[A/N]: Happy Easter, everyone! Strap yourselves in and start up the brass and the manly Nordic chanting, because it's time for a slice of good old Dragonborn action...

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

~...BUT SOMETIMES THE RIGHT ACTION IS A HEADBUTT ~

"Dovahkiin." Odahviing's deep rumble roused Solen back into wakefulness. "Fort Sungard draws near."

Solen's cheek ached where it'd chafed against the Dragon's steel-hard scales. Gingerly he eased himself back into a sitting position, grimacing and yawning. Ugh. Worse than napping in a folded mainsail. At least in those, one was cocooned like in a hammock, with little to no fear of falling three hundred feet to the ground if you rolled a little too far to the left. Not so on a Dragon's back, where he'd been wholly at the mercy of Odahviing flying level, and where there was very little to grip beyond his swirling crest of horns.

"I don't know how you lot nap on the wing," Solen groused, painstakingly settling himself back into a sitting position on the Dragon's long neck.

"We do not, Dovahkiin. One who flies with eyes shut invites ambush from other dov."

"Where'd you say we were getting near?"

"Fort Sungard."

"Gods. Back to the Reach, I guess." To the outskirts of it, anyway. Fort Sungard watched the major road that led from Whiterun Hold to Markarth, perched upon its own rocky shelf. Knuckling his eyes, Solen peered between Odahviing's horns to the distant speck that was probably the Fort on the horizon. "Wish I had a Dragon's eyes sometimes. Sep's skin, how can you even tell that's a Fort?"

Odahviing rumbled with his low, sinister laugh. "They would be wasted on your wingless form, Dovahkiin."

"What, Forts?"

The Dragon flexed his neck, and Solen slid a little. Adrenalin shot through him, and he threw himself against the horns as his stomach swooped. "Gah! Don't do that!"

"Are you fully awake, Dovahkiin?"

"I am now!" Solen grumbled to himself and checked Eldródr was still snug in its scabbard. "Fourth time ever in the air, pitiless Cloak-munching allies..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

They flew closer. It was a very pleasant summer's day, with only a few drifts of cloud tugging at Odahviing's marbled wings. The warm, clear sun felt good on both their backs. Solen gripped the Dragon's horns tightly and chanced a glance below; the dark, verdant stretches of Falkreath Hold yawned beneath them, wreathed as ever in a fine, cool mist, and carved through with ridges of dry stone. To the north, over Odahviing's right wing, lay the golden plains of Whiterun Hold, though the great hill of Whiterun had long been left behind on the horizon. Solen felt a pang of longing, but turned his eyes away to the west, where warm golden grass met the grey-brown stretches of the mountainous Reach. Fort Sungard was becoming distinctive now, perched proudly on its shelf.

As were the blasts of fire licking the walls, and the dark shape circling above.

Odahviing hissed with anticipation. "Pahlok zeymah. Hi fen krosis daar sul."

"Whatever that meant, me too." Solen reached automatically for his greatsword, then realized, "Odahviing, we've never fought a Dragon together before, have we?"

"Nid, Dovahkiin. No, we have not, and certainly not like this."

Solen checked again how high up they were. Quite high. "You want to give it a go?"

Odahviing rumbled. "Can you hold on?"

"Can't be much different than fighting on horseback, can it? Just twist and turn at the right moment. It'll be like a dance." Solen made sure every inch of his gear was firmly strapped onto his body. "Also, to tell you the truth, old friend; I've always wanted to try this."

Odahviing laughed. Anything related to battle put him in high good humour. "Then, Dovahkiin, mu bo olgein! We fly together!" His huge wings boomed and he put on a terrific burst of speed. "Hold fast, mal kendov. WULD NAH KEST!"

Swift as an arrow in flight, the Dragon shot forward in a terrific surge of speed. Solen had to throw himself flat against his neck to avoid being torn clean off, but with the battlefire burning bright in him he only laughed in exhilaration. Fort Sungard had leapt considerably closer, enough to see the flames licking up the solitary tower and the Imperial gonfalons sprawled against the stone walls. Solen could even hear the great brass horn summoning Odahviing to them. Odahviing answered with a roar that hummed in every scale on his body – a salute to the Legion he flew for, and a challenge to the marauder attacking.

It was another enormous specimen, an Elder Dragon, distinctive for their gold and bronze scales, their creamy-white wings, and their formidable natures. The sunlight dazzled its aureate hide as it flew effortless laps around Sungard's walls and towers, baiting the defending Imperials into one failed volley after another. The Elder turned at Odahviing's challenge, however, and snarling it abandoned the torment of its human prey to engage him instead. The two Dragons, Red and Elder, thundered towards one another.

The Elder's sharp yellow eyes could hardly fail to miss the figure perched on Odahviing's neck, nor fail to recognize him. The Elder hissed with shock and indignation. "Dovahkiin!"

"Morning!" Solen bellowed back.

Odahviing struck first – his Thu'um of flame whistled from his jaws in a fireball the size of a Jarl's longhouse. The Elder pulled in his wings and dived neatly aside. Odahviing pivoted hard on his wing, and Solen gripped his horns tightly as the Dragon slid vertically in a tight spiral, pursuing the Elder downward.

Then the Elder fanned his wings and levelled out. Odahviing did the same, so quickly and deftly that both remained at eye-level with one another. Solen had watched two skyborne Dragons battle before, and he knew that whoever had the upper wing had the greater advantage. On the wing, Dragons could not Shout upward. For a moment they hovered across from one another, wings creaking as they pumped fiercely to keep themselves aloft.

Solen dared to stand upright on Odahviing's neck. "You sure this is what you want?" he shouted at the Elder. "It's not too late for you to retreat."

The Elder bared its fangs. "I do not want your mercy, Dovahkiin. I tire of minding my teeth on mortal necks. You have denied the dov their rightful dominion too long, insipid joor!"

Mortal. Solen knew that word by heart, too. "That's it, then?" he said, throwing up his hands. "Your odds don't look good. You're two against one, the lieutenant of Alduin and the one who killed him."

"Alduin's right wing has grown soft," the Elder sneered.

Odahviing trembled with wrath. "I will shred your wings for that insult, mey nikriin!"

"As for you, Dovahkiin – your Thu'um may be potent, but your body is joor, and you will die like the ones below!" The Elder drew the deep, telltale, preparatory breath that forewarned a Shout. "FO KRAH DIIN!"

Odahviing's first instinct was to turn his tough back-scales against the frigid gale, to spare his softer wings and belly from the lethal chill. Unfortunately, being on his backside, Solen was also turned into it, and in his surprise hardly got his Become Ethereal Shout off in time. But he managed most of it. "FEIM ZII!"

The concentrated blizzard rushed over his numbed, wraithlike form without pain or chill. "Apologies, Dovahkiin," Odahviing rumbled, as the ice storm passed. "I will not forget again."

"See that you don't," Solen muttered, as he popped back into physicality, and set a hand on his crossbow. Eldródr wouldn't be much use up here. "All right, show him what you got, Odahviing!"

"YOL TOOR SHUL!" No fireball, but a great river of fire poured from Odahviing's maw, chasing the Elder as it backwinged and dived again to escape the scorching blast. Odahviing hissed and dived in pursuit.

Dancing – there really was no other way to describe a fight between two Dragons. The Elder gave a remarkable account of itself, twisting and contorting in the most remarkable manoeuvres with a surreal elegance that belied its massive bulk. However, Odahviing was the finest flier among his kind, renowned for both his speed and his endurance on the wing, and it was a reputation he jealously defended. For a long time Solen had no opportunity at all to fight; he simply held on and prayed he wouldn't get shaken off as Odahviing matched his opponent move for move, flipping, spinning, spiralling, diving, climbing, alternating between pursued and pursuer, Thu'um striping the sky in flame and frost and force.

But with all dances, there was a rhythm, and as a few minutes of this sort of thing passed him by, Solen found the pulse of it. Even better, it flung him back into the warm sunny memories of youth. This massive Dragon on whose neck he clung wasn't so different from the Wandertern carving her way through a sea squall, and he'd sailed and fought his way through a fair few of those as an elfling. No, so long as he kept one hand on Odahviing's horns, falling off was no concern. More importantly, he could start to enjoy himself – and choose his moments to fight. This was no horse, who risked bolting or injury if Solen Shouted from its back; this was a dovah, for whom the Voice was a way of life.

"FUS RO DAH!" Solen's Unrelenting Force Shout roared over Odahviing's head and clipped the Elder's tail, and it stumbled in its dance. "Gods, exhilarating, isn't it?" Solen grinned, as he mustered his energy to use the Thu'um again.

Odahviing took battles very seriously – all his attention was honed on his foe, especially with repaying the insult that had been given. A Whirlwind Sprint swept him almost against the Elder's back; the golden Dragon barrel-rolled, clipping Odahviing's jaw with his wing. They disengaged and circled to come at one another again. The Elder was dead in their sights – they were going to collide head-on.

"Odahviing," Solen yelled in what he assumed was somewhere close to the Dragon's ear (honestly, he still wasn't sure if they had ears). "Shout together!" A low growl answering was all the assent he needed. As one, they drew their heaving breaths.

"FUS RO DAH!"

Two cones of force melded into one – the Elder flew straight into it, and it was knocked spinning, wings buckling under the strain. More importantly, it was winded. Odahviing lunged, screeching like a harpy, wings flared and talons bared. The Elder hissed and rolled to meet the outstretched claws with its own. Talons locked with talons, and the two Dragons swung like bola balls, grappling with raw muscle and fangs, each trying to spin the other out of the rhythm of flight. Around and around they went, powerful jaws gnashing at each other's wings.

Solen yelled and swore as his legs came free from Odahviing's neck, the Red Dragon almost inverted – he clung to the long curved horns with both hands as the world swung in disorienting ways beneath him. "Odahviing, I'm not a bloody limpet! Right yourself!"

Odahviing growled with effort and pulled himself into the higher position. Solen slammed back gratefully against his neck scales. But the Elder drew on some hidden reserve and suddenly surged upward – its jaws clamped down on Odahviing's, forcing his head up and his mouth shut. Odahviing screeched in wrath and tossed fiercely, trying to free himself as his pounding wings strained to bear the both of them aloft.

"Hold on!" Solen yelled, and seized his crossbow. There was never a more perfect opportunity to try it out. Wobbling dangerously as Odahviing's thrashes strengthened in manic frustration, Solen slammed off the safety lock, rammed a bolt into the stock, primed it, then stood upright on the Dragon's neck and aimed. He had no clear shot at the Elder's head, but a fine one of the heaving creamy belly-scales. The crossbow cracked, the bolt sank deep, and the Elder abruptly released Odahviing with a screech of pain. The Red Dragon wasted no time in shaking off his deadweight foe, and blasted it with a Fire Shout for good measure.

The Elder spun groundward for several dozen meters before catching itself. Odahviing hissed and dived in pursuit. Solen barely had time to ram another bolt into the crossbow stock before the world flipped vertical.

Odahviing had underestimated his enemy's exhaustion; the Elder Whirlwind Sprinted out of the Red Dragon's charge, and suddenly Odahviing was below and the Elder above, diving for his unprotected back. Well, almost unprotected. Solen twisted around and his Thu'um roared free. "VEN GAAR NOS!"

The full Cyclone Shout manifested into being – a vortex of torrential wind that raced skyward, whipping a suffocating whirlwind of cloud from nowhere. The Elder roared in surprise and then fright as the tornado twisted it in a hairpin, sucking the wind from its wings and leaving it scrambling for balance. Odahviing laughed, low and savage, and flipped himself around, the Elder square in his sights. "IIZ SLEN NUS!"

His Thu'um shot forth like a mage's spell, freezing one of the Elder's wings solid. The Elder bellowed with pain and wildly, desperately, accurately retaliated. "FO KRAH DIIN!"

Odahviing jerked upward, but not quickly enough – both he and Solen were clipped by the Frost Shout, and both flinched at the gnawing cold that leeched like poison into scale and metal. Solen's armour protected him from the worst of the blistering frost, but the chill still gnawed his arm and neck down to the bone and suffused him with fingers of suffocating lethargy. Gods, almost forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end of these things.

Ice cracked and splintered as the Elder freed its wing of its entrapping prison, and swiftly if lopsidedly evened its plummeting descent; the stricken white wing had turned an ugly blue-purple hue, and no longer flexed as fluidly as its counterpart. It and Odahviing circled one another, catching their breaths as they prepared for their next violent engagement. Both Dragons had lost a lot of height during the struggle; they were now almost level with the topmost ramparts of Fort Sungard.

"Hope the fellow's not done with us already," Solen muttered, all bravado as he tried to flex the ugly stiffness out of his arm. "I'm just getting into this."

The Elder looked battered but far from defeated; even from afar Solen saw the wrathful malice aglow in its hard yellow eyes. Odahviing's battlefire burned fierce as ever, but Solen sensed he too was tiring. The next clash would decide which Dragon would be thrown to earth with a ruined wing.

Solen racked his mind for a Thu'um that would help his ally prevail. Marked for Death, potentially – if he could get a good clear shot at the Elder. His Cyclone Shout made him consider the Storm Call, which Solen scrapped immediately; Storm Call was by far his most powerful and destructive Shout, but its lightning didn't differentiate ally from enemy, and a whole Fort of Imperials practically tickled their bellies. Perhaps he and Odahviing could lock their Thu'um and blast the other wing with an Ice Form Shout. There was Dragonrend, of course – the Shout that tormented a Dragon with the oppressive, doom-driven, impossible concept of mortality and stripped from them all power of flight – but considering Solen had crises of similar nature fairly often as an elf among humans, he tried to leave that one as a last resort.

Abruptly Solen remembered the Word of Power he'd so unceremoniously drawn from Dimhollow Crypt. Gaan. He'd almost completely forgotten about it. He still hadn't figured out what it meant, months after he'd found it. "Odahviing," Solen said, "language lesson, real fast. Gaan. What does it mean?"

"Now, Dovahkiin?" Odahviing growled impatiently. His and the Elder's circle was tightening; the clash was coming. "Gaan – it is energy. Vigour of flesh and bone."

"Stamina. I'll go with stamina." It felt right. Solen closed his eyes and tried to recall the sensation he'd felt when drawing the Word of Power into himself. Much of that night in Dimhollow had settled into a vague mist, but that moment remained brilliantly clear in his mind. Gaan. Stamina. Drain... drain?

Solen's eyes popped open. "Odahviing, I'm going to try a Shout that's yet to see the light of day. Keep the golden boy steady in sight for a moment. I don't know the range on this thing."

Odahviing snorted. "Your timing is truly impeccable, Dovahkiin. So be it."

"Hey, I had plenty of reasons to procrastinate learning this earlier. We've drawn enough circles."

The Elder clearly thought the same – suddenly it broke step and whistled upward, trying to attain height, but hindered by it frost-scorched wing. Odahviing snarled and gained the sky above the Elder's head in three decisive wingstrokes, forcing the golden Dragon into a dive.

Solen leaned over Odahviing's shoulder, the new Thu'um tight and itching in his throat; but the Elder was out of range, drawing a spiral under the Red Dragon's tail. Odahviing twisted lithely around, barking another Ice Form Shout that barely tickled the tip of the Elder's bladed tail. Even lamed, their opponent was still quick on the wing, evading if not outflying.

"Come on, come on...! Morwha –!" Solen threw himself flat and Odahviing into a barrel-roll as the Elder charged at them with a Whirlwind Sprint, attempting to ram the breath from them with a headbutt. Odahviing rattled with a hiss and arched his back; Solen saw his chance and straightened his spine, and his Thu'um barked free in the Elder's wake. "GAAN!"

The air flashed with a violet pulse, and a watery knot of energy writhed through the sky and caught the Elder's flank. The Dragon shrieked with surprise and violently convulsed, as if trying to dislodge some unpleasant sensation on its scales. It had to be unpleasant, because now that watery energy was rebounding straight into Solen, like a tether – the numb ache from the Frost Shout fled his body. In seconds he felt utterly rejuvenated, and it didn't stop coming. The Dragon's vitality poured into him, and with it came the most remarkable sensation of second wind. "By Satakal, this is something," Solen laughed, and both Dragons heard the renewed vigour in his voice.

"Bormahu miinne!" the Elder growled, trying ineffectually to shake the repulsive violet blanket from its scales. "What treachery is this, Dovahkiin?!"

"Your Thu'um grows ever mightier, thuri," Odahviing said with respect.

The Elder roared with rage, and its Thu'um lashed like a whip. "FUS RO DAH!"

Odahviing dipped one wing and rolled swiftly from the cone of force. Solen rolled with him. It really was quite exhilarating, now that he knew when to expect them. They Shouted together. "YOL TOOR SHUL!" "FO KRAH DIIN!"

Their Thu'um locked, fire and ice, into a most remarkable conflagration of the juxtaposing elements; the Elder shrieked as they slammed against its maw and underside, sizzling heat and blasting chill scorching through its scales to the thick flesh beneath. It lost height, and kept losing it even when it caught itself. "He hasn't got much left in him now!" Solen shouted, and Odahviing roared gleeful agreement and plunged like a hawk to finish it off.

Even drained of vigour, wounded and fatigued, the Elder remained a formidable foe. It hovered, eyes up, watching Odahviing and Solen descend, and drew the preparatory breath. The Words went unheard beneath the roar of Odahviing's Unrelenting Force, but the Shout was impossible to miss. Instead of slamming a force-stunned Dragon into the rocky slopes of the Reach, Odahviing plunged through the Elder's ghostly form, and had to sharply pull up to avoid crashing himself. Solen, unprepared, found himself folded over Odahviing's crest gasping for breath at the sudden direction change.

Then the Elder descended on them, turning corporeal as two sets of huge black talons stretched for Odahviing's flustered wings. Solen pivoted, and his crossbow punched a bolt into the Dragon's neck. It jerked its head back with a screech, which was enough to take some of the brunt out of the pounce. But the long talons still raked deep gouges through Odahviing's wing, and the Red Dragon roared with pain.

No, you don't. Solen threw his crossbow aside and sprang upright on Odahviing's neck. "FUS RO DAH!" The Elder's lamed wing crumpled backwards beneath the cone of force. Solen swung Eldródr into hand and dashed along the Red Dragon's heaving shoulders. "WULD NAH KEST!" Sped by the Sprint, he flashed from one Dragon to the next. Eldródr thrust deep through the Elder's scales, where neck met torso.

The Elder howled with agony and fell away from Odahviing's back. Solen clung on. He had nothing else to grip but the greatsword's hilt. The faltering Elder's head appeared balefully above him, jaws poised to snap at the mer dangling in its range.

Then Odahviing rammed into his enemy. The Elder screeched and shot its head at its foe's neck. Its fangs scraped harmlessly off the thick plate scales on Odahviing's shoulder. Odahviing's did not; they found the elbow of the Elder's good wing, sank deep, and twisted with sickening power. There was a hideous crunch as the limb was torn in two, leaving the wing forearm swinging by its membrane.

Odahviing finished his enemy off with a final Unrelenting Force Shout, which sent the Elder spinning to earth at a dizzying clip.

Dammit. Solen clung to the flailing, flight-stricken Dragon with all his might as they spun in a mad, disoriented flap groundward. Fort Sungard loomed in his spinning vision. He planted his heels against the Elder's heaving chest, wrenched Eldródr free in a grisly spray, and leapt for his life. "FEIM ZII GRON!"

Both Dragon and elf crashed into the Sungard plateau at great speed. Solen flipped and flopped like a puppet until he lost momentum and rolled to a stop, lying on his back, facing the sky and trying not to imagine what that tumble would've felt like if he hadn't Shouted in time. Well, he didn't have to imagine; the Elder Dragon crashed like a collapsing castle, bounced and crumpled across the stony ground with chaotic energy, ploughing furrows in both stone and soil, and finally slammed to a halt against an unyielding mound of rock. The once-magnificent specimen of a dovah reduced to a broken, crumpled heap.

The Ethereal Shout dispelled a few seconds later. Solen tensed, but no storm of pain greeted him. Aside from a few bruises, he felt quite fine, if a little breathless and raw in the throat. He sat up and faced his foe. Definitely dead. Already the scales were starting to smoulder.

Solen found his way upright, massaged the ache that gripped his cramped legs, and stumbled his way to the Dragon's body. "Morwha's tears, you were a tough mouthful. Toughest I've had in a while." As he drew near, the Dragon ignited. Sheafs of golden scales slithered to the ground as soulfire licked the flesh away, exposing a frame of yellow bone and a pulsating mass of silver, blue and scarlet essence, glittering like a knot of jewels. "Your name, at least," Solen murmured, "give me that to remember you by." Then he planted his swordtip in the ground, emptied his lungs, and inhaled slow and long. The Dragon's soul could not resist the pull of his own, and into him it flowed in countless incandescent currents.

Solen had been asked, dozens of times, what it felt like to devour a Dragon soul. He'd tried, but there were really no words for it. How did one describe imbibing pure energy from a being of Time? It burned like a thousand suns. It sent him beyond the constellations. It filled him with joy and rage. All within a bubble of time that did not quite seem to fit in the Mundus.

Kaalrodaan. The Dragon's name branded itself upon the spirit, in its final act of identity; then everything that Dragon had ever been and would be was stripped away. All memory, all legacy, all that had separated it as an individual, destroyed, as the soul melded seamlessly into his own. Nothing remained of Kaalrodaan but bones, and a name that rested cold and dead on the tongue.

Solen opened his eyes and sighed. "I did warn you," he muttered, and sheathed Eldródr on his back.

Odahviing's shadow swept overhead, stirring the dusty smoke that hung over the Dragon's bones. The Red Dragon circled around, injured wing beating crookedly, and draped himself exhaustedly upon one of Fort Sungard's undamaged towers. Meanwhile a small regiment – actually, quite a large regiment of Imperial soldiers came running down the hill. Solen turned to greet them, hand upraised. "Good noon, gentlemen."

"Dragonborn! Sir!" The Fort Captain, someone Solen didn't recognize or remember, slammed his fist against his breastplate in swift salute. "We didn't know to expect you –"

"That makes two of us," Solen interrupted, wincing as he shook out his leg. Riding on a Dragon's back for any length of time, let alone fighting on one, did no wonders for one's health. "But I hope you don't mind us imposing. Odahviing will need a rest, and frankly so do I."

"Sir, are you –? Just – gods, sir, that was just incredible! In all my years, we've never seen –!"

"No need for all the 'sirs', good Captain, I never made higher than Sergeant." Solen patted the fellow's shoulder good-naturedly and regarded the awe-stricken faces of the crowd of Legionnaires with amusement. No need to ask if he and Odahviing had had an audience. "Now – if you've got questions, I'd be overjoyed to answer them but – first, please, a piping hot bath and three hours to enjoy it, I beg you."

"Yes, sir – of course, sir! You aren't injured, are you? Hungry?"

"Nothing worth seeing a healer over. But hungry? You saw how quick I ate that Dragon's soul, right?" Which had nothing to do with his rumbling stomach, but it was fun to watch the Imperials scramble about in haste, as if he might consider their own a tasty snack. "And if anyone's feeling charitable," Solen added, as he fell in step with the Captain up to the Fort above, "I dropped my crossbow somewhere, er, over there –" He gestured vaguely beyond the cliffs. "– and I'll kiss the man or woman that finds it."

"That won't be necessary, Dragonborn," the Captain said, sounding a bit more like his authoritative self, but he issued a small compliment of scouts to search anyway.

The food was passable. The hot bath was paradise. Solen was hard-pressed not to fall asleep as he soaked and let the steaming water leech out the aches of his bruises and chafes. After the requested three hours there came a rap at the door, forwarding Captain Olfrald's request of the Dragonborn's presence in the war office at his earliest convenience. Solen dried off, re-armoured, checked his chestnut ridge of hair was still in good standing order, then trundled along after the messenger to the Captain's office. He paid proper attention to the devastation the Elder Dragon had done upon the Fort along the way, and got a full brief of it when Olfrald offered him a seat and some strong southern wine. "And food, Dragonborn?" Olfrald prompted. "Did you eat enough?"

"Throw more my way, please," Solen invited. "I'm a hard man to fill."

Food in the form of bread, butter, and cold mutton promptly arrived, and Solen set himself to it all with a ravenous will. "Kyne's breath, but you can put it away," Captain Olfrald exclaimed with amazement.

"Shouting takes more out of you than you think," Solen admitted, around a bulging mouthful. "I'll restrain myself to this much, I promise. How are Fort damages, Captain? It looked pretty gnarled outside."

"The northeast postern and the tower, smouldering rubble," Captain Olfrald grimaced. "Fifty dead. The wretched creature attacked our barracks. Gods know how many more might've been lost if you and the Scourge hadn't shown up."

"How is our dear Scourge?"

"Bolted down two horses and five pigs in short order. Never seen meat disappear so fast down something's gullet, not even yours." Captain Olfrald shuddered. "And to think you were on that beast's backside, fighting another just like it! I don't know how you don't fear those creatures, Dragonborn; I've no shame admitting their like terrify me witless."

"They're worthy things to fear," Solen said, "but to them, so am I. I really do apologize for dropping in on you like this, Captain; I'd requested Odahviing's wings already. We're on our way to General Tullius in Solitude. He is still in Solitude, isn't he?"

"Aye, Solen, he should still be holed in Castle Dour. I'd heard he'd visited Fort Hraggstad to assess damages, though."

"Damages from what? Not vampires?"

"Gods, no, Dragons. You haven't heard? There's been seven settlement attacks alone this month! That one you killed, he's the second this summer that's assaulted Sungard."

"I haven't heard, no." Solen stared troubled at his empty wine goblet and replayed his encounter with Kaalrodaan in his mind, trying to figure out if he'd missed something. "I've been keeping to the wilds these last weeks. No one's tried to spread another false rumour I've died, have they?"

"Not that I've heard, Dragonborn. And you look large as life to me."

"Thanks. But they wouldn't just go nuts and start attacking villages again, not without reason. Has anything changed in the territories? No one's aggravating Dragon lairs? No Thalmor creeping around trying to whip them into frenzy?"

Captain Olfrald, a Great War veteran, curled his lip and spat. "Eight forbid. As far as unusuality to report, well, the only thing I can think of is the plague."

"Plague?"

"Aye, something the deer are getting. My scouts bring back reports of dead ones almost every day, from fawns to bull elk, healthy-looking things, aside bein' dead. But healthy beasts don't just give up the ghost with barely a scratch on 'em. We haven't had fresh venison in weeks. I've got the troops keeping a fair distance and burning the ones they can. I hope Kyne keeps clear air blowin' our way, the last thing we need is to come down with some sort of sickness."

Solen suddenly found himself reliving every day of the last month, conscious of every dwindling snare and failed hunt. "How long has this been going on for, Captain?"

"Well, hard to say for sure, but I'd say at least since mid-spring. We've hardly seen any great herds movin' on the plains this year." Captain Olfrald cautiously refilled Solen's goblet, noticing the uneasy frown affixed to the long, angled face. "Something the matter, Dragonborn? Do you know what's happening?"

Solen stared thoughtfully at the remnants of his meal. "Nothing certain. But you're right, Captain. Healthy animals don't just drop dead." He spun a gnawed mutton bone between his fingers. "But hungry Dragons will attack."

A small army of Legion physicians soon had Odahviing's wing patched up and flight-worthy by the following morning. Rested and fed, he was in a much better mood, and even let Solen back upon his neck without challenge. He was pleased with the battle they'd fought together. A few hours after dawn they were off again, and left Fort Sungard well behind them; sadly, the crossbow remained unrecovered.

Six hours later, Odahviing alighted on the stony grey ramparts of Castle Dour to a cavalcade of heralding trumpets; and ten minutes after that, Solen had made his greetings to and briefed his former General.

It was just like old times. That being, arguments on the move. Tullius was not a man who stayed still for long. "In case you haven't noticed, Solenarren," he barked, as they strode side by side on the ramparts of Castle Dour, "I've got quite enough to do without troubling my superiors in the Imperial City for a favour."

Putting down Ulfric Stormcloak's rebellion and reunifying Skyrim with the Empire had aged Tullius more, not less. He was short and wiry, tough and creased as leather, with hard grey eyes whose glare sharpened axeblades. Most humans his age considered hanging their swords above their hearths and taking up a less life-threatening occupation. Tullius, as Solen had long learned, was not like most humans. He remained one of the most intense, keen-minded and hale warriors in Skyrim; which, being Imperial, made it all the more impressive.

He was also one of the stubbornest men Solen had ever dealt with. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear, General –"

"Maybe I didn't." Tullius faced him. "Do you know what would be a favour, Dragonborn? If you got yourself into the north Haafingar ranges and killed the Dragon that sacked Fort Hraggstad."

"I didn't fly all the way across Skyrim because a Dragon showed up and knocked your walls around a bit."

"That Dragon killed twelve Legionnaires and caused severe damage to three of the Fort's four watchtowers."

"... because a Dragon showed up with a death wish, but it's still not why I'm here."

They spun down the tight stairwell into the Dour halls, loosely decorated with Imperial pennants and guards trying not to pay too much attention to the arguing men striding past them. "Solenarren, if you are not here to do what you do best, then you are wasting my time and yours."

"You know that's not what I –"

"Perhaps you've forgotten in your haste to escape the trappings of the army –"

"This isn't coincidence, Tullius."

"– but I have eighteen thousand troops to govern –"

"Something is killing off –"

"– and a province to reconsolidate with the rest of –"

"Spoons!"

"What?"

"Just checking if you were listening."

Tullius pulled up short. "Damn it, Solen –!"

"Sir, this can't be ignored. Conjecture or legitimate threat, isn't this at least worth investigation?" Solen stepped in front of Tullius and stared him down. "Consideration, even?"

Tullius gave a long, strained sort of sigh that had been perfected in his many long years of military governorship. "Can we at least consider this in the war room, Dragonborn?"

Solen glanced around the draughty corridors of Castle Dour and nodded. "Yeah. Why not?"

The war room was small, with much of it occupied by the large table over which sprawled the biggest map of Skyrim Solen had ever seen, pinned and pierced in half a hundred places by predominantly red flags. "Consider this," Solen said, taking his place on one side of the table, Tullius at the other. "We need this priest in Skyrim, for all our sakes. I did mention the Volkihar vampires have an Elder Scroll, didn't I?"

"I heard you the first time," Tullius sighed, "so bringing a Moth Priest into Skyrim and attracting attention is an even worse alternative."

"But you do agree there's a vampire menace," Solen pressed. "Even though ten minutes ago you told me that was just inflated rumour, and the prospect of a second Dragon Crisis was a far bigger concern."

"That was before you assured me with the utmost confidence that they are in possession of a very powerful Imperial artifact." Tullius ran his hand swiftly through his thinning mop of hair. "But frankly, I do find the Dragon's sudden aggression a far more immediate concern. Hraggstad, Sungard, Greymoor – all attacked within the last three weeks. Odahviing can't be everywhere at once."

"And nor can I. Sir, I'm positive they're linked. The Volkihar know I'm working with the Dawnguard. Suddenly something is killing off the Dragons' primary source of prey and it's driving them to raid – almost as if someone's trying to get me running around Skyrim hunting them again. Who else benefits but them?"

Tullius plucked the flag back from Fort Dawnguard and replaced it in the Pale. "The Aldmeri Dominion."

"Honestly, sir? Not even them." Solen threw up a hand. "I thought about that on the flight over, but it makes no sense. First of all, the Thalmor have no connection with the Dragons. They understand them about as well as they tolerate humans existing on the continent. Secondly, they have no sway over the Dragons. That's my role as their thuri. They'd have to kill me to get a Dragon's attention, and it didn't work out so well for them the last time they tried."

Solen knew most of it went over Tullius's head. The general left most of his dealings with Nordic legend to his Skyrim born-and-bred Legate, Rikke. "What about these vampires? If you're certain they're aggravating the Dragons into frenzy, maybe they're both in on it."

Solen paused. The unpleasant idea of an alliance between the Dominion and the Volkihar hadn't occurred to him. "Maybe," he admitted eventually. "Maybe. But I still doubt it. They enjoy elf blood as much as the next bloodcursed monstrosity. And if the vamps are really making plans to extinguish the sun, the Aldmeri Dominion's going to suffer right alongside the rest of us. They may pretend not to be, but they are still mortal."

Tullius scowled down at the map.

"You do believe me, don't you?" Solen leaned over the table, intensity aglow in his mismatched eyes. "About the prophecy?"

"Prophecy!" Tullius snarled in exasperation, and swung around his war table. "Always with these prophecies! Just what is it with prophecy and you Nords?"

Solen shrugged. "Really couldn't say. And I know it's an easy detail to forget, sir, but I'm not a Nord."

"Tell me what isn't Nordic about you." Tullius repositioned himself over the map. "Right down to your reckless confidence."

"Comes with being able to flatten hundred-year-old trees if I sneeze wrong. General, sir, the Day of Black Sun sounds like the start of a bad poem, I know – but if it's real, and if it happens..." Solen threw up a hand and stepped back. "Not to boast, but I did save the world, and I'd like it to stay saved for a few years. At least so Rayya and I can enjoy it a little. Believe me on that."

Tullius sighed tiredly. "Solenarren, you are many things, but I know you're not a liar. Even if your source is dubious."

"The Forsworn are many things, but I wouldn't say they're liars either, sir. They've kept to their treaty; the roads of the Reach have never been safer. And wouldn't it be better to be on the safer side than not?"

Tullius toyed with a red flag pin. "Being on the 'safe' side potentially means a massive drain on military resources, and my men are kept busy enough with maintaining order against Dragons."

"Then keep them busy with the Dragons," Solen persisted, sensing the General's defences crumbling. "It's not like I'm the only man in Skyrim that can kill them. Send for a Moth Priest and let us retake the upper hand in this underhand game of theirs. Don't make me bite the vampires' bait, General."

Tullius scowled down at the corner of the map above the Haafingar territory, where Solen had outlined the approximate location of the Volkihar stronghold; worryingly close to the province capital. "You're absolutely certain this... Volkihar... is masterminding the Dragon regression? I still think this sort of widespread... culling is more aligned with the elves' motives."

"I wouldn't put it past them, sir, but we're talking about vampire lords. We know far more about the Dominion than we do about them. Besides, the White-Gold Concordat is holding up, isn't it?"

Tullius scoffed. "For now. They still haven't forgiven us for dismantling the Thalmor Embassy in Skyrim."

"They shouldn't have had written evidence of interfering with the Civil War just lying around for me to take, then."

"Hmph. Right. 'Lying around'." Tullius' steely eyes flicked over his map, then up to meet Solen's green and gold. "Look, I'll admit these vampires are getting out of hand. There's been more disappearances reported to me this month than there's been during the whole war with Stormcloak. And The Ballad of the Bat and Dragon is all the bards are singing."

"Oh, have you heard it, sir?"

"Too many times," Tullius snapped, and rammed his fist on the table. "You can promise me in confidence, Dragonborn, that a Moth Priest will further your and the Dawnguard's fight against them?"

Solen nodded emphatically. "The vampires have an Elder Scroll. So do we. Or we will, very soon."

"What d'you mean, very soon?"

"Well, I could hardly lug an Elder Scroll around with me after I finished using it on Alduin, could I? Rayya's fetching it from Winterhold in the company of the Companions."

General Tullius arched his brow, and he looked as if he was about to ask several questions; then he sighed in resignation and said, "Frankly, Dragonborn, I don't even want to know. Fine. You'll have your favour. I'll write to the Imperial consul and request a Moth Priest be sent to... where was it?"

"Fort Dawnguard, sir." Solen plucked the flag pin from Tullius's deliberating hand and triumphantly stamped it in the Rift corner of the war map. "Right by the Morrowind road. They'll take two steps into Skyrim and be welcomed by the Dawnguard. The Volkihar won't even know they're there."

Tullius didn't attempt to reclaim his flag pin, just frowned down thoughtfully at it. "And for what it's worth, General," Solen added, recalling the still-relatively-barely-furnished state of the Fort, "whatever resources you'd invest in the Order... they'd go a long way keeping this country safe at night."

Tullius folded his arms and shot Solen a hawkish look. "That is a conversation for another day, Dragonborn. I'll do this favour because you delivered on both the War effort and the peace effort. I should insist you get back to doing your heroic duty – you're clearly still as capable as you were in the Dragon Crisis – but instead I'll trust you know what you're doing with this vampire menace. You'd better not disappoint me."

Solen flashed his most winning smile. "Just like I told you during the War effort, General, you won't regret it."