Chapter Text
Luthes Malena had felt relatively certain in the solidity of the ground below him up until the moment when all of Nirn shook as if it was coming apart and what looked like a giant lizard emerged from behind the clouds.
No, that was no lizard…it was a dragon.
His heart, which had been beating rapid-fire in his chest just minutes ago, stopped in fear. He froze in the middle of the cobblestoned path he’d been following outside the gates of Whiterun and stared up into the sky as the dragon soared overhead.
Dragons. He remembered his mother telling him stories about them terrorizing the land all those years ago, the enslavement of Skyrim’s people and the ensuing Dragon War with the triumph of the Tongues. They were stories that his Imperial father would wave away with a hand, admonishing his wife for filling their son’s head with silly Nordic fantasies. He preferred to tell stories of his homeland of Cyrodiil and the great Septim dynasty.
Luthes never once thought he’d see the object of his mother’s bedtime stories in actuality, though. The dragon swooped down from the sky and landed on the ground, kicking up a circle of dust around his feet. Fearsome, coal black eyes surrounded by blue scales looked at Luthes with loathing, and a shiver ran through his body and caused him to tremble.
Up ahead, the thief he’d been chasing brandished a broad, two-handed sword stained with blood and charged ahead to face down the scaly beast. His long, blonde hair, tugged back into a ponytail, rushed out behind him as he sprinted and yelled some battle cry that Luthes vaguely recalled some of his fellow guards using when they chased after criminals.
Nords. So predictably valiant.
This one, though, seemed trickier. He had the warmongering mentality of the race, but at the same time saw no issue with stealing a piece of fruit from a law-abiding shop owner. That was something that Luthes couldn’t accept—the law was the law, no matter how small of a crime. As a member of the Whiterun guard, he had a duty to protect and serve the people. It was what his family had been proudly doing for generations; he came from a long line of guards who had served in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil.
In a split second decision, Luthes retrieved his steel sword and readied his trusty shield adorned with the crest of Whiterun hold. By the Nine, he was going to get that stolen apple back.
After they defeated the dragon, of course.
The Nord swung at the beast’s snout, landing a blow that left a slash across his features. The dragon stumbled back, but quickly regained his composure, advancing forward. Even so, the Nord stood steady and true, ready to face the oncoming threat.
Luthes approached the dragon from the side, sinking his sword into it. He struggled to push the blade through the resistance of reptile’s scaly skin, but the black blood spilling out from the puncture drove him to keep going.
The Nord stopped slashing for a brief moment to stare incredulously at Luthes, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re still chasing after me?” he said, a mixture between a question and an angry statement.
Luthes narrowed his eyes. “I know you stole that apple, you fuuuuuu—”
With a sudden jerk, the dragon’s body moved and Luthes found himself flung forward, clinging onto his sword with a tight grip. When he finally steadied himself, he yanked on the handle as hard as he could and pulled out the weapon, stumbling backwards.
Right as the dragon turned to face him.
He stood with his mouth open, staring slack jawed into the face of the dragon and unable to move. The dragon opened his jaw to reveal a full set of sharp teeth, and Luthes could see flames beginning to form at the back of the throat. Still, he remained frozen to the spot.
From his side came a bellow. “What in Oblivion are you doing just standing there?”
Then a force like a battering ram hit him as the Nord pushed him out of the way just when the dragon unleashed a stream of white-hot fire. Luthes could feel the heat radiating from the dragon’s breath as he and the Nord tumbled to the ground out of reach of the fire, panting. As they scrambled to their feet, the dragon mercifully closed his mouth and batted his wings towards the sky, soaring back up into the clouds.
“Thank you,” Luthes said, turning to face the Nord, who nodded in response. His face was stoic and serious. He stayed silent as he clutched his sword tightly, knuckles white, and watched the dragon’s movements.
It was then that Luthes had an idea. Tucking his sword into its sheath, he pulled out the long bow behind his back along with a steel arrow from its quiver. He felt the string of the bow stretch as he aimed his arrow up above, tracking the flight patterns of the dragon. The timing had to be just right on this one.
The arrow shot into the sky and pierced the dragon’s skin, just around where Luthes guessed his heart was. The dragon let out a screech of pain and dove back towards the ground where he landed with a skid.
The Nord was suddenly by Luthes’s side, lips close to his ear as he shouted instructions. “I have an idea,” he said. “Distract him with the arrows while I get a good shot at him.”
Luthes nodded and began to pelt the dragon’s body with arrows as he ran around the creature. Each time an arrow landed, the dragon would crane his neck to follow Luthes, trying to keep up with guard. The hit he’d made earlier through the heart seemed to slow his movements down, though, and he couldn’t match Luthes’s pace.
In one sudden move, the Nord charged at the side of the dragon’s face, raising his sword and plunging it through the head. The dragon cried out and struggled as the Nord held on. After several moments of fighting, the dragon fell to the earth in a crumpled heap, wings fluttering sadly one last time before his eyes closed. Then, as if never there to begin with, the dragon’s scales vanished and left only a mass of bones in their wake. Luthes blinked several times as if to confirm that what he was seeing was real.
“Well,” the Nord said with a grunt. “Guess he’s dead now.”
He stepped forward to inspect the bones, running a hand along one of the thick, white ribs sticking up into the air. As he did so, a rush of purple and blue lights streamed out of the dragon’s carcass and enveloped the Nord in their radiance. Luthes watched his face in the glow; it was as if the Nord was no longer in the present moment, but instead traveling in some distant land receiving enlightenment. When the colors dimmed and faded at last, he slowly turned to face the stretching fields that surrounded them and opened his mouth.
“FUS.”
That single syllable sent ripples across the plains, causing blades of grass to flatten in the winds. A rush of air slapped Luthes’s cheeks and nearly sent him reeling backwards.
The stillness after the Nord spoke touched everything, and it felt like time slowed to a trickle. Something about that word, ‘fus,’ and what it had done sparked Luthes’s memory of a story his mother once told him. Of what they used to say about the Septims. Then he realized what it was.
Luthes gasped. “You’re…”
The Nord looked at him with frightened eyes. “I’m…”
“Dragonborn,” they whispered in unison.
Stealing the apple hadn’t been a conscious decision on Ruhnjolf’s part—his stomach rumbled while he was going about his business in town, and the apple sat there so invitingly on that little table in the general store that he didn’t think Belethor would miss it. When he was on the job, he was used to just taking things when he needed them.
“I’d even buy one of your relatives, if you’re looking to sell,” Belethor was saying to another customer as Ruhnjolf eyed the apple. When the customer made no response, Belethor added that he was just making a joke; Ruhnjolf had no doubt that the greedy little Breton would do something like that, though.
He waited until the owner’s back faced the counter before reaching out and plucking the fruit from its position on the table. Ruhnjolf rolled it around in his hand for a brief moment, then stuck it in the bag of supplies he carried around with him.
“Stop right there, criminal scum.” Ruhnjolf had made it halfway to the exit when he heard the cry from behind him, and he turned around to see an Imperial in the tan tunic and armor of the Whiterun guards. He had his helmet off, and Runhjolf could see the fire in his dark brown eyes.
Criminal scum? He thought that phrase had gone out of use an era ago. Who was this bastard? And who even gave this much of a rat turd about an apple?
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ruhnjolf said, raising his hands up in defense. He kept his tone calm and steady, with a hint of a threat; the gravelly edge to his voice always helped with that part.
“I saw you pick it up,” the guard said, exasperated. “It doesn’t belong to you. Put it back, or by the right of law I will have you arrested.”
Ruhnjolf snorted. “You really think you can have me arrested for a piece of fruit?”
The guard stared him in the eyes, unblinking. It was unnerving. “I’m willing to bet there’s other stolen goods in that bag of yours,” he said, pointing at the brown pack slung over Ruhnjolf’s shoulders. “And the jarl doesn’t take too kindly to thieves.”
“Well.” Ruhnjolf pinched his beard between his fingers, which was styled into a tiny braid. Moving along the ridges of the twists helped him think. “You’re going to have to get them from me, then.”
The milk drinker was faster than Ruhnjolf had thought when he first decided to sprint out of the shop and through the gates of Whiterun. It wasn’t long before he found himself winded and out breath, struggling to maintain a pace faster than his pursuer. The members of the Khajiit caravan that loitered outside the hold snickered as he ran by with the guard in tow.
“I remember those days,” one of them said.
When the dragon interrupted their chase, Ruhnjolf was already so full of adrenaline that he didn’t think twice before getting out his sword and charging into battle. The Nord blood pumping through his veins made him battle hardened and ready to face the beast. He’d expected to have to fight for his life in that scenario; it was what Nords did.
What he didn’t expect was for the guard to enter the clash, fighting with more valor than he’d seen in a long time. Even Ruhnjolf had to admit that they’d worked well as a team.
And when they’d finally vanquished the dragon and that brilliant light appeared from the corpse…it was like unlocking some part of his brain that he didn’t even know existed. He could hear whispers in a language previously unknown to him.
He’d only heard the same sounds one other time in his life, when he took on a contract that led him to Bleak Falls Barrow, an old Nordic ruin outside the village of Riverwood. There, a series of ancient letters written on a stone wall produced the same color of light as the dragon bones did. He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him then that he might be a Dragonborn, even after all the stories and legends he’d grown up hearing from his relatives.
Even the guard figured it out faster than he did, and now he was stuck with a nuisance of an Imperial yammering at him about being Dragonborn when Ruhnjolf could barely wrap his own mind around the concept.
“So you’re Dragonborn. Just like Tiber Septim! You’re basically a living prophecy,” the guard said, speaking at breakneck speeds unheard of before that moment. “You should really go and see the Greybeards, the ones who live at High Hrothgar. I remember reading a book about them and how they study the way of the voice and—”
“The Greybeards?” The Nord felt like his head was spinning, and there was a distinct sensation of churning in his guts. Suddenly he was angered at this Imperial who acted like he knew more than him about Nordic heritage and traditions. “Of course I know who the Greybeards are. By Ysmir’s beard, I’m a Nord. I know the history of my people.”
The guard opened and closed his mouth, taken aback by the harshness in Ruhnjolf’s voice. “Well, what do you think, then?” he said finally. “About going to High Hrothgar. You have such power, you should really learn how to use it. And maybe…well, maybe you can learn how to stop the dragon attacks that have been happening.”
The dragon attacks. That was right. Ruhnjolf remembered hearing about a dragon that had ransacked Helgen just a few weeks ago, right as the Imperial Army had Ulfric Stormcloak leaning atop a wooden stump with an axe hanging over his head.
“I can come with you, if you’d like,” the guard offered, eyes hopeful. “I’ll even forget about the whole apple thing. Just this once.”
Ruhnjolf narrowed his eyes. Who was this guard, anyway? Why did he care so much? He was just another uptight, obnoxious Imperial. Not only that, but Ruhnjolf didn’t even want this ability he’d been given. He knew all the stories of the Dragonborns, of the power and glory they wielded just by being able to absorb dragon souls—benefits that came with the burden of fulfilling an age-old prophecy and potentially letting down his people if he wasn’t able to complete his destiny.
It all seemed like a lot of pressure, and Ruhnjolf wasn’t sure he could face the prospect of failure.
“I don’t need your help,” he snapped. “I’ll figure this out on my own.”
With that, Ruhnjolf turned and headed down the long road back to Whiterun, leaving a stunned guard behind him.
The evening sun dipped lower on the horizon as Ruhnjolf and his companion, Kharjo, trudged past the farms on their way back to Whiterun. Ruhnjolf could feel his eyes starting to grow heavy as he walked, and dried sweat and dirt caked every inch of his face. He longed for nothing more than a stiff pint of mead and a spot by the fireplace at the Bannered Mare.
“If anyone sneaks up on us, I’ll smell them coming,” Kharjo said and cracked a grin, exposing sharp feline teeth. “Or I might not. We will see.” He followed it up with a strange throaty laugh that sounded like a mix between a cough and a chuckle.
Ruhnjolf reached up a hand to rub his temples and sighed. Kharjo was a reliable partner and certainly one hell of a fighter, but he told that joke at least once every time they went on a job together, and it made Ruhnjolf want to take a sword to his throat.
Stupid cat.
The two of them had been working mercenary contracts together for several months now, after Kharjo tired of guarding the caravans and craved a more exciting, adventurous life. Ruhnjolf hadn’t been sure if he could trust the Khajiit at first—after all, they had slippery reputations—but Kharjo had shown himself to be fair when it came to splitting profits.
At last they came to the entrance of Whiterun. After they split the Septims from the days’ work, Kharjo parted ways to join the rest of the Khajiit near the gate, while Ruhnjolf entered the hold.
Just inside the gates, a guard patrol made its way past Ruhnjolf. They all wore the face-concealing helmets of the uniform, but he could sense that the guard from the dragon fight was among them. As if reading his mind, the guard on the end turned to get a second look at him as he walked by.
He shook his head and tried to rid his mind of what had happened the other day. Even so, he couldn’t help the way that thoughts about the Greybeards and dragons and destinies entered his head. The feeling of exhilaration that ripped through him as he’d uttered that one word in dragon tongue was impossible to forget, and he’d spent more time than he wanted to considering the guard’s offer to go to High Hrothgar with him.
As he moved through town, he tried to rid himself of these thoughts. Ruhnjolf heard Heimskr, the local preacher, far before he saw the man. His exaggerated speech and decibel-shattering volume gave Ruhnjolf the urge to start a fist fight with the nearest person in town. “WE ARE BUT MAGGOTS WRIIIIIIIIIIIIIITHING IN THE FILTH OF OUR OWN CORRUPTION.”
He ducked into the inn as quickly as he could to avoid hearing the rest of Heimskr’s spiel; he believed in Talos as much as the next Nord but by the Nine was the priest annoying.
The Bannered Mare’s warmth calmed him instantly as he stepped foot inside, taking in the sounds of clinking glasses and idle chatter. The barkeep slid a glass of mead across the counter for him, and he picked it up, retreating to his usual corner at the back of the inn.
In the center of the room, the bard, who Ruhnjolf vaguely recalled being named Mikael, plucked at his lute and began to sing. It was Tale of the Tongues. Of course it was—why would the Divines spare him reminders of his internal dilemma?
Ruhnjolf didn’t know how long he sat in that corner, sipping pint after pint of mead, before the doors opened and in walked the guard. His head was ducked down as he shuffled his way to the counter, body language the polar opposite of the confidence he’d shown when confronting Ruhnjolf. He ordered an ale and sat down on one of the benches around the fire pit. Reflected in the dim light of the flames, the Imperial’s face looked worn down and haggard.
As Ruhnjolf stood up and walked over to the guard, he blamed the decision he was about to make on the mead running through his body.
“Hey,” he said gruffly.
The Imperial glanced up in surprise, but it was half-hearted; his eyes still looked downtrodden. “What do you want?” he said, a hollow echo evident in his voice.
Ruhnjolf shrugged. “Just wanted to say I thought about what you told me,” he said. “Think we should go to High Hrothgar.”
The guard tried to hide it, but Ruhnjolf could tell he was pleased. He looked down into his drink and swirled the liquid around in it. “Well, okay,” he said. “Only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” he said, even though he’d never been less sure of anything in his life. “Meet tomorrow at the gate. Sunrise.”
A nod from the guard gave Ruhnjolf his signal to leave, but before he left, he decided there was one more thing left to say that night.
“Name’s Ruhnjolf, by the way,” he grunted. “Ruhnjolf Wulfharth.”
“Luthes Malena,” the guard replied, taking a long sip and studying Ruhnjolf over his drink. “Pleased to meet you.”