Chapter Sixty-Two:

The Glorious Dead

Can I just say that the party in Shor's Hall made Jorrvaskr look like that last party chapel priests go to before devoting their entire lives to a god, but with watered-down wine and too many awkward, socially-inept people pretending to be drunk for the hell of it? Pretty lame. Shor's Hall was the birthday party kids of all ages and races had dreamed of since their first, and somehow, it was better. Remember, this is coming from a kid whose birthdays usually consisted of a birthday beating. From my point of view, anything was better. But this? Heck, it'd make even the Thalmor crack a smile (and destroy their faces, because Thalmor don't smile joyously. It's another myth to add to the books).

The hall consisted of three quadrants, each filled to the brim with Nords laughing, toasting, singing, and getting into "friendly" brawls that seemed to end with a split lip, blood on the floor, and another pint shoved into their hands. The first and seemingly main hall, like the other two, had a towering, vaulted roof with a large rustic chandelier hanging above two long stone tables. Between them were two roast suckling pigs and roasted oxen that re-grew their limbs every time a Nord ripped one off to eat. Not many ethereal warriors were seated at tables, but the ones that dined there ate from gleaming silverware and drank from pristine cups or tankards. Banners hung from the ceilings and changed their images from the bear of Windhelm to the wolf of Solitude. And the flow of the mead was never-ending, with men and women lining up for another full cup of the flowing golden liquid.

The room to the left of the entrance where I stood appeared to be an area fit for the warriors to train. Some cast magicka from their fingertips while others brawled with their fists, and still others preferred the use of hammers, axes, or blades. They'd fight like berserkers one moment and the next they'd raise a glass in each other's honour, but then they'd be at it again and ghostly blood would stain the floor (briefly, since it disappeared relatively quickly. Creepy). The final room, however, appeared to be a place to swap tales and stories, to boast and to revel in previous victories. There were more tables and more ridiculously large kegs of mead and ale there, never-ending and never quite filling the bellies of the honoured dead.

While I was gawking at the marvellous monster of a hall (which still made Jorrvaskr look like a kiddie pool), a man in ancient armour approached me. His dirty-blonde beard and hair were unkempt and long, and spotted with meat and dribbling ale, but he was a fit man. And tall, too. He made Milos look like a pint-sized squirt compared to him!

The man had barely let me walk down the steps before he shoved a tankard of mead in my hands and almost seemed to grapple me into a huge, bear-like embrace that made me cringe and had me feeling like an awkward child. But in my defence, that wasn't anything I was expecting right off the bat.

"Welcome, Dragonborn!" boomed the warrior when he finally let me stand on my own two feet. "Our door has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare here. But now that you've finally arrived, soon Shor's glory will overflow with worthy allies once more!"

I ended up spilling most of my drink on the man's breastplate, but he didn't seem to mind. Frankly, he didn't seem to care at all. "W-Who are you?" I stammered.

One more hug later, the man answered, "Ysgramor. I was once a king, but a warrior first."

"Ysgramor?!"

"Ha! Dragonborn, your surprise is a warm sight, indeed. Come sit! You look exhausted! Certainly Alduin will be a powerful foe, and you must regain your strength before you can even raise an axe to fly into battle!"

While paralyzed in my stupor, Ysgramor cleared the path for us to a table in the main hall. Since most of it was vacated, there was no trouble in finding a seat, but when I finally managed to form my words into an objection rather than incessant nattering, Ysgramor waved me off.

"I would gladly see our honoured brethren enter these hallowed halls, Dragonborn, but I shall never see another warrior's face cross the threshold if I were to send you to battle against Alduin without you being at your very best!" the hallowed warrior argued. "Sit! Drink! Eat! Be merry with us! You're among friends!"

And in that instant, everyone decided to sit with us. Yippee for me. Felt like another interview with potential adoptive parents, which I had become less and less fond of over the years.

A darker-skinned Nord who found a seat beside me had stacked his plate up to his chest with food and didn't seem to mind that he was sucking it up like a dog to water. He spoke with two other men while they recounted of their adventures in the living world, then he nudged me with his elbow and a large grin on his face.

"Far you've travelled, your trials long, to taste of Sovngarde's sweet delights!" he jeered, then returned to his reverie with his friends.

"A cup, Dragonborn," a mage called from across the table, "to death and glory!"

"Aye!" cheered the Nords, and threw the contents of their cups into the back of their throats.

A young man in what I recognized to be Greybeard robes approached Ysgramor, and they talked for a while before I caught on something interesting:

"My disciples still follow the difficult path—the Way of the Voice is neither wide, nor easy," he told Ysgramor. "But if you stray from wisdom then to Sovngarde you will not return."

"True words indeed, Jurgen," Ysgramor commented.

The Jurgen Windcaller looked at me and pointed sternly. "Fate drives you, but follow your own path. Choose wisely, lest you wander into evil."

Just wait until I tell Arngeir that I was scolded by Jurgen Windcaller, I thought with a satisfied smirk. Old man'll probably have a heart-attack and end up here...

"Hail, Dragonborn!" A Nord woman, whose eyes were paler than snow, regarded me as she sat across from Ysgramor and I. She pounded a fist on her chest once. "That honour is also mine—to our shared birthright you'll bring new glory!"

If I'd been drinking, I'd have spat out everything right then and there. "Y-You're Dragonborn too?!"

"Aye, I am," she said while she nodded. "An often dire straight it is, but worth it in the end. Though I regret Shor has forbade us from facing the worm, my blade calls for action, and what better honour for our kin than to fight beside one another?"

"I'd feel a lot better with an army at my back..."

"An army? What glories to be sung! The Last Dragonborn, prophecy of the Elder Scrolls, leads an army of souls of Aetherius into battle against the World-Eater! To that image, I drink!" (And she did, and had her cup filled by a passing Nord carrying a smaller keg.) "Ah, but Dragonkin are we! Not only by the blood of chance, but also of family! I wield the soul of Aakgolahjot, as you do Britsaviikzi, my sister!"

Well, I was drinking that time. And while the mead tried to settle in my belly, it was spurted up. "Huh?!"

At that, the Hero of Sovngarde was confused. "You do not know of the soul you possess, sister?"

"Stop calling me that for a second!" She suddenly had my full attention. "Explain. Please."

"Every Dragonborn has the soul of a Dragon," she said (as if she were explaining simple mathematics to a child). "The Dragon souls were once living, but no more. Now, they live through us. Our souls may have not been strong enough when we were babes to keep us alive, and we were lucky enough to be chosen by the gods beforehand to be blessed with this gift." She leaned in close towards me. "For others still, they may have the soul to balance whatever monstrosity dwells 'neath the skin."

I leaned back a bit, keeping tight-lipped about how accurate she may be. "So... You think I'm your Dragon-sister?"

"Paarthurnax had two children: Aakgolahjot and Britsaviikzi. The latter turned against Alduin before the Dragon War. Aakgolahjot required more convincing, but was killed like her sister by Alduin when she sided with the humans." She leaned back like me and folded her arms across her chest. "Briitsaviikzi had a powerful Thu'um almost equal to Aakgolahjot, but even they were no match for Alduin's power. Now, I hope, you may prove our worth to him, and banish him from this plane."

"So... let me get this straight..." I cleared my throat. "You're Dragonborn. I'm Dragonborn. We have the Thu'um. And the reason for that is because of the living Dragon souls?"

"The ones that are related in flesh, yes," clarified the Nord.

"So in a really, really, really warped way... You're my sister?"

"Indeed."

"Great. Now I have dead parents and a dead sister. Go figure."

The Hero of Sovngarde threw her head back and laughed. "Ah, so your parents made it to Sovngarde?"

"Only one, I suppose. Kodlak Whitemane. My mother was Imperial."

"You looked too short to be a Nord, Dragonborn," regarded a warrior not far down the table, which garnered the laughter of the men and women around him.

I pursed my lips but remained silent. Then Ysgramor leaned towards me.

"Do not fail Kodlak," he urged me. "He's earned his place here, and does not deserve to fall prey to Alduin's insatiable hunger."

"I'll try—."

"Now eat!" Ysgramor's massive hand slapped me on the back, perhaps a bit harder than he'd intended. "How tastes the mead?"

I swirled it in my cup. I'd sipped it a few times during the conversations, and it truly hadn't tasted any different than Honningbrew Mead to me, but I nodded to the Atmoran king.

"It's a good drink," I commented.

"Excellent, Dragonborn! And your arm?"

My arm? I glanced down at what I thought was a charred ruin of my limb, but found it almost fully healed. I flexed the hand a few times and watched in amazement, then gave myself a once-over when I realized my head wasn't throbbing with a headache helped along by the loudness of the hall. Everything was healing, or in the process of doing so.

"Woah..." I mumbled.

"We await always for orders to come to Shor's glorious aid," Ysgramor said. "The mead here heals us as well as a potion of Mundus. The food is no different. When we train, we bleed, then we drink and sing praises of our worthy enemies and ghastly foes. Over and over again rings this pattern. But we are always well."

So now I can fight Alduin at my best, I thought with a grin. Well, next time I'm going up against impossible odds with severe wounds, I'll just send an order up to Sovngarde.

A few more drinks later and I felt better than new. And then Ysgramor stood and beckoned for me to follow him to the third room of the hall. I did, and managed to keep up with his long strides since my leg had healed. What did you know? Mead is magical.

"By Shor's command we sheathed our blades and ventured not the vale's dark mist," he told me a bit woefully. "But three await your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe. Gormlaith the fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim."

"You mean the three who Shouted at Alduin?" I recalled (but it was impossible to forget, since I'd been tackled by an ancient Dragon Priest only minutes later). "With the Elder Scroll?"

"At long last!" Gormlaith Golden-Hilt called at the sight of us. She hadn't changed since I watched her die. "Alduin's doom is now ours to seal—just speak the word and with high hearts we'll hasten forth to smite the worm wherever he lurks."

(Everyone in Sovngarde spoke so oddly I thought I was going insane, but instead I just had to slow myself to keep up. This was one of those times.)

"Hold, comrades—let us counsel take before battle is blindly joined," said Felldir the Old, who put a hand on Gormlaith's shoulder. "Alduin's mist is more than a snare—its shadowy gloom is his shield and cloak. But with four Voices joined, our valour combined, we can blast the mist and bring him to battle."

"Felldir speaks wisdom." Hakon One-Eye agreed readily, making Gormlaith frown. "The World-Eater, coward, fears you, Dragonborn. We must drive away his mist, Shouting together, and then unsheathe our blades in desperate battle with our black-winged foe."

Gormlaith's sword screamed form its sheathe as she charged for the door. "To battle, my friends! The fields will echo with the clamour of war, our wills undaunted."

"Or, you know, you could wait a second and let me get my mind around fighting with dead souls against a Dragon who wants to eat me." I was promptly ignored. "No? All right. Who needs preparation anyway?"

Ysgramor clapped a hand on my shoulder. "The battle will be grim, but your heart must be bright. Alduin is cruel and powerful, but fight valiantly and your will be done."

Well, at least one person seemed to understand that my stomach was tied in a knot.

No time to be getting cold feet, Taryn. I carefully breathed in and out and followed the Nords up the steps to the doors of Shor's Hall. This ends now.