Fredas 22nd of Last Seed 4E201 Evening

Balgruuf the Greater

"You heard the summons. What else could it mean?"

I never thought I would willingly wish for a return to the tedium of daily life. Of taxes and tariffs and petty farmer disputes. By Talos, I'd even prefer the veiled threats I've gotten from Ulfric these past few months. Politics, I can handle. I've years of experience dealing with diplomats, insults, and compromises. But this week of dragons and barrows and... It's all so overwhelming. I thought I might have had a reprieve when a scout returned with news of the dragon's demise, and the survival of Irileth, and of Uthgerd and Talao. I'd dismissed the rest of his report as a flight of fancy, or a hallucination, until...

"The Greybeards..."

I could still feel their call reverberating in some deep part of my being. The Voice is a blessing ingrained in all Nords, though it is something that takes years and longer to manifest. A gift from Kynareth herself. Or so the stories say. I made the pilgrimage of the Seven Thousand Steps once in my youth, but I had already too many commitments to consider studying under their tutelage. Nor do I believe I would have had the temperament for such training. I'm too overfond of speaking when it suits me.

"We were just talking about you. My brother needs a word with you."

And now, the moment of truth. Hrongar sends Talao and Uthgerd to me. I'm eager to hear my suspicions confirmed. Strangely, the two do not seem as though they'd just slain a dragon. Or perhaps not so strange, considering. To be sure, they are both covered in grime and ash, exhausted and triumphant, but it's an undertone to a sense of... bewilderment. Confusion and perhaps a bit of fear. The Breton in particular looks to be in distress, as though he can't focus on any one thing in particular.

I decide to feign ignorance, keen to hear a firsthand account. "So... What happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

"The tower was destroyed," Uthgerd says, "but we killed the dragon. I damn near cut its head off."

I'd think her bragging if my scout hadn't said the same. "I knew I could count on Irileth. But there must be more to it than that." An awkward pause. Neither seem willing to talk about it for some reason. "Did something... strange happen when the dragon died?"

"...Aye. When the dragon died... I absorbed some kind of power from it." To my eternal surprise, it was not Uthgerd who spoke, but Talao. Everyone in the room is stunned. Everyone here knows what it means.

"So it's true. The Greybeards were summoning you. You're... Dragonborn."

I can count on one hand the number of times my hall has been completely silent but for the crackling of the hearth fire. It always seems louder than the usual chatter somehow. It never lasts for long. Everyone explodes into chatter at once, cries of confusion, anger, "Impossible!"

"Pardon me, Jarl," Talao manages to make himself heard over the commotion "But how is that possible?"

"Well, tell me what you know of the legend of the Dragonborn, Talao. You are the storyteller here."

"I... Well... Dragonborn is a term used to describe the Septim dynasty of the Empire. A blessing from Akatosh, that those whose veins flowed with the blood of dragons remained in covenant with the god, beginning with St. Alessia's founding of the First Empire, and ending with the death of Martin Septim at the hands of Mehrunes Dagon at the end of the Third Era. Those are the documented 'Dragonborn Emperors.'"

"True, but spare us the history lesson." He puzzles me. He's become increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation goes on. "Why are you skirting the issue, Talao?"

"I'm not! I just... The Dragonborn also refers to a warrior, or rather, warriors of ancient Nordic legend who could... Absorb the souls of dragons slain in battle, gaining their knowledge and power. But I recall no pact-making, nor am I descended from the Septim bloodline! I'm not even..."

"What, not a warrior?" I ask heatedly.

"...a Nord," he finishes lamely.

I lean back, looking at Talao over steepled fingers. Why he continued to deny the obvious baffles me; what else could explain the spectacle earlier, or the call? "The Greybeards are masters of 'The Way of the Voice.' They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World. The Dragonborn," I raise my hand to stifle any objections, "is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice - the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. IF you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use that gift."

My brother, ever excitable, interjects. "Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the Voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in... Centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned, when he was still Talos of Atmora."

"Calm yourself, Hrongar. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being this, what, Dragonborn." Shor's bones, does Proventus never keep counsel to himself?

"Nord nonsense? Why, you puffed up, ignorant..." Hrongar looks angry enough to tear Avenicci's head clean from his shoulders. And I must say, I mirror the sentiment. "These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

While seeing Proventus cower before the rage of my brother is entertaining, it would be poor form to allow his anger to get the better of him. Especially with guests present. "Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci."

For once, Proventus wisely backs down. "I meant no disrespect, of course." Liar. "It's just... What do these Greybeards want with him?"

"That's the Greybeards' business. Not ours." Everyone was looking at Talao now. He still seems unsure, but far less uncomfortable than before. I suppose, as a bard, he is more than used to being the center of attention. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they, of all people, think you are Dragonborn, who are we to argue?"

"I suppose, one way or another, they'll have answers I need to hear. I hope. It's as though..." Talao shakes his head. "Forgive me, I'd prefer not to speak of this now."

"I understand. One last thing, Talao. The dragon; was it the same one you saw at Helgen?"

He shakes his head. "Nay. Mirm... This dragon was a sort of bronze color. The one at Helgen was pitch-black, with glowing red eyes."

So it is as we feared then. One dragon could be coincidence, but two different dragons? "My thanks. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you. But, before you do..." I stand, and descend the steps. "You've done a great service for me and my city. Both of you. By my right as Jarl, I name you both Thanes of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant." Uthgerd seems astonished, and Talao nods, as though perhaps he expected something. "I regret that the matters of your housecarls and badges of office may take a few days to settle, but your actions are deserving of all I can give you; it would not feel right to delay a reward for any reason. You both have gone above and beyond what was required of you, and I speak for all of Whiterun when I say that we are honored to have you as Thanes of our city."

"I... I know not what to say my Jarl," Uthgerd stutters. "Thank you."

Talao inclines his head respectfully. "Passing gracious, my Jarl, I humbly accept."

A wide smile crosses my face. "Now come! Enough of this heavy talk. We have this day slain a dragon, and must celebrate properly! Let's to the Bannered Mare, before Irileth returns and tries to keep me away from the festivities. All hail Uthgerd and Talao, slayers of dragons!"

For such a small group, the cheer is strong and vigorous. Even Farengar joins us as we walk down the steps to leave the hall. Uthgerd seems proud enough, but underneath Talao's cheerful face, I can see the undercurrent of uncertainty lingers. For good reason. A Dragonborn, in this day and age. I'm sure this is what I sensed in him our first meeting, this destiny of his. But the question lingers; why bestow such a gift upon a mortal now, of all times? To slay one dragon? No. Something far greater lurks over the horizon. Talao knows it, and I know it.

Ah, well. Heavy thoughts for another day. Tonight, I plan to drink as much as I can before Irileth spoils my fun. I see little enough of my people these days. If my hangover is as strong as Vignar Gray-Mane's, I'll consider the night a success. And, hopefully, distract myself for at least one night.

A/N: Last "canon" chapter for a while. Slight hints to the nature of Dragon Souls in this fic are being dropped, but any true explanation will be quite far off still.

Jarl Balgruuf adheres to the Imperial pantheon of the Eight Divines, though it is known that he also secretly worships Talos. But as a good politician, he must put up a front for the Aldmeri.

Uthgerd was glanced over for reason. Namely, that reason being that Balgruuf was way more interested in Talao at this point in time. For those who question why Balgruuf entrusted Talao with his task... well, why does he trust any protagonist with it? Doesn't matter what kind of character you roll, or how you appear, you'll be sent on a mission for merely having survived Helgen. So, there must be another factor at play. Just instincts.