4E 208, High Hrothgar
Kiera Fendalyn
The winds at High Hrothgar were as rough and fierce as always.
Kiera had been up these mountains enough times now that the heaviness of it no longer bothered her. It also helped that coming was much easier on dragonback, rather than making the ten thousand steps again.
It was the view that continued to take her breath away.
Skyrim from this height was not the Skyrim of the roads and holds and political realities that occupied most of her attention at this moment. From here it was the other thing — the older thing, the one that had been here before holds and wars and Jarls and Moots and all of it. Mountains and forest and the long white of the winter holds spreading east toward the Velothi range where, if she looked carefully, she could just make out the dark shape of Shor's Stone's ebony towers.
She looked for longer than was strictly necessary before turning back to the matter at hand.
Paarthurnax was flying.
He had not been flown once since before Gerron had fitted the wing prosthetic. The device was not elegant. It was never going to be elegant; the mechanics of replacing a dragon's wing-membrane were a problem that had no previous solution in the history of anything and had required Gerron to essentially invent a new category of artifice from scratch.
But it worked, and the proof of it was the ancient dragon banking wide arcs above High Hrothgar in the low winter sun, occasionally bellowing something at the clouds that was probably joy but in the Dovah language of a being that had been alive since the Merethic Era.
She watched him with a smile.
Paarthurnax deserved this and more. A dragon who could not soar the skies was the cruelest punishment one could ever bear, and she was glad to finally see him cured.
The Greybeards were present, as always — more of them than there had been even a year ago. The path up the mountain had been seeing more traffic since the war ended. Word had spread, as it tended to, about what the Thu'um had done in the battles. Young men and women from every hold had been presenting themselves at the base of the steps in Ivarstead, asking to learn.
Master Arngeir was only happy to take in those who were worthy to learn it. Unorganized acceptance would only invite trouble after all, and Kiera was more than willing to be an enforcer should anyone disagree.
Esbern was also here to say goodbye.
She had expected it to be brief, for the old archivist was not a sentimental man. He had given her the map of Solstheim he had been annotating since she first told him about Miraak.
"There were rumors that Miraak did deals with Hermaeus Mora," he said, "I've marked down certain locations that might interest you, places where there are things that the Daedric Prince does not want found."
"Thank you, Esbern." she said.
He had made the sound that was his closest approximation of a laugh.
"Good luck, Lady Kiera." The old man said, "May the winds ever blow in your favour."
This wasn't a forever goodbye, since Esbern had officially retired as a field agent of the Blades. The man will be taking the official position of Lorekeeper and Handler of the Blades headquarters in Shor's Stone.
The archives in that building was already something remarkable, and Gerron had helped by feeding with as much knowledge from the Forge Eternal's records that bore historical significance. While doing so, he will also be working part-time in Morningstar Orphanage along with Constance Michel, something the children loved dearly.
He had seemed lighter and happier since the last time she had seen him.
She was glad.
Many others were here to say goodbye, and Kiera struggled to keep her emotions in check.
Her mother was here, along with Captain Aldis, who Kiera had just learned were in an official relationship. They were not married, Aldis had resigned his commission with the Solitude Guard and joined the Vigilants full time. He had told her, when she asked him about it, that he had spent the war watching Carcette work and had decided that whatever she was doing was where he wanted to be.
Her mother looked happy, and that was enough. Kiera easily gave them her blessings, and if the Divines were good, they'd still be running the Hall of Vigilants in Skyrim for the next three decades.
Grandmaster Mjoll and Aerin were here as Blades, which was their function on this journey. They shall serve in their ancient duty, as bodyguards to the Dragonborn and escorts in every manner.
Kiera accepted them handily. It was never a bad thing to have allies to watch your back, and allies as capable as them was more than appreciated.
Speaking of allies, another person would be accompanying Kiera in her journey. The crunch of snow had her turn to see Savos Aren approaching.
The former Archmage of the College of Winterhold had an expression of anticipatory academic excitement, which was rare to see in such an accomplished mage.
He had relinquished his title of Archmage to Mirabelle Ervine, with Tolfdir as the Master Wizard. A decision that was easily accepted by many. Mirabelle had been running the College in practical terms for years and was better suited to the administrative realities of the position, and none would deny Tolfdir's prowess with the arcane arts.
When Kiera asked, Savos said he was going to Solstheim for Hermaeus Mora. The Daedric Prince of Knowledge had been involved in the Eye of Magnus situation in ways that Savos had been untangling since the battle. According to Gerron, he and the Mad Prince were the ones to shrink the eye back then for reasons unknown to them.
Savos needed to find out why.
Thankfully, the Eye had stabilized since then, returning to its full size after Gerron took two days to study the Staff and used it to repair what the encounter with Morokei had damaged. It now resided within the Hall of Elements in the College of Winterhold, fully integrating magicka into the lands once again.
But the question of why Hermaeus Mora had been involved, what the Prince of Forbidden Knowledge had wanted with the Eye, what the connection was to Miraak on Solstheim—Every thread of the question led east, and that's where they would go.
Gerron and Serana were the last to say goodbye. They had come together from Shor's Stone all to see her leave, all three of their children crowding around their parents.
As Kiera turned to meet them, Gerron pressed something onto her hand.
It was small and dense. A device, she realized. "What is this?"
"A compact version of the Vox Matrix." Gerron answered, "A portable one, which means that we can talk to you and you us wherever you are."
Her eyes widened as she took in the small device. It was the size of an amulet, the Dwemer-inspired craftsmanship recognizable in its brass spherical housing.
Kiera remembered seeing the Vox Matrix in its full installation in the Ebony Palace's communications room. The Matrix had been running long-distance messages between Shor's Stone and the other holds for the past year.
"Gerron, this is priceless."
"Indeed it is, and something you more than deserve." Gerron said. "Contact us if you need any help. Three thousand Shor's Guard, the Vigilants, the Dawnguard, and the College will be ready to move if you call."
She looked at him.
Gerron Ironbreaker. The man who had been a blacksmith's apprentice praying at a small shrine when this had all started, who had become the Jarl of the Rift and Champion of Zenithar. Someone the Holds of Skyrim listened to. Someone the dead in Sovngarde had followed into a final charge.
Someone who was, at the end of it, exactly who he had been at the beginning, just more of it. He still remembered the man who approached her when Kiera was still just a regular vigilant, riding to the Western Watchtower to fight a dragon.
A genuine laughter suddenly came out, which was the best kind. "Three thousand," she said.
"Plus two," Serana said with a smile of her own.
"Plus two," Gerron confirmed.
Kiera looked at them both, and the Blades behind her, and her mother standing with Aldis in the courtyard's edge, and Paarthurnax making another wide banking arc above them in the cold mountain air, and the Throat of the World going on behind everything in the way it always had and always would.
She tucked the Vox Matrix into her pouch.
"We'll be in touch," she said.
She hugged them — Serana first, who returned it tightly, and then Gerron, who chuckled and before embracing her.
She stepped back.
"Vermithor," she said.
The Bronze Fury had been waiting at the edge of the courtyard. He was larger than he had been — the Kruziik's growth following the full realization of his nature, his scales brighter, his wingspan wider, the presence he projected more substantial than any other aside from Paathurnax.
He lowered his head.
She climbed.
Mjoll and Aerin were up immediately after, Savos following last. The cold hit her face as Vermithor's wings came down and the courtyard fell away beneath them.
She looked back once, and there they all were, the Greybeards and the Vigilants and Gerron and Serana and Carcette in the snow, the shapes of them shrinking as the altitude came up and the mountain took over everything.
Paarthurnax called from above.
"Dovahkiin. Fin moro los aak. (The path is open.)"
She faced forward.
East. The morning sun. The Sea of Ghosts ahead, and past it, Solstheim, and past that, whatever came next in her journey.
Vermithor found his course and opened his wings to their full span, and the wind took them.
…
4E 209, Shor's Stone
Gerron Ironbreaker
His eyes opened to a wondrous sight.
Serana was half-draped across his chest, her dark hair spread across his shoulder. They were both in their nightwear, having worked late at night yesterday for the duties of a Jarl and his lady was never finished.
He looked at her. Despite having given him three beautiful children, Serana remained as beautiful as the day he first saw her in that tomb all those years ago.
Outside, light was coming — the thin, clear light of a Rift morning, pale and particular, the kind that came through high windows and landed in precise rectangles on the floor. He could see the edge of it on the foot of the bed.
He looked at the ceiling and did the morning accounting. Today was the day they would begin their trip to Solitude, for the Moot was to be held.
Gerron took a deep breath before letting it out.
Seven years.
Despite it being that long, the ceiling of the Jarl's chambers remained just the same. The room was the same room, more or less. The furniture had been moved twice in seven years as preferences evolved and children required consideration, but the fundamental quality of the space was constant. His. Theirs.
The sounds of the palace were already alive in the morning. He had lived here long enough to know the specific sequence of them — the kitchen staff beginning the fires at the fourth hour, the guard change at the fifth, the point where the children's corridor began producing noise that could no longer be attributed to accidental causes.
Right on schedule, he heard it.
A thump. Then the sound of small feet on stone moving faster than was advisable. Then a door opened with more force than the situation warranted.
Serana stirred. "If they run in the hall one more time," she mumbled into his shoulder.
Gerron could only chuckle lightly as the door opened.
Filnjar, their eldest at seven, appeared in the doorway.
"Father," he said. "Vinggar says dragons don't have favorites, but I told him that Paarthurnax always comes when I call for him."
Vinggar's voice appeared from the hallway behind him. "That's because you shout and he comes to make you stop."
"That's still coming when I call him!" Filnjar reiterated.
Serana had her face pressed to Gerron's shoulder, trying her best to drown out the noise. A smile appeared on his face.
"Both of you," he said, when he had assembled his expression. "Come here."
The five-year-old followed his brother through the door. That was when Sygna appeared last, Gerron and Serana's youngest daughter at four, but held an expression of total composure that she no doubt inherited from her mother.
She climbed onto the bed without asking permission, settled herself against Serana's other side, and announced, "I'm hungry."
"Good morning to you too," Serana said.
"Good morning," Sygna said, with the tone of someone completing a social obligation. "I'm hungry."
Gerron looked at his family as they continued to bicker even in the chambers of their parents. All of them had shared features of both him and Serana, true demigods in the making.
Filnjar, Vinggar, and Sygna were the children of two Champions, one the bearer of the Forge Eternal and a pure-blooded vampire besides. Even at their young age, they were strong beyond measure, and would grow up to be peerless mages and warriors.
A good thing, for the recent rumours of conflict in the borders with the Thalmor were growing as of late.
Seven years.
Shor's Stone had been fully rebuilt in two of them. And not just rebuilt, but completed. He had seen it in his head that night after returning from Kagrenzel, when the Architect perk had shown him a vision so specific and complete that he had carried it like a blueprint ever since.
The Ebony Palace on its rise, the forge-districts arranged in tiers below it, the walls expanded, the outer districts integrated, the underground infrastructure Gerron had designed for drainage and heating and the specific resilience of a city that never intended to be vulnerable again.
It looked like that now.
Not identical — cities were living things, they grew toward need rather than toward plans, and what Shor's Stone had become was shaped by everyone who had lived and worked and died in it — but recognizably itself, recognizably the thing he had seen in that first vision. The Rift's hold capital. The Dragonslayer's city. The city that had stood against the end of the world and then, when the world continued, had set about becoming what it had always been capable of.
Filnjar had died three years ago in his own bed, at an age that would have been remarkable for a man who had not spent thirty years running a forge and raising a blacksmith's apprentice to be a Jarl.
He had gone quietly and without pain. Something that Gerron thanked the gods for. Gerron had sat with him at the end, and the old steward's last words had been practical ones about the grain storage for the coming winter and a request that the new steward not rearrange the filing system, and then he had closed his eyes and that was that.
Gerron made sure to bury him in the land of his old home. The one he held prior to becoming steward, prior to Gerron awakening as a champion of any kind.
The new steward was chosen the week after the funeral, a Breton man called Arnaud who worked very closely with Filnjar in the last few years of his life.
Valerica was in the laboratory downstairs, almost certainly already working. The woman slept little and was most likely busy with her new title as Court Alchemist.
Ralof appeared by the door with an apologetic look, but Gerron just shook his head and gestured with his head. Ralof nodded, and closed the door behind him.
After Galmar Stone-Fist's retirement from active duty, Ralof had been the Stormcloak to watch for. Despite no longer having a loyalty to Ulfric, his past roots as a Bone-Breaker turned Housecarl made him another candidate for the people of Skyrim to look at.
After years of training with Gerron and Serana, along with the best of the Shor's Guard, Ralof had earned himself a name as one of the best warriors in all of Skyrim, with Isran, Mjoll, Rikke, and Vilkas being his only contenders.
He trusted Ralof with his life. More than that, he trusted Ralof with his family's lives. A confidence the man was more than worthy of.
They all reconvened in the breakfast hall half an hour later.
While Gerron and Serana were more than willing to tolerate their chaotic nature in private, they made sure to instill discipline in each of their children, for propriety was required of a ruling family of an entire Hold.
Karliah appeared at the door then, barely making any sound as she simply appeared where she had not been a moment before. Gerron had long since stopped being startled by this and had started treating it as a useful measure of whether he was paying attention to his surroundings.
"Jarl Gerron," she said, setting down a folded document—that held a symbol of a black hand—on the table beside his plate.
"Thalmor movements," she said. "The southwestern border. Three separate sighting reports from independent sources, cross-referenced." She paused. "The patterns match the pre-positioning documentation from the last three months."
The Thieves Guild was fully disbanded now, and was reworked as an organization called the Black Hands, subordinate to the Nightingales and served Shor's Stone as intelligence officers, spies, and saboteurs.
An Imperial pardon came a few years after war ended, declaring all members of the Thieves Guild and Nightingales as free men and absolving of their crimes for their efforts during the Dragon War.
It was achieved mainly due to Karliah, whose actions during the Battle of Shor's Stone saved the life of the Emperor and countless nobles and Thanes.
Brynjolf ran the day-to-day operations, with Karliah as their main agent, all answering to Serana, who was the overseer of the Black Hands.
Gerron unfolded the document and read it carefully, checking the sources against his own knowledge of their reliability, mapping the implications.
The children continued breakfast. Gerron glanced at Serana on the other side of the table, who remained calm. Which told him that she had already read the information this morning.
"What of Rikke?" he asked.
"Her last communication to us was eleven days ago," Karliah said. "She confirms the Cyrodiil preparations are ahead of schedule. The General has given her full operational authority for the eastern border."
Gerron nodded. Legate Rikke — General Tullius' right hand and eventual successor in the making — had been the brightest of the Imperial commanders during the whole Dragon War.
She was the kind of officer who not only relied on tactics, but the political and logistical framework that made those tactics possible. He remembered reading a report of how Rikke kept information from Tullius of Elenwen's movements, all because she understood the machinations and chains that hold back the title of General. If she said the eastern border was ready, it was ready.
Continuing reading the report, Legate Taurinus was leading the legions in High Rock, while the newly promoted Legate Hadvar held Hammerfell.
A sound plan, no doubt done by the Emperor.
Titus Mede II had been back to full health for six years, fully recovered. The Felldew counteragent had worked, Serana had been right about being the right person to get it, and the man had woken up with the particular vigor of someone who knew there was work to be done.
He and Gerron had an understanding now, built across years of dispatches through the Vox Matrix and many face-to-face meetings whenever necessary. It was clear to them all what was coming.
The Thalmor were to enact another Great War.
Everyone who had paid attention had known it for three years. The dragon war had been the Thalmor's opportunity, the chaos their cover, and the fact that Skyrim had survived it intact and emerged with a consolidated military relationship between the holds and the Empire and a Dragonborn who had just killed the World-Eater was not a development the Aldmeri Dominion had planned for. They were repositioning. They were preparing.
Why it took them seven years came apparent just a year ago. Karliah had found out that the Psijic Order had apparently rebelled and were in an open conflict with the Thalmor. The High Elves of course kept everything under lock and key, the rest of Tamriel only finding out in the aftermath of it all.
It worked enough for them, for it bought the Empire time to lick their wounds.
"Tell Brynjolf to run the confirmation protocol on the southwestern sources," Gerron said. "I want independent verification before I take this to the Moot."
Karliah nodded, and was gone the way she had arrived.
Gerron refolded the document and set it beside his plate.
Across the table, Filnjar had finished eating and was gazing at him.
"Father," the boy said. "If the Thalmor come here, are we going to fight them?"
Gerron looked at his son.
"Yes," he said.
Filnjar considered this with the focused seriousness of a seven-year-old who had been listening to adults have serious conversations his entire life and had learned that the appropriate response to direct answers was direct reception.
"Good," Filnjar said.
Gerron grinned. His son truly was smart if the mere mention of the Thalmor was enough to light up his spirits.
…
The Carrowhulk was a different thing from what he had first seen roll out of Shor's Stone's workshop. It not only looked better, but was more functional as well.
the Artificer's iterative touch had been applied across three years of continuous refinement, the vehicle now plated in lightweight ebony alloy, the arcane systems updated to the current generation of his artifice, the interior configured for comfort so a travelling party with three young children can do so without complaints.
It was comfortable, armored, fast, and carried enough of Shor's Guard's sigil work on the exterior that there was no ambiguity about who was inside.
He looked out the window as the city fell behind them.
Shor's Stone in winter was a sight to see. The ebony towers caught the low sun, the walls complete and whole and bearing the slight imperfections of a city rebuilt rather than a city never broken, the southeastern gate standing in new stone that was a shade lighter than the rest and would stay that way for another generation before the weather finished matching it.
The courtyard below the Palace where Vermithor used to curl was expanded, now enough to hold the barracks, stables, granary, and a training yard for the Shor's Guard. Zenithar's Square was now a proper pilgrimage destination with the Statue of Zenithar, along with the Temple of the Champions, a temple dedicated for all the Champions who helped Skyrim in its time of need.
It was his city. The city that had survived, and thrived.
Sygna was asleep against his side before the Rift border, which was her habit on carriage journeys. Vinggar had somehow acquired a book and was reading it with intense focus.
Filnjar was looking out the opposite window with the expression that meant he was thinking about something quietly, which was rare enough to be notable.
Serana was beside him, her shoulder against his, watching the Rift landscape pass.
"The Moot," she said, after a while.
"Aye." Gerron replied. "While a potential conflict during these times is dangerous, the coming war proves that we need a leader."
"Who do you think will put themselves forward?"
He considered it. "Balgruuf. Possibly Jarl Elisif, though Solitude's been under-represented in the coalition and she may feel the moment isn't right." He paused. "Ulfric, most likely."
Serana hummed at that.
"He's certainly earned enough to put his name forward," Gerron said. "Whatever else."
"He has," she agreed. "Whether he should have it is a different question."
"It's the question the Moot is for."
She was quiet for a moment. "And you?"
He looked at her.
One of her eyebrows was raised, an expression that she had learned to deploy across seven years of marriage and several dozen conversations about this particular subject.
"I'm the Jarl of the Rift," he said.
"You're also the Champion of Zenithar," she said. "And the Dragonslayer. And the man who held Shor's Stone and raised an army and kept the coalition together when it wanted to fall apart and fought Alduin in Sovngarde alongside the Dragonborn." A pause. "Several of the Jarls are going to say that."
"Several of the Jarls are going to say a lot of things."
"Gerron."
He looked at her.
"Whatever happens in that room," she said. "We're ready for it."
He held her gaze for a moment.
Then he put his hand over hers, and smiled.
"Aye," he said. "We are."
The journey took the better part of a month, and Solitude rose ahead of them as the Carrowhulk crested the last ridge of the road. The great cliff city, the arch above its gate, the Karth River underneath it that led to the Sea of Ghosts, flat and grey and vast. He could see the flags of the holds already, the various banners of the Jarls who had arrived ahead of them, the Imperial pennant above the main hall.
The Shor's Guard escort pulled alongside, all twenty of them. Brynjolf and Karliah materialized from somewhere in the convoy's shadow, clad in the silvery thread of the Nightingale armor. Valerica was with them, her hood drawn up as she gazed at everything with an even stare. Four of the upgraded Automaton Guardians paced alongside the Carrowhulk, sleeker and more dangerous in build than their older counterpart.
Some would say that such a force was overkill. But to Gerron, it was a statement.
Filnjar looked up from his window. "Is that Solitude?"
"It is," Gerron said.
"It's big," the boy said, "But Shor's Stone looks better."
Sygna stirred without waking, adjusted herself, and went back to sleep.
Vinggar did not look up from his book.
The gate of Solitude came up, and the Carrowhulk rolled through. He saw the way people crowded and pointed at it with awe. It didn't take long for the city to close around them, the stone of it, the noise of it, the particular way the sea-wind off the coast moved through the streets and made the flags snap.
The Blue Palace doors stood at the end of the approach.
The doors beneath it were old wood and iron, built in the era of the Potentates, older than the High Kingdom as it currently existed, older than the treaty that made Skyrim part of the Empire. The kind of doors that had seen enough history that one more entry was simply another chapter.
He stepped down from the Carrowhulk.
Behind him, the family followed. Serana beside him, Valerica a step behind, the children arranged with the help of Ralof.
The Shor's Guard fell in around them
Gerron straightened.
The doors of the Council Hall opened, and Gerron walked through.
…
AN: That's it, a four POV epilogue to close it all out.
Six acts. One hundred and thirty-one chapters. Nearly four hundred thousand words. A story that started with a blacksmith's apprentice in the Rift and ends with a Jarl walking into a High King's Moot.
I tried my best to give satisfactory conclusions to everyone's story, and while I want to say a lot more stuff for every character, I think the chapter already said most of it. Serana and Valerica. Balgruuf and Nelkir. Ulfric and the Stormcloaks. Isran and Aela. Kiera and Savos in Solshteim. Gerron and Serana with whatever comes next.
This was the first fic I've made that was actually finished, a feat I didn't think I'd ever do.
Thank you, genuinely, for reading. For leaving comments, for the reviews, for all the love you guys have given. For coming back every chapter. For sticking by me till the end.
With that, A Craftman's Journey ends here, but the world doesn't. Gerron and Serana have children who are, by all reasonable measures, going to be absurd. The Thalmor are coming. Kiera is on Solstheim. Vilkas and the Companions have requests stacked up to the ceiling. There are stories left in this world, and I leave them all to your imaginations.
But for now: the forge is quiet. The city stands, and the war is over.
It was an honor to build this with all of you. My next project, the Sea Wolf, is already out with a few chapters. That, and continuing the Dark Swordsman will be my priority for the coming months.
Cheers people, and thank you for everything. It's been a blast.