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Everything hurt. Every inch ached with a weariness that was bone deep. The brilliant halls of Sovngarde, with their endless casks of mead and verdant fields just did not seem nearly as sweet after she’d bathed in the blood of a being thousands of years old. Her defeat of Alduin had come at a heavy price for all, and Paarthurnax’s mournful congratulations had not helped the anticlimax. So she had fulfilled her destiny, and after the brief triumph grew pale she just wanted to sleep.
Whiterun was her first home, not nearly as flashy as Vlindrel or grand as Proudspire, but the small home was well lived in and its convenient location had made it a reluctant favorite. Her legs ached from walking, but after the fifth horse she’d lost the Dragonborn had finally decided to stop wasting her money on a beast she’d get needlessly attached to only to watch It die in another horrible accident. And so, she walked, and walked, all the way to her destiny and now to bed. She brushed off Lydia’s bother and grumble, stripping out of heavy armor to curl into the furs with every intention to sleep forever.
In reality it was quite a few hours, but eventually hunger drove her from the sheets and the Dragonborn spent the first morning in a long time having a normal breakfast. She wasn’t out in the middle of nowhere with a dragon shouting overhead, or being swarmed by foresworn while she crouched over a tiny fire trying to cook a too skinny rabbit. No, she was at a proper pot, making dinner that she ate at an actual table. In short: it was divine. She ate hearty and finally simply took a break from quests and errands and all of the lot.
Her days progressed like this for a year. She stayed at home, bartered away the loot that had been accumulating from her various adventures, things she had not had a chance to sell. Of course she kept some of the most striking artifacts, or those she felt were too dangerous or powerful for any hand but hers. In particular she liked to keep the Sanguine Rose above her bed. It was beautiful, and as well she rather liked the company of the dremora it summoned. He had aided her well in battle when she needed some of the heat off her. Plus, he was one of Sanguine’s lot. Needless to say, he made an excellent drinking companion, much more even tempered than many of the other Valkynaz and Caitiff she’d had the misfortune to apparently encounter during their time of the month.
Still, despite her trading, and long nights relaxing in front of the fire, all the peace and quiet was beginning to wear on her. She’d even left town to wander the roads for a while, bought a horse and it was still alive a week out. There had hardly been any dragon attacks since. It had to be twisted of her, but she couldn’t help but miss the shadow of wings blocking out the sun, making her heart rattle in her chest as she knew a fight was afoot.
Now, she’d nary been ambushed by bandits. Though perhaps it had finally gotten out to a few of them that she was the Dragonborn. Honestly, she’d been rather incredulous the first time a robber had accosted her on the road, apparently in no way dissuaded by her dragonscale armor or the bow strapped to her back that looked straight from Oblivion. Of course, he’d learned the error of his ways rather quick, but now she found she rather missed the harassment of such willful idiots.
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Eventually the quiet of the domestic life simply grew too old for the Dovahkiin and at last she decided to really set out again. The first person… well, not person, dragon morelike that she visited was Paarthurnax. With the marked decrease in dragon attacks, she found herself missing the presence of other Dov.
It seemed ridiculous, being that she wasn’t even a real dragon, and she’d killed plenty in her time, but there it was. The Greybeards were old and stuck in their ways, and put simply none of the lot were real good conversation. Paarthurnax tended to drag, but at least he usually was pleased to see her. And far more serene than herself, it would seem.
The old Dove was perched as always at the Throat of the World, lingering on the ragged word wall that squatted forlornly at the top. She’d had little trouble with the wolves on the way up, but it’d been nice to wet her blade again. She cleared her throat to make sure she was announced and Paarthurnax turned to acknowledge her arrival.
“Greetings Dovahkiin. What brings you back to visit an Old Dov? From what I recall our early meetings you seemed quite…. Aam… impatient with our speaking.”
Color lit the human’s cheeks as she looked off a bit at the faded writing on the wall he stood on. “I─I was hardly that impatient. But yes, I suppose I was a bit hot tempered then. Saving the world, fulfilling destiny, all that.”
“Mmmmm…” the ancient dragon’s head canted to the side, one large eye quite plainly perusing her shifting form. It made the weary Dovahkiin increasingly self-conscious, and she brushed at some of the snow gathering on her armor, wondering if she was looking off or something. That was the one downside of hanging out with being older than most conceivable time, that looming weight of ages that seemed to make their thought processes utterly incomprehensible. “And still are I see. Does peace not suit you, Dovahkiin? You have experienced…Krongrah…. Your great victory, and yet you seem so…. Restless.”
This was not something that expected from Paarthurnax, and she was almost frustrated, angry because he was so damned perceptive. The Dragonborn didn’t want to admit it, because damn it, it felt stupid. She should be feeling triumphant, accomplished and ready to retire to the life of a legend. Instead she felt discontent, unfinished, and defeating Alduin had not soothed the feeling.
Crossing her arms she sighed, finally just sitting down on a rock and letting her head fall back against the wall. “Am I ridiculous? I mean by the Nine, I’ve done everything that fate has dictated, but I can’t help but think this can’t be end. Maybe I’m just a glory hound…”
Hot air blew over her face, ruffling her hair and her nose winkled as the scent of a previously devoured meal came with it. Paarthurnax had scoffed, the old Dovah rustling on his perch, “Do not doubt yourself, Dovahkiin. You are right to feel so discontent. I have a feeling that…Dez… fate has much more in store for you. Though perhaps the weight of ages does not weigh so heavy on your bones, you would think that by now you’d see that… Unslaad ….there are no true endings. You are not done yet, Dovahkiin. I predict that there is much still in store for you, do not fret.”
Somehow the old dovah’s words actually gave her more peace than all the hot meals and quiet days ever had. A tension she hadn’t even fully understood that had been building in her, like steady suffocation seemed to ease, and the Dragonborn let loose one shaky human breath and closed her eyes in quiet pleasure. So she wasn’t simply going insane, or senile in her middle age.
She had no idea how much tension she’d been carrying, but somehow on that stiff rock with her head against the crumbling wall that Paarthurnax favored so much she fell asleep beneath the shelter of old wings. She awoke warm, but her back stiff from her awkward curl on the rough stone.
The Dovahkiin groaned, her gaze rolling up with some surprise to see the great looming form of the old Dovah above her, his breath keeping her warm and wings blocking out the harsh Skyrim wind.
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