Of Lightning and Blood Chapter 7 - Goodbyes and New Beginnings, an elder scroll series fanfic

The heat of the forge clings to my skin as I step into the cool air of Whiterun, the breeze instantly sweeping away the warmth. My cloak flutters lightly in the wind as I instinctively rest my hand on the hilt of my gladius. The sword is familiar, but it's not quite right anymore. It's a relic, something that has served its purpose, now it's only a reminder of what's to come. I've ordered a new sword, a proper weapon that will match the armor the blacksmith is working on. She said it would take a week to finish, but I can't shake the feeling that a week is far too long. The road ahead is already clear in my mind, and the anticipation makes the wait seem unbearable.

I take a slow breath, letting the cold air settle in my lungs as I tighten my grip on the gladius. It's a solid sword, but it's not mine—not in the way the new one will be. I'm ready for it, ready to move forward, but I have no choice but to wait. The blacksmith's words echo in my mind: a week. It's a week I'll have to fill with something else.

The forge fades behind me as I begin walking, my pace steady. My thoughts wander for a moment, back to the promise of the new gear. The armor will be custom, the sword an extension of my own hand, and both will offer the protection I need for what's coming. But for now, the gladius and hastily matched armor are my only equipment, and I can only wait. The thought of Dragonsreach brings me back to the present. There's no time to waste. I have a purpose today, and it leads me toward the Jarl.

I pull my cloak tighter around me as the cold Whiterun air nips at my skin. The sound of the forge fades behind me, replaced by the busy hum of the market. My hand still rests on the gladius at my side, the familiar weight grounding me as I make my way through the bustling streets. The blacksmith's words echo in my mind: a week. Just a week until the armor and sword will be ready. It's almost within reach, but not quite. Patience is something I'm not good at, especially with the road ahead already so clear.

As I walk, the sound of laughter and clinking mugs reaches my ears, cutting through the noise of the market. I glance up, following the sound, and spot the Companions Hall high on the hill, overlooking the marketplace. Aela's face flashes in my mind. I wonder, just for a moment, what would it take to court her? The thought lingers longer than I'd like before I shake it off.

This isn't the time for distractions. The Companions will still be here when my work is done.

With a firm step, I refocus on the path ahead. Dragonsreach awaits, and I've come here for something else. Magic. The chance to learn, to grow stronger.

I glance up at Dragonsreach looming ahead, its towering walls cutting into the sky. This is where the future starts to unfold—where I can push beyond mortal limits. The Jarl's court waits, and with it, the chance to learn what I need to survive in this world. Magic, not just swords or steel, will be one of the keys to my future.

I run a hand over the gladius, feeling its worn grip again, and I can almost imagine the new sword, the new armor, how they'll feel once they're ready. I can wait. But right now, it's magic that calls. Farengar's tutelage is the next step.

Each step I take brings me closer, and with it, the weight of what I'm about to do. It's not just a simple request—I'm asking for power. To study under Farengar, to learn magic, is to take a step into a world that could elevate me beyond what I can accomplish with a sword alone.

I adjust the gladius at my side, but I know it's only a small part of the path I need to walk. The promise of the new armor, the new sword—those are waiting, but this is about something bigger. I step into the great hall of Dragonsreach, the familiar weight of its stone walls pressing down on me. The court is lively as usual, with nobles and advisors murmuring amongst themselves. At the far end of the room, I see the Jarl speaking with someone—though I don't pay them much mind. My eyes are on the Jarl as I hand my weapons over to the guard.

As I make my way toward him, he glances up, his gaze narrowing slightly. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismisses whoever he was talking to, the conversation dropping away in an instant.

"Ah, I see you are back," he says, his eyes quickly scanning me as I approach. He studies me for a moment before speaking again, more to himself than to me. "The rest seems to have done you good."

I give a slight nod, waiting for him to continue. His tone shifts, a hint of impatience creeping in. "I assume you're here to discuss that small boon?"

He waves a hand in the air, signaling me to get on with it. "Let's be quick about it. I have quite a bit to do."

"I've come to request to study under Farengar," I say, my tone calm but resolute. The words are measured—neither pleading nor boastful. I don't explain myself further; I won't waste my breath on justifications.

The Jarl raises an eyebrow, his scrutiny sharp, though his expression remains neutral. His gaze flickers over me once more, sizing me up before he speaks, his voice measured.

"I do not control who Farengar teaches," he replies, a hint of weariness in his voice.

His eyes flicker over me again, assessing. "I will broach matters with him but I would not guarantee that he would be willing to teach you." The Jarl shifts slightly, clearly ready to be done with the conversation.

He gives me a brief, almost dismissive glance. "I may call on your services if your blade is for hire. Otherwise, I'll send word when there's word to be sent. If Farengar rejects your proposal, you may ask for something else."

There's nothing else to say. The Jarl has made his decision, and now it's in Farengar's hands. I nod in acknowledgment, my face carefully composed despite my frustration.

The Jarl waves his hand in a motion that suggests he's already moving on. "Now, be gone. I've many pressing matters to attend to."

I bow my head slightly, keeping my irritation at the curt dismissal in check, and make my way out.

-MD-

I stand at the edge of the market, my fingers running over the pommel of my sword as I glance down at my coin pouch. The weight is lighter than I'd like to admit. The commissions for my new armor and sword drained a fair portion of my reward. While it's enough to get by for now, I know it won't be long before I need more. For travel, for training, for anything else I might need along the way.

I've been focused on the promise of magic, on Farengar's teachings, but I can't ignore the reality of my situation. The coin I have now won't last forever, and I need to earn more.

As I walk past a few stalls, a snippet of conversation from a nearby merchant catches my attention. Apparently, there's a bounty posted for a criminal causing trouble on the outskirts of Whiterun—a slippery sort who's been evading capture for weeks now. The word "bounty" sticks in my mind like a blade lodged in a wound. The chance to earn gold, to fight again—that was perfect.

I glance over at the notice board near the guardhouse. It's covered with papers and postings, but I can spot the bounties amidst the clutter. My fingers itch to see the details, to know more. The promise of gold is tempting, yes, but it's the thrill of a fight, the chance to test my skills again, that calls to me most.

I stop for a moment, considering. I could wait for Farengar's decision on my magic training, but that could take time. This bounty, though—it offers the rush of a fight. That sharp, quick clarity that comes only in the heat of battle, the kind I felt just yesterday when the giant's roar rattled the earth beneath me, what I felt at Helgen and against the bandits. The memory of the fights still stirs something in me, a mix of exhilaration and satisfaction.

The way I had to think fast, the weight of each strike, the coordination of each blow—it had been pure, unfiltered survival. That's what I crave—the adrenaline, the clarity that only comes when you're locked in combat, when the world narrows down to the opponent and the next move.

I make up my mind—this is exactly what I want: action, adrenaline, and excitement.

I make my way toward the board, the streets bustling around me as the decision settles into place. I'm already thinking about what comes next—the criminal, the hunt, the fight. There's no hesitation now. This is exactly what I need and sure enough, there it is: a fresh bounty for a criminal causing trouble near the outskirts of Whiterun. The criminal's description is brief but enough to go off of. The reward is generous, enough to replenish what I've lost on my commissions and then some.

I step closer and read the full details. The target's been seen around a small village to the north, but they've been able to evade capture so far. The bounty has been hanging for a while, no doubt, and now it's my turn to take it.

The tension in my chest builds as I scan the notice again. This is the chance I've been waiting for. The thrill of the fight, the challenge of tracking down someone who's proven hard to catch.

I fold the paper and tuck it into my belt. There's no time to waste. I won't sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for word from the Jarl. I'm going to take this bounty. I'm going to earn my coin and keep building up power and influence.

Turning on my heel, I start for the exit, already planning my next steps. The world outside of Whiterun calls to me. It's time to get moving.

-MD-

I step into the forge, the heat of the fire washing over me immediately. The rhythmic clang of hammer striking steel fills the air, as it always does in here. This forge is large—more like a cavernous hall of metal and fire than Alvor's modest smithy, with tools and weapons scattered about in an almost comfortable chaos.

Adrianne stands at her workbench, hammering away at a blade, her focus absolute. She's a woman of muscle and precision, her skin hardened from years of fire and steel, her dark hair pulled back into a no-nonsense braid. When she finally notices me, she sets the hammer down, her hand wiping a smear of sweat from her forehead. A quick smile flickers across her face. "Ah, been waiting for ya," she says, her voice a bit rough, but friendly. "I've got your commission ready. Follow me."

She leads me over to a wide table set against the wall. There, laid out with care, are the pieces of my new armor—blackened steel breastplate, vambraces, greaves, pauldrons, and my helm, each piece carefully arranged. My heart catches for a moment; the sight of it all together is more satisfying than I expected.

Adrianne looks at me with a grin that's a mix of pride and amusement. "All done, just as you asked. For regular steel it's some of my finest work."

I approach the table, my boots heavy on the floor, as I let my eyes roam over the pieces laid out before me. The blackened steel breastplate is the first thing I take in. It gleams darkly, its smooth surface interrupted only by the delicate etching of a dragon roaring in silver across the chest. I can't help but smile to myself. I know full well I let vanity raise the price a bit, but looking at it now, I don't care. I run my fingers over the cool steel, appreciating the craftsmanship. This isn't like the hastily slapped together armor set I wore from Riverwood. That armor had served its purpose, but this is different. This is custom made to my exact specifications.

The chainmail is folded neatly beside the breastplate, each ring of steel linked meticulously to the next, strong yet light enough to provide flexibility. I I know it will sit comfortably underneath the plate, giving me an extra layer of defense.

Next, my eyes fall on the purple gambeson resting beside the chainmail. The color is rich, the fabric thick. I linger a moment before moving to the helmet—a gjermundbu-style helm. The blackened steel shines under the forge's light, with dragons etched into the sides, their faces almost alive. The chainmail veil beneath it will be a welcome addition, something to protect my neck and face when I need it.

"Quite a piece of work, isn't it?" Adrianne says, leaning against the table, watching me with a grin. "A bit fancy, but I can see why you'd want something like this. It'll serve you well." She steps closer, one hand reaching down to tap the breastplate lightly.

I nod slowly, my fingers brushing the dragon etched into the chestplate again. "It's perfect," I say, almost absently. The weight of the armor, the thought of wearing it into battle—it feels like I'm stepping into something much bigger than I was. "You're right; this will serve me well."

Adrianne watches me for a moment, then chuckles, shaking her head. "I'm glad you agree. It's not the kind of stock gear you get every day."

Adrianne steps back for a moment, letting me take in the armor, her gaze tracking mine as it lingers on each piece. Her hands move to the side, where she pulls out the arming sword I had commissioned. She holds it out, letting the light from the forge flicker off the polished steel.

The blade is two and a half feet long. The pommel is shaped like a snarling dragon's head, its teeth sharp and finely etched. The crossguard ends are designed to resemble claws, sharp and angular—perfect for a murder stroke or a punch when in the grapple. As my fingers trace the hilt, I smile. It's just the way I wanted it to be.

I take the sword in my hands, feeling its weight. It's well balanced. I test a few cuts through the air, feeling the motion, the way it fits into my hand. Still, I can't help but feel the weight of regret. I wish I could afford enchantments or a better metal. But this will do. It's a solid, dependable sword. I'll make it work.

I lower the blade, nodding in approval, though a small voice nags at the back of my mind, the longing for something even better. "It'll do," I murmur, shifting it in my grip. "It's a fine piece."

Adrianne watches me closely, her eyes sharpening as she observes my reaction. "I ain't much for fancy magic," she says with a knowing smile, "A good blade's better and that one's most certainly one of my better pieces."

Just as I'm about to set the sword back down, she reaches for something else—a small, wrapped package sitting beside the workbench. She hands it to me with a look of mild curiosity. "This one was a strange request, but who am I to judge?"

I blink, the memory of the request—something I'd asked her to include when I first made the order—flickers back into my mind. My chest tightens involuntarily as I take the package from her hands, feeling the weight of it shift in my palm.

It's lighter than I'd imagined, but the familiar feeling of unease begins to settle deep in my gut. What I had asked for—and the reason behind it—suddenly feels... real. My thoughts turn heavy as I glance at Adrianne, who's now watching me with a slightly bemused expression, unaware of the tension building inside me.

She tilts her head, her tone casual. "Kept it wrapped up like you said."

I force a tight smile, tucking the package into my pack. "Thanks," I say, though my voice is a little tighter than I intended. The weight of the package feels heavier than it should. I try to shake off the feeling, but I can't deny that it lingers.

With the sword set aside and the package tucked away, I unfasten the sable cloak, folding it neatly beside me, the black fur at the collar brushing against my fingers, the anticipation of finally putting on my new armor making my pulse quicken..I slip on the purple gambeson first, the snug fabric settling comfortably against my skin. The warmth of the padding gives me a sense of security, the soft weight of it already comforting. Next, the chainmail. The feel of the steel rings against my skin is cold, but solid. Each ring fits well, the armor sitting well-fitted, offering that familiar weight of armor. It feels like a second skin as I pull it over my shoulders, its rings working together to create a protective layer.

When it comes to the breastplate, Adrianne lifts it carefully and positions it over my chest, securing the straps. The dragon etched into the chestplate gleams softly in the forge's light. It's a perfect fit. The weight of it is there, but it's well-balanced.

The arms follow, and the cuisse and greaves are just as easy to strap on, next. They fit with the same seamless precision, the weight steady and evenly distributed.

Adrianne lifts the pauldrons, setting them on my shoulders, securing them with a practiced hand. I flex my arms experimentally—everything is in place, and it feels solid. I can move freely, easily.

Finally, I slide the helmet onto my head. The fit is perfect, settling comfortably over my brow. I adjust it briefly, testing the weight as I turn my head from side to side.

I pause, then slowly lift the helmet off. I take a breath, feeling the warm air of the forge against my face. I look at Adrianne, giving her a nod of appreciation. "Thank you. It's perfect," I say quietly.

After a brief pause, I throw the cloak back over my shoulders, letting it fall into place over the full plate. The cloak settles against the armor, the fur at the collar brushing against the weight of the steel. For a moment, I stand there, basking in the feel of being properly outfitted.

-MD-

The wind cuts through the mountain pass, sharp and biting, carrying with it the chill of Skyrim. I stand on the rocky outcrop, looking down at Whiterun, its sprawling streets alive with people, but all of it feels so distant now. The warmth of the city below, the hum of life—I no longer belong there. Not right now.

The mountain seems to echo my isolation, silent save for the wind, the occasional whistle of birds, and the soft sound of my boots scraping against the stone. The land stretches before me in quiet, breathtaking beauty. But there is no peace here—not for me, not today. Not when the weight of everything I'm leaving behind presses against my chest like a stone.

I pull the package from my pack, the cloth tight in my hands. I sit on a flat stone, the wind biting at the back of my neck as I begin unwrapping it slowly. The cloth falls away, and there it is. A steel cross. At its center, Mjolnir, the hammer that once represented my gods, the power I thought would always guide me. Now it feels like a relic—something from a time I can't return to.

On either side of the cross, I see Hades and Diana, the symbols of my cats. They, too, are part of the life I'm leaving behind. At the bottom of the cross, a sword dangles—my old life in the Empire of Chivalry and Steel. Adam, my teacher, the man who taught me how to fight, how to survive. Scotty, Robert, Aunnie—they, too, are part of this farewell.

I stare at the cross for a long time, my hands trembling slightly as the memories begin to flood back. I'll never be part of that world again.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. The road trip with Alex, Jackie, Samir—all of them, gone. I'll never laugh with them again. Never share in those moments of freedom. And the family... my parents, my grandmothers, my siblings... I won't be there for them anymore.

A tightening in my chest. I can't go back. My past, my friends, my old life... there's nothing I can do to hold on to it.

I stare at the cross in my hands, the steel gleaming softly in the dying light of the afternoon sun. It's weighty—not just in metal but in meaning. Each symbol is a reminder of something, someone, I've left behind. Mjolnir at the center—a mark of strength and defiance, of a time when I thought I knew who I was. It feels cold in my hand now, as though it's become a memory itself, something that doesn't belong in the life I'm carving for myself.

The symbols of Hades and Diana dangle from either side. I trace them with my finger. Hades, I had picked him up at petco when he was only 2 months old. He's gone now, his presence reduced to nothing more than a distant echo in my mind. Diana, who I had taken in off the street.

I swallow the lump in my throat as the weight of it all presses down on me. I can't bring them with me. I can't carry their memory and my new life side by side. It's impossible.

Then my eyes fall on the sword hanging from the cross, and the knot swells in my chest. The sword. It represents so much more than just a weapon—it's a symbol of Adam's teachings, the lessons that kept me alive, the blade that's seen me through battle after battle. Aunnie, Scotty, Adam—they were all there, part of that chapter. The ECS—my family, my teacher, the ones who helped truly shape me. I feel a sudden pang of guilt, sharp and raw, as if I've betrayed them all by not being there— no matter that I had no choice.

I can see their faces in my mind—Adam's ridiculous humor, Scotty's constant pushing, Aunnie's fierceness—they're still with me in some way. But I know, deep down, that they will remain in the past. The road forward is one I have to walk alone.

The cross trembles in my hand. It's too much, too heavy. A life too full of people I love, people who mean the world to me, now held in a steel cross that I can't carry into the future. I hold it out in front of me, studying it one last time. There's so much of my old self in this monument—the person I was, the things I believed in. The life I lived.

But that life is over now. This cross is a monument to all of it—everything I can't keep. Everything I can't carry into the new world I'm forging.

My hand begins to shake, and I feel the sting of tears. It's time to say goodbye.

The cold steel of the cross feels heavier now, each symbol pressing into my palms like the weight of the world. My breath catches in my throat, the tears threatening to spill again. This wasn't supposed to be how it ended.

Alex, Jackie, Samir—the road trip we planned. The one I was never going to make. The stories we had planned and goals we still had to achieve.

But I can't go back.

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the familiar sting of guilt claw at my chest. I can't even share these moments with them. There are things left unsaid, pieces of me that won't make it to the new life I'm creating. They'll never see this world I'm stepping into, this path I'm choosing. It's all slipping away, like sand through my fingers.

I had always believed there would be time to do more. Time to create new memories, time to reconcile the differences between the life I was leaving and the one I was creating. But now, as I stand here, the realization hits me like a slap in the face—that time is gone.

The sword dangles from the cross—The ECS had been a part of my life for so long. And now, I'm leaving it all behind. I can't carry these people with me—not like I want to. The wind bites at my skin as the weight of it all presses down, the memories rising to choke me. My chest tightens, the air in my lungs growing thin as I fight to hold it together.

I can't do this.

A sob escapes me before I can stop it, a strangled, painful sound that seems to echo off the mountain and get lost in the wind. I drop to my knees, the cross still in my hands. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to walk away from all of them—from my friends, my teacher, my family.

But I know, deep down, I have to. I can't be that person anymore. That person doesn't fit with who I am becoming.

Tears fall freely now, wetting my cheeks and dripping onto the ground beneath me. I feel the tears before I even recognize them, surprised that I'm letting go so much. But there's no other way.

I let out a shaky breath, taking the cross into both hands again, clutching it tightly to my chest. My head hangs low, the weight of everything I'm leaving behind suffocating me.

The weight of the cross in my hands is unbearable, but I force myself to stand. I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, feeling the wetness of the tears I hadn't known I was shedding. I can't stay here, lost in this moment. I can't let myself be consumed by grief—I have to move forward, even though it feels like every step I take is dragging me away from everything I've ever known.

I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, grounding myself. The wind is still biting, but it's different now. It's not as harsh, not as unforgiving. It feels like the world is giving me a moment of reprieve, allowing me to pull myself together.

I glance down at the cross. Mjolnir, Hades, and Diana—frozen reminders of everything I've left behind—stare back.. My friends, my family—my thoughts are filled with them, but I know now that they will never walk this path with me. They are in the past, and it's time to move on. Time to honor them by carrying forward the strength they gave me.

This monument represents a piece of me that I must leave behind—but it will never fade. Their teachings, their memories—they'll stay with me, engraved on my heart, no matter how far I go.

I close my eyes for a moment, steadying my breath. It's not about forgetting them—it's about carrying them with me in a new way, a way that makes room for the future.

Finally, I place the cross on the ground gently, my fingers lingering on the cold steel for just a moment longer. It's my goodbye, my final offering. I stand tall, my back straight, the weight of the armor now feeling like a part of me. I am ready to let go.

"Goodbye," I whisper softly, not just to the cross, but to everything I've left behind. "I always dreamed of ending up in another world… and I'm going to be great here."

With one last look at the cross, I turn away.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The door swings open with a heavy creak, and the moment I step inside, the warmth hits me like a wave. It's a welcome relief after the cold wind that's been biting at my skin for what feels like an eternity. The fire in the center of the room roars, sending orange light flickering across the hall, illuminating the hundreds of people gathered within. The heat of the flames is so intense that I feel the sweat start to bead on the back of my neck, a stark contrast to the chill I just left behind on the mountain.

The smells hit me next. Roasting meat—whole cows turning on spits—fill the air, rich and intoxicating. My stomach growls in response, and I feel a gnawing hunger. It reminds me of old days, of shared meals with people I can no longer reach. A slight sense of melancholy creeps into my chest, but I shake it off. That life is behind me now.

I take in the scene before me—this hall is so much bigger than I remember from the game. It's not just a gathering space; it's a living organism. There are easily over a hundred people here, spread out in different corners of the room, but the atmosphere is the same: energy, laughter, and a sense of belonging. The noise is overwhelming at first—boisterous conversations and laughter mix with the clink of mugs and the occasional shout of victory from a brawl in one of the back corners. The fighters circle each other, moving with quick, brutal grace, their laughter and shouts punctuating the room.

It's alive here. The energy is contagious, and I can feel a stirring in my chest. Maybe this is what I've been looking for—this sense of belonging that's been missing since I left my old life behind. As I stand there, the warmth from the fire in the center of the hall feels like it's seeping into my bones, chasing away the chill of the mountain air still clinging to my skin. My eyes move across the room, taking in the sheer size and energy of the hall. The laughter, the clink of mugs, and the noise of sparring create a vibrant, chaotic symphony. It's not overwhelming, though—it's alive in a way that makes me feel like I've walked into something bigger than myself.

The sounds of sparring and conversation blend together seamlessly, but there's a common thread that runs through everything here: camaraderie. It's the same energy I used to feel in my old life, before it all slipped away: the unity of shared purpose, of people full of zeal.

I find myself smiling, albeit faintly, as the smell of roasted meat fills the air once again. It reminds me of long evenings back in my old life—the ECS, shared laughter around the fire, and the familiarity of those who had my back no matter what. The feeling was real then, even if it's gone now. The hall isn't just filled with warriors—it's filled with people who've found a way to live fully in the moment. As my eyes sweep across the room, a voice cuts through the noise. "Hey, you finally showed up!"

I turn instinctively toward the sound, and there she is—Aela. She sits a few paces away, a group of Companions gathered around her, but her gaze is locked on me. Her grin is wide, and the firelight dancing in her hair makes it look like she's glowing, her fiery locks illuminated with an almost ethereal light. The warmth from the fire highlights the energy in her presence—there's something raw about her, like she carries life in every movement.

For a moment, the melancholy I'd been carrying with me since the mountain starts to slip away, replaced by something lighter. It's hard to explain. "Yeah, took me a while," I reply, my voice still rough from the days I've spent carrying the weight of my old life. "Had to settle in, but I think I could do with that drink now."

She gives me a wide smile, and for a brief moment, I wonder if she sees through the layers of grief I've been carrying. As I step further into the hall, I feel lighter.

The ale flows freely, and the stories grow wilder as the night stretches on. I find myself surrounded by Companions, each one more than willing to share their latest escapades. The fire crackles at the center of the hall, casting flickering light on their faces as they swap tales of battles, beasts, and brawls. It's like I've stepped into a world where every moment is exaggerated, every triumph is grander than the last.

Vilkas leans forward, eyes gleaming as he nudges me with his elbow. "Ha! This guy right here," he chuckles, pointing at me. "He heard us fighting that giant and, with a bum leg, decided he had to jump in. Used magic, sure, but still..." He shakes his head in disbelief, his grin widening. "The courage of this one!"

"Or is it foolishness?" Skjor asked, though I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"Both," I say with a wide grin to resounding laughter.

Aela, who had been sitting nearby, looks over at me, and a playful glint flashes in her eyes. "Now that you're healed, we'll have to hunt together. I want to see how you do with steel in hand." Her voice is full of challenge, her grin just as wide as Vilkas'. She seems eager to see just how capable I am in a real fight, and for a brief moment, I can't help but feel that rush of excitement.

The laughter in the hall surges, and I find myself grinning despite myself. It feels good to be among like minded people, to have a place in their hall. My actions may have been impulsive, but it's clear I'm not the only one here with a reckless streak. The Companions wear their wildness as a badge of honor.

The fire's warmth, the smell of roasted meat, and their camaraderie loosen something in me. The alcohol helps, too. There's a pleasant tingling warmth in my chest as I sip my drink, and the conversation turns to less serious matters. Tales of hunts gone wrong, strange creatures spotted on the outskirts of Skyrim, and the endless rivalries that fuel their lives.

I listen more than I speak, but that's okay. I don't need to lead the stories; I still need to make mine after all...

I wake up with a dull throb at the back of my skull, a headache that feels like it's been carved into my brain with a dull axe. My body aches all over, stiff and sore from a combination of the night's drinking and brawling. I groan as I sit up, my legs nearly giving out beneath me. The world tilts slightly, and I rub my eyes, trying to remember the events of last night.

A heavy silence hangs over the room, and for a moment, I forget where I am. It's not until I smell the familiar scent of roasted meat in the distance, the soft crackle of the fire still echoing in my ears, that I realize where I am. Still in Jorrvaskr.

Memories of the previous night flood back—laughter, camaraderie, and my act of foolish bravery. I remember the challenge I'd drunkenly thrown out to Vilkas. The fight itself wasn't much—Vilkas easily outclassed me, barely even breaking a sweat—but the laughter, the teasing, the sense of belonging, made it worth it. For once, I felt like I wasn't just a stranger trying to force his way into a world that didn't need him. I felt like I was part of something.

I lie back on the bench, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pounding in my head. The night had been exactly what I needed. It wasn't just the drink, or the jokes, or the stories. It was the company. For the first time since I arrived, I wasn't carrying the weight of my past. I could just be… Melkorn, and that was enough.

The warmth in my chest slowly fades as my thoughts drift back to my departure from my old life. That goodbye still lingers, but it's not as sharp as it was yesterday. I take a deep breath, pushing the lingering sadness to the back of my mind.

A knock on the door breaks my moment of reflection. I groan, my head aching with even the softest sounds. The door creaks open, and I hear a voice call out. "Got a letter here for Melkorn! It's from the Jarl!"

My heart skips a beat. The Jarl's response.

I shove the covers off, ignoring the aches in my body. Magic training, real magic training, could be just around the corner. I can barely contain my excitement as I rush to the door, every step faster than the last.

I rush to the door, barely noticing the ache in my limbs as I nearly shove the person standing there out of the way. I take the letter from his hands, my fingers slightly trembling as I break the wax seal. My heart races in my chest, beating louder than it should, almost drowning out the noise in the hall around me. The seal comes apart easily, the smooth wax breaking under my touch.

I pull the parchment from the envelope and unfurl it, reading quickly, almost greedily, as if the words themselves will evaporate if I don't absorb them fast enough.

The letter is simple, direct, and to the point:

"Melkorn,
I have spoken with Farengar, and he is willing to take you on for magical instruction. Meet him at Dragonsreach as soon as possible to begin your tutelage.
Jarl Balgruuf the Greater."

A cold shiver runs through me as the words settle. This is it. My chance to learn magic properly. My breath catches, and for a moment, I can barely believe it. After everything—the grief, the loss, the uncertainty—it feels like a door opening, a way forward.

I stand there, the letter in my hands, a smile starting to creep up my face. Magic, real training. Farengar. This is what I've been waiting for. I fold the letter, feeling the weight of it in my hands. It's a simple thing, but it feels like the most important document in the world right now. Without a second thought, I tuck it into my belt and move quickly toward the door. There's no time to waste. Dragonsreach.

-MD-

The great hall of Dragonsreach felt just as impressive and stifling as it did the first time around. I stepped through the grand doors but my mind was on the task at hand: meeting Farengar, the court wizard.

I'd expected something grander, perhaps more ornate than in the game, but the study that awaited me was more functional than impressive. Bookshelves lined the walls, the air alive with a faint hum from the magical artifacts scattered around. Soul gems, tomes, and an enchanting table were all present.

Farengar stood by the table, his back straight and tense, but there was a reluctance to his demeanor that made it clear he wasn't thrilled about this meeting. Training me was clearly not something he relishes.

"Wasting my time, are we?" His voice was sharp, a bit dismissive as his eyes skimmed over me. "The Jarl convinced me to train you, but don't mistake that for interest. Let's see what you're made of."

His cold tone hit me immediately, but I kept my composure, stepping closer. I nodded silently, understanding that this was going to be a challenge. Farengar didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Follow me. Let's get this over with." He gestured toward the adjacent room, and I complied, my boots echoing softly against the stone floors as we passed through an archway into a larger chamber. The room was arranged with more bookshelves, potion racks, and magical artifacts. Farengar took a seat at a wooden desk, brushing aside some papers, and motioned for me to stand at the far side. He didn't look at me directly for a moment, instead inspecting a soul gem on the table, clearly lost in thought, before turning his gaze back to me.

"Magic," Farengar began, his voice measured, "is not a toy for the bored or a weapon for the reckless. It is the breath of Nirn itself, the heartbeat of the heavens, and the whisper of Oblivion. To wield it is to grasp creation by the throat, to shape existence with your will. But do not mistake it for something that will bend easily. Control is what separates a mage from a fool who burns himself alive."

He stood, walked toward a nearby small table piled with books, and lifted a dusty tome. He waved it in the air for emphasis as he continued, "Magicka is the latent energy that flows through all living things, from Aetherius. It is connected to the Sun, the stars—the very fabric of the cosmos. Magicka is not inherently destructive," Farengar said, his voice deepening. "It is neutral, shaped by your intent." He raised his hand, and a spark of light danced in his palm—small and controlled, like a flame from a match.

"It's not enough to cast magic—" he said, his tone more pointed now, "you must first understand its flow. Magic is everywhere, in everything. But it is your will that gives it direction."

He closed the tome and dropped it back onto the table with a soft thud, then stared directly at me. "Are you prepared to understand it? Or will you fall like all the others who thought magic was just a force to be thrown about?"

The weight of his words settled heavily in the room. There was no room for error here—no space for weakness. This would be a serious undertaking.

Farengar leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as if searching for the right words. "If you're going to be anything more than a novice, you need to understand the Triad of Casting. This is the foundation of every spell you will ever cast, from the simplest Candlelight to the most devastating Firestorm."

"Intent," Farengar said, the word hanging in the air, "is the first pillar of any magic. If you don't have a clear vision of what you want to achieve, your magic will go astray. You must focus your thoughts, your desires, on what you want to create."

Farengar continued, his voice steady but with an intensity that made it clear he meant every word. "Next, we have Focus. Magic is not some mindless force that can be cast without discipline. If intent is the vision, then focus is the mental effort to make that vision manifest."

He stood tall, a commanding presence that seemed to fill the room. "Without focus, you will lose your connection to the Magicka you seek to manipulate. The energy will scatter, and you'll find yourself exhausted and without results."

Farengar flicked his wrist, and the spark of magic from before expanded, swirling around his hand in a controlled spiral. The light was steady, precise, and the focus he exuded was palpable. "A focused mind channels the flow of energy. The Magicka will bend to your will, but only if you focus completely on it. Any hesitation or doubt can cause your magic to falter."

He gave me a pointed look, as if gauging my reaction. "Control over the flow of Magicka is the key to efficiency. Too much energy used poorly, and you exhaust yourself before you achieve the desired result."

Then, with a small flick of his wrist, he let the spark fade out, the light dimming as it collapsed back into nothing. The air felt a little heavier in its absence.

"Execution," Farengar continued, his tone shifting slightly, "is the final pillar. Execution is how you channel intent and focus into something tangible. The movement of your hand, the words you speak, the gestures you make—all these help to direct the flow of energy. They must be precise and deliberate."

He gestured and the air shimmered and twisted, transforming into the unmistakable glow of a spectral weapon—an ethereal blade, bound by magic, hovering in the air just above his hand.

"This," Farengar said, his voice taking on an almost reverent tone, "is Conjuration. A simple dagger for now, but you will learn to summon weapons of far greater strength, even allies from beyond this plane. A sword of pure energy, a warrior from Oblivion. The art of Conjuration is the ability to create something from nothing, to forge a bond between your will and raw existence itself."

Farengar swung the spectral dagger through the air, its edge cutting through the space around him with eerie silence. Then, without a second thought, he dragged the blade across the back of his hand, leaving a red line that began to bloom with blood, staining his pale skin.

He held his arm out, the dagger now dissolving into nothingness, the wound left in its wake. "And this," he said, his voice low, "is Restoration." A soft, golden glow appeared around his hand as he hovered it over the cut. I watched in silence as the wound healed before my eyes, the skin knitting itself back together until there was no trace of the injury. The blood was the only memory of what happened, and the arm was whole once more.

"Restoration," Farengar continued, "is more than mere healing. It is the art of balance, of preservation. To heal, you must understand what is broken. To banish the undead, you must grasp the corruption that binds them. Restoration requires patience, knowledge, and respect for the forces you wield. It is not a school for the impatient or arrogant."

He turned away, wiping his hand on his robe before speaking again. "There are other schools, of course. Illusion, for instance—magic that does not harm the body but bends the mind. With it, you can turn foes against one another, become invisible, or protect your thoughts from prying eyes. Subtle, yes, but no less dangerous. The most deadly traps are often those you cannot see." He gave me a pointed look, as if challenging me to take the words to heart.

Then, with a shift in his stance, Farengar stepped back toward the hearth, extending his hand toward the flames. "Fire is Destruction magic—raw, untamed power. Watch closely." Suddenly, a jet of fire erupted from his palm, roaring to life like a dragon's breath. The heat blasted toward me, searing the air and pressing against my face.

"Destruction," he said, his voice now tinged with reverence, "can burn armies, can shatter stone, can freeze the very marrow of your enemies' bones. You must master it, or it will consume you, as it consumes all."

The fire swirled around his hand, dancing in mesmerizing patterns before it coiled into a sphere of blazing light. It hovered in the air for a moment before he snapped his fingers, causing the fire to wink out of existence, leaving the scent of smoke in the air.

"But fire alone," Farengar continued, "is often a blunt instrument. For more precise control, you will need the school of Alteration." He gestured toward a small wooden table in the corner of the room, and as he spoke, a faint, shimmering shield appeared before him—a translucent, shimmering barrier that hovered in front of his outstretched hand.

"This," he said, the word almost reverent, "is Lesser Ward. A basic form of defensive magic, but one that is critical for your survival." "Lesser Ward," he continued, "blocks incoming magic and it shields you from harm. But remember, it will only hold if you focus on it. A distracted mind will cause the ward to fail. You must hold your attention steady, for if the ward falters, so too will you."

Farengar lowered his hand and let the ward fade from existence. Then, with a slight flick of his wrist, he conjured a small light—faint, but steady—that hung suspended in the air before him. It floated just above his hand, casting a soft, ethereal glow in the room.

"This," he said with a faint smile, "is Candlelight. A utility spell, not flashy or powerful, but invaluable nonetheless. It illuminates your path without consuming resources like firewood or torches and even the weakest mage regenerates more than it takes to sustain. It provides light in the dark places, those places where even the bravest adventurers might fear to tread. It is simple, and yet, in its simplicity, it is vital. You will learn the value of such spells—the small ones that make your life easier."

He held the light steady in the air for a few moments, and I could feel the room brighten just a little under its soft glow. "With magic, it is not always the grand, destructive spells that matter the most. Sometimes, it is the subtle magic, the simple magic, that saves your life."

The light in his palm flickered slightly before it slowly faded, leaving the room dim once more.

"Finally," Farengar said, his tone growing a little more serious, "there is Clairvoyance. A spell that will guide you, when you have lost your way. It is a spell of direction, of purpose." He gestured toward the far side of the room and focused his attention. A glowing, ethereal path began to form, stretching out before him as though the air itself had become a road, leading toward a distant point.

"This spell creates a visual guide that will lead you to your goal. Whether it's a person, a place, or an object, this spell will point the way, even when your eyes cannot see the path. But it requires clarity. You must know exactly what you wish to find, or the spell will falter. Magic cannot guide a lost mind."

The glowing path drifted in the air for a moment before it faded, vanishing into the ether. Farengar turned back to me, his gaze sharp.

"These are the magics you will learn, Melkorn. Bound Dagger, Flames, Wards, Candlelight, and Clairvoyance. Each spell has its place. Each spell has its purpose. But none of them can be used without mastery over yourself. Control, focus, and intent. They are the three pillars of magic. If you cannot understand them, you will never truly command the power that lies before you."

Farengar's expression grew cold, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something darker in his eyes. "There are forbidden schools of magic that you must never touch. They are dangerous—both to the caster and the world around them."

He took a deep breath, his gaze hardening as he spoke, voice lowering. "Necromancy is one of these—raising the dead, twisting their souls to your will. It is unnatural and corrupts the very fabric of life and death. You may gain power, but you will lose everything that makes you human. Do not even consider it."

Farengar stepped closer, his tone becoming more intense. "Blood magic is another. Using life force to fuel your spells—whether your own or someone else's—is a dark road. It costs more than you think, and the price is often too high. One slip, and you'll find yourself enslaved to the magic itself. Understand this: if you attempt either of these, I will kill you myself."

He paused, letting his words sink in. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smile, the tension in the room shifted. "But for now, let's focus on the basics." Farengar's expression lightened slightly. "Come, let us begin your training."

-MD-

-MD

The sun had long since dipped behind the mountains, but the sky was still painted in shades of red and gold as I rode toward the gates of Whiterun. Morrigan, my newly purchased horse, trotted steadily beneath me, her dark coat a stark contrast to the fading light. The head of the bounty—the criminal I'd tracked and taken down over the last few days—hung loosely from my saddle. It was a small victory, but one that felt sweet nonetheless.

As I neared the gates, the familiar voices of the guards greeted me. Their eyes, already used to seeing me, followed the head as I passed.

"Back already, Melkorn?" one of them called out, his tone light but respectful.

I didn't respond immediately, enjoying the way their recognition made me feel. As I rode closer, I heard the second guard speak up, his voice teasing. "That one looks like he had a rough end."

I grinned, feeling the thrill of the chase still coursing through me. "Tried to bring this one in alive, but he was too stupid to live," I said, my voice tinged with satisfaction.

The guards chuckled at my words, exchanging silent glances as I passed through the gates. There was no longer any doubt in their eyes. I had earned my place here.

As the gates closed behind me, I couldn't help but let a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I thought about the past two months. .

The first time I sparred with Vilkas, it was a humbling experience. His greatsword felt like a force of nature—every swing was a wave crashing over me, knocking me off balance, pushing me back, making me feel small. Each time I tried to block his strikes, my sword would barely meet his before he blew through, forcing me to step back. I wasn't even given the chance to react before his blade was already on me, leaving me scrambling to get my feet back under me. It wasn't a lack of skill or effort—it was simply that Vilkas was faster, stronger, and more experienced. His movements were fluid, controlled, purposeful, while mine felt stiff and reactive in comparison. I wasn't new to the sword, but against him, I felt like a novice, struggling to keep up as he effortlessly knocked around.

Aela, on the other hand, was a hurricane. Fast didn't even do her justice—she was a blur of motion, always a step ahead, always anticipating my moves before I could even think of them. She rarely spoke, only grinning as I fumbled to make sense of her relentless assault. Her strikes were like lightning—quick, precise, and impossible to predict. The first time I sparred with her, I couldn't even block. Her blade would be around my defenses before I could react.

Over the next several weeks, I began to notice small improvements, though they came slowly. My parries were a little less delayed, my blocks a little more solid. My sword felt lighter than ever. I couldn't match Aela's speed, but I could keep up with her for a little longer, respond to her attacks without getting completely overwhelmed. Vilkas' swings, while still powerful, didn't blow through my guard quite so easily. I wasn't quite able to counter him, but I was starting to anticipate him. The first time I actually blocked one of his strikes without my arms shaking afterward was a moment of quiet pride. It wasn't much, but it felt like a huge leap. Every sparring session, I felt myself getting a little quicker, my movements better.

It wasn't until a few weeks later, during a particularly gruelling sparring session with Vilkas, that I finally got my first clean hit in. He swung, I backstepped, and for a split second, the opening I'd been waiting for appeared—his sword shifted just enough, and my blade found its mark. It wasn't a powerful blow, but it would have crippled his hand. The moment was so quick, so fleeting, that I almost thought I was mistaken. But when I saw the surprised look in Vilkas' eyes, I realized it wasn't. I had actually done it. I had landed a blow. Not just any blow, but one that got past his guard, one that made him step back.

I was learning, improving with every match. Vilkas was still the superior fighter, but now, I knew I could push him, at least keep up for a while before he inevitably got the better of me. And that was enough for now.

With Aela, each sparring session was a little different. I could block a few more of her blows, anticipate her movements a little better, and for a few precious moments, I could keep pace. She still had the edge, but now, when I saw her grin at me I saw the anticipation of a future challenge in her eyes.

Of course if either of them shifted they'd likely rip me to shreds for now, I thought bitterly.

The first time I cast a Lesser Ward successfully without thinking came during a bounty. I was facing off against a small group of bandits in the mountains, and one of them had turned out to be a mage that caught me off guard. I had instinctively raised my hand, summoning the shield. It held long enough to take the brunt of the flames, but just barely. I had only the faintest sense of the power flowing through me, struggling to hold it steady, but it worked—I was able to close the distance.

The real breakthrough came when I started using magic alongside my swordplay. Farengar had told me it would take time to combine the two into something useful. At first, it felt like I was splitting my focus—fighting with the sword while trying to control the magic at the same time. I practiced this combination on my bounties: striking with my sword first, then backing it up with a quick burst of Flames or a Bound Dagger in my other hand. It wasn't flashy—but it felt like I was getting closer to making the magic an instinct. Farengar's lessons were still valuable, but now they focused more on fine-tuning my skills. "The basics are solid," he'd say, "but to really master this, you need control, Melkorn." We worked on smaller utility spells like Candlelight and Healing, which Farengar always emphasized as essential for any mage. Magic wasn't just about blasting everything in sight—it was about precision, efficiency, and balance.

"Remember," he told me one day after a tough lesson, "casting too much magic at once will drain you. You need to pace yourself. Your body and mind can only handle so much."

Looking back, I couldn't believe how far I'd come since my first clumsy attempts with Lesser Ward and Flames. These spells weren't just party tricks anymore—they were reliable tools I could use in a fight. The Bound Dagger had become almost second nature to me, and I was beginning to feel confident that, with enough practice, I could make magic part of every move I made in battle.

Farengar's teaching was important, but the real growth came when I was out in the field—on bounties, in fights, putting my abilities to the test. That's where I really felt myself improve, where I could see the difference in my ability to fight and survive.

I dismounted Morrigan, the soft thud of my boots hitting the ground breaking me from my thoughts as I landed. The head of the bounty swung gently against the side of my horse, and I reached out to untie it, my fingers a little quicker now, more used to the task than when I first started out. I grabbed the grim trophy and set it down onto the stone steps, the weight of it not unpleasant, but a reminder of what I'd just accomplished.

For a moment, I stood there, looking down at the head. Those first few days—weeks—had been uncertain, filled with frustration, confusion— why was Mirmulnir taking so long, and why had I not been sent to Bleak Falls Barrow?

Taking a deep breath, I shook off the thoughts of the past and turned to head inside. I could hear the familiar voices ahead. It was a busy day as usual. Bounty hunters, guards, and various other figures were gathered in the common room, talking about the usual assortment of jobs, threats, and rumors. Whiterun's guardhouse was a place that hummed with activity, and I'd become accustomed to its noise.

I entered through the door, the wood creaking as it swung open. A few heads turned to see who had walked in, and I felt their gazes as they looked over at me and the trophy I carried. The officer behind the counter looked up, nodding at the sight of me.

"Melkorn, back already?" The officer grinned. He recognized me by now, as did most of the guards. I nodded, walking up to the counter where the officer was standing, and dropped the head onto the table with a dull thud.

I looked up at the officer who stood behind the desk. He glanced at the bounty, then back at me, his expression familiar.

"Another one dead?" he asked with a small smile, already reaching for his ledger. His tone was casual, though there was an underlying exasperation in his voice.

I nodded, a half-smile pulling at my lips. "Tried to bring him in alive, but he was too stupid to live," I repeated, the satisfaction of the fight still buzzing in my chest.

The officer gave a short chuckle and jotted something down, then pulled a pouch of coins from the drawer beneath the counter. He slid it toward me. "Nice work. Got another job for you if you want it; Proventus wanted to give you first right—said he owed you for delivering the sword. Some bandits took over old fort Greymoor."

I accepted the pouch, feeling the familiar weight of the gold inside. A nice 60 septims.

Before I could respond, I overheard something that made me turn. Two guards were talking across the room, their voices low, but I could catch bits of their conversation.

"I've been hearing a lot more about dragon sightings lately," one of them said, the tension in his voice noticeable. "It's got people nervous…?"

The second guard, a bit younger, scoffed. "Could be nothing. But with the way people are acting, something's coming. You can feel it, right?"

The mention of dragons sent my heart racing— I hadn't faced any yet, this isn't a game where quests happened back to back with no time in between. Hearing them spoken about like this though— i had heard the rumors picking up already, showed me the time was likely nearing.

I forced the thoughts to the back of my mind. Not now. Not yet. But still, the anticipation was there, gnawing at the edge of my focus. The way the guards spoke, the way the rumors were spreading—it reminded me of what was to come.

I turned away from the guards' conversation, pushing the thoughts aside. I had work to do. Fort Greymoor awaited, and I would need every ounce of my focus for that job. The bandits had taken over, and I well remembered what the fort had been like in game—I anticipated it being much more difficult here.

"I'll take the job," I said, my voice steady. "Fort Greymoor, you said?"