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Chapter Text

"There's something comforting, facing death like this; wouldn't you agree? It's all that matters, nothing else seems to exist outside my pure instinct to survive. Rank, personal history, birth, race, sex, the name given to you; it's all meaningless, this is the only thing that's real, to fight on behalf of my own life and nothing else. I've never felt so complete, I guess you could say I've finally arrived."

"I've lived my life by forever following the path that had been set for me. Thanks to the idiosyncrasies of humanity, it was... at least a life worth living for... and maybe even a life worth dying for."

In his final moments, King Bradley contemplated these words. Turned them over in his head. He didn't truly know why, all things considered. His world was fading to black ever faster now. His final breath had been taken. His heart was about to stop beating the lifeblood out of his veins. Still, if humans could afford to be a little sentimental upon death, he figured, why not? It wasn't as if he hadn't indulged himself up to this point.

He was satisfied with the words. Hell, he was satisfied with everything he had said out of anger or grim satisfaction. Well... Given the whole blinded by the sun thing that had led to his death, perhaps he could admit fault in the god spiels he'd let loose.

"A life worth dying for, hmm?" asked a smug, multilayered voice.

Bradley opened his eyes in shock.

He was no longer lying beneath Central Command, but standing in what appeared to be a white void. And standing before him was a being as white as their surroundings, yet he could clearly see it. The figure had no features save for a wide grin, and a silhouette matching his own. Well, before he'd lost his limbs.

Bradley narrowed his eyes (eyes? Plural? And his limbs were all back? Questions for later.) at the figure. "And who the hell are you?" he demanded of it.

The figure giggled, putting its hands on its hips. "Straight to the point, aren't we? You're quite demanding for a dead man, King Bradley."

Bradley clenched his teeth. So he was dead. And whoever, or whatever, this being was, it clearly possessed the ability to summon the dead straight to it. He didn't know what else it was capable of, and his Ultimate Eye was giving him absolutely nothing on it. Clearly, losing his temper would yield no results whatsoever.

Still...

"You haven't answered my question," he said softly, raising an eyebrow at the strange being.

The figure laughed again. "Come now, what did you think your Father was trying to absorb this entire time?"

Bradley stared at the figure for a moment, then scoffed. "You? You're God?"

The figure's smile finally turned upside down. "I am called many things. You may call me God. You might call me the World. Or, perhaps, the Universe. I am One, and I am All." It pointed a finger at Bradley, smiling once again. "Which also means that I am You."

"I doubt that very much," Bradley huffed, finally turning his back to this so called God, and frowned.

Before him stood a great gateway of polished stone, bearing the Ouroborus mark of the Homunculi. So, this was the Gate of Truth. The real Gate of Truth. To be honest, he couldn't see what all the excitement was about.

Behind him, God laughed. "Disappointed, are we? I'm glad to see the feeling's mutual."

That got a rise out of him. Bradley whipped around, glaring daggers into the being who dared call itself God. "And who was it that allowed itself to be absorbed by my Father? Who was it the Ishvalans prayed to for salvation and revenge against my actions, and remained silent?"

God chuckled, shaking its head. "If there's one quality you homunculi share with the humans, it's that you think far too highly of yourselves."

"Excuse me?" Bradley instinctively reached for his swords, grumbling when he found nothing but empty air.

God held up a finger. "You believe yourselves so superior to the humans that granted and ended your existence." Another finger went up. "You believe that, even with a Philosopher's Stone containing the souls of both Xerxes and Amestris, that your Father would ever be able to contain the entirety of my essence." A third finger went up. "And finally, you believe, even now, that with your weapons, you could even hope to harm me."

Bradley grit his teeth. Despite his anger at this figure even suggesting any of this, he had to admit, the evidence of what he had personally experienced up to now did add up to its conclusions. Still, maybe, just maybe-

"You still haven't answered my last question," the man made homunculus pointed out. "Why did you abandon them?"

"I am not their God," it answered, still giving him that loathsome grin. "Nor do I believe they would accept a god such as myself." It then frowned. "But I have indulged you long enough, war dog. And I have found you to be... Disappointing."

Bradley snorted once again. "Disappointing, you say? May I ask in what regard?"

God pointed towards Bradley. "You were the first man to be turned into a homunculus. A man with a Philosopher's Stone at his core, powered by a single, wrathful soul. A man with the eyes of a god. And yet, you took the gifts granted to you by plots and circumstance, and simply lived the life that had been planned for you by one who wished to remove his Sins instead of understanding them."

"I did what I was created to do," Bradley answered with a shrug. "I don't see why you're so concerned."

God sighed, shaking its head. "Even now, you are blind to the Truth." It then smiled once again. "No matter, I know just what to do with you."

Bradley narrowed his eyes at the being. "And what do you mean by that?"

God just chuckled, and he heard the gate behind him open with an ominous creak. Bradley whipped around yet again, now face to face with a great eye.

"What is this?" he demanded, even as shadowy tendrils shot out from the gate.

"The Truth of your despair," God answered with amusement.

Bradley grunted, leaping back in an attempt to dodge the tendrils. There was only one problem with his plan. He was quick, and could see where the tiny black hands were heading. But they were faster. And far stronger than he.

He struggled against the tendrils as they dragged him into the Gate, turning to glare in God's direction. "I'll get you for this," he growled, tugging at one of the arms wrapped around his waist. "I'll wipe that smug look right off your face, if it's the last thing I do."

God giggled, waving a finger. "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Bradley. You're going to be quite busy where you're heading."

Bradley could only struggle more against his captors, finally letting loose a howl of wordless, impotent, unyielding rage as the Gate closed with a deafening thud.

His head ached. His throat was dry. All signs pointing to him not being dead. Blast it all. And the damned bumping and sounds of creaking wheels weren't helping his headache.

Hold on a second.

Bradley opened his eye (Singular once more. Strange.). The light hurt as he squinted, but he forced them to open all the same.

He was... most certainly not in Amestris anymore, nor even in that damned void. Instead, he was greeted with a cart, traveling through some misty pine forest, along a stone brick road in serious need of repair. He was surrounded with men in strange, medieval clothes, and the man driving the cart... Definitely some kind of soldier in... Leather armor? Why did he and the other passengers have rope securing their wrists together? And why was he himself in rags that did nothing to keep out the cold?

"Hey, you," said the blond man just across from him. "You're finally awake."

Bradley squinted at the man, frowning as he assessed this stranger.

The man was obviously another soldier. Not from the same outfit as the one driving the cart, but he was most certainly in uniform, leather mixed with a navy blue fabric. Probably the enemy of their captors. Blond, as he'd noted before, with a matching mustache and beard, and a rugged countenance.

The stranger smiled, a movement that betrayed just how tired he was. "You were trying to cross the border, right?"

Bradley felt his frown deepen. Border? He couldn't remember any border crossing. He'd never even left Amestris. At least, not to his knowledge.

The stranger seemed to take his silence as affirmation, continuing, "Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us." He then frowned, jerking his head to the left. "And that thief over there."

Bradley glanced to the stranger's left. The other two occupants could not be more different if they'd tried. There was another blond sitting beside Bradley, wearing fine, blue clothing (at least, for whatever time period this was), who was glaring at their driver, his green eyes glinting with defiance and rage. His mouth, Bradley noted, had been gagged, which probably didn't help the man's mood.

The last passenger, who was probably the thief mentioned, was a scrawny twig of a man, with brown hair and matching eyes, who was directing his anger towards the speaker.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief spat out. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If it hadn't been for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now."

Skyrim? Empire? Hammerfell? What nonsense had Bradley found himself in? He'd never even heard of these places, not even in the history books Pride and Father had provided.

What was God up to?

The thief turned towards Bradley, breaking him out of his silent contemplation. "You there. You and me; we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

The first man shrugged, gently chiding, "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The soldier driving the cart chanced a glance behind him, shooting a tired glare at his passengers. "Shut up, back there."

The thief huffed, turning towards the gagged man. "And what's wrong with him?"

The first man whipped towards the thief, growling, "Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

Bradley couldn't help but snort. Obviously, these Stormcloaks were some kind of rebel force, and their leader had the audacity to name them after himself. The arrogance of humans never ceased to amaze him.

The thief, however, was less amused. "Ulfric?" he asked, his face paling. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! But if they've captured you-"

Bradley nodded, finding the thief come to the same conclusion he had in real time to be quite amusing, despite the implications for himself.

"Oh, gods!" the thief groaned. "Where are they taking us?"

The first man sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know, but Sovngarde awaits."

The thief shook his head, pleading helplessly to the air, "No, this can't be happening, this isn't happening!"

Bradley sighed, gazing up ahead, and letting the pair continue the conversation in peace.

They weren't the only cart on the road, nor were they the only prisoners. More soldiers wearing the blond man's garb were bound in the back of several carts, with a lone man upon a horse leading the procession. The man was older, if his grey hair was anything to go by, and wore a red cape along with his leather armor. Obviously the commanding officer of Bradley's captors.

And even further ahead, he could see the walls and towers of what seemed to be a small town. It was nothing next to an average Amestrian town, of course, but that simply seemed to be a product of the time period he'd found himself in.

As they drew closer to the town, a guard atop the wall called down, "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

The commanding officer nodded as he rode through the gate. "Good. Let's get this over with."

The thief clasped his hands together as best he could. "Shor, Mara, Kynareth, Akatosh- Divines, please help me!"

Tullius turned off the road, and the carts drove further into the town. As they passed, Bradley noted that Tullius was now speaking to another figure on horseback. A woman garbed in black robes, with pointed ears, golden skin, hair, and eyes, who seemed rather upset about something. Strange, but so was everything else he'd witnessed thus far.

The blond man glanced over his shoulder at the pair, growling, "Look at him. General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." He spat into the cart. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Bradley shrugged, turning to examine the rest of the town. Some villagers were watching the procession, as well as more than a few soldiers. Without his swords, and with his hands bound like this, escape would be a chore. Not impossible, but certainly difficult.

The blond sighed, breaking his train of thought. "This is Helgen," he said wistfully. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." He then looked around, letting a bittersweet smile cross his face. "Funny... When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe..."

Bradley nodded. It made sense, he supposed. Still, these fortifications were doing little to comfort him. One State Alchemist, or even a tank would be all it took to bring them all down.

Off to the side, a boy sitting on a porch asked an older man next to him, "Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?"

The man shot his son a serious look. "You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why?" the boy asked. "I wanna watch the soldiers."

The man shook his head. "Inside the house. Now."

The boy sighed, getting to his feet. "Yes, papa," he grumbled, marching in.

Bradley scoffed. Selim wouldn't have questioned the order. Then again, he was a much older homunculus, so perhaps it wasn't his place to judge. Still, the lack of discipline rankled him.

The carts were now coming to a stop, all halting before one of the walls. Two soldiers were facing them and their occupants, another blond in leather holding a rudimentary clipboard and quill, and a dark skinned woman in steel armor. And to their right, a stand and a basket had been set up in an open space, with a hooded man bearing an axe right behind them, along with a woman in yellow and orange robes. It took little to no imagination to figure out their purpose.

"Get those prisoners out of the carts," the woman barked out. "Move it!"

The thief looked around, his fear rising dramatically. "Why are we stopping?"

The blond glanced at the thief, snorting. "Why do you think?" he asked darkly. "End of the line."

Their cart came to a halt, and the blond gave Bradley a smile. "Let's go," he said, jerking his head towards the pair of soldiers. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

Bradley sighed as they all came to their feet, marching off the cart in an orderly line.

"No, wait," the thief pleaded, hopping off the cart. "We're not rebels!"

The blond, who had taken up position behind Bradley, shook his head. "Face your death with some courage, thief."

The thief turned towards them, sweat trickling down his brow. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

Either not hearing the thief, or simply not caring, the woman called out, "Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."

As he and Bradley got off the cart, the blond groaned. "Empire loves their damned lists," he muttered.

The man with the quill checked his board. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," he said, sounding every bit as tired as the blond who now stood beside Bradley.

As Ulfric marched towards the block, the blond called after him, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood," called the man with the board, and the blond followed his leader. The man nodded, checking his list again. "Lokir of Rorikstead."

The thief approached them quickly, shaking his head. "No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

"Halt," the woman growled, but Lokir paid her no heed, racing past the pair.

"You're not gonna kill me!" the thief yelled with one last bid of defiance.

The woman made a gesture. "Archers!"

A pair of leather bound soldiers readied their bows and let loose, both arrows hitting their target. Lokir was dead before he hit the street.

The woman turned back around, glaring at the prisoners. "Anyone else feel like running?" she demanded.

The man bearing the list blinked, staring at Bradley. "Wait," he said. "You there. Step forward."

With a shrug, Bradley did as he was ordered, coming to a halt a few paces from the pair.

The man with the list frowned at him, hesitantly asking, "Who... are you?"

Bradley smiled. Finally, someone was asking the obvious question. Still, what name to give...

"I go by the name of Bradley," he said, carefully omitting his first name. Given the time period, they might take it as a title instead of just a name, and since he had no idea what nations existed outside of those mentioned by Lokir earlier, it was probably best not to test his luck.

The man nodded, taking it down. "You're a long way from the Imperial City," he commented. "What are you doing in Skyrim?"

Bradley did his best not to narrow his eye. Perhaps being mistaken for an Imperial citizen could do him some good. "Simply exploring," he lied. It was close enough to the truth, but to be honest, he had no idea of the real answer either.

The man nodded again, turning to his companion. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

The woman scoffed, shaking her head. "Forget the list. He goes to the block."

Now his eye narrowed. If she'd been an Amestrian officer, he would've immediately had her shot for pure incompetence.

Hesitantly, the man nodded. "By your orders, captain." He turned back to Bradley with a sigh. "I'm sorry. We'll be sure to send your remains back to Cyrodiil. Follow the captain, prisoner."

The captain turned and marched towards the block, Bradley following. Perhaps if he caused enough chaos, he could nab a sword and make his escape. Sure, being on the run from the law wouldn't be ideal, but at least he'd had enough experience with that after the assassination attempt at the train.

Apparently he'd been the last, as all the other prisoners were assembled by the time he got there. And the general, apparently finished with whatever the so called Thalmor wanted, was standing before Ulfric.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he said as the captain and her companion took their positions beside the block. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric apparently had some words for the general, but they were forever trapped behind the gag he now wore.

Tullius placed his hands on his hips, glaring at the Jarl. "You started this war," he accused. "Plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

At that moment, there was the distant sound of a roar. Not any beast Bradley had ever encountered, nor any of the other attendants of this apparent execution. For everyone was looking around in confusion.

"What was that?" asked the soldier with the list.

Tullius glared back at him. "It's nothing. Carry on," he said, turning his back on Ulfric and marching off to the side.

The captain put a fist to her chest, giving the general a bow. "Yes, General Tullius!" She then turned to the robed woman, nodding to her. "Give them their last rites."

The woman did not respond, simply raising her hands towards the heavens. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius," she recited, "Blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-"

Another Stormcloak Bradley hadn't yet met stepped forward, marching towards the block as he shouted, "For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with!"

The woman lowered her hands, glaring at the man who'd so rudely interrupted her. "As you wish," she huffed, stepping away from the block.

The soldier glanced back at the captain, demanding, "Come on! I haven't got all morning!"

The captain scowled, placing a hand on his shoulder and a foot behind his knee, driving him to the ground, and forcing his head and neck onto the block.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," the man spat. "Can you say the same?"

The captain stepped back, and the hooded man raised his axe above his head. With a powerful swing, the soldier's head rolled into the basket, and his body fell to the side.

"You Imperial bastards!" cried one of the other prisoners.

"Justice!" called out one of the bystanders.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!" yelled another.

Ralof, who was standing beside Bradley, shook his head. "As fearless in death as he was in life."

Bradley nodded, having found some respect for the dead man before him. He'd faced his death in much the same way as Bradley himself had. Albeit, Bradley had put up much more of a fight beforehand, but still. It was good to see he wasn't the only one.

The captain pointed towards Bradley. "Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!"

Another roar rocked the town, louder this time, and once again, everyone visibly searched for the source.

"There it is again," the soldier with the list said nervously, looking around. "Did you hear that?"

The captain glared at him, grounding out, "I said: Next. Prisoner!"

The man sighed, nodding again, and motioning to Bradley. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

But Bradley did not move. For he'd found the source of the noise. Streaking towards them from the distance, high above the mountains, was a creature straight out of myth and legend. A dragon. Black as night, with horns curling away from its face and teeth as sharp as steel, probably tougher to boot. It was coming fast now, faster than anything he'd ever seen. Unless you counted himself and the other homunculi, of course. Especially Sloth, when he could be bothered. Which was rare.

"Are you deaf?" demanded the captain, losing her consistently strained patience. "Step towards the block now! Move it!"

"Come on," said her companion. "No need to make this harder than it already-"

The dragon streaked across the town, roaring once again, and sending everyone into a panic.

"What in Oblivion is that?" yelled Tullius as he and the other Imperials drew their weapons.

The captain turned towards another soldier, having missed the dragon itself, but not its shadow. "Sentries, what do you see?"

The soldier shook his head. "It's in the clouds-" he started to answer, just as the dragon landed on the tower before them all.

"Dragon," yelled one of the Stormcloaks, face pale as she backed away.

The dragon pulled back its head, roaring once more. Scarlet and grey clouds blotted out the sky, and rocks began to fall to the earth, sending the entire crowd into further confusion, everyone going this way and that, searching for shelter.

All except for Bradley. He was eyeing up the monster, searching it for any weak spots as he prepared for... Anything, really.

There were none. It was as if the beast had been carved from a block of black diamond. And yet, where diamond was brittle, this thing was not.

And it stared back at him, narrowing its burning eyes, the only possible avenue for damage. It pulled back its head again, roaring something that... almost sounded like words. Words of a language entirely foreign to him.

A wall of what seemed to be solid air flew towards him at breakneck speed, and he dodged, leaping to the side.

But he'd miscalculated by a centimeter. The air hit his side, and he rolled much father than he'd meant to, falling to the ground with a thud.

Bradley pushed himself to his knees, shaking his head. Any more force, and he'd definitely be dealing with a concussion. Possibly worse. Thank Father he'd seen it coming and dodged when he did.

"Don't just stand there," Tullius barked out. "Kill that thing! Guards, get the townspeople to safety!"

Ralof raced to Bradley's side, his hands unbound and now holding an axe. "Hey, Imperial!" he yelled over the chaos. "Come on, get up! The gods won't give us another chance!"

Bradley glared at Ralof, but had to admit he agreed. With a grunt, he forced himself back to his feet, giving the man a nod.

Ralof returned the gesture, turning towards another tower, where the other Stormcloaks had gathered for shelter. "This way," he ordered, racing towards the door.

Without a word, Bradley followed, once again wondering what in God's name was going on.

Chapter Text

As Bradley leapt into the tower, Ralof closed the door behind them, sighing with relief.

The Stormcloaks had gathered inside the round room at the bottom, tending to those who had been hurt in the initial shock of rocks falling from the sky. Ulfric was there as well, having removed both his binds and the gag.

Bradley couldn't help but feel a tad annoyed when, instead of cutting through the rope around his wrists, Ralof instead turned towards his leader. "Jarl Ulfric," he said, his voice betraying his fear. "What was that thing? Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric glared at Ralof, then at the door. "Legends don't burn down villages."

Bradley felt a headache coming on. A simple yes or no would've sufficed, especially since there was enough confusion as it was without their leader waxing poetic about something that was right there, actively tearing the town apart.

The roar that echoed through the tower certainly didn't help his mood.

Ulfric apparently came to Bradley's conclusion, turning back to his soldiers. "We need to move! Now!"

Ralof nodded, pushing Bradley towards the stairs. "Up through the tower! Let's go!"

Bradley scowled, but did as told, racing up the stairs.

Up ahead, he heard another Stormcloak grumbling, "We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way-"

But as Bradley and Ralof reached the next floor, the dragon burst its head through the wall, knocking the pair who had been standing there forward onto the rubble. They did not get a chance to get up, as the dragon pulled back its head.

And this time, Bradley heard it clearly as it roared, "YOL TOR SHUL!" Fire erupted from its mouth, roasting the pair alive before the dragon flew off. They didn't even get to scream in pain.

Thankfully, the fire filling the room did not last long, and despite the lingering heat Bradley felt through the rags on his feet, it was at least tolerable.

He and Ralof ran to the new hole, gazing out at the town. It was absolute pandemonium out there, houses wrecked and burned, chunks torn out of towers and walls, rubble throughout the streets. And weaving between all the wreckage and fire, civilians were fleeing, and the Imperial soldiers were doing their utmost to ward the great, overgrown, winged lizard off. The strangest thing he saw were some hooded soldiers who were flinging actual fire and lighting up at the dragon. Straight from their hands! No transmutation circles in sight, and none of the clapping business Edward Elric was so famous for.

Ralof once again shook him out of his own head. "See the inn on the other side," he asked, pointing downwards at one of the less damaged buildings directly below them. "Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We'll follow when-"

Bradley was already gone. He leapt through the hole in the tower, letting himself fall through the now open roof, and narrowly avoiding setting his thin rags on fire as he rushed through it. He found another hole leading to the ground floor, and allowed himself to fall once again.

As he pushed himself back up to his feet, he could hear the soldier with the list outside. "Hamming," he was yelling, "Get over here!"

Bradley considered his options for a minute. They were few, and growing slimmer by the second. He supposed he'd have to hope the man was willing to aid him. After all, he'd shown hesitation to follow his captain's inane orders.

He rushed out the hole in the wall, sidestepping another tongue of fire on his way.

The soldier was indeed there, sword drawn and at the ready, along with an old man taking shelter behind another ruined building. He was facing the street, where the man and boy from the porch were just standing, looking around in fear and confusion.

"Hamming," the soldier barked, "You need to get over here, now!"

Dumbly, and with a push from his father, the boy rushed over to the soldier.

"Attaboy," the soldier said, herding the boy towards the older man. "You're doing great!"

As the boy took shelter, the dragon landed right behind his father, the sudden and violent action causing the ground to shake, and the man to stumble, falling to his knees.

"Torolf!" the soldier yelled, but it was already too late.

"YOL TOR SHUL!"

The hapless man was silently roasted, and the soldier jerked back, the stream of flames mere inches from his face.

"Gods," the soldier groaned, backing away. "Everyone, get back!"

Bradley sighed, jogging over to the trio.

The soldier noticed his movement, giving him a nod. "Still alive, prisoner?"

Bradley narrowed his eye. Of course he was still alive. Why else would he be here?

Without waiting for an answer, the soldier said, "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way." He then turned towards the old man and the boy, who were now cowering together. "Gunnar," he barked. "Take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

Gunnar nodded. "Gods guide you, Hadvar," he said, with a voice full of nothing but sorrow.

Hadvar nodded again, turning back to the now empty street and running off. Bradley shook his head, following close behind.

Hadvar led him behind yet another building, glancing back at Bradley. "Stay close to the wall!" he ordered.

Before Bradley could offer a response, the dragon landed upon the wall. He and Hadvar pressed themselves against it, now directly underneath the beast's neck and between the great wings now gripping it.

"YOL TOR SHUL!"

Another stream of fire shot out of its gullet, thankfully aimed through the almost leveled building and not down at the pair, and the dragon took to the skies again.

"Quickly," Hadvar yelled, charging into the building as the flames died down. "Follow me!"

Bradley grumbled to himself, but followed the soldier, deftly weaving between the wreckage that had once been the roof.

They were now back on the street, joining the main body of Imperial troops that were left.

The dragon's voice echoed throughout the town as it called out, "Pahlok joorre! Hin kah fen kos bonaar."

Bradley noticed a pair of soldiers, one who had fallen onto his rear and seemed to have a sprained leg or something of the like. "What in the Eight Divines is that thing?" the soldier asked.

"Come on," said his partner, holding out a hand. "Give me your hand. I'm getting you out of here."

Bradley snorted. He'd said it once, and he'd say it again: the moment a soldier donned their uniform, they accepted the fact that they could die in it. Granted, there was no real way to prepare oneself for an attack from a mythical creature, but apparently, that was still an option.

Tullius glanced over his shoulder at Hadvar and Bradley, yelling over the chaos, "Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier! We're leaving!"

With but a nod, Hadvar turned to the left, rushing out of the crowd. "It's you and me, prisoner! Stay close!"

Bradley sighed, following him through an arch in another wall, one that had thankfully been left untouched.

As they ran up to a much larger, oddly intact building, Ralof ran towards it, inadvertently crossing their path.

Hadvar scowled as he, Bradley, and Ralof came to a halt before the keep.

"Ralof," Hadvar spat. "You damned traitor. Out of my way!"

Ralof gave Hadvar a smug smirk in response. "We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."

Hadvar glanced back at Bradley, his face scrunched up in indecision. With a shake of his head, he growled, "Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

With that the pair split, each heading towards a different door.

"You," Ralof called to Bradley as he passed by, rushing towards the door on the right. "Come on, into the keep!"

Hadvar stopped before the door on the left, waving to Bradley. "With me, prisoner! Let's go!"

Bradley took a moment to consider his options. On the one hand, Ralof hadn't tried to kill him at any point, though he had ordered Bradley to jump forward, leaving him to his own devices. On the other, Hadvar had shown hesitation while following the insane order to just execute him, and seemed to have close ties to the Imperial Military governor. Not only that, but the Empire controlled a much vaster territory than the Stormcloaks, a name that still made him uncertain of whether to laugh or pity them.

He only took a second to decide, rushing over to Hadvar's door, ducking inside as soon as it was open. True, this was a gamble, but he had a good measure of the pair by now, and he somehow preferred his chances with Hadvar thus far.

Hadvar followed him in, closing the door with a sigh. "Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he said, sheathing his sword and strolling further inside. "Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the end times?"

Bradley shrugged. "You would probably know more than I do," he admitted, taking a moment to look around.

They were in some kind of small barracks, one side of the room lined with beds and chests, the other with food, supplies, and even a table. He spotted a pair of swords resting on a rack near the room's rear and smiled. They weren't his spadroons, but they would work nicely in a pinch.

Hadvar sighed, drawing a dagger. "We should keep moving. Come here, let me see if I can get those bindings off."

Finally, Bradley thought, but he wasn't going to take any chances by voicing it. He approached the soldier, holding out his bound hands.

Hadvar nodded, gripping one of Bradley's wrists and slicing off the rope with a single cut. "There you go," he said, sheathing the knife.

Bradley rubbed his wrists, sighing with relief. "Many thanks, Hadvar," he said, defaulting to the tried and true nice grandpa act he'd mastered back in Amestris. "I don't know how I would've survived without you."

Hadvar chuckled, waving a hand. "Seems to me you were doing just fine, uh... Bradley, right?"

Bradley forced a smile. Thank Father he'd gotten used to making them seem natural. "That is certainly my name!"

The soldier nodded, motioning around the room. "Well, take a look around. There should be plenty of gear to choose from." He glanced down at his now hairless arms, muttering, "I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns."

Bradley nodded, immediately setting to looting the chests.

He found a helmet, which he left behind, yet another sword, and a full suit of leather, Imperial armor. He wasn't exactly a fan of the design, but anything was an improvement over the rags he now wore.

Once he had changed and strapped a pair of swords to his hip, Hadvar; who'd apparently had no luck finding any salves; nodded to him. "Armor seems to fit alright. Give those swords a few swings too."

Bradley let out a friendly laugh, shaking his head. "Son, this may shock you, but this isn't my first time with a blade or two."

Hadvar snorted. "After the dragon, I'm game to believe anything. Now, let's keep moving." He walked up to a portcullis at the back of the room, pulling the hanging chain right beside it. "That thing is still out there."

Bradley nodded again, waiting for the portcullis to withdraw. It was probably a security measure, of course, but the time it took to open did irk him somewhat, considering the situation.

Finally, they strolled through the open doorway, turning with the hall to the right. As they approached another portcullis, they heard a male voice up ahead yell, "We need to keep moving! That dragon is tearing up the whole keep!"

Bradley glanced through the portcullis bars at the floor within. Judging from the shadows, there was a pair of what seemed to be Stormcloaks off to the right.

Another voice, female this time, panted and answered the man, "Just give me a minute. I'm out of breath!"

He frowned. Ralof should be there as well, right? What had happened to him? Not that Bradley was concerned for the man's wellbeing, but it was certainly confusing.

Hadvar paused before the portcullis, putting a finger to his lips. "You hear that?" he whispered, grabbing the chain beside it. "Stormcloaks. Maybe we can reason with them."

Bradley grimaced in doubt, but nodded, taking up position on the other side of the opening. He gripped the hilt of one of his swords, giving Hadvar a quick nod.

Hadvar nodded back, yanking the chain. Bradley saw the two Stormcloaks readying their weapons and getting into position as the portcullis came down.

The homunculus narrowed his eyes, drawing his own blade, though he noticed that Hadvar had not. Rather than question the Imperial, he decided to follow him into the round chamber.

"Hold on, now," Hadvar said, holding his arms open in a silent plea for peace. "We only want to-"

His answer was a scream of rage, as one of the Stormcloaks charged, holding aloft a giant hammer.

Bradley grit his teeth, charging forward himself. He'd only had milliseconds to plan out an attack. Thankfully, the attempted train assassination had given him more than enough experience to deal with two scared, exhausted rebels.

Before the hammer could come down, he drove his sword through the fur and chain shirt of the soldier gunning for Hadvar, grabbing the handle of the hammer with his free hand and directing it into the stone floor. As the soldier gagged on his own blood, he kicked him into his companion, freeing his own blade in the process.

Both fell to the ground, one quickly losing his lifeblood, the other grunting as she shoved him off, reaching for her dropped axe.

Just as her hand gripped its handle, Bradley leapt on her, both swords drawn. One went into the arm reaching for the axe, the other straight into her neck.

Her dying gasps did not last long, even as he drew his swords from her flesh, flicking the blood off the blades and returning them to their sheaths with a satisfied smile. "I suppose that'll teach us to reason with rebels," he remarked calmly, turning towards Hadvar.

The soldier was staring openly at Bradley, his own blade half drawn.

Bradley cocked his head. "Are you alright, soldier?"

Hadvar slowly nodded, sheathing his sword. "I... Wasn't expecting a display like that, is all," he answered, a small, uncertain smile gracing his features. He cleared his throat, approaching the barred door to the left. "Uh, let me see if I can get this open," he muttered, pulling out a keyring.

Bradley nodded, looking around the room for more threats.

There was nothing of the sort in here, but he did find an extra corpse. Another Stormcloak, who had apparently succumbed to his own burn wounds before they had arrived.

And no Ralof.

Bradley felt his eye narrow. If Ralof didn't die here in Helgen, he could be trouble further down the road. And the uncertainty was doing Bradley no favors.

"Got it," Hadvar called, opening the door and stepping into the hallway beyond. "Let's go."

Bradley nodded, strolling over.

It was down some stairs and into a wider hallway, where stood two Stormcloaks, ready for them.

Bradley drew his blades, but before he could charge, the entire keep shook with another of the dragon's roars, and he saw pieces of the roof shake loose.

No doubt believing Bradley had missed this, Hadvar grabbed his shoulder with a scream of, "Look out!"

Bradley made no move, smirking a little as rock fell on the Stormcloaks, blocking off the hall, but leaving the door to the left untouched.

Hadvar sighed, releasing him and shaking his head. "Damn, that dragon doesn't give up easy," he grumbled, heading for the door.

"Apparently not," Bradley agreed, pointedly not sheathing his blades as they entered a long storeroom/kitchen.

"What are you doing," asked the voice of an unseen figure, drawing them both to a halt. "We need to get out of Helgen, now!"

Another voice scoffed. "These Imperials have potions in here, we're going to need them."

Bradley and Hadvar exchanged a glance, nodding to one another as the latter drew his blade.

While the Stormcloaks noticed them in time to draw their weapons, they were too late. Bradley drove the points of his blades into the shoulders one one, driving him to the ground just long enough to slit his throat. Hadvar, on the other hand, had stabbed into the second rebel's stomach, then twisted, tearing his sword back out and slashing across the throat himself.

Once both had hit the ground, Hadvar nodded to Bradley again. "An old storeroom. See if you can find some potions. Might come in handy."

"Right," Bradley muttered, looking around with a frown. Best not to mention the fact he had no idea what potions did, or even looked like. In fact, it seemed best to grab something to chow on, and just look for something he didn't recognize. He found some bread, cheese, and an apple on a table, not bothering with manners as he shoved them down his throat. He had no idea when he would see food again, and God knew he could use the nutrients.

Once that was done, he wiped his hands on a random cloth he'd found, now searching for whatever these potions might be.

Hadvar, of course, waited patiently by the door on the far side of the room, nursing his own apple as he watched it for movement.

Eventually, Bradley opened up a barrel, frowning at the contents. Inside were a few bottles, some blue, some green, some red. He pulled out one of the red bottles, inspecting the label tied to its neck. Minor Health Potion. Well, wasn't that convenient? Upon further inspection, he found that the green ones were for Stamina, and the blue potions were for something called Magicka. He decided it was best to simply pocket them all.

With that out of the way, he finally approached Hadvar.

"Done then?" the soldier said with a nod, opening the door. "This way."

They emerged back into the hallway, on the other side of the cave in, and headed towards another flight of stairs.

"The torture room," Hadvar muttered, taking the stairs. "Gods, I wish we didn't need these."

"Torture is a substandard method of procuring intelligence," Bradley replied with a nod.

"That's what I always thought," Hadvar said, letting out a bitter chuckle. "Come on, sounds like trouble."

Indeed, there was yet another pair of Stormcloaks down in a chamber with three cages, doing battle with an old, hooded man and a much younger one, bearing a bald patch in his long hair and wielding a mace. While the hooded man held a dagger, his main method of attack seemed to be shooting lightning from his fingertips, keeping one of the Stormcloaks at bay while his friend dueled with the other.

As the lightning died down, the Stormcloak roared, raising a greatsword over his head and screaming as he charged, only to be met by one of Bradley's knees driving straight into his gut. As the rebel groaned in pain, Bradley drew out a sword, stabbing into the poor man's back. He glanced to his left, and saw Hadvar wrapping his arm around the other Stormcloak's neck, driving his own blade down into the man's chest and stomach.

Both Stormcloaks fell, dead, and the Imperials and Bradley all sheathed their weapons.

"You boys happened along just in time," the old man said, giving them both a nod. "These boys seemed a bit upset at how I've been treating their comrades."

Hadvar turned towards him with a glare. "Don't you even know what's going on? A dragon is attacking Helgen!"

The torturer scoffed, shaking his head. "A dragon. Please, don't make up nonsense." He then frowned, strolling to a hall at the far end of the room. "Although, come to think of it, I did hear some strange noises coming from over there."

Hadvar sighed, motioning to the old man. "Come with us. We need to get out of here."

It was now the old man's turn to glare at Hadvar. "You have no authority over me, boy," he chided, crossing his arms.

Hadvar's gaze hardened once more. "Didn't you hear me? I said the keep is under attack!"

"I can confirm his story," Bradley piped up, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "A black dragon rudely interrupted the execution happening up top."

The torturer huffed, strolling into a barred stall near the staircase. "The stories young folk come up with," he grumbled, shaking his head.

His assistant, or so Bradley assumed, shook his head. "Forget the old man. I'll come with you."

Hadvar gave the man a nod, then noticed the robed corpse in one of the cages. "Wait a second," he said, walking over to it. "I think there's something in this cage."

Once again, the torturer scoffed, waving a hand. "Don't worry about that. Lost that key ages ago." He smiled, glancing over to the cage with a reminiscent look. "Poor fellow screamed for weeks."

Hadvar turned to Bradley, holding up a few hooked pieces of steel. "See if you can get it open with some picks," he said, handing them over. "We'll need everything we can get."

As Bradley hesitantly accepted them, the torturer rolled his eyes. "Sure, take all my things. Please."

Bradley frowned at the picks. Sure, he was a civilian, while Hadvar was a soldier, but he was a homunculus. A superior being. Who was this human to order him around?

A member of the race that killed you, he silently reminded himself. And a member of the more powerful faction in this region. Your ego can survive a little manual labor.

So, with a sigh, he kneeled before the cage and got to work. The lock was simple, very simple, and came loose on the first try. He pried the rusty door open, reaching into the dead captive's pockets.

To his surprise, he found four books, each with a strange symbol on them. Three of them bore a flame, while the fourth had a bird with outstretched wings.

"Ah, some spell tomes," Hadvar said with a smile. "Most Nords don't touch the stuff, but they're quite useful in a pinch. Go ahead, read them. But then we really have to go."

Bradley nodded, slowly opening the bird book first. It turned into a golden light, snaking up his arms and into his eyes. And to his amazement, knowledge seeped into his mind. Knowledge of how the body mended, and how to expedite the process tremendously.

He blinked twice, slowly looking down at his hand. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but when he concentrated, that golden light reappeared, and he felt... rejuvenated.

Oh, how he could have used this sooner.

A wry smirk crossed his features as he delved into the other three books. Soon, he had learned fire spell, a spell to freeze the blood of his enemies, and that lightning spell he'd been seeing so often today.

Bradley slowly got to his feet, giving Hadvar a nod. "I'm ready."

"Good, let's get out of here," Hadvar answered, turning and running down the hall.

The torturer waved lazily as the other two followed, calling out, "There's no way out that way, you know."

They passed a row of small cells, and a few hanging cages bearing their own corpses, some so old the flesh had rotted away long ago. Up ahead, the wall had been blown out, leading into a tunnel.

"I'm glad to be out of that place," Hadvar grunted, nodding to the tunnel. "I hope this leads somewhere."

As they traversed through the tunnel, they came to a halt as someone up ahead yelled, "Where in Oblivion are we supposed to go? Where's the way out?"

"Just give me a second," said another voice. "Let me think!"

Bradley glanced at the Imperials, motioning for them to stay still as he crept forward. He peeked around the corner, taking in the scene.

There were about ten Stormcloaks in what seemed to be a natural cave, with some stairs and bridges over a tiny stream built into it. And past them was another hall that ended in a wall of wooden planks.

Bradley peeled back, showing the Imperials the numbers they were working with. They nodded, drawing their weapons and starting forward. Bradley went to draw his own blade, but paused, looking down at his hands. He knew magic now. And if this wasn't the perfect place to test it out, than what would be?

He smiled, conjuring a flame in one hand and a cold pocket of air in the other. This was going to be fun.

He darted forward, past the Imperials even as they entered the chamber. The Stormcloaks noticed their entry at this point, and ran towards them, drawing their weapons. Bradley smirked, raising a hand. A pillar of flames, nowhere near as wide and hot as the one that issued from the dragon's mouth, shot out at the closest of the rebels, scorching his face and setting the fur atop his chain mail on fire. The man dropped his axe, screaming in pain as he fell to his knees, clawing fruitlessly at the burns he'd suddenly acquired.

So, painful, but not quite lethal yet. That was fine. This was a test of his newfound power, after all.

Bradley kicked the man aside and off the bridge, noticing that not only were Hadvar and the other Imperial taking the right flank, but none of the others seemed taken aback by the show. In fact, he noted that they seemed rather... enraged at the sight of it.

Still, they were but men. Dogs of their rebellious leader. And he would deal with them as such.

He sidestepped an overhead chop from the next soldier, letting the flames in his fist die down as he raised his other hand. Cold, white air shot out at this soldier, coating him in frost. But while he shivered, he did not stop his next attack, though Bradley noted that nowhere near as much power was put into it.

Bradley leapt back a short distance, raising the first hand. Lightning shot out from his fingertips, bringing the Stormcloak to his knees, but once again, not proving fatal.

He let them stop, stepping forward and grasping the man's head. With a twist and a satisfying crunch of bone, he, too, lay dead before him. A quick glance to the side told him that Hadvar and the assistant had dealt with another, and were facing down a few more. That, and the pair nearest to the back had noticed his actions, and were aiming their bows at him with lethal intent.

Oh, what fools these humans be, Bradley mused to himself, finally drawing a blade and slashing across the throat of the next soldier who crossed his path. Four down, no, five, he noted, as Hadvar slew yet another. He leaned to each side as the arrows flew at him, narrowly dodging each one, and taking some satisfaction in the archers' confusion. With but a few blades, he'd distinguished himself on battlefields filled with flying bullets and other such munitions, and these primitives thought they stood a chance?

Not only that, but the pair hadn't noticed the puddle of oil slick beneath their feet.

He smirked, leaping up and over yet another rebel, kicking him in the back and sending him to break his neck on the stones beneath the bridge. He saw the assistant fall dead, but Hadvar quickly avenged his death with a slash across the offending Stormcloak's chest, leaving him standing against one more.

That only left the archers to Bradley. His feet hit the ground and he sped forward, evading another pair of arrows as he summoned the flames again. He came to a halt before the oil slick and, almost lazily, even as the Stormcloaks knocked arrows to their bows, let the fire flow forth.

With a rumble, the oil caught flame, and soon, the archers were cooking alive, sending their arrows flying wildly as they yowled and curled up in pain. This time, the fire sealed their fates, and soon, they screamed no more.

A slash of a sword and Hadvar's tired grunts signaled the end of this skirmish, and Bradley let the magic cease. He had noted that the more he used magic, the less energy he had to summon up for it, though not only did it seem separate from his physical strength, but it also seemed to return quite quickly. He could get used to this.

Crossing his arms behind his back, Bradley turned to Hadvar just as the soldier climbed up the stairs to join him. "Glad to see you alive," he said with a nod. "And our friend?" he added, thinking it best to keep his Ultimate Eye a secret still.

Hadvar shook his head. "He fell," he grunted, giving Bradley a bittersweet smile. "But I got the bastard who did it."

Bradley nodded yet again. "Unfortunate. He seemed quite friendly, considering his position."

"No kidding," Hadvar replied, taking a moment to examine Bradley's handiwork. "You're quite something, yourself."

Bradley let out a good natured chuckle, shaking his head. "I'm just trying to survive, Hadvar. Same as you."

Hadvar laughed, shaking his head as he approached the hall ahead of them. "If this is you surviving, I'd like to see you thriving. On an unrelated note, I think I see a lever up ahead."

The pair approached the wooden wall, and Hadvar pulled the lever on the floor beneath it. With a creak, it fell forward, creating a bridge between them and another chamber of the cave.

"Seems rather convenient that all of this is here," Bradley noted, stepping onto the bridge.

"No kidding," Hadvar agreed. "Still, I'm not one to question providence."

Bradley hmmed, saying no more.

Just as their feet hit stone once again, the dragon outside roared again, and a giant piece of the keep fell onto the bridge, smashing it to pieces.

The pair regained their footing, and glancing back at the bridge.

"Damn it," Hadvar growled. "No going back that way." He turned to Bradley and smiled again. "I guess we're just lucky that didn't come down on top of us."

Bradley was not smiling anymore. He was glaring at the rock that had claimed the bridge, nodding slowly. "Yes. Lucky."

Hadvar cleared his throat. "We'd better push on," he said, turning around and heading further into the cavern. "I'm sure the others will find another way out."

Without a word, Bradley turned and followed the soldier towards a broken metal grate, into which the stream from before led.

They followed the stream for a bit, until it came to an end. A pile of rocks blocked their way, but thankfully, there was a path to their right.

Hadvar hmmed in disappointment. "That doesn't go anywhere," he said, pointing to the rocks. "I guess we should try this... way..." He trailed off, seeing what Bradley was doing.

The homunculus had found an orange bag next to a skeleton on a platform of natural stone, and opened it. Inside were about twenty golden coins. With a smile, Bradley pocketed them, turning towards Hadvar.

The soldier raised an eyebrow, a wry smile on his lips.

Bradley felt a tinge of annoyance at the gesture. "What?" he asked, rather than demand as he wished to. "It's not as if they'll need it anymore. And it's not like I have any coin to my name."

Hadvar chuckled, shaking his head. "It's nothing," he said, waving a hand. "Forget about it."

Bradley hmmed once more, but decided to leave it be. They had bigger things to worry about.

As they followed the tunnel, they reached yet another cavern. This one, unfortunately, was filled with cobwebs, and the biggest spiders Bradley had ever laid eyes on.

Hadvar grimaced, but drew his sword. "Come on," he grumbled. "Let's get this over with."

Bradley nodded, drawing a blade of his own.

As they charged into the chamber, two even larger spiders dropped from holes in the ceiling, and all of the damned things opened up combat by spraying clear poison at the pair.

Now, Bradley didn't care either way for spiders. Certainly, they could be pests, but they were also quite good at insect control.

But on the other hand, Bradley was quite certain they were never meant to grow that large. And anything that went against that rule should be exterminated with extreme prejudice.

Thankfully, they took about as much effort to kill as the Stormcloaks had. Even less, as these didn't wear armor.

As the last spider stopped twitching, Bradley snorted. "What next," he asked, turning towards Hadvar. "Giant snakes?"

Hadvar laughed, shaking his head, though Bradley noticed that his sword hand was shaking. "I hate those damned things," he said, walking towards another tunnel. "Too many eyes, you know?"

I certainly do now, Bradley thought, letting the soldier take the lead.

They entered a much larger cavern, which seemed to curve off to the left. But before they got to that end, Bradley knew they would have to deal with the sleeping bear up ahead.

As they passed a cart that was somehow there, Hadvar noticed the bear for the first time, coming to a halt and crouching. "Hold up," he whispered. "There's a-"

"I see it," Bradley answered, twirling his drawn sword. "I'll handle it."

"You'll handle-" Hadvar hissed, but Bradley was off like a shot.

Before the bear could even get up and process his approach, Bradley had buried his blade in its neck, severing both the spine and the airway.

As he drew the sword out of the beast, Hadvar got to his feet, nervously chuckling. "Not the sneaking type, huh?" he joked.

Bradley smirked, remembering his charge on his own palace in Central. "Not in the slightest," he answered, flicking the blood away and sheathing his blade.

The pair got to the end of the cavern, and Hadvar's eyes lit up as he beheld yet another tunnel, this one leading up to light. "This looks like the way out," he said, laughing with relief. "I was starting to wonder if we'd ever make it!"

"The cave had to end somewhere," Bradley pointed out, but he couldn't help but smile as he followed the soldier up towards the sunlight.

Up, towards freedom.

Chapter Text

Earlier

Ralof couldn't believe his eyes. The stranger, who had been sentenced to death by the Imperials not even half an hour ago, had just chosen to rush headfirst into the arms of his captors. And it hadn't been a conditioned reaction, oh no. Ralof had seen it in his lone eye, the internal debate, the look of judgement and scorn cast his way. He'd deliberately chosen the side of the Imperials, and had the audacity to see himself as superior to Ralof. To the Stormcloaks. To Ulfric.

Ralof clenched his teeth, watching the stranger and Hadvar disappear inside the keep. Fine, then. Let the bastard follow the bootlicker. But Ralof had set out to save someone once he'd been set free. And by the Nine, he would do so.

He ducked back down the street he'd come from, searching the ruined city for other survivors. Not the Imperials, who were still hellbent on their fruitless efforts of holding off the dragon. Not the townspeople either, who had already chosen their side. No, he had to worry about the other Stormcloaks, since no one else would.

Now

Bradley and Hadvar emerged into the light, Hadvar sighing with relief as they did.

Then they heard the sound of wing flaps above.

"Wait," Hadvar said as they both took cover behind a rock.

The dragon flew overhead, roaring again as it headed off, over distant ruins on the mountain.

Hadvar sighed again, getting to his feet. "Looks like it's gone for good, this time," he said, turning towards Bradley. "But I don't think we should stick around to see if he comes back."

Bradley nodded, standing straight. "I suppose you know where we should go, then?"

"Probably not," Hadvar admitted, "But I do have an idea."

Bradley chuckled warmly. "That's more than what I have, soldier. Where to?"

"Well," Hadvar muttered, stroking his chin in thought. "The closest town from here's Riverwood. My uncle's the blacksmith there. I'm sure he'd help you out."

"I see, Bradley replied. "And yourself?"

"Oh, that's a given," Hadvar scoffed, waving a hand. "The man and his family love me, and I love them. We'd do anything for each other."

"You're quite fortunate," Bradley praised. "All of you."

"I suppose." Hadvar glanced to the skies over the distant mountain, grimacing. "It's probably best if we split up," he said, starting down the dirt path ahead of them. "Good luck, I wouldn't have made it without your help today."

Bradley gave him a wave, then sighed, sitting down on the rock. He had one final test to make. Slowly, he drew one of his new blades, peering at his reflection in the flat surface along its side.

His eyepatch was back. Odd, how he hadn't noticed that before. Still, he'd become quite used to wearing it over the years, so it wasn't that surprising. Still, if it was back...

He peeled the leather back, opening the scarred eyelids behind it. Though it was distorted by the sword's unpolished metal, the unmistakable serpent mark of the homunculi stared back at him.

This perplexed him more than anything thus far. More than the execution, the dragon, hell, more than his newfound ability in magic. All alchemists who passed into the Gate had something taken from them, and most often that thing was their flesh and bone. So why had he been spared?

Or, perhaps the question was what had been taken from Bradley?

He shook his head, sheathing his blade and getting back to his feet. Perhaps he could find others who'd seen the Gate here. Someone who'd know the answers to his questions.

He replaced the patch and walked down the path. To his surprise, he found Hadvar by the side of a stone road. Bradley paused a few paces behind him, pointedly clearing his throat.

The soldier hopped to his feet, clearing his throat and turning pink. "I, uh," he muttered, adjusting his belt. "Wasn't waiting for you, just, uh. Catching my breath, is all."

Bradley couldn't help but smirk. "Undoubtedly. But since I am here, and know next to nothing about this country, perhaps we could continue our journey together, for a time."

"Right," Hadvar nodded, turning away, perhaps a tad too quickly, and marching down the road.

Bradley rolled his eyes (good to have it confirmed there were indeed two), and followed the soldier, silently wondering how his wife was.

The Stormcloaks found sporadically through the keep were one thing. The torturer Ralof had personally decapitated was another. But this was a massacre.

Ralof and the two Stormcloaks he'd manage to rescue from the town above stood before a chamber littered with dead Stormcloaks. To the right, it seemed more like an actual battle; it even had a dead Imperial as a consolation prize down there. But to the left, under the bridge, and near the tunnel to the rear...

"What in Oblivion happened here?" asked one of his companions, the woman who'd put to words what horror had come down to Helgen.

Ralof snorted. "Nothing as bad as the dragon attack," he answered, though, he too, was worried. "But whoever did this was clever. Too clever for my liking."

His other companion, a heavyset, thickly bearded man, drew his battleaxe from his back. "They might still be here, Ralof."

"I doubt it, Throrn," Ralof answered, shaking his head. "They were clever, but this was desperate. "They're probably halfway to Whiterun by now."

He heard a weak cough from beneath the first bridge and looked down. One of the dead had not quite shuffled off the mortal coil, but he was damned close to it. He lay under two of the corpses, a trail of blood led from his feet all the way to the closest set of stairs.

Ralof's eyes widened, and he jumped down to the fallen Stormcloak, kneeling by his side. "Did you find any healing potions, Faye?" he demanded, shoving the bodies off of the downed man with a grunt of effort.

The woman nodded, rushing down to them as she dug into a satchel. "Just one," she answered, pulling out the red bottle. "It had better be enough."

Ralof snatched the bottle from her hands, popping the cork off and pouring a few drops into the soldier's mouth.

The man coughed slightly, slowly swallowing it. "More," he said, his voice weak and horse. "Please."

Ralof nodded, now tilting the man's head up and putting the rim of the bottle up to his lips. "Drink slowly."

The dying man did as told, coughing again as the now empty bottle was pulled away. With a sigh, he muttered, "Thank the Divines you got here in time."

Ralof sighed with relief, smiling down at him. "Of course, brother. How bad are your wounds?"

The soldier smirked. "Oh, one of them got me good in the stomach. I swear, I was just about to see Sovngard when you came for me."

"It wasn't your time yet," Faye proclaimed with a grin. "Not on our watch."

Ralof nodded along with her words. "Have you got a name, brother?"

The soldier coughed again, grunting with effort as he sat up. He forced a grin through the pain, holding out a hand for Ralof's. "Gunern of Shor's Stone. Yours?"

Ralof shook the offered hand firmly. "Ralof of Riverwood. What happened here, Gunern?"

Gunern grimaced at that. "We were part of a rescue operation. We knew Ulfric and too many of our brothers and sisters would be executed here. We also knew of an escape route below the keep, where the walls would be thin enough to break through to it. What we didn't know was where to go after that. And, the dragon attack, of course."

Ralof nodded. "How did you know about it?"

Gunern snorted, motioning to one of the corpses under the bridge. "You could ask him. But I don't think he'll answer."

Ralof sighed, motioning to Throrn. "Make yourself useful, check his pockets."

"On it," Throrn answered, hopping down and getting straight to it.

Ralof sighed. "And once you were here? What then?"

"Right," Gunern nodded. "While we were taking a look around, I spotted the lever over in that tunnel." He vaguely motioned towards the tunnel into the cave system. "I was about to say something when three Imperials charged in. We split up, some of us going to meet the pair coming down the stairs, others to face the one heading for the bridge. I was fighting the two when I got a slash in the gut. Sort of stumbled and tripped back here."

"And got two corpses on top of you for your troubles," Ralof guessed.

Gunern chuckled darkly. "The first hit me right in the gut wound, almost immediately. I blacked out for a few seconds." His expression then hardened, his skin turning pale. "What I saw next, it made me play dead like a dog doing tricks."

Ralof frowned at that. "What do you mean? What did you see?"

Gunern took a deep breath. "An old, one eyed man. Taking on almost half of us. The other two fought fiercely, but this man..." He shuddered. "He was killing the others like... like a damned farmer slicing through wheat! He set them on fire, he froze and shocked them."

Faye spat on the ground. "Of course the Imperial used magic. Damned coward, like all mages are."

Ralof felt his frown deepen. While he could never wrap his head around magic himself, he didn't generally share his fellow Nords' superstition about mages. Sure, it was scary, but it would be much better on their side than with their enemies. Besides, Ulfric himself was a master of the Voice, like the Tongues of old, or even the Greybeards. Surely it wasn't that different.

Gunern snorted. "True, the man used magic. But I don't think he needed it. Whenever he used magic, he took his damned time killing us. Like he was playing with us. And then, he must have gotten bored, because he broke a man's neck with his bare hands and pulled out a sword. At least then they got to die quickly. Then I saw him rush forward, dodging arrows and setting the archers in the back of the room on fire." He chuckled again, adding, "They must have been standing in oil, because he didn't even aim for them."

Ralof nodded slowly, licking suddenly dry lips. That old man did all that? How did he end up in binds, then? Was it all some kind of sick game for him?

He felt a shiver run down his spine as another option set in.

What if he had summoned the dragon?

He shook his head. He had bigger things to worry about. If Hadvar and the stranger had already escaped, they were probably heading for Riverwood now. Hadvar's uncle lived there, and would absolutely help them. Ralof could hide with his sister and her husband at the mill, but that would mean abandoning these three.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Can you walk, Gunern?"

Gunern scoffed, hoisting himself up with a grunt. "I can run, if it means getting away from Helgen."

"Good," Ralof said with a nod. "Once we're out of here, I know a bandit camp we can clear out so we can rest. After that, we'll need to plan a route back to Windhelm. If that stranger really is siding with the Empire, Ulfric will need all the soldiers he can get."

Other than the near execution by both man and dragon, Bradley found this Skyrim place to be quite quaint. Hadvar had shared a few details about the countryside with him, like Bleak Falls Barrow, the ruins atop the mountain up ahead. He'd even shown him the Guardian Stones, which Bradley found interesting, but had decided against using. And when the wall of Riverwood was in sight, they'd even got to kill a pair of wolves. It was far less exciting than the escape from Helgen, and a sign to Bradley that perhaps there were overhunting issues in this country, but all in all, the trip was nice and calming.

But, at long last, they arrived in a town that wasn't A: trying to kill him, or B: being actively attacked by a dragon. Though, Bradley was hesitant to call it a town. More a tiny village, and barely that. There were so few buildings, seven in all, and only three weren't dedicated to a business of some kind.

As they passed through the gate, Hadvar leaned towards Bradley. "Look," he said quietly, "As far as I'm concerned, you've already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed by General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, alright?"

Bradley shot a glare at the soldier. "I was sentenced to death by a whim of your superior officer," he reminded Hadvar harshly. "As far as I'm concerned, I never needed a pardon in the first place."

Hadvar chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh, suppose you might be right there." He waved a hand. "In any case, I'm glad you came with me. Come on, there's my uncle."

They walked up to the second building on the right, where a tall, bearded man in red toiled away at a forge up on the balcony.

"Uncle Alvor," Hadvar called, stepping up onto the balcony with a wave. "Hello."

Alvor turned away from his work, slowly putting down his hammer as he stared in awe at the pair. "Hadvar? What are you doing here?" he asked, walking up to them. "Are you on leave from-"

He stopped in his tracks, taking a moment to examine Hadvar's wounds. On top of the slight burns, the soldier now sported a few new cuts from combat. "Shor's bones," Alvor breathed. "What happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Shh," Hadvar said, glancing around the town. "Uncle, please, keep your voice down. I'm fine, but we should go inside to talk."

"What's going on?" Alvor demanded, then blinked at Bradley, finally noticing him. "And who's this?"

Bradley held up a finger, about to speak. But Hadvar beat him to it.

"He's a friend," Hadvar quickly said, standing between them. "Saved my life, in fact. Come on, I'll explain everything, but we need to get inside."

Alvor shook his head with a sigh. "Fine. Come on inside. Sigrid will fix you something to eat, and you can tell me all about it."

With an exchanged nod, the pair made their way to the front door. Bradley made to follow them, but was stopped by a shriek from behind.

"A dragon!" cried out an old woman on her own balcony as a young man passed by. "I saw a dragon!"

The young man sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes. "What? What is it now, mother?"

Despite himself, Bradley turned to witness the exchange.

The old woman held her arms out wide. "It was as big as the mountain, and black as night! It flew right over the barrow!"

The young man shook his head. "Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother. If you keep on like this, everyone in town will think you're crazy. And I've got better things to do than listen to your fantasies."

As the young man turned to walk away, the old woman shook a fist at him. "You'll see! It was a dragon! It'll kill us all, and then you'll believe me!"

Bradley smirked, finally following Hadvar and Alvor inside. The son, undisciplined as he was, had one thing right: that old woman was the worst messenger of such tidings.

Later

Embershard Mine had been filled to the brim with bandits. Even though there were no true casualties, none of the Stormcloaks got out of the battle without a few new wounds.

But they were alive. And to Ralof, that was all that mattered.

He'd helped the others dump the bodies under the bridge near the entrance. Eventually, they'd set up the traps again, but for now, they would be fine. No one ever came up here, not since before the bandits had established themselves here.

They now sat around the campfire below the entry tunnel, nursing wounds and finally getting in a meal.

"So," Throrn said around a mouthful of cheese. "What now?"

Ralof sighed, looking down at his apple, which he had yet to bite into. "For now, we rest up. Heal our wounds. Plan a route back to Windhelm. There isn't much else we can do."

Faye shook her head. "I think we need to hunt down the man who almost killed Gunern, here. The Imperials shouldn't have a monster like that on their side."

"And you think we can kill him?" Gunern asked, glaring at her. "I saw how we fought against these bandits. We wouldn't stand a chance against him, even if we all ambushed him."

Ralof held up a hand. "I hear you both," he said calmly. "And you're both right. We can't face him, not on our own. But we can keep track of his movement."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Throrn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We won't do anything, for the moment," Ralof answered, finally biting into his apple. "But my sister and her husband run the mill in Riverwood." He chewed, then swallowed. "I can see if they know anything, anyone who could follow him around and send word to Ulfric about his movements."

Faye shook her head, grumbling, "Doesn't sound like a foolproof plan."

Ralof nodded with a sigh. "No, it's not. But until we get any better ideas, it's the best one we have. That Imperial is a real threat, and he survived Helgen. We can't depend on dumb luck taking care of him for us."

Gunern shrugged. "As long as I never have to see him again, I'm good with this one."

The Stormcloaks nodded, and went back to their meal in silence.

Chapter Text

All in all, this had been a good day. Sure, it had started with an execution and a dragon attack, but on the bright side, Bradley had actual supplies, including some basic clothing. It wasn't anything special, just some trousers, a white shirt, and a leather vest, but it was certainly a step up from the armor he'd scavenged from Helgen.

He and Hadvar had explained everything to their hosts; Alvor, his wife, Sigrid, and their daughter, Dorthe. They had hesitated to believe their story, but in the end, relented. Alvor had asked that Bradley send word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun concerning the dragons, and had been more than happy to provide supplies. Bradley had, of course, thanked the man graciously, then immediately disappeared into the basement to change while Dorthe hounded Hadvar about the dragon.

As he emerged from below, Bradley noted that Hadvar was the only remaining occupant of the house.

The soldier glanced up from the soup he was cooking, raising an eyebrow. "Going without the armor?"

Bradley shrugged. "I'm afraid it wasn't to my taste." He pulled at the vest, adding, "This isn't either, but it is closer."

"I see," Hadvar nodded, returning his attention to the soup. "It's nice to be back in a friendly spot, huh?"

"That it is," Bradley agreed, though internally, he was... Conflicted. While out there, he'd had clearly defined goals; survive the dragon, destroy the opposition, and get to shelter. Now, while he technically had a Jarl to visit, he had no idea of what could possibly come after that.

"Listen," Hadvar said, interrupting his train of thought. The young man had an odd habit of doing that, Bradley noted. "I'm going to lay up here for a while. You can make your way up to Solitude from here."

Bradley frowned at that. "Solitude? Is that another city?"

"Uh, yeah?" Hadvar asked, uncertainty lacing his voice. "It's the capital of Skyrim, and the Legion's main headquarters in the region. I figure you could clear your name there, and maybe consider joining up?"

Bradley snorted. "Join the people who attempted to have me executed on a whim?"

Hadvar chuckled nervously. "Well, yes, I admit, it wasn't a good first impression. But if the rebels have themselves a dragon-"

"They don't," Bradley interjected coldly.

Hadvar froze mid-stir, slowly turning to face Bradley. "I beg pardon?"

"The Stormcloaks do not 'have themselves a dragon'." Bradley shook his head. "Surely, you noticed how uncoordinated and desperate they were?"

"Uh," Hadvar muttered, swallowing. "I was, uh, a little more concerned with survival."

Bradley rolled his eye, turning away. "Of course you were. It's good you're not a commander, you're not ready for it yet."

"But, who else would it be? The dragon turned up at the execution we were holding for Ulfric." Hadvar scratched his head, his face scrunched up in thought. "Just as..." A look of realization crossed his features, and he turned his gaze towards Bradley. "Just as you were about to be..."

"Beheaded for no real reason," Bradley finished. "And before you ask, no. I did not summon a dragon to my rescue. If I had that kind of power, I wouldn't have summoned something so loud and messy."

"Oh, uh, I-I didn't..." Hadvar sighed, shaking his head. "Still, if it wasn't you, and it wasn't the Stormcloaks... Then who did summon it?"

"Who, indeed," Bradley muttered, stroking his chin. "Perhaps I'll take some time to investigate the situation." Adjusting his sword belt, he said, "In the meantime, I believe I shall be taking my leave."

"To Whiterun?" Hadvar asked.

"Indeed," Bradley answered, giving Hadvar another friendly smile. "After I speak with the Jarl, who knows? Maybe I'll take up your offer. Perhaps not. Either way, I shall cross that bridge when I get there."

"Uh, sure," Hadvar said with a nod, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "Best of luck to you, Bradley."

"To you as well," Bradley replied, accepting and shaking Hadvar's hand. "Just try not to tarry here too long. I doubt the Empire looks on deserters too kindly."

Hadvar snorted. "They most certainly don't."

Bradley nodded once more, then walked out the door.

Ralof chose to approach Riverwood under cover of nightfall. It wasn't that he feared capture; Whiterun Hold was neutral territory these days. Much to Ralof's chagrin. Jarl Balgruuf was a good man, of course, but he was so overly cautious about EVERYTHING. Eventually, he'd have to choose a side, and when he did, the war was almost certain to find itself at his doorstep.

No, there was only one thing he truly feared in that town. An old man with one eye. He could scarcely believe it, and yet, after seeing the carnage in the stranger's wake, and hearing Gunern speak of him as a horror story... Ralof felt more fear for him than the dragon.

He sighed as he passed under the town's Southern wall, watching the door to Alvor's house as he passed by. No one was out at this hour, probably all in bed or enjoying themselves at the Sleeping Giant Inn. Still, a bit of vigilance against Hadvar and his new friend seemed appropriate.

He turned right, passing between the inn and the Riverwood Trader on his way to the house behind the Trader. He kept glancing over his shoulder, though, his anxiety only rising each time he confirmed his solitude. He didn't even relax when he knocked at the door.

"That had better not be you again, Embry," called out a woman's voice from within. "Orgnar kicked you out again." The door opened, and a blonde woman put a hand to her hip as she glared outside. "Take the hint and-" She froze as her gaze fell on the man before her, her eyes widening in shock. "Ralof?! But I thought-"

Ralof couldn't help but grin at her, but he needed to take this inside. But... This was his sister, and he couldn't resist a little teasing.

"What?" he asked cheekily. "No hug? Not even a celebration for a long lost brother returned home?"

Her eyes filled with tears and she rushed forward, holding him in a tight embrace. "Thank the gods," she whimpered. "When I saw Hadvar and his friend and heard the news, I thought..."

He sighed again, returning the hug. "I'm fine, Gerdur, really. But we should probably take this inside."

"Right," Gerdur answered, sniffing as she pulled away. "It's probably not safe out here. Come on in. And be quick about it."

Ralof nodded, following her inside.

"Hod," she called out, closing and locking the door. "We have company!"

Another blond man, this one in a simple, white shirt and bearing a prominent mustache, looked up from the table, where he was eating some cheese. "Ralof," he said, setting the chunk down. "You look pretty well done in. Come on, sit down."

"Thanks, Hod," Ralof answered, taking a seat along with his sister. "I'm fine, but to be honest, I don't remember when last I slept."

Hod nodded. "Aye, I can imagine. But... What exactly happened in Helgen? All we heard was that a dragon attacked."

"That," Gerdur muttered, wiping her face with a bit of cloth. "And that Hadvar escaped, along with a new friend."

Ralof's smile faded at that. "It's... A long story, and I don't know how much time I've got. I'll try to summarize, but... I can't promise to answer every question you two have for me."

And he dived into the story, starting with the capture of himself and Ulfric at Darkwater Crossing. It took some time, though both Hod and Gerdur waited patiently for him to finish.

"... And we took Embershard Mine as a temporary shelter," he finally finished. "And now, I'm here."

Gerdur swallowed. "That's... Quite the tale, Ralof. Do you know if anyone else escaped? Did Ulfric..."

"I'm sure he's fine," Ralof assured her. "But honestly, that's the least of my worries."

"Your mystery man with one eye," Hod mused. "I only caught a glimpse of him, heading through town to the North road. If I had to guess, he's arriving in Whiterun as we speak."

"So did I," Gerdur added. "To be honest, I can't imagine him doing all the things Gunern claimed. He seemed so... Harmless, really."

Ralof grit his teeth with a nod. "I suppose you would. But I have no reason to doubt my comrade's tale. If the man's capable of half of what he said, and is planning to join forces with the Empire..."

"Ulfric can deal with him," Gerdur said sternly. "He's a true Nord warrior, through and through, not like that magic wielding coward."

Ralof sighed. "Regardless, I'd rather we lose as few Stormcloaks to him as we can. I hate to ask you two for more than you've already risked, but do you know anyone who could track his movements? Preferably without catching his attention?"

Gerdur and Hod glanced at each other in contemplation.

"Well," Hod muttered, stroking his mustache, "I have an idea, but I can't promise you'll like it."

Ralof's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me- You want me to ask Faendal?"

"He's a good man," Gerdur protested. "Elf or no. And he's a Wood Elf, with as much of a reason to hate the Empire and the Thalmor as we do."

"And I've seen him hunt," Hod added. "He's as silent as the grave when he wants to be."

"I'm not arguing either of those points," Ralof said, holding up his hands. "All I'm saying is, people are sure to notice if he stops working at your mill, no? Besides, he may be a great hunter, but if the stranger catches sight of him..." He shook his head. "I don't want his death on my conscience, is all."

Gerdur sighed. "Alright, those are good points. But... maybe he knows someone else? He did travel a lot before settling here, after all."

Ralof pursed his lips in thought. "Alright. If you could send him to the mine tomorrow, I'd like to discuss the matter with him. But make sure no Imperials see him leaving. Especially Hadvar."

The pair nodded. "You can count on us, Ralof," Hod said. "Just be careful. We can't promise that someone won't head to the mine, hoping to clear out the bandits you and your comrades killed. And if they do..."

"We'll be careful," Ralof answered, getting to his feet. "But I have to leave. I've put you in enough danger as it is, and the others expect me back soon."

"Oh, leave the Imperials to me," Gerdur huffed, waving a hand. "I'm just glad to see that you're still in one piece."

"As am I," Ralof said with a snort. "Thank you both for everything, but-"

"Uncle Ralof," cried out the excitable voice of a boy, who ran straight up to Ralof, wrapping his arms around the man's waist.

Ralof chuckled, patting the boy's head. "Look at you, Frodnar. Almost grown up!"

Frodnar grinned up at Ralof. "Can I see your axe?" he asked, the words rushing out of his mouth so quickly, they were almost jumbled up together. "How many Imperials have you killed? Have you really met Ulfric Stormcloak?"

Gerdur snorted, getting to her feet and strolling around the table. "Hush, Frodnar. It's past your bedtime; no time for your games."

Frodnar turned his gaze to her, pouting. "But I wanna talk to Uncle Ralof!"

Ralof sighed heavily, extricating himself from the boy's arms and kneeling before him. "You should do what your mother says," he gently chided the boy. "Besides, I have to leave now."

"But Uncle Ralof-"

"No buts, my boy," Ralof interrupted him, even as he ruffled Frodnar's hair. "There's a lot going on that I can't explain now. But I promise, next time you see me, I'll share all the war stories I've got with you."

Frodnar sighed, looking down at the floor. "Alright, uncle..."

Ralof chuckled, giving the boy a proper hug. "Ah, I've missed you. Now off, back to bed with you."

Frodnar nodded, reciprocating the embrace before dragging his feet back to bed.

With a heavy sigh, Ralof got back to his feet. "I really do hate saying goodbye to him," he grumbled.

"But you must," Gerdur said, giving him another hug. "You stay safe out there, you hear me?"

"I'll do my best," Ralof answered, lingering in the hug for a moment before stepping away.

Hod held out a hand to him, nodding solemnly. "Don't be a stranger," he said.

Ralof nodded, shaking Hod's offered hand. "Take care of Gerdur and Frodnar."

"I always do," Hod answered with a smile. "Now get going, before someone sees you."

With another nod, Ralof was off in the night. But he did take one last glance over his shoulder as he left Riverwood behind. It would be some time before he saw it again.

Night had fallen by the time Bradley arrived at Whiterun's gates. He'd killed another wolf along the way, and had passed by a battle between three warriors and what he could only describe as a giant, occuring on a farm he was passing. The trio seemed to have the situation well in hand, so he'd passed by without comment. Yes, he'd noticed the disapproving glare he'd recieved from the archer wearing war paint, but it was of no concern to him. He had nothing to prove to these barbarians, but he felt assurance from the fact that, despite their lack of the technological advances he'd enjoyed back in Amestris, this country was protected by warriors of great skill.

What did catch his eye was the fact that, just past the stables and laying beside the first of Whiterun's gates, was a camp filled with... Cat people. For a moment, he mistook them for Chimeras, but... they couldn't be. Amestris and its surrounding lands were nowhere to be seen, and magic seemed to be their answer to alchemy. But if these weren't Chimeras... what were they?

Sheer curiosity drove him into the camp, particularly towards an older member. A gray furred specimen, with a mane that hung rather than rose like a lion's, and braids of fur just behind his whiskers, fastened in gold. He wore a fine, navy blue robe, and there was a twinkle in his green eyes. He sat cross legged on a mat right in front of what Bradley assumed was his tent, waiting patiently for him to approach.

As Bradley came to a stop before the being, it bowed its head respectfully. "Welcome," it said, its voice raspy, but not unpleasant to the ear. Almost as if it was purring with each syllable. "I have traveled far across Tamriel to serve you."

Tamriel. Yet another name Bradley needed to file away. Perhaps it was a name for the world? No, no, that was Nirn. So, perhaps this continent? Either way, Bradley was in desperate need of a map.

Besides, there was another question he wanted answered.

"To serve me?" Bradley asked, glancing around the camp. Only one warrior could be seen, another gray cat man in steel armor. Besides, when he glanced into the tent...

He cleared his throat. "I assume you're a merchant caravan of some kind?"

The figure before him nodded. Slapping a fist to his chest, it said, "Khajiit have wares, if you have the coin."

Khajiit. Strange name, but he supposed he could live with it.

"I do apologize for my forwardness," Bradley said, putting on his best friendly smile. "But I am quite new to Skyrim, and I cannot help but notice that you're out here and not selling your merchandise within the city itself."

"Ah," the figure said with a nod. "This one is afraid that it is the Nords," he said, motioning to the city walls. "They do not like outsiders in their lands, and so we are forbidden to enter their cities. When they look upon us, they see only pickpockets and skooma dealers."

Bradley considered his words carefully. Signs were pointing to these creatures not being of artificial creation, but natural occurence and evolution in this world. As for the Nords, and whatever kind of drug skooma was, he could learn that at another date.

"And what of you?" he asked. "And where do you come from?"

The cat's features were quite easy to read, for a non-human creature, for he could tell when the forlorn look replaced the calm smile.

Taking a deep breath, the cat answered, "The Khajiit hail from a distant land called Elsweyr, bordered on the north by Cyrodiil and the south by the glistening blue waters of the sea." Spreading his arms wide, he continued. "Elsweyr is an arid land of deserts and rocky canyons, where the sun shines warmly, always. There are cities so ancient, the sands have swallowed them whole." He sighed, shaking his head. "But now I will say no more, for I miss my home greatly."

Bradley contemplated the cat's words. So, Elsweyr was a desert nation, not unlike the climate in Ishval. Though it seemed the Khajiit were marginally more friendly towards outsiders than those warrior monks. That could prove useful.

With a smile, the homunculus held out a hand. "I hope you find fortune here, and see your homeland once more. May I ask for your name?"

The cat eyed Bradley's hand curiously, then smiled once more, taking the hand in his own and shaking. "This one is named Ri'saad," he answered. "Now, would you like to browse our wares?"

Bradley shook his head. "Not at the moment, Ri'saad. I was merely curious. I've never seen one of your kind before, though I would like to take advantage of them at some point. Tell me, how long do you intend to stay near Whiterun?"

Ri'saad stroked his whisker-braids, humming as he thought. "This one believes we shall be leaving in two days hence, stranger. Whiterun is hardly the only city in Skyrim, and we have many items to offer its people. Too many for a single settlement." He then held up a furry finger. "But, if you travel often, you may also happen upon the caravans of Ma'dran and Ahkari. Both are sworn to me, and both have worthy goods to offer."

"I suppose I can live with that," Bradley said with a nod, turning away. "Until we meet again."

"A moment, kind master?" Ri'saad asked. "You never told me your name."

Glancing over his shoulder, the homunculus smiled and waved. "It's Bradley. And it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ri'saad."

"Indeed," Ri'saad replied, bowing his head. "May your road lead you to warm sands, Bradley."

Bradley nodded once more, then passed under the wall.

He'd already noted the guards along the wall and above the walkway heading into Whiterun. He'd also noted that their armor was fashioned in the same style as the Stormcloaks, with the exceptions being that their furs had been died yellow as opposed to Ulfric's blue. That, and each wore a closed-face helmet with a spike at the top. Their weapons varied, but each was fashioned from fine steel, as opposed to the dull iron of Bradley's own blades.

Still, they let him pass by, most merely glancing at him before turning their attention outside their walls again.

It wasn't until he reached the doors leading into the city proper that he was stopped. Before he was even twenty paces away from them, one of the guards standing beside them held up a hand.

"Halt," the soldier barked out, folding his arms again. "The city's closed with the dragons about. Official business only."

Bradley nodded solemnly. "I've come here by way of Riverwood," he replied calmly. "They are calling for their Jarl's aid."

He could almost see the grimace behind the guard's helmet. "Riverwood's in danger, too?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he motioned to his partner, who produced a ring of keys and went to work on the doors.

"You'd better go on in," the first guard said to Bradley, jerking his thumb to the doors. "You'll find the Jarl in Dragonsreach, at the top of the hill."

Bradley gave the guard a polite nod as he marched up to the slowly opening gates to Whiterun.

Chapter Text

Whiterun was a pretty place, Bradley had to admit. High walls, a nice layout, beautiful foliage, and quaint little cottages of wood and stone. But if this was supposed to be a city, he had to admit, the population and size of it was... Disappointing.

Still, he wasn't here for the scenery, or even to judge the town itself. He needed to find Dragonsreach, after all. Deliver the message from Alvor. Thanks to the layout, it was quite simple to locate. A manor at the top of the hill, just as the guard at the gate said. He climbed the stone stairs, passed the torch bearing guards patrolling the entrance with a few polite nods, then entered.

He found himself in what appeared to be a combination of entrance hall, dining hall, and throne room. As he ascended the stairs, he took note of two rooms off to the side; a kitchen to the left, and some sort of laboratory to the right, the latter of which was occupied by a man in blue robes, pouring through a book and consulting a some notes at the same time.

Up by the throne, past an open fireplace, were four people. The first he took note of was a woman in leather armor, with a sword at her side. Her skin was the color of charcoal, and her ears were pointed, much like the Thalmor at Helgen. Another elf, obviously, but there were differences between her and the one he'd caught a glance at; even ignoring skin tone entirely. Besides, this one was some sort of bodyguard, while the first elf had been an obvious aristocrat.

The other three were humans, one in a thick, blue robe and the other in much finer clothes and a circlet, seated upon the throne. The Jarl and... Bradley believed the term would be Steward. The last was another guard, standing at attention by a set of stairs leading up to the next story.

As Bradley approached, the elf turned on her heel, drawing her blade as she walked slowly towards him. He stopped in his tracks, one hand on his own sword, but not drawing it just yet.

The woman stopped a few feet away from him, her black eyes glaring daggers into his own. "What's the meaning of this interruption," she demanded. "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

Bradley bowed his head, never taking his eye off of her. She was ready for action, that he could tell from the tensing of her muscles; but she wasn't engaging. Not yet. The only fight to be had here would be one he forced. She was a good soldier, and he had no intention of causing a scene tonight.

"I have a message for the Jarl," he answered her calmly. "Riverwood calls for aid."

Her eyes narrowed, but a little of her tension disappeared. Only a little. "As housecarl, my job is to deal with all dangers that threaten the Jarl or his people. So you have my attention. Now, explain yourself."

Bradley nodded. This woman, inhuman as she was, reminded him strongly of Riza Hawkeye. A damned good soldier, albeit with split loyalty. In that way, he supposed they differed. Unlike Riza's forced service to him as secretary and hostage, this woman showed no hesitation, nor hostility to her Jarl.

"A dragon has attacked Helgen," he said simply. "I am one of the survivors." Over her shoulder, he could see the Jarl and Steward's conversation halting, their attention drawn to him.

The woman blinked, her stance growing lax in her surprise. "You were at Helgen?" Sheathing her sword, she motioned to the throne. "The Jarl will wish to speak with you personally. Approach."

With another nod, Bradley did so, not taking any offense when she insisted on following her closely. The more she did, the more Bradley found himself liking her. Taking a moment to address the unexpected intruder, while doing her utmost to avoid unnecessary violence, and anticipating her commander's orders? What he wouldn't have given for a hundred of her in the Amestrian military. With himself at the head, they would've been an unstoppable force.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the throne, kneeling before the Jarl without a word. It would be rude for a commoner to begin a conversation with a noble, after all.

"So," the man said, stroking his braided beard. "You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

Balgruuf was a good actor, Bradley mused to himself, but under the Ultimate Eye, the man was practically shivering in his boots. From what Hadvar had said, dragons were just a folk tale, something to scare the children into behaving, or just to excite the imaginations of curious adults. It was probably fair to assume that the Nords had all grown up with these tales. To suddenly receive word that they might be real... Bradley could almost not fault the man for feeling such fear. Almost.

Bradley nodded once again. "It had scales as black as night, your grace," he answered, "And burning red eyes. I myself got a few good looks before escaping its wrath."

Balgruuf frowned. "Pretty descriptive. And where is the dragon now?"

Bradley shrugged. "To be honest, I cannot say. After it destroyed Helgen, I saw it heading in this direction. But at the speed it was going in, it should have arrived much sooner than I. Either it stopped along the way, or its destination lies elsewhere."

With a nod, Balgruuf sighed. "Thank you for your honesty. And you are from Helgen?"

Bradley shook his head. "I am merely a passing traveler from Cyrodiil, my Jarl." The lying grated on his nerves, but it was far simpler to keep at it than to explain his true origin and nature. "My name is Bradley, and I simply wished to repay a debt to... a friend."

"I see," Balgruuf said with another nod. "I thank you for this news." He then turned to the Steward, asking with just a hint of scorn, "What do you say now, Proventus? Do we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?" His fear was coming out as anger now, his duty the only thing keeping it in check.

The elven woman put a hand to her chest, bowing at the hip. "My lord," she said, "We should send a detachment to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains-"

The Steward shook his head, interrupting her as he protested, "The Jarl of Falkreath will view this as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We should not-"

Balgruuf sliced a hand through the air, cutting him off. "ENOUGH!"

Both fell silent, bowing their heads as Balgruuf collected himself.

Taking a deep breath, the Jarl ground out, "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" He turned towards the woman, nodding to her. "Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once!"

Irileth nodded back to him, the corners of her lips twitching upwards, though there was no mirth in her eyes. "Yes, my Jarl," she said, turning and marching to the front door.

Proventus bowed to the Jarl, an apologetic look on his face. "If you'll excuse me," he said softly, "I'll return to my duties."

"That would be best," Balgruuf responded, watching the Steward head for the stairs on the right. Bradley could tell that the Jarl's forgiveness would come in time, but not this night.

As for Bradley himself, he hadn't yet been excused, so he waited patiently where he knelt.

Balgruuf finally returned his attention to the homunculus, actually smiling. "Rise, Bradley."

Bradley did so, holding his arms behind his back.

"Well done," Balgruuf said appreciatively. "You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." He snapped his fingers, and the guard by the stairs reached into a nearby chest, drawing out a set of iron armor. "Please," Balgruuf said as the guard approached Bradley. "Accept this gift from my personal armory."

Bradley bowed his head, graciously accepting the armor. He wouldn't ever use it, of course, but he had seen a blacksmith's shop at the main gate. If anything, it would fetch him a few coins.

Balgruuf stroked his beard again, clearly sizing Bradley up. "There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for a man with your skills, perhaps?"

Bradley smiled, bowing his head for the umpteenth time. At least he wouldn't have to go job hunting just yet. "I am honored to serve you, my lord."

Balgruuf smiled, getting to his feet. "Come," he said, motioning for Bradley to follow him. "Let's go meet Farengar; my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... Rumors of dragons."

Without much ceremony, Bradley followed Balgruuf into the lab, where the robed man was still consulting his notes.

"Farengar," Balgruuf called, stepping over to the desk where the wizard sat. "I think I've found someone who can help you with your little dragon project." He motioned to Bradley, continuing, "Go ahead and fill him in with all the details."

Farengar looked up from his notes, squinting at Bradley with a small frown. "So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" he asked, stroking his hairless chin in thought.

Without waiting for an answer (this trend was starting to annoy Bradley), he nodded, "Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me." He then grimaced, quickly adding, "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."

Bradley tilted his head. "I assume this tablet has something to do with the dragons. But I'm curious, what do you expect it to contain?"

Farengar's eyes lit up, and a grin crossed his hooded face. "Ah, no mere brute mercenary," he proclaimed happily, "But a thinker- perhaps even a scholar?" He got to his feet, clearing his throat. "You see," he began, "When the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about the dragons. Where had they gone all those years ago? And where are they coming from?"

"I see," Bradley said, cupping his chin in thought. "So, where am I going for this tablet?"

Farengar cleared his throat, nervousness creeping into his demeanor. "I, uh, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow - A 'Dragonstone', said to contain 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."

Bradley nodded again. "And this would be the barrow on the mountain overlooking Riverwood, yes?"

"Ah, so you already know where it is," Farengar answered with a nod. "Yes, they're one and the same. One of the locals should be able to show you the path up the mountain."

"And how do you know it is in Bleak Falls Barrow?" Bradley pressed. "I would like to know beforehand if my efforts will be for naught."

Farengar cleared his throat again. "Well," he said awkwardly, "Must reserve some professional secrets, mustn't we? I have my sources. Reliable sources."

Bradley's eye narrowed, but he could tell that, without forcing the issue, that was all he was going to get out of the man. And with the Jarl watching over his shoulder... Best to play it safe.

Speaking of the Jarl, Balgruuf chose this moment to re-enter the conversation. "This is a priority now," the man said, stepping forward. "Anything we can use to fight this dragon. Or... dragons. We need it, quickly, before it's too late."

Farengar bowed his head to the Jarl. "Of course, Jarl Balgruuf. You seem to have found me an able assistant. I'm sure he will prove most useful."

Balgruuf met Bradley's gaze with his own, squaring his shoulders. "Succeed at this, and you'll be rewarded. Whiterun will forever be in your debt."

Bradley smiled, bowing once more to him. "And I shall not fail, my lord."

"Good," Balgruuf said with a nod. "Go, and return as soon as you can."

With another nod and a polite farewell, Bradley strolled out of Dragonsreach.

Aela was peeved. Farkas didn't care, of course, but Ria was quite nervous.

Ria was the newest member of the Companions, an honorable guild of warriors that made their home in the hall of Jorrvaskr. An Imperial warrior of some skill, though there were plenty who outclassed her completely. Especially the members of the Inner Circle, of which Aela and Farkas were two.

Both were Nords, each a great warrior in their own right. But they had vastly different approaches to combat. Farkas, who reminded her of a wet greyhound quite often, was a fortress of a man, clothed in steel and wielding a greatsword. Aela, on the other hand, was more of a fox, who relied on her agility and arrows to carry her through a fight. Together, they were almost unstoppable, while Ria was just lucky to be in their presence.

Which is why she hadn't begrudged the one eyed stranger who'd passed by while they did battle with a giant who'd stumbled his way onto Palagia Farm. Even she could tell that it was on its last legs, so to speak, and its struggle was futile.

Aela, of course, was furious.

"I hope that man drowns somewhere," she growled as they passed through the gates into Whiterun. "Let him have an inglorious death somewhere in the wilds, forgotten by all who ever met him."

Farkas rolled his eyes. "Come on, Aela," he grumbled. "You've been bitching ever since we left the farm. Just give it a rest already."

"I will let it rest when I want to," she grumbled. "Who does he think he is, anyways? Talos himself? Ysgramor?"

Despite her better instincts, Ria cleared her throat. "Perhaps it's unfair to judge everyone by our standards?" she asked hesitantly. "Maybe he was just scared to engage with a desperate giant? I know I would have before training with you and the other Companions."

Aela waved a finger at Ria. "That's just it, Ria. He wasn't frightened. He just..." She took a moment to rein in her rage enough to find the words. "Took one look at the battle, and decided it was... beneath his notice. Like it didn't matter!"

Farkas elbowed Aela's shoulder. "Quiet down for a moment."

Aela's furious gaze turned towards him. "I will not-"

With one hand, Farkas gripped Aela's head, turning it towards the Bannered Mare up ahead.

The one eyed man was walking up the steps, letting himself into the tavern.

Aela was silent as Farkas released her. After a few seconds, she glared at him again, though most of her fury was gone. Or... redirected, Ria supposed. "Do that again," Aela warned the big man, "And you can say goodbye to that hand, pup."

Farkas just smirked, raising a hand towards the tavern. "Go get him," he said invitingly.

Aela huffed, marching up to the door.

Ria just stared open mouthed after her. "What was..."

Farkas chuckled, clapping her on the back. "Come on, I don't wanna miss the show. Do you?"

Ria sighed heavily, guiltily admitting, "No..."

Bradley had decided to hit the road in the morning. At the moment, he was hungry and thirsty, and could use a good night's rest after the... quite eventful day he'd had. First capture, then an execution avoided only by a dragon attack, the skirmishes through Helgen's keep, and now his new assignment from the Jarl himself. If anyone deserved a little quiet celebration, Bradley most certainly did.

He had already paid for his room on the second floor, and was about to head up to enjoy some supper when the front door burst open, and everyone turned to face the newcomer. Out of curiosity, and a well honed sense of danger, he turned to regard them as well.

It was the woman from the giant fight. Wearing a rather... lacking set of leather armor, wearing green stripes of war paint across her face, as well as a bow and quiver of arrows on her back. She was a little thin, but he could tell that every bit of meat on her was pure muscle. Deceptively strong. Which did make sense, what with her being a seasoned archer.

And her glare was squarely on him. Given the shocked expressions on everyone else's faces, this was most unexpected. Clearly, she was well known in this community.

And, for some reason, she had some petty quarrel with him. If anything, this should be interesting.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely as she approached. He noticed her two companions slipping in behind her, but they seemed content to wait at the sidelines.

She huffed, folding her arms. "Couldn't help but notice you pass by our battle with the giant," she said coldly. "We defeated it, of course. No thanks to you."

Bradley sighed, shaking his head. "I apologize for any slight I may have taken against you," he answered as cordially as possible. It was clear she was looking for a fight, and he was in no mood for it. "But it was quite clear you had it well in hand."

"Certainly not," she responded, puffing out her chest with pride. "But a true warrior would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant."

Bradley had known true wrath ever since he'd bonded with the philosopher's stone at his core. And this woman was starting to get on his nerves.

"So," he said, stroking his chin as he reined in his emotions, "Rather than allow you to do your jobs while I was on an assignment of my own, you would have had me devote my energy and precious time to deal a final blow against a defeated enemy? Our definitions of 'true warrior' must differ, then."

Her nostrils flared, and a flash of gold passed through her eyes in an instant. It wasn't something a normal human would've caught, but Bradley had. So, this woman wasn't simply human. This might be interesting after all.

The woman balled her fists, growling lowly, "You would hide behind your own business rather than admit your cowardice?"

"Hardly," Bradley answered. "I simply had better things to do with my time than throw off your team's coordination. You've clearly been well trained, but I sensed some hesitation in your female friend's actions."

The woman blinked, her rage forgotten for a moment. "You... could tell that? From just a moment's glance?"

Bradley nodded, forcing another friendly smile. "I was once a... Commander of a military force. You tend to pick things up like that as you go." He glanced over her shoulder at the other woman, who was bashfully gazing at the floor. "She is a fine warrior as well. She simply needs to learn to let go of her self doubt."

The first woman pursed her lips, visibly reassessing him. "Perhaps I misjudged you," she muttered. "A warrior with an eye like that would be welcome amongst my shield-brothers."

Bradley frowned, tilting his head. "And what is a shield-brother?"

The woman smirked. "An outsider, huh? Never heard of the Companions?" She motioned to her friends. "An order of warriors. We are brothers and sisters in honor. And we show up to solve problems, if the coin is good enough."

"I see," Bradley muttered, considering the trio. "Perhaps if I find the time, I may stop by for a look. We shall see."

She huffed again. "Well, if you think you're better than we are, go talk with Kodlak Whitemane. See what a warrior of true mettle is like." She then turned on her heel, motioning to the others, and they wandered off into the night.

Throughout the entire conversation, Bradley had noted the open mouthed gazes of everyone in the tavern. Even now, they still stared at him, frozen in place.

He shrugged it off, strolling to the stairs. He'd had enough socialization and combat for one day. Now was the time for rest.

"I gotta admit, sister," Farkas said with a chuckle. "I'm disappointed you didn't tear him limb from limb."

Aela glared at Farkas. "If he wasn't bluffing, then why waste a good recruitment opportunity? We have empty beds in the hall, and we could always use an eye like his. Besides..." She patted Ria on the back. "Even if it was a bluff, he was right about you. You're a great warrior, Ria. I'm quite proud to call you my sister."

Ria sighed. "Your pity isn't necessary, Aela. I did hesitate against the giant. I... Probably would've died if I was out on my own."

"But you weren't," Aela answered sternly. "And that self doubt of yours is going to kill you quicker than any lack of skill."

"I know," she groaned. "I just... I constantly second guess my every move. I can't... I can't help it."

"Unless you're in a drunken brawl with Athis," Farkas noted. "Maybe we oughta-"

Aela smacked the big man's arm. "We are not getting the pup drunk before her missions, ice brain. Just for that, you'll be training her in the morning."

Farkas scowled. "I have my own business to get to, Aela."

"And it's nothing that can't wait," she sarcastically assured him, giving him a little pat on the cheek. "Now, come on. I'm sure they've started supper without us."

Chapter Text

The Previous Day

General Tullius was not having a good day.

Sure, he'd captured Ulfric, his personal guard, and two stragglers, but now, he'd reached the truly dangerous stage.

As if the universe was silently vindicating his every thought, once he'd passed through the gates of Helgen, there she sat upon her horse. Elenwen. First Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion and current diplomatic attaché to Skyrim. To some, it would have been confusing to know that such an important figure had been assigned to this cold backwater country, but Tullius knew the truth of the matter.

Or, rather, suspected.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, turning his own horse off the road and towards her. "Greetings, Ambassador Elenwen. I see you've come to witness the big day."

Elenwen smiled, a motion that didn't quite reach her eyes, bowing her head in deference. "General Tullius. I'm glad to see your operation went off without a hitch."

Tullius snorted. Of course she'd known about this. He'd suspected that a few of his commanders were Thalmor agents. And she'd just confirmed it, meaning she did not care who knew at this point.

"Our legionnaires are the best and brightest the Empire has to offer," he answered cordially. "Of course we succeeded."

"Indeed." She sighed dramatically, glancing over her shoulder. "And I see you have some unexpected guests."

"That I do," he said, motioning to the last cart as it passed by. "I'm sure you recognize my guest, Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, once a candidate to Skyrim's throne, and traitor to the Empire?"

"I do," she responded coolly. "And it is with a heavy heart that I must relieve you of him." She smirked, adding, "In fact, by the authority of the Thalmor, I am taking custody of all of these prisoners."

Tullius frowned, raising an eyebrow. "I received no such orders. Surely, the Emperor himself would have sent me something concerning this?"

Elenwen's smirk disappeared, and her eyes narrowed. "I see what you're doing. And you're making a terrible mistake."

Tullius squared his shoulders. "I am the Legion Governor of Skyrim, and by the authority of the High Queen of Skyrim and the Emperor himself, I will put an end to this uprising once and for all, as was my task."

Elenwen sneered in response. "Your Emperor will hear of this. By the terms of the White-Gold Concordate, I operate with full Imperial authority! Besides, your little Elisif is not High Queen yet."

"Her husband was High King," he answered firmly. "And until the Jarls agree to a Moot, she acts with all the authority that title would bestow upon her." He finally smiled, adding, "Not to mention, you need a letter from the Emperor to authorize any move you make before bypassing my own authority. Something I assume you don't have, seeing as you haven't pulled one out yet."

Her lips curled, revealing her perfect white teeth. "I say again, you're making a mistake, General."

He sighed, glancing over his shoulder as the carts began emptying. "I hope that's all you had to discuss, because I have an execution to oversee. You're free to watch, if you so choose."

Elenwen huffed, spurring her horse forward. "No. I shall take my leave. Someone needs to report this misstep of yours, after all. And I don't think any of your own will feel inclined to do so."

"As you wish," Tullius said with a shrug, turning his horse around and riding to join the others.

He'd pay for this, he knew. Elenwen would make certain of that. But it was a small price to pay for keeping the remnants of the Empire safe and united against their true enemies.

He just never banked on a dragon interrupting the proceedings.

Present

Bradley tossed and turned in his bed, groaning in his sleep. Sweat was gathering on his forehead, dripping down onto the pillows beneath.

He opened his eye to behold the summer sky. The wind was rustling leaves all around him. Slowly, he sat up, taking in his surroundings.

Bradley was... Home. At the manor of the Fuhrer, in his own backyard. Surrounding him on all sides was the hedgerow, directly behind him was the pagoda, and in front of him was the manor itself. He could see his wife and Pride strolling outside. Pride grinning from ear to ear as he ran directly into Bradley's arms.

"Father," Pride called out, hugging Bradley tightly. Apparently, he was in Selim mode. "How was your visit to the East?"

Bradley cleared his throat, slowly patting Pride's head. He knew that the eldest of his siblings loved playing house with him and his wife, but this... felt strange.

"It was quite exciting," he answered carefully. "Though the trip back was more so. I thought I told you this."

Pride paused, then said coldly, "You did. You failed to foresee Grumman's attack on your train."

Bradley scowled at that. "The old fox had his tricks, to be sure. But I survived, and got back to Central in time to fulfill my duty."

"And then lost to the people you were supposed to have destroyed," Pride pointed out. His shadows were leaking out of his container now, the eyes and long rows of teeth appearing all around Bradley as the container smirked up at him. "Funny how that worked out. Wasn't it you who said that it might be time for us to step aside and let the younger generation run things?"

Bradley licked suddenly dry lips. He wasn't so proud to admit that he could stand against Pride himself, though he had no reason to fear him. Until now.

"The Ishvalan accepted alchemy in its entirety," Wrath answered carefully. "It was completely unprecedented. Unheard of."

"Excuses now, Wrath?" Pride asked, chuckling darkly. "That was never your way, even when you allowed Mustang to incinerate Lust."

Bradley sighed heavily. "Is there anything I can say that will not further convince you that I am an utter failure, Pride?"

Pride shook his head. "Not really, no. But while we're on that topic-" He pulled back and stepped aside. "Your wife has some words for you."

Bradley nodded, his expression one of grim acceptance as he got to his feet, facing Mrs Bradley.

She was glaring directly at him, her arms folded across her chest. This wasn't an expression he was used to seeing on her, but one he had seen before. Specifically, when he'd followed Lust's dating advice.

"Darling," he said softly, holding his arms out wide as he approached her. "What's the matter?"

When he was close enough, her hand whipped out, backhanding him across the face. The first time she'd done this, he had been too occupied with shock and confusion to avoid the blow. This time, however, he simply accepted it.

"You lied to me," she reprimanded him. "For our entire relationship. You lied."

Bradley nodded solemnly. "It was Father's wish-"

"Oh, yes, your Father," she growled. "Who oh so graciously allowed you to choose me as your wife. Tell me, when exactly were you planning to tell me what you really were?" She held up a finger, shaking her head. "Better yet, when were you planning to save me, the woman you loved, from the same fate as the rest of Amestris?"

The slap had hurt. But now, Bradley wished for another. It would be better than the gaping hole he felt in his gut.

"I-"

"Don't bother," she cut him off, shaking her head. Her eyes narrowed even as they filled with tears. "You heard the radio broadcast. You know your soldiers were ordered to kill everyone except for Mustang. Even your own wife wasn't exempt. And even then..." She hung her head, the tears now streaming freely as she clenched trembling fists. "Even then... you chose your duty over me."

Bradley stepped closer. "Darling-"

She stepped back, her eyes shooting back up to meet his own in a deathly glare. "Don't you darling me. At any point, any point, you could have said 'no. No, I won't sacrifice the only thing I chose for a creature like Father.' You had the authority, the resources, the skill to stand on your own two feet and make your own path, rather then blindly follow the one set for you." She scoffed, turning her back on him. "'A life worth dying for.' It's enough to make me puke."

Bargaining had given him nothing. So Bradley clenched his fists and gave in to his perpetual rage. But every time he opened his mouth, words failed him. And try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to strike his wife.

"What is this?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "What is this hell you have conjured for me, God?"

"The Truth of your despair."

He whipped around to face the voice, and he was suddenly back in that white void. And God was standing there, between him and the Gate, with its sadistic grin planted firmly on its featureless face.

The Gate opened, and the Eye stared into his soul.

Bradley threw off the blankets, wrenching himself up and out of bed. He was sweating profusely, and his breaths came in short gasps.

It was early morning. The sun had just risen. And from the sounds below, the tavern's staff were getting ready for another day.

Bradley closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. So. It had all been a dream. No, a nightmare. That was odd. He hadn't had one of those since his early days as a homunculus.

Damn this human body and its needs. Damn his single soul. Damn God and its twisted games.

He sighed, getting to his feet. This was no time to ruminate on dreams and gods. He had a job to do. Standing to gain with the Jarl. Information to gather.

But first, clothes and food.

Faendal swallowed hard as he approached the entrance to Embershard Mine. True, Gerdur and her family had been nothing but good to him. True, he had been promised his safety. And true, the bandits that had claimed this place, so close to his own home, had all been killed. But he was terrified all the same.

It was the Stormcloaks who scared him.

The Thalmor had forced him and all bosmer who had supported the Empire from Valenwood before the Great War. So it came as no surprise to hear that the Nords had their own grudge against the altmer afterwards.

But when he first arrived, he was shocked to learn that, for some Nords, that grudge extended to all those they called outsiders. It was absurd, to say the least. Almost everyone with sense had reason to hate and fear the Aldmeri Dominion, and yet these Nords took that hatred to the next level. Not all of them, but enough to make a wood elf on his own particularly nervous.

Still, he'd made his own life here in Riverwood. He had a job, a home, no hateful neighbors who would sooner see him dead than dare interact with him. Well... there was Sven, but at least he could write racism off of that man's list of things to hate about him.

Relief washed over him when his eyes fell on Ralof alone, just outside the door to the mines.

Ralof smiled, approaching him. "Faendal. It's good to see you. You weren't followed?"

Faendal managed a smile in return, holding out a hand. "Not to my knowledge, Ralof. It's been too long."

Ralof snorted, accepting the offered hand and shaking it. "Funny to hear that coming from an elf."

"We're long lived, not immortal," Faendal answered with a chuckle. "You wanted to speak with me?"

"Aye," Ralof said with a nod, releasing Faendal and motioning to a pair of tipped barrels. "Come on, sit down. We found some ale inside, and it would be a damned shame if I had to drink on my own on this fine day."

Faendal took the offered seat while Ralof sat across from him, pulling out a pair of mugs and an orange bottle.

"Gerdur wouldn't tell me the details," Faendal said, watching Ralof pour the drinks. "Just that you were in Embershard Mine and asked for me."

"That was risky enough," Ralof grumbled, handing the elf a mug. "But, it got you here, so I guess I can't complain. She said you might know someone who could hunt particularly dangerous game."

Faendal raised an eyebrow. "Considering I'm apparently not included in that list... Ouch."

Ralof chuckled, raising his own mug. "I meant no offense. You're a good hunter." He took a sip, licking his lips and sighing. "But, I need an exceptional hunter. One who's willing to hang back, track someone, and simply report anything... interesting."

Faendal frowned, raising his mug. "So you want a spy, then," he muttered thoughtfully, sipping his ale. It wasn't Blackbriar or Honningbrew mead, but it would get a thirsty man through the day.

Ralof nodded. "One that's willing to treat their prey with the same respect as a dragon."

Faendal snorted.

"What's so funny?" Ralof asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Faendal chuckled, shaking his head. "I just... I overheard Sven's mother ranting about a dragon yesterday." He shrugged. "Big as the mountain, black as night, flew over the barrow. Nothing interesting, really."

Ralof's mug hit the ground. His face was white as a sheet, and his hands were trembling. "It was here?"

Faendal's eyes widened. "You mean-"

Ralof shot to his feet. "The Jarl needs to know of this. Immediately. Riverwood's in the most immediate danger."

"Right," Faendal said with a nod, standing as well. "But before I go, I think I know of someone who could help you with your other problem."

Ralof sighed. "Fine. Spit it out, quick."

"Go to Riften," the elf said. "Find a merchant named Brynjolf and ask after a bosmer called Niruin. If he's still in Skyrim, let him know I sent you." He paused for a moment, then added, "But know he'll need to see some coin before he takes the job."

Ralof grimaced, but nodded. "Thank you, Faendal. Now get to the Jarl. Now."

"Right," Faendal said with a nod, jogging away. "Divines smile on you, Ralof!"

Ralof sighed, sitting back down and retrieving his mug. He didn't see the grimacing face of Gunern on the other side of the door, nor did he see him leave.

Chapter Text

Faendal sat on the Riverwood Trader's porch, feeling utterly bewildered.

He'd only just returned to Riverwood, ready to excuse himself from a day of work at the mill, only to find that an extra squadron of Whiterun guards had been posted here already. After questioning one, it seemed apparent that someone had beaten him to the Jarl with news of the dragon. But who could have known? Who would have made the trip? And why? Sven certainly hadn't, and the other villagers were going about life as usual, so it couldn't be them.

The sound of approaching footsteps stirred him from his contemplation, and he looked up. Before him stood an older man. He was wearing simple clothes, two iron swords on his hips, and a black patch over his left eye. He had slung an iron breastplate over his back, and seemed to be heading for the Trader's door.

The man glanced down at the openy staring elf, stopping in his footsteps. Odd. Faendal had assumed he was in the stranger's blind spot.

With a friendly smile, the man turned towards him. "Can I help you," he asked, his voice warm and kind.

Faendal blinked, then cleared his throat, getting to his feet. "I... Look, I'm sorry," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to stare. We just don't get many visitors here." He held out a hand. "I'm Faendal. I work over at the mill."

The man nodded, shaking the elf's hand with a firm grip. "Bradley," he said, motioning to the Trader. "I'm just stopping by to grab some supplies and head up to the barrow. You wouldn't happen to know the way, would you?"

Faendal couldn't help but blink again. "Uh, yeah? Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"That's the one," Bradley answered with a nod. His smile hadn't wavered a bit. "I'm unfamiliar with the area, and could use a guide. And you seem to be a hunter. Seems reasonable to assume you know the way."

Faendal returned the smile awkwardly. "Well, yeah, but I wouldn't suggest heading up there."

Bradley tilted his head. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Well, a few days ago, a bunch of bandits robbed the Trader here," Faendal said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the building. "Then they headed up to the barrow. I don't know why they decided to make that their base, but they certainly wouldn't welcome company."

Bradley laughed, reaching out and patting Faendal's shoulder. "I thank you for the warning, Faendal, but I have a job to do. And a few bandits can't be much of an obstacle."

Faendal grimaced. The old man was serious, he could tell. He'd seen a lot of would be adventurers in his day. And this one seemed to be the result of a midlife crisis and a half. There was no way he could, in good conscience, let this man face the bandits alone.

The elf sighed heavily. "Let me excuse myself for the day," he muttered, strolling past Bradley. "I'll be happy to show you the way."

Bradley bowed his head, watching him go without a word.

Today was going quite alright, despite the nightmare that had preceded it. Bradley had made good time returning to the village, even if the guards Irileth had sent beat him to it. And now, he had a guide, perhaps even a helping hand. Whatever the case, he was thankful for it. Plus, it would give him a chance to study an elf up close.

As he stepped into the Riverwood Trader, however, he was greeted by a pair of humans in the midst of a spat.

"Well, one of us has to do something," a woman grumbled, folding her arms and scowling at the man behind the counter.

The man, for his part, waved a finger at her. "I said no. No adventures, no theatrics, no thief chasing!"

She rolled her eyes, turning away from him. "Well, what do you propose we do about it?"

The man shook his head. "We are done talking about this-" He blinked, noticing Bradley's presence for the first time.

"Oh," he muttered, quickly gathering himself. "A customer. Sorry you had to hear all that."

Bradley raised an eyebrow, approaching the counter. "I assume this has to do with the bandits that robbed you recently?"

"Well, yeah," the man admitted, clearing his throat. "But the Riverwood Trader is still in business!" He chuckled nervously. "Uh, they were only after one thing, really. An ornament in the shape of a claw, made of solid gold."

Bradley's eye narrowed. "Interesting. That implies they knew of its existence, and were willing to part with the rest of your gold and inventory rather than risk its loss. Tell me, was there anything interesting you know about the claw?"

The man blinked. "Uh... Now that you mention it, there were a couple of strange symbols in its palm. That's about all I know, though. Why do you ask?"

Bradley smiled. "Well, mister..."

"Uh, Lucan Valerius," the man answered. "And that's my sister, Camilla."

"Bradley," he introduced himself, bowing his head. "Well, Lucan, Camilla, I'm heading up to Bleak Falls Barrow myself, and could fetch your claw for you on my way back to Whiterun."

"You'd do that?" Lucan asked. "I've got some coin coming in from my latest shipment. It's yours if you can get my claw back."

Camilla glared at her brother. "So this is your plan, Lucan?"

Lucan shot her a strained smile. "So now, you don't have to go, do you?"

Camilla huffed, smirking a little. "Oh, really? Well, I think your little helper here needs a guide."

"Actually," Bradley piped up, "A fellow named Faendal has agreed to guide me there."

Lucan snorted. "Even more of a reason for you not to go!"

Camilla took a deep breath and sighed heavily. "Alright, fine. But-" She turned towards Bradley, waggling a finger in his face. "Bring him back alive. I wouldn't want anything to happen to either of you."

Bradley glanced between her finger and her face for a moment, then smiled, bowing his head. "Duly noted, mistress Valerius. In the meantime, Lucan? I would like to do business."

"Oh, sure thing," Lucan said with a nod, watching his sister stroll to the table. "We have plenty of dried goods and such."

Bradley nodded, setting the iron breastplate on the counter. "I would like to trade this for a traveling pack, a waterskin, and enough dried food for two days. If it's not enough, I do have some gold of my own."

Lucan and Camilla exchanged confused glances, all while Bradley smiled on.

Faendal was waiting for him when Bradley emerged from the shop. He looked the man up and down and smirked. "First adventure?"

Bradley shook his head, adjusting the pack on his back. "Actually, no. Though it is the first I had to buy my own gear for."

"I see..." Faendal muttered. "For such a big bag, it's looking pretty light, though. Expecting to grab something?"

"I have volunteered to return Lucan's property to him," Bradley answered. "Not to mention, I'm fetching something else inside the Barrow. Speaking of, I believe you were going to show me the way?"

"Oh, right," Faendal muttered, heading down the road. "Right this way."

As Bradley followed Faendal, he couldn't help but notice that the elf kept glancing over his shoulder at him, as if studying him as intently as Bradley was studying the elf.

"Something on your mind?" Bradley asked cordially, tilting his head as they crossed the bridge.

Faendal flinched, whipping his head back forward. "... You sure you want to do this?"

"Of course I am," Bradley answered, shaking his head. "I would not be taking this hike if I wasn't."

"... Okay," Faendal muttered, chancing another look over his shoulder. "But can you?"

Bradley's smile grew as he chuckled. "When we meet the bandits, keep your distance. I wouldn't want you in the splash zone."

Girmi hated the cold. He hated many things, to be honest, but the cold was near the top of his list. Which is why he had protested when Harknir and Arvel insisted that he and two others guard the tower between Riverwood and Bleak Falls Barrow. However, he'd been outvoted, and it wasn't like many besides those two and Soling would be better off.

So he suffered in silence, sitting on the bridge leading into the tower with his bow, and wondering why he'd picked hide over fur armor. Mahkrul, the orc leaning against the nearby tree had the right idea in that department. At least, as a Nord, dying from the cold was less of an option. If only Britte wasn't asleep upstairs, then they could all be suffering together in peace.

That was when he saw the pair marching up the snow covered path towards them, without a care in the world.

Or, at least, the one eyed man was carefree. The elf just behind him was more concerned, hanging back and watching the pair of bandits carefully.

Girmi sighed, getting to his feet. "We got work, Mahkrul."

"Right," the orc grumbled, pushing himself away from the tree and pulling out his battleaxe. He snarled, making sure his tusks were in full view as he called out, "I'm warning you, back off!"

The elf reached for his bow, but the man held out a hand, saying something too quiet for Girmi to hear. The elf hesitated, then lowered his hands, stepping back as the man approached.

Girmi rolled his eyes, pulling his own bow out. "He wasn't kidding," he said, grabbing an arrow and twirling it in his fingers. "Turn around and go back the way you came."

The man before them sighed, shaking his head. "You know, growing old is a tough thing to deal with. Your body ceases to move the way you want it to."

Mahkrul huffed. "What are you on about, old man?"

The man drew his sword, smiling at the pair. "So I would like to end this as quickly as possible," he said, as if the orc hadn't spoken at all. "But first, I would like to know how many of your friends are waiting at the barrow."

Girmi snorted, knocking the arrow to his bow and pulling the string taught, aiming for the man's remaining blue eye. "Fat chance, gramps. Now leave before this gets nasty."

The man sighed again. "Very well, if that's how you wish to proceed." His knees bent, then, without warning, he charged forward, faster than either of the bandits could have predicted, kicking up snow with each quick step.

Girmi's eyes widened as he attempted to track the man, letting his arrow loose with a grunt. The missile flew wide, bouncing off a nearby rock.

The man was turning now, slashing at Mahkrul as he ran directly towards Girmi himself. The orc attempted to swing his axe down at the passing stranger, but was shocked to notice that his forearms and the weapon had fallen to the ground. And the stumps that remained attached were bleeding. Profusely.

As the orc screamed in pain and realization, Girmi's mind almost completely shut down, dedicating itself to one thought alone. Jump or die to the one eyed warrior.

As said warrior closed the distance, Girmi attempted to leap off the bridge and into a nearby snowdrift. Unfortunately, the decision of where he flew was made for him by a knee to the side.

The blow sent the terrified and thoroughly winded bandit into the tower itself, smashing into a set of drawers with enough force to shatter its boards. How he wasn't dead was beyond Girmi's suppositions. Weird word, suppositions. He'd recently read it in a book they kept upstairs.

He blinked, returning to the present. His eyes lay on a pair of leather boots. Slowly, painfully, he looked up at the face of the one eyed man.

The warrior was rolling his shoulders one by one. Stretching. And smiling down at him.

"Thank you for the warmup, son," the man said, leaning down over Girmi. "Now, would you mind answering some questions for me?"

Girmi was afraid, yes. Deathly so. But he was a Nord, and this smug bastard was getting on his nerves.

The bandit sucked in a deep, painful breath. "Ffffuuck offf," he managed to ground out.

The old man seemed to ignore the remark, taking off his pack and saying, "I believe we were about to discuss numbers. Specifically, the number of bandits you have stationed at the barrow itself."

The bandit grit his teeth. All that noise had to have woken up Britte. All he needed was to buy her time, and he'd be avenged. "I'm not..." he hissed out. He definitely had some broken ribs now, and his shoulder wasn't moving, merely hurting. Taking as deep a breath as he dared, Girmi grit his teeth and grumbled, "I'm not telling you a damned thing."

The man sighed, setting the pack down and rummaging through it. "That is quite a shame," he mused, producing a small, red bottle. "Because I am in possession of a few minor health potions."

Girmi stared openly at the bottle, every instinct screaming at him to snatch it away from this old coot. But the way he'd moved, how he'd disarmed Mahkrul and disabled Girmi... Even if Girmi had been perfectly healthy, he would never have been able to take it by force.

The old man smirked. "Judging from your expression, I believe we can begin negotiations," he mused.

Then, to Girmi's shock and horror, the man's eye narrowed, turning towards the stairs as he scowled.

Britte, clad in iron and holding her mace aloft, stood at the top of the stairs. With a roar, she charged down at the old man, raising her shield as she did. Clearly, she meant to ram him at full speed.

The old man calmly turned towards her, not even bothering to raise his blade. And when she should have collided with him, the man stepped past her with a flash of reflected light. Britte stood there for a moment, as if frozen in time. Then, she choked, blood pouring from her mouth. Gracelessly, she fell to her knees, her helmeted head rolling off her shoulders before she collapsed entirely.

The old man turned towards the front door. "Faendal?" he called out. "If you wouldn't mind healing and watching our host? I need to make sure there are no more... surprises waiting for us."

A thoroughly shellshocked elf stepped into the tower, glancing between Girmi and the one eyed man. "I, uh," he muttered, swallowing. "Sure. I can do that."

With a nod, the stranger disappeared upstairs.

Faendal had no earthly clue what to think as he stared out at the dead orc. The poor thing had screamed as it bled out, desperately attempting to reconnect his arms to their stumps. Now it lay there, silent and still.

He sighed, turning to look at the still living bandit. Or, at least, so he thought.

"You still alive over there?" he asked, lightly kicking his shin.

"Fffuck yourself," the bandit groaned, not even wincing at the kick.

Faendal sighed, kneeling before the bandit and fishing out a healing potion. "Listen," he muttered, popping the cork. "I only just met this man. All I wanted to do was make sure he got to the barrow and back in one piece." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I guess I never had to worry."

The bandit chuckled darkly, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Ffffucker's nnnot hhhuuman," he ground out through the pain.

Faendal shrugged. "Well, I'm not one myself, so I guess I'm not one to judge." He held out the bottle. "So, you ready to stop dying?"

With a cough of blood, the bandit growled, "He'll kill me anyways."

The elf shrugged. "Probably. But, if I'm being honest, feels like the least you deserve."

The bandit blinked. "Fuck I do to you?"

Faendal scowled, glaring down at the bandit now. "Oh, I don't know... You did help rob the Riverwood Trader, putting someone I care deeply about in harm's way." He grabbed the bandit's jaw, forcing the man's mouth open. "So you're going to drink this," he growled, shoving the health potion into the bandit's mouth. "And give something for once in your life."

The bandit choked, flailing his arms against Faendal, but the elf shoved a knee into the nord's stomach, closing off his nostrils and forcing the liquid down his throat.

Once all of the red potion disappeared, Faendal released the man, drawing a dagger and holding it against the bandit's throat.

The bandit choked and spluttered, drops of the potion spraying everywhere, even as his body began to heal. "What in Oblivion-" he started, moving to get to his feet before finally noticing the iron blade at his throat. "I, uh..."

"Ah, good to see you're both still alive," Bradley called out, strolling leisurely down the stairs. He completely disregarded the bandit corpse still there. "I trust our friend gave you no trouble, Faendal?"

Faendal smirked, getting back to his feet and sheathing his blade. "No trouble at all," he assured him.

"Good," Bradley said with a nod, his lone eye peering down at the bandit. "So, I believe we were on the topic of the barrow and your friends?"

The bandit swallowed, his eyes darting between the pair. "Uh," he muttered, "There's eight up at the barrow. Four outside, the rest in the barrow itself."

"Excellent," Bradley said with a smile. There was a slash of metal, and the bandit choked on a severed windpipe. "Shouldn't be any trouble at all," the man remarked calmly, flicking the blood off the blade. "Faendal, I appreciate your aid thus far, but I believe this is where we part ways." He pointed up the stairs, adding, "There's a chest of valuables up at the top. I believe that should compensate you for your time."

Faendal nodded, watching Bradley pass him by, heading back to the path. "Yeah. It's further up. You can't miss it."

"Many thanks," Bradley responded, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. "I'll see you when I return!"

Faendal nodded again, giving him a small wave. "Be careful in the barrow. There's worse things than bandits out there."

Bradley waved back, marching down the trail.

Faendal shivered as he watched him leave. If this was the same man Ralof feared... Divines help Niriun if he accepted the job.

Chapter Text

The quartet upon the balcony had been easy enough to deal with, though Bradley could feel the aches and pains of the last two days' activities starting to creep up on him. In better news, he'd found a steel sword among their belongings, and happily traded it for one of the iron blades he still carried.

The cold was starting to bother him, though. He should probably invest in a coat soon.

Bradley shook the thought away, marching up to the giant, black doors to the barrow. He stopped a few steps away, examining the doorway with a frown. If the nords were capable of building something like this, why did everything more modern seem a little... Run down? Why did every stone wall and road seem ill tended? Something had to have happened, something drastic that took precedence over basic maintenance. Was it the rebellion here? The war between the Imperials and Stormcloaks? Or was that just a symptom of something more?

He shook his head, gripping the rings fastened to the door. He was here to do a job. Two, actually. And he would see them through.

With a creak of metal against stone, and a grunt of exertion from Bradley, a door slid open just enough to allow him passage. He stepped inside, dragging the door shut behind him.

Before him was a rather confusing sight. A few more bandits had died here, along with a few abnormally large rats. The rats were nowhere near the size of the spiders he'd crossed in Helgen, more like a lapdog's size. Given the state of the human bodies here, they'd died in battle against these rats. And it was not a very recent development. The stink alone was enough to tell him they'd been dead for at least a few days. No wonder the bandits hadn't been a challenge, they could barely stand against a few overgrown rats.

And further in, past the pillars holding the cracked roof above, he could see the crackling light of a campfire, casting two humanoid shadows.

Quietly, he crept closer, listening to the distant sounds of the fire and conversation ahead.

"So, we're just going to sit here while Arvel runs off with the claw?" asked an irritated, feminine voice.

A male voice scoffed. "That dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him," he answered dismissively. "Better than us risking our necks."

"What if Arvel doesn't come back?" she pointed out. "I want my share of that claw!"

Bradley's eye narrowed as he slipped around the last of the pillars, peering at the pair.

They were both blonde (the trend was giving him flashbacks to Amestris), and wearing some sort of hide armor. The woman had a bow and arrows slung across her back, while the man had a mace on his hip and a shield on his arm.

The man grimaced, glancing down the hall just past them, leading down into the depths. "Just shut it," he grumbled, "And keep an eye out for trouble."

The woman scowled at him, but turned and marched towards the tunnel.

Only to hear the sound of steel slicing through meat, and a body hitting the ground. She whipped around, grabbing her bow and readying for combat-

A steel sword slashed through the air, slicing through the bow and the strap of her quiver. It flashed again, and her belt fell as well, bringing her dagger down to the floor with it.

Another flash of steel, and the point of the steel blade was at her throat. Staring down its length was the single, azure eye of Bradley.

The homunculus smiled, nodding to her. "I couldn't help but overhear you and your friend. And I am quite interested in Arvel and his claw."

The bandit swallowed, slowly raising her hands above her head. "N-not his, per se," she said, struggling to stay calm. Her eyes darted between his sword and his eye anxiously.

"But nonetheless in his possession," Bradley countered nonchalantly. "I trust he'll be further into the barrow, correct?"

The bandit nodded slowly. "Aye, sir. Him and Harknir. They went further in."

Bradley silently made a count of the bandits thus far, frowning. "There's a few more than your friend in the tower mentioned," he mused, a dangerous glint in his eye. "It's a funny thing; you're starting to sound a lot like him."

Her hands started to quiver. "The bodies- You saw them, right? They were dead when we sent them to the tower. H-he must not have counted them when you, uh, talked."

Bradley pursed his lips, tilting his head. "A fair enough assumption," he mused. "You're putting up a valiant effort to save your life. Commendable."

She swallowed again, keeping her mouth shut now.

Bradley shrugged, smiling once again. "But, since you are just a bandit..."

The bandit's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak.

Only to choke on her own blood. She hadn't even seen him slash through her throat.

As she collapsed to the ground, Bradley flicked the blood from his blade, returning it to his sheath. He glanced at the chest sitting by some rubble, frowning. It was clearly locked, and he had at least two bandits to catch up to. He'd just have to wait for whatever resources were within.

With a sigh, he marched down into the twisting depths of the barrow.

For a few minutes, he found next to nothing. Some tables bearing burial urns, a single stamina potion he was happy to snatch up, and quite a few halls that had completely caved in, leaving only one route forward. This place must have been quite extensive once, but now...

He paused as he came upon a doorway leading into a larger chamber. Within, he spotted another bandit faced with a portcullis and a lever on the floor. There was also some rubble lying there, a statue in the shape of a bearded man with his mouth wide open, the image of a snake contained in his jowls. Apparently it had fallen from where it hung on the wall above.

Bradley just stood there, watching the bandit approach the lever. He was completely unimpressed when darts shot out from the walls the second the bandit pulled the device.

He shook his head, strolling in as the dying bandit collapsed to the ground. He held his hands behind his back, studying his surroundings.

To his left, there were three pillars, each bearing three animal images on their sides; an eagle, a snake, and a whale. To his right, there was a staircase leading to a platform above the portcullis, where two statues much like the one below hung. One bore another snake, and the other a whale. And according to the damage on the wall, the statue lying on the ground had hung between the pair above.

Lucan had lost the claw to a bunch of lowlifes who couldn't solve a child's puzzle. What a lovely thought.

Soon, he had solved it, and strolled through to gather the jewels and book he'd spotted on the other side. Upon inspection, the book appeared to be titled Thief, authored by someone named Reven. If nothing else, it would at least give his too imaginative brain something to focus on other than the traumatic experience that was his arrival here. The jewels, on the other hand, he had never seen before in his life. They were both a milky pink stone of some sort, and, for some reason unbeknownst to him, they gave him an odd sense of deja vu.

Whatever the case, he stuffed all three into his pack, as well as the few gold coins in the chest beside them. It was now time to descend the... oddly intact wooden staircase heading down.

He scowled at the stairs, drawing his steel blade once again as he approached them. Nothing seemed to be coming up to greet him, but he could hear the distinct sound of rats scurrying around below. And if they were anything like the expired creatures up top...

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, his suspicions were vindicated. Three giant, black rats were patrolling around a stone table, which lay between him and a wide tunnel venturing further down. One of the rats spotted him and let out a screech, alerting the others to Bradley's presence even as it charged directly at him.

It was over in two strikes. One beheaded the first rat, and the other severed the spines of the remaining pair. With a sigh, Bradley shook off the rat blood, inspecting the items laying on the table. A grey bottle and a scroll of some sort. Carefully, he picked up the bottle. No label this time. With a frown, he popped the cork off and gave it an experimental sniff. Whatever it was, it was either a medicine or a poison, and Bradley suspected it was the latter.

He pushed the cork back in, pocketing the bottle as he examined the scroll now. Was it some kind of message? Or was it some sort of hidden lore? Perhaps it could even be a spell of some kind. It did bear the same flame symbol as the books he'd learned the Flame and Frostbite spells from.

Bradley decided to fully investigate these items later, shoving them into his pack along with the rest of his loot. He had one final bandit to catch up to, after all. The Arvel fellow the woman had spoken of. At least, he assumed it was Arvel who remained, since none of the bandits he'd come across were elves of any kind.

As he marched forth into the tunnel, a far off, desperate voice called out, "Is someone out there? Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

Bradley rolled his eyes. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. The tunnel ended up ahead, but there was a passage leading off to the left, to a doorway filled with some of the strongest webbing he'd ever set eyes on.

"I know I ran ahead with the claw," the forlorn voice continued in Bradley's silence. "But I need help!"

Bradley sighed. The fact that this latest obstacle would take two swings to get rid of was annoying enough. Now he had a bandit begging for his life from those he had most likely attempted to betray not an hour ago. The entire bandit operation reeked of desperation and idiocy. How they'd managed to get this far was beyond his comprehension.

With a snicker-snack of the sword, the webbing fell away, allowing him passage into the wider chamber beyond. The walls were covered from top to bottom in the webs. Urns and several desiccated corpses (human and rat) were all fastened to the walls. And off to the left, past a pit covered with an iron gate, was a man much like Irileth, with coal black skin and red eyes, trapped in even more webbing within a doorframe.

And up above, through a tunnel blanketed in yet more webbing, the largest spider Bradley had ever laid eyes on was descending to the ground at a most upsetting speed.

The elf trapped in the doorway screamed, bucking against the sticky substance restraining him. "KILL IT, KILL IT!" he cried out at the top of his lungs.

Bradley drew his other blade, staring down the foul creature as it settled all eight legs on the ground. Fear wasn't exactly an emotion the homunculus was familiar with. And as the spider spat out a ball of poison at him, he decided that he hated it.

He leaned far off to the side, allowing the liquid to splatter on the wall behind him as he charged the beast. Thankfully, the creature had seen fit to not coat the floor itself in the sticky webbing, just leaving enough to inform it of when dinner arrived.

Snick. A leg fell away, and the spider stumbled back in pain and confusion. Snickety. Both blades were buried in the beast's eyes. The spider froze in place, twitching, then collapsed to the floor.

Bradley growled, drawing his swords from the corpse, stepping away from it. For a human, realizing one has a phobia is one thing. But for Bradley, it was completely unacceptable. Infuriating, even. He took a few deep breaths, attempting to steady himself.

"You did it," the trapped elf said, cutting into Bradley's moment. "You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up?"

Bradley slowly turned towards Arvel, his blue eye narrowed and twitching. He took another deep breath, casually strolling towards the elf. "The Golden Claw," he said, his voice an icy calm. "Where is it?"

Arvel nodded emphatically. "Yes. The Claw. I know how it works. The Claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories? I know how they all fit together! Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the nords have hidden here."

Bradley halted two paces away, sheathing his iron blade. "I assume you have the claw on you, then?"

"Yeah, yeah, I have it," Arvel confirmed. "Now cut me down already-"

Snicker-snack. Webbing fell away, and Arvel hit the ground. His head, on the other hand, hung still, frozen in an oblivious, delirious grin, dripping blood onto his own corpse below.

Bradley breathed a sigh, leaning down to examine the bandit's belongings. He hadn't necessarily needed to kill the elf in such an undignified manner, but God, did it feel good.

Not only did Arvel have the claw, but a journal as well. A very short journal, apparently started directly after they had stolen the claw and established their base here. When Bradley's eye fell on the words the solution is in the palm of your hands, he squinted, picking up the claw and examining it.

It was a beautiful piece, made of pure gold, in the shape of a dragon's claws. And in its palm were three symbols; a bear, a moth, and an owl.

More children's puzzles. No wonder Arvel had thought this would be so easy. All of the dangerous beasts that had made their way in here over the ages, and the best security the ancient nords could come up with were children's puzzles hooked up to poison darts. Would wonders never cease?

He barely paid notice to his surroundings as he delved deeper into the barrow. Wreckage here, some urns there, several funerary implements scattered about willy nilly. There were a few more of the strange, pink stones he made sure to grab, but apparently grave robbers had picked this place pretty clean.

And then he arrived in a long hall, lined with open coffins in the walls. Each was occupied by an armored figure, all seemingly mummified over the years, and all clutching jagged, black weapons. He saw that the hall turned off to the right, into some kind of semi-hidden spike trap.

Bradley shook his head, marching forward. Obvious traps, mummified remains. The security measures in this place seemed to boast more bark than bite. He found them completely unimpressive.

And then one of the corpses moved.

He stopped, turning to stare as one of the bodies dragged itself off of its stone shelf, growling as it drew a large axe from its back. Its eyes glowed a dull blue, glaring hatefully into his own.

This world had thrown Bradley for a loop with its abnormally large creatures, to be sure. But a corpse was a corpse, and did not simply rise from the dead to slay the living.

But, here he was, in a room with not one, but three undead warriors rising to greet him.

One opened its mouth, croaking out, "Dir volaan," as it raised its sword and shield, charging Bradley with the intent to kill.

Now, Bradley was shocked by this development, of course. Who wouldn't be in his place? But, while the undead were certainly moving, they were about as sluggish as a normal man.

And the homunculus would not be caught off guard by anything moving that slowly.

Bradley sidestepped the shield bash, smoothly decapitating the warrior. He scrunched up his face as the scent of rotting flesh hit him, but he was quite pleased to see the light in its eyes wink out as it crumpled to the ground.

He ducked a blow from the first warrior's axe, glaring as it let out a guttural laugh.

"Faaz! Paak! Dinok!" the warrior yelled, raising the axe over its head to deal a downward slash.

That was the problem with large, heavy weapons. You ended up telegraphing your next move. Especially when your opponent perceived events occurring in milliseconds.

As the axe came down, Bradley simply sidestepped once again, slicing off both arms at the elbow, just as the axe hit the stone floor with a clash of metal.

Then the third made itself known, Bradley dodging its well aimed arrow at the last second. He grit his teeth as it cackled, readying another arrow. With a quick spin, Bradley permanently dealt with the one he'd just disarmed, and used the momentum of his swing to throw the blade directly at the archer. It slid into the undead creature's eye, knocking it back. The lights left its eyes, and the battle was over.

Bradley sighed, retrieving his blade as he swept his eyes across the shelves. None of the other corpses were moving, which was nice, if a touch unsettling.

He rolled his shoulders, now inspecting the weaponry laying before him. Interestingly enough, despite its age, the craftsmanship seemed to be on par with the modern steel blade he'd acquired earlier (if a bit more painful for those on the other end). So, he happily switched the last iron blade for one of the black, jagged swords.

The spike trap was easy enough to avoid, as it was triggered by a rather obvious stone in the middle of the hall. To be fair, it was in the best spot to catch people off-guard. Especially if it was an instant release.

Still, this was no time to test such things. He had work to do.

In the next chamber, three more corpses rose from their resting places. Unfortunately for them, they had lost all of their shock value, and were dealt with quickly.

Of course, that was when the next complication came up. The door to the next hallway was blocked by a trio of swinging axes.

Bradley paused, watching them for a moment. Perhaps the nords had more subtlety than he'd given them credit. It was an obvious trap, yes, but unlike the other two security measures they'd put up thus far, to avoid this one required skill and speed. Two qualities he had in abundance.

He waited for the perfect moment, then launched himself through the blades. They swung back down, slicing through nothing but air. With a sigh, Bradley glanced back over his shoulder, locking his eye on the chain by the doorway. It narrowed, then darted around the area.

Well, he couldn't see anything else it could trigger... Experimentally, he pulled it.

The blades slid smoothly into the wall, and he heard a series of clicks as they all locked into place. Rather convenient, he thought to himself, turning to stroll down the hall once more.

Clang. Clang. Thunk. Smack. The great balcony of Dragonsreach was alive with the sound of guards training. Irileth nodded as she marched up and down the rows of sparring partners clad in the honey gold of Whiterun Hold. The training program they had wasn't up to her standards, but still. These soldiers would serve their hold and their Jarl well during these tumultuous times.

She heard the sound of an exceptionally hard hit and an accompanying roar of effort and frustration. With a frown, the housecarl turned to face the source of the noise.

Ah. It was Lydia again, battering her poor sparring partner with powerful blows, and expertly keeping him from counterattacking with well timed smacks with her shield. Irileth sighed, shaking her head as she approached them.

"All weapons down," she called out, her voice loud enough to be heard in the Wind District. "You're dismissed for lunch."

As the guards all put up their weapons and dispersed, Irileth was certain to grab Lydia's shoulder. "Join me," she said motioning to the table all the way to the back, overlooking the countryside.

Lydia froze, her eyes wide as they darted between the table and Irileth. "Are you certain, housecarl?" she asked, a rare note of uncertainty tainting her voice.

"That was an order, Lydia," Irileth answered, releasing the girl and marching towards the food laden table. "We need to talk. Now." Her voice wasn't harsh, per se, but there was just enough iron in it to get her point across. Or, so she hoped. Humans were still difficult for her to understand, even if she could predict their actions.

Lydia followed, after a second's hesitation. Irileth sat at the foot of the table, while the young nord warrior sat beside her.

"Help yourself," Irileth said, filling the plate before her with some food.

"Right," Lydia answered with a nervous nod, hesitantly making her own selection.

After a few seconds of awkward chewing, Irileth swallowed and cleared her throat. "I couldn't help but notice your... aggression back there."

Lydia's eyes narrowed in confusion. "No more aggression than any bandit would show," she pointed out.

"True," the elf acquiesced. "However, we can't have the Hold's guards getting themselves injured during training. Especially if the dragons are returning to Skyrim."

The girl winced. "Good point."

Irileth sighed heavily, her mind slipping down memory lane.

Irileth stood before a burning farmhouse. She was accompanied by four Hold Guards. Some bandits had chosen to attack the place while they were out on patrol. She'd gotten there too late. Too many bandits had escaped justice. Only two lay dead before them, along with the pair of farmers they'd killed beforehand.

Irileth clenched her fist, glaring down at the bandit corpses. The Great War had taken too much of a toll on Skyrim's armed forces. The Hold Guards were spread too thin. And, of course, this was the moment bandits had decided to appear in Whiterun Hold, bringing death and destruction to its people.

Of course, this was only the beginning. She'd lived long enough to see the signs. And even then, anyone could see that Ulfric's troublemaking ways would come back to bite them all.

A raw, muffled scream her out of her dour musings, and she snapped her gaze to the house. "There's a survivor," she barked out. "Sounds like a kid. Break down the door; get her out of there already!"

The guards quickly rushed to do as told, though their pace slowed the closer they got to the house. Of course. They didn't have her ancestor-blessed resistance to flame.

"Oh, for the love of-" she growled, charging forward as she drew her blade. One powerful thrust, and she'd dislodged the lock and doorknob entirely. When the door didn't give way immediately, she shoulder bashed it until it did so.

In the center of the burning house sat a girl atop a corpse, raising a dagger above her head as she drove it into the former bandit's eyes over and over again. Her face was a contorted mask of fear and rage, a sentiment that was mirrored in the wordless bellows that issued from her lungs. Tears and blood from a cut on her forehead dripped steadily down.

Irileth stared in amazement, then shook her head. No. She could ask questions later. She stepped forward, sheathing her blade and wrapping an arm around the girl's waist. The girl reacted violently, of course, so the elf tightened her grip before the traumatized child could turn around.

"Calm down," she ordered. "I am not a bandit, and this one is most certainly dead."

The girl stopped, slowly turning her tear filled gaze towards the elf.

"Breathe," Irileth told her, not releasing the girl as she stood and marched out the door. "Slowly."

The girl hiccupped, taking in a shuddering breath. It came out as a broken sob. As Irileth loosened her grip, the girl turned around as much as she could, embracing the elf as she started to weep. It didn't sound pretty, and Irileth was certain the girl would leave more than a little mucus behind.

Still, the housecarl held the girl as tight as she could, marching as far away from that house as possible. "It's alright," she lied soothingly. "You're safe now." At least that was the truth.

That girl sat before her now. Irileth had taken Lydia in, offering her to Balgruuf as a possible successor to herself. Of course, her old friend had agreed with the farce, and she'd trained Lydia herself, ensured that she knew everything there was to being a Housecarl. Lydia would never be a victim again.

Still, that rage had sat with the girl the entire time. Building and building within her, threatening to explode at any moment. And Irileth couldn't blame her.

After all, Irileth failed to find the rest of the bandits that had done this to Lydia.

She sighed once more. "Listen," she said, taking a hold of her mug of ale. "I've discussed things with the Jarl, and we agree that we have found a candidate for the next Thane of Whiterun."

Lydia's brow furrowed. "I... Don't follow, ma'am."

Irileth snorted. "Come now, that Thane is going to need a Housecarl, are they not?"

The girl's eyes widened as understanding set it. And narrowed as some internal conflict followed. "But... What if something happens to you? What about my responsibilities here?"

This time, Irileth couldn't resist the temptation to roll her eyes. "Please, all you do here is train and drive yourself stir-crazy."

Lydia blushed and spluttered. "I- I do not!" she protested, both too quickly, and too loudly.

Irileth raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, then. What else does Lydia do in her ample spare time?"

The girl glanced away, picking up her mug. "I... Read," she muttered, starting to chug the thing.

"And?" Irileth prompted, patiently waiting.

Lydia set her mug down, taking a deep breath as she took a moment to consider the question. "... I read..."

The elf pinched her nose with a sigh. "Look, you and I both know I'm probably going to outlive you, gods willing."

"Gods willing," Lydia agreed.

Irileth nodded, letting her hand drop. "So, logically, there's not really any need for you here. Having you as my successor was just an excuse to raise and train you." Gods, did the girl need everything spelled out for her? Well, the soft things, at least?

Lydia blinked, slowly turning to stare at Irileth. Tears formed in her eyes, and she scrunched her face up, refusing to release them. "I..." she said, cringing at the breaks in her voice.

Irileth sighed again, reaching out and taking Lydia's hand. "Lydia," she said, frowning as her own eyes started to tear up (gods, Lydia'd picked this up from her, hadn't she?). "I am not your mother, nor have I ever pretended to be." She took a deep breath to steady herself, meeting Lydia's gaze. "However, if there has ever been a moment that you felt as if I didn't love you, that was my failure. Not yours."

Lydia slowly nodded, a single tear falling as she fought to compose herself.

Irileth fought against the instinctive chuckle. They were far too alike. Far too awkward. And neither of them knew what to do with their emotions.

She cleared her throat as Lydia's breathing returned to normal, releasing the girl's hand. "Now," she said with a sniff, "To be clear, nothing has been finalized. The prospective Thane could still fail the assessment."

Lydia nodded, taking a sniff herself. "Of course, Housecarl."

"In the meantime," Irileth continued with a wry smile, "Would you mind easing up on the guards a bit? I was being serious about that."

Lydia snorted, shaking her head. "Of course. Sorry, Housecarl."

Irileth's eyes rolled again. "You know my name, Lydia."

The girl's eyes shone as she grinned. "That I do, Housecarl."

The elf sighed heavily snatching her drink once more. "You're impossible sometimes."

Bradley was getting a little tired of the dead at this point. They were far clumsier than most living soldiers, and far less dangerous than the chimeras. They were certainly nothing in the face of the homunculus. Hell, he had only known of their existence for an hour or so, and he was already quite bored with the concept. There was no challenge to be found here; just a casual stroll through the crypt.

Which seemed to go on forever. Seriously, how deep did one need to dig before they decided enough was enough? This was a crypt for the dead! A place of no strategic advantage whatsoever, save for its positioning over Riverwood and what it could be repurposed into. Which could have been the bandits' original idea, now that he took a second to think of it. It would've been the first good one they'd had thus far.

Still, he couldn't help but be relieved when he finally saw it. An empty hall bearing strange, ornate carvings of some ancient story of some sort on the walls. And at the end, a massive door. At the top were three half rings, each bearing a the image of a moth, a bear, and an owl respectively. And in the center was the most obvious keyhole, if one imagined the Golden Claw as the key.

Bradley approached the door with a sigh, pulling off his pack and digging for the Claw. He knew the code, that much was child's play. But how to arrange the rings?

Experimentally, he pressed on the innermost half ring. It gave a little, and as he released the pressure, it turned before his eyes. It amused him so much, he actually laughed of his own accord. Despite the childish presentation, this door was truly a marvel of ancient engineering. A secret lost to time, no doubt; but the fact that the "nords" had built this place at one point was baffling. One of the many contradictions that made him uncertain if he liked humans or hated them.

With that moment past, Bradley input the code, pressing the Golden Claw into the centerpiece. He fiddled experimentally, but backed away as the door began to tremble. With a shake and the grinding of stone against stone, the door slowly lowered, revealing the cavern within even as bats shot out of the open space.

Bradley ducked the accidental onslaught and chuckled, packing the Claw away once more. The bats cleared away just as the door disappeared into the floor below. He stepped inside, climbing the stony hill to its precipice.

He had to duck another swarm of bats just as he crested it, but they did not obscure the altar dominating this natural chamber. It seemed dedicated to the stone coffin that sat atop it, though it did not bear any ornamentation he hadn't seen before. In fact, none of the coffins had any, which struck him as odd but probably more efficient than... Whatever he'd thought they would have (which he wasn't certain of anyways).

This coffin sat between a large chest and some sort of table, bearing a few items. To the left were some stairs leading up to yet another tunnel. But none of that was as interesting as what lay behind them.

There was a large slab of stone there; more a wall, curved, smoothed out, and carved with several lines of a script he did not recognize. And a few of the letters; bunched up as if to indicate a word; were glowing a bright blue. Small tendrils of what he assumed were magical energy spat out from the carved lettering from time to time.

Bradley narrowed his eye as he approached, crossing the stream that spanned the width of the cavern. He desperately hoped this was not the Dragonstone. If it was, he had no idea how he could get it to Farengar at all. Perhaps he would be fine with a report?

He paused on the altar steps, straining his ears. Was that... faint chanting he heard? Coming from the wall?

His eye widened as he realized it wasn't. It was... more like harmonized grunting. And was that a drum in the background? Horns?

What in the name of all that was holy was going on here?

He narrowed his eye again, stubbornly continuing his march to the wall even as he drew the ancient nord blade. Whatever nonsense God had to throw at him this time, he would face it head on. Even if it had been only in name, he was King Bradley, Fuhrer of Amestris. And he was most certainly Wrath the Furious.

He quickly came to regret this decision.

As he got close, his vision suddenly blurred, the single word filling his sight even as the energy poured out of the letters, wrapping itself around him. The unseen choir broke into a triumphant chorus of incoherent song even as he stumbled in his shock.

And something in his brain clicked. The word that even now blinded him; it was Fus. It translated into Force. But how did he know this? How could he read it so clearly?

His vision cleared and the choir finally ceased their song, falling blessedly silent. He shook his head leaning against the wall for support as he caught his breath.

But before he could even begin to process what the hell just happened, he heard the coffin lid flying off, and the sound of dessicated limbs extracting themselves from the container they should have stayed in.

Oh, good. Combat. This he could do. This he could deal with. He took a deep breath and turned towards the now standing undead creature.

This one seemed... different, somehow. A little more... well preserved, even. The muscles beneath the rotting skin seemed more defined than the others' had. The hateful gaze more aware, more wary.

And the blade of his great, black axe was blanketed in blue frost, which seemed to slowly pulse with dim light as he watched it.

Bradley's eye narrowed, and he drew the steel blade, adjusting his grip on the ancient sword as he did so. Just because he had been blindsided by the wall meant nothing in this combat. This warrior meant nothing, save for another obstacle to overcome.

As if this world existed to spite Bradley, the warrior responded by puffing his chest up and bellowing, "FUS RO DAH!"

Bradley's eye widened even before the warrior finished. He'd heard those words before. Back in Helgen, just before Ralof had shepherded him to the tower. How? How could this mummified human control the same powers as a dragon?

No, he had no time to contemplate this. The wall of what he now knew to be pure force was coming, and he needed to beat it. He darted towards the stairs, pushing himself as hard as he had on the train. His old joints silently screamed in protest, but he grit his teeth and pushed.

No undead freak against nature would get the better of Wrath the Furious. The very thought was all the fuel he needed.

It was just enough.

The draugr; for he could only assume these were the draugr that terrified Hadvar; growled as Bradley escaped the attack. It raised its axe, charging him at full speed.

It's certainly faster than the others, Bradley thought as he readied himself. More coordinated to boot. He smirked, watching the warrior bring the axe head down on him.

It's still not enough.

Having found his rhythm once more, Bradley sidestepped the blow, swinging the ancient sword upwards. It sliced through the ancient flesh, right up the creature's middle and knocking off its helmet. The flesh split open, releasing the most foul stench that had ever graced his nostrils.

Even as he cringed at the smell, Bradley couldn't help but notice that the thing hadn't split in half. Even now, it was letting out a gargled laugh as it adjusted its grip. It wanted to try a beheading this time. It was infuriating, yet somehow the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.

Bradley ducked the swing, driving both of his blades up and into the creature's guts. He twisted and tore them out, letting the rotting innards spill out.

The creature grunted, giving up on the target and simply swinging its axe at Bradley with all its might. Naturally, he leapt back a short distance, sheathing one of his swords. A ball of flame appeared in his hand, and the homunculus wasted no time in letting the spell loose on the draugr.

Flames licked at the exposed insides, and the draugr fell to its knees, clutching its open stomach. It met Bradley's gaze as its flesh melted away, only managing to say two words before finally dropping to the ground.

"Daanik Kendov," it spat, almost as if swearing, just before all the tendons connecting its bones melted away, and the light in its eyes blinked out.

Bradley sighed, dismissing the spell and sheathing his last blade. Now that combat had been concluded, he needed a new distraction from the wall he now refused to look at.

Besides, he'd spotted the stone tablet within the coffin already. Finally, he could put this god-awful place behind him.

Rulindil did not scowl as he watched Elenwen ride up to the Embassy gates. But he certainly did feel like it.

Ever since her arrival, he'd silently questioned the need for it. Certainly, he understood the need for their rebel project to continue here, but did she really need to be doing all this blatant micromanaging and not so obvious manipulation? She was the First Emmisary, for Auri-El's sake! Just because she'd started Ulfric on the path didn't mean she had to keep managing the path itself. That had been supposed to be his glory. And now, he had news she had ordered him to share as soon as he had it. And she had the gall to arrive so late?

But none of that had ever left his lips. Never written down once. The only place those sentiments existed were within his own mind.

And Elenwen couldn't send spies into there.

He frowned as she got closer, though. For Elenwen's normally smug or infuriated face was... blank. Completely and utterly devoid of emotion. And stranger yet, there was no sign of Ulfric Stormcloak. No Imperial Legionaire escorts. Just a single altmer on a horse.

She then caught his expression, and her eyes narrowed. "And what exactly are you staring at?" she demanded, reining in her steed. "Do you not have more vital assignments to attend to than simply ogling your superiors?"

Rulindil cleared his throat, ignoring the golden armored guards as they opened the gate. "My apologies, Emmisary," he answered cordially. "But I cannot help but notice the lack of Stormcloak prisoners."

Elenwen rolled her eyes, climbing down from the horse. "I see I've beaten the gossip," she grumbled, handing the reins off to a passing guard.

Rulindil's eyes narrowed, but only for a second. "Ah, gossip, your grace?"

"The debacle at Helgen," she responded. "If you had heard the news, it would all you could talk about. And rightfully so."

Rulindil cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm... afraid I'm still in the dark, your grace."

Elenwen nodded. "Yes, and that is because I have yet to explain what occurred, Rulindil. It's a simple enough concept to grasp."

Rulindil bit his lip. No. He would not rise to this smug little bitch's bait. He was a fully grown elf. He was better than that.

Besides, losing his temper with her would result in his immediate execution. That sort of put a damper on any rebellious inclinations.

Still, he had to say something. So he settled with a cordial, "Of course, madam. How silly of me."

Elenwen scoffed, but then her face returned to the emotionless state from before. "A dragon has destroyed Helgen," she said solemnly.

Rulindil froze in shock. Had... had he heard that correctly? "A... Dragon, your grace?" They were on the porch now. A Thalmor wizard was opening the door for them, and Elenwen was strolling in.

She nodded, then seemed to notice he had stopped following. With a scowl, she turned around with a glare reserved for him. "Do not give me that look," she growled. "By this time tomorrow, the news will have spread to Cyrodiil."

"But- mistress Elenwen," he protested, catching up once again and allowing the door to close, shutting out the damnable cold. "No one has seen a dragon since the First Era!"

She snorted, pulling off her gloves and handing them to some bosmer servant. "Funny, I thought I had a front row seat to the first dragon attack in thousands of years."

Rulindil bit his lip again, pondering the conundrum. "... How would this even effect the war?" he asked hesitantly.

Elenwen frowned, her frow furrowing in thought. "I am uncertain," she begrudgingly admitted. "However, it did render your rescue mission redundant."

His mood actually brightened at her words. "So the asset escaped?"

She nodded, then grimaced. "As did Tullius, unfortunately."

"Ah, well." Rulindil shrugged. "You can't win them all, I suppose."

"Indeed," Elenwen agreed. "Now, you were ready to greet me at the gate. I assume that means you have news of your own."

Ah, yes. He fought the smug smirk that threatened to spread across his face. "Good news, actually," he said with a nod. "I believe we have a solid lead on the location of the Loremaster."

Elenwen froze, turning to him once again. "If this is true," she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, "Than this is indeed good news."

"He did have a treasure trove of dragon lore," Rulindil pointed out, finally allowing the smirk to show. He knew there was no need to say anything of the sort. But the altmer were nothing if not a dramatic people. What else would a hierarchy of magical might and nefarious politicking produce?

"He did, didn't he?" she asked, a sinister grin spreading across her own face. "What sort of lead is this, Rulindil?"

He dug into his belt satchel, producing a sketch of a young, nord man. "Etienne Rarnis," he explained, handing it over. "A member of the failing Thieves' Guild. Our agents in the region have reason to believe this man dealt with the old man and helped provide him with shelter."

"We do not know where he stashed him?" Elenwen asked, studying the sketch carefully.

Rulindil shook his head. "He won't talk willingly," he answered. "And our Observer isn't in a position to change that."

"Understood," she said with a nod, handing the sketch back. "Send in our agents, but wait for an opportunity to quietly apprehend him. We don't want our Observer compromised."

Rulindil bowed his head. Those were his plans anyways, but she didn't need to know that. "Of course, Emissary."

Elenwen gave him a quick nod, turning on her heel and marching down the hall. "In the meantime," she announced, "I'm going to take the longest, hottest bath of my life. Some of Helgen is still clinging to my hair, and if I don't rid myself of it soon, I'm going to lose my mind."

If only, Rulindil thought, heading off to his own quarters. If only.

Chapter Text

Sleep. That was all the ancient mind knew now. Millenia of sleep had driven it into the vast unconscious landscape of imagination. Far, far away from the nord warriors that had forced it into slumber.

But now, something was disturbing that slumber. Something distant, but powerful. It could hear the caller's voice, even now. It distracted the mind, as well as the dream creatures it was hunting.

"Mirmulnir,"  the voice was saying. "Zil gro dovah ulse!"

That was strange. It could recall the voice, somehow. Someone important. And that name, that was its own name! But who was calling?

Something cracked as the voice called out, "Slen Tiid Vo!"

Recollection jumpstarted as the dreamscape fell away to the waking world. Great, leathery wings spread, cracking the dry, frozen ground holding the great beast down, tossing it away in shockingly hot chunks. Scales and flesh grew around bones so ancient, they had been all but forgotten. And great, yellow eyes opened to the sight of a great, black dragon hovering above the beast, glaring down at it with an expression every dragon had known from birth.

Submit or die.

Mirmulnir the mighty bowed his great head to the Eldest One. "Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleysejun kruziik?"

The World Eater smiled, showing off every last one of his razor sharp teeth.

The Age of Dragons had returned.

Ralof sat by the fire, watching the flames lick away at the logs that served as fuel. He was supposed to be resting. His watch was coming up, and he didn't need to risk dozing off in the middle of it.

But sleep had not claimed him. His mind was too full of dark thoughts for that. The dragon sighted over Riverwood. Tullius probably scheming with his Thalmor overlords. And the one-eyed stranger...

He could still see it, as clear as day. The expression on the man's face as he judged Ralof and his uniform, and found both wanting. Why? What was the man after? What were his goals? Why was he even there?

He heard Throrn's form move in the other bedroll and sighed, rolling over to face the man. "You should be sleeping," he pointed out with a small, forced smile.

Throrn snorted, not turning to meet Ralof's gaze. "So should you, sir," he grunted in response.

Ralof chuckled, turning to stare at the ceiling. "First, the cowards of the Empire force Ulfric into rebellion," he mused. "Then, this stranger appears in our midst."

"And then," Throrn muttered in dark amusement, "As if that's not enough, the dragons return to threaten our homes." He groaned as he sat up, shaking his head. "It's as if the gods hate us or... something."

It was Ralof's turn to snort. "Let's hope it's something, then," he said, finding one stalactite in particular quite interesting.

Throrn made a noise and started to dig into his pack.

Ralof frowned, watching in mild curiosity and confusion. "What is it?"

"I just remembered," Throrn answered, pointedly not looking in Ralof's direction. "You told me to look through Gunern's officer's pockets. I found a note."

Ralof sat up himself, his eyes narrowing at the warrior. "And you're telling me this now?"

Throrn's cheeks turned pink. He pulled out a folded scrap of paper, turning to glare at Ralof. "Well, pardon me, sir. I was a little distracted by the massacre and, oh, I don't know, the thrice-damned dragon?"

Ralof sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, holding out a hand. "Have you read it, yet?"

Throrn passed the paper over with a shake of his head. "No, sir. Again, I was a little preoccupied."

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Ralof unfolded the paper, and began to read.

To General Galmar Stone-Fist,

I have glanced over your plans to rescue your leader, and agree that while they are solid enough on their own, you require a reliable escape route.

Luckily, the location of the operation was gracious enough to provide one. There is an extensive barracks building; the largest building in the entire village. You will need to traverse all the way down to its prison at the bottom. At its rear, in the deepest part of the building, there is a wall that should break with a few, powerful blows from, say, a battleaxe or a warhammer.

Once this wall is broken down, it should open up the path to freedom. My source's information ends there, but it should be more than enough to guarantee the operation's success.

I wish you all luck. You are true sons and daughters of Skyrim, and I wish with all my heart to one day carry a fourth of your courage within me.

- R

Ralof frowned, his brow furrowing as he read the note. Who was this R? What kind of source had they held within Helgen? Had they known about the stranger? The dragon? Still, if if Ulfric's right hand man, Galmar, trusted them, then surely all was fine.

Right?

"Everything alright, sir?" Throrn asked hesitantly.

Ralof didn't answer. He simply folded the paper, staring into the fire once again. It really was as if the gods hated them. Or something. And he gave a silent prayer to Talos that it was, indeed, something.

Both men leapt to their feet as they heard the bridge leading to the back of the mine creak, their hands on their axes. And both breathed a sigh of relief when Gunern's face appeared over the bridges above them.

The nord snorted as he gazed down at them. "You lot look like you've just seen a ghost," he joked, marching down the ramp towards them. "I hope you're not about to doze off, Throrn. It's your watch."

Throrn grumbled incoherently to himself, marching past Gunern in an obvious bad mood.

Gunern watched the man leave, then turned towards Ralof. "What's up with him?"

Ralof shrugged. "Been a rough few days," he pointed out gently. "Besides, I think he's a newer recruit."

"Aye, probably," Gunern relented, sitting down atop the vacated bedroll. He grimaced, gently closing the flap. "He also sweats," he grumbled. "Good thing the fire's going, eh?"

Ralof shrugged, holding the paper out to Gunern. "Take a look at this," he said.

Gunern frowned, accepting and unfolding the paper. He read slowly, mouthing the sounds. He then made a small noise and nodded. "So that's how we knew about the passage..."

"So you didn't read it either," Ralof concluded.

Gunern shook his head, handing it back. "Nope. And before you ask, I have no idea who that R is supposed to be."

Ralof grunted, shaking his head. "No," he said. "That was your unit. You should take it to Ulfric yourself."

The man frowned again. "What do you mean? You're not coming with us?"

"No," Ralof confirmed, staring into the fire once more. "Someone needs to make sure that stranger's watched. I'll be going to Riften; make sure that's taken care of."

Gunern grimaced. "That why you were talking with that bloody elf earlier?"

Ralof's eyes narrowed as he turned to regard Gunern. "The bosmer have suffered as much as we have, thanks to the Thalmor," he admonished harshly. "More so, even. And I'd appreciate it if you remembered that, soldier."

Gunern's face scrunched up to reflect his doubt, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, sir."

Ralof nodded in return. "Besides, I know this elf," he said, returning his gaze to he flames. "Works for my sister at the mill. He also hunts for the village. Not the strongest, but a good, reliable worker."

"Alright, I get it, sir," Gunern grumbled, laying down atop the bedroll. "But, uh, shouldn't you be getting to your watch, sir?"

Ralof was silent for a few moments. Then he sighed again, getting to his feet. "Get your rest," he told the other nord, his voice cold as a Skyrim winter. "We're leaving tomorrow, after all."

He knew Gunern was watching him all the way to the entrance tunnel. He didn't care.

Nords like Gunern were a necessary evil in the war against the Thalmor, after all.

Bradley was having a miserable night. He'd had to climb back down the mountain and hike all the way back to Riverwood. Whoever had made that exit clearly did not care for the state of one's knees when they'd designed it.

Still, he'd found some more gold and supplies in both chests he'd found. Little by little, his purse was growing heavier. A weight he was more than happy to carry, until he found something worth spending it on.

On the other hand, by the time he'd arrived at the Sleeping Giant Inn, he was completely exhausted. He barely registered the owner's suspicious looks as he rented a room from her. Barely heard her informing the big man at the bar of her trip the following morning.

No, he simply stumbled into his bed, almost completely forgetting to shut the door behind himself.

Sleep took its time to claim him. But when it did, it was complete and absolute.

That night, his mind decided to take him back through the conversations of the last dream. Except that it had all been jumbled up in an incoherent mess. His wife berating him, Pride criticizing him. The slap. The pain. All mixed up and melting together.

And then he was in the Gate once more. He was screaming his throat raw as something transmuted him. Over and over again. Little changes, tiny tweaks to his DNA itself. It was pain like none he had ever experienced.

Save for the moment the Philosopher's Stone entered his bloodstream.

"Silence, child," admonished the cheerful voice of God. "For this vessel to receive life in this way, it must be... adjusted."

Bradley did not obey. He physically couldn't, even if he wanted to. The pain of this transformation was driving the scream from his lungs.

And then, it stopped. He was allowed to breath again. His eyes opened, and he searched his surroundings for the offending deity.

Only to find himself in a landscape of stars. He was resting on a warm, pink cloud that billowed around him, lights shining from deep within.

Bradley found God again. It was standing on the cloud, not too far off. And its gaze was turned up towards the dragon.

The dragon was incomprehensibly humungous. Its wings spread out, blocking off half the "sky" with the leathery appendages. At first, he thought its scales were a deep scarlet. But as its head winded down towards God and Bradley, he could see its color changing with each light it passed through. Now it was gold. Now, silver. Black. White. Blue. Green. The changes were starting to hurt his eyes.

"Equivalent exchange," God said, grinning up at the dragon. "As we agreed."

The dragon stared at Bradley for what seemed like forever. Its golden eyes shone with an ancient, eldritch intelligence he could not possibly hope to comprehend. How he knew that, he could not even begin to guess.

And then it spoke.

YES, it said, though its jowls did not move. Bradley felt as if the mental voice was pressing him deeper into the cloud, preventing him from moving. THIS ONE WILL DO.

"I certainly hope so," God answered, his grin widening. "For what you're paying."

The dragon nodded, its eyes never leaving Bradley for a second. NAMELESS HUMAN, WRATH THE HOMUNCULUS. FOR YOUR CRIMES AGAINST YOUR OWN PEOPLE, YOU HAVE BEEN SENTENCED TO REINCARNATION.

God tilted its head, chuckling. "A little dramatic, don't you think?"

The dragon's eyes narrowed, though it only regarded God for a moment. YOU SHALL ENTER THE WORLD OF NIRN AS NO ONE. YOU SHALL BE DOOM-DRIVEN. It now raised a mighty claw, slowly reaching out towards Bradley's trembling, rage filled form.

YOU SHALL BE DOVAHKIIN.

The claw made contact. And Bradley's world became light and pain.

Bradley jerked as he awoke, slowly opening his eyes and glaring at the ceiling.

Now, his brain was coming up with stupid gobbledygook to cope with his new life. What a lovely thought. Certainly not a sign of a crumbling psyche at all.

He groaned, sitting up and reaching for his eyepatch. He would forget his dreams. Today was a new day, full of opportunity.

He briefly wondered if Lucan sold maps.

Faendal sat upon the Riverwood Trader's porch once again, watching the other villagers pass him by. He nodded politely to those who did so, casually chomping on his apple.

He liked Riverwood. It was no Valenwood tribe, but it was a nice enough place. For a nord village. Sure, Hod and Gerdur were basically open Stormcloak supporters, and he had Sven to contend with on a daily basis. But none of them had ever made him fear that the mere presence of an elf would make them break out the torches and pitchforks.

He'd traveled Skyrim extensively before settling down here. He knew how bad the nords could get. And as bad as Sven could be, Faendal actually found himself looking forward to their verbal spats. They'd become a sort of staple in Riverwood's daily entertainment, a fact that enraged the bard to no end. And enraging Sven had become his own personal favorite past time.

The door behind him opened, and he glanced over his shoulder. His heart raced, and he hoped he wasn't blushing.

There stood the most beautiful woman in the world. Camilla Valerius. With long, earthen brown hair she kept up neatly in a bun, skin as smooth as silk, and her eyes were gorgeous pools of forest green one could get lost in for ages.

He shoved down the sudden re-emergence of old, painful memories. This was no place for the ghosts of the past. Instead, he got to his feet, giving her a smile and a bow of the head. "Morning, Camilla," he said, as casually as he could. "And it's a lovely one. Not nearly as lovely as you, I'm afraid."

The woman giggled, barely hiding her smile behind a dainty hand. "Oh, always with the jokes," she teased, shaking her head. Then, her smile disappeared. "Any news on Bradley, yet?"

Faendal felt a pang of jealousy, but he pushed it down. Surely, the man was far too old for her to take an interest. Not when there was a semi-eternal elf right in front of her.

"No," he admitted. "But Orgnar said a one eyed man rented a room. Arrived late last night, looked about ready to collapse."

Camilla gasped. "Oh, dear," she muttered, turning to look at the Sleeping Giant's door. "I hope he's not too hurt. That silly claw isn't worth a life, no matter what Lucan says."

Faendal chuckled. "After seeing him fight, I can honestly say it was probably just exhaustion. I'm sure the old man's fine."

As if on cue, the inn door opened, and out stepped Bradley. He was taking a sip from his waterskin (newly purchased at the Riverwood Trader) just as he caught sight of the pair. "Ah, good morning," he called out, descending the porch steps. "I see you came down alright, Faendal."

The elf shrugged, smiling despite himself. He couldn't help but like the old man. He was smart, capable, and funny in that way only a retired grandfather could get. "Well, a dead wolf doesn't present that much of a challenge," he pointed out. "I see you survived the barrow."

Bradley grimaced at that, turning to gaze up the mountain. "You were right to fear the place," he grumbled. "But, I don't think the children of Riverwood will have anything to fear from its denizens for some time."

Camilla smiled and nodded. "Well, that's good. Those places are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else." She frowned, cupping her chin as she added, "I wonder why those bandits only stole Lucan's golden claw. I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin."

"Ah," Bradley exclaimed, taking off the pack. "There, I actually have an answer. You see, it was never about what was in your shop to begin with." He dug in the pack, producing some sort of old journal. "It's all in here," he said, handing it over. "Straight from the ringleader himself."

Camilla blinked as she accepted the book, slowly opening it up. Her eyes narrowed as she read, then widened. "So," she muttered, her eyes dancing over the lines again, "They just wanted to break into this... Hall of Stories? What was even inside?"

This time, Bradley didn't grimace. In fact, no expression showed on his face whatsoever. It was a stone hard gaze the man had fixed on some point over Camilla's left shoulder. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said in a low, deathly calm voice.

Camilla and Faendal exchanged a worried expression. Then, the woman cleared her throat awkwardly. "And... The claw?"

"Oh, I have that right here," the man answered jovially, reaching into his pack once again.

The journal snapped shut, and Camilla grabbed the man's arm. "Then why are you out here, wasting time like this," she asked harshly, though her face was beaming with joy. She pulled at him, like a little girl dragging along a hesitant parent. "Come on, he'll be so excited!"

"I- well," Bradley muttered in half-hearted protest. "There's no need to pull! I can get there on my own, you know."

Faendal shook his head, watching the love of his life drag the old man inside. What a woman.

And then, curiosity drew him inside.

Lucan was laughing as he accepted the claw from Bradley. "There it is," he proclaimed happily, turning it over in his hands. "Strange... It seems smaller than I remember. Funny thing, huh?"

Bradley smiled and went to say something, but then his eye wandered down to the claw and narrowed. His mouth closed as he studied it, and Faendal shivered.

If there was anything the elf desired, it was to never make Bradley look at him the way he was glaring at the claw. Right behind marrying Camilla.

Lucan missed Bradley's look, hurrying behind the counter. "I'm going to put this back where it belongs. I'll never forget this!" He set it on the counter, then beamed up at the man. "You've done a great thing for me and my sister."

Bradley nodded, his jovial mood not quite back in place. "It was a pleasure, Lucan. And, now..."

"Oh, right," Lucan said with a chuckle, reaching under the counter. "Spent half the night putting it together, only to go and forget it in the morning." He produced a fat sack of jingling septims, handing it over to Bradley. "Here you go. Feel free to spend as much of it as you want."

Faendal snorted. "Trying to coax a man out of his hard earned septims, Lucan? Isn't it bad enough he had to brave Bleak Falls Barrow for you?"

Lucan turned a fiery red, turning to face Faendal with a waggling finger. "Now, see here, you little squirrel-man-"

The elf snorted. "Squirrel-man? You're getting quite creative, Lucan. Sure you don't want to reconsider your career, put Sven out of a job?"

"Oh, ha-ha," Lucan grumbled, rolling eyes. "If you would kindly go away, now? You're bothering the customer."

Bradley cleared his throat, setting his pack on the counter. "Well, I do have a few things to sell," he said, much to Lucan's obvious chagrin. "But I do have one item in particular I'd like to get my hands on-"

Faendal chuckled, walking out the door once more. He had to get back to the mill, after all.

But not before he shot Camilla a quick wink and a wave.

Lucan hadn't possessed any maps. Apparently it wasn't a thing most would need in Riverwood. It was a relief to finally see an obstacle that made sense, and Bradley simply sold off most of what he'd gathered in the barrow.

But he'd kept the gemstones. They were a curiosity he intended to ask Farengar about. He hadn't bothered to mention them to Lucan, assuming he wouldn't know what they were.

He'd left soon after, accepting his and Camilla's thanks with a smile, and hit the road to Whiterun.

As he approached the gates, he turned to see the Khajiit watching him. He smiled and nodded, passing them by. It was good to know they were keeping to their schedule, as he'd probably have a chance to visit again.

But he was on a mission, with the Jarl's favor at stake. He wasn't certain what kind of hierarchy existed here, but both Whiterun and Riverwood owed their allegiances to Balgruuf, which made him at least somewhat important.

As he entered the city, he spotted yet another blonde nord speaking with a dark skinned woman. She was wearing a leather apron, and standing just outside of what was obviously a blacksmith's shop. Her arms were folded as she listened to the leather-armored man before her.

"We'll pay whatever it takes," he said, "But we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers."

The woman shook her head, sighing heavily. "I just can't fill an order that size on my own," she admitted, for what seemed to be the millionth time. "Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorland Grey-Mane?"

The man scoffed. "I'd rather bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak," he spat out. "Besides, Grey-Mane would never make steel for the Legion."

The woman sighed again, rolling her eyes. "Have it your way," she said, turning back to the forge. "I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle."

The man nodded, and the pair parted, leaving Bradley feeling a little like a voyeur. With a few more questions to add to the ever-expanding list.

He glanced around, then approached the blacksmith, clearing his throat.

The woman looked up from her work, frowning at him. "Can I help you? Got some good pieces, if you want to buy." She motioned to the building, adding, "More inside."

"Perhaps later," Bradley answered, waving a hand. "I couldn't help but overhear the tail end of your conversation with the departing gentleman. Would you mind indulging an old visitor's curiosity on the matter?"

She snorted, turning back to the forge. "There's not much to say," she answered, pumping the bellows. "That's Idolaf Battle-Born. He and his entire clan are supporters of the Empire. Meanwhile, the best blacksmith in the city is from Clan Grey-Mane, and they support the Stormcloaks. Therefore, I get a near impossible job to fulfill."

She glanced at Bradley again with a frown. "You wouldn't happen to know my father, would you? There can't be that many one eyed, Imperial warriors in Skyrim." She blinked, as if registering the insult. "Uh, no offense."

Bradley chuckled, tapping his eyepatch. "What, this thing? I keep forgetting it's gone!"

"... Right," she muttered, clearing her throat. "My father's the steward, up in Dragonsreach. And you wouldn't happen to be Bradley, would you?"

Bradley blinked in surprise. "I would be," he replied, "Though I'm sad to say I have yet to speak directly with your father, uh, Proventus. Yes?"

She smiled and nodded, stepping away from the forge again. "And I'm Adrianne. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"And you," Bradley said with a nod. "Do you work this forge all day?"

"Aye, that I do," she answered, gazing back at the forge with pride and determination. "I've got to, if I hope to be as good as Eorlund Grey-Mane some day." She then turned towards him, a look of consideration in her eye. "In fact," she muttered, "I've just finished my best work yet."

Bradley bowed his head to her. "Congratulations."

She nodded, grabbing a greatsword from where it sat upon some workbench. "It's this sword, right here," she said, beaming down at it. "I made it for the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater. It's a surprise, and..." Here, she blushed a little. "I don't even know if he'll accept it."

"I see," Bradley said simply. "That is quite the conundrum." At this point, he was just making noise. Why had he signed up for this conversation in the first place?

Oh, right. Learning more about Skyrim's political landscape. He'd almost forgotten. The stress and dreams were really getting to him, apparently.

"But... Listen," Adrianne said, turning towards Bradley. "Could you take this sword to my father? He should know when to present it to him."

Bradley considered it for a moment. She hadn't mentioned payment, so he probably couldn't expect any. On the other hand, getting on the Steward's good side couldn't hurt either.

Besides, he was already on his way up there anyways.

"But of course," he said, giving her a smile.

"Thank you." She handed him the sheathed blade with a heavy sigh. "And now, time to start that ridiculous order."

"Godspeed," Bradley answered as he turned away. "And good luck."

The rest of his trip upwards was uneventful, though he did take note of the preacher at the foot of Dragonreach's steps. He was an older man in orange robes, standing before the statue of a mighty warrior as he preached. A man apparently called Heimskr, as he proudly announced himself.

This was not the first of his speeches Bradley had sampled, and he had the distinct impression he'd heard these lines already. Still, the man had fervor and consistency, which the homunculus concluded was all one could hope for in a holy man. Besides, Heimskr seemed to be having a good time, and Whiterun seemed to function around him as if he wasn't there. Just another piece of the scenery.

Bradley marched up the stairs and into Dragonsreach itself, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. It was about lunchtime, and everyone; except for Farengar and Irileth; was seated at one of the two long tables laid out before the throne.

There were some new faces as well; three children and one man, who all just had to be related to Jarl Balgruuf in some way. Bradley took in this information, saving it for later. His eyes had fallen on Proventus, who was seated opposite the Jarl himself.

As Bradley approached, the nervous man caught sight of him and nodded. Proventus quickly chewed and swallowed his current mouthful, rising to his feet. "Welcome back to Dragonsreach, sir," he greeted. "How can I assist you, today?"

Bradley shot a glance to Balgruuf, who was in a heated discussion with the other man. Not paying attention to them at all. Good.

"I have a delivery for you," he said to Proventus, holding out the greatsword. "Your daughter sent this."

"Hmm?" Proventus asked, blinking as he stared dumbly at the blade. Then his eyes lit up with realization, and he accepted it. "Ah, this must be that weapon for the Jarl," he said quietly, giving the oblivious Balgruuf a quick look himself. "Poor girl," he muttered, slinging the thing over his back by its straps. "So eager to prove herself. I'll present it to Balgruuf when his mood is..." Another quick look. "... Agreeable."

"Of course," Bradley said with a nod, turning towards Farengar's lab. He'd noticed a stranger with the wizard who looked exactly like the innkeeper back in Riverwood. Perhaps this could explain the suspicious look she'd given him. They were both standing over his desk, where a book lay open before them.

"Thank you," Proventus said, digging in the satchel on his belt. "Here, take these coins. For services rendered."

Bradley kept his gaze on the lab for just a second longer before turning back to the Steward. "Of course, sir," he said, holding his hand out.

The homunculus happily stuffed twenty gold pieces into his ever growing purse as he closed the distance between himself and the lab. One last delivery, and he'd be free to do... Well, there wasn't much he could do except for gather information. And as great as these little gigs were, he was getting a little tired of being bounced from place to place like this. Certainly, he'd traveled extensively throughout Amestris, but there had always been a central point for him to return to.

Now, if there was a way to purchase or earn property...

"You see?" Farengar was asking excitedly. "The terminology is clearly First Era, or even earlier! I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text. Perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other, later texts."

The hooded woman in leather armor (a different make this time, though) nodded solemnly. "Good," she said, cementing her identity as the innkeeper. "I'm glad you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."

Bradley fought the smirk creeping up his face. Of course the woman was involved in some cloak and dagger nonsense. Of course, it was nonsense he was well versed in, so he felt perfectly qualified to judge the overly paranoid woman.

"Oh, have no fear," Farengar told her, waving a hand dismissively. "The Jarl has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research."

The woman folded her arms, glaring at the wizard from beneath her hood. "Time is running, Farengar, don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons have come back."

Farengar nodded, returning his gaze to the book itself. "Yes, yes. Don't worry," he assured her, right before cupping his hairless chin and thinking. "Although," he mused slowly, "The chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable." He then closed the book, turning towards the doors at the back. "Now, let me show you something else I found. Very intriguing. I think your employers may be interested as well..."

Deciding he had stalked enough, Bradley cleared his throat, now standing opposite the woman.

She looked up and studied him intently. He just smiled and gave her a nod, motioning to the still oblivious wizard.

The woman sighed, turning back to the retreating Farengar. "You have a visitor."

Farengar stopped in his tracks, whipping back around in confusion. "Hmm?" he asked, just before his eyes fell on Bradley. "Ah, yes," he said with a chuckle. "The Jarl's protégé! You didn't die, it seems!"

The woman and Bradley shared an exasperated look. The latter sighed, setting his pack on the desk. "That much seems apparent," Bradley noted dryly, pulling out the slab of stone.

"Ah," Farengar said, taking the object from Bradley. "The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! Seems you're a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way." He beamed at Bradley, motioning to the woman. "My... Associate, here," he said, after a moment of careful consideration, "Will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me."

The woman snorted, even as Farengar returned to her.

"So your information was correct after all," the wizard remarked. "And we have our friend here to thank for returning it to us."

The woman nodded, giving Bradley yet another appraising look. "You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that?" she asked, motioning to the Dragonstone.

It took everything within Bradley to refuse the instinctive rolling of his eye. "Are we all in the habit of stating the obvious?" he asked.

She snorted again, giving him a nod. "Nice work."

Bradley grunted, turning to Farengar. "So, what happens now?"

The wizard chuckled, opening his mouth to speak-

"Farengar!" called out Irileth, rushing towards the lab from the palace's entrance. She came to a halt just within the lab. "Farengar, you need to come at once," she barked out. "A dragon's been sighted nearby." She glanced to Bradley, nodding to him. "You should come, too."

Farengar happily set the Dragonstone on the desk, almost tripping over his own robes as he rushed to Irileth's side. "A dragon," he breathed. "How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

Irileth glared at him as she turned back around. "I'd take this a bit more seriously, if I were you," she admonished him. "If the dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it."

Bradley watched them leave, and a random guard join them. He then turned to the woman and gave her a nod. "The bed was quite comfortable," he said, strolling casually out of the lab. "And when you see the barkeep again, give him my compliments. Breakfast was simply sublime."

He completely ignored the glare she shot at the back of his head. And the scraping of paper.

Delphine glowered as she started her charcoal rubbing. That man. That human creature had seen directly through her ruse. And had waited for the others to leave before sharing that information.

Who was he, this protege of Balgruuf's? Where had he come from? He looked Imperial, but she knew better than to trust her eyes. Besides, just because his heritage was Imperial didn't say anything about his origins. Just who his parents had been.

He'd introduced himself as Bradley. It was a start. A former soldier, from the way he held himself. And a man who did not see anyone as a plausible threat.

She'd expected someone to be able to deal with that barrow, including the bandits she'd nudged towards Lucan's claw. But she hadn't expected a man like Bradley.

Still, he was nothing compared to what this stone could teach her. And she prayed to the Divines that it would prove Esbern wrong.

With a sigh, she turned the Dragonstone over, set down a new sheet of paper, and began again. Bradley had been a useful tool today. Perhaps, with a little more preparation, he could continue to do so. It would need the right bait, of course. The right angle.

Let Bradley gloat now. It didn't matter how much he knew. Everyone had their levers. She knew that. The Thalmor knew that.

And if he was the latest of their agents hunting her down, Delphine would make him regret he had ever been born.

Irileth glared across the room as Bradley followed the guard up the stairs. She didn't mean to. In fact she was quite pleased with the man thus far. Bradley had been nothing but a godsend for Whiterun since he'd arrived.

She sighed, giving the guard a nod. She'd caught Balgruuf just as he was heading for the Great Porch, and the her friend was waiting patiently. Well, as patiently as he could. He was a good Jarl, but he'd been a reckless warrior, and those instincts could rear up at any second. Despite his timid nature, Proventus had been just what the man needed. What Whiterun needed, really.

"So," Balgruuf said, watching the clearly nervous guard. "Irileth tells me you came from the Western Watchtower?"

Irileth glanced at the guard and nodded. "Tell him what you told me. About the dragon."

"Uh, that's right," the guard said with a nod, stepping forward. "We saw it coming from the South. It was fast, faster than anything I've ever seen."

Balgruuf nodded, his eyes narrowing. "What was it doing? Was it attacking the watchtower?"

The guard shook his head. "No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left." He swallowed, and while the motion was hidden by the helmet, it was most certainly audible. "I've... Never run so fast in my life. I thought it would come after me, for sure."

Irileth nodded. That was what worried her the most. To not chase after something running like that... No normal predator could resist such a tantalizing target. No, this dragon was intelligent. But what was its goal, other than devouring prey?

If the furrows in his brow were any indication, Bradley had come to the same conclusion. "Pardon me," he said, stepping forward, placing a hand on his chest, and bowing at the hip to Balgruuf. "But I have a question for the witness, my lord."

Balgruuf eyed Bradley for a few seconds before nodding. "Go on ahead," he said, motioning to the guard.

"Right," Bradley answered, straightening and looking the guard in the eye. "Did you happen to see what color its scales were? Were they black, perhaps?"

The guard paused, slowly shaking his head. "... No, I don't think it was. It was more of a... Grey-green, really."

Irileth felt the fire in her veins chill at his words. She hadn't even considered that angle. One dragon was bad enough, but two? With the original still missing?

Bradley grunted, turning to Balgruuf and raising an eyebrow. "Not the same dragon, my Jarl," he pointed out, needlessly.

"Aye," Balgruuf agreed, waving a hand to the guard. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it."

The guard nodded and headed down the stairs with a quick salute.

Turning towards her, Balgruuf barked out, "Irileth, you'd better grab some guardsmen and get down there."

She nodded, dutifully reporting, "I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate."

"Good," he said with a nod. "Don't fail me."

Then, Balgruuf turned towards Bradley. Their Thane in the making. Thus far, he had gone above and beyond the call of his duties. In fact, they'd intended to name him Thane after receiving word of his success from Farengar (who was, even now, being uncharacteristically quiet). But then, this happened, and they hadn't had a chance to discuss it yet.

"There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend," the Jarl of Whiterun said, giving Bradley a nod. "I need your help again. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

Bradley snorted, though his worry was written across the lines in his brow. "Not exactly a high bar, if you don't mind my saying so, my lord."

Balgruuf chuckled, raising a single shoulder in silent agreement. He then raised a hand, adding, "But, I haven't forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. As a token of my esteem, I have instructed Avenicci that you are now permitted to purchase property in the city. And, please..." He snapped his fingers, and another guard stepped forward, holding an Imperial bow and a quiver of iron arrows. "Accept this gift from my personal armory."

As Bradley accepted the weapons, Farengar stepped forward. The young mage was practically vibrating with excitement, but was restraining himself admirably. "I should come along," he told Balgruuf, his hidden eyes almost shining under his hood. "I would very much like to see this dragon."

Balgruuf sighed, approaching Farengar and setting a hand on his shoulder. "No. I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here, looking for a way to defend the city against these dragons.

Farengar's face fell, but he bowed his head dutifully, turning to head down the stairs himself. "As you command," he said, drearily.

"One last thing, Irileth," the Jarl said, turning back to her once more. "This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

Irileth smirked, remembering their old adventuring days together. "Don't worry, my lord," she replied, turning away and marching down the stairs. "I'm the very soul of caution."

Well, that had been rather interesting to witness. But it was certainly a good sign for Whiterun's leadership. Balgruuf was clearly a practical ruler, doing what he could with what he had. The soldiers left something to be desired, but, then again, such was the story of the rank and file of any civic service or military outfit. One could only do so much before the recruits simply had to be sent out for duty.

Of course, he'd checked the lab for the innkeeper, only to find Farengar puzzling over the Dragonstone on his own. No sign of her now, but he knew where she'd be going. Eventually, in any case.

He jogged behind Irileth now, having strapped the quiver and bow across his back. It wasn't his weapon of choice. He was far more comfortable with his swords. And in a world of tanks and guns, he'd never had a need to pick one up.

Still, if the dragon was still around, what better time to learn?

They stopped in front of a small building, just behind the front gate. There, four guardsmen had been gathered, standing at attention and waiting for Irileth's word. They were a peculiar sight to Bradley, but only because only one wearing the closed helm that was typical of their uniform. The rest had open faced helmets of leather, and were clearly confused by their current orders.

Irileth came to a halt before the guards, taking a moment to inspect each and every one before nodding. "Here's the situation," she said, starting to pace before them. "A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower."

The guards stared at her for a moment before erupting into nervous whispers of, "Now we're in for it," and, "A dragon?"

"You heard right," she barked, interrupting their quiet noises. "I said a dragon!" She spat and grimaced, continuing, "I don't much care where it came from or who sent it. What I do know is that it's made the mistake of attacking Whiterun!"

Bradley smiled. He knew General Tullius to be a capable leader just from his behavior at Helgen. But that was a man who gave orders, not speeches. Charisma, it was clear, was a foreign mistress to him.

Irileth, on the other hand, was actually starting to inspire hope in her soldiers. Hope, and the fire of patriotism.

"But, housecarl," said the one man in "proper" uniform. The last voice of dissenting fear. "How can we fight a dragon?"

Irileth smirked and nodded. "That's a fair question. None of us have ever seen a dragon before, or expected to face one in battle." Her pacing halted, and she turned to face the quartet, black eyes burning with rage and passion. "But we," she proclaimed, "Are honor bound to fight it, even if we fail."

With a hand, she motioned to the city itself. "This dragon is threatening our homes, our families. Could you call yourselves nords if you ran from this monster?" She thumped her chest, demanding loudly, "Are you going to let me face this thing alone?"

Three of them shook their heads, protesting loudly. Bradley could just hear the speaker mutter to himself, "We're so dead."

Irileth ignored the statement, gritting her teeth. "But it's more than our honor at stake here," she warned them. "Think of it- the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours, if you're with me!"

She smiled once more; the predatory, determined smile of a wolfhound ready to hunt itself a wolf. "Now, what do you say?" she asked, looking between them all. "Shall we go kill us a dragon?"

In unison, the guards drew their weapons, shouting out their confirmations.

Irileth nodded one last time, turning towards the gate. "Let's move out," she barked, and the guards sheathed their weapons once again, falling into step behind them.

Bradley chuckled as he followed their example. He hadn't interacted once during that display. But he was certainly impressed with Irileth's leadership skills.

He just hoped that was enough to deal with a dragon. He recalled the impenetrable hide of the first one, and his smile disappeared.

He had signed up for this. And it would certainly look bad if he abandoned them now.

But for the first time in his life since becoming accustomed to his homunculus biology, King Bradley was worried about a future battle.

Chapter Text

Irileth glared at the ruins of the watchtower. The tower itself was mostly intact, but one of the battlements that had been built around it was almost reduced to nothing. Little fires still blazed here and there, and she could already see one corpse in the wreckage.

She searched the skies with a frown. "No signs of any dragon right now," she noted, sourly. "But it sure looks like he's been here."

She turned to face the others. They'd grouped up behind a rock just across the road from the watchtower. The doubting soldier had crouched directly behind it with his bow out. And Bradley was just standing there, surveying the scene with a small frown.

"I know it looks bad," she said, more for the sake of her soldiers, "But we've got to find out what happened, and if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere."

She drew her blade, and the men surrounding her followed suit. "Spread out, and look for survivors," she ordered, lightly jogging over to the tower. "We need to know what we're dealing with!"

The men followed her orders, with Bradley making a beeline for the tower. Irileth frowned, wondering what he had seen that she'd missed.

As soon as he set foot on the stone steps leading into the tower, another guard emerged. The man was missing his helmet, and was crouching as he approached.

"No," the new guard cried, waving his hands erratically to get everyone's attention. "Get back! It's still here, somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

Irileth grimaced. This operation was getting worse by the second. "Guardsman," she called out, running over to Bradley's side. "What happened here? Where's this dragon? Quickly, now!"

"I don't-" the helmless guard began. He was interrupted by a distant roar, and paled instantly. "Kynareth save us," he groaned, "Here he comes again!"

"I see him," Bradley growled, motioning to the south. "Just coming over the mountain."

Irileth swallowed, turning to see where Bradley was pointing. There it was, streaking across the clear, blue sky with another, bestial roar.

She grit her teeth and summoned the Lightning Bolt spell in her free hand. Her soldiers drew their bows even before she shouted, "Here he comes! Find cover, and make every arrow count!"

Mirmulnir was starving. Of course, over a thousand years without food will do that to a dragon; but he'd hoped that, since he'd been pretty much dead for all that time, he'd be an exception.

Still, it felt good to hunt nords again. And the two he'd already eaten would satisfy his hunger for now. But he would be hungry again. Very soon. He could feel it.

Which is why he'd chosen to return to the watchtower at this point. And what a surprise to find that the place had been almost immediately restocked! Overstocked, even. And there was even a dunmer amongst their company! How convenient, he'd just discovered a hankering for elf. Sure, the dark elves were a bit overcooked for his tastes, but when a dragon emerges from a death coma, they typically discover that they are too hungry to be picky; so long as the flesh wasn't undead.

There was a one eyed man, too. Unlike the soldiers, who were preparing for battle even now, he was disappearing inside the tower. Cowardly, but he would probably outlive the others.

Mirmulnir bellowed once again, proudly announcing his upcoming victory as he swooped around the tower. "YOL TOR SHUUL." Fire erupted from his innards, strafing the ground as he passed. He didn't hit any of his prospective meals, but then, he hadn't intended to. Instead, he scattered them, as they leapt out of the way of his torrent of flames.

"Brit grah," he sneered, soaring around the tower once more as he laughed. "I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide."

In response, the little joorre had rallied, letting loose their own attacks. Arrows clinked and broke against his scales, falling impotently to the ground below.

The elf, on the other hand, let loose a bolt of lightning. It stung, eliciting a growl from the great dragon. But it was such a little sting, it barely mattered.

He flapped his mighty wings, crashing down onto the ruined battlements. The force of the landing shook the one soldier that had taken perch here, who fell over in a heap of limbs.

Mirmulnir smirked, raising his head even as the soldier got back to his feet. With one swift motion, he'd trapped the man within his jowls. The dragon shook the poor man around, feeling his lifeblood drain down into his gullet, then spat him out. The swiftly dying man was tossed aside into the fields. A mere whimper was the last sign of life the man ever showed, and it went completely unnoticed by all but Mirmulnir.

And he savored it every bit as deeply as the blood. He licked his jowls with deep satisfaction. All that fire and food had left him a little parched.

More arrows ricocheted off his scales, and another lightning bolt struck him. He briefly considered the uselessness of the mortal saying, "Lightning never strikes twice," in a world with mages like this.

He shook his head. No more reminiscing. That lightning was starting to get annoying, and it was about time he did something about it. The dragon turned towards the elven woman, who had taken position between the tower and the battlements. With a toothy grin, he reared his head back and let loose another stream of flame. And this time, he had a specific target.

To his chagrin, she threw up a ward just in time, slowly backing away. Sweat dripped generously from her brow, and the hand she used to keep the spell up was quivering.

An arrow slammed against Mirmulnir's face, only an inch away from his eye. He blinked and spluttered, shaking his head as the flames died down. He heard a crack as the elf's ward failed, but her failure to scream in agony gave him the hint that she'd also failed to be incinerated.

He glared at the only soldier in the right position to hit that. A single guard, standing atop the other set of battlements. His helmet hid his face, but it couldn't hide the trembling of his limbs.

The dragon chuckled, taking to the sky once more. Oh, this was too easy. How had the people who had killed him once fallen so low?

Another arrow hit his face, an inch away from his other eye. Even as he swooped around to gain altitude he had to shake his head again, clearing it of the panicking instincts. He was a dragon. And such instincts would submit to his will or suffer.

And who was that, anyways? It couldn't have been the soldiers, the angle had been all wrong. It had been from above. So whoever it was...

He narrowed his eyes as he found the offending archer. The one eyed man had taken position atop the watchtower. He was grimacing, muttering to himself quietly as he adjusted his grip on the bow and arrow in his hands.

The man let loose once more, and Mirmulnir found himself frowning as the arrow bounced off the scales just below the wing joint. He knew the armor his scales provided well.

And that arrow had felt suspiciously close to one of its few gaps.

Mirmulnir roared once more, swooping over the tower. He belched out another column of flame, grumbling to himself as the man simply dove for the stairs.

Something didn't sit right with Mirmulnir about this mortal. Despite his apparent frustration with his weapon of choice, he seemed too... calm. He needed a closer look at him.

More arrows pelted at him from below, though it seemed he was out of the elf's range. Oh, well. The one eyed man could wait. There were plenty more mice to snatch.

He dove, aiming to do just that to the one with the closed helm. The soldier screamed with fear, dropping his bow and diving off the platform. Mirmulnir missed him by inches.

He roared with frustration, climbing back up to the heavens once again.

Only to find an arrow lodged under his wing. It stung. And unlike the damage from the lightning bolt, it bled.

He roared yet again, this time expressing pain for the first time in an age. His course stumbled, but he quickly corrected it. There would be no fancy flying until he dug it out, that was for sure.

Mirmulnir growled. Once again, the angle betrayed the archer. The one eyed man had reassumed his position, and was even now preparing another shot. The movements were strange, clearly alien to the man. But if every shot was like that...

The dragon dove to dodge the arrow just as it was fired. It glanced off the top of his head, just above the eye.

And down below, the soldiers were preparing their own shots. Another lightning bolt hit his underbelly as he passed over again.

Those below didn't matter. Clearly, the only real threat was at the top of the tower. But how to deal with that now? He supposed he could stomach the pain for a sudden climb, and then it was all downhill from there. Just snatch him up, and let him drop somewhere. No human could survive a fall like that.

Another arrow hit him, this time in the shoulder. It lodged in an old battle scar, bringing forth another bellow of pain from the beast. How? How had this one man turned the tide of battle so quickly?

No. Not turned the tide of battle. Mirmulnir had been one of Alduin's top lieutenants. And he was not grounded yet.

Ignoring the pain spiking beneath his wing, the dragon climbed once again, turning just as more arrows clinked off his armor. It was time to be over and done with this man.

The man had tossed aside his bow, flames suddenly flickering within his grasp. And Mirmulnir hesitated. Was this little, war torn mouse goading him? The mighty Mirmulnir?

The dragon snorted, and began his dive.

The man calmly stepped back, and let his own flame loose. It was small, pitiful in the face of a dragon's flame. So why was he casting it?

At the very last second, the dragon realized that the torrent of flames was aimed directly where it would meet with his own, reptilian eyes. He grunted in surprise, twisting off to the side in the nick of time.

And for a brief moment, his gaze met with that of a single, icy blue eye. It was only a moment, but the dragon got the distinct impression it was being played, somehow.

And the scent. Never mind the familiar tang in it; there was something wrong with this man. Like flesh that had once been real was... forged into something else. Something similar to, but most certainly not any strain of human Mirmulnir knew of. And nothing like the almighty gods' design.

Mirmulnir righted himself, taking another lap around the tower. But as he rounded it yet again, he could see the soldier with the closed helm. He had retrieved his bow, and was aiming squarely for the dragon's face.

This time, there was no opportunity to correct his course. The arrow was let loose, and it found a new home in the beast's eye. He roared in agony, soaring clumsily over the battlements.

This was not what was meant to happen. Everything was falling apart, and he needed to do something, fast.

Even as those thoughts occurred to him, something landed on the dragon's back, causing him to stumble again. He blinked his good eye, craning his neck to see what the hell it was.

The one eyed man straddled his back, only just recovering from the fall. He smirked, drawing one of the blades on his hip. "Hello, there," the man shouted at him over the air currents. He twirled the sword in his hand, then drove it into the same scar he'd shot the arrow into.

Mirmulnir roared again, bucking this way and that. But the man held onto the sword, which had been driven in deep. Not enough for a mortal wound, but certainly enough to cause problems.

The dragon hadn't realized he was heading for the ground. Not until his face made contact. He grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, and dust flew as he skidded to a halt.

The collision had knocked the warrior off, sword and all. But as the dust cleared and Mirmulnir blinked it out of his remaining eye, he saw the one eyed man charging him. He was moving fast, faster than any human he'd ever seen.

Mirmulnir growled, puffing up his chest. No mortal would best Mirmulnir the Mighty. Not ever again!

"YOL TOR SHUUL!" he bellowed, and fire issued forth once again. But to his dismay, the man had darted to the side. Try as he might, the dragon's flame could not keep up with the human's rapid pace.

Now, Mirmulnir was beginning to panic. The world had turned upside down. Men were raining from towers, bringing pain and the captivity of the ground with them. But a dragon should show no fear.

So, when he finished bellowing out flame, Mirmulnir grinned, sure to show the slowing human every last one of his teeth. "You are brave," he told the one eyed man. "Balaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honor."

The man smiled, rolling his shouders. "All I see is a lizard who doesn't yet know he's dead," the mortal dared to say, with a bright, infuriating smile.

Mirmulnir's smile turned into a sneer, and he pulled back, ready to pounce on the man.

Only, he wasn't there when the dragon's mouth closed. Mirmulnir pulled back, this time to search for the one eyed man. Where had he gone? Was he ever there to begin with?

There was a sharp pain in his wing, and he could feel the leathery flesh splitting. He roared, thrusting that wing out. The man flew back, righting himself in the air and landing on his damned feet. And he hadn't stopped smiling.

The arrows were back, pelting against Mirmulnir's flank. One actually found purchase this time, slipping between two scales and catching flesh. He needed to get back in the air. To go back to his new cave, and dig all of these blasted things out before they festered.

He tried to spread his mighty wings, but the man stepped back into his line of sight. The one eye met Mirmulnir's remaining eye, and the mortal let loose another stream of flame.

Directly into Mirmulnir's dead eye.

The dragon roared once again, shielding its face from the blaze. It stopped, and he heard the sound of feet hitting the grass beneath them. Mirmulnir growled, unfurling his wings to torch the man.

And he was right there. Inches away from Mirmulnir's stunned face. The blue eye stared into his, and the world around the dragon slowed to a crawl as realization set in.

There was only one kind of warrior that could bring a dragon so low so quickly. And as the dragon hearkened to those old memories, he remembered what that draconic tang in the man's scent meant.

"DOVAHKIIN," he bellowed, trying to put as much distance between him and the warrior as possible in the milliseconds left. "NO!"

The warrior's blade met his remaining eye, and drove in all the way to the brain. Mirmulnir froze, briefly wondering how he was still capable of sensation.

And then, he collapsed, and knew no more.

Bradley landed on his feet, leaping away from the dying dragon as it fell to earth. He landed yet again, panting heavily as he studied the twitching corpse before them.

His sword was still lodged in the dragon's eye. Probably in its nervous system, if he'd calculated the angle right. It wouldn't be moving again.

He decided he hated dragons. Or, rather, this dragon in particular. It had forced him to improvise the use of a bow. He'd missed his mark twice due to miscalculating the wind trajectory's affect on the arrows. That, and the arrow's arc. But he'd been able to see his mistakes, thanks to the Ultimate Eye, and adjust accordingly.

And now, he was covered in blood and the dragon's ocular fluids. There was no saving this suit, as far as he knew. Besides, he needed more clothes anyways. And a bath.

His eye narrowed as a crackling sound issued from the dragon. Its flesh and scales began to burn from the inside out. Golden energy was beginning to gather about its corpse.

"Everybody get back," ordered Irileth, who had been approaching the corpse with the remaining four guards. All four backed off obediently.

Bradley took a single step back, and the energy surged into him. His eye widened as a strange sensation passed over him. It brought him back to the time when Prospective Fuhrer Number 12 had been injected with the Philosopher's Stone. Felt all those souls enter his flesh, and begin the deadly free-for-all to create Father's Wrath.

But this was different. Calmer. And instead of this soul attacking him, Bradley could feel something innate transferring from it to him. Latching onto his soul. Becoming one with it before the invading soul fizzled out.

Fus. Force. Pure, and unadulterated displacement of whatever was in front of him. He could blow it away, with but a single word. He knew this. He knew this as well as he knew how to breathe; how to focus his eye on any detail he desired. And this power was his, won by right of conquest.

Bradley snapped back to reality just in time to see his sword fall out the eye socket of a dragon's skull. Where a dead body of flesh had been was naught but the bones. And the unfortunate remains of a guard's armor, right where its guts would be. The guards and Irileth were surrounding him now, all afraid to approach, and all with looks of worry on their faces.

He stared openly at the skeleton, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "Would someone be so kind," he said calmly, after a long moment of silence, "As to explain to me what the hell just happened here?"

One of the guards swallowed. "You," he said, hesitantly, "Must be Dragonborn."

Bradley turned to the guard, slowly blinking at him. "I must be... What, now?"

"Dragonborn," the guard repeated. "In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power." He smiled hopefully, adding, "That's what you did, isn't it? Absorb the dragon's power?"

Bradley turned back to the skeleton, frowning as he studied it carefully. There was no flesh to be found, only bare bones. But why? Certainly, it couldn't be this ridiculous story being sold to him now.

"I have no idea what has happened to me," he announced with finality.

"Well," said the oh-so-helpful guardsman, scratching his hairy chin as he thought. "There's one way to find out. Try to Shout, that would prove it."

Bradley snorted. "Yes, shout. As if raising my voice proves anything."

The guardsman scowled, but pressed on. "According to the old legends," he said, doggedly, "Only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way dragons do."

"Dragonborn?" asked the guard in the closed helm. "What are you talking about?"

"That's right," piped up the one who'd been taking refuge in the tower. "My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with Dragon Blood in them. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

The last one frowned, glancing at the third in puzzlement. "I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons," he mused suspiciously.

The original speaker gave the fourth a glare. "There weren't any dragons then, idiot," he scoffed, as if that was common knowledge. "They're just coming back now, for the first time in..." He blanched, concluding darkly, "Forever."

"But," the third said, holding up a finger with a triumphant smile. "The old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power." He beamed at Bradley, proclaiming proudly, "You must be one!"

Bradley huffed, folding his arms and scowling at the dead beast.

"What say you, Irileth," asked the one in the closed helm. "You're being awfully quiet."

Irileth, who had joined Bradley in staring daggers into the dragon's remains, glanced up with a scowl. She huffed, shaking her head. "Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about." She kicked the dragon's jawbone, spitting on it. "Here's a dead dragon," she announced with no small amount of satisfaction. "And that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them."

Bradley kept himself from openly scoffing. She wasn't the one who had to deal with strange, magical energies entering her without consent. No, that was his problem. And, at the moment, he could come up with no solutions.

Irileth approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder as she turned to her guards once more. "But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn," she said, giving him an approving smile. "Someone who can put down a dragon is good enough for me."

The third guard snorted. "You wouldn't understand, Housecarl," he grumbled, pointedly not meeting her gaze. "You ain't a nord."

Irileth shot the guard a dangerous and offended glare. "I've been all across Tamriel! I've seen plenty of things as outlandish as this." She shook her head, grumbling, "I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends."

The first guard turned to Bradley with a sigh. "If you really are Dragonborn, like in the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?"

Bradley rolled his eye. Had he really been reduced to a mere spectacle for guardsmen to gawk at?

Then again, there was this new knowledge, dancing around in his head. Tantalizing and infuriating him with its confusing existence. Perhaps it was time to try it out.

"Alright," he groaned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You've convinced me. I'll give it a try, I suppose." He raised a finger, glaring at the guard. "However, I am making absolutely no promises that anything will happen. Now..." He turned to the side, facing the open plains with a heavy sigh. "Here goes nothing."

This was the critical point. If nothing happened, perhaps that was the end of this madness. A brief glimpse of insanity before sanity's blissful return. He could see it now; the guards muttering to themselves in disappointment, and himself simply moving on, forever ignoring this moment from now until the end of time.

But he had to shout first. And the only fitting word to shout was on the tip of his tongue. He simply had to stop procrastinating and get it over with.

Bradley took a deep breath, then let it out in a single word.

"FUS!"

To his sheer horror and fury, a wall force issued from his mouth, dissolving in the air before him. It wasn't as powerful as that which had issued from the draugr or dragon's mouths, but it was there. Laughing in his face, and telling him he was overdue for a straightjacket and a padded room.

"That was Shouting," called out a clearly delighted guard. "What you did, just now! You really are Dragonborn, then."

Irileth cleared her throat. "That's enough lollygagging, soldiers," she barked. "Start putting out these fires, on the double! Move it!"

As the guards slowly went to their work, she threw one last glare at the dragon. With a sigh, she muttered, so that only Bradley could hear her, "That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few." Her gaze turned to the homunculus, and she managed a sad smile. "I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I'm sure glad you're with us."

Bradley forced a pleasant smile to his face, and nodded to her. First, the awful dreams, then the barrow. And now, this? He had some serious words for whoever was running this hallucination.

Irileth sighed yet again, now surveying the remains of the watchtower. "You better get back to Whiterun right away. The Jarl will want to know what's happened here."

"At once, Housecarl," Bradley answered, turning to stroll back to the road. He wanted to be alone, anyways. There was too much churning away in his brain for him to entertain company.

He hated this place. He hated this entire world. Back in Amestris, everything had made some sort of sense, unless you counted ideologies. Even alchemy was built upon the principles and laws of science. But this? This?

He had been born human, in a world where dragons truly were myth. Certainly, he was human no longer, but that had been changed by Father and his Philosopher's Stone.

So, logically, there could be no possible way for him to be this... Dragonborn these primitives kept going on about.

His mind flashed to last night's dream. God handing him over to the colossal dragon. Its words. Whatever it had done to him.

Bradley grit his teeth, shaking his head. No. He was not about to give his dreams any credence. They were just funny pictures his brain played for him because it hated him. Nothing more, nothing less. It was probably all God's fault, now that he thought about it. Hell, this was probably Bradley's own, personal hell, created especially to torture him by a laughing, infuriating deity.

He glanced upwards as a movement caught his eye. And it widened in shock.

The mountain to the east; the tallest mountain he could see; was trembling. It had started from a point near the top, and was spreading quickly downward.

He threw himself to the ground just before the world shook around him. He loosened his jaw, rolling up his tongue to avoid any accidents. And in the distance, he could hear the voices of several men, all calling out a single word in unison.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

The ground settled, and Bradley pushed himself back up.

There was that word yet again. First, his dream, then the dragon, and now here.

He groaned, shaking his head as he marched up to the walls of Whiterun. The Dragonborn business seemed more and more likely with every step he took. And he hated that.

Bradley disregarded the citizenry this time around, including the two strangers in robes arguing with a guard just inside the gate.

Whatever his reward for the dead dragon was, it had better be good.

As he entered Dragonsreach, he caught sight of a young woman right next to the door. She was dressed in steel armor, wearing a shield on her arm and a sword at her hip. Her brown eyes widened as they met his own, and she awkwardly offered him a small nod.

He nodded in return, marching past her and up to the throne's dais. Balgruuf was seated there, apparently deep in conversation with his apparent adult relative.

Proventus, standing before the dais, approached him with a nod. "Good, you're finally here," he said, motioning to the throne. "The Jarl wants to speak with you."

"And I want to speak with him," Bradley answered, passing him by. "So it all works out."

"You heard the summons," Balgruuf was saying, a contemplative look on his face. "What else could it mean?" He turned away from the other man, staring off into space and muttering, "The Greybeards..."

The younger man turned towards Bradley, his bearded face beaming down at the homunculus. "We were just talking about you," he said, cheerfully. "My brother wants a word with you."

So he'd clocked that relationship correctly. He nodded, ascending the steps, then knelt before Balgruuf, bowing his head.

The nord turned his gaze down to him. He waited for Proventus to assume his usual position at his side before speaking. "So, what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

"It was, my lord," Bradley answered smartly. "It destroyed the battlements and battered the watchtower itself. I'm afraid you lost three good men." His head rose, and he gave the man a smile. "But it is dead, now. The operation was a success."

Balgruuf grinned, nodding in satisfaction. "I knew I could count on Irileth," he said, before the smile disappeared again. He studied Bradley carefully, adding, "But there must more to it than that."

Bradley fought off his instinctual grimace with flying colors. He'd hoped he could get through this conversation without acknowledging that, but he'd known it was always a probability.

"I..." he began, sighing heavily as he shook his head. "When the dragon expired, I... absorbed something from it. And when that was done, there was nothing left of the beast but bones."

Balgruuf leaned back, a look of awe written plainly on his face. "So, it's true," he breathed, still staring directly at Bradley. "The Greybeards were summoning you."

Bradley frowned. That name was bound to come up at some point, but he needed more information. "The... Greybeards, my Jarl?"

Balgruuf nodded, sighing heavily himself. "Masters of the Way of the Voice," he answered, his voice dripping with reverence and respect. "They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

So, a secluded group of monks, high up on that mountain he'd first seen shaking. Where else could they be, really? And the Way of the Voice had to have something to do with Shouting. If anyone would have answers for him, it would most certainly be them.

Still...

"And, what do these... Greybeards want with me?" he asked cautiously.

Balgruuf shrugged. "The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice- the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout."

Wait. That was what he'd done? No wonder the process had felt so... involved. But that just led him back to the question of how this was possible in the first place.

"If you really are Dragonborn," Balgruuf continued, "They can teach you how to use your gift."

The other nord piped up, "Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar!" He was grinning from ear to ear as he said this. "This hasn't happened in..." He frowned, doing some math on his fingers. He quickly gave up, waving the hand dismissively. "Centuries, at least! Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned, when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

Proventus held up a soothing hand. "Hrongar, calm yourself. What does this nord nonsense have to do with our friend, here? Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being this... Dragonborn."

Bradley sighed again. As much as he appreciated Proventus' words, he could not see this world being so kind as to deny him this fresh, new hell.

Hrongar, in the meantime, wheeled on the Steward, his eyes flashing in anger. "Nord nonsense?" he repeated, indignantly. "Why, you puffed up, ignorant- These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

Balgruuf raised a hand now. "Hrongar," he gently admonished. "Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

Proventus bowed his head. "I meant no disrespect, of course," he said, apologetically. "It's just that..." He motioned vaguely to Bradley himself. "What do these Greybeards want with him?"

Balgruuf shook his head. "That's the Greybeards' business, not ours." He then turned back to Bradley, saying, "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue?" He smiled again. "You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor."

An honor, eh? Yes, that was certainly a word that could be used here. Not quite Bradley's first choice, of course. No, that would be something along the lines of traumatizing.

The Jarl chuckled fondly, nodding to Bradley. "I envy you, you know. To climb the 7,000 Steps again..." He turned to Hrongar, asking, "I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that?" He sighed, his eyes shining with nostalgia as he absentmindedly remarked, "High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before."

He finally shrugged. "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Bradley nodded, and was just about to stand when Proventus chimed in.

"Er, my Jarl?" he asked, a look of confusion on his face. "There was, er, one more little piece of business we wanted to touch on?"

Balgruuf frowned at him. "Hmm?" He blinked, then quickly nodded, getting to his feet. "Aye, of course," he said, clearing his throat and looking down at Bradley. "Rise before your Jarl," he ordered.

Bradley got to his feet. To be honest, he'd almost forgotten about the reward he was due.

To his surprise, Balgruuf clapped him on the shoulder, smiling brightly. "You have done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn," he announced, snapping his fingers. Yet another guard stepped forward, holding up a steel axe which glowed with veins of orange light.

And my reward, Bradley thought sourly, Is yet another weapon I am uncomfortable with.

Balgruuf took the axe from the guard, who backed away again. "By my right as Jarl," he said, "I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant."

Ah, so the axe came with a fancy title, eh? Bradley briefly wondered if he'd need to update his wardrobe to go along with it.

"I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl," Balgruuf continued, holding the axe out to Bradley. "And this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office."

Bradley humbly accepted it, frowning as his hand clasped around its handle. It felt... unnaturally warm to the touch. Perhaps he should have let Arvel live after all. He would have made an excellent guinea pig for the axe the last daugr warrior had used.

Balgruuf grinned, releasing the axe. "I'll also notify the guards of your new title," he added, chuckling warmly. "Wouldn't want them to think you're part of the common rabble, now, would we?"

Yep. He'd definitely need a wardrobe change.

Then, the Jarl bowed his head to Bradley, saying, "We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

Bradley forced himself to smile, bowing in return. "It is a duty and a privilege to serve Whiterun, my Jarl."

Balgruuf nodded, patting Bradley's shoulder again before returning to his throne. "Unless there's any further business, Bradley, you are dismissed."

It was then that a thought occurred to him. "There is one thing, but it's more for Proventus, my lord."

"Ah, yes," the Steward said, stepping forward. "And, how can I assist you, Thane?"

Bradley sighed yet again. He'd have to get used to the title, even if it hadn't been his original goal. "The Jarl mentioned earlier that I had been granted permission to purchase property in the city?"

Proventus nodded, pulling a slip of paper from his satchel. "Of course, sir. We currently have one house up for sale, if you're interested. Breezehome, right next to my daughter's shop."

Bradley nodded in consideration. He'd seen the house several times by now. It was a nice enough little cottage, from the outside. But through the windows, he'd seen that the inside was dusty and unfurnished. "I assume I'll have to provide the decorations and such myself?"

"Oh, no," Proventus answered, shaking his head. "I'll be happy to provide the furnishings and whatnot. They'll just be a separate purchase. Here-" He dug in his satchel again, this time producing a book. The title on the spine read, Whiterun Home Decorating Guide. "This ought to explain better than I can."

Bradley accepted the book, asking, "And the house itself? What's the current asking price?"

"Five thousand septims," the Steward answered happily.

Bradley's eye narrowed as he considered the weight of his purse. He'd tucked it in his pack, and no matter what calculations he used, he did not see himself in possession of nearly that much gold.

"I'll have to check back in with you, I'm afraid," Bradley finally said, turning to walk off.

"Very well," Proventus answered, probably waving. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Bradley merely nodded, marching back to the doors.

"Farewell, friend," called Balgruuf. "May the ground you walk quake as you pass."

Bradley stopped in his tracks. The Jarl of Whiterun, the highest authority he'd seen thus far (beyond the Military Governor, Tullius, that is) had just casually named him as a friend. He really was moving up in the world, wasn't he?

He glanced over his shoulder, giving Balgruuf a smile and a nod. "And you as well, my Jarl."

Lydia could hardly contain her excitement. Despite her earlier protests, she really was glad to finally have an assignment like this.

Irileth had refused to share any details concerning the new Thane. Just that it was a man, and he had performed great services for the Jarl and the Hold. It was Balgruuf himself who provided the physical description. As well as the name.

So when Bradley entered the palace, she knew exactly who was underneath all that blood. He hadn't been wounded; not that she could tell; but he had been drenched in the stuff. He was also limping slightly, but that she could attribute to bad joints as opposed to any open wounds.

And the look in his single, blue eye. He was clearly annoyed by something. What that could be was anyone's guess, but he'd been cordial, and moved on from her without a remark. Which didn't surprise her at all. He hadn't been named Thane of Whiterun yet, after all.

But now, he was coming back. More pleased than annoyed now, thankfully. And he was carrying the Axe of Whiterun.

Lydia took a deep breath, and stepped forward. She thumped a fist against her chest, bowing her head. "The Jarl has appointed me to be your Housecarl," she announced smartly as he came to a stop before her. "It's an honor to serve you."

The one eyed Thane took a moment to examine her critically. She restrained herself from shivering. It was as if that piercing eye could see into her soul.

He then smiled and asked, his tone warm and grandfatherly, "Ah, you must be Lydia, then. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Housecarl."

She smiled back, despite her nervousness. "The pleasure is all mine, my Thane. How can I serve you?"

He simply strolled past her, his hands clasped behind his back. "Walk with me," he said. "My day is just about finished, but that just means we have time to get to know one another."

"Lead the way," she answered dutifully, following him out into the afternoon sun.

Bradley marched down the stairs, the very picture of elegance and military propriety, despite his attire and the blood across his face. "So," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her, "I'm certain word has already reached you about the..." He grimaced. "Dragonborn business?"

Lydia blinked. Was this a test of some kind? "Like, the old tales?" she inquired hesitantly.

He smiled again, facing forward once again. "Ah, good. You haven't. I would like to not speak on this topic for some time."

Her brow furrowed in her confusion, but she nodded. "Understood, sir." If the Thane decided something wasn't her business, it wasn't her business.

Still, her curiosity also reared its head. That was bad. Unless she was investigating a possible assassination attempt or something similar, a Housecarl had no business being curious. So she kept her mouth shut.

"So," Bradley said, just as they entered the Wind District. "The Jarl has named me Thane of Whiterun. It seems to be quite an honor." He strolled around the wilting Gildergreen, adding, "And yet, I find myself ignorant as to what exactly that title entails. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"

Lydia blinked. Had... Had no one explained anything to this man? She knew he was an outsider, but to give him the honor without explaining it...

"The Jarl has recognized you as an important person in the Hold," she answered, following him to the Plains District. "A hero. The title of Thane is an honor, a gift for your service. Guards will look the other way, if you tell them who you are."

Bradley pursed his lips, passing by the stands laid out before the stairs. "So, the title grants me special privileges while not really adding to my responsibilities?"

Lydia frowned, considering his words. "I... Suppose you could look at it like that," she replied, hesitantly.

He stopped in the middle of the road, turning towards her with a smile. "And you? What responsibilities are you given, exactly?"

Lydia hesitated again. "... As my Thane, I am sworn to your service," she said, silently wondering how much he actually knew about Skyrim. "I'll guard you, and all you own, with my life."

"I see," Bradley muttered. "It sounds like I get a lot more out of this deal than Whiterun does."

She smiled sadly, shaking her head. He still didn't get it. "Skyrim is in dire need of heroes," she explained. "Having a Thane around makes everyone less worried, less afraid." She motioned to the sky, adding, "Especially now that the dragons have returned, sir."

Understanding shone in his eye as Bradley nodded. "Ah, so it's a morale issue," he mused. "Has the civil war been that damaging, then?"

Lydia paused, studying the man for a moment. "Not really," she answered, watching for his reaction. "Ulfric's uprising and, really, most of Skyrim's problems were caused by the Great War."

Bradley's expression did not change as he listened. "I see," he muttered, his eye darting around. "I shall inquire more, of course," he said, turning towards the general goods store. "However, I am covered in dragon blood, and this is the only change of clothes I currently own. You may do as you wish in the meantime, but I intend to correct both of these issues. If you would kindly meet me in the Bannered Mare later this evening, you are excused for the moment."

"As you wish, my Thane," was all she could say as she watched him enter the shop. How? How could this man, this clearly intelligent and well learned warrior, be so... ignorant of the world around him?

And did he just say dragon blood?

She could see Irileth entering the city now, followed by four, soot covered guards.

Now that her assignment had been given, she had several questions for the elf.

Chapter Text

"So, remind me," Faye said, her glances towards the grey skies above betraying her anxiety. "Why exactly are we going back to Helgen?"

"Aye," Throrn grumbled, his gaze sweeping over the wilderness around them. "We only just fled the place. Seems a shame to just... feed ourselves to the dragon like this. What would they say, in Sovngaurd?"

Gunern chuckled nervously. "They'd probably laugh us out of the gates," he joked miserably.

Ralof sighed heavily, shaking his head. He was regretting his decision to simply order them to march back to Helgen. Better set to righting it before they revolted, or worse. Deserted.

"Look," he said, keeping his tone in check. "The last place the dragon was sighted was over Riverwood, heading North. There's no reason to believe it would circle back, not when all of its prey's been scared off."

"Aye," Faye answered shortly, "But we're heading back there right now."

Ralof found himself rolling his eyes. "I know that," he grumbled, "But the dragon doesn't know that, does it?"

"And how do you know that," Gunern demanded, glaring at Ralof now. "What, are you a dragon expert, now?"

Ralof snorted, muttering, "Might as well be."

Gunern let out a hearty, yet clearly false laugh. "Oh, really, now? And how do you figure that, eh?"

Ralof stopped in his tracks, wheeling to face Gunern with a look that could have thawed out Winterhold. "We survived the first dragon attack since the Third Age," he growled. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath before meeting Gunern's gaze again. "Trust me, we're the closest thing to dragon experts, now."

Gunern's jaw was set in defiance, but his eyes couldn't meet Ralof's anymore.

Everyone was frozen watching the pair's silent standoff.

Without another word, Ralof turned away, continuing his march down the road. Why did he think he could do this? He wasn't a commander, just a member of Ulfric's personal guard. He was a fighter, not a leader.

Still, he was all they had, and it wasn't as if the others were stepping up to take command. Not really, anyways.

Faye cleared her throat, breaking the silence of their march. "Alright," she said, hesitantly, "So no dragon, then. But what about the Imperials? Won't they want to investigate the place?"

Ralof snorted again. "After all that? No, they'll have their hands full preparing for our counterattack. If anyone's there, it'll be bandits."

"So, nothing we haven't dealt with before," Throrn noted, a glimmer of hope entering his eyes.

"But if we're heading for the Rift," Gunern grumbled, his eyes locked on the back of Ralof's head, "Why are we going through Falkreath Hold?"

"There's a few paths near Helgen that lead to Ivarstead," Ralof answered. "On the other side of the Throat of the World. Once we get there, we can stop worrying about any Legionnaires."

"Ivarstead?" Faye asked, her brow furrowing in thought. "Isn't that where the Greybeards live?"

"No," Throrn answered quickly. "But that's where the 7,000 Steps begin. Made the pilgrimage, once."

Faye turned towards him with a frown. "Huh, did you, now? Didn't think you were the type."

"I guess you never can tell," Gunern muttered thoughtfully.

"In any case," Ralof cut in, "We shouldn't have to worry about anything worse than bandits and wild animals-"

The world shook violently, bringing every last Stormcloak to the ground, and threatening to send them tumbling back down the hill they were climbing.

"DOVAHKIIN!" The word was cried out by a chorus of distant men, and echoed off the rocks and trees around them. The shaking stopped, and silence reigned over the woods.

The Stormcloaks slowly got back to their feet, all staring openly at the Throat of the World.

"That had to be the Greybeards," Faye muttered, her voice mired in disbelief. "But why?"

Throrn swallowed. "There's only one reason they would Shout like that," he breathed. "The Dragonborn has come."

"The Dragonborn?" Faye asked, eyes as wide as wagon wheels. "Now?"

Gunern grunted. "Makes sense, if you think about it," he grumbled. "The first dragon attacked a few days ago. Why wouldn't Talos balance things out like this?"

"I think it has more to do with Akatosh," Throrn muttered, stroking his beard in thought. "I could be wrong, though."

Ralof sighed. "Well, we can ask ourselves these questions after we reach the Rift. Just because there aren't any dragons or Imperials around doesn't mean we aren't in danger."

With a few quiet mutterings and some apprehensive or awed glances towards the great mountain, they continued their trek.

Lydia couldn't believe it. Irileth could see that much. She couldn't blame the young woman. Irileth had witnessed the battle, and she had a hard time believing it.

"But... He was unharmed!" Lydia exclaimed as they marched up the steps to Dragonsreach. "How could one man- How could anyone come out of a battle like that unscathed?"

"I don't know," Irileth grumbled. "But, thanks to his efforts, we only lost one man today." She then chuckled, adding, "And my eyebrows."

"That's insane," Lydia protested. "And why doesn't he wish to talk about it?"

Irileth snorted. "Men are all the same, no matter what species," she pointed out. "He was struck with something he doesn't yet understand, and rather than admit he's afraid, he'd rather let that fear simmer into anger and resentment. It's textbook male behavior, I assure you."

Lydia chuckled, her eyes wide and staring off into space. "How can a man capable of all that be afraid of anything?"

Irileth grabbed Lydia's shoulder just before the girl walked off the edge of the staircase. "Didn't I teach you to pay attention to your surroundings?" she chided.

Lydia blushed, shaking her head as she took a step back. "That doesn't answer my question," she grumbled, doing her best not to pout.

Irileth, on the other hand, was trying her hardest to not laugh. "Everyone is afraid of something, whether they admit it or not," she answered, unable to keep the grin off her face. "I don't know what sort of hell Bradley went through before his arrival, but I doubt anything physical would phase him." She shrugged, continuing up the stairs. "But, I speak out of ignorance and hunches. Other than the fact that he's a blessing to Whiterun, we know precious little about the man."

"Well," Lydia muttered, "He does seem rather ignorant of our traditions, but that's par for the course for outlanders."

The elf glanced at Lydia, raising an eyebrow and fighting a smirk. "You had to explain his new title, didn't you?"

"Aye," she answered with a nod. "As well as my own. But that's not the only thing. He seems..." Her face scrunched up as she considered. "Unaware of how short the Stormcloak Rebellion has actually been."

Irileth frowned at that. "What leads you to that thought?" she asked as they crested the top of the stairs.

Lydia's expression darkened. "He asked if the war had been damaging enough to grant him more privileges than responsibilities, just to give the people a hero."

The elf smiled darkly, shaking her head. "Ignorant, yet politically savvy," she muttered to herself. "What an unexpected mix."

Lydia frowned at her. "Housecarl?"

Irileth shook her head. "Never mind that, Lydia. Has he given you any instructions, thus far?"

"Only to meet him at the inn this evening," she answered, checking the sky. "I'm free for another hour or so."

"Understood," Irileth said, opening the doors of Dragonsreach. "Come with me. I think I have a few history books he should find fascinating."

Thankfully, Bradley had found a few changes of clothes in Belethor's General Goods shop, as well as a nice coat. He found the tone setting sentences of, "Everything's for sale, my friend, everything! If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second!" to be rather off-putting, but otherwise found no faults with the business. In fact, he hadn't even mentioned the mess covering Bradley's clothes.

Of course, there hadn't been any maps here, either, but that was fine. The Khajiit would only be leaving the day after tomorrow, so he could make a quick stop there.

But first, to get rid of his current suit, and the stink. His boots were fine, as were the undergarments, thankfully. But everything else had to go.

The guests and staff of the Bannered Mare all gave him strange looks upon his arrival (as had most citizens of Whiterun at this point), but Bradley rented a room all the same. He was both surprised and pleased to hear that the inn had a bathhouse out back, free to all renters.*

(*My invention entirely, the lack of such things in game irk me)

And now, he was relaxing in simmered water, letting the aches and pains melt away into the bath. Of course, the relaxation was only physical.

This world was mad. No doubts about that. Dragons, dragonborn, magic, undead rising from their graves? He'd even taken a peek into the alchemy shop just next door, and had been disappointed to see that it was all just herbs and tinctures. No grand understanding of matter here, much less its destruction and reconstruction. If his nightmares were at all accurate, and he had been sentenced to this existence, he had to admit that it was a good one. A fate he'd only wish on his worst enemies.

A thought occurred to him, and he frowned. Back in Amestris, had he really had enemies? Or were they just obstacles in Father's way?

He shook his head, clearing it of the treacherous thought. Of course he'd had enemies. That old fox, Grumman, the insufferable Flame Alchemist, that nameless Ishvalan, not to mention the Xingese assassin...

That girl. He remembered that face, glaring down at him as he died. The face of the only quarry he'd ever lost. Her, and her master, the prince who'd been made Greed.

He sighed, sitting up in the bath. He was not an infallible man, he knew this better than anyone. But he really should have brought Gluttony along to hunt the girl down. That one mistake had cost the homunculi everything.

And yet... Bradley had been so proud in that moment. Proud that his opponent understood the meaning of sacrifice. Angry that he had been duped so easily. And he'd been most certainly amused by the dog she'd strapped her arm to.

Maybe Pride had a point. Perhaps he had been spending too much time around humans. That might have been his greatest mistake, after all.

When he'd emerged from the bathhouse and reentered the inn, he saw Lydia sitting by the fire. She had a mug of ale and an apple, but was enjoying the song their performer was in the midst of singing. Something to do with a warrior maid and someone called Ragnar the Red.

There was also a satchel at her feet, filled to the brim with books. This should be interesting.

Without any ceremony, he took a seat beside her and sighed. "Very punctual," he praised her, setting his pack on the floor.

Lydia almost flew out of her seat and into the open firepit, but caught herself when her eyes fell on him. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she gave him a nod. "Feeling better, sir?"

"Nothing like a good scrubbing after a hard day's work," Bradley joked, his gaze wandering to the woman approaching them. "Ah, Saadia, yes? What are you serving, today?"

The scarred woman smiled and nodded. "That depends, are you thirsty? Hungry? Both?"

"Both, actually," he answered, reaching into his pack for the sack of gold. "I'll take water, or perhaps some tea, if you have any." He fished out a few gold coins, handing them to Saadia. "As for the dish, surprise me."

She nodded as the coins fell into her palm. "Right away, sir," she said, turning away and heading back into the kitchen.

Bradley turned back to Lydia with a smile. "So," he said, "Lydia, correct?"

Lydia blinked. "Wha- Oh." She blushed, clearing her throat. "Uh, yes, my Thane."

"Just Bradley will be fine," he assured her. No need to scare off the help. "What sort of skills does my housecarl possess? Are they all combat related, or...?"

"Uh, mostly, sir," Lydia answered, her brow furrowing in obvious confusion. "You've seen my sword and shield. I'm also skilled at archery, although a little less so than melee combat." She cleared her throat, asking, "Sir, we could just... Spar, if you... don't mind my saying so. My Thane."

Bradley snorted, shaking his head. "No, I think I'll have plenty of time to see those skills on our trip."

Lydia blinked. "Our trip, sir?"

Holding back a sigh, Bradley met her gaze. No, she wasn't unintelligent. That was an eager look in her eyes, held back by a need for professionalism. This had to be her first assignment, there was no other explanation for it.

He took a deep breath, nodding. "I'll be heading for Ivarstead in the morning. I have certain..." A ball of rage formed in his stomach. "Questions that need answers."

Lydia nodded slowly, pursing her lips. "This wouldn't have to do with the..." Her eyes darted away from his own as she muttered, "Dragonborn business you didn't wish to discuss, would it?"

Bradley was very glad to see Saadia emerging from the kitchen. He gave her a smile as he accepted both cup and bowl. "Appreciated," he said, setting the cup down.

"Give me a yell if you need anything else," the woman answered, moving on to the next customer.

With that, Bradley turned back to Lydia. "My apologies," he said, with a good natured chuckle he didn't actually feel. "To answer your question, Lydia, yes. I'm certain you've now heard about what happened at the watchtower."

"Oh, well, yes, sir," she answered, nodding again. "Housecarl Irileth told me all about it." Her eyes darted away once again. This time, the guilt was written more plainly on her face. But why? What would she have to feel guilty about?

He shook his head. Questions for later. "And the thundering sound, shortly before I arrived at Dragonsreach?"

"I certainly heard that," she said dutifully. "The Greybeards summoning you to High Hrothgar, yes?"

"... Yes, that is what I've been told," he answered. "I'm going there tomorrow, and I expect you to accompany me."

Lydia nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself. One didn't need Bradley's Ultimate Eye to see how excited she was, but she was holding herself back admirably. "It will be an honor to travel with you, Thane."

"Very good-" Bradley began to say, just as the bard cleared his throat.

"Thank you, thank you Whiterun," the man was saying to the sounds of mild applause. "It's always a pleasure to perform for you all. But tonight, I have a special treat for you."

To Bradley's horror and frustration, the man motioned towards him. There was a wide grin plastered on his face as he said, "I'm sure some of you may have heard about what took place at the Western Watchtower today. I know we all heard the call of the Greybeards. Thus, this next song goes out to our new hero and Thane of Whiterun, Bradley!"

Bradley forced a smile to his face as the other customers, including Lydia, gave him a round of applause.

Clearing his throat, the bard strummed his lute, and began to sing.

"Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart. I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes."

Bradley, after scanning the audience to ensure they weren't watching, got to his feet. "Come, Lydia," he muttered quietly, setting his bowl on the bench. He'd barely touched the contents.

"Oh, of course," Lydia answered, grabbing the sack of books and following him to the door.

"With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art," the bard continued, oblivious to their departure. "Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes."

It took every bit of his self control for Bradley to not slam the door on his way out.

The Stormcloaks had been walking for hours, following the dirt paths off the main road. It was getting dark now, and they still had not circumvented the Throat of the World.

Gunern groaned. "Gods, it feels like we've been going in circles."

"We haven't," Throrn grumbled, "But I know the feeling."

"We need rest," Faye said with a sigh. "How far from Ivarstead even are we?"

Ralof shrugged. "Far enough that we can stop worrying about the Imperials."

"Aye, Faye noted, peering through the trees around them. "We can start worrying about... whatever calls these woods home."

"That could be anything," Gunern snapped. "Bandits, bears, trolls, spiders. At least there's no Forsworn."

"Wait a second," Throrn said, coming to a stop. "I think I see a light."

They all turned to look at the man, then followed his gaze.

Gunern's eyes lit up. "I see it," he cried out with a laugh. "It's a campfire!"

"Finally, a place to rest!" Faye seemed almost ready to charge right for it.

Ralof grabbed her shoulder just as she took a step forward. "Hold it," he hissed. "We don't know who else is out here."

"I don't care," Gunern said with a huff. "We're not in Imperial territory anymore. I'm sure they'll be happy to help out a few Stormcloaks on the road."

"Especially after we tell them our story," Throrn pointed out.

"And if it's a secret Imperial camp?" Ralof asked, glaring at both of them. "Or Thalmor spies?"

Faye winced. "That's a good point, actually..."

Gunern returned Ralof's glare. "So, what do you propose we do, commander?"

Ralof chose to ignore the venom in Gunern's voice, releasing Faye. "We sneak up to the camp, take a moment to examine the inhabitants. If there's nothing wrong, then we approach in the open. But not before."

Throrn and Faye nodded, crouching and moving forward. But Gunern maintained his gaze on Ralof for a moment longer before sighing heavily and following suit.

They soon found the spot; a small camp under a natural alcove in the mountainside. The campfire was lit, bedrolls were spread out, and there was even a chest and a tanning rack. And yet...

"Where is everyone?" Throrn asked, slowly drawing his axe from his back.

"Who would just leave all of this lying around?" Gunern grumbled. "It makes no sense."

"Aye," Ralof muttered, drawing his own axe. "Besides, do you hear that?"

Faye groaned quietly. "I don't hear a thing. Like the whole forest is holding its breath."

"Exactly," Ralof said with a nod. "Arm yourselves. We need this, but proceed with caution."

They all nodded, emerging into the clearing around the alcove. Faye had drawn a bow, as had Gunern. As they approached the camp, their eyes darted this way and that, searching for the enemy.

Then Faye's bow was shot out of her hand, and before she had a chance to scream, they could hear someone cursing off to the right.

"They're in the trees," Ralof shouted, turning to face whoever had let that arrow loose.

Five bandits were emerging from the undergrowth, all armed with their own bows, and readying their next shots.

Gunern laughed, loosing his own arrow. "Not impressed," he called out as it hit one of the bandits' shoulders.

The wounded bandit growled, drawing a sword and charging Gunern directly. "I'll have your head," the man shouted out.

Only to get smacked in the face with the handle of Throrn's axe. "I'll try and make this quick," he promised, raising the weapon over his head and bringing it down. It split the bandit's head in two, and the outlaw fell to the ground.

Two arrows hit Throrn then, one in the shoulder, the other in the gut. He fell to his knees with a groan, glaring up at the remaining bandits.

Two had dropped their bows and had drawn their melee weapons, charging at the group as the last two archers readied more arrows.

Ralof grit his teeth. "Gunern, help our. Faye, archers, with me!"

"Right," Faye growled, drawing two axes from her hip.

"You'd better know what you're doing," Gunern called, rushing to Throrn's side to meet a bandit's blade with his own.

As he and Faye closed the distance to the archers, one of the melee combatants stepped into Ralof's path, swinging for his neck. Ralof growled as he jumped back from the blow, surging forward with one of his own. He caught the bandit's arm, but the force hadn't dealt any real damage.

The bandit screamed in pain, wrenching his arm away from the axe and thrusting for Ralof's stomach. Ralof responded with a side step, trapping the bandit's arm under his own and driving his axe into the bandit's stomach.

As the bandit groaned in pain, Ralof looked up just in time to see Faye roar out a battle cry at the archers. Both faltered, their shots missing her by a mile as they took a step back.

And then she was standing between them, axes swinging this way and that, drawing blood with each movement. One managed to disengage, fleeing from the battle with a cry of, "Death is highly overrated!"

With another growl, Ralof slit the throat of his opponent, turning to see Gunern mindlessly beating the corpse of his own with the pommel of his sword.

And with one final blow from Faye, the battle was over. They had won.

Throrn groaned, pulling the arrow in his gut free. There wasn't a drop of blood there; a good sign; but his shoulder would need tending to.

Ralof sighed heavily. "Faye, Gunern. Hunt down that last bandit, then get back here. I'll tend to Throrn's wounds."

Both nodded, and headed off.

Throrn shook his head, taking a seat on one of the bedrolls. "I'll be fine," he grumbled. "Just get me a healing potion. I'll be right as rain."

"I'd rather not leave anyone on their own," Ralof pointed out, digging one of the scarlet bottles from his pocket and handing it over. "Especially after that mess."

"True enough," Throrn said with a sigh, accepting it. As he popped the cork he muttered, "I got sloppy. It won't happen again."

Ralof rolled his eyes, now turning to regard the forest around them. "Please, anything can happen in battle. We don't always see them coming, but we're not lone mercenaries. We're an army, and we look after each other."

"I'll drink to that," Throrn answered, doing just that. He grimaced, setting the empty bottle aside. "Though, I have to admit, I'd rather have a bottle of Honningbrew mead."

"Honningbrew," Ralof asked with a scoff. "Why would you ever drink that piss water when Black-Briar mead exists?"

"Oh, aye," Throrn grumbled, shaking his head. "As if I want a single septim going towards that bunch of criminals?"

They exchanged a glare, and then burst out into a fit of laughter. Ralof had to admit, it felt good.

Off in the distance, they could hear the sound of a man screaming.

"Think that was Gunern?" Throrn asked once the scream fell silent.

"No," Ralof answered, unable to stop himself from smiling. "Gunern sounds like a little girl."

Throrn snorted. "Too right."

Ri'saad was meditating in front of his tent. Or, at least, he was attempting to meditate. His companions were having the moonsugar argument again. He sighed silently to himself. Unlike skooma, moonsugar wasn't technically illegal, but if any of their Nord hosts overheard the discussion, it wouldn't be long before they would be chasing them out of Skyrim.

What was that human saying? Oh, yes. Loose lips sink ships.

His ear perked up as he caught the sound of approaching footsteps, and his eyes lazily opened.

Ah. It was that Bradley fellow again. And he'd brought someone. Not one of the guards, which he noted with no small amount of relief. Perhaps this armored woman was a hired bodyguard. Or, perhaps, one of those housecarls he'd heard about. Not that it mattered which, there was far too much overlap between the occupations.

"Welcome back, Bradley," he greeted with a nod. "If I cannot serve you, I am sure that one of my other traders can do so."

"Good evening, Ri'saad," Bradley answered with a nod. "I'd like to purchase a map, if you have any."

"Of course." Ri'saad reached into the tent, pulling out a rolled up scroll of parchment. "I am afraid that only the main roads and cities are marked upon it."

"That's fine," Bradley said, waving it off with a smile. "I'd also like a blank book, as well as a quill and ink."

Interesting choices, but Ri'saad provided them all the same. "Is there anything else you would like to purchase?"

Bradley cupped his chin as he considered the question. "We; that is, my housecarl and I; will be travelling to Ivarstead on the morrow. Would you happen to know how long that will take us?"

"That depends," the khajiit muttered, stroking the fur on his chin. "Will you be travelling by horse or on foot?"

"On foot," Bradley answered.

Ri'saad thought for a moment. "This one does not have a need to visit such a small village often," he noted, "But I believe it will be a two day excursion. Perhaps you would like to purchase supplies for such a journey?"

Bradley opened his mouth, then his eye shot to the woman. "You look like you have something to say, Lydia," he said, his tone not unkind.

The woman; Lydia, apparently; glanced between the pair, then sighed. "My Thane," she said, hesitantly, "I know Belethor's shop doesn't have the other items, but perhaps we could buy the food in the market tomorrow?" Her eyes fixed Ri'saad with an accusatory glare as she added, "At more... suitable prices."

Bradley's eye narrowed as he regarded her. "You distrust the khajiit?"

Lydia winced. "It- it's not that, sir-"

"Is it not?" Bradley interrupted, his tone harsher now. "It certainly sounds like you do."

"But- I-" The girl was floundering now, her eyes darting around as she sought an escape from this conversation.

Bradley shook his head. "I now see what you mean," he told Ri'saad. "Allow me to apologize on behalf of my new Housecarl for her behavior."

Ri'saad waved a hand. "It is nothing this one has not heard before," he noted, giving the girl a cheeky smirk. "In fact, this one finds her almost adorable, in comparison to others."

Removing his pack, Bradley shook his head. "Nevertheless, it is an insult to you and your people, and I wish to continue my patronage." He reached in and pulled out a large, milky pink crystal. "Perhaps this would do as proper reparations?"

Ri'saad slowly accepted the stone, examining it. "This is not charged," he noted, "But it will do."

Bradley frowned. "Excuse me, but... Charged?"

The khajiit slowly blinked at him. "You do not know what this is?"

"Consider me an ignoramus," Bradley answered cheerfully. Perhaps a little too cheerfully. As if hiding his frustration was an act all too familiar to him. Ri'saad would have to keep a closer eye on the man.

But rather than push the issue, Ri'saad turned to Lydia. "And you? What do you know of this stone?"

Lydia glanced at Bradley nervously, then sighed as the man nodded. "It's a soul gem," she answered. "Probably a lesser one. I've seen Farengar meddling with them in his laboratory, but I never asked him about it."

Ri'saad had been watching Bradley. And he'd seen his lone eye widen in recognition. It was only there for a moment, then gone the next, but he hadn't missed it.

"I see," the man muttered, his eye fixed on the gem in Ri'saad's hand. "And when you say it has no charge..."

"It has not been infused with a living soul," Ri'saad confirmed. "Of course, I would not expect anything larger than a wolf, or perhaps a Frostbite Spider to fit into one such as this."

"And what of human souls?"

Lydia's eyes widened, and she stared openly at Bradley. Ri'saad himself couldn't stop an incredulous look from spreading across his face.

Bradley waved a hand. "A purely hypothetical question, I assure you."

Ri'saad chuckled, shaking his head. "For the soul of a being such as us, one would require a black soul gem," he answered. "Even rarer than these, I'm afraid."

Bradley nodded, studying the stone once more. "And where would one procure such items? Without going to a trader or simply happening upon one, I mean?"

The khajiit shrugged. "This is not a study this one have dedicated much time to," he admitted. "But I have heard rumors that they come from deep, dark places beneath the earth. Where the dwemer once walked."

Bradley's eye narrowed again, but he nodded. "Very well, I won't pry any further," he said, pulling out his coin purse. "This will be all. How much do I owe you?"

"Half price for the man who destroyed the dragon," Ri'saad answered, taking no small amount of pleasure from the blush spreading across Lydia's cheeks. "We mean to take that road tomorrow, and this one wishes to thank you, personally."

Bradley sighed and nodded. "As long as no one says anything about the Dragonborn, your thanks are accepted," he said.

Lydia felt mortified. Her first day as a Housecarl, and she'd given her charge such a bad first impression. What would her parents say if they saw her now? What would Irileth say when she found out? The thought was almost too much to bear.

As they re-entered the city, Bradley cleared his throat. Her training was the only thing keeping her from jumping at the sound. "I have been meaning to ask," he said, his voice back to that almost infuriating calm. "Why are you carrying those books around?"

Lydia blushed yet again. Of course. The books. "Uh, right," she muttered, clearing her throat as she held the sack out to him. "They're actually a gift. Irileth said you might find them interesting."

"Ah, wonderful," he said, taking the sack from her. "I've been hoping to find some good reading material. Thus far, I only have the second installment of a trilogy. Give her my thanks next time you see her."

Lydia nodded, her cheeks no longer burning in embarrassment. "I will, sir."

"Very good," he said with a nod. "Before you're dismissed for the night, I have one final question for you."

"How can I serve you, my Thane?"

"Ri'saad's prices," he answered, his eye staring into her own. "How fair a merchant is he?"

Lydia felt her brow furrow as she mulled over the question. "I can't say for sure, I'm no merchant myself. But they were more than fair." Her cheeks flushed again. "I really do owe him an apology, don't I?"

"Apologies have been made and accepted," he answered, marching off towards the Bannered Mare. "But take this lesson to heart; never assume anything."

"Right, sir," she said with another nod. "Is there anything else?"

"That will be all for tonight," he said. "Meet me in the market tomorrow. For now, you are dismissed."

"Of course, my Thane." She gave him a quick salute, then started the climb back up to Dragonsreach.

So, not everything had been ruined today. She would still get to accompany him outside Whiterun Hold; further than she'd ever travelled in her life.

What was it that Hrongar liked to say? Oh, yes. All's well that ends well.

Well, Irileth had been right about one thing; Bradley did indeed find the books interesting. Though why she'd chosen nothing but history books... He couldn't say for sure, but it felt as if she knew how ignorant he was of the world around him. An unsettling thought, to say the least.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to educate himself. so, he began with Brief History of the Empire, Volume I.

It spoke of the Septim Dynasty, the founders of the Empire. It began with Tiber Septim; or Talos of Atmora, of those soldiers were correct earlier. There was no mention of his being the Dragonborn, focusing instead on his forceful unification of Tamriel and his just rule. Though he wished that it lingered longer on this man, he had to admit, this book was everything the title advertised.

Tiber's rule was succeeded by those lesser in ability, it seemed; only truly flourishing under Kintrya I and Uriel I. Pelagius II was a contender, for sure, but his actions only served the Empire in the short term, while dooming his own successor Antiochus. It was also apparent from the short description of Antiochus that Pelagius had been far too soft on him as a youth; or perhaps too controlling.

The book ended with Kintrya II's death in some Imperial prison, and the beginning of Potema and her son's usurpation of the throne. It also promised a description of the War of the Red Diamond in the next volume.

Well, from what he knew of dynasties and medieval power struggles, this seemed perfectly normal. He'd heard of Xing's many civil wars, and yet they still clung to the idea of their Emperor and the Mandate of Heaven like a vice, while almost all of the western powers had moved on from such inefficient forms of government.

Although, now that he thought about it, wasn't his existence a direct argument against democracy? After all, he'd wrested control from Amestris' own government after earning his place as Fuhrer. While in office, his first name had been far too apt a description, which had been Father's intention in the first place.

And hadn't Father been the one to guide Amestris from the shadows, ever since he'd slipped from the ruins of Xerxes? He certainly hadn't been too picky on their form of government, so long as he could place his own puppet at its head. It had taken a lot of red tape and assassinations, but he'd managed it quite easily.

After all, who could stand in the way of the homunculi?

Bradley's mind flashed to the nameless Ishvalan, and his musings took a darker path. That man had been a thorn in his side ever since he'd started slaughtering the State Alchemists, becoming an urban legend on par with his own. He'd even been named after the x-shaped scar across his face.

He grumbled to himself, setting the book on a bedside table. He would read more later. For now, his body was demanding rest.

He just hoped that he wouldn't be plagued with another nightmare. Two in a row was bad enough.