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Chapter Text

An uneven rocking is the first sensation that draws me towards consciousness. Not quite enough to wake me up, my senses fade in slowly, the strange itchiness of my clothes and the hard, uncomfortable bench beneath me further interrupting my sleep. My wrists feel tight, as if gripped by odd, curling fingers. Without warning, the bench I'm sitting on jolts, and my eyes open, blearily taking in the scene around me.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

The words catapult me into consciousness as I blink away my sleep and stare at Ralof of Riverwood. In an instant, my mind presents me with four possibilities.

First: the combination of getting back into playing Skyrim for hours on end and binge-reading Skyrim fanfiction has resulted in me dreaming of being in the intro sequence. This is discarded immediately. My senses were all telling me this was real. My itchy rags, the hard wooden seat, the sounds of trundling wheels. I take in a deep breath, tasting the misty humidity and smelling that beautiful, crisp, cool mountain air. I do not dream this vividly, especially not if I'm lucid enough to question whether I was dreaming.

Second: this is a hallucination. This is discarded as quickly as the first. None of my prescriptions had hallucinogenic side effects, nobody in the family has hallucinations, and I certainly wasn't anywhere near sleep-deprived enough to start seeing things.

Third: this is an exceedingly high-effort prank. I almost have to consider this one because of how stupid it is. I have zero friends who would do things like this, and who the fuck would go to these lengths to do this to a stranger? The third is discarded as well.

Which finally brings me to the fourth possibility: this is real. I have, somehow or someway, awoken in the Skyrim intro sequence, and am now in the seat reserved for the Last Dragonborn.

As my mind whirls, Ralof continues on, uncaring of my desperate mental pleas for sanity.

"What were you doing there, kinsman? You looked lost, even before the Imperials sprung their ambush."

I blinked. That... was not his regular line. He was supposed to say something about me trying to cross the border, I'm certain of it. But as I think it over, I realise that it made sense. I wasn't trying to cross the border. The last I remembered, I had been falling asleep in my own bed, and would have been very confused to suddenly be in the middle of the wilderness, wherever the ambush had been.

Distantly, I processed him calling me "kinsman". I suppose in Tamriel there's only one place you're really likely to see a tall, pale-skinned man with long red hair and a full beard. It makes sense I would be assumed to be a Nord.

Ralof sighs and continues, "You weren't with us, but the Imperials... don't seem to care. Both you and the thief."

At his mention, Lokir looks over and glares at Ralof.

"Damn you Stormcloaks to Oblivion. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."

Lokir was saying his regular lines, despite Ralof's divergence from the script. I keep an ear out for any further changes as I fruitlessly try to loosen the ropes around my wrists.

"You and me, we shouldn't be here." His eyes lock with mine, pleading, as if I could do anything about it. "It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The driver of the cart looks over his shoulder and snaps at us.

"Shut up back there."

I largely tune out what's said next, knowing the rest of the lines almost off by heart. It isn't until we pass into Helgen that I register Ralof talking again.

"Look at him. General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

I can only see Tullius' back from where I'm sitting, but Elenwen's face is clearly visible, and as her gaze flickers over to our cart for a moment, I think I see a dark smile flit across her features at the sight of Ulfric. I know that the Jarl of Windhelm is set in his ways, but I wonder if his hatred of the Thalmor is enough to outshine his disdain for the Empire. As soon as Elenwen has turned away, I lean over to him and speak lowly.

"Who benefits from the war in Skyrim?" Ulfric turns his gaze to me, and I swallow before continuing, "Who benefits from a weakened Empire? Think about what we know of the Thalmor and ask yourself if they would be merciful enough to offer a peace treaty to a foe they were not just winning against, but essentially dominating."

Ralof and Lokir looked at me in confusion, but I could see the gears turning in Ulfric's head. "Why would they offer a peace treaty unless they didn't know if they could finish the war without unacceptable losses? And, even once the treaty was signed, would they honour it? Or would they sow dissent, dismantle their enemy, and force the Empire into a weakened state by stripping away it's provinces and nations one by one?"

Ulfric's face is stone, but I know he's listening to my every word at this point. We're about to stop, so I need to finish quickly.

"Who benefits from a divided Tamriel with no unified front to stop them? Who does this war actually help, but the Thalmor?"

I manage to get the words out as I hear the captain walk up.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts!"

Lokir startles, taking his eyes off me for the first time since I started talking.

"Wait, why are we stopping?" Ralof looks at him, glancing back to me before speaking.

"Why do you think? End of the line."

"Don't run." As we stand, Lokir looks at me as I speak to him. "If you run, the archers will get you, and you'll die. If you don't run..." I trail off, uncertain of how much to reveal. As I'm stepping down, I settle on being vague but still clear enough to be known as accurate. "Something big is coming. No more than one death at the block, and then it arrives." Their confusion doesn't fill me with confidence, but I doubt they'd believe me if I told them outright that a dragon would interrupt the execution.

"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!". The captain barks at us, Hadvar walking up beside her

"Empire loves their damn lists," I hear Ralof mutter beside me, but I'm focused on Lokir. Will he listen to what I've said, or will he play out the fate I've seen every time I replayed this intro? Ulfric and Ralof are called, taking their places closer to the block. Lokir's name is called, and he starts forward, barely waiting for Hadvar to finish saying "Rorikstead" before interrupting.

"No, please, I'm not a rebel, I'm just a horse thief!"

"I said to step towards the block, prisoner!" The Captain spits back at him. Lokir steps further forward, hunched down and pleading.

"Please, you can't do this!"

"Step towards the block or I'll have you shot here and now!"

Lokir pauses, glances back at me, and... slowly walks over to join the Stormcloaks by the block. I did it. I managed to change his fate. Even if he dies once Alduin shows up, I've at least delayed his death by a minute or two. My eyes slide from Lokir to the Stormcloak who interrupts the priestess. As I'm debating what to say to him, I almost miss Hadvar taking notice of me.

"Wait. You there, step forward." I oblige him, and find myself face to face with one man looking at the clipboard in his hands and one absolute bitch of an officer. "Who are you?"

"I'm Jade," I say, the name slipping out as easy as breathing. It's not even a lie. With how much time I'd spent talking online during the pandemic, I was more comfortable with that name anyway. "I'm not a Stormcloak, I'm a civilian."

Hadvar hesitates, uncertain how to proceed given that my name obviously isn't in his little list. He turns to the officer.

"Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

"Forget the list. He goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." Hadvar turns back to me and offers some words of comfort, but I ignore them in favour of noting whether Tullius is close enough to have heard the captain say to forget the list. It's tough to say. Given how his focus is undoubtedly on Ulfric and finally having the war over soon (poor man doesn't know his headache only gets worse from here) it's safe to assume he didn't register what she said, but as I walk behind the captain towards the block, I decide that I am definitely not a fan of him either way. I sidle over to the soldier who interrupts the rites while Tullius is ranting at Ulfric.

"Don't interrupt the priestess." He jumps and turns to look at me, and I waste no time continuing. "Something is coming. The execution will not proceed. Stay your tongue, don't volunteer your neck, I know you must love Talos but if you keep a cool head you just might make it out of this alive." He looks at me like I've grown a second head, eventually turning back towards the front, sparing a glance towards the priestess.

Alduin's first roar echoes around us.

"What was that?" Hadvar is looking up and around, like everyone else. I can't help myself, and indulge in a bit of dramatics, loud enough for the Stormcloaks, Hadvar, and Tullius to hear me.

"First sign. Calamity approaching."

Everyone looks askance at me before dismissing me. Tullius orders the execution proceed, and the captain has the priestess of Arkay give the last rites.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of The Eight Divines-"

I look over at the Stormcloak, hearing him take a frustrated breath in... before he glances at me, clearly uncertain (maybe it wasn't a good idea to be dramatic but I can't help it, especially with the payoff once Alduin shows up). Eventually, he releases his breath, and continues listening to the rites. Two for two.

Before she can finish speaking, Alduin's roar sounds out again. The game didn't do it justice. I know it's coming from over the mountains in front of me, but it sounds like it's coming from everywhere above us, louder than ever, and it sounds beyond furious. There's something high and screaming in it, yet also a terrible thrum that sets my bones abuzz.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?" Hadvar is looking at the captain and Tullius this time, although it seems that he and everyone who heard me after the first roar are also glancing my way now. I interject again, not bothering to hide my nervousness.

"Second sign. Twenty seconds."

I haven't actually timed how long it takes from Alduin's second roar to his appearance, but twenty seconds sounds about right. The priestess continues the rites from a bit before where she left off. My eyes remain glued to the mountains, even as the Stormcloak from earlier snaps and interrupts, frustrated from too many references to "The Eight". As the captain pushes him to his knees, I gasp when I see a black and jagged shape rise over the watchtower in front of us.

"He's here," I breathe. As everyone tries to understand what they're seeing, I widen my stance and prepare to endure both the initial blast and hopefully the meteor storm. Once Alduin lets out his fire breath and takes off from the tower, I scramble to the block, pull the Stormcloak to his feet, and make a beeline for the tower where Ulfric ended up, grabbing a stunned Ralof on the way.

"Jarl Ulfric," Ralof gasps from the floor, still getting his bearings, "what is that thing? Could the legends be true?" Before Ulfric can reply, I speak up, and everyone present startles as they realise my earlier 'ramblings' had been right.

"Hey, Ulfric, one last thing in regards to what was said in the cart," I say, making sure he's listening fully. "Who's more of a problem, the one who doesn't want you to worship Talos, or the one who doesn't care but has to abide by the terms of the Concordat in an attempt to limit the Thalmor's excuses to act?"

As I finish speaking, Alduin's fire breath sounds from above. With the leader of the rebellion sufficiently bewildered (I hope) I make my way up the tower just in time to see Alduin's scaly tail flying up out of view. The view left in his wake is a scene from hell itself.

Easily half the town is ablaze, entire buildings consumed by raging fires. There are pits and holes in the buildings, the walls, and the ground from the constant rain of meteors. Through the haze of fire and smoke I can make out a few people - civilians and soldiers alike - running across the ground in desperate attempts to escape the rain of death. On the wind is the smell of char, and of burning flesh. It hasn't even been a full minute since Alduin appeared over the mountains, and he's already reduced the town to this state, and this is him weakened by thousands of years of being cast adrift through time. If this is him in a weakened state... then how the fuck was I ever supposed to defeat him?

I couldn't allow such questions to slow me down. Not wasting any time, I leap from the newly-made window into the burning building across from it, barely avoiding the pillar as I roll to break my fall. My sudden period of competence is short-lived, however, as I fail to stop my roll in time and end up falling down to the ground with a strangled yelp and manage to slip into another, even less controlled roll, colliding with the wall and knocking the wind out of myself.

"Haming, you need to get over here, now!"

That was Hadvar, telling the kid who wanted to watch the soldiers to get back to safety. I groan, having managed to draw breath again, pulling myself out of the inn and into Hadvar's line of sight.

"Still alive, prisoner? Stay close to me if you want to stay that way."

I groan again, getting my feet under me and breaking into a run behind Hadvar, past the charred body whose name I couldn't remember, and behind a smoldering house before he shoves me against the brickwork.

"Stay close to the wall!"

A weight comes down on the wall above us. Alduin's claws are so close I could reach out and grab them, and I can feel the heat from his fire washing over me as he torches the poor legionary in front of us. Somehow, he doesn't notice us - or just doesn't care - and takes off, leaving Hadvar and I to make our way through a collapsed home, coming out onto a main road where General Tullius, to his considerable credit, is telling the guards to focus on saving the civilians rather than round up the Stormcloaks. I continue to follow Hadvar, passing under a footbridge and coming up on the entrance to Helgen Keep, where Hadvar spots Ralof and the two decide that the middle of this hellzone is a good place for a chat.

"Ralof, you damn traitor! Out of my way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping-"

Before they can delay any further, I grab them both and drag them towards the entrance that Hadvar would typically lead me to, the bindings making it difficult but still possible.

"Now is not the fucking time! Get inside, both of you!"

I manage to wrangle them both through the door, and follow them into the keep and out of the fiery hell that Alduin has wrought.

Chapter Text

As Ralof and Hadvar catch their footing from being shoved in here together, I turn and slam the door shut behind us. Over the sound of my own panting, I can still hear the screams outside and the crackle and roar of the inferno, occasionally punctuated by Alduin's roars and Thu'um, but for the moment at least we seem to be in the clear.

I take a moment to think of the people who had undoubtedly already died out there. Some of them could have been bastards. Some of them could have been wonderful. I know either way that they didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve being burned alive or crushed under rubble... or swallowed whole, considering Alduin's size. I had never been a religious man, but considering the provable existence and action of both the Aedra and Daedra here, I offer a prayer to Arkay for all of the people out there.

Taking a deep breath, I turn to face the two men whith me, but before I can address our next move, Ralof speaks up.

"You knew that thing was coming," he breathes. His face is ashen, his expression somewhere between awe, bewilderment, and deep mistrust. "You told the thief that something would stop the execution."

"And when the... I suppose what we were hearing were that thing's roars," Hadvar adds. "He called them 'signs' each time."

"But why not tell us more?" Ralof is looking at me angrily now. "So many will have already died out there, why not-"

"Would you have believed me?" I interrupt. "If I told you that a fucking dragon was about to swoop out of the sky and lay waste to the town, would you have believed a single word I said, or would you have dismissed me as a madman?"

As I speak, I take stock of the room we're in. It's... bigger? Not just that, but there are doors other than the gate which the player usually goes through. Come to think of it, now that I'm not running for my life, I realise that there'd been quite a bit of time between us entering Helgen and us seeing General Tullius and the Thalmor.

Engine limitations had meant that 'towns' in Skyrim were more the size of villages, with even the larger cities mostly only having a few dozen people. Helgen is a proper town here, easily larger horizontally than Whiterun had been in the game. The execution had been taking place practically next door to the keep (understandable - they'd want soldiers on hand in case Ulfric had escaped) and the path between the two had been much the same as in the game, but before jumping to the inn I'd been able to see that the buildings stretched far beyond where I'd stood.

"Regardless," I continue, "we're still not safe here. This close to the surface, there's still ways for the dragon to bring the place down on top of us." As another roar sounds out and the ground shakes, I look to Hadvar. "There's a way down and out, through the torture room and into a cave system with an exit outside the town. The path is hazy in my mind so we'll need your guidance."

He hesitates, still unsettled by my strange knowledge, but eventually nods.

"Okay. First, we should check what's in here before moving on. There should be armour and weapons in the chests." At this, I grimace.

"I'm not familiar with either of those. Never had a reason to learn."

They both look at me, confused. I guess being taught swords and combat is more commonplace than I thought, especially in Skyrim, where you can be attacked by Werewolves, Falmer, bandits, thieves, Forsworn, bears, wolves, sabre cats, maybe Draugr that have wandered out of a barrow... far out, this really is a dangerous place. And that's not even considering that soon there'll be dragons everywhere as well. My life expectancy is rapidly dwindling to nothing.

"Look, maybe I'm not a combatant but I got the two of you together here without fighting, didn't I? There's going to be both Imperials and Stormcloaks throughout the keep and if they see the two of you not fighting then they're likely to accept that escaping the dragon is a more pressing issue... right?"

They look to each other, then look back to me and nod. Hadvar grabs a shield to pair with his sword, while Ralof keeps the axe he had outside. Once we're all ready, we move through the gate, the two soldiers in front because I'm not interested in any surprise piercings today. We pass through several hallways and rooms - this place is not only bigger, but near labarynthine in layout - before we hear raised voices and swords being drawn. We rush forward into a large, circular room - interestingly, with no dead Stormcloak - where the Imperial Captain and several Stormcloaks are facing off, but not yet fighting. Rolling my eyes, I clap my hands to get everyone's attention, and make sure I'm speaking loud enough for the whole room to hear me.

"Okay! I didn't think this would need pointing out but here we are. In case you hadn't noticed, there is a twenty-to-thirty-ish metre long lizard outside raining fiery death on this town. It has demonstrated that it does not care whose colours you're wearing, and yet you seem to not have realised that unless it flies off before killing everyone it can see, it'll probably realise people would be hiding here in the keep."

As if to accentuate my point, the ground shakes again, and screams rise from outside.

"Now, when that happens, it will likely start bringing this place down around us. Imperial, Stormcloak, unaffiliated, everyone is a target for that thing's ire. But more important is that Helgen will not be the end."

That gets their attention, at least for a moment. I can't rush and stutter like I usually do. Careful, slow, deliberately chosen words. Nords are proud, but also very caring and protective of their families. That's the culture that the game painted, and that's what I'll try to speak to.

"There's no way that thing is being brought down here, which means at least one other location will be at risk if it decides it hasn't had enough slaughter. Think of your homes, your families, all you hold dear. Any of them could be the next target."

The way the war proceeded in the game after Dragon Rising never made sense to me. Mirmulnir's attack on the watchtower proved that further attacks could and would happen, and neither Ulfric nor Tullius seemed to have received any pressure from the people to stop taking hands to the war effort when the towns needed protection from the dragons. I could attest to that from how many times dragons would manage to kill an entire settlement before dying in my playthroughs - and from the look of Helgen, it would be worse here.

"If you die on each other's blades here, who will bring word of what you've seen? Who will know how to help your families prepare? Who will protect them from a threat that nobody has seen for thousands of years!?"

To my amazement and relief, it seems to have worked. The sight of Hadvar and Ralof with me, weapons sheathed, must be helping, but I have somehow managed to talk them all down. I am amazing. Speech 100.

"There's a path out of here - one that doesn't go topside until outside the town. That's where we're headed. From there, you can head out, let people know what happened here, let them know what they need to do, what they need to look out for and prepare for."

I take several deep breaths, knowing that they'll hate what I say next but it needs to be said anyway.

"And if that attack does come, if dragonfire does fall upon them... be with them, because you know you'd never forgive yourself for not being there."

As expected, this brings scowls from the majority of the room, but they don't look like they're going to attack. On the contrary, many of them are sheathing their weapons, looking to me expectantly. Not all of them, however, as one in particular seems to have taken offence to me undercutting her authority.

"Legionaries, do not stand down! Arrest these rebels and put that prisoner back in his binds!"

The Stormcloaks tense, but relax once the Imperials do little more than shuffle, giving the captain uncertain glances. One of them speaks up.

"Captain, even if we -"

"I gave orders, soldiers!" The Captain looks near deranged, a wild look in her eyes as her sword wavers between the Stormcloaks, us, and the woman who spoke out. I clear my throat, keeping Hadvar and Ralof between myself and the Captain.

"General Tullius gave his own orders, did he not? To prioritise getting the townspeople to safety? I see several people not wearing faction colours here. Would it really be safe for them if you started a fight in such an enclosed space?"

The look in her eyes gets worse at this point, and her breathing is getting faster. She looks torn, Tullius' orders warring with... something, I'm not sure what, that is driving her with a hatred of the Stormcloaks. Her sword arm is beginning to twitch, and I'm preparing myself to try and mitigate whatever she does, when one of the townsfolk steps towards her.

"Excuse me."

With a fluidity that speaks of years of practice, he draws a nearby Imperial's sword and slams the flat of the blade into the side of the Captain's helmet, swiftly following with a downward pommel strike to the back of the head once the Captain doubles over. The Captain drops like a stone, and so does my jaw. Many of the soldiers on both sides have drawn or half drawn their weapons again, but stop when they see the man already handing the sword back to its owner. As he notices most of the room staring at him in shock, he shakes his head.

"Big guy over here was right. This place is coming down around us. We need to be careful, that's already one knocked out from rocks falling."

The room stands in stunned silence for a few moments more before another roar sets Hadvar into motion. He directs several legionaries to set the Captain in a stretcher, which gets the rest of the room moving. A number of the more grizzled-looking Stormcloaks - presumably having been officers in the Great War who joined Ulfric because they'd been disgusted by the Concordat - manage to organise the Imperials and Stormcloaks to help guide the civilians along the path with us. The man who knocked out the Captain is immediately lost in the throng, and I'm not given much time to process the sudden change in tone as I'm brought forward to the group organising everyone and given expectant looks. One Imperial pipes up.

"Here he is. Well, boy? Where is this path you're telling us can lead us to safety?" I take a moment to register his words, still reeling from the Captain being put on the ground in a split second.

"The - it's in the - there's a cave system behind a weak wall in the cells connected to the torture room. That cave leads to a Frostbite Spider nest, a cavern where a bear sleeps, and finally, outside."

The Stormcloaks and a fair few of the Imperials gain a foul look at the mention of the torture room, and most of them look hesitant when I mention the spiders and the bear, but they all nod to each other, and the Imperial who prompted me speaks again.

"I know the wall. The guards have been complaining, saying it's an escape risk. I guess they were right, but it's us who's escaping instead. I'll lead the way."

"Not alone," I blurt out, thinking of how there's a number of Stormcloaks and Imperials between here and there, especially since there's likely more rooms and halls than just the storeroom. "If you meet Stormcloaks, you'll need someone to vouch for the..." I glance around the room at the warring factions mingling. "The little truce we've forged here."

He nods, and one of the Stormcloaks in fancier armour (with actual metal on the torso! Not just fabric!) joins him as the two of them set off, soldiers and civilians following a little ways behind them. I keep pace with the front of the line, a few metres behind the two leading the way. As expected, the paths are longer and more winding before we reach the storeroom, the sudden collapse of the hallway in front of us thankfully not crushing anyone, although there are a few close calls further down the line as Alduin's attention has evidently shifted to the keep.

The confrontation in the storeroom is a brief but tense affair. The Stormcloaks there almost skewer the Imperial when he steps through the door, but when their armoured officer follows him - weapon sheathed and arms not bound - things calm down and they listen to the explanation. It's so nice to meet reasonable people.

After stocking up on potions and giving a few healing ones to the civilians that got burned outside, the journey onwards to the torture room continues.  The path is a little shorter than the way to the storeroom, but still longer than half of Helgen Keep in the actual game. Every now and then the ground shakes and dust rains from the ceiling, but it seems that as we go deeper, Alduin's rampage has less of an effect on the structure.

"It's just down here," the Imperial in the lead calls back, as we descend a set of stairs. I'm somewhat concerned by the lack of sounds of combat. I would expect the two Stormcloaks you find here in game to have seen the Torturer's treatment of their comrades and immediately try to take his head. The player can usually hear the lightning spells and swinging swords before even reaching the bottom of the stairs. In comparison, the fact that there's nothing coming from around that corner is suspicious. The two soldiers in front round the corner, pausing momentarily to take in what they see. The Stormcloak officer walks forward out of sight, and I hear his voice ring out.

"Stand down. With the dragon destroying the town, we've entered a truce until we can all escape." There's a moment of silence, before a man's voice responds.

"Did you say dragon?"

Deeming it safe to proceed, I move into the room, along with several soldiers of each faction. In the room are half a dozen Stormcloaks, all with varying injuries ranging from cuts and bruises to electrical burns, and at their feet lie the mangled bodies of the Torturer and his assistant. Ah. It seems I was correct in assuming how they'd react when they got here, but with our slower pace we ended up not arriving until after they were done.

As the group files into the room and the two leaders move to find the broken wall, my gaze falls upon one cell in particular, and my mind stops. Unlike in the game, the body inside is clad in only a loincloth, his robes and the spell book instead on a small shelf to the side. The robes don't visibly shimmer or glow like in the game, but when I run my fingers across their fabric (surprisingly clean, given it's been sitting here for who knows how long) I can feel a prickling in my fingertips and a faint buzzing that I don't feel with my body so much as sense in a way that I've never felt before.

This entire time I've been focused on getting to the next room alive, and getting out of Helgen. I never once considered how I would be making my way through Skyrim, other than remembering my playthroughs, all of which had a martial prowess I very much lacked. Magic, on the other hand, was different. I may have even less magical knowledge than I do martial knowledge, but for all that I enjoyed playing a heavy armour sword and shield character in the game, I feel called by the knowledge that spellcasting could - and almost certainly would - be more than the limited in-game system.

As I don the robes, I can feel something change. It feels as if my blood is running faster, each breath filling my lungs and energising me a little better than before. The feeling only strengthens as I pull up the hood. My thoughts feel cleaner, more defined, my moments flowing a little more smoothly... or is it as smooth as ever, and I'm just a little more aware of each tiny muscle contraction that my body makes to move my fingers in a rolling wave?

I don't open the spellbook yet, instead storing it in a small satchel on the back of the belt of the robes. From how well it fits I'd say that's the intended purpose of the bag. The other bag, on my left hip, is likely for alchemical ingredients. As I move through the group and rejoin the front, Ralof notices me.

"Ah. I should have guessed you were a mage." He doesn't sound dismissive, despite how Nords are supposedly distrustful of magic, but he does sound a little... disappointed? Disapproving? It's something slightly negative, but I can't quite tell what. Still, I fall into step beside him.

"I don't know if you can call me a mage when I don't even know a single spell."

"Then why did you grab those robes?" The negative tone in his voice is gone, instead replaced by confusion and a wary curiosity. I really should not be getting so much enjoyment from being the cause of those emotions.

"First, because they're comfy." I struggle to keep from laughing at his incredulous look. I'm not lying, though. Despite their frayed look and thick fibres, they're woven incredibly finely, and they're quite possibly the smoothest, softest fabrics I've ever felt. The softest shirts I've ever had might barely be able to compare. "Second, I've never seen enchanted items before and I wanted to know how it felt."

"They're enchanted?" He looks the robes over dubiously. "How can you tell?"

"Feel the fabric," I say, holding out my arm. He reaches out, his fingers brushing over the cloth, and pulls back with a faint gasp. I grin and nod enthusiastically.

"You see? It's not visible but there's definitely something there, right?" He shakes out his hand and let's out a breath.

"Yes. There is certainly something, although I can't say I like the way it feels." His discomfort is clear in both his voice and his bearing. It seems the game's depiction of Nords as magi-phobic was accurate.

Before I can think up a response, we come to the large room with a raised bridge at the far end. Surprisingly, there's nobody here before us, which I'm not sure what to make of. Crossing over the stone bridges around the room, I make note of how there are more layers going down, rather than the single raised stone section and lower ground area I'm used to seeing. As we get to the bridge, I grab the two frontrunners and turn around, making sure everyone here can hear me.

"I don't like the look of the rocks up there," I say, pointing up at the shaft above the bridge. "We'll have people go across in pairs, waiting until the person in front of them is all the way across before they start moving. It'll be slower but at this point that might be a good thing, since there's more of a chance the dragon will be gone by the time we get outside."

The rocks do end up falling and crushing the bridge when we've only got about a third of the people here across. Thankfully nobody is on the bridge at the time, and the people looking down at it are quick to notice the side path leading to the skeleton and back into the caverns further down the path. After the group link up again, we continue searching for the way forward - a much more daunting task given how little light is getting through and how many more possible paths there are.

As we search, I pull out the Sparks spellbook. If I'm lucky, I might be able to get something out of it before we reach the spiders. Unfortunately, my hopes are quickly dashed as this book assumes the reader has some basic knowledge such as how to feel one's magicka and manipulate it in order to form spells.

Still, even though I can't actually learn anything from this book yet, it's still interesting to see how it tries to teach the reader, rather than the game's method of "eat the book to learn the spell". It seems that magic is largely fluid, and that the categorisation of it into individual schools and spells is more for the benefit of memory and simplicity than actual hard limits.

I can't glean much on the actual nature of this world's magic from what little the book tells me, but what I can find gives me a lot of hope for there to be plenty of room for creative spellcrafting. I hadn't played mages in Oblivion or Morrowind but I knew that there was actual spell customisation and far broader variety of base spells in those games than in Skyrim, so I was hopeful that that would be reflected here.

Fortunately, my nose isn't buried so far into the book that I fail to notice when the two at the front stop and draw their weapons. Looking past them, I see the telltate webs and strung-up carcasses of a Frostbite Spider nest. And I don't even have a Flames spell to help. I tap the leaders and wait for them to turn to me.

"Wait a moment before you rush in, I'll see if there's anyone suited to helping here." I turn to the rest of the group and start moving through, telling people we've reached the nest and asking about their combat skills and magic.

Unsurprisingly, none of the Stormcloaks admit to knowing any spells except for a few healers, although a good portion of them are less than convincing. The Imperials are also mostly melee, but there are a number of them who know fire spells whom I send to the front immediately, along with anyone with a shield.

As I move back to the front, I reflect on how many more people there are here than I expected. We started with just the three of us - Hadvar, Ralof, and I - and the two dozen or so that had been in that massive circular room where the Captain had the misfortune to be struck by a falling piece of stonework, plus another dozen civilians who had been with them. From there, it had just been two or three people joining in each room - mostly faction soldiers but a few townsfolk as well - plus the occasional loner in the hallways.

We hadn't found anyone since reaching the torture room, but even still, the Keep was massive compared to the game, and there are now almost a hundred people moving through these caverns. Compared to how the game normally has the player slaughter their way through dozens of soldiers of whatever faction you didn't enter the keep with... yeah, I'd say I'm pretty happy with how things are going. Speech 100 indeed.

With the shieldbearers forming a line in front, long-reach melee weapons standing just behind them, and fire magic being thrown through the gaps, the spiders don't stand a chance. In mere minutes, the nest is clear. While the combatants are checking themselves and cleaning their equipment of spider gunk, I take some time to gather some venom and eggs for selling (and maybe Alchemy if I can wrap my head around it), which goes a bit quicker when a few soldiers and townsfolk volunteer to help me.

By this point, the tunnels have become considerably simpler, and following the path out is as easy as can be. It's only after a few more minutes of walking that we reach where the bear is sleeping. Upon seeing easily two dozen of us compared to just one of it, it wisely decides to get out of there. We've moved on and passed the skeletons of the bear's kills, just entering the final passage leading outside, when a terrible thought occurs to me.

Alduin is a dragon - arrogant, proud, and when given the opportunity to exert his dominion, he does so without hesitation. The dragons, with him at their head, ruled over the Ancient Dragon Cult as gods, demanding worship from all who they saw as beneath them - which was everybody who wasn't a dragon.

Alduin is arrogant, proud, and just wiped an entire town off the map the second he escaped the time-banishment of the Elder Scroll... but was the destruction of Helgen merely a fit of rage from being defeated at the hands of those he deemed beneath him, or did he sense the player's Dovah soul and seek to destroy them before they could become a threat - before they could rebel against the dragons as Miraak, The First Dragonborn, did?

If Alduin's destruction of Helgen was targeted, then how many risks was he willing to take? There was a sizeable number of people here - did he notice their absence from his bloodbath on the surface? If he had paid attention during the time of the cult, he would know that buildings of this size could extend underground and hold hundreds of people. Skuldafn alone had multiple interior cells, each likely of similar size to Helgen Keep!

Alduin is a dragon. He knows every shout because he speaks the language fluently. He knows Aura Whisper. Three little words and he could see our entire retinue glowing like a lighthouse in the fog, if he just thinks to check.

Alduin is a dragon. Proud, arrogant, and violent... but was he so sure of his superiority that his arrogance became stupidity?

"Stop." I put as much force into the word as I can without yelling. I pull those in front of me back, and ensure that nobody is on the path leading out. "A thought occurs." The survivors of Helgen look at me, the strange man who guided them to safety and convinced bitter enemies to put away their weapons, at least for the moment.

"Shouts are in the language of dragons, meaning all dragons - being fluent in their own tongue - know every Shout innately." I swallow, trying to keep my voice from wavering. "There is one Shout in particular called Aura Whisper. It functions like a much, much stronger version of Detect Life, Detect Undead, those kind of spells." I see a few eyes widen. "Its effects are not stopped by walls or solid objects. If you're within range, the speaker will know your location just by using the Shout." Before I can continue, one of the Imperial mages yells from near the back.

"Are you saying someone is going to have to run out and see if it's out there? If you're right then they'd just die in its fire immediately!" Nobody likes that, and they all shift and glare at me.

"That's not what I was going to ask." Voices start to rise, but I raise my own voice over the din. "I will go and check for myself whether he's still there." They quiet down, still slightly murmuring but listening to me again.

"What I wished to ask is whether anyone knows a powerful ward spell, if anyone knows a fire protection spell, or if anyone has any potions or enchanted gear which can help protect against fire. I know it's a stretch, but I'll take all the help I can get."

Nobody steps forward. The only speakers are muttering to reach other. After a few moments of waiting, I sigh, nod, and turn to the exit. As I creep forward, doubts flash through my mind, anxiety rising as the thought of dragonfire suddenly engulfing me rises from possibility, to probability, to certainty. I hear my heart thundering, blood pulsing in my ears, the enchantments on the robes hastening and clarifying the many vivid images my mind creates of Alduin killing me in a thousand different ways.

In an instant, all is silent. I'm outside. The wind is in my face, bringing with it the scent of flowers and damp morning dew. The sky is a bright, sunny blue, clear save for a few scattered clouds... and a jagged black mass flying into the distance. Alduin left. We did it. Before I can second guess myself, I'm back in the tunnel.

"He's gone! He's gone! Come on!"

As everyone streams out of the bottom end of Helgen Keep into the cool mountain air, I let myself slip into relief, letting out a whoop of joy and breathless laughter. Around me, many of the other survivors are laughing and grinning, too, relief plain on everyone's faces as the nightmare passes. But on top of the relief of surviving, I'm riding an entirely different high.

Alduin had razed Helgen to the ground. Whether I had been his target or if he had just wanted to throw a tantrum, I know now that he was so sure of himself that he would miss critical details and obvious signs.

He had turned Helgen into a burning nightmare in under a minute, and if I'd come face to face with him, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

But I out-thought him. I out-thought Alduin, The World Eater, the Firstborn of Akatosh, and ruler of the dragons.

I stand no chance against anything yet - even mudcrabs would be a threat to me right now. But I will learn. In time, I will travel Skyrim, grow strong with experience and equipment, and become the legend a Dragonborn ought to be.

I can't wait.

Chapter Text

I poke at the simple soup that some of the legionaries had made when we set up camp.  Skyrim is not a small place, and the two towns of Helgen and Riverwood are further apart than in the game - over a day of walking apart, in fact.  Each hold was likely the size of the average nation back home, with the whole of the province being a little larger than Europe, if I had to guess.  Not the unfathomably empty and vast desert of my homeland of Australia, but still far larger than the game had made it seem.  I idly wonder if Elsweyr would be a little more familiar to me.

If nothing else, I'm learning plenty about how to survive in the wilderness, and that knowledge would prove priceless when I started adventuring and taking several days between locations... and now that I'm thinking about it, dungeons would be massive.

My eyes raise to the silhouette of the Barrow on the mountain opposite our camp.  Helgen Keep had taken several hours to pass through, and Bleak Falls was easily triple the size of Helgen in the game.  I suppose the Dragon Cult built their structures to fit the size of their masters.  It could easily take me a full day to get to the end, and larger dungeons such as Dwemer Ruins would almost certainly require me to make camp partway through.  Helgen and the escape would be tiny in comparison.

My eyes unfocus as I remember the aftermath of our escape from Helgen.  A number of the group had split off, going different ways themselves.  About a dozen were returning to the town to retrieve belongings and lay their loved ones to rest, while a handful of soldiers had taken it upon themselves to visit Falkreath, Riften, and any settlements along the way to bring news of the Dragon attack.  Several more soldiers were staying with our main group but would be splitting off at Whiterun to bring the news in the directions of Windhelm, Solitude, and anyone else they could tell.

Shortly after we had gotten on the way, it became clear that the sun was far closer to the horizon than I had anticipated, and the general exhaustion of Helgen had left many of us eager for an early camp.  We hadn't gone much further before finding a road and making camp a little ways away from it - close enough to hear any commotion should someone need help, but far enough away that no overzealous soldiers could charge it as soon as they saw the colours of an opposing faction.

As the camp was being set up, I had gone around helping where I could, learning anything I could from anyone willing to teach me.  The majority of the soldiers were confused at my utter lack of this knowledge, but more than happy to help me learn.  For all their reputation of fearsome warriors, these Nords are delightfully kind and friendly when they want to be.

"It's called Bleak Falls Barrow."

I jolt back to the present as Hadvar sits down with his own bowl of soup, soon joined by Ralof when I beckon him over.  The two Riverwood boys are tense, but not at each other's throats, and there's a quiet familiarity between them.  I feel bad for how they both stay roped into the war in the game, never burying the hatchet, returning home after the war but never healing those scars.

"I was marvelling at its size," I say between mouthfuls.  "If it extends even half as far back into the mountain as it does out, then it's easily bigger than some of the hold capitals."  I pause to swallow, before adding an afterthought.  "A rather imposing sight to see from your bedroom window, though."

There's a few moments of silence before Hadvar speaks up, very much not looking at the Barrow or at Ralof.

"I used to have nightmares about it as a boy.  Draugr coming down the mountain to climb into my window."

The silence returns, before Ralof sighs and acknowledges Hadvar for the first time since we entered Helgen Keep.

"I... also used to get those dreams.  I still sometimes do, whenever we camp too close to one."

It's interesting that he's willing to admit that, even to his childhood friend.  Leaving aside that he's being vulnerable by admitting to having nightmares about a childish fear (is it weird that I'm proud of a man I met this morning for admitting that?), there must be enough of these structures around Skyrim that there's no real tactical advantage to be gained from knowing that the Stormcloaks sometimes camp near them.

But what's really important is that he's not walling Hadvar off.  He's extending an olive branch.  Now, I just need Hadvar to reciprocate and the hard part will be done.  We sit in silence for a little longer before it becomes clear that I need to give them a push.  Given the straightforward nature that Nords seem to have, they'll likely notice and disapprove if I try to be roundabout, so I'll just send it.

"How do you two know each other?  Back at Helgen, just outside the keep, you were talking like you had history - not just history being on opposite sides of a war, but... more than that."

They both give me short glares and give each other glances.  The silence doesn't last long this time, and Hadvar stares down towards the lake behind the Guardian Stones as he speaks (score!).

"We both grew up in Riverwood - the town we're heading to now.  My Uncle Alvor is the local blacksmith, and Ralof's sister Gerdur runs the mill.  He moved out to Windhelm a few years ago, but as kids were were inseparable."

The bit about Ralof moving out is interesting, as I'd assumed he simply lived there until he joined the Stormcloaks.  The confirmation that they were friends is cool as well, since their in-game dialogue didn't say anything about who they'd known when they were young.  I'm processing this in my head when Ralof chimes in as Hadvar is taking another mouthful of soup.

"We could barely spend a few days apart, back then... and when old Hilde spun stories like she spun thread, we both sat there with wide eyes, and then we would spend the next few days acting out whatever tale she had put in our heads this time."

There's clear longing in his voice, and a melancholy wistfulness as he recalls these days gone by.  It sounds wonderful.

"When we weren't playing out those stories, we were helping our families - both our own and each other's.  I spent almost as much time learning to work the forge as I did working the mill, and he was much the same."

Hadvar is silent as Ralof is talking, but his face is an open book.  He misses it - misses his best friend, no matter how much time has passed.  Ralof trails off and the silence returns.  After a few minutes, I set my empty bowl aside just as Hadvar takes a breath to speak.

"Of course, all of that changed when the war broke out."

Neither of them look happy after he says that, and I see regret, pain, frustration, and anger written on both of their faces, plain as day.

"How did the two of you end up on opposite sides?"  I ask gently, treading lightly around such a clearly sore topic.  Hadvar is the one who responds.

"We both didn't know what to do.  We argued with each other, with our families, with each other's families.  Couldn't decide who was right and who was wrong.  Who was a traitor to what we stood for and who was staying true."

"In the end, we each ended up convinced by our families," Ralof picks up from Hadvar.  "Gerdur had gotten me to sign up with Ulfric, and Hadvar was off to Solitude at his uncle's urging.  We didn't see each other again until..."  Ralof trailed off again, staring into the fire as the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the mountains.

"Until the ambush at Darkwater Crossing?"  I prompt, assuming that with the vastness of Skyrim, it would be unlikely for them to have seen each other before then.  To my surprise, they both shake their heads, and Hadvar responds while I and the other soldiers here lean in (What?  Other soldiers?  Was I so engrossed in their reminiscing that I missed other people sitting down?).

"No, that's the first time we spoke since we left, but a few months after we signed up, there was an assault on Fort Dunstad.  I was still just a footsoldier then, and my team were to secure the upper levels of the exterior and the tower.  I saw him among a group of other Stormcloaks outside the fort - I assume they were a patrol who had just gotten back."

Fort Dunstad sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember who controlled it during the game.  More important than that, however, was the fact that even with the war front as wide as it was, these two had apparently managed to end up within a hundred metres of each other and had locked eyes mid-battle.  Unreal.  Ralof picks up again.

"We weren't patrolling - we had been sent to bolster the numbers at the fort because it was likely that the Imperials would attack it soon.  Our orders were that if an attack had already happened by the time we got there, we were to return with the news instead of throwing ourselves into the battle."  He takes a deep breath.  "So, we grabbed what stragglers we could, and turned to leave.  I saw Hadvar right as we were entering the treeline."

By now a decent crowd has formed around our little firepit.  Stormcloaks, Imperials, and a few civilians are all listening in rapt attention.  Clearly the idea of two friends torn apart by this war is like a folk tale come to life for everyone here.  The crackling of the fire and the mixed voices of other groups are the only sounds for the next few minutes.

"Do either of you," I start, before pausing.  I swallow, and push on.  "Do either of you regret it?  Splitting like that, I mean."

"Of course," Ralof responds immediately, as Hadvar nods.  "But it's too late now."

"Is it?"  I challenge him, my voice firm for the first time tonight.  He looks affronted and Hadvar is raising his eyebrows at me, but I can't let either of them flounder.

"You've been fighting since the war started, and between the fort and the ambush you've come into direct conflict more than once, but are you truly telling me that if the war somehow came to a peaceful end, you wouldn't be able to talk to each other again?"

He seems doubtful when I mention a peaceful end to the war - and Hadvar and the other soldiers around us are much the same - but they're so close now.  I can't just let them give up.

"That dragon wasn't on any side except his own - you all saw him mowing down everyone no matter what colours they wore."

Everyone shifts uncomfortably and a few people shudder in memory of what happened before we entered the keep.

"If that thing attacks again - or, worse, if he's not the only one - then the war can't continue.  A Skyrim without the Empire won't matter if it's all turned to smoldering rubble first."

Some of the people here look like they disagree but most - including Hadvar and Ralof - seem to begrudgingly admit that I'm right.

"I know this may sound like I'm suggesting something heretical, but will you truly leave your families in Riverwood to fend for themselves while you hold your swords at each other's throats, and the throats of so many others of your siblings?"

Nobody speaks for a time.  I've dropped another truth that nobody wants to face, but everyone here saw Helgen's destruction firsthand and they know that they can't ignore what I've said here.  I'm beginning to wonder if I'll have to wait for them to ponder through the night when Hadvar speaks, in a voice that is quiet but as firm as steel.

"I choose my family."

Ralof says much the same shortly after, and many of the gathered crowd agree.  Externally, I'm sombre as I nod and let the mood settle into one of contemplation, but internally I'm screaming in excitement that I've managed to get them to not only see reason, but maybe to talk to each other again.

The rest of the night is spent in a companionable silence, occasionally broken by light conversation.  Ralof and Hadvar don't say anything to each other, but that's more because there's nothing to say yet, as opposed to how they were ignoring each other before.

As the fires are put low and all but the first watch settle in to sleep, I allow myself a grin and a fist pump, and I drift off to dreams of snow and smoke.

|/_|||_\|

It's not quite dawn when I jerkily stagger out of the tent and collapse on a seat next to a fire.  The few coals that remain quickly prove too much, however, and I instead stumble out towards the edge of camp, letting my gaze fall upon the imposing silhouette of Bleak Falls Barrow.

In my mind's eye, I can still see the embers and smoke, still hear the screams and roars.  I had somewhat distantly acknowledged, yesterday, that Helgen had been a traumatic experience even for someone who knew what was coming.

Just because I knew from the beginning that I was never at risk of being beheaded before Alduin arrived didn't stop my nightmares from showing me a timeline where I was called to die first, and the axe fell right as Alduin came over the mountain.

Just because I knew the path that would take me safely into the keep didn't stop my nightmares from showing me the myriad ways I could have been crushed, burned, eaten, or picked up and thrown.  Nor did it stop me from seeing the bodies of those who had suffered such fates.

Even now my mind seemed intent on creating images of every way things could have gone wrong even after entering the keep.  Alduin breathing fire before I could close the door.  The Captain turning the first room into a massacre.  Hadvar and Ralof dying on each other's weapons, or me in the middle having tried to stop them.  The entire group getting crushed as the stone came down on top of us.

I need a distraction.

I turn to a nearby soldier who looks to have recently gotten up - an Imperial, and one of the ones who had volunteered to burn the spider nest.

"Hey," I say, not bothering to try and look any better than I feel.  She looks concerned, especially once she realises that the bedraggled face before her is the same man who confidently led them out of Helgen.  "I need a distraction from the nightmares."  The concern fades into understanding and sympathy, but she still seems uncertain as to how she might help.  "Do you think you can teach me magic?"

She blinks, seemingly surprised at my request, but between my lack of combat ability and my impending Hero's Journey, I need to know how to defend myself as soon as physically possible - possibly even sooner.

"I'm not asking for specific spells.  What I need is more basic than that.  I need to know how to feel and use my Magicka."

At that, she seems even more confused than before.  I guess that, like physical combat, feeling Magicka is something learned from a young age... except why would that be the case for the magi-phobic Nords?  Is there another reason to learn Magicka control?  She looks me up and down and cocks her head to the side.

"Didn't your parents ever teach-"

"They didn't know either," I interrupt, thinking fast to try and come up with a believable cover story.  "Nobody in my family does.  Don't ask why because I don't know.  Can you help me?"

She still seems confused but she nods slowly.  She takes a moment to inform some of the other soldiers what's going on and a couple of them step up to help, each giving me glances that tell me it's apparently very weird to not know what I'm asking to be taught.  One of them - an officer of some kind, by his fancier armour - steps closer to me.

"These kinds of lessons are usually given to children by their parents, or by other community members.  I'm not sure I've ever heard a version made for adults, so it might be a bit..."

"I don't care if it's condescending," I interrupt.  "I need to learn."

He nods, and soon I'm being guided through a basic breathing exercise with my eyes closed as my hands are being held.  From their explanations, the internal movement of one's Magicka has various slight health effects - emphasis on slight.  Magic is the term specifically given to the external usage of one's Magicka and the myriad effects that can be achieved that way.

As they explain, I begin to understand why Nords would know this.  Their focus on physical combat and their cold, harsh home would both necessitate the improvements that this movement would grant.  It reminds me of Qi in martial arts stories, except the physical improvements are far smaller, with the average warrior getting the equivalent of a few metres of sight or a few seconds of breath.

The true benefit, they explain, is in one's awareness of their body, and in being able to know where your limbs are, how they're moving, and how to get them to move like you want to - what I know as proprioception.

As they talk, they slowly circulate a small amount of Magicka through my body, moving up my left arm, across my chest, and back down through my right arm.  They ask me not to try and do anything yet, but rather to simply feel the movement and try to memorise the sensation.

Gradually, the camp wakes up around us, and my tutors move on to having me say out loud where they're having their Magicka pulse, or how quickly it's moving along what paths.  By the time the camp is packed up and everyone is ready to go, my teachers have been swapped out a dozen times, the group around me is completely different from the ones at the start, and I'm able to correctly identify not only where the Magicka is and how fast it's moving, but even who is supplying it to me.

As the day's march begins and we start moving down the road towards Riverwood, the people walking next to me circulate their Magicka within their own bodies and have me try and identify the pattern of movement without touching them.  By the time I'm able to answer them with a reasonable amount of confidence, we've come to the Guardian Stones.

The Guardian Stones are roughly the same size as in the game, but when the rest of the world is so much bigger, that just makes them seem tiny.  The entire platform is barely five metres across, with each stone taking up about a metre of space on either side, and only the road side being empty.

A number of people stop to pray at the stones, often choosing to stand directly next to one stone or another.  The vast majority choose Warrior, to nobody's surprise, and a couple choose Mage, but I'm surprised by how many choose Thief.  Of note are a number of archers, one elderly man who has been showing me how to identify and harvest various alchemical plants from the roadside, and one young woman in somewhat finer clothes - a merchant, perhaps?

The stones often glow and glimmer with each person that stops by, and when I step up to the Mage Stone and reach out with my mind as I've been doing all morning, the constellation lights up and the centre of the hollow section glows.  A few people stop and look, but it seems everyone finds the brighter reaction to be largely unremarkable.  I'm not sure what to make of that, or what to make of the fact that I don't feel any different.

The stones end up only being a minor delay, and in short order we're moving along and my lessons have continued.  As I'm taking a breath to centre my mind, I feel someone approach by their Magicka.  I open my eyes to find one of the townsfolk looking at me with respect that seems to border on reverence.

"You're picking this up incredibly fast.  I don't think I've ever seen it take less than a month to reach the level you're at.  Sometimes it can even take years."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"It might have something to do with the fact that I'm a grown man capable of understanding what people are trying to say when they're attempting to explain complex metaphysical sensations with an accompanying example."

He blinks, and I continue before he can attempt to glaze me again - I don't need an ego boost right as I'm learning actual fucking magic, thank you.

"There's also the fact that I have several dozen people explaining their own ways of thinking about it, while most kids will have, what, their parents, maybe a sibling, possibly an aunt or uncle?"

With a slight blush at bring corrected, he falls back into the group, and my teachers decide they're satisfied enough with my senses that they're going to try to get me moving my own Magicka throughout my body.  The first lesson is simple - they circulate their Magicka through my arms and chest like when they were first teaching me to feel it, and I try to follow the flow.

At first, this goes incredibly poorly.  My circulation is sluggish, breaks off in random directions, and seems to actively reject them once it starts moving.  It's as if my Magicka comes alive to violently repel the intruder whenever it's moving similarly to theirs.  After a few close calls, it's decided that the lessons will pause until we can figure out what's going on.

I am not satisfied with this.

As the march continues past Embershard Mine (I see a figure duck behind a tree, presumably making the wise decision not to antagonise the column of soldiers), I focus inward.  I still remember how it felt to have Magicka flowing through my veins.  It's neither warm nor cool, instead feeling more like a faint pressure within my skin each time I manage to get it moving at more than an ooze.

It reminds me of how I could feel my blood pulse through my skin after heavy exercise - that sensation of something pushing its way not outward, but through me.  Focusing, I attempt to recreate that feeling, this time without external influence.  Multiple attempts pass unsuccessfully, until suddenly one attempt results in a sudden burst of that pressure, and without conscious thought, I take a deep breath in and open my eyes.

I can feel it now.  It's not distinct pulses like my blood, but a continuous flow throughout my entire body.  It still follows my veins, my arteries, my blood vessels.  But it also crawls through my bones, oozes through my organs, and seeps through my skin.  And the robes!

Before, I hadn't been entirely sure what the enchantments on the robes did.  I could tell that I was a little more energized, a little more aware, and my thoughts were a little more solid and defined, but beyond those vague descriptions I couldn't quite grasp the effect the enchantments were having on me.

Now, I can feel how the robes are less like clothes and more like another, more open layer of skin.  My Magicka is flowing out of me, into and through the robes, and back into me as easily as it does between my skin and my flesh.  Furthermore, the vast surface area of the robes serves the same purpose as the folds on your brain or the structures in your lungs.  The vastly improved ratio of surface area to volume results in improved effect for the same space - in this case, essentially functioning as more of me being open to receive Magicka from Aetherius and Mundus around me, which is how it accelerates my Magicka regeneration.

The hood is another matter.  In the same instant that I understand what it does and how it does it, I also understand that it's a crutch, which will only limit me as I grow.  I know in that same instant that I hate it.  The hood clarifies my thoughts, granting definition to them.  It forces structure and order upon them, aligning them with one another.  It does the same to my Magicka, forcing it to flow in certain ways, and I'm sure that when I get around to casting spells, the hood will help me form spells as they were known by the Enchanter, who learned the formations from wearing a hood enchanted by someone else, and on and on it goes, tracing back who knows how far.

If I want to have any hope of creative spellcrafting - of casting spells my own way, of being a mage, and not just a magic user, then the hood has to go.

With a strangled gasp, I rip the hood off, throw it to who knows where, and stumble to the side.  The people around me reach out to steady me and guide me to a log for me to sit on.  I don't fight them, instead trying to keep my breaths deep, slow, and even.  These new sensations threaten to overwhelm me, and if I were still wearing the hood, I'm certain I would quickly fall into a complete nervous meltdown.  Without that accursed cage, however, I'm able to maintain my grip on reality.

The faces around me are concerned, and a number of them are asking how I feel.  They don't ask what happened, because they can already feel what's changed, like they've been teaching me to feel since this morning.  I focus on keeping the flow going.  It's constant now.  That moment of clarity - of feeling how I'm connected to Aetherius, both as the people around me are and how my Dovah soul changes that connection like light through a prism - didn't grant complete knowledge, but it let me see a bit more of the whole picture, allowing me to maintain the flow with a little more ease.

"I," I start to speak, before coughing.  My throat is dry from all the unsuccessful attempts.  I'd been trying for several hours, judging by the sun almost being directly above us.  One of the soldiers offers me a waterskin and I gratefully take it, sipping slowly until I feel like I can talk again.  The rest of the group continues marching, throwing me worried looks every now and then.  Once my throat is feeling better, I pass the waterskin back, and stand up to rejoin the column, not complaining when a couple of the people who had sat with me choose to keep a hand on my arm and my back.  I swallow, and try again.

"I'm okay now, I think."

I don't even have to look at their faces to feel their incredulous looks.  I'd been walking along normally when my Magicka had suddenly gone from no movement a smooth flow and I'd stumbled to the side, ripping off my hood and looking like I was going to vomit.

"That was... it was a lot to take in, especially all at once."  I swallow again, and make sure my breathing is even before I continue speaking.  "I've been trying to get the flow going since those failed attempts before."

"Oh, you're a damn fool, lad," one of the Stormcloaks says as he shakes his head.  He doesn't sound angry so much as regretful.

"Yeah, I noticed," I joke back with a small smile.  He doesn't laugh, instead continuing to look at me like he's trying to figure out how to save me from myself.  "Anyway, I did manage to get it right, but having the robes on... well, they were intended for people who already knew how to move their Magicka and everything, so going from nothing to that was a bit much."

"What about the hood?  Why did you rip it off?"  I take a moment to focus back on my Magicka flow before I answer the question.  It's moving steadily, flowing through my blood vessels easily and then diffusing into the rest of my body.  It gathers in my bones and... it almost seems to purify there, condensing into something more potent before further circulating to the rest of my body.

"The hood," I begin, still deeply unsettled by the full sensation of it, "was a nightmare in a mask."

They all look at me like I'm speaking nonsense, but I'm not done.

"Its purpose is to help mages form spells right, and it does that by helping you structure your Magicka in the right shapes and patterns."

I pause, trying to find the right words to explain to them how utterly wrong that thing felt.

"But who decides what the 'right' patterns are?  That hood would have locked me into the patterns that were used by the person who enchanted it.  The person who enchanted it probably learned from another hood, which held the patterns used by another, older enchanter."

One of the townsfolk - a thick, heavyset man with calloused fingers and small burn scars across his hands - widens his eyes at that, and looks increasingly horrified as I keep talking.

"And if you kept going back, you'd just find more and more generations following these same patterns - not because it's the best," I stop to breathe because I can feel myself beginning to slip into panic.  Once I've centred myself again, I continue.

"Not because it's the best, but because it's all that that cage of an enchantment will ever allow them to learn."

Chapter Text

"It might not mean anything," I point out, being sure to keep my voice steady even as my heart and mind are racing.  I'd been so distracted trying to recover that I hadn't noticed I had reverted to my default volume of Very Loud, and had consequently been heard by most of the group who were understandably very concerned by what I had felt from the hood's enchantment.

The blasted thing is, both fortunately and unfortunately, not lost despite me having thrown it aside when I ripped it off.  Someone had grabbed it on the assumption I might want it back - at least until they heard me describe how it had felt.

Now it's sitting in a lockbox in the pack of one of the less magically inclined soldiers, who had been armed with flint and tinder in case anyone felt it flare up.  An overreaction, in my opinion, but not one I was going to counteract.  The Nords really don't like mind-fuckery magic, and in this instance I'm inclined to agree.

"You just found out that one of the most common enchantments for any mage from novice to master, previously thought to simply increase a mage's Magicka pool, is actually manipulating the entire way they cast all magic into sightly more efficient but completely uniform formations, and that these enchantments limit a mage's thoughts in such a way that outright prevents them from altering the formations of spells to suit their individual and situational needs - which was thought to simply be a dying art but is apparently instead actively being suppressed - and you're saying that it might not mean anything!?"

The Imperial's (Derek?  No, Derrin) perfectly coiffed, magnificent moustache dances up and down his face as he speaks, fully obscuring his upper lip the whole time.  His arms, thicker than tree trunks, can't seem to decide whether they want to sit crossed in front of his chest or squeeze something to death, and periodically flicker between the two.  He towers over me, head and shoulders - an impressive feat when I'm already sitting comfortably at 195.  Inexplicably, I'm struck with a mental image of him working in a patisserie, kneading dough and selling perfectly cut pastries.  Neither this mental image nor the man before me are what I imagine when I think of a high-ranking, seasoned Imperial Battlemage, yet here he stands.

Upon hearing my description of the enchantment, he had examined it himself, and declared that what I had felt was correct.  Once he had immediately unequipped any and all pieces of equipment with any kind of enchantments (an action which was mirrored by a few other people around us) he swiftly began examining each one to see if any other effects had been so grievously misunderstood.  He hasn't found anything so far, but I feel like I need to stop this before it goes too far.

"There's a saying that goes, 'never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by incompetence' - and before you say anything!"  I hastily add, seeing him rise up, moustache quivering.

"I fully understand that the consequences of this are immense and far-reaching, but the size of the initial act does not necessarily correlate to the size of the result however many years later."

He has, at least, lessened the intensity of his gaze somewhat, going from 'directly in the path of Alduin's fire' to 'directly in the path of Mirmulnir's fire'.

"Say, for example, that a master mage is having difficulty getting their students to make stable formations, and has the bright idea to implement gentle guidelines into their students' gear.  The students eventually have their own students, but don't quite get the 'gentle' part that their teacher used, and end up with something a bit more rigid.  Repeat until today when the enchantment has zero room for change or altering of formations at all."

He exhales forcefully, and I could swear I see steam coming from his nose.

"I can admit that that is a possibility, but it does not mean that there is no chance of-"

"No, no!"  I interrupt him, waving my hands.  "I'm not saying there's no chance of that!  I'm just saying not to completely assume it as a certainty that this was intentional."

He pauses to try and parse my (admittedly confusingly phrased) words, and eventually sighs and nods.

"We will be examining this further," he says firmly.  I don't know if by 'we' he means me, the Imperials, all the mages here, or what, but I nod.

"Sure.  I'll add it to the list under the Dragons."

He glowers at me before returning to pack up his equipment.  As we prepare to continue along the road, I ponder what Derrin had said.

He was seemingly convinced that the effect of the enchantment was deliberate - an attack against magical prowess all across Tamriel.  I'm not so sure.  Sure, the effects are worrying, and even after removing any enchanted equipment the Battlemage and his fellows couldn't seem to alter their spells, but the example I gave wasn't just idle rambling.  This entire situation stinks of just a wash of stupid incompetence.

But fine, let's suppose it's an attack.  From who?  Well, not the Thalmor, they use the same enchantment.  I don't know if the Telvanni use it but to my knowledge, they prefer to master magic in its full complexity so that they can feel more superior.  Really, any race or faction of men or mer just doesn't have the reach and influence to do this.

What about non-mortals?  The Volkihars have the reason - wanting their "prey" weakened - but again, not the means, due to living in near total seclusion to the point that they take thousands of years to locate Serana, and they make zero progress on locating the Scroll of Dragon, the one scroll that is with neither Serana nor Valerica.

Werewolves?  Fuck no.  The Companions are the only organised group of them - in Skyrim, at least - and they're far more interested in being honourable, even if they do dislike mages.

Really, if we're looking to see who would even have had the means to do this - if it's even intentional - then the only places we can look would be Aetherius and Oblivion.

And the Godhead simply dreaming of a simpler kind of magic, but fuck that.  The Godhead theory is stupid as shit, and the fact that I haven't disappeared despite knowing that I am most certainly not the dreamer straight-up disproves it. (Don't think don't look don't acknowledge don't think)

So, Aetherius and Oblivion.  Not Aetherius.  The Aedra are too fond of Mundus' inhabitants to do something like this, and even if they weren't, it would just be an insult to Magnus.  Oblivion, then.  Not Jyggalag.  Order may be his thing but he's still wandering Oblivion after the Hero of Kvatch turned into Sheogorath and beat his ass - plus, Jyggalag doesn't do subtlety like this, his Greymarch is a full-on crusade.

What about the other Princes?  Azura, no.  Hircine, no.  Meridia, no.  Mephala, ehhh no.  Vaermina, no.  Molag Bal, too subtle again.  Mora.

Fuck, could it be Hermaeus Mora?  Daedric Prince of Knowledge, collector of secrets, hoarder of... but no, that's just it.  He collects, he hoards, he takes, but he does not make.  He's a thief, not an innovator.  So here's the question:  would he limit the breadth of magic in Mundus to make it so that he and he alone holds the ancient and incredible spells... or would he simply be unable to reduce his influx of shiny new toys?

Either way, whether he is the cause or knows it, I'd rather not deal with him unless absolutely necessary.  I cross my fingers.  Derrin looks at me strangely, to which I sigh.

"It's a gesture for luck.  I'm hoping we'll be able to find an answer without needing to go to the Prince of Knowledge for help."

He flinches, and many of the group do a double take at how easily I talk about dealing with Daedra.  He gives me another assessing look - what is that, the fourth since I figured out the hood?

"I would also like to not have to deal with the Daedra in any capacity.  Does your omniscience tell us where we might find answers?"

"First off, I'm not omniscient," I correct, but looking around, it's clear that nobody believes me.  Before I can continue, however, Ralof, of all people, steps forward.

"Friend, I have been thinking ever since we left Helgen, and I... I am sorry."

I stop and blink, stunned.  That came completely out of the blue and I have immediately lost the thread of the conversation.

"You were right, back in Helgen Keep.  We would not have believed you, had you been honest and clear from the start."

What the fuck is happening.

"Instead, you were forced to hide behind layers of vague warnings and half-truths, until we accepted that you do know what you're talking about."

This isn't happening.  I am not getting read like an open book by Ralof of all people.

"But, friend, I'm telling you now that I believe you.  You don't have to shoulder the weight of the future all alone - because it is the future you see, I'm sure of it.  We will follow you."

I stand with my mouth agape and my eyes wide, wondering if I might have been too effective last night at making him care about his fellows.  As I look around, however, nobody seems to be giving him odd looks.  They're looking at me instead, with something almost reverent in their eyes.

I don't understand.  I led them through Helgen, sure, but beyond that all I'd done was to learn child-level magic and accidentally uncover something in the process.  Even if I'd managed to do something a little impressive in the way of diplomacy, the intro sequence hadn't...

Oh.

Oh.

A single puzzle piece slots into place and I understand so much of what the survivors of Helgen see in me.  For all that Helgen had been horrific, it had still played out mostly as I had seen in the game.  I knew the sequence, the path, and how to walk it.

They didn't have that luxury.

To all of these people, Helgen had been a waking nightmare personally intent on their deaths.  And from nowhere, I had walked around a corner, stopped a fight from breaking out, convinced bitter enemies to lay down arms, led everyone out through a secret tunnel without a single death after they first saw me, and I had done it with an easy confidence and without a hint of fear - caution, certainly, but no fear.

Then they learned that I had done that with nothing but my wits and my words, having lacked something so basic and universal that they initially had trouble understanding how I could just not have it.

And now, I'm making strides, not just in learning Magicka control, but in uncovering mysteries and finding truths long lost.

The survivors of Helgen see me as what they had so desperately prayed for as their world turned to ash around them.

They see me as a burgeoning hero, stepping straight out of the pages of legend to rise to glory here and now.

Jade the Hero... fuck, I do not like that at all.  No thank you to the hordes of people knowing my name and having expectations, it's anonymity and obscurity for me.  But I know that that won't be what I get.  I am Dovahkiin, and whether I like it or not, I'm the only one with the knowledge to prevent catastrophe.  Whether I do it from behind a desk or out there in person, my deeds will be sung of for generations.  'The right man in the wrong place'?  Well, I'm the wrong man in the right place and I have to work with what I've got.  Aedra, Daedra, one and all, damn it.

I heave a deep, heavy sigh, and lift my hands to rub my face.  I had really been hoping on becoming a "man with no name" kind of hero figure, appreciated but largely unknown beyond rumours.  Alas, it seemed it was not to be.  Far out, the ones who split off to head towards Falkreath and Riften are likely spreading word of me as they go.  So much for how everyone in the game reacts to the player as if they're a complete unknown.

Lowering my hands, I level an exasperated glare at Ralof.

"First, since when can you do speeches, especially ones like that?"

"Wha-" he tries to get a word in, but I press on to keep my momentum.

"Second," I continue, turning to Derrin, "as I was going to say, I am not omniscient, I do not see the future.  I saw chunks of the future and pieces of the past, years ago, and now I have to rely on my memory and the knowledge I gained."

Derrin considers this, and nods.  I suppose a high-ranking Battlemage would have access to material about seers and would know how finicky visions could be.

"Now, if we're trying to figure out for ourselves how this happened, I'd say we have two main avenues.  First, we find a magical text like a spell tome that was made in the Third Era."

He grimaces.  I guess those are in short supply.

"Alternatively, we find someone old enough to remember the magic of that era - or, better yet, someone who was trained in magic back then."

I hold up two fingers.

"Two names spring to mind immediately.  First."

I lower one finger, being sure to observe the Magicka of everyone to get a feel for their thoughts on Solstheim and the Telvanni.

"A Telvanni mage named Neloth, on Solstheim."

Caution and distrust at Telvanni, hesitance and some confusion at Solstheim.  Derrin doesn't seem to be giving me anything, though.  Is it possible to train to keep your flow steady like you can keep a straight face?  I should learn that, and learn to look harder.  If it's possible to keep it steady then it's possible to hide it, and I don't want the Dark Brotherhood to have any more advantages than absolutely necessary.  Or the Thalmor for that matter.  I hold up my second finger, being sure to focus on Derrin's Magicka in particular.

"And a Dragon Priest, of which there are several here in Skyrim, but I'm thinking in particular of Morokei, in Labyrinthian."

I vaguely register shock, confusion, and fear at 'Dragon Priest' and the same combination with a greater focus on fear when I get to 'Labyrinthian', but my focus is on Derrin's Magicka.

There's no flickers.  Not on 'Dragon Priest', not on 'Labyrinthian', and not on 'Morokei', although I wasn't expecting him to know the names of the Dragon Priests.  But what I do notice is that his Magicka flow does change slightly.  When I mention the priests, there's a slight increase in the speed of movement in his left hand, seeming to form a layer across his palm.  Is that what it looks like to prepare a ward?

When I mention Labyrinthian, the flow changes across his entire body.  The speed increases all the way up and down his right arm, and the Magicka in his legs maintains the same rate but almost seems to thicken, a denser stand coiling around two seemingly solid masses of Magicka - coiling around his bones?

The changes are tiny.  Even when specifically looking for them, I barely noticed.  In the heat of battle, if my opponent's Magicka were changing this subtly, I wouldn't be able to predict them at all.  I absolutely need to learn this.  Just not from an enchantment.

"But it's not a pressing concern, compared to the Dragons."

The mages, Derrin in particular, look torn at that, but I continue before they can interrupt.

"There's a simple short-term solution in the form of just not using that enchantment anymore, and keeping an eye out for anything with a similarly insidious effect.  As for finding the 'why' of it, that can be put off for a time, especially if the enchantment isn't being used anymore."

None of them look happy, but nobody voices any disagreements.  Their Magicka feels... disappointed, but resigned.  While I'm marveling at being able to feel emotions like this, a very welcome sight becomes visible from behind the trees, and I don't bother to suppress a grin.

"Besides, we're here."

Sure enough, the south gate of Riverwood stands before us, and many of the group heave a sigh of relief.  Civilisation.  Proper beds.  We made it.

The mood in Riverwood is tense, at first.  Everyone acts like they don't believe Sven's mother when she says she saw a Dragon, but even now, a day and a half later, they can still see the smoke in the distance.

That tension almost boils over when the column of soldiers is seen making its way towards town, but the town guards (not in Whiterun colours, but simple iron and some steel.  A local militia?) have barely drawn their weapons when they realise the group consists of both Stormcloaks and Imperials, as well as a number of civilians, at which point they settle into confusion.  As we get closer, they must notice the pure relief on everyone's faces and in their postures, because one of them turns and sprints back into town, yelling something we can't hear, and by the time we've reached the gate, the entire town is abuzz.

People are streaming out of buildings all over.  Some carry blankets and bandages, which they bring towards us.  A handful are carrying buckets down to the river, which they fill and then bring up to Alvor's forge, where they pour the water into a container hanging over the fire before running back to the river again.  Further back, people are running in and out of a building with a hanging sign I can't read from here.  They're taking what looks like blankets, pillows, and other bedding and carrying them to just about every building that isn't a shop, from the look of it.  A Breton with a goatee and shaggy grey hair steps up, along with a couple of people behind him, and yells loud enough for us all to hear.

"I am a healer!  If you are injured, come to me!  The most serious injuries will be treated first!  After I am done with you, or if you are not injured, move to the other end of town, towards the inn, and follow the instructions of the people there!"

I did not expect this at all.  This can't just have been in preparation for people to come from Helgen after they saw the smoke, they have too many supplies already prepared.  How often do they get wounded travellers and groups to be this well organised when doing this?  Fuck, how frequent are dangers that it happens this often?  In the game, there are people like Talsgar and M'aiq who wander Skyrim alone.  Are they not alone here or are they actually amazing combatants?  Actually, considering how many times I've found several dead bears with Talsgar calmly walking away, maybe it's not that surprising.

I make my way past the healer and towards the inn, like he said.  The others of the group don't seem at all surprised by the welcome, so I guess it really is standard for settlements to just have this kind of response ready.  It's a heartwarming display of care for your fellows.  I'm sure I'd appreciate it more if I were fully energised, but the last couple of days really have been a lot.

The buildings are larger here as well. Two storeys is standard, and the inn has three, along with the building all the bedding is being pulled from.  It's several minutes before we come within sight of the inn, and once we do, I can see that a platform has been hastily constructed in the centre of the road, and a woman I don't recognise is standing atop it shouting instructions.

"We have limited beds, but plenty of bedding!  You might not have a bed but there are enough mattresses, blankets, and pillows for 100 people!  You will likely have to sleep in homes as the inn is already almost full!  Families will be kept together, and we will attempt to keep factions apart!  The people behind me are the ones who will be hosting you once the inn is full!  Step forward to be assigned a place to sleep!"

The crowd behind her is probably a couple dozen people.  I recognise Alvor, Gerdur, Lucan, and Hilde.  Sven I don't see, but he might have been among those carrying things everywhere, and I think Faendal might have been with the healer at the gate.  I attempt to wave some of the others forward, but I'm quickly dragged along with them as they tell me that if I feel half as exhausted as I look, then they'd feel bad taking one of the proper beds.  Ouch.

I don't complain, though, since they're right and I feel like they might be the only thing actually keeping me upright.  As we're brought into the inn and I avoid eye contact with Delphine, I realise that they're all moving their Magicka in very specific ways.  Each one is a soothing pattern on its own, but together they're forming a beautiful harmony which is making me calmer with every second I listen to it.

"Is that... are you making a lullaby with your Magicka flow?"  I murmur as they help me stagger into the room on the second floor that Delphine pointed out.  "That's amazing."

I don't hear their response, if they give one.  My head is already on a pillow and I'm fading fast.  My last thought before I'm gone is that I should have stayed with the healer to observe his Magicka.

/_|||_\

My first thought as I open my eyes is that I feel oddly still, stagnant in a way I find familiar but unpleasant.

My second thought is the realisation that every cell in my body is in agony.

I strangle out a curse, barely managing to muffle it from a yell, and suck in a breath.  When I was young, I had broken my arm.  The bone was completely sheared at the wrist, and my arm had been both visibly shorter and thicker than it should have been.  I had been sobbing on the ground, unable to open my eyes even after paramedics had given me an injection for the pain.  For much of my life I had suffered from occasional night cramps in my legs, which would wake me up and leave me whimpering, trying to stretch my leg out enough to end the cramp.

This full-body ache is somewhere been the two.  I manage to force a deep breath but keep my eyes shut.  Sight won't help me, and I'm not sure I want to see whatever this is.  I remember that Magicka flow has physical improvements including acceleration of natural healing, and I realise that the stillness I felt was my Magicka.  After spending so much of yesterday keeping a steady flow, I had gotten used to the sensation, but after I had gone to sleep it must have slowed to a stop again.  I reach inwards, and try to get a gentle circuit started.

The pain explodes, and I lose all semblance of awareness.  When I fade into lucidity again, the Breton healer is next to me, hand on my chest.  I open my mouth but before I can say anything, he speaks.

"Don't talk.  You've severely strained your body by passing Magicka through it far beyond what you're used to."

I focus on my breaths, keeping them deep and even.

"Your friends tell me you couldn't even sense Magicka before yesterday.  If that's the case then you should have started with maybe five minutes of light circulation at a time, with at least ten minutes of rest in between, and you should have stopped as soon as you started getting sore.  How did you not notice you were already in pain?"

"Combination of adrenaline and exhaustion," slips out before I can process it.  He doesn't respond, but his Magicka is radiating disappointment.  It's cool that I can still sense that with my own Magicka stagnant, although it's somewhat muffled.

He stays silent and keeps his hand on my chest, but I can feel the way his Magicka is flowing.  While it's still in his body the movement is fairly normal, but when it reaches his hand it spreads out.

Part of it goes directly into my body, seeping into my heart and mingling with my own Magicka to be sent with my blood all throughout my body.  Most of it, however, spreads across the outside of my body and enters evenly, mixing with the Magicka carried in my blood and... doing something, which I assume is some kind of healing spell.  If I focus on the actual process at the point of effect, I think I can make out what's happening.  The Magicka from my blood is acting as a diagnostic since it mixes with my own Magicka, and the external Magicka is taking that information and-

"Stop that."

I open my eyes (when did I close them?) to find the healer glaring at me, radiating even more disapproval.

"You're not yet experienced enough to attempt to replicate any spell, especially not in your current condition."

It takes me a second to formulate a response, even though the pain has mostly faded to a dull ache.

"How could you tell?  I wasn't-"

"Sensing Magicka isn't done with your bodily senses.  It's done by sending out your own Magicka and feeling the responses.  Your Magicka was concentrating around where mine was doing the most work."

I take a moment to process that.  If that's the case, then it should be possible to sense what he's doing to me without even moving my Magicka, since it's happening in my body.  What I find more interesting, though, is the revelation that the sensory properties of Magicka function on a send-to-receive principle like sonar or...

"Like a spiderweb," I murmur, closing my eyes and reaching out.  For a moment, I begin to feel something.  The man beside me.  The stagnant, dead wood of the bed and walls.  The people just outside the door-

"Ow!"  I flinch as the healer flicks my forehead and glares at me even harder.

"What did I just say about not doing that?"

I take a second and realise that even that tiny exertion has sent ripples of pain all up and down my body.  I must really be out of it to only be realising after the fact.

"Right.  Sorry."

He holds his glare for a few seconds, then closes his eyes and sighs.  He removes his hand from my chest and reaches for my shoulder.

"How do you feel?  Can you sit up?"

I think for a moment.  The pain is still there, but nowhere near what it was.

"Let's find out," I respond, moving my legs over the edge of the bed and pushing myself up.  The pain doesn't flare up but it does leave me feeling stiff all over.  Without too much difficulty, I'm soon sitting up, one hand on the headboard and the other planted on the mattress beside myself.

"Good," he says.  He lets his hand drop from my shoulder.  "Do you think you can stand up as well, or do you need a minute?"

I don't say anything, instead opting to take a deep breath before pushing off the mattress and letting my feet take my weight.  It's a little uncertain at first, and at one point I almost topple to the side, but eventually I'm standing free of any support.  With a nod from the healer, I make my way towards the door and out onto the second floor walkway, pausing when I realise that there's quite a few very concerned-looking people gathered just outside the door.  I must've made some noise when I blacked out.

Several minutes later, I'm stumbling out the front door of the inn into the pale pre-dawn glow and being helped down onto one of the benches next to the door.  The bitter chill feels wonderful against my skin, and even seems to be soothing my aches.  I let out a sigh of relief and sag a little.

"Oh, that's much better."

The healer is watching me, probably to make sure I don't try to do anything stupid like restart my circulation.  Speaking of which.

"How long should I wait until attempting anything Magicka-related again?"

He scoffs, already knowing that telling me to take it easy is a lost cause, and choosing to take a different approach.

"If you even think of trying before tomorrow, I'll kill you."

The survivors who had come out with me start to glare at him, but stop when I chuckle.

"Tomorrow.  Got it.  Thanks."

He shakes his head with another sigh and leaves with a muttered "Mara have mercy," as he walks towards the river side of town.  For a moment I simply sit there, breathing deep, as I consider my options.

Completing Dragon Rising is the current goal.  Once I've completed Dragon Rising, taking Mirmulnir's soul and beginning my journey as Dragonborn, then I can think about slowing down, but until then, I have to keep pace with the story to at least maintain some semblance of control over the butterfly effect.  That means heading out towards Whiterun as soon as possible, likely keeping pace with the soldiers who are moving on.  I turn to the person next to me.

"Has anyone left for Whiterun yet?"

She blinks, and points past me towards where a group of soldiers are making their way from the south side of town towards us.  They didn't even have the decency to wait for dawn.  With a groan, I stand up and start down the steps, much to the concern of the people around me.  Once at the road, I wait for them to reach us, and step out to join them.

"You're heading to Whiterun?"

They look at my battered figure and at each other.  Eventually, one nods.

"I'm coming with you."

They all look bewildered at that, likely having expected me to just ask them to bring a message.

"In that state?  I don't think you should be-"

"I am coming with you to Whiterun," I say with a bit more force.  "We've almost reached the point where I can slow down and rest.  I just need to go a little further.  To Whiterun, to Dragonsreach with news of Helgen for the Jarl, and then I can take it slower on the errand from his court wizard."

Again, none of them are happy with what I'm saying, but they can't find a proper argument against it.  Thankfully, after Ralof's speech, none of them seem to be questioning my knowledge either.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm already going to take it easier while we're travelling, at least until I've recovered somewhat from this."

It does seem to make them feel better, if only a little.  With a grimace, the soldier in the lead nods.  It's a short goodbye, and I ask the people who had helped me in the inn to tell everyone I'm sorry for leaving at this hour.  In just a minute, we're crossing the bridge out of town, my bags in place and the hood stashed in a small pocket of the bookbag.  I spare a backward glance to Riverwood, regretting that I couldn't wait any longer in such a nice place.

As we reach the end of the bridge and turn north, I poke at my Magicka and wince as the pain throbs.  I know the healer said tomorrow, but I'm short on time, and when I'm facing death as the cost of idleness, pain is a small price to pay.

Chapter Text

I wince and suppress a gasp as the pain throbs higher for a moment in response to me poking my Magicka.  I’ve been trying occasionally the entire time we’ve been walking, and each time my body gleefully reminds me of how it had gone the last time.  The pain as a whole is steadily lessening, but it’s still too much for me to try and get even a simple circuit moving.

We’ve been walking for a few hours now, and we’ve reached the intersection outside Honningbrew Meadery.  The area is surprisingly lush – perhaps from the spray of the rapids behind us?

As I attempt to poke my Magicka again and receive a sharp reprimand from my aching body, I wave farewell to the handful of Stormcloaks who have turned right to cross the bridge and return to Windhelm.  A few have remained with us, presumably to travel out to the various war camps in Imperial-aligned holds.

As they reach the other side of the bridge, I turn my gaze up to Whiterun.  Not much of the city is visible from this side, but even without details I can see that it is absolutely massive.  Dragonsreach towers high above us, looking as far as High Hrothgar did in the game.

The Cloud District appears well named, as I can see wisps of cloud curling around under the balcony, and on days with heavy cloud cover, the entirety of the top of the city would likely be completely obscured.  Those clouds are moving decently fast, as well, which means the Wind District is likely equally well named, and should have a pleasant breeze at all times.

The city also seems less... offset, I guess?  In the game, Dragonsreach had been the edge of the city, with only a cliff face below it all the way down to the farms.  Here, the cliff only goes down a couple hundred metres, where it gives way to layers of buildings and pathways that stretch all the way around to the front side of the city.  Interestingly, many of the buildings on higher layers look decrepit while the ones lower down look new.

“Ho there!  What brings such a group together in times like this?”

I look away from the mountainous city to find a trio of guards approaching us from the road towards Whiterun.  None of them have weapons drawn but their flows are tense, coiling through their arms and legs, forming walls across their skin.  I push through the pain and step forward.

“We’ve come here from Helgen.  We have news for the Jarl about the Dragon attack, as well as a call for aid from Riverwood.”

I feel another twinge of pain from sensing how their Magicka shows confusion at why a mage is speaking for all these soldiers, but the one in front eventually nods.

“In that case, you’d better keep going down the road behind us.  That’ll lead you to the city entrance.”

As we thank him and move forward, I ponder how many entrances the city has.  There’s the main entrance up from the stables, and the entrance through the Underforge, but seeing the sheer size of the city here, there has to be more.  There’s likely at least one leading out of Dragonsreach as an escape for the Jarl, and I’d be surprised if those extra layers of buildings don’t have an entrance near them.

It’s as we pass by the Meadery that I realise the area around us is absolutely vibrant with flowers and alchemical ingredients, some of which I recognise from the game and some of which is completely unfamiliar to me.  In just the hundred-metre stretch just in front of me, I think I see more colour than the entirety of the in-game road from Riverwood to the Western Watchtower - and that’s just the road!

The fields around us, both wild and farmland, are lush with greenery and foliage.  It’s beautiful.  If there’s a home for sale other than Breezehome that has a view of this, I think I might get that instead, because I could live happily with a view like that.

Since my eyes are on the fields around us, I’m able to clearly see the sudden eruption of earth and grass just over a hill to the left.  The spray, accompanied a few seconds later by a roar and a deep boom, has us stopping.

“Ah,” I breathe, suddenly feeling foolish.  “I forgot about the Giant.”

The soldiers shift uncertainly at that, and the pain throbs as I read their Magicka as... dutiful concern?  Likely torn between getting to safety and making sure any nearby civilians have gotten to safety.

“The Companions should have it in hand, but let’s take a look just in case.”

They relax slightly at the mention of the Companions, and we make our way up the hill as the sounds of combat become audible.  Another plume of dirt appears just as we crest the hill, momentarily obscuring the field.  As it falls, the battle comes into view.

Ria is staggering back, her shield and armour covered in dirt as Farkas rushes past her.  Did she block the shockwave of that hit to give him a chance to attack?  As he advances, the Giant lifts its club, but flinches when an arrow sprouts from below its ear.  Farkas smashes its knee with the pommel of his greatsword before stepping back, and it falls to the ground with a roar.  It tries to swing with its empty hand, but Ria has recovered and comes in slashing at its arms, preventing it from acting.  Farkas runs forward, jumping up two thirds of his own height, pushing off the Giant’s knee to leap even higher, driving his sword up through its head.

The entire sequence had taken maybe five seconds from when we came within view.  The soldiers murmur appreciatively at the skill of the combatants as the Giant topples over, dead.  Farkas pulls his greatsword from the corpse and begins cleaning the blade, stepping over to a low wall where Ria has begun to do the same with her own sword.

Aela materialises as if she had simply stepped out of the ankle-high grasses – how had I not seen her?  She initially makes towards the corpse, perhaps to start retrieving her arrows, but changes course when she notices us.  The pain throbs higher again when I push to sense her, but I manage to make out her flow just as she starts speaking.

“This many soldiers and not one of you thinks to step in to help take care of it?”

Huh.  The words are similar to what she says in the game, albeit altered for a group instead of a single person, but her emotions feel different from what I expected.  There’s relatively little annoyance, and instead it’s mostly a sort of teasing, humorous feeling, quickly chased by a bit of worry once she’s actually spoken.  If I had to guess, I’d say she was still using the teasing manner that she does with Farkas, such as calling him ‘icebrain’, but only realised after speaking that we’re not familiar with her and wouldn’t know it’s not serious.

“I’d say you had it handled,” I begin, observing her Magicka as she turns to me, “but that doesn’t quite describe the level of skill and synergy we just witnessed.”

She’s surprised.  Not surprised like the guards were, that a mage is speaking for all these soldiers, but surprised as if she didn’t even consider me in this conversation.  That annoys me.  I was fine being relatively unknown beyond rumour, at least until I realised that’s no longer an option, but actively being ignored like this has me feeling pissed off.  Farkas and Ria appear to have finished their quick clean and are making their way over as she speaks again.

“I’m surprised you noticed.  It’s rare to meet a mage who will acknowledge martial skill.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“He,” I say, nodding to Farkas, “just jumped up his own height in full metal armour.  You’re telling me most mages would dismiss that?”

One of the soldiers to my left interjects.

“You’ll find the snobbier mages dismissing just about everything, including each other.”

It’s sad that that doesn’t really surprise me.  Elitism is everywhere, unfortunately, and it seems that Tamriel’s mages are no exception.  I sigh and shake my head.

“We should get going,” I say, giving nods to the Companions.  They nod back, and move to start collecting some of the arrows littering the Giant’s body.

We’re soon back on the road, and it’s not long before the stables come into view.  Even from here, I can see changes.  Past the much larger stables, I can see dozens of buildings on each side of the road, and even more line the path all the way up to the city proper.  A few of our retinue break off to continue east, leaving only about a dozen of us total, and as I watch them leave, I manage to get my Magicka moving at what might generously be called a snail’s pace - less a flow and more like an ooze.

As we walk up the beginnings of the path, I marvel at the true meaning of Whiterun’s title as the mercantile hub of Skyrim.  I can see stores for everything I can imagine here, plus quite a bit besides.  I see inns, arms and armour, clothing stores, general stores, apothecaries, eateries ranging from drunkard-filled taverns to fine restaurants, and what can only be a brothel from the range of scantily clad individuals of numerous races, genders, sizes, and shapes giving everyone sultry looks from the balcony.  When an Argonian man with a scarred crest gives me a wink, I turn my gaze back to the streets, where I realise there’s a theatre with criers proclaiming tonight they play out the victory of the heroes of old against the Dragons.  Funny.

Stalls and stages fill the gaps both between and, sometimes, in front of the buildings.  Street performers dance and play, their sounds intermingling with the cries of merchants calling out their wares.  The mixture of sounds and aromas is dizzying and unrelenting, swelling to a peak as we pass by the Khajiit caravan.

The Magicka is worse, and I struggle to keep my flow going as my newfound sense is pushed from all sides, like trying to walk through an overfilled crowd.  Joy, annoyance, lust, hunger, anger, contentment, relief, too much, too much toomuchtoomuchtoomuch.

In an instant, all goes quiet.  I still can’t see, but the flood of emotion is off to my right.  The sounds of the crowd are also in that direction, and all I can hear clearly is my own laboured breathing.  The acrid scent of something nearby makes me shake my head, and I realise it’s not dark, I’m just looking at a wall.  There’s a hand on my shoulder.  I follow it up the arm to an Imperial looking concerned.

“You alright there?”

I nod, and just let myself breathe for a second.  My throat feels tight as I swallow.

“First time in a big crowd since learning Magicka.  It’s a lot.”

He nods and keeps his hand on my shoulder.  It helps.

I take stock of the little side path we’re on as I catch my breath.  It’s fairly thin, with not even enough room for two people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, and the smell that pulled me from my daze appears to be from a liquid leaking out of some kind of potion bottle.  The wall is dirty with dust and a few leaves, and all in all it seems this path is barely travelled despite being so close to the main road.

I stand up straight and heave one large breath, centring myself.  I nod my thanks to the Imperial, and we return to the road.

It’s still an overwhelming mess, but I’m able to withstand it now that I’m actually braced for it.  The pressing thrum of emotions is quieter past the arch, but it’s still there, itching at my mind.  I’m sure I’ll grow used to it, but for now it’s very much a problem.

As we get further along the path, the shops begin to change.  They’re still showing all kinds of wares, but the disorder of the lower sections is fading.  The buildings are cleaner and newer, the stalls less frequent, and entire shopfronts are often covered with samples and racks displaying what can be found inside.

The wares themselves are of higher quality, as well.  Equipment is made of higher-tier materials, and I think I can feel my Magicka dancing across a few pieces inside in particular.  Enchanted, perhaps?  Fabrics are finer, jewellery more intricate, there’s even a bookstore on one of the upper floors.

The guards are much more plentiful up here as well.  They’re also looking at us.  I hadn’t noticed it down below since I was overwhelmed at the time, but a lot of people are giving us glances.  Our group is both unusual and not at all subtle - a dozen soldiers of warring factions, plus a very Nordic-looking mage.  We’d be getting looks anywhere, I imagine.  As we’re approaching the drawbridge, a guard steps out and blocks the path.

“Halt!  City’s closed with Dragons about.  Official business only.”

“We have news for the Jarl.  We saw Helgen with our own eyes, and Riverwood calls for aid against the Dragon.”

He hesitates at my response.  The guards were likely briefed on what counts as official business, and I would be very surprised if survivors of Helgen and calls for help against Dragon attacks weren’t both on the list.  On the other hand, letting a group of this size into the city while it’s on lockdown is a big risk.

“Alright, but only you,” he points to me, “and one representative each of the Imperials and Stormcloaks may enter.”

Yeah, that’s about what I expected.  I feel more than hear the discussion behind me, and after a second I feel myself pulled forward by a Stormcloak officer and the Imperial who helped me a minute ago.  The rest I can feel moving back down the path, likely going to find an inn.  Thankfully, the pain seems to be sitting steady rather than rising while I keep the slow flow going.  It still hurts, but it’s manageable.

Half a dozen guards emerge from small arches in the stone and flank us as we move forward.
The front gate of the city is enormous.  It stands easily five metres tall at the highest point, and all across is carved with Giants, stylised Dragons, horses for the hold’s own crest, and a repeating symbol I don’t recognise.  An Aedra’s symbol, perhaps?  Kynareth?  I’m not given much time to ponder it, because with a great thud and a heavy boom, the gates begin to swing open towards us.

On the other side are two more guards with spears, and the arch in which the gate sits has raised walkways several metres up, from which many archers watch.  The gates hit the walls with another boom, and the three of us are ushered into the city, followed by a boom shortly after when the gates close.  Interestingly, there was neither creaking nor grinding from them both ways.  Very well maintained, and possibly affected by magic of some kind?

We’re not led up the main path forward through the market, but instead to the left past the barracks and up the stairs to the Wind District.  I don’t think I ever come up here in the game.  The stairs are, naturally, much longer and wider, occasionally branching off to houses and other buildings I can’t identify.  I’m panting slightly when we finally reach the arch into the Wind District several minutes later, but the guards push us onwards.

The Wind District is... pretty simple, all things considered.  There’s the Temple of Arkay down some stairs in the distance, but for the most part it’s all just more houses sitting at one or two storeys.  We’re led through the streets around moss-covered rocks, past a few flower patches and the occasional tree, slowly getting closer to the towering treetop I can see behind a few taller buildings... wait.  Is that the fucking Gildergreen!?

As we reach the circular clearing in front of the Dragonsreach stairs, I can see that it is indeed the Gildergreen, and even in its withered state it is a sight to behold.  Its branches, clearly broken partway, still stretch across a good portion of the upper city, and its crown reaches almost to the bottom of Dragonsreach.  Even near death, this tree is awe-inspiring, and I’m not the only one who thinks so as I can feel the two soldiers’ Magicka reeling at the sight of it.

I’m so taken by this titan of a tree that I barely register the Temple of Kynareth and the stairs leading up to Jorrvaskr as we’re led around the path.  Its trunk alone, withered away to the point that it takes less than half of the central area, is bigger than most homes!  If this is the size of the child tree, then how large must the Eldergleam be?

At the thought of the Eldergleam, my excitement dampens somewhat, as I remember I’ll likely have to deal with multiple Spriggans if I want to heal the Gildergreen.  The thought is soon followed by another unpleasant reminder as I look towards Dragonsreach.

There’s a lot of stairs between here and the top.

I sigh as we reach the bottom of the stairs, resolving myself to the long climb.  As we begin our ascent, I look around at the layers of the city here.  The stairs extend a bit further than I would think, with water flowing down the outer edges separated from a central path by a small raised line.  Occasional landings segment the climb, small bridges crossing the streams and leading out of sight around the back of the mountain on which the city is built, presumably ending up at the extra layers I could see below the Dragonsreach Balcony when looking up from the plains.

Curiously, despite the buildings around the other side of the mountain and the large amounts of space on either side of the stairway up, there’s almost nothing built here.  I consider asking the guards why that is, but they feel a little tense to be answering trivia questions at the moment.

After several minutes of stairs, we arrive at the top, all three of us panting.  The guards aren’t out of breath but they are audibly breathing more heavily, showing that even with them being used to the climb, it’s still difficult.

We’re not brought straight to the door, but instead are pulled to the left and into a small structure beside the bridge.  Inside are chairs, towels, and bowls of water.  We thank the guards while we rest on the chairs, and I assume the other things are for us to clean up before being brought to the Jarl.

I find it amusing that this little room exists.  Dignitaries and emissaries certainly wouldn’t like to arrive drenched in sweat and struggling for breath, and this little piece of hospitality would not only allow them to avoid losing face, but would also instill some goodwill in them with the Jarl, leading them to be more favourable in talks.  The room wasn’t blocking the actual path into Dragonsreach, though, which meant that urgent news could bypass it and be heard immediately.  Pretty cool.

While we grab the towels and water, I observe the soldiers’ Magicka.  Its path is different from normal, ever so slightly.  It seems to be moving more around the upper middle of the chest in a circular motion, through the lungs and heart I think, with the limbs being... still moving, but less than they usually do.  The pain hasn’t faded to the point that I would be comfortable trying to replicate that flow, but I still make a mental note of it.

With our breathing normal and our sweat mopped away, we’re brought out of the room and to the main entrance.  The soldiers disarm, I hand over my bookbag and Alchemy satchel, and we’re patted down before being let in.

Dragonsreach is grand in a way that somehow manages not to be intimidating.  The vaunted ceilings are high, so high that I have difficulty making them out from all the way down here, and my eyes trace the pillars all the way up until they disappear into the gloom beyond the reach of the candles and torches.  The massive open space isn’t suffocating, though, and instead the faint murmurs and footsteps of servants and speakers lends a warmer atmosphere to the place.

As we’re led up the stairs, my eyes are drawn along the tables to the end of the hall, where Jarl Balgruuf sits on his throne, Numinex’s head mounted above him.

The sight of the Dragon skull makes me wonder.  Could Alduin resurrect Numinex?  Probably not, given how the body is scattered, but it’s interesting to think about.  What about the Labyrinthian Dragons?  Their bodies are in one piece, so unless there’s something else stopping it, it should be possible, right?

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when Irileth stalks over to us, weapon not drawn, and turns to the guards.

“What is the meaning of this?  The Jarl is holding an important council right now.”

“These three claim to have come here from Helgen, housecarl, and a message from Riverwood.”

Irileth gives us an appraising look at the guard’s response.

“Very well.  He will want to hear this.”

With that, she returns to the Jarl’s side, leaning in to his ear for a moment.  He looks to us, and gestures.  The people who were speaking with him step off to the side, and the guards bring us forward.  Balgruuf takes us in, his eyes seemingly searching me in particular.

“So, you three were all at Helgen?  You saw this Dragon with your own eyes?”

I swallow and take a small step forward, holding his gaze.

“That is correct, Jarl Balgruuf.  The Dragon came from over a mountain ridge and descended upon the town.  In under a minute, the entirety of Helgen was ablaze.  I do not know how many survived in total, but a hundred of us were able to make our way out through the keep.  The last I saw of the Dragon, it was flying in this direction, looking to pass above Bleak Falls Barrow.  In light of the danger, Riverwood calls for aid.”

Throughout my speech, he doesn’t look away from me, his eyes feeling like they’re burning through me.  When I finish, he looks to the soldiers.  The Imperial speaks up.

“It’s as he said.  A number of the survivors we came with have split off to bring news to the other holds as well.”

“By Ysmir,” the Jarl breathes, “Irileth was right.”  He turns to his steward.  “What say you now, Proventus?  Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls, against a Dragon?”

“My lord,” Irileth says, stepping forward, “we must send troops to Riverwood at once.”  She glances at us, no doubt remembering how I said the Dragon had been coming this way, and remembering that Riverwood is almost directly between here and Helgen.  “It’s in the most immediate danger.  If that Dragon is lurking-” she doesn’t get to finish her plea as Proventus interrupts.

“The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!”

He continues his usual line, but my mind drifts.  Who was the Jarl of Falkreath, again?  Pretty much the only time I’ve spent there in the game is for the Ring of Hircine quest.  I think I went into the longhouse at least once, but I’m having trouble remembering... oh, right.  Siddgeir.  Would the incompetent little shitstain even listen to the reports of soldiers in Riverwood?  I doubt it.

The Jarl has his head held by one hand, his eyes on the floor in front of him.  As an argument begins to break out, he lifts his head sharply.

“Enough!”

Proventus and Irileth fall silent, and even a few of the people out by the tables quiet down.

“I will not stand idly by as a Dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people.  Irileth.”  He turns to her and she straightens.  “Send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Of course my Jarl.”  She salutes and turns, walking past us towards the exit.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Proventus speaks up, “I’ll return to my duties.”

“That would be best,” the Jarl says as Proventus walks to his spot to the left of the platform.  The guards step up as if to bring us back out of Dragonsreach, but the Jarl gestures for them to stop.

“The three of you, and whatever companions you have awaiting outside the city, are to be commended.  You have brought this news to me on your own initiative, and you have my thanks.  If you are willing, there is a further task relating to the Dragons that needs doing.  If not, then you may go.”

I nod to the soldiers and gently wave them away.  I’m thankful to them for helping me this far, but I’m sure they want to be back to their homes as soon as possible, and the others are waiting for them.  They turn and are led away by the guards, while I turn back to Balgruuf.  He steps past me and beckons for me to follow.

“Come, let’s go find Farengar, my court wizard.  He’s been looking into these matters of dragons and rumours of dragons.”

I follow along behind him, with a pair of guards close to me.  Naturally, in a time of war with mythical and violent creatures appearing, they’re quite cautious.  I’m led around the side into Farengar’s office, eyeing the map and his desk, mildly cluttered with soul gems, paper, and inkwells.  The Arcane Enchanter and the Alchemy Lab on the opposite wall have... very interesting Magicka flows, but I’m not given the opportunity to examine them as Balgruuf starts talking.

“Farengar, I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your dragon project.  Go ahead and fill him in on all the details.”

The Jarl gestures for me to step forward and I oblige.  Farengar looks briefly at my robes.

“So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?  Yes, I can use someone to fetch something for me.”  He pauses.  “Well, when I say ‘fetch’, I really mean ‘delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“And what does this tablet have to do with Dragons?”

Farengar smiles at my question.

“Ah.  No mere brute mercenary, but a thinker.  Perhaps even a scholar?  You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumours... impossibilities.”

He scoffs and looks past me, likely looking at someone in the court he thinks poorly of.

“One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible.”  He looks me in the eye again.  “But I began to search for information about dragons.  Where had they gone all those years ago?  Where are they coming from?”

“Pretty sure most of them were killed in the years following Alduin’s defeat at the Throat of the World at the hands of the Tongues.”

He blinks, and I can feel his Magicka as well as the Jarl’s and the guards’ colour with interest.  He starts speaking slowly.

“It took me a great deal of research at considerable expense to even find mention of that battle... and now you stride in, seemingly being already aware of it enough to speak of it with considerable confidence.”

“I’ll explain in a bit.  Please proceed.”

He looks and feels like he’s sorely tempted to press for information now, but he continues with his point.

“I learned of a stone tablet housed in Bleak Falls Barrow - a ‘Dragonstone’, said to be a map of dragon burial sites.  Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt interred in the main chamber - and bring it to me.  Simplicity itself.”

“This is a priority, now,” Jarl Balgruuf cuts in.  “Anything we can use to fight these dragons... we need it quickly, before it’s too late.”

“If I may,” I say, getting their attention.  “I have both a number of concerns and something important to raise.  First.”

I reach back to pull the hood from my bag.  My hand closes around nothing.  I blink in confusion and look at my empty belt before looking back up.

“Ah.  The - at the door - in my bag there is an enchanted hood.  The enchantment is of some concern, and both myself and an Imperial Battlemage agree about it.”

The Jarl nods to a guard, who I can feel moving away.  Huh.  The pain is starting to become less pronounced.  I take a small risk and nudge my Magicka to move a little faster.  It stings, but it’s still bearable.

“While we’re waiting on that, my concerns are that you’re sending me into a ruin of the Dragon Cult, likely full of Draugr and who knows what other threats have wandered in over the years.  This is a problem because, to put it bluntly, I do not have the magical and martial capabilities necessary to survive in such a place.  If I go there as I am now, that tomb will become my tomb.  I’m still going to do it, I just have two small requests to ensure I’m actually able to complete the task you have given me.”

Jarl Balgruuf and Farengar seem... pleasantly surprised by my easy admission of my lack of skill?  What?

“How refreshing,” Farengar chimes in.  “Far too often we are beset by the boastful and overconfident, only to find ourselves receiving results that leave much to be desired.  To have one admit the opposite and still be willing to see the task through is a welcome change.”

Huh.  Well, I guess that explains it, but I momentarily struggle to keep myself from drifting into thought at how often they might receive volunteers or bounty hunters and the like.  While I’m failing to stay focused, the guard returns with the hood.  I manage to pull myself back to reality at the sight of it.

“Ah, thank you, just... on the table, please.  Farengar, you’re familiar with the commonly used enchantment to increase a mage’s Magicka pool, right?”

“Of course.  And from what I can feel, it seems that this hood is imbued with that same effect.  What of it?”

“Well,” I grimace, trying to think of how to word this in a way that won’t send anyone into a panic.  “It turns out that’s not quite how it works.  What it does is more ‘force the wearer into particular kinds of thinking and specific, slightly more efficient formations’, with those formations being what was known by the enchanter, who learned from another instance of the enchantment, going back who knows how far.”

Farengar grows more and more pale as I keep talking.

“Farengar?”  The Jarl feels worried, but doesn’t show it, his voice clear with authority.  Farengar steps forward and places his hands on either side of the hood, looking down at it with intense focus.  A minute passes in tense silence, until Farengar steps back and looks at the Jarl.

“My Jarl, in my place as court wizard, I must give my strong recommendation that all items with this enchantment or any like it be removed from circulation and placed under suppression for study of the origin, spread, and potential counteraction of harmful effects.  I also give my recommendation that word of this discovery and action be spread due to how widely used this enchantment is.”

The Jarl turns to one of the guards at the doorway.

“Make it so.”

The guard salutes and leaves, and the Jarl and Farengar both turn to look at me again.

“Is there anything else you wish to tell us about this enchantment?”  The Jarl asks.  I shake my head.

“All I know is its effect.  I don’t know who made it or why.”

His face is stone, but his Magicka gives off a disappointed hum that I quietly marvel at.  This really is such an amazing sense.

“What is it you request, then, to see yourself through Bleak Falls Barrow?”  Jarl Balgruuf pulls me from my thoughts back to what we were talking about before the hood arrived.

“Ah, well, two things really.  First, I was going to ask for Farengar to help me learn some bare basics of spellcraft - nothing that would take days, of course, just some simple starter tips given I only have nothing more than a barebones understanding of Magicka control right now.”

“That will certainly be possible,” Farengar says, “although there is very little that you would be able to learn in such a short period of time.”

“That’s fine, I just need something to start me off.”  I reassure him.  “The other thing is that I would request that I don’t go alone.”  I look at Jarl Balgruuf.  “Given that I don’t have anything in the way of money, do you know if the Companions would accept something like a promise of first choice of the loot from in there aside from the Dragonstone?”

\_|||_/

I’m led down the stairs of Dragonsreach with a pouch heavy with gold on the side of my belt.  Jarl Balgruuf hadn’t known the answer to my question, but he had been generous enough to provide me with enough gold that it didn’t matter either way.  With this, I could pay the Companions for their services rather than hope they’d be willing to do it for something so vague.

Farengar hadn’t forgotten about my strange knowledge, and I’d been able to give him the same explanation of ‘years ago I had a series of visions’ that I gave to the soldiers.  I had also been able to use that explanation to convince the Jarl to beef up the security around the Western Watchtower and any surrounding farms as likely targets of a dragon attack.

The real prize, though, had been Farengar’s lessons.  After the Jarl had left and the guards had given me the gold, Farengar had spent about half an hour showing me specific movements of Magicka and having me mimic them.  He described each one, how they related to what spells, how they influenced spells, and most importantly, how I could then extend them out through myself and into the world around me.

It was painful, it was exhausting, and it was absolutely worth it.

I’m still not able to actually make use of any of what he told me, but I actually have an idea of proper Magicka flows now, and I’m even managing to slowly move my own Magicka in a simple regenerative circuit.  It still hurts, but the circuit is working, and the pain is fading already.

My focus on my Magicka is interrupted when we reach the bottom of the stairs, and turn left towards Jorrvaskr.  The longhouse is a surprisingly calming sight.  Something about its architecture just seems comfortable rather than imposing, as if it’s lazing across the ground and inviting you to sit by the fire and hear tales of great warriors gone by.  I like it.  Compared to the climb to Dragonsreach, the stairs to Jorrvaskr are much more forgiving, and we’re merely breathing a little heavier when we reach the doors.

Just inside, Njada and Athis are having their fistfight, and I can see Ria on the side, so I guess the trio of Giant-slayers have returned.  Farkas stands up from a seat to our right and walks over to us.

“Hello.  Need something?”

The guards nod to me.

“This one has a job, and is thinking of joining up.”

I hadn’t actually mentioned wanting to join.  Was I obvious or did they just assume?  Either way, Farkas looks at me.

“Oh, I remember you.  If you want to join, Kodlak is downstairs.  You can talk to him about the job as well.”

We thank him and make our way to the stairs.  Behind me, I can feel Athis flagging, and as we descend, he goes down and I hear yells both consoling him and congratulating Njada.

The basement level of Jorrvaskr is smooth, regular stones laid evenly, with surprisingly little dirt even in the grooves up high.  Tilma is good at her job.  The low arches are a little confining at my height, but overall the space manages to feel cosy rather than claustrophobic.  The guards clearly know the way, and they move me down the hall towards Kodlak’s room.  Tilma passes us going the other way, giving us a smile.

“But I still hear the call of the blood.”

Vilkas’ line isn’t really audible from here, and it’s only from playing the game that I know what he’s saying.

“We all do.  It is our burden to bear.  But we can overcome”

Since we’re closer now, Kodlak is more comprehensible, and I can feel curiosity seep into the guards at his words.

“You have my brother and I, obviously, but I don’t know...”

Vilkas trails off as we step into the room.  The guards nod to him and Kodak and gently push me forwards.  Kodlak eyes me curiously.

“A stranger comes to our hall.”

I swallow.  His Magicka is... different.  He, Vilkas, Farkas, Aela, they had all been a little different in a way that I know means they’re werewolves, but Kodlak himself is different.  Though his Magicka doesn’t make moves to approach his skin as Farengar’s did, it courses through him.  Mine right now is oozing honey.  Most people have simple streams.  Guards and soldiers have something like the river upon which Riverwood sits.

But Kodlak’s Magicka is deep and forceful.  It feels as though it is one with him in a way I haven’t seen before.  It’s a riptide, silent on the surface, but just beneath lies a driving force that sweeps away all in its path.  This is the Magicka of a warrior who has seen a thousand battles and could easily see a thousand more.  I struggle to see how the Silver Hand could ever fell him when he feels like this.

“I have a job I would like to hire the Companions for.  I... would also like to join.”

“Would you, now?  Well, we can speak of the job in a moment, but first, step forward.  Let me have a look at you.”

I do as he asks.  His gaze somehow intensifies, and I can feel my Magicka being watched.  Fucking hell, what is this man?

“Hmm.  Yes, perhaps.  A certain strength of spirit.”

“Master,” Vilkas interrupts, “you’re not truly considering accepting him?”

“I understand that my attire may not exactly scream ‘warrior’,” I say, “but I do not wish to... overspecialise.  I understand how foolish it would be to believe that magic can solve everything, and I wish to learn physical strengths as well.”

Vilkas seems surprised at this.  Aren’t Nords supposed to have once had a great respect for magic as well as being damn good at it?  Wasn’t Shalidor a Nord?  ...  Shit, this is related to the enchantment, isn’t it?  Unaware of my realisation, Kodlak speaks.

“And that is what matters.  The heart of those who would wish to join us, not whatever trappings they may seem to fall into.”

“And their arm.”  Vilkas says absently, still looking at me with confusion.

“Indeed.”  Kodlak turns to me.  “How are you in battle, boy?”

I grimace.  They’ll be unimpressed, but it’s necessary for me to be honest here.

“If you don’t count running from the dragon at Helgen, I’ve never seen combat before.  I have a lot to learn.”

“That’s the spirit.”  Kodlak smiles.  “Vilkas, here, will get started on that, and then we’ll hear of this job of yours.  Vilkas, take him to the yard and see what he can do.  I’ll join you soon.”

“Aye,” Villas says, standing up.  He leads me out of Kodlak’s room and through the Circle’s quarters, with the guards trailing behind us.  Aela steps into the corridor in front of us with Skjor, but they both stop when they see us.  I give them a nod.  They look at each other, shrug, and join us as we take the door out and up.  We come up into the main hall where Athis and Njada seem to be the centre of attention in a small celebration.  We’re given little attention as we slip out the door.

“The old man said to have a look at you.  I don’t see any weapons on you, so take your pick from what we’ve got over here.”  He points to a rather impressive collection of varied weapons.  I see the six types that are in base Skyrim, but I also see spears, clubs, a quarterstaff that I like the look of, a pair of knuckleduster-like bricks, and a... wait, is that...?

I slowly walk over to what has caught my eye, all the while warring internally to the point that I barely even notice Farkas’ Magicka joining us out here.

They’re so cool!

They’re utterly impractical for my purposes.

They’re exactly the kind of weapon I want to use!

Who the fuck in Skyrim would even know enough about them to teach me?

I have at least a basic idea of how these work, unlike just about every other weapon here.

I know swords.  I did fencing in high school; I can at least wield a rapier.

I want them.

...

I want them.  And I’m supposed to be a dragon, aren’t I?  So what I want...

I pick up the wooden weapon, feeling the metal caps on each end.  Those aren’t the normal design, I think?  Confusion fills everyone watching.

“Really?”  Aela sounds sceptical.  “Do you even know how that thing is used or do you just like the look of it, like the last dozen recruits who picked it up?”

“A little of both,” I respond, gripping the handle and swinging it around so the long end is pointing out past my elbow.  The people watching feel surprised.  I turn to her.

“These are supposed to be paired, one in each hand.  Do you have a second one anywhere?”

She looks at me for a second, and I can’t tell from her face or her Magicka what she’s feeling.

“Down there,” she says, pointing.  “Under the spiked shield.”

Sure enough, I lift the shield to find a matching piece of wood.  In short order, I’m holding a pair of tonfas and approaching Vilkas where he stands with shield in hand.

“Well, if that’s the weapon you’re going with, then so be it.  Take a few swings at me so I can see your form.  Don’t worry, I can take it.”

He gets into a defensive stance, and I ready the tonfas, left foot forward.  The onlookers settle in to watch with interest.  It’s possible they’ve never actually seen tonfas used before.  No pressure.

I start with a simple move.  I thrust my arms forward, short point first, left then right, reminiscent of a jab-cross punch combo.  The metal-capped ends bang against Vilkas’ shield, but he barely even flinches.  Alright, let’s try a little harder.

I swing my left arm in an uppercut, catching the lower slope of his shield and driving it up, pushing him back a step.  I step forward with my right foot, twist my left shoulder down, and rotate my torso.  My left arm rockets back to my chest, but my right rises up and over.  I swing the tonfa in my right into the reverse grip, forcing the long end up, around, and eventually down, falling with my arm to strike his shield like a hammer and sending a resounding gong around the courtyard.  He manages to keep his feet, but I can feel everyone’s suprise.  They’re impressed.

I let Vilkas return to his stance.  I think one more demonstration will be all they need.  I shift the grip on my right hand, changing from gripping the short handle to the long end I just hit Vilkas with, while I turn my left hand to the reverse grip.  In an instant, I hook the right handle around the shield and yank hard, pulling it out of the way.  At the same time, I thrust the left tonfa forwards, sending the longer end just past his ear now that the shield isn’t stopping me.

For a moment, we’re both stood still, his shield pulled away and my left tonfa just past his head.  Then, the moment breaks, and I pull back and let out a breath, flipping both tonfas back around to the regular grip.  Vilkas stands out of his stance as well, letting his shield arm lower to his side, and fixing me with a burning look.  I try to hold my hands up defensively.

“Woah, woah, what’s that look for?”

“You said you don’t have any experience with combat, did you not?”

“Hey, now, let’s not pretend that that was due to any real skill on my part.  All I did was go through a few simple moves.  The only reason they really worked is that you don’t have any experience fighting people wielding tonfas.”

He looks somewhat pained by that, but accepts my point.

“Trust me, I’ve seen people actually using these things well - including blocking with them.”  That’s a lie.  I’ve seen them used in video games and have to try to translate that to real motions.  “The amount of continuous pressure a skilled fighter can sustain is scary.”

He slowly looks to his shield, and gives a thoughtful nod.  I’m about to ask if there’s anything else when I hear a voice.

“Well, boy, I think that’s as good a demonstration as we need.”

I startle at Kodlak’s voice.  When did he get out here?  I didn’t feel him at all.  He keeps talking, seemingly uncaring that he almost gave me a heart attack.

“Now, let’s hear about this job you have for us."

Chapter Text

I step out onto the platform above the courtyard behind Jorrvaskr, my muscles aching comfortably - not only from Magicka stress, but from proper use as well.

After I had explained the job, Aela and Farkas had volunteered to join, and it was decided that it would be my entry test as opposed to the usual small errands given to “whelps”.  I’m not sure why two of the Circle are coming with me on such a simple job.  Maybe they’re just curious?

I stretch and twist, shaking out the stiffness that had filled my muscles overnight.  Once the details of the job had been settled, the Companions had basically badgered the guards out of Jorrvaskr, pointing out that there was no need to haul the newest member out of the city.  It’s weird that they trust me so easily after knowing me for all of about ten minutes, but Kodlak vouched for me, and I guess his word as Harbinger carries enough weight for them to be satisfied.

I had asked the guards to let the soldiers I had come in with know that I was fine and that I’m just going off in my own direction now.  They’d agreed, and would also tell the other guards about me joining the Companions, so I could get back into the city without a fuss once my work for Farengar is done.

I grab the tonfas from the table and step down into the courtyard to start some practice.  After the guards had left, what remained of yesterday had largely been spent here with Athis, Aela, and Kodlak.  When I had mentioned that what I knew of tonfa usage included impressive mobility, Athis and Aela had been intrigued, and Kodlak simply had too much knowledge and experience for me not to ask for his help.  Together, the four of us had spent several hours workshopping stances, basic moves, simple combos, and a Magicka flow to complement the style of tonfas.  Between my knowledge and their more practical experience, we were able to get me a rudimentary foundational understanding of my chosen weapons.  It’s not enough to properly hold my own in real combat, but it’s a start.

I slowly move through the forms we had worked out yesterday.  There had been a few people up before me doing their own practice, and as the sun rises over the walls, more come out and join.  I know I’ve got a lot of progress to make, plus the forms are wholly unfamiliar to me, so I take more repetitions than most people here, and each repetition takes longer, so I’m there until most people have already finished and moved on.

I finally finish the forms to my own satisfaction and let my Magicka flow settle back into the regenerative pattern Farengar had taught me.  When my body is able to handle basic flows continuously, I’ll see about making my own, probably starting with something that has an effect like a massage.  For now, though, I’m sticking with the regen and the simple tonfa flow.

When I turn back to Jorrvaskr to put the tonfas back, I’m surprised to see Aela and Farkas there.  I hadn’t noticed them since I was focused on the forms.  They feel slightly amused, but approving.

“Well,” Aela says, “we’ll need to work on your awareness, but you look like you’re doing fine with those things.”

I smile as I put the tonfas back on the weapon rack.

“So, do we head to Bleak Falls Barrow today, or do I need more training?”

“Impatient, aren’t you?”  Aela nods up to the Skyforge.  “Go talk to Eorlund and ask him if what Kodlak asked for is ready.”

I raise an eyebrow.  Kodlak asked for something from Eorlund?  I don’t recall that from the game.  The changes I’m seeing already are somewhat worrying, but I knew from the start that the butterfly effect would happily crush my dreams if I took the slightest delay or detour.  I intend to see Dragon Rising through to the end, and then I’ll simply take the world as it comes at me.

I start off around the side as Aela and Farkas unsubtly follow behind.  I do sneak a look at the rock wall to my right as I pass, but it seems the entrance to the Undercroft is much better hidden than in the game.  I soon come to the bottom of the stairs, and make sure to give the two of them an unimpressed look as I turn back.  They just smile and shoo me up towards the top.

Eorlund is at the grindstone when I reach the forge.  He looks over at my approach and sets down the sword he’s working on.  He stands from the bench and walks over towards the selection of weapons beside the forge.

“Ordinarily, they would give you one of the weapons around Jorrvaskr, but since those ones on the practice rack are the only ones they have, Kodlak came to me.”

...

There’s no way that means what I think it means, right?  That’s not supposed to happen until after Dustman’s Cairn.

But despite my disbelief, Eorlund pulls a pair of metal tonfas from underneath a sheet of metal.  Did he place them there just to have it as a surprise?

“Skyforge Steel.  Kodlak told me you mentioned the end caps on the practice pair not being normal, but I couldn’t help try my hand at my own design.  Give them a few swings and tell me what you think.”

I take them and look them over.  They’re fairly thin, maybe half as thick as my arms, but I think they’re still thicker than tonfas are supposed to be.  That’s fine, though, since I’ll be fighting tougher foes than what normal tonfas are designed for.

As I turn them in my hands, I marvel at the craftsmanship.  I have been a Companion for, what, 16 hours at most?  Kodlak would have only had time to do this after we were done yesterday, which means...  I look over at Eorlund.

“It can’t have been more than 10 hours since Kodlak gave you the request.  How did you...?”

He just gives me a mysterious smile.

“There’s more to mastery than simply quality, lad.”

...

“Off the top of my head,” I say slowly, “you might have had simple shafts of metal ready for other projects or - wait, no, you said this is Skyforge Steel.  Unless you’re making...  I can’t even think of why you’d have cylinders of Skyforge Steel in this size ready since even warhammers have handles of wood.  How does making  Skyforge Steel even differ from-”

“I can’t tell you that.”  He interrupts me, firm but not unkind.  “Some things I must keep secret to all but my own student.”

I don’t know how the lineage of Skyforge blacksmiths works, but I guess I have to accept that.

“Just one question, and if you can’t answer it then just say so and I’ll drop the subject.”

Eorlund nods.  Alright.

“Can Skyforge Steel be made from regular steel, or do you have to make it completely anew?”

He’s silent for a long moment, before he nods.

“It must be made anew.”

...

“Alright, I have absolutely no clue how you did this in such a short time.”

Eorlund huffs a laugh while I return my attention to the tonfas.  They aren’t perfect cylinders, instead being slightly thicker at the handles and thinning out closer to the ends.  The handles are similar, thick in the centre and thinner towards the connection and the edge, but they flare out into thicker caps in a way that will allow me to perform all the spinning nonsense I want with no risk of them slipping out of my hands, which I will be sure to test vigorously.

What astonishes me, however, are the carvings.  On each end is an animal’s head – a wolf on the short end and a horse on the long end.  The connection between shaft and handle is adorned with a beautifully intricate design reminiscent of a Celtic knot.  The handles themselves are patterned with layers of leaves dancing across them.  The knot at the connection untangles in both directions and spirals across the main shaft to eventually form into the animal heads.

I take a few steps back and settle into one of the stances.  I slowly move through a basic sequence, feeling the balance and weight of the weapons.  The balance seems to be close to the handles, sightly towards the short end.  It throws me off at first, and I under and over-rotate several times switching between grips before I figure out the right amount of force.  The long end still has plenty of mass, however, and I can feel the power behind it when I swing it out in a wide strike.

Eorlund is watching intently as I go through the motions, and he crosses his arms as I finish and lower the tonfas.

“Absolutely magnificent work,” I say with a wide smile.  He smiles in return and hands me a belt with a pair of angled loops in the middle.  I put on the belt and place the tonfas in the loops, where they sit hanging against my lower back.  Eorlund waves me off and I turn to head back down the stairs, soon joined by a smug Aela and a pleased Farkas.

“Come on, whelp.  We’ll head out after breakfast.”

I nod and follow the two of them back inside.  We’re given a few greetings and a couple of people compliment me on my new tonfas, and I set them under the seat as we sit down to eat.  The meal isn’t quiet - nothing in this place is - but it’s far tamer than, say, the celebration last night for Athis and Njada’s fight.  Aela turns to me while we’re partway through.

“So, are you ready for your first real fight?”

I pause.  I know she’s probably talking about the Draugr, but my mind is on the bandits on the way.  My throat feels dry, and swallowing down a gulp of water doesn’t help.

“Whatever animals are on the way or any Draugr inside, yeah.  I’m ready for that.  People... not so much.”

“Good.”

Aela’s response confuses me, and I turn to look at her questioningly.

“It’s clear to see that you’ve never known death.  Not like we do, at least.”

I nod.  Beyond two of my grandparents and my elderly neighbour, nobody I’ve ever really known has died.  Even then, it was just that one day I wasn’t able to see them or talk to them anymore.  Death is something I barely know, and violent death is completely unfamiliar to me.

Of course, Helgen had changed that.

“You might have seen bodies before, but you’ve never made one.  You’ve never taken a life, be it in self-defence or otherwise.  It’s good that you’re wary of it.  Just don’t let that hesitation get you killed.”

The mood around us has dampened at the subject, and we fall into silence for a bit as we keep eating.

“It’s not just the taking of one life that I’m wary of,” I say.  People turn to me but don’t interrupt.  “It’s the knock-on effects.”

They feel confused, so I continue.

“Every action, good or bad, big or small, will always affect something else beyond itself.  That change will affect something else, which will go further and affect something else.  You can’t possibly foresee every outcome of every action... but I have a tendency to overthink things.”

I set down my fork and let my eyes unfocus.

“Maybe the bandit you kill was a desperate farmer.  It’s been a bad few years so he’s had to turn to banditry for his children to have food on the table.  With his death, they never know what happened to their father.  Maybe they starve to death on the farm, maybe they go out looking and run afoul of Falmer.”

The people listening are part horrified, part approving, part several other things, but I’m not done.

“Maybe the bandit you spare was never a good man.  Maybe he was a sadistic killer who tortured his victims for fun.  But for the first time, he’s found himself at the mercy of  someone else... and they don’t do what he thought was just natural.  They don’t follow his fucked up worldview of how he thinks everyone would gladly inflict pain and death wherever they could.  They had him completely at their mercy in the middle of nowhere, nobody to know and nothing to stop them... and he’s still alive and relatively unharmed.  And his whole world shifts.”

I don’t notice whether I’m still being listened to.  By now, I’m long since lost in my own head.

“He wanders for a while, asking in his own mind why.  For so long he had believed people were inherently cruel, and that with no consequences, anyone would do what he had been doing.  But they didn’t.  And he doesn’t understand.  Eventually, he comes to a town and... doesn’t raid it.  Doesn’t attack it.  Doesn’t do anything but walk through it, until someone notices the worryingly dazed man and brings him to the local healer.  And, not knowing what else to do with himself, he asks them to teach him.”

I blink and pull myself from my hopeful reverie.  Everyone around me feels like a mixture of doubt, contemplation, worry, and a dozen other conflicting things.  Kodlak in particular is unreadable, and is looking at me with that soul-searing gaze.

“Or maybe you kill a murderer and spare a desperate parent, who knows.”  I say, finishing the last of my food, grabbing my tonfas, and standing.

“I’ll be outside,” I say to Aela, before I turn and walk out the front door.

Out in the fresh air, I sigh and let myself fall against the carved pillar beside the stairs.  I know that I won’t be able to avoid killing.  Not in this world.  Not forever.  But I still hate it.  I hear the door open behind me.  I can’t tell who it is.  One of the werewolves, I think?  I’m too frazzled to tell anything more.  I’m not left to wonder for long, though, as Kodlak’s voice sounds out.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?  You’re being truthful about what you said in there being one reason... but it’s not the only reason.  There’s something else.  What is it?”

A few more people have come out the door while he was talking, and I can see a guard partway down the stairs failing to be subtle as he eavesdrops.  I look up at Dragonsreach shining in the morning sun, and take a deep breath.

“It’s not nearly as altruistic as what I explained inside.  I heard someone say, once, that killing an opponent simply requires you to be a better combatant than them, but nonlethally subduing them when they’re fully intent on killing you?  That requires you to completely outclass them.”

I turn and look Kodlak in the eyes, uncaring of the dozen other people listening.

“I’ve always been an ambitious man, and greedy for any and all praise that I feel I’ve earned.  I don’t care if this sounds childish, but I don’t want to just be better.  I want to be amazing.  How often are the Companions called to rescue someone being held hostage by bandits?  Imagine a rumour going around that whoever pulled off the rescue had not only succeeded, but they had basically walked through the place with such ease that they didn’t even need to kill anyone, and the bandits had backed off because they knew they couldn’t win.”

I stop, breathing deeply and holding Kodlak’s gaze still.

“It’s stupid.  It’s childish.  It’s unrealistic to the point that it borders on being delusional.  I know that even if I one day reach that level of skill, it’s a long way off and trying to avoid killing in self-defence now is basically suicide...”

I remember smoke and cinders, shaking ground while roars and screams sound outside.  Blades drawn.  I could have let them kill each other, had Hadvar and Ralof clean up the stragglers, maybe even get a few hits in myself, and gotten the three of us out of Helgen without a backwards glance.

But that’s not the path I want to choose.  If I’m going to influence this world, I don’t want it to be with blood and death.

“I was at Helgen.”  Many of those listening are suddenly paying much more attention.  “The Stormcloaks and Imperials had blades drawn, ready to kill each other even as the town burned outside.  I could have let them fight and slipped through in the carnage.  That would have been the safer option.  The smarter option.  Instead, I got their attention, told them they were being idiots, and led them out to safety.”

Why the hell am I talking so freely?  Has the insanity since Helgen caught up to me?  Is this the first chance I’ve had in Skyrim to vent about something?

“Death is not something I’ve seen much of at all.  And I will be doing my best to keep it that way, whether that involves telling people to stop fighting and run from the dragon, sparing lives whenever I can, or whatever else may happen.”

My rant over, I fall back against the carved pillar again.  Physically, I still feel fine, but I’m emotionally drained.  I look over to Aela and Farkas.

“Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself, shall we get going?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”  I look over at Kodlak in confusion.

“In my time as Harbinger, I’ve seen many kinds come and go.  Few were as honest about their feelings as you, and many even lied to themselves about their goals.  Some avoided killing, and some sought it.  What you’ve said here, I’ve heard before, many times from many people.  You need not feel ashamed.”

I stare blankly at him as I try to find the words.

“I just admitted that part of the reason I don’t want to kill is out of a desire to appear like some character out of a fable, and you’re telling me that’s nothing new?”

Most of the people here break into grins, and the members of the Circle outright snort or laugh.  A woman in steel armour - an Argonian I don’t remember being in the game - speaks up.

“Half of the people here likely joined because they were chasing fairytales of glory and valour, myself included.”

An Imperial man in leather manages to stop chuckling long enough to chime in.

“Yeah, you’re a bit more dramatic than us, but most of us try not to kill either, for similar reasons.  Similar reasons for joining, too.”

...

Well, now I just feel foolish.  I can feel my cheeks getting hotter, and I’m pretty sure they notice because many are outright laughing now.  Ordinarily, this many people laughing at me would have me running away in tears, but I can feel their Magicka.  They’re not mocking.  Not even a little bit.  All I can feel is amusement and fondness (how are they so fond of me already?  I just got here yesterday!).

It’s... a novel experience, to have so many people laughing and not immediately feel so very small.  I can’t stop my lips from curling into a small smile.  Maybe I don’t need to immediately disappear into Skyrim’s wilderness once I finish Dragon Rising.  Maybe I can spend some time here in Whiterun.  Yeah, I like the sound of that.

“Screw all of you,” I say, and I’m rewarded with a fresh wave of laughter.  I turn and start heading down the stairs, feeling two werewolves follow behind me.  Aela and Farkas.  I can’t tell which is which, but the clanking of armour on my right answers that question pretty quickly.  Farkas doesn’t say anything, but he feels happy in a subdued, satisfied kind of way.

“You know,” I say, “even just recently, people laughing like that at something I’d said would have had me certain that they were mocking me.”

I can feel surprise and concern filling the two of them.

“But now, with me being able to sense the emotions in their Magicka, I can feel that what I feared just... isn’t there.  And it’s kind of throwing me for a loop.”

We walk in silence for a bit, until Aela takes a breath.

“I don’t know what kind of place you’ve come from, but you don’t need to worry.  The Companions take care of our own.”

I smile.  I could feel that from the fondness before and the concern from the two of them now.

“Thanks.”

The silence returns, this time a comfortable one, and remains until we reach the main gate.  It’s still early enough that there are only a few people along the way, and Nazeem is thankfully not one of them.  Once we reach the gate, Farkas taps my shoulder and points past me to a smaller door off to the right side.  He and Aela lead me through the door.  There’s a few guards back here who glance at us, but when they see two known and respected members of the Companions, they pay us no mind.

As we come out from one of the small archways behind the drawbridge, I take a glance over at the main gate, still closed.  In the game, that gate is the only way in and out of the city, not counting the Undercroft, but with the city closed right now it makes sense the gate would be staying shut for anything other than official business like what got us let in yesterday.  Some citizens still need to pass through, however, like the farmer - Pelagius?  No, that was the mad emperor.  Regardless, the citizens and guards need a way in and out that doesn’t involve repeatedly opening and closing the giant, heavy gates.

When we arrived, the guard specifically said that the city is closed.  Are the gates always closed like they are now, or would they normally be thrown wide open, with everyone free to come and go, be they trader, mercenary, or whatever else?  Before I can lose myself in my mind again, we reach the crowd.

It’s a lot easier to bear, now that I’m more prepared for the surge of emotions that washes over me like a physical wave.  In fact, now that I’m not blocking out my senses from overstimulation, I realise that the breadth of lives here is even more than what I noticed yesterday.

The Khajiit caravan is trading with a group of Nords wearing even less than the Forsworn do.  In place of clothes, their bodies are covered with painted patterns in shades of blue.  Something like Woad, perhaps?  The thought brings a smile to my face, as I remember my elderly neighbour and her joke about how Boudicca played in the middle of the Woad.  If it is a similar substance, then these Nords might be a more tribal group, possibly even having kept mostly to themselves since the passage from Atmora, coming to the cities only for trade and news.  I wonder how similar they are to the Skaal?

As we pass by them, something catches my attention.  I can’t quite make it out, but as I slow down, I focus on the clansmen.  There’s something about their flows that I can’t quite identify.  It’s different from everyone I’ve seen, focusing on the lungs, throat, and mouth.  There’s something raw to it, and as my Magicka brushes against it, it feels like the crisp air of a cold winter’s morning, yet also there’s a weight to it that reminds me of when I was first learning to feel Magicka.  The sensation is there in all of them, but I can’t feel anything more, and we’re past them, leaving me with only questions.

A little further down, a guard is in an argument with a couple of Alik’r, and a few Redguard women are walking away with furtive glances cast back towards them.  I can’t remember what the story was with that quest, and it’s been so long since I did it that I can’t even remember the outcome I chose.  What I do remember is it leaving a bad taste in my mouth out of uncertainty of who to believe.

The merchant calls are still unintelligible in the throng, but even what little I can see is extraordinary.  A pair of robed and masked individuals who feel less like people and more like clouds of Magicka stand before a collection of soul gems, tomes, and pieces of jewellery that positively burn in my new sense.  The lack of any staves is curious, but I don’t know enough to tell if it means anything.

My eye slides from them to where an excited Bosmer is speaking more with his hyperactive hands and gestures than he is with his mouth as he details the many varied arrows in front of him.  He seems to have made a sale, as he hands a bundle of them to a Nord, who hands back a pouch presumably filled with gold.  The Nord vanishes into the crowd, and the Bosmer’s hands are waving again as he talks to another customer who just stepped over.

A handful of stalls all the way down display varying ores and ingots, alchemical ingredients, gemstones, and many other miscellaneous objects.  Some I recognise, but the vast majority are unfamiliar to me.  A few stand out to me as we walk.  A Khajiit and an Argonian stand before a selection of Fire, Frost, and Void Salts, plus a number of other powders I don’t know.  An Orc in Ebony plate armour is haggling with a Clan Nord over a dozen ingots of steel and what I think is quicksilver.  A Breton and a Dunmer stand behind a table of... pages?  I reach out with my Magicka to try and figure out what’s going on there, but the Breton gives me a sly look and I feel my Magicka tapped away, like a child reaching for a bowl of batter and being told ‘no’.

Every second with Magicka I just get more things I want to study about it.  The fact that he was able to do that makes me want to run over to him and ask how.

Eventually, we manage to make our way out past the stables and onto the road.  It’s still far from calm here, but it’s not the mess we just waded through.  We turn left and start down the road back towards Riverwood.  A few guards nod at us as we pass, but we’re generally receiving much less attention than I did on the way in.

I glance over towards the Barrow, just visible through the morning mists around the mountain.  The weight of my new tonfas against my back is both comforting and foreboding, as I think of what’s to come.  I know that soon, events will reach the point that my information will go from knowing the course of the future to just knowing things I shouldn’t be able to.  I won’t be able to truly predict things.  I’ll have to react and adapt, unable to rely on what I think is coming.

Oddly enough, I’m rather excited for it.

Chapter Text

I drag myself out of the bed in the Sleeping Giant Inn, breathing deeply as I try to get my regeneration circuit flowing again after yesterday’s events.

We’d gotten about an hour of walking in when Farkas had stopped us and had me draw the tonfas and start moving through the forms.  Once I had completed a few repetitions, he drew his greatsword and declared we were going to spar.  Five minutes later, I had several new bruises, on both my body and my ego.  He had critiqued my movements and offered advice.  Once I had recovered, we got back to walking again.  An hour later, Aela had pulled me into a spar instead.

This pattern repeated all throughout the day as I grew progressively more and more tired.  They never seemed to push me to actual collapse, but I feel like I came close a few times.  As my exhaustion grew, I made more mistakes, which led to more bruises, which only served to sap my energy faster.

The two of them hadn’t been tired at all when they’d walked into town with me stumbling behind them.  I think some of the survivors of Helgen might have tried to talk to me, but they’d instead helped us get to the inn when they saw the state I was in.

I’d evidently slept through the afternoon and part of the night, and as I stumble out into the mostly-empty main room of the inn, Aela and Farkas greet me cheerily.  I can tell from their Magicka that they know exactly how I’m feeling.  Joke’s on them; I also know about their stamina and inability to properly rest as werewolves.

“Since you two seem so energetic, shall we get going?”

 To my petty satisfaction, they both falter noticeably.  I mirror the smile they both just gave me before, and they both relax as they realise what I’m doing.  Aela shakes her head.

“Not just yet.  You’ll run through your forms first, and if it’s still not light yet then we’ll spar again.  Once it’s light and you’re done talking to your friends, then we can go.”

I pause and blink.

“Friends?”

“A bunch of people yesterday looked happy to see you.”  Farkas says.  A bunch of people?  I don’t remember there being many people in Riverwood who I had time to talk to after arriving from... oh.  Not Riverwood.  Helgen.  The survivors are still here, trying to pick up the pieces of their lives.

“Uh, can we... skip that part?  I may cause a stir wherever I go, but the thought of that much positive attention - or, really that much of any attention without a way to divert it - is kind of overwhelming.”

“That’s more of a reason to do it.”  Aela says.  “You’re a Companion, now.  People will be thanking you for the work you do.  This will help you adapt.”

Damn it.  She’s absolutely right.  And as I complete more and more quests, there’ll be people who want to thank me just because they heard I stopped X vampire coven, drove back a bandit raid on Y town, or brought back an heirloom from Z cave.  I grimace and nod my head.

“Fine.”

That satisfies them, and they both stand up and move towards the door.  I follow behind them out into the frosty morning air.  As soon as I’m outside, though, I stop and stare, letting the door swing shut behind me as gaze at the sky in awe.

Above me is a kaleidoscope of shimmering bands blazing across the sky.  Every colour of the rainbow flows from horizon to horizon, slowly shifting as they trace their way above me.  Behind them sits a vast expanse of stars, many of which cluster in a line which gapes like an open wound in the sky.  In my new sense, I can feel that each tiny pinprick of light is blazing with Magicka, and the cluster makes me lightheaded just looking at it.

Directly above me, two great moons dominate the sky.  Masser and Secunda don’t shine and shimmer like the aurora, and they don’t bleed Magicka like the stars, but there’s nonetheless something about them that makes it hard to look away, even beyond the beauty of the sight.  I try to remember what I know about them, but all of my focus is on appreciating this view before me.

“Eyes forward, new blood.”

I manage to pull myself back to Nirn, where Aela and Farkas are looking at me with amusement.  I nod and continue following them around towards the back of the inn.

“No matter how many times I see it,” I say, “it never fails to take my breath away.”

Neither of them say anything, but I can feel their agreement.

It’s a short walk to a small empty area at the edge of the town.  We stop and draw our weapons, beginning our respective sequences.  The two more experienced warriors move smoothly and with precise force, while I have to keep myself to a slower pace to ensure I’m doing it correctly.  They’re finished long before I am, and by the time I can put my tonfas down the sunlight is visible against the mountainside and we can faintly hear the town waking up.

As we make our way back to the inn, a crowd comes into view.  Many of the people look nervous, and there’s a feeling of mixed excitement and worry emanating from the whole group.  I guess these are the ‘friends’ they mentioned.  The worry breaks as they catch sight of us and realise I’m fine.

As one, they surge forward, their excitement pressing against me.  If it hadn’t been for the incident outside Whiterun, I don’t think I could have withstood it, but as I am now I manage to barely hold myself upright.

They all gather around us, thanking me, asking if I’m alright, asking why I looked dead on my feet yesterday while the two people with me looked fine.  It’s a rush and a mess and it’s almost as bad as the Magicka.  I struggle to keep up for a few minutes before I raise my voice.

“Alright!”  I yell, getting them to quiet down and listen.  “I’m fine.  I was just exhausted yesterday.  I’ve been given a task by Whiterun’s court wizard which needs me to go up to Bleak Falls.  These two are members of the Companions who I’ve hired to make sure I don’t die in the process.”

“He’s also joining the Companions.”  Farkas adds.  Several members of the crowd look approving at that.

My explanation seems to have calmed them somewhat, and some of them move away now that they know I’m alright.  I’m about to ask if they needed anything else when a woman in leather armour pushes her way to the front.

“If you’re headed up to Bleak Falls Barrow, I think I heard Lucan in the Trader saying something about it to his sister.  They might have something for you.”

Right, the Golden Claw quest.  I had been planning on going straight up the mountain, but it might be worth checking in on the off chance there’s something there I could use.

Since Riverwood is bigger than I’m used to, I need to ask one of them for directions, but soon we’re making our way through the town towards the Trader.  It’s still fairly quiet, but I imagine that’ll change before long.  People are coming out of houses, putting up shop signs, carrying things to and fro.  Our walk is filled with the sights and sounds of a town waking up.

It’s not long before we arrive at the Riverwood Trader and walk inside.  The air inside is quiet but tense.  I guess they got the argument out of the way before we arrived from Helgen, or possibly between then and now.  Lucan perks up at the sight of us.

“Welcome!  The Riverwood Trader has all you need!”

He says a bit more, giving a sales pitch on some of his stock, but I’m looking around the shop.  It’s not much different from the game, simply being larger with a few display stands and shelves added.  There’s a few signs of the break-in – scuff marks on the door, scratches on the counter in front of him – but it’s largely all been cleaned up.  I still have some money left over from what the Jarl gave me, but I’m not sure how far it’ll get me.

“We’re headed up to Bleak Falls Barrow.  Anything you’d recommend?”

He starts at the mention of the ruin, but manages to keep a straight face.

“Ah, in that case you’ll be wanting some ways to keep warm.  I’ve got potions of frost resistance, thick coats, and a few insulated pieces of clothing.  If you’re looking for warm armour, then I do have some, but you’d be better off checking the blacksmith’s just across the road.”

While he’s talking, he pulls out a potion bottle and gestures to a clothing rack and a shelf of folded fabric.  As my eyes are following his finger, they slide onto a length of wood.  It catches my attention immediately since I recognise the design.  That’s one of the staves that was in the game.  It’s the flame staff.

Except... is it?  It has the same shape, but I can feel the wood, touch it with my own Magicka.  It’s not magical.  It’s just plain wood, no different from the stuff the building is made with.  Lucan sees what I’m looking at.

“Ah, noticed the staff, have you?  Yes, it’s a fine piece.  I’d imagine it would be quite useful for a mage such as yourself.”

I don’t respond for a moment while I get my thoughts in order.  Lucan seems about to say something more when I speak.

“I haven’t seen any staves before, so I don’t have anything to compare it to, but are they supposed to just feel like regular materials?”

He pauses, confusion bleeding into his Magicka, and I feel the same from Aela and Farkas.

“What do you mean?”  Aela asks.

“I saw a few enchanted items as we were walking through the Whiterun markets and stalls.  They felt like something to my Magicka.  These robes are the same.”  I tap my chest.  “But the staff just feels like wood, same as the wood that makes up the door.”  I point back to the door we came in through.

The shop is silent for a moment, until Lucan manages to find his voice.

“The man who sold it to me demonstrated it to prove it was real.  He fired flames from that mouth at the top.”

“Try touching it,” Farkas says.  We turn to him, and he shrugs.  “Maybe you can’t feel it from far away?”

It’s as good a suggestion as any, so I look at Lucan.  He nods, so I shrug and walk over to the staff.  Getting closer doesn’t seem to be changing anything.  It’s still just inert, dead wood.  This feeling doesn’t change even when I’m standing right next to it.  Still expecting nothing, I reach out and wrap my fingers around it.

Flesh meets wood, and the faint, seeping Magicka which lets me sense things is pulled along intricate pathways invisible to the naked eye.  It dances up and down the length of the staff, concentrating itself at the carved head at the top.

The patterns pull at my mind, and my memories flash with flames.  Campfires, hearths, bonfires, forest fires on the news.  This staff is made for fire.  Fire is all it knows.  I do not need to even form the spell – the staff will do that for me.  I just need to push in some Magicka, and the enchantment written into it will do the rest.

Just like the hood.

I jerk back and yank my hand away.

“Okay, never mind, that’s definitely real.”  I say, the words falling out of me in a rush.

As I flex the hand that had held the staff, my mind races.  It wasn’t just like the hood, contrary to my initial impression.  The hood forced order and consistency to thoughts and spells, sacrificing variety and adaptability for efficiency.  The staff, on the other hand, simply is a formation written across a readily available material – in this case, wood.

Whereas the hood would limit a mage’s spellcasting, the staff is more a means of having the inscribed spell available continuously while substituting the mage’s Magicka cost for the energy held in the inscription.  It’s only one spell, cast the same way every time because that’s the spell that’s written on it.  Casting a different spell or altering the spell would require... would require pieces of the inscription be removed, so that you could then-

“Jade?”

Aela’s voice pulls me out of my head, and I turn around to find the three of them looking at me with concern.  I shake my head.

“Sorry.  Lost in thought.  It’s real, but I don’t think I’ll be grabbing it.”

“Not a problem,” Lucan says.  “There’s still plenty in here that can help you on the mountain.”  He pauses, and I can feel... what is that emotion, is that doubt?  Uncertainty?

“If you’re going into the Barrow, I actually have something to ask of you, if you’d be willing to hear it.”

Here we are, we reached the quest naturally.

“I’m listening.”  I say, looking across the shelves.

“We had a break-in recently.  The thieves only took one thing.  An ornament.  Solid gold, in the shape of a dragon’s claw.  They mentioned going up to that ruin.  It’s something of an heirloom, so if you’d be willing to get it back while you’re there, my sister and I would appreciate it.”

“I don’t see why not.”  I nod.  Something on the shelf just behind him has caught my eye.  “Before we go, though, are those Amulets of the Divines?”

“Indeed they are, handcrafted for 50 each.  Are you wanting one of any Divine in particular?”

The game’s economy was naturally different from what’s found here, but neither Aela or Farkas react at the price so I guess it’s fine.

“Akatosh.”  I say.  He nods and pulls one from the shelf, placing it on the counter in front of him.  Unlike the staff which I didn’t feel until I touched it (and I will be pondering that when I get the chance) the amulet faintly tingles in that same way that the enchantments in the market did.  This one in particular feels almost... playful?  Another thing to think about when I get the chance.  Speaking of which.

“Also, two notebooks and something to write in them with.”

As minutes pass, a small pile forms on the counter.  The amulet, the books, a few resist frost potions, and some heavy cloaks that will double as bedrolls thanks to a rather cleverly sewn double-layered design.

The whole lot takes most of the money I had left.  It would have taken all of it, but Aela and Farkas had chipped in, and I hadn’t been able to convince them not to, especially once they pointed out they’d be using the potions and cloaks as well.

Once we’ve paid, we’re outside and headed up the road again in short order.  A few people are waiting for us, and there’s a short period of greetings, farewells, thanks, and well-wishes before we start making our way back towards the northern end of town.  While we walk, we work on sorting out the storage for what we couldn’t easily fit in the spaces we have.

The cloaks, naturally, go straight on our shoulders.  I’ve always been more fond of the cold and more prone to overheating, but even this far down it’s still cool enough that I’m able to comfortably wear mine without feeling like I’m being boiled in my own skin.

The books and amulet both stay with me.  The bookbag at my side is large enough that it can fit both the Sparks tome and the new notebooks.  I’ve gotten a few notes down regarding things to think about or talk to people about (the Nords’ descent into magi-phobia, the staff, things to raise despite the butterfly effect making my knowledge less than certain) but it’s still fairly barebones.  For now.

The Amulet of Akatosh sits around my neck, just visible under the robes.  The cool metal is pleasant against my skin, and I keep finding myself unconsciously running my Magicka along it to feel its enchantment.  It’s soothing, and I feel both energised by its effect and calmed by its presence.

As we pass over the bridge and begin the climb towards the Barrow, I brush my thumb against it, feeling the shape of it.  It brings a smile to my face.

The potions are more difficult.  None of us have any proper bags like the backpacks in the game.  The closest things are my bookbag (absolutely not) and my Alchemy satchel.  A quick look reveals some small loops on the sides and front of the satchel which seem made to hold vials and bottles.  I manage to fit a couple of the potions in there, but there’s still a few more that I can’t add for fear of them breaking against each other the moment I start moving quickly.

Aela and Farkas each manage to take one, plus one more with Farkas, by placing them in small pouches on their belts, though it’s a tight fit.  Apparently, using potions, especially in large quantities, while out and about is ill advised.  They don’t explain why, though.

“Once we take the frost resistance potions, I want you to see if you can figure it out.”  Aela tells me.  “Consider it part of your test.”

Ominous, but I guess it’s fair.  They did talk about needing to work on my awareness.  Still, I wonder what it actually is and how they expect me to be able to tell just by taking it?  Magicka sensing?

“Well done.”

I look over at Farkas, confused.

“Most people have trouble with this.  They buy too much or can’t figure out how to store it.  You stuck with a small number of simple items that will actually help, and you managed to store it safely with only a little bit of difficulty.”

His Magicka is faintly humming with approval, and Aela’s is making a similar sound (not sound, my brain corrects.  Not sound but there’s nothing else I can call it).  I can feel myself beginning to blush again at the genuine praise, but before I can respond, there’s a snarl ahead of us.

Two wolves stand in our way on the path.  I’m not familiar enough to know how bad they look, but considering how much thinner they are than my own dogs, they can’t be getting much food.  They seem hesitant to attack three people smelling of steel, especially with two being werewolves, but they must be hungry enough to think about it.

We all stand still for a few moments, each group sizing the other up.  I’m getting nervous and am about to start slowly reaching for my tonfas when I feel Aela’s Magicka start reaching out for the wolves.  Once it reaches them, they gradually relax, until they shuffle off to the side of the road.  We stand there for a little longer as we listen to them pad away.  I let out a sigh of relief.

“Nicely done.”  I say.  Aela turns to me, nervousness trickling into her flow, but before she can try and spin an explanation, I continue.

“I don’t know whether rumours had time to circulate before we left, but if they did then yes, I do know things thanks to a series of visions years ago.  Yes, I know about the Circle being, ah... hairier than most people.  And no, I don’t care.”

She freezes in place, and Farkas gives me a strange look that his Magicka tells me is a mixture of confusion, caution, and something similar to hope.

“Let’s keep moving.”  I say as I start walking again.  I know this could probably be described as antagonising them, but the feeling of causing chaos, even when it’s as minor as this, makes it so very worth it.

They don’t say anything as we continue up the path, but their Magicka tells me they’re cycling through a whole host of emotions.  Confusion, mistrust, doubt, hope, caution, uncertainty, frustration, and more all swirl around them until they finally settle on a mixture of annoyance and fond resignation (again with the fondness!  We barely know each other, how are they so fond of me already?).

We’re barely up from the bottom of the mountain, and yet a chill wind is already slicing through me.  I pull the cloak a little tighter around me and take a deep breath.  The cold air feels wonderful on my skin and soothes the faint aches from my Magicka usage.  I revel in the feeling of the cold for a while, but soon the wind turns to a more biting chill, and Aela stops me.

“We should take those potions now.”

I nod, and we each draw one from where we’ve stashed them.

“Focus on your Magicka as you take it.  See if you can tell what’s happening.”

With a nod and a deep breath, I down the frost resistance potion as Aela and Farkas do the same beside me.  At first, I feel nothing strange.  The liquid goes down like water – although slightly thicker – and I close my eyes to focus on my flow.

I’m still moving my Magicka in the simple regeneration circuit that Farengar taught me.  It’s far from the fastest pattern I’ve seen since gaining this new sense, but it’s still quite a bit more throughput than what I was doing on the way to Whiterun.  If it weren’t for it being a minor healing one, it’d probably be putting me in as much pain as the first night in Riverwood.

Then, I notice that it is indeed changing slightly.  There’s a tingling feeling in my stomach, and the Magicka there gains an unfamiliar tint.  The changed Magicka moves along the flow, spreading the effect, and the circuit itself begins to change shape, another layer forming close to my skin.

But... it’s not the potion that’s doing this.  It’s my body, my Magicka, me.  The potion triggered the effect, caused my Magicka to flow differently, like a chemical reaction.  I could mimic this pattern change myself with some practice, but the potion has taken my Magicka and basically forced it into shape.

It’s not the insidious manipulation of the hood’s enchantment.  It’s a drug, kicking my body’s systems into working a certain way.

“It’s a stimulant.”  Aela and Farkas don’t day anything, but I can feel approval forming from them as I speak.  “The reason it’s a bad idea to rely on them or overuse them is because either your body will become accustomed to them, leading to withdrawal and reduced effects, or you’ll just overdose.”

“Well done.”  Aela says with a nod and a grin.  In short order, the empty bottles are stashed and we’re back on our way.

We walk for a little longer as the ground changes under us, going from rocks and dirt to crunchy snow.  The sound is music to my ears, and when combined with the feeling of the cold air, it has me sighing happily, feeling like I’m floating.

The good mood is shattered when the tower comes into view.

It rises above the snow, shadowed by the mountain stone behind it.  The unlit walls almost disappear against the rocks, and I can’t make out any figures walking around or standing guard.  I can see the tree that the one bandit should be leaning against, but if I hadn’t played the game then I wouldn’t know they’re there at all from this distance.

I stop and grab the two by the shoulders, and they turn to look at me.

“Bandits in that tower,” I say, pointing.  “One outside, leaning against that tree to the right.”  I shift my finger over to it.

They both follow my finger and I can feel them begin contemplating, but I’m worried.  I still don’t feel ready for combat.  I barely have a handle on the sequences.  Depending on how this goes, we’ll likely have to fight, and I don’t know how accurate this world is to the game’s cycle of “enemy goes down, begs for mercy, gets back up and keeps fighting”.

Aela draws her bow, Farkas unsheathes his greatsword, and I pull out my tonfas, their cold weight no longer comforting in my hands.  Aela turns to me.

“We’ll take the lead.  You follow behind us and have them stay down after we pass.”

I swallow and nod.  They regard me for a moment longer before nodding back and turning towards the tower.  I close my eyes for a moment and take a long, slow breath.  I open my eyes.

The snow is falling lightly, not even enough to cast a haze over the mountain but enough to be noticed.  There’s an ever-so-faint breeze coming from our right – is Riverwood receiving some light rainfall in place of this snow, I wonder?

Aela and Farkas are moving forward with purposeful intent.  Their motions are fluid, precise, and measured.  Their steps are quiet even against the snow, while mine crunch with every shift of my weight.

Through the snow is light, it muffles everything, and the tower stands, silently imposing, drawing nearer.  I still can’t see any figures, but I fancy I can see a shifting shadow at the base of the tree.

An arrow cracks the snow ahead of us, the sound harsh yet muted oddly by the snow.  A woman’s voice sounds out from across the gap.

“That’s close enough, strangers!  There’s nothing for you on this mountain – just an old ruin.  Turn around and head back home!”

...

There’s a chance.

I put my tonfas back in their loops and step forward, sliding past the two Companions and cupping my hands around my mouth.

“There is, actually, something in the ruin!  The Whiterun court wizard has tasked me with retrieving an inscribed stone tablet from there!  Not something you’d be able to use or sell off, unless you plan to carry it up to Dragonsreach and present it to him yourself!”

There’s no response from ahead.  I take a deep breath.

“We’re not looking to fight!  Once we’re through, we’ll be gone.  You won’t need to worry about us coming back.”

Again there’s no response.  I lick my lips and clench my hands around nothing to quell my nerves.  I really don’t want to fight.  I’m trying to think of what else to say when the voice from earlier rings out.

“You said ‘we’.  Who else is with you?”

“Two members of the Companions!”  I call back.  I don’t know if that’ll set them off but I feel like honesty will serve us best here.

The silence returns.  The snow has picked up slightly and is beginning to cast a haze, but I can make out a figure approaching.  They stop maybe two hundred metres away.  There’s another thin shadow against the snow horizontally at their waist – a bow?

“Walk forward so we can see you.”

We must make quite a sight to them.  A towering mage with a manic grin on his face (I’m excited to be able to talk my way past this fight), a huntress with a gaze as piercing as her arrows who is seemingly unaffected by the cold despite how little is covered by her clothes, and a man in full metal armour wielding a greatsword as if it’s as light as a feather and managing to not sink into the snow even with all that weight.

I can feel their Magicka falter slightly as we come into view.  It’s a Redguard woman holding a bow, and behind her is a Nord in iron armour with a mace and shield.  They eye us warily, but aren’t making any moves to attack.  Their weapons remain lowered, though their Magicka weaves through their fingers, at the ready.

“Sorry about the weapons.”  Their eyes snap to me as I speak.  “We ran into some wolves on the way up, so we’re still a little twitchy from that.”

They watch me for a moment more, but when I don’t say anything else, their eyes start drifting again.  Aela and Farkas are no longer fully ready to fight, but they’re still tense in their Magicka.

I’m not worried.  I can feel the two in front of us.  They’re calming down, and feel more annoyed than afraid.  I wonder if I’ll eventually be able to feel how people actually think of me in addition to just their emotions?  I should write that down.

“Don’t mind me,” I say as I pull out a notebook and start writing.  “I just had a thought that I want to come back to after we’re back to safety.”

Confusion streaks through their Magicka, as well as some slightly higher annoyance, but they simply sigh after a moment.

“Alright, go on.  But there’s another group up at the Barrow.  We’re not with them, and I don’t think they’re as willing as we are to just let you pass.”

I tuck the notebook back into the bag and give them a smile and a nod.

“Thanks.”

The two of them turn and start walking back towards the tower.  Aela and Farkas hesitate, but put away their weapons and start leading the way again after giving me approving nods.

While we continue up the path, I’m riding yet another high of talking my way through these situations.  It may not exactly be telling Legate Lanius to fuck off, but it’s still a damn sight better than I’d have expected of myself before coming here.  And we managed to avoid bloodshed!

That thought has me sobering as I remember what the bandits said.  The group up at Bleak Falls is separate, and more likely to attack us.  Especially since we actually need to get into the Barrow instead of passing by.

What I’ve done is essentially delay my first combat, and the snow under my boots doesn’t cheer me up enough to dispel the shadow of fear at what’s around the corner.  Like it or not, I will have to fight people by the end of today.  They will be wanting us dead, and I’m not nearly skilled enough to keep them down without too much risk.

The weight of the tonfas isn’t comforting anymore.  Instead, the feeling of them tapping against my waist fills me with foreboding and dread.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly, seeing it clouding in the frosty air.  After the bandits will be the draugr – ancient warriors equally willing to split me open.  After that, Mirmulnir, who would likely happily swallow me whole.

And I still haven’t managed a single spell.

As we step up to the corner that I know will lead to seeing the Barrow, I steel myself.  After Mirmulnir, I can take a break, train, prepare better, and actually be ready for what comes next.

I just have to make it that far, first.

Chapter Text

In the game, Bleak Falls Barrow was impressive.

Wide stairways, high sloping arches, grand pillars, and more all added up to an imposing ruin that served as the player’s first delve into one of the game’s many dungeons (unless they don’t go straight for the main quest or make detours like Embershard Mine).

The enemies were never much of a threat to even a new player, being the lowest tier of bandit with zero mages among their number – and there weren’t even that many of them anyway.

Here, in this reality, this world that is definitely not a dream?  (I am not a dream, I am real, I will not Zero-Sum)

Bleak Falls Barrow is nothing short of magnificent.

The stairs alone are easily a hundred metres wide, and stretch half as tall as Dragonsreach’s full climb from the Gildergreen to the door.  Along the sides, the wall occasionally gives way to small alcoves, large enough for someone to stand in.  Guard posts?  Places for pilgrims to kneel and give worship?

The arches and pillars stretch up into the lowest of the clouds, giving the impression of the structure being far larger than it is.  All the way up, intricate carvings decorate them, and I think I can see patches of colour (paint of some kind?) on the undersides of the arches most isolated from the winds.  Evidently, this place was far more colourful before time and tide took their toll.

More of those alcoves are placed around the bases of each pillar, as well as the outsides of each arch.  There’s also many up off the ground level, with small horizontal platforms evidently providing footholds... or shelves, perhaps, if it was not people who were to be found in the alcoves.  Offerings to their dragon lords?  The higher alcoves also have increasingly more intricate carvings.  Higher altitude, higher status?  Closer to the dragons and the sky because whatever or whoever was in there was more worthy?

I close the Sparks spell tome and swap it for one of the notebooks so I can note down every observation and question this ruin is giving me.  I’ve been pulling out the tome when I can all the way from Whiterun, but even though I can feel and manipulate my Magicka now, I’m stumped by the question of how to turn that into forming and casting spells.

The Tamrielic knowledge of physics is better than I thought.  The tome talks about manipulating energies in a way that I recognise as referring to electric charge as carried by subatomic particles – negative charge in electrons, positive charge in protons.  They know that lightning is a discharge caused by two areas having greatly differing charge, and that after the lightning has passed, the difference of charge is largely neutralised.

The tome offers a surprisingly effective physics lesson on how lightning forms and how to manipulate charge to cause lightning.  To my immense frustration, though, what it doesn’t say is how to get my Magicka to manipulate charge in the first place.

A few times in my attempts, I’ve managed to briefly make the hair on my arms stand on end from static, but I haven’t been able to achieve it consistently, and by the time I realise what I’m feeling, it’s already over and I don’t have the opportunity to examine my Magicka and see what did it.

I’m pulled from my musings on magic by a scream rapidly approaching us.

“Can’t wait to count out your coin!”

My eyes snap forward as I finish putting away the notebook.  Ahead of us is a Redguard woman in iron armour holding a greatsword.  She’s closing the distance fast, and behind her I can see a couple more bandits with various weapons approaching, as well as archers up on the Barrow’s walls.

Ah, shit.

\-|||-/

/-|||-\

Aela still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the whelp.

Her first impression of him had been at the Giant fight outside Whiterun.  She’d dismissed him at first sight, assuming him to be just another mage with his head up his own arse.  Then he had instantly shattered that assumption by complimenting their teamwork and physical skill – something no self-obsessed magical prick would ever do willingly.

From there, he had only gotten stranger.  A few hours later and he was being taken to the yard, having apparently decided to join.  His chosen weapons had been the strange side-handled sticks supposedly of Akaviri origin.  Rumours had come in that night of a mage who brought news from Helgen, saying a dragon – a real dragon – had burned it to the ground.  Rumours also said he was a seer, one who knew things in addition to just seeing the future.

And on the way up here, he had revealed that he knew the Circle were werewolves and he just... didn’t care!?

She could confidently say that she hadn’t met someone like this before.  For all that he seemed humble and willing to use his knowledge to help those around him, there was something else.  Something had him terrified – she could smell it on him – and whatever it was, it was driving him forward.  He seemed to expect to die with every step he took, but whatever was driving him – whatever he had seen – was apparently enough to override his fear of death.

She could see it in him still.  As she nocked an arrow and took aim at the archers up in the ruin, she could see him out of the corner of her eye.  He had the tonfas drawn and was managing to keep pace just behind Farkas as they charged to meet the approaching fighters.  There was a desperation in his movements that she recognised from seeing new Companions charge beasts, civilians carry family away from fires, and soldiers rush to stop bandit raids before they reach the gates.

She loosed her first shot and reached back to grab the second.  Farkas met the greatsword-wielder’s charge with his own, Skyforge Steel driven by a werewolf’s strength bending her iron blade as she tried to block, knocking it from her hands and following through to bite deep into her shoulder.

As the bandit screamed in pain, those behind her faltered in fear and disbelief.  The whelp took the opening, cracking his metal-edged forearm against one’s chest and striking another’s shoulder with a heavy blow.  She recognised the stances and movements that they had been working on since he had joined.  Good, he was learning.

Her second shot struck as true as her first, felling a second archer.  She grabbed another arrow, moving away from the melee to get a better angle on the third.  A loud clang was  shortly followed by a scream.  She couldn’t risk a look while taking aim, but she heard the whelp speak.

“Stay down if you want to keep the other one.”

Unbidden, a smirk came to her lips.  He wasn’t a warrior yet like most were when they joined, but he was far from the worst they’d ever had come to their door.

\-|||-/

/-|||-\

That block was pure fucking luck, and I don’t even know what possessed me to retaliate with a side kick instead of one of the moves I’ve actually been practising.

Whatever the reason, it worked, and the sword-and-shield bandit now has one knee bending at a very unhappy angle.  I managed to think quick enough to say something, and it seems to have worked as the fight went out of him almost immediately.

While I’ve been dealing with him, Farkas has knocked out the armoured one.  Her Magicka is sluggish, pooling around the shoulder wound which is now bleeding into the snow.  I’d probably feel a lot more sympathetic if she hadn’t charged us blade-first on sight.  The one I dealt with is panting, Magicka swirling through the broken knee.  I can almost see the silhouette of his cartilage.  If I just focus on the sensing aspect of it all-

“Eyes forward!”

Farkas’ barked order snaps me out of the Magicka sense, but I’m immediately pulled back in when I see the remaining bandit drawing Magicka to her hand.

I can’t see her flow.  I can’t see what she’s doing with her other hand.  I can’t focus enough to sense the others around us.  All I can see is the spell she’s forming.

Unlike the flows I’ve been learning, her Magicka is moving to her hand and staying there, pooling in her cupped palm.  There, it changes (crystallises?) and electrical energy arcs between her fingertips.

Oh.  So that’s how I make it manipulate charge.

Her palm turns towards me.

In the moment before it hits me, I can see the Magicka in her hand, still.  There’s more of it moving in behind the stuff that’s being used.  As the lightning leaves her, more is made.  She’s not causing a lightning strike from her to me, she’s causing it in her hand and throwing it at me, the Magicka serving to translate the charge and force across the gap.

Then, the first bolt hits me, and my world blooms in pain.

I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t move.  The lightning ravages my body as this fucking Emperor Palpatine wannabe holds the spell for who knows how long.

The passage of time is lost to me.  I don’t know if this has been going on for half a second or half an hour.

I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t move.

But I can feel.  I can think.

The crackling energies lance through me.  My muscles are forced to twitch, contract, spasm as they’re assaulted by a cruel mimicry of my brain’s signals.  And with every volt that courses through me, my Magicka drains.

My flow shudders, constricted muscles and rampant energies sending it into disarray.  I struggle in vain to get the circuit going again, but the electricity has me in a daze, and my attempts fail.

I dimly register a roaring voice, but my focus is cast inward.  My internal stock of Magicka is falling, each bolt of lightning taking chunks out of what I can feel.  Where they make contact with me, I can feel my Magicka flickering, wavering, attempting to reinforce and restore – the charge!

The same physical phenomenon that causes lightning is what’s draining me!  My Magicka is attempting to counterbalance the differences and fluctuations of charge, easing the chaos of the assaulting energies, and the effort is sapping me in the process!

So what happens if I feed it more?

I push my Magicka to my skin, sending as much as I can to the areas where I can feel the lightning striking me.

In an instant, the pain is gone, my vision clears, and I can breathe again.  The increased Magicka output has allowed the stabilisation to occur faster than the lightning can disrupt it.

It’s far from sustainable, though.  If my Magicka was falling before, then now it’s plummeting.  I don’t yet have a feel for how full or empty I am on Magicka, but I can’t imagine lasting more than a few seconds with it feeling like it’s draining this fast

The bandit is still standing there... at least, I think she is.  It’s a bit hard to tell with the fucking light show that’s still crashing against my face.  I think she hasn’t moved because to the side I can see Farkas rapidly approaching where she was standing before.

He disappears behind the lights and I hear the bandit grunt in pain, followed by the crunch of snow.  The lightning stops, and I can see her sprawled on the ground.  Farkas delivers a swift blow to her head with the flat of his blade, and she doesn’t get back up.

With the three bandits down here dealt with, I look up to the walls where I saw the archers before.  Instead, I see two lying on the stone with arrows in them, and the third... where’s the third?

Ah, there’s the third, lying facedown in the snow below the wall they were standing on before.  Aela works quickly.

I groan as I get my feet under me and stand back up.  I had fallen to my knees at some point during the lightning barrage, and I’m still a little unsteady in the aftermath, but I manage not to fall over.  I’m still twitching occasionally, but the pain has faded somewhat now that I’m not actively being electrocuted.

The muscle contractions from the electricity had, oddly enough, ensured that my grip hadn’t loosened, so my tonfas are still in my hands.  My fingers are sore from gripping too tight, but at least I don’t have to reach into the snow to pick them back up.

“Doing alright, new blood?”  Farkas asks as he wipes off his blade.  I don’t answer at first, instead taking a moment to breathe.  Eventually, I manage a nod.  He nods back, and I can feel Aela’s Magicka approaching.  Before she can say anything, though, we hear a groan from the one who had a sword and shield.

“How many mercenary groups in Skyrim, and it’s the damn Companions who come after us?”

Ah, yes.  Not only is he still alive, but he’s even conscious.  Again, I’d be more sympathetic if they’d at least attempted to tell us to fuck off before trying to kill us.

I stagger my way over, putting away the tonfas while I walk, and flop down onto the snow next to him.  He startles at the appearance of someone beside him, and outright jerks away when he realises it’s the man who broke his knee.  Said knee gets jostled by the movement, so he just ends up gasping and clutching at it instead of getting away.

“Oi.”

He cracks open an eye, gritting his teeth against the pain.  I give him a smile, but oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to appreciate it, turning away and focusing on his knee.  Aela and Farkas are looking at me, their Magicka radiating with ‘wtf are you doing?’ but I pay them no mind.

“Ah, come on, don’t be like that.  You attacked us.  We were just defending ourselves.  Besides, if you hurt my feelings, I might not be willing to part with this.”

I place a healing potion on the snow between us – one of the few I have left from all the way back in Helgen Keep.  He stares at it for a moment, but then his demeanour slowly adjusts.  He turns and looks me in the eye, clearly not wanting anything to do with me but knowing that the healing potion is something he absolutely wants.

“What do you want?”

Gotcha.

“I want information.  How long ago did Arvel go down there?”

He blinks at me, bewildered.

“How do you know-“

“Answer the question.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, likely trying to figure out how I know what I do.  He doesn’t come to a reasonable answer, of course, so he grimaces and takes a breath.

“Early this morning.”

This morning?  Even with the title ‘The Swift’, if the Barrow has received the same level of upscaling as the rest of the world, there’s no way he’d be able to have reached the spider by now.  So he’s not at risk of starving to death or dying of thirst.

We should probably still avoid delaying, since there’s only so long he’ll be held there before the big one decides to eat him.  Or, no, spiders liquefy their prey’s insides and drink them through a proboscis like a straw, don’t they?  Yikes.

I check the sun.  It’s a little past noon, with most of that having been the walk since the fight was pretty quick.  We’ll likely have time to get through part of the Barrow, almost certainly reaching the spider room shortly before we should stop and rest for the night... huh.  It actually works out pretty well for us to save Arvel and then tackle the draugr section on the next day.

“How many of your friends inside?”  I ask, and again he hesitates.

“Two.”

...

Wow.  I’m actually a little impressed at the fucking audacity to be lying to me in this situation.  There were three inside in the game, and I think only three or four out here.  If there were six out here, then it stands to reason there’s more inside as well.  He’s not just lying – he’s hoping we’ll go in underprepared and get killed by his friends.

“That,” I say coldly, fixing him with a glare, “was your one lie.  Try to deceive me again, and you’ll be finding your own way off this mountain with both knees broken, and no healing potion to help you.”

“S-seven!”  The bandit yelps.  “Three here in the entrance hall, and three searching further in after Arvel – he’s the seventh!”

I close my eyes and nod.  Far from an ideal number of foes in our way, but manageable, especially split up like that.

“And one last question.  Do you want to kill a dragon?”

He looks lost.

“What?”

“Do you want to kill a dragon?”  I repeat.  I’m going to want every able-bodied combatant I can get my hands on for the Mirmulnir fight.  If that means recruiting lying bandits, so be it.

Unfortunately, without foresight to know what in Oblivion I’m talking about, the poor man is just confused.

“I – not particularly?”  He says it like a question, still afraid from my earlier threat, but there’s no wrong answer to the final question.  If he’s not interested, then so be it.  I pick up the healing potion and hold it out to him.

“Off you go, then.”

He doesn’t believe it at first, but after a moment he snatches the potion from my grasp, gulping it down and falling back on the snow.  I watch in fascination as his Magicka twists and shifts.  His flow slows down, but the spread of the potion’s effect actually speeds up, until in just a few seconds it reaches every part of his body.

With the altered Magicka spread throughout, its effect begins to manifest.  It’s hard to see through most of his body since I assume it’s just fixing microtears and other aches from exercising and such – maybe a stubbed toe or a bruise from running into a corner – but his knee is a very different story.

The altered Magicka was a rainbow of sensations at first, but now that it’s fixing a more serious injury, I can see those pieces separating.  That pointed-yet-not-sharp silver shadow dancing its fingers across the injury without quite touching it is a diagnostic process of sorts.  The little cloud keeping lockstep just behind it, feeling like a needle and thread as it pulls his fragmented knee back into alignment, is the first part of the actual healing.

Once the pieces are back together, the Magicka left in their wake – I had assumed it to be simply spent or excess – comes alight in pulsating waves.  Each pulse is... I’m not quite sure what’s happening, but after each one the fragments are a little closer, a little more solid, a little less broken.

Eventually, the process ends, and his knee is whole again.

Fascinating.

With another wary glance at me, he gets to his feet and starts walking away.  He doesn’t even limp.  Amazing.  How?  I pull out my notebook and add a note to examine how alchemical mixtures are so potent, adding an underline for good measure.

As I tuck the notebook away, my eyes land on another of the bandits.  The woman who led the charge.  Her iron breastplate is split at the shoulder, her hand against the wound, staunching the blood.  It’s not just her, ether.  Though I’m not looking in their direction, I know there’s also the three archers that Aela took down.

Even if we didn’t need the remaining healing potions ourselves, we don’t have enough for all of them.

The attack on the Western Watchtower might not happen until we get back with the Dragonstone, but I can’t take that chance.  If we take too long then by the time we return, Mirmulnir could have razed several farms and half the city, or he could have been taken down and, with no Dragonborn to take his soul, simply resurrected by Alduin.

But can I really just leave them like this?  They’re wounded.  Between potential infections, frostbite, predators attracted by the blood, other bandit groups opportunistic enough to take advantage, and who knows what else, walking into the Barrow and leaving them out here could very well result in their deaths.

It’s not even that I care about them.  They were ready to kill us just for whatever little coin we might have had – hell, maybe not even for coin but for their own twisted pleasure.  I wouldn’t mourn them.  But the thought of leaving someone to die – even them – leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I can’t delay or Whiterun may burn.  If I leave them like this, will that be the beginning of a slippery slope?  I don’t know what to...

Oh.  I’m being stupid.  I’m letting perfect be the enemy of good.  ‘Anything worth doing is worth half-assing’.  I don’t need to get them back to perfect form.  I just need to make sure they’re not going to die unless they do something dumb.

The armoured bandit doesn’t startle as badly as the one whose knee I broke, and instead just glares at me as I crouch down in front of her.

“Do you have any bandages?”

Her glare turns hateful at my question.

“You did this to us, didn’t have the decency to finish us off, and now you’re taking that shit as well!?”

“I’m going to use them on you and your friends.”

That takes the wind out of her sails, and she blinks at me.  For a minute, she just opens and closes her mouth, struggling to find words to express the maelstrom of emotions I can feel in her Magicka.  Eventually, she relents.

“In the tents over there.  Wooden chest with bronze clasps and a leaf on the lid.”

Guess she decided to bet on the possibility that I’m not lying, and that I’m actually just going to help the people who tried to kill me, like the moron I am.

The bandages are where she said they are, and I grab some while Mr Broken Knee eyes me.  Why is he even still here?  It would be reasonable for him to assume this location is compromised, with bounties likely being set if he or his group decide to do some banditry after their spot of tomb raiding.  Shouldn’t he be leaving, then?  Either way, he doesn’t stop me, and soon I’m binding the leader’s shoulder.  While I do, I figure I might as well ask her.

“Do you want to kill a dragon?”

 You know, if nothing else, that question is good for seeing people’s incredulous looks.

Chapter Text

Farkas knew he wasn’t the smartest of men.

When people talked about his mind, they usually weren’t wrong when they said he’s not smart.  He knew that.

But they did often seem to think him dumber than he really was.

He may not have had his brother’s smarts, but he was observant.  He knew weapons.  He knew armour.  He knew martial forms.

He knew people.

And the new blood?  That kid needed to understand he wasn’t in the same place he’d come from.

The bandits outside may not have been the worst Farkas had seen.  There were some true monsters hiding out in old forts and caves.  But the kid seemed to be clinging too tight to what he had said in the mead hall, as well as outside afterwards.

He didn’t just let them live – he even patched them up and gave a healing potion to one of them.

Sure, maybe there’s a couple of bandits who fit what Jade described back in the hall.  Maybe there’s a couple who are just desperate.  But after years of being a Companion, going out into Skyrim and seeing all kinds of bandits?  Farkas could count those desperate few on one hand.

While Farkas wiped off his blade, the kid was asking the bandits sprawled around the fire that same question about killing a dragon.  Farkas wasn’t surprised that none of the ones outside had said yes – bandits were cowards, through and through.

Him being too soft with the bandits wasn’t his only problem, either.  Farkas knew weapons and forms and he could already tell that those tonfas weren’t right for the kid.  They didn’t fit him.

Plenty of recruits got excited over strange and uncommon weapons.  Even a few of the Circle would be interested when something new comes in, like they were when they first got the tonfas.

Most of the time, the recruit would grab the strange weapon, try it out, make a fool of themselves, and be told to try something simpler and try the strange one later.

This time, the kid had shown some knowledge of how the weapon worked, and everyone had been so excited to see it that instead of telling him to try something simpler, they’d had him work with them to make forms for it.  They hadn’t forgotten, but they’d waited to see if he actually could use them or if it was more of just the same.  Then the rumours had come down about him being a seer, and everyone had assumed he already knew what weapons were right for him.

But they weren’t.  Farkas could see it with his own eyes, no magic needed.  The normal grip striking with punches and elbows and forearm strikes was better, but the other grips and the whole weapon just didn’t work with him.

He needed to try different weapons – maybe even no weapon, being a mage – and drop the tonfas before he got himself hurt trying to use a weapon that didn’t fit.

Farkas would have said something already about both the bandits and the weapons – and he knows Aela would have as well – but they’d both heard the kid mutter about just needing to get through this ruin, and then one more fight, and then he could rest for a time.

They would talk to him once he reached that resting point.

\-|||-/

/-|||-\

The ruin isn’t as cold as outside, but it’s still cold enough to make me miss the fire as we make our way deeper.

Neither the bandits outside nor the ones in the first room had wanted to fight Mirmulnir, but I couldn’t tell how much of that was due to not wanting to come face-to-face with a flying death demigod and how much of it was just due to not wanting anything to do with the grinning mage of unknown intent asking strange questions.

Regardless of their reason for refusing, each one is one less blade against the dragon when the time comes.  I know we ordinarily wouldn’t have them anyway, but fuck, Alduin turned a town several kilometres wide into a blazing hellscape in under a minute.  If the power increase between the game and here is also true for every other dragon, then I don’t know what it’s going to take to kill Mirmulnir – or if I’ll even survive the attempt.

My nerves about the coming dragon fight aren’t helped by the growing sense of unease at whether I’m even going to be capable of doing anything when the time comes.  While I’m gradually getting a handle on the tonfas, it’s slow going that still doesn’t feel like it’s matching with my knowledge, and both of my fights so far have very much been the two Companions hard-carrying me.

As for magic, well, I’ve managed to consistently get the hairs on my arms to stand up after my little electrocution outside, but I can’t get the spell itself to occur.  I’ve re-read the relevant sections of the tome, and am turning through the pages again even now, but I just can’t get it to happen.  I don’t get it.

I slip the tome back into the bag as we push through a thin layer of webs blocking the tunnel.  Farkas doesn’t outwardly react, but his Magicka shudders as we pass through.

Speaking of Farkas, he and Aela have been disapproving ever since after the fight outside.  I’m assuming it has something to do with how I handled the bandits in the aftermath, but they’re not saying anything.  I think this might be made worse by the fact that they felt fond before.  At least if they hadn’t, it would have just been going from indifference to disapproval, and I could handle that better than them losing a positive opinion of me.

Through a few twists and turns, the path meanders through, candles and braziers quietly staving off the dark of the underground.  We crest a small rise in the path and come to a wall of vines and collapsed stone.  There’s a path leading around the vines just to the left, and it looks like it continues as normal on the other side.

This... wait, I remember this.  This is part of the regular path through the Barrow, but there’s no way we’re here already.  If my memory is right, then just around the corner is the puzzle with the dart trap, but if that’s the case then the path from the door to here is no different than in the game.  We’ve moved maybe fifty metres since getting out of sight of the fire.

Aela and Farkas tilt their heads slightly, likely hearing something my regular human ears can’t.  There’s a moment of pause, before Aela speaks.

“Something hitting stone – several somethings, sounding like arrows.  And several groans.”

The dart trap, followed by dying bandits.  I rush around the bend and down a short set of steps, arriving in a brightly lit room.  A familiarly sized room, my mind hisses as I take it in.

To my left, three rotating totems with animal carvings on each face.  Above the totems, dragon-head braziers.  In front of me, a gate, through which I can see a chest, a table with a healing potion and a book, and a soul gem on a stand.  Above the gate, two carved faces, with animal symbols in their mouths.  In the centre of the room, a lever on a small, raised platform, a third face just to the left, having presumably fallen to the pull of time.

It’s all exactly as I remember.

The only unfamiliar part of this is that there are three dead bandits instead of just the one.

“Jade!”  Aela’s voice rings out as she and Farkas run into the room behind me.  “What’s – oh.”

They both must have seen the bandits, but I couldn’t care less about the three on the ground.  She goes to say something else, but I lift a hand and gesture for silence.  My mind is racing with possibilities, worries, reassurances, counterarguments, and more.  Eventually, I manage to find my voice.

“Both at Helgen and in the time since, I’ve seen that my visions were far from perfect.  Most notably, what I saw was of a far smaller scale than how it really is.  The Whiterun market square had just three buildings – Belethor, Arcadia, and the inn – plus four stalls.  The full climb from the gates to Dragonsreach was maybe half of what the Dragonsreach stairs alone actually cover vertically.”

My descriptions of such a small world send surprise and confusion through their Magicka, but I’m not done.

“The one, singular exception so far has been the Guardian Stones, but even then there was something about them that just made them seem smaller than I had foreseen, so really they were different, too.”

I lick my lips as I search for the right words, still trying to figure out why.

“The outside of the Barrow is larger as well – no, it’s massive compared to the visions.  But... this is the same.  From the first room to here is the same short length of stone tunnels and collapsed pathways which leave this room as the only passage deeper into the ruin.  And this room is exactly as I remember it, except for the number of dead bandits.”

As I’m talking, I realise that my lips are curling into a manic grin.  This is exciting.  Sure, I’m confused and a little afraid of what this might mean, but that’s overshadowed by a question that’s bouncing around my mind in light of this discovery.

“The Barrow has an exit on the other side of the mountain.  The mountain is still so much bigger than in my visions.  So if these first rooms are exactly the same, taking so little space...”

I turn to them, grinning wide with mad, wild eyes.

“Then what’s taking up the rest of the space?  How has the rest of the Barrow changed?  What are we going to find that I haven’t foreseen?”

They both look at me, their Magicka colouring with confusion and exasperation.

I should explain.

“Look, I know it sounds weird to be excited to not know what obstacles we’ll find, but part of why I loved getting those visions was the feeling of mystery behind exploring the places I saw.  The idea that there’s more of that exploration to experience is a welcome surprise.”

The confusion gives way to more exasperation, but they seem satisfied by my explanation.  They turn their attention to the rest of the room.  After a moment, Aela speaks up.

“I assume you know how to get through the gate?”

“Of course.”  I say with a nod.  “This kind of puzzle is pretty common in Dragon Cult ruins, from what I saw.  You make the totems,” I point to the rotating pillars, “match with the right order and placement.”  I point to the faces above the gate.

There’s a moment of silence.

“That’s it?”  Farkas asks, unimpressed.

“Yeah, but remember, these gates aren’t made to keep people out, they’re made to keep the draugr in.”

They both seem to still be a little doubtful, but they don’t press it, and we get to work on turning the pillars to the correct positions.  In short order, the pattern matches the faces, but before I throw the lever, I send out my Magicka.  I’m curious how this actually works.

The metal handle of the lever extends beneath the floor, where it connects to what feels like another, longer metal rod extending not towards the gate, but towards the pillars.  It gets more difficult to feel as I search further from my body, especially since I can’t actually see what I’m feeling for, but just under the pillars the second rod connects to... another rod running beside a series of gears, surprisingly.  The gears themselves have uneven lengths for their teeth, and appear to align the connected rod in different directions depending on how the pillars are rotated.  It’s similar to a scaled up version of how real locks work.

I throw the lever.  The lever turns the first rod.  The first rod pushes the second rod forward.  To the left of the gate, something else moves – I can’t feel what.  The gate slides open with a heavy clank.  I turn to the two Companions.

“Be wary.  Regardless of what I’ve seen, it’s entirely possible for us to find draugr anywhere beyond this point, including earlier than I expect.”

They both nod, and we move through the gate with weapons ready, the two of them glancing to the way to the left while I check the chest and table.  Well, they have their weapons ready.  I, on the other hand, feel as if I’m at the edge of a breakthrough.

Ever since the lightning barrage I received outside, I’ve had several successes in manipulating charge with my Magicka.  In the first room, I couldn’t do much more than give myself some static charge, raising hairs across my body, but I’ve been working on it the whole time since and I’m close.

I clench and unclench my hands a few times as I rifle through the chest’s contents.  Old fabrics, a few embalming tools, a couple of coins... the coins aren’t Septims.  Interesting.  It’s to be expected of course, given that the Dragon Cult is older than the Septim Empire by a couple thousand years.

But despite not being Septims, they are still the gold coinage I’m used to from the game.  The only real difference is that instead of the face of an emperor and some writing on them, these ones have one side bearing a dragon with spread wings as if seen from below or above, and the other bearing a phrase in Dovahzuul that I can’t read.

As I turn the gold coins in my hand, static arcs momentarily flicker between my skin and the metal, bringing a smile to my face.  I’m getting closer and closer to actually casting something.

I let the chest fall closed as I move across to the table.  I grab Thief because I’m curious how “skill books” work here, and the healing potion gets added to my belt.  With the table cleared, my eyes shift to the soul gem.

I... I’m suddenly faced with the awareness that not only are souls real here, but this thing will even trap them and deny them any kind of afterlife.  So black soul gems were already useless given how I don’t want to kill, but I’m definitely not going to be using them now.  As for white souls...

Actually, you know what, if I decide that I don’t want to be sending animals to the Soul Cairn, then I’ll just sell it to Farengar.  Into an empty pocket of the Alchemy satchel it goes.

“Alright,” I say, stepping over to the left side of the room.  The first changes I see are to be expected – it’s larger, more ornate, with carvings reminiscent of the Hall of Stories.  There’s no doors – I don’t think there were collapsed pathways in the game – but there are sections of the walls that have fallen away, intricate carvings fragmented and fallen to the ground.

In the centre of the room is a descending, spiralling ramp.  It’s made of stone, as well.  Wasn’t it wood in the game?  Actually, yeah, why the hell would it be wood?  The bandits hadn’t made it this far, so they hadn’t been the ones to construct the way down.  It couldn’t have been the original way as there’s no possible way for wood to have lasted the thousands of years since the Dragon Cult.  Arvel was alone so he couldn’t...

Wait, how the fuck is Arvel down here at all!?  The gate was shut!  Is there another way through?

The wood nonsense isn’t really relevant since it’s stone here, but I’m going to have to ask Arvel how he got into this section of the Barrow.

I shake my head as I step over to the top of the ramp.  The skeevers at the bottom usually hear the player if you don’t sneak into this room, but I don’t know whether that’s still true here.  I don’t think it is since I can’t hear any skittering footsteps, but just to be safe...

“Skeevers at the bottom of this.  At least three.”  I say, stepping aside as Farkas takes the lead.  He acknowledges my warning with a nod and keeps his blade pointed forward and down, ready to skewer anything that comes up towards us.

As we descend, I still don’t draw my tonfas.  I don’t know why, but with the hairs on my arms raising and the disparate charge around my hands rising and falling, I just feel like should be moving with my hands at the ready, not my weapons.  Or, I suppose they are my weapons.

There’s one major magical problem that I’ve been failing to fix since I got hit outside, though.

My Magicka pool isn’t recharging anywhere near as quick as I would expect.

For all that I’ve learned to sense Magicka and regulate my flow, and even to actually manipulate something in a way that will hopefully become a spell soon, there’s some other aspect I must still need to learn in order recharge my Magicka at an acceptable rate.

Or maybe that’s normal?  From the twenty-odd minutes of Morrowind I’d played, I know that you only regained Magicka in that game when you rested, and not continuously like in Skyrim.  Perhaps here it’s more like that, with a much slower regeneration rate meaning that a mage must pace themselves?

It’s probably somewhere in between.  Both the “only when resting” and the “continuous regen” methods are unlikely to be exactly how it works, and I’ll have to learn how best to regain Magicka... before Mirmulnir.

Dragon Rising remains a looming danger in my future.  Every second that passes, every step that I take, every moment that I am not becoming stronger is another moment I am coming closer to death.

My Magicka is at less than half charge, and if I need to cast spells throughout this dungeon, it’ll almost certainly be even lower by the time we reach the Western Watchtower.  If I face Mirmulnir with no Magicka, I’m going to die.  I don’t have the martial prowess to fight him physically, and I’m not fit enough to avoid his fire, let alone his strikes.

Even if I go into that fight full on Magicka, I’ll need to utilise everything I’ve got in order to have a chance at survival.  I can make a speech at Whiterun about the glory of being a dragonslayer or about protecting what’s precious, but no matter how many people I can convince to join, death is all but guaranteed.

I’m drawn from my mental death march by the sound of blade entering flesh.  A skeever came barreling up the ramp and impaled itself headfirst through the point of Farkas’ sword.  With an effortless flick of his wrists, its body is sent flying back through the doorway and he steps forward into the room where the others must be waiting.

I step in behind him, taking in the scene.  The dead skeever’s body has knocked down another one, and there’s three more on the ground sizing us up.  Behind them, there’s one standing on top of the table and I think I can even see more in the tunnel leading deeper.

Okay, that’s a couple more than I expected, but we’re not in any real danger.  They’re skeevers.  A healing potion and a trip to Arcadia’s Cauldron for a potion of Cure Disease – or just checking to see if Aedric shrines will cure me like in the game – and I’ll be fine.

Farkas moves to the one that’s scrabbling to its feet, and I move out of the doorway to give Aela a line of sight to fire.  I keep close to him because I still haven’t drawn the tonfas.  Instead, I raise my left hand towards the skeever on the table.  I don’t think about the shape of it, instead letting the flow push my fingers into position.  Index finger outstretched towards the target, thumb bent up and away from the palm, the other three fingers hanging loosely.

The bandit who shocked me had formed the lightning in her hand and sent it out afterwards.  The Magicka had been like invisible cables carrying it from her to me.

This is different.

Throughout the short walk from the first room to here, I’d been trying to replicate her method and I’d been failing.  It just didn’t feel right, despite it being perfectly identical to how the Sparks tome had described and instructed.  When I get better, I’m sure I’ll be able to replicate it, but for now, since I refuse to touch that enchantment, I can’t do it like that.

So instead, I let go.

Instead of “lightning” as the author of the tome thought of it, I let my own thoughts and knowledge of "lightning" shape my Magicka.  What is forming at my fingertips is probably something that would have a more stuck-up mage giving me a personal demonstration of a proper lightning spell as opposed to this amateur, ramshackle nonsense.  Neloth might even use me as the target for said demonstration, to ensure the lesson sticks.

The air fills with static.  Every hair on my body stands on end.  I vaguely register Farkas turning to look at me while both his and Aela’s Magicka race with shock and panic.  If I were more aware and present, I’d notice the panic and take it as a sign to stop, or at least to tone it down.

All my focus is on the Magicka.  My current flow isn’t a real one I’ve been taught.  It bears vague similarities to what I saw in Farengar, but beyond that, it’s barely better than when I was on the road between Helgen and Riverwood.

Electrical arcs travel between my fingers, culminating in an invisible pressure building at my fingertips.  I can briefly see the fur on the skeever’s back raise up as well.

Before I can go further, my target moves.  Every skeever in the room scrambles, bolting for holes in the walls or disappearing down the hallway.  My grip on the Magicka falters and I lose the spell, the charge returning to normal.  In an instant, it’s just the three of us.

What just happened?

Chapter Text

“Jade.”

Aela’s voice pulls me from looking at where the skeevers vanished to.  It’s only now that I fully register the panic that lanced through her and Farkas’ Magicka.

“What was that?”

I struggle for a second to understand what she’s asking.  The skeevers?  Why would she be asking me as if I know why they ran?  Then she glances at my hand and I realise that she meant the spell.

“A... lightning spell?  Or it was going to be, anyway.”

“That...” she trails off.  I don’t think I ever saw her nervous in the game – certainly not to this degree.  “It didn’t feel like a lightning spell.  It felt like an actual lightning strike about to hit.”

...

Holy shit, it what?

I knew it wasn’t going to be the regular spell given how I let go of the tome author’s perspective, but I didn’t think it would be that potent!

...

I am struck with a terrible thought.

“Farkas.”

He looks at me nervously, traces of the earlier panic seeping back into him.

“Up ahead, there’s a Frostbite Spider bigger than most bears.”

I turn and look him directly in the eyes, my lips stretching into a grin.

“You can hang back for that fight.”

He relaxes slightly at that, but he and Aela still look at me nervously.  Understandable, given the power that I’d apparently been seconds away from unleashing.

“Aela, I’m going to need you to not hang back, just in case the bolt doesn’t kill the spider.”

She’s exasperated again, but she doesn’t refuse.  Instead, she just sighs and shakes her head.

Well, if there’s no issues with my brilliant plan, then let’s check out the changes to the room.

My first thought is that wow, this room is much more heavily webbed than I remember.  I usually just rush through grabbing only the poison and the scroll, but almost the entire right half of the room is covered in webs.  How were the skeevers getting around in here?

Metal braziers litter the ground, each almost directly underneath rotted ropes that might have once crisscrossed the ceiling in an eye-catching pattern.  What little remains of them is hidden by the webs, and one of the braziers is barely even visible under the mess of thin white strands.

In the centre of the room is a table almost four metres in length.  On it sit the poison and the scroll, of course, but also a number of faded parchments.  I step up to them in hopes of discerning anything, but what few details haven’t been worn away by time are too fragmented to give me anything.

The poison joins the satchel, and the scroll joins the books.  I don’t read it yet, uncertain of whether it might be single-use or something else entirely.  I won’t need it anyway.  Not for the spider.

The rest of the room is barren save for the carvings on the walls.  Down here, out of the winds and the cold, I would assume they would be less faded, but most of them are obscured by webs and what little remains has been worn away by – presumably – spiders walking across the walls.  No other furniture is visible besides the table and a couple of crushed benches.

With nothing else to distract us, we move forward into the tunnel ahead.  Sharp-beaked metal totems jut from the walls above us.  A representation of the dragons and their control and superiority?  I’m almost certainly reaching at this point, making connections that aren’t there, but when there’s no true loremasters or archaeologists around to glean actual meaning, you have to make your own fun.

The tunnel continues for several minutes, steadily becoming more and more heavily webbed.  Farkas becomes increasingly unsettled by it, but I manage to calm him somewhat by telling him that to my knowledge, the only spider in here is the big one.  It doesn’t completely help him, both because we all know my knowledge isn’t perfect, and because he can tell that there’s no way all this webbing is from just one spider.

An unexpected effect of the webbing is what it does to sound.  From either side and from above, there is an unsettling blankness – an absence of audio that has me checking for Magicka in those directions.  It reminds me of walking up a stairway with a blanket draped over the railing above you on one side.  There’s just nothing in that ear.

The muffling effect isn’t total, however.  From around a corner further ahead, a voice comes.

“Is... is someone coming?  Is that you, Harknir?  Bjorn?  Soling?”

I pause.

“Hmm.  Sightly longer hallway, but that’s about it.  A bit disappointing for the first real change.”

The two of them look askance at me, not quite exasperated... what is that?  It’s not frustration or anger or anything negative.  It’s tinged with that fondness, still.  It feels like the phrase ‘yep, that’s (name)’ as one might speak when a friend or long-time acquaintance is indulging an eccentricity.

We move further down the hall.  The webs grow thicker here, completely covering sections of the walls and ceiling.  With a single left turn, we’re faced with webs so thick they form their own wall.  Arvel’s voice is still faintly audible.

“I know I ran ahead, but I need help!”

The doorway that the webs are blocking is just barely visible.  Aela nocks an arrow.  I step closer to Farkas and speak with my voice low.

“I need you to cut open this doorway, and then you can step back and leave it to us.”

He looks queasy, but he nods and makes a series of quick cuts, slicing cleanly through the wall until chunks fall to the ground, leaving the passage open.  He steps back, and I step forward.

I take in the room in an instant, observing only vague details to ensure I react fast enough.  Eggs ahead and to the right.  Arvel on the far wall to the left.  Skeevers and corpses hanging in webs.  The metal grate on the floor.  Above the grate, the giant spider descending.

I lift my hand.  Fingers move into shape.  Hairs raise.  Arcs flicker between my fingers.  That invisible pressure builds again.

I take the briefest of moments to aim for a space slightly behind its eyes.  I’d rather kill it quickly, both for my sake and its own.

My target does not have time to move.

Sloppily, clumsily, with neither skill nor grace, I force the disparate energies to link.  They have not equalised.  Rather, there is now a path between the two points.  My fingertip, negative charge in the extreme.  The spider, neutral charge that, to the overwhelming negative, might as well be a good enough positive to equalise.

In an instant, Magicka bridges the gap.  A path of least resistance forms.

I let go, finally casting my first ever spell.

It isn’t Sparks.

\-|||-/

/-|||-\

Not for the first time in his life, Arvel the Swift thought about the choices that led him here.

He had never been on the right side of the law, even back in Blacklight, and coming to Skyrim had been less of a conscious choice and more a result of having to run from guards for so long that he’d run straight out of Morrowind.

Windhelm had been somehow worse than being a wanted thief whose face was known to half of Blacklight’s guards on sight.  The Grey Quarter was comparable to the worst parts of Blacklight’s waterlogged underbelly, and it hadn’t been long before he’d had to fall back on old habits to survive.

Ironically, it was his fellow Dunmer, not the Nords, who had chased him out of Windhelm.  They’d been certain that his thievery would bring down the guards on the entire Quarter, and had thrown him out the instant they found out about his escapades.  It hadn’t helped that he’d lifted a couple of coins from the Cornerclub, but surely they should have stuck with him in solidarity as fellow Dunmer!

From there, he’d slipped from group to group, working with bandits, mercenaries, whoever he could find.  If anyone ever ended up catching on to how he pocketed a few coins or a gemstone where he could, then he’d always been fast enough to avoid consequences.

This blasted ruin was supposed to be the haul of a lifetime.  The Dragon Cult was known to have been loaded with gems, finely crafted trinkets, a thousand different treasures to appease their scaly overlords or the priests’ own desires.  Arvel had pored over old accounts and obscure riddles, and he had finally – finally managed to not only get his hands on one of the elusive Claw keys, but he had even found out that the matching door was not even a day away!

Grabbing the Claw and escaping was easy.  Getting up the mountain was easy.  Getting down this far was easy, not counting having to slip past the gate.

Then he’d run into this damn spider.

This damn spider that had sapped his speed with its webs and tied him up and left him here like a trophy.  He wasn’t sure whether to curse Azura for not turning him from this fate, Boethiah for throwing this trial at him, Mephala for being a damned spider, or the entirety of the House of Troubles.  Cursing all of them sounded good.

He’d felt a glimmer of hope when footsteps sounded down the hall from the entrance.  Even if it hadn’t been the others of the group, surely some warrior would be able to stay the creature, or at least die to it while he escaped from the webs.

Instead, he only found more fear.

A Nord in mage robes had stepped into the room and lifted a finger to point at the spider as it descended from its hole in the ceiling.  The few hairs on Arvel’s body which hadn’t been trapped by the webs had stood on end, and then a lightning bolt – not a spell like Arvel had seen occasionally before, but a bolt as if pulled straight from an actual storm – had blown the spider open, splitting it into segments almost all the way through.

The roar of thunder echoed around the room, even through the muffling of the webs.  As it faded away into nothing, the mage let out a long, slow breath as he shook out his arm.  He lifted it in front of himself again, this time turning it to examine each side of his hand.  Whatever he was looking for, he was satisfied with what he found, as he let it fall back to his side... and locked eyes with the trapped thief.

Arvel had never stood a chance against that thing, and the mage with a madman’s grin had just killed it in an instant.  Maybe this was Sheogorath’s doing, after all.

\-|||-/

/-|||-\

My Magicka feels emptier than any other point so far.  Not even after getting shocked earlier did it feel like this.  It’s like I have less presence, less weight in the world beyond the physical.  My existence is barely more than my body.  Where before my consciousness was a bowling ball weighing down a trampoline and affecting the world with my existence, my thoughts touching all around me like a drop of ink in water... now it’s like the bowling ball has been replaced with a fist-sized rock.

I feel empty.  I feel small.  I feel ready to collapse into a nice, soft bed.

But after casting my first spell and instakilling the spider that most players at this point have to either spam potions against or cheese with the doorway?

I feel like I could take on anything.

Of course, that thought only lasts for about half a second before I remember Helgen, the upcoming dragon fight, and the fact that I have no Magicka left when we’re about to enter a far more dangerous section of the Barrow than what we’ve seen so far.

“Well done.”  Aela says as she walks up beside me, placing the arrow back in her quiver.  Farkas joins us as well, but before either of them can do anything, I grab them and speak quietly so Arvel can’t hear us.

“The man caught in the webs has a key we need.  He’s going to try to run when we cut him down.  I’ll try to convince him not to, but I need you two ready to grab him in case I fail.”

Their Magicka shows that they understand.  I let them go, and start moving towards Arvel, but I stop in front of the dead spider.

It’s been split cleanly apart, opening like a grisly, demented flower around the path of the bolt.  Streaks at the edges of each segment still glow with embers and flicker with the occasional arc of lingering static.  At the centre, presumably having been the path that the bolt travelled, is a spike of something more solid...

Huh.  Odd.  I thought fulgurite only formed when lightning struck sand or stone or things like that.  That there’s a spike of it in the spider means either something very strange about the internals of Frostbite Spiders – possibly alchemically important – or that what I fired wasn’t a normal lightning bolt, despite what Aela said.

I wrap my hand around the fulgurite rod and pull.  It’s surprisingly light, and comes away easily.  I turn it in my hands, admiring it in the light shining from above.  It’s probably about a metre long, half as thick as my arm, and unlike regular fulgurite, it seems to be pretty durable.

I think I’ll hold onto it.  If nothing else, it’s a nice souvenir of my first spell.

My examination of the spider concluded, I walk to stand in front of Arvel, slipping the fulgurite into a loop in my belt as I look up at him.

“Arvel the Swift.”  I let my grin stretch wider.

He’s terrified, eyes flickering between me, the spider, my hand, the Companions, and... my chin?

“You,” I continue, choosing to chalk it up to a combination of a near-death experience and a rapid change in situation, “have something we need.  But we don’t need to fight for it.”

Fear is still there, but it’s beginning to mix with confusion.

“You see, we have no need for the treasure you’re after.  Our prize is archaeological – a stone tablet the size of your torso.  We can both get what we want – and better yet!”

I lock eyes with him, ensuring he hears every word.

“You get to avoid the death I have foreseen for you, by having other people to fight the draugr!”

Ah, the fear is finally beginning to wane.  In its place is something I find equal parts amusing and annoying.

He’s scheming.

After that showcase of magical might, a reveal that his death has been foreseen here, and an offer of protection from that death, he is scheming.  He probably intends to run.

“Listen, Arvel.  I know you’re called ‘the Swift’, but unless you have the stamina to keep up that speed all the way from here to the end of the Barrow...”

I push what little Magicka I can grasp at to send tiny flickering arcs of electricity around me.  One of them jumps from my shoulder to his leg and he flinches hard.

“You will die.”

He’s not scheming quite as hard as he was before, but he hasn’t yet given up the idea of running with the Claw, clearly.

“Of course, even if you manage to make it with the Claw, you won’t be able to access the true treasure of the sanctum at the end.”

And, like a moth to the flame, I have his attention.

I’m not sure whether I’m referring to the Word Wall or the enchanted axe that the boss holds, but either way, he doesn’t need specifics.

“So here’s what’s going to happen.  We are going to cut you down from there.  You are going to hand over the Claw.  We are going to make our way through the Barrow.  Whether you walk with us, behind us, or run ahead and hope you can evade the draugr, I don’t care.  We will carry the Claw, and when we reach the Hall of Stories, we will open the door.  You will take whatever treasure you want, and we will take the tablet.”

By this point, his struggles have all but ceased.  The feeling of him scheming is still there, but it’s far less than what it was.  He’s mostly calm, though I can feel some stray wisps of fear and... what is that?  Not excitement.  Not anxiety.  Anticipation, almost?

Whatever it is, he’s calm for the most part.  That has me confident enough to have Farkas cut him down.

Unfortunately, it’s only once the blade flashes through the bindings that I remember Derrin, the Imperial Battlemage, being able to keep his Magicka from reacting to his emotions and thoughts.

In the split second between being cut loose and landing, his entire flow completely changes.

The instant his feet touch the floor, he’s rolling backwards, and by the time I’ve raised my hand to point at him he’s somehow gotten to his feet and taken five whole steps down the hall, leaving Aela and Farkas grasping at nothing as he moves further and further away.

“Fool!  Every last scrap of that treasure will be mine!”

Fuck!

I still don’t know if the layout of the Barrow is as I remember it!

If he gets away, disappears down the maze-like corridors, and gets himself killed a dozen rooms deep in a section I don’t know about, we might never find the Claw!

I have no Magicka.  I have no Magicka.  I couldn’t cast that bolt again if I tried.  I find myself pushing anyway.

The energy difference is barely noticeable.  The Magicka connection between me and my target falters, meanders, shifts off course.  The charge equalises, and a faint line of light visibly traces through the air it’s so slow.

My targeting was imperfect, so instead the lightning only mostly goes towards Arvel.  Its path is influenced by physical factors as well as the Magicka.  Its course shifts and wanders, eventually taking the path of least resistance... straight towards the lump of highly conductive gold.

The Claw is sent spinning into a wall while Arvel is suddenly two metres further to the opposite side, having apparently almost dodged the lightning, what the fuck.  He doesn’t seem to notice its absence, though, and disappears deeper into the Barrow.

For a moment, it’s quiet again, until I let out a sigh and the Companions sheathe their weapons.  I pick up the Claw and look it over.  Interestingly, I can’t find the point where the lightning struck.  There’s no Lichtenberg pattern or even any soot.  Yet poking it with what little Magicka I can still muster yields nothing like the staff in the Riverwood Trader.  It’s just a solid gold Dragon Claw, as far as I can tell.

"Is that the key?"  Aela asks, and I nod in response.

For now, I’m content to put it away, hanging it from a clip on my belt.  Out of curiosity, I step back into the spider room.

It’s difficult to make any details out given the sheer density of spiderwebs covering almost every surface, but one thing is plainly obvious even without seeing the walls.  This room is fucking massive.  The lowest point of the ceiling is almost thirty metres up, and the only reason it’s that low is because it’s partially caved in and is being held up by the webs.

This one room alone is almost half the size of Dragonsreach.  The hole in the ceiling that the spider was using is big enough to fit a dragon – that’s probably what it was used for!

Ignoring the webs and eggs, the room is empty save for a few benches around the edges.  Were it not for the collapsed sections, the space could fit an entire dragon with ease.  It’s entirely possible that a single dragon watched over Bleak Falls as their own mountain, their own... what did Paarthurnax call – ah, yes, their own strunmah.  Were that the case, it could easily have flown down through that hole to be worshipped in this chamber.  As for the grate and the other hole beneath it...

I walk over to the edge of the massive grate and look down.  The hole down there is almost forty metres deep, and the room it opens up into is another dozen metres or so to the floor.  There’s quite a bit of rubble down there, but hole doesn’t look to have any damage beyond general wear and erosion, so without getting down there to look, I’m not sure what’s fallen apart.

As I look down there, a figure steps into view.  Desiccated skin, that familiar blade design, and tattered armour mark this draugr instantly.  It doesn’t do much, merely ambling around until it steps out of sight again, but it’s interesting that it’s down there.  I wonder if that room is accessible to me, or if collapsed passages have ensured that that draugr and others will never be met unless someone decides to do some digging to clear the passageways.

The rest of the spider room is difficult to make out due to how much of it is covered in layers of webs so thick that the walls can’t be seen.  Opposite the entrance doorway is a collapsed section that extends into the room so far I can’t even tell what’s behind it.  Sending out Magicka isn’t an option, either; what little I had left was used to get the Claw.

With nothing else to do here, we move into the hall that Arvel disappeared down.  It’s relatively simple, for what that’s worth in a ruin of the Dragon Cult.  The brickwork is even and solid, even after so many years, and the carvings along the smoother sections of stone aren’t any more extravagant than in the preceding rooms.

Small alcoves line the walls at regular intervals.  They’re just big enough for chest-high candle-holders to fill them, little flames providing some illumination as the light from the spider hole fades behind us.

...

I stop.  I turn.  I stare.

Aela and Farkas give me curious looks.

“Somehow,” I begin, pointing, “I doubt Arvel took the time to light the candles as he passed by.”

They follow my finger, and after a moment of looking, their Magicka fills with realisation and sudden bewilderment.  We all stare at the inexplicably lit candles for a bit.  Eventually, Farkas speaks up.

“Draugr?”

I ponder the possibility for a moment.  I don’t know if I ever saw draugr using flame magic in the game, but I can’t think of any reason for them not to be able to, as long as they don’t accidentally set themselves or each other on fire.  As for non-magical means, I can’t recall seeing anything like a match in Skyrim and I somehow doubt the draugr have fire-making tools like flint and tinder.

“Maybe, but if they’ve been keeping them lit then they would need to be replaced, and there’s no way they still have more candles after thousands of years, right?”

We stare for a little longer before we silently agree to move on.

The altered size of the world is definitely in effect now.  It’s nothing grand, but this hallway is a slightly winding thirty-ish seconds as opposed to the three seconds it was in the game.  I wonder if the changes will grow more pronounced as we progress further into the main complex?

The hallway leads out into a rounded room.  I think I remember what this one looked like before, but they’re becoming less and less recognisable with every step.  Excellent.

There’s a raised platform against the centre of the left wall.  On the bottom, knee-high layer are a series of capped urns carved with similar art to the door at the entrance of the Barrow.  A quick check reveals that many of them are empty, and the few that aren’t only hold a few tools – scalpel, tweezers, things like that.

The second layer, at waist height, looks to have been smooth before time wore it away.  There’s deeper divots perfectly shaped for the urns, and one even has an urn placed within it.  Old Magicka seethes around the rim, powerful and angry and dripping with so much presence that I think I can actually see space warping a little.

I remove the cap.  The inside is empty, but the side is stained by something dark.  It’s hard to tell what, given the lighting, but I hand it over to Aela and Farkas to see if they can tell by the scent.

“Dried blood.  Human.”  Farkas says without hesitation.

I look at him.  I don’t know much about how the Dragon Cult worked.  Even what little was explained in game I mostly missed as I didn’t tend to read lore books in Elder Scrolls.  But... dried blood.

My eyes slide from the urn in my hand to the floor in front of the platform.  There are channels carved in the stone.  They run across the base of the platform and trace patterns and swirls across the room.  At the far wall, they disappear into grates that lead who knows where.

I return the urn to its place and put the cap back on it.

“I had been planning on having us stop and rest around here, after the spider, but the journey to this point has been shorter then I expected.  It’s probably, what, still a couple of hours to sunset?”

“An hour and a half, I’d say.”  Aela responds.  She’d probably know best, given her experience as a huntress.

“An hour and a half at least.  And, you know, definitely not this room.”  I give a sideways glance to the urns, and they both nod, their Magicka humming agreement.

“That being said, I think I am completely empty on Magicka, so unless one of you can teach me an incredibly quick way of regaining it?”

They both shake their heads.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.  And I’m not comfortable continuing on to face the draugr up ahead in my current state.  Not when I’m as inexperienced in combat as I am.”

That seems to earn some approval, at least.  Knowing my limits, if I had to guess.  Probably get a fair few recruits who think they’re Ysgramor come again.

“I know, at least, that there’s draugr a couple of rooms that way.”  I point to the doorway opposite where we entered.  “So we should be fine to rest early as long as we can find a side room before then, or even in the main path as long as they don’t wander up here now that Arvel...”

I blink.

“Now that Arvel has woken them up.  Yeah, nah, let’s find a side room.”

There are two other doors in this room, but both of them just lead to small areas filled with shelves of rotted linens and more urns.  We agree to only rest in those if we can’t find anything better.

As we are making our way out of the urn room, my eyes drift to the platform again.  There’s another layer, around neck level for me.  From it rise four small pillars that look like they were carved as part of the stone.  They’re not crumbling or faded.  Time seems to have left them alone – they don’t even have any dust!

Atop each pillar is a broken soul gem, and fragments of the purple crystals are visible around the bases.  Perhaps most interesting, however, is a divot in the wall behind the pillars, at the right height for something large to have been placed on top of the pillars.

Given the contents of the urn on the middle layer, I’m not keen on learning what sat up there before.

We leave the urn room behind.

The first room afterwards is a much more pleasant place, albeit useless for our purposes.  Vines and moss cover the stone.  Roots wind through cracks in the brickwork and across the floor.  There’s another collapsed passage to the right, but two more doors are still open.

On the right side of the far wall is a tunnel leading down.  I think this is the way further in towards the draugr, and I let the Companions know that.  On the left wall, however, a doorway instead leads up a short flight of stairs before disappearing around a corner.

Rounding the corner, we find a relatively small room for the size of the Barrow.  Around ten metres along, with six benches, three on either side, facing a crumbling shrine on a table at the far end.  The shrine resembles a dragon, but it doesn’t look like a shrine of Akatosh.  My best guess is that this was a room of worship either for the dragon who might have held this place as their strunmah, or maybe just for dragons in general.

“This’ll work.”  Farkas says.

It’s a simple endeavour to clear the benches with to make space to sleep.  In short order, we’ve set up the bedroll cloaks on the ground and have agreed for me to take first watch.  Farkas had pulled out a small hourglass and fiddled with some notches connected to segments inside holding varying amounts of sand.

“Wake me when it’s empty.”

I nod.  It’s interesting that that’s a thing.  I don’t think I’ve heard of hourglass designs for different amounts of time in the same glass.

The two of them lie down and drift off, their Magicka settling into a slow circuit with elements I recognise from the regeneration pattern Farengar taught me.  I settle in on one of the benches and keep my eyes on the hall.

The watch passes without incident.  While I sit, occasionally moving and swapping benches, I experiment with my flow.  The results are lacklustre.  Nothing seems to speed up my Magicka regeneration very well, and some patterns even hinder it.  Furthermore, at the rate it’s coming back, I don’t think I’ll be back to full by the time we get going again.

Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way.  It may have been Magicka regeneration in the game, but how is it actually working here?

I focus on the trickle that I’m steadily regaining.  It’s difficult to tell what’s happening.  It certainly feels like ‘regeneration’ might be an apt term.  It doesn’t seem to be coming from anywhere.  There’s no cluster of Magicka nearby aside from the two sleeping behind me.  Nothing I could be unconsciously pulling from.  I don’t try to consciously pull any, because that seems to me like it would be a Very Bad Idea with friends so close and deep in an ancient ruin.  I’ll test it after Dragon Rising.

Think, Jade.  Where does Magicka come from, in the lore?  Aetherius.  It comes from Aetherius, through the stars and the sun, holes between Aetherius and Mundus formed from when the corpses of Magnus and countless Aedric spirits fell through.

So if I’m regaining any at all – which I am – then it should feel like it’s coming from above, right?

But it doesn’t.  It feels like it’s coming from nowhere at all.

The robes enhance the amount that I get on the principle of how having a higher ratio of surface area to volume allows greater movement and exchange of things.  I can tell that by feeling the enchantment and how they’re affecting my Magicka.

But the robes aren’t billowing in the wind like a cape.  They’re draped around me.  They’re currently functionally no different than my own skin in terms of the surface area they provide.

So it’s not physical 3D space as I perceive and understand it that they’re connected in.  It’s something more.

I keep my eyes open, but I extend my Magicka along the fabric while attempting to let go of any sense of 3D physical placement.  I am not moving my Magicka forward, or backwards, or up, or down, or left, or right.  It is extending along the robes.  It is not moving in any direction to do this.

Ever so slowly, it starts to work.  It makes my head spin and places an ache behind my eyes to feel this sense expanding without moving.  What I’m feeling doesn’t fit in at all with the spatial perception that I’ve lived with my entire life.

As my Magicka expands to the length (not length, not width, not depth, there is no word for this direction) of the robes, I attempt to push outward as well, expanding beyond the robes without expanding into 3D space.  It doesn’t work very well, which is entirely unsurprising given my complete lack of any kind of experience with this dimension I’m moving in, but what little distance I’m able to make results in a massive increase in my Magicka regen.

After a few minutes, my mental grip falters and I lose my hold on this effect.  My Magicka returns to my familiar circuit, my only control being over its movement in the spatial dimensions I know.  I don’t think I’ll be able to get that going again soon.  But what little I did manage was amazingly effective.  In just a couple of minutes, I think I’ve gotten back half of my entire pool.  Incredible.

I’m riding the high of satisfaction for the rest of my watch, and when the hourglass runs empty I wake Farkas and settle into my own bedroll.

As I’m about to close my eyes, a thought occurs to me.

“Ah.”  Farkas turns his head to me, and Aela, ever a light sleeper due to the lycanthropy combined with many nights in the open, lifts her head as well.

“I forgot to ask Arvel how he got past the totem gate.”

Farkas snorts, and amusement sparks through him and Aela.  She sets her head back down while he turns back to the hall.

“Get some sleep.”  Farkas says.

I drift off surprisingly quickly.