Chapter 17
Mull and Aela break into a sprint towards the billowing plume of dust and ash that marks the fallen dragon's location. A handful of others run alongside them, though he doesn't pay them much mind. His attention is more drawn to the veritable graveyard around them, a field of the blood-soaked dead. When the sight of such devastation becomes too much for him to process, he forces himself to focus on his breathing, his footfalls, and the pain from his headache.
Before long, the dragon comes into view through the darkness and smoke. It's laying on its underbelly in a crater of fire, blood, and mangled flesh. Mull hopes that the latter two are from already-dead corpses and not anyone who'd been unlucky enough to have the dragon drop on top of them.
The dragon snarls, exuding rage as it hefts its scaled bulk onto its stocky hind legs and winged forelimbs. "Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!"
My Lord will devour your souls in Sovngarde!
With that, it slowly stalks out of the crater with one wing held awkwardly at its side, its reptilian gaze trained intently on its approaching enemies.
"Spread out, you idiots! Surround it!" Mull is shocked to see Irileth at the head of a group of ragged warriors, shouting and gesturing urgently. She survived.
Her leather armor is burnt, torn, and completely missing in some places, but she's alive. Her red eyes are alight with a malevolence that nearly makes him tremble even though he knows the intent behind them isn't directed at himself. The growing press of bodies organizes itself into a crude formation under her leadership, with long spears held aloft to corral the beast.
A strong hand thumps against his shoulder. Aela steps back, waving him onwards and brandishing her bow. "Good luck in there! Make the gods proud!"
He nods tiredly and dedicates what little brainpower he has left to examining the situation. It looks like all of Whiterun's remaining warriors are gathering before the dragon, spreading out sufficiently to avoid being roasted alive in one go but simultaneously close enough to maintain a solid physical presence. He concludes that joining them would be extremely stupid. There's no cover for them anywhere. Those idiots are all going to die. They do, however, provide an excellent distraction.
Swiftly reaching a decision, he jogs forward and ignores his burning calves as he attempts to circle around the dragon. If I can attack from its flanks, then I should be able to avoid its magic. A few other warriors who have the same idea raise their weapons and dash at the dragon from the sides with fierce battle-cries.
The dragon shifts its weight. A massive scaled tail swings, swatting aside a handful of men with contemptuous ease and scattering their tentative assault. Several of them are sent arcing into the air before they smash into the unyielding earth with bone-shattering force.
Mull skids to a halt, now reconsidering his course of action. Okay… maybe that wasn't such a good idea. He hangs back for a moment, waiting to see what happens next.
The dragon roars forth a torrent of white-hot flame, threatening to envelop many of Whiterun's warriors. A shield of ethereal gold materializes to meet it. Irileth, a handful of other Dunmer, and a few Nords throw up a hastily-erected ward with arms outstretched and expressions contorted in concentration. A matching golden glow emits from their hands.
After a dozen agonizing seconds, the flames cease and the assembled mages collapse to the ground. Another group steps forward in their wake, this one composed mostly of Nords and the two antler-crowned Reachmen. They raise their hands and perform a rapid synchronized chant. Upon its completion, a storm of lightning bursts from their upraised palms and crackles across the intervening space.
Mull recognizes that this is probably the best opportunity he'll get. He advances with sword raised, fervently hoping he isn't about to die horribly.
"FO KRA DIIN!"
The dragon answers the communal lightning spell with more magic of its own. A blizzard of snow and ice completely envelops everything in the vicinity. Mull cries out and shields his face with his free hand. He suddenly can't see anything at all.
He's completely lost. He twists in a circle, searching for some means of safety, but only succeeds in getting himself irreversibly disoriented. Bitter cold surrounds him. His skin goes numb, his teeth chatter, and his eyes sting fiercely. As he watches, frost forms on the surface of his sword and armor. His hair and beard are weighed down by icicles. If this continues much longer, he's going to start losing fingers.
Then, just as quickly as it came, the blizzard vanishes and he can unexpectedly see again. And because of course he does, he finds himself face-to-face with the dragon.
Upon the cessation of the snowstorm, the first features that come into view are its terrifying miasmic green eyes boring into him. Steam rises from its nostrils and the corners of its mouth. He's figuratively frozen in place, unable to move for fear that this monster will snuff out his life in an instant, as easily as someone might extinguish a candle.
Still staring him down, the dragon releases a low rumbling growl that's even more hair-raisingly terrifying than those serpentine eyes.
The battle-song from the beginning of the battle, until now silent and forgotten, returns with a vengeance. He flinches at the intensity of the sudden noise. Drums beat wildly. A chorus of voices bray like howling wolves, rising and falling, urging him to take action through the sheer vitriol of their abrasive cries. Something foreign swells in his chest, seizing control of his limbs and causing his heart to thump madly.
Under normal circumstances, the best course of action would be to turn tail and run. He doesn't stand any chance of surviving otherwise. However, now directly confronted by this terrible creature, his instincts of self-preservation honed by years of surviving such close encounters are negligently thrown out the proverbial window. He moves before he realizes what he's doing. He isn't in control anymore. The terror festering within him is overpowered by the drums and chorus summoning him to battle.
He steps forward and swings his sword. Surely this should be a death sentence, but despite all conventional logic dictating this will be his end, his blade somehow strikes true.
The horizontal arc of bitter steel catches the tip of the dragon's snout, slicing across the scaleless flesh between its nostrils. The dragon rears its head and roars, deafening him. He darts backwards and stumbles, inadvertently putting several yards between himself and the dragon, but quickly rights himself and prepares to charge again.
He almost dies right then and there as the dragon makes to lunge at him, but something whizzes past his head inches from his ear and strikes the enormous creature just beneath one of its eyes. He dimly recognizes the projectile as an arrow. It's a hell of a shot, and not in the least because it came so excruciatingly close to taking his head off instead. Thanks Aela.
The reptilian enemy recoils from the projectile, giving a handful of other warriors the opportunity to advance and further surround it, forming a thorny hedge of spearpoints. But their nascent dance with death is cut short when the dragon bares its prodigious fangs and growls ferociously.
"GOL MOTAAD!"
Earth tremble!
The ground beneath Mull's boots begins to shake violently, causing him to lose his footing with a sharp cry. He catches himself with an upraised arm just before his face slams into the dirt, but he quickly discovers that standing is impossible as the reverberations steadily grow worse. It's all he can do to avoid being tossed around like a doll floating in a river. As a matter of fact, the roiling earth almost resembles flowing water in the way that it moves. It's… not enjoyable.
His eyeballs vibrate inside of his skull in a distinctly unpleasant manner, prompting him to cover them with his bracers out of an irrational concern that they might pop out. He clutches his sword for dear life with his other hand, unwilling to release it but simultaneously afraid that he'll accidentally impale himself.
A booming crash, for all intents and purposes sounding like a landslide, informs him that the remaining structure of the watchtower probably just collapsed.
Terrified screams erupt from somewhere distressingly close by. The dragon must not be wasting any time. He presses himself into the earth as low as he can go, desperately hoping that the creature won't come for him next.
Luckily, it doesn't The tremors subside after a short while and he carefully raises his head to examine his surroundings. He watches with revulsion as the dragon, now a good thirty yards away, raises a clawed hind leg as thick as an oak tree and stomps a prone warrior into a smear of crimson paste. Dammit. Poor bastard.
He rises to his feet unsteadily and totters toward the malevolent creature, sword held point-down close to his leg to better balance himself. Even though the earth is no longer shaking, he's still wobbly.
A red-haired man in frostbitten scale armor marches past him and strides purposefully toward their enemy, stumbling slightly but much better off than him. He recognizes this man. Hrongar. The Jarl's brother easily outpaces him and leaves him to watch with mounting trepidation as he approaches the dragon alone, bypassing the truncated remains of several of his subordinates strewn about the field.
He halts before the monstrous creature and gains its attention by saying something that Mull can't hear. The dragon snarls, spraying large droplets of blood and pulverized innards across the vicinity. A few splash against Hrongar, but he doesn't even flinch.
What is he doing?! Mull stumbles closer to the imminent confrontation but is too far away to intervene, not that he would even if he could. He's going to get himself killed! What… Well, I almost did the same thing, but… ah, shit.
He shakes his head and picks up the pace, unwilling to let Hrongar die alone like a snowback fool, but he can still barely move in a straight line. Around him, numerous men and women still lie unmoving or are standing tremulously. He has no idea how Hrongar could've managed to recover from the dragon's earth-shaking spell so quickly. Maybe he's just that tough.
The man in question hefts his greatsword over his head and matches the dragon's snarl with a roar of his own. Formalities now out of the way, he takes up the weapon in a two-handed grip and charges the creature. Mull fully expects to watch him die. As a result, what happens next is rather surprising.
Instead of joining their deceased comrades on the gore-soaked ground, the man swings, thrusts, ducks, dodges, and rolls with a sort of crude elegance that's astonishing for somebody of his size and stature. The greatsword beats against the dragon's head and neck over and over again, sparking with each impact as it chips away scales, bone, and flesh.
Hrongar only relents in his assault when the dragon rumbles "YOL!" and releases a short gout of crimson flame, forcing him to jump aside. He escapes the worst of the attack but isn't quite fast enough to entirely avoid injury. His bearded features contort in agony as the flesh on his right side and back is badly scorched, and his leathers are set alight in several places.
With bared teeth, Hrongar darts beneath the dragon's jowls and swings his sword at its neck. The dragon twists its head out of the way with surprising dexterity.
Mull can only watch in awe, the same as the rest of the warriors, as this man goes toe-to-toe with a beast of mythic yore. The fact that he's currently on fire and seems wholly unconcerned about it only serves to make him appear even more impressive. To Mull, in that moment, Hrongar looks like a hero straight out of an ancient saga.
Of course, not all are content to merely stand and observe as glory is won. A group of Orcs armored in greyish-green orichalcum, unwilling to be outdone, charge to Hrongar's side with bellowing laughter and an impressive assortment of cruel axes and wicked scimitars held at the ready.
With that, it's like a dam has been broken. The remaining warriors of Whiterun surge towards the dragon in a wave of steel, crying out for blood and death. The dragon lunges like a snake and swipes with taloned wings, slaying some and maiming others, but their suicidal charge does not falter. The cynical side of Mull can't stand to see them run to their deaths. Those godsdamn fools!
But despite his criticism, he's no less of a fool than they. The battle-song that only he can hear, now absolutely deafening, reaches a discordant fever pitch as it urges him onwards. He doesn't want to throw himself into the carnage unfolding before him, but he can't refuse the tempestuous call boiling within his veins. He charges along with the rest, adding a hoarse yell to the burgeoning cacophony. That same inexplicable boldness from before once again overtakes him. He sinks into a swirling sea of sweat and spilled entrails, shoving his way to the forefront of the carnage. It's utter madness.
Mull is a survivor. He survived Helgen when so many other did not. He survived everything that followed while Gunjar and Rana did not. He survived Bleak Falls Barrow when Arvel, his hapless minions, and Torgen's comrades did not. Most of all, he survived everything that characterized his former life of brigandry and murder, the struggle, the suffering, and the killing. His first and foremost drive has always been to do just that. Survive.
So it's understandably strange that he would now do something so objectively moronic. He doesn't understand it himself. How else could you describe the action of charging headlong into battle against a gigantic winged reptile throwing around magic as easily as it breathes? Reckless! Idiot!
Irrespective of his internal tirade, he marches deeper into the fray without stopping. The battle-song doesn't allow him to think. He must act. He no longer has any choice in the matter. If he were in his right mind, he would undoubtedly falter when he sees a row of men be frozen solid where they stand as the dragon roars forth a wave of wintery magic. He would falter when Hrongar, who strove against their enemy so fearlessly, reels away from the blood-bathed creature with one arm missing. He would falter when that intrepid group of Orcs, now immediately in front of him, are turned into a cloud of red mist by another swing of the dragon's fearsome tail. For some reason he honestly can't explain, he does not falter.
He bursts through the final organized rank of men and women standing between him and the dragon. Several warriors who appear to be fur-clad plainsfolk like those he saw when first arriving in Whiterun are hemming in the dragon with spears and long-axes. The pair of Reachmen mages are using the opportunity to prepare what he guesses to be some kind of close-range spell.
He starts forward, but some instinct – the same that prevented him from being killed by the draugr-lord in Bleak Falls Barrow – screeches at him to remain where he stands, piercing through the haze of adrenaline and bitter music shrouding his mind. The dragon opens its enormous jaws, displaying jagged teeth festooned with bits of flesh and armor, and speaks.
"TIID KLO UL!"
Something in Mull's stomach clenches hard and he wobbles on his feet. Another earthquake?!
But he then realizes that thought is incorrect. The dragon said something different this time. The incantation was…
Time. Sand. Eternity.
When those words are spoken, the ground doesn't shake. Instead, the dragon moves with such incomprehensible speed that its enormous form turns into a blur. Not even a second later, all of the plainsfolk and both of the Reachmen are dead, scattered across the ash-layered earth in a grisly assortment of ragged pieces.
Mull reels as the world seems to jolt back into place. What in Oblivion was that?!
Somehow the men of Whiterun are undeterred by that sight of sheer butchery. The line of warriors he just passed through now flows around him in turn, riotously advancing with battle-cries and the discordant crashing of weapons against shields.
Further afield, a Dark Elf he recognizes as Irileth unleashes a booming surge of violet lightning that envelops one of the dragon's wings – the one that had been wounded by Aela, he's pretty sure. The spell flashes so brightly that the night turns to day for a fleeting instant, and the accompanying thunder makes his ears ring.
As soon as the last of the lightning leaves her palms, the Dunmer drops like a sack of bricks – but her effort isn't in vain. The dragon screeches piercingly and staggers to the side, away from the source of the spell. Such a noise can only have one meaning. Agony.
The warriors surrounding Mull collectively bellow, emboldened by this undeniable proof that their enemy can be made to feel pain, and stampede across the corpse-strewn field. Against his better judgment and still under the curse of the battle-song, he joins them in their folly.
After that, there's no tactical planning or further efforts to outflank their opponent. The battle devolves into a bloody brawl as the warriors of Whiterun gracelessly try to hack the injured dragon to death before it can give them the same courtesy.
The dragon roars forth a torrent of magic in the instant before the oncoming wave of humanity slams into it.
"GAAN LAH HAAS!"
The foremost warriors stumble and fall as they're enveloped by an amaranthine miasma, rolling in a tangled mess of limbs and weapons. Those coming behind them, Mull included, don't stop. They sprint between, over, and atop their collapsed brethren, focused solely on their desire to slay the thrice-damned dragon.
He breathes heavily as he runs into the jaws of death – both metaphorically and literally – and persistently ignores the tiny isolated corner of his mind serving as a final bastion of logic. You're going to die! it screams unrelentingly. You've almost died multiple times already! Don't be a fool! Stop! Run away! Hide!
That little voice is far too distant to make any difference. Now he only hears his own erratic heartbeat, the uneven inhales and exhales of his aching lungs, and that incessant all-consuming music. His armor, though comparatively light, weighs heavily on his shoulders and arms. He doesn't have much strength left. Even so, he doesn't stop.
The tide of warriors slam into the waiting dragon like waves pounding against a rocky shore. They swirl around the creature's wings and torso, stabbing and slashing before being slain by tooth and claw. Whenever many of them are killed, they retreat and regroup before charging in again, a sequence that repeats endlessly. An assortment of swords, spears, axes, and polearms smash through adamantine scales to rend the flesh and muscle beneath. The dragon is slowly but steadily bloodied, encircled and overwhelmed. Particularly courageous or idiotic warriors clamber onto its wings or legs to deliver rapid slashes and thrusts before being thrown off or crushed. Somewhere behind, a man loudly hollers encouragement, exhorting them to fight on. Mull is pretty sure it's Hrongar.
Arrows periodically plink against the dragon's snout and horns, most spinning away harmlessly but with a rare few finding purchase in its flesh. Before long, so many arrows are sticking out of its head that they form a grotesque coronet of feathers and wooden shafts. Despite the sheer number of incoming projectiles, the dragon seems particularly adepts at protecting its eyes. The prominent ridges serving as the equivalent of eyebrows further contribute to its defensibility.
Through it all, Mull focuses exclusively on himself and the dragon. Everything else is extraneous. When it moves, he moves. When it lunges, he stays the hell away. When it takes a man in its maw and shreds him to ribbons, he lunges while it's distracted. When its attention is anywhere near himself, he dives backwards and rolls through the bloody mud. Only once he deems it relatively safe does he return to the line of battle. And yet the battle-song still doesn't allow him to falter or flee.
The dragon uses its magic one more time.
"FAAS RU MAAR!"
Fear. Run. Terror.
The resultant pulse of scarlet energy appears to inflict just that. Those entrapped by the spell immediately drop their weapons and run, sobbing and wailing all the while.
It's a discouraging sight, but Mull doesn't pay them heed. He's too engrossed trying to wedge his sword through the armored skin of one of the dragon's forelimbs.
He doesn't have much success and backs away warily, but the beast's gaze is luckily directed elsewhere. There are so many men swarming the creature by now that it can't possibly deal with them all. For the first time this entire night, Mull feels a tiny glimmer of hope. We might actually kill this thing.
That's dampened when another man – a woman this time, actually – is caught between the dragon's teeth. Its jaws crunch together repulsively and she evaporates into a shower of gore. The dragon growls, but then staggers as someone impales its flank with a long spear. It tries to shift its hulking form to face the offender, leaving itself open to another warrior smashing an axe into the front of its snout, nearly cleaving it in half.
The man retreats as the reptilian monster releases an earsplitting screech. A robed and hooded mage – a Dunmer, Mull is pretty sure – douses the dragon's good wing with a torrent of searing fire. The distinct scent of burning meat reaches his nose. Another arrow slams into the creature's face, causing it to stagger further.
The dragon has slowed down considerably. There might not be many men and women still standing, but the tide has most definitely turned.
After that arrow, Mull sees an opening. Doing what he's about to do might be foolish in the extreme, but it's now or never. If many more of their number are killed, there won't be enough of them left to defeat their enemy. Here we go.
He sprints at the dragon while pumping his arms to build up momentum. When he's close enough, he jumps and grabs ahold of one of the horn-like protrusions jutting from the back of its jaw. He uses his handhold as a lever to swing up onto the side of its neck and perches precariously against the bulge of its jawbone. Its nearest eye swivels to focus exclusively on him, only a foot or two away.
In a transitory moment of clarity, he appreciates the immense stupidity of his plan and his current situation. Up to this point, his anonymity in the crowd of warriors is what has kept him alive, at least in part. He just threw that away.
The dragon opens its maw threateningly, giving him an odd view of its front teeth seen from behind. The action becomes slightly less threatening when another warrior sticks the tip of a greatsword into the roof of the creature's mouth, eliciting a flinch that nearly dislodges him.
Spurred to action, he firmly plants one of his feet against a sharp flange of scale closer to the dragon's wing, coils the full weight of his body behind his sword, and thrusts with a gravelly shout that completely empties his lungs. His blade pierces through scale and flesh with a moist squelch and penetrates deeply into the side of the dragon's skull, just behind and above the jaw. Viscous black blood gushes from the wound, thoroughly drenching him and giving the creature's scales a dark sheen in the wavering firelight.
He slips from his now-slick perch and crashes to the ground spreadeagled. The dragon chuffs, its gums vibrating in a way that would be oddly hypnotic if there wasn't so much blood everywhere, and lowers its head. As if waiting specifically for such a movement, no less than four men charge with spears outstretched and thrust their weapons into the dragon's face, jaw, and neck. More black blood spurts, flowing to the increasingly muddied ground in torrential waterfalls.
The dragon wails with frustration, an unhappy sound that Mull doesn't expect such a creature to be capable of producing. With that horror-stricken exclamation, it collapses to the smoldering earth in a cloud of billowing cinders. Its eyes dart every which way in search for some hidden means of escaping. The remaining warriors throng to it with renewed bloodlust, chopping away at its hide in a relentless frenzy.
Mull tries to join the battle, if it can still be called that at this point, but finds that he can barely stand much less fight. But as it turns out, any further exertion on his part is unneeded. Even in the midst of his exhaustion, he retains enough presence of mind to watch as one final breath shudders from the dragon's lungs, its serpentine green eyes dilate to sightless black pools, and it dies.
There's a beat of stillness that seems to last forever. It doesn't seem right, somehow. Is it actually…?
'Dovahkiin? Nooooooooooo!'
What he can only describe as a tormented scream tears jagged holes through his mind. He falls back to the ground with a shocked gasp, thankful that his previous headache has mostly faded. Otherwise, it surely would've been worsened considerably by that cry.
His gaze roams across the battlefield. None of the others appear to have heard that, and if they did, they aren't showing it. He groans and palms his face. It seems like there's been a lot of that going on tonight for whatever reason. Me hearing things that aren't actually there. What could that have been?
He lies there for a short while, staring uncomprehendingly at the dragon's motionless head and the river of blood pouring from its many wounds, including from around his sword still impaled into his neck. His compatriots' frantic attacks against the dragon's corpse cease and they drift together before its unmoving form, gradually realizing that their enemy has already died. Some mimic Mull in staring uncomprehendingly, unwilling or unable to accept that they've won. Others whoop and holler with unrestrained joy.
However, this quickly fades away as the true scope of their casualties become apparent. Even here, dozens of yards away from the watchtower, they stand in a field of death.
It smells terrible, as do all battlefields. The copious amounts of spilled intestines and leaking urine make sure of that. In some places, patches of earth are alight with oily flame. Others are frozen solid, or at least glazed with frost. The unnatural discontinuity is odd.
It's silent. Finally, blessedly silent. Mull relishes the jarring but nonetheless enjoyable sensation. The battle-song is no longer audible, leaving behind a stillness broken only by the soft crackle of burning grass and his own rhythmic heartbeat.
He squeezes shut his eyes and opens them again to stare at his gloved hand. He clenches his fingers. A few droplets of blood seep from between his torn digits. For some reason, he takes that as a sure sign that he's still among the living. Aye, I'm alive. Shor's bones, I can't believe it.
He's overcome by an insane fit of maniacal laughter, but thankfully the outburst only comes out of his mouth as wordless sputtering.
He would love nothing more than to fall asleep right then and there, not at all caring that he's lying in a mire of blood-sodden sludge, but the stealthy arrival of a certain redheaded woman precludes his well-deserved rest.
"I'll be damned. You're still in one piece." She puts her hands on her hips and leans over him. She's splattered with filth but none the worse for wear. "Can't say I expected that. I guess you're tougher than you look."
"Thanks," he croaks. "Very compassionate."
"Well, I try," Aela preens. She holds out a hand, providing an anchor for him to pull himself into a sitting position.
Not for the first time, he takes note of how freakishly solid she is for such a wiry woman. Guess it's the werewolf blood or something. Speaking of which… "So. Werewolf, huh?"
Aela gives him an odd look. "After everything that just happened, that's the first thing you ask about? Not the fact we just fought and killed a creature that's supposed to be extinct?"
He finds it a little awkward to be talking to the woman's thighs, so he forces himself to stand with a soft groan. Aela is merciful enough to let him hold onto her shoulder for a few seconds to regain his balance.
Only when he's sure he isn't going to topple over does he venture a reply. "Ugh. Why not? You don't see a werewolf everyday, much less one that isn't going on a murderous rampage. Aren't your kind usually known for that?"
The werewolf in question seems to take offense. "Hey now, don't go lumping me in with those thin-blooded whelps. There are werewolves and then there are werewolves. For most of us, the favor of Lord Hircine is a curse. Not so for me. I'm moon-born, and that is a wonderful thing."
"I don't know what that means."
Aela rolls her eyes. "It means I bear the most powerful blessing of Hircine – the Daedric Prince of the Hunt, if you weren't aware – and that means I'm a werewolf with full control over my transformations, which can't be said for most other lycanthropes. I'm also strengthened in other ways outside of my beast form, first and foremost in abilities pertaining to the Hunt."
That explains her skill with the bow, he muses. And how she managed to injure the dragon when none of the rest of us could. "So you're telling me that your Companions of Jorrvaskr, sitting right in the middle of Whiterun in that huge upside-down boat, are actually a godsdamn Daedric cult?"
"Hah!" She barks with laughter. "Hardly. No, that would be completely outrageous. Among the Companions, only I and one other bear the gift," she haughtily declares. She stops to look around, ensuring they aren't going to be overheard.
A handful of their fellow survivors are moving closer, including a pointy-eared feminine silhouette that might be Irileth. The plentiful clouds of smoke and ash drifting in the air are blocking the light of the moons and stars, making it difficult to see further than a few yards. Dawn is likely still a few hours away.
"We can continue this conversation another time," Aela announces. "Though it goes without saying, I know you won't speak of this to anyone else. I only told you these things because you saw me in my beast form. It's a privilege that few have ever received, and even fewer survived."
"Understood," Mull grunts. Not that he would want to reveal a secret entrusted by somebody who's saved his life, but even if that weren't the case, he certainly would not want to be on Aela's bad side. That's for damn sure.
Aela faces the dragon's motionless form and chuckles. "Why are we even talking about this? How about that dead dragon over there? You know, the one we helped kill? Why don't we talk about that?" She spins to face him again, her eyes kindled with delight. "Just think of the glory we've won here! We'll go down as dragon slayers! How many can claim such a distinction?"
"…Not many, I'd wager." Much of the battlefield is shrouded in darkness, but what he can see is littered with bodies. And there's a good reason for that. This is just like Helgen. We didn't kill this thing because we're 'dragon slayers.' We just got lucky.
The Huntress crosses her arms and pouts at him. "Why the long face? I thought you'd be more excited."
"Oh, I'm plenty excited," he says sarcastically. "Excited to be alive." He sweeps out his arm, encompassing the many slain warriors in their vicinity. "That's more than they can say."
"You should be happy for them. They've given their lives to achieve something incredible and now rest in Kyne's warm embrace among the ranks of the mighty." Aela grins fiercely. "Or perhaps they run at Hircine's side to eternally pursue the greatest of prey in his Hunting Grounds. Either way, that doesn't sound so bad to me."
This discussion feels irritatingly familiar. "I'm too tired for this shit," he gripes. "I want my sword back." He trudges to the dragon's head, leaving Aela to watch him perplexedly. All these Nords are the same. Dozens of them get turned inside out by a fairytale monster and the survivors don't even bat an eye.
He stops to look up at this sword, strategizing how best to recover the blade currently suspended at least fifteen feet in the air. It goes without saying that the dragon is big. Though for some reason, it doesn't seem quite so big now that it's dead.
He steps forward and runs a hand across the creature's scales. If he can wedge his fingertips behind the layers of armored skin, and if they can support his weight without pulling out, then he should be able to climb up to his lost weapon. There are also a few protrusions of bone higher up that will make convenient handholds.
His course of action now decided, he clambers up the side of the dragon's head in much the same manner as before. Its scaled hide is slippery with uncongealed blood, making the ascent treacherous, and he slides back down to the ground twice before figuring out a good route.
He hauls himself upwards and finally manages to grasp the hilt of his deeply-embedded weapon. He braces his feet by standing on the creature's jawbone for maximum leverage, flexes his arms, and pulls. The sword stoically refuses to budge.
"What in the world are you doing?" calls Aela from below. "You look ridiculous up there!"
"Just… come on!" He ignores her taunt in favor of grasping the crossguard with both hands and yanking with all of his might. The blade promptly snaps in twain near the base, sending him careening to the ground. The majority of the blade remains stuck fast in the dragon's flesh and bone, faintly vibrating from the residual force of its fracturing.
He splashes harshly into the dirt, losing his grip on the bladeless hilt in the process. It goes flying off somewhere. Since he's preoccupied trying to salvage what little dignity he has left, he doesn't particularly care about its fate.
"Graceful. Elegant, even. I'd give that a nine out of ten," Aela snarks.
He doesn't deign to respond. Instead he stares at the broken sword blade for another moment – still wedged into the dragon's corpse as if taunting him – before struggling out of his person-shaped mud pit and back to his feet. That's just disappointing.
The ancient Nordic ring-sword had been growing on him too. It was in excellent condition for something so old, and the balance was phenomenal. For something he scavenged at random from a dead draugr – well, deader – it had suited him remarkably well.
Adding insult to injury, one of his arms sinks deeply into the mud as he gets to his feet, leaving the unfortunate limb caked in filth. He shakes away the muck with an exclamation of disgust.
The sound of stifled mirth draws his ire. Clearly amused by his misfortune, Aela walks next to him and slaps his shoulder a little harder than strictly necessary. "It happens to the best of us." Her lips twitch upwards and she begins to say something else, but is interrupted by the appearance of another person. Another several, as a matter of fact.
Irileth approaches them with a contingent of Whiterun's remaining warriors, nursing a set of bandaged ribs and what appears to be a broken arm. A few others remain gathered around other sections of the beast's remains, but the majority now congregate near the head, and by extension Mull and Aela.
The injured Dunmer musters the strength to give him a dirty look. "Mull. I didn't particularly expect someone like yourself to survive this disaster, but here you are. Color me surprised."
"That's what I said. Funny, isn't it?" Aela helpfully adds.
"This isn't the time for your witticism, elf," he grumbles. "Don't you have anyone else to bother right now?" After the ordeal they just endured, he can't find it in himself to be scared of her at the moment.
"Hmph." The Dunmer turns away to examine the dragon. She pays special attention to its clouded eyes and razor-sharp fangs, liberally splattered with the entrails of her men. She doesn't seem remotely fazed by the sight.
Mull scans the other warriors who accompanied the elf. There are eight of them in total. Including the others visible in the surrounding area, there can't be more than fifteen people still standing. The older Cyrod commander, Caius, is nowhere to be seen. Hrongar loiters near one of the dragon's wings as he's attended by a healer. Frankly, he's astonished that any of them are still alive. The dragon nearly killed all of us, unless there are more survivors back at the watchtower.
He recalls what the dragon's attacks did to the tower. Or what's left of it. After that earthquake, I doubt there's much still standing.
He's drawn away from his morbid reflections as a faint orange glow suddenly brightens the field. His first thought is that the sun must be glimmering behind the distant mountains, but that's unlikely. Dawn is still a ways off unless he somehow lost track of a few hours. No, as he looks, he realizes the strange light is emitting from the dragon's corpse.
There isn't a discernible source of the illumination. The light is emanating from all across the creature as its scales and flesh somehow begin to glow, casting bizarre shadows across its motionless form.
As he watches with brows migrating upwards in disbelief, the dragon's armored flesh gradually brightens to a brilliant reddish-orange. Scales slough to the ground by the hundreds, clinking together cacophonously and rapidly forming large piles. It reminds him of someone scraping coins off a table.
The dragon continues to grow brighter, eventually reaching the point of being painful to look at directly. When the light seems like it couldn't possibly become any more brilliant, the creature's remains gradually begin to dissolve, burning up from within. Mull averts his eyes from the white-hot display, blinking away dark spots forming in his vision. Waves of unseasonal warmth radiate from the creature.
The burning corpse slowly and steadily crumbles to ash, and the strange light diminishes with each chunk of flesh that dissolves into the chill breeze. The huge formation of vaguely dragon-shaped cinders steadily shrinks.
Soon, only sheets of fallen scales and clusters of massive pallid bones are left behind. The dragon's flesh and blood have dissolved completely.
If that were all there is to it, then Mull might write off the unexpected occurrence as some bizarre quirk of a dragon's death and carry on with his life. It's a mythic creature – strange things like this should be expected.
Naturally, that isn't all there is to it.
From nowhere and everywhere at once, a fearsome sound screeches into being, reminiscent of a howling mountain gale in the heart of winter. Something rises from the dragon's fleshless remains and coalesces into a swirling cloud of wind or smoke hanging in the air, insubstantial and luminous. Ethereal tendrils flood through the night in a myriad of ghostly hues, those of flame and ice and blood. It's difficult to describe, and regardless, Mull doesn't have long to examine the singularity.
Before he knows what's happening, the eddying mass surges towards him with blinding speed. He doesn't have anywhere near enough time to react before the… whatever it is… slams into his chest.
He expects to be bodily thrown backwards by the impact, and so is startled to find that this phenomenon has no physical presence at all. It isn't wind in that regard. Instead, a tingling heat suffuses his body like spiced mead rolling down his throat and settling into his stomach, an electric sensation that makes his fingers twitch of their own accord.
The last of the swirling colors flow into him and vanish without a trace. The night finally falls still as the mysterious light fades away, leaving them once more shrouded in darkness. Irileth, Aela, and the rest of the remaining warriors gape at him in open astonishment.
"Uh… what was that?"
He staggers as an invisible weight suddenly descends onto his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. The breath is knocked out of his lungs. The world blurs around him.
.
.
Sensation. Vision. Taste. Smell.
He is soaring above a sea of clouds on wings of dull green, the airs of heaven easily giving way to his shapely form. Warm updrafts wash pleasantly over his scales.
He rumbles with satisfaction, contented in the knowledge that his is an eternal and undying existence, everlastingly revered by the mortals below. They bow as they are overcome with fear and awe, as is only right.
To rule. To command. To dominate. To exert the Will within oneself upon the world. These are the things he desires far beyond all else, the most fundamental tenets of the dov.
He inhales the bitter scent of fear. He revels in the piercing screams of the wretched and dying. He takes pleasure in the thrilling sight of those mortals who were once so far beneath his notice or care now being mercilessly slaughtered by his kindred, the inevitable punishment for they who have chosen to rise against their righteous overlords.
This is the world as he knows it, and it is good.
But then, everything changes. By some inexplicable quirk of the tides of fate, his honored thuri is defeated at the hands of those selfsame mortals and subsequently vanishes from the face of Nirn. The mortals, once weak and submissive, now throw off their shackles and turn their vengeance against those who have governed them since time immemorial. Many of his kindred are slain by their fury.
With little other choice, he retreats into the mountainous wastes and resigns himself to years upon never-ending years of utter solitude. Those years grow to centuries and centuries to millennia, and he eventually dwindles away into little more than a ghost of the past haunting desolate highlands. But as all things must, his ignominious exile invariably draws to a close, superseded by the immense joy of discovering that his thuri somehow now walks the skies once more.
He hunts for the Dovahkiin, that pathetic mortal who would dare to oppose the designs of his great master, and feels the call of his blood.
There is one final battle, a whirling storm of fire and death beneath the twin moons.
He dives against the steel and magic of the little joorre, laughing scornfully at the entertainment provided by their pitiful deaths.
Even when injured and grounded, he refuses to debase himself by unleashing his full might. To do so for the sake of slaying these pathetic mortals would be the height of dishonor.
However, he grows increasingly desperate as they prove far more dangerous than he had initially anticipated. These pitiful creatures somehow surpass the inborn limitations of their flesh and succeed in harming him, even as they once did during their wars of the distant past.
He feels it. He feels what it's like to… to die.
He feels fear when he realizes that he is defeated, and that his soul is now forfeit.
He feels a terror that permeates his entire being just before the end.
"Dovahkiin? Nooooooooooo!"
A pinprick of light is followed by the cold embrace of the infinite Void. Anathema.
.
.
His eyes snap open and he gasps, frantically gulping mouthfuls of air to alleviate his starving lungs. His hands fly to the side of his head, ripping off his spangenhelm and desperately searching for the mortal wound he's certain must be there. His fingers brush across his scalp, but he finds nothing. Only sweaty locks of hair and unbroken skin.
He finds himself still at the site of the battle, on his knees before the remains of that dead dragon, wondering if what he just saw and felt was merely a dream. But something has changed. Something significant. He can feel it in his bones.
He's… fuller somehow, like a previously unknown craving has been satisfied. Gratified, like he has finally attained a great goal which he'd striven to reach for so long.
He feels intoxicated, burning up from the inside with an exhilaration unlike anything he's ever known.
He feels… sick.
The world abruptly swims as awful nausea overtakes all of his previous sensations. He hunches over and vomits violently. Bile splashes into the dirt, releasing a revolting stench. Now disoriented, he slowly settles into a low crouch, spits several times in a vain effort to remove the disgusting acidic aftertaste from his mouth, and forces himself to take deep steadying breaths.
Just when he thinks that he's recovered, as if everything else weren't enough, the memory of that strange vision slams into him with the severity of a landslide. "What-"
He gasps as he descends into a coughing fit. What in Talos' name even was that? I just…
His recollection of that vision – if that's what is truly was – is garbled and disjointed. He can only visualize a few bits and pieces, enough to know that the experience was bizarre in the extreme. Soaring above a sea of clouds… and… and I died. Didn't I die?
He puts a hand to his forehead and grimaces as blinding pain assails him. Whatever it was that he saw just then…
Pushing aside the discomfort, he shakily stands and looks around, studying the aftermath of the dragon's inexplicable immolation. Enigmatic words are humming through his mind, convoluted sentences strung together haphazardly as he observes the scene around him. Grass. Stones. Distant mountains. Brilliant stars. Vivid moons. Corpses. Fire. Blood.
As he looks, new names for all of these things spring into being. Veydo. Golz. Strunmah. Kopraan. Yol. Sos. They jump out at him in the same way as the words on the black wall in Bleak Falls Barrow.
Everything feels new, even such mundane things as colors and shapes. It's a truly incomprehensible experience, like he's seeing some previously invisible layer of the world for the very first time. His headache worsens and he moans in irritation. Another one? Really? Godsdamn it.
However, more pressing than anything else is the group of dumbfounded individuals currently encircling him. Irileth schools her expression with practiced ease, but many of the others begin shouting animatedly, trying to make sense of what they've seen.
"You absorbed its power!" one man exclaims.
"Surely you are Dragonborn!" another cries.
"If you are, then you must have the blessing of the Voice!"
"That's right! My grandfather told stories of the Dragonborn, those born with the dragon blood in 'em like old Tiber Septim himself."
"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."
"But the old tales tell of Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power. He must be one!"
"Go on, try it! Shout!"
Mull presses the back of his hand to his forehand and squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed by their uproar.
"All of you, cease this ridiculousness at once! Get ahold of yourselves!"
Irileth stomps to the front of the congregation and sweeps her menacing glare across their disordered ranks. Most of the men and women fall silent before the Dunmer housecarl finishes speaking. The few that do not are swiftly chastised by their browbeaten peers.
Once the shattered field has fallen mercifully silent, Mull opens his eyes and rubs his sore cranium. I never thought I would have reason to say this, but Irileth, thank you. All that noise was killing me.
Only when she's sure that everyone's attention is on her does Irileth continue. "Keep quiet! I will not tolerate any more of this Nord nonsense. Are you nursemaids, to be flapping your gums about matters of which you know nothing?!"
Heads droop in shame.
"This is a dead dragon." She points her sword at the gargantuan mound of scales and bones. "That much is obvious. Whatever else just happened, I don't know and I don't particularly care."
"You wouldn't understand, housecarl," a man mutters just loud enough to carry through the smoky air. "You ain't a Nord."
Irileth very deliberately turns toward the speaker, who Mull notes to be wearing plain armor without a Whiterun tabard. A mercenary or lordless retainer, most likely. He can't see the housecarl's face, but whatever is there causes the offending man to shiver. "Would you like to repeat that?" she asks softly.
The man hurriedly shakes his head.
"I thought not." She turns back to the general assembly. "I would advise you all to trust in the strength of your arms over tales and legends. They will serve you better."
The Dunmer continues her tirade, but to Mull her words grow faint. His attention is drawn inwards as he feels something gradually welling up inside of him. That fullness from before, that sensation of thrumming power, that intoxicating fire, inexorably returns to the surface. He's lucid enough to recognize that these feelings are alien to him. He's injured, exhausted, ill, and in pain, but all of those things fade into obscurity before the overpowering weight of these unfamiliar sentiments.
His head continues to throb. He places his hands on his knees and stares at the crimson-stained ground, trying and failing to continue regulating his breathing. Beads of salty sweat sting at his lips and moisten his beard. Everything around him spins uncontrollably. What's happening to me?!
A whisper tickles his ear. He jerks away in surprise and raises his head to search for the speaker, but finds nobody there.
Another whisper. He spins to face the other direction, but still nothing.
Another. This one is directionless, as if somehow being spoken directly into his head. It's too indistinct to understand.
Another. Another. Clearer this time, but still not enough.
Another. Another. His gaze returns to the muddy ground as he focuses solely on the voice.
Another. Another. Another. Words begin to form. Soon, he can painstakingly understand what is being said.
'…This defeat…'
'…Bahlaan hokoron…'
'…Devourer of souls…'
'…You bring honor…'
This voice isn't the same as the other voices he'd heard previously in Bleak Falls Barrow and while fighting the dragon. That's a hell of a thing to say. Should I be giving them names?
This one is distinct, though he isn't sure what precisely sets it apart from the rest. It has a… richness, a substantialness, that the others lacked. It's also quite clearly singular, an individual instead of a chorus.
"Who… are you?" he mumbles.
The whispering stops. For a moment, he worries that he shouldn't have said anything. Damn it! I need to know what's happening! Who are you?!
Finally, after just long enough to make the silence unbearable, the voice answers.
'Dovahkiin. Sahrot Hokoron. My greetings to you, as is proper for one of our shared lineage. Lok Thu'um.'
W-what?
'Gaar hin suleyk. I see that the call to power burns brightly within you. It clamors to be freed. You must show these mortal children before you the power, the Unrelenting Force, for which they clamor. For you, Qahnaarin, are greater than they.'
Though faint, the voice is also undeniably intimidating. It's guttural, formidable, thrumming with an ancient depth that lends its words an undertone of primal wisdom. Mull finds himself drawn to the words. They resound throughout his body, and just as with the battle-song before, he cannot hope to refuse them.
He unconsciously readies himself, grounding his stance and wrestling his ragged breathing into submission. He recalls everything he saw that day at Helgen, within the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow, and this very night. He remembers the dragon-words on that black wall looming above the draugr-lord's abode, and the one word in particular that stood out to him more than all the others.
Fus. Force.
The voice returns, expounding upon his innate desire to understand this indefinable fascination. 'You push against the world. The world pushes against you. It is an eternal cycle that can only be broken by the actions you choose to take. You must push harder than the world pushes back.'
He inhales at some invisible prompting, gathering together the pain, rage, perplexity, and elation of tonight's events. His lungs fill to bursting. When he can't stand it any longer, he turns his face to the star-strewn sky.
"FUS!"
The word rips free from his cracked lips with a spray of blood. Every jumbled emotion, everything that lies within him, is released in a surge of pure unadulterated Force. A wave of azure energy pushes through the smoke and buffets the surrounding warriors with a wind generated by displaced air. After several yards it dissipates into ephemeral nothingness, leaving behind a swirling cloud of ash and a preternaturally strong breeze. The warriors' bickering, having continued for the duration of his mental entrapment, is immediately silenced.
Mull lurches as dark spots dance across his vision. He was thoroughly exhausted before, but now he can barely stand. That one action, whatever it was, took everything he had left. His last vestiges of strength have been expended.
His throat burns unbearably, to the point that even the act of inhaling and exhaling is excruciating. But frigid cold creeps into his chest, sharply contrasting with the heat. What… in Shor's name…?
By a force of will he can hardly believe himself, he overcomes the shaking of his knees to turn to his onlookers once again.
Unknown to him, his face is masked by rivulets of blood and steam rises from his mouth with each tender exhalation. His gaze smolders with an unearthly light. Every inch of his body is coated in a dried layer of black dragon blood. In that moment, he hardly appears human at all.
His audience can scarcely believe their eyes. "You really are… Dragonborn."
As one, every single Nord in attendance kneels before him with their heads bowed reverently. "Dragonborn," they murmur. That word is steeped in humility and awe.
Aela's voice specifically carries to his ears, although he isn't able to pick her out among the group of hazy silhouettes enveloped by agitated smoke. The non-Nords of the assembly look around in utter confusion.
The stunned silence that follows is eventually broken by an increasingly exasperated Irileth. "Get up, you idiots," she hisses to her men.
She stalks among their uneven ranks and slaps their heads and shoulders until they rise. They're much less eager to accommodate her wishes this time around, but they all eventually comply. When discipline has been adequately restored, the housecarl gives Mull a crimson-eyed glare that, even given everything that has happened, still makes him a little uneasy.
"I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I do believe you have some explaining to do."
She glances at the devastation surrounding them and her countenance grows sorrowful, an expression he's never seen from her. A miasma of death and charred flesh hangs heavily around them.
"The time for this foolishness has passed. We should get back to Whiterun immediately. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here."