Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was sunrise.

His blinds had shifted, sometime overnight, and for the first time in three days, he could see the sun. It crept through his cramped bedroom, spilling cold, harsh light over the mounds of kleenex, dirty clothes, empty chip bags and wrappers, beer cans, delivery receipts. The piles of dishes on his dresser glinted off the morning light, and yet it sent a shiver down his spine - either that, or the withdrawal did. He was shaking regardless, trembling every so slightly in his damp, filthy bedsheets. His muscles ached from it, and the atrophy.

It was simply pathetic.

He hadn’t brushed his teeth in months. He hadn’t brushed his hair in weeks. The last time he’d showered was when he’d last thrown up, desperately scrubbing at his skin, trying to get off the film of filth that never left his skin.

His mouse hand ached. His keyboard was sticky, and coated in crumbs.

On the screen, the flame atronach he’d summoned spun in circles, caught clipped through the top stair of the dwarven ruins he was exploring.

He acknowledged to himself, here in this moment, that the amount of hours he’d logged into skyrim was pretty lame.

It wasn’t like he was an expert in the game, or anything - hell, being an expert in anything would be more impressive, but he barely had the motivation to open another bag of chips these days, let alone think that hard about anything - but he didn’t really do anything else. If he wasn’t playing skyrim, he was watching youtube guides for quests he’d already played ten thousand times, or TheEpicNate315’s latest 10 tiny details you might have missed.

He zoned out hours at a time, often, just making new characters and playing through the main quest, exactly the same way, every time. He would dive down TES wiki rabbit holes when he felt a little more invigorated, devouring new information about pointless npcs with three lines of dialogue like a man dying of thirst (which he probably was, he can’t remember the last time he drank water).

His memory was kinda shot to shit, and he didn’t really understand all the min-maxing stats, level 100 no cheats, completionist type of gameplay. But he’d done most everything the Skyrim world had to offer, and the things he’d liked the most he’d done at least twice.

He doesn’t understand why he reaches for his meds today, out of all days. Why one glitch was the final straw. But he doesn’t understand a lot of what happens to him these days.

It was easier than anything to unscrew the cap of the bottle of prescription strength naproxen he had on his bedside, take out the first four, and wash them down with a shot. Easier than texting back, easier than eating, easier than breathing. He kept a bottle of fireball on his floor, under his head, for the nights when nightmares wouldn’t keep out of the waking hours.

The second four went down just as smooth, but the fireball burned. The warmth spreading in his stomach was the closest thing to an emotion he’d felt in a very long time, and the spice on his tongue made him giggle. His lips split from the smile, they were so cracked and dehydrated. The third shot was fun, but the four shot started to hurt, and then there were still so many pills left so he shoved as many of them in his mouth as possible and swallowed but it hurt, hurt, hurt and GOD why did he do that. He fucked up so he rolled over and closed his eyes, sleep was so close for once usually it took so long to sleep but it was right there, he felt the warmth of the sun on his back and he smiled, and he smiled, and he smiled.

He had broken the cycle. He was free.

--

The prisoner slowly blinks awake to the feeling of stone beneath his bare feet. The space between his arm and his head is empty, there is no longer a pillow cradled there, and in fact there’s no longer a blanket on top of him either. Or a mattress beneath him.

His neck feels pinched and throbs in protest against it’s uncomfortable position. He sits up on his elbows to roll it around back and forth a bit. Blinking against the harsh light, trying to find the core strength to push himself off the ground, he realizes he’s naked. It’s somewhat hard to look around, his neck is sore from hanging loosely with the weight of his head. His spine is filled with cricks and cracks.

He’s sitting on a slab of rock in the middle of the wilderness, he realizes, and this does not manage to inspire much of anything inside him aside from the same blurry confusion. He’s also blue. The parts of him that ache every morning don’t ache as much, different parts hurt instead, and it’s enough that he can’t seem to tune them out.

He’s also blue. That gets him to sit up. His skin is a dark greyish blue, and he feels different. Clearer. After a moment on his bare ass, he stands up too, and it doesn’t hurt all that much. He’s not even lightheaded. Was he supposed to be lightheaded? He doesn’t remember why that’s so surprising.

The rocks around him jut up from the earth like spikes, or perhaps a shield, as they curve to form a ring of shelter around the standing stone into which is carved a familiar figure. The Atronach. 50 Magicka points, -50% Magicka Regeneration.

The prisoner finds himself reaching forward to touch it, despite not knowing whether he even could cast spells, and jumps away quickly when the stone hums loudly, suddenly alighting and calling to him, filling what feels like his soul with energy.

He jumps again with an embarrassing shout as his hands start glowing. when fire escapes from one palm when he shakes it, his instincts collide and he ends up dropping to his knees and slapping his hands palm first onto the stone.

After a moment, he’s shocked and awed to find it a reliable solution.

He glances to the corpse on the ground next to him, registering its existence. It doesn’t move, and yet the prisoner still feels somewhat embarrassed at being naked in front of it. He supposes it’s the shock.

He’s in Skyrim, he realizes with a sudden certainty. The corpse is dressed exactly like any Skyrim bandit. Huh.

Okay. So he was… someone. He was someone who knew about Skyrim cus he played it and he’s… he’s someone else now. A blue someone. Who isn’t lightheaded or shaky or…

He doesn’t want to leave the standing stone, in truth. As of now his little piece of Skyrim had kept him entirely safe from harm, aside from his own actions, and if his memory served him correctly, the wilds expanding around him were teeming with danger.

Nervously, he crawls under one of the curved stones, reveling in it’s shelter. The stone is cold under his thighs, and seeps into his bones without clothes as protection. The subtle yet sharp breeze is cut by the stone, and he’s offered slight relief, but only very slight. He needs warmth, and food, and people to protect him.

He needs bed, and his laptop, and the door to be closed and the windows drawn and silence, silence, silence-

Those memories are gone before he can even hold them, like air passing between his fingers.

(He craves it, but he doesn’t know what IT is.)

He holds his hands to his chest, taking a steadying breath, then peaks out. Slightly southwest, towards the river that he can just see from his perch atop the hill, there is a mill.

He’d not memorized the map, but peaceful settlements along the riverside weren’t uncommon, and once he met a few of the NPCS- people, a few of the people, perhaps he might get his bearings. It was only a short walk to the river below, the sun was lowering on the horizon, and his temperature was dropping. He could do this.

He has to strip down the bandit’s body for it’s clothes first, but that’s a hurdle he’s willing to overcome if it means no longer being naked in public.

He looks around desperately for a moment, but when no other obvious solutions appear to him, he takes a ginger, lingering step off the rocky platform, and onto the hard soil.

Something rustles in the bushes behind him and his heart skips a beat. He spins around, neck snapping towards the source of the noise, as he watches a bunny hop peacefully out of the underbrush, and over to snuffle at the dead body.

The prisoner nearly bursts into tears. Clothes acquired after a maddening amount of frantic effort, feeling more than a bit hysterical, he half walks half runs down the slope of the hill towards Darkwater Crossing.

--

There are two figures that the prisoner can see standing outside a house as he approaches, a dunmer man and a nord woman. They pay little attention to him at first as he makes his way down the mountain, but as he gets closer the man seems to spot him and point him out to his companion, who turns to watch his approach as well. They don’t seem particularly upset to see him, so the prisoner feels his spirits lift.

“Hail, traveler! You’re a long way from Windhelm,” the dunmer remarks good naturedly, “Where are you headed?”

“I need to get to Whiterun, but I’m lost,” he replies, and he watches their faces shift in confusion. The words coming out of his mouth sound twisted and different, compared to the common english the man speaks. His anxiety spikes, and he tries again, “Is Whiterun nearby? Did I say something wrong?”

The nord woman turns to her dunmer companion, looking concerned. “Is he speaking Dunmeris? I can’t understand him.”

The prisoner’s stomach drops. Of course, nothing can be easy.

(Distantly, he recognizes that he’s a dunmer with a faint sort of “Huh.” that is not his most pressing of concerns.)

The dunmer himself shakes his head, looking equally baffled. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve lived in skyrim all my life.” The dunmer leans into the prisoner, eyes wide like he was speaking to a child, “Can. You. Speak. Cyrodilic?”

The prisoner shakes his head, sadly. Only human english, it would seem.

The nord woman huffs a bit, and crosses her arms all proud. “Well at least he can understand us! Now, what is it that you need? We don’t have much, but here in Skyrim we treat our neighbours very well, you’ll see.”

After a moment of silent panic, the prisoner shrugs sadly. He doesn’t know what to do. He barely even knows where he is.

“.... Do you need directions? Where to?” The dunmer asks, then seeing his mistake, waves a hand dismissively. “You know what, I have an old translator’s guide I bought once. Let me go see if I can find it.”

The prisoner nods enthusiastically, and takes a seat on a stump not far from the door where the nord woman directs him too, leg bouncing with nerves. He can feel this wind on his nearly bare back like constant icy hands tickling his blind side, and he’s tensed as if at any moment a dragon might come swooping down from above, killing him instantly.

He must make quite the picture to these strangers. Five minutes passes before there is anything to distract him from his own growing panic.

Another nord woman approaches, noticing the out of place dunmer that has taken up residence on the stump outside her(?) house. “Who’s that?” she asks, and the first woman explains him as “A foreigner who came from over the north hill, can’t speak a lick of common.” She doesn’t even bother lowering her voice.

“Do you think he might be with… well… you know…” The second woman seems nervous as the first turns to her in shock.

“I think he’s from Morrowind, probably illegally crossed the border,” she huffs, “Maybe he was trying to make it to Windhelm? He could know other Dunmer from there.”

“What are the odds though? Showing up tonight? And if he does know people from Windhelm that only implicates him further…”

Dove stares at his feet as the first woman scoffs, “The Jarl isn’t exactly quiet about his distaste for the elves, Annekke. Why would one ever fight for his cause?”

“Maybe he’s a spy… that last person the empire would ever suspect…”

At the same moment that the dunmer comes out of his house at long last, carrying a heavy tome and looking more than a little harried, the thundering of hooves is heard in the distance. Around the bend of the river comes a battalion of soldiers, stormcloaks, by the colour of their garb, riding black and white bay horses, the steeds of the Eastmarch. Leading his men, dressed in the finest of furs, is Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

The dunmer drops his book and hurries back inside. If the prisoner’s legs hadn’t frozen with fear he might have done the same.

Several of the stormcloaks dismount as they circle the mining town, tying their horses to fence posts and making themselves comfortable. Ulfric himself approaches Annekke, still atop his beautiful steed, and gazes down on her for a moment, emanating power.

“This town has been requisitioned for the war effort by me, Ulfric Stormcloak, your Jarl, and true High King of Skyrim. Do I hear any complaints?”

The women seem equally as terrified, but they manage to shake their heads no. The Jarl trots off haughtily, a half dozen soldiers rushing to attend to him.

Thousands of little hints all rush back to the prisoner, Eastmarch, the Atronach stone, Annekke, the dunmer who he was now certain was Sondas Drenim, who he was also certain he had married on one of his many save files. He was in Darkwater Crossing. The ambush, the start of the game, was about to take place.

Paralysed with fear, none of the stormcloaks paid him any mind, snickering to themselves as the walked past him. He sat there for what felt like ages as Ulfric’s guard set up camp around him, pitching tents and corralling the horses all to one fence. He was torn between the urge to make a break for the hills, and the anxiety that kept him glued to his seat, unable to make a sound.

The sky had reached its last stages of darkening when movement amongst the horses caught his eye from his perch, freezing his arse off but hidden mostly by shadow and surely forgotten by Ulfric and his goons. A new player had snuck up behind the soldiers and was attempting to untie the ropes fastening the steeds to their post, perhaps hoping that one out of the dozen would surely not be missed. Lokir, the prisoner told himself, and the inevitability of it all clenched at his heart with a wrought iron fist.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the jumpscare. Any moment now… 3….. 2….. 1…..

“Hey!” Shouted a voice, “Get away from those horses! Thief! Thief!”

The camp flew into motion, and in the confusion, the first volley of arrows went almost unnoticed. “ATTACK! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” Someone screamed as a second volley came arching down from the hill that the prisoner had descended himself this morning.

Pandemonium ensued. The prisoner cowered behind his stump. Someone- a voice he recognised as Ralof, shouted, “BRACE YOURSELVES!”

The prisoner peaked up from his hiding place just in time to see the third imperial volley, and get a clean view of the arrow that struck him between his eyes only moments before his world went completely black.

The ground was swaying underneath his feet when he awoke again, making it hard to open his eyes, that and the blinding light of the sun. His bare feet vibrated against the rough wood of the carriage floor, the bench he was slumped against low enough to the ground that his hip sockets ached. The prisoner roused himself, or tried to, his arms and legs locked together by not only rope, but stiffness.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

The Dragonborn cursed under his breath. Not. A. Fucking. Gain.

Chapter Text

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

He tries to say something snappy, but it comes out as mumbled half asleep gibberish, and Ralof only gives him a concerned look.

“Damn you stormcloaks!” Lokir curses, drawing Ralof’s attention back to him, “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.”

“Don’t run when the captain calls your name,” the Dragonborn tells him, because it doesn’t seem to matter anyways, “Or do. if you just stay Alduin will show up and you’ll probably die then too. Your choice.”

Ralof frowns in confusion, but Lokir just laughs hysterically. “Divines… you don’t even speak common. You couldn’t be a stormcloak! You and me… we shouldn’t be here! It’s these rebels the empire wants!”

“We’re all brothers in binds now, thief,” Ralof scolds, and the Dragonborn has to resist rolling his eyes so hard he nearly passes out again, slumping against the wagon seat rather then listen to this dialogue, which had been burned into his frontal cortex by now.

They pass under the gates of Helgen, and all the panic that had been suffocating the Dragonborn’s chest seeps back in like an old friend, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to just wake up.

He would believe this was just a dream, if he could remember exactly what it was he would be waking up to.

“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” Lokir cries, as he’s forced to his feet and off the cart, “We weren’t with you, this is a mistake!”

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof scolds him once more, with no remorse, and the Dragonborn almost wants to punch him for it.

“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time,” the captain tells him, an unnamed NPC you kill if you side with Ralof. Except now she’s a real imperial woman, who’s animating- moving with her own distinct characteristics, and the idea that everyone in this area who isn’t him and a select few will be dead within a few minutes has his mind flooding with fog and his breathing beginning to feel laboured.

He doesn’t hear anything, can’t hear anything, but when Lokir goes to run he watches with bated breath. He’s shot down. The Dragonborn isn’t even spared a glance, and yet he feels like he’s screaming. Is he not? He’s losing it a little, he thinks. No one looks still, not anyone except for Hadvar, standing in front of him, who’s face softens. He checks his list. After a moment, and a second check, he frowns, confused.

“Wait,” he looks back at the Dragonborn, beckoning as warmly as he can, “Step forward.”

The Dragonborn does, trying to gain control back over his breathing enough to speak. Hadvar asks, gently, “Who… are you?”

After a moment of waiting for the game to pause, the Dragonborn realizes nothing’s going to happen. “Dovah,” He replies simply, cus Dovahkiin felt a little wordy.

--

The seconds his hands are free they fly to Hadvar’s neck, closing his eyes and thinking hard about that feeling in his soul he’d gotten when he’d touched the Atronach, about bright golden lights and healing his wounds. He even says a quick prayer to Mara, though admittedly he was never much of a religious man so the words don’t form the most cohesive of thoughts.

His hands shake. Alduin had stared directly into his soul. Like he knew. He’d been so large, so much larger and more powerful then he’d even seemed behind a screen.

The Magic comes seeping through his soul, following deep in the core of his being and spreading out from his palms, an angelic glow radiating as the gash and his own minor debris wounds start knitting themselves together. He has just enough extra magicka to heal them both completely before he feels like collapsing, and he thanks the divines for the Atronach stone with every laboured breath.

“Easy,” Hadvar grabs his shoulder, “Divines. Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?”

The Dragonborn laughs dryly, “Yeah, and I’m really the Dragonborn.”

Hadvar shakes his head, “I wish I could understand you. Your name is Dove, right?”

Dove shrugs, deciding not to vocalize “Close enough,” when he’s thoroughly given up on communication as a whole.

“Can you understand me?” Hadvar asks, peering at his face with an open curiosity. Dove can only shrug again and nod quickly, and Hadvar seems reassured enough to remove his hand from Dove’s shoulder. He’s almost greedy enough for the comfort to reach out and put it back.

“That's good, we’ll move quicker that way. Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from. I’m going to see if I can find something for the burns, going forward.”

He spends most of the next few hours running, hiding behind Hadvar, and trying not to cry. By the time they’ve reached the cave entrance, Dove is back to wondering whether leaving his safety rock was a smart idea on anyone’s part, really, in the cosmic sense.

Hadvar trips on a root as they sneak past the bear, and awake she rises, charging him with the blind fury of an apex predator woken from her beauty sleep. Blind to the elf crouching behind a boulder, she takes 5 shaky arrows to the torso before slowing her down, and a sixth to the dome before she relents. The glow of restoration magic gets Hadvar back on his feet, but Dove supports him over his shoulder the whole way home.

His ears still ring with adrenaline as they reach the standing stones. The bow that had saved Hadvar’s life clutched in one hand, he lays the other on “Thief.” Seems as though his path has been chosen for him.

--

The moment he’s left to his own devices in the basement of Hadvar’s house, Dove wriggles out of the singed and ill fitting imperial leathers, then the prisoner rags underneath with a sigh of relief. He’s not too hurried once they’re off, staring off into space for a long while before laying out the too big yet soft linen undershirt and pants the nord had handed him. He takes a moment to look down at his new body, so grey and unfamiliar.

His palms were dark blue on the inside, rather than his skin tone, and his skin seemed smooth and unblemished, brand new. He touched his face, but despite the obvious difference when it came to large, pointy ears, he couldn’t decide whether or not there was a difference in his cheeks, in his eyes. It wasn’t like he could ask for a mirror, and if he were to go rummaging around for one himself his hosts might get the wrong idea and kick him out. He’s a dunmer, Dove supposes, that’s enough information to go on for now.

The clothes are warm and soft on his body, and he sleeps through to lunch. When he wakes up in bed, for a second he’s convinced his memories are coming back to him.

He rolls over and sits up to find his body agile and his mind well rested, both unfamiliar concepts to whoever he used to be. It doesn’t hurt to lay in bed a moment longer, staring unfeeling at the wooden slats above. His stomach aches, a more obtainable ache to focus on. He rises from safe comfort, aware that he has broken a rule, somewhere.

After a quick impromptu game of charades that makes the Dragonborn feel more like a dancing monkey, Alvor is willing to trade the imperial armor Dove had worn with a set of furs, thick and warm, while Sigrid prepares the two of them a meal. He and Hadvar devour the stew within moments, Dove trying his best to pay little attention to textures and flavours in favour of just getting the mystery soup into his stomach where it could provide him with the nutrients that he needs.

He puts the furs on over the linens, and thanks the nords as best he can when they offer him the spare cot in the basement, while Dorthe would sleep with her parents and Hadvar would take her own bed. He’s settled in for the time being, though Sigrid is yet to ask him anything about Whitreun, and somehow it’s still only midday. Time drags on slow, he supposes, before the age of entertainment.

Hadvar cleans his sword, and entertains his niece’s many questions. Dove feels wildy out of place, only able to sit it and soak up the unique dialogue for so long before the existentialism begins to creep in.

After selling everything he refuses to try and carry, unfortunately thoroughly taken advantage of as he's unable to haggle, he’s left with a hefty sack of 280 gold. He goes to grab his bow and 200 of the gold, then to find Faendal.

Lucky for him, the elf is chopping wood just outside of town, and seems in a good mood. It’s only when he approaches he realizes the step in his plan that had been missing, as Faendal glances up and waits for him to speak.

Dove waves, awkwardly. Faendal smiles obligingly, and waves back. Dove feels like pulling out his hair at the roots, but instead he wordlessly gestures with the sack of coins and then his bow.

Faendal seems confused. “I already have a bow, thanks.”

“No, just fucking teach me,” Dove whines, but of course he doesn’t say that, he says complete and utter gibberish that sounds wrong and otherworldly to even his own ears. His distress is mirrored on Faendal’s face, and he buries his face in his hands.

The bosmer, to his credit, doesn’t call him a madman. He smiles warily and backs up, hands raised. “... I have to get going, I’m sorry, have a wonderful day-”

“No!” Dove shouts, and Faendal flinches in fear. In a fit of frustration, Dove points at Faendal, then himself, then pulls the bowstring, then shrugs, then hands him the gold, then points at him again, then points at his head.

“..... You want me to teach you?”

Dove could kiss him. He feels like crying, and he’s sure his relief shows on his face as he nods. The bosmer finally takes the sack of gold from his hands, peering inside and weighing it for validity. Dove is surprised he doesn’t count them.

“This is… 200 gold?” Faendal guesses, which is a generous assumption even if it is correct, “.. I guess that's enough. I'll show you what I know, follow me.”

--

The peak of the mountain is nearly opaque with clouds of thrashing snow, a snowstorm to topple buildings, but chill cannot penetrate the thick hide of the lycanthrope that climbs icy stone steps to reach his destination. Azura's statue towers above him, and he will not rest until he’s reached her.

“You Will Walk Theses Steps In Due Time, Champion. You Have Seen This Future As Well As I”

His hands slip on the icy rock face and he is falling, falling, his lifeless form plummeting from frigid mountain peaks straight to fiery hell. He doesn’t hit ground so much as crash through ice, and the flames that circle his vision roar as if speaking.

They twirl and plume, yellow and red fury that they cannot reach him, as his body bobs and sinks into the frigid water. He can see the ice reforming above him as he sinks, darkness creeping it at the corners of his vision, the roars of the ocean and the flames above still deafening, everything is just so loud.

“DO NOT LISTEN TO HER. SHE IS WEAK, DOCILE, SPINELESS. YOU WILL KNEEL AT MY ALTAR AND SUBMIT TO MY WORSHIP OR YOU WILL PERISH AS WORTHLESS AS YOU ARE NOW, UNWORTHY OF LIFE.”

His vision goes black, but the strength is coming back to his limbs so achingly slow, he thrashes against the pain but cannot move. He flails uselessly in water like quicksand, until it’s filling his lungs down to his toes and his body is no longer his own- someone else is in control-

-And he’s washed up on a beach. He rolls shore onto the warm sands and coughs. He can’t stop, no matter how much water leaves his body his throat contracts again. Seaweed sticks along the length of his throat as he hacks up double time, and after a few labored breaths, he reaches into his own mouth to tug the constricting vine from his esophagus.

He had sworn it was a piece of seaweed. A long, slippery piece of seaweed. But the image in his hands flickers and fades, glimpses of another reality melting into place, his mind accepting what stands before him. His stomach drops as his fractured psyche finally registers the human intestine he is holding.

“You can not hide from your true self any longer, Champion… You know you’ve wondered what it would be like… What tendons would feel like under your knife, how thick strips of muscle might rip from the bone, pulse in your grip, blood pooling under your fingernails- I know you still bite them- I know you champion….”

The beach is muggy and sticky with blood, he’s sweating and shaking and crying and heaving, there’s the buzz of mosquitos in his ears and they grow louder and louder and louder...

“Champion.”

“CHAMPION!”

“Champion...”

“ENOUGH!” A voice bellows, and suddenly all is silent, except for the peep of a bird and a soft, gentle stream. Dove realizes, for the first time, that his eyes had been closed. He opens them, and is sitting in a meadow.

A man stands a few feet away from him. The Daedric Prince of Madness, Sheogorath, to be specific. “I'm dreadfully sorry about that!” He cries, “My fellow Princes, they have no manners. It’s a shame! Really! You should see them at a dinner party.”

Dove opens his mouth to ask “What,” or “Why,” but he does not and he does not need to. In fact, he’s not even sure if Sheogorath was speaking out loud. Everything was so.. quiet.
Emerging in soft images into his mind, he sees the world that has been created for him almost like a stop motion video. Serene, calm, slow, spoonfed into his frightened mind.

“We all felt the pull,” The Prince of Madness tells him, unnervingly serious, “Even from Oblivion, the tear in Aetherius as you plummeted to Nirn reverberated in us. In EVERYONE! You cut a hole straight through the cosmos! THIS IS TERRIBLE! We weren't even ready for guests! Here!” The next image Dove is aware of he is sat at a long tea table, wearing a nordic frock and hat. Sheogorath smiles at him, seated his opposite, “That's much better!”

He tries to ask, to think, but his eyes just want to stay open and consume what he is being offered. Bliss holds him, comforts him, takes control.

Sheogorath removes a ridiculously ornate stopwatch from his breast pocket and tuts disapprovingly. “Already? I had hoped we’d have time for tea. Maybe some wine and cheese?”

Dove shakes his head, his eyes getting heavier again. “No,” he tries to think, “No. Stay here.”

If the Daedric Prince of Madness can hear him, he does not show it. He untucks the napkin from his collar and folds it uncarefully into a perfect crane, sighing and swinging his boots onto the table.

“Well now,” He chimes, “I’ve lured you into a false sense of security! I couldn’t have planned this any better myself. Because I did! Or did I?”

A piece of reality comes loose like dead skin flaking off. It flutters in the breeze, landing in Dove’s cup of tea. It folds into itself, fluttering its wings like a butterfly.

Dove has a second to close his eyes before reality falls apart at the seams and crawls inside him to devour him alive.

He does not take that second fast enough.

Chapter Text

Dove wakes up.

The absence of sound buzzes in his ears like dead radio waves, nothing but static behind his eyes. He’s not sure how long he lies in his own cold sweat, eventually the humming of his body seems to return to him and he can feel his fingers twitch below the threadbare quilt.

He’s exhausted, perhaps even more so then when he fell asleep, his muscles ache and his mind runs slow, sluggishly. Still, he blinks awake as the sheets rustle upstairs and he hears the quiet pitter patter of small feet, eager for breakfast in the morning. He doesn’t know how early it is, he supposes around dawn, which is far too early for him, but it would be rude to keep his hosts waiting for him while he snoozed well into the afternoon.

If he doesn’t get up now, he doubts he will all day.

He has a piercing migraine, and it’s not unfamiliar to him, but it takes him a second to remember that even if this world did have an naproxen or acetaminophen equivalent, he would have no way of asking.

He settles instead for rehydrating himself, and hopes his guests don't mind terribly as he grabs a wooden cup from the shelf and presses down the tap of the water barrel, filling it to the brim with lukewarm, dusty water.

He grimaces, but chugs until there is nothing left to soothe his blistering lips. He fills his cup a second time, halfway through, then goes back to sit on his cot and take more measured, controlled sips.

His pallet still tastes of old honey and ham, and he’s sure his morning breath is horrendous. Swishing the water around his mouth only eases the disgusting flavour of his own tongue.

After his second cup of water is finished too, he stands up once more on shaky legs and begins to assemble the backpack he had plotted, as he’d been falling asleep.

There’s already a bedroll rolled in the straps of the pack Alvor had given him. He gathers all the potions he’d saved (save four), the change of clothes he’d been given, the handful of lockpicks he’d kept, and a roll of parchment.

The pouch on his belt held his last four potions and his lockpicks, his waterskin tied on the opposite side, a coin purse fastened at his hip. The rest of his meager belongings fit easily in the pack, which he slings over his shoulder alongside his quiver. He looks down on himself as he laces up the boots of his fur armor and dons his novice hood, feeling a surge of confidence spike through him. He looks like a real adventurer. It is an almost giddy feeling, washing away the anxiety pounding in his chest.

He eats breakfast with Hadvar’s family, the Imperial himself already gone. Alvor writes a letter for him to deliver to the Jarl, once he’s confirmed for himself that Dove understands Cyrodilic. He sets out onto the road, painted pink with the colours of the rising sun.

His muscles are tugged gently with every step by the firm hand of sleep, brittle in his bones and tight in his legs. His arms are lead weights, his bow must weigh a thousand pounds.

He moves forward.

--

Him and the wolf stand there, frozen in place, locked eyes. As the wolf leans back onto his haunches, slowly, so as not to startle it's prey, Dove does the same, raising his bow as Faendal taught him.

The beast’s lips curl back in a primal snarl, ears flat against its head. His bowstring pulled taut, Dove squints, takes a deep breath, and fires. At the same moment, the wolf lunges, but its momentum is halted by an arrow in the eye and it yelps, staggering to the side and slumping hard into the ground.

Not exactly a challenging target, 10 feet away and stationary, but Dove is proud of himself for keeping the panicking to a minimum. He considers skinning its fur to sell later, but would have no clue how. Instead, he settles on nudging the body with his toe (he nearly gags at the sensation), then sets back down the road to Whiterun, equal parts terrified and resigned, with a dash of newfound courage.

--

Irileth coming at him with her sword drawn is more than enough to spike his heart rate again. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” she commands him, “The Jarl is not receiving visitors.”

Dove waves the letter desperately. “If you don't let me through I’m going to cry, just so you know. It’s been a long day.”

“I beg your pardon?” her face wrinkles in confusion.

He waves the letter again, more intently.

Cautiously she reaches out with her non-sword hand, snatching the missive from his fingers. “Give me that,” she snarls. He’s surprised she doesn’t set the parchment aflame with the intensity of her scrutiny.

“This is urgent,” she declares, “the Jarl must hear this at once. You, come with me.” Sheathing her sword, Irileth leads Dove up the slanted wooden stairs. He lets himself feel relieved.

Balgruuf is more intimidating in person then he had been modeled out of pixels on a screen. When he turns his gaze to Dove, looking him up and down like a disinterested judge at a dog show, the dragonborn’s heart begins to pound in his chest. Most things seem to have that effect on him.

The Jarl waits expectantly for a moment, where Dove gets the impression he’s supposed to say something. Irileth hands the Jarl the letter, but rather than open it, he folds it over and shifts his weight backwards, to observe the strange dunmer before him. “Well,” he leads, “I trust you have something vitally important to tell me. Important enough to interrupt me in the middle of council?"

Dove nods, and gestures towards the letter. When the Jarl doesn’t move to open it, he adds, frustrated, “I speak in gibberish to you. This is me telling you I speak in gibberish. You don’t understand me.”

“I don’t understand him…” The Jarl seems taken aback, “Is he speaking Dumeris, Irileth?”

“Not any Dunmeris I’d recognise, my lord. It could be a regional dialect, or perhaps he’s just a raving mad man.”

Dove can’t think of a way to respond to that accusation that would make him seem less crazy. Thankfully, Proventus suggests actually taking a look at the letter Alvor had given him, and the conversation carried on without too much interrogation.

Proventus doesn’t want to start a war with Falkreath, Balgruuf tells Irileth to send guards anyways, since this is our opportunity as a protagonist to figure out who’s a good guy and who’s a bad guy through narrative clues. Out of the context of a video game, Dove is just waiting in terror to see if someone’s noticed he’s not supposed to be there.

Balgruuf turns his attention once more to Dove, as Proventus fucks off and Irileth marches away. “Can you understand me?” He asks, not unkindly, and that alone endears him to Dove more than saving 100 random villagers could. He nods, and the Jarl seems pleased.

“Well done,” he applauds, solemnly, “You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it.” Dove startles and nearly yelps when Hrongar appears suddenly behind him, and awkwardly accepts the scaled armor he carries in his hands.

“There,” says Balgruuf, once the dunmer has the breastplate safely hoisted in his arms, “take this as a small token of my esteem."

He sits up a little, pensively, “There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.” Dove doesn’t need to put much effort into looking terrified and woefully ill-equipped. The Jarl sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “Nevermind,” he chides, “Thank you for your service. Farewell.”

Dove walks out the hold’s front doors. If there was something he was talented at, it was avoiding the main quest.

--

Dove wakes up with a start, nearly falling out of his bed at the Bannered Mare. He flops back into the mattress with a sign, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. It’s not as though it’s a very comfortable bed, but it’s got a mattress, a bedframe, and a blanket with no holes. It’s as good as he’ll get, for the foreseeable future.

His night terrors were just as horrible as the night before. There was no reprieve from the pure panic and fear, even now as he stares at the sunlight coming in his door as if it could burn away the memories. He’d resisted falling asleep for as long as he could, but it doesn’t seem to have made much of a difference. He’s exhausted.

His first morning in Whiterun he spends chopping wood out front with an axe he bought from Adrianne, after he runs that sword of her’s up to the castle for the 20 gold it cost. His arms are burning before he’s even begun swinging, from the day before yesterday’s archery practise, and his whole body is stiff from exertion. He powers through, feeling the burning of his biceps in every chop, telling himself over and over that he just needs one more log, just one more swing. By midday he’s got a sizable pile for which he is paid handsomely, his chopped logs fetch him a hefty sum.

The people of Whiterun find him quietly fascinating. The story that seems to have spread is that he’s cursed, or touched by a daedra, at least that’s what he overhears in the Inn. Lunch is vegetable soup, which he eats while thinking about the vegetable soup speedrun hack and feeling utterly and entirely divorced from reality.

He’s still somewhat dissociated when Hulda comes back to the counter with his sack of gold for the logs. He zones out staring at the coins until Hulda asks him cautiously if there’s something wrong with them. He couldn’t explain to her that something was wrong with him if he wanted to, so he just shakes his head and goes to finish his soup upstairs in his room.

He stares at the ceiling of the Bannered Mare and doesn’t know why he feels like crying until Mikael stops strumming his lute and Dove feels like he can breathe again. It’s far too familiar, all of it. He knows too much about Skyrim to be walking around a stranger.

Part of him thinks if he could just get a second of sleep without the dreams he’d wake up on the other side. It’s a thought he mulls over, hunched on the edge of his bed, spooning broth into his mouth.

The surefire way to get out of Skyrim would be to complete the main quest, Dove acknowledges. Fighting dragons seems far, far out of his current reach. He needs to get confident in battle, train, get better armor and allies.

Sighing, he takes a seat at the writing desk at the back of the room and fishes charcoal and parchment out of his bag.

I am cursed to speak nonsense. I would like to join the Companions.

He considers adding “please”, but decides against it.

--

"A stranger comes to our hall." Kodlak appraises him from his chair, Vilkas making a face like he’d just smelled rotten eggs. His face is kind and grandfatherly, with warm eyes that settle Dove’s high-strung nerves. Dove sticks out his hand and quickly offers Kodlak the note. The old man frowns, reaching out after a beat and taking it. “A courier?” He asks, disappointed.

Dove gives the old man a minute to read the note, and watches his face split into a warm grin. He chuckles, and Dove quirks a smile nervously. “Would you now?” he asks, “Here, let me have a look at you.”

Kodlak stands, and walks a circle around Dove, examining him almost clinically. The dragonborn straightens his back like a ruler and clenches a hand on his bow, but lets the examination happen. Vilkas studies him too, clearly unimpressed with whatever he finds. Dove wonders if he can see that Dove’s arms are screaming from just one morning of hard labour from where he’s sat.

“Hmmmm,” The Harbinger ponders, “Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit." A certain recognisable face from a haunting dream, perhaps. To his credit, Kodlak gives nothing away of what must be a profound moment of destiny for him. Vilkas seems gobsmacked.

“Master,” he gapes, as Kodlak takes to his seat once more, “You’re not truly considering accepting him?”

Kodlak chides, “I am nobody’s master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.”

“Apologies,” Vilkas says, though it’s directed more towards Kodlak than to Dove himself. “But perhaps this isn’t the time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider.”

Dove stands there, silent as a whisper, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot as the two bicker. The only way he’ll ever earn Vilkas’s respect is by showing competence and heroics, which in Vilkas’s defense, is not something he’s capable of in the slightest.

“How are you in battle, boy?” Kodlak asks. Dove winces, a bit ashamed. Vilkas rolls his eyes.

Kodlak harrumphs. “Much to learn? Well, that’s the spirit! Vilkas, here, will get started on that.”

Dove feels something shift, almost imperceptibly. He’s joined the faction. He’s condemned the old man in front of him to death. He’s going to become Harbinger, whether he likes it or not.

Vilkas nearly tramples him when he checks his shoulder against Dove as he passes, not willing to wait for the Dunmer to move. And after a second, the dragonborn follows.

--

Vilkas rolls his shoulders back, the wisps of clouds drifting somewhere high in the bright blue sky. It’s noticeably warm for the first time since Dove could remember, the sun beating down. He thinks it must be three, not much later. It gets dark early in Skyrim.

They center in the courtyard, just in front of the straw practise dummies. Ria and Skjor are outside, The old man hacking away at the hay bale targets and Ria watching him, face scrunched into an endearing cartoony expression of focus. They both back off once they see Vilkas draw his sword, casually leaning up against the rail under the pavilion, Ria following Skjor’s example, ready to watch. Dove turns away from observing them to face Vilkas, who shifts into a fighting stance.

The twin nods at him, expectant. “The old man said to have a look at you, so let’s do this.” He shoves Dove ungently into a fighting stance, and takes a step back, rolling his eyes, “Just have a few swigs at me so I can see your form.” Sarcastically, he adds, “Don’t worry, I can take it.”

“Swings?” Dove thinks to himself, confused, but he doesn’t have time to panic before Vilkas takes a breath and lunges forward with a broad downward slash at his torso.

Dove barely manages to leap back, the very tip of the blade catching on the scales of his armor, scratching it. He tries to back up again for the second swig but hits the pavilion pillar, trapped between a sword and a hard place. the sword tears a gash down through his shoulder, and the pain nearly makes him cry out before he bites his tongue.

Scrambling for air he does his best attempt a roll under Vilkas’s next swing and makes it to the other side, able to stumble to his feet and turn around in time to duck out of the way of a fourth. His bow blocks a fifth, and for a second he struggles against the full weight of the werewolf bearing down on him, his eyes ferocious. He grits his teeth and focuses, fighting instincts kicking in and the desperate anxiety turning into adrenaline. Just as it seems Vilkas has him right where he wants him, when he’s right about to snap, something inside the dragonborn ignites.

Dove catches on fire.

“By Ysmir!” Vilkas shouts, taking a stumbling couple steps back. Dove notches an arrow the second he has the breathing room and sends it flying, but Vilkas only parries it away with his shield, a loud TWANG echoes through the courtyard. The warrior charges once more, roaring, and Dove does his best to parry a blow with his bow that nearly knocks his shoulder out his socket and side steps him, notching another arrow. Point blank it lodges itself between the gaps in Vilkas’s platemail, right in the ribcage.

He grunts from the impact and raises his shield hand to pause. He puts his weight on his sword hand, dropping the blade and burying the tip of it in the dirt to use as support. “Not bad,” he chuckles, not quite facing Dove but giving him a satisfied smirk out of his periphery. “Next time won’t be so easy.”

Dove’s heart races with energy, and his skin still flickers with flame. He’s not really sure how to turn either of them off. He lowers his bow and tries to search for his quiver with the arrow he’d grabbed, holstering it back.

Vilkas shifts, pressing his sword into Dove’s chest. He grabs onto it with the hand not holding his bow on instinct, the comparatively cool metal against his raging skin a relief. Vilkas uses his now free hand to snap the arrow Dove buried in his side off at the neck, gesturing with the feathered end.

“You just might make it,” he compromises, “But for now, you’re still a whelp to us, new blood.” Pointing the wooden stick at Dove’s face, he growls, “So you do what we tell you to.”

Dove can feel like heartbeat in his shoulder as it throbs violently, screaming murder all all his senses. He nods stiffly at Vilkas, who lowers the stick to point at his sword. “There’s my sword. Go take it up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful,” he adds, looking Dove up and down with distaste, “it’s probably worth more than you are.”

Dove nods, and watches Vilkas walk back to the longhouse, not even limping despite the metal lodged in his ribcage, proud and strong. Skjor gives him a knowing nod, and Vilkas does not make a move to acknowledge him in the slightest. Ria waves at Dove when she sees him looking, calling out, “Not bad!”

The walk up to Eorlund feels like it takes an hour, what with his shoulder aching. With every step, he thinks back on his scant memories of modern life, and comes to terms with the fact that nothing will never be as good as a motivator for him as a man with a sword swinging wildly at his face.

--

He drinks a healing potion and practises his restoration magic while he watches Eorlund smith, taking a moment to catch his breath. The smith seems unbothered by his silent observer, making no attempts at small talk. When his shoulder is left with nothing but a faint line that will fade within the week, he gets up, and Eorlund hands him Aela’s shield and some advice before he goes. Dove nods, incapable of looking convincingly reassured, and leaves quickly.

Aela will be in the basement, talking to Skjor.

“Ysgramor himself wouldn’t have the patience to deal with all the rabble around here,” She’s proclaiming, as he opens the door a crack. Skjor is pouring himself a drink from an ornate jug as Aela turns to the door, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?” she asks.

Dove gestures to the shield in his hands, and steps through the doorway to hand it to her, very much aware of Skjor’s eyes on his back, watching his every move. Her eyes narrow in on the steel he’s offering her, before they flash with recognition. “Ah,” he reaches to take it from him, “Good. I’ve been waiting for this.” She tilts her head at him in thanks.

All Dove can do is tilt his head back.

She does a double take, “Wait… I remember you. So the old man thinks you’ve got some heart, I guess.”

Dove scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepishly. He’d watched the fight with the giant in awe and fear, completely forgoeing participation to Aela’s disappointment. At that point he’d be walking for an hour and being a functional human (or dunmer) had been beyond his capabilities. He’s pretty sure he made a noise close to a squeak and fled.

Not a great first impression.

“You know this one?” Skjor asks, “I saw him training in the yard with Vilkas.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you gave him quite the thrashing,” Aela jokes, smirking mischievously at Dove, who shrugs, amicably.

“Don’t let Vilkas catch you saying that,” Skjor warns, serious as ever. Dove remembers, abruptly, their secret love affair. His heart sinks a little for Aela’s inevitable broken heart.

“Do you think you could handle Vilkas in a real fight?” Aela asks, suddenly interrogating him. Dove tenses, looking back and forth between the two, and winces a little, shrugging his shoulders again. Probably Not.

“Why do you not speak?” She asks, and Dove frowns in frustration. “I’m pretty sure a daedric curse is the story I’m sticking to,” he tries to say, but of course it sounds like nonsense and both the warriors look taken aback and concerned.

“Is that Dunmeris?” Aela asks Skjor, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes, and Skjor shakes his head. “Didn’t sound like it. Gibberish, really.”

Dove nods as empathetically as he can.

“As long as he can fight, It doesn’t matter why he can’t speak,” Skjor asserts, clapping a hand on Aela’s shoulder. “I suppose you’re right,” she agrees, crossing her arms, “We welcome all types if they have the skill.”

Dove nods at the both of them, smiling in relief for what must be the first time today. “Here,” Aela says, and turns to the door, “Let’s have Farkas show you where you’ll be resting your head.”

“Farkas!” Skjor barks, and almost instantly the jingling of metal armor can be heard before the twin ducks his head through the door frame.

“Did you call me?” He asks.

“Of course we did, ice brain,” Aela insults, because this is when we as the protagonist are meant to learn that Farkas is the dumb twin to Vilkas’s smart twin. All it really teaches Dove is that Aela is bad at clever insults. Skjor seems just as unimpressed. “Show this new blood where the whelps sleep.”

“Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they are good people,” Farkas tells Dove, as they make their way to the barracks, “They challenge us to be our best.”

Dove cannot respond, so when Farkas glances over at him he gives his biggest, most friendly smile. Farkas looks pleased, turning back, and after a beat he adds, “Nice to have a new face around. It gets boring here sometimes. I hope we keep you. This can be a rough life.”

Dove lets the beast of a man talk at him, heart aching. He feels the desire to scream welling up in his soul. Farkas is his friend, and the man doesn’t know who he is. That hurts in a way Dove thought he was never going to hurt again.

Chapter Text

He falls completely out of bed with a panicked yelp, and by the time he’s hit the floor Athis and Njada are already on their feet, swords drawn, searching for the danger. Ria sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes and asking, sleepily, “what’s going on?”. Torvar snorts, but does not wake. Figures.

Breakfast is lamb chop stew and honey mead, which only adds to Dove’s growing theory that honey seems to be the bread and butter of nord cuisine. He supposes without an abundance of granulated sugar, other sweeteners must do, but the inside of his own mouth is warm with days old syrup that makes him gag. He drinks several mugs of water to rinse the taste from his tongue, even after he’s full, spitting into the bushes back behind the pavilion.

Dove only has moments to stand idle in the great hall before Aela catches his eye and beckons him with a hand. He obeys reluctantly, keeping his exhausted sigh to himself.

“New blood,” she commands him, “What is your name?”

He blinks at her. “Dove,” he says, but as opposed to before, intentional speech curdles in his mouth like foul milk. Aela cocks her head, rolling her tongue around what he said.

“Bo Drem?” She asks, “A strange name indeed. Or are your words confused?”

He’s taken aback. He knows what she said is not Dove in Cyrodilic, but to his ears it echoes back with the meaning he’d meant, albeit a bit butchered. He nods distractedly, and looks around for a piece of parchment. Luckily, Skjor had left a ledger and quill a side table.

Rolling up his sleeve, he dips his finger in the ink pot gingerly. On his bare arm he draws out the characters D O V E and presents it to the frowning huntress.

Her face clears with recognition. “Dove,” She reads aloud with a smile, “That’s quite the moniker for a warrior. Are you sure you’re better suited as a bard, or a priest?”

He knows she’s just poking fun, but he shakes his head with determination. As much as he’d like to join the Bard’s College or the College of Winterhold, pretty songs and healing spells do not a dragonslayer make.

(Although it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to cast minor healing in a way that didn’t feel like he was siphoning the air from his lungs with a high pressure vacuum.)

She seems amused with him, in a condescending sort of way. “Very well then, young one. Before you can become a companion you must pass a proving test. Skjor will summon you when a hunt of apt difficulty is found but in the meantime,” She looks above his shoulder, thinking to herself, “yes, I have work for you.”

He leaves some gear behind before leaving for Rorikstead, taking only his bow and quiver, the contents of his hip satchel, and the smaller, 80 gold sack for emergencies. The 300 he’d gotten from chopping wood stays hidden under the mattress of his bed, tucked away from prying eyes (and hands).

He sighs. At the very least, if he dies on his first ever mission, he’ll be forgotten before he ever has the chance to establish any humiliating expectations of grandeur.

The trek takes the better part of the morning, but he’s past the point of worrying over the aching in his legs. He sips one of his excess healing potions he’d nabbed from his stash as he walks, and the throbbing subsides as his battered muscles knit together stronger at an accelerated rate. “If this is made of butterfly wings and warbler eggs…” he mutters to himself, a little hysterically.

He sees Erik working the fields, Britte and Sissel running up the crest of the hill shrieking with giggles, and the hanging sign of the Frostfruit Inn swaying in the breeze.

Lemkil is waiting impatiently outside of his house as Dove approaches. “You with the Companions?” he barks, and Dove nods. Scowling, he crosses his arms. “You took your fucking time.”

Ignoring him, Dove looks pointedly at the door. “A bear,” Lemkil tells him, irritated, “My good-for nothing daughter’s fault. The two of them stole a bear cub from the woods and tried to hide it from me in the basement, feeding it scraps. Now it’s mummy’s back, and she’s out for blood.”

Dove nods, and takes gentle steps towards the house, notching an arrow as he nudges the unlocked door open a sliver with the flat side of his hips, taking a peek. He can hear Lemkil behind him, grumbling inaudibly and putting some distance between himself and the building. Once Dove’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he wishes he could do the same.

The table has been upended. Giant claw marks rake through the wood like it’s tissue paper, legs of chairs snapped up and chewed upon, a whole bookshelf toppled to the floor. Broken shards of ceramic crunch silently underfoot as he steps fully into the house, plates and jugs and cups, all shattered to pieces.

The house is completely silent. Dove takes cautious steps towards the stairs down, praying the floorboards don’t creak.

The basement is nearly completely dark, lit only by a single flickering candle atop a dresser at the far end of the room. It casts shadows down on the room’s inhabitants, the humongous, slumbering grizzly bear and her cub, snoring away. The cub wiggles happily under her arm, pressing as deep into the fur as it can manage. The mama bear takes deep, peaceful breaths, calmed by the presence of her baby.

Dove looks around the room for something, anything that could constitute as a peaceful solution, and he sees the bowls, a slab of half-eaten mutton and a water to drink from. There’s a makeshift bed of blankets and sheets, and a little cloth doll tucked into the swaddle. The dragonborn’s heart aches.

“Here, here little guy,” he whisper-calls, shaking the bowl of meat towards the baby cub. Blinking awake, the little bear wiggles out of his mama’s arms to waddle over, sniffing the slab of mutton eagerly. Dove puts the bowl down, in the corner of the room, out of the way.

At the absence of her baby, Mama bear starts to rouse. He notches an arrow, pulling it taut, and exhales all his guilt right as he lets it fly. It sinks deep into the muscles around her neck and she rears back, letting out a bellowing roar. Before Dove can let fly a second arrow she charges him, sending him rolling to the ground with a devastating swat. Though his armor keeps his skin from piercing, Dove can feel his pulse in his ribs as they throb from the sheer force of the blow. He barely manages to keep rolling out of range of her next swipe and scrambles to his feet, the grizzly hot on his tail, notching another arrow and turning around to let it fly just above her head. It gives her enough of an advantage to ram right into him, sending him sprawling backwards, trapped beneath her.

It takes all his strength to shove her chin up, keeping her powerful jaws from the tender meat of his neck, and his other arm slaps around above him until he finds an arrow that had spilled from his quiver. He stabs blindly with the pointy end, and hears her roaring in pain. He joins her in her screaming as she slips from his grip, shifting her front paw to stand directly on his left shoulder, crunching bone and tissue alike, and clamping her teeth down hard on his hand.

For a second all he can do is scream blindly in pain, before the shock tumbles forward into adrenaline. Like a damn, magic floods through his bones and out through to his skin, setting him alight. Mama bear stumbles back, crunching his left ankle under her paw as she rears back, and he has enough of a state of mind to roll away while he has the chance, focusing hard on channeling all that energy into healing.

The pain recedes as his hands glow golden, and he picks up a handful of arrows and his bow from the floor as his backtracks away from the raging beast. He fumbles the first arrow into place as his back hits the stairs banister and fires it, just as she turns her head to face him. It sinks into her neck, just below her jaw and she roars once more, beginning another charge. His second arrow flies into her eye a second before she can reach him. Momentum abruptly stopped she stumbles back onto her hind legs, taking a shaky, unbalanced step backwards before slumping to the floor with a lifeless THUD.

Dove sighs with relief, his voice trembling. He drops his bow and pops open his hip satchel, relieved to see only one of his potions had shattered, leaving the leather sticky and wet. He drinks the other two down in one gulp like he’s a drowning man tasting air for the first time, savoring the wash of contentment that flows through his veins and rinses the pain away.

Whimpering startles him as he pants wetly into the room. The baby cub noses his mama forcefully, trying to get her to wake up. Dove blinks away the sudden clench of his chest, and grabs the blankets from his makeshift bed to swaddle it with.

“Shhhh, shhhh, I got you. I’m sorry baby, I got you,” he coddles, rocking the little one back and forth until the crying and struggling ceases. One hand holding the baby, he picks up the strap of his quiver and his long bow with the other, gathering up arrows between his fingers. He makes his way up the steps of the lodging, a little unbalanced, but otherwise alive.

Lemkil and his daughters are waiting outside when he emerges from the doorway. When Britte and Sissel see what’s inside the mass of blankets, they scream with joy and rush him, making grabby hands until Dove relinquishes his prize.

Their father is considerably less satisfied.

“I hired you to exterminate my bear problem, not fucking rescue it!” He bellows, face red as a tomato. Dove nearly cowers under the force of his anger, until he catches the twin’s own fear stricken faces, and his resolve hardens for their sake.

“But dad-!” Britte complains, and Lemkil marches right over and slaps her straight across the face, “Don’t you DARE talk back to me!” he thunders, and Dove’s patience plummets at breakneck speeds. He shoves Lemkil against the wall of his home with no hesitation, raising the pointed tip of an arrow to his throat to cut him off as he shouts, “what the-”.

Dove can’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. He can hear people mumble behind him, feel eyes on the back of his head, drawn by the domestic violence, lingering despite themselves, curious as to what he’ll do. The dragonborn knows his face is dead serious, and he lets the tip of the arrow dig into Lemkil’s adam's apple.

Like most abusers, the farmer doesn’t have the balls to face the consequences of his actions. It’s why he lashes out at children, after all. “Fine,” he spits, with false bravado, “You can keep the fucking cub. What do I care?”

Dove lets him go, and turns to check on the girls. They stand together, blocking the little bear from their father’s line of view, agape with surprise. “Really?” Sissel asks, voice like the hopeful chime of a bell.

Lemkil storms off without replying, flinging open the door to his house and slamming it closed behind him. Business in Rorikstead goes back to usual, it’s citizens and guards continue back on their way. Only Mralki and Erik linger from where they had been talking on the porch of the Inn.

Sissel and Britte hug his legs quickly, whispering “Thank you mister!” in their sing-songy voices before scuttling away, carrying their cub between them. Dove walks away, the sun high in the sky above his head, rewarding him with the warmth of an hour past midday.

The bartender waves him over before he can begin his hike back to Whiterun, and slips him a pouch of gold from the deck where he watched the incident play out. “Thank you,” he tells the dragonborn, simply, before turning back around and swinging open the door of his tavern. Erik stares at Dove, completely starstruck.

Dove can feel the weight of his gaze, and the confidence it adds to his step, all the way home.

--

The sun has started to droop in the sky by the time he enters the halls of Jorrvaskr, and he’s feeling far less invigorated. His shoulder and ankle twinge, something wrong in the way the joints set. Farkas helpfully lets him know that Aela is out back in the training grounds, but before he goes to meet her, Dove heads down to the barracks.

Looking at the world through the limited lense of graphics and game models, it had been hard to tell how old anyone really was. In seeing the people of Skyrim with his own eyes, he shouldn’t be so surprised that the texture models (except they weren’t texture models, they were faces made of flesh and bone) were much more varied.

Erik, for one, looked all of 19 years old, which certainly put a guilty damper on advocating to spin him up in armor and send him off to fight deadly monsters. In real life, Aela looks more the same age as Skjor, mid 40s, maybe younger when you take into account the expected lifespan of a human in Skyrim compared to back home on Earth.

Farkas and Vilkas seem to be in their early 20s, same as Ria, though the way she’s treated makes Dove think she’s a bit younger than the rest. He’d hazard a guess that Torvar is in his mid 30s, give or take a year, same as Njada. Athis…. is an elf, and therefore beyond Dove’s guesswork, really. Kodlak, Vignar, Eorlund and Tilma were all well worn by age, perhaps in their 60s or older.

It adds a layer of understanding to their dynamic, as a group. Skjor and Aela treat the rest of the Companions like a litter of puppies, more of a danger to themselves than anyone else, really. Njada seems to be something of a mentor to Ria, and though she bends the knee to Aela of course, the two of them have a mutual rapport. Ria on the other hand seems equally terrified and in awe of the huntress, a feeling Dove can relate to very much.

When he walks into the barracks, dead on his feet, Torvar is pestering Athis as the other dunmer strips himself of armor. They seem to have a rapport too, if by rapport you mean Athis can be seen bragging to Torvar and Torvar can be found persuading Athis to get drunk together.

“Hey, new blood!” Torvar cheers, “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Torvar! How’d your first job go? Did you send them all to Sovngarde?”

Athis looks over, dressed down to his civvies, as if noticing him for the first time. “I suppose it’s well to have another dunmer around, even if it seems they’re letting anyone join these days. I am Athis.”

Dove is momentarily taken aback by the friendliness, but responds with a wince and a thumbs up. He’s sure his palpable exhaustion speaks for itself.

Torvar just laughs merrily, “Our work isn’t always as glamorous as the many songs and ballads make it out to be.”

Athis cuffs him over the head. “As if anyone would write a ballad about you, oaf!”

Horrifyingly, Torvar seems to take that as a challenge. “Theeeere once was a hero named Torvar the blonde! Who came riding to Whiterun from riding your m-”

Athis punches him square in the jaw before he can finish, and Dove can’t help but bark a laugh as the two dissolve into a childish wrestling match. He grabs his 300 gold from under his bed in the confusion and makes for the Pavillion, smiling to himself.

Aela is shooting targets outside. Her body moves fluidly with the bow like it’s an extension of her arm. She cocks an ear when the door to Jorrvaskr opens and turns to face Dove, releasing the notched arrow and hitting the target in the bullseye without even looking.

“The whelp returns. I trust you have good news for me?”

Dove nods, stepping down off the pavilion and making his way to Aela’s side. Her eye catches on the large sack of coin and holds a hand out to take it when offered, looking at him, confused. “What’s this?” She asks.

Dove gestures with his bow, points at her, points at his head, and gestures with the bow again. When she doesn’t respond right away, he pokes the bag of coins, and he sees it click.

“You want lessons?” Dove nods fervently, “Ah, I see! How did you even get this much coin? Is it two hundred? Three?”

Dove holds up three fingers, nodding. Aela considers the bag, takes a moment to think, and Dove is worried she’ll reject his offer. Instead, she hands him back the money, her face unreadable.

“You will be my shield-brother, Dove.” She tells him, gently. “I don’t need money from you. I’d be more than happy to show you what I can.”

Dove is confused. He shakes his head and tries to hand it back to her, but she steps out of the way. Is she misunderstanding him? He needs training, not pointers.

Aela puts a guiding hand on his shoulder. “Come with me,” She tells him, and together they walk down into the basement of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas gives him a suspicious eye from the table where him and Farkas sit, while his twin waves at Dove supportively.

When Aela reaches her room she steps inside and comes back out a moment later with another, identical sack of 300 gold. “Here,” she hands the dragonborn the small satchel, which he catches on top of his other bag, “This is your reward for completing the animal extermination job. I’m sure the owner of that place is relieved. They certainly came through with the coin.”

Dove looks back at her, baffled. This seems to be going the opposite of how he’d meant it.

Aela tries smiling at him, though when the huntress smiles it’s even more intimidating than when she scowled. Dove feels like a rabbit being toyed with before being devoured by a hungry wolf. “Go nestle that away with the rest of your gear, and meet me back in the courtyard. We shall train until evening feast.”

And with that, Aela takes her leave, walking purposefully down the hall and away from the dragonborn. “Yay?” Dove cheers to himself, confused, before hurrying to obey.

Aela teaches archery very differently than Faendal had. Where Faendal had practised a very elven style, Aela had a much more nordic outlook on things. Where Faendal had focused on precision and speed, Aela was only impressed by sheer force and steadiness of his aim. By the time the sun had set, he believed he had a relatively robust skill set when it came to marksmanship, at the cost of any strength he had left in his arms after the long day.

Tilma calls them in as the last light of day is slipping away, and it’s becoming difficult seeing his target in the darkness. Aela takes a seat at the long table in the center with the other circle members, Kodlak in the center, Skjor and Aela to his left, Vilkas and Farkas to his right.

Vignar and his manservant Brill sit together at the far left end of the table, with Eorlund completely ignoring their chatter in favour of food. The whelps fill the remaining space on the right wing, the only available spot the chair between the Eorlund and Farkas. Last night he’d been asleep the second his head hit the pillow and hadn’t joined the feast, but when Farkas catches his eye he gestures to the free spot beside him and ushers him over. Like he’d saved the seat for him.

“I’m surprised you’re not a smudge on the ground, after a whole afternoon of training with Aela,” Farkas jokes as a greeting, talking around the food in his mouth. Tonight’s dinner is stew, potatoes, Dove thinks, after a cursory investigation into the floating chunks. Several fresh loaves of bread waft warm, mouthwatering smells from the center of the table. Accompanying them are two roast chickens, half demolished, a gravy like dip of some sort, and a mystery red sauce that Farkas has scooped a large heaping of onto his plate, and is mopping up sloppily with a drumstick.

Dove gives the werewolf a pained, yet resigned look, and digs in himself. He realizes only now how hungry he is, having not eaten since breakfast.

Tilma comes by and fills his goblet with drink, despite Dove’s protest (he was getting quite sick of honey mead), but when he gives his cup a cursory sniff he’s surprised to find that the drink in his cup is wine. A fruity red, not too rich for his poor palette.

Wordlessly, Eorlund passes him the butter when he sees Dove searching for it, and for some reason that simple act of kindness nearly brings the dragonborn to tears. Feeling hysterical, he spreads some butter onto his bread and takes a testing bite. A little funkier then he was expecting, but not unenjoyable. Goat butter, maybe.

The din of the mess hall sinks into his skin as he adjusts to it, like the tickle of fur subsiding into warmth the closer you press. The hall itself is warm, yes, not just from the fire but from the crowd rejoicing within it, drinking, shouting, laughing.

It takes him a moment, until Dove realises that he feels safe, for the first time since waking up on the cold ground of a standing stone. If a dragon came swooping in through the dome roof of the longhouse, every single person within these walls would fight back to back with him, to ensure he lived.

Staying alive took up every inch of his brain. He felt like prey, trapped in a never ending cycle of urgent tasks to keep himself alive until sunrise the next morning. For the first time in days, Dove let his guard down, and he let himself smile.

--

Skjor approaches him before he can retire for the night, after everyone has either joined Torvar in taking their reverley out into the streets of Whiterun, or retired for the night. Vignar and Brill are still chatting up a storm as the younger nord collects plates with Tilma, cleaning up the night’s mess.

He’s beginning to think those two have a deeper connection than just master and servant.

“Ah, there you are,” he grouses, catching sight of the dragonborn. “Your time, it seems, has come.”

An ominous way to start any conversation. Dove cocks his head, obligingly.

“Last week a scholar came to us,” Skjor tells him, seriously, “He said he knew where we could find another fragment of Wuuthrad.” He shakes his head, scowling, “He seemed a fool to me, but if he’s right, the honor of the Companions demands that we seek it out.”

“This is a simple errand, but the time is right for it to be your Trial.” Skjor addresses him directly again, glaring into his soul. “Carry yourself with honor, and you’ll become a true Companion.”

Dove nods, a little terrified. Skjor seems satisfied, and harrumphs. “Farkas will be your shield-sibling on this venture, whelp. He’ll answer any questions you have. Try not to disappoint,” he growls, then adds, as an afterthought, “Or to get him killed.” Message delivered, he walks away.

Dove sighs, a little shaken. Is he ready to take on Dustman’s Cairn? He doesn’t know. The confidence he’d had when the room was full of compatriots and the energy was high has abandoned him. His arms feel heavy and his chest clenches with worry.

Dove strips to his linens and gets into bed, pulling the blanket over himself and rolling over to curl in, seeking comfort. Almost instantly exhaustion takes him, unaware he’s lost consciousness until he bolts awake in a cold sweat a few hours later.

--

He’s running, running through a thicket of woods. He’s not being chased through, he is the chaser, hunting the small blur on all fours, bounding and weaving through the evergreen forest. The adrenaline beats hot through his bones like he’s on fire, and drips from the corners of his mouth, salivating.

The blur tries to duck around, out from under his hot pursuit but he anticipates it’s move before it has a chance to make it, skewering the tiny mass of fur with his claws.

He lifts the bear cub up to look at it, ears rushing, pounding, blood screaming in his head. The apex of the hunt rattles his bones like they’re the bars of a cage, his spirit screaming for release. He’s shaken, shaking, he falls to his knees, cradling the cub in his paws.

He tries to close his eyes but he can’t, he has no eyelids, the screaming in his head is inescapable, the thirst for blood will not be satisfied. The bear cub, no, the little girl in his hands - is she Britte, or Sissel? He can’t tell them apart - does not respond when he begs her for an end to all this, to free him from the Hunt.

He looks up. Hircine stands over his trembling form. He holds out a hand, he offers salvation.

“Dove, dove, wake up!”

--

Ria stands over his bedside, looking alarmed. His hands are tacky with perspirant, and his toes feel shriveled in socks soaked through with sweat. His whole body is shaking, visibly. Excellent. He sits up on the edge of his cot quickly, wiping the tears from his eyes and trying to regain his dignity with marginal success.

“You were saying something, I wasn’t sure..” she peters off at a dismissive wave of Dove’s hand, and he gives her a less-than-reassuring thumbs up. The morning is cold, doubly so drenched in a thin layer of moisture, and Dove peels off his wet socks as soon as he’s sat up, Ria still hovering over him.

He pauses. It’s not like he has another pair.

“I’ll go ask around, see if anyone has spare clothes they’re willing to part with,” Ria reassures, scuttling off before he can convey to her not to bother. Torvar is still snoring away, but Njada and Athis are nowhere to be seen. Dove wonders what time it is, and hopes he’s not keeping Farkas waiting.

Ria comes back with a burgundy cloth shirt, rough beige pants, long underwear and scratchy grey woolen socks. “Tilma has a pile of laundry that nobody’s ever claimed, free for the taking,” she tells him, “Here, try it on.”

The shirt is big on him, but not anymore so then Hadvar’s linens he’d been wearing for so long, and the pants fit around the hips. Ria didn’t seem bothered by concepts such as “modesty”, or “privacy”, and she watches him nervously as he removes his shirt.

He’s so divorced from his physical body that he doesn’t even mind. Honestly, he’s as curious as she seems to be as to what he looks like.

“I’m Ria, by the way. Nice to meet you,” she doesn’t seem to care as he strips out of his linens and folds them on his cot. “I was the newest Companion, until you came along. I guess that’s ok. Just means I can show you the ropes!”

Dove nods at her. She stands there awkwardly as he laces up the borrowed pants. Suddenly, she blurts out, “is it true you’re cursed? That you can’t speak?”

He turns to Ria to see her beaming at him, excited. He nods, and she gapes. “Wow,” she says, “I thought Farkas was just gullible. How did it happen?”

He deliberates a moment, before he turns away and shrugs. He pops open the trunk at the end of his bed and takes out his rucksack, dumping the contents onto his bed. She seems to take his silence as an answer and sighs dramatically.

“Vilkas says you’ll be training with Aela once you’re a companion, since you use a bow. You’re lucky, she’s amazing.” He turns to her and nods, smiling weakly. She smiles back at him, reassured.

“It’s your proving today, isn’t it?” Dove nods, and Ria puffs out her chest a little. “Well, good luck brother. Show them the might of the companions!”

Once he’s got his scaled leather back on, and slipped the novice hood over his head, he starts packing up his things. He takes the bedroll, seeing as Dustman’s Cairn is a good distance away and depending on how unscathed they are coming out of the ruin, Dove and Farkas might decide to camp for the night rather than attempt a trip back. He restocks his hip satchel with health potions, his heart sinking when he realizes he only has one left.

He counts his arrows. A dozen are left. His long bow is certainly worse for wear, the gouges from Vilkas’s blade still threatening to snap it clean down the middle. Hopefully, the draugr will have some good loot for the taking.

“I hope you’ve readied yourself,” Farkas growls at him moodily, arms crossed, leaning against one of Jorrvaskr’s pillars. Definitely kept him waiting. Dove grabs an apple from a bowl on the table, since he clearly won’t have time for breakfast, and gives Farkas a thumbs up.

“I’m told I’m to be your shield brother,” the werewolf reiterates, “Let’s see if you impress.”

The spike of anxiety firmly lodged in his gut twinges again, and he nods, unsure himself. This could be his ticket to losing the first safe lodgings he’s found. All of his plans, short term and long term count on this going right. Don’t fuck this up he thinks to himself, as Farkas pushes open the doors.

--

Dustman’s Cairn is northwest of Whiterun, across to Fort Greymoor then up across the plains. It’s hard to find, under the earth tucked away amongst the graveyard of Hamvir’s Rest, and the dragonborn must trek through the wilderness to find their prize.

Fortunately, all of that nonsense is made easier when you’ve done it a thousand times.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” Farkas asks, as they wander through the barren rocky flats, yellowing grass tickling the sides of their boots as they march. He doesn’t blame the Companion for his suspicion, there are absolutely no clear landmarks in sight, the road is so faded into the earth it’s almost invisible at times.

Finally, they come around the corner of a rocky lip, and they see the stone platform of Dustman’s Cairn.

“Huh,” Farkas comments, “You’ve got good direction.”

Dove smiles at him, a pang of sadness dampening his spirits knowing there’s nothing he can say. The rickety spiral staircase that brings them to the bottom of the stone bowl creaks like it’s about to collapse at any moment, but it carries both of their heavily weighted asses to the base without issue, and Dove thanks the nine. That would be an embarrassing way to fail your trial.

The metal doors to the Cairn open with a single push, and the two of them duck inside, eyes taking a second to adjust to the light. It smells of dust and death, a heavy, aging odor that lingers on the air. The dragonborn blinks a film from his eyes and coughs, a cloud of dust billowing up from in front of him. Farkas looks around, drinking in the sight.

“Looks like someone’s been digging in here,” He mentions, voice heavy. The reverberations of his voice echo down stone hallways, and they both freeze as somewhere, in the distance, Farkas and Dove hear the sound of a sword being drawn.

“Tread lightly,” Farkas warns him, as the pair of them creep forward.

There’s something lying prone on the stone floor, in front of the tomb in this first chamber. Cautiously, Dove notches an arrow and lets it fly, but when the thunk of the iron edge buries itself deep into paper-white gnarled flesh, the body doesn’t even flinch. Already dead.

There’s a chest beside the front table, in this room. He tries to open it once as they pass, but is met with a resounding rattle of it’s lock. He resolves to look up lockpicking once they’ve got the shard, and he’s back comfortable in bed.

Through the stone tunnel and down some stairs they find another draugr corpse, and he hears Farkas grunt, concerned. They keep moving into a burial chamber, and they hear their first signs of life

The first arrow he fires at the shambling draugr misses, as first shots tend to do. Farkas charges the zombie as Dove notches another arrow, fired instead at the armored shambler that steps from behind the rows of stacked corpses, eyeing Farkas’s flank. The first shot hits him between the shoulder blades and he goes down, but a third and forth draugr step from behind the rows too and the one Dove hits in the lower ribs does not drop to the floor instantly. Instead, it begins to charge.

Farkas turns around to cleave the offending fourth attacker just as Dove fires his second arrow, directly at the heart of the third. Aela was right in teaching him strength, since his arrows punch through the chests of these zombies like they’re made of butter. Farkas looks down at his handiwork, appreciative.

Dove’s aware that a large part of his accelerated learning must be the work of the thief stone, but he’s willing to not be modest this once.

They move forward, picking their way through the maze of mummified corpses. Dove collects his wayward arrow, and a few from the archer draugr’s quiver too. A door leads them down, through a curtain of spiderwebs (foreboding to say the least) and out to a grand staircase.

Dove remembers this room. The lower chambers have a pair of thrones and an enchanting table, but no clear way to progress forward. Farkas eyes the thrones, puzzling something over, while Dove takes a deep, calming breath, and steps into the side chamber with the lever.

He scoops the table of potions up, pocketing the smaller ones and swaddling the larger draught in his backpack. Then, when there seems to be nothing left to loot, he pulls the trigger.

Farkas’s head snaps up at the sound of a gate dropping shut. Dove watches him look over, and catch sight of the whelp grabbing hold of the bars of his new cage. If dunmers blush then Dove probably is. He’s embarrassed to have to do this, but it’s the only way forward. Farkas looks his situation up and down, frowning.

“Now look at what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he deadpans, and Dove half-grins, ashamed. “No worries,” Farkas waves him off, “Just sit tight. I’ll find the release.”

“Sure you will,” Dove sing-songs under his breath as Farkas turns away from him, drawing his sword and looking around, calling out, “What was that?”

Before he knows it the Companion is surrounded by Silver Hand goons, with weapons raised and pointed at his shield brother. Despite knowing how this ends, the dragonborn presses himself as close to the bars as he can, trying to offer moral support without speaking.

“It’s time to die, dog,” one taunts. Another joins in, “We knew you’d be coming here.”

One brandishing a warhammer cackles. “Your mistake, Companion.” The mass of them clang their weapons intimidatingly as the press Farkas into the corner. “Which one is that?” The one with the bow asks, jeeringly.

“It doesn’t matter. He wears that armor, he dies,” a woman replies, her voice full of malice. A shiver runs down Dove’s spine. “Killing you will make for an excellent story,” The final Silver Hand mocks darkly.

Dove feels as though he’s taken a step too far into the deep end. These people are murderers, happily so, and they’re about to be viciously torn apart for it. His heart pounds so loud in his ears, gripping the bars of his cage is the only thing keeping him upright.

With each sharp word, Farkas takes another step back until Dove can nearly reach him. He bangs on the bars of his cage with a fist impulsively, so that Farkas knows he’s there, on his side.

“None of you will be alive to tell it,” Farkas growls, and the clang of his sword hitting the stone reverberates around the chamber, as the werewolf starts to transform.

--

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Farkas tells him, as he steps out onto bloodsoaked stone tiles. Dove is more than a little shaken, and he supposes it comes across on his face. Human murder is a contender he hasn’t really had to deal with yet.

He had not enjoyed it.

Farkas must read some of that from his expression, because he shifts from one foot to the other, awkwardly trying to explain. “It’s a blessing given to some of us,” He starts, “We can be like wild beasts. Fearsome.”

That’s an awful explanation, Dove wants to say. He looks up at Farkas, and then breaks away to go pick up Farkas’s sword from where it dropped. He needs two hands to hold the weapon, and it nearly unbalances him. The handle is warm with blood, from one of the Silver Hands, as is the side of the blade that had been engulfed in a puddle. Gingerly, he hands it back to Farkas, handle first, blade pointed towards himself. A symbol of trust.

Farkas looks down at the sword, then back to Dove, face as unreadable as always. “Thanks,” he says, tone as flat as always. But beneath it all, Dove thinks he understood the intention. Farkas is not the most expressive guy, but thanking him at all is a surprising move from the burly, big bad wolf. Farkas breaks the moment, turning to face the door.

“Eyes on the prey, not on the Horizon,” He parrots back, quoting someone. Maybe Vilkas? When Dove doesn’t step forward, Farkas turns back to clarify, “We should keep moving. Still the draugr to worry about.”

They carry on forward.

--

“Be careful around the burial stones,” Farkas warns him, “I don’t want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back.”

They’d developed a system, fighting their way through the old nord tomb. Dove takes the first shot, hoping for a lucky snipe. Once the first arrow leaves his quiver, Farkas charges forward and makes as much noise as possible, hacking, slashing, drawing the attention away from Dove’s second arrow, which he aims at Farkas’s blind spots. If any baddies detach from the main group to charge Dove, Farkas dismembers them. If any baddies start landing hits on Farkas, they get an arrow through their heads.

He picks up a hunting bow from the first pair of silver hands they dispatch, strapping his old longbow to his back to take home and store away. For sentimental purposes.

His new bow does half the strength work for him, doesn’t shake nearly as much, and actually has a notch to line up his arrows with. All that, combined with the adrenaline, clearing the dungeon starts to feel fun. He tallies up combo points in his head, and lets out a loud whoop that nearly gets Farkas’s head chopped off when he goes 20 shots in a row without a single miss.

Farkas takes an arrow to the thigh and goes down in the vine covered chamber, where the ceiling caved in and painted yellowing stone golden with sun. They’ve been underground for a long time, in an hour or so the sky will start to pinken. Dove thinks all of this and some more hysterical thoughts the second he sees Farkas drop to the floor, brought to his knees.

The archer that dealt the leveling blow doesn’t get a moment to celebrate before the arrow aimed for her warrior friend gets sent to her instead, missing her heart by a mile and landing square in her left foot. She trips, falls head first off her stupid concealed platform, and breaks her neck on impact with the ground. It gives Dove some sadistic pleasure, which immediately transforms into guilt and disgust at himself, as well as panic as the spared warrior takes a swing at Farkas, still grounded.

He fires an arrow at the offending Silver Hand, but it simply deflects off his plate and gives him time to force Farkas to the ground with a second blow of his hammer, accompanied by a crunch of bone that sounds ten times louder to Dove’s ears then he’s sure it actually is.

With an anguished cry that only he understands as english, he fires a third, a fourth, a fifth arrow in rapid succession, successfully forcing the warrior to stumble back and focus his attention on anyone other then Farkas, who’s still spread eagle, groaning. As the Silver Hand raises his weapon with a battlecry and charges him, he also raises his helm, and Dove sinks an arrow right through the eye hole of a horned iron helmet. He doesn’t have time to be stunned amidst the panic, and rushes to the werewolf’s side.

"What... hey!” Farkas mumbles as he’s manhandled by Dove, trying to get a good grip to heal him. He grunts obscenely as the magic flows from the dunmer into his wounds, rousing back from his semi consciousness enough to mumble, “That felt good."

“Shut up,” he tells him, ignoring the inappropriately timed heart palpitations he’s having. He presses the hands of healing into Farkas’s side until he’s run out of magicka, and then he chugs a blue potion from tucked away in his bedroll and starts healing again.

Three minutes of panicking later, Farkas is well enough to bat away Dove’s concerned hands and mumble, “alright, alright, I’m good. You can stop.” He takes a sip of that tall regeneration draught they’d nabbed, at Dove’s behest, and then clasps his hand in Dove’s to be helped to his feet.

He stretches once all the way back, then all the way forward, then all the way to the sky, testing his range of movement. Hands on his hips, he announces, “I’m good to go. Let’s keep moving,” like he hadn’t just given Dove seven heart attacks and needed to account for several thousand gold coins in emotional liability charges and fines.

They scrape the bottoms of urns with their hands for gold, kick flimsy locks off with the heels of their boots, and pocket the results. By the time they’ve reached the final chamber, Dove’s coin purse feels full to the bursting, and there’s an easy smile sitting on Farkas’s face. Who knew grave robbing could be so much fun.

The final iron door opens with a creak that shoots panic right into the dragonborn’s gut. Once again his newfound confidence abandons him at the drop of the hat as they walk down the narrow opening to the final chamber room, lined with sarcophagi, waiting to jump out and charge at them.

Past the hallway of death opens up to a tiered staircase, short, flat steps with large landings leading up to an ornate altar, on which the shard of Wuuthrad will sit. Behind that, he sees the glowing outline of words of power etched into the large, curved stone wall. Beacons of flame frame the resting place of an army of draugr, and the goal to their quest.

He doubts he can convince Farkas to cut and run as soon as they get their hands on that fragment. Fuck, Dove thinks, decisively, and marches up the final steps.

The closer he gets to the wall, the less he can hear. Chanting, voices old and yet ethereally familiar, like the heavens themselves urging him forward, begging him take another step closer, closer, until he can make out the runes through their blinding aura.

“Fire,” echoes around in his soul, skittering from his eye sockets down his spine like a rat, rummaging around his inside leaving him feeling empty, and unsatisfied. Like an itch he can’t scratch, the word settles at the back of his temple. “Fire, Fire Breath.”

When he’s stared at the wall for longer enough, Farkas comes up behind him, concerned. “What does it mean?” He asks, which snaps Dove out of his reverie. He glances up at Farkas’s blank expressions and his lips curl up half-heartedly, patting him on the shoulder and turning his back to the word of power.

The shard of Wuuthrad sits innocently on the table, begging them to pick it up. Dove grabs an arrow out of his quiver and with the same hand, slowly extends out to grab the shard, inch by inch, a centimeter a second.

The moment his hand touches stone he shoves that thing in his hip satchel as fast as he can and notches that arrow, and rightly so, as before he even looks up draugr are already kicking down the doors to their not-so-eternal resting places.

Farkas draws his sword behind him, bellowing, “I’m going to crush you like a bug!”

That first arrow flies, embedding itself into the stomach of an armored draugr that just keeps charging him, unbothered by the metal sticking through his gut.

Dove notches another arrow, and takes a deep breath. For victory, or for Sovngarde, he thinks sarcastically, and lets the metal sing.

Chapter Text

Farkas’s head is silhouetted by the setting sun when they emerge from Dustman’s Cairn. The waning light shifts over the wolf’s face as he bobs dramatically as he steps out of the tomb, his weight gingerly distributed.

From the bottom of the bowl Farkas looks up at the purple sky and sighs. “We should camp. Won’t make it back before dark like this.”

Dove nods, watching him limp up the stairs with trepidation. The adrenaline is fading from his body, his heart is beating almost painfully, his stomach twists itself in knots, he’s almost worried he’ll throw up. Farkas walking on a broken leg is not helping with that gut reaction.

Farkas sits down (finally) under the stone shelter of Hamvir’s Rest with a heavy clunk, hands undoing the buckles on his armor without much conscious effort. “Do you know how to make a fire?” Farkas asks. Dove shrugs and gestures vaguely with his hands. Farkas nods solemnly, “I’ll build it, you can light it.”

Dove fetches the biggest branches and chucks of wood he can find as Farkas methodically and artfully arranges them into something resembling a log cabin. Once Farkas growls at him, “Enough,” Dove changes course and beats two skeletons shambling outside their door back into the earth with a large stick.

They finish their tasks around the same time. When he’s done his task, Dove feels like every emotion and memory has been drained from him, a walking husk of a man who does not remember what he looks like even as he stares at his hands.

Farkas seems fine. Their fire crackles happily.

The wolf gives Dove simple commands, layout the bedrolls, get the meat from my bag (which is just unidentified salted meat wrapped in a cloth, of course, werewolf), get me two sticks and my knife.

“Vilkas usually sands them down,” Farkas tells him, skinning the sticks bare as the fire begins to soothe into embers. “I don’t bother. Watch for splinters though, when you eat.” Dove tucks his knees under his chin and sits as close to the fire as possible, staring into the void of flame and not producing a single coherent thought. He drifts, losing time to the glowing embers.

It’s only when he finishes his portion of charred rabbit that he snaps back to reality. Dove blinks and the sun has nearly set completely, the first stars blinking into view.

“You should have your own bowl,” Farkas is telling him, gnawing through his third helping of rabbit, “In your pack. Stew is good for camp meals.” Dove watches with a newly critical eye as Farkas devours the mostly raw animal in a few bites. He’s still too dazed to really register it.

Farkas adds some from their pile of tinder, relighting the flames once the sky is inky black. Dove watches as Farkas meticulously cleans his sword with a cloth and some type of oil. The dragonborn finds himself unwilling to move away from the flames as they soak some feeling back into his hollow bones.

Once the sword glistens like a diamond, and the wolf has stretched all the way to the sky, he asks Dove, “Mind taking first watch? I need to rest my leg.”

Dove shrugs, and nods. He doesn’t move from his spot, spaced out and gazing into the unending flames, but a few minutes later he can hear the first rumblings of snores.

Somewhere, in the far distance, under the shroud of complete darkness, he can hear the cries of a dragon echoing down the mountains.

--

Dove is woken up unceremoniously, with a boot in his side. “Come on,” Farkas tells him, “It’s past dawn. We should pack up and go.”

The hike back to Whiterun is grueling, exhausted from the endless battles of yesterday and half a night’s poor sleep. It’s early, early enough that Dove can still feel the dew in the air, cool and clinging to his bare skin.

“Don’t tell the others,” Farkas says suddenly, as they approach Whiterun’s southern wall, “About the wolf. I told Vilkas I wasn’t going to transform anymore.”

The dragonborn looks at him with a sleepy, half-hearted curiosity, but he shrugs and nods in assurance anyways. He’s effectively mute, it’s not too much of a burden to stay silent.

The townspeople goggle at them as they walk through the streets of Whiterun, Farkas is a renowned companion after all. Vilkas watches as they approach, and he calls out to them from the top of Jorrvaskyr’s steps, “We’ve been awaiting your return”

Dove glances at Farkas, who moves past him to climb the rest of the steps and join his brother. He passes Vilkas with a nod and walks around the side of the mead hall, towards the training grounds behind the pavilion. Dove turns his eyes back to Vilkas, and nods shakily.

Vilkas, though certainly not friendly towards Dove, is entirely professional. “Come,” he beckons, “Follow me.”

The circle awaits him, in the center of the training grounds. Dove’s eyes nearly glaze over the others tucked away under the shadow of the pavilion, Ria, Torvar, Athis, Njada. The circle appraises him with equally unreadable looks on their faces.

Dove, for a moment, is irrationally terrified. Is this how it ends? Will they all see, here, how he’s been lying to them all? How out of place he is? How he doesn’t belong? What will they do to him, he’s too afraid to even consider it. What will they say? That almost panics him more to consider.

Kodlak raises his arms to the sky, and beckons Dove forward with a genuine smile. “Brothers and sisters of the Circle,” he calls, “today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold!”

Dove stands rigidly, paralyzed under the sheer intensity of the circle’s combined gaze. Predators , his brain whispers at him. He feels like a deer caught in headlights. He feels like a rabbit cornered. They know. They must know.

“This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valor,” Kodlak continues, “Who will speak for him?”

“I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us,” Farkas responds, resolute.

Kodlak smiles at the twin. “Would you raise your shield in his defense?” He recites, words he’s probably said many dozens of times before.

“I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us,” Farkas replies, and the sincerity of the words is startling. They’re just words, part of the ceremony, but Farkas says them like he means them. It frightens him.

“And would you raise your sword in his honor?” Kodlak asks.

Farkas’s voice is strong and steady, “It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes.”

Kodlak grins, “And would you raise a mug in his name?” Somewhere behind him, Torvar whoops. Dove tries to crack a nervous smile.

“I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in his stories.”

Kodlak nods, “Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. His heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers,” The old man raises his arms again, calling out to the sky, “Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”

The chorus of the Circle’s voices calls back in perfect harmony, “It shall be so.”

Ria and Torvar whoop behind him. The circle dismisses, acknowledging him with a nod and returning to their duties. Farkas and Vilkas head for the mead hall together, talking in low voices.
For some reason Dove’s heart sinks a little as they walk away without a glance. It was just a stupid pre-written speech. They’re not his friends now or anything. Dove’s head follows them until he realizes Kodlak has approached out of the corner of his eye and nearly jumps out of his skin.

The old man smiles at him, clasping a hand to his shoulder, “Well boy, you’re one of us now. I trust you won’t disappoint.”

Dove nods and tries to grin, unconvincingly. Kodlak returns the gesture and walks away, carrying himself with the utmost confidence and power. Dove is dazed by his presence.

--

He dons his scaled armor once again that evening with immense reluctance, but it seems customary among the companions and he’s not eager to tred on the unspoken social rules of this world he is an imposter to.

At the very least, Dove lets down his hood and blindly combs his hair behind his ears - he stumbles over the feeling of his own pointed ears for a moment as he does, pervasive wrongness blooming in his gut as his fingers catch the tips. He stares at his hands for a moment, scolding his own ridiculousness, before huffing and ascending to the congratulatory masses that await.

The feast is magnificent, at least by the expressions on the companion’s face around him it must be. However uniquely seasoned the salt-rubbed goat and broiled beef are, it is not a noticeable change in quality to Dove.

Perhaps it’s spicy, which would explain the way his brothers in arms are throwing back mead like it’s water. Dove wouldn’t know - he assumes his capacity for spice is inarguably more developed then a gaggle of pasty nords who’ve never heard of a pepper.

As plates empty and ale flows, seats are deserted and the warriors start to mingle. Euorland is the first to retreat when the sky is black and the last of the day’s warmth is smothered by cold night, but Kodlak and Skjor follow soon after, Aela lingering conspiratorially, but vanishing as soon as another spectacle catches Dove’s eye.

Vignar, the last elder at the feast, lingers. He and his manservant Brill migrate into Euorland’s abandoned seat to strike up a conversation with the twins, but Dove, trapped awkwardly in the middle, is completely ignored.

He tries to keep his head down and eat in silence, but Vignar seems to find a humor in this that makes Dove want to curl up and die.

“How much can he understand anyways? Real language, I mean.”

Farkas doesn’t stop chewing to look up at him, face blank. Vilkas leans forward in his chair to reply down the long table, “He doesn’t speak any modern tamrielic, but Aela and Kodlak can vouch for his competence in the written word.”

Dove looks at his plate rather than either of them, resisting the urge to excuse himself from this odd conversation before it nosedives further south. Even that small reprieve is denied him when Vignar snaps in his face, jolting him to attention, forcing him to acknowledge the ugly smile on the old man’s face.

“Hello,” He coos, catching Dove in vicious eye contact, “Hello? Nod if you can understand me, elf.”

Dove does not nod. He’s not in the mood to subjugate himself to an insufferable prick. He rolls his eyes with confidence he doesn’t actually possess and turns back to his plate.

Vignar scoffs, “Does it even know where it is? Elf, do you understand what you’ve signed on for? What you’ve promised? Or were you too lazy and uneducated to understand, as I suspect you were.”

The people around them keep talking and eating. Dove seems to be entirely on his own for this one. He could punch the old fuck in the face, but he’s not sure he’d win that fight. The dragonborn instead makes pointed, deeply disdainful eye contact, and flips him off.

The gesture is received with scandalized shock. “There’s no need to be uncivilized,” Vignar balks, “I asked a perfectly reasonable question! Do you even know who I am? Or are you too far gone you no longer recognize your betters?”

Dove startles as Farkas’s chair scrapes suddenly and the wolf gets to his feet, Vilkas’s imploring use of his name to calm him lost under the noise. The wolf looms over Vignar menacingly and squares his shoulders, “You better watch your tongue, old man. If you attended our ceremonies, then you’d know I just swore my blade to him.”

Vignar rolls his eyes, unaffected by Farkas’s peacocking. “My dear boy, I’m far too busy to attend every party you lot throw. What’s he then, your third whelp of the season? Asking me to attend a ceremony when he’ll be dead in a fortnight,” He scoffs, “let alone a ceremony for an elf!”

“I’m not interrupting something, am I?” Dove nearly jumps as Athis interrupts the argument, words dripping with malice. Torvar blinks oafishly from behind him, looking disoriented and uncharacteristically quiet.

Brill counts the angry warriors around them and quickly comes to the conclusion that they are outnumbered. “Master,” He insists. “it’s time we retire, don’t you think?”

Vignar glares daggers at the elf in hot silence for a tense moment before he sighs. “Yes, I suppose so,” the nord surrenders, throwing back the rest of his drink and getting to his feet. “No, no I don’t need help you fool. I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.”

“Yes Master,” Brill obliges, shooting Dove a dirty look over the old man’s shoulder. Dove flashes him a weak smile.

Athis doesn’t move or speak, eyes following Vignar all the way to the grand doors of the Hall and into the inky black night, shoulders ratcheted up to his ears and eyes narrowed. Torvar is the first to break the tense stalemate, slurring casually, “We’re taking the revelling out into the streets, if you want to join.”

“Farkas,” Vilkas says suddenly, surprising them both, “you should go with them, brother.”

Ria appears suddenly, popping over from another conversation, “Oh, Njada, you have to come too!”

Farkas scowls as the whelps gather around him, saddled with babysitting them. Dove tries to give him a reassuring smile, but the twin isn’t looking at him. Is ignoring him. When Dove looks around, not a single person pays him a glance.

“Where to,” Farkas demands of Torvar, who looks entirely too self satisfied at the party he’s gathered.

“Oh, the usual. The Bannered Mare’s serving drinks tonight, if we feel like stretching our legs we might make it down to Honningbrew before Sabjorn boards it up for the night.”

Farkas crosses his arms, but he can’t come up with an argument. “Okay then,” he agrees, “But you’re waking up for morning training whether you like it or not. All of you.”

Part of him wants to slip away to his quarters as the party prepares to descend on the streets of Whiterun. It feels only just to stay behind, considering he is such an outsider after all. He’s certainly bringing the party down. Regardless, he tells himself, he’s tired. It’s been a long week.

But Torvar hooks one arm through his arm and drags him along, and Njada shoves him in the back to keep him from toppling over as he does, and Ria is telling him another story of her victories, Farkas and Athis just behind him, hands making contact with his shoulders to steer him where he needs to go.

Dove knows he’s getting special treatment, and that they don’t really care about him as much as they’re pretending to in the moment. They’re just being kind. Why would they care? What reason has he given them?

He hates himself for preening under the attention regardless.

The Bannered Mare is loud and packed and confusing, and the companions are quickly separated in the throng. There’s people Dove recognizes and people he doesn’t, and after Torvar reappears holding a bottle of Argonian Ale and telling Dove to take a shot things start getting harder to comprehend much faster. Dove chooses to stay close to Torvar, who jumps around in a circle to a high energy fiddle and sloppily coerces the dragonborn into doing the same.

“C’mon,” he shouts over the music, “This one’s my favorite! You’ve gotta dance!”

Dove can’t distinguish this fiddle tune from the others that Mikeal had played tonight, but Torvar takes his hands regardless and spins them in a circle until Dove nearly pukes down the front of Saadia’s dress.

The tavern is singing, and shouting, and Dove knows that even if he could speak he wouldn’t be heard so he doesn’t bother to try. Torvar bounds face first into a beam and topples over, and as the crowd parts for Dove to pick him back up Ria and Njada spot them from the other side of the central fire pit.

Torvar, upright and energized once more as a new song begins, insists on teaching Dove a dance he demonstrates with vague and somewhat suggestive hand motions. As Njada and Ria make their way around the fire to join them, Njada glaring daggers at Torvar’s hands, the music cuts off abruptly just as the first chorus begins.

A nearby dancer nearly collides with him as they spin to a stop, and Torvar shoves them back reflexively. Dove watches his face scrunch in confusion as he peaks over the crowd to see the drama unfold.

Torvar laughs and says something Dove doesn’t catch, grabbing the dunmer by the wrist and dragging him through the throng of people. When they reach the other side Athis is hollering curses at the crowd while Farkas drags him bodily from the building.

Torvar and himself follow outside, Ria and Njada just catching up as the warmth of the hearth abandons them to the chill of the Skyrim night.

Njada punches Torvar in the shoulder and he drops Dove’s wrist like he’s been burned, putting his hands up in surrender. She eyes him darkly, putting a firm hand on the dunmer’s shoulder and steering him away.

Farkas takes the lead after their cheers for Honningbrew mead echo off the sleeping walls of Whiterun, marching the giddy pups down to the gates. They stumble down the roads, pointedly ogled by the guards they pass by. Njada and Athis trap Dove between them, each with a cautionary hand on each of his shoulders. Athis rants about the rude nord he’d nearly brawled, to which Njada responds with vocal grunts of disgust.

Honningbrew is a golden beacon on the horizon, and cheers go up again.

Somewhere between the keg they manhandle from Sabjorn, the last of the argonian ale, Njada and Athis brawling, Farkas and Ria arm wrestling, and Torvar writing a song, Dove falls asleep.

If he’d been conscious he would’ve seen the way all the companions fell silent when Ria cried out, “He’s asleep! Look!”

He would’ve seen the way Njada and Torvar fought over who’d carry him home until Farkas stepped in and picked him up. Athis scolding Farkas for running him too ragged that he would just pass out like that, has he no shame. Ria tucking him into bed back at Jorrvaskr.

Dove doesn’t dream that night. It feels like for a second, the universe forgets about him. It’s a glorious feeling.

--

Breakfast is a nearly somber event. Athis throws a jug of water on Torvar to wake him up and together the whelps trek up to the mess to put some food in their bellies. Njada steps outside to throw up, at one point, but otherwise they eat in near total silence.

The circle enters the Hall through the back doors from the training grounds around mid-morning, Farkas looking entirely sober. Damn werewolf.

“Come now,” Skjor calls out, “Up you go everyone. Get off your asses, all of you.”

The whelps groan collectively, but abandon their plates and stand without much complaint. None of their stomachs were really up for breakfast anyways.

“Athis. Njada. We’re going beast hunting. Get your gear.” The eldest whelps nod and walk together to the quarters, heads held high.

“The rest of you should be training. Speak to Farkas if you are recovered enough to take a job.” With that cordial command, he dismisses them with a nod and walks to the front door.

Torvar picks up his heavy longsword and approaches Farkas, who nods at him. Ria joins Vilkas at his side and cocks her head at Dove, rooted in place. Aela bares her fangs at him and his heart jackhammers off tempo.

Ducking his gaze, he approaches her to stand at her side. When he glances up at her, her terrifying smile has morphed into a frown.

“Where is your bow?” She asks, and Dove feels the color drain from his face. When he’d donned his armor this morning his arms had felt as though they were weighed down by cinderblocks. His left arm in particular had ached from shoulder to wrist in a piercing way that refused to fade.

“In my quarters,” he replies shamefully, then snaps his mouth shut. He’s speaking gibberish. He squeezes his eyes closed and curses himself, then points at the floor beneath his feet.
Aela nods. “Go retrieve it, then,” she says in a dark, commanding voice. Dove swallows, imagining the afternoon of agony he’s about to have.

“Wait!” Ria shouts, looking fiercely between Aela and Dove. When they both turn to look at her face colors nervously, but she persists, “If you’re training Dove today then I think you should train me today instead, sister! Vilkas and yourself can swap!”

Vilkas cups his face in his hand in exasperation, “Ria, we’ve talked about this. Aela does not train in longswords.”

“I know!” Ria declares, determined, “I just really think our styles are similar! And that it would be … um… very educational! Brother!”

“Please stop shouting,” Vilkas begs, deadpan. He already sounds defeated. Aela quirks her eyebrow, looking incredibly amused and more importantly distracted.

“You have asked to train with me, shield-sister?” Aela asks smugly. Ria’s face is bright red, but she nods with confidence. Aela smiles viciously, “I would be honored to train you in what I know of blades. I’m sure such knowledge could come of use to you.”

Vilkas watches with disdain as Aela covets his starstruck protege before turning to Dove and sighing. “Come,” he beckons, and follows them out the doors.

It’s significantly warmer, this morning, warmer then it’s been at all since Dove arrived in skyrim. Torvar is clumsily charging a bored looking Farkas while Aela hands a blushing Ria one of her twin daggers. Vilkas rolls his eyes at both of them.

The twin marches Dove to the center of the round, turning to face him. “I’m no marksman,” he states, “We’ll train in hand-to-hand, in the case you are ever disarmed.” He waits for dove to nod. “Good. Take off your tunic.”

Dove blinks at him, stalling for a second until he realizes Vilkas is serious. He scrambles at the buckles at his hips and the large belt to remove the scaled armor, laying it out on a haybale as Vilkas removes his pauldrons.

Dove turns back around just as Vilkas is pulling his tunic over his head in a glorious flourish, pecs and abs rippling. The dragonborn looks down at his own body and back at Vilkas. The idea of taking his tunic off next to this man-wolf becomes incredibly unappealing very suddenly.

Vilkas looks over at him and he starts anxiously fiddling with the ties of his tunic before the twin can call him out on his rude gawking. He flings the shirt off his body like he’s ripping off a bandaid, tucking it in with his leathers and looking anywhere but at his own naked blue chest.

If Vilkas is off-put or amused by his body in any way, he’s a spectacular actor. The twin gestures Dove closer and puts his hands on Dove’s bare shoulders.

“Grab hold of my shoulders,” he demonstrates, “like this.”

Hesitantly, Dove obeys, finding a good grip on Vilkas. The twin glares at his left shoulder and grimaces when Dove adjusts it to soothe the pain. Belatedly, Dove realizes the wound Vilkas had given him on his first day had scarred over.

“Don’t attempt restoration on your wounds if you don’t know how,” The wolf scolds, as if Dove is a petulant child, “ you will do permanent damage by mis-healing them. Use potions instead, or see a healer.”

Mis-healing them? Dove glances down at his shoulder in worry. Is that why it still hurts? He hadn’t known mis-healing was something he had to worry about. All the times he’d healed others with his sloppy restoration flash before his eyes. He nods, ashamed at himself, and vows to learn how to heal properly at some point.

Vilkas accepts his silent apology and tears his eyes away from the scar. “Now, shift your weight to your feet and ground yourself…”

Training with Vilkas is hard, but a summer holiday compared to training with Aela. He spars with Dove for hours, shouting at him to fix his stance over and over and over. Vilkas has Dove in a headlock when Tilma comes out onto the pavilion and calls them in to eat at midday, and the part of Dove that is fearing for his life dies a little when that does not make Vilkas let go.

Vilkas jostles him. “Come on. Get me off. Focus.”

Dove can’t focus, there’s a beefy arm around his neck and he’s trapped. He can’t breathe all the way, his windpipe restricted and he feels himself starting to hyperventilate. He can’t get out. He can’t get out.

“Focus!” Vilkas shouts, “Who’s grounded right now?”

Vilkas is grounded. Vilkas has the balance, Vilkas has the control.

“Now get me off balance,” Vilkas commands him angrily, as if reading his mind.

It’s easier said than done. Dove has been frozen in panic too long to use Vilkas’s momentum against him - the wolf is rooted, 100% and completely. He could set himself on fire, seeing as that tended to work in removing himself from bad situations, but Vilkas wasn’t a bad situation. He can’t imagine giving your mentor third degree burns is behavior that fosters respect between two people.

Dove adjusts his own stance to try and get the higher ground but it’s impossible, Vilkas is a hard wall in the way. In a stroke of impulsive curiosity, Dove drops his weight to the ground to try and tug Vilkas lower.

As he’s falling and Vilkas gets drawn into his momentum, it’s almost instinct to throw the twin’s weight over his shoulder and onto the ground. Vilkas hits dirt with a heavy grunt and Dove stomps on the wrist still holding him as he scrambles to his feet. Somewhere behind him another companion whoops half-heartedly before retreating into the Hall. The courtyard is empty as Dove helps Vilkas to his feet.

“We need to work on your reaction speed,” Vilkas tells him, “Your opponent won’t give you the time you need to catch your breath.”

Dove nods, embarrassed. Vilkas slaps his arm in a bonding sort of way, giving one last disparaging look to the puckered scar.

“Go and eat, then, and don’t take a job today. Stretch your muscles before you injure yourself anymore, whelp.”

Unsure if that was an insult or not, Dove watches Vilkas walk away around the side of the Hall and down the steps to Whiterun. Vilkas might think he’s kind of pathetic, but at least he sort of doesn’t hate him.

He heads the wolf’s advice and doesn’t ask Farkas for a job that afternoon. Instead, he takes his coin to the streets and restocks on potions and arrows, sells the gems and jewelry he’d collected.

Njada follows him, for some reason, back already from her hunt and even more sour then usual. She glares at his back the whole time and scowls when he gets overcharged at Belethor’s. He’s not sure exactly why she’s following him, since she didn’t offer an explanation and he’s too terrified of her to bother to ask, but he decides to just accept that she’s bored and seeing him embarrass himself with his goofy charades must be gratifying or amusing.

Belethor has inks and quills, and one extremely overpriced stack of letter parchment. Dove jingles happily with his purchases back up the road to Whiterun, his surly shadow just a step behind him.

The guards as he walks past the Gildergreen must sense his good mood and find it repulsive, because they call out, “Hey, elf!” just as he feels like spring come back into his step.

The pair of them stop as the guard gives Dove a once over. To Njada, he goads, “New companion, eh? didn’t realize you lot were so desperate to replace the boy.”

If looks could kill, the guard would be dead three times over. “It’s too hot to be answering stupid questions,” Njada spits.

“If I’d known the companion’s standards were so low, I’d have joined up myself!” Another, somehow stupider guard joins in. Dove swallows as Njada’s face hardens like steel.

“You’d have to be victorious during your proving to become a companion. Want to give it a go right now, softgut?” Njada shifts into a fighting stance, hand at the hilt of her blade. Dove can’t see the guard’s faces through their helms, but their posture goes ramrod straight.

“Easy, companion. We were just teasing! No harm done,” the first guard insists, backing away. Dove can’t help but look at the way Njada’s shoulders are taut with anger and think some harm may have already been done indeed.

Njada watches the guards go with a thunderous scowl on her face. “I heard you hurt your arm,” she says out of the blue. When Dove nods she scowls and snaps, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” before storming away and up the steps.

Dove stares after her in absolute bafflement until he feels a little hand tug at his sleeve.

A little imperial girl looks up at him with childish determination on her face. “Mister companion, sir, do you think you could give me just one gold please?”

The dragonborn blinks down at her, and calculates how much gold he has left in his hip pouch - 70 gold isn’t that important to him, but it would be to Lucia. He unties the pouch from his hip and holds it out for her silently.

She goes wide-eyed and looks up at him in doubt. Carefully, she takes the coin purse from him and opens it in awe. “Thank you sir! Divines bless you sir! You’re the best!”

Dove looks up at Whiterun Hold in contemplation as she scampers away. He’d have to pick up the dragonstone to get Breezehome, and dragons would start attacking. Maybe Falkreath? Lakeview manor? Somewhere where she could rest her head out of the cold?

He shakes himself of the fantasy. She’s self-sufficient without him, and he’s not the father she’d want or need. His life goal is to leave skyrim, leave all of this behind. There’s no way he’s settling down.

He tells himself that, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it. It doesn’t stop him even in the slightest.

--

There’s no feast tonight, as at least half the companions are away hunting. Farkas, Njada, Athis, Aela and Kodlak sit alone at the great table, so Dove sits himself next to Farkas again and tries not to read too much into the way Farkas smiles at him when he takes his seat.

“‘eard you ‘urt yer arm,” Farkas says through a mouthful of beef, “Did’ya stretch?”

Dove finds himself amazed that any secret can be kept at all amoungst these people if “Dove mis-healed his arm,” had made the rounds in less then a day. He nods, rolling his eyes, because he did stretch once he’d put away all his things, thank you very much.

Farkas shrugs and goes back to doing unspeakable crimes to his dinner, and Dove eats in companionable silence.

When he retreats to his quarters he only has a moment before Tilma knocks on the doorframe, startling him. She smiles kindly, asking, “I was hoping to check on you dearie, do you mind?”

He shakes his head and she steps into the room, bent over a little and hobbling. “Well, since I don’t believe we’ve met dear, my name is Tilma. Don’t worry, I’m no one important, just the caretaker. I’ve been tending to the warriors of Jorrvaskr for as long as I can remember.”

Dove nods and tries to smile back at her, though it feels a bit nervous.

“One of your shield brothers was worried about your bow arm, so he suggested I take a look at it.” She tilts her head, “Do you know where the bathing room is?

He frowns and shrugs in confusion. “Come,” she says, “It’s just across the hall, follow me.”

To Dove’s surprise, she’s right. Across the hall from the quarters is a sliding screen door Dove had never seen before, which she opens into a small bathing room with a large tub, a water pump, a shelf, a bench and a bucket.

Was this in the game? He doesn't remember it, but he doesn't have time to ponder before Tilma’s preparing him a bath and he’s being ordered to strip for the second time today.

Being pampered, while embarrassing, is nicer than Dove would ever admit. She uses a bit of magic to stoke the coals under the bath and heat the water, while he sits with a towel across his lap and lets her massage poultice into his arms. The steam from the bath mixed with the herbs and oils fogs up his brain pleasantly, to the point where he’s almost asleep.

As Tilma helps him into the bath, he looks down at himself in the water and nearly trips. His body isn’t the one he’s used to, it’s blue, for starters, and for some reason that still keeps surprising him. Making him feel vaguely nauseous and wrong.

It manages to spoil his relaxed state of mind, but his body still relaxes in the hot water. This is the first time he’s bathed himself in a week, so he scrubs his arms of dirt and sweat and dunks his head under the surface, keeping his shoulder above the waterline.

He wonders if everyone thinks he’s weak now, needing so much special treatment over a training wound. He almost wishes Vilkas had never seen it, that he could play it off like he’d healed and moved on the way the rest of them did.

Tilma comes back over with her finished concoction and stands behind him, guiding his shoulders and head back so his hair dipped beneath the water. Another person’s hands in his hair is heavenly enough that he stops thinking, stops doubting, and lets her scrub away the grime and blood.

“They’re all very worried about you,” She tells him out of the blue, “but you should know, it’s nothing to do with you. Many of our youngest, newest members having been leaving us too early, in the past year. The work of the companions is more dangerous than ever.”

Dove keeps his eyes closed, holding a breath. “Vilkas was so angry with Kodlak, for recruiting someone so inexperienced,” She continues, “He was certain they were leading you to an untimely death.”

Gently pushing on his shoulders, Tilma guides his head under the water and rinses off the soap. “He and his brother come to speak to me, for guidance. If you are ever lost, I could offer you some guidance too.” She takes a comb and begins to comb out his hair, “If you are half as stubborn as those silly boys, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Dove wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping and shaking from the nightmares the next morning to clean and dry clothes sitting on the end of his bed. He holds them close and smells the lavender, and is unable to accept the feeling of belonging in his chest as real.

Chapter Text

On a day like any other, Miraak finds something in the waters of apocrypha. Caught in the webs of the Quagmire, Vaermina’s domain, it seems to have struggled its way all the way here, it’s little head poking out of the inky black waves.

“Hmm? And what is this?” He chuckles, intrigued. “A dreamwalker in Herma Mora’s domain? How does an insignificant shade get lost between planes of oblivion...”

Dove kicks and flails against the pull of the web, desperately fighting to keep his head above the inky black sludge and not get dragged back into the Quagmire. The sea’s taste is of raw meat, bloody and hot. “Help… me…” He begs, incoherent and terrified.

An eternity of agony later, spectral hands plunge into the waters and he feels the coil of web snap as his naked body is birthed from the basin of apocrypha. Wrenched free, three ghostly figures drag him bodily onto the oily iron grating. Dove takes shaky breaths, dream madness spinning his head on it’s shoulders as he attempts to regain his bearings.

“What foul tongue is it that taught you to speak such words,” a voice demands of him, and Dove looks up to see the point of Miraak’s sword hovering dangerously above his throat. He swallows, and tries to find his wavering voice.

“Thank… you… for rescuing… me… Miraak....”

He is deafened by a shout that comes tearing from all around him, crackling in his ears like static. When he opens his eyes again, Miraak’s ancestral mage armor radiates from him with terrible beauty.

The first dragonborn demands, “Who. Are. YOU.”

“Dovahkiin,” Dove admits, as if compelled, “I am Dovah. Dove. The last dragonborn.”

Dove hears the noise of running water, loud enough to wake him up. “Don’t you DARE-” Miraak commands before Dove’s ears ring with silence, and the darkness of his own closed eyelids is all he sees.

He blinks awake, and listens as Torvar finishes pissing in the chamber pot.

The nord catches Dove’s sleepy gaze and cracks a smile. “Oh, didn’t mean to wake you,” he stage whispers, “Used to bunking with folks who sleep like the dead. Bad dreams?”

Dove swings his legs over the side of his bed and nods, exhausted. He’s starting to reach the end of his rope with it all, really. He feels as if he hasn’t actually slept since arriving in Skyrim.

Torvar is right, the rest of the companions are still sleeping like the dead. This is the second time he’s awoken from fitful sleep tonight, and he’s just about ready to give up on getting any shut-eye before dawn. Torvar finishes his business and taps the bucket with his foot, offering it up to Dove.

“Need a go?” He offers.

Dove nods to Torvar, who grins, “Good, you can be the one to take it out then and dump it.” Dove stares at the wall, mind buzzing like static between his ears, as his shield brother returns to his cot and doesn’t snap back to reality until Torvar is snoring.

He gets up, relieving himself and taking the pot in both hands up the stairs to the hall. He goes out the back door, deciding to dump it into the bushes rather than take a guess at the social etiquette of human waste disposal in Skyrim.

The cool night air is like a weight lifted off his chest. He almost feels as if he’ll float into the night sky, but something keeps his feet tied to the earth. His hands are rather shaky as he dumps the pot over the banister of the pavilion, and he decides to sit down a moment to take a breath before going back inside.

Crouching down to the floor, curling himself into the corner between the wall and the fence, he rests his head on his chin and closes his eyes. The breeze is soothing, smelling faintly of grain and nirnroot. Crickets chirp and frogs sing in the grass and greens surrounding him, no fear from predators within these walls.

Well, that would not be entirely true. Dove’s eyes snap open when he hears voices, and he tucks himself into the corner even smaller, however possible.

“-is Aela?” A man’s voice asks. Dove recognizes it, but he can’t be sure.

“Out.” Skjor’s voice replies, tersely. The Dragonborn can definitely recognize that tone of voice.

The first man, who Dove is reasonably certain is Kodlak, sighs. “It does not befit a man of honor to act with secrecy and deception.”

“I’ve not lied,” Skjor denies fiercely, “I’ve kept no secrets from you. There is nothing wrong with what we’re doing. It is you who insists we keep the gift a secret from the others.”

“And we agree on that,” Kodlak insists, “That it would be too dangerous.”

Skjor scoffs but does not disagree. There’s a long moment of silence and then, bitterly, Skjor taunts, “The new blood knows. Farkas spoke to me of their proving- they were attacked by the Silver Hand.”

Dove wants to be angry at Skjor for telling Kodlak, because Farkas had clearly been trying to keep that a secret, but he supposes Kodlak had to find out one way or another. It’s in his journals, after all.

“I see.” Kodlak ponders that for a long moment. “Tell me the truth then. Where is Aela?”

Skjor responds with a petty tone of pride, “We hunted. Many Silver Hands are dead by our teeth. Aela sleeps in the underforge, well worn by the victorious hunt tonight.”

“She has not turned back then,” Kodlak accuses, “She no longer controls her wolf, her wolf controls her.”

“There is no power struggle in those of us who have accepted our gift. I, and Aela too, am one with the wolf. We listen to it, and it listens to us. Our wants and needs are the same. ” Skjor’s voice is familiar as he speaks, as if talking about a dear friend. A stark contrast to the Harbinger’s thinly veiled shame and hatred.

“It is not natural,” Kodlak says, as if it is final, “The call of the blood will only drive us to madness. It is a burden we must bear.”

Skjor seethes, biting his tongue. “You have your worship, and I have mine,” the warrior tells Kodlak, choosing his words carefully, “I do not ask you to like it, only if you can refrain from insulting it, as I refrain from insulting yours.”

“Daedra worship is outlawed in all the nine holds,” The harbinger shout-whispers, “Were the people of Whiterun who idolize the companions to know of our dark secret, it would not just be the Silver Hands nipping at our heels.”

“Let. Them. Come.” Skjor declares, proudly, “I will never be ashamed of our power. It is a gift.”

Kodlak sighs. Dove almost thinks they’re done talking for the moment, before he hears the Harbinger speak very softly, barely audible under the sounds of the crickets and the trees, rustling in the breeze.

“Tradition is very important to me, son.”

Skjor accepts that with a beat of silence. “To me as well. I don’t think we see the same tradition at play here.”

Kodlak doesn’t argue that point either. “If you want to lead the pack when I’m gone, you have to see farther, look closer.”

“Well which is it?” Skjor asks with a snort, “Look farther or closer?”

“Come on, boy,” Kodlak chides, “You know what I meant…”

“You speak in riddles sometimes.” Skjor admits, and Dove can picture the pained expression on his face.

“I don’t mean to confuse you,” Kodlak replies, defeated, but Skjor shakes his head, “It’s not confusing. Just frustrating.”

A moment, something Dove can’t quite dissect passes between the two nords. “You are a strong warrior, Skjor. Your heart is fiery and that serves you well in battle.”

“Thank you, Harbinger,” Skjor is obliged to reply.

“But even the bravest of men consider their actions,” Kodlak continues, falling back to his persecutory tone, “I want you to survive long enough to take the mantle.”

Dove’s gut drops a little, but Skjor just chuckles darkly. “Don’t worry about me,” he scoffs, and the two depart in their separate ways. The light of the mead hall as Kodlak opens the door nearly reveals him in his corner, but neither warrior seems to notice him, tucked away. Dove hears the grinding of stone softly, and knows that Skjor has returned to the Underforge.

Kodlak is right. That’s what frustrates him, that Kodlak is right to be worried for Skjor. Because Dove knows that Skjor will die at the hands of Krev the Skinner, charging ahead in his wolf form, and Kodlak will have been right. Vilkas and Farkas will cure themselves of their wolf, and Hircine’s curse will be lifted.

Something about returning the companions to Ysgramor’s great vision sits like spoiled milk in Dove’s stomach. Like a breath he can’t release. After enough time has passed that he’s sure he won’t be caught, Dove stands and slips back into the hall with the chamber pot, slinking back down to the barracks.

There’s so many things he wishes he could SAY to these people with whom he’s now sharing a life, but he must bite his tongue. They would have no reason to trust him yet, even if they could understand.

He washes his hands with the pump in the bathing room, the water chilling him to his very bone. He takes the blanket from his cot and goes upstairs to find a chair by the cooling hearth, and his notebook.

Wrapped up in his blanket, Dove tries to get all his thoughts down on the page before he explodes from all it is that he cannot say. His annotated account of all that has happened to him since waking in that damn carriage to Helgen is messy and impossible to follow, interrupting itself to go on long tangents and skipping whole parts where his memory fogs, but it’s cathartic. He’s nearly finished when Tilma comes down in the morning to start the fire.

“Good morning, dear,” She says fondly, “Couldn’t sleep last night?”

He shakes his head no, closing his book quickly. He’s sure he’s not ready for anyone else to read it yet. Dove watches her putter around building a fire before getting up to go get dressed before the others wake up too.

None of the other whelps wake as he tucks his sleeping clothes under his blanket and dons his armor, gliding a hand over his bow before grasping it firmly. By the time he’s suited up and leaving his quarters he runs into Farkas and Vilkas in the hallway, ascending the stairs too.

Farkas seems much more awake than his brother, waving and greeting Dove with an energetic, “Morning, then. You’re up early.”

Dove nods and waves back to Vilkas too, who just glares at the two of them. Resisting his wolf must truly take a toll on him, he looks haggard and worn in the morning compared to Farkas standing right next to him. The lines of his face cut deeper, his eyes gaunt and pupils flickering minutely, agitated and exhausted.

Farkas is not struggling. “Hope Tilma’s started breakfast,” he comments idly, “I could eat a horse.”

Tilma HAS started breakfast already, the smell of fresh baked bread filling the hall. Vilkas cracks open a large ledger at his table in the corner and begins to write, absentmindedly accepting a mug of spiced mead from his brother as Farkas takes a seat beside him. Once the bread is out of the ovens, Tilma lays out the food on the large table and Farkas rises to get himself and his brother plates.

The hall fills with warriors, Torvar and Athis the last to climb the steps and take a seat at the table. Njada blows past him in a hurry out the doors after talking to Vilkas, saying something about Markarth and a kidnapping, and the tired wolf watches her go before fixing an eye on Dove.

“Are you ready for work?” He asks, to which Dove nods, getting to his feet. “Good,” he beckons the dragonborn over with a wave, “Windhelm’s got bandit problems.”

“What?” Athis interrupts, calling over from his seat at the table, “Windhelm? by himself? Azura’s mercy, he can’t speak cyrodilic!”

Vilkas sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “We’ve three contracts out right now. I am giving the whelp the Windhelm contract because of his level of combat experience.”

“Well what are the other two then?” Athis says, pushing back his chair and walking towards Vilkas’s table to peer into the ledger. Vilkas slumps back to give the dunmer an unobstructed view, rolling his eyes.

“Escaped criminal or family heirloom.”

“Those don’t sound so bad,” Athis argues, “escaped criminals are always easy.”

Vilkas shakes his head, “mages, on both counts.” He turns back to Dove, “Have you ever fought a mage, whelp?”

Dove shakes his head, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. To get set on fire or electrocuted… he can’t even imagine how you fight that, the thought strikes him with a sudden terror.

“Thought not. You’re going to Windhelm.” Vilkas marks something off on his ledger with an air of finality.

Athis’s face twists in anger. “Not by himself he’s not, if you want to ever see him again.”

Vilkas throws his hands down in frustration, “If you feel so strongly about your brother’s safety, go with him yourself!”

The dunmer’s expression curdles. “I said I’d never set foot that far east again,” he says, his voice deadly serious, “and I don’t go back on my word, nord.”

“Well then enough bellyaching if you don’t have the stones to do anything about it,” the wolf shouts back, getting angrily to his feet. Dove takes a few nervous steps back.

“Why you-” in a burst of rage, Athis reaches forward towards Vilkas to grab his collar. The wolf bats his hands away and steps into his face, things move so fast that Dove isn’t even sure who gets the first punch in. There’s shouts as the companions all get up from their seats to watch, somewhere between amused and annoyed. Dove seems to be the only person who’s scared.

Vilkas throws his full weight behind punches like he’s trying to break Athis’s bones, and Athis pummels with fury and the explicit intent of causing injury. It all happens so fast that his heart starts beating at three times speed, adrenaline rushing his system. Dove can’t tear his eyes away, not sure what he’s supposed to do when the two warriors are doing their best to KILL each other right in front of him, and no one else is intervening.

“Don’t drop your damn hands!” Torvar scolds, sounding quite tickled with the way his morning was turning out. Athis, who had dropped his hands, curses furiously in dunmeris instead of listening.

Vilkas gets Athis right in the jaw and Athis nearly goes down, stumbling backwards as if blinking on the edge of consciousness. Even as he lunges forward, unswayed, Dove wants to beg for them to stop and ask the fellow dunmer if he was okay. That could have very easily given him a concussion! He could be injured for months! Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?

He nearly jumps out of his skin as a hand rests at the small of his back. Aela and Skjor had entered the hall, sometime when he was entirely distracted, and the huntress had placed a hand on him to attract his attention. She may have even said his name, he doubts he would have heard her over the roaring of his blood.

“I'll accompany you on the road, young pup,” She tells him over the shouts and commotion, “I’ve my own business in Windhelm.”

“THERE, DISPUTE SETTLED.” Skjor bellows, startling Vilkas and Athis away from each other. The wolf takes the opportunity to shove Athis away from himself, and the dunmer does not retaliate beyond more dunmeris swears (words that only Dove can understand, that reference Vilkas’s manhood and it’s relative size and capability). “NOW EAT YOUR BREAKFAST FOR THE LOVE OF MARA,” The old warrior demands.

Just like that, the hall falls back into its regular motions. It’s Torvar who walks over and scoops Athis off the floor, the dunmer slack against his shoulder in a truly concerning way. Dove rushes to help Torvar as he unceremoniously dumps the elf into a chair, just as Tilma approaches with a large red vial.

“Better have him drink this while he’s still fresh, dearie,” Tilma titters, “Don’t want any of it to set. Vilkas is quite the young warrior.”

Dove glances around to find the wolf, who had certainly taken some bruises himself, but he’s nowhere to be found at a glance. Perhaps he left to lick his wounds somewhere else.

Torvar accepts the potion and coaxes Athis into opening his mouth with a hand on his jaw, “Nah, I wouldn’t worry about him,” the nord chuckles, “He’d be too stupid to rub two sticks together by now if he didn’t take well to it.”

As Dove tries to piece together what they’re saying, Athis’s skin starts to glow with restoration magic. Dove remembers Farkas, in the cave, the way his skin had sewn back together, and he’s amazed still to see the way bruises and tender skin instantly fades to a healthy shade of blue.

Athis blinks, and his expression focuses with sudden clarity. “Oh gods,” he curses, voice sounding clear and entirely cognizant, “That tastes awful. What elixir is this?”

Tilma smiles at him, taking the bottle from Torvar’s hands. “A new recipe I’m trying, with ash hopper jelly. Arcadia just got an import from Solsthiem. How do you feel?”

Dove would also like to know the answer to that question. Much like Farkas before, Athis stretches his arms all the way to the ceiling and sighs. “Perfectly normal, much better, actually. Can’t feel anything hurting still at all. Was it much more expensive?”

“Nothing that cannot be expensed for the health and safety of our honorable Companions,” Tilma reassures with a twinkle in her eye. Torvar laughs and claps a hand on Athis’s shoulder, “You heard the woman. We’re heroes! Can’t have us falling off our horses during the epic ballads.”

“A horse? And with what gold?” Athis accuses, his sense of humor returning to him, “All your septims are in a passionate love affair with Hulda’s pockets.”

Dove feels the adrenaline of the fight slip away. He supposes he’ll have to get used to the idea that injuries don’t carry so much weight in a world like this. Sure, he’s been healing himself instantly for over a week now, but he’s already so disconnected from his physical body he hadn’t put much thought into it.

The dragonborn looks around at all of the companions, none of whom show any remote interest in whether or not Athis is alright. Not out of malice, but perhaps, he thinks, out of confidence? The idea still doesn’t quite sit right with him.

“It’s going to be cold in Windhelm,” Ria tells him, leaning down over the banister as Athis and Torvar wander off. Dove finds his way back to reality to turn to her and pay attention, “Colder then nords will even admit to you. You don’t have a travelling cloak, do you?”

Dove sighs and shakes his head. Of course he’ll have to deal with snow at some point. It’s fucking Skyrim.

Ria finds him a cloak in the lost and found once more. Once his bag is packed with all the necessities and he’s counted his arrows, he does his best to keep up with Aela’s long and confident strides all the way down the road from Whiterun and towards the mountains in the distance.

--

After something like half an hour of walking, they finally begin to near the landmark that had loomed in the distance until that point. Valtheim towers is larger than it ever seemed in game and far more imposing, at least six stories tall and teetering over the edge of the ravine below.

Aela does not seem even a little bit worried, her large gait unfettered as Dove tries his best not to lag behind. Her bow sits in her hand casually, as if it were an extension of her body and not a weight she was carrying. Dove, whose weapon arm is already beginning to get very tired, tries his best not to be jealous of her strength. He’s learning. He can manage on his own.

Two armored bandits are stationed outside the tower, an elf sat in a wooden chair tending to their fire as a pot of something boils, a disinterested looking woman who rolls her eyes as she sees them approach.

“Mercenaries, ay?” She calls out to them in greeting, “Right, this here is a toll road. 200 gold and you’re free to pass.”

Aela doesn’t stop walking, not even paying the woman a glance until she’s stepped right in front of her, stopping her from moving forward. The huntress finally looks down on the breton, unamused. Dove stands at her side, curiously watching.

“Do you know who it is that you speak to?” Aela demands, “We are Companions of Jorrvaskr on an honorable quest. You are lucky our destination is important, and that I’ve not ample free time to demonstrate some respect to you and all your brothers-in-arms.”

“Why you-” The breton starts but the elf shushes her, looking horrified. “They’re companions, Briga!” He scolds, clearly fucking terrified. She sobers when she sees his palpable fear, making a gesture for them to go before crossing her arms and scowling.

The bandits pacified, Aela walks away with her head held high. Dove tries to follow with even half the dignity and presence. One day that will have to be him, he thinks, talking Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tuluis into a peace meeting at High Hrothgar. Maybe Aela will come with him if he asks, her companionship a seal of officiality, of his status.

Maybe, he wonders, the companions will have found him out by then and will want nothing to do with his cowardly self. He likes entertaining that thought a lot less.

--

Unsurprisingly, Eastmarch is fucking cold.

He’d taken Farkas’s advice on rations and packed himself bread, cheese wrapped in wax paper and dried meats, and some of the candied fruits that Helga had snuck him with a mischievous smile.

The icewind off the water tears through a man, billowing under his cloak no matter how tight he pulls it around himself and chilling him straight to the bone. As the falling snow hardens like ice and whips instead into tornados around him, his aching legs and feet tense and shiver, exacerbating the challenge of their journey.

They had stopped for a handful of minutes just once, at the top of the hills in the Rift before taking the long road down to Windhelm, and though his muscles had already begun to tire seeing the city in the distance had emboldened him to carry on. As the temperatures plummeted however, it was becoming an internal battle with himself to keep from giving up.

Aela seems completely unbothered. That at the very least was inspiring enough embarrassment in him to keep his mouth shut on the matter.

He and Aela must have approached the front gate at a prime hour because the roads soon become cluttered with horse and oxen drawn wagons, man-pulled wheelbarrows and busyfolk of all sorts coming and going from the capital. Just after midday, the sun half a sky from where it had been when Dove had seen it first this morning.

It is far too busy to notice any shouting or cutscenes, and though Dove keeps an eye out for any dunmer being assaulted his eyes get lost in the sea of similarly toned nords and furs. He abandons his search before he risks losing Aela in the square, feeling incredibly out of place in the unapproachable, icy city.

Huddled in his cloak, the warmth of candlehearth hall fails to penetrate his thoroughly frozen exterior until the heavy oaken door swings shut behind him and he dares to release his grip on the furs he was clutching to his chest. The warmth of the hall sweeps under his cloak and forces him to release a tight breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Aela turns to check back on Dove, a habit he hoped she would not develop. Her back turned from the counter, it is Dove who the innkeeper locks eyes with and the face of aggravation is immediate.

“This isn’t the Grey Quarter,” she calls out to him, before he can even find the voice to speak (ironically, considering he had none). Aela turns around in confusion and approaches the counter as normal with Dove in toe.

“We are the Companions of Jorrvaskr, and we have business to conduct in the region,” Aela declares. Dove defaults to a stony, serious expression, aware that he is the obstacle to being treated with respect in this scenario.

The barkeep - Ilda? Elda? - seems genuinely taken aback. “You must be Aela the Huntress then! This then is your, uhm,” She looks to Dove as if he had sprouted a second head, “Your shield brother then?”

“Yes,” Aela replies firmly, “he’s a great hunter and trusted confidant. We’ve travelled a long way to your city to give assistance how we can.”

Elda nods her head courteously, “Yes well… thank you…” She stammers for a suitable response, “We would of course be honored to house the legendary Aela the Huntress, but we only have one room though you see… I’m sure there's rooms in the grey quarter…” she trails off, leaving the “for your dunmer friend” implied.

“I find you repulsive and we’ll share, thank you,” Aela replied, unflinchingly. Dove’s stony expression falters slightly as he holds back a surprised laugh.

“Ah,” Elda squeaks, “…. ok…. well here is your key and, uhm, and food will be delivered at supper time. Complementary for all guests you see, I suppose I can just mark that down as, uhm, two meals then.”

“Your service and demeanor have been terrible and I will despise using your accommodations,” Aela informs the poor woman, and Dove can see the predatory smile curling around her lip from toying with her prey. Dove takes the key from the counter, pridefully walking towards the room he knows is theirs already, ignoring Elda’s faltering “F-first room on the left..”

Aela drops her bag on the floor and reaches up to the sky to stretch her back. Dove collapses onto the wooden chair with a sigh of relief. He finishes the rest of his rations, slowly lifting scraps of cheese and bread to his mouth with leadened arms while Aela strips her travelling cloak and the outer shell of her armor, beginning a series of stretches, her eyes closed serenely in meditation.

He watches her, intrigued, and his heart skips a beat as her muscles ripple beneath her skin for a moment, almost as if her skin was shifting. In the light of the oil lantern it almost seems like she stretches up taller, her fingers and nails a little longer, but Dove could also just be tired. She does not transform, at the very least, but when she is done her eyes are deadly focused and her expression is hungry, fierce.

“I will be back before they bring supper, I would suggest you be too. There will not be another chance at a hot meal until we return to Jorrvaskr, otherwise.”

Dove nods and gives her a vague hand gesture of understanding. Aela leaves her cloak, armor and bag on the floor, closing the door behind her. She’s going hunting for the Silver Hand then, Dove realizes, and she won’t be using human weapons to do it.

Aela has long vanished by the time he pulls himself out of the chair and leaves after her, wearing her thinner cloak underneath his own. He does not bother with the contents of his rucksack, taking only his quiver, bow and the contents of his hip satchel. Locking the door behind him, he leaves out the side of the Inn and heads for the bandits of Lost Knife Hideout

--

Two dead bodies mark the entrance to Lost Knife Hideout, once bobbing lifelessly in the water below and the other sprawled in the underbrush, attracting flies. They’re both dressed like bandits, curiously, and Dove creeps along the river stream into the cave entrance as quietly as he can.

He ducks away from the mouth of the cave as soon as possible, wary of casting a strong silhouette against the afternoon sun. In the dark shadows he is practically invisible to any fool looking towards the light, and he is able to approach close enough to the dying campfire just inside to hear two voices speaking.

“We've cleared out the criminals, we found the last ones hiding deeper in the cave. They’re all slaughtered.”

“The men stationed at Driftshade will send us a party of soldiers once they’ve received our letter. We should send our recruits to scout the surrounding area tomorrow, so that we might be prepared for their arrival. Perhaps if we’re lucky, we’ll catch one of the beasts by surprise.”

“If by the grace of Ysgramor we may be so lucky indeed. Those wretched daedra-worshippers think that they can run around these woods as monsters, we’ll show them steel and silver in return.”

“How many do we number? Do we have the cages prepared?”

“Only the ten of us now, Pilonus and Yesha were slain by the bandits.”

“Their bodies shall be burned then, and returned to their ancestors. The cages?”

“I will have them assembled.”

“Best see to it that you do.”

Dove waits with baited breath for the sound of retreating footsteps to recede before raising his bow, ever so slowly, to point towards the captain of this group of Silver Hands. His arrow connects, and the chief spins around in confusion in time for a second arrow to embed itself in his chest. Dove doesn’t move until several long moments after the body has hit the floor with a thud, cautiously approaching only once he was certain he had not attracted unwanted attention.

10 Silver Hands to kill then, one down, nine to go. I can do this, he thinks to himself. Rifling through the corpse’s pockets, he finds a coin purse and a hip satchel containing a vial of thick, viscous poison. This could be useful. This could be very useful indeed.

--

The Silver Hand walks back across the land bridge over the large cave lake below, cursing to himself under his breath. The cages, how are they going to get that damn sabre cat out of there to make room for werewolves. He hears something splash in the water below him, stopping him in his tracks. A surviving bandit maybe? He walks towards the wooden railing and peaks over, squinting and looking for any sign of movement.

All in one second, he’s pierced in the back by shooting pain and his legs lock up, arms turn to stone, his whole body freezes. His weight balanced poorly, he tumbles over the railing as his mind races, trying to remember how to move his mouth to scream.

--

Balgus is glad Dyrn agreed to help him look around the bandit chief’s quarters, packed to the brim with barrels and chests, even if he had put up a fight about it at first, the crazy fool. Dyrn hears something in the passage outside and ducks out of the room to look, paranoid after losing two men in one day which Balgus simply scoffs at. No true warrior of Ysgramor, that one.

He’s so ready to hear Dyrn call out that it's nothing he nearly jumps when he hears a violent choking noise instead. Balgus immediately readies his weapon and takes cover beside the door. He presses his back up against the wall, steadying his breathing, ready to jump whoever charges into the room. The only noise he can hear is the faint rushing of water in the distance. A bead of sweat rolls down Balgus’s neck.

Greatsword at the ready, Balgus turns through the doorway and charges blindly with the roar of a battlecry. Dyrn lays collapsed on the ground, eyes bulging out of his head and moving wildly, body locked in paralysis.

The battlefury only hits his bloodstream for a moment before Balgus feels an arrow strike his side from behind, and instantly he can feel the poison take effect. He attempts to take a step and steady himself but only succeeds to unbalance and topple over. His eyes shoot open as soon as he hits the ground, mind racing wildly inside his prison of a body.

He can hear his attacker shuffling around, and Dyrn begins to whimper desperately. “Krosis” Balgus hears spoken in a young man’s voice, words that make no sense to him and sound like gibberish, and moments later a steel dagger is pressed to his throat and his vision whites out in pain. It is that last thing he ever hears.

--

Tjern lounges pridefully on his stool against the bar, tipping his head back to drain another bottle of the bandit’s wine. He tosses the empty bottle once more at the decrepit stone walls of this hovel, his booming laugh echoing off the walls. His expression quickly morphs into anger once more, when the thought of them crosses his mind. The Companions. The idea itself brings bile to his throat.

He can no longer drink in the city taverns, hasn’t been able to since joining the order. When he hears the bards sing of their tales of bravery and glory he wants to run someone through with his sword, wants to strangle the bard’s lie infested throat, wants to scream of their crimes against the ancestors for all the world to hear.

But he knows he must hold his tongue, a task that is so painful at times it leaves the impression of a wound in his throat, soothed only by battle-earned bottles such as these. He uncorks the last bottle viciously. The Companions may not care for Ysgramor, but the Silver Hand cares. They care for his reputation, for his honor, which they - which Tjern - will not allow the Companions to tarnish with their Daedric perversions.

When all the Companions are dead, he tells himself, they will return Ysgramor’s name to glory.

He sees a shadow flicker on the ground outside of the bar room, and gets very suddenly and unsteadily to his feet. Tjern stalks out to the hallway but sees nothing amiss aside from his doubled vision. Perhaps he had indulged in one too many a bottle.

He feels as if he sees a shadow when he turns back to the room but as he blinks his eyes it vanishes. He makes the decision to finish his bottle and sleep, before he toppled over where he stood.

He stumbles back to the bar and picks back up the wine - was it there where he left it? something feels off - and finishes it as fast as he can. The dizziness shoots straight to his toes and, oddly enough, locks them in place. There follows his legs, then his torso, his arms, and finally his head.

Attempting to jerk away only causes him to topple over onto his back. From behind the bar, he sees the shadow stand up.

Damn it all to oblivion.

--

Vornar splits from the group huddled around the cages to go find the chief, a burning question on his lips. He’s lost in thought, but not nearly enough to miss the elf creeping down the middle of the hallway who looks just as startled to see Vornar as Vornar is to see him. After the moment of shock passes between him Vornar is the swifter to draw his sword.

His cry of “Intruder!” is nearly cut short as the elf notches an arrow and lets it fly, but Vornar lifts his shield in time to deflect the projectile before it strikes him. “Intruder!” He shouts again behind him only for the elf to notch again at rapid speed, aiming for his leg and finding purchase deep into his shin.

Vornar shouts in pain, but he is a true son of Ysgramor and charges the conniving elf regardless, sword raised above his head. “Ko’los fii’dost?” demands the elf to himself in a language that sounds like complete gibberish, firing a third arrow which Vornar parries out of the way with his sword, which he swings back up towards the elf himself who just barely manages to dance out of the way, his cloak tearing a large gash.

Vornar’s momentum is unstoppable and he arches his sword again just as the elf raises his arm to notch another arrow. He can feel his blow cut through armor and flesh alike and the elf cries out in pain as he trips over his only feet stumbling away from the warrior. Vornar charges recklessly to slash again only for the elf to duck and his sword shatter against the force of him hitting the rock wall behind.

Vornar tosses the cheap blade down in fury with his shield and charges the stumbling, weakened elf with his fists. The elf had dropped his bow, clutching his bleeding side desperately, and Vornar intended to crush him like a bug.

The warrior grabs for the elf’s head to smash into his knee but the elf drops to the floor suddenly and Vornar loses grip of him, yanked off balance. The elf springs back up with one of Vornar’s legs lifted over his shoulder, instantly sending Vornar straight into the ground, stealing all the air from his lungs with which he would shout once more for his comrade’s aide.

The elf takes a dagger from his belt and plunges it directly into Vornar’s exposed chest and he finds his voice just to roar with agony, all his muscles flexing and contracting from the pain, expelling the cry of fury with great force. “Kos nahlot, kos nahlot, krosis, pogaas’sis,” The elf begs him, plunging the dagger deeper.

His anger leaves him in waves, ebbing out of him very suddenly and taking the rest of his energy with it. He tries to say something, anything, as white overcomes his vision, but it comes out as a soft gurgle, and then he cannot muster the will to do even that.

“Kogaan hi,” is the last thing Vornar hears before everything is quiet.

--

The last four Silver Hands might have words on how it felt to be torn to bloody ribbons by an enraged, starved, bloodthirsty sabercat. They would not be pleasant words to hear.

--

Dove returns to Windhelm before the sun has set, just barely. The guards outside the wall hurry him along, calling out, “Come on elf, the gates are closing,” and once he’s through to the city square he hurries past the crowds of nords and dunmer making their way to the Inn or to their homes. Candlehearth hall is bustling and he doesn’t linger at the bar while Elda finishes talking to a patron.

When he opens the door to the room he expects to see Aela, but he does not expect to see Aela face first on the bed, still in her boots, hair splayed. Her skin glows with sweat and her body has practically melted into the covers, as fast asleep as she is.

Dove sets his bow and quiver down on the chair where his pack sits, and dumps his loot on the floor next to it. Approaching softly, he calls out to her, “Aela?”

The Huntress stirs but does not wake.

Dove is unsure as to what to do but does not have a moment to decide before there is a knock at the door. He opens it to see Susanna, the serving girl, holding two plates of food on one arm.

“Would you mind?” She asks harriedly, and Dove quickly accepts the food with a thankful nod, letting her close the door behind him. Two strips of steak, with aromatic leeks and some sort of buttery bread roll. Dove’s stomach protests fiercely to the lack of proper meals today, and he is overcome suddenly with just how hungry he is.

Dove sets the plates down on the table, and tries once more to wake Aela. “Dinners here,” he calls out to her, and again she simply stirs deeper into sleep. He accepts this as a valid answer, collapsing in the chair eagerly and digging into his first hot meal of the day.

As the perfectly cooked steak melts in his mouth (Nils, he thinks to himself, you crazy bastard, you’ve done it again), Dove feels the adrenaline of several near death experiences leech out of his body with the last remnants of frost. The food warms him to his bones, smoothing out the tension from fighting for his life and filling his belly pleasantly. He’d left with a giddy sort of tiredness, a satisfying tiredness.

He wonders to himself morbidly as he eats if perhaps the steak isn’t raw enough for Aela’s tastes. In that case, he wonders, if her afternoon of hunting had already left her full. A line of thought best left unexplored for now, he decides.

He covers Aela’s plate with a tablecloth and sets it aside for her in the morning, tugging the blankets out from underneath her unconscious body to spread them out over her instead (he considers removing her boots but quickly decides against it). Once she’s set, he rolls out his bedroll from his pack and tries to read one of the books from the shelf in the corner of their room before sleep claims him like a brick to the head.

He sleeps mildly uncomfortably on the floor, his bedroll a little funky smelling and the sounds of the lively inn waking him up periodically throughout the night before he can fall into a dreamstate. The last time he closes his eyes is as Luaffyn plays her final song of the night, and the next time he opens them the sun is streaming in through the window and Aela is eating her cold steak with a bregruding look on her face.

“Good morning. Your hunt was successful?”

Dove sits up in his bedroll, the travelling cloaks he’d been sleeping under falling off him as he stretched up to the sky. After an extraordinary satisfying stretch, he nods pleasantly. Standing up, he digs his journal out of his rucksack and his quill, taking the seat opposite Aela as he blinks the sleep from his eyes.

“When I got there, the bandits had already been cleared out,” He writes on a blank page, “The Silver Hand had secured the cave as an outpost. The leader said something about being stationed at Driftshade. They’re all dead.”

Once he has finished writing Aela wipes her hands and takes the journal from him with a curious face. For a moment he is paralyzed with fear that she wound start turning the pages and see his writing, about who he really was and everything he knew, but she passes the book back to him after committing his message to memory and begins to roll the name Driftshade around her tongue, as if trying to remember the taste.

“This is good news,” She decides ultimately, “The bandits are dead and there are less Silver Hands alive in skyrim. That is always to be celebrated. But you must keep this a secret,” She tells him sternly, “And you are not to willingly hunt the Silver Hand on your own. This was a fortunate accident, one you should not attempt to recreate.”

Dove nods, understanding. He makes a gesture towards his mouth, and shrugs his shoulders in good humor.

“I suppose your lips are already sealed,” Aela remarks, smiling at him with her teeth. Though Dove still feels pinned by a predator’s gaze, it does not inspire fear in him. If anything, he is lighter under Aela’s gaze, confidence rising to his cheeks.

Aela puts her empty plate on the windowsill with Dove’s from the night before. “We should get out of here before we have to pay that awful woman anymore of our hard earned money,” she declares, and Dove vibrates with anticipation. Every fiber of his being wants to return to Jorrvaskr with an intensity he cannot name, but he can hardly deny exists.

He removes the empty glass bottled from his hip satchel and replaces them with healing potions from his bag, contributing 10 gold from his coinpurse to the pile that Aela is counting out on the table. He changes from his sleep clothes to the clothes he wears under his scaled armor, doing up the last straps as Aela returns to the room after paying at the front desk. He rolls his bedroll and ties it up with his rucksack, turning around to see Aela examining the gash in the front of her travelling cloak.

Dove makes an apologetic noise, having completely forgot that he borrowed her cloak without asking and damaged it. She doesn’t acknowledge him, simply swinging the cloak around and donning it regardless. “Are you ready to go?” She asks, to which he nods fervently and slings his own torn cloak over himself.

“For Jorrvaskr then. May the winds carry us safely home.”

--

As two companions leave through the front gates of Windhelm in the direction of their mead hall, a boat arrives at the Windhelm docks. Captained by Gjalund Salt-Sage, who wears a misty-eyed and strange expression on his face, an expression shared by each and every member of his crew. As the vessel, the Northern Maiden, is secured, two men in strange masks step onto the docks.

--

Dove is singing the praises of every god he can think of that a carriage had been loitering outside Windhelm, looking for passengers to make the trip back to Whiterun. His legs are surely thanking him, and they make good time up the hills and through the rift to Whiterun. The air begins to warm the farther they get from Windhelm, and the other passengers in the carriage (a fisherman and his young daughter) make the ride entertaining to say the least. The father pulls out his lute as they approach the Throat of the World from the east, to keep his daughter from pestering Aela with anymore questions, and the song about a troll and a skeever are a smash hit.

Walking up to the gates of Whiterun he can’t help but feel like he’s almost home, the determination powering him through the climb. They wave goodbye to the father and daughter as they climb the steps to the cloud district, and finally the steps to Jorrvaskr itself.

Skjor turns to face the door as the two of them enter the hall, approaching with a hand raised in greeting. “You’re back,” he says to the both of them, dryly “You survived the journey, then.”

“Oh yes, the quest was quite treacherous, I’m sure we could have hardly survived without the thought of your returning welcome to keep us going,” Aela replies sarcastically, and Skjor rolls his eyes with a hint of a smile.

Aela claps her hand strong down on his shoulder, “This whelp killed more than just his bandits, but I’ll speak to you of that later. For now, we are owed payment.”

Skjor brings two sacks of gold from the table with the open ledger, Aela’s only slightly heftier than his own. Aela and Skjor begin discussing the comings and goings of the other companions in the last two days and Dove takes the opportunity to slip away.

There is no one else in the barracks of Jorrvaskr so he takes his time counting out his reward of another 300 gold. He’s nearly 900 gold now (nearly enough to buy a horse, he thinks to himself, though he has no idea how to ride a horse let alone care for one) and enough silver necklaces, rings and other trinkets he’d looted from the Silver Hand to make another small fortune if he bartered correctly. For now though, he put all the loot and the contents of his bag away under his cot with his bow and quiver, returning to the mead hall to have a late breakfast.

As usual there is a platter of breads and fruits sitting on the long table, and he takes a plateful to his usual spot by the fire to enjoy. Aela and Skjor are nowhere to be seen, the rest most likely having just left on contracts or out in the yard training. Dove enjoys the peaceful silence as he eats his full of sweet pastries and apples.

The door to the basement opens again after some time and Dove is surprised to see Kodlak himself climbing the steps up to the hall, surveying the empty room and spotting Dove with an equal amount of surprise. “Ah, our newest companion. Do you have a moment to spare?”

Dove tenses, unsure what this could be, but he nods regardless.

“Would you bring this letter to the Jarl’s steward in Dragonsreach for me?” Kodlak hands Dove a sealed envelope, “It is simply a matter of compensation.”

Dove accepts the letter gingerly and nods, surprised he is not in trouble to some degree, getting up from his chair and adjusting his scaled armor. Kodlak smiles and walks away humbly, leaving Dove a fair bit conflicted and anxious. He heads out the door quickly, motivated to complete the task assigned to him rather than analyse his own feelings.

A guard opens the doors to Dragonsreach as he approaches but, as it is nearly midday, he is not the only citizen calling for the Jarl's attention. He waits in the entry hall with an elven woman as some rich looking man demands an audience over some issue with his properties.

He notices Farengar climb down the steps and the guards open the door for the court wizard to leave, nose buried deep in a book. Dove shifts back and forth on his sore feet and sighs, mumbling to himself, “this wait is gonna be forever.”

Farengar freezes in place and whips his head around frantically, eyes locking onto Dove in absolute bafflement. “What did you just say?” The court wizard demands of him, incredibly unsubtly, “Say that again, right now!”

Every inhabitant of the entry hall turns their eyes to him, as Dove stands there, petrified. “....This wait is gonna be forever?” He says again, his voice several octaves higher.

“Daar saraan los bokos mahfaeraak,” Farengar says back to him perfectly accented, hitting Dove like a brick to the face. Obviously he is speaking a different language, but Dove hears the words as if they were english, the same way he had with Bo Drem, his name, Dove.

“Say it again!” Farengar demands of him again, and Dove repeats himself diligently, and just the same Farengar echoes back, “Daar saraan los bokos mahfaeraak! As in Fin Unslaad Saraan? The Eternal Wait?”

Dove must agree that the court wizard had just said “The Eternal Wait” twice, once in not-english and once in english, so he nods. Then for good measure, he says, “Yes, that’s what I said.”

Farengar on his part seems speechless. “You just spoke DRAGON.” He declares, at the top of his voice, for all of Dragonsreach to hear, “YOU'RE SPEAKING DRAGON. YOU’RE ACTUALLY SPEAKING DRAGON! BY THE NINE WHO ARE YOU?”

Dove blinks at the wizard, mouth agape, eyes swivelling to see the guards around him draw their swords and begin to approach, and wishes he knew the answer to that question himself.

Chapter Text

Dove can hear the argument outside the bars of his cell as clear as day, though none have yet to address his presence, sitting tucked against the frigid stone walls. Proventus, Irileth, Hrongar and Farengar - the four most important people in Whiterun under only the Jarl himself, stand outside his door to decide his fate, loudly even, without regard to the trembling elf ten feet to their right.

“I stand by Avenicci’s decision,” Irileth says, firmly, “We know nothing about this dragon tongued stranger, nor how dangerous he could truly be. It is a matter of safety to keep him imprisoned until we understand his motivations.”

Hrongar and Farengar both make similar noises of horror. The Jarl’s brother throws his arms in the air, “Have you lost your mind! He could be a chosen one, sent by the divines! His presence, the return of the dragons, it could hardly be a coincidence.”

“I must agree with Hrongar here, I have many questions to ask of this ‘dragontongue’ that cannot wait, Proventus. This matter is far too important to be impeded by bureaucracy and overcaution.”

“Someone send for the Companions, then,” Avenicci suggests, “He comes to us with a letter as a representative of their guild, so they will answer for him.”

The others fall silent. “No objections?” asks Farengar, followed by accepting silence, “Very well. You there, guard, go to the companions of Jorrvaskr and request a representative to speak for their member here.”

“Yes, court wizard sir,” replies a guard, who hurries off up the stairs to obey. The argument disperses as Dragonsreach’s court wait impatiently for the return, the dungeon nearly silent save for the sound of Dove’s head hitting the stone wall repeatedly as he thinks to himself, stupid, stupid, stupid.

He hears the sound of shuffling in other cells, but the increased security presence that Dove had ushered into the dungeon had caused an equal silence to fall over the other inhabitants. The prey animal in his subconscious helplessly and obsessively tracks the movements of the court, Avenicci, Irileth, Hrongar and Farengar, tensing as their wandering eyes linger on the little ball he’s curled himself up into, flinching every time Hrongar paces in his direction.

“Why have you held our shield brother?” Skjor’s voice, muffled from behind the door, snaps the prisoner back to reality. As attempting to convince the floor to swallow him whole is failing, Dove has no choice but to witness as the door to the belly of Dragonsreach spills warm light into the dungeon and both the Skjor and Vilkas descend the stone stairs into Dove’s own personal hell.

Vilkas spots him first, and his expression has Dove tasting bile. Suspicion. Anger. Shame.

“Your shield brother speaks dovahzul,” Farengar states with a matter-of-fact tone, “Dragontongue. Fluently. And refuses to speak cyrodilic.”

There is a long moment of pause before Vilkas turns his head slowly from Dove’s gaze and replies, blandly, “He what.”

“So you claim to have been unaware of this?” Irileth steps forward into the light, her voice an icy calm.

“This comes as a surprise to us, yes,” Skjor replies, something of a diplomatic understatement, “We knew that he was cursed to speak nonsense and that he could understand Cyrodilic just fine. The assumption had been made that he was touched by a daedra, or the target of a spell - a hagraven, or a briarheart. The Companions have fought and defeated many of these beasts.”

“And how did the prisoner tell you any of this, presuming you haven’t been communicating with him?” Proventus asks, innocently enough.

Again, Skjor pauses as he attempts to phrase his response diplomatically and articulately.

Again, Vilkas speaks for him in a tone of utmost disrespect, “He wrote it down. With ink. ”

“And you didn't ask any further?” Irileth demands. Vilkas gives her a warning glare, yet even under the predator’s gaze, the housecarl doesn’t falter a second.

Skjor places a hand on Vilkas’s shoulder, reminding him of his place. “We accept warriors from all paths of life, as long as their hearts are strong and their soul is mighty.”

Hrongar speaks for the first time from the shadows, “I would remind you, all three of you, that neither the companions nor the dragontongue are our enemies, and we have no reason to doubt their loyalties.”

After a pregnant silence, Irileth turns to the guard who brought in their visitors and speaks in a much less controlled tone. “Fetch the prisoner some parchment and a quill. We will question him.”

Hrongar looks as though he will argue this turn of events but Skjor interrupts him. “I will stay for the interrogation,” the warrior announces to the room at large, face stony as if begging for someone to try and deny him.

“Of course, companion,” Proventus simpers as Irileth marches deeper into the dungeon, “thank you again for granting the court of Whiterun an audience on such short notice.”

Vilkas leans in close to Skjor rather than bother with the steward, “I will go inform the circle of the news. Gods guide you.”

“Gods guide you,” Skjor replies, straightening up as the younger wolf takes his leave. The elder companion stands firmly in the light of the dungeon, waiting for whatever may come next in resolute silence.

Skjor doesn't even look at him. Does not pay a single flicker of a glance through the bars. Dove had thought that being scrutinized in this sorry state would have been unbearable but this, being treated as a stranger again, as nothing, as dirt, is immeasurably worse. A nuisance, a weakling, and now a potential traitor. He had thought he was improving.

Why had he thought he could pretend to be something he was not?

Irileth comes back into the room with a contingency of guards. He’s led out of his cage in shackles to the interrogation room, Hrongar, Skjor and Farengar following close behind.

Dove sets his cuffed wrists down in front of him as he takes a seat, hunching in on himself. Hrongar closes the heavy iron door behind them, blocking all sound from escaping. “Alright now, prisoner. Drink this,” Irileth uncorks a small glass bottle containing an opaque black liquid and places it on the table, “it’s a potion of compulsion.”

Dove looks around at their faces and finds no reassurance. Hesitantly, he lifts his chains to reach for the bottle and brings it to his lips before taking a slow sip. The potion is absolutely devoid of flavor, nearly triggering his gag reflex as the invisible sensation trickles down his throat.

Irileth sets a long piece of parchment, an inkwell and a quill on the table in front of him. “Write your name for the record.”

His guts rolls as the potion seeps into his body. Dove’s vision seems to shrink, his whole world centering around the piece of paper in front of him.

What could he tell them? What would they even believe? What truths would just make them angrier, trust him less, and what truths would be believable, palatable. Write your name for the record she asks, as if he has a name. Even that moniker is a misunderstanding he’d taken advantage of.

He really was a fool for thinking he could take advantage of people’s generosity. Generosity he had not earned and did not deserve.

Irileth’s question echoes loudly in his mind, becoming louder than any of his own thoughts. He feels stress ebb away from his body as he picks up the quill, dips the tip of his pen in ink and writes out on the parchment, in legible font, Dove.

He leans back as the room at large lean forward to read his answer. Farengar mutters something and summons a warm light above the parchment, shining a spotlight down in the center of the table. “Who sent you to dragonsreach?” Irileth orders.

That question is a bit tricky, and the echoes back of it are loud and chaotic. He winces, his vulnerable expression displaying his unfiltered duress. As he puts his pen to paper the echoes dim, his words a balm of truth that smooth over the beating heart of panic inside his gut.

He supposes the full truth is best. His body settles pleasantly at the thought.

Alvor sent me to warn the Jarl of dragons and send soldiers to Riverwood. Kodlak Whitemane sent me to deliver a letter of compensation from the companions.

“From where do you hail, before your arrival in Whiterun?”

Riverwood. Before that, Helgen.

“You were one of the survivors from Helgen that Alvor of Riverwood spoke of in his letter. Correct?”

Yes.

“Where did you come from before Helgen?”

Dove bites his lip, and hesitates. Darkwater Crossing. Before that, The Atronach Stone

Irileth peers forward and scowls as his written answer. “What in the blazes does that mean? Farengar.”

The court mage strokes his chin, “That is a very peculiar answer. Would you elaborate for us?”

The command is vague, and anxiety skitters through his body from his stomach like spiders crawling on his skin. Carefully, he chooses his words, his world so small and his mind beginning to feel lost in the dark. I awoke with no memories, standing on the Atronach Stone, outside of Darkwater Crossing in Eastmarch.

“That’s… very strange indeed,” Farengar raises an eyebrow, “You have no memories at all?”

Impressions of memories. Dove’s handwriting quivers as his body begins to shake in panic, the dark is lonely and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, I remember stories and ideas and things I would have no other way of knowing. I don’t remember my name.

“But you said your name was Dove,” Irileth counters, looming over him and casting him in shadow.

It’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard. It takes everything he has in him not to slam his head into the table, deafened by his own lies. The spiders, the spiders under his skin are all he can think about and he barely manages to keep his hand from shaking as he writes, That is the name I was given at Helgen.

“Given by who?”

Easier, good, he takes a shaky breath, though he’s talking to a giant spider now and it’s beginning to worry him. Why does the spider want to know so much about him? Maybe it won’t hurt him if he says.

Hadvar, the imperial soldier who I escaped with. Alvor of Riverwood’s nephew.

The spiders all take a moment with that response, accepting it, mulling it over and deciding silently on their next move. He can hear their chitters, feel the vibrations run through the web he is strung up in, the web wrapped around his wrists and wrapped around his chest, constricting his breath. All spiders, except the wolf, who steps forward into the ring of light and leans over the table to ask Dove directly, “Why did he give you that name?”

Why did he give you that name. Why did he give you that name. WHY DID HE GIVE YOU THAT NAME. He asked me my name. He misheard me when I replied. Dove carves the letters out, the quill slicing through the parchment from the force of his fear.

It feels as if he is slicing the words into his own skin.

Skjor looks him in the eyes. “What did he mishear you say?”

Dovah.

“No….” someone mutters. He doesn’t remember their name. No is not a command.

Dove cannot see the paper anymore, but he knows he wrote it. He said it - the bad thing. It’s out there now. It’s getting dark, and quiet again, and he wants the voices to come back.

Someone touches his head and he leans into it, gasping like a drowning man tasting air. He feels the sensation of warmth at his temples as the light comes back to his vision and his world opens from inside his mind once more.

Not Dovah, no, that’s not what he had written. It’s what he had thought but there on the paper it says it, in his legible handwriting, Dovahkiin.

“I knew it!” Hrongar declares, stepping forward, “He is dragonborn! The chosen one!”

A banging on the doors makes everyone jump. “Housecarl! Court Mage! The Jarl requests your presence immediately! A dragon is attacking the western watchtower!”

“No,” Dove mutters in the silence, “Not now, it can’t. I didn’t…” Farengar down at him in horror and Dove quiets. His head is pounding and now his heart too, with shame, with fear, with panic.

“I guess we will see then, won’t we, if this dragonborn business is as true as Hrongar claims,” Irileth declares, and with a wave of Farengar’s hand the cuffs holding Dove release. “Bring the prisoner, and summon as many guards as you can. We have a dragon to slay.”

Skjor stands up off the wall and bends his knee, one hand over his heart. “I offer my blade on behalf of the companions, Housecarl.”

“Your service will be appreciated and as thoroughly compensated as the Jarl can muster, but this is no time to stand on ceremony. Now go!”

Dove looks up to Skjor as he is hoisted from his chair, begging for a glance, a sign, a message. The wolf does not look at him, staring off in the direction of the ceiling as if trying to see the dragon. Trying to hear the dragon perhaps, or even smell it.

Or maybe just trying to look at anything but the pathetic excuse for a companion before him.

The guards quickly become impatient with Dove, yanking his arms out the door, so he turns his head to his feet and marches as he is bidden. Skjor follows behind them, and though he cannot see the wolf, he can hear the disdain in Skjor’s eyes as the wolf says, “let's not waste time, whelp. It seems we’ve a dragon to slay.”

--

The sun is setting as Dove marches quickly along the road south from whiterun to the western watchtower with all of the manpower whiterun could offer, a baker's dozen including himself and Skjor, in iron, leather and steel. Orange, lavender and blue swirl in the sky, with pink splotches of clouds drift idly by. It feels far too pretty of a sky for the fate they march to. For the death that waits ahead.

He stopped resisting when they passed through the doors of Dragonsreach, dragged by the wrists through the center of town, wearing prisoners' rags and a face stained with tears. His shame cowed him, centered him, forced him back into his own mind. He wonders if there is still some compulsion potion left in his blood, as his vision darkens and he takes his steps without conscious thought.

They stop at the rocky outcrop, looking out over the destruction below them. As Irileth begins to relay orders to her men, Dove looks to Skjor and watches as the old warrior studies the sky. Skjor still will not look to him, regards him only as a stranger.

Dove recognizes faintly that he is panicking, that he’s barely keeping himself from hyperventilating, that there are tears behind his eyes, but he feels so very far away from himself that it’s easy to pretend he is not terrified. He looks down at his hands and arms, so very blue, and tries to find an ounce of courage. He needs to be Dove right now - the companion, the hunter, the bandit-killer and bear-slayer, not the scared nameless thing that woke up at the atronach stone.

It’s harder to summon the confidence of a companion when the embodiment of the companions stands a handful of feet to his left, regarding him as a stranger.

Dove sees the leg of a corpse sticking out from a smoking pile of buried rubble, as Irileth talks to her troops, and imagines how he could die before the sun has set. Flames, claws, teeth, tail, crushed, thrown, trampled. He’s not even sure he can die. What’s the chance he would just reload a save from hours ago? It’s not a comforting thought, somehow.

He cannot do this alone, and he is so very alone, so he cannot do this, which is a much simpler thought.

“Let’s get this over with,” He says outloud, not sounding even halfway determined, but it’s the push he needs to get himself down the hill. He can feel Skjor’s eyes on his back, watching him oddly.

As the guards of Whiterun descend over the burning structure in an array, the dragonborn strikes out down the center. The full shoulder quiver he was given by the guards rubs uncomfortably with his prison rags, and he feels naked walking through a battlefield without boots, scales, furs. The flimsy sandals are not adequate cushioning against the sharp stones and rubble that dig into the soles of his feet as he treads lightly towards the quest trigger point on the stairs.

"No! Get back!” The survivor who had been cowering inside the tower bellows at Dove, as the dragonborn steps onto the stairs and into view. Dove flinches away from the loud and panicked voice. His head is still throbbing. “It's still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

“Guardsman!” Irileth marches over, “What happened here? Where's this dragon? Quickly now!"

"I- I don't know,” stammers the guardsman. His eyes go wide with fear as he gazes up at the skies behind Irileth’s head, “oh Kynareth save us, here he comes again…!"

There is general panic as the platoon prepares for Mirmulnir’s descent from the skies. A scattering of iron arrows ping uselessly off of the dragon’s magnificent scales as he circles round the site of destruction, the unmistakable sound of laughter ripping the winds.

Dove tries to keep a clear view of the massive beast whipping through the winds, but as his vision is obstructed by the columns of stone and smoke it’s easy to lose track. The dragonborn’s hair whips fiercely in the wind as he uses his forearms to hoist himself atop the largest pile of rubble, stumbling to his feet and holding there, head above the fires.

The dragon makes for his first dive, pulling up before he comes within the range of swords and beating his terrible wings, hovering above them. He is big, bigger than any mortal thing could ever be, and in this first moment, all are stunned by the presence of what could only be called a god. “Mirmulnir!” Dove shouts up from his perch, and the dragon’s neck swivels as his eyes find the source of noise, “You can still walk away! We don’t need to fight!”

The great dragon laughs mirthlessly. “A mortal with the voice!” Mirmulnir shouts back to him in common tongue. “You must be Dovahkiin, the last of your kind. Your death will bring me great glory.”

“Why are you here, Mirmulnir?” Dove demands, hysterically, “What goal do you hope to achieve? Taking on all of Whiterun, the full strength of the companions, you must really be desperate to die. Don’t you know what the last Dovahkiin will do to your soul? Don’t you care to learn who any of these mortals are before you challenge them? Why did Alduin send you to your death, do you even care to ask?”

Mirmulnir’s powerful shoulders rise with irritation, wings beating against the wind with renewed vigor. “You will only serve to prove the futility of your insignificant lives! Now raise your weapon, Dovahkiin, I will wait to taste your blood no longer!”

The dragon lunges down straight for Dove, who leaps off of the perch not a moment too soon and lands ungracefully on the hard ground. He scrambles for his bow as he hears Mirmulnir shout Fire breath, finding shelter behind a boulder and docking his first steel arrow. The difference between iron and steel might not matter fighting a bandit, but against a dragon, he’ll take any advantage he can get.

In fact, as he tests the draw strength on his borrowed bow, the make is clearly imperial over his typical hunting bow, a step up. As he feels the ground shudder below him with the force of Mirmulnir’s landing, he steps out from behind his cover and begins to fire.

His arrows hit Mirmulnir’s back, the rare lucky shot sinking between the scales, or deflecting off. Steel arrows decorate the ridges of the dragon’s spine, fired from all angles, but they hardly seem to be of notice to the beast. Skjor, Irileth and four other swordsmen (those guards who’d brought iron arrows, undoubtedly) are attacking the grounded dragon in turns, hacking at exposed arm, wing, neck and scurrying back as the beast turns to their attention.

Irritated with the fighting on the ground, Mirmulnir pulls back and sends the guardsmen flying as he takes to the skies once more. Dove follows his flight with his notched bow, trying to track the beast, but his shots fly far short of the dragon and his steel arrows vanish on the other side of the battlefield.

"Scatter and get behind cover!” Dove hears Irileth below, distantly, “We need to hurt it, somehow! If you've got a bow or spells, now would be a good time to use them!"

Mirmulnir flies another low circle around the smoking ruin, snatching two of the swordsmen guards like a hawk with his talons. The dragon swoops up to the top of the standing western watchtower in one, powerful beat of his wings, releasing the men from his grasp and letting them fall the great height to the ground. The sound of impact as the hit the ground bodily, armor and bones crunching, is visceral disturbing. Dove feels his conscience recoil out of his body and away from the sight, his mind lingering at the base of the tower in horror as his body breaks into a sprint up the many stairs to chase down his prey.

He emerges at the top as fast as he is capable, footsteps of other pursuers behind him. Mirmulnir is perched on the edge of the crumbling stone, breathing fire down upon his helpless foes left with very few places left to run from the heat of a dragon’s flames.

As Mirmulnir inhales another deep breath, he raises his wings above his head and Dove lets his arrow fly. Embedding itself deep in the soft spot under the dragon’s wings, the arrow strikes true and Mirmulnir lets out his first bellow of pain. The dragon drops from his perch on the tower, beating his wings and twisting in the air to face Dove.

“YOU! DOVAHKIIN!” he screams in fury, “My overlord will DEVOUR your souls in Sovngarde!”

“Your overlord is a fucking coward!” Dove shouts back. Mirmulnir dives for him and is snapping his lethal teeth where Dove’s head used to be in seconds, but luckily a dunmer’s hand yanks him down below the lip of the floor before he can react. Irileth has to steady him so he does not fall backwards down the stairs, and within moments the pair and another guard have stumbled onto the roof and docked their bows, searching in the smoke.

Mirmulnir comes screaming down for another pass, and though two arrows dig deep and painfully into his underbelly, his teeth find purchase in the guard with his eyes on the wrong direction and another body is flung from the tower.

There is only a moment to react to the bellow from the heavens of “YO TOOR SHUL” before the whole surface that they are standing on becomes nothing more than a pillar of fire more destructive than a thousand suns, hell opening above their heads and raining down. Dove and Irileth dive for the opening to the stairs at the same moment, feeling the heat of death on their backs, but Dunmer skin does not burn so easily. Dove notices his own flames licking his skin as the two sprint the stairs from the peak of the tower back to safe ground, a ward against destruction, made of destruction.

They emerge back on the battlefield to a scene of absolute waste. The earth is so signed it is black with ash, the smell of burned flesh hangs heavy in the air. His eyes find Skjor in a panic, thankfully whole and unharmed, dragging a body behind cover that’s still smoking from the - Dove looks away as bile rises to his throat suddenly.

Irileth rushes the field as the tremors of Mirmulnir hits the ground with him, rocking the men off their feet. Dove leaps atop a perch in three agile steps, an arrow docked and pointed at the beast.

Mirmulnir leaps forward with one beat of his massive wings, scooping a guard in each talon and landing hard on them, crushing them to death. Dove punches his arrows with as much force as possible, aiming for the exposed underbelly at the base of the wyrm’s neck and below the wings. The dragon contorts to avoid the volley of arrows as other arches join him from perches and behind cover, all the while snapping and clawing at the many swords taking swipes at him. He manages to snare a guard in his lethal jaws and whips his prize back and forth, releasing his maw and flinging the body across the battlefield.

Skjor charges the largely exposed piece of neck exposed to him with a battlecry and brings his skyforge steel down, Mirmulnir reeling back from the strike in pain. The dragon turns it’s narrowed eyes to the companion, his shielded back to Dove, and nothing but spine to shoot. Dove leaps down from his perch - wincing and stumbling as his practically bare feet hit the sizzling ground, and hunts for a better angle to attack the writhing wyrm.

Mirmulnir snaps at the companion, who raises his shield and rebuffs it, slicing at the dragon’s face with his sword and following the momentum in, closer to the maw of the beast, striking at the wyrm's neck. Mirmulnir rears all the way back onto his hind legs, skittering away from the advancing warrior, laughing, “You fight courageously! Good!”

Dove shoots as fast as he can at the exposed underbelly but faster than Dove can blink Mirm lunges forward and snaps again at Skjor. The old warrior has his shield up again and parries instantly, bashing Mirmulnir’s deadly maw as the dragon attempts to bite his head clean from his body before swiping at the neck again.

The dragon beats his wings with a furious shout and launches off the ground into the air so suddenly it knocks the surrounding guards to their knees.

Dove wonders at the sight he must see from there, the Dragon’s back silhouetted by the orange filtered light of dusk through columns of smoke. Their numbers are decimated, and for every meager strike against the beast they guarantee certain death. “A beautiful battle,” The dragon laughs, “I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide.”

Dove turns his eyes from the beast to face the men, instead. He finds his swordsmen, Irileth and Skjor, and his remaining archers. “Aim your arrows for the underbelly!” he bellows, “Together, we must all shoot together, so that at least one arrow might land!”

Though their eyes are on him, he knows in his heart his words will go unheeded. To his shock, Irileth steps forward and draws the attention of her men. She looks at him, not with understanding, but with grim determination to survive. “Ready your arrows, men. On the prisoner’s mark, you fire!”

Dove readies his arrow himself, feeling the eyes of a dozen desperate souls on him. Mirmulnir swoops again to snatch his prey, and Dove holds his voice until the beast is about to pass above their heads. “FIRE!” he shouts, and seven arrows sink deep into the underbelly of the beast.

Mirmulnir twists in the air and screams in agony, his teeth thrashing against nothing as he recoils from the pain. He skids into the ground on his back, kicking up ash and dust as the wyrm writhes around, trying to get back on it’s feet.

“Keep firing!” Bellows Irileth, before she raises her sword to the air and screams a war cry, charging at the grounded beast. Skjor is charging right along with her, his deeper voice buried under the sound of dragon screams.

The volleys of arrows continue as the beast swivels back to its feet, lunging ferociously with teeth and swinging its tail threateningly until Skjor and Irileth have been forced back a safe distance.

“You are brave, worthy enemies,” Mirmulnir cries out in bloodthirsty glee, “Your defeat brings me honor.”

“Ready,” Dove shouts out to his archers, who look to him and draw their bows.

“YOR…. TOOL….” Skjor and Irileth raise their shields, ducking their heads and preparing to withstand the blow, “...SHUL!”

It feels as though the fire will never end, as Skjor and Irileth are swallowed up by the blinding hot light, Dove with his closed fist in the air to keep his archers holding. As the scream dies down, Mirmulnir beats his wings to take to the sky once more from behind the smoky wreckage and Dove’s hand finds the string of his bow, eyes narrowed to the white underbelly soaked in rivers of black dragon’s blood.

“FIRE!” He shouts, and Mirmulnir twists in pain once more, screaming an awful, inhuman scream, as the arrows plunge deeply into his flesh.

As Mirmulnir retreats shakily to circle the sky once more, Dove leaps from his perch and breaks into a dead sprint to the blackened ground where Irileth and Skjor rise shakily to their feet. Irileth’s skin is now alight with the same flame that saved Dove at the peak of the tower, and though her shield is blackened, smoking and cracked, she is whole and she draws her sword with vigor.

“That’s it!” She calls out to her surviving men, “We’ll bring that bastard down!”

Dove reaches for Skjor, offering a hand to lift the warrior up from his knee. Skjor’s hand clasps Dove’s shoulder, suddenly, very jerkily, and the old warrior clings to him with concerning intensity. Dove clasps the back of his neck, trying to look into the man’s eyes, and his heart stops like a rabbit spotted by the wolf.

Skjor’s eyes are pure beast. Solid red. The companions' breaths come in deep, shaky waves, and as his hands grip Dove’s shoulders harder the dragonborn can feel talons digging into his back.

“Breathe Skjor, BREATHE,” He whispers furiously, “You are one with the wolf, it doesn’t control you. Just breathe.”

Skjor’s face shows no sign of even hearing Dove’s voice, let alone understanding the words, but after a few moments of intensity, the dragonborn can feel Skjor’s grip begin to loosen. The claws retract and the red retreats from his eyes until Dove is staring into the piercing, judgemental gaze of the honorable companion he’s grown accustomed to.

Skjor lingers for a moment, before clapping Dove’s shoulder and moving him not unkindly to the side. Mirmulnir’s circling is growing ragged as the pain wears on him and his ability to fly. Dove knows that a bloodied dragon will land and stay there, and prepares himself accordingly, finding cover on the ground.

Just as he thought, Mirmulnir’s lags to the side, drops height considerably, and then the dragon begins to dive for the scorched earth. The angle is not great, and Dove sees a handful of arrows deflecting off the wyrm’s spiny back as he crashes into the ground.

Dove himself only has two arrows left. They have to count.

Skjor and Irileth charge at the same time Dove bellows out to his archers, “READY,” and sees the bows of the survivors with him rise from behind the rubble. The two swordsmen charge the beast, pushing forwards with their attacks until the dragon is forced to back up, where Dove shouts “FIRE!”.

As the arrows strike true and Mirmulnir lets out his bloody screech Skjor takes a mighty swing at the beast’s chest and the dragon squirms, collapsing to it’s side and writhing. Dove takes the final arrow from his quiver in one hand and marches forward, approaching the dragon with determination and resolve.

“Anything you’d like to tell me before I eat your soul, Mirmulnir?” He speaks, Irileth and Skjor taking a hesitant step back as he approaches. “Any last insults? Offer of friendship if I spare your life? I’m really quite desperate for friends you know.”

“Dovahkiin? NO!” Mirmulnir bellows, writhing even harder.

Dove cocks his head, “Not really what I was looking for, but if you insist.” Lifting his bow, the dragonborn docks the final arrow and waits, with bated breath.

Patience. Mirmulnir’s squirming and thrashing continues. Patience.

Dove lets the arrow fly true, piercing right through the dragon’s yellow eye.

Mirmulnir thrashes once, twice more, until finally with a roar of divine anger his huge head crashes to the ground with a tremendous thud and stills there, devoid of life.

Irileth lets out a deep, heavy sigh from behind him. "Let's make sure that overgrown lizard is really dead. Damned good shooting, boys," She calls out to her men behind her, who begin to emerge from the ruins with whoops and hollering.

“That was truly a battle,” Skjor declares, equally parts weary and satisfied.

Then, of course, everything must start to go wrong again. Just as Dove begins to catch his breath, his mind clearing, coming back to join him in the present, the body of the dead dragon begins to glow beneath him.

“What the-” He hears someone gasp behind him as pieces of the light break off from Mirmulnir, and like the embers of a burning book, swirling in the air and glowing a bright gold. “Something’s happening!” Someone shouts, which Dove considers to be something of an understatement. His vision begins to blur as the dragon falls apart before him, collapsing into itself, and the dragonborn preemptively falls to one knee, just in time for the light to begin to overwhelm him. His brain feels red hot and seven times too big for his skull, which he clutches in both hands as he screams, desperate to let some of the pressure out. He can hear the roaring of wind as more and more of the soul buries itself inside him, rage, rage, white hot rage filling him up until all his bones are bleached with the pure heat of its intensity and all of his organs have melted to make room for more anger.

Finally, as the piercing heat reaches its breaking point, Dove forces his eyes open and gasps for breath. The rage simmers down into his gut, pooling in his lungs and pulsing in his diaphragm. He breathes hot air, in and out, in and out, until he realizes the breaths are burning from the taste of fire on his tongue.

“Put the prisoner back in chains! Quickly!” Someone shouts, a faraway voice, or perhaps it is very close. He’s not quite sure, but when someone places their hands on him he feels his lungs seize with the anger (not his anger, not his words), and he shouts a burst of fire that has them stumbling back, fearful.

(Good, says a voice inside him, I hate them, I want them dead. They will not take me. It does not sound like his voice.)

--

Skjor watches as the dragonborn - as Dove, the young dunmer boy who had quivered with fear under his gaze mere weeks ago, a young boy, certainly not a hero of legend, not yet - breaks into a sprint. He is pursued by the guard, but Skjor knows they will not catch him - not Aela’s protege, certainly not.

With his wolf right under his skin, begging to be let out, to protect and to hunt, he does not dare chase his prey. He would not be able to resist catching him, would have to work against his wolf, and that was not how it should be. When Skjor had seen the look in the dragonborn’s eyes as Irileth had grabbed his arm… The look on his face as he had stared down the dragon and spoke in it’s own tongue to it… The grim certainty with which he claimed the final killing blow… The smell of dragonfire lingering from the spot where the kid had scorched....

Perhaps it would not be Dove, the young scared boy, who he caught were he to let his wolf chase down the retreating prey. Perhaps there were now other beasts that lurked in the same woods.

Chapter Text

Dove wakes up, and without opening his eyes, he knows he’s in Coldharbor. He remarks wordlessly to himself, Of course you know idiot, it’s cold.

Two dremora drag him by his cuffed wrists towards a grand, terrible castle in the distance. Dove recognises it. The torture he would endure there could last for centuries, even millenia if Molag Bal is given the time uninterrupted, but that is hardly the case for a star as widely sought after as the Dovahkiin himself.

Distantly, he hears the cry of a dragon. Then again, and it becomes clear to him that this is quite strange indeed. Looking up, he can see Mirmulnir circling above his head, and a sinking feeling of dread tells him that this is going to be a particularly awful night.

Heat scorches his back and he rears away from the burst of light behind him, nearly yanking himself free from the hands that bind him. A moment later he is released, his body drops to the cold, cold ground (and how far it is from the relief from the burning he had hoped it would be) and his Dremora captors are shouting, words that he, a dreamer, is not able to hear.

Golden hands touch him, lift him under the armpits as his weight sags and protests, as two Aureals drag him from the clutches of his captors up, up, into the sky. Another bright light cracks against the every dreary sky, small at first, but larger and larger as his lifeless form rocketed towards it.

Mirmulnir makes a sharp twist mid-air and begins the chase. It is almost as if Molag Bal himself bellows, shaking the fabric of Coldharbour as the Golden Saints steal his unwitting champion from his clutches. Sheogorath’s angels reach a breakneck speed, their stolen dreamer prize feeling his matter dissolve as it becomes ungrounded from its reality.

Dove feels what was once his head pass through to the plane of madness and become something he can hardly describe. Very soon after, though without a head it feels like a lifetime, he cannot hardly describe anything at all. A madman laughs.

Somewhere, a portal closes, and Mirmulnir is screaming.

--

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

It must be dawn, Dove acknowledges somewhere in his bones. He’s been awake for only a few minutes, or perhaps it’s been hours.

The silhouette of the man makes his way deeper into the pitch black cave. Dove focuses on the sounds of his footsteps in the cave stream, the skittering of rats, the pounding frequency of his own heartbeat. “I would have found you sooner, but I don’t have my brother’s nose. Vilkas’s wolf has the best senses. Skjor says I have the strength of Ysgramor, and my brother has his smarts.”

Farkas hovers above his charge, but the Dovahkiin makes no movement. From this distance, even a wolf as deaf as Farkas’s can hear the steady, unharmed heartbeat of his shield brother tucked into the crack of the rock wall. He squats beside the curled up figure of the dunmer, trying to peer at his face through the darkness.

“Skjor just said to follow the scent of dragon, but I couldn’t get near the dragon itself since there's so many people swarming it. Guards, a wizard, some others, I don’t know. So I just followed the fire smell.”

Dove does not need to watch to know that the wolf leans forward just then, taking a healthy sniff to indulge himself. “You really do smell different now. Like fire, and wind. You truly ate the dragon’s soul?”

It’s a moment before Dove can find his voice to respond. “I’m Dovahkiin,” He repeats, dumbly, “It’s what I do.”

“You still only speak dragon?” Farkas tilts his head.

“Dovahzul,” corrects the elf, “Apparently.”

Farkas grunts, and hoists himself back to his feet. “Well, you should come back to Whiterun with me. The Jarl wants to give you a formal apology and make you Thane. A bunch of people are out looking for you.”

In response, the small dunmer in front of him offers no response. Farkas cocks his head

“Oh, I get it,” Farkas punches his hand with his fist, “you’re tired from the fight last night. Even Skjor’s still sleeping after that one, and he has the gift. Aela’s taking care of him, that’s why I'm the one they sent. You probably want to eat before we go anywhere.”

Dove does not reply, but that hardly deters the wolf. “I’ll be back with food,” He reassures the elf, “don’t go anywhere or I might get lost again.”

It's a moment after he’s gone, a long moment of silence, of the running water of the cave stream and the scuttling of the rats, before the peace is broken in Dove’s mind.

This cowardly behavior does not benefit a Dovah.

“Shut the fuck up lizard bastard,” mumbles Dove, curling in on himself and pressing his aching head firmly into his knees.

They mean to kill you. The voice inside his head informs him, This is a trap. They are not your allies. They plot behind your back, undermine you, underestimate you. Kill them first.

“Farkas is my friend,” insists Dove, but even as he says the words aloud his voice falters, unsure, insincere.

Lie, snarls the foul beast.

Dove shakes his head, grinding his brow into the bone of his knees as if he can rub away the thoughts, “Farkas wouldn't lie to me. He cares too much about honor. He wouldn't be sneaky like that!”

You lied to him first. You lied to all of them.

“How do I get you out of my stupid head,” Dove begs.

If you didn’t want me inside you, you shouldnt have eaten me.

Dove whimpers. The pounding pain reaches a point where even Mirmulnir cannot stand it, and the elf feels the presence of the dovah recede once more into slumber as he murmurs, regretfully into the darkness, “I didn't have a choice.”

Mirmulnir does not reply, and if not for the unusual heat in his diaphragm Dove would feel no difference from before. Yet there is a definitive before feeling, there is something so clearly different now. Something so clearly different it could be seen from the throat of the world, even.

He’d known from the second he had woken up that he was not alone. There was him, inside himself, and then there was a not-him that had his heart hammering in his chest.

Then Mirmulnir had spoken, and it had BURNED. His brain had screamed in pain as the Dovah forced his way into Dove’s mind, carved neurons into the shape of his words and thoughts, sunk his maw into Dove and forced him to listen. Dove had screamed and nearly fainted, tearing at his scalp and pulling out his hair in an attempt to ease the swelling pressure inside his head - and the wyrm had retreated rather quickly to reassess.

If the dovah wanted Dove’s soul, he’d have to kill them both to take it. Forcing control would only torture them both.

And torture is what it is - when Mirmulnir speaks, Dove feels his own pain but also the pain inflicted on the dovah’s soul. This is far from the last dragon he’ll have to face, and his mind is a civil war battlefield. He can’t do this, he can’t bear it, he won’t be capable of this, he cannot take this anymore. The other side of him shouts, there is no way for you to stop this, there is no way out, you will be forced to bear this.

The other dragons, he won’t have a platoon of soldiers to rely on, he won’t have Irileth, he won’t have Skjor. Not long from now he’ll have to face Alduin - practically a god. How does a person like him even become a person who would be ready for that? They don't. They must. It's an impossible situation he’s in. It’s stupid. It’s hopeless.

In the absence of hope, a stranger again to his body, mind and friends, and waiting with trepidation for Farkas to return, Dove wishes he hadn’t run out of tears hours ago. His head burns, behind his eyes is a forge of scalding heat, and he wishes that the wolf hadn’t found him so soon. The cave is cool. The cave is dark. In the cave, fate won’t find him.

He wants a thousand years more to wait. He wants to rip the bandaid off and let Alduin kill him and get it over with right this instant. His bow sits in his lap, and the weight grounds him slightly. He wants to sleep forever. His empty quiver wobbles on the floor. He doesn’t want to face them. His fingers reach out and fiddle with the string.

You’ll need more than an empty quiver to kill that beast of a man - draw from my strength, Dovahkiin. A puny mortal like you could never achieve alone what you have gained from me - taste of my breath. They cannot take us, not with our combined power.

Dove drops the bow like it burned him. “I’m not going to kill Farkas,” he reiterates, “I wasn’t - I was just - I wouldn’t ever do that. Not ever.”

Stop whimpering mortal. He will take you, he will hurt you. You must strike first.

“Shut up,” Dove tells his headache, with certainty that pains him to feel, “You’re only hurting us both. We’re going back. We are - we have to. We have to.”

Mirmulnir does not reply, retreating back to wherever it is he went. Dove searches his body and mind, but feels no trace of him, no lumps or shadows. Now that he’s said as much out loud, the fact that he must go back seems much realer, much easier to grasp. Regardless of what happens, he must go back. Only a few moments later, or is it an eternity, Farkas returns to the cave with a jack rabbit in his fist to find Dove standing and repacking the contents of his satchel.

“You’re up, that’s good,” The wolf calls out, as he holds up his prize, “I caught us a rabbit. Could you light a fire?”

Dove looks up from his things and follows Farkas’s gaze to the cold embers of campfire, left behind by some lost passed adventurers seeking shelter as they are now. The cooking pot has rolled to the corner of the dank chamber, now a nest for rats and spiders, but the pit looks decent.

Farkas drags a dead bush from the corner of the room and begins to snap the branches over his knee, tossing them into the prospective fire. Dove feels his hands grow warm, but calling his magic alone is hard, as he resists the urge to call on the much stronger fire living in his throat.

“Taste of my breath,” Dove says, words left behind by Mirmulnir that feel warm in his head, like cooling embers.

“YOR!” Farkas jumps in surprise as the echoey stone walls of the cave reverberate the shout. Lit branches go flying everywhere as they’re blasted out of the pit at high speeds, clanging against the discarded pot and ricocheting off the walls. At the source of it all stands the dunmer, looking mostly shocked and mildly embarrassed.

“...Maybe I should just use my tinderbox.”

--

The mountains rumble with the strength of the greybeards' voices as they shout down to the people of Whiterun, “DOVAHKIIN!” It’s the warmest it gets all day, the sun at the very peak of the sky, and Dove is not ashamed to be plodding slowly along, weighed down by exhaustion.

Farkas looks up to the sky in shock, but Dove keeps walking, unmoved by the display. It does not take long for the wolf to catch back up to his trudging pace.

This is a trap. Fool. FOOL!

For the first time since Mirmulnir had spoken, Dove admits willingly that the dovah is not wrong. Dragonsreach is (in the most literal sense) a trap for dragons. The question remains, as Farkas escorts him through Whiterun’s gates, if her inhabitants see Dove as dragon or hero.

Either way, Dove supposes he’s confirmed that there’s nothing he can do to prevent the plot from advancing. Fate, destiny, whatever would be best to call it. He just wonders what must have happened to Arvel the Swift in the wait.

The town is bustling away like none the wiser. Adrienne Avennici is hammering away at her forge, but she hardly has time to pay them an inquisitive look. They pass other busy laborers, chopping wood and hauling wares, but none of them bat an eye at the sight of a renowned companion and the escaped Dovahkiin returning to their city.

The gawkers are another species entirely. Dove wishes he were blind enough to miss the gasps, the pointing, the staring, the gaps in the curtains, pale faces watching him from every window. The commotion of the greybeard’s announcement had drawn the gaze of every man and woman with nothing better to do in the city, and their eyes burn like dragonfire on Dove’s back.

The Jarl’s hall falls silent as the grand door is opened for them. The air is tense, alight with curiosity as even the cooking staff peek around the corner to get a glimpse of the two as they ascend the stairs of Dragonsreach.

“The Dragonborn returns,” Hrongar calls out, as if every soul in these walls was not already aware enough, “It was the honor of the companions who found him.”

“Very good,” Proventus nods, “I had no doubts of course. Their reward will be arranged from the usual coffers, my lord.”

Jarl Balgruuf does not speak for a long moment, not until Dove has walked right up to him and stopped with his back to the fire. Farkas lingers behind, but Dove can feel the presence of the wolf at his side. After a heavy, thoughtful pause, Balgruuf waves his steward away with an irate hand, “Not now, Proventus. Money can wait. A legend stands before us.”

The dunmer is not quite sure what he’s meant to do here. He turns to appraise his audience, Proventus who is blinking at him like a piece of art he isn’t getting, Hrongar with unbridled wonder in his eyes, Irileth who is as close to the Jarl’s throne as physically possible and glaring at the dovahkiin with nothing but suspicion.

There’s a clatter of movement in his periphery, and he turns to watch Farengar approach the conference hastily from his chambers, arms filled with parchment, ink and quills, a look of pure excitement on his face. “Farengar Secret-Fire,” Dove says, experimentally, and the wizard takes a step back and freezes in shock.

“Can you… understand… me?” The dragonborn asks, slowly and carefully.

Farengar’s eyes widen in understanding. “W-w… Well yes I can- I can hear you? I can hear you, yes.”

“Can you…. translate…. for me?” The dragonborn requests, holding his breath. The Jarl leans all the way forward in his chair, brow furrowed as if through sheer willpower he will be able to discern the dunmer’s words.

“Can.. Can I… Can I speak in language for you?” the wizard heaves his burden of blank scrolls in a disastrous pile upon the table, a servant stepping forward to quickly scoop the silverware out of the way before he could knock it absentmindedly to the floor. “Well, if I could not, certainly no one could, as I am by far the most learned on the subject. It is a responsibility one could only trust in capable hands such as myself - yes, I will translate for you. This will be an excellent learning opportunity.” The wizard takes a seat, extracting a journal from somewhere in his voluminous robes and taking his quill between two fingers as the servant uncorks his ink. “I am ready, you may proceed now.”

“Thank you, Farengar,” the Jarl says dryly, “We are fortunate to have your knowledge and time. And to you, Dragonborn, our city is fortunate to have your strength. You’ve done a great deed for me and my city, so by my right as Jarl I name you, Dove, Thane of Whiterun.” The Jarl’s eyes lock with his, and Dove is overwhelmed by the sincerity in his gaze, “It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant.”

Dove, a bit shaken by the heavy weight he feels placed on his shoulders, breaks his gaze and stares at his own feet in respect. “Tell the Jarl … that I want to … continue my training with the Companions …. until I am ready …. to have the title of Dragonborn.”

The silence and frantic rustling of papers is so prolonged that Dove almost begins to repeat himself, but Farengar just cuts him off with a proud declaration, “The Dovahkiin says that he must complete his warrior-training with the Sons of Ysgramor before he may assume the mantle of Dovahkiin.”

Dove nods and hides his smile. Someone in this world can understand him, although there is an intense discomfort as his words are butchered before his eyes. “I will go to High Hrothgar … when I am stronger… and a better fighter.”

“The Dovahkiin will travel to High Hrothgar,” Farengar jumps to almost instantly, “When there is more strength, and more warriors.” Farengar pauses, “No, not quite, When he has more strength and more warriors. When he has more strength as a warrior?”

“Yes,” Dove nods to the wizard. Farengar seems self-pleased at the praise.

“This is understandable. To climb the 7,000 Steps is not a journey made easily, but I’m sure you know there's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards,” the Jarl tilts his head as he appraises Dove, “You do seem to know what is expected of you, my friend. Even though it may frighten you, as it should. The line between a coward and a fool is fine.”

Dove swallows, unsure about how those words make him feel. Instead of deciding, he says to Farengar, “Tell him… I don’t want to be Thane … I want to focus … on my training.”

“The dragonborn rejects your offer,” Farengar parrots, “Thane… distraction… warrior-training.”

Balgruuf does not seem offended, nodding his head to that “Understand, I offer you the title as a show of honor, not as a political move. I would not expect courtly duties of you, as that would be the job of your appointed housecarl. The title of Thane is a symbol of your status, your glory. Please, let me award you a prize to match the merits of your deed.”

Dove sighs. “Fine. I guess I can’t change this.”

“The Dovahkiin agrees. He says he cannot alter the will,” Farengar frowns, and amends, “Your will, surely, my lord.”

The Jarl nods, calling to his right, “Hrongar?”

The Jarl’s younger brother steps forward with great ceremony, holding a silk cover in his arms. “Please accept this weapon from my personal armory, as a badge of your office,” says Balgruuf, as Hrongar casts back the folded silk to reveal a beautiful silver sword, with delicate nordic carvings running along the blade in bold swoops. The head of a horse, the sigil of Whiterun, is emblazoned on the hilt, the handle of which is an expensive silk cloth.

Dove takes perhaps a moment too long admiring the blade, almost forgetting he is meant to reach out and take it - that it belongs to him now - and he wraps it back in its cover before daring to look back up at the Jarl and nodding. His awe must show on his face, because the man looks pleased.

“I have assigned Lydia as your personal housecarl, and she will be available in the great hall for your accompaniment or counsel at any moment you need her, once the search parties have recalled.” Balgruuf cracks a weary smile, “But politics can wait for another day, as I’ve said friend, and I’m sure you wish to celebrate. We shall send you back to your companions, so that your training may resume. Whiterun is honored to have you, Dragonborn.”

Dove nods his head in respect, and turns to face Farkas, who steps forward. “Let’s go.”

They know your strength. They fear us. Good.

--

One thing goes his way, and that is that Tilma quickly ushers Dove away before any of his shield brothers or sisters can accost him upon their return. “You’ll have the whole feast to bother him, give it a break Ria,” he hears Farkas scold as he’s herded down the stairs and through the door of the large bathing room.

“Come now, clothes off please,” Tilma mothers, “I’d like to take a look at those wounds.”

For hours Dove is coated in salves, fed and instructed to inhale various tonics and solutions, has his hair massaged with oils and his skin scrubbed till it’s a pinkish blue before he’s allowed to redress - and even then, he finds his prisoner rags have been spirited away and replaced with a clean tunic and clean trousers.

She even brought him his boots, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he laces them. They might as well be a second skin to him at this point. He’s less broken them in, rather that his feet have been broken in by them.

When he steps into the hallway the basement of Jorrvaskr is suspiciously vacant. Dove finds all his belongings that had been taken from him when he was detained laid on his bed - his old clothes, old bow, his quiver, his hip satchel and all its contents, his coin purse, his water flask, his iron dagger. Under his bed his chest of belongings is also all there, his gold, his books and his pack.

The tunic he’s been given is nicer than anything he owns, but he doesn’t care much for looking nice. He’s far more content to slip his scaled armor over the clean clothes, tightening the buckles with a sense of satisfaction. After running his hand through his hair a few times nervously, he walks up the steps to the main hall of Jorrvaskr.

The first thing he notices is the music; In the hours he’d been soaking and scrubbing, the companions must have acquired a bard to play for their grand feast. The second thing he notices is the volume, the voices of twice as many men talking, laughing, and booming off the tall curved walls surrounding them.

Jorrvaskr’s mead hall is packed - at least four dozen people mingle around the great tables and firepit. Some are familiar faces, but just as many unfamiliar - men and women in guard uniforms without helmets, rich looking folk, enough silvery heads to be the whole damned Grey-Mane family (except for Thorald, likely).

Aela is the first to catch his eye, sitting at the head of the table with Skjor, Kodlak and Vignar and flushed pink with mead already. “Brother! Come, sit, Skjor is telling us the tale of your grand battle!”

He hurries to do so, worried his presence might draw the attention of the crowd. Before he’s even properly seated, her hands grasp his shoulders and shake him ferociously, “AHA! The Dragonborn as a shield brother! The gods have truly blessed us, no?”

“Try not to break the poor thing, dear,” Vignar chides, and Dove is grateful to be dropped back into his chair. “Perhaps this heralds the return of the good old days, eh Kodlak? The companions once again home to the heroes of legend?”

“You wouldn't be considering yourself one of those heroes, would you old man?” Skjor deadpans, clasping a protective hand onto Dove’s shoulder. Considering the hungry way Vignar is appraising him, Dove might’ve jumped out of his chair and ran without it.

“My dear boy,” Dove turns to face Kodlak, who is smiling softly, “I knew there was something special about you. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be fighting alongside.”

He’s hardly a chance to blush before a pint is slammed down in front of him. His arm is being raised in a toast and he’s been invited to a Grey-Mane family feast before he has any idea what’s happening.

“Son, finish your story,” Kodlak reminds Skjor gently before the warrior can agree to Vignar’s (quite frankly suicidal) challenge of a duel. Aela cheers to that, as do the half dozen or so strangers who have gathered around them now - Dove hides his head in his tankard.

Maybe he should have stayed in the cave after all.

Skjor returns to regalling a wildly dramatic account of the dragon fight, and Dove can barely understand what is being said through the slurring and the general echoing noise that crowds his ears. Mirmulnir must be able to understand the old warrior however, as the dragonborn’s chest rumbles in anger.

Fire builds at the corner of his vision, as the beast begins to awaken. Aela’s eyes sharpen as she turns to him in sudden confusion. Dove feels his stomach drop. Can she smell me? he thinks, and the heat surges forward. He white knuckles the table and choke the flames down until they simmer in his chest.

Dove finishes his pint, and quickly another is placed in front of him. The chilled ale only briefly soothes the fire of rage building, and if it weren’t already too loud to bear he’s sure Mirmulnir would be screaming at him to set the whole building ablaze and escape into the night.

The idea is becoming tempting. Kodlak bursts into boisterous laughter, and turning his head quickly to face him makes white spots dance before his eyes. When was the last time he ate a proper meal? Perhaps he shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach.

Vignar’s arm is creeping closer and closer to being thrown over his shoulder, and Skjor has begun to gesture at his face, describing a horrific death of one of the - as the images enter his mind Dove puts his head back into his tankard. Almost as if mocking his cowardice, the crowd jeers and cackles wildly. Skjor’s tale seems somehow nowhere near its conclusion, so the dragonborn builds up all the muster he has and stands from his chair, tripping over someone’s shoe but recovering as he makes his daring escape.

Aela shouts “Dragonborn!” once more at his retreating back, and the rest raise their mugs and shout “DRAGONBORN!” in return. In his dizzy, Dove honestly cannot tell if it’s a cheer or an accusation.

The icy cool of night air washes over him like a balm as he slips out the backdoor, into the training yard. Stumbling to the edge of the porch, he slumps down onto the top step and gratefully rests his head between his knees.

He releases the breath he’d been holding and lets the heat shoot up his diaphragm. Leaning forward, he coughs up the surge of smoke in his throat as Mirmulnir swirls around inside him like a cloud of knives. I do not understand why we did not simply kill them, the dovah complains with a snarl. Dove huffs a hysterical laugh.

Aside from the distant sounds of the party (lute strumming, drunken singing, booming laughter and shouting), all is magnificently silent. As his shoulders slump and breathe a deep sigh, Dove focuses on the smaller feelings; The wind nipping his forearms, crickets chirping, the tight fire in his chest relaxing, and a rhythmic metallic clanging coming from somewhere nearby.

As the dragonborn listens, he finally draws his head up and opens his eyes to look around and identify the source of the noise. The glow of light in the pitch blackness draws his eyes, and Dove sees the flickering flames of the skyforge painting the hill it’s perched on.

Eager to create more distance from himself and the feast, Dove comes to his feet slowly and treks up the hill like a moth to flame. The hammering gets louder as he climbs, and the noise of the party is dampened by the cold winds.

The embers of the skyforge are pulsing with heat, which warms Dove pleasantly as he approaches. Eorlund hammers away, paying no mind or notice to anything but the piece in front of him. The dragonborn lingers uncertainly, before tucking himself against the stone walls next to the forge and sinking slowly to the ground. Once he’s seated, the warmth of the fire and a cool breeze washing over him, the rhythmic clanging blanketing his ears, Dove closes his eyes. Only for a moment.

“Elf. I see you.”

Dove wakes up to see Eorlund standing over him.

The blacksmith doesn’t falter. “Move.”

Dove sees the sword Eorlund is carrying in two gloved fists, and realizes his back is lent against a weapons rack. The dragonborn gets clumsily to his feet and out of the way, allowing Eorlund to place the blade to cool.

Eorlund turns to him, appraising him calmly. “You’ve joined the ranks of the companions since you last came to me, lad. I can forge you any weapon of your choosing.”

The dragonborn blinks. Eorlund crosses his arms impatiently. Dove makes a noise and jumps to draw his poor iron dagger from his belt. He hands it to the smith, handle first.

"Ah,” Eorlund chuckles, almost to himself, “the sneaky type, eh? I think we can fix you right up."

Eorlund hands the dagger back to him, and claps him on the shoulder as he turns around and heads back to his forge. Dove is still blinking sleep from his eyes, and decides to head back and see if he can’t sneak into his quarters. The idea of lying in a bed has him almost salivating.

Fate however, is not in his favor. Just as he approaches the pavilion the door opens into his face and a familiar head pokes out, eyes widening with delight. “Dove! There you are!” Ria exclaims, “You’re dragonborn! That’s incredible!”

Ria grabs his arm, as if sensing his desire to escape, “Athis is being an ass, Njada’s passed out already, Torvar is gone, and I am drunk. Please come have fun with me. You’re bound by honor to not abandon your shield sister and leave her out in the cold like this.”

Dove sighs in exhaustion, knowing that Ria will not be easy to dissuade. Locking his arm with hers, he shoulders past the doors and (dragging his wonderfully broad sister along as a shield to hide behind), the pair slip down the stairs and into the basement of Jorrvaskr.

“Was Skjor really telling the truth,” Ria asks with wonder in her eyes, “Did you really jump onto the dragon’s back and stab it through the eye - with your last arrow?”

A surprised laugh escapes Dove with a burst of fiery rage. Mirmulnir mutters, What foul lies have these mortals been spreading…

He finds himself laying on his bed with a bottle of mead and Ria’s head in his lap, running his hands through her hair. He’d indulged her questions with nods or shakes of his head until the sounds of lute strumming and laughter above them had lured her to sleep. When he hears the bottle that had been in her hand fall to the floor with a muffled clink, Dove leans back and lets out a deep breath.

Mirmulnir stabs into his thoughts, the pain lessened from the agony it had been this morning. You mortals call this sound “music”? How repulsive. Depraved.

His words are like knives, but knives are familiar to Dove. In all honesty, despite this being the most alien change to his body he’d experienced yet, it held first place only by a margin. For now, he laughs quietly to himself and murmurs, “do you think the music is a trap too?”

The dragon seethes, mortals are not intelligent enough to devise a torture method so sophisticated intentionally.

“I thought dragons were meant to be tough,” Dove can feel the beast huff in his chest, his lungs filling with scalding air and smoke, “It’s just noise.”

As are shouts just noise then? Your ignorance is astounding, unprecedentedly so. I could hardly imagine a species so dense being capable of thought.

Dove quirks an eyebrow at the ceiling. “You can’t hear my thoughts, can you?”

Perhaps that is because there are none to hear. An interesting point. I will ruminate on this.

As Mirmulnir retreats, and the pain with him, exhaustion hits Dove like a truck. The weight of his sister across his lower half makes it impossible for his jelly muscles not to sink into his mattress. He can barely move, warm and tipsy and impossibly bone-deep tired. Upset, and relieved, and so stressed he can no longer even feel it. His brain is a tool that has been dulled.

His body betrays him, and begs him to take care of himself.

He falls asleep and listens.

-

It’s a busy night at Candlehearth Inn.

With her signature smile and a press of her elbows beneath her chest to draw the eyes of the men, tips are guaranteed on a night like tonight. “Susanna the Wicked,” they call her, because they cannot call her “Susanna the Unfortunate,” or Susanna the Poor”. The inn bustles with all types - fishermen, sailors, mercenaries, militiamen, soldiers, merchants, guards and paupers. There are more than a few familiar faces, again Susanna serves the same baudy stormcloaks and again laughs at the same crass jokes. Again Susanna serves the three robed strangers from Solstheim, and again tells them she doesn’t know anything about a ‘dragonborn’.

She tries not to be a wary sort, never has she wished to embrace the close-mindedness of her fellow nords, but the masks and garb these foreigners wear are unsettling. They pay for their drinks like any other and they do not leer at her, so she sees no reason to listen to her gut and refuse to serve them. Aside from their persistent asking about someone named “dovahkiin” or “dragonborn”, they speak to no one and do no ill towards her.

Brunwulf is walking through the door as she descends the stairs with arms full of empty mugs. Elda immediately tucks the flyaways behind her ear and blushes, but Brunwulf’s eyes are unfocused and wild.

“Messengers just informed the Jarl’s court, Whiterun was attacked by a dragon!”

There’s a collective gasp among the patrons. Elda clutches her chest, “A dragon? The same as Helgen?”

“Yes.” Brunwulf replies, gravely, “The guards managed to kill it, with the help of the companions according to the scout.”

“Kill it? Does that mean they have it’s bones and such? That’s proof - dragons really have returned to Skyrim!”

“That’s not all. This I find the hardest to believe;” The entryway falls silent in anticipation, “They say that Jarl Balgruuf awarded Thaneship to one of the warriors… and they say this Thane is dragonborn. That’s how they felled the beast.”

The room explodes in whispers, “Dragonborn?”

Susanna turns around to go back up the stairs and inform the bard, but she jumps as the robed men are suddenly right behind her. “Thank you for your service” the leader of their trio intones to her, and they shoulder past her rudely to get to the door.

She gulps as a rush icewind whisks them away into the night. She has a terrible feeling about this.

-

Dove crawls out of bed in the mid-morning. His skin is red and angry where his armor had pinched it - falling asleep while donning gear was a mistake. Despite his aching muscles and pounding hangover, Dove drags himself up the stairs and into the main hall.

Painful smoke curls in his brain, This has been a series of despicable actions you’ve forced upon me, mortal. Dove bats the dovah away, his head already throbbing.

He grabs an apple and a sweetroll from the table and, avoiding eye contact, takes a seat far from the roaring hearth (the last thing he needs is HEAT). For a glorious few minutes, he is undisturbed and tears into the pastry greedily. Sugar has never tasted so invigorating and sweet.

He’s hunched over his breakfast when feet appear on the floor in front of him, and looking up to their owner, Dove half smiles, half grimaces at Skjor. The warrior does not deign him with a reaction. “There’s a troll tearing up the Loreius farm. You interested?”

Immediately, Dove’s body begs him to say no. Dove’s pride and eagerness to please has him nodding yes before he’s even considering it.

Skjor nods, “Good, Njada and Athis are with you on this one. Get going, and bring honor to the Companions.”

He meets his shield-siblings by the door. Njada and Athis are checking over their gear as Dove approaches. He grabs a fistful of arrows from a stack of supplies that Tilma is doing inventory of as he passes. They look at him with equally unimpressed looks and Dove is honestly a little relieved - of all the people to be paired with, he can certainly trust Athis and Njada not to be starstruck by him and hound him with uncomfortable questions. The three head out the door promptly, breathing in the brisk Whiterun air.

People don’t even attempt to hide the way they look at them and whisper as they walk through town, a few gasps of “That's the dragonborn!” and “The newest companion?”

“Yes, they say he doesn’t speak because he can only Shout” he hears someone say, and many exclaim, “He’s a dark elf? Was he born in Skyrim?” and “I wonder if he’s half nord.”

Njada stoutly pretends as if they don’t exist, marching through them like they’re ants beneath her boots. Athis can’t help but roll his eyes, “Azura’s mercy, you’ll be worse than the twins now. Wait for the marriage proposals to start rolling in.”

Dove looks at Athis in horror. The dunmer catches his eye and grimaces.

“Nords. It's customary, apparently. Now that you’re one of them they’ll be trying to couple you off as fast as they can. Farkas and Vilkas get at least a dozen proposals between themselves each month. Sometimes at the same time.” Athis catches the stricken expression on Dove’s face, “What, you don’t want to have a dozen dragonlings running around underfoot?”

Dove feels a little shell shocked. There’s a hint of a smile on Athis’s stony face, before he seems to remember he’s irritated with Dove right now and slides right back into a moody expression.

They hurry up the road to the Loreius farm. A guard waits up the road for them, and takes off her helmet as they approach.

“Thank the eight you lot showed up. Better you than me. No way I was fighting that thing on my own, no sir. Sent Skolge to get some Companions who could rightly take on a monster like this. A real troll! I used to think they were storybook creatures.”

“Where is it?” Njada demands. The guard straightens her back a little and clears her throat before replying, “In the wheat fields, last I saw. The Loreius’s took cover in the farmhouse. It might have gone sniffing after them.”

“If it did, they’re long dead,” Athis sneers, the guard’s face paling, “You were right to call us. It would have torn you to shreds in a heartbeat.”

“Let’s go,” Njada grumbles at him, and the three companions draw their weapons as they make their way up the path, leaving the guard trembling in her boots. “Milk drinker,” she mutters under her breath once she’s out of earshot.

The troll is easy to spot once they’re up the hill. It towers over the stalks of grain in the center of the field, a huge furry black mound ripping up plants with fists the size of Dove’s head. Njada and Athis shout a battlecry and charge it together, swords raised to the sky. Dove notches an arrow on his bow and jogs as close as he dares, drawing the bow back and aiming with one eye.

Njada collides with the beast shield first, stepping back out of range as it swings wildly at her as Athis darts in, slicing deep into its hide. The troll roars in fury and spins around with terrifying strength, the dunmer just managing to side step out of its flurry of blows. Dove lets the arrow fly and it embeds itself into the monster’s exposed flank with a grunt - just a scratch for a creature like this.

Njada comes down with her blade on its side as Athis darts in with his swortshord and it punches, the incredible force deflected off Njada’s shield. She uses the momentum from the parry to swing again but the creature is swift and charges her, and she quickly raises her shield and side steps it.

Dove lets a second arrow fly, followed quickly by a third. The beast grows frustrated with the two-on-one, and charges them back until they no longer flank him. Dove shoots at its exposed back as it trades near-blows with the Companions again and again, until it finally roars in pain and annoyance, turning to face him.

Athis stabs a shortsword deep into its back as Njada bashes it with her shield, stumbling the mighty beast. The troll bellows and spins faster than expected, glancing off Njada’s shield into Athis with a burst of rage. The Dunmer loses his grip on the blade still stuck in the troll’s flesh and takes the first swing of the beast’s fists square in the chest. He dodges under the consecutive flurry, stumbling away as Njada bashes again against the troll with her shield and draws the monster’s ire. Dove lands an arrow in the troll's neck that makes it scream, and its movements become rough and desperate as it swings again and again at Njada’s shield.

It’s a well-made piece of steel, not even denting under the troll’s total strength. Athis regains his balance and charges at the monster’s back with a furious battlecry, plunging his second sword deep into the wound Dove’s arrow had created, clean through the neck of the beast. He yanks the sword in it’s shoulder out and cleaves it’s head cleanly from its body, spraying Njada’s front with a fountain of blackish purple troll blood.

Njada picks up the head that has rolled to her feet by its fur and shouts in victory. Athis puts a foot up on the corpse and leans down to poke its’ twitching back.

Dove jogs up to join them and gives Athis a once-over before he starts to yank out any of his arrows that hadn’t snapped off at the stem. The corpse is HUGE, bigger than the bear, and already its stench is unbearable up close.

“I’ll go talk to Loreius about payment and getting a wheelbarrow for this thing,” Njada nudges it with her toe, “you two should head back. Day’s still young.”

Dove half expects Athis to protest, but the Dunmer sighs in resignation and stretches his arms above his head as Njada turns and walks away. “Well,” he wipes some of the purple residue coating his blades off on his leathers, “Get moving then.”

They walk back to Whiterun in awkward silence. Dove glances worriedly at Athis a few times as he stumbles, but doesn’t risk offending the mer (who marches forward unfettered with a sour expression on his face) by offering him a potion.

They pass through the gates and make their way back up to Jorrvaskr. As they approach the Gildergleam, Dove hears a young girl squeal and tiny footsteps barreling towards him.

“Mister Companion! Mister Companion!'' Lucia rushes him, drawing more than a few stares. “Brenuin says you're a dragon! Is that true Mister Companion?!”

Athis stops reluctantly as Dove turns to face her, ruffling her hair. “Clearly he’s a unicorn. Are you seeing straight, little nordling?”

“Mister other Companion sir, he looks like an elf to me really,” she admits, “But Brenuin said he was a dragon, not an elf. DEFINITELY not a unicorn.”

Athis mouths Mister other Companion sir with great offense taken, as Dove digs out his coin purse from his satchel. He grabs Lucia's hand and places the sack in it with the biggest smile he can muster, and her eyes go wide. “I knew you weren’t a dragon Mister Companion, dragons are mean and greedy and they hoard gold. You’re really nice. so you can't be a dragon!”

The curl of fire that sears his mind nearly makes him jump, and he quickly takes a step back from her. He can hear Mirmulnir laughing at him, faintly.

She runs away and Dove watches her go warily. Athis crosses his arm with a frown Dove’s not sure he entirely means and tuts, “certainly as dangerous as a dragonling, that one.”

Athis sees Dove watching him with apprehension, and rolls his eyes. “Listen, the others may treat you as a god now that you’re this, what, Dragonborn, but not me. I refuse to grovel at your feet.”

Dove is not sure how to reply to that, busy taking a deep breath to shove the fire deep down, keeping Mirmulnir at bay. He nods, Athis nods back, and they return to Jorrvaskr in tense silence.

The circle is gathered around Kodlak’s chair as they open the door, and the way they look at Dove as he and Athis cross the threshold has him certain they were speaking of him. “Trolls dead,” Athis calls out angrily, “if any of you care.”

“Dragonborn,” Kodlak starts, as if Athis hadn’t spoken. The Dunmer storms away in a fury, “we would speak with you.”

Dove looks apologetically after his shield brother, but steps around the hearth and approaches the table nonetheless. Vilkas slides a roll of parchment, quill and ink across to him.

“You have said you wish to train with the Companions until you find yourself fit to pursue your destiny as Dragonborn. Is this true?”

Dove nods, feeling awfully like a child who’s been caught.

“We will happily have you, of course, as you are one of us. This does not change that. If anything, we are all the more honored to count you as one of our own,” Kodlak frowns, “But we do not wish to see you leave us to pursue your destiny alone. It is the nature of our order to fight alongside each other to the end. Through blood and water. If the nature of this ‘destiny’ would permit it, we would have it be a beast fought by the Companions as a whole.”

“Some of us see it this way,” Vilkas amends, shooting Aela a look. “Some of us understand that there are battles we must fight alone.”

“It’s ultimately not our decision to make,” Kodlak agrees reluctantly, “we are all free warriors. If you are willing, we would have you share your glory with us. If not, I will be sorry for it.”

Aela and Skjor cross their arms to glare at him at the same time. It’s a bit eerie.

After Dove does not move, Vilkas leans forward. “To put it plainly, we’d appreciate it if you told us what it is we’re training you for. What you’ve been sent here to do.”

Dove hesitates for a long moment before reaching for the quill and ink. Mirmulnir is bubbling under his skin, but he’s getting better at shoving him down - he can’t even tell what it is the Dovah is trying to claw into him, the pain is distant enough.

“I have to bring an elder scroll to the time wound at the Throat of the World and read it, then defeat Alduin using Dragonrend. Then, I have to go through to Sovngarde and defeat him there. Or at least, that’s how the story’s meant to go.”

He turns the parchment around to face the circle. They stare at his words blankly. Dove quirks an eyebrow at them as if to say, “Any questions?”

“What's a ‘time wound’?” Farkas is the first to ask, breaking the confused silence.

“Who is this Alduin?” Aela chimes in.

Vilkas shakes his head with a dark expression. “I’ve only heard that name used in texts referring to Akatosh. To read an elder scroll…”

“Alduin is Akatosh’s firstborn,” Skjor intones, “The World-Devourer. Akatosh’s children being the immortal dragons. He destroyed the last world to create this one, according to legend. That makes him the creator of this world, just as Akatosh was.”

Kodlak strokes his beard, “Alduin, destroyer of worlds. If the return of the dragons is his bidding, I can see why Akatosh would deign to send us a champion of legend to defeat him.”

“You have to go to Sovngarde?” Vilkas asks in a gentle voice, “Are… will you die?”

Dove shakes his head no unsurely. This does little to satisfy the wolves gathered before him.

Despite the many questions Dove can see bubbling on their lips, Kodlak sits forward and the other companions fall silent. “I understand now that there are things you must learn, weapons that you must wield, and foes you must challenge that are far beyond what we can give you. But strength is something that the Companions know well, and the legends say a great warrior you must be. You have the potential for incredible strength, Dragonborn. I see it within you - I saw it within you from the first day you came to us.”

Bullshit, Dove thinks, which he wisely keeps to himself.

“I believe that is enough questions,” Skjor rises from his chair, “The whelp has training to do.”

Kodlak eyes the wolf and then Dove. “Yes, I agree. Thank you for indulging us, Dragonborn.”

An irrational, angry part of Dove wonders if the Harbinger has forgotten his name. Dragonborn this, Dragonborn that. The anger is stupid and childish, so he blames it on Mirmulnir’s influence and tries to shove it deeper down.

Aela approaches him as the rest disperse. “Go get rid of your pack, and meet me in the courtyard. It seems I have my work cut out for me.”

--

The sun is setting when Torvar bursts through the doors of Jorrvaskr to the pavilion, Athis slung under his arm. “I have returned! You’re very welcome,” he cries, and Njada wipes the sweat from her brow as Ria claps sarcastically. Torvar bows with a flourish, keeping a tight grip on Athis lest the furious mer wriggle out of the headlock.

“As I promised to my superiors, because I am a man of honor who keeps his promises,” Athis swears something in dunmeris under his breath that Dove is sure does not endorse that statement, “I have been sober for FOUR DAYS. I demand my brother’s and sister’s drink with me in honor of this tragedy.”

Dove ignores him with a wry smile and wipes the sweat from his brow. Aela had been training him nonstop since he’d returned at noon, and Torvar almost seems to wobble like a mirage. The three whelps all groan in unison. Ria clutches a hand to her temples, “No way, my head’s still pounding from the feast last night.” 

Torvar looks positively stricken. “You had a feast without me?” he gasps, clutching his chest as if he was shot.

Njada shrugs unapologetically, “The new elf killed a dragon. We drank about it.” 

Torvar looks at Athis in confusion, then Dove, in greater confusion, then back at Athis as if to say “Surely not.” 

The whelps go back to their business without further explanation, Athis managing to wriggle out of his shield-brother’s iron grip. Dove reluctantly turns back to what he was doing, impulsively knocking an arrow and letting it fly too high. He curses violently as it sails over the bullseye, bouncing off the stone wall behind it. 

“Not good enough,” Aela scolds, “again now, don't make me wait.”

“Are you training him or trying to kill him?” Vilkas asks with a note of concern, and Dove wonders the very same thing as his aching arm screams as it reaches for his quiver to grab another arrow.

“The whelp said himself that he wished to be a stronger warrior before assuming the mantle of Dragonborn. A warrior of heroic legends should never miss an arrow.”

Ria follows after her mentor like a pup on his heels, “Is it true how the bards sing it then Aela? that all your arrows fly true?”

The huntress smiles viciously at the younger swordswoman, “perhaps we will hunt together someday young one, and you can see the proof for yourself.” 

Ria looks like she's going to faint with happiness. From across the yard, Njada and Vilkas make eye contact to roll their eyes.

Aela grants him a five minute break to drink water under Vilkas’s worrying glare, and Dove sinks greedily to the ground as he takes carefully measured sips, keeping the nausea at bay. Skjor emerges from Jorrvaskr and approaches the others, “Njada. I've got a bad grip on my shield, could you take a look at it?"

She looks up from polishing her sword. "I'm a warrior, not a blacksmith."

"Can't you just tell me if the grip is bad," Skjor insists. 

The swordswoman rolls her eyes. "If Eorlund made it, it's more likely you're gripping it wrong. Find me tomorrow and we can go over it." 

She goes inside for supper and dove realizes it's nearly the end of the day. He glances up to the skyforge where Eorlund is hammering away, and wonders if maybe his dagger is ready. He decides to go ask after supper, once he feels less like he’s going to pass out. 

He thinks of the succulent feast waiting for him as Aela has him he collects his arrows and reset. Butter, wine, salt, garlic, meaty fats and fresh bread….

“Enough, enough. You’re making me look like a slavedriver.” Aela shakes her head at him, “Go put some food in your belly and some color back in your face. We’ll start again tomorrow.” 

Dove hadn’t realized he was making his suffering so obvious. The tips of his ears burn with blush as he hears Ria giggling behind him.

Athis is gone on a job, but chance would have it that the rest of the companions are in Jorrvaskr at once tonight. The supper spread is decadent, nearly a full cattle’s worth of steaks are set out on the table before him. The old head’s are eyeing him so Dove decides to take Athis’s seat amoungst the whelps. Using their ruckus as a shield, he might manage to fend off another unwanted encounter with vignar. 

Torvar sees him looking at vignar, as the old man talks at length to Vilkas who looks murderously bored. “Y’know, Kodlak said to me once, ‘Any warrior that gets to be old is either fearsome or a coward.’ Here in this room we’ve got a prime example of both, Skjor, the man who killed a frost troll with nothing but his bare hands, and Vignar, who gets a seat at the table because he’s an old friend of the harbinger.” Torvar smiles, “Ahhh, nepotism… reminds me of the good old days.”

Dove huffs a laugh and shakes his head fondly. Torvar’s eyes glint, “Truely, I swear on my life I’m serious. Before I was a companion I was a soldier in the imperial legion. If you want to see a nepot, they’ve the finest curation on the continent. This was before the civil war mind you, so we were all bored out of our minds. Weren’t none of us at Markarth, nor in the great war - my platoon was all greenhorns. And the soldiers who had fought, they hated us. They had us cleaning latrines. Took to drinking, couldn’t stop, and I got myself dishonorably discharged without a penny left to send home to ol mom and dad. I tried mercenary work but the pay was awful and the jobs that did pay were less than scrupulous. I’m still not sure why the companions took me in when I marched up to their doorstep, drunk as a skunk, declaring myself the best sellsword on the continent. I wasn't going to waste that good faith, so I started sobering myself up and training to actually use the big hunk of metal on my back. That was three years ago and well, the rest is history.”

The other whelps raise their mugs to the story, one they’ve undoubtedly heard countless times. “It’ll have been a year since I joined in the summer,” Ria chimes in, “I was raised by bakers in Solitude. Papa wanted me to join the Bards College after my older sister inherited the bakery, but I couldn’t stand the idea of singing of someone else's glory when I could be the one out there chasing it. I think papa’s still angry with me, but I'm sure he’ll come around eventually.” 

Dove looks at Njada, who stares straight ahead at the fire. Torvar takes a long drink of his ale as Ria whispers, “She never tells stories. She hates people who brag.”

“I was a sailor once,” Njada declares.

Torvar spits out his ale and Ria has to reach over Dove to bang on his back with her fist. Njada continues to stare into the fire moodily and says no more. 

The doors of Jorrvaskr open as supper is winding down, and a familiar dunmer slips into the great hall. Torvar cheers at the sight of his friend, uncaring of the murderous aura the elf is emitting. Athis scowls at the sight of their table - at Dove sitting in his chair - and storms downstairs in a fury. 

Dove’s stomach twists with guilt as he watches his elven shield brother vanish. Njada leans across the table and looks him straight in the face, “Punch him.”

He looks at her. 

Njada does not back down, “I'm serious, go punch him. Athis only knows how to work through anger in one way.” 

Dove is doubtful of this, but Torvar and Ria both nod at this idea, giving it much merit. 

“I say punch him,” Njada reiterates, “but either way, sort it out. I have to share a bunk with the both of you.” 

With this, she gets to her feet and walks away. 

Torvar and Ria get to talking about bandit movements in the area, but Dove can hardly pay attention knowing that Athis is just under his feet, boiling with hatred for him. He can’t stomach the last bites of his food so he pushes his plate to the side. Dove heads for the barracks, his gut trembling.

Athis looks up at him maliciously as he hesitates in the doorway. “Oh look, it’s the Dragonborn. Got tired of being lavished with unearned praise, N’wah? Or did you come crawling to me to hear me grovel at your heroism too?” 

Obviously, Dove cannot respond. This only seems to enrage the dunmer further, “and still you say nothing. I thought I had found a brother!” Athis walks towards him, and Mirmulnir has to lock Dove’s legs with fiery agony to stop him from taking a step back in cowardice, “I had celebrated a fellow that I could speak dunmeris with, a fellow to teach, to mentor. But you’re not an elf, are you? Not in the same way I am. You’re more man than mer at this point, s’wit. More DRAGON than mer, pardon me. Dragonborn, bah.”

Athis studies his face. “'Even an Elf can be born with the heart of a Nord,' Skjor told me when I joined. I think he meant it as a compliment. Clearly he must have been talking about you instead.” 

As if someone else was piloting his body, Dove raises his arm and swings. His fist makes contact directly with Athis’s nose, making a horrible cracking sound. The dunmer stumbles backwards and clutches his face in shock. As the shock morphs to rage, Dove has but a moment to brace himself before the elf tackles him with indomitable force.

They roll around on the ground as Dove attempts to scramble away, scratching and clawing and elbowing the much stronger elf who has slung an arm around his neck securely in a headlock. The dragonborn gets to one knee and with a rush of flames, uses an inner strength to flip the elf over his shoulder and send him crashing to the ground. 

It’s not until he’s looking down at Athis’s winded face that he realizes the dunmer is smiling. The maniacal grin only grows as the elf takes advantage of his shock and kicks Dove in the chest at full strength. It feels as if his lungs are sucked into a vacuum as the fire goes out, and he stumbles and collapses on the ground a few steps away, holding his torso up only by a quivering hand as he rattles deep breaths, trying to suck up a breath. 

Mirmulnir is shocked into silence at their defeat. Dove feels a hand clasp his shoulder, and looks up to see his shield brother smiling down on him. Athis offers him a hand off the ground, and the pair of elves clasp arms. 

Once the dragonborn is steady on his feet, Athis asks in dunmeris, “Are you alright?” 

Dove nods. Athis smiles wryly at this, “You can understand me whether I speak in the tongue of man or elf, and yet as hard as I try I cannot understand you. A cruel joke, that.” 

Satisfied with this conclusion, Athis claps him on the shoulders roughly. “Hardly a legend, are you? Suppose I’ll have to keep you on your toes if you want to live up to that title. The companions of old will be rolling in their graves once we sit on the circle together. The Dragonborn and the future Harbinger, both dunmeris. How disgusted they would be!” 

He laughs. Dove laughs with him, weakly. Earning the loyalty of these warriors he’s chosen as his guides makes him feel a little bit crazy sometimes. Maybe a lot. 

--

An hour or so later, as he strips off his gear and prepares himself for bed, Dove remembers that he had intended to retrieve his dagger from Eorlund before the morning. The smith works deep into the night and does not rise until late in the morning, after training has already begun. Dove sighs and quickly dons his boots, leaving the barracks feeling naked with just his pants and red tunic. 

When he first leaves the shelter of the companions' mead hall and steps out into the biting chill of night, he knows something is wrong immediately. He almost turns around to head back to bed there and then, but instead he ignores his gut the same way he’d ignore the dragon in his head. 

As he steps off the pavilion and feels the presence of a person behind him, he knows that this was a mistake. 

“You there,” The cultist says in Dunmeris, “You’re the one they call Dragonborn?” 

Dove does not reply. This does not seem to dissuade the cultists, who take a step forward. Dove sees shadows on all sides - four of them, surrounding him. His heart is beating fast now, and Mirmulnir is beginning to stir from his slumber.

“Your silence belies your guilt, deceiver! We know you are the False Dragonborn! You shall not stand in the way of the true Dragonborn's return. He comes soon, and we shall offer him your heart! When Lord Miraak appears all shall bear witness. None shall stand to oppose him!"

Dove braces himself, and does not muster the words to cry for help before it’s too late. He hears the crackle of their spells before he feels it, the smell of ozone in the air, and then it hits him. Arcs of lightning ripple from the illuminated fingers of Miraak’s cultists, the light of which glints off their bronze masks and blinds Dove completely. 

There will be a spot in his memory after this moment that is gone save for nothing but a memory of unimaginable pain. In the moment, however, he can feel it all too clearly.