IX - Stormcrown

Really sorry about the extreme delay - I had a lot going these past couple weeks! Should be back to normal now, thanks for your patience.

C

They made camp nearly three hours after their flight from Haafingar, tucking themselves beneath a rocky outcropping at a small pond where the southern fork of the Karth River ended. They had barely spoken as they hastily moved southward, occasionally breaking the gruff silence with a mention of changing direction or a command to halt and ensure they weren’t being followed. When Merill thought her feet were near to freeze and snap off at the ankle, she called for them to stop, slowing to a halt beneath the outcropping, where there was a small circle cleared of brush and charred logs from someone’s abandoned camp. Silronwe relit the charred logs with a spell and, sensing that Merill and Nalimir needed a chance to talk, strode away into the dark snow, claiming she was off to make sure their surroundings were safe.

Merill sat on a stone beside the fire, shoving her feet up next to it and hastily tearing off strips of cloth from her gown to cover them.

“You haven’t got a spare pair of boots, have you?” she asked Nalimir wryly as he sat cross-legged beside her, shaking down the hood of his cloak and mussing his dark hair, the firelight dancing in his narrow eyes. The night was cold and silent, greying slightly on the horizon with the promise of dawn, but with thick cloud still choking the sky overhead.

“Mer,” he said quietly, familiar concern on his face, his gaze lingering on her dead eye. “What happened to you? I thought the Thalmor had killed you.”

“I thought they killed you,” she told him, winding the strips of cloth around her freezing feet. “I just saw them shove you over and swing the sword, how the hell did you weasel yourself out of that?”

“Not without a bit of a bruise,” he replied grudgingly, his hand straying up to rub a spot on his collarbone. “Managed to kick the asshole’s feet out from under him, kept his blade from getting me in the heart. Then I ran.” He looked up at her, the fire throwing spiky shadows across his face. “What happened to you? Why did that Bosmer call you Dragonborn?”

“No way,” Merill told him sharply. “No, you go first.” His mouth twisted, knowing it was no use to argue. He’d always beaten her in logic, but Merill was reliably stubborn. Nalimir sat back, running a gloved hand through his tousled hair with a sigh.

“I…don’t remember much right after that, honestly. I thought they’d killed you, so I went east. Ran through the mountains and got in a bit of a row with some bandits along the way that nearly took my arm off, but I managed to give them the slip.” He glanced up at her. “You remember Ungolad? From the village?”

“That prat?” Ungolad had been a boy a little older than Nalimir, a Nord with dirty yellow braids that loved to taunt them whenever they came into Falkreath. Nalimir had held Merill back from punching him more than once.

“I kept thinking about how he always talked about Riften, how his uncle was a guard there that helped take down the Thieves Guild, and I figured I had a good a chance there as any. And it was close. Turns out Ungolad was full of shit as usual, the Guild was still running the city from the sewers. I managed to find them and they promised me protection from the Thalmor if I started doing some odd jobs for them. And I just…kept doing them,” he added with a shrug.

“So you’re in the Thieves Guild now?” Merill asked, impressed despite herself. She’d heard of them, of course, during her time in Markarth, but not much. The petty gangs there ran the filching, and there was no organized ring of stealing that she knew of in the west.

“Yeah, and they’ve been good to me, you know?” he said, gazing into the pit of the fire that crackled before them. “They’re a right load of thugs, but they take care of their own. Thalmor came searching in Riften a couple times and got thrown right back out. They keep their word.”

“So you know why the Thalmor came after us?” she pressed. She’d wondered in the back of her head for years. Nalimir grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah…yeah, I guess I do. My sister, probably.” Merill stared at him quizzically.

“Sister?”

“Dad didn’t like to talk about it,” he replied anxiously. “Or I’m sure you would’ve known. You knew how he hated drudging up the past, before the Great War.” He had. Brelin had almost never spoken of his life before Skyrim. All Merill knew was that he and Nalimir, Talos-worshippers, had fled Valenwood when the Aldmeri Dominion took over, finding asylum in the then-tolerant forests of Skyrim, and that Nalimir’s mother, Cirwen, had died during the journey. Brelin ever spoke of Cirwen, though Merill had asked him once, as a child, what his own youth was like, and he had only smiled sadly, ruffling her hair and promising her that she was living a better one than he had. She was under the impression that Nalimir, who had left Valenwood as a toddler, knew little of his sister and mother as well.

“I didn’t really know my sister,” Nalimir went on, picking at the snow-dusted ground. “She was a lot older than me. When the Thalmor first started gaining power, she spoke out against them a lot, got herself in trouble the more influence they gained. By the time they were occupying Valenwood, she’d been arrested for treason and executed. That’s what they told us, at least.” He bit his lip. “A few weeks before….they came, Dad got a letter. From Menelri. They’d told us she was dead, but they were keeping her as a political prisoner in Cyrodiil. She’d just escaped and was headed back to Valenwood to rejoin the resistance, sent us a letter to warn us that the Thalmor might come after us.” He avoided her gaze, staring coldly into the fire. “They burned the cabin two weeks later.”

“Any word from her since then?” Merill asked softly, sliding off the rock to sit beside him. Nalimir shook his head.

“I don’t know what happened to her. I sent a few letters to Valenwood, but I had to keep them vague in case they were intercepted. I guess…I can only hope she made it and they haven’t found her yet. I have no idea how things are down there.” Merill followed Nalimir’s gaze into the fire, staring until her eye smarted from the light.

“If she’s anything like you and Brelin, she’s smart,” she told him firmly. “And probably alive.” He gave her a small smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up higher than the other.

“And what about you, then?” he asked, prodding her in the side with his elbow. “You still shoot straight with just one eye?”

“Still straighter than you,” she replied wryly, and she told him, haltingly, of the Thalmor agent cutting out her eye and her own flight west, her five years thieving and brawling on the streets of Markarth before she and Kiseen fled south for Anvil. Nalimir listened with rapt attention as she told him of her near execution, the dragon attack on Helgen and the one on the watchtower, where she had felt the beast’s very energy funnel into her when it died. She told him of the Greybeards’ call and her climb up the 7,000 steps, forgetting details and having to loop back for them as she detailed the words the monks had spoken to her, their bare explanation of her abilities and her errand to Ustengrav, Delphine and the dragon they slew at Kynesgrove. His expression was unreadable as she spoke, and she couldn’t shake the discomfort at how much his face had changed, how she could no longer communicate with a glance.

“So…you’re some kind of…Nordic prophet?” he said finally, when she had finished.

“Not exactly…I think,” she responded, twisting the soiled cloth of her gown between her hands. “No, it’s more like…a person with a dragon’s soul. Because they’re immortal, but…the Greybeards called it Dragon-Blooded. I can use their language without meditating on it – I can just learn the words and use their Thu’um – that’s what they call it. Don’t you remember the stories Brelin used to tell us about Dragonborns?” Nalimir shook his head.

“He told us a lot growing up, Mer. I was never able to remember all the tales like you did.” There was silence for a time. “Look, if you’re…some kind of prophesized hero, or whatever it is, I’ll help you, you know that, right?” Nalimir said finally, and Merill met his gaze.

“You will?”

“I spent the last five years thinking you were dead, Mer,” he told her quietly. “I told myself I’d throw myself into the lake for you and my dad to still be alive.” He gave her a halfhearted smile. “And I got half of it, at least. So yeah, I’m with you.” Merill threw herself at him, pulling him into a great bear hug, relief flooding through her. She’d gone so long without trusting, refusing to allow herself to show any sort of kindness for fear of losing someone else. The guilt over Nalimir and Brelin’s demise had followed her for half a decade, and Nalimir, at least, helped ease the regret that plagued her.

“So,” he said lightly when they finally broke apart. “Tell me about that Altmer you picked up.”

“Silronwe.” They both turned to see her striding back toward them through the snow, a bundle over her shoulder and her eyes bright. Despite their hasty flight from the Embassy, she still somehow looked impeccable, the color on her high cheeks and the loose hairs around her face only making her look more radiant. “We only just met.” She dumped the bundle beside them, and it fell open to reveal a mismatched of leather armor and a couple dark cloaks, with a battered book thrown in. “There was a bandit camp to the west,” Silronwe told them as Merill gratefully reached for the armor, eager to strip off the sodden, bloody gown. Silronwe picked up the book, tucking it under her arm. “I figured we needed this more than them.” There was a pause, and Nalimir glanced expectantly at Merill.

“Uh…this is Nalimir,” she said, pulling on the leather greaves and strapping them across her legs. “He’s an…old friend.”

“‘Old friend’?” Nalimir repeated drily, casting her a skeptical look. “We grew up together,” he told Silronwe, who looked surprised. Merill found herself taking pleasure in this – something Silronwe didn’t know.

“I won’t pry,” Silronwe replied delicately, extracting a set of dark robes from her bag and pulling them over her head, sitting down beside them and drawing her hair loose from its bun, shaking out the gold waves. Merill realized Nalimir was watching her closely and felt a twinge of annoyance.

“You’re going to Falkreath, right?” she asked Silronwe, pointedly, and the Altmer nodded.

“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” she replied lightly, pulling half her hair over her shoulder and starting to braid it loosely. “In my line of work I’m on my own a great deal of the time, and it’s nice to have some company.”

“What’s your work?” Nalimir asked eagerly, and Merill tuned them out as Silronwe began to casually explain her grisly career to an impressed Nalimir.

They set off again as the sun rose, more calmly now, unpursued by the fear of Thalmor discovery. The day was chill and cloudy, and they stayed off the roads, not wanting their bizarre band of travelers to draw too much attention. Merill strayed behind while Nalimir and Silronwe talked, getting snatches of their conversation when she deigned to pay attention. Silronwe had traveled all over Tamriel, it seemed, and she told Nalimir animated stories of her adventures in all parts of the world, from months in the desert with a Khajiiti caravan to a rollicking fortnight tagging along with a crew of pirate necromancers that raided Breton trading ships in the Abecean Sea. She had no reason to be jealous, she knew, but she still felt a twinge of annoyance each time Nalimir laughed – she hadn’t seen him in five years, spent all that time thinking him dead, and a beautiful Altmer assassin appeared out of nowhere and captivated him in an instant.

Merill was relieved, then, when they reached Riverwood and Silronwe took her leave, thanking them again for the company before she continued on down the road, disappearing into the shade of the towering pines.

“You okay?” Nalimir asked her when Silronwe had gone, and Merill gave a short nod.

“Just…thinking. Come on, I need to give this stuff to Delphine.” The Breton was furious when Nalimir trailed Merill in, and only after nearly ten minutes of heated argument did Merill convince Delphine that he was trustworthy. Delphine grew even more frustrated when Merill assured her that the Thalmor were not behind the dragon attacks.

“You’re positive?” Delphine asked, a line marring her forehead as she glared down at the papers Merill had lain out on the table in the Sleeping Giant’s basement room.

“Positive,” Merill assured her from where she’d taken a seat beside the fire, helping herself to a pear from one of the bookshelves. Nalimir circled the room, staring with interest at the books and colored bottles that lined the walls. Merill gestured to the two leather-bound dossiers she’d left on the table. The third, the one she hadn’t seen the name on, had been left in the pocket of her cloak, lost somewhere along the way. “But they are looking for someone called Esbern.”

“Esbern?” Delphine repeated incredulously, diving for the dossier and practically tearing it open. “He’s alive? I thought the Thalmor got him years ago!”

“Yeah, that seems to be a trend lately,” Nalimir remarked lightly.

“Figures they would be on his trail, though, if they were trying to figure out what’s going on with the dragons.”

“What do they want with him?” Merill asked, reaching for a bottle of ale on the shelf and cracking it open, taking a long drink.

“You mean, aside from wanting to kill every Blade they get their hands on?” Delphine asked drily, flipping through the other dossiers. “Esbern was one of the Blades archivists, back before the Thalmor smashed us during the Great War. He knows everything about the ancient Dragonlore of the Blades.” She shook her head. “Obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then. I guess he wasn’t as crazy as we all thought.” Delphine leaned over the dossier, rubbing the back of her neck as she studied it.

“They seem to think he’s hiding out in Riften,” Merill offered, taking another long drink of ale.

“Riften, eh?” Delphine said with a faint smile. “Probably down in the Ratway, then. It’s where I’d go.”

“Ratway?”

“That’s the, um, sewer system,” Nalimir said suddenly, turning to face them. “Where the Thieves Guild is.”

“You heard of anyone called Esbern?” Merill asked him, going to stand beside Delphine at the table and looking down at the dossier.

“No. But there are a lot of odd folks down there. A lot of people in hiding who want to stay hidden. Brynjolf might know, he’s been down there longer than me.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan, then,” Delphine replied, closing the dossier. “When you find Esbern…well, if you think I’m paranoid, you may have some trouble getting him to trust you.”

“I don’t expect anybody’s trust,” Merill said shortly. Nalimir met her eyes and she hastily looked back to Delphine. “I still don’t trust you.”

“That’s the least of my worries,” Delphine told her, waving Merill’s complaint away. “Just ask Esbern where he was on the 30^th of Frostfall. He’ll know what it means, and it’ll get you a foot in the door, at least.”

When they stepped outside, rain was falling, the skies grey and the people of Riverwood moving through the streets with their hooded heads down, arms full of lumber. They lingered on the porch for a time, watching the mist cloud above the cobblestones and the distant clouds roil over the mountains.

“Strange, being back here,” Nalimir remarked quietly. “Don’t get much rain in Riften. Just clouds.” She cast him a sidelong glance, surprised again by how drastically different he looked – astonishingly older. Was it really only five years?

They decided to move north around the Throat of the World, by way of Whiterun so they might stop for supplies before climbing to High Hrothgar so Merill could deliver the Horn to the Greybeards. She remarked about wanting a new bow, already bored by the one she’d bought after escaping Helgen. They walked in silence most of the way, and it felt dreadfully wrong to Merill. Brelin used to scold the two of them for scaring off game by chattering as they traversed the southern woods, but now…Merill knew there were a million things she could ask Nalimir about all the years they’d spent apart, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

They slowed when they reached the place in the road that curved sharply downward, lending a spectacular view of the grassy tundra around Whiterun and the farms that spread out like patchwork from the city’s hills. The day was beginning to darken, and lights twinkled from the tall windows of Dragonsreach, the distant watchtower in the west a misshapen ruin.

“D’you remember that trip we took to Whiterun?” Nalimir asked suddenly as they started down the hill, past cloaked farmers that were finishing up their day’s work and stabling their oxen, wheeling their carts up to their sheds. A yellow-armored guard watched them pass, suspicion in his eyes at the sight of them.

“Gods, when was that? Eleven years ago?” She remembered, vaguely – it had been right after her eighth birthday, and the villagers in Falkreath were adamantly avoiding buying Brelin’s game after Merill had beaten Ungolad senseless for mocking Nalimir’s pointed ears. Brelin had hoped that people in Whiterun might be more open to a Bosmer trader, and had brought Merill and Nalimir along for fear that the villagers would catch them alone. The memories were hazy, though.

“You got away from us to chase a chicken,” Nalimir recalled with a chuckle. “Dad was worried sick, thought some farmer’d rake you over the head with a pitchfork.” Some instinct struck her, and her hand fluttered up to touch the scar over her left eye.

“Could’ve done,” she murmured, and Nalimir glanced down at her. “The Thalmor that took my eye…he was there, at the party. Almost got me thrown out.”

“He remembered you?” Nalimir asked, surprised, and Merill nodded.

“He was at Helgen, too. Armion, I think his name was.” Nalimir’s brow furrowed.

“There were a lot of agents after my sister in Valenwood. I don’t remember any names, though.”

“We’ll keep an eye out.”

“I’ll keep two,” Nalimir remarked lightly, and she shoved him, secretly grateful for the humor.

They spent the night in Whiterun, Merill using the evening to hone a new bow she’d snitched off a stand in the marketplace, using an old whittling knife she found in a drawer in the inn to correct the weight and restringing it with twine curled up in silk for a good, sharp aim. She pried loose the arrowheads from her arrows, replacing them with tiny silver ones crafted by the smithy at the gates, sharp enough to break skin at the slightest touch, and pasted the ends of them with nocks of lightweight aluminum between fletches of soldered hawk-feather painted red. Nalimir sat beside her on the carpet in their attic room in the inn, handing her arrowheads when she asked for them and remarking at her deft hands and quick skill with the thing.

“I was never good at bowcraft,” he commented as she tested the bowstring.

“I remember,” she replied wryly. “You always got jealous when Brelin would let me test a new set of arrows over you.”

“Yeah, but I could take you with a blade now,” he returned proudly. “You may’ve always been better at archery, but what do you do when somebody gets up in your face?”

“I’m not stupid enough to let them get that close,” she shot back playfully.

They rose before the sun the next morning, starting the trek south around the mountain to Ivarstead. Nalimir offered to stay behind while Merill made the climb, knowing the secretive reputation of the monks, and Merill reluctantly agreed, knowing that Arngeir and his companions would be unlikely to trust a newcomer, however much Merill pleaded for him. She felt foolish to admit it, but a small part of her was afraid that, if she left Nalimir behind, he would vanish again. She made herself act nonchalant, promising she would be back before evening, and didn’t allow herself to turn around and make sure he was still watching from the bridge as she started the climb up the 7,000 steps.

Merill felt instantly relaxed as she entered the great temple, as if a weight had been mercifully lifted from her shoulders. Arngeir and the other Greybeards were waiting, as if they’d known when she would come.

“So, you’ve retrieved the Horn,” the old monk said with a smile, and Merill nodded and held it out to him. Arngeir took the horn reverently, bowed his head briefly over it, and handed it to one of the other hooded priests, who carried it carefully away. “Well done. You have now passed all the trials. It is time for us to recognize you formally as Dragonborn.” He gestured to the other monks, who spread out around the diamond of square stones in the floor. “You are ready to learn the final word of Unrelenting Force – Dah, which means ‘Push.’” One of the Greybeards whispered the word, and it was burned into the stone, heat searing off its very surface. “With all three words together, this Shout is much more powerful,” Arngeir told her as she stepped forward to absorb the fire of the shout. “Use it wisely.” The Greybeard that had taken the Horn returned to the room, nodding to the others as Arngeir went on. “You have completed your training, Dragonborn. We would speak to you.” They stood, one at each point of the diamond, and raised their arms together. Merill turned to look at Arngeir.

“What’s this?”

“Prepare yourself,” he answered simply. “Few can withstand the unbridled Voice of the Greybeards. But you are ready.”

“What –?” Merill started, but the Greybeards began to speak, and with their words the ground shook, dust and stone rained down from High Hrothgar’s ceiling, and Merill felt her vision haze as she stumbled, though she could hear their words clearly.

“Lingrah krosis saran Strundu’ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu’um, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal nuleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

When the sound faded, Merill felt a change in her chest, as if something new as growing there. She saw her hands splayed upon the stone before her, heard her own breath in her throat, and was suddenly, keenly aware of everything about her, of the bones that gave her shape and the muscles that kept them stitched together, the flaming dragon-blood that roiled through her veins, her skin and her fingers and every eyelash and every strand of hair, floating around her as if suddenly given purpose. Merill calmed her breath and got slowly to her feet, the power building in her chest, a sort of peace spreading from her heart through to the tips of her fingers and toes. Shoulders heaving, she turned to Arngeir, her eye bright and alert with the new keenness that fueled her very being.

“Dovahkiin,” Argneir said, a smile gracing his lips. “You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you.” The other monks bowed their heads and quietly took their leave, though Arngeir remained. Merill felt the feeling of burning empowerment fading from her chest, though it left a sort of echo.

“What were the words?” she asked Arngeir. “I knew a few, but there was too much happening to hear properly.”

“You are learning the dragon-tongue?” Arngeir asked brightly, and Merill nodded, deciding not to tell him of the black dragon’s taunt at Kynesgrove that had pricked at her mind for days afterward. “That is good. The direct translation is muddled, but the words, more basically, were these: Long has the Stormcrown languished, with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of Old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North, hearken to it.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“There is a very philosophical explanation to the words, but it is long and takes much time to understand. It was a formal recognition on our part, proclaiming to all that would hear that you are Dovahkiin, dragon-child, dragon’s-blood.”

“Could everyone hear that? Like when you called me after the dragon attacked Whiterun?”

“No. When we summoned you, we meditated for some time before to make our shout as powerful as it could be so that its sound would carry all across Skyrim and a bit beyond, sure to reach you wherever you were. The greeting was less taxing on us. It is likely that we were the only ones that heard the words. Us and our leader.”

“You’re not the leader?” Arngeir shook his head with a smile.

“No, no, I would not claim leadership over our order. Our master, Paarthurnax, resides at the peak of the Throat of the World in solitude, where he may meditate free of distraction. He has been our leader for many years.” Merill frowned.

“Does he even know I’m here? Wouldn’t he want to meet me?”

“He does want to meet you, dragon-child. But you are not yet ready. Perhaps someday soon, you will climb the rest of the way to the mountain’s summit and you will meet. But not now.”

“When, then?” Merill asked, following Arngeir as he crossed to the other side of the room and rested his palm flat against a carving on the wall, his eyes closed.

“Now you must focus on honing your skills. We can tell you where words of power lie hidden throughout Skyim, but we cannot teach you more. You must find them on your own, hone your voice, learn.”

“What about the dragon attacks?” Merill insisted. “There’s got to be something else we can do to figure out what’s going on.”

“Soon, dragon-child. Something is coming. Something great. And when it comes, you will know, and you will return to us.” Arngeir turned his face toward the stone and rested his forehead against it, whispering prayers as he did so. Merill took that as her cue to leave and made for the door, taking one last look at the dark, silent temple before she pushed out into the snow.