III

Winterhold

The sun had reached its zenith by the time the outskirts of the northernmost town in Skyrim came into view. At least, Ralof thought it was at its zenith—the snowstorm blowing around him was so fierce that all he seemed to see was a mass of gray and white. That gray and white, however, had never looked brighter than it had all morning.

That brightness seemed to dim, however, with every step his horse took towards what remained of the town.

Winterhold had lain in this ruined state since before Ralof had been born—indeed, since before his father had been born—but in the eighty years since the disaster that had caused over half the town to crumble into the Sea of Ghosts, no one had ever been quite sure as to why it had happened at all. The only thing that was agreed upon—at least, by the few people who still called it home—was that the mages of the nearby College either had something to do with it, or should've had something to do with it.

Save for a few outlying houses, the only institution in Skyrim that was devoted to the study of magic was the only part of Winterhold that had not been touched by the Great Collapse. It hung there, virtually dangling by two threads of weathered rock that should not be able to hold its weight unsupported—but that was the one thing about the mages in this place: their magic could do anything. Many agreed that this magic was the only thing that kept the College standing—and this magic, some believed, ought to have been shared with the people of Winterhold, so that their town would continue thriving to this very day.

When Ralof had discovered that the man who would become the Dragonborn—the man he'd helped to safety in an escape he would be telling his children and theirs until he was old and grey—had not only joined the College of Winterhold, but become its Arch-Mage as well, his opinion of mages had been thrown into doubt. Like most Nords, Ralof had been distrustful of their craft, and last year's crisis with the Black Worm had augmented those fears significantly. Knowing one of those mages was the man who'd rescued Skyrim and the world from destruction, however, gave him some semblance of comfort—if only because at least of all the madmen who dwelled in that bleak corner of Skyrim, the madman who led them was someone Ralof could put his trust in.

But then he'd learned that, to make matters even more maddening, the moment the Dragonborn had averted the crisis and slain the monster that had devastated Morthal, murdered its Jarl, then proceeded to attack Solitude, Windhelm, and the Emperor's vessel itself … he'd vanished from sight. He'd no word of his destination, where he might have gone, or even why. For almost a year after that, no one knew where he was. Only Varulf seemed to have some inkling—but if he really did know anything about where he had gone, he wasn't telling. Yet the High King seemed adamant that the Dragonborn had not vanished as completely from Skyrim as he would have her people believe—yet the only people who could truly answer that question were not inclined to do so.

Nevertheless, here stood Ralof, before one of those very people. He'd tied off his steed on a nearby post, and reassured him that he would be back soon. Ralof had fully intended to keep his visit to Winterhold brief—not just so he could get his horse out of this ungodly weather, but also because the stillness of the town made the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

That feeling was amplified another notch when he heard the echoing cry in the wind that blew in his face. Instantly, his hand flew to the blade on his hip, though Ralof knew that would do little good against the scales of a dragon—and the shield he carried might as well have been made of soap bubbles against their fire. He recalled what Varulf had said about the absence of other dragons in Winterhold, and wondered if maybe he was overthinking things. There was a mountain nearby, after all, on which they were known to roost. Even so, hearing the roar of the great beast, however far away it might be, was enough to make him wonder if maybe there was one nearby after all.

Resolutely, Ralof soldiered on through the cold toward the College, ignoring the bite of the cold as best he could.

"Cross the bridge at your own peril!" someone barked just then, and Ralof jumped. Almost without realizing it, his feet had carried him right to the foot of the bridge that separated the College from the rest of the town. He cursed himself; he'd been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had no idea where his own feet were taking him.

The source of the voice, meanwhile, stared back at him with a strange look on her face. "The way is dangerous," said the tall Altmer standing across from Ralof, "and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!"

Ralof heaved a groaning sigh—he didn't have time for any preambles. "High King Varulf sent me!" he had to holler over the freezing wind that continued to buffet his exposed face.

He extracted the letter Varulf had entrusted to him with fumbling fingers, numb from the cold. "I was told to deliver this to your Arch-Mage! It's urgent this finds his hands immediately!"

The Altmer frowned down at him. "The Arch-Mage is away on business at the moment," she said flatly, pocketing the scroll without even opening it up. "I can show you to the Master Wizard, if your business cannot wait—"

She broke off as Ralof crossed the distance between them in a single stride. Though the Nord was a full head shorter than the mage, he was not deterred—he could not afford to be, and neither could the people of Dawnstar.

"Listen to me, mage," he growled in the most intimidating voice the blizzard would allow him. "There's a town full of sick people in Skyrim who need help. They need a hero. If that hero doesn't show up, they could all be dead. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"The Dragonborn is a hero, yes," said the high elf, "but he is also a mage of Winterhold. He is not bound by any sort of honor or duty to help the people of Skyrim for every little moment in their lives. Sickness can be treated, even cured. Anyone can do that—and then they can be a hero in the eyes of their people."

Ralof had to do his damnedest to resist the urge of bull-rushing this obstinate mage off the cliff. "Heroes are supposed to help people!" he said hotly, despite the wind continuing to shriek in his face. "What kind of hero is your Dragonborn, that you would keep him away from his own countrymen?"

"The kind of hero that fights for something more than his people, or their country," the Altmer shot back. "A village filled of sick people is tragic, but against the forces the Dragonborn fights against, it is insignificant."

"Tell that to the people of Dawnstar!" roared Ralof, his fury quickly turned into a coughing fit from the continuing snowstorm. "The longer we sit here freezing our arses off and arguing like whelps, the more people in that town end up dying to the Knahaten Flu! If these people aren't cured, this whole damned province is going to be knee-deep in disease—and the only person who can help them is inside your College right now!"

The Altmer drew back, looking unsettled for the first time since Ralof had seen her. "The Knahaten Flu?" she repeated, sloped eyes narrowed as she inspected the scroll he'd been carrying. Ralof saw her lips move, repeating the half-dozen words on the parchment; with each syllable, those eyes narrowed further still.

She replaced the letter in her robes with a sniff. "I'll need to confirm this with the senior staff," she said shortly. "If what you are saying is true, then we will investigate this Flu, and whatever its source might be."

Ralof was not convinced. "And what of its people? Are you going to let them die while you do your confirmations and investigations?"

"I did not say that," the elf said coldly, "nor will you ever hear me saying such like it. Our master of restoration may be able to assist them; she has trained alongside the healers of Kynareth in the past, and is therefore better placed to determine if Dawnstar has truly fallen victim to this flu."

"Out of the question." Ralof had had enough posturing; his body tensed, ready to make a run for the bridge, and he noticed the Altmer's fingers tense as well. "If you want to send in a healer, fine. Send in all the healers you want for all I care. But the Dragonborn comes with her. One mage is not enough to save a town. And you've got one town on your conscience already," Ralof added, glancing at the ruined buildings around them—the survivors of the disaster that had struck the town long ago. "Do you want the destruction of another to weigh upon you, just because you didn't listen to your High King?"

The elven mage glowered at him. "You go too far, soldier," she hissed, a warning tone in her words. "You would do well to choose your next words very carefully, or I just might—"

But whatever the Altmer might have done to Ralof remained unanswered, as she broke off upon hearing the echoing roar of the dragon.

Out of instinct, Ralof's hand immediately flew to his sword—though he could see no dragon, that roar had sounded very close by indeed. But something was off about this; the high elf had not brought her magic to bear, to fight off this dragon herself. Not that it would have mattered, Ralof knew—there was only one man in the whole world who could truly kill a dragon—

That was when it hit him—quite literally: the next roaring sound came at the exact same moment a gust of wind blasted from the north, nearly knocking him off his feet. Even as he fought to stay upright in the blizzard, Ralof knew his hunch had already been confirmed; the dragon's roar not only sounded much closer than before, but was also being carried on the northern wind—and there were only four other landmasses to the north of this part of Skyrim that could accommodate a dragon and its hoard. The first of them, the nameless mountain beneath which Ysgramor himself had been entombed, could be eliminated immediately, as even in death, his spirit gave any who would disturb his resting place pause, dragon or no. The second Ralof had visited himself on numerous occasions; the ice wraiths that infested Serpentstone Isle served to test any willing Nord who wished to join the Stormcloaks.

Since the third was too close to the College of Winterhold, that left only one other option—the College itself.

Slowly, Ralof rounded on the Altmer, and he was pleased to see that she looked more troubled than before. Gotcha, he thought triumphantly—if this elf had even half his smarts, she'd just come to the same conclusion, and knew now that her ruse had failed.

"Care to explain that, elf?" he demanded. "Awful strange for a dragon to roost that far up north, wouldn't you say?"

The high elf recovered quickly—much too quickly, Ralof might have thought if he weren't so eager to hold this mage over a barrel. "Don't ask me to fathom the way a dragon's mind works," she snapped. "If you want to answer that question so badly, maybe you should ask the dragon yourself."

Ralof noticed only too late that the Altmer's eyes were glowing. He was about to bring his sword to bear when he realized that the elf was no longer looking at him, but somewhere past him, up and off to his left. Ralof, wary of some tricks, gripped his sword tighter, slowly turning to match where the elf was looking.

"Ven … mey miin."

The Stormcloak was only aware of three whispered words from somewhere above him—and moments later, there came a sudden shimmering that covered his entire eyes, as though a bucket of water had been dumped on them while they were still open. A moment later, Ralof's sword had dropped to the ground, and he'd suddenly started scrabbling backward on all fours, swearing violently as a sudden panic gripped his heart more cruelly than any cold.

After the past several years in which the dragons had returned to Tamriel, Ralof had grown used to seeing their scaly forms, horned heads, spiked tails, and massive wings. He, like most other men and women in Skyrim, had no intention of fighting them one against one—not out of cowardice, but out of self-preservation. Unless you had a death wish—or unless you were a certain Nord—going off gallivanting to fight a dragon was the epitome of recklessness. For this reason, Ralof had only seen them from a distance up until now, and was grateful for it—in his mind, the beasts were best viewed that way.

This dragon, however, was a completely different story—mostly because it had appeared literally inches away from Ralof's mailed chest, quite literally out of thin air.

The Stormcloak was too terrified to notice the warmth that was spreading across his groin. The sudden gust of wind from only moments ago had now registered; his fingers were numb from both cold and fear, and his gaze did not waver even a hair from the black eyes of the crimson beast that stared back at him, unblinkingly. His body refused to move even a muscle even as the long neck of the beast dipped to better see its prey, filling his vision completely—all that was on his mind was that he was surely staring death in the face.

At length, enough of Ralof's senses returned to him that he could feel a sucking sensation on his exposed skin. It took him several long moments before he realized that he wasn't dead yet, and several more before he saw the undulating nostrils of the dragon, wide enough to fit his sword—which might as well be nothing more than a toothpick against its reddened hide.

Belatedly, the Stormcloak realized it was sniffing him. It was not a comforting thought, and even when the dragon pulled its head back a few feet, Ralof kept very still.

"Hi pook se thuri," rumbled the beast. Ralof said nothing in reply—for all he knew, the dragon was wondering if he tasted better when raw or cooked to a crisp.

And then—incredibly—the elf spoke up. "Stop making a scene, Odahviing," she said, in a tone that a stunned Ralof could only call scolding. In spite of this, her voice, too, was trembling—and if Ralof peered out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the rest of the elf's body was just as shaken by the sudden appearance.

Wait … His mind slowly began to make sense of what he was hearing. Odahviing?! That's—!

The dragon snorted. "My thuri watches from his hofkah," said the dragon in slow, broken Cyrodiilic, "and his miin still serves him well in his wuth bok. He sees two joorre on the threshold of his steading, holding tiinvak fit to be exchanged with dovahhe like myself. Both of these people he knows and remembers well. But he does not wish to be disturbed—"

It took a long moment for Ralof's senses to catch up with him. When they did, however, he proceeded to do the unthinkable—and interrupt the dragon in the midst of his discourse.

"Odahviing," he was stammering breathlessly, the words tumbling out of his half-numb tongue. "B-but—you serve the Dragonborn! Y-y-you were the dragon who carried him to Skuldafn, and saw him off to Sovngarde itself, where he defeated Alduin!"

He'd heard the story from many Stormcloak guards who'd occupied Whiterun after capturing it from Balgruuf the Greater; a number of them had served under the city's former Jarl, and had borne witness to the unprecedented event of a dragon being captured live inside Dragonsreach itself. This, Ralof knew, was that dragon—commanded by the Dragonborn to help him defeat the World-Eater, and thereafter had entered his service as the deadliest of many weapons that the legendary warrior had at his disposal.

Except that legendary warrior hadn't been seen in over a year. Had he really been here this whole time?! Why had he chosen not to show himself?! Since when could his dragon turn invisible?! Ralof's mind was overflowing with questions at this point; it was a long time before he could calm himself down to get to his feet—and longer still before he could summon enough courage to explain himself to a fully-grown dragon.

Fortunately, however, the elf seemed to have leapt to his defense. "He's claiming that the High King sent him," she was saying to Odahviing, her tone now much more calm and measured. She was now showing the contents of the scroll to the dragon, almost shoving the parchment right up to one of its jet-black eyes.

"Handpicked me … personally," Ralof managed to gasp out, attempting to get a word in edgewise. "Said it was … because I knew him the best … "

The dragon was looking intently at the Altmer. "If nothing else, it should be looked into," the elf said. "This claim is too serious for us to just ignore. I'll relay this to the Arch-Mage at once."

Ralof let out a breath he realized he hadn't been holding. "Let me come with you," he offered. "I'd like to catch up with old Grimnir while I'm here. He and I go way back … "—and maybe hearing the news from me will show him just how seriously the High King is taking this, he thought.

But the Altmer was already turning away from him. "Your part has been played, soldier—you've done enough service to Skyrim for one day," she said. "You have the word of the College that the High King's request will not go unanswered. Go now—rest at the barracks in town before you return to Windhelm. You've had a long journey, and this storm won't be going away any time soon; I'd wager neither has been very easy on you."

There was a strange tone to her words, much more soothing than it had been before—and was Ralof hearing things, or was that pity in her voice as well? At any rate, the numbness in his legs had grown too bad to ignore, and he was in no mood to protest any further in this damnable weather. Going back to make his report to Varulf today would be a fool's errand. He needed a warm bed and warmer food before he could even think of returning back.

The Altmer mage, meanwhile, had extended the scroll to Odahviing once more, and Ralof could not help but watch in a strange sort of fascination as the crimson dragon's jaws yawned open, and his tongue snaked out, the pointed tip curling around the tiny scroll with incredible dexterity. How the scroll didn't get ruined from the moisture in the dragon's breath, Ralof wasn't sure—he could only assume that the elf had protected it with some manner of sorcery, since he had not seen Wuunferth do anything of the like.

Odahviing, meanwhile, had spread his crimson wings; clouds of snow erupted around his bulk as he soared into the storm, bound north and east for the College. Ralof could only stand there, amazed at the spectacle—and more so that he had survived being so up close to a real-life dragon.

It was almost enough to make him burst out laughing. Gerdur and Frodnar are never going to believe this, he thought, already picturing his sister and his nephew sitting with him the next time he was on leave in Riverwood, listening with bated breath and eyes wide as septims as he related his next thrilling tale with the Stormcloaks.

He made to turn around and head for the inn—maybe they'd have someplace in the back he could tie up his horse without it freezing to death—when he suddenly paused. A lapse in the shrieking winds that buffeted Winterhold had afforded him a clear view of the College and its parapets. Odahviing, now the size of an average hawk, had alighted upon the tallest of those parapets, and was lost to sight moments after that.

But if Ralof squinted, he could almost make out a smaller form, standing at the very edge of the College's tallest tower … one that looked suspiciously like a cloaked man.

Then the storm had resumed, and the College was once again lost to sight. Moments later, so was Ralof; having set on his way to the inn, he was swallowed up by the blizzard almost immediately. As he trudged through the driving snow, he found the air much less cold, from the sudden fire that had sprung up in his heart at the sight on the tower. Nevertheless, he could not help but wonder if the elf that guarded the College had been right … if there truly was nothing more that he could do to help the people of Dawnstar in their darkest hour yet … and if the Dragonborn, now that Ralof knew him to be here, would be able to do enough.

As he slipped into the grateful warmth of the Frozen Hearth, he idly wondered what in Talos' name the man had been doing all this time …


The cloaked figure atop the College continued to stare downward for a long time. Stately blue robes, trimmed with furs and expertly sewn, whipped around his form in the howling wind, giving no indication that he was otherwise protected against the dreadful weather. But if he was affected by it, he did not show it; he remained unruffled, and stood upon the stone floor as if rooted there as Odahviing waited patiently behind him, awaiting the sign of acknowledgement from his thuri.

There had been a time, once, when the face of Grimnir Torn-Skull had been recognizable throughout all of Skyrim. He'd not been an especially handsome Nord—certainly no Ysgramor—but neither had his facial features marked him as some kind of pariah; in fact, his lack of noteworthy appearance had itself been noteworthy. He had the same blond hair, the same light blue eyes—if perhaps a bit more piercing than normal—and even the same thick Nordic accent that most of his people possessed. Even after learning of his ancient destiny to be a great hero, it had always surprised people seeing him for the first time as to how … plain he'd looked.

It feels so long ago … he thought.

Now, that unremarkable façade was gone—Grimnir's gaze no longer possessed the iciness of the world around him. One of his eyes now bore the brunt of a horrific injury; even a year onward from that fateful day, he could feel the stinging in the empty socket. Today had been especially bad, as the wind kept hissing through the slits of the ancient malachite mask he presently wore, tearing at the hole in his flesh like hundreds of tiny claws. This had only been the crux of a litany of wounds Grimnir suffered in the days leading up to the loss of his eye; he'd been gouged, burned, flayed alive … all because he'd been hellbent on eradicating a threat to Skyrim whose scope he'd vastly underestimated. More injuries had followed, yes—but those had been the worst … physically, at least. Even so, the injuries in the year that followed had imposed even more drastic changes upon him.

His flaxen hair, too, was only a memory now—every strand burned away by the fires of mages, dragons, and things too terrible to describe. Frost magic had ravaged his once-ordinary face and torn away part of one ear, giving nearly half of his head the look of weathered wood. Grimnir's other ear, already a blackened stump in that relentless pursuit of the previous year, crowned the other half of that face, blistered and burned so badly that it looked almost melted. For Grimnir, all of these wounds served to remind him who and what he was—a reminder of the burden he carried that set him apart from all other Nords, his plain appearance be damned.

It had been that same burden which had led him away from Skyrim that year, and in pursuit of the one other being in all of Skyrim he might ever have had so much in common with … another Dragonborn

Grimnir sighed, and turned round, allowing his single eye to focus on the ice fields on the other side of the College. Odahviing's scaly neck turned, the dragon's black eyes never leaving him, but the Arch-Mage's mind was elsewhere. Somewhere in the distance, out of sight beyond all the clouds and snow, he knew it was waiting there—almost as if to mock his new disfigurements … the new face the world must now associate him with.

Solstheim …


Much like him, the island bore two halves to its own face: the southern side, ravaged and consumed by the fires and ash that still spewed from Red Mountain, even nearly two centuries on from the disaster that had struck Morrowind. The northern half of the landmass, though, had been shielded from the eruption, and so remained just as frozen and craggy as the extreme edges of Skyrim. Very few settled here, save for the stunted rieklings and the peaceful Skaal.

The Skaal … Grimnir felt a block of ice slide through his gullet at the memory of the Nords he'd met up there. Even though the new shaman of their village had forgiven him for the part he'd played in eliminating the threat that faced their island, it had been a much tougher job to forgive himself in the time after that. In destroying one threat, he had allowed another to worm its way into the heart of their village, and the secrets they guarded most jealously.

Grimnir had retreated after that, never staying in one place too long—never allowing himself to be tempted by the lure of more powerful mysteries than even the Skaal possessed, kept within the squirming clutches of Hermaeus Mora—for that had been the threat posed to Solstheim; the First Dragonborn, the Traitor called Miraak, had fallen under the sway of the Daedric Prince, and gained unimaginable power. Yet Grimnir had defeated him, too—Miraak and his minions had been slain to the last, defeated as only a Dragonborn could defeat them.

There was no longer a Dragonborn now, though. There was only the Dragonborn—the Last.

Grimnir had remembered standing there, watching the sizzling, skeletal remains of a man he had known for only a fraction of his life, yet who had shared the same blessings and curses he had for years. Perhaps most mockingly of all, neither had ever seen the other's face, even in Miraak's dying moments after their final battle in the alien realm of Apocrypha.

He was alone now.

For a long time after that, he'd wandered around Solstheim, coming to terms with the ramifications of what he'd done. He hadn't been alone here, at least—another student at the College had come with him. Ultimately, however, Brelyna Maryon had come to Solstheim for her own purposes. No sooner had the Dunmer disembarked at Raven Rock than they'd gone their separate ways—he to the legend of Miraak, she to the towering mushrooms of Tel Mithryn and her eventual master. Neloth had quickly proved himself to be a demanding wizard to Brelyna, and a valuable assistance to Grimnir—if proving himself rather eccentric in both cases; the few times he saw Brelyna in that time, she looked as if she was at her wits' end.

"He's had me hopping all over Aurbis for the smallest things you can imagine," she'd said to him on one such occasion—the first time, in fact, that Grimnir had met Neloth personally. "Last week he sent me to one of Sanguine's realms to get a daedra heart for his tea! And the things I saw in that realm … "

She'd shuddered and said no more here; Grimnir, having some understanding of the Daedric Prince of hedonistic revelry, decided not to press for further details. Not that he would have been able to, as Neloth had whisked him away to a Dwarven ruin mere moments after the two mages' brief encounter. Nevertheless, he decided then that he'd try and visit Brelyna more often, to make sure the Telvanni apprentice didn't crack under the workload of her taskmaster.

That had been before Grimnir had defeated Miraak, of course, and his eventual return to Tel Mithryn had been born not only out of loyalty to his student, but as a means to cope with this … emptiness he'd been feeling ever since. Watching Miraak die—though he knew it would save the land—had felt as if a part of the Arch-Mage had died in Apocrypha. Even as Hermaeus Mora laughed at the fall of his loyal servant from the summit of his realm, and lavished his new one with promises of knowledge beyond any that mortal minds could even comprehend, Grimnir had stared defiantly back at the Daedric Prince's slimy, boneless, disembodied limbs and the floating eyes in their midst, angry beyond words.

Eventually—perhaps inevitably—the solitude had proved too much for his thoughts to bear, and once again, he found himself before the titanic fungi of Tel Mithryn—just in time to catch a steaming Brelyna making her way away for yet another demand from Neloth: in this case, retrieving a staff made by the famous Azra Nightwielder, which according to Neloth was located in one of the most remote areas in all of Skyrim.

"And he wants me to bring it back to him by the end of the week!" Brelyna had seethed. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm his apprentice at all—I feel more like a servant. I've got too much to deal with already—I've got taproots to soak in this one river on the north side of the island, and Neloth's other servant was found dead on the shoreline a few days ago, so now he wants me to find a new one … "

She'd kept on gnashing her teeth all the way to the remains of Fort Frostmoth, and it was there that Grimnir first had the idea. He'd never thought about it before—Solstheim was a long way away from Skyrim, maybe too far away for him to hear—but he wouldn't know unless he tried.

And so he'd tried.

"ODAHVIING!"

Only ten minutes later (quicker than he'd expected, though still longer than any time he'd had to wait for the Shout to be heard), the two mages were sailing over Raven Rock port on the back of Grimnir's dragon.

It wasn't long, however, before Grimnir's elation had waned, and he began to feel a sudden reluctance; even though it was his first time seeing the province in almost a year, he had heard whispers of how much Skyrim had changed. Though he never said as much, he knew those whispers were true—he knew full well what had happened even before it actually had.

It was for this reason that Grimnir discovered, for the first time in his life, he was afraid to come home.

Had anyone guessed the truth of what happened? the Arch-Mage had wondered over and over again. Would he be tried for what he had done—perhaps even convicted, imprisoned, or worse?

Brelyna, thankfully, had noticed the change that had come over him. After some coaxing and confessing, she'd cast a spell on him to shield him from sight—an advanced invisibility spell she'd no doubt learned from Neloth. She'd then cast the same spell on herself, disappearing from view and making it appear as though Odahviing was just another dragon flying around Skyrim.

Grimnir had not told Brelyna everything about what had happened in the time leading up to Skyrim's political upheaval. Nor did he think he ever could—Neloth hadn't completely worked the idealist out of her yet, and the Arch-Mage was worried that if the Dunmer ever caught wind of the whole story, he'd be sacked before year's end, disgraced for the rest of his life—a wanted man.

Nevertheless, he felt happier than he'd ever been this year—he felt free. Free to go wherever he wanted, free to do whatever he wanted. For that one shining voyage, he was no longer the Last Dragonborn. Nor was he the Arch-Mage of Winterhold—or even the Thane of Whiterun or the plaything of a Daedric Prince.

He was Grimnir Torn-Skull.

The elation had surged back up in his chest as quickly as they'd risen into the air. In his happiness, Grimnir had kicked off a satchel that contained a few of the trophies he'd collected on Solstheim—including a pair of thick, black-bound books he wouldn't be missing any time soon—and cast them into the sea. But Grimnir Torn-Skull did not care.

As the setting sun had sunk into the horizon, and the thin, jagged line of Skyrim had grown ever more present by the second, Grimnir had found the prospect of returning to Winterhold more satisfying than he would have believed. He'd envisioned himself stepping back into its drafty halls, where he'd listen to Tolfdir prattle on to the newest batch of prospective mages. Then, he'd settle into the Arcanaeum and ask Urag to recommend a book for him to while away the time, while the Orc librarian lectured those same prospective mages on how to treat his "own little plane of Oblivion" with the respect it deserved. With any luck, he'd see J'zargo there, chuckling at a pilfered folio of The Lusty Argonian Maid, and Grimnir would walk up to the irrepressible Khajiit that had once called himself his rival, but who now called Grimnir his friend, and the two would sit there until nightfall, trading tales of better days.

It'll be good, he had thought, to go back to a normal life after all this time …


Now, however, as he turned to Odahviing at last, and the scarlet dragon wordlessly produced the letter it had dutifully carried to him, Grimnir found that prospect of a normal life slowly evaporating with every word that had been scrawled upon the parchment.

The penmanship had been the first sign something was wrong. He'd seen enough of its owner to know how the man wrote. Certainly not this illegibly, so that made him suspect Varulf had been in a hurry to write him this letter. The letter itself was the next sign; the sheer lack of length was just as troubling—and more than a little annoying. It sounded as though Varulf expected him to know from the beginning what this "Crimson Ship" was supposed to be.

"Wuth veysun," said Odahviing, "ahrk wuth zoor. A ship, its sailors stricken with deadly krasaar, but turned away from salvation until all were dead—vodahmaan on every day save one."

It only took a few minutes longer for the dragon to explain the legend associated with the Knahaten Flu—something that Grimnir recognized this time, from a number of the books he'd sampled in Urag's Arcanaeum.

Immediately, he knew that this could not possibly be handled by one person alone—not even by a mage of Winterhold. Two, however …

"Wait here," he said to Odahviing, before sprinting down the stairs of the College.

He found the target of his search almost immediately after, grumbling darkly under her breath as she often did. She was walking in a slump—her hazel eyes, sharpened with age, carving a trench into the floor before her. She failed to look where she was going, and so collided with Grimnir at the precise moment he'd thrown open the door to the Hall of the Elements.

"Do watch where you're going—oh!" Colette Marence, the master instructor of restoration at Winterhold, quickly picked herself up from the floor and dusted off her robes while apologizing profusely to Grimnir.

The Arch-Mage, however, waved it off. "Never mind that now," he said hurriedly, keeping his voice quiet so as not to further disturb the pupils Tolfdir was managing in the lecture hall. "I just got handed a letter from the High King that suggests Dawnstar may be facing an outbreak of Knahaten Flu."

Colette, still apologizing, took some time to hear him. "I've had a lot on my mind," she was rambling, "ever since finding that last letter in my tea—I'm sorry, what?"

Grimnir cleared his throat, and produced the letter Odahviing had given him. "Faralda met one of Varulf's runners at the bridge earlier. He was carrying this with him, and he had every intent on giving it to me."

The instructor's eyes zoomed over the single line of writing for only a fraction of a second. Her pupils were the size of pinpricks. "Is this true?" she whispered, her voice fearful.

"We have no reason to suspect otherwise right now," Grimnir said—nor has Varulf given me any reason to doubt my better judgment yet, he finished in his head. "But whether it's true or not, you're the best authority Winterhold has on every disease there is to name in Tamriel—including the Flu. I was just about to leave—but I wanted to find you first. I need you to come with me on this, Colette," he pleaded. "I can't do this alone. If it is true, and we don't any knowledge of how to treat this … then Dawnstar may be beyond saving."

He bit his lip beneath his mask, and added as an afterthought, "The next time you get any letters saying restoration isn't a necessary skill in learning magic … you can remind the students about today."

Grimnir saw the Breton's lips tighten, and her breathing became slower, more measured, as she tended to do when trying to calm herself.

Then, she finally exhaled. "I'll tell Sergius to give me every filled soul gem he has. I don't care what he says back to me—he can restock whenever he wants. I can use those gems to enchant some jewelry that should help anyone to waers them to resist the disease."

Grimnir nodded. "I'll find Urag and request anything he has on the Flu. We need to be prepared for the worst—it's possible we could be over there for either a few days, or a few months. With something like this, it may be impossible to tell."

He made for his quarters, then stopped. "I'm taking Hevnoraak with me, too," he said, thinking that he might finally find a use for it besides sitting forlornly on his enchanting table. "Meet me on the topmost tower in five minutes!"

"Why there?" Colette was already at the front door.

"Odahviing's waiting for us." And with that, Grimnir swept up the stairs, leaving a suddenly pale Colette at the front door, her eyes widening as she realized the implications of how precisely they were getting to Dawnstar.


Above Winterhold

Five minutes after that, a still-pale restoration instructor was hugging one of Odahviing's spines like a lifeline as the crimson dragon took off into the air with a mighty bellow.

Grimnir had donned a new mask under the robes of his station for the journey ahead. The previous malachite visage of Otar, the dragon priest of Ragnvald, protected him against the elements—magickal and natural, but would not serve him here. He'd replaced it, then—though not with Morokei's moonstone face and the familiar regenerative enchantments it carried, but the rusted iron of another dragon priest—one he had slain some months ago while assisting Brelyna in one of Neloth's chores for her.

That time, she'd been tasked with extracting a fresh briar seed from the chests of those undead Bretons who led the violent Forsworn clans in the Reach. Odahviing had landed them in a foggy clearing near a Nordic ruin called Valthume so as not to attract the Forsworn's attention; while Brelyna busied herself with the briarhearts at a nearby redoubt, Grimnir had decided to pass the time by slipping inside the ruin to possibly do some exploring.

That chance had faded almost immediately as soon as he'd seen the ghost appear in the vestibule of the ruin; from there, Grimnir had learned of the danger that slept within the ruin, and was perilously close to awakening: the lich called Hevnoraak, who even though long dead intended to return to Skyrim with all his horrible power.

It was a task Grimnir was reluctant to do, having already slain a dragon priest in order to save the world at least three times. But the ghost of Valthume's sole, uncorrupted watchman had been insistent, and persuaded him eventually to carry out his own plan—to resurrect Hevnoraak before the appointed time, so that he would be much weaker than he would otherwise be. The plan had worked—though only just; Hevnoraak's magic had taken such a toll on Grimnir's own that day that he'd had to spend an entire day in bed wearing Morokei's mask before he felt ready enough to cast a lightning bolt.

After Hevnoraak had been slain, Grimnir had plucked the iron mask worn by the lich from his ashes, and taken it for his own, along with his staff. Later research on both of them revealed a vast wellspring of power within the staff, far beyond the artifacts Neloth was capable of creating with the enchanter in his tower at Tel Mithryn, and second only to the Staff of Magnus itself in Grimnir's experience. Much more noteworthy, however, had been the enchantment imbued inside Hevnoraak's mask; given its age, Grimnir was certain it was the progenitor of every enchantment in existence that protected against diseases and poisons, and Tolfdir had been hounding him since to publish a paper on the discovery before some other, less scrupulous group of mages decided to get the same idea.

Because of the uniqueness of these enchantments, Grimnir was not keen on disintegrating either artifact—nor was he sure that he even could. They were thousands of years old, after all, and magic had been much more powerful in those days. But his last-minute thought to bring it along had stemmed from the possibility that it could save the people of Dawnstar, if indeed the Flu was savaging the town—and if he was right about how its enchantment worked. It might only be able to protect one person at a time, but as long as that one person still stood tall against the odds, Dawnstar might yet have hope.

Even so, it was clear Colette harbored some reservations about Grimnir's thoughts, even as he explained them to her on the way.

"Most immunity enchantments are only designed to work on the common diseases!" the Breton had to shout over the shrieking wind, her voice muffled through layers upon layers of cloth to protect against both the cold and the possibility of infection. Grimnir, too, was similarly buried in more clothes than he'd ever worn at one time; neither mage showed an inch of skin to the biting cold. "Ataxia, the Rattles, Brain Rot—we know how to cure those, and so we know how to protect against them!"

"But a cure was never found for the Flu, was there?" Grimnir hollered back, and Colette nodded.

"In other words, we're going in blind!" she yelled, patting the bulging bag she'd hitched in a knot around another of Odahviing's spines. "We're lucky Sergius was so well stocked on soul gems! I wish he'd had more grand and greater gems, though—the better quality gem we have, the better chance we have of protecting against this Flu!"

She reached in her pocket suddenly with some difficulty, extracting a simple silver amulet. "Put this on," she told him. "I had a couple of these lying around—they'll give full immunity to any disease we can protect against! Your mask is probably stronger, but every bit of protection we have will help! I just wish we had more amulets like them, or I would have brought those with me, too!"

"We'll ask if the local smith can help you out there!" Grimnir suggested, quickly clasping the amulet around his neck before the buffeting winds could blow it out of his palm. "I'll talk with the court wizard and see if we can't get any more gems to use as well! And while I'm thinking about it—"

He closed his single eye quickly, and ripped off Hevnoraak's mask, biting his scarred lip until the blood flowed as the icy winds ripped into his ravaged face. Grimnir held the mask tightly, accepting the pain, extending it to Colette while at the same time reaching for the mask of Morokei in his satchel.

"I want you to wear Hevnoraak for right now, Colette!" Grimnir roared, once the numbness had faded away from his face. "You're the better healer out of both of us—so if this Flu gets you, then it'll be that much harder to get rid of it! We can trade off if you need to, but for right now, it's more important that you survive as long as possible!"

Colette paused long enough to make Grimnir think she was giving him a concerned look under all her wrappings. Finally, though, the Breton nodded, and slipped on the mask with some difficulty; even with all the swaths and scarves concealing her, it was designed for a bigger face than hers.

"There's one thing that's still bothering me," she said. Her voice was even more muffled than before through the mask; Grimnir had to lean dangerously close to hear what she was saying. "You know the history of this disease, right?"

Grimnir nodded. The Knahaten Flu had first surfaced a thousand years ago in the Second Era, devastating the population of Tamriel with frightening rapidity. For over four decades, it would shape future events—wiping out the Wayrest Royal Family in High Rock, which had given way to the Daggerfall Covenant. Entire cities had been laid low in Elsweyr, forcing the Khajiit to throw in their lot with the First Aldmeri Dominion—the precursors to the Thalmor government of today. The Argonians of Black Marsh, once slaves to the Dunmer, now fought alongside them as equals after joining the Ebonheart Pact. Thus, the cornerstone for the Alliance War had been laid,

"Well, there's some who think the Knahaten Flu wasn't actually a disease," Colette continued, "but that it was a power play by the Argonians, instead. They were immune to the Flu, you see, and the official historical record says that the plague began in Black Marsh and spread from there."

"You don't sound like you believe that," Grimnir said, noting the skepticism in her voice.

Colette sighed, almost unheard over the wind. "I don't think anyone will ever know the truth of how it happened," she said. "On the one hand, that plague was almost the perfect storm; it severed Black Marsh from control of the Empire by making it all but uninhabitable to anyone except for the Argonians. On the other, it struck at the worst possible time—the Interregnum," she clarified, referring to that period of time widely considered as the "dark ages" of Tamriel, when intellectualism and general living standards had taken a noticeable turn for the worst.

"Most historical records of that time wouldn't even hold a candle to professional scrutiny today," Colette continued. "A lot of them were grounded in popular opinion, and not a whole lot else. There were a scant few who thought the Flu was a natural occurrence, but for the most part, people believed that the Argonians were behind it all. At any rate, though, neither party was fool enough to venture into Black Marsh and find out for themselves, given how devastating the Flu was. They even said Tiber Septim himself didn't go into those swamps without thinking twice."

Grimnir pondered this. "So … we either have a devastating plague, or a biological weapon—both of which may well be the deadliest of their kind yet seen in Tamriel," he said. "What do you think would be the better approach? How should we treat this?"

It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation in Grimnir's opinion, and apparently Colette had been thinking the same thing. The Breton was deep in thought for what felt like hours.

"Honestly?" she finally answered him. "I think we should err on the side of caution for right now. If it is Knahaten Flu, we'll treat it as a disease outbreak until we have the chance to learn more about it. Dawnstar merits more attention—but as soon as we've treated enough of its townspeople that they can handle themselves from there, we can concentrate on finding out how the Flu found its way into their town in the first place."

"Agreed." Grimnir turned to face forward as they passed over the island where rested the ruins of Yngvild. "Dawnstar should be just over that ridge in the distance," he said, pointing left so that Colette could see. The parapets of a ruined fortress were just barely visible past the tip of his finger. "Odahviing, I want you to do a flyover of the town when we get there. Circle around once, low and slow enough so that people can see who we are—but high and fast enough so that if somebody panics anyway and raises the alarm, we'll be out of harm's way until we land.

Odahviing dipped his head in acknowledgement, and adjusted his course slightly south.

"Circle around the town once," Grimnir went on, "then land on top of that tower I pointed out earlier." This way, Grimnir now explained, he'd be able to get his bearings, scout the town and the surrounding area for any spots that might prove potentially problematic. It was entirely possible that if the Flu had hit Dawnstar bad enough, they would have to evacuate the entire town—in which case, they would need to find potential shelters, then clear the way there so efforts could proceed without a hitch. Additionally—even though Odahviing, being a dragon, could not die from any disease or plague—there was no guarantee he still couldn't harbor the Flu and spread it elsewhere. Keeping him here ensured a twofold purpose: that he remained well away from any chance of contracting the plague, and that he could also protect Dawnstar from any outside threat that wished to take advantage of its plight.

"Geh, thuri," Odahviing said. Moments later, Grimnir and Colette felt the winds begin to buffet them less as the crimson dragon slowed down. The bay of Dawnstar slowly began to creep into view—and with each passing moment, Grimnir could feel the pressure in his chest become heavier and heavier as the trepidation swallowed him whole.

He might have been much more stressed if he'd known that at that precise moment, someone was watching them.


Next chapter: Grimnir and Colette quickly realize they have an uphill battle ahead of them.


A/N: oh hey look what finally updated

Seriously, though, if you want to avoid being burned out for a long period of time—please, for the love of whatever god(s) you believe in, don't write a hundred thousand-plus words in the space of four months. That's a lesson I've had to learn the hard way over this past month, and I hope it sticks this time around.

I know that releasing a (relatively) short chapter after being gone for so long might come off as a letdown for a lot of you, but on the plus side, this was originally one half of a bigger document. My hope is that working on that other half won't take nearly so much time; after I publish that, it should be smoother sailing from there.

VEN MEY MIIN (Wind, Fool, Eye) Allows the caster to turn invisible to the naked eye for a time. Repeating the Shout while invisible will cancel its effect prematurely.

Thanks for your patience and understanding. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! - K