Dragon of the East - Arc 2, Chapter 1

• Posted by Okan-Zeeus October 5, 2014 - 1,191 views

  Chases-The-Wind

  ~ ~ ~

  I walked a lonely path, minding the soil my feet would tread. Orange leaves blew away from birch trees in the whistling wind. Autumn…? So soon? I must have lost track of the seasons. My legs halted their gait. In the dimming blue sky, cumulous clouds flaunted their size. They floated across the sun like heaps of dark cotton lined with bright yellow trimming. Rays of light stretched out from behind. Geese flew through the air in v-formations, perfecting the picture of depth. I breathed in deep and felt a chill rush through my lungs. Truly, the eastern Rift of Skyrim displayed its full splendor that evening.

  I took what pleasure I could in the sight before resuming my trek. I hadn’t the time to dally.

  On approach to Lake Geir, the village of Ivarstead arose into view. Balgruuf the Greater had spoken of it, a small settlement near the base of the Throat of the World. From there, one could ascend its icy slopes. An ancient monastery called High Hrothgar awaited those who braved the Seven Thousand Steps.

  And I had been called to brave them.

  ~ooooo~

  It was several days ago, the eve of the dragon’s assault. A thunderous sound had rung from the mountains – a shout, calling “Dovahkiin.” I returned to Whiterun with the Jarl’s housecarl, Irileth. Fires flaring in the distant city died down as guardsmen and commoners doused their remnants. In the cold stillness of the night, the clamor of battle still rang in my ears faintly like a whisper.

  “That was hairiest fight I’ve ever been in,” Irileth remarked, walking beside me, “and I’ve been in more than a few.”

  “This one could say the same,” I muttered, ignoring the soreness in my limbs.

  “Our city will need to bolster its defenses. There’s no telling if or when this may happen again.”

  “Xhu. Your fear is justified. We may hope that the death of this dragon will deter other attacks, at least for a time.”

  Silence befell us as we trod our path. The Dunmer woman was as I – quiet, contemplative. She seemed lost in some deep thought. Her later words broke the silence and revealed what laid on her mind.

  “I don’t know anything about this Dragonborn business,” she said, “but I’m glad you were with us today. Jarl Balgruuf will be pleased hear about your victory.”

  I did not reply. After the housecarl’s men proclaimed me to be Dragonborn, I refused to speak on the matter. Nordic flights of fancy were no concern of mine.

  Eventually we arrived at the city gates, stepping into the refuge of walls once thought protective. The devastation was great. Wooden homes in Whiterun’s poorer districts were sundered and charred. Most of the city’s buildings were intact, but in great need of repair. Standing tall and strong beneath the stars, Dragonsreach showed the least damage of all. As Irileth and I meandered through the streets, guards ran to and fro, their torches flickering in the night like fireflies. My snout caught a whiff of blood.

  Mere hours ago, the commoners of this place were living out their day no different than their last. Now they sat along the streets, picking through the wreckage of their homes and mourning the losses of loved ones. I felt terrible sadness at the sight of these people. They would recover, but the scars left behind were deep.

  Why did the dragon attack this city? What had it hoped to accomplish…?

  The Dunmer and I entered the hall of the Jarl’s palace. Our footsteps echoed. Little had changed inside since I last saw it. Dragonsreach was barren of people and eerily quiet. Suddenly Balgruuf’steward, Proventus Avenicci, emerged from a basement passage, walking briskly to the eastern wing. He caught sight of us and stopped.

  “Oh, good! You’re finally here!” he exclaimed. “The Jarl’s been waiting for you.”

  The balding man motioned for us to follow. We began climbing a stairwell that lead to the war room. Most of everyone still present in the palace had gathered there, namely the Jarl and his personal guard, along with his brother Hrongar, a stout man wearing sleeveless leather armor laid with furs. I could hear Balgruuf speaking to him as we topped the flight of stairs.

  “You heard the summons… what else could it mean?”

  Sounds of boots upon stone declared our presence as we entered the room.

  “Ah, we were just talking about you!” the Jarl’s brother said to us, a smile on his bearded face.

  “Excuse the delay,” Irileth spoke with slight sarcasm. “We have our report.”

  Balgruuf stepped forward, eager to listen.     

  “What happened at the watchtower? Is the dragon dead?” he asked.

  “It is, my Jarl. From what we saw, it destroyed the tower before attacking the city. There were no survivors, but at least now the dead can rest easy.”

  “So it’s done then,” the Jarl sighed with relief. “I knew I could count on you!”

  “For once I had nothing to do with it,” the housecarl said, moving aside from me. “This Argonian slew the dragon single-handed before me or my men could arrive.”

  The gazes of the Nords bore upon me. They were surprised at this news, while my irritation was questionably masked. I had no desire to be present, but the Dunmer had insisted that I return with her to give my account of the dragon’s death. Begrudgingly, I went along.

  “Is this true?” the Jarl enquired.                                                                      

  “Yes,” I said.

  Balgruuf’s forehead wrinkled.

  “There must be more to it than that.”

  “There is. But I must ask first – how bad were the casualties here?”

  Those were not the words the Jarl expected from me. Hrongar took some offense at my conduct. To him, perhaps, this was some unseemly act of beating about the bush.

  “Only twelve deaths have come to our attention,” Balgruuf said. I presumed the wounded count was much higher.

  “Twelve…?” I repeated.

  “Not one in a dozen. Mostly our own guard,” Proventus added. “Thank the divines! We could have lost a great many more.”

  “We’d have seen more losses in a skirmish with the Stormcloaks,” Hrongar scoffed. “The dragon proved its weakness today. So much for old legends.”

  “It still took twelve lives,” I hissed angrily.

  “How you choose to see the matter is your business,” Balgruuf said to me. “Now tell me what’s happened.”

  I carefully thought through my reply.

  “Unfortunately, I am still unsure of what happened. Shortly after killing the dragon, one of your men began to call me ‘Dragonborn.’”

  The Jarl eyed me with sudden suspect.

  “Dragonborn? What do you know about the Dragonborn…?”

  “Nothing. That is merely the title he gave. Should I assume you know more?”

  Balgruuf stroked his long chin beard.

  “I only know what the old tales tell of them,” he said. “The Dragonborn were once great heroes. They used the power of their Voices to defeat the enemies of Skyirm. Wulfharth was Dragonborn. Talos too – the founder of the empire, back in the good old days.”

  At times I forgot that the Nords favored referring to Tiber Septim as Talos. Cyrodiilic religion dictates that Tiber ascended to the heavens and became Talos, the ninth divine. Or rather it used to, before Talos worship was outlawed.

  “Why did one of my soldiers call you Dragonborn?” the Jarl prodded, still unsatisfied with my account.

  Irileth came to the fore. “When the dragon died, the Argonian absorbed some sort of power from it. A form of magic summoned by shouting.”

  The Dunmer was quick to mention the details I desired not to. It was childish thinking on my part, to hope I could steer the conversation away from me. Proventus seemed intrigue at this news. The Nords, meanwhile, looked as though their world had upturned. Balgruuf was especially stunned.

  “Is this true? You can Shout?” he asked ardently.

  I could only shrug. “So it would seem.”

  “He knocked over a man with a single word,” Irileth rejoined, eyeing me. “There were several witnesses. I have no doubt he could do it again, if he chose to.”

  “I do not plan to try here, if that is your concern,” I said to her.

  “Then the Greybeards… they were summoning you!” the Jarl declared.

  “The Greybeards?”

  “Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion high atop the slopes of the Throat of the World.”

  My ignorance was woefully apparent. I let out a rasping sigh, scratching the feathers on my head.

  “A thousand pardons… You will have to explain this in terms I may understand. Why am I being summoned? And for what?”

  “The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice,” Balgruuf said. “The ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu’um, or Shout.”

  “And the Greybeards are masters of this… Voice?”

  Balgruuf nodded. “In the old stories, the Greybeards would summon the Dragonborn for training. They’re the only ones who follow the Way of the Voice anymore. They can teach you how to use your gift!”

  My brow sunk low.

  “You seem certain of all this,” I muttered.

  Hrongar was quick to fervently respond. “Didn’t you hear the thundering sound from the mountains? That was the voice of the Greybeards summoning you to High Hrothgar! This hasn’t happened in… centuries, at least!”

  “He’s right. I envy you this honor,” Balgruuf said, smiling. “You’d better prepare for the journey to High Hrothgar. It’s no small climb up the Seven Thousand Steps.”

  I grimaced.

  “The seven thousand… what?”

  “I made the pilgrimage once. High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world.”

  Perhaps upon another day I would have found that description interesting. But all I felt was frustration. An impatient scowl had crept upon my countenance.

  “Have I no say in this matter?” I hissed.

  Balgruuf sensed my reluctance. “If the Greybeards think you’re Dragonborn, who are we to argue? This is sacred tradition.”

  “I did not willfully absorb the dragon’s power. It happened of its own accord. The causer could have been the dragon, not I.”

  The Jarl’s smile faded.

  “Killing that dragon revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. Their call was for your ears. Don’t deny it. There’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards.”

  “Refusal is within my right.”

  Hrongar started fuming.

  “Do you have no respect?” he exclaimed. “You would spit on the Greybeards’ offer of counsel?”

  “I never asked for their counsel,” I sighed. “Leave me be. I have no quarrel with you.”

  “But why would–”

  “The Argonian has made his stance clear, Hrongar,” Irileth interrupted. “Your barking won’t convince him of anything.”

  Balgruuf was ignoring the squabble, staring sternly at me. I stared back.

  “This one does not wish to disrespect you or your people’s traditions,” I said. “But the choice to answer this summon is mine. I will need time to think on it first.”

  After considering my words, the Jarl gave his.

  “Very well. I trust you’ll make the right judgment.”

  I turned away. “If there is nothing more, then…”

  The Jarl rested his hand on a weapon at his belt.

  “There is. You’ve yet to be rewarded.”

  I spun back.

  “What?”

  Balgruuf unholstered a fine steel axe, holding it against his side. I nearly reached for my own weapon reflexively, before realizing the Nord had no malicious intent. He walked to a nearby chest that sat on a shelf and pulled out a pair coin purses. They rattled in his hand as he brought them to me along with the axe.

  “You’ve done a great deal for me and my city. Retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar… Slaying a dragon… Let it never be said that Jarl Balgruuf the Greater doesn’t reward those deserving of it!”

  The Jarl held out the gifts in his hands. I took them with much hesitation.

  “By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun,” Balgruuf decreed. “It is the highest honor within my power to grant. Take this sum from our treasury, and this weapon to serve as your badge of office.”

  I held up the axe to my face. My reflection cast on the surface of the blade. It was warped, but all the features were there. I looked weary…

  “Thane? I do not know what this is,” I spoke softly.

  “The Jarl has acknowledged you as a person of importance to the hold – a hero!” Proventus said. “The title of Thane is an invitation into the royal court.”

  Balgruuf smiled proudly. “I have instructed Avenicci that you are now permitted to purchase property in the city. I’ll also notify my guard of your new title. Wouldn’t want them to think you’re part of the common rabble, now would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn.”

  First Xehtasken, now this. I could not tell if the Jarl was truly charitable or merely trying to buy my favor. Either way I would soon disappoint him. Refusing all of the Jarl’s reward held the risk offending him, so I chose to keep the purses at least. Money is valuable as a means to an end. I do not cling to wealth for its own sake. Death counts all treasures as loss. And we all die eventually, some sooner than others.

  Head hung in respect, I handed back the axe.

  “You are generous. But I have no desire for land or title. I ask only for this: speak nothing of me to anyone. Live as though we never met. That is greatest gift you can give me now.”

  I looked up at the flummoxed Jarl, relaying with my eyes the distresses of a dead man walking.

  “Do not keep me further,” I implored. “I wish to leave.”

  The Jarl stood still, before taking the weapon from my hand. His court watched in silence.

  “I never asked you your name,” Balgruuf said.

  “You have no need for it,” I replied, walking away.

  I felt the eyes of the group bead on my back. Heading down the stairwell, my tail swayed lethargically. As I left the confines of Dragonsreach, I could hear the Jarl’s distant voice.

  “Back to business, Proventus. We have a city to repair…”

  The nighttime air outside was frigid, no longer filled with smoke. I kept my snout to the ground, pacing along the dimly lit roads of the Wind District. A group of men and women gathered near the ruins of a building caught sight of me passing by. Hushed murmurs rose among them. I regarded them fleetingly and growled softly to myself.

  A woman in the darkness bumped into me. Her cloth and linen clothes were flecked with soot.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pushing past. The woman began to follow.

  “Hey! It’s you!” she exclaimed. “You’re the one who killed the dragon! Is it true what everyone says? Did you really strike it down from the sky?”

  I don’t have time for this…

  I glared back at the woman. She stopped follow me, a look of fear in her eyes. Perhaps I had been too harsh. I continued on my way down to the Plains District, passing through the marketplace. More people were pointing at me, gawking at the sight of the scalebacked hero that saved their city. One man started cheering. I threw over my hood, snarling in discontent.

  No more… Stop this, please…!

  “You there! Argonian!” another man called out. It was one of the guardsmen. Hot light from his torch flared against my face as he walked alongside me. “There’s been talk amongst the guards. That you are… Dragonborn. But such a thing… surely that’s not possible, is it?”

  “I have nothing to say to you!” I snapped at him. “Leave me be!”

  I broke away from the Nord and pressed through the large wooden gates of Whiterun, slinking off into the dark of night, cursing the ill fate wrought upon me.

  ~ooooo~

  Evening faded to dusk. Ivarstead’s lodgings peeked above the forest. The village was not far, just to the north. Smolder from chimneys promised warmth and food for those passing through. I arrived at a roadway fork and perused the cluster of wooden arrows nailed upon a sign post. Each carved out name read aloud in my mind. Ivarstead. Riften. Whiterun. Helgen…

  I stood still and reflected on the days past, feeling the wind blow against my body.  Defeat had overwhelmed me that fateful night in Whiterun. There was no one to blame but myself. I followed the carriages to Helgen. I warned the Jarl of the black dragon’s attack. I set in motion all that was happening to me.

  My death had been sealed by my own hands.

  None could fathom my struggles, the years spent running, never resting my head. Time and again I eluded the An-Xileel like a bird escaping a fouler’s snare. I thought I could outsmart them. Months were spent preparing for the journey to Skyrim. I erased my trail completely. No one was to know where I went.

  That was over now. I killed a dragon. I saved an entire city. Word of my deed would spread far. My efforts to travel north unfollowed were ashes in the wind. The An-Xileel would have all the tracks they needed to find me. I knew their tenacity. How long did I have?

  And what of these Greybeards? What of me?

  Was I truly what the Nords claimed me to be?

  Dragonborn…

  I refused to believe it.

  My heart felt pained and heavy. The hatchling I once was would have wallowed in tears under such immense stress. Whatever I had become since then was not so feeble, if nothing else. My resolve was all I had left. The will to honor those who gave me my freedom, to keep old promises. Everywhere I went I found reasons to fight. To act. To do what I thought was just.

  But it was foolish to think I could go on without tiring. I am no warrior who revels in the thrill of combat. I despise conflict. Yet in spite of this, the world was not ready for my resignation. It demanded more of me. I was to become this… Dragonborn. Why? Had I not lived through enough? Was I to face hardships unending? To die sword in hand, a killer to my last days?

  Glancing at the village of Ivarstead one last time, I turned away and continued east.

  All I wanted was for the world to leave me in peace…

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