7—Sparrow
Snow crunched underfoot as Leara made the ascent.
A light snowfall dusted her path, drifting from a lace blanket across the sky. She couldn't see the world below for the cloud banks brushing against the highest peaks of the Throat of the World. Overhead and higher than the mountaintop, clouds of ice crept back after her Shout displaced them to the winds. Leara kept a watchful eye on the weather. Far above the world, cradled by the snow and sky, she made her way back to the old dragon and the next step in her destiny.
On her back, the golden casement of the Elder Scroll pulled at her shoulders, heavy and as light as air all at once. It hadn't left her side since she emerged from Blackreach, blinking at the too-bright rays of Magnus reaching down to brush her face. At the touch of sunlight, the magic in her veins relaxed, relieved of a tension she hadn't realized was holding her since the descent into Alftand. Here, traversing the rim of the sky, she felt that same warm touch from the sun, its rays soothing her soul. Alone, under Magnus' light, the weight of the Elder Scroll felt bearable.
It wasn't always so.
Late at night, she would sleep with the artifact in her arms, back to the fire. Bishop would scoff at how protective she was of the scroll, but she brushed him off. He didn't understand how important it was and what she needed to do. Sometimes, listening to him talk, she thought Bishop didn't understand what it meant for her to be Dragonborn. She couldn't blame him, though. She wondered if anyone aside from the Blades and the Greybeards truly understood the significance of the Dragonborn. Remembering the awe of the guards at Whiterun when she'd slain Mirmulnir, Leara knew she was right. The last of the Septims died so long ago . . . the Dragonborn was truly a figure of legend. All anyone knew about them were stories, and if Bishop, who renounced the Divines, saw the power of the Dragonborn as nothing more than a fairytale, even after spending weeks with the Last Dragonborn, how could Leara ever hope to change his mind? What if defeating Alduin was the only way to do so?
As she cleared the gathering clouds from the path, her mind turned to what was about to happen. To this next step. Paarthurnax told her that to learn Dragonrend, she needed to see through time, through the Time Wound where Alduin was originally defeated, and for that, she would need the Elder Scroll. Now she had it. Now she was about to approach the Time Wound. What then? What did she do after she learned Dragonrend?
What did she do if she didn't learn it?
Nerves twisted in her stomach as she rounded the final corner. Leara arrived at the summit.
Atop the crumbling Word Wall perched Paarthurnax. At the crunch of her boots in the snow, the old white dragon looked up. He seemed deep in thought before, but now his dark eyes were alight with an anticipation Leara felt eating at her insides. With a rumbling hum, Paarthurnax fluttered his wings as Leara made her way to his perch. To her surprise, the old dragon appeared almost excited that she was there. Despite herself, Leara offered up a smile, full and nervous all at once.
"Hello, Paarthurnax," Leara said.
Craning his neck down, Paarthurnax brought his horned head almost level with Leara's. His warm breath rolled over her, comforting. "Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Ven lovaas do hi. The wind spoke of your coming."
"I think that was my Clear Skies Shout you heard."
Smoke curled from Paarthurnax's nostrils, a snort rumbling from his throat. The levity in his eyes faded to resignation as his attention turned to the Elder Scroll peaking from behind Leara's shoulder.
"You have it. The Kel, the Elder Scroll. Tiid kreh . . . qalos. Time shudders at its touch." He closed his eyes, his head bowed. "There is no question. You are doom-driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal."
The Elder Scroll pulled at her back, crushing her spine as if she carried the weight of the world on her back. And she did. Leara's stomach writhed, though whether it was from anticipation or nerves, she wasn't sure.
Paarthurnax watched her, knowing. "Go then," he said. "Fulfill your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound. Do not delay. Alduin will be coming. He cannot miss the signs."
Leara stopped, her hands frozen with the Elder Scroll halfway off her back. "Alduin is coming?"
Raising his eyes to the sky, Paarthurnax faced the late morning sun. "Dez los ahst haal. He will come."
Alduin was coming. A strange calm settled over Leara as she turned the realization over in her mind. Of course, he was coming. This was the natural progression of her destiny. Alduin would want to head her off before she, the Dragonborn, knew the secret to his defeat. Her grip hardened on the casement. The World-Eater would be too late. She would learn Dragonrend.
She must.
The Time Wound ahead, the watchful gaze of Paarthurnax behind, Leara slipped the Elder Scroll from its casement. Her steps were steady and her nerves were quiet, but the doom drum was pounding in her chest with the force of a storm. Her hands did not shake as she stepped into the wavering slip of space where the air crumpled like translucent foil. There was no sound as she unrolled the parchment from the scroll.
Runes spun and curled around the parchment. Leara blinked, but the runes didn't fade. They were in her head. Their light was in her mind, bleeding across her senses. Leara blinked again. The runes were gone, but in their wake, the world was changed. She saw it as if through a dim mirror. Noise came to her muffled as if from a distance.
Red fire bled across the clouds, curling with smoke. Shouting rang in the distance, the battle cries of dragons and men filling the air. Leara blinked again, the glow of the runes creeping across her vision. A man bathed in red light stood before a towering dragon, a battle-axe hefted before him. On the howling wind, she almost heard the scathing words of the dragon, hissing about Alduin and the death that the World-Eater would soon rain down on rebellious man. She blinked, and then a woman was there, her war cry high in the air as she ran to face the dragon head-on.
"For Skyrim!"
"Know that it was Gormlaith Lindsdatter who sent you down to death!"
The world swirled with runes and fire. The dragon was dead. The man stood beside Gormlaith as she crowed over her victory. "Have you no thought beyond the blood on your blade?"
"What else is there?"
The man gripped her arm. Smoke choked the horizon. "The battle below grows ill. If Alduin does not answer our challenge, I fear all will be lost."
Laughter vibrated through the air. "You always worry so, brother! Alduin will come and victory will be ours!"
An old man appeared from the smoke, passing like shadow through the glare at the edge of her sight. At his approach, Gormlaith and her brother turned. "Felldir! Why does Alduin hang back? We've staked everything on this plan of yours."
Felldir sighed, "He will come. He cannot ignore our defiance."
Thunder shook the skies, the fire in the clouds blazing brighter. The three stood there, Paarthurnax's old friends, in the moments before their moment of triumph. She could taste the song of destiny screaming in the wind.
"None have yet stood against Alduin himself . . ."
"They did not have Dragonrend." Gormlaith twirled her sword, a bleeding swath against the rusty snow.
"You do not understand." Felldir's voice was urgent. "Alduin cannot be slain like a lesser dragon. He is beyond our strength. Which is why I brought the Elder Scroll."
Then he held up the Elder Scroll, a bright jewel in the dim haze of the world. Hakon was dismayed. "We agreed not to use it!"
Felldir's laugh was dry and brittle, cracking and burnt. "I never agreed, and if you are right, I will not need it."
Thunder rumbled and with it, the smoke hazing the world thickened, pressing down from the sky like a choking wave. The three turned. Leara could not. But she heard the coming just the same. A noise like a hurricane coming out of the east. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked on the hot, dry wind. It was the World-Eater. Alduin was coming.
His shadow passed overhead, black and encompassing the entire world. A trill of terror struck her veins. Familiar terror. It took hold of her when Alduin destroyed Helgen – only Ralof's quick thinking pulled her away to safety – and it reasserted itself when Alduin called her out at Kynesgrove. Leara . . . did not like to think of Kynesgrove: Delphine, hiding in the bushes, telling her to prove herself; Alduin, laughing at her, declaring she could not, would never be Dragonborn. The frozen fear that curled inside her then was a boiling, rolling sea of nerves now as Alduin's shadow dominated her vision. How could she fight him? How could she hope to win?
"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"
Dragonrend was not directed at her, but it slammed into her soul as if she were dead center in the crosshairs. It blazed a trail through her skin, piercing her soul with grasping, groping fingers. The knowledge of the words etched itself into her insides, stinging like poison running through her veins. Mortal. Finite. Temporary.
Dying. Death. Dissolved.
Burning, burning, burning – and then Alduin was before her, parrying words with the three heroes. Alduin's voice was glass, shredding her skin. Her head was swimming, clouded with smoke.
Gormlaith was dead.
Felldir unrolled the Scroll, the runes twisting across the parchment in streams of fire. "Hold, Alduin on the Wing! Sister Hawk, grant us your sacred breath to make this contract heard! Begone, World-Eater! By words with older bones than your own, we break your perch on this age and send you out! You are banished! Alduin, we Shout you out from all our endings unto the last!"
Alduin was screaming, or was Leara? The world was dying, dissolving into ash. Time was dead. Time was alive. The winds were screaming.
Leara was cold.
She blinked, and the world was itself again. She was cold, blissfully cold. Snowflakes fluttered over her, caressing her face, and Leara realized she was on her back in the snow. Her limbs were stiff, but still, she managed to get to her feet, one foot at a time. A glance around found the Elder Scroll off to the side, wound up as if she'd never read it.
But she had. Dragonrend was seared into her soul like a scar.
"Paarthurnax," she gasped.
Darkness gathered overhead as thunder rumbled, beating closer and closer like the approach of an army. But Leara knew the sounds of an army, and this was worse. This was Alduin, and he was coming for her.
The black shadow swept over her, deeper and more horrible than it was in the vision. Her legs were stone, her blood was ice. This was it. Her destiny had come.
Drawing her katana, Leara stood to face it with grace, her jaw set and her eyes bright. The nerves twisting her insides stilled as the world came into hyperfocus. So poised, she looked to the skies.
Alduin swept overhead, his wings a void of night against the daylight. His maw was aglow with unreleased fire as he spoke, his blood-ruby eyes fixed on her from high in the sky. "Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor. My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin!" With a Shout she could not comprehend, Alduin vanished from the blue-white patchwork of daylight and ice clouds. Dark smoke billowed across the sky, bursting and popping here and there with the promise of falling fire. Then he looked at her. "Die now and await your fate in Sovngarde!"
"Like Oblivion I will," Leara muttered, her katana raised across her front as she tracked the World-Eater's flight.
"Lost funt. You are too late, Alduin!" Paarthurnax cried, launching himself from his perch to avoid Alduin's fire. Circling the mountain peak, he stood in stark contrast against Alduin in both size and color. Alduin's void dark form eclipsed the slight sheen of Paarthurnax as the old dragon evaded the snapping jaws of the World-Eater. "Dovahkiin! Use Dragonrend, if you know it!"
Alduin's laughter was the rumbling of an erupting volcano as he chased Paarthurnax across the skies, twisting and somersaulting through the air in an erratic dance Leara could only just follow. Her head was spinning. Her mouth was dry. This was it. She would use Dragonrend and Alduin would land, and she would slay him. Certainly, she could slay him when the three ancient heroes could not because she was Dragonborn when they were not. That was it. This would all be over soon.
"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"
Pain erupted through her soul, bursting under her skin like firecrackers. Dread unlike any she'd felt either under in the Dominion or while on the run or even under Alduin's shadow gripped her soul, choking it so she couldn't breathe. Leara couldn't breathe. Everything was darkening—
Shockwaves shook the ground. Leara tottered forward, her sword arm falling as Alduin's giant form crashed into the snow. Steam rose, stinging Leara's eyes as she peered through the mists at the howling form of the World-Eater. Why was she shaking? She needed to fight him. She needed to slay Alduin once and for all. What was wrong with her?
Forced calm clawed at the terror holding her soul. Her hand tightening around her katana, Leara drew it back, holding the blade over her head as she held her off-hand in front of her, parallel with the katana. Ice magic caressed her things with familiar comfort, pooling in the palm of her glove and chilling the steam around her hand.
Alduin lifted his head, his ruby eyes a scorching blaze burning through the ice in hers. "My teeth to your neck, Dovahkiin!"
Twirling her katana, Leara smirked, "Bite me."
"YOL TOR SHUL!"
Alduin was grounded, but he was no less deadly on the earth than he was in the skies. An inferno billowed from the black dragon's snapping jaws. but Leara dodged, but only just as she ducked into a roll right under his massive neck and out of the fire's path. The Throat of the World was frozen, but under Alduin it was boiling: The snow melted at such an alarming rate that Leara found herself slipping through the slush right under the shadow of one of Alduin's wings and into a snowbank beyond.
With a grunt, Leara got to her feet just as the World-Eater rounded on her, his jaws like a viper's. "You are no match for me, kiir! Hin zii los dii!"
The air around Leara sizzled and popped. Looking up, she flung herself back as a flaming meteor fell from the sky, dissolving the snowbank into a smoking crater. Leara spared it half a glance before facing Alduin – only to find him beating his wings, stirring up a tempest of smoke and steam as he tried to lift himself from the ground. No!
Paarthurnax circled above, high and clear of Alduin as he kept a watchful eye over the fight. "Hurt him while he is grounded!"
"JOOR—" Her soul was on fire. "—ZAH FRUL!"
Alduin's legs buckled and his chest crashed into the ground. His wings fell, and Leara crumpled beneath their weight. Her chest heaved, struggling to breathe under the weight of the black wing and the force of Dragonrend tearing through her soul.
Mirmulnir. Sahloknir. Golzkreinyol. Venstrunbo – none of the dragons she'd slain before were this difficult. But none of the dragons she'd fought before were Alduin, the Firstborn and the Most Powerful. Defeating him would take all her strength. All she was.
A weed of doubt sprung up in her mind. What if it took her? What if she didn't survive this fight? What if Alduin took her out with him?
Leara shivered, and then she realized she had her katana seized in a death grip. The wing pressing her into the ground heaved and Leara rolled to her side, drawing the katana to her. An idea poked at the edges of her mind, half-baked by Alduin's smothering heat. Frost collected in her right hand, fathering around the hilt of her katana, inching its way up the steel blade, creaking and hissing. Leara brought her feet up, coiled like a spring. She stabbed upward.
"DOV AH KIIN! DOR LIZ JOT! You will pay for your defiance!"
Ice and blood shattered around her as Leara burst through a steaming, gaping, bleeding hole in Alduin's wing. She clung to the membrane for dear life, stabbing her katana into it again as Alduin Shouted at her, his rage a storm of flames. Her stomach fell and her head swam as the wing flew up, holding her upside down over the ebony spines along Alduin's back. It was only the iron grip both hands had on her katana and the foothold she had in the first wound that kept her from falling.
Flap! Wind rushed through Leara's ears, harmonized with her screams as the wing rushed back to the ground. Then up again, higher and higher. Leara's boots slipped from where they'd hooked into the first wound and she found herself free-falling.
All the air in her chest was knocked from her lungs as she collided with the surface of Alduin's wing. He was yelling, Shouting at her again but her head was swimming and she couldn't understand what he was saying. Her heart was beating out of her chest. Her fingers were slipping from the hilt of her katana.
Gasping, Leara's sword hand froze, freezing to the hilt and forming an icy seal. One moment. She caught her breath. The next she was falling, the blade cutting a bloody swatch down Alduin's wing. She landed on his back just as he beat his wings, screaming and cursing as he ascended into the air.
Someone was Shouting, "Dovahkiin!" but she did not know if it was Paarthurnax or Alduin. Ice still bound her hand to the hilt of her katana, notched in the bone of Alduin's wing, but her feet were slipping.
She was going to fall.
Alduin was airborne. Her right arm was numb from the force of holding on to her sword as the World-Eater pumped his damaged wing. Fire consumed her joints. A scream tore through her throat as her feet scrambled at Alduin's scales, unable to find purchase.
"Ruth hi, Dovahkiin! I will crush you like vermin!" bellowed Alduin.
Gritting her teeth, Leara brought one leg up, bracing her foot against the joint of Alduin's wing. The vibrations jarred her ankle and Leara almost lost hold of her precarious position high above the Throat of the World. In her periphery she saw Paarthurnax swop below, calling to her, but Leara could not understand him for the blood pounding in her ears. She was not going to fall. She would not.
Leara pushed up from the foot on Alduin's beating wing and threw herself forward. Her left arm wrapped around one of his spikes just as her katana slid free of the ruined wing. Alduin was bellowing at her again, but Leara couldn't understand that, either. Panting, she dragged herself to her feet, her arms wrapped around the spikes rising along Alduin's spine. Feet planted on the ridges of the dragon's back, Leara's chest relaxed, her heartbeat evening. Carefully, she moved between the ebony bones toward the base of Alduin's neck.
The blood in her ears was cool, calming like the morning snowfall. She stood at the base of Alduin's neck, her katana pointed down.
"He is too strong on the wing! Use Dragonrend!" Paarthurnax's voice came on the wind.
Dragonrend. Dragonrend scored through her soul. But Alduin, Alduin would devour her if she didn't fell him soon.
"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"
"RUTH HI, DOV AH KIIN!"
Leara plunged her katana down between the black scales, collapsing against her blade as Alduin barreled toward the ground, shrieking in pain and fury as he tried to fight against the throws of Dragonrend. Oh Akatosh, if it burned her soul, then what was it doing to Alduin? What—
Air rushed against her, cold and biting. There was nothing around her, nothing under her. A scream tore from Leara's throat as she fell, down, down, down . . .
Jaws caught her, jarring her within the shell of her armor. Her limbs were frozen, her blood was ice and the world was spinning. Her head pounding, Leara's stomach rolled as she blinked furiously against the darkening sky. Where was the sun?
No, it was Alduin. His dark shape rose like a specter to eclipse Magnus. "Hi los sahlo, Paarthurnax! Paarthurnax fin mey! Your Dovahkiin is strong! Mey joor kiir, but I will outlast her!"
Outlast, outlast, outlast.
She failed.
Leara failed.
Alduin winged his flight toward the east, gliding on the wind. Leara watched him fade into the distance, the sky clearing in his wake. Paarthurnax landed in the half-frozen ruins of the mountaintop and Leara slipped from the cradle of his teeth, only for her knees to buckle, her limbs coated in ice and her soul on fire. Leara fell, and the darkness rushed up to meet her.
Something warm dabbed at her forehead.
Leara's eyelids were heavy. The touch was warm and damp. Blinking, bright light smeared across her vision. Oh, oh her head hurt!
"Hn . . ."
A near-silent, "Hmm," hummed above her, and the cloth disappeared. Leara squeezed her eyes shut against the ache.
There was a rustle of robes and a soft murmur in the hall. Then more rustling.
"Dragonborn," a voice whispered nearby.
Leara frowned as a cool hand felt her forehead. Then slowly opening her eyes, Leara found the withered face of Master Arngeir above her, worry creasing the corners of his eyes. "My child, I am relieved you are awake."
"Wha'—" Akatosh, her throat burned, "—happened?"
Master Arngeir's mouth drew a grim line. "We heard the sounds of Dragonrend echo down from the peak. But," the old Greybeard hesitated. Leara tried to lift her hand, her muscles aching. He patted her wrist, taking her hand in both of his. It was then Leara realized her arm was bandaged, wrapped to the elbow in linens. "When we saw Alduin fly east, we feared the worst. It was much for us to prevent your companion from making the climb to the Throat of the World in search of you."
Oh. Bishop. Her head twinged at the thought of him. "How'd I ge' here?" she slurred, voice heavy.
Master Arngeir settled her wrist back on top of the blankets. With a strength she did not know to expect from the old man, Master Arngeir helped prop her up on another pillow before raising a clay cup to her mouth. Once the first drops of water hit her tongue, Leara gulped it down, heedless of Master Arngeir's soft admonishments for her to slow down. Once she'd drained the cup, he set it aside and continued: "It was Paarthurnax who brought you down from the mountain. He told us how you wrestled the World-Eater to the ground with Dragonrend, but though you scoured Alduin's wing, you could not overcome him."
Shame bloomed anew in Leara's chest, memories of the battle flaming to life in her mind. Oh, yes. That. "I've failed," she whispered, hoarse.
But Master Arngeir was shaking his head. "No, child, you have not. You have won a great victory against Alduin. Paarthurnax said as much himself. You defeated Alduin in open battle – more than that, you wounded him. The World-Eater will carry your mark unto the end of time, long after you have passed on."
But Leara was already shaking her head, despite the dull aches pinpricking up her neck and through her mind. "He's still out there, though. He escaped. Alduin escaped . . ."
"Hush now," Master Arngeir reproofed, eyes serious though his tone remained soft. "You were never going to defeat Alduin on the mortal plain. He is too powerful for that. You will have to go to him."
Go to him? Go to him where? Aetherius – no, Sovngarde? "How?"
He patted her hand again, gently. Still, the frostbitten skin tingled and pinched beneath the layers of linen wrap. "We can discuss that when you are well again. For now, you must rest. As Paarthurnax told it, you bathed in Alduin's blood and formed for yourself a shell of ice before flying through the air."
Leara sank back into her pillows, eyes shut. "Yeah, that, that sounds right."
Body bandaged and tucked into a warm bed in High Hrothgar, the battle with Alduin felt oddly distant, as if it happened in a burning nightmare. Would it be? Scenes of the fire and her fall and the fury of Dragonrend circled through her mind, awakening the aches under her skin and in her bones. Would the memories follow her into sleep? She was so tired. Was she going to enter a realm of nightmares at any moment?
"Dragonborn, if you are up for it, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you," Master Arngeir said, his voice strangely hesitant.
Muscles tensing in anticipation, Leara peaked out of one crystal eye at the old master. Suddenly, he did appear very old, almost stooped over. Worried, Leara frowned, blinking back sleep. "What's wrong?"
"It is a matter concerning your companion."
Her mouth soured. Bishop. "What's he done now?"
Master Arngeir appeared contemplative, deep in thought for a moment before he pressed on. "I cannot presume authority to admonish you for the company you keep, but in the time since you left to fight the World-Eater, he has been in a black mood. He stalks the halls at all hours and paces the courtyard. He is restless and agitated. It was only through Kyne's keeping that he was not outside the monastery when Paarthurnax brought you to us."
Oh, Bishop was such a blockhead. "I'm sorry he's been a, a bother—" she said, stifling a yawn. "Excuse me."
"His behavior is not your responsibility," Master Arngeir sighed. "I simply question whether he is the wisest choice of companion for you."
The picture of Bishop's body tumbling over the cliff in the force of her Shout wormed itself to the forefront of her mind. At once, Leara's fall didn't seem so horrific: She had Paarthurnax there to catch her. Down in Blackreach, Bishop had nothing. It was a miracle he was alive. Insufferable and handsy as ever, but still alive. She nearly killed him, but he forgave her. He didn't care that he almost died so long as she was still alive. Leara squeezed her eyes shut against the light, against Master Arngeir's questioning stare. Bishop wasn't the best, but he was good in a pinch. Especially when she . . . was not.
Jolting, her mind swirling with guilt and exhaustion, Leara realized Master Arngeir was awaiting an answer. "I owe it to him," she settled on.
The master's face clouded. "I would take stock of my debts if I were you, Dragonborn. Men like him will overdraw until there is nothing left." He rose to leave.
Akatosh, this was all too much. "Master Arngeir?"
"Yes, my child?"
"Why," now she was hesitating, "why are you telling me this stuff now, after I just woke up?"
Master Arngeir looked at her, his sky-blue eyes troubled as if with the promise of rain. "I am telling you this because once he learns you are awake, I do not think I will have the opportunity to do so again."
What did that mean? Before she could ask, Master Arngeir patted her bandaged wrist and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him. Once he was gone and the room was quiet, her exhaustion pooled over her. Alduin, her failure, the Greybeards' misgivings about Bishop . . . all things that could wait until after she woke up. If she dared to address them at all. That was . . . that was the Leara of tomorrow's problem.
Yawning, Leara settled into her pillows. Yes, in the morning.
(*)(*)(*)
Smoke swirled before her, shifting between the peaks of the mountain. Beyond the smokescreen, the world was blanketed in a darkness so thick, no stars were visible. The smoke slithered and spun around her as if lit by a dying fire. It stung her skin, hissing and snapping at her bandages. Her bandages?
She looked down, her right arm and both hands were wrapped with linen. She could smell the musty floral tang of a healing paste wafting off them. As she stared at them, the burning smoke snipped at the linen, singing it until it too was smoking. The linens fell away, and she saw her skin. Her fingers were pink as if flushed, but her skin was cold, so cold.
Was she recovering from frostbite?
The smoke lifted her chin, scorching her skin as it forced her to look up. She jerked her head back, but the smoke was behind her, too, wrapping around her so that its sting caressed her whole body.
Where was her nightgown? Had she been wearing one?
She moaned, shifting in discomfort. Despite how cold she was, it was too hot. The smoke was burning her. No, stop . . .
"Shh," hissed the smoke, curling around her ear.
"I don't . . ."
Hot pain tingled over her shoulder, thawing her chilled skin so quickly that it burned. Oh, oh! "Please . . ."
The smoke caressed her burn, slipping its way up her neck and to the underside of her jaw. To her ear.
Another burn blistered below her ear, in the delicate place where a touch could drive her to her knees.
Her face was freezing . . . was she crying? Oh, she was crying. Please, she didn't want to, no more—
It burned a trail down her chest, settling over her heart, slipping between her ribs, and worming its way into her lungs. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe. It was choking her – she couldn't breathe—
(*)(*)(*)
Leara shot up with a gasp. Her lungs seized and she spluttered, coughing into her hands.
Soft . . . scratchy? Blinking back tears, Leara stared at the white bandages wrapped around her fingers. Frostbite. She dragged in a ragged breath, warm, clear, and soothing within her chest. It was a dream, just a dream. Wiping her tearstained cheeks on the clean bandages, her breathing evened out and her erratic heartbeat stilled.
Yes. It was a dream.
But why did it feel so real?
The creaking of the door drew her attention. A watery smile curled onto her face as Karnwyr slipped through the half-open door and padded over to her bed. He plopped his head on top of her covers, his large brown eyes gazing up at her as he whined. Reaching out, Leara stroked the wolf's head, mindful of the tingling ache in her fingers. "I'm sorry to have worried you so much," she soothed.
Karnwyr grunted. He pushed his muzzle against her thigh. Warm, comforting . . . safe.
Shuffling to the side, Leara patted the narrow strip of mattress. "C'mon, up you get."
Karnwyr clambered onto the bed and settled in the open space. His head was settled across her legs, but the rest of him dominated most of the small mattress. Leara didn't mind. Karnwyr's was a comforting presence, and she knew that as long as he was there, there would be no nightmares. No dreams of smoke and fire.
She woke to Master Einarth's knock. He entered, bearing a tray with a cup of hot tea and a bowl of porridge. Before allowing her to eat, Master Einarth unwrapped Leara's hands. They were both flushed pink, but the tingling from before had lessened. The frostbite was healing, for which Leara was grateful. Still, it would be a few weeks before she dared cast ice magic again. Once she'd eaten, Master Einarth presented her with a healing paste – the same that was applied under her bandages. Leara knew enough about wounds to know that she needed to continue its application. She thanked the silent Greybeard, receiving a soft smile in return. Then Master Einarth left with her tray and Leara got out of bed.
Karnwyr watched from the corner as she wobbled, her knees buckling. How long was she in bed? Leara made a mental note to ask Master Arngeir when she next spoke to him.
After a few false starts, Leara shuffled over to her bag, left on a little chest at the end of the bed. Slowly, her bones aching, she stripped off her trousers and undershirt. Relief flooded her chest, strange and unexpected, as she did so. No one had changed her. Bishop hadn't stripped her. Not to the skin, at least. But these clothes were ruined, she thought, fingering the frayed edges of the sleeves with a frown. Someone had cut the sleeves off, probably to free her arms.
Leara's stomach turned. She fell back on the bed, her old shirt clutched loosely in both hands. Her hands were encased in ice, they were coated in dragon's blood. Her imagination swirled with how horrific her wounds must've looked when Paarthurnax brought her back to High Hrothgar. Only Restoration magic could have restored her flesh to health, and then only if applied quickly.
The shirt slipped through her fingers. Leara touched the pink skin of her hands, new and healed on the surface. Underneath they were still healing. But they would heal.
Her ribs seized. It took everything in Leara not to double over and cry. She couldn't defeat Alduin, she couldn't use Dragonrend, and to top it off, she nearly lost her hands because of her own reckless use of magic! Bitter laughter clawed its way out of her throat. Now that was the sort of tale Alec the Prince of Sycophants should spin into legend!
She emerged into the hallway several minutes later, eyes dry with her teacup in hand and Karnwyr at her heels. Her blanket was tucked around her shoulders, a ward against the ever-present chill permeating through the monastery. The stone corridor was silent as she and Karnwyr padded along. Outside the thin windows, white daylight leaked through, cutting bright lines across the floor. Stopping, Leara paused to peer out into the courtyard. Two of the Greybeards were out there, though she couldn't tell if either was Master Arngeir or not. By the looks – and sounds – of it, they were practicing the Voice.
"Sweetness, you're finally up."
Arms engulfed Leara, jostling her arms and sloshing her tea. Weak protest fizzled out as Bishop held her from behind, his arms heavy on her waist as his hands pressed into her stomach. His chin stabbed into her thin shoulder, and he leaned his head against hers. She was trapped against his chest. Her eyes met Karnwyr's, but the wolf only whined.
"Bishop . . ."
"Four days, sweetness. Four damn days in which those blasted old assholes wouldn't let me near you." He untangled himself from her. Her sigh of relief barely escaped before Bishop spun her around to face him. His eyes were wild, blown wide open as they roved over her face. Leara shrank in on herself, but it wasn't enough to escape his eyes. It would never be enough.
He took her chin between his forefinger and thumb, and Leara had no choice but to face him. "Four days, sweetness, and the only damn thing they would tell me is you fought Alduin the fricking World-Eater! And lost!"
"I didn't—"
"Those old farts wouldn't tell me anything! They wouldn't even let me see you after they brought you down from the mountain! And what the Hell were you thinking, going up there alone to fight the biggest damn dragon in Skyrim?"
"Please—"
His hands were on her shoulders, stroking down to her elbows. The teacup in her hands was shaking so violently that the remaining tea inside threatened to spill. Tears were smearing at the corners of her eyes, but Bishop didn't see. He didn't see any of it.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, removing a hand from her arm only to drag it roughly down his face.
"I don't know," Leara whispered. She didn't know what she was going to do with herself, much less what Bishop had planned.
Bishop grunted. "Well then, now that you're up, can we leave the frozen Hellhole for greener pastures?"
Leara closed her eyes, sending a silent prayer to Kynareth for peace. This was fine. This was just how Bishop was. He was abrasive and reactionary. Sitting in High Hrothgar for the better half of a week would never be the ranger's idea of fun, but if he could just be patient. She needed to talk to Master Arngeir again and figure out her next steps. She just needed a little patience from Bishop.
And she was still recovering.
"Bishop," she began, "there are still a few things I need to discuss with Master Arngeir before we can just leave. And besides, I don't know if I'm well enough to travel yet."
Bishop cast a dubious glance at her hands. "Your frostbite looks fine to me, darling. Are you sure it's not my presence that has you feeling weak at the knees?" he smirked at her.
Leara frowned. "I thought you said—"
"Ah, Dragonborn, you're up and about!"
Leara jolted back from Bishop as if burnt, to find Master Arngeir making his way down the hall to meet her. She gave the old Greybeard a shy smile, suddenly remembering his words concerning Bishop. She understood Master Arngeir's trepidation. Just climbing the Seven Thousand Steps put Bishop on edge, but staying in High Hrothgar indefinitely? He hated High Hrothgar, and he held the Greybeards in crude disdain. Bishop was never going to keep his opinions to himself, and the Greybeards, already slow to trust outsiders, were never going to take the ranger's animosity lightly. Leara was the only thing they all had in common, and already she could feel a pull from both sides as they tried to sway her against the other. Was it any different from the pull between the Greybeards and the Blades?
At the thought of the Blades, a pang of homesickness shot through her. Leara missed the comforting familiarity of Cloud Ruler Temple and the Knight Brothers and Sisters as they worked and trained. Back then, she was nothing more than one of many watching for the return of the Dragonborn. Things were different then. Never could any of them have dreamed that quiet, studious Elanor was the Dragonborn they waited for. Not even Elanor herself. No, things were simple. Leara missed the smell of dust motes and old leather in the library, the gleam of polished katanas and Akaviri armor lining the armory, and the knowing portraits of the Septim Emperors lining the gallery. She missed her home.
Bishop was glaring at Arngeir as he approached, but Leara didn't see. Her mind was cast back to the Blades' temple, to the faces of the Dragonborn rulers of old. Martin Septim's eyes, painted blue like the noon waters of Lake Rumare, stared down at her, silent and watching. Weighing her destiny against his legacy. His mouth was drawn in a line. Wise, one of her Knight Brothers once said. Exhausted, sighed a Knight Sister. Judging, thought Leara. Judging her failure against his success.
Martin Septim's gaze still weighed down on her despite the decades and miles between the last time she saw that portrait and now. It was ashes now, that and the rest of the portraits and the temple and her order. The Septims were dead. There was no one left. By the grace of Akatosh, she was made Dragonborn, and she was wasting her energy on whatever measuring contest Bishop was trying to start with the Greybeards! If she didn't focus, then the rest of the world would join Cloud Ruler Temple in the ashes.
"Master Arngeir! Good morning!" she said, greeting the Greybeard with such a sudden exuberance that Bishop actually took a step back from her.
Master Arngeir's raincloud stare moved from Bishop to Leara, the crease between his brows smoothing. "Ah, you seem much improved today, my child."
"I feel better," Leara smiled.
"I see some of the color is returning to your complexion," Master Arngeir nodded, pleased.
Bishop scoffed. "She's fine, no thanks to you old windbags."
The frown returned to Master Arngeir's face. "Has it escaped you, young man," he said, rounding on Bishop, his voice steel, "that you are a guest here at High Hrothgar and that it is only by the Dragonborn's goodwill that you are permitted to remain here, despite your ill manners and foul attitude?"
"As if I wanted to come here in the first place!" Bishop sneered. "If I had it my way—"
Leara grabbed Bishop's arm and yanked him back. She winced as the bone studs on the back of his bracer scraped at the still-tender skin of her fingers. "Now Bishop, let's not antagonize our hosts when they've been so gracious to us."
Bishop growled. "Ladyship—"
"Bishop. Stop."
For the first time, Bishop actually shut up – and it was without the aid of a muffle spell, too. He stared at her, his mouth drawn in a grimace as his pale eyes traced her features. Whatever he was looking for must have escaped him, because the next moment he was shaking his head. Then he was stalking away from her, his boots heavy on the stone.
Leara stared after him, gobsmacked.
"Well," said Master Arngeir, "that was certainly something!"
Karnwyr woofed in clear agreement.
Leara sat across from Masters Arngeir and Wulfgar, a simple earthenware teapot between them. Steam wafted up from Leara's cup, its warmth a balm to her hands. Master Einarth entered, setting a plate of flat biscuits down beside the tea tray. Leara smiled at the old monk, accepting one of the biscuits.
"Where's Master Borri?" she asked.
"He is standing watch in the tower. There he can listen to the winds and what news Kyne may deign to whisper to him," explained Master Arngeir. "After your victory against Alduin, the dragons will no doubt be in an uproar."
Swallowing her biscuit, Leara splayed her hands in her lap. "Master Arngeir, you told me before that I would have to pursue Alduin beyond the mortal plane. How?"
Master Wulfgar settled an old tome on the table. Flipping it open, he leafed through the pages until he reached what looked like a dark splotchy ink stain. Peering closer, Leara realized it was an illustration of a black dragon scoping up wispy, human-like figures in his maw. "The old tales tell that Alduin can travel to Sovngarde where he feasts on the souls of the dead." Master Arngeir tapped the illustration, his finger landing on a particularly small spirit close to the World-Eater's mouth. Leara's heart clenched. "What they do not tell us is how he is able to do so."
"But there is a way," Leara said, looking from one Greybeard to another.
"Perhaps," Master Arngeir said. "When Paarthurnax brought you down from the peak, he and I spoke briefly of what your next steps may be. He believes that it may be possible to persuade one of Alduin's allies to betray him."
Betray Alduin? Would any even dare? "How would I even go about that?"
Master Wulfgar turned to a different section in the book. There were no illustrations, but at the top of one page, an angular heading written in Old Nordic glared back at her. Master Wulfgar slid the book across the table to her/. Biting the inside of her lip, Leara tried to parse out the language. She recognized what she thought might be the name "Olaf," but the rest of the title was foreign to her. She pushed the book back to Master Wulfgar. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," she said, shaking her head. "I think that's the name Olaf, but I don't understand the relation."
"My apologies, Dragonborn. Sometimes we forget you are not familiar with much of Skyrim's older history," Master Arngeir said.
A quiet laugh shook the ceiling, rattling dust from the rafters. Master Arngeir shot a look at Master Einarth, who only smiled, one wizened hand cupped over his mouth. Leara giggled.
Master Arngeir sighed. "It would not be a straightforward matter to convince one of Alduin's allies to betray him, but if you could capture one of them, it may be possible to discover where Alduin has gone and through what means he went there." At Leara's stunned expression, Master Arngeir took the book from Master Wulfgar. "Dragonborn, are you familiar with the Jarl's palace in Whiterun?"
Leaning back in her seat, Leara's mouth twitched, repressing the urge to purse her lips. "I've visited there a number of times," she answered. Numerous times. She spent much of the previous winter going in and out of Dragonsreach, taking bounties no one else was interested in. She never made enough to get very far, but she always had enough for the board at the inn and two square meals a day when she wasn't out on the job. Any excess she squirreled away got drained by her first pilgrimage to High Hrothgar and the travel to Ustengrav and later Solitude, Still, it wasn't a bad existence she led in Whiterun. Well, before she agreed to help the court wizard and Mirmulnir attacked.
"The palace was named Dragonsreach for more than its place high above the Whiterun plains. It was built to hold a captive dragon, and it is from that Dragonsreach received its name." Master Arngeir traced the page of Master Wulfgar's book, his eyes following the text. "It is written that it was Olaf One-Eye who captured a dragon and that Olaf built the palace to keep the dragon imprisoned."
A captive dragon? Leara cast her mind back, thinking. "When was this?"
"Thousands of years ago," said Master Arngeir, his eyes distant. "Dragons were still many in those days, living secluded in the remote mountains reaches. It was long before the Blades came and hunted them nearly to extinction."
Ah, yes. The Akaviri Dragonguard. The original dragonslayers. Leara lightly cleared her throat. "Do you mean I should ask that Jarl of Whiterun if I can lure a dragon into his keep and hold that dragon prisoner there?"
Master Wulfgar nodded, nibbling on one of Master Einarth's biscuits. Master Arngeir sighed, "That was Paarthurnax's suggestion."
Her mind was racing. Asking Balgruuf the Greater if she could use his keep to capture a dragon would sound like madness in the best of times, but Skyrim was in the throes of a civil war. While no large-scale skirmishes were being fought on the battlefield, Leara knew that things weren't stagnated: Either side was watching the other, staking out positions and movements. Right now, things seemed primarily political. She knew from her time in Whiterun that a great deal hinged on which side Jarl Balgruuf took in the war – which brought her back to capturing a dragon in his palace. Up to now, Balgruuf successfully maintained neutrality despite the yammering of both sides for his allegiance. Leara saw more than one Imperial or Stormcloak courier enter the city and beeline for Dragonsreach during her time there. Each time, the messenger was sent away with a clear denial. Balgruuf would not compromise the safety of his citizens for the sake of the war. But would he risk the, to capture a dragon?
Whatever views she imagined the Jarl of Whiterun taking concerning a captured dragon, Leara had a sinking feeling that he would be less receptive to the idea during a time of war than he might be in a time of peace. If she were to just march into Dragonsreach and ask to capture a dragon there, Jarl Balgruuf would likely laugh her straight to the dungeons. Leara couldn't find it in herself to blame him if he did.
She told the Greybeards as much.
"It won't be easy," agreed Master Arngeir, "but you must trust in the rightness of your cause and the strength of your Voice."
"It's not my trust we need. It's the Jarl's," Leara said. "Up to now, I've given him little reason to trust me and this isn't going to change his mind." Especially since the last time she saw Balgruuf the Greater, she laughed in his face and ran from Dragonsreach, Mirmulnir's soul still thundering in her skull.
Across the table, Master Wulfgar gave Master Arngeir a look. Arngeir met Wulfgar's eyes, humming silently to himself. "What do you propose, then, Dragonborn?
Leaning forward, Leara took a sip from her teacup, contemplating. "Jarl Balgruuf will not hear my request to capture a dragon in Dragonsreach, not while the war is on. He sits in a precarious position between the Imperials and Stormcloaks. There's too much at risk for him if he agrees to this plan." She paused, knowing that her suggestion may not go over well with the Greybeards' insistence on isolation and peace. "It may be prudent," she began, delicate, "to incentivize the Jarl with the promise of a ceasefire."
But Master Arngeir was already shaking his head. "The Greybeards have never involved themselves in politics. We cannot broker a truce between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks."
"You wouldn't have to," Leara said, pressing forward. "I can handle the peace talks, but neither side will agree to negotiate at all by my request alone. It's the logical answer. Jarl Balgruuf will never agree to help me capture a dragon, not without a ceasefire, and there will be no ceasefire unless you agree to help me." She looked from one Greybeard to the next, meeting eyes of cloud and sky and rain. "Both the Imperials and the Stormcloaks respect the Greybeards. If you call them, they will come and listen to what you have to say – even if I'm the one to say it."
With a weary sigh, Master Arngeir held up a withered hand. "It is no use to deny you. Paarthurnax has made it plain that he will help you. It is his plan that you seek out one of Alduin's allies, and if you cannot do so without our help, then who are the Greybeards to rebuke the winds of change?" He waved his hand, his face grim. "If the Jarl's consent rests on the state of the war, then so be it. Tell Ulfric and General Tullius that the Greybeards would speak with them. We will see if they yet remember us."
Master Wulfgar shut his book, the resolute thud a clear punctuation to the Greybeards' resolution.
A weight settled over Leara's shoulders after her meeting with the Greybeards. Every step she made seemed to put them out in some way. But this would work out. She was certain of it. Anyone who spent five minutes in Whiterun knew how cautious the Jarl was. If she had any hope of capturing a dragon, then she needed to reassure Balgruuf that every precaution was taken, up to and including the tensions strung across Skyrim by the civil war. Talking the Greybeards into hosting a peace conference was the only way she think of guaranteeing that short of entering the war herself. But who had time for that? Not her, not when Alduin was devouring souls and regaining his strength.
Leara paused, her hands frozen on the buckle of her war skirt as she fastened it over her greaves.
. . . and if she did join the war, whose side would she choose? The Empire who betrayed her order to the Aldmeri Dominion? Or the cause of the man whose torture she was complicit in during the war? Leara was no Imperial Saint herself, she knew how red her own history was. She knew the lines of sin and betrayal that stretched back decades into her past. She wasn't the kind of person either side would want fighting for them. Not openly, at least.
No, this was the logical course of action.
"I'm not overthinking this," she said, startling Karnwyr from his nap. The wolf only grunted.
Leara fastened her gauntlets on, loose around the bandages cradling her right arm.
"Everything is fine."
Karnwyr ignored her.
"Ulfric wouldn't want to see me again, anyway," she continued, voice small. Not after she snubbed his letter. "But he has to."
She picked up her katana, polished and safe within its scabbard. Master Arngeir said it was still attached to her hand when Paarthurnax brought her to the monastery. It took some time before they could melt the ice enough to free the blade without damaging her hand. The Greybeards never said anything about her carrying a Blades' sword, for which she was grateful. There was enough tension in the air as it was.
There was a knock at her door.
"Come in," Leara called over her shoulder as she hook the katana to her belt.
"We're heading out, I take it?"
Leara looked up to find Bishop framed in the doorway. "Yeah, sorry I didn't warn you."
He shrugged, "Whatever. I've been ready to leave since we climbed the stairs."
Snorting a humorless laugh, Leara picked up her hood. Dark spots stained the leather. Bloodstains, from Alduin. Threading her braid through the bottom, Leara fixed the hood to her head. The stains hardly stood out.
Looking up, she found Bishop watching her. "What is it?"
"I don't get you."
Leara blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You, what you do, why you do it. How you act. None of it makes sense," Bishop said, waving his off-hand in agitation. "You were all over me after you got that Elder Scroll, and now you won't even look at me! The only thing you care about is whatever those damn Greybeards tell you to do. Where's that spitfire personality you had when I met you?"
All over him? Is that what he called her acceptance of a single kiss in the Tower of Mzark? She should never have let him touch her. Not again. "I'm hardly a spitfire," Leara murmured. "What do you want me to do?"
"Who says I want you to do anything?"
"You do, ever since I met you. You've made it more than clear to me what you think of my destiny as Dragonborn."
He laughed in her face. "Please, your ladyship. It doesn't take a genius to see that you don't know what you're doing. You have no clue, much less any sense of self-preservation. You're dancing around, trying to fight dragons with nothing but fancy parlor tricks and that toothpick you call a sword! You need someone to talk sense into you." Bishop punctuated this with a smirk that was so self-assured that even a Kahjiit merchant would accept whatever deal he was offering.
Leara couldn't help but laugh. "I think you have the picture backward, Bishop. But whatever helps you sleep at night."
It spoke to Bishop's intelligence (or lack thereof) when he zeroed in, not on her insult, but on the concept of sleeping: "I would sleep a whole lot better if you would finally agree to share my bedroll."
Shouldering her pack, Leara snorted. "No, thank you. I don't want your fleas."
Naturally, Bishop protested the idea that he had fleas, but Leara ignored him, pushing past the whining ranger and into the hall beyond.
It was going to be a long road to Whiterun. She could barely stomach the idea of travel to Windhelm and Solitude.
"Remind me why I keep you around," she said on a whim.
She expected him to say he was protecting her from the Thalmor, or perhaps that he was guiding her around Skyrim. What she didn't expect was the possessive hand that wrapped around her right forearm, burning through the bracer and bandage to burn into her bones. "Without me, you would be alone, and you don't want that, do you, sweetness?"
Leara's lungs seized. No, no, she didn't.
Note from ao3: Did I just have Leara strongarm the Greybeards into agreeing to the peace conference as a contingency plan so that I, the writer, wouldn't have to write ANOTHER trip to High Hrothgar? Yes. What about it?
Did I just have Bishop corner Leara into all but admitting she can't get rid of him because she doesn't want to be alone? Yeah, that happened.
Did I just have Leara forget about the Elder Scroll after we spent THREE chapters looking for it? No, it's safe with Dragon Dad.
Tune in next time to see if Leara can convince Balgruuf to let her trap a dragon on his back porch.
