A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, here's a little gift for you.

I arrive at the Throat of the World, surrounded by dragons. For a moment, I'm petrified, but…. They aren't hostile. More, morose. Subdued.

Am I truly zol mul? Did this prove that I was- am- strongest among the Dov? Even though I am not one of them, not truly?

The dragons, though, are Shouting. Or, at least, speaking with enough emotion and in unison to actually make the ground feel like it's quaking.

"Alduin mahlaan."

Several take off, circling around the Throat of the World, but they still join in, saying the words of their fallen, erm, king. I guess. Was Alduin king of the Dragons? Or a god?

Either way, he's dead. Or vanquished. Whichever.

"Sahrot thur qahnaraan." they speak again, several of them as nonchalant as a cat cleaning itself.

"Alduin mahlaan." It rings through the air again, and I shiver lightly. It holds itself in the cradle of the air for just a moment longer than necessary- it's disorienting. Maybe it's just the aftereffects of coming back to Nirn.

"Dovahkiin los ok dovahkriid."

I perk up when I hear my name… Los ok dovahkriid? Something dragon…. Obviously.

"Alduin mahlaan."

"Thu'umii los nahlot." Why can I Shout but not understand the Dov tongue? That seems like it'd be almost more useful. If you can speak Dov, then it would be more natural to develop it into Shouts, rather than the other way around. Especially with the Thu'um, you'd have to focus on not actually causing such effects.

"Alduin mahlaan."

I finally see Paarthurnax, who's looking at me sorrowfully. Right. Alduin is- was his brother- and whatever drove them apart, family is still family. It can be… difficult for someone to let those ties go. Though, are they really forever gone?

"Mu los vomir."

More dragons join their brethren flying around the Throat of the World, seeming like this eulogy or mourning or funeral, whatever it is, is over.

Odahviing, though, lands and calls out, proud, "Dovahkiin los kinboku!"

Paarthurnax turns his head towards the red dragon, as if noticing him for the first time.

Another dragon responds before Odahviing, though, and speaks, alighting on the mountain as well, higher up on the peak, near the rocks rather than the snow that Odahviing is resting slightly more comfortably on.

"Rek fen funta; Ek filok nol Alduin lost vo mahfaeraak."

"Rek los kinboku." Odahviing growls again, and the dragon resting on the peak tilts his head, considering me.

"Rek fen vokri Dovah Rii?" the dragon on the peak asks, and Odahviing nods his head.

"Rek fent. Dovahkiin los kinboku." he repeats, and I'm left wondering what this conversation has been about. Maybe I should get Paarthurnax to teach me actual Dov rather than just Rotmulaag.

The dragon on the peak considers this, and nods. "Dovahkiin los kinboku. Ek Thu'um los zol mul."

More dragons, flying around the mountaintop, agree with him, repeating parts of his statement, although I only recognize about four words of it.

"Congratulations, Dovahkiin. You seem to have taken Alduin's place as the strongest of the dragons. In time, those that did not bow here will do so, to the might of your Thu'um." Paarthurnax says, pride resonating in his voice. It feels…. Good. Like a father's pride, but decidedly more ancient and long lasting. I guess.

"What did they say?" I ask him, and he chuckles.

"It is not important, Dovahkiin. You have saved the world, and the Sillesejoor of your people."

"I wonder how many of them know that, and how many would remain complacent even if they knew my next step." I wondered aloud, though quietly.

Paarthurnax watches me, sorrow seeping into him. "If ever you seek refuge, Dovahkiin, come to High Hrothgar. Your Ahmul is not welcome here, after he abused his Thu'um."

"Thank you." I mumble, tired. "I'll…. Go rest now."

"That is for the best, Dovahkiin." he calls after me, and watches while I walk down the mountain, the wind that protects the path non-existent tonight. A certain type of magic, I presume. It's too much to think about.

I already have enough on my mind.

I open the door to High Hrothgar, trudging in whilst sighing. Not only for the entire journey to Sovngarde, and the battle itself, but for the walk down and the thoughts that weighed on my conscious as well.

"Welcome, Dragonborn. How was the afterlife?" Arngeir asks me, greeting me at the door from the courtyard. The sun's rising, creating a beautiful scene on the horizon, the mountains outlined by the sun's brilliance. I am unable to appreciate it, even though, by all rights, I should.

By the gods, if anyone has the right to appreciate it, it's me.

"How to describe it, I suppose? Definitely surreal, I guess. Majestic, and….. Magical. I never would have guessed it to be like that." I reply, and sigh again.

"You are tired, Dragonborn. How about you rest here, and figure out the rest in the morning? You will be safe from your troubles here," he responds, and points me to a bed.

I pause, looking at him and nodding. "Thank you, Arngeir."

However, he's already walking away. I watch him move to a meditation mat, greeting the sun where he concentrates on Rotmulaag, or Kynareth's gloriousness, or something more pleasant than I can imagine.

He- he chose this life. As boring and mediocre as it is, he chose it.

I….. I feel such envy for an old man that has almost never seen anything beyond this monastery.

How is that possible, when I will have power among men, mer, and dov alike? When I do have such power?

I move my gaze away from him, dropping it and considering the possibilities. Will I ever have the sort of freedom that he has?

I snort- ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. I just…. I just need rest. No reason to think any more on this.

Just keep moving. Keep living. Keep going.

If I stop… If I look back…. I might trap myself in a world of pity. I don't need that, and neither does the world.

Then again, do they even need me now?

I sigh as I slip under the covers of the bed, belt with my sword and pack on the floor. I toss my gauntlets down after them, wiggling out of my boots. Tiredly, I move my hands up and take off my helmet carefully, reverently. I'm too tired to give it the care it deserves, after all it's use and punishment. I'll do it in the morning, I promise myself, and yawn, setting it on the side table. I've slept in my armor before.

Will I, ever again?

I'd shake my head to clear the thought from my stupid, overactive mind, but I don't have the energy.

My last thoughts, though, as I fall asleep, were of the Dov circling Keizaal, free and fluid above Tamriel.

How I long for it…..

I wake up almost a day later, rubbing the crust from my eyes and yawning massively. It still feels like I could sleep for a week… I shouldn't tempt myself in such a manner.

I sit up, looking around. The Greybeards begin their meditation- I can hear their Shouts off the mountain from here. An interesting way to do so, making certain to not harm any animals, as Kynareth is their matron goddess.

Fumbling in the near-darkness of the early morning, I find a candle on the side table, next to my helmet. A small flame, built of magicka, lights it, the easy spell dying before it starts to destroy the room. Wouldn't want to burn down an ancient monastery after all the good I've done….

I give a little chuckle at it, but don't move for a while, merely watching the flame. It's hypnotizing, the light it gives off dancing and making the shadows jump around it. It's a work of beauty, a work of art in the making, but fleeting, dying, even as it lives.

Jerking myself out of my depressive musings, I take my helmet in my hands, sighing as I did so. My hand seeks out my pack, taking a polishing rag from an inside pocket, and I let out a deep breath as I start to polish my armor. The flames of a dragon tarnished it quite a bit- hopefully nothing I can't repair.

The slow, methodical polishing relaxes me, and I feel the tension drain out as I move onto my gauntlets, then the boots, and finally, I disrobe from my armor, clad in only my undergarments. I feel odd, though, sitting in almost nothing in the bed of an elderly man who has never laid with a woman. I search my pack, and pull out a regular dress. It's one that barmaids usually wear, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't look twice at them because of how it showed off their curves. Quickly, I pull it on, although I'm not sure if the Greybeards would care or not. I'm fairly sure they don't even know I'm awake.

I sit on the edge of the bed, carefully polishing my main armor, the pieces that have actually kept me alive in so many fights. I go slow, the hinges requiring significant attention, which I gladly give. It's the least I can do for them.

My mind goes blank as I do this chore, until I finish, and Arngeir is standing in front of me.

"I've been waiting to talk to you for ten minutes, Dragonborn." The disciple of Kynareth raises an eyebrow. "Why did you not respond to me?"

"I wasn't aware you were there, to be quite honest. Polishing my armor is when I can actually think of nothing but the task in front of me." I respond, folding the now-dirty rag and setting it neatly in it's pocket, inside of my bag. "What did you wish to discuss?"

He looks at me for a moment, then launches into speech. "The treaty we designed here still stands. I know you do not wish for it to be so, but we must adhere to our part of the bargain. You must marry Ulfric Stormcloak, be it that you hate him or not."

I sigh, looking at him. "Do you believe I do not know that? That I am not aware?"

He shifts, uncomfortable. "I felt it might bear repeating, thanks to what occurred yesterday. We could hear the Shouts from here, and, no doubt, they were heard throughout all of Skyrim. While almost none will understand what was said, Paarthurnax translated for us, and for you. When you were awake, I was to tell you."

"Missed that by a couple hours, but continue." I comment, and the priest nods.

"Odahviing, I believe, started a movement of sorts, for you to be considered the leader of the Dov. You are recognized as the strongest of dragons, though you only have the Thu'um of one."

"Yay…" I mutter, and stand up. "Just another thing to worry about. Thank you, Arngeir. I should be going soon…"

He nods again. "Farewell, Dragonborn. I wish you well on your journey throughout life. And remember, you always have a place here."

I nod. "Thank you."

Arngeir turns and goes back to his meditations, or duties, or something along those lines. I sigh, watching his retreating back. Why does this feel like something I'll be doing much more of, in the future?

I shake off the feeling, instead turning to my armor and sliding out of the dress into the protective shell, encasing me securely once more. I pull on the gauntlets and boots, setting the helmet on the bed so I won't forget it. My hands slowly wrap my belt around my waist, my sword and bag clattering on my armor as I didn't bother to unhook them from it.

Perhaps I should have waited to put on my gauntlets, but they're already on. I'm slower with them on, the layer of glass inhibiting some movement of my fingers, or at least, hindering my ability to work my digits fast.

I don't quite want to go fast on this, though. Every moment I waste doing things other than journey to Windhelm is no waste, in my opinion.

I close my eyes, sitting back down on the bed. I'd stood to equip my armor, but my thoughts were rapidly catching up with me.

My hands slowly reach for my helmet, and I take it in my hands, considering it. Thanks to the polishing I gave it, it's shining brightly in the light, the green-blue and gold metal reminding me of home, just a bit.

I let out another sigh, and place the helmet on my head, ready to face the day.

Or not. But it doesn't really matter, does it? It'll come whether I wish it to or not.

With another sigh, I will myself to walk to the exit of High Hrothgar, the wind howling already. It's rather amazing, actually, how the wind hasn't blown the monastery off the mountain, or at least made it uninhabitable by eroding the rock it's built on.

I suppose it's Kynareth's influence that protects the Greybeards and their residence.

But do the gods truly have any kind of influence on Nirn?

I shake my head, the wind giving me an extra chill, though the day is bright and sunny.

I shouldn't question the gods- only bad things happen to those who do.

I walk slowly along the road to Whiterun, considering the path before me. A dog is plodding along by my side- a stray. I don't have the heart to shoo him away, instead patting him on the head and giving him some venison strips I had. He appreciates it, barking and nuzzling my hand.

I smile as he frolicks, chasing a butterfly when he sees one in front of him. Such innocence. Such fun.

Ahead of me, though, I notice something- a contingent of….. What is that?

I watch for a while, and notice that the one leading the arrangement is Jarl Balgruuf, with a Thalmor Justiciar beside him. Ondolemar, I believe? I'm not sure. It's hard to tell from here, they all wear the same robes that cast shadows over their faces.

Behind them, though, is a small contingent of Whiterun guards, several Thalmor Enforcers, and further back are troops from the Legion. The Legate in charge is riding in front of her troops, rather than at the head with the Jarl and the Thalmor. An interesting choice, especially with the Empire's stance in Skyrim. Allowing the Thalmor to ride next to the Jarl of Whiterun? Very interesting.

A horse with no rider is being led by one of the guards from Whiterun, and I realize- it's an honor guard. I think. Here to make sure that when I return to Whiterun, I'll be escorted to Windhelm to fulfill the treaty.

I sit down on a nearby rock formation, and the dog sits next to me, panting happily, no care in the world. My hand scratches his head, and his tail wags excitedly. I should name him something, if he's going to follow me…

Huh. I've never had a pet before. What should I name him?

I watch the honor guard break their formation so they can climb the path to reach me, once it became clear that I wasn't going to walk down to them. I could run, though. Balgruuf would undoubtedly sympathize, holding the Thalmor back and saying that I'm clearly not me, clearly not who I am, and that I'm probably not back yet. Saving the world takes time, you know?

I briefly consider the idea, toying with living a life of anonymity, of having no ties and no responsibilities, just myself. Well, and this dog.

Absentmindedly, I pet him, the dog lying down now and content to do nothing. All three- the Justiciar, the Jarl, and the Legate- dismount before starting up the hill, like I'll spook if they don't. My eyes follow them as they ascend the slope, the Legate now leading the horse up to me herself.

"Dragonborn! I see you have returned from your quest," smiles Jarl Balgruuf, while the Justiciar scowls. Elven hearing is sensitive, but so is their pride.

Even though I'm half elven, they'd rather see a full elf do it, just to stick it to the Nords, especially with the Dragonborn being a Nordic hero.

I suppose I can't please everybody, even though I doubt I've pleased almost anyone.

I continue scratching the dog's ears, his tail continuing to wag. His chocolate brown eyes glance up at me with pure joy, and I smile, looking solely at the dog. Somehow, he has become the center of my world. For now.

The Jarl's smile dies, as I don't respond. My very presence should be enough to confirm that my quest is over- shouldn't it?

He clears his throat, and nods at the Legate- who, I can see clearly now, is Rikke. She smiles as she approaches, the horse trotting behind her.

"Hey, Korina. Are you alright?" she asks, and I nod, scratching the dog's head still.

"You won?" she continues, watching me. Conveniently, the horse idles, stilling himself before the view of the Justiciar and Balgruuf.

I nod again, and lift my eyes to hers.

She's relieved, and I'm immediately hit with a bolt of pain. Her relief…

I shake my head, clearing it, and stand, patting my leg for the dog to follow.

"Let's get going."

Rikke nods, handing me the reins. "We're heading to Windhelm to pick up…. Uh…. you know who. Then on to Riften."

"And if I refuse to be married in Riften?" I ask, considering my options, as well as the beast in front of me. He's a blonde haired horse, sturdy and strong. Not Swifter, though.

Rikke bristles, eyes widening in surprise. "There would be civil war in the country again, Dragonborn. Who knows how long it could rage…. How many lives would be lost…"

"I didn't mean cancelling the marriage altogether, Rikke. I meant that I don't want to be married in Riften. My homeland is…. It's too far. I don't have any of the traditional garb from my homeland. My mother wouldn't lower herself to journey to Riften without significant grumbling, and I am not going to disappoint her like that." I respond, moving the reins to their proper place, rather than where they were, with Rikke using them as a lead. In a smooth motion, I mount the horse, wondering in my mind what his name is, or if he even has one.

The dog barks at me, happy to be going somewhere with his new owner.

Rikke stands still, watching me with a concerned expression on her face.

"Dragonborn, you aren't going to….."

"My name is Korina, Rikke." I turn the horse, guiding the horse down the path confidently, surely, the horse placing steady and true steps on the slope. Trailing behind me, the dog follows.

Why does everyone seem to forget my name?

A/N: Also, what should the dog's name be? You guys get to decide.