Chapter 2
"Dragonborn!" Lydia cried, blocking one of the staggeringly powerful blows from the troll. The Thane had been surprised by the Trolls arriving in Ivarstead, as had everyone else in Ivarstead. Two of the brutes had appeared around the corner of Fellstar farm and now had left a guard dead, another wounded and the Dragonborn on the back foot, desperately fighting for his life. Lydia's liege was dressed in full steel armour, wielding a steel shield and his badge of office the Axe of Whiterun. The Thane had made a point of trading in his shoddy gear for something more appropriate for a man heading up the Throat of the World.
The Troll hammered against the Thane's shield and let out a bellowing roar. Knocked back, the Thane staggered to his feet and swung the Axe of Whiterun against the beasts exposed forearm, biting deeply. Despite the obvious wound, the monster showed no sign of realisation and continued its unrelenting assault. Lydia recoiled herself as the second Troll hammered against her own shield and it was with great effort that the Housecarl kept her defence up. An arrow, then a second flew dangerously close to the Thane and into the shoulder and rib of the Troll facing him.
"Stendarr's mercy! Careful! That's the Thane of Whiterun!" Lydia called out, knowing it had been the village folk of Ivarstead that had taken the shots, the guards either incapacitated or dead. Lydia slashed out with her own steel, opening a vicious cut in the Troll's stomach but it did not seem to either notice or care. Glancing over from behind her shield, Lydia caught sight of the Thane smashing the Troll in the face with his shield. Her current opponent however, sharply brought back her attention by crashing through her shield wall and landing a mighty blow that, were it not for the steel armour she wore, would have severed bones in her chest. Lydia hacked at the beasts forearms, cutting but not quite severing the powerful limbs. With horror she noticed the previous wound in the creatures gut had begun to knit itself back together. Talos guide my hand, the housecarl thought preparing to repel another attack from the brute.
It never came.
A spray of blood swept Lydia's hair and exposed forehead, painting her shield a crimson red. Dragonborn, the Thane of Whiterun stood in front of her, axe bloodied and out and two headless Troll corpses behind him.
"Honoured to see you my Thane" Lydia said with a grin, wiping the blood from her forehead. The Dragonborn nodded and moved over to the Troll's, looking for something. Lydia had noticed the Dragonborn did this thoroughly with ever enemy he slew, even those as petty and disease ridden as Skeevers. Placing something into his sling bag, the Thane of the Whiterun stood up and looked at the Impressive sight of the Throat of the World. He craned his neck back as far as it could and took a couple paces back to get a glimpse at the scale of the mountain, oblivious to the small crowd of Ivarstead folk that had gathered around. "Shor's bones!" The Injured guard remarked, viewing the dead trolls and his fallen comrade.
The Thane looked away from the impressive mountain and turned to the crowd. A tall Nordic male, bald but for a small plaited beard and dressed in common clothing, unarmed but for a knife addressed him.
"Passing through on your way to High Hrothgar? About to make a delivery up there myself."
The pair spoke for a minute and the bald Nord handed the Thane of Whiterun a bag. Taking it, the Thane merely looked to Lydia and then to the top of the mountain.
"I've never seen anything quite like that!" Lydia remarked, basking in the awesome presence the Throat of the World, the Seven Thousand Steps and High Hrothgar inspired in almost every Nord.
"Lead on, my Thane."
The sun was beginning to set as the wind blew the frost laced faces of The Thane of Whiterun and his vassal, Lydia. Ahead of them stood the dominating sight of High Hrothgar, home to the ancient and revered Greybeards. High Hrothgar was built as a castle but with the exception of a single great turret at the front of the monastery. Lydia mused for a moment on why such great fortifications were necessary so high up. Who would dare attack the Greybeards? Especially after that exhausting trip up the seven thousand steps? The sharp pain in her left molar reminded her very quickly of the dangers she and the Dragonborn had faced on the way up here. Frostbite spiders, Ice wolves and of course the troll.
'Stendar's mercy, more trolls today than I've faced in a lifetime' Lydia thought. The troll had gotten the jump on them as they passed through a narrow pass a few thousand steps down and in the ensuing fight, the beasts had struck Lydia clean in the face, sending her sprawling to the ground with its powerful fists. In truth, they had been lucky to survive these Troll attacks and the Housecarl made a mental note to alert the Jarl of The Rift of the Troll threat in this region. It had been a hard fight for proven warriors, Lydia couldn't imagine how pilgrims would fare. Though, bitterly, she supposed the manpower was not available to mount patrols what with the Jarl of Riften's allegiance to Ulfric and his Stormcloak rebellion.
Taking in the vastness of the Monastery, Lydia took a few steps to the side and looked out over Skyrim. The view was staggering. Her eyes were drawn towards the ruin that was Bleak Falls Barrow. Many a night she had heard tale of this decrepit place, the home to Draugr and spirits of long ago looming over the village of Riverwood as a perpetual reminder of the old times.
'Before the Birth of Man, the Dragons ruled all Mundus' Was the inscription on the very first tablet they had found on the pilgrims path. It had only been proper to read them all.
The Thane of Whiterun placed the bag the balding man had given him into a large chest placed at the foot of the staircase and turned to Lydia.
"I need you to do something for me"
"Honour to you, my Thane" Lydia replied, saluting her Liege and breaking away from the breathtaking view of Skyrim.
"Wait here."
Without another word the Thane of Whiterun entered the Monastery of the Greybeards. Lydia, alone in the cold returned her view to Bleak Falls Barrow, the inscriptions running through her mind.
'The Fledgling Spirits of Men were Strong in Old Times; Unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices'.
Talos preserve us we'll need the bravery of Ysgramor now Dragons had returned. she thought. She still found it hard to believe but those bones, those scales that the Thane had given her to look after cemented her belief in the dark reality. She took one out to feel, not breaking her view of the Barrow. It was hard and rough, heavy like iron but with a poor finish; chipped and uneven as only a living thing could be. The Housecarl shifted her gaze to the dim sight of Whiterun, her home. 'Divines help us if a Dragon should decide to torch the city' thought Lydia.
'Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world; Proving for all that their voice too was strong; Although their sacrifices were many fold.' The fifth inscription ran through her mind as snow flecked across her hair and face. How many had already died, she wondered. Her uncle had perished in the opening days of the Great War when she was just a girl, nothing more than a distant memory now. She had been lucky Jarl Balgruff had not committed himself to the civil war yet. She had not yet had to suffer a friends loss or seen the plight which haunted the gossip of Whiterun. On the journey to Ivarstead she and the Thane of Whiterun had passed a terrible scene; a dead farmer, his cart ransacked, lying in the dirt. Lydia had wanted to bury him but the Dragonborn had barely broken pace other than to look the man over.
"Dragonborn" Lydia said to herself looking now up to the diminishing light and feeling the air turn a nip colder, even from the bitter cold already on this side of the mountain. Could it be true? He clearly was able to kill a Dragon, but does that make him Dragonborn? What was it Irileth used to say, "Trust in your sword arm, and not in legends"? Lydia did not understand. She, like all little Nord girls, had grown up hearing of Talos, when he was Tiber Septim being being called up these very same seven thousand steps to be anointed Dragonborn. 'Dovhakiin' they called it, meant to be from the Dragon's own language. Shor's bones, she thought, the Dragons have their own language? If that's true they are no mindless beasts to terrorize at their pleasure, but then cold, calculating…Lydia shook the thought away and a swathe of snow which had settled on her head. Lydia watched the sun fall away and light begin to fade. Pulling a torch from her bag, she lit it and huddled in the cold, waiting of the Dragonborn. The supposed saviour of Skyrim and vanquisher of the beast of the End Times; Alduin.