Still-Born Shout [#wattys2017]

Chapter Eight

Sif didn't know how long she sat at the bottom of Septimus' cave. Her skin had hardened with the cold a long time ago, but the dragon's blood flowing through her veins kept her warm. She called out to Mora, many times, trying to summon him back to her. He was either ignoring her, or had gone somewhere else, because she didn't sense a hint of darkness anywhere.

She had been foolish and had wasted too much time throwing away words with the Daedra. She still had many unanswered questions, about the farm, her parents, even her aunt and the Khajiit tribe she traveled with in her childhood. Mora evaded her, and she found it frustrating.

Damn him, she thought to herself. She felt only hatred. There had almost been a spark of something... Was it hope? She couldn't know. It was replaced by contempt. Contempt, and fire.

Being Dragonborn had a whole new meaning, now. She knew she had the soul of a dragon beforehand because Paarthurnax had said it, the Greybeards had said it, all of the books ever written on the subject had stressed it over and over again. But traditionally, the Dovahkiin had both the soul of a mortal and the soul of a dragon, whereas Sif was not mortal.

She could probably die, if she really wanted to, but she had never attempted it. In fact, she barely noticed when she was wounded. After she had helped take Fort Snowhawk alongside Jarl Ulfric's men, one of them had pointed out a rather grievous wound in her side. An arrow had grazed her midriff and had left a sizable gap in her cuirass. The blood trickling down her skin had tickled slightly, but she had felt no pain.

The same was true of the wound she had sustained during her escape from Markarth. She hadn't felt that, and it was much worse.

Did dragons feel pain? Obviously they did, but all the times that Sif had (regrettably) done battle with one, it had always taken several hits and several Shouts before it even indicated that it was feeling anything. Maybe Sif could be killed, it just took a little bit more.

It probably took a lot more. She wasn't willing to find out.

She thought about how often dragons ate. She didn't exactly avoid food; when she would travel with the Stormcloaks or stay at the Sanctuary with Nazir and Babette, she ate with them. She never felt hungry, but she ate. The food was always tasteless and textureless in her mouth.

She pondered the matter of her impending death, but only briefly. She didn't want to die. The only thing she really wanted to do was find Tullius and tear his head from his shoulders. After that, she didn't know. She didn't know what would come next, but she knew that she didn't want to die. There was still so much she hadn't seen. There were still so many dragons she hadn't seen.

After she had somewhat gathered her thoughts, she stood, shaking the cold from her frozen limbs. She sighed; Jarl Ulfric had called her to Windhelm days ago. If she ignored his summons, he would be thoroughly angry by the time she returned from the Throat of the World. She had to see Paarthurnax. He was the only one that could calm her mind.

The ride to Windhelm was eerily quiet, as if everything had stopped to make way for her. She felt a lightness in her chest as she sat upon Shadowmere. If only she could sprout wings.

The guards didn't stop her when she handed her horse to the stable boy and glided through the gates. She thought that was somewhat odd. Usually they had a sarcastic remark or two for the stillborn woman. Even as she glided through the streets towards the Palace of Kings, everyone seemed to avert their eyes. She shrugged it off and kept going.

Jorleif announced her arrival to a guard, who went to fetch Jarl Ulfric. Sif hadn't realized how late in the evening it was. She had folded her arms behind her and stood up straight, when Jorleif addressed her again.