Chapter 15
Marcus spent two more days at the Karthspire, exploring the Temple and the Reachfolk camp. Delphine had been right about the native people: they had their own history and culture, and they were a fierce, proud, warrior race. He found himself respecting and appreciating their simple lifestyle more and more. Not that he wanted to join them, of course. He'd worked hard for the creature comforts he did have, and he had a little girl to think about.
But it gave him an opportunity to see the other side of the coin, rather than accept the spoon-fed version that Eydis and many others accepted as gospel.
Matriarch Maiara discussed at length with him her desire to see the Reach as a free and independent Province of the Empire.
"We had it within our grasp, twenty-five years ago," she rasped. "We had our own form of government, our own King who bound us together, and we were at relative peace while the Nords involved themselves with the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion."
"I would have thought you would be allies with the Altmer, in that case," Marcus ventured. The Matriarch frowned.
"They betrayed us!" she hissed. "They promised our King, Madanach, that they would support our claim to a free Reach when they subdued the Empire, but when Emperor Titus Mede II rallied his troops and broke the occupation of the Imperial City at the Battle of the Red Ring, the Dominion withdrew their support and left us to the not-so-tender mercies of the Empire."
"They threw you under the bus – er, carriage, then?" Marcus said.
"Hmmm….a curious metaphor, but accurate," Maiara said. "Yes, they threw us under the carriage. Jarl Igmund's father Hrolfdir, with the support of the Imperials, brought in a militia from outside the Reach to take it back. They secretly promised Ulfric Stormcloak, who was only the son of the Jarl of Windhelm at the time, that he would have free worship of Talos. They hoped the Thalmor would not find out about this."
Knowing the Thalmor, Marcus thought, it was a foolish thing to promise. "But they did find out," he said, more of a statement than a question.
"Indeed they did," the Matriarch replied. "Hrolfdir backed away and claimed he knew nothing about it, that it was all his court's business. Foolish man! The Thalmor ordered Ulfric's arrest and the Jarl threw him into Cidhna Mine – that's a silver mine owned by the Silver-Blood family in Markarth, but it's really a maximum security prison. They say no one escaped Cidhna Mine."
"They did that, even though he was the Jarl's son?" Marcus wondered. "That can't have been taken very well by Ulfric's father."
"It wasn't, and eventually Ulfric was released," Maiara said, shaking her head. "But the damage had already been done to the Reachfolk. Any who were left in Markarth after that 'Incident', as they called it, were either put to the sword, or forced into what amounts to slave labor in the mine." She gave a bitter hiss. "'Incident' my eye!" she spat. "It was a bloody massacre, that's what it was. Innocent men, women and children, all slaughtered simply because they were Reachfolk!"
Marcus compressed his lips; it only bolstered his already low opinion of Ulfric Stormcloak. To be sure he wasn't hearing only one side of the story, Marcus went back to his backpack in the living quarters of the Temple and pulled out the book Esbern had given him, The "Madmen" of the Reach. He spent the rest of the morning reading the book and came to the conclusion that history had, indeed, been written by the victors – at least as far as the Forsworn, or Reachfolk, were concerned.
"…the Nords came and took their lands, their gods, and their culture from them…."
Much the same way as the Europeans had done to the Native Americans, Marcus thought. He wondered what his old world would have been like if the Europeans had never come to America, or if the Indians had had technology superior to the invaders. He would never know.
Or would he?
As one person, he could do little to help the Reachfolk, but as Dragonborn…? It was certainly worth thinking about. He sighed and put the book away. He had other things he needed to do first. Helping the Reachfolk get their land back was important to him now. Matriarch Maiara and her people had refrained from attacking on sight when they could have put up one hell of a struggle, and they were helping Delphine and Esbern now to get Sky Haven Temple livable again. The dragons were a major concern, and Alduin was chief among them. Everyone suffered from their return. He needed to resolve that problem before he could untangle the issue of social and cultural inequity.
Benor found him as he picked over his midday meal, his mind still on how he could find a Shout that would bring Alduin down.
"Hey, Marcus," the big Nord said. "Have ya got a minute?"
"Yeah, sure, Benor," he replied. "What is it?"
"Well, I've been thinking – and don't get me wrong on this. You know it's been great traveling with you—" His friend broke off, almost embarrassed.
"You splitting up the band, Yoko?" Marcus asked, half grinning, knowing his friend wouldn't get the joke.
"Huh?" Benor frowned.
"Never mind," Marcus chuckled softly. "Say what's on your mind, Benor. You know you can always be honest with me."
"Yeah, I know," the big man nodded. "It's just – I feel bad, but I think I want to stay here."
Marcus didn't answer. Benor wanted to leave? Not go on adventures anymore?
"There's a lot of work to be done here," Benor explained in a rush, "and I feel like I'm finally doing something useful, something good. The Reachfolk here are good people."
Marcus noticed obliquely that his friend didn't say 'Forsworn'. Convert.
"You want to stay." It was a flat statement.
"Yeah, if it's alright with you?" There was a pleading look in Benor's eyes. He wanted – needed – Marcus to understand how important this was to him.
"What did Delphine and Esbern say? Have you talked to them?"
"Not yet," Benor admitted. "I wanted to put it by you first."
The Dragonborn nodded. He would miss Benor; miss his easy laugh, his fierceness in a pitched fight, his stubborn loyalty. The bond between the two men had become as close as brothers. Never having had a brother before, it was a new feeling for Marcus, one that he jealously guarded. But how could he deny Benor his heart's desire? All the big Nord had ever wanted was a chance to do some good in the world. If he stayed here, he could do that. And Marcus knew he could always come to visit.
Marcus gave an inward sigh. "Let's go talk to them, then," he finally said.
They found Delphine at the long table in the vast common room, papers and books strewn everywhere. She looked up as the two men entered.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" she asked, noting their purposeful manner.
"We were just wondering if this was all there is to the Blades," Marcus took the initiative to say. "Just you and Esbern, I mean."
"We were hunted down by the Thalmor, remember?" Delphine frowned. "It wasn't exactly great for recruitment." She looked around, however, and gave a faint smile. "We have a headquarters of a sort now. We'll rebuild the Blades. Someday." This last was said a bit sadly, as if she wondered whether she would be around to see it restored to its former glory.
"Well, we could start today," Marcus said, shooting a look at Benor, who could barely contain his excitement. "Benor would like to become a Blade."
Delphine looked at the big Nord shrewdly, but not disapprovingly. She'd seen him fight. "Are you sure?" she asked Benor now. "Being a Blade is a life-long commitment. Your loyalty has to be with us once you're in."
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," Benor said fervently.
"Very well," Delphine approved. "I'll give you the official Oath." She cleared her throat and stood at attention. Benor drew himself up stiffly. "The Dragonborn wishes to give you the chance to join the lost guardians of Tamriel, the dragon slayers, the Blades. Do you wish to become a Blade?"
"I do!" Benor said firmly, staring straight ahead.
"Are you willing to trade away all claims and titles of your former life? To live here and devote yourself to protecting Tamriel from danger?" Delphine intoned.
"I am!"
"Then by my right as acting Grand Master, I name you a Blade, with all the privileges, rights, and burdens that brings. Godspeed!"
Benor beamed. Marcus noticed there was nothing in the Oath that stated the Blades served the Dragonborn. He wondered if that was an omission on Delphine's part, or if she'd been stretching the truth earlier to get him to trust her.
"I'm a Blade now!" Benor breathed, ecstatic. "I can hardly believe it!"
Delphine chuckled. "Well, not quite," she said. "We need to get you outfitted properly, as befits a Blade. Come with me, both of you."
She led them through the winding corridors of the Temple to a store room tucked away in the back. Opening the door, she revealed an armory, left behind by the Blades of centuries ago.
"Everything in here is in surprisingly good shape," she said. "With some diligence and hard work, we can get all this equipment back into condition. I've spent the last two days doing practically nothing but this."
She crossed to a row of mannequins which held several unique suits of heavy armor. "Blades armor," she clarified. "Benor, you take that suit there. It's yours now. Keep it in good condition. I will be holding routine inspections!"
"Yes ma'am!" Benor bowed.
"Don't bow," Delphine scolded. "Salute, like this." She clasped her right hand into a fist and crossed it to her left shoulder. With feet firmly planted together, she inclined slightly from the waist, ducking her head for a moment. "Now you," she instructed. Benor saluted clumsily, and Delphine quirked a grin. "Work on that, will you? And call me Grand Master, not 'ma'am'."
"Yes ma—I mean, yes, Grand Master," Benor said, saluting. It was better this time.
"Now you need a weapon – a proper Blades weapon," she said, going over to a weapon rack against the opposite wall. It was lined with dozens of the same kind of katana that hung at her side, and Marcus' as well.
"This is an Akaviri dai-katana," she informed them. "When honed by a master it will cut through several practice dummies in one slice. It should cut through your enemies at least as well. I'll show you later how to take care of it."
"I'm not too bad at a forge, if there's one here," Benor said helpfully. Delphine's eyes lit up.
"Excellent!" she exclaimed, delight in her voice for the first time since they'd arrived. "I'll show you where that is. Talk to Esbern. He may have some information and schematics on how the swords and armor were made. If you prove yourself, that may become your responsibility here. But I'll probably still need you to go out and kill dragons," she added, seeing his face fall a bit. Benor perked up, and Marcus hid a smile. The last thing his friend wanted was to be stuck at a forge all day without a chance to get out there and make a difference. As he grew older, he might not mind so much, but for now he still had a young man's fire.
"And now for you, Dragonborn," she said, with a mysterious smile. She led him into a small room off the main Armory where a sword lay on a table, and a chest sat on the floor to one side. "Go ahead," she encouraged him. "Open it."
The chest contained a suit of heavy Blades armor, slightly different in style from the rest of the suits in the main armory. "It's meant for higher ranking officers," Delphine explained. "As the Dragonborn, you're about as high an officer in our outfit as you can get."
"Short of Grand Master, I assume?" Marcus couldn't help asking, nodding toward her own gleaming suit.
"Well, yes," Delphine smirked. "I'm going to assume you won't be here all the time, and there does need to be some form of hierarchy here. Besides, except for Esbern, I'm the only one who knows all the Blades tenets and laws. Take the sword with you, too," she added.
"I already have an Akaviri katana," Marcus said. "The one you let me take in Riverwood."
"This one is different," she said with a cryptic smile. "Esbern believes this is Dragonbane, a unique blade wielded by all the Dragonborn throughout the centuries. That it ended up here is a sheer stroke of good fortune."
That, or some Divine had a hand in its presence here, Marcus mused privately. "So what's so special about Dragonbane?" he asked, rather pleased that it had an actual name. He'd named his greatsword Uthgerd, after its former owner, but even to his ears it sounded a bit cliché.
"Dragonbane was said to be most effective against dragons," Delphine told him now. "You may find you'll be able to inflict more damage on them with it. Against other opponents, it was said to deal shock damage. In any case, it needs quicksilver to temper it, and if you're not able to work on enchanted weapons, then you'll just have to wait until you can before you can improve it."
Duly noted, Marcus thought wryly. He could see himself spending an awful lot of time at Adrianne's forge in the near future.
"Thank you," he said now, graciously. "I'll be sure to take good care of them. And thank you for taking on Benor. I'm going to miss traveling with him," he added a bit wistfully.
"We're glad to have him here, Esbern and I," she assured him. "And when you come back with whatever you can find out from the Greybeards, I'm sure Esbern will have located a dragon by then, and we'll send the two of you out together to take care of it. In any case, if you come across anyone else you think might fit in here, bring them to me, and I'll start getting them trained up."
Ah yes, the Greybeards. Marcus wondered what they would think of all this. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach gave him a premonition of trouble to come. He didn't think this was going to end well.
It was at least three weeks before Marcus could screw up his courage to make the trip up to High Hrothgar. He procrastinated. He knew he was doing it, and hated that he was, but he just couldn't help it.
On his way back from Sky Haven Temple he had spoken to Urika, one of the Ravagers who was posted as a look-out. When he told her of his intent to go to Serpent's Bluff Redoubt, she warned him they might not be as lenient as the Karthspire camp in their dealings with him. She taught him a universal sign all Reachfolk used to show non-hostile intent.
"It might not do any good," Urika cautioned. "But it can't hurt, as long as you don't violate the trust by drawing your weapon while negotiating with them."
"What's to prevent them from violating that trust with me?" he asked, concerned.
Urika grinned. "Now you see, that's the kind of suspicion that causes these little incidents all over the Reach." She chuckled, but somehow Marcus didn't find it comforting.
In the end, his meeting with the Matriarch of Serpent's Bluff Redoubt went better than he expected. Powaqa listened carefully to his story of the Ghost of Old Hroldan, but was reluctant to help him by giving him the sword, which was a treasured possession of hers.
"You come to us with the proper sign of non-hostility," she said, "yet you wish me to give up something that has been in my family's possession for hundreds of years."
"I wouldn't think of asking you to give up a treasured family heirloom without giving up something equally as valuable," Marcus said. "But it means a great deal to me to be able to lay the spirit to rest."
"And why should I care if the spirit of one who slaughtered my people rests uneasily in the Void?" Powaqa demanded shrewdly.
"Because I would do the same for you, if one of your ancestors could find no rest after death," Marcus said simply and honestly.
"Hmmm…" Powaqa rasped. She paced back and forth, feathers ruffling in the slight breeze that had made its way into the Redoubt. "If you are being truthful with me, then you will not hesitate to recover something of mine which was lost."
Doesn't anyone here do anything out of the goodness of their hearts? Marcus wondered. But he schooled his voice to remain neutral as he asked. "What would you ask of me?"
"There is a barrow not far from here," Powaqa said shrewdly. "It has been overrun with vampires. 'Moldering Ruins', the place is known by my people. I lost my staff there not long ago, attempting to clear them out. We lost…several young people that day." She turned her glittering black eyes on him. "Take them out," she hissed ferociously. "Kill all those blood-sucking scum, and recover my staff for me. Do this, and I will give you the sword."
Inwardly Marcus gulped. Lydia had warned him about attempting to clear out vampires alone, or with only a handful of people at his back. He wished she were with him now, or Benor, or both. But Lydia was in Whiterun half a day away, and Benor was busy being trained to be a Blade. He couldn't take his friend away from that. Instinctively, he knew if he asked the Matriarch for back-up, that she would consider him weak, and not worthy of holding to her promise. This was a test; one he had better not fail.
"I'll get your staff for you," he promised.
It wasn't as bad as he thought it might be. Perhaps he was tougher than the Reachfolk, or perhaps his prior experience with vampires had taught him much-needed caution when going up against this kind of undead, but after clearing away the thralls and death hounds – Who in their right mind breeds such things? he wondered – it was a simple matter of sneaking in and taking out the master vampire and his fledgling.
Not really that simple, his inner dragon reminded him. You still had to drink a cure disease potion.
Alright, fine, he'd gotten bitten, and it had chilled him to the bone, but he'd managed to break free and now the vampire was dead and he was still very much alive. But it had been a close call.
Too close. Marcus shuddered at the utter truth of that thought. He found Powaqa's staff in a locked chest in the ruins, as well as a few other valuables that he pocketed to sell later. Returning to the Matriarch, he was pleased to see the look of surprise and consternation on her face. She hadn't expected him to survive.
Skillfully masking her displeasure, Powaqa kept her end of the bargain and presented him with Hjalti's sword. She didn't exactly promise he would always be welcome at Serpent's Bluff Redoubt, but she did allow that they would not attack first if he came again.
He returned with the sword to Old Hroldan Inn and presented it to the Ghost, who thanked him and reminded 'Hjalti' of a technique they used when fighting together. It was a dual-weapon fighting technique that Marcus decided to practice with the Blades sword in one hand and Dragonbane in the other.
He dragged himself into Whiterun late in the evening. The house was dark and all was quiet, so he crept quietly up the stairs and threw himself in bed after removing the Blades armor. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
"Papa! Papa! You're home!" an excited little voice cried. The bed was jouncing around, and Lucia was doing her best to snuggle up to him. Chuckling, he cuddled his daughter close, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"What time is it?" he muttered. "Shouldn't you still be in bed?"
Lucia giggled. "Oh, Papa! It's afternoon! I wanted to wake you sooner, but Lydia said I should let you sleep."
"Afternoon?" he sat up, then realized he was only wearing a loincloth and a loose shirt. "Um, sweetheart? Why don't you head downstairs and see if there's anything to eat while I get dressed, okay?"
"But I've already eaten," Lucia frowned, then her brow cleared. "Oh! You meant for you! Alright, Papa, I'll fix you something to eat!" The little girl launched herself off the bed and hit the floor running.
Oh, to have that kind of energy again, Marcus chuckled to himself. He dressed quickly in the Blades armor. It was easier to put on than his Nordic carved armor, for all that it was heavier, and he felt it would protect him better. Reluctantly, he put the suit of Nordic armor into the chest with the dragon bones and scales. With another sigh, he placed Uthgerd into the chest as well.
He strapped the Blades sword to one hip and rigged Dragonbane in a sheath hanging off his back. Awkward. He'd have to work on drawing two single-handed swords at once. Not for the first time, he remembered his original intention to join the Companions, to get training. Those plans had been derailed for quite some time. Maybe he ought to look into that again, if they would accept the Dragonborn. Somehow he didn't think they'd object too strenuously.
He ate the midday meal Lucia made for him – bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables washed down with milk ("Lydia said I'm not allowed to touch the mead.") – and then invited his daughter outside to put her through her martial arts exercises. She'd been keeping up with them, he noted with satisfaction, and taught her a few more basic moves to incorporate into her routine.
"Papa?" she began when they took a break. "Could I—" she hesitated until he encouraged her to continue. "Could I get a dagger? Just a little one. It doesn't have to be fancy."
"Why do you want a dagger, chica?" he asked. He was more concerned than he cared to let on. He loved that Lucia was a sweet, innocent little girl, in spite of the hard life she'd lived before he took her in. By the time his kids were her age, they had already adopted the cynicism of children growing up in the millennium age.
"I just…just wanted to help protect Lydia," she admitted. "A scary man was looking in our windows the other night, and Lydia chased him off. I was afraid he'd hurt her."
Scary man. Looking in the windows? He should have spoken to Lydia before spending time with Lucia, he thought, but that would be easily remedied.
"Do you know how to use a dagger?" he asked.
"Lars has been teaching me some things," she admitted, abashed. "When he comes over, we use the practice dummy in my room."
Well, the kid just went up a notch in my estimation, he thought, though it rankled that he hadn't been here to protect them, and that a ten-year-old had to do his job for him, teaching Lucia a more practical way to defend herself. Marcus was still a firm believer in non-violence where possible, but he was also realistic enough to know it wouldn't always be. And how had he missed the fact there was a practice dummy in her room?
"Here," he told her, handing her the steel dagger he'd enchanted himself. "It's got a frost enchantment on it, so be careful with it. It won't do a lot of damage, but it may help. I'm sorry I didn't think of it before now." I wanted to keep you innocent for as long as possible, he thought sadly.
"Can I – I mean, may I go practice now?" she asked, after hugging him tightly in thanks.
"Sure, go ahead," he told her, watching her run back into the house. I need to talk with my Housecarl.
"It's true, my Thane," Lydia confirmed. "I didn't get a good look at him, because it was dark. If Lucia hadn't screamed, I don't think I would have seen him at all." She hung her head in shame. "I'm not doing a very good job at protecting your home and family, am I?" She sounded miserable, and while Marcus was upset, it wasn't directed at Lydia.
"Nothing happened this time," he assured her. "And now that you know someone's watching the house, you'll be on alert. But let's not show too much concern around Lucia, okay? I don't want her to live in fear. She needs to know that everything is alright, that her Papa and Lydia have things under control."
"Of course, Thane!" Lydia smiled, relieved. She wouldn't be dismissed after all! He really was a very forgiving man, her Thane.
So Marcus stayed home for the next week, playing and practicing with his daughter, working on his smithing skills – which were coming along nicely, thank you very much – and improving Breezehome. He put a garden in around the back and sides, planting small trees, vegetables and flowers. Lucia helped him, and promised to make sure everything was watered and weeds were pulled when he was away from home.
He installed a trapdoor in the roof in the loft area, with a pull-down ladder and a latch that could only be opened from inside. "Just in case you and Lucia need to get out in a hurry," he told Lydia quietly, and showed her how the rope ladder outside could be tossed over the edge of the roof. He hoped that whoever had been watching the house missed work that day and didn't see them practicing with it.
He finally had a talk with Lucia regarding how she would feel adding a sibling to the family, and Lucia's eyes lit up when he told her about Blaise, in Solitude.
"He's older than you," Marcus told her, "and he'll probably have to share a room with you until I can add on to the house."
"But Papa," Lucia said, perplexed, "where could you add on? There's no room!"
"There's always underground," he grinned.
"Wouldn't it be wet down there?" Lucia frowned.
"The sewers are much further underground than I would have to go to put in rooms down there," he told her. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. But it would probably be noisy, dirty and uncomfortable here until it got done."
"I think I'd like to have a brother," Lucia smiled, snuggling into his arms. "I never had any brothers or sisters."
So it was decided, and on a crisp, cold Sun's Dusk morning, the Dragonborn and his daughter made the trip up to Solitude. They stayed at the Winking Skeever and explored the town the next day. Lucia was enthralled with the Bard's College, and wanted to stay longer to listen to the performers, but Marcus reminded her of their purpose in coming to the capital of Skyrim in the first place. They made their way back down the natural arch to Katla's farm where Blaise was busy polished harnesses.
"Hi there!" he said, not bothering to look up. "If you need a horse, talk to Geimund. If it's work you're looking for, talk to Katla. I can't help you."
"But maybe I can help you," Marcus smiled.
Blaise looked up then, and remembered the tall Imperial who'd helped him with the heavy sack of oats. "It's you!" he exclaimed, setting the harness aside and standing. "Did you need something? I can get Geimund or Katla for you—"
"I came to see you, Blaise," Marcus said, kneeling and drawing Lucia out from behind him where she'd taken refuge, intimidated, now they were actually here. "This is my daughter, Lucia, and we've been talking."
"Talking?" Blaise asked, puzzled. He had no idea where this was going. "About what?"
"We'd like to make you my brother," Lucia said shyly. "If you want to be, that is."
"Your brother?" Blaise repeated, stunned. A faint trace of hope flickered in his eyes before it faded. "You can stop teasing me now," he grumbled. "This isn't funny."
"I'm not teasing, Blaise," Marcus said, reaching out a hand, but not touching the boy. "I'm completely serious. We are completely serious." He patted Lucia's shoulder. "We've talked it over, and we'd very much like to offer you a home and a family, if you're interested."
"Interested?!" Blaise whooped. "Yes! YES! Of course I'm interested! You—you really mean it?" he asked, fearfully, as if this one good thing in his life would be suddenly snatched away from him.
"We do, son," Marcus smiled, as Lucia nodded enthusiastically. It felt so good to say that! Son. Marcus missed David terribly, and always would, but there was something about Blaise that reminded him of how David used to be, after his emotional issues had been resolved, and before he'd become a man, a husband, and a father in his own right. David had always been a hard-worker, dedicated to his studies in school and his career in economics. Blaise had the same fierce determination about him; he didn't like his life, but he was determined to work hard at it. Well, maybe now he wouldn't have to work quite so hard.
"Yay!" Blaise crowed. "I can't wait to tell Katla good-bye!" he exclaimed as he rushed off to the farmhouse to inform his mistress of the turn of events.
Katla was not happy over losing her free labor, but there was little she could do about it. Blaise chattered like a magpie most of the way to Whiterun, having never really been anywhere in his young life. He drew out Lucia on the way, and soon the two were laughing and joking with each other the entire way home.
"I can't believe this is real," Blaise sighed as he put his belongings – few though they were – into an empty trunk in Lucia's room. Now his room as well, and Marcus realized he'd better start working on expanding Breezehome as soon as possible.
If I can't build down, there's always up, he thought.
He bought the boy new clothes, gave him a dagger similar to Lucia's and went over the speech about Lydia's position in the household and what chores and duties were expected of him if he wanted pocket money. Blaise was so thankful to have a real home and family that it was a week before he realized just exactly who his new Dad was.
"Is it true, Dad?" he asked. "Frothar told me you're the Dragonborn." Blaise liked the Jarl's sons, and after his chores were done, he spent much of his time at Dragonsreach.
"He's right, son," Marcus admitted. "It means I might not always be able to be here with you and Lucia. I may have to go out and fight dragons."
"That's okay, Dad," Blaise said staunchly. "I won't let anything happen to Lucia and Lydia while you're gone. I'll protect them!" Marcus' heart swelled with pride, even while he worried about his growing family's safety. Blaise was twelve, he proudly told his new Dad, but he'd never had a chance to learn how to fight. Judging from the bruises and black eyes he was receiving at Dragonsreach, the Jarl's sons were educating him on that score. But he wanted to make sure his new son was learning to fight properly, and so he spent a few hours each day teaching him tae kwon do as well as the blade techniques he had learned since coming to Skyrim.
They practiced with wooden swords, since that was all Jarl Balgruuf would allow them to use. After two weeks of solid instruction, Blaise was coming home with fewer and fewer bruises.
"I've been watching your boy fight with mine," Jarl Balgruuf told him once when he stopped by to watch them spar. "He's developing an interesting style I've never seen. Your influence, I take it?"
"I hope so," Marcus grinned. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Not at all," Balgruuf chuckled. "I think my sons need the refreshing lesson about an opponent who fights back and isn't afraid to defend himself. All the guards' children have been afraid to hurt the Jarl's sons."
"Blaise isn't beating them up too badly, I hope," Marcus asked, concerned. He didn't want his son to become a bully.
"Nothing a few potions and raw steak can't mend," Balgruuf chuckled again, and Marcus relaxed. He knew he liked this man.
Finally, he could put it off no longer. Marcus knew time was wearing on, and he needed to speak to Master Arngeir and the others about a possible Shout that could bring down Alduin. He had the uneasy feeling that they would not think very highly of his association with the Blades. But Delphine's words rang in his ears, and he knew that he could not afford to follow the pacifist lifestyle of the Greybeards. He valued their understanding of the Thu'um, and respected their non-violent way of life, but he was the Dragonborn, the only one who could prevent Alduin from destroying the world. If he sat back and did nothing, as Delphine suggested the Greybeards did, then the Dragon God of Destruction would win.
And if that happens, why was I brought here to Skyrim in the first place?
He didn't know which Divine was responsible for his presence here, and by now he really didn't care. If they saw something in him they felt could defeat Alduin, he would have to do his level best to survive long enough, grow strong enough and fight smart enough to succeed. Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Master Arngeir was not happy, Borri could see that. He didn't need any mystical connection to realize that the spokesman of their Order was barely keeping himself under control. They had all been delighted to see the Dragonborn again, but that delight was short-lived…at least, for Arngeir it was. The young Dovahkiin began asking questions about Dragonrend, the Thu'um that was lost ages ago: a Shout that could knock a dragon out of the air.
They argued back and forth. Arngeir accused the young man of losing his way. The Dragonborn argued back, didn't they want to stop the dragons, stop Alduin from destroying the world? Arngeir callously claimed that if this world must be destroyed in order for the next world to be born then so be it. Well, that was his opinion. Some of us like living, and would like to continue to do so, Borri thought privately.
Then Arngeir demanded that the Dragonborn sever all ties with the Blades who had put him on the wrong path. Look at him, he was already bound to them, accepting their weapons and their armor. And young Marcus had shot back that the Blades were helping him, not keeping secrets from him. Did he know the Shout or not?
No, Arngeir had told him, and unless he returned to the Way of the Voice, he would receive no further help from the Greybeards. That was when Borri felt he had to step in.
"Arngeir," Borri thundered. "Hi dreh ni tinvaak fah pah do mii. Hi dreh ni ofaal wah komaan fos wah mind faal Dovahkiin. Tol los fah Paarthurnax wah komaan." Arngeir, you do not speak for all of us. You do not get to decide what to teach the Dragonborn. That is for Paarthurnax to decide.
Instantly, Arngeir settled, apologized to the Dragonborn, and agreed to teach him the Shout which would lead him to their Master, Paarthurnax. Borri smiled. It wasn't everyday one got to school one's superior. He'd probably pay for it later with extra meditation. It was a price he was more than willing to pay.
He was the last to leave the Wind Gate before the Dovahkiin passed through it. The young man turned around, and Borri had the sense he was wondering if he'd burned his bridges behind him. He smiled and bowed, then straightened and gave him a "thumbs-up" to let him know it would be alright. The Dragonborn grinned and returned the gesture before taking a deep breath and Shouting.
"LOK VAH KOOR!"
Marcus wasn't sure how many times he used that particular Shout, but while it lasted several minutes, it cooled down rapidly, so that he was prepared to Shout again before the biting winds, driving sleet and piercing cold resumed. On and on he went, ever upward. The ice wraiths were troublesome, but only because he didn't have the Flames staff. He remembered Tamsyn shooting fire from her hands, and wondered if he could do the same. He'd never really tried. He'd always relied on his steel to get by. Now was not the time to experiment, however. He needed to get to the summit to speak with this Paarthurnax.
He had heard of this mysterious Greybeard, the leader of their Order, who lived at the summit of the Throat of the World, but how anyone could live in this singularly inhospitable environment was beyond Marcus. He'd thought the winds that swept across Des Moines were strong! He genuinely feared he would be swept off the face of the mountain and his body would never be found. So he kept up the Thu'um, using it again and again, any time the winds threatened to resume.
Arngeir, when Marcus had asked about Paarthurnax, only replied that he was their leader, and very skilled in the Way of the Voice. He gave very little other information, and Marcus supposed there really wasn't much to tell. When you've seen one Greybeard, after all…
But that was hardly fair. The time he'd spent with them before had proven that much. Master Einarth, for example, loved red apples. But only the red ones; he didn't much care for the green ones. Master Wulfgar made the most amazing charcoal sketches. His figures almost seemed to leap off the page. Master Borri had a sense of humor that belied his somber lifestyle. Even Master Arngeir played the flute beautifully. They all had different personalities, as well. Wulfgar tended to be a bit prissy, sometimes, while Einarth seemed driven and dedicated; he spent more time meditating than the others. Borri tended to be very bookish, and Arngeir tried to keep them all in line when little disagreements cropped up.
Marcus already regretted his argument with Arngeir, regretted his heated words. He vowed to make it up to him, to apologize for his temper. It was just that he was so frustrated in his efforts to learn exactly how he was supposed to kill what essentially amounted to a god of destruction.
How do you kill a god? he worried. Will I ever be strong enough to do it?
The summit was close, now. It should be just around the next bend. The winds were hurricane force here, and again, he Shouted the Clear Skies Thu'um Master Arngeir had reluctantly taught him, saying it would be their last gift to him. Did that mean they weren't going to tell him where to find other Word Walls? Would he have to rely on this mysterious 'friend'? He hoped not. He still hadn't learned how to breathe fire. What kind of Dragonborn was he, if he couldn't even breathe fire?
Finally, the ground leveled out, and though it looked as though there was still another fifty feet or so to the absolute top of the Throat of the World, Marcus saw several yards away the familiar sight of a curving Word Wall. Eagerly he ran up to it, to see what Thu'um it might give him. He had one soul he was holding in reserve, still unwilling to activate Kyne's Peace yet. But the wall was blank, and he turned away, disappointed.
The ground shook, then, and the leathery flap of wings made him draw his swords. The hugest dragon he had yet seen, except for Alduin himself, landed not far away. His scales were so faded gray they were practically white, and one horn under his chin on the left side was broken.
"Drem yol lok," the dragon said before he could move. "Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax." The dragon eyed him curiously. "Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah…my mountain?"
Of all the things he had expected, when told he would have to speak to the leader of the Greybeards, a dragon was not one of them. Moreover, it was the dragon from his dream; the one who had asked, "What is it you seek, Dovahkiin?", and this more than anything else, was what stayed his hand and kept him from attacking outright.
Gulping, Marcus took a deep breath, edging away from the Word Wall, and answered as firmly as he could. Don't show fear, Marcus. They can sense that.
"I didn't expect you to be a dragon!" he blurted. Inwardly he cringed, and he felt his inner dragon laughing at him mockingly. Oh, that was brilliant, Dragonborn, he sneered at himself.
Paarthurnax didn't seem upset at all. In fact, if a dragon could chuckle, it would sound like the rumbling sound he made now. "I am as my father Akatosh made me," the gray dragon said, "as are you, Dovahkiin. Tell me, why do you seek me? Why do you intrude upon my meditation?"
"I'm looking for a Shout called Dragonrend," he said. "Do you know it? Can you teach it to me?"
"Hmm," the dragon rumbled, but it was not a menacing sound. Rather, it sounded contemplative. "Drem," he replied. "Patience. There are formalities that must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov." Paarthurnax stepped heavily around, positioning himself so that he faced the Wall. Snaking his head back toward Marcus, he explained, "By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!"
The dragon took a deep indrawn breath and Shouted at the Wall. "YOL TOOR SHUL!"
When the flames subsided, Marcus stepped closer. Now, on the previously unmarked Wall, a series of fiery glyphs appeared. They burned with an inner fire of their own, enveloping and sinking into him.
YOL. Fire. Without thinking, Marcus unlocked its meaning with the soul he still held from the dragon he'd killed at Karthspire.
Then Paarthurnax spoke again. "A gift, Dovahkiin. Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do!" Just as with Master Arngeir and the others, streams of energy flowed from Paarthurnax as he granted his knowledge of the Word to the Dragonborn. Except the Word wasn't Yol, it was Toor, 'Inferno', the second of the Shout. Eagerly, Marcus embraced it.
"Now, Dovahkiin, greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!"
Unafraid to unleash the fire that burned within him, Marcus put every ounce of essence into the Shout. It seemed weak by comparison to Paarthurnax's, but the ancient gray dragon seemed delighted.
"Yes! The Dragon Blood runs strong in you, even if you are a joor! It is long since I have had the pleasure of tinvaak with one of my own kind."
And so they talked: dragon and mortal, albeit a mortal with the soul and blood of a dragon. Marcus understood so much more than he did before about the return of Alduin, Paarthurnax's own brother, about how Alduin had merely been 'banished' way back in the First Age, and how the First Tongues had used an Elder Scroll to send him reeling through the maelstrom of time.
Before he knew it, Marcus found himself telling Paarthurnax everything about himself: who he had been before coming to Skyrim, where he had come from, and how in that place between worlds, Alduin had ripped his wife's soul from him and destroyed it. Paarthurnax lowered his head to the ground in compassion.
"I cannot bring your mate back to you, young Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said, as softly as a dovah could. "And I cannot tell you why you were the one chosen by Akatosh to defeat my brother. Perhaps there is something my father saw in you that you have yet to discover within yourself. The fact that my brother, Alduin, attempted to prevent you from coming to Nirn at all is a sign that he, too, recognizes you as a threat."
"But why did he take Lynne first?" Marcus asked, the pain as raw and fresh now as it was the day he woke up in Skyrim.
"Perhaps he did not mean to," Paarthurnax said. "It is possible that your mate protected you for the few seconds needed to transport your soul into the body you wear now. Perhaps, she gave up her soul so that you might survive. Is this not something she might have done? You would know her better than I."
Marcus considered that. The protective instinct ran strong in Lynne. It always had; a former schoolteacher, she had once managed to get her entire classroom to a safe area before a tornado had struck the elementary school where she worked, leveling it to the ground. The children had emerged from the utility room with scrapes and bruises, but it could have been far worse. Yes. Protecting him would have been second nature to her.
"There's no chance she could have escaped?" he asked quietly.
"I am sorry, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said with genuine regret. "My brother is very…grunvo…thorough, in his feedings."
For a long while, Paarthurnax remained there, breathing warm breath across the Dragonborn as he cried his anguish out. He raged, he howled, he pounded the ground, he cursed, he wailed, until finally there was nothing left but shuddering silent sobs with no tears left to express his grief. It was now nearly dark, and Paarthurnax quietly told the Dragonborn to sleep. He would keep watch, and keep him warm. Exhausted and emotionally drained, Marcus did just that.
He awoke in the morning to find he was pressed up against the warm furnace that was Paarthurnax's belly, with one gray wing carefully folded over him. He was stiff and sore from sleeping on the frozen ground all night, but the ancient dragon had kept his promise and kept him warm all night.
Well, relatively warm, he thought, twisting his back to work the kinks out.
"You are feeling better this morning, Dovahkiin?" Paarthurnax rumbled, concerned.
Surprisingly, the answer to that was 'yes', and Marcus assured the leader of the Greybeards that he was once more himself. "I'm sorry for last night—" he began, but the dragon forestalled him.
"You have never had a chance to express your traas…your grief, I think," Paarthurnax said. "You have held it inside, because you have needed to be mul, strong. But the time has come to let your past go. It cannot be returned to you, and you have a much larger destiny ahead."
"I still don't know about Dragonrend," Marcus said. "You're sure you can't teach me?"
"It is a Thu'um made by the joorre, the mortals to whom I taught the Way of the Voice, the First Tongues. They lived in a time of great oppression by the dov. And so while they learned from us, they did not trust us. Their inner councils were kept secret from us."
"But what is it about Dragonrend that makes it so effective against dragons?" Marcus asked.
"As I understand it, it was made to make a dragon feel the weight of time: a truly incomprehensible concept to the immortal dov. We are intricately linked to the ebb and flow of time, and thus, perhaps, we are more susceptible to the ravages of it. I was not here the day the First Tongues used Dragonrend, but all the dov felt its affect."
Marcus sighed. "So I'm no closer than I was before."
"Dragonrend alone did not send my brother whirling through the vortex of time," Paarthurnax said. "The First Tongues used the kel, the Elder Scroll, to propel him out of their age and into yours. If you could find that Elder Scroll, and bring it here, read it at the tiid-ahraan, the Time Wound, then perhaps it would allow you a…a seeing, take you back to the beginning. You would see..feel…Dragonrend, as it was first performed by my friends. Then you would know."
"Where would I find this Elder Scroll then?" Marcus asked. "I'm sure they don't just have them in any general store."
Paarthurnax chuckled. "Indeed not, Dovahkiin. But I have been up here on my strunmah too long. I have lost touch with the world below. You are likely much better versed than I about such matters."
"Master Arngeir might know," Marcus mused. "I need to speak to him anyway."
"Trust your heart, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said as he shook out his wings, raising a flurry of snow. "It will always point you in the right direction." He launched himself into the air, calling out, "Su'um ahrk morah!"
The trip down seemed quicker than the trip up. It always seems that way, Marcus thought wryly. In spite of the emotional battering he'd weathered last night, he felt much more at peace than he'd felt in a long time. It was one thing to tell himself he had to let go of his past; it was another thing entirely to actually do it. It had been painful, but nothing worth gaining ever came without pain.
Back at High Hrothgar he found Master Arngeir and first apologized for his tirade the day before, then told him everything that had transpired at the summit – except for his emotional breakdown. That would remain between him and Paarthurnax.
"So now I need to find an Elder Scroll," he said. "I was hoping you could point me in the right direction."
"We have never concerned ourselves with the Scrolls," Arngeir said thoughtfully. "That sort of foolishness has always been the stock in trade of the mages at the College in Winterhold."
Thanking him, and taking his leave of the Greybeards, Marcus descended the Seven Thousand Steps once more with a new destination marked on his map: Winterhold. Hopefully, someone at the Mages' College would either have the Scroll he sought, or be able to take him one step closer. He didn't hold out much hope that it would actually be there. That would have been far too convenient, he was sure, for whatever force was guiding his destiny.
Akatosh, he silently prayed, Talos, if either of you is paying attention, I could sure use some good luck about now.
A tingle ran through him, like goose-bumps all over his skin, and he was quite sure it had nothing to do with the chill wind sweeping off the glaciers. A smile on his lips, he began whistling The Dragonborn Comes as he descended the mountain.
[Author's Note: This one was a tough one to write, since there was a lot of emotional yanking going on here. We'll be getting back to the action very soon, as Marcus makes his way – with the best of intentions – to Winterhold, only to be waylaid along the way. Stay tuned!]