Frostbite - a TES:V Skyrim Fanfiction Series

9 - A Call to Glory

"I can't believe it. You're ... Dragonborn."

The lining of her mouth squeezed and contracted as she unenthusiastically drained the last of the bitter healing potion. She wiped her mouth on the back of a dirty leather glove and dropped the little glass bottle to the floor. As she limped along the cobbled road, back towards the city on the hill, supported by the muscular, adrenaline-sweated arm of one of Whiterun's guards, the words rang through her ears:

"Dragonborn? What are you talking about?" One had said.

"That's right! My grandfather used to tell me stories about the Dragonborn," another had said.

Irileth had looked between them and her with an increasingly furrowed brow.

And she had felt sick. Sick to her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, the bodies of the guards who had been stood in the way of the dragon's torrent of fire-breath were still smouldering in the pretty, midday sunshine.

"...Those born with the dragon blood in 'em, like old Tiber Septim himself," the guard continued.

"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

"That's because there weren't any dragons around then, idiot. They're just coming back now for the first time in ... forever."

"What do you say, Irileth? You're being awfully quiet."

"Come on, Irileth. Tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?"

The elf looked at the skeletal remains of the dragon, stripped of any scales and flesh, sinew and eyes, before returning her dark glare to the one who had seemingly conjured more affect than sword, arrow or spell.

"Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping gums on matters you don't know anything about." She puffed out her chest and stalked up to the dragon – the yellowed spinal column protruding from the wreckage of the tower. Irileth placed a boot on it and shoved. Even dead, the thing must have weighed a tonne. It barely moved under the small elf's strength, but her message was clear: "Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I can definitely understand." There was smug victory in her voice. "Now we know we can kill them. I don't need some mythical Dragonborn," Irileth looked back to her, those piercing eyes shadowed beneath the sun. "Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

She couldn't tell whether Irileth's words were meant as a compliment or a caution. She hadn't really put down the dragon, had she? She'd distracted it, sure, but it was Irileth who'd had the skill and the guts to stab the thing, and the collapsing tower had really dealt the final blow. Could she have done the same if the roles were reversed?

"You wouldn't understand, Housecarl. You ain't a Nord."

"I- I've been all across Tamriel. I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this!" Irileth tutted. "I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm, and of your fellow men, over tales and legends."

And so, she walked away from the dragon fight with a bruised ankle. As they approached the gates of Whiterun, the pain began to dim, and she felt herself gradually more able to put more pressure on it. Faces peered over the walls at them – helmeted faces and the weary elderly and workers and more. A few she recognised, most she didn't.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she said, unhooking her arm from around the guard's, before adding a quiet and self-conscious: "Thanks."

Irileth had stayed behind at the tower with most of the surviving force, she guessed to calculate the losses and figure out what to do with an enormous dragon skeleton and a destroyed outpost.

As they were passing the threshold into the city, the sky ripped apart. A thunderous crash like a crack of lighting spliced the air all around her and echoed across the stonework and the valley beyond, setting at least three different tones ringing in her ears.