The month of Hearthfire (September) had brought a deep autumn air to Riverwood. A stand of maples by the riverside burned red as they shed their yellowing leaves. Farmers were busy sowing winter wheat for the year; sweat-drenched oxen panted on the ridges between fields. The waterwheel at the lumber mill turned sluggishly in the shrunken river, grinding along as if it were exhausted. The blacksmith's daughter chased a dog down the street and cast an anxious glance at the patrolling guards.
Sven's blind mother was calling out yet again that a dragon was coming, that she had seen it.
Dragons were like natural disasters; mortals had no way to stop their coming. The villagers wore worried frowns, but they still had to carry on with their lives.
There were more soldiers on the street than usual. They had come from Whiterun; Jarl Balgruuf had ordered additional forces sent out to the various villages and towns.
Kliman, in newly issued armour with a fresh sword and shield, stood on the gatehouse, gazing toward the southern sky, watching constantly for any colour that did not belong to cloud or bird.
"What are you looking at?" The captain climbed up the wooden ladder and came to stand beside him. "Are you looking for passing bandits, or for a dragon?"
"Just spacing out." Kliman tapped his sword hilt lightly and hummed the Song of the Dragonborn under his breath.
"How long have Sven and Faendal been gone with that prisoner now?"
"Eight days."
The captain nodded. "And that foreign mage—how long has he been gone?"
"Three months," Kliman answered, glancing back to the north. "Winterhold should be getting snow about now."
The captain asked him what Winterhold was like.
"A small fishing village. Pretty run-down. Only about a hundred people." Kliman had said this over and over by now.
The captain laughed in his boisterous way. "I used to go adventuring all over too, but I never made it to Winterhold. I've been to Solitude, been to Dawnstar. When I was young, I had the guts to go anywhere—right up until I took an arrow to the knee and had to come back to Whiterun."
"Took an arrow to the knee" was just another way of saying he got married; the kneeling posture when proposing looked a lot like a wounded knee.
"I wonder how Skyl is doing. Now that the dragons are back, it's not safe for an outlander to stay in Skyrim."
"Hey, Kliman, look there. Isn't that…?"
"Isn't who?" Kliman turned his head and saw a young man in mage robes and a cloak walking along the country road outside Riverwood, with an owl perched on his shoulder. "Oh, come on—Skyl?!"
Skyl had come back. He even said he'd treat everyone to a meal and told them to meet at the usual place.
At the noonday feast, everyone in Riverwood turned up. Skyl raised his cup again, and everyone drank. After a few mugs of mead, even the deepest worries could be tossed aside.
"Kliman, you've heard about the dragons coming back, haven't you?" Skyl pulled his old friend over to sit beside him. "Riverwood is in a lot of danger—in fact, all of Skyrim is. I'm planning to take you all to Winterhold, where the College can protect you."
Kliman was taken aback, then shook his head with a rueful smile. "Skyl, you don't understand. We're Jarl Balgruuf's people. We can't just go off to Winterhold—that would mean losing our status as his subjects, losing the right to pay taxes, becoming rootless wanderers. And besides, how could the sons and daughters of Skyrim be afraid of dying in their homeland?"
"Winterhold belongs to the College now. If you come with me, you'll be part of Winterhold."
"In that case, you should tell everyone that," Kliman said calmly.
"You're not planning to come with me?"
"Skyl, I'm a son of Mother Skyrim. If my ancestors could wrest Skyrim from the dragons' claws, then so can we."
"The Dragonborn has already appeared. The dragons won't rampage forever, so there's no need for you to be so stubborn. And anyway, the ancient Nord heroes mastered the Way of the Voice so they could shout down mountains and blast through city walls. These days, a Nord's shout is barely enough to scare some wolves off the roadside. It's not even close."
Kliman ignored the persuasion and instead caught on to the key detail. "The Dragonborn has appeared?"
In the noisy hall, only a few people noticed those words—including the innkeeper of the Sleeping Giant Inn, Delphine, who pricked up her ears at once when she heard "Dragonborn."
Skyl nodded. "That prisoner who escaped from Helgen the other day is the last Dragonborn. It's his destiny to defeat Alduin. You've met him already, haven't you? Tell me—what kind of man is he?"
"That guy…" Kliman took a sip of wine, sank into his memories, and stayed silent for a long moment before suddenly saying, "He's like an idiot. Drinks like a fish. Can't remember his own name. Looks reliable enough, but he's got sticky fingers. First thing he did on entering the village was kill a chicken and got chased from one end of town to the other by a dozen people. When I caught him, he tried to argue that it was his hunting spoils and not stolen poultry."
Skyl thought: Perfect. Exactly how I pictured the Dragonborn.
"A hero with amnesia, heading out on a legendary journey," Skyl murmured in admiration. "Someday, I'll meet him. But before that, I'm going to restore Winterhold's former glory. Kliman, I need people. Old Winterhold wasn't built in a day. And are you really willing to watch your own kin die in dragonfire? What's so bad about letting them live under the College's protection?"
Kliman's brow furrowed in troubled thought. "Mortals all have their fates. If I'm destined to die in a dragon attack…"
"Don't start on fate with me! I'm telling you that you can live, so you can live. Even if you die, I can go to Sovngarde and drag your soul back to shove it in your body again. Don't be so damned sentimental. I'm going to tell everyone in a bit: whoever's willing to come to Winterhold with me leaves this evening. Whoever isn't, stays. I don't care about the others, but you, Faendal, and Sven—you three, and all your families and friends—you're all coming with me!"
Kliman blinked, then shook his head with a laugh. "Skyl, it's like you've become another person. But I quite like the change. All right then—let's say it's for my family's sake."
Even with Skyrim facing both a civil war and the threat of dragons, not everyone was willing to abandon their warm homeland and follow Skyl north to Winterhold. They had all heard what that place was like: freezing, desolate, and so run-down you had to rely on fishing and hunting to live. After Kliman talked and pleaded and argued, he managed to persuade a little over seventy people, mostly women and children; there were only twenty-three able-bodied adults among them.
Skyl sent them straight into the Tower of Tomes, then used a Flight spell himself to hurry back to Winterhold.
In Riverwood, the evening sun had not yet fully set; in Winterhold, the sky was already pitch-black. When they came out of the portal into a bleak fishing village lashed by the wind, the newcomers could not help but feel lost—and a little regretful.
The chill of the night soaked through their clothes. The skin of their chests prickled with cold.
Skyl clapped his hands. A ring of warm wind burst out from around him, wrapping everyone in it. For a brief instant, it was as if spring had returned, and the shivering stopped.
He raised a hand toward the sky, and a firework shot upward and exploded against the night.
From the distant College, another firework soared up in answer.
A column of lantern-bearing mages approached at a slow march, distant and flickering, like a cloud of fireflies drifting down from mid-air.
Brelyna walked at the head of the group. She handed her lantern to Skyl and stepped aside to open the way toward the College.
Together they walked through the village of Winterhold, looking around at the crude, broken shacks. The desolate, decayed sight filled everyone with deep anxiety.
Kliman turned to Skyl and asked, "Out here, in this freezing cold, with no roofs to keep out the wind and snow, no hearths to warm us, and food enough for only half a month—how can we possibly survive?"
The migrants from Riverwood all looked to him with hope in their eyes.
Skyl led them to an open patch of ground and spoke into the darkness of the world: "I grant permission for these people from the south of Skyrim to settle here as their home. Therefore, they shall have roofs over their heads. They shall put out to sea in boats to feed their families. They shall take part in the great work of restoring the old capital of Winterhold."
And so stone walls and wooden beams rose from the snow. Rows of houses sprang up as the ground trembled lightly—each one solidly built, with doors, windows, and a peaked roof. Open any door and you would find a firepit inside. There were beds, tables and chairs, hearths and chimneys. In each backyard there was a small fishing boat, along with nets and a rack for drying clothes.
Seeing this, the crowd erupted in cries of wonder. Only after each family had moved into their new home did they finally dare believe it wasn't an illusion.
"You can settle in here without worrying about your day-to-day needs," Skyl said, entrusting Kliman with the task of managing the Riverwood migrants' daily lives. "Starting tomorrow, everyone between ten and sixty, men and women alike, has to take part in the work. With everyone's effort, Winterhold will become the most prosperous city in Skyrim."
Then Skyl turned to the members of the College. "The College does not meddle in politics, but Winterhold and the College are one inseparable whole. The new Winterhold will be the College's bulwark and stronghold, and the College will in turn defend the people of this city from the ravages of war."
From within the crowd, Mage Aren watched this young man shaping the world, and a wistful yet approving smile touched his lips.
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