Chapter 5 – In Fire Born

"We avoid fights whenever possible, of course, but if the safety of citizens is at stake, we will quickly step in to defend them, have no fear."

Kaptain Ulrich Battle-Born, Whiterun Town Guard 4E 104

"Out on the plains, we don't have the luxuries of the city patrol. Someone comes at you with a sword; you put an arrow in them before they can use it. That's just sense."

Patrol Leader Fonvar Grey-Mane, Whiterun Hold Guard 4E 104

"We defend Dragonsreach. If anyone looks to threaten the Jarl, we will strike first. In her hall, you live or die by the Jarl's command. We recognize that, and so should you."

Housecarl Borgen the Bold, Whiterun 4E 105

"Hah! Little man asks when fight? When hungry, fight beasts. When child, fight and make strong! When old, fight until Sovngarde. Fight good! Make strong or make dead!"

Hrunding Mammoth-Breaker, Clan of the Sky-Whale, 4E 100

Compiled by Imperial Ministry of Safety for Attitudes on Violence among Peoples of Skyrim published 4E 105

Lydia had never been stationed at the western watchtower, but she knew it well enough. Located a full day's march from Whiterun, it had once served as early warning should an enemy approach from the west; its position at the confluence of three roads meant that it could warn equally well against incursions from Falkreath, Hjaalmarch, or the Reach. When Fort Greymoor had still been manned, the watchtower's beacon could be seen from the relay tower atop the fort as well. Now, however, the fort was overrun with lowlife outlaws, the relay beacons had been dark for centuries, and the watchtower was a punitive posting for those who had in some way offended the higher-ups in the guard. What chance did they have against a dragon?

The watchtower had been old and crumbling, she knew, but now it was more ruin than outpost. The wooden shutters and walkways had been reduced to smoking wreckage, and the stone itself seemed to have half-melted in places from the heat. The scouts that Irileth had sent ahead were spread around the area; Lydia saw one atop the tower scanning towards the mountains to the south. The army of hangers-on and would-be dragonslayers that had accompanied them from Whiterun was dispersing as well, eager to do battle. They had traveled through the night, and some among them seemed all too happy to get off their feet and take a rest. Velandryn, that Dark Elf that seemed to be serving as Farengar's proxy, uncorked a green potion and began to drink. At her look, he produced another and offered it to her.

"Potion of fatigue" he said as he stoppered the empty vial and tucked it back into the bag on his belt. She idly wondered how he had managed to survive this long. He carried his weapons uncomfortably; moved like a city-dweller who had never spent a night out of doors; and thought himself clever, which was an unwise choice for an elf to make in Skyrim. He had not caused any trouble for her since leaving Whiterun, though she could not help but notice that he was accompanied once more by the guard who had brought him to Dragonsreach. All in all, Velandryn Savani was a burden she did not have time for. She refused the proffered potion; she had no need of it anyway. He shrugged and tucked it away, and Lydia moved forward, going to check on the guards from the watchtower.

At the base of the tower she found the injured laid out, some eight or so with burns and a few more with what looked like collateral damage from falling stone or accidental injury. As she approached, she realized that she knew the woman in the silver-trimmed cloak who commanded the watchtower. Oh gods, Freya. She had known the other woman was stationed out on the plains, but she hadn't thought she would be here.

Serjeant Freya was moving about doing what she could for what was left of her command; she gave Lydia an exhausted smile as the two passed each other. They had been so close once and joined the watch on the same day, but had gone their separate ways when Lydia joined the Dragonsreach household. I serve as the elite, and Freya is stuck out here in the back end of nowhere. Gods, she must have been so scared during the attack; she must have needed me so badly. But those days were over. One of the guards cried out in fevered distress, prompting the Serjeant to attend to her, murmuring soft reassurances. Lydia put Freya from her mind, and refocused on her duty.

As she knelt to check on another man, she noticed one of the Wood Elves who had come with them running towards the main party, shouting something in his tongue. One of his companions heard him, and raised her voice to spread the word in Imperial Common: "Dragon from the mountains!" A guard atop the watchtower was shouting too, and waving his arms. "The dragon is coming! Here in minutes! IT'S COMING!"

Lydia spun and ran toward Irileth, who had set up her command post on an outcropping of stone that still resembled the wall it had once been. Several other guards arrived as she did, and Irileth spoke to them all. "You know your formations, now get into them! Archers, aim true, spearmen, use javelins until it's downed, and for Mara's sake, don't get caught out of formation! Listen to your captains, and do not let the dragon close! If it lands, flank it in formation and remember to cripple the wings. Anybody gets themselves or someone else killed by breaking ranks, I will reach into Oblivion and pull your soul back out so you can suffer my wrath! Avoid the fire. If it can break stone, your armor won't last long." She took a deep breath, and looked over at the other Dark Elf, who had just arrived, panting. "We did not choose this battle, but we end this here. We will bring down this dragon, and return our hold to peace. May the gods go with you! For Whiterun and the jarl!"

When Irilieth had commanded his presence on her dragonslaying expedition, Velandryn had been unclear as to what his role would be. He had expected to pass along what scraps of information Farengar had wrangled out of his studies, which he had done as they marched through the night. The other Dunmer and her top retainers had listened as he spoke, and then, lit only by the light of Aetherius shining through the stars above and the few torches they carried, deliberated on how best to put knowledge of dragon behaviors and anatomy into practice. They had come to several conclusions, the largest being that while this information might be generally useful from a command perspective, most of it would not help the average soldier as part of a formation. When the captains began discussing how best to position themselves with regards to the watchtower, he tried to pay attention, but quickly found himself woefully out of his depth. Now, as he watched the chaos around him, he realized that he did not have an assigned role in the battle to come. At least I am not the only one who thinks I shouldn't be here.

Irileth was giving orders to the Dragonsreach guard called Kemming; he nodded as she finished and led his unit off away from the watchtower. Velandryn approached her as she surveyed the field. "Where should I go?"

"Are you any good with that?" She indicated the bow on his back.

"If the dragon stands still, I can hit it. I have scrolls from Farengar—"

She cut him off as several members of the mercenary company that the Nords called the Companions moved up. "Good. Get to high ground and use them. Aim for the wings." She waved him away, and the leader of the Companions, a Nord woman with striking features beneath striped face paint, engaged her in rapid discussion about positions and baiting the dragon. Velandryn could tell when he wasn't needed. He made his way towards the tower. If it's high ground, there's none better. Should the dragon attack, he could duck inside and take shelter as well.

Inside the tower, the injured waited, looking more corpses than warriors. A healer who had tagged along from Whiterun was attending to one of them, waving his hands slowly over a burn as the flesh slowly knit. The soldier's face was tight with pain and he was letting out a high whining moan. Poor bastard. Velandryn recognized that spell of healing. It restored the body rather than accelerating natural processes, as a result it worked well against burns and other crippling wounds. However, it was also slow, outrageously painful and very tiring. Glancing around, he took in the state of the men in here; he had served as attendant healer enough to be able to assess wounds. Even if some of these make it, none of them will be of help today. He began climbing the steps.

At the second landing, he encountered several guards peering out through the windows, though he did not recognize these. Assuming them to be the remnants of the tower's garrison, he ignored them as jogged up the next flight. However, a shout drew his attention.

The Nord woman was obviously their leader, wearing as she did a cloak trimmed in silver. She was also the one who was demanding to know what he was doing in their tower.

"I have spells. I need a place to cast them. Top of the tower is best vantage, so I am using it." He turned to go, but stopped when her hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He stiffened. "Remove the hand, human, or I will." How dare she try to stop me; I defend her people! When the hand vanished and he turned though, her face did not have the lines that he had come to recognize indicated human anger and aggression. The brow and jaw were key to figuring out anger in humans, but both were relaxed. Instead, her eyes were calm and cold.

"I have many wounded in this tower. Do not bring the dragon's fire back onto them."

He nodded. "I will do my best." A fair request, but soldiers die. I hope it does not come to that, but I will not die so they may live. Leaving her to her wounded, he finished ascending the stair and blinked as he adjusted to the bright light atop the tower.

Three archers were slumped behind the parapets while another stood and watched the huge shape sweep slowly towards them. He turned to look at Velandryn. "You're not one of ours. You from Whiterun?" On closer inspection, his gear was dirty and his eyes were dull even for a human. Elven eyes he understood. It was simple to read moods and passions from eyes that made sense. These humans, however, kept him guessing. For this one, it was a good guess that he was bone-tired and half dead. If I had to pass a night not knowing when the dragon would return to finish me off, how would I fare? He pushed that to the back of his mind and regarded the four humans. They all had bows, and the dragon was closing fast. Velandryn moved to the battlement and looked out. Below, the Whiterun guards had broken up into spiky clumps; armored guards warding the archers while the spearmen hefted javelins, ready to throw. Elsewhere, the two Orcs had occupied a pile of rubble that provided cover from several directions, while many other groups were simply standing out on the rocky fields. Evidently they trusted that the dragon would not go for them. Or they are thrice-damned fools. They did choose to come, after all.

A roar echoed across the battlefield. The dragon, still far beyond bow or spell range, dived and let loose a plume of fire that moved along the ground, scorching the grass beneath it. It's coming in low and fast. Archers won't have long to react. He spun to face the guards. "Fire the instant it's in range! Those on the ground won't have a good angle. We do!" By the look of it, the dragon would actually come in below them, giving them good access to its back. It will ravage the forces down there, though.

The dragon was gliding in fast, claws outstretched. As it approached, something entered his mind. An uncomfortable feeling. Something was wrong about the dragon, something important.

Another roar reverberated off of the tundra as the dragon made its descent. In another moment it would be on the outmost scouts. They were all lightly armored hangers-on, and they broke as the beast swept over them. One hunter wasn't fast enough, and he screamed in terror as one of the dragon's claws slammed into him. His screams as his broken body flew through the air were ended with a crack as a boulder jutting from the earth broke his fall. The guards atop the tower, eyes wide and arms shaking at what they had witnessed, prepared to loose and Velandryn did the same. He had prepared the wizard's poison; there had been just enough to treat a single arrow. He did not have high hopes, but this monstrosity seemed to be almost eighty feet long from nose to tail, with a wingspan easily that wide or wider. It was fast as well, and clearly knew how to maneuver to its advantage. Azura save us, did we bring enough force to kill it? If this poison could weaken the beast, it was worth a shot.

He knew that he was not the finest archer likely even on this roof. Dunmer were renowned as versatile and multifaceted combatants with sword and bow and spell, but that was as much a product of culture as aptitude. For me, I just get to be grateful that the target is so bloody big! He loosed.

He had aimed for the broad wing as the dragon swooped beneath the tower, figuring that the scales on its hide would reflect his arrow as they were most of the shots being loosed at it. Shots at the wing were punching into the thick membrane before being knocked out by the force of the dragon's flight. Velandryn's arrow did the same, briefly sticking until a great flap of the wings sent it spiraling towards the ground. Gods damn you, but you are powerful, beast. If the poison had affected the dragon, it showed no sign. The great beast continued onward, sweeping over the clusters of soldiers down below. It would bathe them with fire or claw at them, all while moving fast enough that any arrow or spell that did not miss would most likely glance off of its hide. It scattered a group of hunters of some kind, and swept northwards away from the main host. It landed with an earth-shaking crash on a pair of guards and took to the air again, leaving them crushed beneath its massive claws.

The dragon's huge wings flapped at the air with lazy power, and it circled back toward the tower. This time though, Velandryn was ready. He had opened the scroll labeled "Lightning Storm", and power pulsed around him as he awoke the spells imbued into the parchment. He let his body's magicka attenuate to the power contained in the scroll, and the spell coursed into him. He could feel his hair lifting on his scalp as the charge altered his natural magical currents, and his armor and clothing felt odd against his skin as the current reverberated through him. His magicka held this power in check for the moment; he would not burn out his insides or have lightning explode from him. He must release it soon, however; his moderate skill at magic was far below what was needed to contain this spell for long. For this brief instant, though, in the middle of the battle, he luxuriated in the power around him even as it threatened to overwhelm him. I am the storm, dragon, and you shall know my wrath. The dragon was closing fast, and Velandryn thrust his arms out above his head. The charge gathered in his hands, and he could smell the moment that the air between them began to crackle and burn. He brought his arms forward, and focused the spell towards the onrushing dragon.

The space between him and the dragon was calm for a single heartbeat. The wind died, and the tunnel of air became perfectly still. The dragon's head swiveled, and its eyes burned into him. Again, looking into this dragon's face, Velandryn realized that something was off here. He couldn't place it, but he felt a sinking deep in his stomach at the certainty that he was overlooking something, and it mattered.

The moment ended. The magical equilibrium was broken, and lightning surged out of Velandryn's hands, the magicka from the scroll using his body as a conduit on its path towards the dragon. The spell crashed into the dragon's face and played along its body, leaving burns and skittering snakes of energy along the great beast's scales. It roared, this time in either annoyance or pain, and aborted its graceful sweep towards whatever its target had been to pull itself up and come even with the tower's roof. Oh. This isn't good. This is bad. Yelling a curse that would have earned him days of penance had a Temple elder heard him; he bolted for the entryway into the tower, vaguely aware of the other guards on the roof doing the same. The dragon rose slowly, wings pushing its monstrous bulk over them, its shadow covering the entirety of the roof in a macabre parody of relief from the sun. With a crash, it landed atop the trapdoor, killing the two guards who had been closest to safety. Three remained on the roof. Its head snapped forward and its jaws closed around another; her screams ended as the great jagged teeth came together with a crack.

Two of them remained on the roof, and the dragon lumbered towards them. In truth, the watchtower's top was too small for such a huge creature, and its great clawed wings gripped the edge as it moved awkwardly forward. Its head reared above the two survivors, Dunmer and Nord, and Velandryn doubted that his resistance to fire would stretch so far as to save him from a dragon's wrath. He glanced at the watchman, who was shaking and staring helplessly at the dragon. The cloth around his groin had soaked through as visible evidence of his fear. Part of Velandryn wanted to do the same, faced with something as impossibly powerful as this ancient monstrosity. Not today. I won't die here.

Velandryn sprinted away from the dragon, passing the last of the four Nords, who was now whimpering with tears running down his cheeks. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. He reached the parapet, and flung himself into over the edge. As he did so, he cast one of the first spells he had ever learned, a simple trick that had amused his friends and now might save his life. Behind him, the rooftop lit up with orange and gold and the agonized cries of a dying guard.

The spell required only the merest trickle of magicka, and so little concentration that it could be cast by a desperate fool vaulting away from a dragon. The ground was ten meters below, now five, now…

The Slowfall spell he had learned as a child still worked as intended, thankfully. What had once let him make graceful descents from the crab-shell towers that surrounded Blacklight now meant that he could leap from a watchtower with something less than fatal results. He landed poorly though, twisting his ankle as he impacted the ground. So instead of rising triumphantly to the cheers of the other novices, he rolled along the ground cursing until his leftover momentum had left him. Rising slowly to his feet with a groan, his world spun around him, and he had the unwelcome urge to heave his breakfast out onto the ground. He clutched himself and rocked back and forth, and the feeling began to pass. That's never happened before. Of course, it must have been thirty years since he last attempted it, and doubtless a dragon did not make the endeavor easier. As he took his feet again, he resolved to spend more time practicing minor spells like that. In this province? Seems like I'll need them.

His vision slowly returned to something approaching clarity, and he noticed with a lurch in his stomach that the watchtower no longer sported a dragon atop it. He spun around, trying to find the beast, but could see nothing. Then, a deep roar and a pillar of flame emerged from the far side of the tower and he slumped with relief. Around him, some of the eager dragon-hunters seemed to be reconsidering, while others were already dashing off to rejoin the fight.

His bow caught his eye, lying on the ground. The string was broken, but the arm looked well enough, all things considered. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other as he approached his bow, until he was standing over it. His pouch with the scrolls and potions bumped against his hip; he gave a prayer of thanks for Azura's foresight to fasten it after pulling out the first scroll.

He picked up the bow unsteadily and restrung it, a task that required every ounce of focus he had left. When he was done, he slung the bow over his shoulder and even had the presence of mind to check his quiver. It was empty. He noticed now; his arrows traced a path leading back to the tower. It was all too much. He collapsed, nearly sobbing with laughter. I got the bow but the arrows fell out!

Tears were streaming down his cheeks, eyes wide and without even breath to make a sound. He tried to inhale to laugh more, but ended up choking on his breath and doubled over coughing. He lay there for an eternity or two, until something pulled on the back of his tunic and hauled him up.

A goblin stood before him, looking at him with dull ugly eyes. Its piggish face was half-concealed behind gilded plate armor, and it was holding two long spears whose heads were wings with razored edges. Behind it stood the concealed mage from Whiterun, wearing an ebony mask over dark robes. Nothing of it was visible save robes and mask, and if it had been in battle, it gave no sign. An Altmer, to use goblins as slave-warriors. But why help me? A second goblin, twin to the first, emerged from behind him and took its place beside its fellow. As the first handed back the spear to the one that had pulled him standing, the mage spoke.

"The fight is not done. Your spellcraft is uncoordinated, but you may yet be worth something." The voice was female, the speech flavored with the accents of the Somerset Isles and every syllable resonant with magical inflection. An Altmer indeed, and casting an incantation of courage. It was working. He felt strength return to him, his mind clear, and resolve reignite within him."The dragon yet lives. Tell me, Dunmer, will you let Nords show more bravery than you?"

"No. It dies here, and I am going to kill it." The spell was strong, massively so, and at the moment he felt that he could take down an army. Even distaste between Altmer and Dunmer burns away in a dragon's fire. The mage gestured, and two mer and two goblins moved back into the fight.

Leadership, Lydia had been told, was a team effort, reliant both on the example of the commander and the discipline of the followers. She had to wonder if the current fiasco was her fault then, or if the guards as a whole had simply lacked the courage and skill to secure victory. She only had two of hers left, an archer she did not know from the town watch, and Borje the Red from the Dragonsreach guard. Currently, the archer was firing at the dragon, although they all knew it would do no good, while she and Borje had shields prepared should it turn on them. She had lost the remaining three in her command somewhere on the field. One she had seen engulfed by flames when he broke from the formation, and two others had been scattered. Some other guards and hangers-on had gravitated towards them, assuming that three who seemed to have kept some semblance of their discipline would be a good place to rally. Nearer the tower, she could see Irileth sending ice spikes at the dragon as she commanded ten or so guards in a concerted effort. The great beast itself swung lazily above the field, and dove to snatch another guard from the ground; this one had been cowering alone behind a boulder. With a sinking heart, Lydia realized that had been one of hers. She turned to her remaining two. "Keep firing and provide cover! All armor has a weakness; we just need to find it!"

From the direction of the tower, a torrent of lightening suddenly split the sky in two, as it had just a minute before. This time, though, it did not come from atop the tower, but from the west, where she saw a dozen warriors rushing her way. In the lead came a pair of huge Nords in nothing but blue paint, bellowing with a fury that shook the earth. The lightning was coming from a mage swathed all in dark robes and—

It was the Dark Elf, Velandryn Savani. He looked like he had pulled himself out of the grave, but he held a scroll in one hand and his other was projecting a stream of lightning at the dragon. The look on his face almost made her reconsider her earlier dismissal of him as useless. When the spell ended, he produced another scroll from the satchel at his side and summoned a great whirling ball of ice, which flew towards the dragon. The creature dodged easily, though, and dove on the newcomers. The robed mage threw its hands to the air, and the dragon's fire splashed harmlessly off of a shimmering dome of energy. The dragon, however, did not. It tucked its wings in and crashed into the shield, which vanished with a blast of purple light. The dragon plowed into the group, and suddenly chaos reigned among the newcomers.

Lydia pointed with her sword towards where the dragon was now on the ground, laying about with claws and teeth and flame. "It's on the ground! Pierce the armor! Cripple the wings! FOR WHITERUN!"

Her archer cheered and took off running, and Borje grinned behind his thick beard and clapped her on the shoulder as he bellowed past. Others must have been listening, as they too charged past her towards the grounded dragon. Lydia followed at a slightly slower pace. She had seen the power of that beast, and was not about to burn because of her own carelessness.

By the time she reached it, the dragon was surrounded, but it had done no small amount of damage itself. Her heart leapt into her throat at how many of the guard were down, and she prayed that most were merely out cold or wounded. If they are all dead…No. She forced such thoughts out and advanced, coming up behind an Orc in heavy plate with a twisted green longbow who was releasing bodkin-headed arrows at the beast. The Orc regarded her for half a second as she passed it, and resumed his archery. She wondered why the Orc would have arrows designed to punch through the heavy armor of guards or soldiers, and then, as she watched one of the shafts tear clean through a wing, decided it did not matter for the moment. Against a dragon, I will take the help.

The dragon spun in her direction and spat a great gout of fire that would have cooked her in her armor had she not raised her shield and thrown herself down. As it was, her steel armor heated and the fur that lined it began to blacken and smoke. When the flames abated, she regained her feet and looked about. The dragon had not been aiming at her, and a pair of smoking corpses was all that remained of two of the hunters. She began advancing again, keeping her body low and shield ready, and managed to get close enough to feel the buffet of the wind off of the dragon's wings as it took to the air once more and circled away into the sky.

The scene the dragon had left behind looked like it had come from one of the more horrifying realms of Oblivion. Bodies lay torn apart or burned beyond recognition, and the ground was furrowed by great claws and littered with broken and spent arrows and other weapons. The air was thick with the smell of death and cries of fear and pain sounded from every direction. We are broken, was Lydia's first thought, but she soon realized otherwise. Many had fallen, to be sure, but the survivors were readying themselves for another bout. A good thing, too, as the dragon had achieved some distance and was now swooping in low and fast to plow through them or burn them from above.

"On your feet! Brace yourselves!" Lydia's cry preceded Irileth's similar exhortation by only a moment, and the two of them shouting together managed to pierce through the exhaustion and fear evident on so many faces. The Dark Elf housecarl was bleeding from a nasty gash over one eye, but her expression was resolute and she was already preparing another spell.

Not far enough away, the dragon dove even closer to the ground. Now, it would come in mere feet above their heads. It extended its claws, and Lydia knew what would happen next. The claws would rake through them, and many would fall. Some of those would never rise again. She raised her shield, and glanced around to see who else was ready. Too few. She needed to do somethi—

A war cry echoed from behind her, and the earth shook as thunderous footfalls echoed towards her. She spun, shocked, to see one of the Old Clan Nords, naked save for a loincloth and his blue wode-paint, running at the dragon. His face was contorted, mouth open, and in each hand he held an axe of white bone, wickedly sharp and intricately carved. She realized with a start that the thundering earth was not from the dragon or battle, but that it echoed with his footfalls and his war cry. He is a Tongue! It was rumored that the Old Clans of Skyrim still passed down the art of the Voice from parent to child, but she had never seen it used before. It was an inarticulate sound of rage and pain, but if the power in the footsteps was any indication, it would give his blows incredible strength. He passed her, traveling at respectable speed made terrifying by his crashing steps, and thundered onwards towards the onrushing foe. She could actually feel the force of his cry as it washed over her and the calm once it had passed her by. His charge took him directly into the dragon's path, where he leapt high into the air. Clearly, the dragon was not expecting this, as no claw came to knock him away nor fire to burn him down. She watched with slack jaw as his axes bit into the dragon, and the shock of his war cry and blow smashed into the flying beast, roughly halting his attack. Suddenly, the elegant and deadly swoop became a tumble of scales and wings that was almost comical, the huge Nord a tiny bug clinging to axes stuck into this giant beast's breast. It crashed into the ground even as the Nord leapt free and abandoned his weapons to their grim sheath. The dragon rose, spitting fire and claws whirling, but the forces of Whiterun Hold had seen the chance and attacked with renewed vigor. Lydia drew her sword and raised her shield to guard, waving their forces forward. To her left, she saw Irileth and Kaptain Hrun do the same. The same Orc from before with his bodkin shafts took up a firing position on an exposed stone, and to the west the elven mage with the golden soldiers threw a great stream of icy shards into the air, where they tore into the dragon's wings as it began to take to the air. Abandoning that plan, it instead dove for the mage, crushing one of the golden-armored soldiers underfoot and snapping at the spellcaster. Lydia charged in, intent on dealing some crippling damage while the dragon was preoccupied with the mage. As she did so, she noticed the Dark Elf Velandryn Savani again. So he still lives. Perhaps even by his own doing. He seemed to be throwing spells from Farengar's scrolls, so it seemed he had decided he would actually fight. Then, she reached the dragon's great scaled flank, and her world narrowed until only she and the beast existed within it. Time to die, brute!

Velandryn let the last scroll fall to the ground, the lettering on it still smoking from the speed at which he had pulled forth its power. He felt drained and ready to curl up and sleep. Or die, more like, if I do it here. He was in a good spot well behind the dragon, though not out of reach of its lashing tail; for the moment it seemed intent on slaughtering the Altmer mage who had reinvigorated him. I suppose it would be ungrateful of me to let that happen. He had found a quiver of steel-tipped arrows on a dying guard, and nocked one now, trying to find a chink in the armor. With the great beast grounded, he saw no purpose in attacking the wings for the moment. Get it bleeding, and it will die. At least, he hoped so. This monstrosity had proven absurdly resilient; its armoring should have made it slow, or its mobility should demand vulnerabilities. However, it seemed that the dragon had decided that it would simply be not only the fastest combatant on the field, but also far too resistant to the blows of its enemies. As it was now, the mage had been fending the dragon off well enough, but one of her goblins was already down and the other was falling as he watched. A buffet from one great wing sent the mage to the ground, but the dragon spun before landing a killing blow, and turned so its head was facing directly at him.

Absurdly, Velandryn's first emotion was not fear, but indignation. I didn't even fire at you yet! Go kill someone else! Then, as the dragon reared up and he saw the Nord sprawled on the ground beneath it holding a bloody sword, he realized that was exactly what was happening. He gave brief thanks as he began to move out of the line of fire, only to catch a glimpse of the dragon's next victim and have time grind to a halt. The shield that had last been slung across her back had been knocked out of her reach, and her dark hair was matted with blood. She was staring the dragon full in the face, and though her back was to him, he could imagine perfectly the expression on her human features. She'll be staring that thing down, even to the end. There was no reasonable way he could save her. It was the guard on the tower all over again. He was already dead; I could only have died too. But she had told him how not to be shamed before the Jarl and listened to his moronic japes in the morning. She's just another Nord, and she is dead already. If he tried to help her, he would most likely join her in death. Something else would snatch away the dragon's notice eventually, but it could kill them both easily before that happened. I cannot die here, alone in Skyrim! He did not hate her, but it was simple rational calculation. If I live and she dies, I can honor the life she bought me and help bring down the beast. He knew that he had to leave her to die, but that did not make it easier. With a curse, he began running, picking up speed as he went. The dragon would unleash its fire in mere moments, and he did not have much time.

Lydia looked up at the dragon above her, and tried to have her last thought be of satisfaction. She had drawn the dragon's attention and scored a deep wound on it in the process. Her sword had found a weakness between the scales and slid deep into the meat of the dragon with an almost unbearably satisfying feeling, and even as the dragon had turned to kill her the wound had been gushing blood. She had done well, and brought glory to Whiterun with her final battle. She tried to be brave and embrace Sovngarde, but all that she could do was realize that she did not want to die. She wanted to go home covered in blood and glory, to raise mugs with the Companions and the Guard to a battle well fought, to earn the rank of Serjeant and stand behind the jarl on matters of import. She wanted to serve for a long life, and, though she knew she should rejoice at the prospect of Sovngarde, she wanted to go there after a life well lived. She did not want to die like this. She looked up into the eyes of the dragon, and saw her death as its head reared back, and flame was born deep in its dark gullet. Lord Talos, I don't want to burn. Fire is a horrible way to die.

Velandryn appeared from nowhere moving at a dead sprint, her shield clutched in his hands. He thrust it up above the both of them, and bent his head as the fire washed across the shield instead of roasting her alive. She curled reflexively, and the shadow of the shield provided enough space free of flame for her to lie there, stunned and trying to figure out where he had come from and why he was here. He was not burning, but he had one of the leather straps that held her arm clutched in each hand, and the dragon's fire was visibly eating away at the upraised shield. He was using some sort of warding magic on the shield, as the glimmer upon it showed, but it clearly would not hold forever. His eyes met hers, and she was struck by the expression on his face. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but he had put himself in the path of dragon's fire for her. He should have had resolve or some heroic spark within, but she saw only blazing anger and something else. She thought it might have been fear, or sorrow, but she did not have the time to figure it out. Humans wore emotions on their faces and elves in their eyes, it was said, but right now she had more pressing concerns. She pulled herself kneeling, and went to assist in holding up the shield. She snapped her hand back as soon as she touched it, though. The metal was deforming and red-hot, and the wood was blackening.

"Don't touch it!" Saving her life had not sweetened Velandryn Savani's disposition. "I resist fire. You don't." Every word was growled through clenched teeth, and all the while his eyes burned as bright as the flames around them.

"Thank you, but why?" She had to ask, even as she adjusted her armor readied her sword. Either the flames would stop or the shield would fail, and perhaps she could land one more blow. "If your plan was to save me, you only doomed yourself."

"I know, you blighted Nord!" He braced the shield with his shoulder as it cracked down the middle. At the rim, the steel edge was sagging where it threatened to melt. "Bad plan." His speech was harsh and clipped. "I shouldn't have." His eyes burned into hers. "Shouldn't have tried to save you. Foolish." He closed his eyes, and without them blazing in rage, his features took on a striking cast, almost handsome despite the harsh angles of his face. His red hair had come free and now fell every which way like a fiery mane. "I did though, so now we die. Together." He opened his eyes and his lips peeled back as his face contorted into a smile. Lydia had to suppress a shudder at how wrong it looked. His eyes were bright, and the high broad cheeks and strong jaw gave his white teeth and large eyes a horrifyingly demonic aspect. She could almost have believed he was some Daedra sent from Oblivion, with a face like that. "Humans tell me I shouldn't smile. I believe them, because it makes the children cry."

"They…aren't wrong." The absurdity of discussing this now struck her, and she had to laugh. He joined in, as the shield gave another precipitous crack and he moved to adjust it. Golden-white magic flowed along his skin and he grimaced in pain as it worked its way into his wounds. She noticed that one of his boots was little more than scorched leather, and he had burns up his shin. The muscles in his leg twitched as the healing magic sunk into them.

"It's from spending time with you humans. Your faces twist up with your emotions, and mine wants to do the same." He was speaking more easily, she noticed, but she wondered if the pain had lessened or he was simply beyond caring. Even a Dark Elf can die from fire, and his healing has stopped. "You go to Morrowind, and we'll tell you your eyes are dead. I can't read anything in human eyes." He laughed again, eyes bright and huge in his smooth grey face. "Do that for me, hmm? Go to Morrowind." The shield cracked again, and the flames inched closer. "Bring my body back, when I die here."

She opened her mouth to tell him that they were going to make it through this, but with a mighty roar, the fire was suddenly gone. Immediately, she lunged out from behind the shield as Velandryn let it drop and shook his arms with manic abandon. She noticed the dragon rearing back in pain and a long spear sticking out of its side, and dove forward to end this fight and kill this dragon to make Skyrim safe again.

Velandryn let the burning shield slip from his fingers and almost sobbed in relief as the heat abated. He had trusted in his resistance to fire to save him, but he had underestimated dragon's breath. Now he had half-healed burns, soreness throughout his body, no magicka, and a headache from holding a ward in place on top of a physical shield. The dragon had shifted focus away again, and he was sorely tempted to clear the burned earth and simply press himself to the ground and wait for all of this to pass. The Nord woman Lydia was already back on the attack, though, so he drew his sword and followed her to where the dragon was menacing some guard who had been foolish enough to draw its ire. Saved our lives though, so good on you, brave dead guard. Then, he saw the face that was behind the light leather shield and his heart sank. Gods damn it all, Kenrik, you blighted brave fool.

The dragon was almost contemptuous with the blow that felled the boy. One huge winged claw smashed through the shield and sent him sprawling, and the dragon raised another to crush the life from the guard. Velandryn found himself running towards the dragon with a blade in his hand, and wondered what he planned to do. In front of him, Lydia had reached a great bleeding wound in the dragon's thigh, and drove her sword deep into the bloody flesh. Others were doing much the same, and Velandryn felt the momentum of the battle turning. The dragon had become sluggish and its blows lacked the precise lethality of earlier in the fight. It was moving less and did not even try to take to the air. When one of the Companions in his wolf-shaped armor climbed onto its back, raised a great two-handed sword, and cleaved a wing off of the body in five mighty strokes, Velandryn knew that the fight was all but done.

The dragon gave a sudden spasm and threw the Companion bodily from its back. He landed, but the dragon had risen to its feet again, and thrown its head back to breathe a great plume of fire into the sky. At this, Velandryn was overcome again with the sense of the dragon being wrong somehow. Of course it's wrong! Dragons are all dead, and then I have to deal with one twice! First at Helgen, then here—

Oh. Oh gods. Blessed Azura, no. It was not possible. But it was there. He had been staring at it this entire time. The dragon was mighty, to be sure, but mostly smooth and grey-green. At Helgen, the dragon had blotted out the sky, and its black spiky form had burned itself into his mind like one of those pitiful silhouettes against the walls of Helgen Keep. Here, the dragon's fire had burned men alive. At Helgen, it had turned them to ash as they fell to the ground. They aren't the same dragon. As the great beast was dying on the fields of Whiterun, Velandryn found himself looking to the skies again. How many are there? If one had been at Helgen, and another here, were they all across Skyrim, or perhaps Tamriel? Were the Ordinators-Repentant even now fighting dragons on the streets of Mournhold? How many? And where did they come from?

He was jolted out of his thoughts by another deafening sound from the dragon, this one a deep booming growl that seemed almost to convey speech. "Dovahkiin? NOOOOOOOO!" The dragon's final roar reverberated off of the watchtower and the plains, fading slowly as the great beast died. When Velandryn looked at the dragon—one of the dragons—he realized that it had died looking straight at him. The light was fading from its eyes, and its huge limbs relaxed in death. It was unnerving, staring at something so old and terrible. He saw something in the eyes, and stepped back, worried that there was enough life in the dragon for one final blow. But although he saw light, Mirmulnir did not move again.

He paused. That name, Mirmulnir. He knew it belonged to the dragon, proclaimed him 'Most Loyal of the Great Hunters', and he had won it when the men still dwelt in Far Atmora and the elves wept for the sin of Creation. How can I know that? He felt wind beneath his wings—I do not have wings—and saw the screams of the mortals as they sought to kill him. His fire licked over them – What is happening to me?—and they burned. He saw fire then, around him and on him. He saw himself, standing there, wreathed in nine hundred colors of the sun, and he saw himself, lying there, vanquished by the grey elf of the red hand.

He died, and he flowed into himself, and felt something within him. He recalled the words far beneath Bleak Falls Barrow, the epitaph of a fallen king, and knew their meaning. He saw them on the back of his eyelids, and mocked the crude human hands that had shaped it. They meant well, to raise words of honor in the tongue of their masters, but it was crude work, manling work. He knew the words though, and one in particular was pleasing to him. Whichever mortal had carved Fus had done a passable job, and the words resonance with him was pleasing. He thought on Fus and the power of force, so useful to showing the Joorre the power of the Dov. They cowered and knelt, and if they rose, Fus put them in their place.

Velandryn opened his eyes; he did not recall closing them. The survivors of the battle with the dragon were clustered around him, and he wondered why. Surely I was not the only one to fall. Then, he chanced to look at Mirmulnir. How long was I unconscious?

The dragon was no more. In its place lay a great skeleton, unnaturally clean given how recently it had been beneath flesh and blood. He found his voice. "What…what happened?"

A bellow came from the ring of watchers, and the huge blue-painted Nord strode forward. He had recovered one of his axes, and pointed it at Velandryn. "Elf. Speak Thu'um."

"What? What is thume?"How do you know of Thu'um, manling? He looked around him for help until he realized that among so many humans, he did not have a chance of reading their faces. He focused on a few. Irileth was confused and, unless he missed his guess, annoyed that something else had happened after bringing down the dragon. She could hold her face like a human, but her eyes couldn't hide anything from him. Lydia had wide eyes and a slightly open mouth; he thought that she might be surprised or upset. He spotted Kenrik, half his face scarred from battlefield healing and leaning on a spear; his eyes were so wide it was impossible to mistake his feeling for anything but excitement. Of course, the boy could just be feeling the rush of bringing down a dragon. He realized that the Nord was talking again.

"Not thume. Thu'um." The long 'oo' in the middle was punctuated with a glottal stop, it seemed. Velandryn gave thanks for his skill with tongues and mentally resigned himself to an impromptu lesson on whatever backwater dialect this Nord spoke and asked, "Very well, what is Thu'um?"

The big Nord pointed at the dragon. "Dovahzul. Thu'um, Nord Voice." He raised his voice and his wordless yell shook the earth. "Now you. Speak Thu'um."

He realized what the Nord was saying, and rage rose within him. "You want me to Shout? To be a Tongue?" The ancient High Kings of the Nords had been Tongues along with their fiercest warriors, and they had enslaved his people. Not since Nerevar slew the Ash-God-King Wulfarth-Shor at Red Mountain had a Tongue come to Morrowind. This Nord could do as he liked with his own shouting, but to demand this of him was an insult that would not be borne. He rose, ready to blister the Nord's ears with a demand that he stand down.

As he opened his mouth, the words he had prepared left him. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Something within him was stirring, and upon his bones the Thu'um the Nord had used still echoed. It was Thu'um only by courtesy, half-formed and wordless and befitting only the paltry mortal that had uttered it, but it was a challenge nonetheless, and challenge must not go unanswered. To back down was to be subservient, and he was Dov! He ruled here!

"FUS!"

The word bubbled up from deep within him, leaving emptiness behind. He could not even breathe in its wake, and had to put a hand on his chest as he threatened to fall. He realized that the watchers had gone silent, and looked up. The Nord had been knocked five paces back, but now was striding quickly towards him. He looked around for his sword, certain the painted barbarian was about to attack. The Nord stopped a pace away, however, and sunk down to one knee.

"Dovahkiin." Just the one word. The surrounding crowd seemed as confused as Velandryn. He looked at Lydia, but the roiling emotions on her face made her impossible to read. For Irileth, his use of the Shout seemed to have shocked her out of her annoyed glare. Kenrik was probably running out of space on his face for his eyes to get larger. The Nord stood. "Elf is Dovahkiin! Elf is Dragonborn!"

With that final word, chaos broke loose. Seemingly every Nord in the crowd began shouting all at once, and Lydia moved in to haul him bodily to his feet. "You are Dragonborn? And you did not think to tell us?"

"I don't know what Dragonborn is, and I certainly didn't know I was one!" He was trying to remain calm amidst the madness but failing miserably. He lowered his voice; the last thing he wanted was another one of those Shouts slipping out. "The dragon did something to me when it died; I saw through its eyes. That must be why I can Shout like that." He shuddered. "Believe me, I would not have chosen this." The distaste of being a Dunmer Tongue aside, he could still feel the dragon's mind rising within his again. He wanted these squabbling mortals to be quiet, and he knew that with just a few shouts, he could bowl them over and make them kneel. He forced that thought down. All he wanted was to figure out why this was happening.

Irileth approached, two of the Dragonsreach guard at her back. "Lydia, grab what you need. I don't know what's going on, but Hrun has explained a bit about this Dragonborn business. We're starting back to Whiterun this instant." She turned to Velandryn. "You keep your mouth shut until we figure out what's going on." He nodded, grateful to be leaving this place. The crowd stood aside to let them pass, the blue Nord bowing and many others giving him odd looks. The one he took particular notice of was the Altmer. Her masked face rose from where she was reattaching one of her goblin's legs to regard him. He glimpsed her eyes through the holes in her mask, and saw the dark joy there. A chill ran down his spine, and he turned away. Irileth took lead while Lydia and four other Dragonsreach guards surrounded Velandryn. Behind them, the crowd was still in turmoil, with many trying to break apart the dragon skeleton while others began leaving for Whiterun or some other destination. More were simply milling around, seemingly trying to figure out what had just happened. They are welcome to tell me once they figure it out.

As they got on their way, he approached the Housecarl. He had no problems with keeping his silence, but he needed to say this first. "Irileth."

Her eyes narrowed. "I said quiet. I don't want—"

"Listen." He kept his voice low, but the urgency in it bled through. "This wasn't the same dragon."

"What?" He knew that she understood; her eyes gave her away. She simply didn't want to believe.

"This dragon is not the one from Helgen. That one was black, spiked, bigger than this." He was fairly certain that Lydia could hear them, but he didn't care. "I'll stop talking now, but you needed to know. This isn't over yet."

As they moved on down the road, he was left alone with his thoughts. He had taken knowledge from the dragon, and it had given him the ability to read the inscription from Bleak Falls Barrow. The most troubling part of that was that he could not recall the writing now, nor would he have been able to beforehand. Somehow the dragon had wrested the knowledge form within his mind. Or, something kept the memory safe even from me until I had his knowledge and could make use of it. He recalled the tales ofHouse Dagoth, and how those descended from its ancient bloodlines had been tormented with nightmares and waking visons. He had not missed the way that nearly every Nord on the battlefield had looked at him with new eyes after learning that he was Dragonborn. He just wished he knew what it was that they saw.

And what am I?

You are Dovahkiin, mortal. Enjoy it while you can. Alduin is returned, and your soul belongs to him.

Elsewhere

"Truly? A dragon?"

"Yes my lord. He says that it destroyed some town in the south."

"Well done. There are few of those proud beasts left. Let us hope that it decides to come this way. I would relish the chance to have a dragon under my control."

"Ah, my lord, there is one more thing. Vakken was investigating reports of our lesser kin in Eastmarch when he was caught by the sun. Fortunately, he remembered an old crypt near there, and took refuge. Dimhallow, it is called."

"I presume you are telling me this for a reason? If Vakken wishes merely to report that he is unable to tell when dawn is breaking, I will gladly remove the eyes he seems not to have any use for."

"Ah, yes my lord. Begging your pardon my lord, but what he claims, if true—"

"Speak, fool! Whatever it is, it cannot be worse than having to listen to your prattle!"

"My lord, he found sealing magic within the crypt. Ancient and powerful magic that he dared not break. It was hidden subtly, and only a collapsed wall revealed a portion of the array, otherwise it would simply have hidden its door away and been unknowable. He claims it exceeds any of its type he has ever seen"

"What magic is this, that one of my court fears it so? Is Vakken growing fearful?"

"My lord, it was vampiric magic, sealed with the blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour!"

…

"My lord? What shall we—"

"Assemble the court, ready yourself to travel, and send for Vakken at once. It is customary to reward those who find things you have misplaced, is it not?"

"Yes, my lord."

A/N A quick note about the Thu'um and Old Clan Nords. Prior to the release of Skyrim, a major part of the flavor for the province was the conflict between the Imperialized Nords who embraced Talos and the new gods, and the old ones who held to the Nordic Pantheon and revered the quasi-totemic spirits of Atmora. This was eventually merged into the Stormcloak Rebellion, but the notion of the Old Holds is canonical enough that I feel comfortable including clans of backwoods Nords who are on the 'barbaric' side of the Nord civilization scale. They hold to the old gods, go nearly naked in blizzards, fight like madmen, some can use a rudimentary version of the Thu'um, and the wise among them know a lot about the history and legends of their areas. They won't be a huge part of this story, but they are a taste of the kind of interesting lore that was missing from much of Skyrim.