Chapter Text
There was no one to go to, no one to ask her questions, and no library in which to dig for answers. Kaer Morhen was across the ocean, and it seemed redundant to send them another letter when they would receive it so long after the first. Ciona was alone. She sat on the bed of her small house in Riverwood, unsure of her next move. The life she had been living was easy, unassuming. A chance had thrust her back onto The Path, only a whisper of someone having a goblin problem in Bruma, and it had been enough to get her caught up in an otherworldly predicament. The life of a Witcher had more than enough otherworldly predicaments, more than enough death and fighting, all things she had been running from. Would it have been her had someone else come through the Pale Pass that day? Or had she always been destined to be a Nordic legend? The Witcher wondered what Ralof would have to say about all of it. He had been her only confidant, and she had only begun to confide in him recently.
Ciona shook her head before rolling her shoulders free of stress. The only library that rivaled the one in the Imperial City was the one in Winterhold. The College would be the only chance for her to find information without having to go all the way into the heart of Cyrodiil. While that of itself did not bother her, she doubted the Imperial City would have the information she would need on something so Nordic. There was also the option of going to High Hrothgar. Ciona had heard of the monks on the mountain multiple times while living in Riverwood, but she had never received concrete knowledge on them until Jarl Balgruuf had informed her that they were the cause of the thunder. They had been calling the Dovahkiin – they had been calling her. They would be sure to know what it meant, how it was possible, and how to change it.
“You can’t escape destiny,” she whispered to herself. It had been uttered so many times by so many people for so many reasons. Swallowing tightly, she whispered it again and again and again.
The Witcher would go first to High Hrothgar and then to the College of Winterhold should the first not hold her answers. Before either of those things, though, she was going to get answers from Delphine.
Ciona assembled her lightweight gear, tossing only essentials into her pack before throwing out any perishables that would go bad before she would return. She had nothing of value to leave behind. The Cat medallion and Ralof’s amulet of Talos clinked together at her chest. There was no way to know if the sound was an omen or an encouragement. Ciona was not afraid, though. She would face her destiny with the same fearlessness that all Witchers were taught.
“What do you know about the dragons?” Ciona demanded, leaning back against the door to Delphine’s room with her arms crossed against her chest.
“What are you talking about?” Delphine snipped, immediately defensive and dismissive.
Ciona heard the innkeeper’s heart rate accelerate, could smell the change in her scent that signified fear. She didn’t move from her post at the door. The little pig-sticker Delphine called a dagger wouldn’t do much should she try to attack.
“You were at Dragonsreach with the court wizard. Why?” She watched as Delphine’s spine straightened with tense muscles. “Can smell it when you lie. Remember that.”
Instead of lying, Delphine stayed silent. Ciona watched the muscle in her jaw working. The woman would give her half-truths and lies, even on pain of death. Information was information, though, and even a lie was more than what she currently had.
“What would a Witcher want with dragons, anyways?” Delphine finally deflected.
Ciona’s lip curled into a mocking smile. “Where I come from, dragons aren’t meant to be killed. Yet, here I am, killing them. Explain.”
Her hand moved to rest on the iron sword that hung at her right hip. Delphine shifted on her feet at the movement. The interrogation was interrupted by a noise that sent a chill down Ciona’s spine. With Witcher senses on full alert, she straightened up and co*cked her head to listen. If she focused, she could just hear the wings beating through the air above the town.
“This isn’t over,” Ciona snarled with a jab of her finger at Delphine’s chest. Without waiting for the woman to follow, the Witcher rushed through the inn and outside.
The dragon was circle above, screaming every so often. The guards were standing mute and paralyzed as they watched. Ciona hesitated in her place. She couldn’t tell if the beast was truly a beast, or if it would speak as the other two had. There were no words within the screeches of this one that she could hear. It swooped down, sending a wave of fire directly into Ciona’s vicinity. With a shout for everyone to get inside, the Witcher dropped her pack and drew her silver sword. The town of Riverwood was no deserted watchtower. There were real people in danger, and Ciona wouldn’t allow an overgrown lizard to destroy a place that she called home. It was becoming more and more clear every time she saw one that these were not the same dragons that called the Continent home. Ciona upended a small vial into her mouth before charging the beast with Signs and swords.
-
The silence was thick enough to cut with a dagger. It had bloomed in the room as soon as the door had closed behind them. With the effects of the potion still wearing off, Ciona sat with her hands pressed tightly between her knees. It was all she could do not to fidget. Hod and Frodnar were both quiet, too quiet for a pair of grieving family members. Ciona swallowed tightly. Her ears popped. The silence grew even louder. Gerdur’s body was being tended by Sigrid along with the other two guards that had perished in the battle against the dragon. Chewing her tongue was a painful distraction, but even that didn’t last long.
“Why didn’t you save her?” Frodnar demanded as Ciona got to her feet. His eyes were hateful and accusing. “Why didn’t you save my mother?”
There were so many things she wanted to say. Offence filled her chest, even as unfounded as it was. Gerdur wasn’t the only person that died, and Frodnar wasn’t the only child that would mourn the loss of a parent. Hod was looking at her with the same stare. His eyes were red rimmed and watery. Ciona shifted on her feet, but ultimately grabbed her pack from by the door in silence.
“Hey! I asked you a question!” The bowl Frodnar threw in his hasty anger hit the wall next to her with a solid thump.
Ciona worked her jaw for a few moments, looking at the little boy over her shoulder. “You’re not the only one who lost something, kid. Someone has to tell Ralof.” She hesitated with her hand on the door before turning to face them fully. “Being a Witcher only makes me stronger. Doesn’t mean I get to save everyone that deserves saving. Sometimes, people just die. Sometimes a dragon doesn’t even have to do it.”
Delphine was, predictably, no where to be found. Instead of wasting time to track her down, Ciona paid her respects to the dead with a furrowed brow and heavy heart before she left Riverwood behind her. The plan had changed. She would go to Windhelm first. Ralof deserved to know about his sister from her own mouth. Then, she would go to High Hrothgar. It was the least she could do for him. It was the least she could do for Gerdur after letting her die. The Witcher’s steps were heavy, but her feet had never failed her. She only hoped a reply from Kaer Morhen would be able to reach her before she ascended the seven thousand steps.
-
The ten-day trip to Windhelm by foot had ended up taking nearly a fortnight. A rainstorm chased her from Whiterun hold. Ciona was soaked to the bone before she found a small cave to hole up in. The cave itself had been occupied by a bear and evicting the beast had been a chore. The two days spent holed up inside with only the corpse to keep her company had been hell. What would she say to Ralof? What could she say to ease his pain when her own inability to protect his sister was the true cause of it? The rhythmic sound of the sharpening stone on her iron blade sent her further into her own head. These dragons were not like the dragons on the Continent. That much had been proven. They were hunting people for sport, slaughtering because it brought them joy. The rainstorm finally broke and she was able to continue her journey, heavier in her heart than before.
Only a small handful of miles outside of Windhelm found her face to face with another dragon. This one had been silent, only given away by the whoosh of air around it. Ciona danced with the beast. She dodged teeth and claw and fire, sometimes barely twirling out of the way before it’s jaws could clamp around her. Her sword had yet to taste of its blood, though her Igni had burned away nearly half of its monstrous face. A small garrison of soldiers appeared at her back from the direction of the city. As they momentarily pulled the dragon’s eyes away from her, Ciona used that time to grab the last of her Witcher’s potion and upend it into her mouth. The veins visible in her neck began to turn black, crawling up her face to bleed into her eyes. When she was monstrous enough to match the beast before her, she snarled deep in her chest.
“If you’re an archer, aim for the wings. If you’re not, stay out of my way.”
Ciona didn’t look to see if the soldiers were listening. Instead, she let the dragon roar into her face before she roared back. The ground beneath her shook. A powerful Aard sent the fire from its mouth back into its face. The reflected heat burned at the already scalding scales. Coupled with the few arrows that she could see poking through the membranous wings, the beast was finally forced to land. The Witcher wasted no time in rushing it, sliding on the snow to slip beneath a wing. The underbelly was a little more tender than the rest of it. The scales there gave way to her silver sword, hot blood pouring from the wounds she created. Ciona was doused in the rapidly cooling liquid. The dragon screamed again before using its tail to fling her into a small cluster of trees bare of leaves. A heavy stream of fire followed her trajectory.
A soldier wielding a heavy battle axe used the dragon’s distraction to sprint forward. He buried the weapon into the side of the beast’s neck. The iron sliced through the scales, splintering them and the handle of the axe with the force of it. Blood sprayed the soldier, painting him in red before the dragon’s wing slammed him into the ground with a wet crunch. It was growing weak. Ciona dragged herself up, ignoring the way her left arm radiated with pain. There was a broken bone somewhere in there, but there was no time to bother with it. Finding her silver sword in the snow would have been impossible had she lesser senses. The black veins in her neck pulsed. Gritting her teeth, Ciona rushed the beast again, coming in on its blind side to drive the point of her sword through its useless eye. The silver was buried all the way to the hilt. The dragon thrashed wildly for a few long moments, throwing Ciona through the air again as it whipped its head from side to side. She hit the ground with a grunt.
The sky was an endless blue above her. The garrison of soldiers was cheering. They sounded much further off than they should, and the sky was not meant to spin that way. Ciona blinked slowly. Her mind was almost too weary to take stock of her injuries. She could feel the veins around her eyes and neck pulsing, the pain radiating from her forearm, and the ache of the rest of her body. Her back would be bruised black for some time from hitting the trees and the ground. There was twinge somewhere in the shoulder on the same side of her broken arm that told her it was dislocated. With a dark groan, Ciona rolled to her good side and pushed herself to her feet. The world swayed around her. The adrenaline from the potion was still thrumming in her veins, leaving her feeling restless and jumpy. The soul of the dragon began to burn its flesh away as she approached, letting her sword fall through the now empty eye socket to rest in its jaw bones. The Witcher was expecting the heat this time, letting it sweep around her and into her chest, filling her lungs with hot air. It tingled through her body, healing the cuts and scrapes, urging the bruising away, knitting her bones back together. Ciona’s shoulder moved back into place with an audible crack. All at once, the energy left her panting from her knees amidst a small group of terrified soldiers.
“You – you’re the Dragonborn,” one of them whispered.
“I thought you would be taller,” another added.
Ciona made a rude gesture with her newly working arm as she dragged herself back to her feet. She was tired of being knocked down. Despite the dragon’s soul healing her of her injuries, she felt worse than before. A metallic taste was in her mouth. Product of the potion as it was, she knew that wouldn’t fade until the effects of it did. Sliding the silver sword into the free scabbard at her waist, Ciona motioned to the bones of the dragon.
“How close am I to Windhelm?” she asked wearily, approaching the soldiers that were milling around. Two had gone to collect the body of their fallen man from beneath the dragon’s bones.
A female soldier stepped forward, pulling her helm off to release a head of blonde hair tumbling down around her shoulders. “Only a few hours walk, Lady Dragonborn. May I escort you there?”
Ciona shrugged, wincing when the motion flared up phantom pain in her shoulder. She rubbed the shoulder with her opposite hand. “Following you.”
With her helm tucked beneath her arm, the soldier led the way to Windhelm. She gushed about watching the dragon’s soul sweep into the Witcher’s body, watching as it visibly healed the scrapes they could see on her face, watching as it ate away the skin of the dead beast. Ciona let her, nodding and responding only when prompted. She was exhausted. If there was a room at the inn, she was going to sleep for a few days, hopefully without interruption. Glancing down at herself, she acknowledged that a bath would also be preferable.
The walls of Windhelm were tall and imposing. The entire city looked as cold as the wind cutting through the air around in. Snow was up around the bridge and walls in tall drifts and sections of the river without much movement were frozen solid enough to walk on. Eastmarch had clearly never seen the warmth of a summer season. Ciona followed the soldier through the gates, glad that the guards there didn’t stop them despite her being drenched in dried blood.
“The Jarl will want to meet you, Lady Dragonborn. Please, follow me,” the soldier insisted. She kept walking, not noticing Ciona wasn’t following until she was a few yards away.
Ciona’s attention was caught on the two men heckling a Dunmer female only a few yards in the opposite direction. The sight threw her off guard, as did the disrepair of the city around her. When one of the men threatened the elf, anger surged through Ciona’s flesh. Her own pointed ears burned from beneath the white strands of hair on her head. She ignored the call of her escort as she strode over the man. Her hand shot out to grab his thick neck. Despite being half a head taller than her, the Witcher could still lift him bodily from the ground with just the one arm. He dangled from her hand, staring down into her yellow eyes with his own wide with surprise and terror.
“Bother this woman again, and you’ll find your insides tangled with your friend’s,” Ciona said. Her face was deadpan as she tightened her fist around the man’s neck, letting him choke and struggle for a few long seconds.
“Lady Dragonborn! Please, stop this at once!”
Letting him crumple to the ground without further maiming him was a test to her self-control. Several people had stopped to stare, watching the spectacle with too much interest. A gate guard at her back had drawn his weapon but paused without approaching. Ciona squatted down to be closer to the man’s face. His hand was grabbing at his throat, assuring himself that he could breathe again.
“Did I make myself clear, you steaming pile of horse sh*t?”
He nodded unsteadily, his friend following suit when she turned her slit pupils on him. Ciona nodded to the Dunmer female before bringing herself back to her full height.
“Well, go on then,” she said to her escort. “Where were you taking me?”
The soldier fumbled for a moment, dropping her helm and stooping to pick it up before she could utter out a coherent request to follow. They kept walking down the center of the city, past the inn that Ciona made note of, before entering a stone courtyard. It held a fire pit in the center of it. The fire kept some of the ice melted in a small diameter around the pedestal. The guards at the gate were quick to stop them from entering the palace, eyeing the Witcher covered in blood suspiciously. They were quick to change their tune, however, when the soldier let them know that Ciona was the actual, real-life, in the flesh Dragonborn, and she was to introduce her to Jarl Ulfric. Ciona was disgusted by the way the title changed the perspective of so many people that did not know her for who she was as a person. It was a stark reminder of why she stopped being an active Witcher in the first place. The Path had a way of dragging them all back, though, no matter how hard they tried to stray.
The Palace of the Kings was just as cold and empty as the outside of the city. The Jarl was not sprawled on his throne, as Balgruuf had been, though. Ulfric Stormcloak was in his war room hunched over a map with tiny little flags poked into it. His housecarl bristled at the unexpected intrusion.
“My Jarl, this is the Lady Dragonborn,” the soldier spoke quickly, before the housecarl’s face could turn any redder. “She slayed the dragon you dispatched us to fight, then took his very soul. It healed all the injuries on her body, My Jarl, and the dragon’s flesh turned to ash, just like the stories said.”
“Thank you, soldier,” Ulfric drawled while the woman was taking a breath. “You’ve done me a great service in bringing her here. I’m sure she will brief me about the happenings with this dragon.”
The soldier dismissed herself, looking one more time at Ciona’s presence as if she were a god come to life. Ciona sucked in a sharp breath of annoyance. She was no god. She was barely a Witcher anymore, and a half-rate dragon slayer. The woman didn’t know her, didn’t know her failures and shortcomings, didn’t know the horrors she had committed with her blood-stained hands time and time again.
“I know your face, Witcher,” Ulfric said. His voice brought her back to the present. “We have met before.”
“Helgen,” she was quick to remind him. “Almost got beheaded and turned into kindling together.”
The Jarl and the Witcher sized one another up for a few tense moments. His housecarl was quick to step in with a hand on the battle axe strapped to his back. The bear's head on his own was staring at her. It made Ciona’s skin crawl, though that could have just as easily been the dried blood beginning to itch against her flesh.
“Looking for Ralof. Where is he?” she asked, not bothering to acknowledge the man in the bear pelt. Her hand fell to her iron sword, the threat clear despite her ignoring him. “Got news of his family.”
“Galmar, have Jorleif prepare a hot bath for our guest and fetch Ralof of Riverwood from the barracks if his garrison has not left yet.” Ulfric turned back to his map, putting his hands on the table to lean against it. Once Galmar was gone, he heaved a sigh. “How did an outsider to Skyrim become the legendary Dragonborn?”
Ciona scoffed. He was asking the wrong person. She told him so. “Everyone calls me that, yet none have told me what it means.”
Ulfric Stormcloak was long-winded. He spoke eloquently and with education, though, and it was just as well for Ciona to listen rather than contribute. The Jarl gave her a general explanation of who the Dragonborn of legend was meant to be, the savior of the world, and what the Dragonborn was meant to be capable of. To her surprise, he even offered to show her what he called Shouting before she was to depart for High Hrothgar. The entire time, he stank of something not unlike deception. The man was heading a civil war, and a Witcher turned hero legend would be a powerful ally to have in practice and in a boost of moral. Ciona was not fooled by his not-so-subtle campaigning. He was a great source of information about High Hrothgar, however, and she would not turn down the wealth of knowledge he was offering.
“Ciona, what are you doing here?” Ralof barged through the doorway to the war room, almost moving to hug her before he realized the Jarl was standing in their presence. “Jarl Ulfric, my apologies.”
There was a tense silence. Ciona’s jaw clenched when her teeth ground together. Her eyes bored into the Jarl, daring him to say one thing she did not like to Ralof. Her fist flexed around the hilt of her sword.
“No need for apologies, soldier. I believe she has news from home for you, something most only receive in a letter.” Ulfric dismissed them both by turning back to his map and his housecarl. “Show her to the bathing chambers. Jorleif should have a bath prepared for her soon.”
The reminder of the news she had turned Ciona’s stomach. Her hand found Ralof’s bicep, using it to anchor herself as they left the room for the other side of the palace. Ciona let him lead her to a door across the throne room. Instead of going into the kitchens that she could smell, he led her into a door at the top of the landing. The stairs carried them down where the air began to warm around them.
“What news do you bring, Ciona? It can’t be good if you’re here in person,” Ralof spoke uneasily. He could read the lines of her face, she knew. Her golden eyes bored into his, the pinch between her eyebrows saying more than her mouth could. “Oh, gods.”
They stopped just shy of another door. Ciona could smell the soap and water, could hear the splash of a tub being filled, and the labored breathing of whoever was doing the filling. Ralof’s hands curled into tight fists as they began to shake.
“A dragon attacked Riverwood,” Ciona began quietly. All the planning of what to say swept out of her mind with a gust of wind. Words slipped through her fingers like water. “I tried to –”
A pained noise from his throat stopped Ciona from speaking any further. After a few long minutes, she whispered an apology. She knew that would do nothing to help, but what else could the person that let his sister die say? Her own hands fisted at the thought. A pressure headache was growing behind her eyes, the ache of travel and sleep deprivation and taking a dragon soul and potion catching up to her.
“Frodnar and Hod are safe and at home. Didn’t want you to read this in a stupid letter.” Ciona relaxed one of her hands to curl around his fist, offering what comfort she could without bringing her dirty armor close to him.
He nodded absently with shallow breaths. “A letter would’ve been worse.”
The man preparing her bath pushed through the door before shouting in fright. His hand pressed against his chest for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. “You must be our guest, the Lady Dragonborn. Your bath has been prepared. Do you require an attendant?”
Ciona’s eyes left Ralof to land on Jorleif, a slight man with soft appearing skin. Not all Nords were so rough, she knew, but he was remarkably dainty. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped harshly. It was the straw on the camel’s back, insignificant but too much. “Not a f*cking lady, and one of my parents was not a f*cking dragon.”
Jorleif uttered something in the affirmative before scurrying away from them. The Witcher could feel Ralof’s eyes on her, but he said nothing. The accusing look was back. It was the same face he was making across from her in the prisoner’s cart. Ciona licked her lips nervously, making a face in disgust when the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. Instead of sending him away, she pushed the door open and motioned for him to enter first.
The room had a low ceiling and the floors were covered with the furs of animals, mostly bears and reindeer. Two animals they had in abundance in the tundra, she supposed. The bathtub was large enough for three and filled with steaming hot water. Oils and soaps covered a table next to one side, as well as several cloths that she assumed were to wash and dry herself with. The fireplace in the corner had a large cauldron above it for boiling the bathwater. The flames kept the room almost unbearably hot. Ciona closed the door behind them before setting her pack down. Her swords came off first, then she began to loosen her amor. It came off piece by piece, revealing the stained white tunic beneath that kept the hardened leather and mail from rubbing at her skin. She toed off her boots and peeled away her leather trousers, stuck to her skin with dried blood. Even her breast bindings had somehow gotten bloody. She peeled them away from her skin, glad that the material was hardy enough to be washed.
Ralof watched her with unseeing eyes, still reeling over the death of his sister. Ciona didn’t blame him. There was no one to blame but herself. She gave him the space he needed, easing herself into the hot water and moaning obscenely when the heat scalded her sore muscles. She scrubbed her hair with a bar of lavender soap. All of it was loud to her sensitive nose, but the need to be clean would outweigh a night of sneezing. The smell would dull quickly in the cold northern air, she knew. The water was murky when she was done, her copper hair the white of fresh snow once again while her skin was rubbed raw where the blood had dried on. It felt good to be clean.
Jorleif had left a pair of fresh undergarments of Nord make atop a pile of freshly laundered fabric. Ciona ignored them to dig through her pack to pull out her own clothes. She would not assume more of the Jarl’s hospitality than necessary. She would leave Windhelm owing him nothing. Once dressed and with her boots wiped down with a cloth, she took a seat at the bench before dragging a comb made from the bones of a bear through her tangled hair. It took effort. The mutations had made her hair coarse and her breasts small, halting her feminine growth and making way for testosterone-hardened muscles and a taller form. She had no complaints, though, as the mutations had spared her the misery of menstruation and the fear of possible childbearing. Ralof was still waiting in the seat she had pressed him into. His face was still lax with the shock that numbed him to all feelings.
Ciona had a hard time bringing herself to speak to him. He had done so much for her since she had met him, and all she had done for him was let his sister die. Instead of thanking him, another apology was the only thing that tumbled from her mouth. There was no way to relate to him, no way to know what he was going through or how he felt. Ciona had no one close to her outside of him, had never had a lifestyle that allowed her to be close to any but the other Witchers at Kaer Morhen, and she had never lost a person close to her.
Fully dressed and clean, Ciona used the murky water from the bath to scrub the blood from her breast bindings and under tunic, laying both out to dry on the bench. She used the only clean piece of cloth left to wipe down her hardened leather armor and leather trousers before wiping the blades of her swords. Both would need to be sharpened before leaving Windhelm, as the walk to High Hrothgar was sure to be just as treacherous. Skyrim was a treacherous land. The Witcher’s hands fell idle when they had nothing left to do.
“Just who in Oblivion are you, Ciona?” Ralof finally broke his silence in a whisper. Her eyes landed on him. “What are you?”
Ciona’s tongue darted out to lick her lips again, unsure how to answer. She didn’t know anymore who or what she was. The shrug that pulled at her shoulders felt halfhearted and insincere.
“I don’t – I don’t know.”
She couldn’t say she was surprised when Ralof rose from his seat and left the room. The door swung open, leaving her sensitive ears to listen as his booted feet carried him up the stairs, through the throne room, and through the doors of the Palace. She couldn’t say she was surprised, but she could say that it hurt like a knife to the chest. Hot and painful, it worsened the pressure headache, leaving her eyes burning with tears and air that wouldn’t fill her lungs. It took her a few long seconds to realize the wheezing noise was coming from herself and a few seconds longer to get herself under control.
Dining with the Jarl was as awkward as it was educational. Ciona refused the man’s banter even as she ate his food and washed down his bread with his mead. Ulfric Stormcloak would feed her in exchange for killing the dragon, and she would do nothing else for him. Even as he tried to slip in questions of her thoughts on the war raging around them, the Witcher refused to play his game. By the time dessert was served, sweet rolls and fruit-flavored crostatas, Ciona was nearing the limit of how much more propaganda she could listen to. While the man had no bearing on the demanding kings and queens she had left behind on the Continent, she still had no patience for such things. Dismissing herself with a half-hearted thanks, Ciona picked up her pack, gathered up her still-drying clothes, and left for the Candlehearth Inn. The inn was loud, but the bed was warm, and the door had a lock. Ciona fell asleep before she realized her eyes were closed. When Ralof was nowhere obvious to be found the following morning, she left for High Hrothgar.
