You are doom-driven, Dovahkiin… Parthurnaax's words echoed in Harald's mind as he walked the familiar path back to the home he had built in this new world. The rain fell in heavy sheets, drenching him, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts churned like the storm clouds overhead.
He knew what would happen if he revealed himself fully. These people were not like those of Tamriel. Here, magic was feared—anathema, the work of demons and witches and warlocks. Their faith had taught them to shun it, to see it as a sign of corruption.
He understood their reactions. Fear was a natural response to the unknown.
As he reached his home, Harald pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. The familiar warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth greeted him. Outside, the rain lashed against the stones of his cottage, and thunder rolled in the distance.
Harald sat down heavily in the chair near the hearth. He let out a long sigh, the weight of the evening pressing down on him. A part of him whispered that he needed to leave—perhaps to the icy north, a land much like Skyrim, from what Leobald had told him. The thought made his chest ache. He didn't want to lose what he had found here: the peace, the purpose. He didn't want to lose friends like Leobald.
Yet, like the villagers, Leobald's reaction was understandable, even predictable. Harald had no illusions about what he had become in their eyes.
He stared into the fire, its flickering light casting shadows across the walls. His mind was restless, and a voice—familiar, primal—stirred within him. These people are made to be ruled, it whispered. A side effect of his dragon soul, the essence that had always driven him to dominate, to conquer.
Harald shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts. But he couldn't deny it. It had felt good—exhilarating—to unleash his power again. To feel the rush of battle, the surge of victory. His hands clenched into fists, his breathing uneven as he clasped his head in his hands.
'No,' he thought. Not again. He refused to let that part of himself take control.
Thunder cracked outside, followed by a flash of lightning that illuminated the room for a brief moment. Over the din of the storm, a voice called out, faint at first but growing louder.
"Harald! Harald!"
His head snapped up. It was Leobald. Harald rose from his chair, moving quickly to the door. When he stepped outside, the rain struck him like icy needles, but his focus was on the figure approaching through the downpour.
Leobald was drenched, his robes clinging to him as he walked briskly toward the cottage. He stopped a few paces away, his eyes locking onto Harald's.
Harald motioned for him to come inside, stepping back to allow him entry. Leobald hesitated only for a moment before stepping into the warmth of the cottage. Inside, Harald handed him a cloth to dry himself.
"You shouldn't have come," Harald said quietly.
"You can't expect me not to—not after what you did," Leobald said, his voice trembling. Harald couldn't tell if it was from the cold rain or the emotions roiling within him.
Harald turned toward the fire, his face grim. "I'm leaving, Leobald."
"No, no, Harald, you cannot!" Leobald's voice was firm, almost desperate.
Harald looked at him, surprised. "Are you not afraid, like the rest of them?"
"No," Leobald said, shaking his head. "Even though I've known you for only a year, I trust you, Harald. Whatever magic you possess, you used it to protect us."
Harald gave a wry smile. "And your faith? Doesn't it tell you to fear me?"
Leobald hesitated, then met Harald's gaze. "You already know my faith has been waning. Perhaps this, too, is something I was taught incorrectly. Perhaps not all those who possess magic are evil."
Harald sighed heavily and sank into his chair. "I'm still leaving, my friend."
Leobald took a step closer, his expression softening. "What are you, Harald? Truly?"
Harald was silent for a long moment, the crackling fire filling the space between them. Finally, he spoke. "I am human, just like you. But… I am not of this world."
"Not of this world?" Leobald repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harald nodded, his gaze distant. "In the world I'm from, magic was common. Not like here, where it's almost faded and dead, remembered only in myths and stories. I was sent here—" Harald paused, his jaw tightening at the memory of a maddened voice echoing in his mind, "—I think as a gift from a god."
"A gift?" Leobald asked, brow furrowing.
Harald leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I was tasked with defeating a great evil, one that threatened to destroy everything. I did it—at great cost. And when it was done, I found myself here."
He fell silent, his words hanging heavily in the air. "I thought I could find peace here. But alas, it lasted only a year."
Harald's gaze shifted to Leobald, studying his friend's expression. The Septon's face was a mix of wonder and deep contemplation, as though he were experiencing a revelation.
"All the stories and theology you've shared," Leobald whispered, almost to himself. "They came from your world?"
Harald nodded slowly. "Yes."
Leobald murmured something under his breath, so softly that Harald barely caught it. But the words that reached him were clear enough: "Chosen by the gods..."
"I am leaving. Perhaps to the north—you said it was a land like—"
"No," Leobald interrupted, his voice firm and filled with desperation. "No, Harald. You can't. You cannot leave."
Harald sighed, leaning back in his chair, his face shadowed with weariness. "Not everyone will be like you, Leobald. You saw the villagers—they were terrified. They think I'm a monster."
"I will handle them," Leobald said, his tone unwavering.
"Leobald…" Harald began, but the Septon cut him off.
"You are what this land needs—what its people need. The raid on Riverwood? It's happening everywhere, Harald. People are being taken, sent to die building Harren's monstrous castle."
"Leobald, I—"
Leobald's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his voice rising with emotion. "I prayed, Harald. When the Ironborn came to Riverwood, I fell to my knees and prayed with all the faith I had left. I begged the gods—any gods—to save us."
He took a shuddering breath, his voice breaking. "And you came. You answered. Tell me that was coincidence. Tell me it was chance that brought you here at that moment."
Harald looked at him, expression conflicted. "I was not sent by your gods, my friend."
"But you said you were sent by one!" Leobald interjected, desperation creeping into his voice. "You said this was your gift for defeating a great evil. What if you are meant to defeat a great evil again, Harald? What if—"
"Leobald," Harald said again, trying to interrupt, but the Septon continued, his tone almost feverish.
"You were there, Harald, whether it was due to my prayers or not. And what did you do? You fought. You didn't turn away. You fought for us."
Harald remained silent, his jaw tightening.
Leobald pressed on, voice trembling. "You fought because you couldn't stand by while innocents suffered."
Suddenly, Leobald knelt, his knees hitting the stone floor with a soft thud. Harald's eyes widened in surprise as the Septon clasped his hands together, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
"I beg you, Harald. You have the power to stand against Harren and his vile Ironborn. To give the Riverlands a chance to be free of his tyranny."
Harald shook his head, his voice low and strained. "It's not my fight, Leobald. I've already fought my war, paid my price." Yet even as he spoke, the words felt hollow. Deep down, he knew the peace he had found was already gone, shattered by the day's events.
Leobald's voice broke with raw emotion. "Then make it your fight. Harren's tyranny touches every corner of the Riverlands. He enslaves our people, burns our homes, and murders without remorse."
Harald looked away, his jaw tightening, saying nothing. He fixed his gaze on the flickering fire, as though hoping its light could burn away the burden Leobald placed on him.
But the Septon pressed on, undeterred. "You've told me of your world, Harald, of the evil you defeated there. Do not tell me you are content to let evil thrive here. Do not tell me you can watch these people suffer when you have the power to stop it."
Outside, the storm raged, lightning flashing through the window in a brilliant burst, followed by rolling thunder. Harald's eyes flicked to Leobald, who knelt before him, hands clasped in desperate supplication.
The Septon's words echoed in Harald's mind, striking at the very core of his being. He had fought so hard to leave that part of himself behind, to bury the warrior and the savior in favor of a simple life. But could he truly ignore the suffering he had witnessed?
The silence stretched between them, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, Leobald stood, his face a mixture of grief and determination. He turned toward the door, resting his hand on the latch.
"They took Willem's daughter, Maise, and her husband," Leobald said softly.
Harald's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as the words hit him like a blow. In the firelight, something flickered in his gaze—anger, determination, or perhaps both.
"You are our only hope, Harald," Leobald said as he opened the door. Rain poured in, soaking the threshold as he stepped out into the storm.
Leobald didn't look back as he disappeared into the downpour, heading back toward Riverwood, leaving Harald alone with the crackling fire and the sound of the storm pounding against his walls.
.
.
.
The rain stopped after a while, leaving the air thick and heavy with the scent of wet earth. Harald sat in silence, unchanged from the moment Leobald had left. Outside, the storm still lingered; thunder rumbled in the sky like the growl of a great beast, and lightning streaked across the heavens, briefly illuminating his solitary figure in the dim interior of the cottage.
Leobald's words refused to fade, echoing in Harald's mind with relentless persistence.
Peace, it seemed, eluded him once more. The fire within, the call of the dragon soul, demanded more, and the quiet he craved hovered forever beyond his grasp.
'What am I even doing? I can't just leave—not after that,' Harald thought, his hands tightening into fists. 'I'll just have to find my peace another way.'
He exhaled slowly, his breath steadying as his resolve hardened. Rising to his feet, Harald turned toward the far side of the cottage. There, beneath a pile of furs and simple tools, lay a heavy chest he had not opened in months.
Kneeling, he pushed the furs aside with care, revealing the old chest. His hands lingered on the latch for a moment before he unfastened it. The iron hinges groaned softly as the lid rose, unveiling its contents.
A simple satchel rested on top—unassuming at first glance, yet anything but ordinary. The Aetherial satchel, gifted to him by Tolfdir, the Archmage of Winterhold, had been his constant companion in Tamriel. A relic passed down through generations of mages, it granted its bearer access to a pocket dimension of immense capacity. Within it, Harald had once carried weapons, armor, potions, and treasures.
He reached into the satchel, his hands disappearing into its enchanted depths. One by one, he retrieved pieces of armor—each gleaming ebony and as dark as the midnight sky. Angular, intricate Nordic etchings adorned each piece, glowing faintly in the firelight. Running his fingers over the cold, smooth surface of the cuirass, Harald felt a surge of memories: the clash of blades, the roar of dragons, the cries of the dying.
After setting the cuirass aside, Harald reached in again and withdrew a massive battleaxe. Its double-headed blade gleamed, cruelly sharp and etched with Daedric runes that pulsed faintly, as though alive and hungry for battle. The haft, wrapped in worn leather, fit perfectly in his grip, its weight both familiar and comforting.
For a moment, Harald hesitated, his hand hovering over the armor. These items bore not only memories of triumph, but of loss—of sacrifices made, comrades fallen, and the heavy burden of destiny fulfilled. Yet as thunder boomed outside, rattling the cottage's walls, it felt as though the storm itself urged him onward.
He lifted the cuirass. The cold metal pressed against his palms as he rose. One by one, he donned each piece of the armor.
The greaves, pauldrons, and bracers slid into place, their weight reassuringly familiar. The blackened ebony drank in the firelight, the angular etchings casting faint, flickering shadows. The straps pulled tight, binding him once more to the identity he had sought to leave behind.
Finally, he reached for the helm. Its sharp-edged horns curved outward like a dragon's crown. Harald held it for a moment, gazing into the empty eye sockets. The helm seemed to stare back, an old companion welcoming him home.
Lightning flared outside, illuminating the room in stark relief. Thunder rolled like the distant drumbeat of war.
Harald set the helm on his head, the familiar weight settling into place. At once, he felt whole again—the long-buried pieces of himself clicking together seamlessly. He leaned down and gripped the battleaxe's haft, the weapon's heft both resolute and unyielding. The runes etched into the ebony blade glowed brighter, as if recognizing its master's renewed purpose.
With steady breath, Harald fixed the satchel on his belt and strode to the door. He threw it open, the wooden frame creaking as it swung wide.
The storm had passed. The rain clouds retreated across the horizon, and faint light filtered through, casting a gentle glow over the landscape. His ebony armor gleamed in the emerging light, reflecting the quiet stillness that followed the storm's fury. Harald stepped out into the open air, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.
Within him, his dragon soul stirred. The fire burned brighter than it had in a year, roaring through his veins.
Parthurnaax's voice echoed in his mind.
You are doom-driven, Dovahkiin. The very bones of the earth are at your beck and call. To deny your destiny is to deny yourself.
The Last Dragonborn had risen once more.