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Eyja Went Up the Mountain.

Summary: A bard tasked with chronicling the Dragonborn's life, finds the ending to the tale one cold night in Ivarstead.

Tags: char:F!DB, char:Vilkas, char:Paarthurnax, char:Odahving, char:Farkas, char:Aela. Char:you...? :P Angst. Sex. Het. Some violence. Vilkas/F!DB

I was messing about with writing after I read “The Wind in the Keyhole” by Stephen King. Awesome book. The main character in the story tells a story that has another story in it. And this is sort of like that. Hope OP doesn't mind hunkering down for a long fill... ;p

Oh and I tried to keep the 2nd POV as open as possible, so any reader can insert their character into the story whether it's a Khajit or a Nord. Thought it might be fun :P (tell me if it is)

Once upon a bye, Eyja went up the mountain...

Ivarstead is a boring, sleepy little village. It doesn't see much action, even in the way of bandits, it's so small. You suppose with Riften so close by, no thief or criminal could care much for this tiny cluster of buildings that huddle at the foot of the mountain. In fact, you aren't sure that you can even grant Ivarstead the title of village. It is only a farm, a mill, two houses and a tavern. Hardly the epic poem material you've been searching for. At least the scenery makes up for it.

The Throat of the World, those seven thousand steps, tower imperiously in the background. You could fill up whole pages with stanzas and descriptions of the mountain, and it's history, alone!

You stop for a moment. Just to take in the sights. Over there, a barrow sits close by, another eerie landmark, sure to go down well in a song. Poem? Song or poem, you've yet to decide, but you know your future as a successful bard is practically fated. By the time you return to the Bard's College in Solitude, you'd be a hero among them. A literary great! Not that such things are appreciated much outside of Skyrim's more sophisticated courts. But if it was a good enough work (and you're sure it will be) what would stop your story from spreading to the other provinces?

You readjust your pack, lighter than it has ever been now that you are close to the end of your journey. The Dragonborn's trail runs cold here. Over your other shoulder you readjust your lute. It's a little scratched from your journey, but well-loved for it's saved your life a few times. That's the truth. Everyone loves a bard, even the hardest of bandits. There had been a hairy moment when some thugs had you singing songs at knifepoint, but you'd sung well and they'd let you go with your life-- if not your coin.

But no great masterpiece was ever made without a little suffering, so your old teachers say. Besides you are too excited to be much miserable over a robbery, and you'd made the money back when stopping in Windhelm for a few days to restock. There's been no trouble on the road since then, and you'd travelled, though somewhat warily, with a few Stormcloak soldiers on their way to a Riften outpost.

Sad place, Windhelm. You'd heard a girl had been murdered. Awful business, but you aren't interested in writing about that. Most folk there were more inclined to blather on about Ulfric Stormcloak than the Dragonborn. Eyja. She is the subject of your work. A few of the Dark Elf refugees had something to say on her though, mainly that she was good and kind and all the rot that you'd heard before. Eyja made sure to buy goods from a Dunmeri business, apparently. You hadn't bothered noting that, commendable as some might have seen it. It was a boring tidbit, and your Nordic audience probably wouldn't appreciate being told that their national hero was an elf-lover.

A strange sound breaks through the ring of clouds that cap the Throat of the World. You shiver in delight as it ripples its foreign song over Ivarstead's rooftops. This is what you've been looking for! This mountain! Big, towering mountain, brimming with legends! You might see about hiring a few mercenaries, or finding a few pilgrims to travel with to the Greybeard's Monastery. Men might spare a bard their life, but food was food to trolls and sabre-cats regardless the sweetness of its song.

A sleepy-sounding guard grunts directions to the inn when you ask. You needn't have bothered, it's the biggest building with the warm glow in its windows. But, you are sociable by nature, and wholly agree with that old adage that a bard loves the sound of their own voice. You stop again when you reach the door, just for a moment. A whisper of a lute leaks through the walls, and disappoints you somewhat. Maybe when the other bard gets tired, you might take over.

Forget that. You aren't here to make money. That's just a bonus, besides your pockets still clink with coins from your stint in Candlehearth Hall. No, you are here for a much better reason. Here is the end of your journey, don't forget. Here, quite possibly, just behind this old, warped door the Dragonborn sits. Sits quietly at a table with a tankard of mead and legendary Skyforge Steel at her side. This is her last-known location.

You see her in your mind's eye. She towers over the other patrons, for all your sources tell that she is a big, handsome woman. You see yourself buying her some good mead with your new coin, and how she smiles back at you. All signs point to the Dragonborn being the good, friendly sort.

Yes she smiles back at you. Tells you the Dragonborn's tale.

Then shall your travels be other. Your masterpiece completed.

After that? Glory. Respect. Riches and beautiful company! Ah, everyone loves a bard.

With a smile you shoulder your pack, and hurry inside.

Music skims through the air like an invisible bird and settles in the rafters. Apart from this, the inn is actually quite a gloomy, quiet place. You see no big, handsome woman and hear no legendary voice. Provincial types, Ivarstead natives you think, watch you suspiciously as you let the inn's door shut behind you.

A big man sits on his own by the table, and doesn't look up. A sense of foreboding hangs around him, almost tangible in its intensity. Not a promising start. Perhaps the Dragonborn has moved on from here, but you don't think you can be far behind her. You walk the other side of the fire-pit to avoid him, tip a friendly wink to the bard-- a woman-- and make your way to the innkeep at the counter.

“Evening friend,” he says when he spots you. He notices the lute on your back and the smile becomes a little friendlier. See? Everyone loves a bard.

“Good evening,” you reply, and slide a few septims onto the counter. “How's business.”
“Look around,” is the sardonic reply. His voice is old and thickly-accented. He hands you a bottle of mead and a cup. “It's usually just locals this time of year. Weather's more than fatal this time of year, up on the mountain. Makes me wonder how the Greybeards survive all the winters.”

“No travelers passing through?” You don't leave him just yet, and instead prop your elbows on the smooth worn wood of the counter. You lean forwards slightly, through eagerness not intimidation. “I heard the Dragonborn passed through this way.”

“Aye,” suddenly the man's face turns solemn. He turns his gaze to the counter and you both watch his old, reddened fingers toy with your coin, before sweeping it into his apron. “She did. Weeks ago, mind.”

His words grab your attention. Ivarstead hasn't been in vain then. Quickly you hand over the money for a room for the night, and a few coins besides. The man scoops them up but it does little to alleviate the expression of gloom on his weathered features.

“Where did she go?” you ask. The words come out a little more forceful than you intended. “If you don't mind me asking,” you add, hastily. “Friend.”

The barkeep sighs heavily. You watch his shoulders rise and fall beneath the coarse, stained cloth of his tunic. His gaze drifts and you turn your head to see where it rests. The shadowed man in the corner stares at the wall. You see his fingers tight around his bottle. Food lies untouched in front of him.

“See that man?” Barkeep asks. “There in the corner?”

“Yes?”

“I know for a fact he's just spent the last of his coin on that drink,” his voice is very quiet, and you strain your ears to hear it over the soft murmur of the lute. “That food... and a bed for the night.”

“...yes?”

“He came here with Eyja,” your heart leaps at the mention of her name. Barkeep wears a sad, shambling smile. He'd known the Dragonborn, and the man in the corner, for they always stayed a night before the climb; and often her companion would wait for in the tavern most times, or make himself useful about the village. “Some weeks past, the two of them went up to the Throat of the World-- early in the morning-- but only he came back down. She might be up with the Greybeards... stranded I expect, on account of the snow. I'm not sure...”

“Dead?” you say, before you can stop yourself. Barkeep laughs at you.

“I very much doubt it,” he replies. There's a note of uncertainty in his voice that worries you. “But he's been in a black mood ever since his return. I expect he's waiting for her.”

“You're suggesting I talk to him?” The idea isn't very appealing. There's a lethal-looking greatsword next to the stranger that looks capable of cleaving very big men in half. He has the muscles to prove he's probably done just that.

“No,” says Barkeep. “I'm suggesting you buy him a drink... Let him talk to you. He knew Eyja very well, I think. I don't know all of it, of course. Only meet the lass when she stops to go on her way up the mountain.”

You mull that idea over in your head. If that's his very last drink, the stranger's probably already on his way to being drunk. He'd probably welcome another one, if not the company.

You make your mind up, and hand your unopened bottle of mead back to the barkeep. “Two Black-Briar meads, if you've got them friend.”

“Aye I do,” Barkeep smiles, but it's sad and shambling still. A little guilty, too. “Get a good price on them from a contact in Riften. Best you keep that to yourself.”

You take a bottle in each hand and turn to face the direction of the man in the corner. He hasn't noticed a word of the exchange between yourself and Barkeep but now he notices you. His face is covered with dirt, like any common mercenary, thicker around the eyes than anywhere else. His gaze drifts down to the two bottles of mead in your grip and one eyebrow raises ever so slightly.

No great masterpiece was ever made without a little suffering, a snide little voice reminds you.

Without another moment's hesitation, you approach him.

Where Eyja went, no man can say;

Nor any true answer be found.

Two went up t'the Throat of the World,

But only one came down.

**

In Falkreath, two brothers went hunting. They were twins, though there were many marked differences between them. The oldest brother, Vilkas, was taller and better with words. The youngest, Farkas, was stronger and slower to anger. Both were Companions of the mead-hall, Jorravskr, in Whiterun. They'd heard talk of a legendary white stag, and thought it'd make for a pleasant distraction; and perhaps a good story to tell when they returned.

The first two hours of their hunt went by very slowly and not much was said. The youngest brother, Farkas, was beginning to regret inviting Vilkas to hunt with him. They'd journeyed through Riverwood, turned close by to the ruins of Helgen and stopped in Falkreath hold for a quick drink. For all the time they sat in Dead Man's Drink the eldest brother, Vilkas, had sat stony and silent, pondering the bottom of his cup. It was winding down from Autumn outside, and the farms they'd passed just outside off Whiterun had been full of the last of the crops. Not much was spoken. They drank, paid, and moved on.

The legendary stag seemed to be little more than legend for the two brothers, who decided to set up a camp and roast their less-impressive deer for dinner. Wind whistled through the tall, dark pines and made the fire pop and crackle and the branches creak. Farkas grew sick of his brother's surliness and tried to break the silence.

“You want to talk,” he said to his brother.

“You don't like talking,” Vilkas replied. The smell of meat cooking rose with a plume of smoke and made the birds shift restlessly in the trees. It was true. Farkas was not known for being much of a speaker. Many of his friends and the other Companions had given him the nickname 'Ice-brain'.

Here, the stranger stops to gulp a mouthful of mead. You see the corner of his mouth twitch and watch his lips lick the last drops. He seems fond of the brothers in his story. You have the feeling that he knows them well.

“I like listening,” said Farkas, stoic and stubborn. There was little that could dissuade him when his mind was set on something, and he was set on making his brother talk.

“Even to your brother's foolish complaints?” Vilkas smiled, but the expression lacked any real feeling to it.

Farkas smiled back. “Even to those, brother.”

The camp became silent but for the fire and the ever-present music of the trees. The sun was starting to settle over the trees and turn everything to dim shades of peach and grey.

Until suddenly, Vilkas began to speak. His voice settled into a low monotone, as if he didn't want to be heard. Farkas could just about hear his brother, and only because of the sheer deepness of his voice. He spoke very quietly.

“Eyja told me to wait for her in Ivarstead...” he began, at last. “The dragon wouldn't let anyone else on his back. She didn't mind. She'd always believed that she'd be facing Alduin alone, no matter anyone's promises...”

**

“Eyja? When does Eyja come into the story? Barkeep says you knew her well,” you cut him off without thinking. He'd taken a long time to start the story and already you feel a bit of a buzz from your drink. “Are you in this story, friend?”

“Shut up,” the man growls at you. You've upset him. Drunk's are quick to anger mind, and his eyes are cloudy from his mead. “And don't speak her name like you knew her, whelp.”

It was a slip of the tongue. You've followed the Dragonborn's exploits so closely, it's almost as if you truly did know her. It's funny that, you realise. How both you and this stranger spoke of the Dragonborn in past tense. As if she has passed on. Recently departed.

That sense of foreboding returns.

“I'm sorry friend,” you soothe, and gesture to the barkeep for more drink. He has been watching you both and starts in surprise. He nods. Busies himself. “Please,” you say. “Carry on."

Until suddenly, Vilkas began to speak. His voice settled into a low monotone, as if he didn't want to be heard. Farkas could just about hear his brother, and only because of the sheer deepness of his voice. He spoke very quietly.

Eyja told me to wait for her in Ivarstead...The dragon wouldn't let anyone else on his back. She didn't mind. She'd always believed that she'd be facing Alduin alone, no matter anyone's promises... Likes to go off on her own, even it's just sitting up by the Sky-Forge and swinging her legs over the edge.

Aye, says Farkas. And you'd sit in the shadows and watch her like a moon-struck pup!

Aye. Wondering if I should talk to her, stay where I was, or head on inside. But I'm not talking about the things you've already seen or know, or anything that happens back in Jorravskr. I'm talking about when Eyja came down from the mountain, so listen.

I saluted her when she crossed the bridge. She didn't look up from the ground, but I knew she saw it. She sees everything, that one. Something was off about her. I could see the gold-- yes, gold-- glow of her eyes even though she was staring at her boots. I waited until she crossed the bridge entirely, watching the wind whip through her hair. She looked up.

And her eyes were gold.

Her eyes are blue, Vilkas... I really thought you might have noticed that...

Go back to Jorravskr. See it for yourself.

Eyja looked up. Didn't smile.

“Hope you weren't waiting too long,” her voice was all hoarse and cracked. She smelt like burnt hair and skin, but she looked liked she'd just emerged from the river itself all white and clean. Her lips were chapped, and brown with blood. Dry. If I still had the beast, I would've probably smelled all the blood on her. Could smell it when she got close. Didn't choke. Used to it, of course.

“He's dead. Very few dragons are going to bother Skyrim anymore.”

“You sound sad about that,” I said.

“I am,” she replied, and she looked it. Her shoulders were slumped. She walked a bit crooked, like she wasn't used to her legs or she'd been drinking. She was exhausted.

I didn't want to mention her eyes. Eyja's nearly as tall as you or me. Hard not to think about the gold when her gaze more or less meets mine level. The way she was staring right at me, made me think she either didn't know or didn't want me to mention it either. I mentioned it.

Don't look at me like that, Vilkas growls at his brother. You might think I'm acting a fool, and you might laugh at me, but I know Eyja's eyes. Every speck of them. They were blue when she flew from the balcony at Dragonsreach, and gold when she came down from the mountain.

Sorry, Farkas rearranges his face as solemn as he can make it. It's just weird, is all.

I kept quiet about Alduin and her eyes all the way back to Whiterun. She stayed quiet all the way back, too. In fact, I think it was the longest we ever went without talking. I didn't want to say much anyway. Momentous moments in our lives shouldn't be ruined with a load of sentimental crap. Words don't mean much in moments like those.

I mentioned the eyes before we got back to Jorravskr, though. When we stopped in The Bannered Mare for a drink. Eyja laughed at me. Called me mistaken. Liar.

“Don't worry,” she mocked me. Hid her smile behind a bottle of mead and swung her gold-speckled gaze in the direction of Mikael--

--

“Mikael?”

“A poncy little bard like you. Shut up. Listen.”

--

“Don't worry,” she mocked me. Hid her smile behind a bottle of mead and swung her gold-speckled gaze in the direction of Mikael with a derisive snort. “I don't think I could love a man who waxed lyrical about my eyes anyway.”

I couldn't be sure if she was laughing at me, Mikael, or both of us. Maybe Eyja was laughing at everyone--

“And Vilkas was angry because...?”

“You know for a bard, you make for a shitty audience.”

“I'm sorry. Just curious is all.”

“...Vilkas was angry. Because the love of his life barely spoke a word to him on the long trip back to Whiterun. And because when they got back to Whiterun and he spoke to her, she lied. Lied, and laughed.”

“Of course. I'm sorry.”

“What for?” He barks at you. “It's just a story. Now, do you have any more questions or can I carry on?”

The stranger licks his lips and looks away just as you shake your head. Your talking seems to get on his nerves. So, silently, you open up another bottle of mead and pour it for him. He nods begrudgingly in thanks.

Then, he parts his lips to speak and continues his tale...

**

Hope OP isn't confused. I have too much fun playing with POVs and trying new things >__< Got all this motivation when I realised I was filling TWO of your prompts. Plus whilst I went over the second part of In The Company of Wolves, this was nagging in the back of my head. >__<

Um. Wow?

Is the stranger Vilkas? Is it?

This story is going to play havoc with my feels, isn't it. It is, isn't it!!

o and I like the 'you' bit. :o

Thank yoou.

Yep, it is. And yep, it is :p

Oh, OP is floating in the clouds of happiness and beautiful Nord men over my love FOR YOU A!A AND YOUR BEAUTIFUL WRITING.

I love that Eyja is this big, beautiful woman, AND I'm so glad you used the golden eyes bit (I always viewed Alduin's defeat as more of an absorption of who he was, even though he probably wasn't dead completely, thus the physical and emotional changes). I have to admit too that I have always had a wee bit of a crush on Vilkas, but turned my nose up at him in the game purely because of his 'tude towards the DB. I can't help but love him though, you know?

AND I love the style of this! I was thinking, as I was prompting it, that it might be hard to choose a POV to stick with, if not jumping around with it a bit, and I totally dig your direction with this. Exceptional stuff, A!A, your biggest fan the OP is veerryyyy excited!

Clouds of beautiful Nord men? And your floating in them? Where can I find this phenomenon? :p

Thank you for the splendid compliments OP :3 I agree with you on the Vilkas thing... but I always end up marrying Marcurio or Farkas everytime :p

I LOVE stories within stories, and you are doing it brilliantly!

Thank you :))

Whoa, A!A. Whoa.

I am blown away by this fill. The direction you chose to take this prompt is so unexpected but so good. I love stories framed within a story especially when done so well.

The mood you captured is so good and it makes me want to curl up with a blanket in my favorite armchair with a warm drink as I read and let myself get swept away by the tale you've woven. I love your descriptions and the feelings they evoke. There's just something so special about it.

I think Vilkas is the one telling the story to the Bard as if it's something that happened to someone else and my heart is breaking for him. I'm so curious to read the rest. I hope you'll continue it soon.

I love oral narrative and stories that read like theyre being told by someone to someone else :p Im very glad you like it!

Thank you for the wonderful comments! Tickles me pink to read them ;p

Yes indeeeed, it's Vilkas. Poor wolf-man </3

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Eyja Went Up The Mountain F!DB/Vilkas [1/?]

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