Part V — The Northern Wind
Summary:
News from Skyrim shatters the stillness of Cyrodiil. The storm's call returns for its son. Between departure and promise, Saviik and Xala make their oath beside the lake.
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The wind changed before the messenger arrived.
By the end of morning, every banner in the Imperial City leaned north. Even the fountains seemed to hush, their spray flattened by an air that smelled faintly of iron and distant snow. The servants at House Veyne whispered of omens. Saviik only listened.
He was in the library when the courier came—mud to the knee, cloak spattered, the kind of exhaustion that belongs to bad news. Ylva took the scroll herself. Her eyes traced the wax seal, the impression of a hawk's wing and broken crown.
She read in silence.
When she looked up, her expression was the same she wore when she counted losses on an abacus. "It has begun," she said.
Saviik didn't ask what it meant. The words were already in his bones.
She handed him the parchment. The script was hurried, the ink blurred where rain had fallen on it.
"High King Torygg is dead by challenge. Ulfric Stormcloak named kinslayer and traitor. Skyrim divided."
The room tilted slightly around him, not from surprise but recognition—like the last note of a song remembered too late.
Outside, the wind pressed against the windows hard enough to rattle them. The scent of pine came through cracks that had never smelled of forests before.
---
That evening, Ylva found him standing by the gallery overlooking the city. The lamps below flickered under the gusts. "So," she said softly, "the north calls."
"It always has," he replied.
"You could stay," she said. "The Empire will need steady minds soon. There's power to be had in calm hands."
"I'm not calm," he said. "Only waiting."
She studied him for a long moment. "Then go before waiting becomes cowardice."
He bowed. She stepped forward, touched his cheek once—the gesture of a teacher marking the end of a lesson. "Take what we gave you," she said. "Leave the rest before it turns you to stone."
---
Xala met him at the lake.
The moon was half full, the water holding its light like a mirror afraid to move. The air was colder than it had been all year; every breath came out white. She wore no cloak, only a shawl the color of thunderclouds, hair unbound and wild in the wind.
"You didn't tell me," she said.
"There was nothing to tell," he said. "Only to do."
"Then do it tomorrow."
"I can't."
She walked to the edge of the water. The reeds bowed around her ankles. "How far is Skyrim from here?"
"Far enough that the sky looks different."
"And when you get there?"
"I'll find what the sky's been hiding."
She turned back to him, the moonlight painting silver into her hair. "And then?"
He hesitated. "Then I'll remember who I am."
She came closer until the wind tangled both their clothes. "Don't remember alone."
He looked down at her hand, pale against the dark fabric of his sleeve. He covered it with his own. "I won't," he said. "Three harvests from now, on your name day, I'll come back. Not as a ward. As what I was meant to be."
"Three harvests," she repeated, half disbelief, half prayer.
He nodded. "I'll stand where we are now. If you still wish it, I'll call you my bride."
The word hung there—not a possession, not a claim, but a vow carved into air.
She smiled, though her eyes shimmered. "Then the lake will have to remember for both of us."
He bent, scooped a handful of water, and let it fall between their joined hands. "Witness us," he whispered. The ripples spread, caught the moon, carried it outward.
Wind from the north lifted then, cold and sharp, bending the reeds flat and blowing the last of the candlelight from the house behind them. In the darkness that followed, their faces were pale, outlined by reflection alone.
When the gust passed, she spoke first. "It's started raining."
He looked up. It wasn't rain—it was the faintest dust of snow, flakes too small to survive the air. "No," he said. "It's home."
---
At dawn, the carriage waited on the road below the estate. The servants had risen early; Ylva stood at the gate, her hand raised not in farewell but command.
Saviik climbed in without ceremony. Xala's shawl still hung over his shoulders; he didn't give it back. As the wheels began to turn, he looked once toward the lake. Mist rolled across it, hiding everything except a single circle of still water where the wind hadn't touched.
It gleamed faintly, gold against gray, as if something had been lit there long ago and refused to go out.
He touched the pendant at his throat and whispered, "Three harvests."
The driver flicked the reins. The horses moved. The sound of hooves on wet stone faded into the wind, and by the time the sun climbed over the city, the carriage was only a shadow heading north.
🎻 "The Oath at Rumare"
Traditional Skyrim ballad, origin uncertain. Attributed to the wandering bard Hjaldrin Snow-Tongue.
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I.
By the still lake of Cyrodiil's heart,
beneath moons of frost and flame,
The Ward of the North stood quiet apart,
and the wind remembered his name.
No crown upon his shadowed brow,
no kin beside his side—
Only a vow that bound him now,
to the girl the gods denied.
II.
"Three harvests more," the young man swore,
"on thy name-day's morning bell,
I'll cross the snows to thy father's door,
and claim what words can't tell.
Till then this lake shall keep our hands,
our voices shall be flame,
And every wind that leaves these lands
shall whisper us by name."
III.
Then northward turned his silent steed,
through rain and ashen dawn;
The city slept, the world took heed,
the dream of a boy was gone.
But still, at night, on Rumare's shore,
when clouds grow pale and clear,
Two shadows meet, though flesh no more,
and speak what hearts still hear.
IV.
For love once sworn on candle's breath,
the gods themselves must mark,
And even time must bow to death
before it snuffs that spark.
So sing, you bards, of oaths unbroke,
of hearts that never tire—
Of the northern wind, of the lover's cloak,
and the child of frost and fire.
---
Scholars' note (Imperial Archives):
> Collected from oral tradition in Windhelm, 4E 203.
Many consider "The Oath at Rumare" a companion to "The Northern Ward," though its authorship differs. Its refrain of "three harvests more" is often cited as symbolic prophecy, referencing the Dragonborn's return to Skyrim three years after the death of High King Torygg.