#irileth

·•★•·

The bells chimed in the Temple of Kynareth.

Eyes forward, Leara mounted the stairs to Dragonsreach at a steady pace. She would not go into her destiny a quivering mess.

Beside her, Bishop ambled on as if they were barhopping late at night, chasing the alcohol and outrunning the guards. When he returned with her to the inn in Ivarstead, Leara elected to ignore the dark look Balgruuf shot her from beside the hearth. Even as she entered her room, Bishop at her shoulder, with Karnwyr darting to them from beneath a table, she ignored the Jarl. He was not her father, and she was not fifteen, sneaking around with some boy. If she chose to take a man into her room, she would.

And she did so again when they arrived in Whiterun, late the night before.

…if she got up later, in the middle of the night, to go sit in quiet meditation beside the cold coals in the barroom, then that was her business. She would thank others to stay out of it, at least until she slew the World-Eater. Then she would be dead, and it wouldn’t matter to her what wild yarns they spun into her legend.

Bishop was talking. He never ceased talking, but she’d learned to tune him out. Occasionally, she heard snatches of “after” and “us” and “run away,” but she gave them as much attention as she did Balgruuf’s disapproval—that is, mechanical placation and empty indifference.

She had more important things to focus on at present. Like the trap and Odahviing. Whether or not he could tell her how to get to Sovngarde, and…what it might cost her to gain that information. On the return trip from High Hrothgar, she’d pored over the Prose Edda. People would leave her be—for the most part, Bishop did not—when she claimed she was studying the ancient skalds as a means to prepare for the coming confrontation. She dwelled on Olaf One-Eye’s battle with Numinex for a long time, late into the night while the rest of the traveling party slept in tents and under stars. Despite historical and skaldic discrepancies illuminated through Viarmo’s annotations, Leara knew for certain that the trap would work and it would hold. Would that she could lure Alduin himself into Dragonsreach and be done with it! Perhaps that would keep the armies from invading Whiterun! Surely Balgruuf would forgive her cold shoulder if she made him the World-Eater’s jailer!

Or perhaps he would curse her ten ways to Sundas. It could go either way. A lesser dragon like Odahviing would be far more manageable.

Before leaving The Bannered Mare, Leara had taken Bishop aside. Between them, Karnwyr stilled. Ever since Bishop rejoined them, the wolf avoided his master. Once, joking, Leara asked if Bishop had done something to offend his pet. Bishop’s scoff and eye roll, punctuated by an “I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately,” and a “He’s probably spending too much time with your girly…influences,” confused her. She did not ask again.

Whatever had upset Karnwyr, she hoped the wolf would settle once she left for Sovngarde. She wouldn’t be there to play mediator between wolf and master.

“When we go in here,” she said, cutting off whatever rude remark about the Jarl that Bishop was no doubt whetting on his tongue, “I need you to listen to me.”

“When don’t I, sweetness?”

“All the time,” she retorted, then, “Listen to me: the great porch is about to be overrun. Guards, the Jarl, members of the court, us, and a very angry dragon. He will try to kill you. He will try to kill me and everyone else on that porch. This is going to be more dangerous than anything else we’ve faced,”—her confrontation with Alduin at the Throat of the World did not count— “and I need your focus. If I say run, run, and if I say shoot, you shoot. Do you understand me?”

The poison flame in Bishop’s eyes burned. “You don’t know how hot you sound right now, do you?”

“Bishop! Please!” She grabbed his hands. She hated doing so, but touching him always seemed to grab his attention. “Hitherto now, every threat we’ve encountered has been child’s play. This is an adult situation with adult consequences. In a narrow place like the porch, it can become a furnace very quickly! Dragon fire is to be feared with reason, and we’re about to be up close and personal with it!”

Bishop nodded, and then before she could withdraw her hand, he kissed her knuckles, his eyes never leaving her face. “You’re in charge, Princess.”

That was another thing, Leara thought as they crossed the bridge to the palace. “Princess.” Bishop had no shortage of nicknames for her, things he deemed as terms of endearment. Ladyship. Sweetness. A pair of fine legs. But “princess” was new. She knew he’d not used it until Ivarstead, until that first night back in bed together when he wrapped her close and buried his mouth in her hair. Had he overheard Esbern’s revelation? Did he know? Or was he trying out a new addition to his ever-expanding list of names to use to avoid using her own? Would she care just as much about another nickname, or was the prickle under her skin because of what she so recently learned? She wanted to ask. She dreaded doing so. It was a mystery that would soon lose any meaning to its resolution.

All speculation. All things she didn’t have to concern herself with because she was going to die.

Lips thin, she approached the doors, the faceless guards greeting her with a murmured, “Dragonborn.” This time, they opened the doors. Bishop whistled. Leara hurried through, nodding a quiet, “Thank you,” as she went.

The grand foyer was still. Neither maid nor child could be seen as Leara led the way up the stairs to the great hall. The last time she was in Dragonsreach, she asked Jarl Balgruuf to let her trap a dragon in his keep. Now she was here to see that task through. Around and above her, the yellow braziers crackled, merry and cheerful and so unlike dragon fire. She prayed to the Divines that that was all the fire Dragonsreach would see, that she could contain the dragon to the porch. If things got out of hand…but they wouldn’t. This dragon was not Alduin. Hadn’t she proven before that she could manage a regular dragon? She slew Mirmulnir on the plain, frost and katana in hand, a team of guards behind her. Sahloknir she caught like a bat in a trap under the cover of darkness. Then there was Golzkreinyol, killed on the road to Riverwood following her infiltration at the Thalmor Embassy. And lastly, significantly, there was Venstrunbo, slain on the way to Windhelm with Bishop as her audience. Her failure with Alduin at the Throat of the World was not that he was a dragon, but that he was the embodiment of the end times and the doom of all. If she died in Sovngarde, staving off his tyranny, so be it. That was her fate. But it would be because she fell to Alduin.

Odahviing would not have such pleasure. She would slay him herself before she let him kill her.

Jarl Balgruuf was not in his throne, nor was the court gathered there. Scarcely, however, did they reach the dais when Hrongar, Jarl Balgruuf’s brother, met them. During her previous visits to the keep, Hrongar had never taken much notice of her. It wasn’t until the day she slew Mirmulnir that he truly spoke to her, and then it was to instill in her the importance of the Dragonborn in Nordic tradition. Where Balgruuf was the cautious politician, Hrongar was all bullheaded warrior, ready to do whatever it took to defend Whiterun and uphold his family’s honor. Leara wasn’t surprised that he would be right in the middle of her scheme with the dragon. Hrongar was always itching for a fight, and what’s a bigger fight than inviting a dragon into his brother’s palace?

“I still can’t believe you got my brother to agree to this,” was his greeting, amusement flickering around his eyes.

 “It’s the necessary next step if there’s any hope of defeating the World-Eater. I’m thankful Jarl Balgruuf sees that too.”

Hrongar grinned at her. Behind her, Bishop growled, so low that Leara was sure Hrongar didn’t hear it, but still.

“You have the Greybeards’ blessing,” Hrongar said, ignoring the agitated ranger. Of course, Bishop wasn’t the Dragonborn, so Hrongar wouldn’t care who he was. That such dismissal would just offend Bishop more flitted in a thought through Leara’s mind, but she waved it away. If Bishop caused a problem, it would soon be something she wouldn’t have to share. “My brother tells me you have the means of trapping this dragon and taking down Alduin. For a pointy ear, I’m impressed with your handling of this. It’s the Nord way of things, no doubt!” He boomed a laugh.

Akatosh, did Hrongar just compliment her? Divines be damned, and now slaughterfish will fly.

“She’s more Nord than you!” Bishop spat.

Pardon, what?

For the first time, Hrongar actually looked at Bishop, “What are you babbling about, Snowback?”

Leara threw out an arm to prevent Bishop from darting forward—she knew he would—but he brushed by her, a sneer twisting his mouth. “You talk about her being some great hero, like you didn’t think she could do it, but this woman is ten times the Nord you or your blue-balled brother could ever be! She’s putting her ass on the line to cover yours like you're all a bunch a snot-nosed brats in soiled pants! She’s not your nursemaid! Stop sucking on her tits!”

Or that’s what Bishop would have said. Before “You talk about her—” fell in full from his mouth, Leara cast Muffle over him. Hrongar stared, stunned, as Bishop’s mouth kept moving in voiceless rage. Beside them, Karnwyr ducked his head, embarrassment clear even on a wolf’s face.

“I beg you’ll excuse him,” Leara said, “He got rather drunk last night and hasn’t quite moved from intoxicated to hungover yet.”

Hrongar grunted. “It’s on his head then if he stumbles like a fool into the dragon’s maw.”

That would certainly save Leara from needing to do more damage control, wouldn’t it? Regardless… “Shall we get on with it then?”

“Yeah, follow me. The porch is this way.”

By then, Bishop seemed to realize neither Leara nor Hrongar could hear him. He tugged on Leara’s arm as she made to follow Hrongar, who was already striding toward the steps at the back of the hall. Rolling her eyes, Leara waved her hand, and the Muffle spell covered her, too.

“—believe you did that to me again!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d not insult everyone who talks to me!”

“Hey,” Bishop snapped, “I didn’t insult the damn innkeeper!”

“No, you were too busy staring at the serving girl’s arse!”

“So?”

Just a little patience, Leara chanted in her head. Just a little longer, and then you’ll be gone, and Bishop can go screw all his bloody feelings for you into the damn serving girl.

Tone measured, cool, Leara spoke. “We are going to the porch. You are not going to talk to the court while I handle this business. You’re going to listen to me up there like you’re going to listen to me now, all right? And maybe,” silver pulled on her tongue, “later, when the whole nasty unpleasantness is over,” the silver dripped over her lips as she leaned just sotoward Bishop. His eyes glazed, focused on her, her mouth, the silver webs she was spinning just for him, “I’ll make everything worth your while.”

“Wait,” Bishop’s head was trying desperately to keep up with his second brain, it seemed. “You mean—”

“Yes.” Not at all. But he didn’t need to know that, did he?

A growl purred from Bishop, but unlike the threat he thought he was issuing to Hrongar before, this was pure desire. “Dominate me all you want on that porch, darling, but know that when we’re alone tonight, you’ll be the one surrendering.”

“You can count on it,” Leara fluttered her eyelashes, then, grabbing his arm, she dragged a quite pleased Bishop toward the stairs, her Muffle dissipating around them. She ignored the watchful eyes of Karnwyr; dogs—and wolves, she’d found—could always tell when something was wrong, and Karnwyr was especially attuned with her emotions. She couldn’t face her own anxiety and fear reflecting back at her from Karnwyr’s sad, dark eyes. So she ignored him.

Hrongar was waiting at the base of the stairs, eyebrow raised in question as she approached, Bishop pulled behind her. “Sobering him up,” she told Hrongar by way of explanation. She wagged her fingers at him, ice crystals and pale light dancing between her gloved digits. Like most Nords, Hrongar had a distrust of magic that could rival some folks’ aversion to government. At her little display, Hrongar scowled and turned up the stairs.

Good, he wouldn’t get in Bishop’s crosshairs again.

·•★•·

So, this is where everyone is, Leara thought as she, Bishop, Karnwyr, and Hrongar stepped onto the porch. Jarl Balgruuf stood forward and off-center, eyes following several of his guardsmen as Irileth directed them into position for the coming trap. Everything was there. They were just waiting. Waiting for her to take the stage.

And what a stage she had! The great porch of Dragonsreach was a cavernous stone hall lined with roaring fire-filled brasiers. On any other occasion, it might have housed long tables and decorations, symbols of Whiterun’s nobility and history. Today, however, the high walls and the sweeping tiles were clear, prepared in wait for the coming dragon. At the end of the porch, a wide curving balcony offered a panoramic view of the tundra and the boreal mountains bordering the Pale to the northeast. The view was stunning, but it was the contraption overhead that drew Leara’s eye. A yoke, alike to those used on livestock in the field, hung above her head, a prison and a marvel held by great chains older than the last three ages. Midway down the porch were two rests where the yoke would be locked in place, preventing the dragon from throwing it off and breaking free. It was magnificent. It was horrifying. A pit settled in the bottom of Leara’s stomach at the sight. In another time in this same place, that yoke bore down on Numinex, driving him mad in isolation, his pride and strength broken by mortal men. What would it do to Odahviing?

Jarl Balgruuf met her, then, drawing her eyes from the dragon’s yoke. His face grim and eyes hard, tired, as if he had gotten as much sleep as Leara had the night before. That is, barely any at all. Balgruuf hardly spared Bishop’s specter over Leara’s shoulder a first glance before addressing her. “Brother, Dragonborn,” he greeted them, voice not quite as warm as in the past.

“Jarl Balgruuf,” right fist over her heart, Leara bowed her head.

“It’s that time, then, Dragonborn,” Balgruuf went on, “As I promised, the great chains are oiled, and my men stand at the ready. We’re ready to spring this trap. You do have a plan, don’t you, lass?”

Her understanding of Dragonrend burned through her soul, too hot, and her studies of the Poetic Edda churned through her mind. “I do, as sound as any plan is when calculating for a live dragon.”

Balgruuf nodded, “My men know what to do. They await your word.” He paused, then, “My city’s in your hands, lass, I’m trusting you to protect it.”

It wouldn’t be the first time, but it was definitely the most pivotal. “I’ll protect it with my life,” she assured him with a soft smile.

Beside her, Bishop grumbled wordlessly, but remained otherwise quiet, thank Akatosh.

Balgruuf’s eyes flicked past Leara, then back to her, movement hardly noticeable. “Hrongar,” he said, “would you take the Dragonborn’s companion to the upper balcony? As an archer, that’s the best place for him.”

“Like Hell I’m going up there!” Bishop cried, stepping forward. Despite being some distance away, Irileth’s gaze turned toward them, crimson and blazing with warning. Karnwyr whined. Bishop turned to Leara. “Ladyship, do you actually expect me to leave your side when you call this oversized gecko down here?”

Flames threatened to blaze hot embarrassment across her face, but she doused them with years of training. “Yes,” she said, voice cool. “I expect you to listen to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.” Bishop glared, opening his mouth to fire off again, but Leara had had enough before they ever reached the palace. “If he tells you to shoot the dragon, shoot it, and if he tells you to jump off the porch, do that too!”

Hrongar laughed, loud and full. Balgruuf didn’t, but he was clearly just as amused if the pull at the corner of his mouth was anything to go by. Even Karnwyr wagged his tail at his master’s expense!

“Bullshit!” Bishop snapped, face red.

“Bishop,” Leara sighed, and she raised an eyebrow at him. Remember what we talked about. She fluttered her eyelashes

Bishop opened his mouth. Closed it again. Did a fish impression for a moment or two, then swore under his breath. “Fine,” he acquiesced, “Whatever.”

Bishop went off with Hrongar, who was still chuckling.

“You too,” Leara said, gentle as she brushed a hand over Karnwyr’s head and ears. The wolf blinked up at her, eyes soulful and pleading, but Leara wouldn’t have him in the line of fire. “Can’t have you as dragon bait, even if you're cute enough to eat!”

Karnwyr wagged his tail, preening under her attention, then, with one last long look too knowing for an animal, he loped off to the stairs after Bishop. Leara watched him go.

“Are you all right, lass?”

Now alone with the Jarl, Leara’s shoulders sank, not quite as sure as she’d set out to be when she first arrived. “I will be,” she admitted, not quite meeting his gaze. He was worried for her. She’d known that this whole time. She wanted—but she couldn’t. This was the beginning of the final chapter. She didn’t need to drag Balgruuf into her…whatever she had with Bishop.

“Leara, is he—”

“Let’s spring this trap, Jarl Balgruuf.” With that, she strode toward the balcony.

He walked beside her. “What is your plan?”

A clever little grin tugged her mouth out of her previous mode. Ah, yes! Her plan! “I’m going to call the dragon.”

“Call the dragon…?” Balgruuf frowned. They came out on the porch balcony where a handful of guards already waited. A moment later, Irileth joined them.

“Yes, call him!” repeated Leara, absently studying the vivid blue skies of a cloudless morning in high summer. Wonderful visibility! “With my Thu’um, naturally. The dragon will come because it’s my Thu’um issuing the challenge. See, ever since that day at the watchtower, ever since the Greybeards went and told everyone under Magnus that there is a Dragonborn, dragons seem almost giddy to test themselves against me!” The souls tucked inside her own stirred in recognition of her greater power. Balgruuf stared at her.

“Is that why the beast attacked the watchtower?” Irileth asked, unimpressed.

“Excuse me, Housecarl,” one of the guards chimed in. He coughed, nervous, as the Dragonborn, the Jarl, and his Housecarl focused on him. The man cleared his throat. “That was before the Greybeards’ summons, remember? The dragon that attacked us at the Western Watchtower came before anyone knew the Dragonborn was, well, the Dragonborn.”

Leara blinked in recognition, the guard’s features visible through the helmet’s open faceplate. “You were at the watchtower that day, weren’t you?”

The guard bobbed his head. “Aye, ma’am. Name’s Gardbrand.”

“Well, Gardbrand,” Leara said, a pep in her voice as she turned toward the open sky. “You’re an old hand at this dragon business!” Then to Balgruuf, “Give the word, it’s time.”

But Balgruuf hesitated. “What happens once you call this dragon down on us?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “I’m going to bait him into the trap. As easy as luring a fox into—”

“—into a henhouse,” Gardbrand finished. Leara nodded.

Irileth, studying the landscape, sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Aye,” agreed the Jarl. The two made their way back under the cover of the porch. His voice rang out against the stones. “Ready, men! Get in position!”

“I’d hang back if I were you,” Leara told Gardbrand, “This balcony is about to get crowded.”

“If it’s all the same, Dragonborn, the Housecarl ordered some of us men to stand ready at the balcony,” he explained.

Of course she did. “Good man,” Leara said instead. “But at least get out of the line of fire, will you? I don’t want anyone getting hurt because of this.” Except me.

With a short nod, Gardbrand took up a station at the edge of the balcony, right by the mouth of the porch.

Leara stood alone. All eyes on her.

Feim. Zii.

It was time.

Drawing in a lungful of air, sweetened by flowering cotton and wheat from the farms around Whiterun. Farms in danger if her plan failed. Whiterun’s safety was the central lodestone in the mass weighing her shoulders. All of Skyrim—Tamriel and existence itself—was doomed if Alduin was allowed to continue his tyranny, but today, right now, it wasn’t Alduin that threatened Whiterun. It was Leara and Odahviing, and her plan to trap him.

Best get it over with.

“OD AH VIING!”

Rushing wind like the hush of snowfall billowed from her mouth, a coming winter chilling the summer.

The world was still.

Behind her, a murmur of voices whispered. Guards, the Jarl, others.

“Where is it?” someone asked. “Where’s the dragon?”

“The Thu’um,” someone else said in awe.

“Do you—wait, what was that?”

“The wind, Snorri! Stop shaking!”

As her Voice sprang against the stones and danced on the wind up and away from Dragonsreach, out over the tundra and to the mountains beyond, Leara watched. One hand on the hilt of her katana, crystal eyes cut across the distant horizon. Was that a speck of movement off to the east, or a glare from the sun? A flicker of red appeared above a snowcapped ridge. Sky whales! the skalds in the Poetic Edda waxed whimsical about.

A dragon, her practicality realized as the flicker grew larger. The dragon! Odahviing!

“Shor’s bones!”

Akatosh give her strength!

Still, she held her position. Another Shout poised on her tongue. Divines help her, may she only have to utter Dragonrend once for this! The burning horror that seared across her soul when she used Dragonrend on the Throat of the World fought to be at the forefront of her mind, the pain and fear distracting her focus from the present. When she learned the Shout that prophecy said would cast down the World-Eater, its understanding dug into filling her with a mortal dread unlike anything else she could imagine. What’s worse, was that she knew she must use it again now, and again later when she met Alduin in Sovngarde. Now that the moment had arrived, that knowledge alone was almost enough to send her running from the porch. Her legs itched to flee.

Leara held her ground. She would not run.

Her hand tightened on her katana’s hilt.

Wait, where was the dragon?

Night fell across the porch balcony. Thunder roared. No, not thunder, not the night! The dragon—Odahviing flew from over the top of the keep, his wings casting Leara and her surroundings into deep shadow. His roar shook the air, loud, challenging. He was large, scales crimson between silvery snow blue wings like a bloom of blood on the ice. But, Leara noted, he was neither as large nor his horns as towering as Alduin’s. He was, as she previously thought, a very average-looking dragon, if a bit brilliant for his coloring.

Odahviing roared; a guttural thunderclap without the focus of a Word of Power, the power of his Voice still shook the air. Leara froze. Dragonrend! Dragonrend now!

Her mouth fell open.

Nothing came out.

“Steady! Steady now! Keep under cover until it’s down!” Balgruuf’s voice boomed behind her, carrying with it all the power she couldn’t muster.

Odahviing, heedless of her simply standing in a dumb stupor, circled back around to the balcony. “Dovahkiin! Het zu’u los!” Then with wide jaws, the dragon snatched a guard from the edge of the balcony and flung him through the air. Too stunned even to scream, the guardsman flew in a wide arch, then fell, disappearing beyond the edge of the porch to the tundra hundreds of feet below. A scream, a woman’s scream and not a dragon’s Shout, rang in Leara’s throat, her hand outstretched.

Gardbrand!

No. No. She would not freeze. She would not let this Odahviing kill anyone else. She was Dovahkiin. She was the one with the power to challenge the World-Eater. She would quell this worm and crush him under her boot.

“JOOR ZAH FRUL!”

Pain blistered in white-hot fracture lines, spiraling across her chest and through her veins like a poison. Death kissed her, its breath filling her lungs with decay and dread so deep that she drowned in the noxious fumes. The Shout tore from her mouth, from her soul and blood, and crashed into Odahviing. Hardly had Leara caught her breath, choking on a pain more spiritual than physical, when she saw the looming weight of the dragon coming for her, bound to mortality and the dust of the earth like any finite being.

Moving from the growing shadow was one of the hardest things she ever had to do, but Leara managed it. Once her feet were moving under her, she found she could almost breathe again. Body twirling, she drew her katana, a slight tremor betraying her wavering spirit.

She faced the dragon.

His knees and the joints of his winged forelimbs were buckled, bowed into the floor. His head was lowered, but his eyes were on her. Focused with intention and a dawning realization.

Did he, did he not realize until she crushed him to the floor that it was she who called him there? She who issued the challenge? Did Gardbrand die because Odahviing didn’t realize, didn’t care to know, that the Dragonborn was neither a man nor a Nord? …had Alduin ever let on just who and what the Dragonborn was?

Frost and fury flared in a blizzard within her breast, brushing away the remnants of Dragonrend’s hold as she faced the dragon. He would know who she was!

For a moment, all was silent as the Dragonborn and her opponent locked eyes.

Then the symphony of yelling guardsmen and barked orders crashed into her ears.

Air whistled, and then an arrow—one of Bishop’s, she recognized—bounced off one of Odahviing’s horns. It clattered to the ground, useless, but it was enough. More arrows began to rain down, a slanted sheet against the dragon. Odahviing roared, again wordless, but agitation clear.

“Fall back!” Leara cried over her shoulder, though she didn’t take her eyes from the dragon. “Don’t kill him!” She didn’t want to think of what a headache that would cause! “Fall back!” And she danced back.

Twirling her katana blade in an arc, she pushed air into her lungs, desperate to appear collected as she performed her part.

It was like threading a needle, leading Odahviing under the cover of the porch. She danced just out of reach of his red maw, her silver boots tapping across the tiles as she skirted backward. His eyes were focused on her. Almost—

“I will conquer where Alduin failed!” Odahviing’s voice drummed against her ears. Leara didn’t have time to over what he meant, because the next moment the world was on fire.

“YOL TOR SHUL!”

“YOL!” she Shouted, countering his flame with her own. Hers swirled in a white gold blaze into the heart of his flames, cutting the inferno down. Heat wafted through the porch. Odahviing’s fire was unlike Paarthurnax’s. When Paarthurnax greeted her, his fire was a heat so intense that reason told her she should incinerate the moment she felt it, yet its brush over her was so gentle that it was like being cradled when she was a small child. Paarthurnax’s Thu’um brought comfort. But while Odahviing’s flame was nowhere near as hot as Paarthurnax’s, there was nothing soft about it either. Broiling with pride, it was easy to understand why the other dragons considered Odahviing a hothead!

People yelled around her. Someone would be spotting for her to signal for the yoke to fall once Odahviing was in place, she was sure. And—yes! She spied Balgruuf watching intently, his sword in hand and his mouth moving as he barked orders that she couldn’t quite hear over the dragon’s noise. She thought she heard a bark, and was glad that Karnwyr was out of harm’s way.

She spun back, a whirl of Frost Cloak cocooning her, and Odahviing lunged forward, jaws snapping where she once stood.

“Come along, little snapping turtle!” she sang, ice crystals tightening into a shield, making her brave. “Here I am! Catch me!”

Where Dragonrend’s grip on her had loosened into a faint ache, soothed by movement and magic, it still held an iron fist on Odahviing. He growled, low and deep, shaking the flood underfoot. His eyes, obsidian dark, glared at her with a heat nearly as hot as the Thu’um. He calwed his way forward, intent in his pursuit.

Leara laughed and danced ahead.

“NOW!” The command sprang out, and then with a heave, the trap was sprung. Clang! The chattering of the chains screamed through the air; then, with a groan, the yoke fell. Heavy, broad, it came down on Odahviing’s shoulders like a headman’s axe, pinning his wing joints down and forcing him a roar and a groan into the floor. Trapped. Snared. A prisoner in Dragonsreach!

“Nid!” howled Odahving.

By the Nine, they’d done it!

Laughter continued to bubble out of Leara, not mocking, but relieved, sincere, and perhaps a little disbelieving, because, sweet, sweet Mara and her multitudes of mercies, the plan worked! Paarthurnax would be so proud of her! It worked!

“We got him!” Balgruuf cried. He was at Leara’s side in an instant, light and relief shining in his face. Irileth was right behind him, less joyful but just as relieved that the plan worked. “This is amazing! I’ll be famouser than Olaf One-Eye himself! Irileth! Do you see? We’ve caught a dragon!”

“Yes, my Jarl, I see him,” replied Irileth, only marginally impressed.

“Horvutah med kodaav. Dii paak los zok.” Odahviing rumbled. What was he saying, she wondered.

“Sweetness! Princess!”

Weight hit her shoulders, and Leara found Bishop pressed into her side, his arms around her. He was panting, catching his breath. Oh, he ran down, didn’t he? Maybe he should lay off the mead. Feeling awkward, Leara patted his forearm where it pressed against the collar of her armor. “It’s quite all right,” she told him, trying to be reassuring.

His hold tightened. “That scaly bastard tried to roast you alive!”    

“But he didn’t!” Leara reminded Bishop. As evidenced by his very tight hold of her completely intact upper body. The sting of Dragonrend under her skin flared. Ow. She cleared her throat. “You can let go now.”

Bishop’s hold tightened. Then, at her look, he pulled his arms away, thankfully without fuss. She’d take that victory too, while she was at it.

            Hrongar appeared beside his brother. Standing before Odahviing, pinned under the yoke his ancestor used on another dragon, Hrongar let out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned, we caught the dragon! Now what do we do with it?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” said Balgruuf, crossing his arms. “What’s the next step, Leara?”

She released a slow breath. “I’m going to talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Bishop sputtered in her ear. “Talk to it? Like, like it’s a person?”

“Why, yes, he has language! And intelligence! Where else do you think the Words of Power come from?” she asked, somewhat aghast but truly not at all surprised that Bishop would consider dragons as little more than mindless beasts. He would be the type to think he was smarter than a dragon, of all things, wouldn’t he? “Here, let go.”

Bishop’s hold on her held.

“Bishop.”

“Best let her be about her business, lad,” Balgruuf said, tone hard. He pressed a large hand into Bishop’s shoulder. “Let her go.”

Bishop scowled down at the Jarl’s hand. Irileth’s moved toward her sword. But then Bishop let go, and Leara propelled herself forward and away from him. Not frantically, no. She strode forward with purpose. She came to a stop before Odahviing. He was watching her, eyes trailing her movements as she came forward to meet him.

“Drem Yol Lok,” she greeted.

The dragon’s head tilted to the side, assessing her. “Zok frini grind ko grah drun viiki, Dovahkiin.”

She stared at him. What did he just say? She resisted the urge to look back at Balgruuf or another Nord—someone who might know something of the dragon tongue, or at least more than her! Might the court wizard know? Farengar was certainly very interested in all things dragon! Would he know enough to be an effective translator? Hopefully? She hadn’t considered what to do if this dragon didn’t speak Cyrodilic like Paarthurnax or Vulthuryol. Though, how did the dragon in Blackreach know the modern common tongue after millennia shut in the dark? Could it be that because the dragon tongue was a system built around true understanding and the power of language that dragons were able to learn language in a way mortal minds couldn’t fathom? Did it have anything to do with dragons as spiritual beings beyond the confines of the material world? Dragon language acquisition was not something she ever considered before she began learning Words of Power, but now Leara wondered if perhaps that was why she’d never had trouble picking up other languages.

“Hi tinvaak Dovahzul?” 

That was a question, she realized, recognizing tinvaak. Was he asking her if she spoke his language? “My apologies,” she said, “but I’m not very familiar with your tongue.”

Turning his head to the other side, Odahviing continued to stare at her. “Krosis, dii mey. My own folly goes unchecked, it seems.” Oh, thank the Nine! She could understand him! “My...eagerness to meet you in battle was my...undoing, Dovahkiin,” he said at length, drawing out words as if meditating on their meaning in the same way Paarthurnax bade her do with the dragon tongue. “I salute your, hmm, low cunning in devising such a grahmindol,strategem. Zu’u bonaar, you went to much trouble to put me in such a…humiliating position." Despite his complaint, Odahviing seemed actually impressed with her trick.

She couldn’t help the swell of pleasure in her at that.

“Of course,” she said, all heroic professionalism, “Understand, please, that I didn’t merely trick you to show you off as a trophy to the local Nords. Something so trivial is hardly the outcome I want from this.”

“Nid, hind siiv Alduin. You wish to know where Alduin has flown.”

“Yes, precisely,” Leara clasped her hands behind her back, leaning forward just so in interest. “Do you happen to know where he’s hiding?”

Odahviing snorted. "Rinik vazah. An apt phrase. Alduin bovul.”  He shook his great horned head. “One reason I answered your challenge was my wish to test your Thu’um for myself. There is talk among many of us, questioning Alduin’s lordship. Many have begun to doubt that his Thu’um is still strongest.” To Leara’s mild surprise, Odahviing chuckled. “Only between ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. No one of us is yet ready to defy him so openly.”

How curious! Were the dragons waiting for her to prove her Thu’um over Alduin’s, or were they waiting for him to crush her and assert his tyranny over all once more? It was probably best not to ask. She didn’t think she wanted to know the answer. “You were just telling me where to find Alduin, yes?”

"Unslaad krosis. Innumerable pardons,” Odahviing apologized, not sorry at all. “I digress. He has flown to Sovngarde, where he seeks to gather his strength by devouring the sillesejoor,. the souls of the mortal dead. A privilege he jealously guards,” Odahviing growled, his disdain for Alduin’s keeping such a feast evident. Leara raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “He keeps his door to Sovngarde in Skuldafn, one of his ancient fanes high in the eastern mountains. Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshalled there.”

“All of them?” she asked, voice far calmer than she felt. All of his remaining strength? What did that mean? She rocked back on the balls of her feet, new information swirling in her mind.

“Geh. Zu'u lost ofan hin laan, now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?"

Glancing up at Odahviing, she nearly choked on her own laughter. Still, she shot the dragon a wry smile. “And let you go racing back to tell Alduin I’m on to him? No, thank you. I think the Jarl of Whiterun could use you as a guest for a while longer.”

“Leara,” said Jarl’s voice rang out behind her, not nervous, but not entirely enthused by the prospect of a dragon as an extended houseguest either. “I don’t want any dragons living in my city and endangering my people!”

“Oh, you needn’t worry, Jarl Balgruuf!” she called, all bravado. “You can make an exception for Odahviing here! He’s very polite!”

Neither Balgruuf nor Odahviing found that very funny. Well, phooey them.

“Hmm, krosis. There is one...detail about Skuldafn I neglected to mention," the dragon hummed, almost sing-song, almost ‘I know something you don’t know.’

Leara was on guard again at once. “Well, go on, then! I imagine I won’t like this, and that amuses you, doesn’t it?”

"Only this,” began Odahviing, “You have the Thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn. Of course,” he added, rather sly. Leara raised an eyebrow. “I could fly you there. But not while imprisoned like this."

“Oh, is that all?” she laughed, even while the guards around her exchanged looks. There were ways to fly. Old levitation spells, forbidden by the Arcane University and the Empire, but the University was gone, and she herself was forbidden within the Empire for what she was. She could find those! Maybe the College of Winterhold had the secret? Surely they had scrolls on that or some other spell that could carry her over the mountains! Or maybe, perhaps, could she go to the Throat of the World without darkening Master Arngeir’s door? Could she seek Paarthurnax’s help for this final journey? There were options; she had options. “If wings are all I need, then, Odahviing, what do I need you for?”

Odahviing reared back, or rather, he would have if not for the restraint of the yoke on his shoulders. Bishop appeared at her side, brows knit. “Sweetness, what are you doing?” he hissed.

“Negotiating,” she told him, “Now let me talk to the nice dragon, will you?”

“Surely you see the position you’re in, Dovahkiin,” said Odahviing. “You are but a mortal koordin. Your dovah silcannot help you. I can.”

How she wanted Paarthurnax! He would know what to do right now. Were she to free him, could she trust Odahviing enough to carry her to Skuldafn? Could she afford not to? “He’s coming soon,” she murmured. Bishop glanced at her. The longer she delayed, the more Alduin’s strength would grow, grow until he came back to Tamriel. But Paarthurnax— “I cannot reach him in time,” she realized. She couldn’t do anything else. Time was more than short; it was gone. It was trust Odahviing or nothing. “You demand a great deal of trust for a serpent caught in a snare. One might believe you’ll say anything to free yourself. However, I’m not interested in dancing around an impasse with you. I have work to do, and a deadline by which to do it.” Course decided, she turned to the Jarl and his men. “Release the trap.”

Next to her, Bishop was already shaking his head. “You have got to be kidding me!”

“Quite serious, I promise.”

“Lass,” Balgruuf was quick to join her. “Do you think this is wise, freeing it?”

Ah, so that was it. Balgruuf didn’t want the dragon to stay in his keep, but he didn’t want to let Odahviing off so easily. Had Balgruuf thought this whole time that she would slay the dragon and be on her merry way once she got what she wanted? Again, Numinex’s skull mounted over the Jarl’s throne taunted her. She could almost see Odahviing’s enshrined beside it. That was what Balgruuf wanted. Grateful as she was for his help, Leara couldn’t let him have his prize. “Oh, Jarl Balgruuf, it’s not wise at all! But it is necessary,” she said at length. Then she offered Odahviing a bright smile. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you to do what’s necessary, too, won’t I?”

“Of course, Dovahkiin.”

“Aye, you’re right, again, I suppose,” Balgruuf sighed. “Take word upstairs,” he told a guardsman. “The Dragonborn wants to free this dragon. We await her signal.”

The guard grumbled. “Aye, sir, though it seems like a really bad idea to me.”

“On with you, soldier. This is all part of the Dragonborn’s plan,” Jarl Balgruuf dismissed.

Bowing, the guard left. Irileth huffed but went about directing the men on the ground.

Leara supposed she could leave at once, couldn’t she? There was nothing left in her room in The Bannered Mare. Her tab with Hulda was paid. Karnwyr was—Karnwyr! There! At her beckoning hand, he darted from the far side to her, tongue wagging. Good, he was okay, and Bishop was here; Bishop would take care of him, as always. Or at least until the next time bandits running a fighting ring decided Karnwyr was an easy target, and then she hoped the next person who agreed to help Bishop get him back fared better than she! Yes, everything was settled. She had everything she owned—everything she needed with her. It was time.

She turned to go.

“Are you insane!” Bishop was in front of her at once, blocking her path—again. “You are going to trust that, that overgrown lizard and fly it?”

Leara sighed. “You heard him as well as I did, Bishop. There’s no other way to get to Skuldafn! There’s no time to find another road. This is my path, and I must walk it. Or, well, fly it, I suppose,” she amended after a moment.

“Gods, you are insane!” Bishop’s whole body shook, whether in anger or disbelief, though, she wasn’t sure. His hands flexed at his sides, as if to grasp her and pull her into him once more, but he clenched his fist as tightly as he ground his jaw. “Should have known all that head trauma would get to you, sooner or later,” he hissed, drawing into himself as if, as if she betrayed him or something. Had she? No. He went on, “I will not stick my neck out for you this time!”

Her own body was shaking. Nerves. “I never asked you to!”

“Maybe not with your fancy words, but everything I’ve done has been for you! Because of you! No more! I’m done! I—” he hesitated, as if he wanted to go on but couldn’t bring himself to. At once, Bishop rounded away from her, a dark shadow, and stormed into the palace.

“Bishop, Bishop! Wait!” she cried as he disappeared through the doors. Wait for what, though? Not her. Not her. But…she glanced down at Karnwyr. Beloved, sweet, loyal Karnwyr, who was watching her now with the saddest, most knowing eyes. She brushed a loving hand over his ears, one last time. Then, running to the doors, she yanked one open. “Go,” she told the wolf. “Go and please make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. I—” Now she was lost for words. Leara swallowed. Karnwyr, sensing her heart anyway, always, licked her gloved fingers and went through the door, head and tail bowed to the ground.

Why did she want to cry? She couldn’t. Not now. There wasn’t time.

“YOL TOR SHUL!”

Dragon fire heated the air. Leara hadn’t noticed Balgruuf or his brother leave, but she was thankful they weren’t sitting front row to her argument with Bishop. Rather, now they were trying to pull Farengar, the court wizard, out of Odahviing’s reach.

What was that idiot doing!

“I just wanted a couple of small samples! Nothing that this, this Odahviing would miss!” the mage was defending as Irileth pulled him back by the forearm. Shorter than Farengar though she was, Irileth outclassed the mage in every other class, and perhaps even in battle magic, if Leara had to guess.

“That’s enough, Farengar,” Balgruuf was saying, frowning as he crossed his arms. “The time will come for your experiments later. The Dragonborn needs this dragon unspoiled.”

“Yes, yes, I do,” Leara said, joining them. Farengar had the decency to look at least a smidge bashful. But only a smidge. Leara gave Jarl Balgruuf another Bretic bow. “Thank you, Jarl, for all your help, and for entrusting me with your city’s safety. I’m sorry that my plan cost one of your guards his life.” The sight of Gardbrand disappearing over the balcony edge still swam in her mind. She swallowed. “I’m ready to release the dragon.”

Things happened very quickly after that. The chains were wound, the yoke was lifted, and soon, Leara was standing beside Odahviing on the edge of the balcony. The skies of Skyrim spread out before her, brilliant blue and deep. She flew before, when Vulthuryol bore her and Karnwyr to the Tower of Mzark, but this, this was different. This was the open sky, not a cavern in the depths of the earth. How much more would flying feel with Odahviing?

“Here we are, lass,” Balgruuf said, staring out over the northern reaches of his Hold. “Seems like yesterday you were bringing news of Helgen to my doorstep, and now here we are.”

“How time flies,” Leara murmured.

He clapped her on the shoulder, not hard. There was a camaraderie and respect between them, despite Leara’s past missteps. “Now, Leara,” he went on, “I won’t be denied a third time! When you come back, I’ll be making you a thane in my court! It’s only right, after all you’ve done for my people and all of Skyrim.”

That he believed she could survive the World-Eater was a sweet, if shortsighted, thought. She was a traitor and a runaway. Committing herself to the Dragonborn’s destiny, pursuing it to the end, was that not her final bow? Her life for all, the redemption of her every past misdeed, her betrayals and cowardice? Her mind went to Ulfric Stormcloak for a moment, just one, to the man she saved after serving the hand that would have killed him. Saving him didn’t make up for her sins against him. Could she even hope that saving Tamriel could truly clear her name? No, but she would give her life for its people all the same. Such was the demand made of every Dragonborn at the eleventh hour. Like Martin Septim, she would give her life and pass into history. There was nothing left for her after that.

But she did not tell the Jarl this. She did not breathe these things to anyone. Instead, she offered him her most honest smile, not the Knight-Sister’s guarded thinness nor the Dominion officer’s haughty curl, but the full bloom that belonged to a young girl dancing through meadow grass in the Iliac Bay. She gave this to Balgruuf, and then, head high, she made her way to Odahviing’s side.

Mounting his shoulder and settling in the junction of his neck was certainly easier than when she’d had to take Karnwyr on Vulthuryol. Once settled, she laid a hand on the warm red scales of his neck. “Take me to Skuldafn.”

“Zok brit uth!” Underneath her, his chest rumbled what might be a dragon’s purr. Around her, his silvery snow blue wings rose, fluttering and stretching after his confinement. “I warn you, once you've flown the skies of Keizaal, your envy of the dov will only increase. Amativ! Mu bo kotin stinselok!” With that, Odahviing took off from the balcony, his wings catching in the air.

She was flying!

A call of blessing followed her on the wind. “May Kynareth guard you while you pass through her realm!"

Jenassa recalls how the girl’s face, fierce in the firelight of the Jarl’s meadhall, had flamed when she kissed the hand of her new thane. She raises an eyebrow. “She thinks it a high honor.”

“Of course she does,” Irileth grumbles. “Her head’s full of Nord nonsense.”

A lock of her hair slips free of its hard knot. Jenassa, after some deliberation, noses it aside.

“Not our Lydia,” she murmurs against the nape of the other woman’s neck. When she kisses it, soft as a shadow, she smiles to feel the stubborn shoulders sink. “Some of it is our nonsense.”

She waits. After a long, haughty pause, Irileth sighs through her nose.

“She’ll be safe at High Hrothgar,” she admits. Her voice is heavy and hoarse. She shifts as if to lean against Jenassa, then remembers the blisters and rocks forward again. “Balgruuf wants her gone before Ulfric batters down our gates.”

Jenassa stills. She stares at Irileth’s broad back—the burns glistening with balm, the old, tired muscles bunching beneath—then speaks with studied diplomacy. “So Balgruuf’s cast his lot.”

“The Legion is sending a detachment.” Irileth’s voice is brittle, now, sharp as foyada-glass underfoot. “Gods only know what we’ll feed them, if they’re not snatched by great lizards on the way. Caius has it in his head that—”

She stops. Jenassa, after a moment, hears the cause: footsteps, soft and familiar, in the hall.

Irileth rubs her forehead with a weary hand. “Didn’t want her to see this.”

“She knows,” says Jenassa in her most patient voice. “You’ve been staggering around like a draugr for—come in,” she says in Nordic to the door, before the girl starts banging.

The door creaks open. She’s taller than them now, the Jarl’s fosterling. She’s broader. Her arms are like barrels. Still, she ducks her head in the doorway with sheepish deference: their scrib, their little Lydia, whose eyes widen when she sees Irileth’s back.

“I—I came to tell you that we’re leaving tomorrow,” she says, wrestling pain and resentment from her face. She had wanted, Jenassa remembers, to ride to the watchtower with Irileth—who’d barked at her, with customary tact, to man the wall instead. “At first light. That’s all.”

Irileth, with customary tact, lifts her chin like a legate. “You should be asleep, then.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows.

“Housecarl,” she murmurs, and stoops to kiss Irileth’s cheek—and Jenassa’s, too, smiling against the flaking yellow paint. Then she slips out again, quick as she came, sure and silent as a wolf.

It’s Irileth, after, who is strong enough to speak. She clears her throat. Her voice, when she finds it, scrapes like an ash-choked gate. “Nilo.”

Jenassa swallows. The room feels darker. Smaller. She is glad she did not laugh.

“I know,” she says.

She waits. It is much of what they say to each other, this waiting.

“Outlanders,” Irileth mumbles at last, in disgust. She is speaking of the war, of course, rather than the more painful subject. “Can’t squabble over a chair without—marching their children at each other.”

They are outlanders too, now, Jenassa does not say. She rests her forehead on Irileth’s shoulder. She slips a careful arm, scored with long Tong ritual-scars, around the other woman’s waist.

“Our way,” she says in wry Velothis, “was better.”

* * *

At first light, so as to evade any fanfare, two travelers ride out of Whiterun. They sit straight and stern and awkward in their saddles, rising tall above the rubble and scorched wheat, and say nothing at all to each other until the sun glints, far ahead, on something bright.

Helmets, Lydia thinks. She squints down the road. “Legionaries?”

The Dragonborn raises her eyebrows. Her sword-arm, which Arcadia has assured them will heal quickly, sits snug in a sling bound to her chest.

“You will defend me,” she says, straight-faced, “if they try to cut off my head?”

Lydia recalls the solemnity of her oath. She decides against smiling. “Yes, my Thane.”