Four

"My Thane?"

"Why don't you wait for me here, Lydia? I'll be back."

"Are you sure? The steps can be perilous."

"I'll be fine. I just need to think."

Sabrin hadn't summoned the nerve yet to go inside, even though she had reached the summit of the mountain and the lonely, stone temple perched there hours ago.

So, she settled for sitting outside on the steps.

She hadn't been lying to Hadvar. Her plan after killing the dragon had been to collect whatever supplies she could get her hands on—legally or otherwise—and make the quickest possible hike for one of the borders. Because Sabrin had been a lot of things to get by in life, but she couldn't be this. Whatever Jarl Balgruuf saw when he looked at her with such awe and reverence or whatever the guards believed the Dragonborn was meant to do, she wasn't cut out to be that person.

There was the crunch of ice and snow behind her and then a heavy, warm weight was dropped upon her shoulders with a muted thump.

Sabrin started and lifted a hand to touch the mantle of thick fur and wool that had settled over her. Then she twisted around and found herself looking into the face of a truly ancient man, who was kneeling beside her.

"Dragonborn or no," he said. "You will freeze here, given time."

Greybeard. Apparently that was meant as literally as it was figuratively.

"I don't want to be Dragonborn."

The old man's lips curled ever-so slightly at one corner. "Then perhaps that means the gods chose wisely."

"But how do you know it's me?" she demanded. "I can't be the only one. Find someone else!"

The old man let out a long breath that frosted in the chilly air. Then, with some effort, he settled onto the stone beside her. "That answer is complicated—far more complicated than the one you want." He measured her with his tired, gray eyes. "You want me to tell you that there was a mistake—that this is a dream you will wake from." Slowly, he shook his head. "I cannot. Sitting beside you I can feel your power—I can see it. Your soul burns like a hearth fire. You are Dragonborn."

Sabrin scooted away from him, waving a hand as if to dismiss his words. "I'm not a Nord," she insisted.

"Do you think such things matter to the gods?" he asked. "Kiir do Bormahu, hi los Dovahkiin."

Sabrin shivered and it had nothing to do with the winds that whistled around the peak or the numbness that had worked itself into her hands and feet. Looking away, she buried her face in the fur of the mantle he had given her and squeezed her eyes closed, willing it away.

"You do not know the words, but you understand their meaning because dragons are born understanding," he said. "They are writ in your soul." He reached out and laid a gentle hand, gnarled by age and callused by work, upon her shoulder. "We are willing to help if you are willing to learn."

Sabrin said nothing at first. She wasn't sure how willing she was to learn, in truth. A part of her was still convinced she would wake up at any moment. But she knew with even more certainty that this was the state of things and she could not run. Not really. Not when they would just call her back.

Dovahkiin.

That word had made her itch. It was a challenge and an affront and simple, base curiosity all rolled together and she didn't understand it or the need to answer to it that had clawed at her since the word had split the sky at the gates of Whiterun.

So, that just left this then? She had to throw herself headlong down this path for better or worse or spend the rest of her life trying to run from something that didn't seem like it could be outrun.

She had been raised better than to fight unwinnable battles.

"My name is Sabrin."

The man seemed pleased by this and nodded. "I am Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards," he said as he stood. He gestured to the doors behind him. "Welcome to High Hrothgar."

Kiir do Bormahu, hi los Dovahkiin - Child of Akatosh, you are Dragonborn.