Luke Velaryon: The Last Dragonborn C13 (Patreon)

Chapter 13: Until we meet again

"It's time to say goodbye, cub." Ralof clapped him on the shoulder. "We only met half a day ago, and yet we've been through enough trouble together for a lifetime."

"Aye," Luke muttered, his shoulders slumping.

Ralof snorted.

"Gods, look at that face. Anyone would think I was marching off to my funeral."

Luke managed a weak smile, but it faded quickly.

"We'll probably never see each other again."

"Maybe." Ralof shrugged. "Maybe not."

He looked out over the forest for a moment before turning back to Luke.

"Skyrim's a strange place. Bigger than most folk realize, but smaller too. I've crossed paths with men I thought I'd never see again more times than I can count."

He crouched down and lifted Luke's chin so the boy would meet his eyes.

"Listen to me, Luke. The road ahead is long, and it won't be easy. There'll be days when you're cold, hungry, frightened, and wondering if you've taken a wrong turn somewhere. But every road leads somewhere, and roads have a habit of crossing when you least expect it."

He squeezed Luke's shoulder.

"So don't go mourning a friend that isn't dead yet."

Luke swallowed and nodded.

Ralof grinned.

"Besides, if you're anything like I think you are, you'll stumble into enough trouble to fill a saga. I'm bound to hear about it sooner or later." 

That earned a small laugh from Luke.

"There you are," Ralof said. "That's better."

He stood and adjusted his shield.

"The roads ahead are yours to walk now, cub. Walk them well. Learn all you can. Keep your sword sharp, your eyes open, and your wits about you."

"And if our paths cross again?"

Ralof's grin widened.

"Then we'll share a mug of mead and trade tales of the roads we've walked."

Luke smiled.

"I'd like that."

"Aye." Ralof nodded. "So would I."

The Stormcloak hesitated for a moment.

"Though before we part, I do have a favor to ask."

"What is it?"

"Hadvar will likely head for Whiterun once he's clear of Helgen. Someone needs to warn the Jarl of Whiterun about the dragon." He scratched his beard. "I'd like you to go with him."

Luke blinked.

"Me?"

"Aye. Riverwood lies on the road to Whiterun anyway, and Whiterun is where you should go first. If anyone can help you understand what happened to you—or find a way to send you home—it'll be the court wizard."

"And if he can't?"

"Then you go north to Winterhold."

Luke frowned.

"Winterhold?"

"To the College of Winterhold." Ralof nodded. "Strange folk, most of them. But they're the finest mages in Skyrim. If they can't help you, I don't know who can."

Riverwood. Whiterun. Winterhold.

Luke repeated the names in his head until he was sure he would remember them.

"What am I supposed to do in Riverwood?"

Ralof reached beneath his armor and removed a necklace from around his neck.

The chain was made of dark grey metal. Hanging from it was a rhombus-shaped pendant engraved with a runic symbol Luke did not recognize. The metal was worn smooth in places from years of use.

Ralof looked at it for a moment before handing it over.

"I want you to find my sister, Gerdur. She and her husband, Hod, run the lumber mill."

Luke accepted the necklace.

"Show her this and she'll know I sent you."

He nodded.

"Tell her I'm alive." Ralof's expression softened. "And tell her I'll come home when Skyrim is free."

Luke closed his fingers around the pendant.

"I will."

"That's all I ask."

For a moment, neither of them spoke; then Ralof stepped forward and pulled him into a brief, rough embrace. It lasted only a second before the Nord released him and ruffled his hair.

"Take care of yourself, Luke."

"You too, Ralof."

"Aye." The Stormcloak nodded once. "Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again," Luke echoed.

Einar stepped forward next.

"Take care, lad." He clapped Luke on the shoulder. "Try not to get eaten by anything."

Luke laughed.

"I'll do my best."

"Good." Einar grinned.

The other Stormcloaks offered their farewells before turning toward the forest.

Luke stood where he was and watched them go.

The warriors disappeared between the pines one by one until only Ralof remained visible. The Nord raised a hand in farewell and then he too vanished into the wilderness.

For a long moment Luke remained standing there, the pendant clenched in his hand, watching the place where they had disappeared. It was strange to think that only half a day ago Ralof and he had been strangers sharing a prison wagon, yet now his departure left him with the aching feeling that he had just watched family walk away.

Alone at the forest’s edge, with the cave and passage behind him and the wilderness ahead, the world seemed a little larger than before, and the unknown a little more daunting.

Luke let out a long sigh, put on Ralof’s necklace, and set about gathering firewood from the edge of the forest. 

Over the next half hour, he made several trips between the treeline and the cavern, carrying armfuls of fallen branches and dry wood. Once he judged the pile large enough, he arranged the wood near the bear carcasses and struck a rock against steel.

The fire caught quickly and Luke sat beside it enjoying its warmth. 

Warm orange light filled part of the cavern, dancing across stone walls and casting long shadows over the dead bears.

After a few minutes he removed his backpack and began sorting though its contents. He took out one of the books: A Brief History of the Empire, Part I. It sounded interesting enough so he opened the book and began reading. 

Before the day of Tiber Septim, all Tamriel was chaos. The poet Tracizis called that era "the days and nights of blood and venom." The kings were a petty lot of grasping tyrants, who fought Tiber's attempts to bring order to the land. But they were as disorganized as they were dissolute, and the strong hand of Septim brought peace forcibly to Tamriel...

Luke turned page after page and by the time he finished the third chapter, he closed the book and stretched his aching back. 

Tiber Septim was a fascinating man, in some ways, he reminded Luke of Aegon the Conqueror. Both had united divided lands beneath a single crown and forged empires that endured long after their deaths. 

In other ways, he reminded him of Daenys the Dreamer, a figure whose actions had shaped the future of an entire civilization. 

And yet neither comparison felt adequate, both his ancestors fell short when compared to Tiber Septim. 

The more Luke learned about Tamriel, the more vast it seemed. Westeros was a large continent, but Tamriel was larger and the more he learned about the provinces, their peoples, and their histories, the more convinced he became that even the dragons of House Targaryen would have struggled to conquer a single province, let alone the entire continent. 

No wonder Tiber Septim had become a legend, a god according to Ralof. 

Setting the book aside, Luke reached for another. Arcana Restored: A Handbook caught his eye. The title suggested it was some kind of book on magic, perhaps even one that explained how to use it, and he was eager to learn more about the mysterious art. 

Luke eagerly opened it. 

Makest thou the Mana Fountain to be Primed with Pure Gold, for from Pure Gold only may the Humors be rectified, and the Pure Principles coaxed from the chaos of Pure Power. Droppest thou then the Pure Gold upon the surface of the Mana Fountain. Takest thou exceeding great care to safeguard thyself from the insalubrious tempests of the Mana Fountain, for through such Assaults may one's health— 

Luke stared at it blankly. After a moment, he rubbed his temples and closed the book, putting it back into his backpack, admitting defeat. 

After eating an apple, Luke searched through the remaining books for something less likely to give him a headache and found what looked like a journal. 

Luke frowned and for several moments he tried to remember putting it into the backpack, but nothing came to mind. Then again, in Brutus' office, he had thrown practically everything within reach into the bag, so it was hardly surprising that he couldn't remember every item. 

Curious, he opened the journal and quickly he realized it had belonged to the dead apprentice. His name was Gareth Rose and he hailed from Cyrodil. 

As Luke continued reading, a picture of the young man slowly emerged. 

Gareth had travelled to Skyrim in hopes of joining the College of Winterhold. His master, an elderly wizard named Gaius, had died six months earlier, but before his death he had secured Gareth a letter of acceptance to the collage through old friends and former students.

The old mage had made certain his apprentice would have a future, but it was a future Gareth never reached, dying only days after arriving in Skyrim. Luke closed his eyes briefly, the thought leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

He continued reading, and very quickly forgot his sadness. Gareth had written down everything he learned: observations, spell theories, practice exercises, and descriptions of magical principles. Page after page was filled with careful explanations and personal insights, creating a detailed guide to the basics of magic.

Most importantly, the journal was written in language an ordinary person could actually understand. Unlike the author of Arcana Restored, Gareth explained concepts clearly and directly, breaking down complicated ideas into practical lessons that even a beginner could follow.

Luke immediately liked him and sent a prayer for his soul. 

Soon, he found himself reading about one of the simplest spells known to mages.

Flames.

According to Gareth, it was considered a novice spell, quite simple to learn. Useful for lighting campfires, cooking meals, and discouraging wild animals from becoming too curious.

Following the instructions as best he could, he began practicing, but for a long while nothing happened despite repeated attempts. Again and again he focused, followed the journal's guidance, and waited for some sign that he was doing it correctly. Nearly an hour later, just as he was beginning to give up, a tiny flame appeared above his palm.

Luke stared at it in disbelief, and as the flame flickered a grin spread across his face, and a laugh escaped him. 

"I did it!" The words came out as little more than a whisper.

Jace and Rhaena had spent years searching for Visenya’s books and scrolls, hoping to uncover the secrets of magic, and now here he was actually wielding it, conjuring flames from thin air. When he got home, he couldn't wait to see the looks on their faces when he showed off that he could actually use magic.

For several minutes he experimented with the spell, conjuring tiny flames only to accidentally snuff them out moments later. Exhaustion began to catch up with him, and he reluctantly decided to take a break.

Perhaps some fresh air would clear his head.

And perhaps, if he was lucky, the stars might help him determine where in the world he was.

Leaving the cavern, Luke made his way through the tunnel toward the exit, and by the time he stepped outside, night had fully fallen. Cool air brushed against his face as he lifted his eyes toward the sky—and froze.

The stars were wrong. Every constellation was unfamiliar, but that wasn’t what made him freeze. It was the moons—both of them. There were two moons in the sky. Two. Luke stared at them, one larger and one smaller, hanging high above the forests of Skyrim.

His thoughts came to a complete halt and for a brief, absurd moment he wondered if perhaps he had finally gone mad.

That seemed more reasonable than what he was seeing.

His legs gave way beneath him, and he fell to his knees.

The dragons, the magic, the stars, the giant spiders, and the two moons—one by one, the pieces finally fell into place.

"I am much farther from home than I thought," he whispered.

He wasn’t on some undiscovered continent west of Westeros or beyond the Summer Isles. He wasn’t even on the same world.

***

Author’s Note: Well, this aint Texas Dorothy.