"You wouldn't recognize him if you saw him."

“You wouldn’t recognize him if you saw him.”

The voice was rough and scratchy from years of use and more than likely abuse. The accent was unplaceable, hints of Morrowind and of Cyrodiil. The young Dark Elf looked down from the large portrait that had been hung above the Cornerclub’s bar.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes red eyes managing to shine even in the ever-dim candlelight of the establishment. The stranger shifted on the barstool, the worn fur-and leather armor he was wearing creaking as he did so. He took a sip from his tankard and wiped the foam from the week-old growth on his chin.

“The Dragonborn. What do you know of him?” he asked, gesturing at the painting the young mer had been staring at.

“Careful Hjoromir. Get the boy started and you’ll be here all night.” Ambarys Rendar chuckled as he quickly filled two tankards with generous measures from the barrels he kept tapped behind the bar. As he bustled off, the young mer started up.

“He killed Alduin! He slew the Witchmist hagraven, exposed and brought the Butcher of Windhelm to justice, and led the Companions in the sack of the Soul Cairn, he was named Stormcrown and –“

Hjoromir laughed. “And he did much more besides. But what did he look like?”

The boy bounced a bit, and glanced back at the painting on the wall. It showed a square jawed hero with glowing eyes, slamming an over-sized sword into the skull of a massive black dragon, its jaws open and trailing fire behind it as it fell.

“He had the marks of destiny.” The mer said, drawing shapes along his jaw, pointing out on his dark gray skin where the painting detailed bright red tattoos. The boy looked to the painting again and then said, “He was tall! As big as an Aldmer and strong as a dragon!”

“He only looked like that when he was angry” he said, grinning at the boy’s eagerness. “He was terrifying to behold then, like a sliver of the mythic era come back to judge us.” The boy got down and scooted his stool closer, and hopped back up, staring attentively at the gangly Nord. Hjoromir hid his smile, and continued. “But most of the time he was rather unassuming.” He imitated the boy and drew three lines on his face. “even with these.”

“Did you know him?” The little mer’s eyes were shining again. Hjoromir nodded.

“Ambarys here did too.” He motioned to the bartender, who had returned to fill up another pair of tankards.

“He was always an infuriating n’wah too.” Hjoromir and Ambarys laughed, and the boy frowned.

“That’s not true! He helped you! He faced down Ulfric and…”

“Peace, Dravos.” Ambarys said, sliding another mug Hjoromir’s way. Hjoromir nodded his thanks. “We got on each other’s nerves every time he came in here. I was always angry, and I blamed him for the outcome of the Civil War. Truth is I never really understood him. Never really understood what he did for this city. Not until that day he faced Ulfric down, just outside those doors. But now?” He gestured to the room at large, packed from corner to corner with patrons of all types. Ambarys bustled off to take the orders of the waiting patrons at the other end of the bar. Dravos looked expectantly back at Hjoromir.

“Where was I?”

“How tall was he? Did you see him kill a dragon? Did his voice really sound like thunder?”

“He was tall for an Imperial. But not that tall. He was soft spoken, actually. You had to really work at it to get him to raise his voice in anger, but when he did…” Hjoromir whistled softly.

“And a dragon?” Dravos asked expectantly.

“I fought with him against a dragon 5 times.” The Nord stared at his drink for a long moment. “I remember each vividly. I was full of stories in those days.” He chuckled softly. “Still am I suppose. Back then I thought all it took to be a hero was a big sword and the right attitude. When that great green beast came flying in at us, the air roaring around us like a cyclone, the fire he was spat melting the rock we were standing on….” Hjoromir shook his head. “Well, I ran. But Ceoric was there. By the Nine was he there. He laughed, and clapped me on the back. ‘Seems you already know the first rule of dragon slaying!’ I nearly tripped in surprise, but he caught me and threw me out the way of the next blast. Then, almost casually, he spun, knocked an arrow, and put out one of the great beast’s eyes.” Hjoromir shook his head, and sipped on his drink lost in memory.

“What was it?” Dravos asked.

“Hmm?”

“The first rule of dragon slaying?”

“Don’t get hit.” Dravos opened his mouth to ask another question, but a group of sailors on the other end of the room let out a series of loud guffaws.

“But he almost never wore get-up like that.” Hjoromir pointed to the painting above the bar, where the dragonborn was dressed in armor as shiny as it was impractical. He grinned. “Just for the official events he couldn’t get out of. Most of the time he wore a ragged mismatch of fur and armor that looked like it was a step away from falling apart. Wasn’t until later I realized he had hidden dragonscale and plate in it.”

“What was he like?”

“Kind. Noble. Inscrutable.” Dravos gave a blank look. “Hard to read.” Hjoromir amended. “quiet, and wise. He preferred to be unknown, but was one of the few people I know worthy of the fame he has. I’m proud to have called him friend.” Dravos was about to ask another question, when the door to the cornerclub opened, bringing a fresh blast of winter to the smoky and warm common room. A small Dunmer entered her high cheekbones highlighted by bright war-paint. She scanned the room slowly, and moved with a lithe grace that emanated danger. Seeing her, Hjoromir slapped a few gold next to his tankard and turned to his small companion.

“I’m afraid that means I’ve got to go.” Dravos looked crestfallen as Hjoromir got up to go.

“Why did he leave?” He asked in a small voice as Hjoromir took a step towards the door. It was nearly lost in the common room’s bustle, but Hjoromir turned back to the small mer, his eyes grave. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Because we’re not the only ones that needed him.” Dravos nodded solemnly.

Hjoromir strode out to meet the Dunmer. The locked eyes, he nodded, and they left the New Gnisis Cornerclub, out into the chill winter night.

“Entertaining the locals?” Jenassa asked, her voice wry. The dirty snow crunched beneath their feet, densely packed by Windhelm’s foot-traffic. Looking at the dangerous woman at his side, he smiled guiltily and nodded.

“We’ve all got our ways of missing him.” He looked down. Jenassa scoffed, but half-heartedly.

Masser and Secunda shown brightly in the clear night, riven only by the brilliant flares of the northern lights. Hjoromir spared a glance to the two bright faces, and sent a thought to his friend, wherever he was.

Far to the north, across the restless Sea of Ghosts, over the ice-floes and glaciers like grinning mausoleums, two figures strode resolutely over the frozen wastes of Atmora. The wind whipped at them, sending their frozen cloaks creaking and flapping the in freezing spray of air and ice.

The Last Dragonborn paid it no mind. He had work yet to do.