! Keep quiet," ordered the guard beside the wagon's driver. He turned around and eyed the prisoners one by one. Aside from Ulfric and Aleron there were two other prisoners in the wagon; a Stormcloak soldier from the caravan, and a horse thief who claimed to be from Rorikstead.

The wagon rolled onward down the road toward the village of Helgen. Aleron wondered if Fredra had taken his advice and started making his way to Riverwood. He hoped dearly that the poor monk had not somehow wound up in Helgen, as it was more or less nothing but a large Legion outpost for the southern frontier. When they passed beneath the village gates, Aleron looked off to the side and took notice of the gawking host which seemed to be greatly anticipating their arrival. General Tullius sat atop his horse with an evil looking Thalmor woman on one side, and his legate on the other.

Aleron's blood ran cold when he saw where the wagon had come to a stop. Tullius, his legate, and the Thalmor woman had stopped behind the wagon to watch the prisoners exit, and as they were pulled off by the soldiers, Aleron turned to see the headsman waiting beside his chopping block.

"You there, Ranger! Step forward," the legate shouted. Aleron begrudgingly obliged and stepped out of line. General Tullius walked over to him until their faces were but inches apart.

"What is your name, Ranger," Tullius asked with a look of scorn.

"You do not need to know my name, general," Aleron spitefully replied.

Tullius looked down at Aleron's bloody arm and then grabbed the wound. He started squeezing which made the arm blood ooze up from between his fingers and Aleron try to squirm away. "You tell me your name, you dirt-sniffing beast! That is an order, and you will obey me!"

Aleron spat on the general's boots. "You are a captain to me no longer. I now take orders from no man. Especially those who have sold their souls to her ilk," he pushed out, gesturing to the Thalmor woman. Tullius looked down at his boots and the slapped Aleron's face with his free hand.

"You shall pay for your insolence," he roared. "Headsman! Ready your axe!"

Two soldiers hauled Aleron to his feet, and as they were dragging him toward the chopping block, he noticed one of them wore his captured sword across his back like a trophy. The soldiers made sure the bonds about his wrists were taught, and then kicked the backs of his legs to drop him onto the block.

Aleron could not believe this to be the end of all things. It had all happened so suddenly and caught him unprepared. As his chin nestled into the grove cut into the smooth wooden block, his thoughts faded back to Liethlri. He wished more than anything that he had simply stayed in Elvenwood with her; either when her father had suggested it, or the night he had gone back to see her. All of that seemed like a lifetime ago, and in the end he found himself shedding a tear at the thought that she probably did not even remember him anymore.

The headsman began raising his axe, and just as Aleron had prepared himself for the rugged blade to come down upon his neck, he heard a very odd sound. The headsman and the others must have heard it too because they all stopped and looked skyward, toward the east. The sound came again, and this time it sounded like a roar. Not the roar of a bear or of a sabrecat, but something...different. The roar echoed through the mountains a third time, and finally a huge gust of hot, dry wind pounded straight down upon Aleron's back as a giant shadow passed swiftly across the ground.

"A dragon," Aleron questioned himself. He was in disbelief, and found it astonishing that dragons even came to his mind, considering he had never before seen one.

"It's a dragon! Dragons," shouted the soldiers around him. They all started fleeing from the chopping block and towards the safety of the stone tower in the middle of the village.

Aleron rolled off the block just as the massive, black creature landed with a thunderous pounding atop one of the village's other keeps. The force of its landing sent chunks of stone and debris flying through the air, some of them barely missing Aleron's body. A few of the soldiers around him were not so lucky, as they were crushed beneath the weight of the massive flying stones.

The dragon sat atop its perch for another few moments, eyeing the town as if it was looking for something or someone. Even against his better judgement, Aleron allowed himself to pause and slowly raise his head to look the foul creature square in the eye. They locked eyes with one another and the dragon let out a low rumble from within. As Aleron stared back, he felt his own Beast growl and snarl its teeth at this new and most dreadful of adversaries. A werewolf, however, was no match for a dragon, at least not without the aid of the pack, but without breaking eye contact, Aleron slowly began putting distance between himself and the dragon.

As he backed away, the dragon broke off and flapped his wings skyward. The air coming off the beast's body was hot and dry, and made Aleron sweat just from a single gust. At first it appeared as if the dragon had had its fill of destruction for one day, but when it turned to swoop low back over the village, Aleron began running for the tower. Just before he got to cracked doorway, he noticed the soldier who had claimed his sword lying face down in the street. Aleron's hands were still bound, but he retrieved both his sword and hunting knife from their sheaths before flinging himself inside the tower. Just as he did, he felt the intense, burning heat of the dragon fire which had completely engulfed the street where he had just been standing.

"Where is Ulfric," Aleron demanded as he walked over to the Stormcloak soldier, Ralof, who had been with them aboard the execution wagon.

"I...I don't know for certain. I saw him before the dragon came down, but now he's gone," Ralof replied, a bit shaken.

"Right," Aleron said. He walked closer to Ralof and handed him the hunting knife. "Cut these damn ropes."

Ralof complied and then returned the hunting knife to Aleron. The Ranger then sheathed his sword and made sure the knife was firmly secured in the small of his back. His bow, cloak, and knapsack were nowhere to be found, probably still back with Ulfric's caravan. As he paced about the bottom floor of the tower, he noticed the Imperial soldiers cowering against the walls with widened eyes and mouths open in shock.

"So do you have a plan to get out of here, my friend," Ralof asked in his heavy Nordic accent.

Aleron eyed the window slits in the tower's walls and listened for sounds of the dragon as it soared and circled overhead. "Yes I do. I'm going to wait until that dragon loses interest in these people, and then I'm heading out of this tower, over the walls, and into the forest." He then looked back down at the frightened soldiers. "And if any of these pitiful souls attempt to stop me then I'll kill them where they stand."

Ralof looked at Aleron like he had not received the answer he had been looking for. "I see. And do you mind if I accompany you then?"

"Yes, Ralof, I do mind. Where I am going you cannot follow. You can follow me out of Helgen if you wish, but once we're beyond those walls, out paths lead in different directions. I am sorry."

Aleron had already formulated exactly where he was headed once he crossed the wall. His destination would be Elvenwood, for he needed both medical attention and sanctuary from the Imperials, the Thalmor, and now the dragons as well. He remembered the way into the hidden valley, even though he was not sure if he would be welcome. In the back of his mind he feared that his being allowed to stay was an exclusive offer which he had been a fool to let pass by. Time, however, would be the only way to tell.

Aleron ran. The dragon had not yet left, even though he had not heard its wings or felt its air for quite sometime. Both he and Ralof had been the first to venture out of the tower, only to come face to face with the creature and find the door back inside locked tight. They wasted no time in making their break for the wall, and they each hopped over and cleared the stony debris in a rush of adrenaline-fueled gracefulness. Once they were over, however, Ralof went one way and Aleron the other. Looking back it appeared Ralof was heading for Riverwood, but Aleron quickly lost sight of him as he was enveloped once again by the great pine forest.

He headed west, in the direction of Elvenwood, hoping the reach the secluded glen by nightfall. The sun was already well near setting, and even after he could no longer hear the roar of the dragon behind him, he still kept running. His sword clanked at his side as he cleared both rock and log, and he nimbly jumped from stone to stone as he negotiated the various cool mountain streams. Darkness would not be far off. He slowly began to feel the ground slope upward beneath his boots, and being sure to follow the stream which eventually led back to the large waterfall visible from his old chamber, he reasoned he was headed in the right direction.

Once the stars had finally set in and the moons shone bright, he came upon a pool which was a part of his stream. He had been running since Helgen, and had to take a rest. There was no food in his belly, but when he dropped to a knee in the soft grass, he felt as if he might be sick. He lay down upon his stomach and gently pulled himself to the water's edge where he allowed his body to take in all the water it could hold. It was delicious; cold and sweet on the tongue. He began to feel the life well back up within him, and the thought that kept racing through his mind of once again seeing Liethlri motivated him all the more to reach his destination.

When he had finished drinking his fill, he dunked his head beneath the surface of the pool and felt the dirt and grime melt off of his face. He came back to the surface to catch his breath, but just as he was about to dunk his head a second time, he felt the cold steel of a blade come to rest upon the side of this neck. He spun over onto his back in one quick, violent motion, and grabbed the arm of the hooded figure holding the blade. His legs wrapped around the figure's midsection, and pulling with all his might, Aleron brought him to the ground. He then grabbed the figure's own sword and held it across his neck.

Before Aleron could ask the figure any questions, however, he felt the equally cold, yet pointy tip of an arrow, drawn back and resting on his temple. Two more arrows then took up firing positions against other portions of his head. He dropped the blade as one of the figures with a bow started to speak. "Why do you trespass within the realm of Lord Geldiir," the silvery elven voice asked.

Aleron cleared his throat and then slid away from the elf he had just incapacitated. "I am Aleron, son of Arnand, and I seek sanctuary amongst your people."

The elf released the tension on his bow string and returned the arrow to its quiver. He then kneeled in front of Aleron and removed the hood from his head, letting his jet black locks flow and his eyes, like coal, reflect the moonlight. "Did I not tell you, Aleron, son of Arnand, that you would find no love, no clemency here in Skyrim? You trespass upon the lands of my Lord Geldiir, for which the penalty is death."

"I must speak to Lord Geldiir, there is a dragon out there! I barely escaped Helgen with my life, you fool!"

Faldil remained calm as he leaned in closer to Aleron's face, looks of both intrigue and suspicion painted all across his own. "And why would you see fit to bring this warning to us. Why not your own kind, Ranger?" He saw the instant terror fill Aleron's eyes.

"I...um...because the people of Tamriel are my kind, master elf," he replied. Did this elf somehow know of his run in with Liethlri? Was a love between them forbidden by her people? Could he see through his guise to enter their realm?

"Ah," Faldil said, standing. "Regardless of the dragon in Helgen, you are now my prisoner." He looked at his fellow guards. "Take him."

The elves thrust a black hood over Aleron's head which covered his entire face. His world was shadow, and he had no choice but to trudge along with them as they pushed him up the path to Elvenwood.

When his hood was finally removed, he was being thrown onto the cold, stone floor of a dungeon, and the iron door was slammed shut behind him. "I must speak with Lord Geldiir," he yelled, rushing to the bars. The guards looked at him with their cold and distant expressions.

Faldil rounded the corner beside his cell, the keys in his hand. "I shall let my lord know of your arrival," he said before leading his guards away.

"Dammit," Aleron screamed as he punched the door. The pain his fist now equalled that of his upper arm. The gash had stopped bleeding, but it was warm and the skin around it was becoming inflamed. He sunk down against the wall and buried his face in his hands.

"I told you to be wary, did I not," Hircine asked from the depths of his mind after what seemed like hours of sulking in self-pity for once again becoming a prisoner.

"You did, but it appears I failed to listen," Aleron replied, feeling hopeless.

"I must say that this dragon business troubles me. Why did you not do what the elf said and warn the other villages of this," asked Hircine. As Aleron was about to reply, the Daedra cut him off. "Actually, I know the reason. Is this she-elf that important to you? Love has never been something you have concerned yourself with until you told that fat monk your story. Why now?"

"I know not. Perhaps I was lonely? Perhaps I felt like this is where I belong," he answered.

"Of course you are lonely. You are meant to be. That is the life you have chosen. Loneliness is a way of life for the Ranger, if I'm not mistaken, but please, if you know something I do not, then feel free to enlighten me. But the way I see it, you have done nothing but walk into your own trap because of this."

"I know better than to try and tell you anything, but it seems to me that for a Daedric Prince to invest this much time and care into a mortal who rarely listens, then you must have some sort of plan."

"Like you with me, I know better than to try and tell you anything. You are stubborn beyond belief, Aleron. Truly. And now I'm not even sure if your gift could break down these bars."

"So that's it then? You would have me transform into the Beast in an attempt to tear myself away from here?"

"No. Not in the slightest. I can guarantee that you would meet your doom long before you could even find your way out of this prison. There are dozens of guards standing between you and freedom."

"Fine. I will simply sit here and rot then. I will make myself as comfortable as possible in this foul smelling tomb while the rest of the world burns in civil war and dragon fire."

"That is exactly what you'll do. This is your major fault. Ever since you received your gift you have done nothing but see your life as hopeless."

Faint footsteps started coming from outside of Aleron's cell, and Hircine appeared to be gone altogether. He sat there against the wall as the footsteps became more definite. Finally, he saw a shadow standing outside the cell door.

"To whom do you speak," a soothing voice inquired. It wafted into his senses like sweet honey or the finest West Weald wine, but carried upon it a longing and sadness which engulfed his heart. He stuck his head out from the shadows and found none other than Liethlri standing there, looking through the iron bars, bathed in torchlight. Her red hair and hazel eyes were just as he had remembered, only now they were heavy with concern.

"I speak with my unfortunate affliction, milady," Aleron sighed. He deeply regretted that the first time in almost 40 years he had seen her was in such a condition. A wounded prisoner, conversing with the Daedric Prince of the Hunt.

She knelt down in front of the door and placed her smooth fingers through the cold iron bars. He turned and reached out to touch them for the first time in what seemed like an age. She recoiled slightly as he reached out for her, but then ceased as his rough, calloused hands firmly clasped hers. As their hands touched, she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

"I have often thought back to that night upon my balcony," she said, opening her eyes after a long silence. "I dreamed and hoped that you would one day come back to us...to me, Ranger." A single tear rolled down from her beautiful eyes and down her cheek.

"Liethlri," he sighed as he moved closer. "Do not cry. One so beautiful as you must not shed tears for men like me. I am here. Now. With you," he said. He felt the warm tears begin to well up in his own cold, grey eyes.

With another tear from her, she removed her hand from his and gently raised her arm to caress his face. Her soothing touch ran down the side of his cheek and through his scruffy beard, with her fingers finally brushing across his lips. He closed his eyes and took the entire moment in. Every sound, every smell, every touch. It calmed him, and for a time he wished it would never end. Just then a surge of pain shot up from his arm and he winced back from her. Her eyes widened as the torchlight illuminated the gash on his upper arm. It was becoming infected.

"You're hurt. How did this...did Faldil do this to you? What happened," she frantically yet quietly implored.

"I'm alright. There was a battle near Helgen. I was captured, but managed to escape." She looked him over and took notice of the ragged state in which he appeared and also at the lack of clothing he now wore. His shirt was torn not only on his arm, but it was also dirty and blood stained. His trousers muddy and ripped at the knee.

Both Liethlri and Aleron began to hear footsteps approaching his cell, and he immediately retracted her arms from within. She stood and looked to see who it was that entered the dungeon. When it appeared to be only a guard, she waited until he passed before kneeling back down to Aleron.

"My father shall hear of this. I will speak to him at once," she said. Her voice sounding all at once infuriated. Aleron did not speak, he merely held his hands out from between the bars. She grasped them tightly and kissed the top of his hand before giving him one last look. In a flash she was gone, and Aleron felt the loneliness wash over him once more. It was as if she had never been there at all.

Chapter 7

A She-Elf's Fury

The large, ornate doors of Geldiir's chambers flew open with a reverberating crash as they slammed against the walls behind them. It was nearly dawn, and from the windows could been seen night's deep blue fading away upon the horizon. At the sound of the boisterous intrusion, Geldiir sprang up from his table and nearly knocked his parchment and quill to the floor. Faldil spun around and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Father! Why is the Ranger imprisoned below in the dungeons," she demanded, her hazel eyes turning red near their centers.

Geldiir's initial expression of surprise twisted, and Faldil narrowed his eyes. "Why do you concern yourself with him, Liethlri," Faldil angrily questioned. "The Beast should count his blessings that he was not chained to the very walls of his cell!"

"Be silent, Faldil," Liethlri ordered. "I am your captain and you shall never again question me, or speak to me in that way." She glared at him, and he took a step back toward the windows.

Geldiir slowly navigated around his writing table and stood between his daughter and her subordinate. He could see the frustration in her eyes, and moved to erect a barrier between her and her betrothed. His first thought was to place a hand on her shoulder, but when he saw the enraged look upon her face up close, he went against his impulse.

Liethlri's cheeks burned hot as he began to speak. "Do not berate your lieutenant, Liethlri. He was only doing his duty in your absence. But I too am curious as to why you feel it necessary to lift our bans on trespassing for the sake of one wandering Ranger," he said.

"Because you know as well as I that he means us no harm. He is also injured and bears news which you would deem most important," she replied, her voice still refusing to cool.

"I understand that this man has been in our care before, but when offered a place amongst us he refused. Whatever news he may have is of little concern to us. We hold our place here in seclusion from the troubles of the outside world," said Geldiir.

"Father," she pleaded. "I humbly request you hear out whatever he has to say, and remove him from the prisons." Geldiir stepped back and grabbed his chin in thought, but still looked as if his position would hold firm.

She was unaware of what Faldil may have told him before her unexpected arrival, and as she glared at him, she suspected that he had already woven a web of treachery to surround Aleron's capture. Geldiir was an honorable leader, and had always had the best interests of his people at heart, but he was firmly implanted in his thinking that for his people to endure they must remain estranged from the troubles of men. Faldil was no different, which also caused her to suspect he fancied himself Lord of the Realm in the future, after his marriage to her. He was not a puppet, in the sense of the Thalmor and Imperials, but he was more than willing to see to his lord's exceedingly outdated wishes.

Faldil had apparently found his courage at last, and stepped back toward Liethlri, with her clenched fists and raised eyebrow.

"Amen merna quen, Liethlri," he quietly expressed.

"Then speak. It is not as if you haven't been speaking behind my back all through the night," she retorted. She was not sure as to why he spoke in Elvish. The common tongue was more widely used; perhaps it was a hidden fear of her he possessed.

Faldil cleared his throat and swallowed. "Liethlri, it is true I have informed your father of the dragon to which the Ranger bore witness, but this is still no reason for him to trespass upon our lands. He has no reason to be here, and as such we should no amend our laws when he could have easily warned the men who may be in immediate danger."

It was true that the circumstances of Aleron's arrival were questionable. She felt in her heart, however deep down she had to go, as to why he may have made his way there. But it had been 40 years since they had even last spoke. Why now would he come back, and was the dragon his only reason for seeking their hidden valley?

"Faldil, I understand you position, love," she responded, doing her best to sound calm. Referring to her lieutenant as her love, however, caused a bitter pang in her chest; not only because of his treatment of Aleron, but because Aleron was, in fact, so near her again. For some reason she felt a guilt towards him, towards them both. "But we simply cannot over look him or the news he bears. Our realm may be inaccessible to the armies or evils of men, but if the dragons are returning, we will not be able to hide from them."

Geldiir's eyes connected with hers after her last comment, and she immediately looked away from his increasingly questioning gaze. However, once her eyes had turned, he made his way around Faldil and to the edge of the window. He stared into the fading night sky for a long while, pondering to himself, as both Liethlri and Faldil relaxed their stances behind him.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally spoke. "See to it that this Ranger is cleaned up and his wounds tended to," he sighed. "Then you shall have him brought to me, Faldil."

Faldil closed his eyes and released a tense breath of quiet indignation. "Yes, my lord," he replied. He snapped tall and then turned to leave the room with a silent nod from Geldiir. Liethlri turned to leave as soon as Faldil had gone. She wished to remove herself from her father's chambers lest his discerning eyes catch hers once more.

Outside, the long, stone hallway was lit by the orange glow of torches. She brushed at the strands of hair in front of her ears, and leaned against the wall, rubbing her temples. Faldil, however, had not yet left the hall, and instead was there waiting on her. He moved beside her and for the first time in her life, she felt his presence slightly intimidating.

"Why do you linger, Faldil," she asked, her eyes still closed. "My lord has given you your orders."

He moved closer and put his arm on the wall beside her. "I might ask the same of you, Liethlri. Why is it that you linger in the shadows to meet in secret with the Beast. What is this mere Ranger to you? You have never before taken such an interest in a prisoner, and it troubles me deeply. The guards alerted me that you have spoken with him."

A feeling of panic washed over her and her eyes shot open. What had the other guards told him of her meeting with Aleron? Had they seen her touch him? "I spoke with him because he bears valuable information which could very well effect us all."

"You know him, do you not? You have seen the Ranger somewhere before, haven't you?" The way Faldil seemed to hiss when he spoke of him angered her, and she had had enough of his prying questions.

"His name is Aleron, Faldil. This Beast and this mere Ranger to which you refer is a human being with a name!" She pushed him aside and stormed off into the shadows once more.

Elvish clothes felt strange to Aleron. A healer had come to his cell and stitched up the wound to his arm, and then he had been escorted, under guard, to a hot spring in which to bathe. Once the dried blood and dirt was washed from his skin, he donned the outfit which had been laid out upon a nearby chair for him. It was a pair of light grey trousers, much like the ones he already owned, but instead of the rough tunic which he was used to, he found himself sliding into a soft, red shirt with sleeves that only came as far as his forearms. A pair of velvet shoes had also been provided to him, but he instead opted to keep his old boots.

Once he was cleaned and dressed, the guards took him by the arm and escorted him upward, out of the dungeons, and to Lord Geldiir's chambers. It was mid-morning, and the golden sun shone through the sheer curtains over the windows as Geldiir sat at his writing table. Faldil stood beside him, and as soon as he was within the room, the guards left, closing the doors behind them. Liethlri was nowhere to be found, which he felt was probably for the best.

"Please, sit," Geldiir gestured to a chair in front of the table. Aleron eyed the elves cautiously for a moment, and then moved forward to take his seat. Geldiir looked up from his parchments. "My men tell me you have been through a great deal in these subsequent days. I regret that our first meeting since your last visit with us is under such circumstances."

"Pay it no mind, my lord. I apologize for my trespasses, but I bring grave news which I feel you should know," Aleron said. Faldil scoffed to the side, and Aleron shot a look of contempt in his direction like an icy arrow.

"This is what I have been told. Tell me more of this business of dragons," Geldiir said. He folded his hands and looked Aleron in the eye.

"My lord, I fear that the neighboring village of Helgen has been destroyed by this monster. I was captured and under the headsman's axe when it first appeared."

"An execution? How did you come to find yourself in that situation? I wish to know of the dragon, but if you are here seeking refuge from your crimes, then I will see you banished at once." There was no jest in Geldiir's voice, and Aleron swallowed hard before continuing.

"As I'm sure you know, my comrades and I have been disavowed by the Emperor and his Thalmor puppet masters. I know not why I in particular was singled out, but I was nearly captured in Colovia, and then had no choice but to flee northward with my friend, a monk of Weynon Priory."

"Go on."

"Your man here," Aleron motioned in Faldil's direction, "came upon us some days ago in the wild, a day before I was drawn into a dreadful engagement outside of Helgen. The Thalmor and the Legion were after Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, and it was not until I was heavily involved that I realized this. I thought it to be mere travelers under attack by bandits at first, but was then quickly shown my error in judgement. I saw it as my duty to render aid, which then led to my capture and attempted execution."

Geldiir leaned forward in his chair. "So now that you have been disowned by your Empire, you see fit to carry out your own form of vigilante justice upon any who attack another?"

"No, my lord, that is not..."Aleron was cut off by an interruption from Faldil.

"You see, Lord Geldiir, harboring this man anywhere but in our prisons will only bring us trouble."

Aleron stood and eyed him coldly. "Tread lightly, young one. For had I a blade, one might go so far as to lose their head."

Geldiir, pounded his fist on the table. "Silence, Ranger. Faldil, I believe it best if you leave us for now." The elf nodded to his superior and then left the room, all the while attempting to stare down Aleron.

"I apologize, my lord," Aleron said after returning to his chair. Geldiir waved his hand as he stood. The door closed behind him, and the wise elf turned his back to the Breton. He stared out the window and back toward the ceiling. The room was silent for ages, and Aleron realized that the Geldiir who now stood before him was not the same as the one who had tended to his wounds years ago.

Finally, Geldiir spoke. "I would appreciate a refrain from anymore lies, Aleron, son of Arnand. We both know why it is you are hunted, for within you beats the heart of the silver lion, does it not? Your Emperor and his Thalmor see you as a threat; I know this."

"Yes, Lord Geldiir. I suppose this is true." Geldiir waved his hand through the air once more. He still did not look at Aleron directly.

"What of my daughter," was all he asked after more silence.

Aleron's blood ran cold for an instant. "I beg your pardon, sire," he replied, nervously.

"I remember the way in which you looked upon here when last you were here, so now I must ask as question. Did you seek the safety of our realm because of this dragon pursuing you, or did you come here for Liethlri?"

It was a fair question that deserved a truthful answer. Aleron had no reason to beat around the bush with Geldiir. The elf was old and wise, and had already proven he saw much; much more than Aleron had given him credit for. He then thought to Liethlri, and any repercussions this may have for her, but the loneliness in his heart and his longing for her proved nearly unbearable. He thought back to the night before and the soothing tenderness of her touch which he had craved to feel again for so long.

"Yes, my lord. I thought to come here so that I might once again see her. I know we barely know one another, but you have to understand, she had been the only woman to ever capture me in this way. Her beauty is beyond compare, and I apologize once again if you feel I may have taken advantage of you and your people."

Then something happened which Aleron had not intended. Geldiir's lips formed a small smile, and he sat back down to face him. "I know all of this as well. I do not know if you do, but she is betrothed to my young Faldil. They have been set to marry for quite sometime, but there has always been some part of her which seems to be awaiting something else. Many times I have watched her gaze into the wood, hoping that she may catch a glimpse of you as you pass by. I will admit that even after you had gone, I saw her look happy for the first time in ages."

The thoughts of Liethlri longing for him in the same way in which he pined for her brought a rush of joy to his heart and color to his cheeks. However, his thoughts were soon met with sadness, as he had not known of her betrothal to Faldil. He had suspected something of the sort when she refused his advances all those years before, but now his suspicions had been proven. The thoughts cut him like a knife.

Geldiir saw the disappointment spread across Aleron's face, and for a moment felt sorry for him, but then remembered that it was probably best for his daughter to remain with Faldil and within Elvenwood's borders. Even still, Aleron had brought a necessary warning to him concerning the dragon, and he could not bring himself to be cruel to the poor young man. His intentions were good, and he felt as if permitting him to see Liethlri once more before leaving would not be any harm.

"My Lord Geldiir," Aleron began. "I am sorry, but I feel as if I must take my leave. You have heard my warning, no I suppose it is high time I warn the others of Skyrim." He stood and bowed his head slightly, and then turned to leave Geldiir's chamber.

That evening Aleron readied himself to leave from within the same chamber he had been alloted years before. In addition to his new clothes, he had been given a long, black, sleeveless tunic to wear overtop his shirt, and also a green-grey traveling cloak. He examined the cloak and ran his fingers over the leafy fastening. After his meeting with Lord Geldiir and being shown his room from which to prepare, his sword and hunting knife had been returned to him.

As he packed his remaining possessions into a leather knapsack, his heart was heavy. He had thought that coming to Elvenwood would bring him joy and happiness, but the truth of the matter was all too different. He had been treated like a captured animal for the majority of his stay, and the she-elf who owned his heart had scarcely been seen. He tried not to think about it too much, but learning of her betrothal to Faldil was heart wrenching and most painful.

In the end he attempted to focus his mind on other things, as he had become so adept at doing over the years. Fredra should have been able to make his way to Riverwood by now, but there was no way to know for certain without venturing there and seeing for himself. He still felt responsible for Fredra's well-being, and also, the monk was in possession of Aleron's horse. It would be a long trek to the settlement along the banks of the White River, but it was nothing he had not done before.

Still no breeze had blown all day, not even then as the sun had just faded. He had just strapped his sword and hunting knife to his waist when he heard a knock at his chamber door. Being unable to tell who it might be, his lips snarled at the thoughts of opening the door unto Faldil's black eyes. In any case he had no real choice but to see who his caller was, so he quickly walked over and eased the door aside.

Standing there, with her face half obscured in shadow, was Liethlri. She looked up at him and did not say a word, simply placing her hand on the door and softly pushing her way inside, wearing her green velvet hunting clothes. Once she was within, she turned to close the door behind her. Aleron remained cautious, guarding his already nearly broken heart, and backed to the far corner of the room.

In Liethlri's hand she clasped a large burlap sack, which she sat atop the table near the center of the room. On her back was a small quiver full of arrows, and an equally small bow which Aleron at first assumed belonged to her until she laid them on the table as well. He still stood on the other side of the room, and Liethlri had not yet said a word. After she had laid the items out upon the table, she then stepped back and looked across and into his eyes.

"I had feared I would not see you before you departed," she said quietly. "These are for you. I think you will find the contents of the sack most interesting." She pointed to the table and stepped to the side as he moved forward to inspect the items she had brought.

The bow, being still unstrung, could easily be clasped to the quiver and slung across his back to be carried compactly and out of the way. It was a smaller bow, much smaller than the longbow he was used to carrying, but made of the same wood. It measured about half the length of his old one, but he felt it would shoot an arrow just the same. The arrows Liethlri had brought were also new and intriguing. They were Elvish arrows, of course, and their shined, pointed steel broad heads were mounted upon long shafts of ash, and then fletched near the top with hawk feathers. There was no questioning they would fly true and hit hard.

When Aleron opened the burlap sack and stuck his had down inside, he felt around for a moment before his hand stopped completely and he looked up at Liethlri with widened eyes. He peeled back the burlap, and revealed a short tunic of chain mail, sleeveless, the sides removed with leather straps in their place, and a single spot on the right side where three of the tiny rings had gone missing.

"How did you come by this," he nearly gasped to Liethlri.

Her lips curled into a soft smile before answering. "It has been in my possession since you were here last. Nearly 40 years ago, if I'm not mistaken. It was discarded as my father tended to your arrow wound, and it was never given back to you before you left. I know not where you plan to go, Aleron, but I wager this may prove useful before your journey ends."

She stepped closer to him; so close their bodies nearly touched. He wanted to back away, lest he be tempted to fall further in love with this woman whom he knew her could not have. When she said his name, however, it was like sweet music to him, and he once again felt his heart begin to pine away.

"I thank you milady. Yes, this will prove most useful," he sheepishly replied. She looked as if she had been a tad bit offended by his not using her name as she had his. It was almost as if she called him by name simply to hear him reply to her in kind.

But as she stood there and watched him remove his cloak and vest, and don his chain mail beneath them, she sensed something in him. She had been feeling a sense of sadness all the day long, even before then, and knew it had something to do with Aleron's eminent departure from Elvenwood. It had taken 40 years for them to reunite after their first meeting, and now that she had some idea of what he was heading out to face, she the possibilities of him never returning began to cross her mind.

All at once these thoughts became too much for her, and she felt a rush of worry and fear wash over her. It was an odd combination of the emotions which she had never before felt; at least never for Faldil. She turned, the tears beginning to well in her hazel eyes, and flung herself into Aleron who was looking down, adjusting his clothes. Admittedly his chest was much harder than she had originally anticipated, given he recent donning of his chain mail, but nevertheless she buried her head underneath his chin and wrapped her arms around him.

Aleron was completely taken aback by her sudden outburst of emotion. Not that he didn't welcome it, but he was just surprised. It was just as bitter sweet as every other moment they had ever shared, however, and his heart finally became torn as her warm tears bled into the shoulder of his shirt. His first instinct was to protect himself so as to not be hurt any further, but the tighter she held him and the deeper her head buried itself into him, he could not help but wrap his arms around her and squeezed her tightly and closer in.

"You must not go. I fear for you, and yet...and yet I barely know you," Liethlri finally said as her tears began to subside. Aleron removed one arm from the embrace and used his free hand to brush a strand of hair back from her face.

What Liethlri had just said put all of his emotions into perspective, and drove home a point which he had discussed with Geldiir, not but mere hours before. Geldiir expressed his certain unwillingness to see his daughter with not only a child of Hircine, but also with a man. His main focus, however, was not that his daughter may leave or make an unwise sacrifice to be with him, instead it was exactly as Liethlri had said, they hardly knew each other. This was the truth, but Aleron knew exactly how he felt about her, and even though she seemed uncertain about giving in, he felt Liethlri felt the same about him. It was a slippery slope, and the more Aleron tossed it around in his mind, he began to wonder if he had done more harm than good by coming to Elvenwood.

"Is there somewhere we can go," he asked. "Somewhere we can be alone, yet not accused of hiding behind closed doors?"

Liethlri raised her head, her eyes now puffy and bloodshot, and nodded. Before taking his hand and exiting the room, she allowed him to gather the remainder of his things, confirming her fears that he would be on his way as soon as their conversation had concluded.

Once outside she led him down from the massive tree where his chamber was located, and across the forum in the middle of the village. They walked quietly along, hand in hand, down the smooth stone path until she turned and brought him to a garden. It was out of sight of any prying eyes who may be watching from on high, but had the most beautiful view of any he had yet seen in Elvenwood, even more beautiful than that from Liethlri's balcony.

The garden itself was old but well maintained. Narrower paths of stone circled around the perimeter, and there was a low wall encompassing its entire circumference. White marble benches were placed at various places throughout the garden, so that its visitors may sit and enjoy the sights and smells of the wild roses, mountain flowers, and exquisitely groomed shrubbery. One the opposite side of the wall was a drop off which sloped steeply down to the stream which generated from the waterfall in the distance. This drop off made for a magnificent vista, its views stretching as far as the eye could see into the clear, deep blue night.

"We will shall be left alone here. No one ever comes here at night, yet it is one of my favorite places. I used to sit here when I was a child, and still do from time to time," said Liethlri as she pulled him to one of the benches near the overlook. When they had sat down, she continued to speak. "What did my father say to you when you went to tell him of the dragon? He specifically told me not to attend and sent me on a patrol which lasted the remainder of the day, just to make sure I didn't return before you finished."

Aleron knew what Liethlri wanted to know, even though she didn't really ask it of him. "He said almost exactly the same as you, when you expressed that we barely knew each other. He told me that was why we could not be together in his eyes. That and my beast blood."

"As much as it pains me to agree, we do not know each other. I know almost nothing about you, Aleron, son of Arnand. Other than your name, of course," she replied, her eyes twinkling somewhat behind their redness. "But what did he say of Faldil?"

"Faldil was never mentioned, save when your father told him to leave. But, Liethlri, I must confess something to you," Aleron said. He took a deep breath as Liethlri's eyes began to tear up once more. His next words would pain him, but they had to be said. He was currently being selfish, as well as neglecting his duties, whether still a legitimized Ranger or not.

"My beautiful Liethlri, my wild forest rose," he began as he brushed her face with his hand, wiping a tear from her cheek. He had no idea how those sort of pet names came to him, but he could tell she did not mind. "I fear this dragon may be more than a stray occurrence. The people beyond this realm may be in grave danger, and it is my duty to protect them in any way I can. I feel certain you understand this." The tears started streaming down at more regular intervals, and with each one he could feel another chip of his heart crack off and fall away.

"But why must you arrive here once more only to leave again? This is nearly a cruel thing you have done, Ranger. I know your duty, but I do not want you to leave, as I do not care what my father says. I do not care about Faldil either for that matter. If you do not stay, then I shall leave with you."

Liethlri was failing to handle herself, and Aleron began to fear she would do something rash if he did not agree to stay, but they both knew he could never do that. "Liethlri, you know I cannot stay, but I promise you this; I shall defend these people until the last, and then I will return here for you. But I must have your word that you will not leave here until then. It is not safe."

Aleron barely gave her time to nod before leaning in to kiss her. It was nowhere near as passionate as the one they had shared upon her balcony, as this kiss was filled with sorrow. He pulled his lips away from hers, every instant he lingered making him want to stay for good. With one last embrace, he was off into the night, never looking back.

Liethlri sat upon the marble bench and wept as the moons bathed her in white light. She wondered if the Ranger would keep his promise, and after a few moments her heart assured her he would.

Chapter 8

Riverwood

It had taken two whole days to reach the outskirts of Riverwood since he had left the safety of the Elven glens. He had stayed clear of the roads, spending the majority of his time slogging through underbrush, hoping to avoid being seen from both the air and ground. Now, behind some rocks looking toward the stone archway denoting the entrance to the village proper, Aleron observed the small cabin just outside the stone construct.

The cabin in question was no strange structure to Aleron. He had occupied it many times throughout the years as it was one of dozens erected across Skyrim's frontier regions to provide shelter for the Empire's wayfaring Rangers. There were lights coming from the two front, and only, windows on either side of the door. Smoke curled out from the chimney, but he had no clue who was inside. No one seemed to move by the windows, so his only option would be to move in for a better look.

A dog barked within the village, and he could barely make out the low baying of cattle above the roar of the river as it whipped by the village's sawmill. He neared the cabin, sticking to the trees and shadows, but then stopped as he saw movement coming from inside the small, thatch-roofed stable behind the equally tiny cabin. His thoughts of observing the cabin's occupant, or occupants, waived for a moment, and he silently crept to the stable to see how many horses were within.

Relief began to well in his mind as he noticed the muscular black steed and the two smaller bay mares beside it as they swayed in peaceful slumber. What puzzled him, however, was the tall, chestnut stallion in their midst. He recognized his own horse, Fredra's, and the packhorse, but did not know the other. Still keeping as quiet and cautious as he could, he snuck around the side of the cabin, and onto the front porch.

He knelt below the window beside the door, being careful to stay out of the light, and inched his head above the window sill to peek inside. There was a fire going, and he could see his portly friend, still in his brown monk robes, curled up on a bed in the corner. Given that Fredra appeared to be unharmed, he stood and made his way to the door. He knocked out a coded pattern on the rough wood, and then waited for a response.

When another coded knock came from the other side, and the door cracked open some moments later, he came face to face with another he had not seen in quite some time. Standing there was another Ranger by the name of Lycaon, and Aleron recognized him immediately. It took Lycaon a moment to realize just who it was knocking at such an hour, but then a look of disbelief came across his face.

"Aleron," the older Ranger gasped.

"Yes, tis' me, my brother. You look as if you have seen a ghost," Aleron replied with a smile.

Lycaon threw the door aside and Aleron stepped in. He shut the door, and then the two old friends grasped each other by the forearm, and pulled into a hard embrace. They stepped back and eyed one another up and down before either of them spoke again. The commotion had cause Fredra to wake, and after the monk had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, they lit up with excitement.

"Mr. Aleron! Glory be," Fredra exclaimed. He rushed to his friend who met him with another embrace. "I thought you with the beyond, I did! When you did not return I did exactly as you instructed and made my way here."

"You did well, Fredra. It does me well to see you, and I thank you for looking after my horse."

Half an hour later the three of them were gathered round the table, smoking their pipes and savoring flagons of mead.

"So tell me, old friend, what news from the south," Lycaon inquired, taking a draw from his pipe.

Aleron had placed his gear against the wall and removed his heavy mail. "The news is not good I am afraid. I am sure you have felt the sting of the hunters which now pursue us, and I am sure Fredra had informed you of the circumstances surrounding our arrival here."

"Aye. Indeed he has. I cannot believe that damn she-elf finally got her way. Having us disbanded and declared outlaws that is," Lycaon said.

"She-elf," Aleron questioned.

"Yes, her name is Elenwen, I believe. She's been the one directing those gold skins and manipulating Mede and Tullius against us. I think she's some sort of ambassador for the Thalmor in Skyrim, for whatever that lie of a title is worth."

When Lycaon had first referred to a she-elf Aleron's thoughts sprang back to Liethlri, whom he had done his utmost to block from his mind since leaving Elvenwood.

"I have a question, if you don't mind, Mr. Aleron," Fredra interjected. Aleron nodded from behind his flagon. "You said you got captured before you saw that dragon, but then got away? Where have you been these past few days, sir?"

Aleron sighed, and caught Lycaon staring at him from the corner of his eye. Lycaon had known about Aleron and Liethlri since his first visit to Elvenwood. They had served together since the Great War, and had fought together many times since.

"Well...I...um, went into hiding, but that did not go as smoothly as I had expected. Once I made my break from Helgen, I went west. In the opposite direction of Riverwood, so as to not lead any pursuers to you," he said, trying to leave his answer as broad as possible, and hoping Fredra would leave it at that.

Lycaon, on the other hand, smiled after taking a pull of mead. "So I take it your Bosmer friends aren't as hospitable as they used to be, brother?"

Aleron nearly choked on his tobacco as Fredra's eyes shot wide. "You went to see her, Mr. Aleron? The elf woman you was telling me about?" The monk sounded like a child listening to a bedtime story once again.

"Aye, I did. But one of their guards which we ran into on our way here found me first. They locked me in their dungeons and nearly refused to hear of the dragon altogether. Stubborn lot, those elves. Stuck in their old ways of seclusion and such."

"Well given our current relationship with most of their kind, I doubt they'd expect any better treatment if it was you or I that caught one of them sneaking about," Lycaon added. Aleron shrugged in nonchalant agreement. "But that leads me to ask, what do we do now that there's a dragon running loose on us?"

"I do not know. I have read the old tales and all sorts of dragon prophecies, but nowhere can I remember learning how to destroy one. Of course, other than those old men up the mountain, I'm not sure who would," said Aleron, referring to the Grey Beards of High Hrothgar. They were an ancient order devoted to the dragons and the equally ancient teachings of the Voice.

"Best I can wager, I'd say we're looking to need some numbers if we are to slay the foul beast. Unfortunately, and thanks to our Lady Elenwen, we can't call on our brothers like we used to. No, we're going to need help. The question, though, is where do we find it," Lycaon pondered aloud.

"That is the question of the evening, isn't it," asked Aleron. "With this damned civil war in the forefront of everyone's mind I'm not sure we could find many who are willing to band together for a common good."

"Too right to that," Lycaon replied, turning up his flagon. He continued after downing his gulp. "I've got two more men at my disposal, but they patrol the road between here and Whiterun. I dare say they're the only ones guarding that road nowadays, not to mention they are hopelessly green. I trust them, but they have never been in a fight other than with the occasional bandit raiding party."

"Hmm," Aleron pondered. "That's it then."

"What's what then," Lycaon asked, suddenly appearing confused.

"If we must gain numbers, then we must find them for ourselves. The jarls will more than likely be unwilling to spare men to go hunting for dragons, but if we were to but reorganize our order..." Aleron expressed to his old friend.

Lycaon cut him off. "Aleron, please. Let us think on this for a moment. Elenwen and Tullius would love nothing more to see us all wiped clean from the province. Our numbers are scarce and small as it is, and most of our old brothers have moved on or into hiding like us. We cannot simply ride across the country side nailing recruiting orders to trees."

"I realize they seek to exterminate us, perhaps even more so than you. But what better way to insure out survival if not by regaining our strength even in the midst of their hunt? If our numbers grow beyond their ability to hunt us down, then we may yet be able to become organized enough to defend our people. Not for the Empire, not for Mede, but for all the peoples of this continent."

"But my friend," Lycaon began before being stopped by Aleron.

"No. We were once a great force of good for all citizens of this Empire, but now it seems our Emperor has deemed us useless. But we are not useless, Lycaon. We all took an oath to defend the people of this land, and even the land itself. I never once went back on that oath, and I doubt many of our brothers have either."

The following morning Aleron awoke to find Fredra tending to the horses, and Lycaon sitting on the porch, lost in thought. He figured it best not to disturb him, as it took much convincing the previous night to get him onboard with reorganizing the few remaining Rangers and looking for new recruits.

Instead he walked down from the cabin and into Riverwood itself, hoping to purchase supplies from the local trading post. It was his intent to purchase the components to craft a few meager weapons, as both he and Lycaon were somewhat skillful smiths, and also the components to begin assembling and shaping arrows. When he had made his purchases and filled the wooden wheelbarrow he had brought, he began his short walk back to the cabin. However, as he reached the path leading to the front door, he noticed Lycaon was now in conversation with a man who's armor was draped with a blue tartan.

"Damn. Stormcloaks," he muttered to himself as he neared the porch. He left the wheelbarrow, and as he approached the unknown Stormcloak, he let a hand rest upon the hilt of his sword.

"Aleron," Lycaon greeted as he stood from his chair. "This man here says he was at Helgen when the dragon attacked." Aleron's eyebrow raised as the blonde-haired Nord turned, and so did the other when he recognized his face.

"Ralof," he asked. "So I see you made it from the dragon's fire unscathed as well."

The Nord smiled and reached to grasp Aleron's forearm. Aleron apprehensively returned the gesture before Lycaon explained the purpose of his visit.

"This man, Ralof, here has been telling me of the utter lack of security around this village. He says his sister has been trying to get a few guards from Whiterun to make their way here, but all of her letters have gone unanswered."

"I see. And Ralof, has anyone from the village approached Jarl Balgruf in person to discuss this," Aleron asked the Nord.

"No, they cannot. My sister can barely leave her work as it is, and to be honest we are surprised that she has not been arrested already. The folks up in Whiterun are aware that her brother follows Jarl Ulfric, even though they do not know me personally."

Aleron nodded at Ralof's story, and then motioned to his friend to follow him. They walked around the side of the cabin, out of earshot, and then Aleron laid into him.

"What in Oblivion are you thinking, just allowing some Stormcloak soldier to walk up and start having a chat? By the gods, my friend, are you trying to have us killed or expose us?"

"Calm down. From the sound of things it sounds as if he's become a little disillusioned with his old commander," said Lycaon.

"Damn it all, that may be, but do you know what might happen if someone were to catch him speaking to us? It's bad enough that he's the enemy in the eyes of the Imperials, but what were you to do if he's actually some sort of informant and lets somebody know who we are?"

Lycaon put a hand on Aleron's shoulder. "Brother, if you would but listen to what he has to say, then you might in fact change your mind." Aleron was not happy, but the pair returned from the far side of the cabin and back to Ralof.

"So, Ralof, other than on behalf of your sister, why might it be that you arrived here," Aleron asked him.

"I have nowhere to go, and I know who you are. My jarl and I came upon each other while I was on my way here, and he barred me from returning, saying I was a coward for fleeing the dragon's fire."

"Sounds like a glorious leader to me," Lycaon scoffed.

Ralof tried not to appear offended. "Well, yes. I have nowhere to go, but the longer I stay here the more danger I put my sister and her family in. I cannot return to Windhelm, and you both know I cannot seek shelter in Solitude. You friend here tells me you are trying to reorganize your order, and I would be more than willing to do my bit if it meant I played a part in defending my home from this evil."

Aleron stood there and thought for a moment. Lycaon did have a point about their plans, and if they decided to allow Ralof to stay, then that would be one less recruit they would have to find. He sent a look towards Lycaon to see if he had his fellow Ranger's approval, and Lycaon faintly nodded back. Ralof was still in conversation with Lycaon as Aleron finished his pondering, and he cut him off mid-sentence.

"Ralof, are you able to return here tonight," Aleron asked.

The Nord looked confused for a moment before answering. "Why yes, I can. What, may I ask, for?"

"Nevermind that for now. But when you return be sure to bring your equipment, and be sure you are not followed." Aleron turned to head back inside the cabin, but stopped and made one more statement to Ralof. "And be sure to lose that Stormcloak blue, if you please."

Chapter 9

Stealing Away

Liethlri made it to her chambers and locked the door behind her. She was breathing heavily and had been bustling about all morning. Hopefully she had not roused an suspicion, but it would not surprise her if she had. She had been sure to avoid both Faldil and her father, and it was now only a matter of time before one of them came looking for her. There wasn't much time.

After making sure the door was locked tight, she turned her attention to one of the large wardrobes against the far wall. Flinging the doors aside, she began stripping out of her courtly clothes, the floor feeling cold beneath her feet, and flung her hunting clothes out across her large bed. She slid into her green shirt and brown trousers, and then tied on her small leather breast plate which fit more like a corset than armor. Overtop that she slid her arms into her green knee-length tunic, and finally pulled on her brown leather boots. There was no telling how long she would be away, so she thought it wise to pack a small knapsack with a few meager food items. This was placed underneath her quiver of arrows and on top of her dark green cloak.

Before turning to leave and descend from her balcony she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. At first her mind wanted to know what exactly she thought she was doing, but her heart won out and told her it was in the right place. Footsteps from outside the door caught her attention.

"Liethlri," Geldiir called from outside. He tried to open the door, but was met with the sound of a frozen lock. "Liethlri, is everything alright?"

A sudden panic came over her and she darted through the sheer curtains and out into the stone surface of the balcony. She could hear the door being forced open behind her, and not having time to fully plan her descent, jumped into the thick branches of the nearest tree. It sounded like Faldil had joined her father in his search of the room by the time she was halfway down, but she kept going. A pang of sadness for what she was about to put Geldiir through trapped her for a moment, but for some reason her feet kept pulling her forward and into the forest.

All was calm on the ground. No alarm had yet been raised, but she ran into the trees, heading northeast in the direction of Falkreath. In conversation she had had with her father after Aleron's departure, he had mentioned he had a companion in Riverwood, but he had also mentioned the old Ranger hideout underneath Falkreath's inn, Dead Man's Drink. Her mind told her Aleron would probably not be there, but given the circumstances of his arrival in Elvenwood, she feared he was or would soon be in danger. Geldiir had made it clear he would receive no help from the elves, but there was a possibility some of his brothers still held out there who could offer him aid. Or at least tell her for sure where she could find him.

There was no way to know if Faldil would come after her. She felt he probably would, but by the time he had mustered his guards, she would be well near their borders. Her biggest fear was running into a patrol that was already out there. If she was intercepted, she may be able to feign a response that would send them on their way, but they would surely report back to Faldil or Geldiir and inform them of her direction of travel. It was the lightest journey she had ever undertaken, and as he quietly ran through the trees and underbrush, she wondered if that was what it was like to live a day in Aleron's life. Alone, on the run, and having to stay as quiet as shadow.

It was not that far to Falkreath, in fact she could make it there before nightfall, but that did not necessarily mean she wanted to. Once she neared the outskirts of the village she would have to wait until dark to make her approach. The Rangers were hopefully still about, but the Jarl of Falkreath was a young, selfish Imperial puppet who scorned all elves, regardless of their allegiances.

After an hour or so of hard running, she grew tired and stopped at the edge of a small pond. It was beautiful and reminded her of the garden in which she had last seen Aleron. The pond sat atop a small ridge beneath the trees which looked down into the expanse of the forest below. She found a rock near the water's edge and sat down, removing her knapsack and quiver, and leaning her bow against the rock beside her. From her reckoning she was just outside the borders of Elvenwood, and figured that she was safe, at least from her own people.

She drank from the cool waters, and it refreshed her dry, thirsting mouth. Kneeling down, she cupped her hands and drew up some of the water to splash on her face. It was cold and wonderful. It washed the sweat from her brow, and after she was cleaned and refreshed, leaned back against the rock to continue catching her breath.

A few moments passed, and she began to sense a presence in the bushes across the pond from her. At first the dismissed it as being only a rabbit or a bird, but when she heard the distinct snapping of a twig, she swung up her bow and knocked an arrow with lightening speed. Her eyes squinted as the bushes shook, and just as she was about to release her arrow, her fingers tightening once again across the string.

The bushes parted and a magnificent white stag stepped out to the water's edge. She lowered her bow and returned the arrow as the seemingly unassuming creature began to drink. It was the most beautiful, strong deer she had ever seen. It's body seemed to be pure muscle, and its antlers looked carved from ivory. To claim such a deer would have been worthy of great praise, but she had no use for the animal, so she dared not kill it. After it finished drinking, the stag raised its head and looked directly at her. It slowly turned, but its eyes never moved. They both stared at each other for several long moments, until Liethlri began to feel a slight chill run down her spine.

There was something about the stag's eyes that captivated her in almost the same way she had been entranced by Aleron's. They were not brown like those of most deer, but like his, were grey and even a bit cold. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, she thought, but it was almost as if the deer was speaking to her mind.

Finally she could stand the chilling silence no longer. "Who are you," she asked, trying to stifle a small quiver in her voice. The white stag kept looking at her, and when his voice finally broke through in her head her eyes went wide.

"I am a friend, huntress. I know of whom you seek, for he is also in my charge."

"I do not know what you're talking about. Whom do I seek?"

"You seek the Ranger; the lion, the wolf. You also seek out his kin, yet do not know if you will be able to find them."

It suddenly became clear exactly who the white stag was. She had heard legends of Lord Hircine manifesting himself in the form of a deer, but had never really believed the story to be true. Something about him, however, troubled her. She knew Aleron's soul was bound to him, but there was an eerie kindness to his voice which she did not trust. There was also the matter of how he had referred to Aleron. She knew him to be beast blood, but had never heard anything about lions before; neither from Aleron himself nor her father.

"Why do you appear to me, Lord Hircine? I have no dealings with you," she said, sounding extremely nervous.

"Oh but you do, huntress. You have a great deal to do with one of my children, perhaps the greatest of them all, if he would but realize it. I know you seek to aid him in his quest, but you do not know how."

"How do I help Aleron then? What do you know that I do not?"

"A great deal many things, but they will be made clear to you in time. For now, if you are to aid the Ranger, then you must find a man whom they call Bairain. Look for him in Falkreath beneath their sign."

Before Liethlri could ask any more questions of the Daedric Lord, the stag took off into the forest like a shot. For the first time since she had left Elvenwood she felt alone. It was as if an eerie chill had descended upon her, but with a few more passing moments the feeling elevated, and she was then able to begin thinking clearly once more.

When she gathered her thoughts, however, she then began to realize how rashly she had taken on such a task. She knew not what sign Hircine had referred to, never knowing the Rangers sported any sort of symbols or runes. But what gnawed at her most was the issue of the lion. What had Aleron not told her? She threw the thoughts of what exactly Hircine had meant around in her brain, but could not come to any sort of logical conclusion. Never before had she even associated that particular animal with Aleron, and without him there to ask, all she could do was toss it back and forth in her mind.

Night had fallen and Liethlri felt the best she figured that she could as he crouched in the trees outside of Falkreath. Mist hung low in the air, and a light rain had begun to fall. From beneath the brim of her hood she could make out the soft glows of candle and torchlight from within the village, and she could not help but think of how desperately she wanted to be within the warm indoors on such a nasty evening.

Her desire for comfort would have to wait, though, as she still had to find the best way into the village without being noticed. A cloaked, armed she-elf would not be easily welcomed by the guards which stood on either side of the stone archway denoting the village entrance. Instead she would have to take the long way around, keeping to the shadows and the forest.

She snuck quietly through the mist, her steps being muffled by the raindrops on the leaves, and it was not until she was within sight of the village's wooden buildings that she realized where she was. All around her stood moss-covered, faded headstones. There appeared to be dozens, if not hundreds of them arranged in rows across the open swath of ground on which she stood. There was a large building near the center which she assumed to be some sort of chapel, but its lack of torches or lanterns suggested it was unoccupied.

Being in the graveyard gave her the same feeling she had gotten after the stag had left her at the pond. It was a sort of cold that crept into her veins and chilled down to her bones. There was so much death and sorrow all around her, and as she quietly made her way passed the headstones, she couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of sadness.

As she moved through a small monolith near the far side of the graveyard caught her attention. Something within her drew her to it, and she figured she could not get any more wet or uncomfortable than she already was. The short grass brushed the soles of her boots, and the short iron gate around the large tombstone creaked into the night as she gently pushed it open. It was nearly too dark to read the inscription, but as if fate was on her side, the moons shone down through a small gap in the clouds.

Sir Arnand of Wayrest

Husband to Sirah

Father to Aleron

Noble Protector of All Wild Lands,

Green and True

Liethlri nearly gasped as she read, but the moonlight began to fade as she inspected the weathered stone further. Vines had grown up the side of the small monolith, and the raindrops were collecting in the several wild roses which grew about the iron fence. Kneeling closer to the stone, and straining her eyes with the last few glimmers of moonlight, she scraped away a patch of moss growing near the bottom of the inscription. It was a small carving, so small that anyone not looking for it may well pass it by, but Liethlri had to muffle another gasp as her fingers traced the rough outline of a lion's head.

"Tis not like this plot to receive many visitors," said a gruff and unexpected voice from behind her. She spun around and her hand flew to the dagger on her hip.

"Who are you? Explain yourself," she demanded, her guard's voice taking over.

"I might ask the same of you, she-elf. It would seem you are a bit far from your lands if I'm not mistaken," the hooded man said. Another ray of pale moonlight shone down and her attention shot to the scar running down his face and his milky white left eye. Underneath his cloak she could see a well-worn set of leather armor. On his hip was the same sort of long, slender sword which Aleron carried. Another Ranger, perhaps?

"Do you know this man? The one buried here," Liethlri asked cautiously.

"Aye. Twas as great man, he. But I have never known an elf who might sneak in to pay her respects during the night," he replied. "What is your purpose here? You stand upon sacred ground to me."

"I...I seek a man in Falkreath who might help me. His name is Bairain. Do you know him," she asked.

"Aye, I know of Bairain. Why do you need to speak with him?"

Liethlri eyed the man before her with discernment. "I was told he might help me to help a...friend of mine. I fear he may soon be in danger."

The man grunted to himself and put a hand on his chin in thought. Her hand slid away from the hilt of her dagger as she stood. "I will take you to Bairain, if you so wish. Follow me, she-elf, but one false move and I'll have you laid open," he finally said.

It wasn't the warmest welcome she'd ever received, but she now had a companion with which to enter to village nonetheless. As the stepped on to the muddy streets, he nodded to a patrol of passing Imperial soldiers. They all eyed her suspiciously, but then kept walking. When she looked back at the cloaked man it was as if he was reading her mind. They stepped onto the porch of the Dead Man's Drink, and he threw back his hood before stepping inside. His cropped hair, looking suspiciously Imperial, made her a little more nervous.

Inside the tavern a roaring fire was blazing within the large pit at its center. A fiddle played softly in the corner, and the wet and weary townsfolk stood around, trying to warm up by both fire and drink. Liethlri removed her hood as the water dripped off the bottom fringes of her cloak. The sweet and inviting aromas of mead and warm food filled her nostrils, but it appeared they were not to linger.

The man made his way around the back wall of the tavern until he came to a single door. None of the establishment's patrons gave them a single look as he knocked some sort of code. Above the door was a carving of a single, three-bladed leaf, similar to that upon her cloak's clasp. The door opened slightly, and the man turned to motion her inside before they both disappeared down a dimly lit stairway.

Once they had entered, another shadowed man locked the door behind them, and Liethlri followed the cloaked man to the bottom of the stairs. They opened into a large room with a map table at its center. Several chests and crates lined the walls, and there was another hallway branching off to what looked like a small barrack. The man took off his equipment and laid it across a chair near a the fireplace before walking to the map table and turning to face her.

"This is where I will speak with Bairain, as you promised? Where is he," Liethlri asked, her nerves tensing by the second.

The man sighed. "I am Bairain, a protector of these great northlands, she-elf. You have been speaking to him since he found you in the graveyard. And you never did answer my question. What is it that you were doing there?"

Her demeanor eased somewhat, even though she figured Bairain now thought her a fool. "I was there by accident," she began. "I was looking for a way into town when I stumbled upon it."

"Aye, but you seemed quite interested to me? If you were just passing by, why were you on your knees as if you knew who it was buried there," Bairain asked.

"I...um...when I saw. When I saw who it was, and read another name upon the stone, I suddenly became curious."

"Which name?" Bairain's eyes fixed upon her.

She hesitated for a moment, still not sure if Bairain would prove friend or foe, but then wagered if she was going to get any help from him that it would better serve her to be honest. "His son's. Aleron."

Bairain's eyes widened a little. "Aleron? What meaning does that name have to you, she-elf." She could feel her cheeks become hot with minor frustration.

"Aleron is why I came here. I heard he was your kinsman, and I fear that it is he who may be in need of assistance."

"My kinsman? Aye," Bairain sighed. He leaned back from the map table and stared at the fire. "Some may call the bond we share a kinship, yes."

"You are both beast blood, aren't you? All of you Rangers are," she asked.

"No," he quickly replied with a wave of his hand. "Only a few of us have received Hircine's...blessing."

The nervousness had worn off and she too took off her equipment and laid it near the fire to dry out. Bairain eyed her slender figure and her rather unique clothing, but she brushed his looks aside. She was now within the Rangers' midst, and it was now time to do what she could to aid Aleron.

"Bairain," she began. He snapped out of his trance and turned to face her again. "Regardless of whatever blood ties you may have with Aleron, I believe him to be in imminent danger, and I do not know of anyone else who may help him."

"What sort of danger is this you keep referring to," he asked with a quizzical look.

"A dragon, to be precise."

He leaned forward and eyed the map. "Ah, yes, the one at Helgen. I have already received much news about this. How exactly is Aleron involved though?"

"He was there when the creature attacked, and has now gone off to find it. He stayed with my people briefly, but when my father would not provide any assistance he left to find a companion of his in Riverwood," she responded.

"Riverwood? Was this man's name Lycaon by chance," asked Bairain.

"He did not say. If this Lycaon is a Cyrodillic monk, however, then I supposed that's who he went to find."

Bairain twisted his head as his fingers traced across the faded map. "Monks from Cyrodill? What have you gotten into now, my friend," he mumbled to himself. He then turned back to Liethlri. "Lycaon is one of our brothers who operates in that region. As for the monk, I have no idea. I am sorry that I don't seem willing to render immediate aid, but if you're unaware, we Rangers are a bit of a target ourselves nowadays."

"I understand that, Master Bairain. That is why I believe he needs your help. Not only is he now seeking to take on a dragon more or less on his own, but he goes about it in the midst of a civil war. I fear he will only wind up dead by Imperial or Stormcloak hands if he does not receive the aid of your order before then." She could feel her hazel eyes beginning to turn red at the thoughts of another who was unwilling to help Aleron.

Bairain looked down at the map, back up to Liethlri, and back down to the map. He sighed and rubbed the scruff of his chin in contemplation, which made her unease grow. She began to feel she may have come all this way for nothing. While the Ranger was still lost in thought, he walked over to the fire and poured himself a glass of what appeared to be brandy from the bottle atop the mantle.

"So I must ask why you have taken such an interest in this dragon issue," Bairain asked after a sip of his brandy.

"Because if one dragon has returned then that means more of them will follow suit. If they have not already. I am well aware of all your old prophecies and legends concerning the beasts," she replied sternly, yet somewhat falsely. One again her heart and mind were hashing it out inside her. Her mind was continually reminding her that the dragon was the most important issue, but her heart kept trying to block out her mind's logic with thoughts of Aleron.

"I am well aware of such prophecies myself, she-elf, and do not need them recited to me. But what I cannot quite grasp is why you are the one telling me this. Why has some wandering Bosmer come to me in the night with so much information regarding one of my own? What is Aleron to you," Bairain asked, not even the slightest hint of jest in his voice. His one good eye bored into her soul like a knife. He knew she was keeping something from him.

With Bairain's question all of Liethlri's thoughts of Aleron came flooding back to her in an instant. She began to fixate on their last few moments together in the garden and the conversation they had had. Her eyes began to feel the soft twinge of tears beginning to form and her cheeks became hot once again. Turning away from the map table and walking over to the doorway leading into the barracks, the leaned against the doorframe and tried to regain her composure.

"He is a friend to me," she finally forced out. "A fellow protector of the wilds who cannot take on such a quest on his own." She could hear him stand from his chair near the fire, but he did not move towards her.

"Do you love him," he asked softly.

Liethlri's heart skipped several beats and her mind was immediately taken aback. The Ranger behind her was perceptive, but even on her own she had never yet termed her feelings for Aleron as love.

"Love," she replied, more so as a question to herself than to Bairain. She turned her head so that the firelight illuminated half of her face, but her body remained shadowed in the doorway. "I must admit I do find Aleron attractive, but nothing more. I am betrothed to another of my own kind." Her heart felt as if it was being squeezed with an icy hand.

"Ah, of course. I know not how you and Aleron met one another, but you expect me to believe you do not love him?" Bairain smiled in his glass. "No, you decided to up and run from your little sanctuary on a whim and now seek to help him for no reason at all? The last time I checked, your people weren't too concerned with the troubles of us outsiders, or letting your own just up and leave. Why then have you gone through all this trouble for one ragged, morally torn man?"

It was true, everything Bairain had said. She had broken many of her father's laws to come there that night, but she could think of no other way. All her thoughts were fixed upon Aleron, and not know what he may be getting himself into troubled her deeply. Of course it was also true what he had said about Aleron himself. He was ragged and morally torn, but that is what drew her to him to begin with. He was most imperfect, completely unlike Faldil or any other man she had ever seen.

"When you put it that way, I'm afraid you may be correct, Master Bairain. I'm afraid I do love him. Even though I barely know him and I'm not sure he reciprocates the feeling. I've never been more certain of anything," she said with a sort of relief. She then turned and smiled to the Ranger who nodded back through his brandy glass.

"Aye," he nodded. "Aye." The glass was empty and he turned his attention back to the map, landing his finger on Helgen, then tracing down a winding road to Riverwood.

"Will you help him, Bairain," she quietly asked. The red in her cheeks and eyes had faded away. She was back to her calm self once more.

The way he studied the map was as if he was looking for the location of some buried treasure. He finally pushed his thoughts to the side and looked back up at her. "I will. We cannot leave you lover and my brother to his fate, now can we, Lady..."

"Liethlri," she replied. "My name is Liethlri."

Bairain narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow as if he had heard her name before, which she thought was odd. But he did not allow his thoughts to linger for long. "Shamus," he called up the stairs to the man who had let them in. A short Nord with Auburn hair rushed down the steps and stood beside Liethlri at the map table.

"Yes, Bairain? What is it that you require, sir," he responded in an extremely thick Colovian accent.

"Shamus, I want you to rouse Mihal and make yourselves ready. Gather our brothers, but keep them here for the time being. You will receive your orders soon, and must be ready to move," Bairain instructed. Shamus hurriedly left the map room and dissolved into the darkness of the barracks. Liethlri had no idea anyone else was in there when she had been leaning against the door. She hoped she had not disturbed them.

"So what do we do now, Master Bairain? Do we wait for more of your men to arrive," she inquired. Her voice felt giddy as a result of finally finding someone to aid in her cause of aiding Aleron.

"No. You and I leave tonight. We make for the city of Whiterun. Aleron is old friends with ol' Balgruf, and if he too is searching for reinforcements or shelter, that is likely the best place for him to go."

Chapter 10

Oaths by Firelight

The rain spattered against the windows of the cabin in Riverwood as Aleron and Lycaon awaited Ralof's arrival. The interior of the cabin looked much different than it had that morning, with all of the furniture being moved to the side, save for the table which was still in front of the fire. It had been covered with a white cloth, bearing the crest of a three-bladed leaf at its center, upon which sat a piece of parchment with two blank lines. Aleron and Lycaon stood on either side of the table, wearing all of their gear, and Fredra knelt in front of them before the table. When the door finally creaked open, Ralof's eyes immediately became confused.

"Place your equipment by the door and fall to a knee beside Fredra," Lycaon commanded the Nord in a stern, deep monotone. Ralof quickly complied, and from there the ceremony began.

Aleron stepped forward. "Tonight, two of the few of us which remain seek to induct two more fresh members into our order. To be a Ranger is not simply to run across the wilds, killing and living just the same as any outlaw would. To be a Ranger of this land is to protect any and all living things which are a part of this world. We are the silent watchers in the night, the silent protectors of all things man and beast. All of our strength is drawn from the land."

As Aleron stepped back, Lycaon stepped up to take his place. Fredra and Ralof looked up at them, still on bended knee. "Some would say the Ranger is a dying breed, and in today's world, this is sadly all too true. But for you before us tonight, you have shown a desire to resurrect and preserve an order all too near extinction. This task, however, is not to be taken lightly. You will do battle with many an enemy throughout your lives, but you must always keep your body and mind trained and in excellent health. For we are not just men who run throughout the forest our entire lives. No, to be a Ranger is to be the soldier, the healer, and even the pilgrim all in one."

"What Sir Lycaon says is true," Aleron continued. "And even though our Emperor has deemed us outlaws in our own lands, all here have seen the destruction that lays before Tamriel if no one stands up to defend against it. Our allegiance no longer lies with that of the Empire; nor does it lie with Thalmor nor Stormcloak. Our duty is bound solely to the people of this continent, and to no side but theirs in this horrid civil war."

Ralof suppressed a jolt of anger at no longer being allowed to fight in favor of Jarl Ulfric, but a quick look from Aleron made Ralof look back down at the floor. Both Lycaon and Aleron both were surprised when Fredra expressed interest in becoming a Ranger. Not just because of his weight, but also because of his lack of enthusiasm for conflict. I any case, however, their numbers were hugely down, and Fredra did have other skills besides those related to combat. He was very smart when it came to his studies, and also knew his way around a cooking fire and animals. All were skills that could prove valuable to their cause.

Once Aleron and Lycaon were done with their oratories, Aleron drew his hunting knife and sat it atop the table, beside the parchment. Ralof and Fredra both looked up with startled eyes when they heard the sound of the steel sliding from its sheath.

Lycaon motioned to Ralof to stand. "Ralof of Riverwood, do you swear to carry on the proud traditions of our order, and to protect all living things upon this earth from evil and malice? And to you also swear your allegiance to this brotherhood alone, forsaking all former ties to any others from whence you came," he asked.

"I...I so swear it," Ralof said. Lycaon motioned to the hunting knife on the table, and Ralof snarled his lip at the blade as he wrapped his hand around the hilt. Raising his left hand, he placed the sharpened edge of the knife into his palm, and quickly pulled back. Aleron's knife was so sharp the cut itself did not hurt at all. When the blood had begun to cover his palm, he looked at both Lycaon and Aleron, then finally slammed his hand down onto the parchment. It left a bloody, five-fingered print, under which he signed his name in ink.

The same process was repeated for Fredra who had a little harder time cutting his palm than did Fredra. They finally reasoned that it was alright for him to simply prick a finger and shed a few drops as opposed to his whole hand. Once the ceremony was complete, all four men embraced each other for the first time as brothers.

Hours later Lycaon and Ralof sat by the fire drinking, and Aleron approached Fredra as he packed his things. "Fredra, do you have a moment," he asked.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Aleron," he replied, the excitement still gleaming in his voice.

"There is no longer any need to address me in that way, brother. But since you are now one of us, I must speak with you about a special task."

"Glory be," the former monk said, turning to sit on the bed. "What is it you need me to do?"

"In the morning Lycaon, Ralof, and myself will ride for Whiterun to seek aid for Riverwood, as well as to search for assistance in slaying this dragon. But you, my friend, are to be heading in the opposite direction. As you know, our numbers are thin, but I know of another who may help us. You will make for Riften, and seek out a fellow Ranger by the name of Garrik."

"And what of this Garrik, sir? Will he really help us," Fredra asked.

"He should, but if not I want you to show him this," replied Aleron as he pulled a necklace up from beneath his shirt. He pulled the thin leather strip overtop his head and handed it to Fredra. It was a small silver pennant, but in the circular center, looked to be a weathered lions head, nearly smoothed completely down from years of wear.

"What sort of token is this, sir?"

"It's just an old necklace I've had for years. Pay the story behind it no mind, but if Garrik refuses to come along, show him that and he will surely follow," said Aleron who had already turned to walk back to the fire.

It was a long and restless night for Ralof and Fredra. They tossed and turned atop their bedrolls. Ralof's burned constantly, and the pain kept him awake for most of the night.

When dawn finally broke, Lycaon and Aleron wasted no time in preparing their horses to leave. The sun had barely begun to rise above the mountains, but it was light enough about the cabin to see without tripping over one another.

The horses were saddled and their riders were mounted. Fredra, with Aleron's special orders, took the road south, back towards Helgen, which was the quickest way to Riften from there. The others would ride north to Whiterun and attempt to negotiate for more men to either guard Riverwood or help hunt the dragon.

"I've had my two men send word to Bairain in Falkreath. They will probably reach him by nightfall if all goes well," Lycaon told Aleron as the three riders slowly walked passed the Sleeping Giant Inn. The street had been turned to mud from the previous evening's rainfall, and their horses' hooves squished out clods of dirt from the soupy soil.

When they passed the inn, Aleron's attention shot to the blonde-haired woman standing on the porch. She was dressed as any other tavern wench might be, but she was almost too well-shaped, and her eyes were much too serious for that to have been her lifelong occupation. It was odd, but he shrugged off the feeling, instead giving his horse a kick to the flanks; all three Rangers speeding off towards Whiterun.

Chapter 11

Dragons and the Golden Hall

It would take a few hours for the party to reach Whiterun, and hopefully they would not run into any trouble along the way. The two Rangers in Lycaon's charge had reported back that the roads were clear before departing for Falkreath. Once they were well out of Riverwood, Aleron held up a hand to signal his companions to slow their steeds to a walk. One reason he made sure they galloped away from the village was because of the woman watching them from the Sleeping Giant. Her prying eyes that early in the morning, while most of the village still slept, were odd and out of place.

As they rode along Aleron wondered what he might find once they reached the city. Balgruf had been a friend for a long time, but he had heard that even though he was doing his best to remain neutral that the war had forced him to lean toward to Imperial side of the spectrum. This made him somewhat uneasy, but if any of the jarls would take heed of the dragon threat, it was Balgruf.

"So, brother, where is it that you learned to ride then," Ralof asked Aleron from the rear of the pack.

"Whiterun, as a matter of fact. I lived there and was a student with the jarl until a few years before the war. His father and my father were great friends before they died."

"Ah, I see. So you were a student with him? How so," the Nord wanted to know, trying to make conversation. Both Aleron and Lycaon noticed he seemed to be uncomfortable with pure silence.

"We were schooled in basic combat by his father and Harbinger Kodlak of the Companions." Aleron took the opportunity of the smooth ride to light his pipe.

"The Companions, you say? Were you ever one of them yourself?"

"No. I was offered the chance, but turned it down to pursue the Ranger lifestyle when my country called," Aleron replied through a puff of rolling smoke.

"Aye, as did we all. Those of us that hadn't already been in the Legion for a time prior," Lycaon added.

"So you two fought in the Great War against the elves then? I was just a child at the time. Barely able to walk," said Ralof.

"Then you should count that as a blessing, my friend," said Lycaon who had also lit his pipe.

They rode on for a few more minutes before Ralof spoke again. "So did you see much fighting in the Great War? Either of you?"

"Yes," Aleron responded with a grunt that was reciprocated by Lycaon. "We both served with your great Jarl Ulfric at Markarth as a matter of fact."

"Oi, why do you speak of the jarl in such a way? I may no longer be a Stormcloak, but these passed few hours have not been enough to tear my heart from his cause completely," Ralof retorted.

Lycaon looked off to the side of the road, removing himself from the conversation, but Aleron was willing to give their newest brother the answer he sought; even if such an answer would hurt his feelings. "I would say my attitude is shaped in such as way because he tried to have me killed. I'm not sure as to why," Aleron lied, "but for some reason your Jarl Ulfric saw me and my kind as a threat."

"Surely you must have done something to anger him. He would not have just lashed out blindly at you like that," Ralof tried to defend.

"I did nothing, just as you did nothing to have him release you from his service when he was the one who ran from Helgen like a whipped dog." Aleron could feel the anger welling up within Ralof. "But we will speak no more of this. The past is the past, and we now have bigger problems than fighting over which Nords are the truest Nords."

When they came to a place where the road began sloping downhill towards the river, they crossed a stone bridge and rode into the forest. Aleron led them up a rather steep hill, and once they were at the top, were presented with a rather spectacular view of the plains of Whiterun Hold.

"Tis always a beautiful sight, isn't she," Lycaon said, snuffing out his pipe.

The hillside gently dropped off to the lowlands below, and the waist-high tundra grass shook like ocean waves in the morning wind. The sun's rays reflected off the plains with a golden glow, and the clouds in the distance blended into a sort of milky grey. A storm was coming that day, and it behooved the three riders to reach Whiterun before it hit.

"There she is, brothers. The great city of Whiterun, and the hall of Jarl Balgruuf, Dragonsreach," Aleron said, pointing to the walled city which rose up out of the plain. It was built upon a single hill with a great, multi-storied keep at its summit. The golden trim around the edges of Dragonsreach shone in much the same way as the grass did. It glimmered as a beacon to far off and weary travelers, seeking the safety and comfort of Skyrim's trading capitol.

Jarl Balgruf the Greater walked across the stone balcony overlooking Whiterun from Dragonsreach. He nodded to the patrolling guards as he passed by with his pewter mug of spiced wine. The cold wind shook the fur of his cloak, and he looked up at the growing clouds in the east.

"Looks like a storm today," he said quietly to himself.

"Pardon me, my jarl," his Housecarl , Irileth, questioned. Even though she was a Dark Elf, she had more than proven her worth with a sword. The other jarls, like Ulfric, normally scorned all elf-kind, but Balgruuf liked to think he was more open minded than his counterparts when it came to race. He judged his people on their worth, not their skin.

"I said it looks like rain. To the east," he said, albeit a little louder this time.

They continued making their morning rounds, passing by the guards and looking out over the city which was awakening to begin another day. Balgruuf stopped again to take notice of the clouds, but when he turned he noticed his Housecarl had fallen behind.

"My jarl," Irileth called from a perch atop the wall looking to the south.

"Yes, Irileth? What do your keen elf eyes see?"

"Riders, my lord. Three in all. They seem to be coming from Riverwood perhaps," she said.

Balgruuf hastened to where she stood and strained his eyes in the direction she had described. Sure enough three riders came galloping through the grass and across the plains. It was still hard to make out from that distance, but by the way their leader carried himself in the saddle, he felt he knew who was coming. "Aleron," he mumbled under his breath. A smile rolled across his lips.

Their horses had been taken at the stables outside the city gates, and the smooth cobbles knocked beneath their feet as Aleron led his two fellow Rangers up to Dragonsreach. It did his heart well to see that the Gildergreen Tree in front of the Chapel of Kynareth was once again in bloom after so many years of looking dead and gnarled. They climbed the steps to the keep, passing by a group of guards grumbling about getting shot in the knee with arrows or some such, and Aleron shook his head with a small smile as they neared the great doors at the hall's entrance. The guards at the entrance seemed reluctant to let them in at first, but with a nod from both Lycaon and Aleron, opened the great wooden doors with a thunderous creek.

Inside Dragonsreach, memories from his long gone youth washed over Aleron. He had not seen those halls in years, and it made his heart glad in the same way as when he saw the blooming Gildergreen. Guards eyed them warily as they passed by, but after surmounting one more grand staircase, were face to face with his old friend from across the massive firepit in the center of the great hall.

"Aleron," Balgruuf called out, standing from his throne. "I did so figure that was you coming to grace an old friend with your presence when I saw you riding towards my gates!" The jarl walked over to the entering party and embraced Aleron with all the strength of a cave bear.

"My friend," Aleron greeted, "it has been too long. Far too long." He smiled a true and sincere smile for the first time in days as Balgruuf patted him on the back and pulled him towards the throne.

The happy times, it seemed, were not to last as Balgruuf's steward, Proventus Avenicci, stood from his seat beside the jarl's. "My lord," he interrupted. "Jarl Balgruuf, sir?"

Balgruuf turned from Aleron and his companions. "Yes, what is it, Proventus?" He sounded a wee bit irritated that his moment with an old friend was attempting to be cut short.

"My jarl, these three cannot be here. They must not, sir," Proventus said in his hissing Nibenean accent.

"And why, steward, is that? Why can I not welcome my brother and his friends into my home," Balgruuf asked, annoyed.

"Sir, these men are Rangers, this is most apparent to me. It simply will not do to have these mangy outlaws within our midst," the steward scoffed. Aleron could tell by his tone that he thought himself of a much higher status than them. He probably thought himself superior to even the Nords which he served.

"Proventus, why don't you return to your duties, and if I find myself in need of you then I will make sure you hear about it at once. And it would serve you well to not attempt to tell me how to run my own court," Balgruuf thundered to the Imperial. The imp of a man returned to his chair and Balgruuf turned back to Aleron.

"My friend, I do apologize that my visit is not under better circumstances," Aleron began. "For there is a grave issue which I feel must be dealt with swiftly, or else risk it engulfing all the land."

"You refer to the dragon incident in Helgen, do you not," Balgruuf asked, returning to his throne.

Aleron was unaware that the news had spread so quickly, but then again it seemed like months had passed since he found himself beneath the headsman's axe. "Yes, that is it. My associates and I seek to track the creature down, but the three of us cannot do it alone."

"And what do you presume I can do to help you, my friend?"

"I...we were hoping that you may be able to offer aid in the form of troops and materiel with which to slay this foul demon. I know the war has put a strain on us all, but you are the only one to whom I can think to turn," Aleron went on.

Proventus could not help himself from butting in. "My lord, I think it highly suspect that this Ranger would show himself to ask for men and weapons. There may be the issue of the dragon, sire, but our own borders are threatened by a much more imminent danger in the form of Ulfric and his army."

Balgruuf grunted at his steward before turning back to Aleron. "I cannot honestly give you an answer at this time. I hate this, old friend, but your current status prevents me from involving myself to thoroughly in your endeavors, lest risking my own safety."

"So that's it then," started Aleron. "You will not help us counter this monster because you're afraid of knowing me?" Balgruuf leaned forward on his throne and looked at Aleron much the same way as he had looked at Proventus.

"I know we are old friends, Aleron, son of Arnand, but you must not forget the office to which you speak. I put myself in enough danger by simply allowing you to enter my city, and now you act offended when I do not immediately give my blessing to the thoughts of you raising an army within my lands?"

"Balgruuf, my brother, I think this steward of yours had clouded your mind towards men like me of late. You are the Jarl of Whiterun and a former soldier yourself. Do you not trust me as you once did, and do you not care for the safety of all people's of Tamriel just the same as I?"

The jarl leaned back and exhaled. He was not pleased with Aleron's attitude, but the Ranger did have a point. He was already torn between the two warring factions in Skyrim, but simply allowing his men to run off to chase dragons through the hills could cause either side to come in and cease his hold for the taking. It was something he was going to have to give much thought, but something in which there was an ever shrinking amount of time to make a decision.

If only he knew that the decision was already being made for him.

After a few more hours of bickering back and forth with the now two other Rangers who had joined the conversation, his head began to spin. It was not until the very doors of his keep were flung open did his mind come back to the all too present reality.

"Jarl Balgruuf! Jarl Balgruuf," an extremely tired and winded guard cried as he ran up the stairs to the throne. Aleron and the others made way for him, and once he was at Balgruuf's feet he dropped to his knees.

"What is it? What's going on," Irileth demanded of him.

"My jarl...it's...there's...a dragon. The Western Watchtower," the guard heaved out. Aleron eyed the poor man up and down, and noticed not only dirt and blood on his tunic, but also that the rear fringe was slightly scorched.

"Irileth," Balgruuf called after eyeing the heaving guard for a moment longer.

"Yes, my jarl!"

"Assemble your troops. Have them mounted at awaiting at the gates. Now," the jarl shouted. Irileth snapped tall and then turned to run towards the armory.

"We shall continue this when I return," Aleron calmly said to Balgruuf as he made sure the straps on his chain mail were tight.

Outside the gates the guardsmen of Whiterun sat mounted atop their horses. They were in a long, double line which stretched well over the width of the road to the Western Watchtower. Even looking down the line, Aleron could not help but realize how few men there actually were. Their spears were held high, and the golden banner adorned with a horse's head lofted in the breeze.

"Ranger," Irileth shouted as she rode down the front of the line. Her horse was in a pace and she had donned not only her full set of armor, but a helmet as well. "I need to to command the far left wing and keep them in check as we approach the tower!"

Aleron nodded in reply and wheeled his horse down to the far end of the line. He too wore a helmet that had been scrounged from the armory, and was holding a round, wooden shield in the same hand with which he held the reins. His horse nickered and bayed as it pawed the ground beneath its hooves. In the distance he could see the massive, winged beast as it soared around the helpless guards beneath, belching fire and roaring into the sky.

"It appears we may have stumbled into more than we bargained for this day, brother," Lycaon said as he and Ralof galloped in behind him. Aleron nodded and looked once more down the line as Irileth rode back and forth in front.

"Men of Whiterun," she cried. "Do not fear death this day! For we are many against one! This creature may be large in size, but we are large in heart and courage! We will prevail against this demon! Courage now! Courage for our jarl and our homes!"

Her speech was less than inspiring to Aleron, and even though she sounded confident, wagered that this was the first time she had ever been in such a situation. Of course the only cavalry charge he had ever been in was during the Great War, and it was against an enemy nowhere near as ferocious.

"What I'd give to have a brigade of Reachmen in front of us instead," he said back to Lycaon. As he did, however, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Upon the same hill where they had stood that morning now sat two horses. One was ridden by a man who looked the same as him, but the rider of the other was unmistakable. A ruby swath of red hair caught on the wind, and he knew at once who it belonged to. He was not sure how Liethlri had managed to find him, or with whom, but knowing she was there gave him a jolt of deeply hidden courage that he had no idea was within him.

"By your gods, I hope you're ready for this, Ranger. Much blood will soon be spilt," Hircine's all to familiar voice sprang out from the back of his mind.

"I hope I am as well," he replied.

Within moments the column was lurching forward, spears still held high, and horses speeding to a canter. He looked down the line and saw Irileth draw her sword, and as she did, drew his own from its sheath. The soldiers' spears lowered into a perfect phalanx, and every horse began to gallop full on.

"Charge," Irileth screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Charge!" The order echoed down the line and the men began to scream and shout like furies.

"Keep in line, men! Keep the line," he ordered back to the men behind him. He turned back to face the coming impact, and noticed the dragon take flight.

The creature flew into the air with a roar and made a large, soaring arch around the tower. It spread its massive wings and then turned to face the fury of the charging horsemen. The column was a mass of thundering, screaming men, and even though he was mounted, Aleron could feel the ground shake beneath him. The dragon flew closer and closer, and with each passing instant their distance began to close. All at once they were mere yards away, as the dragon swooped to within feet of the ground. Its wings seemed to equal the span of the entire line, and all at once, with a furious roar, the dragon and the horsemen met with a thunderous clash.

Men screamed and horses were thrown into the sky. The dragon seemed unharmed by the impact and made a quick turn and pounced down upon the lot of them. Spears started to be thrown at the beast, and arrows whistled into the air, stunning the creature as they connected with its eyes and nose. Its breath washed a hot, horrid odor over the field, and whenever it flapped its wings, the force of the wind was nearly enough to fling him from the saddle. The beast's eyes gleamed like hot coals, and its neck gleamed like a burning forge as it let out another engulfing gust of flame.

Most of the soldiers had either been thrown or had let their horses run back for the safety of the city, so Aleron pulled his to a neighing halt and jumped to the ground. As he ran towards to dragon, the beast threw one of its massive wings across the ground and Aleron barely deflected the crash with his shield. It knocked him off balance, but he kept running towards the fray. As he neared, the dragon's scaly face locked with is, and it lunged for him, its fangs shining white yet dripping with blood. He raised his shield once more, but the crushing force of the impact was enough to splinter the shield and send him hurdling backwards.

The dragon had his scent, and it began pounding its way across the ground to where he lay. He had made it to a knee just as another roaring bite was being sent his way. Without a second thought he rolled onto his back, beneath the dragon's head, and thrust his sword into the thin stretch of hide beneath its mouth. A bloodcurdling roar echoed across the plains, and the dragon recoiled away, nearly jerking Aleron's sword with it.

Near where he lay fallen bowman was curled in a decapitated heap, but his bow was laying there beside him, an arrow close at hand. Aleron dropped his sword and knocked the arrow. He drew back and waited for the opportune moment to fire. The dragon swung its head around yet again, and when its eyes were nearly at ground level, Aleron fired. The whistling arrow zipped through the air and found its mark inside the beast's glowing eye. It screamed much as before and faltered back. It started swinging its talons violently at the stabbing, prodding men below, and Aleron retrieved his sword to run forward once more.

The dragon bellowed and Aleron screamed nearly every curse he could think of as he closed with the foul beast. He sent a singing hack down onto its nose and then two more before it staggered once again. When its head hit the ground Aleron moved in closer and hacked at its neck until his arms ached, and then hacked some more. He could feel the hot blood spraying onto his face, and with each blow he could feel the life leave the dragon's body. Finally, with one last heaving cry, the dragon tried to take off, but its body felt limp into the dust.

Calm washed over the field and the last few tremors of life twitched throughout the dragon's body. Clouds of dust and soot floated all about, and when Aleron finally looked away from his vanquished foe, he noticed how much destruction the beast had caused. Dead men and horses were scattered all around him, mangled, disemboweled, and burned beyond all recognition.

His arm went limp as he staggered away from the fallen creature, and his sword dropped to the ground with a clang. He was stunned, and began to look across the field for any sign of Ralof and Lycaon. He saw Lycaon's shocked and exhausted form sitting against a pile of stone, but as he made his way over to him, something began to happen.

All at once his steps were halted as if invisible hands were pulling him back to the dragon's body with all their might. He turned to see the beast catch afire and its scales start to disintegrate into ash, but then a whirling wind stirred the dust all around him as flames and purple brushstrokes of light enveloped his entire body. It brought him to a knee and the flames began to be absorbed in his chest. At first they were hot, hotter than the dragon's breath, but then an intense, yet gratifying cold pulsed throughout his veins. His heart began pounding in his chest, and he could feel a power, the likes of which he had never experienced, rush throughout him from the bottoms of his feet out to every single hair upon his head. These feelings began to subside in an instant, and all at once, in a blinding flash of white light, the spectral conflagration ended.

It was hard to catch his breath, and even harder to make any sense of what had just happened to him. His body still ached from the sting of battle, but at the same time he felt and electrified energy coursing throughout him. He turned to stand but was caught by Ralof's wide eyes.

"By the gods, I'll be damned. You! You're Dragonborn, my brother," he said with a tone of shock and sheer bewilderment.

"I'm a what," Aleron sighed, looking himself over and then wiping a small spat of blood from his split lip.

"The Dragonborn! Just like mighty Talos of old! That is why you were able to slay this creature. You, my friend, are legend," Ralof expressed with an almost child-like joy. The other remaining soldiers who could still stand were gathering around and hoping to catch a glimpse of Aleron or the now-skinless dragon skeleton behind him. They mumbled to each other about this Dragonborn idea of which Ralof spoke.

Aleron had to admit that he had no clue what had happened to him. The raw energy he felt began to subside, and from out of nowhere a small pang of sadness jumped from his heart as he looked back at the gigantic skeleton of the dragon. Its bones already appeared a bleached white as he walked towards it and laid a hand upon the massive skull. Even though this was the most dreadful of enemies, he still felt sorrow for its passing, just as he would for any other fallen creature of the earth.

"Be at peace, warrior," he whispered to the lifeless bones. From behind he began to hear hoofbeats of a horse walking closer. He turned to see Irileth riding up with much the same look as was painted across Ralof's face.

"You there, Ranger," she hailed, never getting down from her saddle. "I return to Dragonsreach immediately to tell the jarl of this victory. You must come with me at once," ordered the Dark Elf.

Aleron looked away from Irileth and out at the destruction which lay all across the field. It was pure devastation everywhere he looked. He reached down to the ground and found his sword. He returned it to his sheath before looking back to Irileth. "Go to tell Jarl Balgruuf of your glorious victory. I shall remain behind and wait for the wagons, if you'll send them. We need to get rid of these bodies."

Irileth snarled her lip and grunted at Aleron as she buried her heels in the horse's side. She and a few others rode off, back to the city, and those no longer with horses began the long walk to the gates.

"I still cannot believe I am living to see this with my own eyes," Ralof said as they walked to where Lycaon sat against the rubble.

"Please calm yourself, Ralof. What was all that though," asked Aleron, much to tired for Ralof's merriment, but curious all the same.

"That back there, the flames that surrounded you after you killed it, was the very soul of that dragon itself. Dragon souls are only absorbed by those men who have the dragon blood flowing through their veins."

"I see," said Aleron, the passed moment's events proving that such things were apparently more than just some Nord superstition. "So how many of these Dragonborns are there? And is this not something normally reserved for you Nords?"

"No, not at all. My dah told me many a story of the great Dragonborns of old, Talos chief among them. They can come from anywhere, but its the blood that flows within them that matters."

"Well, intriguing. But for now, we must tend to our dead. We will not let them rot upon the plain. Supposedly that Dark Elf housecarl is sending some wagons to carry the bodies back to the city. As for the horse, you can leave them if they are dead, and if they're wounded put them out of their suffering," Aleron said, turning away. "Oh, and Ralof?"

"Um...yes, brother? What is it," Ralof replied, still sounding to be a bit in shock.

"See if you can't help me find my own horse, will you?" Aleron turned away once more and Ralof stared him down as he walked off.

"Dragonborn," he huffed as he kicked a discarded helmet across the ground.

Chapter 12

Rather Unlikely Acquaintances

Fredra was nervous as he entered the old city of Riften. It was his first time ever undertaking such a task on his own, and even though he knew Aleron expected him to be brave, there was a part of him which fervently hoped he would encounter no enemies whatsoever over the course of his mission. The evening was chilly so he wore his brown monk robes overtop the new set of clothes which Lycaon had given him money to purchase. It was the first time since he was a boy that he had worn an actual pair of breeches or boots, but they felt good nonetheless. What really made him feel that part of the Ranger, however, was the brand new sword at his hip. He had no clue how to use it, but he hoped the sight of the blade would simply be enough to deter anyone who thought he looked like an easy target for theft or violence.

"Can I help you, master...um," a guards voice questioned from the mouth of an alleyway behind him. He spun around, and quickly regained his composure, hoping the guard did not see his initial fright.

"Um...yes, actually. Can you direct me to the closest tavern, if you please?" He adjusted the hood on his robes so that his face was still hopefully in shadow from the guard's torch. The whole situation gave him an immense thrill. He was nearly giddy at the thoughts of finally getting to experience the sort of adventure he had heard Aleron speak of countless times.

The guard eyed the rather portly figure in front of him, and then shot a quizzical look to the strange man's sword. "Aye, that'd be the Bee and Barb." He pointed across the wooden footbridge at the end of the narrow street. "She's just across the canal there. If you don't mind me asking, you're not from around here, are you? A...monk, are ye?"

Fredra could feel his eyes darting from left to right as he thought of something to say. Finally something came to him. "Former monk, actually. My order...um...found me to be more suited to carrying out other duties," he shakily replied, giving his sword's hilt a firm tap.

"And what order is that exactly," the guard questioned, his eyes narrowing in the torchlight.

"That, guardsman, is something which if I told you, would force me to kill you shortly thereafter," Fredra replied, trying to speak in the same cold, stern voice in which Aleron often spoke. He did not give the guard a chance to continue the questioning conversation any further, and instead turned on his heels and tried to walk stoically towards the tavern.

Inside the Bee and Barb hung the welcoming smells of food and spirits. Fredra's mouth was parched, but with the savory aroma of roast beef and potatoes entering his nostrils, his belly awoke with a grumble. He tried his best to keep his stomach quiet, and told his mind to focus on the task at hand.

Aleron had given no description as to what this Garrik fellow might look like, so he would have to do some digging if he was to find him. He continued his pseudo-stoic swagger all the way up to the bar, and found an empty stool near the bar's edge.

"What'll it be for ya tonight, sir," the Argonian barmaid asked as he pulled back his hood.

"Pint of ale please, ma'am," he replied. The barmaid grunted to herself, obviously not used to any sort of cordial speech from her patrons.

As he waited on his drink, and his mind battled his stomach, he slowly sent his eyes around the tavern, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who could fit the part of a Ranger. The Bee and Barb was quite crowded that evening, and its dim light coupled with the low-hanging smoke made it somewhat difficult to see. There were plenty of sellsword mercenary types hanging around, trying their best to lure one of the other bosomed barmaids upstairs to their beds. A few commoners had gathered around a table across the room and were making a ruckus over a heated game of dice which was being played between a blacksmith and a woman whom he heard being referred to as Mjoll.

Just as he was about to give up on his search and give in to his belly, the crowd around the dice table parted for a moment and he saw a patron which immediately caught his gaze. He sat alone at a corner table with two empty bottles of what appeared to be whiskey. There was a pipe in his mouth, and two pewter cups upon the table's surface. One was shakily being filled with his amber drink, and the other he saw used as a small spittoon.

The Argonian finally arrived with Fredra's pint of ale, and after taking a small sip he stood to make his way through the crowd an across the room. He pushed passed a group of merry-makers, and then found himself standing across the small table from the mysterious man in the corner. The dark-dressed man slowly rolled his head up from his whiskey cup and eyed Fredra with a pair of glazed brown eyes and through a scruffy mahogany beard.

Fredra didn't know what to do. The other tavern-goers began to take notice of their staring match, and finally Fredra, wide-eyed, pulled out the chair across from the man and sat down. One of the man's eyebrows raised, but he did not say a word. He simply put his one pewter cup down and reached for the other which held his soupy tobacco juice. He raised it to spit, but in his staggered state, he missed the cup altogether and sent the slimy stream of tobacco down the front of his tunic.

"Dammit," he said with a labored breath as looked down. His arms flopped across his chest as he attempted to wipe the spit from his shirt. When he had done the best that he could he rolled his head back to Fredra. "Who in Oblivion are you," he asked in the same labored, gruff tone.

"My name is Fredra. I'm looking for someone," the former monk replied.

The man looked at Fredra's robes as he tried his hardest to refill his cup of whiskey. The neck of the glass bottle rattled across the rim of the cup, but it was finally filled. "You're not one of those chapel fellas here to try and do some preaching are you? Because I thought I made things pretty damn clear to you last time."

Fredra smiled and waved his hand. "No, sir. These robes are merely a remnant of a former existence."

"Oh, the man replied through a swig of his drink. "So who are you then looking for," he stammered.

"A man who goes by the name of Garrik," Fredra responded through a sip of his own drink. "Perhaps you know of him? I was told I could find him in Riften."

"Well," the man started, looking around the tavern as if to make sure of where he was, "looks like you're in Riften. But who wants to know about this Garrik fellow?"

"One of my friends who just so happens to be an old comrade of Garrik's. I believe they might have served together during the Great War."

"Hmm," grunted the man. "Well if it makes your search easier, Garrik just so happens to be my name. But who sent you down here to find me instead of coming here his damn self?"

Fredra released a sigh of relief. Finding Garrik hadn't been nearly as hard as he feared. Of course when he saw the state in which he was currently in, he began to have doubts as to why Aleron had sent him to find him. "My, our, friend's name is Aleron. I'm assuming you are a Ranger as well?"

Garrik chuckled to himself at the word Ranger. "Aye. Or at least I used to be. But ol' Aleron and I did do some fighting together back against them gold skins as I recollect. A good man, he. Broke my heart when some bastard plugged him with an arrow back in Markarth." Garrik took another drink, but then his eyes shot wide with a great realization. "Wait a moment. You mean to tell me that that mangy dog is still alive!?"

"Yes? How could he send me to find you if he's dead," Fredra asked, confused. Garrik leaned back in his chair, scoffing and chuckling to himself at the same time. He looked for his spittoon, but when his hazy eyes could not find it, he leaned back and spit his stream of tobacco into the fireplace behind him.

"Damn. I always knew that man was a slippery little devil. I watched him," he burped. "I watched him jump up on that wall, and then SMACK!" He pounded the table with his fist. "He took that arrow right to the gut and fell all the way down into the damn river, he did."

"Ah yes, Mr. Garrik, I have only recently heard that story myself, but I assure you that Aleron is alive and well. Or at least he was when I saw him last." Fredra smiled uneasily as he was not accustomed to dealing with the debilitatingly drunk.

Garrik leaned farther back in his chair in thought. "Well isn't that something? But you still haven't told me who you are, and why in Oblivion you're actually here."

"Mr. Garrik, as it turns out I myself am one of you Rangers," Fredra replied. Garrik raised his eyebrow once again.

"You? You're a Ranger too, huh," he asked, eyed the portly man in front of him up and down. He laughed a roaring guffaw which made the other patrons in the tavern turn to take notice. Fredra knew it was the whiskey laughing at him, but it still hurt his feelings nonetheless.

"Yes, sir," he said, putting down his flagon. "I am in fact a Ranger. Aleron has made it so. And as far as he goes, I'm here to enlist your support to help us fight these dragons which are now returning to the world."

Garrik stopped laughing. "Aye. Aye, I've heard a great deal about those fire breathers being out and about again. Didn't think it'd happen in my lifetime, I'll tell ya true."

Fredra could tell his conversation with Garrik was going nowhere, so he thought back to the small token which now hung around his neck. He pulled it over his head and tossed it out across the table. He tossed it a bit harder than he had intended, and just as it was about to skid onto the floor, Garrik produced a knife from nowhere and drove its point into the table. The blade caught the thin strip of leather just as it was about to go over.

"Aleron told me that if you didn't believe me that I was to show you this," said Fredra, motioning toward the necklace.

Garrik took the small piece of silver in his hand. It was no bigger than a coin, and he ran his fingers over the smoothed lion's head. "Where in Oblivion did you get this?"

"From Mr. Aleron, Mr. Garrik. Now do you believe that I am serious?"

The minstrels had begun to play before Garrik answered, but instead of saying anything else, he simply looked at Fredra and nodded.

"If this is really his, then the bastard must be in trouble," Garrik said after another few moments of thought. He stood and looked out over the interior of the tavern.

"So you'll help us then?" Fredra's eyes shone with delight. Garrik's, however, had glossed over once again, and his knees buckled. He curled into a ball on the floor in front of the fire.

"Aye, I'll do what I can. But it'll have to wait till tomorrow, lad." His eyes closed and Fredra was fairly sure his fellow Ranger had just lost all consciousness.

"Hmm. You sure know how to pick your friends, Mr. Aleron," Fredra mumbled to himself as he stepped over Garrik and approached the bar to rent a room for the night.

Chapter 13

Spreading News of the Coming Storm

The strong-backed, muscular horses carried their Legion riders across the plains and thundering through the vales toward Solitude. The increasingly frigid north winds were at their backs, and the armor of their riders gleamed in the morning sun. There were seven in all; six well armed soldiers and a rather imposing legate at their head. This particular legate was none other than Marcus Titinius, famed horseman of the Legion and scourge of the hated Stormcloaks.

When finally the riders reached an overlook, Marcus ordered them to a halt with a raised fist, and looked out across the way at the imposing walls of Solitude. The entire city was a fortress, the one true Imperial stronghold in the entirety of the province. Its scarlet banners lofted high in the morning breeze, and for a moment Marcus's heart swelled with a burning pang of honor at the sight. His family had served the Empire for generations, and he was now the last in a long line of acclaimed soldier sons.

As they carried on Marcus thought back on his many years wearing the Imperial red. Unlike several of his ancestors who had been appointed to their officer statuses, Marcus had joined the Legion as a lowly foot soldier, and had risen through the ranks upon the drops of his own sweat and blood. He was admired by nearly every soldier under his command for such a feat, but a hand full of his fellow officers and superiors still saw him as the same meager peasant sword with whom he chose to initially serve. Many looked down their noses at him and loathed his very presence.

It took them another hour to reach the city gates, and once they did the guards opened them and eyed the armored horse soldiers as they passed. There was a crowd gathered in the market, and it took several shouts and orders to moved them aside so the soldiers atop their muscled beasts could pass through. Marcus, however, pulled his steed to a stop and looked over the heads of the curious gawkers.

"...and for such acts of treason against the Empire, you have been sentenced to death," shouted a uniformed Legionairre above the low rumble of the crowd. The headsman raised his axe above the bound man atop his chopping block, and then brought it down with a squishing slice across his neck. The prisoner's head his the stone platform with a thud and rolled down into the street.

"Marcus," a voice called from behind him. The cavalry man turned his plumed helmet towards his name. "We must not keep General Tullius waiting," continued his dear friend, Steelius Octavius. Marcus nodded and turned his horse in the direction of the foreboding walls of Castle Dour, the headquarters for all Legion forces in Skyrim, and the seat of Imperial power.

When he arrived inside the walls, a city guard was there to hand his horse off to a filthy stableboy. Before entering the castle Marcus turned to the boy a pulled a coin from the leather pouch on his belt. He tossed it to the child who looked back with a surprised, yet thankful gleam in his eye.

The soldiers on either side of the entrance to General Tullius's headquarters looked on at the imposing man approaching them. Marcus was tall, nearly equaling the height of some of his Nord companions. His hair was blonde and cropped short, and his eyes were a deep forest green. There was no beard on his face like many soldiers, not even the slightest hint of stubble could be found. His armor was a not a gleaming silver as it once had been. Years of hard riding and battle had dulled its sheen, but the horse's head embossed at its center could still be clearly seen. Underneath was a tunic which had also been dulled from years of wear and use. Its scarlet had become frayed at the edges, as had his long cape, and he wore a pair of black, close-fitting breeches atop his leather boots. What was perhaps the most imposing of all, however, was the wolfskin he wore draped across his shoulders. He had killed the beast himself, long ago when he was still but a child.

The wooden door to the headquarters was thrown aside for him, and he entered the long dark hallway which smelled of wine and stress. General Tullius and his legate, Rikke, were both standing around the map table at the center of the main room, and Steelius had poured himself a glass of Nordic mead before entering the conversation.

"Ah, Legate Titinius. I was beginning to think you wouldn't join us after all," Tullius greeted with a silent scoff.

"I apologize for that, sir. I had strayed momentarily to observe the execution being carried out in the market. It pains me that the people seem to take such pleasure in the death of another," Marcus replied in kind.

"Ah, but you are a soldier, Marcus. Surely you do not mourn at the loss of a traitor who was discovered in our midst," Rikke added. Marcus grunted and moved to the map table, silently refusing the glass Steelius offered him.

"So," Tullius began, "what news do you bring me? I trust you were able to protect the gold caravan from the Stormcloaks as ordered?"

"Aye," Marcus responded. "There was an ambush near Ivarstead, but my men were able to dispense of the rabble rather quickly. I was looking over the dead once they had been slain and noticed that they were poorly clothed and appeared to be under nourished."

Tullius nodded at his map, never fully turning to face Marcus. "Yes, that is what my men here are beginning to discover. It would seem old Ulfric can barely feed his troops. They do what they can to live off the wilds, but that won't keep them for long."

"So have you developed any sort of strategy to defeat them, my lord," Marcus asked. Tullius twisted his head at the questioning.

"Yes, legate, as a matter of fact I do. I feel as if these Stormcloaks could be easily crushed once and for all if we could simply lure them into open battle. Our numbers would be no match for them, no matter how many of their own they could muster against us."

"But, sir, have we not tried that before? I believe in giving our enemy credit where he deserves it, and to be honest he can be somewhat formidable when taken on face to face. But without finding a way to bring his men out of the hills, I do not see how this can be done."

"Tread lightly, Legate Titinius." Tullius finally turned to face him. "I have asked you here for your advice, as you are my only cavalry commander, not to pick apart my plans."

Marcus sighed and stepped back from the table. "Yes, sir. What will you have me do then?"

Tullius took a drink of wine before responding. "Another reason I have called you here is to discuss another issue which has come to my attention. It deals with a former member of our ranks, as a matter of fact."

"I'm listening."

"Good. This man could also be seen as a sort of traitor, even though the Rangers themselves have been disbanded. Perhaps you've heard of one of these dirt-sniffers they call Aleron? His father was also a Ranger before his rather untimely death."

Marcus nodded. "Aye, the name sounds familiar. But what of him? What makes him a traitor in your eyes exactly?"

"I have received word from a...reliable source that he has shed all ties to the Legion and would now seek to aid in driving us from the province," Tullius said.

"Drive us from the province, sir? Has he simply allied himself with the Stormcloaks then?"

"No. In fact it would seem he harbors no love for them either, but that is not what makes him dangerous. He was nearly executed at Helgen, before the dragon attacked, and now to make matters worse he has actually managed to slay one of the foul beasts."

"An impressive feat. But I still do not see what makes this man such a threat. Would having such a rogue killing off these dragons not be beneficial to our cause," Marcus asked with a raised eyebrow.

"As of now it would not. I do not know if you have heard, but the commoners now whisper about some sort of ancient hero returning when they refer to this mere Ranger. They call him Dovahkiin, or some such nonsense."

Legate Rikke's eyes widened, and she too joined in the conversation. "General, if I may interrupt, if this Ranger really is the Dragonborn of legend, then perhaps it would not be wise to have him killed."

"And why is that, legate? Do you not think this dog to be a danger to us? I have heard the way those peasants outside speak of such things, and his very existence now suggests he may be able to unite them against me. And if not that, then he threatens to play upon the superstitions of those bumbling idiots within Ulfric's ranks and become some sort of new god-like leader!"

"Sir, with all do respect, the Dragonborn is no mere superstition. Tiber Septim himself had their blood. That, sir, is fact and proof in and of itself that they can exist," Rikke defended. She too was a Nord, and had been brought up on the tales of her people. "And I did not hear it myself, but news has come from Whiterun that the Grey Beards have shouted his name from High Hrothgar. If that is so, then the Ranger truly is Dovahkiin."

"General Tullius," Marcus finally said, breaking the silence, "before having this man hunted down and killed, why not first try and sway him back to our side. He is familiar with the Legion already, and any sort of power he might have could prove useful to us. Beside, I know there are also many remnants of his comrades still scattered about. Why not also try and pull them back in. The Rangers have proven their worth in battle countless times over."

Before anyone else could speak, an unseen voice slithered its way into the room. "And what is this about those Rangers, if you please," Elenwen asked, stepping out from the shadows. Marcus eyed her coldly and found his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword.

"Ah, Lady Elenwen," Tullius said, immediately becoming rather nervous. "What brings you down from your embassy?"

"I merely came to watch the execution, but upon entering the castle, I could no help but overhear your riveting conversation about Rangers and dragons." She sent a smug look towards Legate Rikke. "But I must tell you that the Rangers have been made outlaws by both your Empire and my Dominion. To bring him and his ilk back into the fold is treasonous itself."

"So you would have him reorganize his brethren and fight against us then," Rikke expressed.

"Hold your tongue, legate. If you are asked to join the conversation then you will know. I understand that even for one as cultivated as you that it is hard to keep your brutish Nord manners held in," Elenwen said with a gloating, superior voice.

"Then I shall take my leave, general," she said, her voice slightly wavering. As she turned to leave Marcus thought he saw a single tear drop from her eye.

"Lady Elenwen," General Tullius said to break the tension. "I was informing Legate Titinius that our best course of action would be to hunt down this Ranger and see that he is dealt with accordingly."

"Then make it so, general. This campaign against Ulfric Stormcloak cannot be disrupted by some forest-clinging imbecile who swears allegiance to no one but himself it seems."

Elenwen left the room, and the Imperial officers stared at one another cautiously. They made sure she was gone before continuing.

"So where will you have be begin this hunt, general," Marcus asked.

Tullius sighed. "Whiterun, I should think. That is where he was last seen. I want you to choose a special detachment of your horsemen to carry out this task. Exercise caution both on the road and when you confront him. I know not what sort of power he might possess, nor if he has rallied any of his former brothers in arms to aid him."

"Yes, General Tullius," Marcus reluctantly replied. He hadn't known Elenwen but for the space of a few moments, but he could already tell what a burden she was. Before leaving the map room he turned back to the general. "Sir, this source of information you spoke of, will I be in contact with them?"

"No. You have your orders, Legate Titinius. See to them." Tullius waved him away.

Once Titinius had gone, General Tullius left the map room and walked upstairs to his quarters. He looked around every corner to make sure Elenwen wasn't still lurking in the dark. The High Elf made him nervous in a way few others ever had. She could pull all the right strings in all the right places if forced, and had many of the Imperial politicians eating from the palm of her Thalmor hand.

He entered his chamber and wondered if Marcus would stick to his orders and see to it that Aleron was done away with. Until it was suggested to him, he had never before thought that this Ranger could be useful to him, but that was no matter anymore. He felt that in the grand scheme of things it would be better to have Aleron killed that to risk him becoming a potential usurper within his own ranks.

"This will not be an easy venture for your horseman, general," another creeping voice said from the shadowy corner near his window.

Tullius jumped, but then realized it was not Elenwen who had infiltrated his chambers. Instead there was a black-clad man standing across from him. The hood of his cloak was pulled back, and his long strands of grey hair draped down over his back. His features were obviously vampiric, and Tullius was not sure if he wasn't a little more unnerving than Elenwen after all. "What in Oblivion are you doing here in broad daylight," the general demanded. "I thought our agreement in Helgen was for you to only contact me by letter."

The old man laughed. "General, your men down there in the courtyard could not have caught me if they tried. I've been in this business for far too many years to be outwitted by a few pups playing soldier."

"Well, yes, what is it that you want? What news," Tullius asked as the assassin sat down at his desk and began fiddling with a letter opener.

"The girl, Rikke, she was right. The ol' Grey Beards have in fact called the Ranger up to High Hrothgar. Whether he will go or not, I have no idea," the assassin said. He fingered the letter opener's dull blade and tossed it about in his hands like he was about to heave a throwing knife.

"Damn! That's not at all what I wanted to hear from you, Valtieri! Surely with your now hundreds of years worth of experience you could've had that little bastard by now," Tullius berated him.

It was true, the vampire who now sat before him was nearly 500 years old. His facial features were sunken and his skin was nearly as grey as his hair. He had been a member of the Dark Brotherhood at one time, nearly 200 years prior, but he now worked as a freelance assassin, preferring to take contracts of a high priority nature. His departure from the Brotherhood had occurred around the time of the Oblivion Crisis, when he was presumed killed by members of his own order. He still bore a scar across his neck and burn marks on his hands as a result of the incident.

"Please remain calm, general. All is not lost, even though you seem to see it that way. I must say, I feel as if you military types enjoy worrying yourselves of miniscule issues to the point of near obsession," the vampire responded, dropping the letter opener.

"Then out with it! Why are you here, assassin," Tullius once again demanded.

"I am here to inform you of a slight ruffle the the feathers of this contract. The Ranger has sent a few of his associates out in an attempt to recall his former comrades to service. I really do wonder how little you would realize if it wasn't for me," Valtieri chuckled.

"So Titinius was right, is what you're trying to tell me?"

Valtieri shook his head in ignorance. "I've not got the slightest clue as to what your subordinate might have suggested, and to be honest I care little as to if or when this news might disrupt your grand agenda. All I am concerned with is my payment. Given that your horseman did manage to see to the recent arrival of a vast amount of coin, I must now ask for an increase in my contract price. Considering that this Ranger may soon be operating in the company of many others, of course." The vampire smiled at the general.

Tullius cupped his chin and sighed an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Name your price, assassin."

Valtieri grinned, exposing his fangs and adding to Tullius's uneasy demeanor. "Shall we say...ten thousand? I believe that to be a fair number." Tullius looked shocked, but then the vampire waved his hand. "Actually, I'll settle for eight. Three more than the original five. You see, when this same contract was given to me all those years ago, I was never paid my three thousand, as I could not produce his body afterwards."

"Well then. I will trust that you can see it through this time, Master Valtieri," Tullius responded. The vampire then turned to leave out of the window, but turned as he did.

"Be sure to inform your masters of my increased price. I would hate for your soldiers to assume you're spending all of their money on that fair-haired, Nord officer of yours."

Chapter 14

Fever Dreams

Everything was dark. The sky, the trees, even the moons and stars themselves; all dark. Aleron found himself to be barefoot, yet walking in soft grass at the edge of a gnarled, wild looking wood. As best he could tell he was uninjured. There were no cuts or bruises on him, which was odd, considering he felt as if he should have sustained some sort of injury when fighting the dragon. A warm breeze blew across his face, and carried his hair along with it. It felt out of place, such a pleasant feeling in such an unpleasant place.

Still not knowing where he was, he decided to walk through the grassy field behind him instead of venturing into the foreboding forest ahead. Surely there would be no settlements in there, and he wagered his best chance of finding someone, anyone in this place would be better if he strayed from the trees.

On he walked, the grass began to whirl faster as the speed of the wind increased. The farther he journeyed across the plain, the hotter the wind began to feel on his skin. He realized that he wore nothing but a roughly spun pair of trousers, and his skin began to sweat with the ever growing heat. Finally he came to a crossroads which seemed to appear out of nowhere amidst the tall grass.

"Which way," he muttered to himself. Just then he heard a rustling above the wind and turned to look up the road across from him. Walking his way, at a slow and deliberate gate was an old, weathered-looking wolf; the same, it seems, that had found him when he first began making his way to Skyrim. The wolf neared, and when it was within feet of him, sat back on its haunches and grinned.

"Ah, it would appear you have reached a crossroads. Literally," Hircine spoke. "What a precarious situation indeed." There was a hidden touch of anger in his voice.

"Do you know the way, my lord? Which way do I go to leave this place," Aleron asked as he crossed his legs and sat down facing the wolf.

"Lord? You have rarely ever referred to me in that way before, Ranger. Why now, of all times, do you begin to speak with me cordially?"

"I...I do not know. I am lost, and it would appear that you are my only friend."

"Yes, your friend. I am now your friend because you need my help. I have grown weary of the way you use me and my gift only when you require assistance. You have never embraced your true nature as I had hoped. You, Aleron, have so much potential; so much more than many of your kind."

"I apologize, Lord Hircine, but will you not help me? I must reach High Hrothgar, and I have no idea which way to go."

Hircine laughed, causing his teeth to glimmer in the dim moonlight. "Fortunately I have not yet decided if I will give up on you or not." The wolf looked down each of the four paths respectively. "Before you lie four roads, Ranger. Each one leads to a different destination. One will lead you to your Grey Beards and their Divines. One leads to the great hunting grounds of my realm, another will take you to certain death, and the final leads to your elven beloved. You must choose one, and only one, Ranger."

"Only one path? You cannot expect me to choose only one."

"And why not? You seem to have chosen that she-elf over me already, and it would appear that there is no path which leads you to your true destiny which your father so desperately tried to lead you down. You could have chosen the lion, my son, but that is a path from which you turned many years ago."

Just as Aleron was about to reply, he heard a roar in the distance. He stood, and saw the silhouette of dragon's wings lofting into the sky, illuminated by fire. Then, from the same direction, came several bloodcurdling screams and cries for help. Without thinking Aleron began to run. He ran passed the wolf and off into the grass behind him, not down one of the roads, but across one of their crucifixes.

The wolf saw him take off, and ran behind him, trying as best it could to catch up. Aleron turned to see the animal in full stride behind him. "Why do you follow me," he called back.

"Stop! You mustn't face this daemon! You have no weapon!"

"Then I will do whatever I can! I cannot leave its victims to their fate!"

Onward the Ranger ran, putting more and more distance between him and the wolf. The air was burning hot, and he began having trouble catching his breath. As he topped a small rise, he saw the full fury which the dragon was laying upon the land. There was a small group of people trying as best they could to defend themselves, but the dragon fire being cast down upon them disintegrated their arrows in mid flight. It seemed hopeless.

Aleron looked down at himself. Hircine was right, he had no weapon, and it appeared as if they were little use against the dragon anyhow. There was nothing he could do, until finally his mind thought back to Hircine himself. As the dragon killed off yet another poor soul, Aleron began to feel the frigid cold rising in his. He stood fully erect, letting his palms open, and looking towards the sky. He closed his eyes, and let the Beast take hold.

His bones crackled and popped, and it felt as if his flesh was stretching and tearing itself from them. He felt his eyes narrow and strain, and felt the dull pain in his mouth as his fangs began to grown and he began to drool upon the ground. When finally he could take the pain no longer, he fell to a knee and noticed his skin begin to turn black, and the thick, dark hair begin to envelope him. With one last bulge of his taught muscles, he threw his head upwards and let cry an echoing howl towards the moons.

The Beast was fully embodied within him. Aleron ran on all fours with what seemed the speed of the entire pack. His adrenaline was pumping through his icy veins with every cry from the hopeless people in the small valley below. The dragon had landed, and was making its lumbering approach to finish off the last two survivors. Just as it raised its horned head to strike, Aleron pounced from the grass and tackled the beast onto its side.

The dragon roared and thrashed beneath Aleron as it tried to regain its footing. Aleron brought his claws down as many times as he could, and as fast as he could, each strike drawing hot blood from the squirming dragon. With one violent heaving of its body, the dragon was able to throw Aleron across the ground and return to its feet.

Its eyes burned like coals as it eyed Aleron from but a few paces away. Both dragon and wolf roared at one another simultaneously, and they lunged forward with an echoing thunder of raw strength. Aleron's instinct was to go for the neck, but as he tried, he was met with a crashing chomp from his foe; the dragon's fangs sinking into his back. The pain was instant and fierce, but Aleron did not waver. He continued biting and clawing at the same wounds he had created before, each one causing the dragon to shriek in pain.

When finally the dragon threw its head high, Aleron saw his chance. He sprang upward and buried his teeth into the soft flesh of the dragon's throat. It screamed and kicked, but the deed was already sealed. Aleron held tight until the last few tremors of life left the creature. Its blood was thick and sweet. It tasted magnificent, like the finest wine. When finally he released his jaws, like a steel trap, he pulled a large chunk of shivering tissue along with him. It was bitter yet brilliant at the same time. He fought his urge to swallow the meat whole, and instead spat it out upon the ground.

The dragon was dead, but as he turned to check on the survivors of the attack, he was met with a sweltering pain, equalling that of the dragon's fangs. His eyes went ablaze with rage as he spun to come face to face with an elf dressed in his finest armor. His identity was unmistakable, as his eyes were dark and empty like the deepest mine. Faldil stood before him, brandishing a silver sword, dripping with blood.

Aleron's pain and rage at the attack could not be held in, and he sprang at the Bosmer in a furious bound. He howled once the elf was on the ground, and then began clawing at his fair skin. It shred in the wake of this scythe-like claws, and after one last cry of terror from him, Aleron bit down hard upon his neck.

When he arose, and Faldil lay a bloody mangled heap upon the ground, he turned to brace for another strike from the elf's companion. His Beast eyes, however, locked in with a beautiful pair of the purest hazel, but which were glazed over with sheer horror. Liethlri lay upon the ground, open-mouthed, and seemingly unable to speak. All at once Aleron was overcome by grief. She knew it was him. She had finally seen the Beast he truly was.

Without another thought he turned and ran. The grass whipped by his face as he ran back toward the mangled forest where this nightmare had all began. The world started fading in around him as the branches and thorns snapped and shot into his eyes. He could feel his skin becoming torn and bloody, and when finally he could run no further, being tangled in the thick branches of the trees, he collapsed in pain and agony.

He awoke with a scream. His body was drenched with a cold sweat, and even the moss-covered statue in front of him gave him a start. It was nearly dawn, and the pale light could be seen coming across the horizon. Lycaon and Ralof both say by the fire, wide eyed and not saying a word. The both just stared at him with looks of shock and confusion.

"You alright there, brother? You seemed to be having one damned awful dream, you did," Lycaon said. He stood and brought a small tin cup over to Aleron who still sat there atop his bedroll.

"Thank you," Aleron replied, taking the cup. He fought the urge to spit out the bitter liquid, a crude tea whipped up from what tasted like pine needles.

"You dreaming about the war," asked Lycaon with a silent understanding in his voice. Aleron looked at the ancient Dwarven statue in front of him.

"I...um...yes. I suppose that's what it was."

"Right. Well we'd best be moving along here shortly. If we ride hard we can reach Ivarstead by midday. From there you can start your journey up them steps, or you can wait until morning. Ralof and I figured we'd rent a room in the inn and wait for you there."

"Oh...yes. High Hrothgar. I do not know how long I'll be, but I suppose that will do. Hopefully these Grey Beards can just tell me what we need to know to stop these worms and not try to make me some sort of student." Aleron took one last sip of his warm drink and then tossed the cup's contents into the weeds after Lycaon turned his back.

Within the space of what felt only moments, the trio was back in their saddles and riding hard to the south. They had skirted the mountains the day before and decided to make camp for the night to give the horses a rest. It would surely be an even longer road ahead once they finished their business at High Hrothgar, and it wouldn't do to have their steeds exhausted before then.

After an hour or so their pace slowed and Lycaon pulled his horse back to ride with Aleron. He lit his pipe and offered his friend a match with which to light his own. "So what were you really dreaming about last night, brother," Lycaon asked after a few puffs.

Aleron was snapped out of a trance. "Her. I saw her last night, Lycaon. I cannot get her out of my mind it would seem. But that's not what caused the stir I'm sure you both saw."

"Then what was it? You still fighting that dragon then?"

"Yes. I did find myself locked into battle against one of those serpents. She was there, even though I did not know it before I changed."

"You changed? Into the Beast, you mean?"

"Aye. She knows I am beast blood, but has never seen me in such a way before. The look in her eyes, Lycaon. I will never forget those eyes, my brother."

Lycaon puffed away on his pipe. "Tis a pity really. Tis a pity that so few of us remain which truly understand this burden we bear."

Aleron thought on what Lycaon had just said. It was true that there were once many a Ranger who could transform into the Beast, but that was listed as one of the chief reasons for their extermination by the Thalmor and Imperials. It was odd that some, the Companions, were well known to carry the ability to transform, yet they were largely left alone. The Thalmor had done away with almost every Ranger who carried the blood, and there were now only three left which Aleron knew of. There was he, then only Bairain and Lycaon. The twins which rode with Bairain, Shamus and Mihal, he was unsure of, but he knew for certain that Garrik was not of the Beast.

But there was something else about his dream which stirred inside him. Even though he fought as the wolf, he still felt an incomparable sorrow at the dragon's death. He wasn't sure if it was because Liethlri had also been there and witnessed the entire, bloody spectacle, but he was sure that had played a part. However, something within his own soul felt as if it was doing battle. To be Dragonborn, he knew, was to be blessed by the Divines themselves, but this new found dragon blood was now mixed with the cold, black blood of Hircine. The two sides were at war within him, and at that point he knew of no way a victor could ever really be crowned.

So there he rode; a human vessel for the ancient war between Daedra and Divine. He hope that in the coming days he might begin to find an answer to all of this, but for now all he could do was smoke his pipe and ride on. Ivarstead was not far away, and from there he would begin his trek up the Throat of the World itself to seek council with the legendary Grey Beards of old.

Chapter 15

The Voice of the Mountain

Aleron was the first in line as the three riders entered Ivarstead. The waterwheel at the sawmill spun round with the river's current, and the townsfolk were bustling about, which he thought was odd, considering all that had recently conspired within the province. Ivarstead itself had been known to be a hotbed of Stormcloak activity, or at least it was known that the villagers were willing to offer food and shelter to passing Stormcloak soldiers.

The smell of the sawmill, the freshly split and cut trees, their crisp aroma mixed with the thick oil of the saw's blade rushed into his nose. It was a smell he had always loved. Even though it was not entirely his duty as a Ranger to do so, Aleron had spent many a day over the course of his life aiding Cyrodill and Skyrim's foresters and woodsmen as they carried out their day's work. He was pretty handy with an axe, and wasn't afraid to drive a team of horses or oxen as they would skid their payload down from the mountains and into the river valleys below.

"So what did you decide," Lycaon asked as they pulled their horses to a stop in front of the inn. "Will you begin your climb this afternoon or wait until the morning?"

Aleron hopped down from his saddle and tied his horse to the hitching post. He then turned and looked up and the gigantic mountain which rose up just across the river. "I'm not sure how long it will take to climb it, but then again, every second we stand by is another second these dragons have on us."

"Aye. I'll see to it that Ralof secures us a room and that your horse is looked after. Be sure you have everything you need before you start out. It'd be a shame to have to climb all the way back down because you forgot your pipe now, wouldn't it," Lycaon jested.

Aleron nodded at his friend who followed Ralof inside the inn. He began sifting through his knapsack and saddlebags, making sure he had everything he might need. He'd heard the climb could well be accomplished in a day, but that did not stop him from securing his bedroll to the bottom of his knapsack all the same. There were a few pieces of salted meat and a heel of stale bread inside, and he made sure to fill a water skin before releasing his feet to the path ahead and letting them carry him wherever they may go.

The wind was howling and the pines on either side of the path sounded as if they would snap off their roots like toothpicks. There was a blinding squall of snow whipping against his face, and each flake felt like a shard of stinging glass battering into his eyes and cheeks. He wore no heavy furs, only his thin tunics and breeches underneath an equally thin cloak. Of course, he kept telling himself, it was better than nothing.

The higher he climbed the worse the weather became. His scruffy face began to accumulate with freezing ice crystals, and eventually he felt like his face was entire white, masked in a cowl of snow and frost.

His greatest comfort, he found, was to try and think of Liethlri as opposed to the bone cracking chills coursing throughout him. Even after the dream he had had the previous night, thoughts of her always kept him warm, even though they sometimes also distracted him. Of course in this instance that was another benefit to her purely mental presence. He began to wonder, however, what he would say to her if she actually was there with him.

When the winds finally became too much for him, he found a small cut out in the rocks in which to take shelter. The rocks were large enough to put a decent sized barrier in between him and the wind, and once he had sat for a moment, decided to light a fire. This meant, however, that he had to leave his shelter to find fuel. He emerged nonetheless, and crunched through the snow to a low-hanging pine bough near the edge of the path. He cut the several pieces with his hunting knife, and then returned to the rocks to light his fire.

Once the fire was crackling in front of him it felt marvelous. Granted he did not have enough wood to camp for the night, but this would offer him a temporary stint of relief from the ascent. The air grew thinner the higher he climbed, and he had begun to feel the need to catch his breath more often. Before leaving the bottom someone had told him exactly how many steps there were along the path to High Hrothgar, but he had since forgotten. It was much easier to simply put one foot in front of the other instead of concentrating on keeping count of an irrelevant number.

His fire finally began to die down, and with the last glimmer of flame was finally snuffed out. He pulled his cloak tightly about him, and stood from behind his shelter in the rocks to trudge on. The climb seemed to get no shorter, even though he knew it was. As he skirted the very cliffs and edges of the mountain he began to notice how truly perilous his journey had become. One step in the wrong direction, or allowing himself to be caught unawares by a furious gust of wind, and he would be swept aloft and down to the forests and plains so far below.

Time began to fade away along the winds the higher Aleron climbed. He felt he had to be almost there. With as small as the everything looked in the distance, the things he could actually see, he wagered High Hrothgar had to be near. For one thing he could look up and see that he was running out of mountain to climb. He finally passed through a sort of natural archway along the path which had been formed from the weathered center of a large boulder. The path itself was built right through the center of the large hole in the rock, and he thought to himself what a wonderful place to lie in wait for an ambush that would make. He'd heard many a tale of trolls and all other sorts of disgusting things inhabiting the slopes of the mountain, but luckily he hadn't run into any thus far.

Darkness was well upon him when he finally surmounted the last small rise and gazed out upon the great stone walls of High Hrothgar. Even with the bone cracking cold cutting into his body, he could not help but stand in awe for a few moments before moving forward. Aleron understood such a place was more revered and sacred to Skyrim's native Nords, but being an ever conscious citizen of the land and its people, he too was amazed to finally see such a wonder that had only been legend and song to him mere weeks before.

High Hrothgar looked much like a large castle that could have very well been carved out of the mountain rock itself. Its high walls and central tower took up the entirety of the snowfield upon which it was built, thus allowing no travelers to make their way any further. Golden lights came from the few slit-like windows which dotted the walls in various places, and suggested to Aleron that the inside was much much warmer than where he was; as if he needed torchlight or candles to tell him that. Massive stairs stretched out before him and went all the way up to the large wooden doors. Each set of doors was situated on a respective side of a towering statue of Talos. As Aleron passed the statue he couldn't help but think back to the old tales his father had used to tell.

When he knocked on the doors it felt like ice crystals in his hand were shattering. It was by far the coldest he'd ever been. He kept kicking himself for not thinking to find any heavier clothing before leaving Ivarstead. No answer came at the door for several moments, but just as Aleron was about to knock once more, they were cracked open just enough to that he could squeeze inside. All of a sudden a gust of wind caught him across the back and seemed to push him forward and through the tall doorway. As soon as his boots hit the smooth stone of the floor, the doors were slammed shut to the cold.

The main hall was dimly lit and a thin smoke hung in the air. It smelled of incense and reminded him of that night long ago on Liethlri's balcony. But his mind quickly came back to the present as he realized he had not seen who had opened the door for him, but he began to feel the shiver down his back of not being entirely alone. He spun quickly around and saw an old man in grey robes, his face covered in the shadows of his hood, save for his long beard, moving towards him out of the shadows. Aleron began to slowly back away from the man, but then his eyes shot behind him, only to see three more emerging from the dark corners of the far side of the hall. They all walked toward him the the same slow, somewhat menacing fashion, and his hand found itself resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"You will have no need of that here, Ranger," the first man said in a commanding tone. When he spoke Aleron thought he felt a slight tremor travel across the air, as if his voice had actually shaken the space around them. In any case Aleron removed his hand from his sword and stepped out further into the light, removing his hood and hoping the four men around him would do the same.

"My name is Aleron, son of Arnand. I am the one who killed the dragon at Whiterun, and I am here because I have heard your call," Aleron said, trying to make his voice sound rather commanding as well.