Chapter 3

(Sun's Height, 4E 225)

The sun rose slowly, breaking through the thin clouds in the upper atmosphere around High Hrothgar. A lone figure sat, immobile, with only a woolen robe to keep him warm as high winds whipped around the peaks of the summit. Not far away, perched on a curved stone wall carved with glyphs in the dragon language, a large, ancient grey dragon observed the figure quietly, without judgement.

Though it was mid-summer, the warmth of the sun did not penetrate the bone-chilling cold here at the top of the Throat of the World, but the figure remained still, seemingly immune to the elements.

At length, the dragon shook himself and spoke.

"You have done well in your studies, Dovahkiir," Paarthurnax praised. "Your mastery over meditation has come far."

The figure seemed to become aware of his surroundings and stretched before getting to his feet.

"I had a lot of incentive, Master Paarthurnax," Tavian chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the bristles of what his father used to call a 'five-o-clock shadow' on his cheeks. I need to shave again, he thought obliquely. "Without a dragon soul to help me explore the meanings of the rotmulag, I've had to do things the hard way."

He had been at High Hrothgar for four years, now, and had learned much about the history of the monastery, the origins of the thu'um, and how to properly use it in respect for the gods and in defense of his own life. But he still only knew a handful of Words. The Greybeards adamantly refused to gift him with their knowledge of other words, saying he must discover them for himself.

He stretched again, feeling muscles protest from having sat in the cold for so long. Judging from the height of the sun at this altitude, it was only about five hours past midnight, and he had come up here at two hours past. The Greybeards probably assumed he was still asleep in his bed at the monastery. Well, except for Master Borri, he amended to himself. He always seems to know when I'm up to something.

Kindred spirits, quipped that dry voice in his mind, before Akatosh withdrew once more, and Tavian chuckled quietly to himself.

"Something amuses you?" Paarthurnax asked, mildly curious.

"Your father has a very wry sense of humor," Tavian grinned. Only to the venerable Master of the Greybeards had he admitted hearing that quiet voice in his mind.

Paarthurnax dipped his head in acknowledgement, but said nothing in reply. Tavian turned to look at the rest of the Throat of the World, still rising scores of feet above him.

"Has anyone climbed to the very tip-top?" he wondered.

"Only two of whom I am aware," the dragon replied. "Your parents. Your mother knew there was an artifact there that she wanted. She could have used her ring to carry her there, but insisted on climbing, instead. I believe she mentioned it would be 'more gratifying' that way. I do not pretend to understand the motivations of joore."

"Did she find the artifact?" Tavian asked. He couldn't ever remember seeing it on display in any of the houses his parents owned. Something as significant as that would surely have been noted before now.

"She did not," Paarthurnax replied, "and she was both…vosotivaal ahrk paazrahgol…disappointed and indignant." He chuckled. "I remember your father asked her if had not, perhaps been tozein…mistaken. I did not realize before then, how rahgron – angry – your mother could become." He rumbled again in mirth.

"Maybe she was looking in the wrong place," Tavian mused out loud. "Though there's not a lot of places one could hide an artifact at the top of a mountain." A thought occurred to him. "Unless they used magic to hide it!"

"You would know more about the arcane than I, young Dovahkiir," Paarthurnax allowed, shaking himself in a dragon's way of shrugging.

"I've got to take a look," Tavian said, determinedly. He bowed to Paarthurnax as three other dragons flew in from differing compass points, converging on the summit. They were here for the lessons in the Way of the Voice, which Paarthurnax had taken upon himself to teach them. They settled on the nearby outcroppings of rock and stared at him curiously, but did not speak to him.

Tavian turned to study the peak behind him, picking his way up to the top with his eyes, before making a physical attempt. Yes. If he proceeded carefully, there was a way to get there.

In spite of the frigid temperatures and the biting wind, Tavian did not feel as cold as he should have done, having sat immobile on packed snow for three hours. The meditations he had mastered had given him the knowledge of how to control and adjust his body's needs and functions, keeping him from freezing to death.

Two hours later found him at the highest point of the summit he could feasibly climb. It rose another ten or twelve feet above his head, but the tip was smooth basalt, with no purchase for fingers or boots to grip. Sighing, he looked around. The sun was well up in the sky, now, illuminating the land around him.

All of Skyrim spread out below him. In the near distance, if he peered hard enough, he could just make out Dragonsreach to the west. Far to the north was a silvery ribbon that was the Sea of Ghosts. To the south, he could just see, above the ridge of the Jerall Mountains, the tall, slender spire that was the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil, and he marveled at just how tall that particular landmark must be, for it to be visible from the Throat of the World. The vastness of the world below him, which showed only geographical features without political borders, humbled him. He suddenly felt very small and insignificant.

You're not here to sightsee, he reprimanded himself, giving his head a shake as if to clear his mind. Let's see what we can find here.

Part of the last four years at High Hrothgar had been spent under Master Miraak's tutelage, helping him to finally grasp and understand how magic worked.

"Your mother is a fine woman," he told Tavian, "and one of the most talented mages in an age, but she is still your mother. As such, her methods of teaching you are biased and soft."

"What do you mean, Master?" Tavian had asked.

"She is biased, because she understands magic one way, and that is the way she teaches. But there are many ways to come into the arcane; not all ways work for each individual." He gave a ghost of a smile. "And she is soft because she is your mother, and is not as hard on you as she needs to be for you to learn. I will be neither biased nor soft. You will learn from me, or I will know the reason."

Tavian had gulped, but had nodded. In the most secret part of his heart, he truly did want to learn magic. And under Master Miraak's supervision, he thrived.

Now, he cast a Dispel Magic, as powerful as he could make it. There was a bright flash of light, and a sword was revealed, jutting out from between two boulders, where it had been jammed.

"Now why didn't Mom just Dispel the magic?" he wondered aloud to himself.

She didn't know the spell at that time, came that dry voice in his mind. The School of Mysticism was lost for a couple of centuries until your mother helped to rediscover it. She never came back here to claim the artifact.

Tavian studied the blade. It looked evil. Radiating an aura of dread, the black blade held an inner glow as red as blood. It was huge, as well, divided into two separate cutting edges that resembled the pincers of a large beetle. Tavian knew it would be heavy, if he attempted to pull it from the rocks. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

What IS that thing? he asked in his mind.

It's called Dawnfang…or Duskfang, Akatosh told him. Right now, it's Dawnfang.

Right now? Tavian wondered.

It changes its appearance, based on the time of day, the Chief of the Nine explained. And it requires blood to become fully charged, in order to do more damage.

Tavian gulped. I don't think I should take it, he faltered.

If you don't, Akatosh replied, with a tone in his voice that implied a shrug, someone else will. You can always put it away for safekeeping, as your father has done with many things.

This was true. Tavian remembered clearly sneaking into his mother's private chamber at the College once, with his best friend Aethir, the Bosmer son of Winterhold's Master Wizard Azura and her husband Enthir. Aethir had palmed the key from his mother without her knowledge, and the two had slipped into the private study above the Arch-Mage's quarters by activating the portal globe at the top of the stairs behind her desk.

"Wow!" Aethir exclaimed. "Look at all this great stuff!"

Shelves and racks were set against the walls, between which were mannequins in armor and robes, and weapon plaques mounted with all manner of arms. An axe with wolves' heads for blades rested on one plaque, while a sword with a warm, cleansing light rested on another. Banners of each of the Holds of Skyrim adored the walls above them. One shelf held a display of various masks, while another on the other side of the room held several gem-tipped ornaments shaped like dragon claws.

On one table a display had been set up to hold a set of books bound with black leather covers.

"Those are the Black Books of Hermaeus Mora," Aethir explained. "These are just copies that Mom made, of course. Master Neloth in Solstheim has the originals."

"Are they dangerous?" Tavian asked, intimidated. He had heard a watered-down version of his parents' adventures in Solstheim.

Aethir shook his head. "Nah," he told his friend. "When your Ma and Pa were over there, they managed to banish Mora. The Books don't work without his influence."

Aethir was the same age as Tavian, but he was taller than the Imperial boy, even at ten years old. He seemed older than his years, as well, and Tavian concluded it was probably due to who his parents were, and where he lived. Tavian adored him.

"What's that over there, on that table?" he asked, pointing to several beautifully colored oblong stones that glowed with their own inner light.

"I'm not sure…" Aethir frowned.

"They're paragon gems," a new voice offered, and the two boys turned to see Aethir's father, Enthir, step out of the shadows where he had been observing them. He had seen them come in, of course, but they hadn't noticed him sitting quietly in the corner reading an ancient text.

Aethir gulped and Tavian blanched.

"Uh…hi, Dad…" Aethir stammered. "Uh…I can explain…"

"I'm sure you can," Enthir drawled, holding out his hand. Sheepishly, Aethir put his mother's key into it. "Now, I think you two have seen enough," he said severely. "Aethir, I don't ever want to hear about you taking your mother's key again."

Aethir felt a glimmer of hope that he might not be in as much trouble as he thought he was. His father had merely said he didn't want to hear about Aethir taking the key again. Just to be certain, he put on his most pathetic face and voice and asked, "You're not going to tell her, are you Dad?"

Enthir paused, and those who knew him well would have seen him struggle not to smile and burst with pride. "I don't think we need to get your mother involved in this," he finally said. Aethir breathed a sigh of relief. "But I want you two to promise me, right here and right now, that you will never come in here again unsupervised. Is that understood?" He scowled his best scowl for emphasis. It worked.

"Yes, Dad," Aethir mumbled.

"Yes, Master Enthir," Tavian promised.

And they were as good as gold. At least, for the next several weeks.

"If I take this sword," Tavian thought out loud now, "I could give it to Mom, and she could put it with all her other stuff. I mean, she kind of knew it was here in the first place. She just couldn't find it."

There is also the possibility that it wasn't here then, the voice in his mind said.

"What?" Tavian blinked. "How could it…I mean, you just said she couldn't find it because she didn't know the spell."

Time is not linear, Dovahkiir, Akatosh explained. Many times, it loops back onto itself. Where it touches, you have a nexus where something can cross over from one reality into another.

"I don't understand that, sir," Tavian said truthfully.

Nor do I expect you to, the Dragon God of Time soothed. Just know this: many artifacts in history are making their way to Skyrim. The reasons for this are unnecessary for you to know at this point. All you need to accept is that it is happening. And the best way to safeguard these artifacts, to keep them from those who would misuse them, is to secure them away.

"In Mom's study?" Tavian said doubtfully. "No offense, sir, but Aethir and I were able to get into that place fairly easily."

There will be a better place for them in the near future, Akatosh advised him. You and your sister must work together to ensure they are not misused.

The presence withdrew, and Tavian shivered, in spite of his new-found ability to resist the elements, because it wasn't the wind and cold that unnerved him.

The trip from High Hrothgar to Whiterun took Tavian two days. His training had finally been completed, and all the Masters agreed there was nothing more they could teach him.

"You have accomplished in four years what has taken a few of us a lifetime to master," Arngeir had told him. "Part of this is because of your dragon blood."

"Begging your pardon, Master," Tavian demurred, "but there's still a lot I don't know."

"Indeed," Master Wulfgar said in his mind. "But what would happen to man's quest for knowledge if we told you everything we know?"

This was small comfort to the young Imperial, even as he realized the old Greybeard was teasing him. The two had become quite close during his time at the monastery.

"But I only know a handful of Shouts," Tavian protested. "How many are there? How will I know if a word I find is a rotmulag, or just an ordinary word?"

"Explore the places your father found in his search," Master Miraak advised. "There are Word Walls, similar to the one upon which Paarthurnax perches, scattered all over Skyrim."

"Simply remember that all Shouts are made up of three words," Master Arngeir added. "You may even consult with your father, if you feel the need. But finding them for yourself would be a better test of your skills."

"I'm barely sixteen," Tavian pointed out. "My Mom, in particular, isn't going to be happy if I tell her I want to travel all over Skyrim to find these Word Walls."

"You will find the means to make it happen," Master Borri assured him. "Perhaps by engaging in a career where travel is necessary."

There's not many of those, Tavian thought privately, unless I want to become a Bard, like Lucia. And as his sister had pointed out bluntly, several times, Tavian couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. His lack of instrumental skills also hampered that idea.

"All that you must do for now, young Dovahkiir," Master Miraak counseled, "is to return to your family. Enjoy your time with them. Allow the future to unfold as it will."

Tavian nodded and bowed to the four old men. "Thank you, Masters," he said solemnly. "I'll remember what you've taught me. And I'll come back to visit."

They inclined their heads, then separated to return to their duties about the monastery.

Once more, Tavian felt bereft and alone, as he had when he first came to High Hrothgar. This time, however, it was because he was leaving, and he didn't know when he would return. High Hrothgar wasn't his home, but neither was Heljarchen any longer. By the laws of Skyrim, he was a man, now, and that meant he would need to find his own way in the world. But first, he'd need to find his way to Whiterun, and that thought made him grin as he descended the Seven Thousand Steps.

Whiterun was the same as it had always been. It was comforting to realize that some things never changed. As he approached the city, he paused a moment to drink it in. Some of his earliest memories were here. Most of his growing-up had been at Heljarchen Hall in the Pale, but much of his early life had been right here in the capital of Whiterun Hold. Not much was different now. There were different guards at the gate, of course. The one he remembered most was Balder, who always had a smile, a kind word and a sweet or two on him for any of the children who passed by his post. Balder had retired, and had gone to live with his daughter in Shor's Stone.

The ringing of a hammer on steel from Adrianne's smithy was another familiar aspect of Whiterun. As long as he could remember, the Imperial woman had worked the forge in rain or shine. She smiled and waved at him now as he passed by. The lines in her face were deeper, and the woman's mousey-brown hair had gone completely grey. But her grip on her tools was still strong, though she tended to rest more often than she used to; the cane she used to help her walk was leaning against the tanning frame.

As he passed by, Ulfberth War-bear came out of the shop with a tray loaded with fruit, cheese and a couple mugs of ale. He set them on the workbench and pulled a couple of chairs closer, then went to help Adrianne come to lunch. He also smiled and waved at Tavian, who returned the gesture before heading up the street to Breezehome.

Tavian's father, the Dragonborn, joked that this was actually 'Breezehome Two', since the first building, which had stood for many years, had been reduced to splinters and ashes during the Last Great War.

"At least I get to build it from the ground up this time," he'd said wryly, supervising the construction, which Tavian didn't remember. He was too little at the time. But the home retained the same foundation footprint, and if there were some interesting improvements that the citizens of Whiterun had never seen before, such as water pipes run to the interior from the underground aquifer, and a privy that emptied itself into the sewers under the city at the push of a lever, Tavian never thought about it. They had always been there.

He knocked on the door, and there was a chatter of childish screams from inside before a very harried-looking Erik opened the door.

"Tavian!" he exclaimed. "Thank the gods you're here!"

Immediately, the younger Imperial was concerned. "Is something wrong?" he asked, worried. "Where's Sofie?"

"She had to go to Morthal to help someone," Erik said. "I'm here with the kids, and I honestly don't know how she copes! Rikard wants an orange. We don't have any oranges, but he wants one. Maisie just got into a flour sack, and…well…you can see for yourself…" His voice trailed off as he gestured inside, pulling Tavian with him.

Flour covered the kitchen area, and dust hung in the air. Rikard was bawling, "I wanna orng!" while Maisie sneezed several times in a row. Snot blew from her nose, mixing with the flour on her face. Tavian felt his gorge rise; it looked disgusting.

"I'm not really the right person—" Tavian began, but Erik turned a desperate, pleading look on him.

"PLEASE, Tavian!" he begged. "You have to help me! I can't let Sofie find out I can't even handle two children! She'd never let me live it down! These are my kids, for divine's sake! I have to be able to look after them!"

Blowing out an exasperated breath, Tavian nodded. "Okay. First of all, put out the fire in the hearth and the oven. The flour dust could explode. Open the doors and windows and let some fresh air blow the dust away. I'll take Rikard down to Carlotta's stall and see what she has. It'll get him out of the way while you clean up Maisie. When we get back, we'll settle them for a nap and clean the kitchen up."

"Thank you," Erik breathed, with a sincerity that came from his heart. "Thank you! Rikard! Uncle Tavian is going to take you downtown. Be good for him, okay?"

The three-year-old toddled over to Tavian and grabbed his leg, hugging it.

"Unca Tayv!" he burbled. "C'n I getta orng?"

"We'll see what Carlotta has, okay, big guy?" Tavian nodded, and lifted the child up. Surprisingly, it wasn't the effort he expected it to be. Rikard was large for his age, and solidly built. But Tavian had been training physically as well as mentally for the last four years, and found the child to be no burden at all.

The marketplace was busy this afternoon, as everyone milled around, buying meat from Anoriath or produce from Carlotta. Several huddled around the Grey-Mane's jewelry stand, though the matriarch, Fralia, had passed away several years before. Her husband, Eorlund, had succumbed to the cancer that Tavian's mother had cured nearly two decades before; it had come back with a vengeance, and the old man was too proud to say anything until it was too late. With the Last Great War a distant memory, and the worship of Talos in Skyrim firmly established, Avulstein and Thorald had returned to run the Skyforge, and their sister, Olfina, now ran the jewelry stand. The two children she had had with Jon Battle-Born assisted her.

"Good afternoon, Mistress Valencia," Tavian greeted her, shifting Rikard to his other shoulder as the child craned his head this way and that. "I was wondering if you have any oranges today?" He rolled his eyes towards his nephew, who was still gawking at all the people in the marketplace.

Carlotta smiled. Her brown hair, like Adrianne's had gone to grey, and she was a bit more stoop-shouldered than Tavian remembered. But her eyes were bright as she replied, "You're in luck! I just got a fresh shipment from Cyrodiil this morning!" She ducked under her booth and rummaged in a sack, pulling out several and placing them on the counter.

"Pick one, Rikard," Tavian grinned, slinging the child under his arm so he could reach the fruit. Rikard grabbed one and crowed, happy once more. He shoved it into Tavian's face.

"Peel it!" he demanded as his uncle paid for the fruit. Carlotta laughed as Tavian jerked his head back reflexively.

"Okay, okay," he agreed. "Let's go up to the Gildergreen and you can eat it there."

It wasn't as though he was avoiding heading back to Breezehome, he justified to himself. It wasn't as if he was leaving all the clean-up to his brother-in-law.

Maisie is going to need a bath, he rationalized, and if I go in and start sweeping, that's only going to kick up more dust. She'll only get dirty again.

They found a bench under the fragrant tree that was an iconic symbol of Whiterun. The original tree had been destroyed during the Last Great War, but to the wonder and delight of all, several shoots sprang up from the blackened stump, and as they grew, they twined together, forming a single trunk that encased the ruin of its parent. Every year since then, the new Gildergreen grew at a rapid pace. In one short decade, it was nearly as tall as the former tree had been, and the city of Whiterun was once more a destination for pilgrims of Kynareth.

"Whazzat?" Rikard asked with a mouthful of orange, pointing to the Companions' meadhall.

Tavian was surprised. The boy had lived all his life in Whiterun and he didn't know about Jorrvaskr? Didn't Eric and Sofie take their children around town with them?

"That's Jorrvaskr," he told the boy. "That's where your Uncle Alesan lives when he's in town."

"C'n we see Uncle Als?"

"Well, I don't know if he's there today," Tavian cautioned. "He might be out somewhere."

"Wanna see Unca Als!" Rikard insisted, and Tavian sighed. He could see why Erik was having so much trouble with the boy.

"Rikard," he said sternly, "you can't have everything you want. I told you Alesan might not be home."

A thundercloud passed over Rikard's little face. "Wanna. See. Unca. Als!" the boy said, his voice getting louder with each word. The orange fell from his hand, forgotten in the wind-up of a melt-down.

"RIKARD!" Tavian yelled back, and the child was stunned into silence as the ground trembled slightly beneath the bench upon which they sat. Several passersby stopped and stared, and Tavian was suddenly embarrassed. Lowering his voice, he smiled to assure the child that everything was fine. "I'm sorry, big guy," he apologized. "When you're done with your orange, we'll go see if Alesan is home."

He found the child's fruit on the pavement under the bench and brushed it off. A few moments later, Rikard offered what was left of it to his uncle, having had enough. Tavian took it, and when the boy wasn't looking, chucked it into the cow pen of the Grey-Mane's estate. He took his nephew by a very sticky hand and walked him up the stairs to Jorrvaskr, pulled the door open and stepped inside.

"Are we recruiting children now?" a Dunmer asked with a sneer, looking up from the table in the center of the room.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Athis," a Nord in wolf's-head armor advised. "That's Alesan's brother and nephew." He stood and came over to the two in the doorway. "Alesan isn't here right now," he told Tavian.

"I rather thought so, Harbinger," Tavian nodded, "but someone—" he jiggled Rikard's hand, "—seemed to think he was here and wanted to visit."

Vilkas crouched down so he was eye-level with Rikard. "Your uncle isn't here, little whelp," he said kindly. "But we'll let him know you stopped by. Here, take a look at this!" He pulled a leather helmet off a nearby table and distracted the boy by giving it to him to play with.

"Wish I'd thought of that a few moments ago," Tavian muttered ruefully.

"I wondered what that was," Vilkas grinned. "It's not supposed to rain today. The clouds aren't right for it. Yet I could swear I heard thunder." He rose and clapped Tavian on the shoulder. "So, you're taking after your old man, eh?"

"I'm still learning," Tavian admitted. "I have a long way to go, and I'm not sure how I'm going to get there."

"Oh?" Vilkas queried. He led the way over to a couple of log chairs set to one side of the main hall and invited the Imperial to sit.

Tavian blew out an exasperated sigh. "The Greybeards have said they can't – or won't – teach me any further. I have to go the rest of the way on my own. I need to find Word Walls, and see if I can learn anything from them. But—"

"But?" the Harbinger prompted, as he caught Rikard up in a bear-hug and tickled the boy's stomach to prevent him from running off on his own.

"I'm sure my dad could tell me where they are," Tavian said slowly. "But I get the feeling I'm supposed to go by myself. Like that's part of the journey of discovery. At least, that's what Master Wulfgar once told me."

"I see," Vilkas nodded. "Well, I wouldn't advise going alone," he cautioned. "While Skyrim is safer than it was before the War, it's still a dangerous place to go wandering around in. Your father wouldn't thank me if I advised you to go off on your own."

"My mother wouldn't thank you, either," Tavian chuckled.

"I'm more afraid of her than I am your father!" Vilkas laughed. "Have you considered joining the Companions? We'd be glad to have you here."

Tavian blinked. "No," he replied honestly. "I never really thought about that. I mean, I'm honored you think I'd fit in here, but…"

"But…?"

Tavian sighed and ran a hand through his long red hair, the same color as his mother's. Only after doing so did he realize his hand was still sticky with orange juice. He frowned. "The Companions are a well-respected company," he continued carefully. "But they've always seemed like the kind of group that my older brother belongs to. Like it was his path, not mine." He shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it any better than that."

Vilkas nodded in understanding. "I think you explained it just fine," he said. "The Companions aren't for everyone. And if you have doubts about whether you'd fit in here, well…" He gave a mirthless snort. "Perhaps it's better that you don't try to force yourself into a place where you don't feel you belong."

"That's my problem," Tavian said morosely. "I don't feel like I belong anywhere right now."

Vilkas reached over and patted his shoulder again. "You'll find your way," he said confidently. "Just give yourself time. Now, I think you'd better get the little man home. He looks worn out." He nodded towards Rikard, who had finally settled himself on the floor, with the leather helmet covering his head.

Tavian chuckled and carefully slipped the head gear off the sleeping child, handing it back to Vilkas. "Sorry about the orange juice," he apologized.

Vilkas laughed quietly. "That's not the worst thing that ever stained this helmet," he grinned.