#greybeards

Ralof - All you need to answer this question is the Skyrim intro. Bro is the most dramatic theatre kid ever after Ulfric. He can say it.

Hadvar - It would be a disservice to not let him say it, plus what would Ralof think D:

The Last Dragonborn - Since you're a Skyrim fan on Tumblr, there's about an 85% chance YOU can say it and a 100% chance your LBD can say it. Also I constantly misread LBD as libido and that's just an extra qualifier.

Jarl Balgruuf - He is literally balling bro, a man of the balls, why the fuck would I say no?

Greybeards - I'm inclined to say no, but you have to remember these are four old man stuck alone on a high monestary on a freezing cold mountain peak. Unless I've missed a lore cue and they're somehow related this is basically already a polycule, they can say it.

Paarthurnax - Voiced by the Mario Man, so yes.

Ulfric Stormcloak - If not for his silky smooth deep whore voice, then the silky smooth deep whore outfit. He can say it, it's his new shout.

General Tullius - Skirt. End of argument. He can say it.

Delphine - Yes until she threatened Paarthurnax, you don't get to keep your pass after attacking the Mario dragon, do y'all know how much Nintendo games do for them queers?

Jarl Elisif - I mean, technically no but she'd call you it by accident and it'd be so endearing you'd just let her because she sounds like she's calling you 'sweetheart'.

Aela The Huntress - Try and stop her. I've made this argument before, it doesn't matter because she will step on you if you try to stop her.

Farkas - I think we can trust him with the pass, but he'll probably forget he has it until it's brought up in conversation and pester his brother with it for the next two weeks.

Vilkas - Yes, so he can defend himself from his dumbass brother.

Braith - That is a child, so no. Will that stop her? Also no. Lars, honey, RUN.

Lars Battle-Born - The pass is compensation for the torment from Braith.

Farangar Secret-Fire - He'd definitely only use it for the legal definition which is a bundle of sticks, but he'd definitely try to call Balgruuf it behind his back because Balgruuf is a fa-

Oh my god wait Farangar literally has the first three letters of the word in it..

I take it all back, shout it from the rooftops wizard boy.

Alduin - He is way too busy calling you far worse things for you to be concerned about whether he can say it. His mouth is cause for an update to the Geneva Convention.

Elenwen - She calls Tullius this under her breath when he's right about the Thalmor and it is he only way for her to blow off steam without eating Tullius alive in his sleep. Yes for his SAFETY, my diva needs to live.

Hircine - A furry, so yes.

Molag Bal - A rapist, so no.

Torygg - He called Ulfric this while getting shouted apart, technically he shouldn't but I think it's justified here.

Astrid - This is kind of a pendulum, she can say it on Tuesdays as a treat but otherwise she better shut her bitch ass up.

She desperately wanted that peace to fill her.

The claws raked across her skin.

A breathless sob escaped. Master Arngeir’s arm around her remained the only support between her and the ground.

Her head was pounding.

Master Arngeir nodded, and then Master Borri was at her other side. Together, the two Greybeards led her forward out of the path of the winds. She didn’t know where until they turned her, and she felt the blistered carvings of the Word Wall at her back. The Word Wall. Paarthurnax’s perch, where he taught her the understanding of Yol those months ago. She recalled him atop the wall, a grey specter against the cloudscape. She could see him in her mind’s eye with his long neck curved toward the heavens in silent contemplation as he meditated with her. The nature of Feim hummed inside her.

The peace in the air seeped into her lungs. Something in her popped, and she could breathe again. Rapidly. Hunger gnawed at her lungs, desperate for air. Thin as the air was here compared to the wheat and barley fragrances beginning to ripen around Whiterun or the florals wafting through Solitude on a chilled sea breeze, Leara was relieved. The corset loosened, and the claws retreated.

Her lungs, her chest, her head, her limbs—they all hurt. But she could breathe.

Blinking against the tears, she peered first at Master Arngeir, then Master Borri, and at last, the dim twilight of the Throat of the World. Tension still thrummed under her skin, but here, she felt almost disconnected from it somehow.

Against the distant starlight, a dark shape moved, blocking the sky and casting a deep shadow over the summit. For a moment, terror seized again in Leara’s chest. Alduin. The World-Eater is here. Then, it was gone just as quickly.

Ice crunched, curls of steam rose, and Paarthurnax landed before them with his broken horn and weathered wings. “Drem Yol Lok, fahdonne. What has happened?”

“Drem Yol Lok, Master Paarthurnax,” Arngeir bowed his head. Snow trembled around them as Master Borri echoed the greeting. “We apologize for disturbing your meditation. We know it is not customary to make the climb so late, but a matter arose that we thought best to bring to you.”

Lowering his head, Paarthurnax peered at Leara. “Krosis, Dovahkiin, rek los feim. She is kras, sickened.” A deep rumble vibrated from the old dragon’s chest. Leara felt it in her bones. “She is lein kreh, world-weary.”

Leara sagged into Master Arngeir, her hand scrabbling up to hold his shoulder. It hurt that she couldn’t come back to High Hrothgar after this. Leaving Arngeir would be like losing her grandfather again, or so she imagined. She was very small when he died. But her grandfather never had reason to distrust her, whereas Arngeir could probably write a whole book of reasons why she wasn’t to be trusted. She could live with that if she had to. She was used to it. It was nice of him to agree to bring her to Paarthurnax, though she still needed to meet with Paarthurnax anyway. Trapping a dragon in the Jarl’s palace was Paarthurnax’s idea, and she was sure he knew how she could lure one there.

“There was an incident between the Dragonborn and her…companion, among other things.” Something in Master Arngeir’s voice darkened. “It is no longer in her best interest to remain in High Hrothgar, at least for tonight. We wondered if you would meditate with her.”

Smoke curled from Paarthurnax’s nostrils, his serpentine eyes narrowing at Master Arngeir’s words. “Geh, that is for the best.” The ground trembled as the old dragon crawled closer, water vapor hissing around him. “Come, drun Dovahkiin het. I will keep her.”

That sounds safe, Leara thought.

But Master Arngeir hesitated. If he opposed actually leaving her with Paarthurnax, he didn’t say anything. (That his concern might be in leaving her on top of a frozen mountain overnight did not begin to occur to her.) Then he bowed his head. From his robe, Borri drew a meditation mat; he spread it on the ground, and he and Arngeir helped Leara sit on it. Once seated, her head lulled against the scorched stone.

Relief trembled through her legs. Wrapping her arms around herself, Leara whimpered.

Frowning, Master Borri cast Master Arngeir a look. His mouth thin, the elder Greybeard only shook his head. Leara watched through blurring vision as he reached toward her. His hand settled on her hair. A half thought that it was probably tangled beyond recognition now wafted through her mind before vanishing in the maelstrom churning inside her. She hiccupped a sob.

Overhead, Paarthurnax snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Drem, Dovahkiin. This vulon will pass.” He lowered his head to her and breathed, the warmth of his fire thawing the anxiety still crusting her skin. Leara tried to offer her teacher a smile, but it curved in an awkward grimace instead. Paarthurnax snorted, good-natured.

Master Arngeir bowed his head. “Would it serve for Master Borri or I to stay here with you, Master Paarthurnax?”

“Nid, dii fahdon,” rumbled Paarthurnax. “She will be pruzah, safe here.”

“As you wish, Master,” Arngeir bowed in deference.

For a moment, Leara wondered that Paarthurnax would be worried about her safety when Arngeir was clearly worried about his, but the thought was fleeting. The dragon’s breath was warm, and the night air calming. The most dangerous thing on this mountaintop was her, and she could hardly breathe without her lungs shaking.

The air trembled as the two Greybeards murmured their farewells to Paarthurnax—and her; Master Borri pushed back her hair and drew the hood snugly over her head. In turn, Master Arngeir’s hand fell on her shoulder. “We will speak tomorrow, child.” Giving her shoulder a squeeze, he turned to go, Borri following.

Leara could only hiccup,

Warm breath washed over her again. Paarthurnax exhaled, warming the air around Leara. It wasn’t that terribly cold up here anyway, she thought, scrubbing at team tracks with her sleeve. Perhaps because this was Paarthurnax’s home?

“Come, dii kiir, do you wish to tell me what maar ruth hi this night?”

The offer was well-meaning. Leara wanted to speak. But when she opened her mouth, she could only gasp, sucking air in as quickly as it fled her body. A blur of fear and tears smeared across her memory. She saw poison and storm clouds bearing down on her, and she felt a hand grasping hers. Any more than that hurt her to remember. She couldn’t. The core of the moment was lost, but the horror remained.

She shook her head.

Assent rumbled out of Paarthurnax’s chest. “Mu fen ni tinvaak do nii. Come!” The white dragon lifted his wing. “There is no better meditation than lingrah praan, deep sleep.”

Stunned, Leara wobbled, shifting onto her knees. She didn’t trust herself on her feet. Leaving the mediation mat against the Word Wall, she crept into the hollow of Paarthurnax’s shoulder. Nestling against a live dragon was a concept she, as a Blade and Imperial citizen, couldn’t quite wrap her head around; once her tear-frozen face was pressed into the heat of Paarthurnax’s worn scales and his wing settled over her, she decided she didn’t care to try. She could accept this.

This was safe.

She wasn’t okay, but she was with Paarthurnax, and he would keep her safe.

Tugging the Greybeard’s robe tighter around her shoulders, she pushed closer into the dragon’s side. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Paarthurnax hummed.

·•★•·

He passed her hand into Master Wulfgar’s.

The weight of her sobs had eased, but the way her thin chest struggled for every breath struck him. She wasn’t there. She hadn’t been since that bastard forced himself on her, and she fell.

Ulfric wouldn’t say he regretted throwing that milkdrinker into the wall, but he didn’t mean for Leara to hit the floor. He watched her wobble between the two Greybeards, her dress in tatters and her hair a crumpled cascade. Her poise over the negotiations was shattered with her composure. The woman could hardly stand, much less speak. At the moment, Leara was not the Dragonborn: She was broken. He felt it when her hand was in his: Small and shaking and too cold to strike back.

His fingers flexed in recollection of the hands briefly cradled in his.

His hands clenched, and he rounded.

There, slinking down the corridor through the shadows, was Bishop, scurrying off like the rat he was.

Ulfric was on him in an instant.

Smack! Bishop’s head hit against the stone, yanking out a loud yowl. Ulfric’s hands, fisted in Bishop’s leather jacket, forced him against the wall. The similarity to their confrontation in his dungeons struck Ulfric, but this time, Leara would not save Bishop from him. The man was a leech and a viper, draining and poisoning Leara in turn. No more.

“Get off me!”

“Like you got off her?” growled Ulfric.

Bishop snorted. He made to kick at Ulfric, but the taller man, wary of Bishop, slammed him into the wall. And again, for good measure! Bishop’s head lulled to the side, but the grin he shot Ulfric was cutting in its clarity.

Grunting, Ulfric dropped Bishop on his ass.

“You are pathetic,” he said, glaring down at the heap on the floor. “I am not blind to how you treat the Dragonborn like she’s your whore to throw around as you like. But even whores are owed a wage! What do you do for the Dragonborn? Nothing! You’re a leech.”

Scrabbling at the wall, trying to stand, Bishop slipped back, shaking. With disgust, Ulfric realized the bastard was laughing! “Don’t give me one of your damn speeches about justice and all that crap you spew,” sneered Bishop. “You’re wasting your time! You wouldn’t even look at her if you knew what she is—”

With a crack! Ulfric’s fist snapped against Bishop’s jaw. Bishop shouted, stumbling into the wall. His hand shot to his face, and already Ulfric could see a bright red mark that would no doubt blossom into a brilliant bruise.

Drawing his fist back, Ulfric scowled at the rat sniveling on the floor. “Whoever she is, Leara is the Dragonborn. It may have escaped your notice, but she’s trying to save Skyrim’s people, including your sorry ass!”

Footsteps sounded at the end of the hall, but Ulfric didn’t cut off from his death stare.

“The only ass she’s trying to cover is her own!” sneered Bishop. His eyes were venomous, though their effect fell short from his tender prodding along his jaw. Ulfric restrained the urge to deliver a matching blow to the other cheek. “If you think she wants anything to do with you or your psychotic little—”

“Jarl Ulfric!” It was Ralof. “What—”

The soldier beside Ralof swore. “That’s the bastard who got a hit in on Calder!”

“Piss off!” Bishop sneered.

Fighting every desire to slam his fist into Bishop’s pointed little face again and again, Ulfric turned to his guards. “Grab him.”

They nodded.

“Hey, what gives—hey!”

Together, Ralof and Bjarni yanked Bishop up to his feet, each with a hand wrapped around his elbows. Bishop struggled against their hold, thrashing his head back and forth, twisting his torso, but it was in vain. The grip Ulfric’s men held on him was strong in its fury.

“Call your thugs off me!”

“What do you want us to do with him, sir?” Ralof asked, face hard. It was then that Ulfric remembered how excited Leara was to see Ralof that morning. Ah, yes, they were close, weren’t they? Ralof reported them making it through the ruins of Helgen together. Ralof would be worried about her.

Ulfric could already feel a headache mounting at his temple just at the sight of Bishop; everything this rotten excuse for a Nord did was a thorn in his side. Today was already long. He secured none of the terms he wanted to settle at the peace conference, and Tullius was walking away from the butchering of Dunstad smelling like mountain flowers. His one consolation was that the Stormcloaks would not be made to pay for their mistakes in the Reach. Failing their mission objectives and falling to the Empire had been strong enough of a blow without draining their treasury to appease the Imperials for failing to keep back to Forsworn. This stalemate born of the Dragonborn’s puppetry may allow her to carry out her plan, but it will let tempers flare. Tension would mount like pressure on a bowstring, and whether or not Leara is able to defeat the World-Eater, that bowstring would snap, and the arrows of war would fly again.

Could she defeat Alduin? Again, the sight of Leara’s panic filled his mind. His fist closed, tightening around the phantom of her hand in his. How many soldiers had he seen crumble like that, never to rise to battle again? Doubt tugged at Ulfric, but he forced it back. No. The Dragonborn would succeed. The World-Eater must be stopped for Skyrim to know peace. There was no other option.

But she couldn’t do anything with a serpent-like Bishop biting her heels and poisoning her mind.

Ulfric held up a hand. “Bring him.”

“Like Hell am I going anywhere with you!”

“Hey!” Crying out, Bjarni jerked back as Bishop folded his legs, dropping in a dead weight between the two soldiers and pulling them with him. Bjarni went stumbling to his knees. Ralof tried to yank up on Bishop, only to receive a kick in return. Spit flew from Bishop’s mouth as he broke Ralof’s hold with a shout of rage that threw Ralof off balance. At once, Bishop was on his feet, his face twisted in anger. He lunged at Ulfric, then, “Damn it!” as Bjarni pulled back on his bow sling. Bishop went down—hard.

Bishop made to roll to his feet, only for Ralof to plant his boot on his shoulder. Bjarni was quick to drop a knee on Bishop’s chest.

“You have one choice,” said Ulfric. He was done with this. “I will not disrespect the Greybeards by killing you here, but don’t count on that to save you. You will come with us, or I will make you, and you will not like that.” He leveled a glare at Bishop as his men jerked him to his feet. “What will it be?”

The returning scowl was dark. “You’re an entitled, washed-up old religious freak—ah!”

Bishop’s head fell forward.

Blinking, Ulfric’s gaze shifted to Ralof,  who stood wide-eyed with his arm outstretched. He clocked Bishop in the side of the head with his gauntlet. After every hit Ulfric made to his head, it was Ralof’s blow that finally knocked the cockroach out. Now, if only they could pinch off his head. But despite the way Bishop treated her, Ulfric got the uneasy feeling that Leara wouldn’t be comfortable with them simply killing Bishop. She was too kind. If she hadn’t wrestled his and Tullius’s wills for the better part of the afternoon and won, Ulfric would fear she didn’t have the constitution to carry through with her end of the treaty.

Fortunately, the Dragonborn wasn’t here. She was wherever the Greybeards whisked her off to, which left Ulfric with the pleasure of handling Bishop. Personally.

Ulfric led his men in a silent march through the monastery. When they passed the west wing, he spied Elisif and her ladies’ maid standing in a huddle behind the arch. Elisif’s hand flew to her mouth at the sight of Bishop being dragged between Ulfric’s men. Her eyes darkened in a scowl, but Ulfric didn’t have the time to puzzle out the Empire’s pet. He already didn’t have the time to involve himself in the Dragonborn’s private relationships, yet here he was.

It’s for the good of Skyrim, he assured himself.

“What are they doing? Who’s that?” her ladies’ maid whispered too loudly.

“Hush, Erdi, never you mind!” came Elisif’s quiet hiss.

The Stormcloaks stalked past in silence.

They rounded a corner, down a short flight of stairs to the main corridor. At once, Ulfric scowled at the sight.

Turning her golden head with the grace of a hawk hunting rodents for its dinner, Elenwen regarded Ulfric’s procession with a delicate eyebrow. She smirked, “My, my, and what could this be?”

Beside her, the other High Elf’s mouth pinched in what might have been a smothered laugh if the Thalmor weren’t all soulless pieces of horker dung. They were blocking his path.

“Out of my way, Elenwen.” He did not have time for this. He didn’t want to make time, either.

Elenwen, however, did. “And why should I do that, Ulfric, when you and your men are clearly in violation of the pacifistic nature of this,” she cast a sour yellow stare at the ancient stonework and tapestries woven in the dragon tongue, “institution?”

“It’s nothing to you, Elenwen. Out of my way.”

Her eyes cut back to him. “I wonder, what would Miss Ormand have to say if she saw your men taking prisoners here? Is that not her traveling companion?”

Ulfric could feel Ralof stiffen behind him. His jaw tightened; Ulfric refused to play the Thalmor bitch’s games. He would not.

“Where is your Dragonborn?” Elenwen went on, clearly pleased with the sound of her own voice. It grated on Ulfric’s nerves. “I was hoping to speak to her. She would be interested to know how you and your men have treated the Greybeards’ hospitality and her friend. Don’t you agree, Hindalia?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the other High Elf simpered.

A half memory of the Dragonborn’s stuttered address to Elenwen during the council tugged at Ulfric’s attention. Leara’s behavior around the Thalmor chilled his blood at the time before her quick turnabout, and dismissal of the Thalmor’s “oversight” for their farce of a treaty smoothed the way. He dismissed it at the time, but now it begged for his recognition. Something wasn’t right. You wouldn’t even look at her if you knew what she is.

What is she?

Dragonborn. Altmer. Half-elven, hissed his better sense. The Dominion hates halfbreeds. But how did he know that?

“Move. I will not ask you again,” Ulfric bit out.

Elenwen stuck her pointed nose in the air. “I see you’re entirely unwilling to be civil. It’s a wonder that any manner of peace could be reached.” Nonetheless, she stepped aside.

Ulfric stormed on, clouds gathering in his wake. Neither Ralof nor Bjarni spoke, though he could feel their heightened curiosity, almost like he still felt the magic of Elenwen’s tortures. Perhaps that was why he was so affected during the council: He could feel the magic she once used against him burning in the air, electric. Bishop lulled incoherently between them, still out of it from Ralof’s blow. A small mercy.

Thank Talos, the foyer was empty.

He strode ahead of his men to one of the monastery doors. Pushing it open, Ulfric directed Ralof and Bjarni to hoist Bishop down the steps.

“Where are we taking him, sir?” Bjarni asked once they reached the landing where the stairs split.

A chill wind curled down Ulfric’s spine. He glanced up; the mountain peaks rose far above them in shadowed observance. The clouds shifted, and on the wind, he thought he heard a trace of the Voice cut the air. Ulfric frowned.

All was still. Stars winked at him, knowing.

“Toss him.”

With a great heave, Ralof and Bjarni released Bishop. No small amount of pleasure filled Ulfric as he watched the bastard ragdoll down the steps, rousing with a cry as he knocked against the icy stones. If Ulfric grinned when Bishop rolled into a snowbank at the base, burying his entire head in the process, well, neither of his men would say anything. A quick glance at Ralof showed the younger man with his arms crossed and a dark look shading his otherwise sunny face. “He hurt her, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Ulfric nodded.

Ralof’s scowl deepened. “You’re a better man than me, Jarl Ulfric.” Ralof saluted him, then disappeared back into the monastery. Ulfric and Bjarni watched him go in silence. Turning back, Ulfric watched Bishop struggle to pull himself from the snowbank. He yanked hard, then pinwheeled back on his ass in the snow. Too bad he didn’t flail off the side of the mountain and rid them all of his presence.

Ulfric’s mind churned. Too much demanded his focus already for him to try and puzzle out the nature of the Dragonborn’s feelings and her ill-formed relationship with a lecherous bastard like Bishop. And yet that was where his mind went. Every time he saw her, Leara appeared weaker, drained in excess by Bishop’s leechcraft. Elenwen’s implications—whatever in Oblivion they were—only agitated him further, as she surely intended them to do. There was something wrong here that he couldn’t place his finger on, nor could he afford to. If there was one thing the Dragonborn’s peace agreement bought him, it was time to plan his next maneuvers. Tullius would undoubtedly do the same, but Ulfric could plan for that as long as the Dragonborn carried through on her word.

The winds picked up again as if stirred by his mood. “With me, Bjarni. Let’s get inside.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ralof was nowhere to be seen, though the foyer was not as blessedly empty as Ulfric had previously thought. Cool grey eyes watched him from the base of one of the stairs. Delphine passed the whetstone along her katana’s blade, methodically.

“What was that about?” Amusement colored her tone.

“Where were you?”

“What?”

Ulfric jabbed a finger back toward the entrance. “That piss poor excuse of a man attacked the Dragonborn. Where. Were. You?”

Delphine lowered the whetstone. “It’s not my job to hold her hand, Ulfric! She’s a grown woman!”

By Talos. “Funny, because we were always taught that the Blades were sworn to protect the Dragonborn. Yet, in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve found that protection to be sorely lacking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Delphine got to her feet, grip tightening on her katana. The whetstone clattered to the floor.

Bjarni stepped back, his hand flying to his empty sword belt on reflex. Ulfric remained firm. “If you don’t know, then I greatly overestimated you.”

“Did it occur to you that there might be a reason why she doesn’t want our help?” Delphine shot back.

A reason? Ever since he found Leara being preyed on, some great secret about her was dangled in front of him. First from Bishop, then Elenwen, and now Delphine of all people!

Ulfric didn’t have time for this. Galmar would say he didn’t have time for this. Galmar—

Ysmir’s beard. 

“Whatever her reasons, you need to figure them out. Wanted or not, the Dragonborn’s protection is the Blades’ mandate.” Though his tone was even, Ulfric was ready to roll heads. Punting Bishop down the stairs only did so much to soothe his temper. “If she cannot stop the World-Eater, then it’s on your head.” He turned to go, leaving Bjarni to hurry after him, wide-eyed in his wake.

Delphine stood seething.

Ulfric did not care. There was work to do.

·•★•·

Warmth enveloped her body.

Shifting, Leara stirred. A slow drumbeat pounded nearby, low and distant. She pressed her face closer to the warmth, not cold but still so very comfortable. When was the last time she felt comfortable waking up? She wasn’t sure. She knew it had definitely been a long time since she’d been properly warm. This was nice. She couldn’t recall a single dream; neither dark wings nor white lightning blighted her rest. It was peaceful. If only she could sleep like that every night.

Her palm brushed against her pillow. She hesitated. Warm and dry, it was unlike any pillow she’d ever used. Who made pillows from hardened leather? She brushed her fingertips down, smooth like snakeskin.

Where was she? Why did she fall asleep here? Try as she might, Leara couldn’t remember. Her memory before the oblivion of sleep was a blur of aching lungs and wind in her ears. Snatches of faces flirted beyond her recognition, all unwilling to step forward, no matter how she tried to draw them out. The last thing she remembered was—

Esbern. Her great-grandmother. Martin Septim.

Bloody Hell.

At once, her heartbeat pounded in her ears. A distant ache filled her chest, though she couldn’t quite tell what it was. Fear? Adrenaline? The weight of yesterday pressed down on her, and she huddled closer to the warmth. Oh, her not-a-pillow was moving, a slow and steady rise and fall like breathing. She tried to match her breathing to its rhythm. Her fingers folded, and the pads caught on a rounded edge. Scales?

Paarthurnax.

She was with Paarthurnax.

Her eyes shot open, then up. Spread close overhead was the living canopy of Paarthurnax’s wing, a warm golden brown from her vantage beneath it. In the dim light filtering through the membrane, she found herself nestled beside the wing joint, curled against his ribcage. The drumbeat in her ear was his heartbeat.

A tear prickled at the edge of her eye, relief flooding through her in a giddy wave. Leara laughed, breathless and warm. She was with Paarthurnax.

The breathing changed, and she realized Paarthurnax was waking up. I imagine that even dragons must rest sometimes.Isn’t that what Master Arngeir said? She giggled again. It appears they did.

That’s wonderful. 

The wing blanketing her fluttered, lifting. Leara turned her head and met Paarthurnax’s dark eyes through the gap. “Good morning,” she whispered. Her voice was tight. How hard did she cry after Esbern left? Trying to remember hurt too much. How did she get from the library to the summit? That might be a question for Master Arngeir once she returned to the monastery—if he chose to speak to her at all.

“Pruzah vukren, Dovahkiin,” returned Paarthurnax. Folded against his side, Leara could feel the Thu’um rumble in the dragon’s chest. “You have slept long. Krein alok, the sun rose not long ago.”

Leara rubbed her eyes. They were dry. “I thought you were asleep,” she mumbled.

Paarthurnax showed his teeth in that odd way that could be a dragon’s smile. “Sleep. Geh, I have rested. But I have also kept watch. You slept nilhahnu for one of sossedov. Dreamless,” he added at Leara’s confused face.

“Oh.”

The wing around her rustled. With slow precision, Leara got to her feet, her hands braced against Paarthurnax’s side for support. She shuffled along until she slipped from the sheltering wing into the bright morning sunlight glittering over the Throat of the World. A world of diamonds and skylights gleamed around her, almost too much for her eyes, still tender from sleep and whatever else happened the night before. She lifted a hand to shade them, huddling closer to Paarthurnax’s neck as she went.

Warm breath blew over her, stirring her hair and fluttering her voluminous grey robes. Half a thought went to why her hair was loose and how she’d snagged one of the Greybeards’ robes before another breath rolled over her, blowing it away.

“Come, Dovahkiin. We will meditate on the understanding of Zii, ‘Spirit’, in your tongue. Do you know it?” Paarthurnax asked.

Feim. Zii. “Yes, Master.”

Paarthurnax hummed. “Come.”

Leara followed Paarthurnax, feet shuffling as he directed her to the Word Wall, where she found a meditation mat waiting for her. Wide-eyed, she glanced from it to Paarthurnax before making her way to it. At once, she missed the contact when her hand left Paarthurnax, but she swallowed the chill and took a seat. Crossing her legs, she settled the robes around her to they kept her covered. Underneath, she caught a glimpse of torn chiffon. A pain shot through her heart.

“I’m ready.”

The dragon bowed his horned head. “We have meditated on Feim, on the joorre understanding of fading and the unslaad zii. A body may break and fade, but the strength of the spirit is that it endures unending,” Paarthurnax peered down at her, something knowing in the dark recesses of his eyes that didn’t quite sit well with Leara. “You have mulaag zii, a strong spirit. It has carried you far.”

“Yes, Master.”

Smoke curled from Paarthurnax’s nostrils. Was he amused? He continued, “Deepen your understanding of Zii, and the endurance of the spirit. You will need it when you face Alduin again.”

Then he fell silent, and Leara breathed out. Meditation was not an unfamiliar practice to Blades within Cloud Ruler Temple. Esbern was right: It was one of the very few things that the Blades and Greybeards could agree upon. Breathe in slowly. Hold. Exhale slowly. Again. Called on by association, her last memories of the night before, when Esbern told her who her family was, who she was, resurfaced in her mind. Heir of the Septims. Was it the strength of their ancestral spirit that bolstered her forward, through dangers, toils, and snares, to where she sat now, pensive in meditation with a dragon on top of a mountain just days before she planned to slay the World-Eater? How much of Martin Septim’s soul was present in her own? Tiber Septim’s?

As a Blade, the thought made her uncomfortable. As Dragonborn, it was like a promise. After everything she’d gone through, it emphasized her inadequacies and shortcomings.

A lesser daughter of greater sires.

Paarthurnax huffed as if sensing the dark trail her meditation led her on. “Su'um ahrk morah.There is more to you than you know, dii kiir. You will find your strength before the end.”

Bowing her head, Leara continued her relaxed breathing, desperately grasping Paarthurnax’s words as she did. Here, now, she only wanted to come through her battle with Alduin. Everything else could come after.

“The Jarl of Whiterun has agreed to let us trap a dragon in his palace,” she said at length. Paarthurnax was right. She would continue to meditate on Fade and Spirit. “Now, what do I do?”

“Hmm, yes,” Paarthurnax rumbled. He craned his head toward the skies as if listening. “I have been pondering on exactly that question. Lingrah morah. I have tasted the voices of Alduin's allies on the wind. Pogaan nahlaas, vokrii wah jun.There is one who I remember well. Odahviing. He is the one to tell us where Alduin has gone.”

Odahviing. The name flitted in with the names of those dragons she killed before. Mirmulnir. Sahloknir. Golzkreinyol. Venstrunbo. Vulthuryol, who she did not slay, who helped her escape the dark of Blackreach, and who she promised to free. Odahviing. Would she end up slaying Odahviing, or could he be an ally like Vulthuryol? If he was one of Alduin’s followers…A sick feeling rolled in her stomach. She didn’t enjoy killing dragons. Pah! Greatest dragonslayer, indeed!

“How am I to lure Odahviing into the trap?”

Leveling his head with Leara’s, Paarthurnax regarded her with something she might call fond and—bashful?  “Ah, I forget how little you know of the dov. Our names are always made up of three Rotmulaag, Words of Power. You see Paar Thur Nax, a Thu'um, a Shout, yes?”

Paar Thur Nax. She tasted it in her soul, the memory of a flavor from childhood that she couldn’t quite recall. She didn’t understand it. Paar Thur Nax. Oh. Hadn’t Vulthuryol called Alduin thuri? And there was Thur inside the dark dragon’s name as well. What did it mean? The question gnawed at her, but she batted it away. More pressing than her curiosity was the need to understand Odahviing’s name. If a dragon’s name was a Shout, then—but that made sense, of course. The Greybeards called her with a Shout. Dov Ah Kiin. She was Dovahkiin, and their thunderous summons had beckoned to a part of her that she hadn’t then known about. She hadn’t understood, but with some encouragement from Jarl Balgruuf, she’d been quick enough to heed the call. Quick enough to surprise herself at the time.

They truly were Words of Power. Each word had in itself a tone that, when sung by the right musician, altered the world around it. It was unlike magic. Magic was of Aetherius, a power born of sunshine and starlight. But the Thu’um was not otherworldly. It plucked at the earth’s bones as easily as she did a harp’s strings. Her thumb found the mithril and diamond band on her finger, as cold as the Black Band was hot. Without it, her ability to draw magicka and cast spells was stunted. She was forced to rely on others' pool magicka into her rather than replenish herself naturally from the starlight as other mages did. The curse of those born under the Atronach. But the stars held no sway over the Voice. The ability to draw on the Thu’um came as easily to her as any dragon. She lacked only the understanding to use it as they did.

Knowledge was power.

“I understand, but how do we know he’ll come just because I’ve called him?”

“He is not compelled to come, but the dov are prideful by nature. Few could resist such a challenge. Especially from you, Dovahkiin. But Odahviing, he is…headstrong? Boziik. Rash. Even among the dov, he was known for this.”

Twisting the rings on her hand, Leara pursed her lips. Dragons varied in personality just like men, elves, and beast folk. Perhaps they had a greater understanding of their individual natures due to their language. Names didn’t just mean something; they were meaningful. Apparently, that meant that even after millennia, Odahviing was a hothead, and everyone knew it. She would try to appreciate the consistency.

“He will not resist the challenge of your Voice, Dovahkiin. He will come.”

Good.

“Now! Hear his name. Odahviing. Taste it on the wind. Od Ah Viing. Know it in your su'um! Od Ah Viing!”

A song like the coming of winter sang across her skin, a rush of wings and the thrill of air speeding past, dancing across her skin. Her soul engulfed the Shout, full and deep like a snowbank. It settled like cracking ice inside her, asserting itself over the distant murmur of the dragon souls she’d absorbed before, placing itself above the words she knew. One more Shout she’d gained the mastery of. Od Ah Viing. Snow Hunter Wing.

“He will come,” she whispered, a new assurance washing over her.

She could do this.

·•★•·

High Hrothgar was silent when she slipped in from the courtyard. 

It was still early morning. Magnus rose early in the summer, especially so far north. It couldn’t be later than nine o’clock, at most. Passed time for the Greybeards to give their morning venerations to Kyne in the courtyard.

All was still.

Lowering the hood of her borrowed robe, Leara crept down the hallway. Had the delegations already gone? It would make sense. There was no point in hanging around High Hrothgar with the enemy when the treaty needed to be implemented. And it was best to get as far down the mountain as possible before night set in, and the steps froze. She didn’t envy any of their pack animals. Karnwyr was miserable enough climbing the steps, and he was made to prowl through snow!

Karnwyr! Akatosh, she hoped Bishop fed him dinner. She’d been useless to anyone else the night before, she was sure. Pain thudded at her temple; Leara rubbed at it gingerly. Any further attempts to recall what happened that led her to wake on top of the Throat of the World under Paarthurnax’s wing were in vain. There was nothing to do but ask, wasn’t there? If there was anyone to ask. She hugged the robe tighter around her. Surely, Master Arngeir wasn’t so put out with her that he wouldn’t answer her questions. Someone had to give her this robe and escort her to Paarthurnax.

Nodding to herself, Leara turned the corner to her cell. She would feed Karnwyr, ready her armor, and then find Master Arngeir one last time before she—

Leara halted. Jarl Balgruuf paced down the length of the hallway. At her approach, he looked up, a grim smile on his face.

“Ah, Dragonborn, I—” Balgruuf seemed to do a double-take. Behind him, the two guards standing sentinel gaped. “What happened? You look like Oblivion froze over!”

“Do I?” She supposed she needed a mirror. Mirrors were such trivial things when preparing to fight the World-Eater. “Consequence of sleeping outside, I suppose.”

“Why in Shor’s name would you do that?” Balgruuf asked, somewhat taken aback. “It was freezing last night. I thought to take a walk in the courtyard before bed, but it was too cold even for a Nord.” He frowned. “What were you doing, girl?”

“I was meditating.”

Balgruuf’s mouth was drawn. “And did you find the answers you were looking for?”

Odahviing’s name rustled in her soul, a snow flurry of light. “I did, thank you, Jarl.”

Balgruuf regarded her. “Good. If your business with the Greybeards is finished, you’re welcome to travel to Whiterun with me and my men. Unless you’ve anything to tend to elsewhere before we spring this trap.”

For a moment, Leara’s mind wandered back to the aunt and grandmother left behind in Wayrest. To the cousin she hadn’t seen since the war. “I’ll get my things together and join you shortly.”

“Aye, then we’ll be off.” Balgruuf and his men left, and Leara entered her cell.

Her arms were full of Karnwyr at once.

Laughter bubbled its way out of her mouth, warming her chest and relaxing her throat. She dropped to her knees to embrace him, Karnwyr’s tongue a whirl of warm, wet puppy kisses over her face and hands. Giggling, giddy, Leara scratched behind his ears and down his neck, then up again as Karnwyr preened before her, his tail wagging at the speed of hummingbird wings.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t come back last night!” Leara said, regret mingling with the laughter in her chest.

Karnwyr licked her cheeks.

“Did Bishop feed you? I suppose he did. He was taking care of you long before I came around,” Leara mused, more to herself than the wolf. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. “He’ll take care of you after I’m gone, too.”

At that, Karnwyr whined.

Leara shushed him, running her fingers over the bones of his face. “I know his manners are horrendous, but not everyone gets to go through the Anaratelin Academy for Accomplished Altmer,” her smile bowed sadly. “You’ll be all right. Now,” she got to her feet, “let’s get ready. We’ve overstayed our welcome here.”

Used to running and being gone in a moment, Leara made quick work of setting the cell to work, gathering her belongings onto the bed to be packed back into her bag once she donned her armor. Shedding the heavy robe, she paused, caught again by the sorry state of her once lovely dress. The chiffon was ripped as if pulled on. Dust clung to the hem, and here and there were places where the snow had breached the robes to stain her skirts. Regret squeezed her heart: It wasn’t beyond repair, but there wasn’t time for her to set aside for it.

Heart aching, she hung it in the wardrobe beside the borrowed robe. Something for the Greybeards to remember her by after she left for Sovngarde. A ruined gown for a fallen princess.

Armed and armored, she pulled her hood over her hair, once more bound in a braided bun. “C’mon,” she said to Karnwyr, fastening her sword belt. She grabbed her bag and, with the wolf, left the cell.

Silence hung over the passages, a cold wind holding its breath. It was so different from the bustle of yesterday when Imperials, Stormcloaks, and others meandered through the halls after the peace conference. She’d flown by them all in her haste to reach the library, and now they were gone. As she passed open doors, she peered inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the Greybeards, of Master Arngeir, but each room open to her was empty. She didn’t dare enter through closed doors.

Where was Bishop?

Karnwyr whined, bringing her to a pause at the top stairs into the foyer.

There! Master Arngeir stood with Jarl Balgruuf and his party, the other masters behind him.

“My men are ready,” Balgruuf was saying. “When the Dragonborn gives the word, we are prepared to spring the trap.”

Tilting his head, Master Arngeir folded his hands together. “But the question remains: How to lure a dragon into Dragonsreach?”

Balgruuf started, then paused, his eye catching on Leara as she made her way down the stairs. “An excellent question, one I’m hoping the Dragonborn’s meditation has provided an answer for. Has it?” he asked her as Leara came to stand beside him and Arngeir.

Eyebrows raised, Master Arngeir regarded her, but Leara couldn’t meet his stare. “Yes, Jarl Balgruuf,” she said. “I found all the answers I needed at the top of the mountain.”

Wulfgar and Borri lifted their heads, both watching Master Arngeir. “You show your training well,” he said. Leara’s attention darted to him. “The road before you is clear, Dragonborn. Wind guide you.”

She bowed, going a little deeper than she might otherwise. She would miss Master Arngeir and his guidance, churlish as it was on occasion when she pushed too far. He was wise and could be kind. She wished she could stay.

The relief from Sky Haven Temple burned through her mind. Alduin’s Wall, found again only through the dragon blood poured on the seal. In the depiction of the prophecy, it was a Blade who stood against Alduin the World-Eater on the edge of the end of time. The Last Dragonborn was a Blade. No distance run or time elapsed could erase that. She didn’t belong in High Hrothgar, just like she didn’t belong in Alinor or the Imperial City. It was true.

How the truth stung.

"And you, Masters. Thank you.”

A cloud passed over the sky blue of Master Arngeir’s eyes, but when Leara blinked, it was gone. She dropped her gaze again. She heard Jarl Balgruuf thank the Greybeards for their hospitality. Then they were leaving High Hrothgar. Her joints moved with the programmed mechanics of the dwarven automatons from Alftand. Bound to destiny.

“My child.”

Leara turned.

Jarl Balgruuf and his men were already partway down the stairs to the landing, but Leara stopped. Master Arngeir stood at the door, watching her.

Her spine straightened. “Sir?”

A shadow that was almost sorrow crossed his face. “There is a great deal of confusion raging through your spirit. You will need clarity if you hope to win against Alduin. Remember your lessons.”

“I will continue meditating as Paarthurnax instructed me.”

Arngeir raised his hand, then let it fall. “Breathe and focus, my child. Kyne will keep you.”

The question of Bishop clawed up her throat but caught in the bars of her teeth. She wouldn’t ask Master Arngeir about him, not now. The elder Greybeard made it no secret how he disliked the ranger, and Leara wouldn’t tarnish her last farewell with her teacher by bringing Bishop up.

She hoped he was okay.

“Goodbye, Master.”

“Sky above, Voice within, Dragonborn.”

A final bow, Leara descended the steps of High Hrothgar one last time.

·•★•·

They didn’t catch up to the others. Jarl Balgruuf didn’t seem bothered by this. “I’d rather not get caught between Ulfric and General Tullius on the stairs.”

“And the Thalmor?”

“If I don’t see Elenwen again this year, it’ll be too soon.”

Leara laughed while nerves coiled inside her. Breath and focus. Alduin was the priority, and any threats from Elenwen didn’t matter.

Or so she told herself, wrapped in her bedroll with Karnwyr tucked in beside her. The mountain wasn’t so cold in high summer as it was in early spring, but Karnwyr still shivered, so she took pity on him. The wolf was her responsibility until she met back up with Bishop. As they made their way down the Seven Thousand Steps, she grew convinced that he’d simply left the monastery early to escape the tensions between the Imperials, Thalmor, and Stormcloaks. Plus, he hated it there anyway. Bishop knew she was heading for Whiterun next, so it would make sense that he’d left early with plans to meet up later.

This was the reassurance she gave herself on the second night in their descent.

Missing Bishop was ridiculous. He was pushy and handsy and kissed her without asking. Not to mention, he could be possessive of her when he had no right to be. Never mind his poor manners and gross humor! But he’d been there for her through the long dark of Alftand. He was a helping hand in her treks through the wilderness, where she might otherwise get lost. He thought he was helping her. He was there after the ball, after her mistake with the harp.

She thought she killed him in Blackreach.

Later, when they finally approached Ivarstead and greener vistas, she wondered if Bishop might have abandoned her.

Her, maybe. She came with too much risk.

But Karnwyr? His wolf?

I was tracking my wolf, Karnwyr. He’s all I’ve got.

No, Bishop would turn up. He’d be back like a tarnished silver piece, showing up in unlikely places.

“You all right, lass?” Jarl Balgruuf asked her.

They stood on the bridge into Ivarstead. Underneath, the mountain stream rushed heavy and away, fat with melting snow from the Throat of the World. Magnus hung low in the western sky, casting Ivarstead deep in the shadow of the mountain. There was a hushed calm there where a thousand pilgrims tread in search of peace that she was desperate to feel. Her meditations on Feim and Zii lulled her, but still, turmoil churned in her chest over Alduin, Elenwen, Bishop, and the weight of her destiny, lineage, and life.

She felt too full for her body. If someone stabbed her, she wondered if it would all flow out with her blood.

Akatosh save her!

“Just thinking,” she replied, waving her hand in a vague arch. “Trapping the dragon is only part of my objective. I need him to tell me where the World-Eater is and to prepare to find him.”

Balgruuf passed a hand over his wheat-colored beard. “We’ll stay the night in Ivarstead. A night at the inn will be good for my men. We’ll be on the road back to Whiterun first thing in the morning.” He pressed a steady hand on her shoulder; she could just feel the weight through her pauldron.

Leara mustered a half smile.

The Vilemyr Inn was well-lit, if a little quiet. From what she was told before, Ivarstead didn’t see as many travelers as it once did, due in part to the war. There was something else the townspeople seemed tight-lipped about, wide-eyed and whispering, but she was always in a hurry when she came through. There was never time to ask. The innkeeper, Wilhelm, seemed happy enough to see them. He was quick to regale Leara and the Whiterun party with the near bar-fight earlier in the day when the Stormcloaks and Imperials both stopped in for lunch. Balgruuf’s laugh was a booming drum at that. Even Leara found herself smiling at the irony of leaving a peace council only to narrowly avoid a drunken brawl.

Her spirits held up through the beginning of dinner, right until the bard began singing The Dragonborn Comes, that same song Alec had embarrassed her within Candlehearth Hall. Faint appetite gone, Leara slid her untouched rabbit stew away and got to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured and left Jarl Balgruuf and his men sitting around the dinner table. Karnwyr made to follow her, but she shook her head.

She needed a minute. Just a few.

The world was on her shoulders. It was being shoved inside her.

Feim. Zii.

Head whirling, Leara clung to the porch rail. Her eyes closed, her head fell against the post, letting it support her as well as the roof. The door swung shut behind her, silencing the girl’s lilting chorus of, “I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes.”

If she kept pushing forward, she could ignore it, right? Right?

“Leara.”

The air in her lungs froze. Forcing her eyes open, Leara peered past the beam. Her knuckles tightened bone white on the rail.

Bishop stood in the street, his skin cast in a soft blue blush from the light of the moons. Leara’s mouth popped open. Her lungs squeezed. Bloody Hell.

A familiar smirk curved over Bishop’s face. “Surprised to see me, ladyship?”

“I—” Yes, no. Perhaps? “What’s wrong with your jaw?”

“My jaw—” Raising his hand, Bishop ghosted his fingers over the deep red mark, wincing. “Had a run-in with a troll.”

“I don’t recall seeing any frost trolls on the trip down.”

“You wouldn’t. I took care of the bastard.”

A laughter of mixed disbelief and relief tumbled from Leara. Bishop continued to smirk. He waved her over, “Take a walk with me?”

For some reason, her lungs seized. Leara pressed a hand to her breastplate, the faint beat of her heart quick under her palm. A stroll through the night air. Yes, that would help.

She left the porch.

His hands in his pockets, Bishop led her across the street, off from the main road onto a side path leading by a few weatherworn houses. There were several gardens throughout Ivarstead, full of the summer produce. An evening breeze drifted through, carrying with it the scent of the stream and the surrounding pines. There was a lake nearby, but they moved away from it, trailing southward toward Jerall road.  

After a bit, Bishop broke the silence. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Is it about why you left High Hrothgar?”

Bishop watched her, his eyes dark under furrowed brows. Growling, he kicked the grown. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Iron boning pressed into her lungs. “What are you talking about?”

“I—no, I can’t!”

A chill. “Bishop?”

Roaring, wordless, he spun away, his hands fisting in his hair. Unease sent Leara pacing backward. “You don’t know! I can’t—I can’t do this! This isn’t me! For my whole life, I’ve never cared about anyone but myself! And now I care about you!”

I care about you!

Her chest tightened. Does he really? He wasn’t good at showing it, she thought darkly. He cared about Karnwyr, but other people? Did she know of anyone Bishop cared for besides his wolf? Besides…her? “Bishop, wait—"

“Let me finish.” The look he gave her was full of such desperation that Leara’s teeth clacked closed. “I can’t be sure when it happened, when a hunter’s jealousy of someone luckier to get his prey transformed into this.” Jealous? Of who? “When the desire of bedding you changed into the joy of just being near you.” With every word, he stepped closer to her until he was right before her. Bishop took her hands in his, his skin warm through her gloves. “When I started feeling content just holding you in my hands. Every time you walk into danger, I freeze inside, thinking that this may be the last time I see you alive, despite our combined skills.” Pale eyes were heavy on hers. “Every time you sleep wounded, I dread to close my eyes, fearing to see you dead when I open them.”

Oh, Akatosh. Fires of Oblivion. Daedra and damnation! Her head ached, her stomach ached, and her chest ached. Now, her heart. Damn. She didn’t love him, but whatever Bishop felt for her, he tried to express it in the best way he could. He just wasn’t very socialized, was he? At least not by polite society. Divines, she wasn’t going to try and fix him. She didn’t want to try—she could barely fix herself and she’d been trying since she ran away from home!

But he was sincere.

Gingerly, Leara pulled her hands from Bishop’s; then, just as the frown deepened on his face, she wrapped her arms around him. The leather of his jacket was rough on her cheek. Still, she pressed into his shoulder. Her arms slipped along his back, brushing by his weapons to grasp at his shoulders. In the circle of her arms, Bishop’s body froze, as rigid as her lungs. Slowly, thawing like winter, Bishop returned her embrace, his nose brushing her hair.

“Is this some kind of expression of sympathy?” His breath stirred her curls. Leara breathed a snort. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

Perhaps it was sympathy, but she owed it to him. Bishop stayed with her this far, and he kept coming back. He cared.