If ever his life had been as sweet, he could not recall. The sun was revealing itself softly over the eastern peaks to drive the chill from the air, silhouetting the distant walls of Whiterun on its high hill, the rising band of giants to its north, the stoic hulk of High Hrothgar ringed by clouds. He was the Dovahkiin, they told him, and until last night, he had not known what that meant.

There had been the battle at the watchtower months past, where some latent instinct had driven him from behind the line of city archers to confront Mirmulnir with a cheap axe he’d pulled off some dead Centurion in the caves by Helgen, but he had been full of uncertainty then. Even when he’d climbed atop its head and driven his warped, blunting axehead between its eyes again and again until the monster went limp, he had not felt as though his life was meant for high adventure. Not when squaring off against a long dead lord in a dark cavern deep beneath a mountain had he felt in his element. Not when the animated bones of cursed servants had flown apart against the power of his voice had he been certain of anything.

The previous evening, as the sun that now brought life back to Lydia’s hard eyes had begun to retreat, he understood why he was spared the block. He and his Housecarl were crossing the tall grass at a brisk trot when emerging stars were washed out by fire. First the horses became uncooperative, screaming and bucking, trying with all their power to flee. Shortly thereafter the wild game had begun to evacuate in mass. It was then that Lydia had alerted him to the shadow of a wingspan descending with haste in altitude, becoming larger and louder, the sound of air being shuffled with the force of a storm. A shimmering cone of orange and white had followed, forcing his eyes into a hard wince, and heat had washed over his face with blistering intensity.

The dragon had not stopped on ceremony, had not given its name to the man on the ground that it must’ve certainly known to be its kin. It had begun a conversation with fire, and the Dovahkiin answered with the appropriate words to give out a pathetic wash of dull flame. Lydia had loosed several arrows from the saddle, but no shaft had found scale. Her duty, as she saw it in that moment, was to pull its attention away from her master, to allow the Dovahkiin safety and escape. After all the times he’d defended her, all the times he’d shown her she wasn’t expendable, she still acted as a shield, and he’d admired her for it. Their enemy pulled in his wings and barreled low, snapping them open not ten meters from his horse, nearly sending them to the ground with a gale that hit like wall.

It was on the ground then, a massive green shape, spiked back arched and neck extended in hostility. The Dovahkiin regained control of his horse and spurred it around the dragon’s right side. Its neck followed him and a voice like cracking stone thundered, sending another torrent of flame. In that moment, Lydia’s arrow pierced wing membrane. Its gout went high and was cut short by pain, and in its reflexive turn Lydia’s arrows found the soft joint of its left shoulder, the marrow of its elbow, its exposed crotch, its snout, and the glassy surfac of its left eye. She had succeeded in her duty. It sped towards her at a pained gallop, unable to take to the sky again for its perforated arm, unwilling to let her go unpunished in favor of its intended target. She reared and charged away from its advance, leaving her long spear stuck in the ground.

The Dovahkiin was not idle. He raced to Lydia’s spear, eight feet of runed oak tipped with ten inches of ebony. It was the weapon of one who wished to keep threats at bay, a shaft to kill a bear, a giant, a dragon. They’d found it together in one of Tamriel’s deep places, awash in bioluminescence with the scampering of Falmer not far behind them. She’d saved his life with it, in the light of strange, glowing plants, back to a wall. Four of the seven had fallen before they got passed its length, and another ate the edge of her shield for that. A good memory. She hadn’t died then, and he wouldn’t let it happen now. He was gaining on it, even as she turned expertly to come around its flank.

More ground-level thunder had sounded, followed by angry fire. She rode daringly close along its right side, leaving a long slash in the wing that hadn’t been filled with arrows with the sword he’d bought her not a week ago. The Nordic steel bit hard into the thick, living canvas, and was ripped from her grasp when it caught tendon. She let it go in time and did not sway, did not lose balance or control. She turned again, as smooth a horseman as the greatest knights in Cyrodiil, but the dragon’s senses had returned to it. It did not pursue her, but turned away from her, and lashed her horse’s legs with its tail. The loyal animal screamed and hit the dirt, sliding with her leg under it. All four of the poor beast’s legs were shattered, and she was trapped.

More thunderous words, more fire, and the smell of cooked horse followed. He spurred his horse faster, so close. The foe leapt towards his fresh meal, jaws closing on the splinters of the animal’s blackened rib cage and tearing it off of his prize. She clambered backward hopelessly, drawing the Elvish shortsword she pulled from a fallen Thalmor agent. It turned its head to see her with its intact eye. She’d pulled the winged helmet from her head to force one last gasp of night air down her ash lined throat. The rest of her plate was hot, almost glowing, shimmering silver. It was over for her, the dragon saw it in her eyes. She’d completed her task as retainer, distracted the bastard, hurt it, given her Lord time.

Three words came booming out of the dark, simple, the first ones he’d learned in that language of the enemy. The dragon was struck by a force of sound, the easy but irresistible push of Fus Roh Dah.

It hit the ground on its arrow riddled wing and screeched, no ancient words of power but a guttural exclamation of pain, unbefitting of a creature so ancient. It struggled to its legs, wings spread out in a futile attempt at flight, and the Dovahkiin charged its unprotected belly, galloping under its outstretched wing and driving Lydia’s spear into the thick scales of its core. Ebony slipped between the natural armor, plunging into soft abdomen, and four feet of shaft followed. It staggered, not falling forward onto its wound but not wanting to be caught on its back, but back it fell, writhing and roaring, worsening the damage with its struggle. The Dovahkiin came around to leap at its neck, to end its timeless life, but Lyia was already upon it, limping and burnt, shortsword gripped blade-down to stab. The fallen enemy was still dangerous, she knew. That’s why she got to it before he did. Acting, as always, as a loyal shield.

It snapped at her with all the ferocity it had left, massive jaws slamming shut on nothing when she ducked and rolled to where its neck met its body and thrust down with all the strength her Nordic heritage allowed her. Its roars became wheezes, its snapping became pathetic, and its soul began to radiate with brilliance off the surface of its body. The Dovahkiin cantered up to where she stood, dismounted and put an arm out to support her. She accepted it, for once, leaning on her charge, and they took in the the smells of the victory as he drank the knowledge of their enemy’s life. The first time, at the watchtower, it had been a harsh, intense experience. For an instant he had known everything, been everything that the dead creature had been, all the pain, the joys, the story of its life told in first person in the space of a second, and when his head had cleared only small pieces had remained. This time there was all the same intensity, and a different story, and joys, and fear. All the things that it was the first time, it was this time, but this time there was triumph also as he saw himself charge it, saw it snap at Lydia, felt her spear enter its belly.

Lydia’s stoic eyes had softened in that moment, with relief, with satisfaction, and then quickly shut. They collapsed together against the ribs of the smote, and after he’d given her something from his saddle bag for her burns and her leg, she slept in a way he’d never seen her sleep. It wasn’t the light, ready sleep of a retainer, but the deep, human sleep of an exhausted mortal. She’d done enough, and more. There was nobody he’d rather have had guarding his back in all the provinces. Without her, he thought, the Dragonborn’s story would have ended in the first few days.

It was in that moment, climbing beside his Housecarl again to sleep against the remains of a dire enemy, while the fields still flickered with burning grass and the constellations were obscured by smoke, that he came into his new identity. These were to be the greatest months of his life, the most dangerous, the most exhilarating, the most beautiful. When he rose that morning from the still warm ground near the bones, he understood his life. Whatever part he was to play in the civil war, whatever wisdom Parthurnaax imparted to him, it was to be auxiliary to his purpose. To find the Elder Scroll and look into the aether, to kill his eldest sibling while his true father, the lord of all time, looked on and did nothing, to travel to Sovengard and treat with Nord kinsmen long dead, it was all secondary to crossing the lands with Lydia, slaying dragons, delving ruins, and carving out a tale to rival that of the Champion of Cyrodiil. These days were the ones he would remember when there were no more to be had. Him, Lydia, and Skyrim to roam.