The Rift Pass

“We’ve had no word of Imperials approaching,” growled Unmid Snow-Shod, housecarl to Jarl Laila Law-Giver. “Why are you running through the streets and raising the alarm?” He was a fierce-looking Nord with a tall sheaf of red hair running over the top of his skull and a spiral tattoo on the right side of his face. His menacing aspect was undercut somewhat by his elven armor, with its sinuous lines and bright gold color. Next to him, Jarl Laila sat on her throne, her eyes wide and her hand to her mouth.

“Because your city is blind to the east, and the Imperial army is approaching that way,” I replied. I was desperate to get him to raise the city’s defenses. Evacuating Lydia from the city would do her little good, since the potion still wasn’t ready. I had sent J’zargo and Brelyna straight to Elgrim with the troll’s leg, while I raised the alarm.

Unmid looked distractedly up at one of the many banners decorating the great hall of Mistveil Keep. The banners bore the sigil of Riften: crossed swords on a purple and gold background. “I always knew this city’s hasty rebuilding would be its end,” he said. “It was never made to withstand a siege.” He spoke true. The city was protected on the west by Lake Honrich and on the south by the precipitous Jerall Mountains. A trio of towers known as the Three Sentinels guarded the northern approach to the city, but none of them had a view of the steep slopes to the east. Nor did the city itself have towers or lookouts facing that way. Only Mistveil Keep itself was built to withstand an attack, but it couldn’t do that if the city fell.

Unmid was still lost in thought when a Riften guard ran into the throne room. “The Dragonborn speaks true! We sent a scout up to the peaks southeast of the city and he saw the Imperial army moving up the slopes from the east. They were having difficulty traveling off of the road in such steep country. He reckoned two hours until they arrive in force before our walls.”

The Temple of Mara

“Falmer Ear!” exclaimed Elgrim, the old alchemist.

“Falmer Ear?”

“Yes, you heard me right, if only I had it in my shop. I don’t suppose you’d like to go exploring into any Dwemer ruins, would you?”

“I’ve quite had my fill of the Dwarven constructs, thank you,” I said, thinking of all the dead Falmer I had left with ears intact, “but I’ll do whatever it takes to cure Lydia of this poison.” I stroked her hand, which was still icy cold. I had been sitting with her all night, ever since we arrived at Riften’s Temple of Mara. The main hall had been turned into a makeshift hospital, with pews that folded ingeniously to become cots.

Elgrim twirled one end of his mustache, which hung down below his jaw. “Hmm, we probably don’t have the time. Charred skeever hide will do nearly as well. Plenty of those in the Ratway. I’ve always said they should rename it the Skeeverway. Hah! Now, where is that Ingun?”

The White River Bridge

I turned away from my friends without a word. What was there to say? They would only stop me from carrying out the plan that was already forming in my mind. I would call Odahviing, and the red dragon would take me to Whiterun. Together we would rain down such catastrophe as the elves had never imagined. When Odahviing grew tired of carrying me, I would have him set me down in the middle of the ruined city, where I would finish any Altmer that yet survived, or they would finish me, I cared not. Surely Lydia had died a good death – we would be together forever in the afterlife.

I laughed then, a mad, hysterical laugh. If only I had remained in the land of the dead for another day, Lydia and I would be together even now!

A voice called after me. “Deirdre! Thank the gods you’re alive! But where are you going? Lydia needs you!”

Choking back a sob, I turned to see Brelyna staring after me. “She still lives?”

“Just barely. It’s poison. I’ve tried everything, but the only cure I had was too weak, and now her breath grows more faint. Hurry, you must do something!”

Fort Amol

A blizzard raged as I stepped out onto High Hrothgar’s front porch. It had been snowing since my return from Sovngarde the day before. It promised to be a rough trip down to Ivarstead, but this didn’t much concern me. I was on my way to Lydia, and that’s all that mattered. The storm made it impossible to glissade down the mountain’s west face – even my strongest Become Ethereal shout couldn’t save me from plunging to my death down those rime-iced cliffs hidden in the whiteout. Yet not even the addition of two days to my journey could dampen my spirits. I didn’t care how long my road was, as long as Lydia was at the end of it.

A short distance down the path, I smelled smoke. That was strange, I thought. I looked around for its source, but could see nothing in the whiteout. Even nearby crags were lost in the swirl of snow. Still the smell of smoke persisted, borne on the wind from the west. Probably just pilgrims caught out by the storm, I told myself, though where they had found wood this far above tree line, I couldn’t explain. Nor could I explain why they were so far off the path to the west, where there was nothing but couloirs and cliffs. I resolved to keep my eye out for travelers in need of help, then thought no more of it. Instead, I pondered Paarthurnax’s words to me on my return to the Throat of the World.

Sovngarde

I felt myself lifted up as I entered the swirling light. I could see nothing but ever-changing colors and flashes of what looked like stars. This went on for some time, whether long or short, I could not tell. Then my feet touched solid ground once more, and the swirling light gradually cleared. I stood at the top of a set of steps leading down into a mist-filled valley ringed with jagged peaks. Across this valley the rooflines of a great hall loomed above the fog – the destination of the souls of the Nord dead, I guessed. A path began at the foot of the steps, lined with gargantuan statues of hooded figures – the grim-faced kings and heroes of old.

It had been day when I stepped into the portal but here in Sovngarde the stars shone bright. Directly above was some sort of light, bright like the sun, but shimmering white like the light of the moons, ringed with swirling clouds. Perhaps this was the other end of that column of light on which I had traveled.

And now I heard a roaring coming from within the mist, the familiar call of a dragon. Out across the valley a winged shape appeared above the mists for just a moment then plunged back in. It was Alduin, and he was hunting the souls of the dead. I dashed down the steps, eager to challenge him to our final confrontation. Many months I had waited for this moment, and now I would tarry no longer.

Skuldafn

Someone was pounding on my door. It seemed as if people had been pounding on it all night long. Arcadia had been the first. “Deirdre, are you all right?” she called through the door. “I saw Lydia, and she looked in an awful way. Come child, open the door and tell me what happened.”

At last she went away, and I returned to my crying and my drinking. I was already into my second bottle of Alto wine. I had never done such a thing before. Later, I awoke to find myself sprawled across the table, with Thorald Gray-Mane shouting at my door. “Lass, open up. It’s no good shutting yourself up like this. Come and have a drink with the lads and you’ll feel better. Hulda’s got a right sympathetic ear if you want to tell her what happened ‘tween you and Lydia.”

Why wouldn’t they leave me alone? Nothing they could say would make this pain go away. Two bottles of wine hadn’t made it go away. Only in sleep could I find respite. Finally Thorald went away too.

Now it was morning, with bright rays of sunshine slanting in the window and sparkling off the snow outside. The pounding kept on going, both in my head and at the door. “Deirdre, open up,” a voice called out. “We have come all the way from Winterhold to see you off to Sovngarde.” It was Brelyna, of course.