Chapter II: Dovahkiin
A certain creature had taken roost inside Tanniel’s ribcage. It was made of matted fur and spider webs and fraying feathers, all pressed into an amorphous clump. The thing shared space with her heart and lungs, making its nest on top of her diaphragm and pressed down on her stomach with all of its substantial weight, considering its minute size. The monster couldn’t be any larger than a clenched fist. But it had the density of a boulder and the grip of a sabertooth cat. Its claws were like hooks and there was no end to the number of them that it possessed – they stuck in her heart and pierced her lungs, robbing her of breath. And every so often, the beast stirred and reached from its chosen resting place straight up her throat, driving a hook into the fleshy underside of her vocal cords.
It had a mouth too, a massive, formless one that was always open and yowling. The yowling never stopped. It was an ever-present whine from the inside of her ears, a quiver in her step, an aching echo in her chest. Sometimes Tanniel howled along with it, stopping in a quiet stand of trees by the side of the road to Whiterun to do it. When she did give into the yowling and wept alone with her face buried in the rough bark of a tree, it never seemed to do a thing for her, to shift the monster’s weight from her gut. The beast still sat in its roost, perched in its throne of flesh and bone, knocking on her ribs with its cruel claws. She didn’t know if there would ever be any way to dislodge it.
And the morning was so devastatingly pleasant. The sun beamed in the clear blue sky, glittering on the dewy herbage by the side of the road. Creatures came boldly out of their hiding places to nab a bit of breakfast before skittering away from the approaching traveler. There were butterflies sunning their wings on stumps, birds in the air, crickets hiding in the grass. Tanniel thought that it would be so much easier if all people just decided to up and die in the dead of winter. That way the ground itself wouldn’t be mocking the bereaved and the state of the land would just about be a perfect mimic of the inside of her own trashed mind.
The hard sound of approaching footsteps startled her out of her thoughts momentarily. She hastily wiped her nose with the back of her bandaged hand and tried to hide her tears with her wild, hopelessly tangled, tufts of hair. A trio of Imperial soldiers approached, their boots clacking loudly on the cobbles as they walked. And between them – a fourth figure. Tanniel’s heart leapt in her chest and plunged into its darkest recess simultaneously. It was Ralof, dressed in rags and bound in chains, a prisoner of the Empire once more. She dashed up to see him, eliciting a cry of warning from one of the soldiers transporting him. Their eyes met and her spirits sank as she realized her mistake. The man stared at her, longing and despair in his bloodshot eyes.
She lowered her face to the ground and kept walking.
***
The wizard Farengar Secret-Fire was enjoying his breakfast in his study, trying not to spill bread crumbs on the book he was reading. But his nose was deep in it and his mind wasn’t entirely on the task at hand. A thin stream of crumbs dribbled from his mouth and caught in the open bindings of the book, no matter how often he endeavored to brush them away. The sound of a knock on the doorframe broke the spell and he looked up with a start.
“Ah!” he said, grinning at the visitor, “Divines smile on you, friend. What can I do for you? Have you brought more dragon research?” He closed the book, quickly stood up and continued on. “You know, I have some news for you as well. I sent someone after the Dragonstone you told me about. She should be getting back with it any day now, if it was where you thought it would be.”
“Can you trust her?” the lady asked, raising her eyebrows and bristling at the thought of a complete stranger sticking her nose into her business.
Farengar took a swig of the mead on the desk, made a face at its taste and set the bottle back down.
“Ugh, that one’s gone bad. But yes…” he trailed off, a faraway look drifting onto his face. “Yes, she’s an unaffiliated stranger to these lands, a desperate woman with nothing to lose. Very much like yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
Farengar edged closer to her, slinging his arm over her armored shoulder.
“Know what I think of dragons, Miss Research Associate? I think they’re powerful and graceful, frigid like Skyrim winters, but burning with passion. There’s a cruel beauty in their construction, in the curves of their vicious claws, in the beats of their wings. They’re mysterious too. I can never learn enough about them.”
He leaned in close, until his lips, stinking of the sickly-sweet spoiled mead, brushed her ear.
“I have a great fondness for mysterious beasts and women.”
The lady’s leather-clad hand was on her sword involuntarily. Forcibly, she removed it and stepped gingerly out of the wizard’s grasp.
“I came to show you this.” she said coldly, pulling a book from a satchel on her hip. “It’s my notes so far on dragon burial sites. Read it at your leisure.” She held it out to him, at arm’s length. It was then that she heard the sound of shuffling footsteps drawing closer to the mage’s study. Turning toward the open door, she saw a young girl step in.
She was filthy from head to toe. Her boots were caked with dried-on grime. There were cobwebs tangled in her hair and wrapped around her shoulders. And then there was the soot. Every exposed piece of flesh she owned bore a trace of it, from her scabby knees to her greasy face. Her hands were swathed in rough bandages, made of what appeared to have been some article of clothing that had ended it days being ripped to violent shreds. She was clad in an old, dented suit of Imperial armor that looked like it had seen much better days and the worn scabbard of a dull dagger hung at her hip. Her eyes were swollen and red, with deep, dark bags under them. Weariness dragged at every bone of her shuffling frame.
Upon sighting the lady, he eyes widened and she seemed to wake up, as if from sleepwalking.
“You!” she said, her voice scratchy and rough, “You’re Delphine, the innkeeper. The Sleeping Giant was closed last night because you weren’t in! Your partner made me sleep on a table!”
She swung a large package off her back and banged it on Farengar’s desk for emphasis.
“Well.” Delphine responded frostily, “I hope very much that that table was wiped down after you were done with it.”
“Delphine!” Farengar whispered excitedly behind her, wrapping his hands around her shoulders, “A name as glorious as your immaculate frame. A bite as strong and deadly as a sabertooth’s! Won’t you ever be mine?”
Baring her teeth, she drew her elbow forward and drove it back into the wizard’s fleshy stomach. He squeaked pathetically in pain, releasing his grip on her and falling backwards to the study floor. And then she heard the laughter. It was coming from the girl who’d brought the Dragonstone. It was a painful, hoarse, throaty laugh and it just kept going on and on, in its mocking tone. She laughed and laughed, louder and louder, until she couldn’t breathe, until tears were rolling down her face in sooty trails.
“O-Oh g-g-gods!” she stuttered, trying to catch her breath and suppress the laughter at last, “I-I-I’m s-s-so s-sorry hee hee hee! T-That w-w-was en-entirely m-my f-f-f-fault.” A huge snort erupted from her nose as a fresh crop of giggles took hold of her.
“What?” Delphine demanded, her eyes narrowing, her hand on her sword again, “Spit it out.”
The girl obeyed, spraying spit as she tried to suppress her chuckles. “T-The bottle!” she finally answered, pointing to the remains of Farengar’s breakfast on the desk, “I-It w-was f-filled with love potion! H-He didn’t drink t-too much of it, did he? See, it’s already wearing off.”
He stirred from the floor, rubbing his stomach and frowning in confusion.
“Oh gods…” the girl mumbled under her breath, appearing to believe that no one else could hear it, “I needed that.”
Delphine sighed exasperatedly, blowing a strand of hair away from her face with the wind of her breath. “Well, let’s get a look at this thing then.” She drew a dagger and cut the leather bindings of the bundle on the desk.
Farengar stood up, groaning. “I must apologize for my unbecoming behavior.”
“It’s fine.” Delphine snapped tonelessly. “You weren’t in your right mind.” She peeled back the last layer of the stone’s wrappings. The three of them leaned over the desk conspiratorially. Farengar wiped the dust from it with the hem of his sleeve.
“Well.” he intoned, “There it is. You’ve delivered as promised. The Jarl will see to your reward. Shoo-shoo, now.” He waved his hands dismissively in the direction of the girl, his nose almost touching the stone as he squinted at its weathered markings. The girl nodded her head; the bags under her eyes apparent again on her still face, whirled on her heels and stepped out.
Delphine snatched up a roll of paper, a piece of charcoal and gently nudged Farengar out of the way. He jumped at her touch, as though her fingers had shocked him with lightening.
“I…” he mumbled, his words failing him for the first time in a very long time, “I just cannot believe that I did that to you. You must think me a horrible brute now.”
“Farengar.” Delphine answered, annoyed, “I already told you. It’s fine. I think no less of you for your actions in an altered state.”
She finished her charcoal rubbing of one side of the stone and gently turned it over to make one of the opposite side. When she had finished, she rolled up the two pieces of paper, tucked them in her satchel and turned to leave.
Farengar followed her to the door. “Will I ever see you again?”
Delphine stopped and turned towards him, smiling beneath her hood. “Perhaps.” she answered curtly, “Or perhaps not, as the times permit.” She patted her satchel. “But I can tell you that this will keep me busy for a long while. You may not see me for many moons. Better yet, forget that I was ever here.”
Farengar’s face fell, though he tried to conceal it in the shadows of his hood. “You’ve been a great boon to my research. I shall miss your insight and company. Gods speed your progress, friend.”
She would have seen him waving weakly at her, had she not already been down the hall.
***
Tanniel stepped out, immensely glad to leave the two of them be. She hoped to never have to deal with that arrogant man and his research associate again. There would never be any call to from now on, unless she should pass them by while delivering firewood to Dragonsreach. As she walked to the Jarl’s throne, her steps dragging with weariness, she felt a certain lightness steal over her body despite everything that had happened. This was it – the true beginning of her life in Skyrim. Every dream she ever held was coming to fruition now and she shivered with the delicious desire in knowing how close she was to meeting the end that had cost so much to achieve.
When she noticed that the Jarl already had a petitioner, she stopped in her tracks. It was a Whiterun guard, his surcoat singed and a layer of soot covering his body. There was a great bloody gash on one of his arms, dripping to form a small red puddle on the Jarl’s floor. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight. It was a scene so familiar to her. The man was wounded and so afraid that he could barely get a sensible word out. A dragon was attacking the watchtower he was assigned to; was the tale that he finally managed to relate. His comrades were dying in the attack and he’d left them behind to get help.
Calmly, the Jarl dismissed the man and turned to his housecarl, the female Dunmer who never left his side. The two of them exchanged words and then parted ways. Moments later, she returned with a tide of soldiers at her back, fresh from the training grounds on the Great Porch.
There was a sudden breath of wind at Tanniel’s side and she jumped out of the way to see Delphine scurrying past her, one hand on her hood, pulling it tightly around her face. She melted into the shadows, vanishing down the great hall as if she had never existed at all.
When she next turned her head, Farengar had run out of his study in a fluster, his robes pulled up to his knees.
“A dragon in Whiterun!” he screamed excitedly, “My Jarl, I have to see this! It would be a valuable – ”
“
No, Farengar.” Jarl Balgruuf answered exasperatedly, like a father reprimanding a child for committing the same sin over and over, “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. It’s too dangerous. I need you here to prepare a plan should a dragon attack the city.”
The mage’s bottom lip started to quiver, almost imperceptibly. He hung his head and turned around, slinking back to his office. And then he ran into Tanniel on the way back, still patiently waiting not far from the Jarl’s throne. His eyes locked onto her, cold, detached longing and flaming desire alike present in his expression. He snapped to attention in an instant.
“You!” he hissed under his breath, “I need your eyes! You’ve seen dragons, you know how to survive their attacks! Watch this one for me, report back and I will be in your debt!”
She was so tired. The monster in her chest was crushing her lungs. Every joint ached from her night on the inn table, every bruise the draugr had given her the day before was resonating in its full spectrum of pain now.
“No…” she murmured, her heavy eyes closing where she stood, “I can’t…I have to…”
Wrath rose in Farengar’s countenance. He sneered in uncontrolled fury, saying nothing. Intense, choking fear clogged Tanniel’s throat. She turned to run, to flee the raging mage, consequences be damned. Tomorrow was another day! The Jarl would still be there tomorrow and probably in a much better mood too!
A hand grabbed her wrist and squeezed. She squeaked a pathetic cry of terror and opened her mouth to let loose a good, loud scream for assistance, but the sound died in her vocal cords when a flash of colored light caught the corner of her eye. Perfect serenity washed over her. It was as though she was a child in Cyrodiil again, totally and completely safe between her parents as they slept in their warm bed, arms wrapped around one another. Suddenly, her bones didn’t ache so much and the burden of guilt seemed tiny and far away.
She scarcely noticed the wizard dragging her down the great hall of Dragonsreach by the wrist, through the crowd of guards nervously trading the grim news among themselves.
“Irileth!” he cried out, stopping the housecarl in her tracks.
She sighed, holding a hand to the side of her face and counting to three under her breath. “Farengar, I do not have time for this. The honor of the hold and the lives of its men are at stake. I will not lose time to cater to your whims.”
“Ah, but you don’t have to cater to anything. This – “ he pushed Tanniel towards her and the girl dumbly stumbled to a standstill, “ – is my research assistant. I am sending her to observe the dragon and nothing more.”
Irileth eyed the two of them suspiciously, pursing her lips.
“Very well.” she said curtly, “But know that I do not guarantee her safe return.”
Farengar smiled slyly. “It is entirely out of your hands.”
Irileth sighed, a shadow of worry crossing her features as she studied Tanniel. She held out her hand and a nearby soldier placed a sheathed sword into it. She shoved it at Tanniel and the girl obediently caught it against her chest, cradling it like a child.
“There.” she intoned sternly, “Your fate belongs to yourself now.”
There was a push from behind and suddenly she was stumbling down the steps of Dragonsreach, the cold wind blowing straight through her armor. The guards from the castle swarmed around her, their frantic movements driving her ever downward, the force of their energy locking her in the midst of their group. In the streets below, packs of soldiers were gathering at the front gate. And then she was among them, numbly listening to a rousing speech about Nord pride, about the special honor they’d been given in the chance to slay a dragon. Deep down, beneath the overwhelming peace, beneath the warmth, beneath the perfect love she was remembering, a little Tanniel screamed in fear. Before she could do much more, they had crossed a field and its long, sharp grass had cut her bare knees. The tower was in front of them, dark and broken against the pristine sky, its rubble flaming in scattered heaps, a dark shape blocking the sun above it. By then, the disparate tendrils of sweet memories were steadily losing their grip on her mind. In their absence a waking nightmare filled her vision and thoughts until there was nothing else that that black shadow didn’t block out in its crushing dread. By then, it was too late to go back.
***
Everything was chaos. The air was the color of coal and thick with smoke. Soldiers ran about frantically, diving behind anything they thought might hide them. Irileth held together a group of archers, commanding them to fire on her order. They loosed volley after volley of arrows into the monster’s hide, but still it whirled around through the sky, snatching up anyone caught in the open, flying to a great height and dropping them with a sickening crunch of bones as they hit the ground. A man broke his back on the top edge of the tower and then came falling down the rest of the way to land at Tanniel’s feet. For a moment, he was alive and shaking pathetically, reaching for her ankles, before the stone that had broken him fell from the tower to finish the job.
Tanniel squeezed farther back into the recess she had found of cracked stone and tower wall, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands over her ears. That was all she knew of surviving dragon attacks – stay hidden, stay still, slip away when it isn’t looking. She couldn’t think through the thick smoke, the dying screams of Whiterun’s finest – and the laughter. It was murderous and bitter. The sound was rumbling in her gut and churning her breakfast. She was sure it was the dragon. Every so often she caught a glimpse of him through the screen of smoke, doing pirouettes in the air or ripping the heads from mens’ shoulders and batting them around like playthings. He was making a hideous sport of the slaughter and having a marvelous time.
As she waited, the battlefield began to grow quiet. She heard a few shouts from the surviving soldiers as the smoke began to clear. The laughter had finally stopped. Gingerly, she uncovered her ears, her muscles refusing to relax. And then she saw Irileth from her vantage point, kicking her way free from a mound of rubble that had buried her and rallying the remaining troops. Slowly, Tanniel began to rise to her feet. The forgotten sword fell from her lap and clattered on the tower stone that had crushed the soldier in front of her. She started to breathe again. It was over. He must have taken enough damage for one day and flown back to his perch. If she moved fast, she could make it Whiterun, back to the Bannered Mare, to bed, to safety. She took a wobbly step forward, straining to get over the large rock that had walled her in.
The sound of wingbeats and a rush of wind knocked her backwards against the tower wall. There he was, his leering face inches away, his rancid breath washing over her senses. His snout was smeared with blood and scraps of flesh and fabric hung from his toothy jaw. She was lost in his eyes, those dark, searching orbs the size of her hand. Ridiculously, it occurred to her to count the amount of scales on his snout, as she was finally in a position to do so. She even started counting, in fear and skipping numbers in her shattered mind. One, five, eight, seventeen! No, that wasn’t right! Farengar would be displeased!
The sound of his voice startled her back into reality. “A child…” he purred, “A sweet meat for my supper, a tender piece of flesh…”
His lizard tongue slid from his lips and slowly licked the side of her face. She shrieked, lurching away from him and lighting her hands on fire for defense. A searing pain surged through the palms of her bandaged hands and gasped in surprise, falling to the ground. That was right. Uthgard’s blade had burned her hands yesterday. The fire magic was causing further damage to her wounds.
The dragon chuckled, his vulgar tongue waving in the wind as he laughed. “Mages’ blood has an excellent spice to it. I think…that I shall save you for tonight.”
Before she could react his teeth were clamped around her torso, every bloody dagger driving through armor and flesh, squeezing the breath from her lungs and crushing bone in its deadly grip. In a strange way, beneath her panic and fear, she was relieved. The journey was ending now, before there could be any more heartache. She had been caught and her crime, punished. There was nothing left to do but give in.
The beast in her chest rustled its feathers and yowled in pain. It crawled up her throat, choking her, its sinewy muscles straining, its hooks burning hot in her lungs. It stirred and grumbled and groaned and stomped hard on her stomach.
Death exists, it said.
But you are alive.
Out of the corner of her tearing eye, she saw the sword on the ground beside her. Scrambling, straining against the dragon’s jaw, she snatched its hilt with sweaty fingers just as the dragon took to the air, knocking her backwards in the air with the force of the takeoff, his massive wings stirring the smoke and dust as he rose from the ground. Tanniel stared into his eye, seeing her own thin face dimly reflected in it. The sword hung from her fingers in the empty air. She held it with white knuckles. It was slipping from her sweaty hand, the hilt slowly sliding down her palm. It had to be now – before she dropped it, before he got much higher. Shaking, she raised her arm against the force of the wind and plunged it into his left eye.
He opened his mouth to scream and Tanniel went plunging toward the ground. A sharp pain seared through her shoulder as she hit the dirt and went rolling down a small hill, her progress stopped just as abruptly by the presence of a fallen block of stone. She watched the dragon flying above her, writhing in the air, twisting in impossible loops, shaking his head from side to side. He roared in agony, spewing flames in every which way and pawing at his face with his massive front claw. In his rage, he flew straight into the ground, sending up a cloud of dust as he hit it and a rumble that vibrated in Tanniel’s teeth. Her ear to the cold soil, she heard the sound of footsteps pounding inside her head. “Fire!” Irileth’s commanding voice bellowed in the midst of the tumult.
A hail of arrows flew overhead, making their mark in the hide of the dragon’s bloodied throat. He spewed one last spurt of flame, roaring in agony at the sky above him. And then, to the surprise of everyone in attendance, he burst into flames himself. He writhed on the ground as they consumed his body, as he tried frantically to put them out. In his last moment of life, as his flesh melted from his white-hot bones, his eyes met Tanniel’s once more and a low moan escaped his seared throat.
“Dovahkiin…no…”
It was then with a start that she noticed that her own body was cloaked in white flames. She jumped to her feet, gasping for air, trying to slap them out with the one hand that would obey her and then trying a different tactic of falling again to roll around in the dirt. But slowly, regardless of her movements, the flames died down, leaving no mark where they had been.
When she opened her eyes again, a group of soot-cloaked soldiers were staring down at her, fear and awe in their faces.
“You’re Dragonborn! I saw it!” a man gasped, extending a hand and pulling her back to her feet. Tanniel wobbled as she stood, clinging to his hand for support.
“What is this?” Irileth demanded, trotting toward the rest of the group with quick, delicate steps, her dark visage stormy. “Dragonborn? All I see is a dead dragon.”
“It’s a Nord legend.” the guard protested, “You wouldn’t understand. A hero who steals the power of dragons! I saw it all happen with my own eyes!”
“You are a hero.” Irileth said smoothly, turning to Tanniel, “I’ll give you that. You were the one who brought that monster to the ground. I’ll make certain that you get recompense for that.”
She frowned when no response was forthcoming. “Come on, what say you, research assistant?” she demanded, slapping the girl’s back.
“Huhhhhhhhh!” Tanniel wheezed, toppling at the touch, getting quite red in the face.
“Her armor’s crushing her lungs!”
“Gods, get it off!”
“Hey now, careful!”
Someone’s knife sliced through its leather bindings and an influx of fresh air suddenly rushed into her lungs. It was immediately followed by an overpowering wave of nausea. She broke free from the group of soldiers and fell to her knees behind a flaming pile of rubble to empty her stomach in privacy. Then she wiped her mouth and shakily stood again, her nerves gradually returning to her. The guards stood in their huddled group, watching her as though she was some strange sort of creature.
“Can…can you shout?” one of them finally ventured to ask.
“Shout?” she croaked, her voice hoarse and rough.
“It’s what the Dragonborn does in the stories!” one of them protested, his voice growing sharp. They were all gathering around her now, inching closer, touching her with outstretched hands, as if an awe of a goddess come to Nirn. A memory was coming back to Tanniel now, as her head cleared. Her mother was singing a story as she folded her mound of laundry, her voice high and soft as she repeated a rhyme she’d carried from her homeland to Cyrodiil.
“…I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes, with a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art. Believe, believe…”
She squeezed her eyes shut and dug deeper in her mind, thinking about what was said. With a start she found that here were memories there, foggy ones that were not her own, recalling impossible events that could not have happened to her. She saw herself, far away and misty in them, raising a sword to stab her own eye. Farther still, there was knowledge, deep and unfathomable, filled with letters that she couldn’t quite make out. One word of them glowed in her mind, as it had shone on a cold stone wall at the end of a claustrophobic cave. She pursed her lips, carefully sounding it out.
“Fus.” she said quietly, unsure of herself. There was a roar and a rush of wind and a few of the soldiers were bowled over by it. They cheered loudly, clapping their hands in glee and slapping her on the back jovially. Tanniel gasped in pain as they touched her, shifting her broken ribs with the force of their joy.
“Enough! Enough of this!” Irileth roared over the hubbub, “We’re searching for survivors and carrying our wounded back to Whiterun! Fieran, shift those stones! Hroggi, scout the keep! The rest of you, spread out!”
“And you…” she continued, turning to Tanniel, “I don’t know what your game is, but the Jarl will hear of this. I’ve got my eye on you.” She made her point with the sharp nail of her finger and then turned to join in the labor.
***
The Temple of Kynareth was packed to its rafters with injured. The priestess and her subordinates ran around the building, closing wounds, setting bones and doing as much as they could with their Restoration magic for the many, many burn victims that had poured in so abruptly. With a touch, Danica, the temple priestess, had set Tanniel’s broken ribs right, repaired the damage to her shattered arm and even sped up the healing of the burns on her hands, though that was all she could do for the burns. She had said, breathlessly and rushed in the turmoil of the temple, that Restoration has the power to close wounds, seal the walls of torn blood vessels and put wayward pieces in their proper place, but that it cannot restore something that was totally destroyed, say, burned away in fire or cut from the body entirely.
As they chatted, Tanniel was beginning to calm down and secretly rejoice in the fact that she had survived. In here, among friends and light and color, the events of the watchtower seemed so far away and absurd. If she opened her mouth and shouted, in all likelihood nothing remarkable would happen. Yes, after this day things would surely return to normal and everything that had happened would fade away into dim memories.
In the midst of her thoughts, a massive tremor suddenly shook the building, grasping its foundations and shaking them until there was nothing left on the walls. Books leaped from their shelves. Pots and vials of potion smashed in puddles of bright color as they hit the ground. Tanniel clung to the healing altar she was sitting on for dear life, for fear that it would fling her off, to land face-first on the stone tiles below. The water in the pool at the center of the temple burbled over its boundaries before loudly splashing back into them. Behind the panicked screams of the injured, the crash of things hitting the ground and the groaning of the wooden walls as they shifted, she heard the rumbling of deep voices, all roaring the same thing in tandem. With the final syllable, the earthquake ended. Tanniel’s knuckles were white as her quaking hands clung to the edge of the stone altar. Her teeth began to chatter as a profound chill set into her bones. Somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all her fault.
Her robes soaked, Danica slowly rose from the pool into which she’d fallen, gingerly testing her joints before running to the aid of a man who’d lost his leg and now his balance.
A door slammed open, barely turning the heads of anyone in the noisy temple and Irileth stood in it, her face grim, her lips set in a thin line.
“Girl!” she shouted sternly over the din, her eyes burning red with fury, “Jarl Balgruuf summons you
now.”
***
The great hall of Dragonsreach grew cold and drafty as evening drew near. Gerda stroked the firepit in the center of the room, but that did nothing to alleviate the Jarl’s chill. It was more than a draft, he knew that. It was excitement, it was awe, it was wonder at the event his soldiers had related to him. Decision weighed heavy on his weathered mind. His hopes rose in childlike joy as the wooden doors at the front of the hall were opened for the Dragonborn.
She was being escorted by a trio of guards. They were half-carrying her, he noticed. She limped along ever closer to the throne, a look of great pain coming over her face with every step she took. She finally arrived and knelt before him, unable to stand for much longer. His eyes ran over her. She was so unassuming for a Dragonborn. Her hair was strawlike and frizzy, parts of its charred from the dragon’s attack. Her face was ruddy, with a few freckles sprinkled over her rough cheeks. She was clothed in a simple monk’s robe for the time being, no doubt borrowed from the Priestess of Kynareth and a horribly busted and twisted suit of sooty Imperial armor was slung over her shoulder. She might have been just like any other farm girl in the hold, but her eyes betrayed her. When she opened them and looked up at the Jarl, he was struck by their pale intensity, their ancient, knowing appearance despite their young setting.
“Dragon-girl.” he addressed her jovially, the corners of his mouth turning up, “So, then, you’ve made it through yet another attack. I remember when you came to me in that same position for Riverwood. But, I have been told that you are not what you seem. Mightn’t you show me your talent?”
“Yes, my Jarl.” she answered, her thin voice just barely above a whisper. Her jaw was quivering, giving away her fear. She made a motion to the soldiers assisting her and they moved to help her up. She whirled around unsteadily to face one of the Jarl’s tables, set for dinner. She readied herself, tensing her shoulders and then let loose.
“Fus!”
The plates and cutlery flew from the end of the table as if pushed by a stiff wind. Bread and mead and fruit spilled onto the floor. The Jarl applauded, smiling at the display.
“Astonishing!” gasped Avenicci, the Jarl’s steward, from his perch beside the throne. Irileth folded her arms and said nothing.
“Very good!” the Jarl said, chuckling in joy despite himself, “What name may I call the Dragonborn by?”
“Tanniel, sir.”
“Tanniel of…?”
She cast her face downward and whispered, “Cyrodiil, sir.”
“Ho!” he said loudly, “A recent immigrant, am I correct? I trust your journey didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any family? Any connections?’
She raised her face and looked the Jarl straight in the eyes. Again, he was taken aback by the pale intensity of her stare, though he couldn’t show it in front of the entire court.
“I can only assume that they died under Thalmor torture.”
Balgruuf sighed and tapped the arm of his throne. “Whom the Thalmor imprison is none of my concern. I will offer you what asylum I can here, though my influence in Thalmor matters is limited.”
“Now,” he went on, changing his tone and rising from the throne, “you are a person of importance to Whiterun and to Skyrim. As such, I shall grant you the highest honor that is mine to give.”
“Balgruuf, sir!” Irileth bellowed, aghast.
“Not now, Irileth. I name you Thane of Whiterun. May you prosper in my hold.”
He saw that he shoulders were shaking beneath her armor and the priestess’s robe.
“Lydia, come!” he bellowed, motioning to a young woman in armor standing guard at the front door. She jumped at the sound and ran to the Jarl, her steel boots hitting the floor loudly as she ran. She arrived and knelt at his feet, her cheeks flushed. “Lydia, I name you the Dragonborn’s housecarl. Will you promise to be her sword and her shield, to carry her burdens, both physical and mental, to guard her life against all enemies?”
“I swear it, my Jarl.” she said frostily, not looking up.
“So it is sworn. I send you off with what gifts I can give, Dragonborn. Use them well.”
***
Farengar was standing in his alcove, a cruel smirk on his face as he watched the proceedings. Eventually, he caught the Dragonborn’s eye. She glared at him, hot hatred and - gleefully, he thought - not a little fear in her expression. She stumbled towards him excruciatingly slow, painfully, grabbing the railing, her housecarl and finally the study doorframe for support.
“You!” she hissed under her breath, pointing a finger at him, “You cast a spell on me this morning to make me do your bidding!”
“Hah. And that spell served you awfully well, didn’t it? Besides, you fed me love potion for breakfast. That’s high treason, you know.” he said coldly, leaning in close, his visage stormy, “Poisoning a member of the Jarl’s court.”
The girl gulped loudly and backed away from him. He watched the hope of everything she had been working towards abruptly leave her face
“But!” Farengar continued merrily, a smile cracking on his face, “I won’t say a word if you don’t. Come along now and show me those teeth marks on your armor. I’d like to measure them if I could…”
The walls of the stuffy office closed in around them as evening consumed Dragonsreach.