Okay, so maybe Anskir’s siblings weren’t technically Dragonborn, but years of living with one had obviously had an... effect of sorts.

Beno, a dark-haired Legion veteran rapidly approaching middle age, was quietly criticizing every little detail about his guards; “That one’s sword is a bit flimsy, don’t you think?” “Does no one repair their own weapons here?” “Talos’s hairy bollucks, you’d think they’d be able to swing an axe!”, so on and so forth.

Rori, whose name Anskir insisted was short for ‘Rotisserie’, was quite obviously a necromancer and a practioner of forbidden Telvanni magics. Skir had called him her little brother, which sent him into a stuttering rage that he was only born six minutes after her, thank you very much. He also insisted that Vivec, the Dark Elf god, was alive and living in the center of the earth with Sotha Sil’s secret daughter. Irileth was... less than impressed.

There was Anskir herself, a barbarian of a woman who enjoyed using the sacred art of the Thu’um to impress children. For her part, she leaned casually against the wall next to Balgruuf’s throne, pointing out which sibling was which.

Then there was Gerda. Balgruuf had nothing against Altmer, of course — he prided himself on having an open, welcoming city to all kinds. It was just, Gerda... seemed convinced she was a Nord. Speaking in an exaggerated accent, trying to down a mug of mead despite being no older than twelve, trying to wield a sword and slicing up one of his banners in the process —

(or, a sinner reflects on what makes a saint. somewhere, a dragon listens.)

It was a dramatic death, from what Anskir heard. Something about the Heart of a dead god, replicas of the Profane Tools, and saving Sotha Sil’s city. Apparently, he became a god.

Apparently, godhood isn’t kind on mortal bodies.

That was something Anskir knew well, at least. Everything else flew over her head. Gods, hearts, tools. Ben took something into his own soul, and it ripped him to shreds. That’s what Anskir knew.

Aurori was devestated, of course. Gerda didn’t know how to react. And Ama — Ama was getting ill.

It was to be expected. A mer loses three spouses in horrible, gruesome ways, and two of her children die just as life was really beginning for them. Ama fell ill, and Anskir left Skyrim to say her goodbyes.

She always liked the Temple in Bruma. She liked the one in the City more, liked being able to feel the cool stone that was once Akatosh Himself — but staring at the colored rays of light falling gently around the cathedral, the sun lighting Saint Martin’s halo in a brilliant gold?

...She liked it.

“Is this how you felt?” she whispered, her voice quiet in the empty church. “When you saved the world, did you know what you were doing?”

Anskir laughed. It was a mournful sound.

“You lost a lot, too. Your friends in Kvatch. Your city. Your identity. It’s weird, isn’t it? To be a nobody one day, and the Dragonborn the next. You’re still you, but you’re also something... more. A symbol. The people’s hope.”

She hunched over in the pew, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands.

“Plus you were the emperor. Gods. I couldn’t imagine being in charge, having all those- those responsibilities.” She hummed. “...Maybe not. Maybe the structure would be nice. Orderly. Aren’t capital-D Dragons supposed to like order?”

A hawk nesting in the belltower let out a shrill screech.

“Any advice for your old pal Stormcrown, O Blessed Saint Martin?”

All was silent.

Anskir, with all the grace of a middle-aged half-dragon Nord in love for the very first time, did not look at her apprentice.

“Anskir. Anskir, answer me.”

Clai was a young lad, just freshly nineteen years of age. They’d been traveling together since he was sixteen -- he reminded her so much of herself when they met in the newly-rebuilt Helgen; young, troublesome, and on a dark path. He was a lithe, short lad, with light brown skin and a curled crown of black hair. Clai was of the lively sort, always on the move; she could see him becoming an actor, if his path hadn’t merged with hers.

“Anskir Stormcrown, Dragon of the North, protector of Skyrim, did you and my mother fu-”

“I was hunting,” Anskir replied, running an oiled cloth over the blade of her great-sword.

“All night?”

“Aye.”

“Near Dibella’s Grove?”

“Dibella’s Gro -” She sighed harshly, shaking her head. “Claidheamhe, by Talos’s hairy tits I swear if you say that again...”

“Oohh, Talos’s hairy tits, that’s a new one. I’m putting that one on the list next to Orkey’s oozing underarms, Mara’s majestic thighs, and, who could forget, Shor’s glorious arse cheeks.” He reached into his satchel, pulling out an old, damaged quill, voice full of mirth. “We could make a book full of these!”

She frowned, and ran the cloth over her blade again.

“If you were hunting,” he began again after scribbling down the phrase (and a rather vulgar drawing next to it) in his journal, “How comes you have no spoils with you?”

“I - was clumsy,” Anskir mumbled. “Scared them away. ‘m not exactly built for stealth.”

“Ah. So, what you’re saying is that you were loud --”

The red-headed Nord sighed. “Your mother and I had relations last night, Clai.”

Clai went red, a flash of bewilderment and confusion on his face, before it gave way to disgust. “That- that is - why would you tell me that!”

She shrugged. “We’ve decided to start officially seeing each other.”

Clai threw his hands up, distraught, “This is hell! I’ve died and Mehrunes Dagon stole my soul!”

“I should be moved in by the end of the month.”

He turned heel and walked away, groaning all the while. “No! Goodbye! I’m leaving and never coming back!”