Chapter Text
The Imperial Legion’s choices were grimly amusing.
That was what Kiera thought when she woke in the back of a cart next to Ulfric Stormcloak. Grimly amusing. They wouldn’t know why, of course. Her secrets were hers to keep. But it still made her lips curve into a smile as she realized what would happen.
Sorry, father. This wasn’t exactly my intent.
The chatty Stormcloak prisoner across from her, Ralof, gave her a curious look. “Is something funny, Imperial?”
“Very,” she sighed, and did not elaborate.
She recognized General Tullius’s name, but not his face. Elenwen she recognized by both name and appearance, and subtly ducked her head so that her mussed hair created a veil between them. Being taken by the Thalmor was far worse than execution.
They climbed out of the cart and were called one by one. The Imperial captain regarded Kiera with disdain when she placidly stepped forward to answer the record-keeper’s question. “Who are you?” he asked.
She idly toyed with the idea of telling him the truth, but quickly discarded it. They wouldn’t believe her anyway. “Kiera Darkblade,” she said with a thin smile. “I’m a sellsword, not a Stormcloak. I was just returning to Skyrim from work in Cyrodiil.”
It should have been obvious from her armor, but soldiers and commanders were apt to overlook the obvious in their zeal to eliminate a threat like Ulfric Stormcloak. She didn’t even blame them for it.
The record-keeper looked conflicted. “Captain, she’s not on the list.”
“Forget the list,” the captain snapped, “she goes to the block.”
Grimly. Amusing. Kiera smiled again, which seemed to make both of the imperial soldiers uneasy. “Nothing for it,” she sighed, peaceably joining the other condemned. “To Aetherius I go.”
The Stormcloaks yelled and jeered, angry and unafraid even as one of their own was beheaded. Kiera was unsurprised when the captain called her to the block next. The woman seemed to hate her just for existing in an inconvenient way. As she went, resigned to her death, she glanced at Tullius. He was too busy glaring at Ulfric to notice that something was wrong.
And then, of course, a dragon attacked.
Kiera wasn’t afraid to die, but when the crimson eyes of a dragon seemed to fix on her as she knelt, helpless, she remembered what true terror felt like.
It shouted like Talos himself and she was knocked unconscious. Next thing she knew, Ralof was shouting at her to get up and run. Disoriented and terrified, she did, and made it into the shelter of a tower with the Stormcloaks.
I wish I had my bow, she thought. It was hard to think clearly. Blood dripped into her eyes from a cut above her brow. When the dragon knocked a hole into the tower, she took Ralof’s advice and used it to jump to the adjacent house.
Hadvar picked her up next, shoving her into shelter with a father and his young son just in time to avoid more dragonfire. She followed his lead, including one heart-stopping moment when the dragon landed just above a wall they were using for shelter. The rough, ebony texture of its wing was so close she could have touched it. She didn’t breathe until it flew away.
Ralof caught up to them near the keep and shouted for her to follow, after snarling at Hadvar. She knew how the Legion worked, though. Her best bet of not being hunted down later was to stick with the sympathetic legionnaire, even if his superior had ordered her execution capriciously.
“Let me get those binds off,” said Hadvar.
Kiera rubbed her wrists when they’d been freed. “Do you know where my bow and pack are?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Somewhere in the keep,” he said. “We’ll see if we can find it as we go.”
“That bow is the last thing I have from my father,” she said mildly. “It’s how I’ve made my way as a sellsword, not a Stormcloak.”
Hadvar grimaced slightly. “I believe you, Darkblade,” he said. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t have sent you to the block. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. Come on, we have to find a way out.”
The Divines smiled upon her as they journeyed deeper into the keep. She found her bow and pack in a careless heap near the torturer’s rooms. The most valuable items in the pack were missing, but the bow was still in good condition. She ran her hands over the fine wood and subtle ivory inlays, tracing the shape of the imperial dragon.
“A fine bow,” Hadvar commented as she restrung it. His brow was slightly furrowed. “Seems light for someone of your ability.”
“Yes. I’ve made up for it in other ways, over the years. Enchantment, alchemy, arrow choice. Occasionally with other bows.” She plucked the string to hear it sing. “If dragons are back, I suppose I have no choice but to put it in a rack somewhere safe and choose another.”
It served her well enough in escaping the keep, at least, especially with Hadvar’s help. She only had to draw her knife once. The sleeping bear was the last obstacle, but they snuck by it with ease and emerged out into the biting Skyrim air just in time to see the dragon fly toward Whiterun hold.
“I was planning on looking for more work,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand as she watched it go. “Seems like that will have to wait. If we’re the only ones who made it out, someone needs to warn Jarl Balgruuf.”
Hadvar looked grim. “Agreed. Come on, we should get to Riverwood for the night. We can stay with my uncle’s family.”
Kiera was sweaty and bloody and shaking when the dragon at the western watchtower finally fell, one of her arrows in its eye. Her skin felt tight, singed from the fire. She lowered her bow, breathing hard, only to raise it again, alarmed when light began to glow between the dragon’s scales.
Something old and forgotten in her chest hungrily unfurled.
Irileth and the guards shouted, backing away as the light grew. Kiera tried to back away too but her feet refused to cooperate. She swayed forward, toward the light and the wind that surged toward her.
Into her.
Power suffused her from head to toe, warmth and cold and the memory of wind on the membranes of her wings, of speaking-fighting-debating with her brothers, of serving and devouring and Thuri calling her back from her long sleep, and the last thought before the darkness claimed her again was Force.
Fus.
Then, as abruptly as it all began, it stopped.
“Dragonborn!” someone gasped. Kiera turned her head, breathing hard and shaken to her core. The guard’s eyes shone with awe even from under his enclosed helm. “You must be Dragonborn!”
A flash of terror lit her blood, reflexive denial springing to her tongue. She bit it back just in time. A simple sellsword wouldn’t respond in such a way, not after what just happened. She looked at the dragon’s corpse, unable to speak reasonably.
“Try shouting!” said another guard eagerly as bickering broke out. “You just absorbed its soul, you must be able to.”
Such a simple challenge wouldn’t usually have compelled her, but her blood was hot and the hungry thing in her chest was hard to tamp down—especially when she didn’t know what it was. The memory returned. Force.
“FUS!”
The dragon’s body rocked as her shout—her Shout—pounded against it. She skittered back, placing a shaking hand over her mouth.
No, she thought, mind clouded with too much all at once, I can’t be. My family isn’t…
Maybe Irileth saw the subtle trembling in her hands or the nausea on her face. The dunmer housecarl scoffed loudly, drawing the guardsmen’s attention. “Forget stories and legends,” she said. “What I know is that we killed a dragon, a feat no one has been able to claim for thousands of years.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said one guard. “You ain’t a Nord.”
Or an Imperial, thought Kiera. She straightened and put her bow away, stuffing all the strange, distressed feelings into a little box in the back of her mind.
“We should tell Jarl Balgruuf,” she said in a steady voice. “Let’s go.”
There was so much to do, too much to dwell deeply on the implications of… anything. Kiera was glad for it. The Greybeards didn’t ask uncomfortable questions. They didn’t even ask her name. When she descended the mountain to retrieve Jurgen Windcaller’s horn, she first went to Solitude to offer her aid to the Imperial Legion. Kiera Darkblade the humble sellsword couldn’t make a difference, but the Dragonborn certainly could.
And she felt, even if she refused to think about it in such terms, that she owed it to her father.
Tullius was far more cynical about her motivations when she spoke to him. “I’m sure you being brought to Helgen with Ulfric was just a coincidence,” he said, eyeing her with disdain.
She didn’t bend an inch. More fearsome men than General Tullius had stared her down. “It was,” she said calmly. “And you attempted to execute me for it. Yet I came here to aid you regardless.”
She didn’t tell him her title. He either wouldn’t care, or would care too much, and she already saw the little furrow in his brow as he looked at her and recognized the echo of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She did, however, tell Legate Rikke.
The woman stared at her in muted shock. “...truly?”
Kiera turned just enough that her voice wouldn’t be directly aimed at the Legate. “Iiz,” she said. A burst of cold exploded outward, coating the stone floor and wall in a layer of ice. The very edges of Rikke’s armor became speckled with frozen crystals.
Rikke was smart enough not to say anyone could learn that. It was true, but stupid, unless she believed a master of the Voice was willing to discard her greatest weapon when threatened with execution. They both knew the truth: a month ago, Kiera hadn’t been able to use the Thu’um. Now, she could. And there was only one explanation.
Before going to clear Fort Hraggstad and prove her value as an agent, she detoured to Ustengrav to retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller. The detour left her with a new mystery, considering the horn was missing and a mysterious note was left in its place. She found herself childishly frustrated by it.
“‘Follow the Way of the Voice,’” she mocked Arngeir under her breath. “Well how important can the Voice be if some random person got in and stole the damn horn!”
She cleared out Fort Hraggstad, still frustrated, and returned to Solitude. Rikke wasn’t surprised. She didn’t mention Kiera’s status as the Dragonborn when she handed her off to Tullius for the oath. Kiera was privately amused by the whole thing.
“Worry about the dragons for now,” Rikke said afterward. “I’ll send a messenger when we need you.”
And so off Kiera went to Riverwood. Hadvar had departed to report to the Legion himself, but she said her hellos to Alvor and his family. In the Sleeping Giant Inn, she dutifully asked to rent the ‘attic room,’ which did not exist. The innkeeper directed her to a side room. She went into it and waited expectantly, using the time to clean and maintain her weapons and armor.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when the innkeeper slipped into the room when the activity of the common room lulled.
“So, you’re the Dragonborn, I’ve been hearing so much about,” said Delphine. She reached into a satchel on her hip and pulled out the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. “I think you’re looking for this.”
There was something familiar about Delphine, now that Kiera knew to look closer. It wasn’t her appearance, but rather the way she carried herself. Kiera narrowed her eyes slightly as she took the horn and stowed it in her pack.
“We need to talk. Follow me,” Delphine said. Kiera had enough wickedly sharp knives hidden on her person to feel comfortable cooperating. When they were safely concealed in a hidden cellar, Kiera finally realized what she was seeing.
“You’re a Blade, aren’t you?” she asked bluntly.
Delphine stiffened, hand going to her own weapon. “A Blade?”
Kiera was certain now. “Relax. I guarantee I hate the Thalmor more than you do.”
She didn’t relax, but she didn’t attack either. “What made you think I’m a Blade?”
“The Thalmor have a habit of abducting people whenever they please.” Kiera rubbed the spot on her forearm that still bore scars from her first serious encounter with the Aldmeri Dominion’s agents. “Including me, once. I was saved by a Blade. You hold yourself the same way.”
Delphine still looked suspicious. “Why would they want to take you?”
“I was convenient.” She let her expression go flat. “That’s all I’m going to tell an unknown Blade… or someone who’s really, really good at imitating one.”
Surprisingly, her distrust made Delphine less suspicious. She even huffed a sort of laugh. “Alright. So, we don’t trust each other. I’ll take it.”
Kiera didn’t ask anything as stupid as why a Blade would be interested in the Dragonborn—serving the blessed of Akatosh was their entire purpose, after all. “I’m guessing you have information on the dragons, then. And you want me to do something about it. Something that proves I am who you think I am.”
“Exactly.” Delphine gave her a contemplative look. “You know the Blades history?”
“I’m originally from the Imperial City. Of course I do.”
She nodded. “Good. That will make this quicker, then. I want to know if you can really absorb the soul of a dragon and permanently kill it.” She explained her theory and showed Kiera the map of empty dragon burial mounds, with the next resurrection set to happen in Kynesgrove.
Kiera considered her options. There… weren’t many. Not really. So she nodded. “Alright. We should go soon.”