Chip strolled across the footbridge into Riften’s center, deep in thought. It was a misty morning in the Rift, as was so often the case next to the lake; and as usual in foggy conditions, sounds carried. He could hear his father in the marketplace, his sales pitch easy to pick out over all the others because he had such a distinctive voice.
You’d think all the people would have learned to ignore him by now, but he still manages to make a little bit of money every day he spends out here. People are stupid. And where is Ma?
He had things to sell, and needed to pick up a few ingredients while he was in town. He hadn’t seen his mother in weeks, though; so he’d gone there first, poking his head into the house and then checking Iona’s house in the back, and even walking up to the top of the alchemy tower to see whether Sayma was there. It had been odd to find the place completely empty after so many years of it being loud, and full of children and Guild members, family, and even sometimes the nobility from Windhelm. Not even Qaralana was here now. She hadn’t been at her own cabin, either, when he’d checked on his way by. It was a relief, therefore, to hear his Da trying to swindle people. At least something was normal.
He crossed the marketplace, toward the stall where Brynjolf was encouraging people to waste money on useless elixirs. His father glanced at him – no surprise there; Brynjolf noticed everything – but never missed a beat in his spiel. Once he was done, the older woman standing near the front of his stall reached for her coin purse. A moment later, a shudder ran up Chip’s spine as he watched his father flash her a toothy grin and hand over one of the large flasks he kept nearby.
I still can’t get over imagining him with fangs. He must have been completely terrifying.
Chip stopped in mid-stride for a moment, shook his head, and chuckled.
And what would Da think of me with claws and fangs – and a tail, to boot? I need to stop worrying the idea over. He’s not a vampire now, and that’s what matters.
But I’ll bet he would have made for a fearsome leader of that vampire clan he talked about.
He approached the stall and nodded to the woman as she turned to leave, grinning at the flask as if she’d just bought liquid gold. His father watched her leave, as well, a smirk raising one corner of his mouth.
“Hello, lad,” he said finally, turning his gaze to Chip. “How are you doing this morning?”
“I’m good, Da,” Chip said. I’m Hircine’s new champion, how about that? I guess you’d understand, maybe; after all Nocturnal is a Daedric prince too. “I just got back from a trip out of town. A very successful one, at that! But Qara wasn’t home, and neither was Ma. Where is everyone?”
“I’m glad you succeeded, whatever it was; and no, I won’t pry, but I’m not surprised.” He smiled before continuing. “As to it being a bit quiet around here, your mother had a business trip, out of town.”
Chip sighed. “And I know better than to ask.”
“That’s right. And I’m glad you’re here, speaking of being out of town.”
“Oh?” Chip crossed his arms and felt himself frowning slightly. It was always odd when Brynjolf treated him warmly, in spite of their being father and son. “What’s up?”
Brynjolf’s voice lowered, enough that it wouldn’t carry across the open space, even in the fog. “There’s something amiss with Dardeh, and we’re all pretty concerned about it. Your Ma sent Qara to check on him; and just as well, since my connections tell me that Roggi is in Windhelm. Or at least he was.”
Brynjolf sighed. “I don’t necessarily trust Roggi to be a good judge of the situation. He’s a great caretaker – took care of me once when I was in a bad way – but he’s too close to this one. And I don’t trust Dardeh to listen to either him or Qara. But there is one person who could whip both of them into shape, and I’d like to ask you to go get her.”
Chip raised an eyebrow. “Her? You trying to set me up again?”
Brynjolf laughed. “No. It’s nothing like that, lad. It’s Lydia. She used to be their housecarl, she’s old enough to be your mother, and now she lives in Whiterun, in a little place called Breezehome. She’s also one of the toughest women you’d ever care to meet. You haven’t seen her since you were tiny but she’ll know who you are if you give her your name. Will you go tell her what’s going on and see if she’ll go give them a visit? I have to stay put to take care of some business dealings myself, or I’d go.”
Chip considered for a moment. I didn’t have anything else planned for the immediate future aside from kicking around the garden. And the moons are still close enough to full that it’s probably a good idea if I’m away from family and friends for the next couple of nights. He nodded.
“Sure, Da. I’ll head out right away. I just need to sell off a few things and I’ll be off.”
Brynjolf smiled at him again. It felt odd, after all the years he’d spent under what felt like a disapproving glare, to feel as though his father finally accepted him as an adult, even if not an equal. But he’d take it, willingly.
“Thank you, son,” he said. “I know she doesn’t show it much, and neither do I; but Dardeh’s the only family your mother’s got besides us and I’m not sure what it’ll do to her if something happens to him. Or to Roggi.” He paused for a moment, his brows drawn together. “If Lydia isn’t at home, try the mead hall. Jorrvaskr. She used to spend some time there when we all were a lot younger.”
Chip thought he saw something in his father’s expression when he mentioned Roggi, something Chip didn’t understand at all. It was only there for a moment, though, and in the next moment Brynjolf somehow stepped effortlessly back into his salesman guise, starting up his call for customers as though nothing had ever interrupted it.
It was still foggy and damp an hour or so later, when Chip stopped to catch his breath for a moment. He looked out over Lake Honrich toward Faldar’s Tooth.
“Wonder what’s going on over there, today?” he said quietly. “I’m going to guess that it won’t be long before Riften gets a warning to be on the lookout for wild animals. Terrible thing what happened to them all, even if they were bandits.” He chuckled, before resuming his trip toward Whiterun.
Dardeh sat on the chair at the edge of the dock, trying to suppress the horrid cough that hadn’t left him alone for months on end. It wasn’t working. He could swallow the cough a few times, but then the extreme need to expel the air from his lungs would get the better of him. It was a deep, wracking cough, and it hurt.
Another of the spasms seized him, and he doubled over with the pain of it. It felt like claws in his chest, trying hard to pull his lungs out through his mouth, and raking their edges along his throat on their way.
Dardeh moaned as the spasm passed, and let his head dangle down between the arms propping him up on his legs. He was a bit light-headed from the effort, and tired. It was good that Roggi wasn’t home just then. As much as it irked him that Roggi had insisted on going to see Ulfric with news he probably could have sent in a letter, it was just as well. Roggi would have only worried about him, and fussed.
They’d both seen plenty of other people develop that deep, continual cough from years of working in a mine. The dust would get into a person’s lungs and never come back out, no matter how hard they coughed. Roggi had mentioned that possibility to Dardeh when it had first become clear that the cough was more than just a transient illness. Roggi himself had a tendency to clear his throat, frequently, and he’d often worried aloud that he’d managed to get the miner’s disease himself. Dardeh had shaken his head, the day Roggi brought it up in relation to his cough.
“No, I’m sure that’s not what it is,” Dardeh had said, not elaborating on why he knew that to be the case. He’d always been careful to judge the condition of the area he was in, and to cover his face if he was in a particularly dusty mine. So had Roggi; and because Roggi hadn’t mined his entire life, the way Dardeh had before his mother died, that made it even less likely that his throat clearing was anything other than a simple, normal habit.
“Besides, my ma had this cough, and she never mined. Not a single day.”
He remembered when his mother Ellte had sounded like this. Oh, she didn’t have a great, resonant voice, of course – and because of that her coughing hadn’t carried halfway across the Karth River basin the way his was flying across Lake Ilinalta. But she’d coughed, on and on, every day for months on end. Sometimes the tea would help, for a few hours. Mostly it didn’t. He’d watched her dwindle away from a robust, strong-willed woman to one who, in spite of her strong will, hadn’t the body to go along with it. He’d needed to burn a fire day and night, and bundle her up in layers of blankets and furs. He remembered that last day, nearly two decades earlier now, when he’d needed to lift her up to a sitting position just to adjust the cushions behind her.
It still made him weepy to think about those last few days and how hard he’d tried to find something to make her feel better. Of course, everything made him feel weepy. He was an emotional person, in spite of being physically massive and having a Voice that could knock a dragon out of the sky or a frost troll down the side of a mountain. Not that he’d used that Voice in a long while. He wasn’t certain that he could, any longer. Not without some very negative consequences, anyway.
Just thinking about it sent Dardeh into another coughing fit. He struggled to suppress it; fought hard against it. But finally his body overcame his mind, and he spent the next several minutes frightening away the birds with the deep, hacking sounds. This time it was particularly painful. He groaned when it finally subsided, his entire body aching.
Damn it. It’s got to stop sometime. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I wish Roggi was here.
He closed his eyes and remembered the touch of Roggi’s exceptionally strong hands, running up and down his neck and back, and out across his shoulders, as he tried to massage Dardeh’s pain away. That had become almost a ritual, now, as Roggi calmly took on more and more of the necessary functions of owning a home without so much as a word of resentment. They’d talked about it one evening, on one of the days when Roggi’s concoctions in his tea had given him a bit of respite. He’d started to apologize for being so little help and Roggi had cut him off.
“Did you whine when your ma was sick? Complain that you had to make her meals?”
He’d shaken his head. “Well, no. Of course not. That was Ma, and I loved her dearly. It didn’t seem like work to me.”
Roggi grinned at him, before moving around behind Dardeh. “And this,” he’d said, beginning to massage Dardeh’s neck, “is my husband, and I love him dearly. It doesn’t seem like work to me.” He’d paused for a few moments until Dardeh, his eyes closed, had heard a familiar, mischievous chuckle. “Besides,” Roggi continued, “I’ll take any excuse I can to get my hands all over this body of yours, Dar. You may not be feeling your best but you’re still something special.”
They’d both laughed, and Dardeh had relaxed into the massage, trying as usual not to think about the other kinds of things Roggi could do with those hands of his. It made sense, of course: hands that knew just the spots to relieve pain knew how to create it, as well. He was grateful that he’d never had occasion to find out just how good Roggi was at that. The hints had been frightening enough.
Roggi had been concerned that if it wasn’t the miner’s lung making Dardeh cough, maybe it was the same disease that had taken his mother. That thought had occurred to him as well, of course, especially given how similar their coughs were. Some kinds of illnesses ran in families, the same way that a tendency to be musical, or physically strong, or small and quiet ran in families. Perhaps there was something in his blood that had been waiting to attack, the same way Vitus’ abilities as a vampire had been passed to Brynjolf for those few years. The thought had been terrifying; he didn’t want to waste away to nothing and leave Roggi with all the work. He wasn’t wasting away, though. He was exhausted, and sometimes a bit feverish; but he was still just as heavy and solid as ever.
It’s not the disease that took Ma, is it? I know better. You know better. You want me to break down and serve you. I’ll fight it until the bitter end, and you know that half of me is stubborn Nord. If I die fighting you, so be it.
He didn’t want to Shout. That was the crux of it. He didn’t dare.
He’d done what he needed to do with the great power he carried in his body. He’d been to Sovngarde and had slain Alduin, later rebuilding the town of Helgen that Alduin had burned on the day they’d met. He’d helped bring the civil war to a conclusion, using his Voice to help put Ulfric on the throne. He’d Shouted fire and watched Archmage Edwyn Wickham die when he had lost his grip on reality and threatened not only Dardeh, but Roggi and Brynjolf and everyone else Dardeh knew and loved as well, in an attempt to drink Dragonborn blood and become the Emperor of Tamriel. The thought made Dardeh’s usually-pleasant features draw up into a snarl.
That man, of all the people I’ve had a part in killing over the years, was the one who most genuinely earned and deserved his death. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, if I had to, and I wouldn’t regret it for a single moment.
And his power had been instrumental in removing Miraak from the island of Solstheim.
That, of course, was where Dardeh’s great inner turmoil had begun so long ago. First, he’d realized that all the things he’d been warned against by Master Arngeir of the Greybeards and also by their leader, the dragon Paarthurnax, were in fact real dangers. He’d learned that he was indeed arrogant in his power, and in his desire to dominate, just as Miraak had been; the idea seeded by the wizard Neloth that he might only be the second-strongest Dragonborn ever to live had driven him nearly to the brink. It was only after the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora had snatched the satisfaction of killing Miraak from him that he’d realized that the most powerful Dragonborn had not been Miraak. It had been Talos.
He’d met Hermaeus Mora before, in Skyrim. Hermaeus Mora had declared him, Dardeh, to be his new champion. Dardeh had refused, vehemently, over and over. It was on Solstheim, though, that he’d travelled to Mora’s realm of Apocrypha and seen first-hand what became of the seekers of knowledge who weren’t strong enough to resist the Daedric Prince’s whispers, and who had gone mad. He’d met a crazy man, on the beach, who’d warned him about the black fingers, from the black book, squirming about in his mind, trying to implant secrets there. He’d had to kill that man, in self-defense; but he knew altogether too well what the man’s ravings had been all about.
“Your free will is an illusion,” the horrid mass of writhing tentacles had told him when he’d refused to serve Hermaeus Mora. “Whether you acknowledge me or not is your own business. But I will be in your mind.”
And he’s there, alright, trying to get me to use what I am, to take this power that I have and the power that his Black Books added to it, and grasp control of the whole of Tamriel with it. He wants me to do that so that he will have the power to gain all of the knowledge that people have stored away, in every part of the continent. I won’t do it.
I’m far too dangerous. I have far too little control over this power.
Long ago, Master Arngeir had told him why the Greybeards hadn’t known the Dragonrend Shout. The Nords who had invented it, Arngeir had told him, did so because the world was suffering under what he’d called the “unimaginable cruelty” of Alduin and his lieutenants. They’d hated Alduin; and they’d poured all that hatred and pain and suffering into the power of the Shout that would bring him down. But to master a Shout, Arngeir had told him, was to take it into yourself and have it become a part of your being.
I finally figured out that he was right about that. I took all that hatred into myself, even as I became stronger and stronger over the years. It added to the anger I already had before I knew I was Dragonborn. I feel it there, all the time, waiting to explode the way it did when the Archmage ended. It’s why Roggi thought he saw a dragon when I Shouted at Edwyn. It’s why people die when I get angry. That’s why I wear Miraak’s mask on my belt – so that I never forget. There’s nothing that can stand up to it, if I truly let it loose. And who knows what would happen to the world if Hermaeus Mora got hold of that kind of power in this plane of existence?
I will not use my Voice to further his ends. Or my own. I won’t give in.
Once he’d decided that – decided that he would no longer Shout, that he would throttle his Voice no matter what it took – the coughing had begun. He knew why. Hermaeus Mora was trying to force him to Shout, whether he wished it or not. It had started slowly, and built up to the point at which now he found himself: weakened, shivering or sweating intermittently.
But something’s got to give, pretty soon. I’m afraid it’s going to be me. And how can I do that to Roggi?
It had been during a period of relative calm that they’d had the visit from Chip, and Roggi had decided that he needed to deliver the news to Ulfric in person. Dardeh had grimaced, internally – the strength of the bond between Roggi and Ulfric was still a source of irritation, no matter how many years passed – but he’d swallowed that irritation the same way he tried to swallow the coughing. Roggi needed a break, and sometimes talking to Ulfric and Frina, or Kjeld and Iddra, was the best thing for him.
The problem was that as soon as both Chip and Roggi had left Mammoth Manor, the coughing had returned. Dardeh knew why. He had nothing to distract him from his great internal battle, and thus he coughed.
It’s a good thing Lydia isn’t here. She’d be slapping me into shape, criticizing my hair, filling me full of chicken soup, and probably telling me to let go of this fight after all these years. Never could put too much past her.
Dardeh smiled, thinking about it, even as he panted and struggled to catch his breath. Lydia hadn’t married, in all this time; but she’d been as much a mother to his adopted daughters Sofie and Lucia as either of their late biological mothers were. And she’d never, ever stopped letting him know that, as much as she loved and respected Roggi, if he ever changed his mind about things she’d be there for him. Not in so many words; Lydia had far too much integrity and was far too loyal to offer to insert herself into their marriage. But he’d always been aware of the unspoken offer, anyway.
“Not that I ever would,” he murmured in the general direction of the dragonflies.
“Not that you would ever what?” came a light voice from behind him. He had to force himself not to jump, but he had been completely surprised by her approach and didn’t want to look foolish.
Instead, he allowed himself to chuckle.
“Change my mind about being married to your uncle Roggi,” he said, turning his head to smile at the red-haired girl walking down the dock toward him.
“Who in the world would be enough of a fool to even imagine such a thing?” she laughed. “I may not be very old, Uncle Dar, but I’m pretty observant. I’ve always been able to see how it is with you, ever since I was old enough to think about such stuff for myself.”
Dardeh grinned back at her. “You are definitely your mother’s daughter. She says she knew I had eyes for Roggi from the first time we met. How are you doing, Qara? I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
Qaralana grinned at him. “I know. Mama sent me. She’s worried about you, Uncle Dar.” She plopped down onto the deck beside him and shook her head. “And so am I, I guess. I heard you coughing when I was still way down on the other side of the mill. You’ve got a big voice, but even that doesn’t account for that cough.”
Dardeh sighed. “Yeah, it’s been pretty bad. I don’t want to worry everyone, but it’s…” He cut himself short as the tickle in his chest seized him again, and the deep, ripping cough started up once more.
Qaralana started to rise; but he shook his head at her and waved a hand. There wasn’t anything she could do about it; the cough was just going to have to work itself out.
This time, it went on and on until he was concerned he wouldn’t be able to catch his breath again.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Go away! Get out of my head!
Haven’t I suffered long enough?
Finally, he felt the spasms ease. He lowered his head again, closed his eyes, and gasped for air; and this time he heard Qaralana stand up. He felt her hand on his forehead, almost icy cold to the touch; and the sensation made him jump.
“Uncle Dar, you’re burning up. Come on. We’re getting you inside and I’m making you some tea. With something in it that’ll relax you.”
He started to speak, but his voice was raspy. “No, it’ll pass, I just need to…”
“Don’t argue with me!” she snapped at him, tugging him up off the chair. “Get up and move. You can lean on me, but you have to move yourself. I’m pretty strong but I don’t think I can carry you.”
Dardeh felt the hair on his neck rise, and a tingle ran up his spine. His eyelids snapped open, and he turned to stare at her. There had been a power in that order, a vibration in the air around her words, that was as unmistakable to Dardeh as anything could be.
By Talos. Roggi was right.
He couldn’t remember when it had happened, the conversation they’d had when they’d both had a bit too much mead one night and had started reminiscing about the fight against Edwyn Wickham. They’d been busily trying to convince Edwyn to leave him alone, that drinking his blood wasn’t suddenly going to turn him into the true, Dragonborn Emperor. Nope, Roggi had said, laughing, if anyone was the true Dragonborn Emperor, it was Dardeh.
“But remember what Urag said? ‘The old tomes say there are always two Dragonborn in the world – the current one and his successor.’ Just like you were Miraak’s – and you came into your power at a time of great need, to deal with him and with Alduin.”
“So who’s my successor, then, smart guy? And where’s the great need for this person to come into the world?”
“Qaralana,” Roggi had said quietly. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
Dardeh had felt his mouth sag open, as he remembered Sayma’s tale of her encounter with a dragon near Solitude while she’d been carrying Qaralana. She’d killed a dragon – truly killed it. It had been destroyed, as if the Dragonborn killed it. And yet she could not, herself, Shout.
They’d argued the various angles of the problem for the better part of an hour, before coming to the conclusion that there was no great world-threatening crisis. There was no need for a new Dragonborn in the world, because the world already had one. They’d laughed over it, had another mead, and gone to bed.
It had been fifteen years. Dardeh had never felt even the slightest glimmer of energy from either Sayma or Qara that could be a hint of Dragonborn power, and he was certain that he would have. He’d long since stopped worrying about the issue, particularly since the mental pressure to “kill the other one” had stopped.
But here they stood, Dardeh face-to-face with his now-grown niece. He’d just felt the power in her voice as clearly as if he’d been handed a missive reading “behold the next Dragonborn.”
I’m supposed to be the Last Dragonborn. That’s what Miraak said, anyway.
What if he was wrong?
“Uncle Dar. Move. You look like you’ve either seen a ghost or swallowed one of these dragonflies, and you need to go inside and rest. If I don’t take care of you, Mama and Uncle Roggi will never let me hear the end of it. Let’s go.” Qaralana’s tone was harsh, but she was smiling as she faced him.
“Alright,” he said around another shallow cough. “I know when I’ve been bested.” He clumped slowly down the dock and then lifted himself up the steps, painfully, one by one, hoping that he wouldn’t start coughing again. All the while he felt the power quietly humming in the young girl at his side, who reached out intermittently to steady him as he inched along like an old, old man.
When they finally made it into the house, he plopped down into one of the chairs near the fireplace and groaned. Qaralana put water on for tea and then sat next to him, quietly, as he labored to catch his breath and fought against the coughing that wanted to burst from him.
No. It’s not a cough that wants to come out. It’s a Shout. Hermaeus Mora wants me to Shout so that he can work through me to take the power he thought he was going to get. And I won’t do it. Not even if it kills me.
“You ok, Uncle Dar?” Qara asked from the kitchen area. He was surprised to realize he hadn’t heard her leave her chair, even though he was sitting with his head hanging and his eyes closed, focusing all of his strength of will on calming himself.
“Yeah. More or less,” he said. “Ok, I’ve been better. I’m really glad Roggi isn’t home right now to see this. He’ll probably be back soon, and I’ll be in trouble if I’m still coughing my lungs out.”
“Yup,” she said, and he heard rustling followed by a couple of thumps as Qaralana returned. He peeled open one eye to find a tankard of steaming liquid sitting on the table beside him, and reached for it, gratefully sipping its soothing warmth.
“Mmm! That’s good. Feels good going down, too,” he said, feeling his muscles relaxing almost immediately. “What the heck did you put in this?”
Qaralana sat down again and took a sip of her own tea. “Something that’s not in mine,” she said, grinning at him. “Mama sent some herbs for Uncle Roggi to work with, but as it happens, I looked at them and realized what she was going for. You may get kind of sleepy, but hopefully you will get a little relief from the coughing.”
“Well, well, niece,” he said, grinning back at her. “Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it. I needed a break. Maybe I’ll manage to get a little sleep before Roggi gets home. Thank you.”
Qaralana smiled. “Of course. It’s always good to feel useful. Now let that tea do its work. I’ll see about making us something to eat for later on.”
Dardeh found himself seized by an enormous yawn that concluded with both of them laughing. He shook his head.
“I haven’t really slept since Roggi left, and whatever you used to spice up that tea is hitting me hard. There’s no really good way to say this but… help an old man to bed? You can make whatever you want to eat but I suspect I won’t be awake for it.”
Qaralana laughed. “Of course. That was kind of the idea. I might have gotten a little enthusiastic with the dosage, but if it’ll help you rest without coughing…”
She rose, and helped Dardeh out of his chair and, slowly but steadily, up the stairs. Dardeh shook his head at himself, wondering how he’d managed to get so old and feeble, but thanking Talos that his niece and his sister had been smart enough to come to his rescue. Once he was safely in his bedroom, Qara left; and Dardeh had only enough time to wrestle his boots off his feet before the herbs took full effect and he fell into one of the deepest sleeps he’d had in weeks.