Chapter Text
~ Part 1: The Archmage ~
10th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Kodlak Whitemane watched his breath in the cold, wishing with all his heart that he was back home. The warmth of late summer in Whiterun as all he truly yearned for in his heart. Instead, he was stuck in Winterhold, a place where there would hardly be any summer at all. It couldn't be helped. He had no choice. He closed his eyes, imagining the light breeze sweeping across the grasslands, the torch bugs flickering during a warm night, and the sounds of rushing streams and twittering birds. He regretted having to give up a couple months of what may very well be his last summer. The reality of his failing body wasn’t lost on him, but he still felt too young to die.
My last summer… Spent in a cold, desolate place, he thought bitterly. He tried to recall all of the summers he’d spent as a boy with his father and brother, or as a younger man with Skjor and Askar…
“Ah, Kodlak… Just the man I wanted to see.”
The soft-spoken voice snapped Kodlak out of his reminiscing. He turned from where he’d been standing atop the College of Winterhold battlements, looking out over a dead and frozen sea.
Savos Aren, the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, stood before him, wrapped in many layers of fur underneath a hooded robe. Kodlak imagined that the Dark Elf probably had an even greater aversion to the cold, cruel landscape than he did. Winterhold was a very unfortunate place to be tied to.
“Savos. Good to see you, old friend.”
“How are things down south these days?” he asked.
Kodlak thought it odd to call anywhere in Skyrim “south,” but the old Elf had always been a stickler for semantics.
“Whiterun’s good. The war hasn’t reached us. Yet. My family still prospers, and the summer sun still shines. I have no complaints.”
Savos smiled. “Ah, what I wouldn’t give for some summer sun… Oh, forgive my ramblings. I suppose you’ve been anxiously awaiting my return? Sorry to keep you in such a drab place.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It hasn’t been too long at all,” Kodlak said. In truth, he had waited five long weeks after arriving in Winterhold. But he had no reason to complain. Not many Arch-Mages would drop everything they were doing to hunt for an obscure tome for Kodlak based only on a letter. Who was he to wonder why it had taken a couple weeks longer than it should have?
“So… Did you find it?” Kodlak asked.
Savos’ smile widened, and he reached into his many-layered robe, pulling out a small leatherbound book. The Companion’s symbol of a wolf’s head was branded into the cover. Kodlak reached out and took it from the mage.
“Have you read it?” Kodlak asked, flipping it open and skimming the pages.
“Oh, yes. And I think you’ll find exactly what you’re looking for in there.”
Just as Savos had said it, Kodlak’s eyes landed on the words ‘Glenmoril Witch Coven’. Kodlak let out a sigh of relief.
“So it is true… they’re real. And all I need is their heads… No, wait,” Kodlak said, reading further. “Ysgramor’s tomb… I have to find Ysgramor’s tomb to burn the heads?”
“Right. Problem is, the exact location of this tomb has been lost for quite some time,” said Savos.
“Damn it,” huffed Kodlak. “And you have no leads?”
“Well, I do have one. It’s... a long shot, though, I do have to warn you,” said the Elf.
Kodlak’s respect for the man was the only thing that kept him from groaning aloud. This was starting to sound like more bloody, brutal work. The kind of work he wasn’t cut out for anymore. Still, he had to try.
“Fine, you old bastard. Just tell me. I’m growing tired of this place.”
Savos chuckled. “Of course. I can't say I blame you. Well, you see, I’m currently running an excavation of Saarthal. Which, If I’m not mistaken, was a significant place for Ysgramor and the Companions. There’s a camp set up there. If you come back with me, we can see what we dig up together.”
Damn the old elf, but he was right. Saarthal could potentially hold Ysgramor’s secrets. But Kodlak’s mind was still stuck on the Glenmoril witches and his desire to rid them from Nirn.
“Fine. If it gets me one step closer to burning those witch heads and being rid of this curse, I’ll go to Saarthal.”
“Well, strictly speaking, you only need to burn one. One witch head will cure your lycanthropy.”
Kodlak shook his head. “No. They all must die for what they’ve done to us. And besides… I’m not the only one burdened by this curse. Others need this cure.”
He wasn’t sure if Farkas and Vilkas would take it; he was positive that Aela and Ria would not… But there was one person he knew would die for it. This would be his last gift to her.
~ Part 2: Awake ~
“Hearken now, sons of snow, to an age, long ago
and the tale, boldly told, of the one!
Who was kin to both wyrm
and the races of man
with a power to rival the sun!”
17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
She was surely dead. Or at least, she would have been sure she was dead if not for the unbearable, blinding pain of it all. The last time Kodaav had died, she’d been lulled to sleep in peaceful numbness. This felt more akin to waking up bloodied behind a tavern after a night of drunken fighting.
Only that couldn’t be true… Serana had been trying to get her to quit drinking as of late. Serana… The thought of her brought back sudden, violent flashes of memory. Kodaav foggily recalled the two of them accidentally stumbling into some battle between the Stormcloaks and Imperials on the way to Helgen keep… Where is she?
“Serana…” she tried to yell, her voice reduced to ragged groans.
Her eyes fluttered open for a moment before she promptly squeezed them shut again after being assaulted by the bright afternoon sun. Nope. Too fucking early. But when she tried to lift her hand to her face, she found she couldn’t. She was restrained, somehow. What the fuck? Pain flashed through her head, and her abdomen and her wrists burned where she was bound far too tightly by the thick ropes.
“Woah there, friend. Thought you’d never wake,” said a man’s voice close by.
Kodaav tilted her head down out of the direct sun and attempted to open her eyes again. Fuzzy faces of the people around her and the rows of pine trees running past slowly swam into her view.
“Wha— who’re you? W— why are the trees moving?” she asked, slurring her words.
“Ha! They beat you up good! Don’t worry, you gave back more than you got! Probably why they kept kicking you,” the man said cheerily.
The other figures sitting around said nothing, and at that moment, Kodaav seemed to realize that the trees were moving because they were sitting in the back of a carriage. She examined the others as her eyes focused. Serana wasn’t among them. There were three men in the carriage with her. The one speaking was a young Nord with blonde braids and a light dusting of fuzz around his mouth and chin. Another Nord with short, dark brown hair sat across from her. The third man sat at the end, his face covered by a sackcloth hood with no holes for his eyes nor his mouth.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You and your companion walked right into an Imperial ambush is what happened. Same as all of us, along with the horse thief,” the blonde man said, nodding to the dark-haired Nord across from them.
“I could’ve been halfway to bloody Hammerfell by now!” groaned the horse thief. “Fucking Stormcloaks… Skyrim was just fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy…”
“And where is my companion?” Kodaav asked, cutting him off. It was no matter who they were, Empire or Stormcloaks, she would rip these binds off, use Hircine’s ring to transform into a wolf if she had to. Anything to get to Serana. She knew the vampire could handle herself and wasn’t in any real danger, but the longer Kodaav sat with the pain of her beating, the more her head cleared, the more fucking pissed she felt. Any reason to put sword through flesh seemed a good one just then.
The blonde Nord only shrugged in response, but at the dark look she gave him, he quickly continued. “They didn’t hurt her as far as I saw… She wasn’t biting and kicking at them like you were, friend. They usually avoid roughing up the pretty ones just in case they’re some kind of noble they can ransom…”
Kodaav turned her head painfully to look around them. Imperial Soldiers clad in glistening Legionnaire plate drove carts full of other bound men and women, most wearing the blue and silver of Windhelm. She couldn’t see Serana, but some of the carts at the back of their group were out of sight.
“I’m no rebel. I can tell you’re none, neither,” complained the horse thief, loudly so that their cart driver could hear. “It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants! Not us!”
“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” said the blonde, simply.
“Shut up back there!” called the Legion soldier driving their cart.
They were silent for a time. Kodaav recognized the road, now that the fog in her mind had dissipated a bit. They were going to Helgen. She supposed it could’ve turned out worse. She and Serana had been headed that way anyway. Kodaav would simply clear up the little mishap once they got in there, then they could speak to Aela’s contact.
The Silver Hand had been acting bold ever since Kodlak left Whiterun for Winterhold. Vilkas and Farkas recently had a nasty run-in with them far too close to the city that left Farkas with near-death injuries. It was time to fight back, to eradicate them, as they should’ve done as soon as they’d murdered Skjor. Kodaav still hadn’t forgotten her run-in with them in the Ancestor Glade, either. They were werewolf hunters, but they lacked the noble intentions that the Vigilants of Stendarr had. The Silverhand wanted gold and silver, not justice, peace, or favor with any Divines.
“What’s his problem? Was he bitin’ them too? He some kind of wild Reach man?” whispered the horse thief, nodding towards the hooded man.
“Watch your tongue!” the Stormcloak hissed. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim.”
All of the color drained from the thief’s face. Kodaav whipped her head in the hooded man’s direction, taking him in once more. She knew Ulfric, had seen him a few times in her youth, and once less than a year ago. The man in the hood was the right build, surely, but it was impossible to be sure he was the Jarl of Windhelm under that sack. Still, the idea that it could be true deeply unsettled her.
“No… you– you jest! There’s no way! If that were true… We’d be… Oh gods!” stammered the horse thief.
Oh gods was right. If Ulfric was the man under the hood, they were all in for it. The Imperials wouldn’t be playing any games of imprisonment or questioning. Surely they’d cut the head of the rebellion off then and there, ending the whole damned war right there with a few swings of the headsman’s axe.
“Hey… Where are you from, horse thief?” Ralof asked in a gentle tone, seemingly to calm the now trembling man.
“Why do you care?” he spat.
“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”
“Rorikstead… I – I’m from Rorikstead.”
Kodaav felt a sudden pang of pity for him then. Erik, the Companion's newest whelp, was from that same hamlet and Kodaav herself had done many jobs there throughout her time growing up in Whiterun. She wondered briefly if she’d ever crossed paths with the man before he’d become a craven thief. Perhaps his harvest had suffered from that poor winter two years back, turning him to thievery…
“What about you? You look familiar, if you don’t mind me saying,” said the Stormcloak, this time looking at Kodaav.
“I’m a Companion of Whiterun,” she said, coldly. “You don’t look familiar to me. I don’t run with Stormcloaks or Imperials.”
To her surprise, rather than seeming annoyed by the jab, his eyes lit up, and he smiled at her. “Ah. I have seen you! See, I grew up in Riverwood. You and your kind would pass through quite often. I grew up on stories of good ole’ Kodlak Whitemane and Skjor the Grey Wolf!”
Just then, the cart hit a snag, causing them all to jump. Pain pulsed through Kodaav where she’d been bruised by the soldiers. She hoped the Stormcloak had been truthful when he told her she’d given back as good as she’d got. I’d better see some black eyes and busted lips when I get out of this damned cart.
~
The quaint little town Kodaav remembered was no more. It had seemingly been turned into a fortified border checkpoint after High King Torygg had been murdered. They passed by stone watch towers and makeshift palisade walls towards the town’s main wooden gatehouse.
“Helgen… I used to be sweet on a girl from here… I wonder if Vilod still makes that spiced juniper berry mead…” reminisced the Stormcloak.
He seemed quite at peace with his own demise for someone so young. Kodaav supposed she could understand the sentiment, but she couldn’t understand the reasoning. Ulfirc Stormcloak was no truer king than any other kingslayer. And it wasn’t as if his opponent was any great warrior to be slain. She could’ve killed that boy king Torygg with no more than a soup spoon, and she wouldn’t have asked anyone to place a crown on her head for it. The whole war seemed as fruitless and stupid to her as trying to piss outside during a blizzard.
Spiced juniper berry mead… fuck, I’m parched.
One by one the carts pulled through the gate and stopped in a line by the stables. Their cart was first, followed by fourteen others, all full. Kodaav tried to look for Serana again, but when she’d turned around, a burly Imperial soldier walking by gave her a clap on the side of her head, laughing as he walked away. Kodaav made a quick mental note of his fancy, carved steel gauntlets. Unique… Nordic style. Probably got them off some Stormcloak officer he killed… And then she saw the weapon on his hip. A massive steel greatsword, finely crafted and set with distinct Nordic runes. The unmistakable work of Eorlund Greymane. That’s my fucking sword!
“Why are we stopping?” muttered the horse thief.
“Why do you think? End of the line,” said the Stormcloak.
Just past where they’d stopped, the golden gleam of Elvish armor caught Kodaav’s eye. Sitting atop a white horse was a beautiful High-Elf woman; her platinum hair spilling from the back of an ornate open-faced helmet of the same golden color. Next to her, a bronze Legionaire in a full helm topped with a line of fine horse hair. Kodaav had never seen Legion armor colored or sculpted quite like his before; made of something other than steel and freshly polished. That, and the fine silk of his red and black cape, told her he must’ve been a very high-ranking officer.
“Alright, scum! Attention here!” a harsh voice called from the opposite direction, drawing Kodaav’s attention back to the matter at hand. “On your feet!”
A female Legionnaire's voice echoed out of her full helm with a metallic ring. They all stood up and filed slowly out of the carriages, forming a single line leading all the way back out to the wooden gates they’d come in through. The soldiers marched them through the town towards the main square, the townsfolk watching them with empty eyes. Kodaav saw a young boy being hastily ushered inside by his mother.
“No! I want to watch the soldiers! Please!” he begged, as she pulled him into the house by his ear.
Kodaav had come to Helgen a few times in her life. She remembered the village being quiet and cozy, with a nice little market in the town’s center. Today, the town’s center had been cleared of all but a headman’s block. A basket had been placed at the end to keep the heads from rolling out towards the spectating townsfolk. None of them looked particularly joyful or angry at the occasion, as if the short yet brutal war had somehow already made them weary of such things.
“Line up in front of the block in the order I call your names! We’ll start with the special guest,” shouted the female officer. “His majesty, Ulfric of Windhelm!”
A soldier roughly pulled the sack hood from the man’s head, revealing his face to Kodaav for the first time. It was certainly Ulfric; there was no question of that. His face had been severely beaten and he still had a gag tied round his mouth, but there was still no mistaking him for anyone else. He walked forward to stand in front of the block with his chest puffed out in pride, waiting patiently for his trip to Sovngarde.
“Ralof of Riverwood!”
The blonde Stormcloak who’d shared Kodaav’s cart with her walked over to stand proudly next to his king with a wide grin on his face. So young, Kodaav thought. And already fully bought and paid for. Willing to throw his life away for something he doesn’t even fully understand…
“Lokil of Rorikstead!”
The horse thief took a different approach than the first two men. For some reason, he decided it would be brilliant to start sprinting back towards the gates with his hands still bound. Bloody fool, what does he– But before Kodaav could even finish her thought, he was face down in the dirt, his back full of arrows. She wondered then if his last thoughts were indeed of home.
“Take a good long look at this coward,” the Legate said, cruelly. “Approach your own deaths with some dignity. Alright… Grimvar of Morthal!”
Kodaav stood there awkwardly as every name but hers was called and dozens of men and women walked to the chopping block to join their pretender king. As she watched them go one by one to stand in front of where they would die, Kodaav also watched for any signs of Serana. And then, finally, she caught a glimpse of familiar raven black braids and skin pale as snow. Relief… The vampire’s worried ruby eyes were already locked onto her. Kodaav tried to flash her a reassuring grin, but was sure it looked more like a wince as she reopened her split lip.
“Legate, what of these two? They’re not on the list,” a younger man’s voice called out once the female officer had finished reading the names. “The big one gave us one hell of a fucking time, but the lady in black silks claims to be noble-born. Won’t tell me her name, though.”
Kodaav was pleased to see the soldier boy’s battered face and his brown curls matted with dried blood. Must be one of the ones I met earlier. Curious… He’s a Nord.
“Take the woman to Mastro down in the dungeons… See if he can’t get her name. As for the ugly one, forget the fucking list she goes to the block.”
“Ugly? Why don’t you take that fancy helmet off, and we’ll see who’s–”
“Shut up, Koda!” shouted Serana. She pushed past the guards who all seemed spellbound and unsure of how to handle her, and stepped up to face the captain. “Look, she’s a Companion of Whiterun… A member of their inner circle! If you kill her, you’ll have trouble with the jarl.”
The Imperial captain stared at her blankly for a moment before laughing mirthlessly. Some of the other brainless thumb-shaped guards chuckled along with her, stupidly. The curly-haired Nord soldier didn’t so much as crack a smile, fixing his cold grey eyes on his commander in seeming displeasure.
“A Companion of Whiterun? Next, you’ll tell me you’re the Emperor’s daughter!” guffawed the captain. “You aren’t fooling anyone. She’s no more than a flea-bitten brigand and you’re just a cut above the average laced and perfumed whore. Now, would you rather meet my friend Mastro, or walk over to the fucking block–”
The bitchy captain and all her tin men jumped back when Serana burned away the ropes around her wrists. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Let us go,” said Serana, all the false pleasantries gone from her voice. Koda knew better than to talk back when she sounded like that, though she had little hope for the Imperial captain.
“What the fuck? You one of those bloody college mages? One more trick like that, and I’ll call for the archers to–”
“Do it. None of your arrows would touch us, even with their wind. I sat for hours with my hands bound out of politeness and to keep your brutes from harming my companion further, but my patience wears thin. Let us go. We have nothing to do with your quarrels.”
It was no use. Kodaav knew this captain’s type. The insufferable blend of pride and stubbornness often found in weak individuals given a droplet of power, which more often than not, led to untimely death or disgrace. And as much as Kodaav desperately wanted to bash this one’s head in, she was without her greatsword, stripped of all her armor aside from her leathers and mail. It wasn’t a big deal. She was sure Serana would take on the pleasure.
“Captain… If I may… I think we should let them go. They aren’t a part of this. We have Ulfric.”
“Shut up, Hadvar. That’s an order.”
To Kodaav’s surprise, the Imperial-Nord boy straightened his back and looked to his superior defiantly. “The big one is a Companion, though. I didn’t see it before when she was swinging at me, but now that the lady says it I’ve seen her be–”
SLAP!
The sound rang across the quiet town square. The few townsfolk, Stormcloaks, or soldiers who weren’t watching the exchange before were now locked in. The boy, Hadvar she had called him, held his face where the captain’s metal gauntlet had hit him.
At that moment, a deep, commanding voice bellowed out, stopping all motion from the soldiers and their captain.
“What was the meaning of that, Captain? Why have we stopped the proceedings to discipline a quaestor?”
The high-ranking Imperial in the polished bronze armor trotted over to them atop his gleaming, muscular black warhorse. The horse armor alone was probably worth more than any set Kodaav had ever owned herself. He was followed by the High Elf woman on her white stallion, looking down at each of them through her open-faced helm, abject disgust marring what would have been a very pretty face.
The captain straightened her posture and locked herself in a stiff salute. “General Tullius, sir! He spoke back to me regarding my orders for the execution of these two prisoners, sir! They claim not to be Stormcloaks.”
General Tullius looked down at Kodaav and Serana, his expression unreadable through his ornate, full-faced Legionnaire's helmet.
“And what is it they claim to be?” he asked.
“They say–”
“We fight for the Companions of Whiterun. We were out near Falkreath for our own reasons when we were caught in your ambush. We have no relation to these rebels and no business with you Imperials,” said Serana, cutting off the captain.
“I’ve known Jarl Balgruuf since I was a child. Kill me, and you may have trouble with him. And if you try and touch her,” Kodaav said, nodding to Serana, “I’ll take as many of you with me as I can before I go down. You have Ulfric in your clutches now, do you really want to waste your time on us?”
“I believe they speak true, General. I grew up in Riverwood, and this one is familiar to me. I don’t think we should–”
“Enough, Quaestor! You’d do best to stop speaking now,” said Tullius, still staring down at Kodaav and Serana. Then, he let an audible sigh echo out of his helmet. Hadvar’s already battered face reddened further at the general’s reproach, and he backed down.
“See what I have to deal with? I should’ve never taken the Emperor’s bait and come to this gods-forsaken country…” Tullius said, looking back at the High Elf woman.
“Whatever. I don’t see what the issue is. They don’t look like Stormcloaks to me, but what do I care? Kill them or don’t. Solve this quickly and let’s get to the real business,” said the Elf, haughtily. “I want to see some dirty rebel heads roll.”
She trotted away towards the group of prisoners waiting by the block without another word. Tullius let out another deep sigh before removing his helmet, dismounting his horse, and standing directly in front of Kodaav. He was much shorter than her when off the back of his horse, having to tilt his head up to look at her with his bright, hazel eyes. Tullius was probably once a very handsome Imperial man, but it was clear his years as a soldier had stolen much of that away from him. His shot-cropped hair was almost completely greyed, and his gaunt, clean-shaven face was marred with wrinkles and scars.
“You say you’re a Companion of Whiterun and you know Balgruuf?” he asked.
“Aye. I was brought up by Kodlak Whitemane. We Companions take no sides in your petty squabbles.”
He measured her for a long moment before turning on his heels and placing his helmet back on his head. “Leave them alive. They must stay until the executions are done, and then they may be released,” he said. Then, he turned his helmeted head back to Kodaav. “You deliver the message to Balgruuf that Ulfric is dead and that I spared your life in a… gesture of good faith.”
Kodaav was about to snark something back to him along the lines of ‘It’s a gesture of good faith that I don’t rip out your bitch of a captain’s throat on my way out,’ but Serana stamped on her foot as soon as she’d opened her mouth.
“You gonna get these binds off me now?” she growled.
Tullius snorted, pushed himself back atop his horse, and galloped away to join the High Elf woman without another word. Guess that’s a no.
She and Serana were led by Hadvar over to where the other soldiers watched on the side with a good view of the headsman’s block. He stood tall and ready in his black ringmail and leather hood pulled over his eyes, leaning against his long-handled axe. An old priestess of Arkay stood beside him, her pale white robes flowing in the wind.
“Alright, moving along! Go ahead, read them their last rites!” shouted Tullius.
The priestess stepped forward, unfurled a long scroll of parchment, and began to sing in an off-key, wavering tone.
“Sons and daughters, today is your day! Do not be afraid, do not be afraid! For we commend your souls to Aetherius! And the blessings of the Eight Divines are upon you! The breath of Nirn fills our bodies but our hearts–”
“Oh, for the love of fucking Talos! Eight Divines… I piss on the Eight!” shouted one of the older Stormcloak men. He spat on the ground after the words left his mouth as if they tasted putrid. Some of the others on his side laughed and whooped. “Just shut up, and let’s get this over with,” he said, marching himself up to the executioner’s block and kneeling before it on his own.
“Damn…” Kodaav muttered to Serana. “I mean, he said what we were all thinking, right?”
“They could’ve picked someone who could carry a tune,” whispered Serana.
The Imperial soldier with the Nordic gauntlets grabbed the man by his ginger hair and slammed his head roughly down over the basket. The executioner shrugged and lifted his large axe, letting it swing down of its own accord, severing the man's head from his body with seemingly little effort. His limp form dropped to the side like a sack of potatoes. Blood spewed from his headless stump of a neck as two soldiers pulled the body away, out of sight, one of them carrying his head by the hair as if it were no more than a basket of red wildflowers.
“As fearless in death as he was in life! More than any of you could say!” heckled Ralof.
“Ulfric Stormcloak! Your time has come!” shouted Tullius, ignoring the other jeers and japes from the condemned. “You have committed murder and high treason against Skyrim and her people! Your rebellion ends here, today! In full view of the Eight.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Kodaav felt Nirn rumble under her feet. A strange, familiar fear gripped her then. Serana must have felt it too, or at least felt Koda’s pulse quicken, because she looked up at her, a concerned expression painting her usually composed face.
“Koda?”
“Did you feel that?” Koddav asked, barely containing the tremble in her voice.
“A little… Thunder from a distant storm, maybe? Do you feel something… different?”
Before Kodaav could think to answer her, two soldiers had stepped forward to grab Ulfric, leading him roughly to the block, kicking into the back of his legs to force him down on his knees. It was a shameful sight, and although Kodaav had never held much love for the Jarl of Windhelm, she had known him, and had a warrior’s respect for the man. He’d fought in the Great War alongside Kodlak and Skjor. She didn’t want to watch a fighter like him die in this manner. It isn’t how a warrior should go…
Another terrible rumbling sound echoed through the sky, this one loud enough to catch more attention. Imperials, Stormcloaks, and some of the townsfolk looked up into the clouds, searching for the source of the noise. Instinctively, Kodaav moved closer to Serana.
“Something’s not right, Serana. I feel… T-this isn’t right…” Kodaav mumbled, unable to keep her voice from shaking. It was rare that she felt so… so frightened. Helpless. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way. The fear was uncontrollable, primal.
“Hey, easy… What do you–”
“ROOOOOAAAAAAAAR!”
The horrifying screech echoed against the mountains around them, making it difficult to discern what direction it was coming from. Everyone looked around frantically now. Tullius and the Elf, Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, the soldiers and townsfolk, everyone was searching the sky. Kodaav found herself unable to move, frozen to the spot, unsure if she was about to vomit or scream the next time she opened her mouth. Serana grabbed her arm.
There was a collective gasp when the sun disappeared for a moment, blocked by something large and black as night, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
“What in Oblivion is that?!” screamed a Stormcloak
“It’s in the clouds!” shouted an Imperial soldier.
And suddenly, Kodaav remembered where she’d felt this sensation before, smelled this scent... The Forgotten Vale. The smell of smoke and sulfur and death, the stench of—
“Dragon!” she heard herself scream.
And just as she’d said it, the clouds burst open with the flapping of great black wings, blotting out the sun once more like some terrible world-ending eclipse. He was bigger than any of the dragons Kodaav had ever seen, even Durnehviir, the undead guardian of the Soul Cairn. This dragon’s scales were so black that she could hardly discern any of the details in its features. No more than a great spiked shadow aside from the void-white eyes glowing down at them with something like malice. Pure hatred. And when he opened his mouth, white smoke and steam billowed out.
The beast landed with a crash against the top of the large drum tower in the town square and let out another ear-bleeding, guttural cry.
“ROOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAR!”
When he flapped his wings again, the force of his wind knocked over anyone standing close enough by, even some of the soldiers clad in full plate. Kodaav couldn’t move; the terror of the sight, the cruelty of it, too much to bear. It was just another one of her dragon dreams… Nothing more… Soon she would wake up in the warmth of Jorrvaskr with Serana in her arms…
It opened its mouth once more, this time to spew white flames from its bowels. Kodaav felt the intense heat whip across her face before her head hit the ground and everything went black. The chanting chorus filled her ears once more, a mournful song sung by hundreds of voices buzzing against her skull.
“And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold,
That when brothers wage war come unfurled!
Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,
With a hunger to swallow the world!”