A Gift from a Mad God

"Fus... Roh... Dah!"

The shout erupted from Harald Stormcrown's throat like a force of nature, shaking the very foundations of Sovngarde. The words echoed across the ethereal landscape, reverberating through the heavens and rattling the ancient stones beneath his feet. It surged forward, slamming into Alduin with the force of a cataclysm.

The colossal dragon, the World-Eater, staggered back, his once-majestic wings flailing in a desperate attempt to maintain his balance. The ground quaked in response, but Harald stood firm, his gaze locked onto the monstrous form that had haunted his every waking moment for the past two years.

In an instant, three more shouts pierced the air, each one a battle cry from the ancient heroes who had once stood against Alduin in ages past. Hakon's voice boomed with the might of "Joor... Zah... Frul!" The words stripped Alduin of his ability to soar, his wings faltering as they lost their power.

Gormlaith's fierce shout, "Krii... Lun... Aus!" followed, striking true and sapping the World-Eater's strength. The dragon's roars of defiance grew weaker, more desperate.

Then came Felldir's ancient words, "Fo... Krah... Din!" A blizzard of ice erupted from his lips, encasing Alduin in a tomb of frost. The once-invincible dragon was now a towering statue of ice, his scales coated in a thick layer of hoarfrost.

"Do it now!" Gormlaith's voice cut through the chaos like a blade, sharp and urgent.

Harald's heart pounded in his chest, a rhythm that matched the fury of the battle. His eyes were fixed on Alduin, whose immense form was now struggling under the relentless assault. The ebony battleaxe in Harald's hands gleamed darkly, its blackened blade was wickedly sharp, etched with Daedric runes that pulsed with a malevolent red light, as if thirsting for the blood of the dragon before him.

The grip tightened in Harald's hands. This was it—this was the moment that his two years of relentless pursuit had led to. Every battle, every sacrifice, every hardship had been for this singular purpose. The Dragonborn, the one destined to rid the world of this ancient evil, would not falter now.

With a mighty leap, Harald closed the distance between himself and the wounded dragon. Alduin's eyes, burning with a mix of hatred and desperation, locked onto Harald. But it was too late.

Harald's battle cry shook the heavens as he brought the battleaxe down with all the strength and fury he could muster. The blade plunged deep into Alduin's black hide, tearing through scales and muscle, sinking into the very heart of the beast. A dark, ichor-like blood spurted from the wound, staining the ground beneath them.

But Harald wasn't finished. The fire in his soul flared, and with a deep breath, he roared, "Yol... Toor... Shul!" Flames erupted from his mouth, a searing inferno that engulfed Alduin from within. Alduin roared in agony, his immense form convulsing as the fire consumed him. His scales, once impenetrable, began to crack and peel away, revealing the raw, molten flesh beneath. The World-Eater's roars turned to desperate, choking gasps as his very soul began to unravel. The force that had threatened to devour all creation was being torn apart.

The dragon thrashed wildly, his once fearsome body crumbling as if made of ash. Beneath the scales, a black, tar-like skeleton was revealed, the last remnants of Alduin's physical form. Harald watched, unflinching, as the dark essence drained away, leaving behind only a skeletal shadow of the terror that had once been.

With one final, thunderous spasm, Alduin's form disintegrated, bursting apart into wisps of dark smoke that were quickly swallowed by the ether. Not even his bones remained—the World-Eater was utterly obliterated, erased from existence.

The skies above Sovngarde cleared, the oppressive mist that had loomed over the realm lifting as the ancient dragon's soul was finally extinguished.

It was over. Harald Stormcrown, the Last Dragonborn, had fulfilled his destiny.

He fell to his knees, exhaustion and a wave of overwhelming emotion crashing over him. Memories surged through his mind—memories of those he had lost along the way. Kharjo, loyal to the end; Lydia, who had sworn to carry his burdens and did so unto death; Mjoll, the Lioness, whose fierce heart had been stilled too soon. Their faces flashed before him, and for a moment, the joy of victory was eclipsed by the weight of their absence.

"I did it," he whispered, his voice barely audible. The image of that fateful battle atop the Throat of the World replayed in his mind—Alduin's savage onslaught, his friends falling one by one. Their deaths had driven him forward, fueled his relentless pursuit. And now, at last, he had avenged them.

As Harald knelt there, Hakon, Felldir, and Gormlaith approached, their expressions solemn yet proud.

"Harald Stormcrown," Hakon began, his voice deep and resonant, "you have done what few could even dream of. The doom of Alduin is encompassed at last. Sovngarde is cleansed of his evil snare, and the world is free from his shadow."

Gormlaith nodded, her fierce eyes softened with respect. "Your deeds will be sung in Shor's hall for all eternity. You have honored your fallen comrades and proven yourself a true hero of Tamriel."

Felldir placed a hand on Harald's shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and reassurance. "When your time comes, we will await you here, Dragonborn. You have earned your place among us, but that time is not now."

Harald looked up at them, gratitude and sorrow mingling in his heart. Their words were comforting, but he knew his path had not yet ended. As he stood, he saw Tsun approaching, the god's immense form casting a long shadow across the battlefield.

Tsun was a giant of a god, towering above Harald, his skin a deep bronze, gleaming with the strength of the mountains. His eyes were like burning coals, ancient and wise, and his voice, when he spoke, was as deep and resonant as the mountains themselves.

"That was a mighty deed!" Tsun's voice echoed across the expanse. "The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever."

"You have done well since your arrival from your old world."

Harald's brow furrowed shock. "You... you know?"

Tsun's stern expression softened slightly, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Yes. I have watched you ever since your soul arrived in Mundus."

Harald's shock was palpable. "How…?"

"It was Akatosh's doing," Tsun explained, his voice steady. "It seems he was correct in doing so. Whatever world or realm you came from before matters not now. Tamriel is your home now."

Harald took a deep breath, a flood of memories washing over him. "I held that secret for a long time... I'm glad I could talk to someone about it." He recalled waking up as a child in Cyrodiil, the shock of finding himself in a world he once thought was mere fiction. The journey from that bewildering beginning to this moment had been long and arduous.

"When you are ready to rejoin the living," Tsun continued, his voice firm yet understanding, "just bid me so, and I will send you back."

Harald sighed deeply, his heart heavy. "I have nothing to go back to. All the friends I have made... they're dead."

"The land of the dead is not meant for mortals to linger, Dragonborn," Tsun said, his tone firm but not unkind.

Harald looked up at the towering god, resignation in his eyes. He gave a slow nod. "Send me back."

Tsun stepped back, his voice rising in a powerful chant. "Return now to Nirn, with this rich boon from Shor, my lord: a Shout to bring a hero from Sovngarde in your hour of need. Nahl...Daal...Vus!"

As Tsun's words filled the air, Harald's vision began to blur, the world around him dissolving into a brilliant golden light. The light consumed everything, and for a moment, he felt weightless, as if he were falling through an endless void.

Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind, familiar yet laced with madness. "Take this as a boon for helping me before... a place you can start over… well, start over again!" The voice cackled with maniacal laughter.

Harald's eyes widened in realization. "Wait, what?" he thought, but before he could react, the golden light intensified, blinding him completely.

The sensation of falling became more intense, and as his vision slowly cleared, Harald looked down to see the ground rushing up to meet him at an alarming speed. Panic surged through him, but he forced himself to focus.

"Feim... Zii... Gron!" he shouted, the words flowing instinctively from his lips.

His body turned incorporeal, the world around him shimmering. The impact he had feared never came; instead, he drifted safely to the ground, landing softly on his feet.

As the last echoes of the Shout faded, Harald looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. This was not the Sovngarde he had just left, nor was it the familiar landscape of Skyrim. The air was different, the land unfamiliar.

 Where had Sheogorath sent him?

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The old ruins had always fascinated Alanna, their crumbling walls and ancient towers a silent remainder to a time long past. The Oldstones, as they were called, were overgrown with thick ivy, the green tendrils snaking up the weathered stone, obscuring carvings that had once told the stories of kings. The air was heavy with an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind or the distant call of a bird. It was as if the ruins themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something—someone—to stir their ancient memories.

Alanna tried to visit as often as she could, despite her brother Jory's warnings. He still believed in their father's tales, the ones about how the Oldstones were haunted by the spirits of long-dead kings. But those stories only deepened Alanna's curiosity. There was something about the ruins that called to her, something that whispered of secrets and mysteries hidden in the shadows.

Most of the time, she came here with Maris, the village healer, under the pretense of gathering plants for medicine. Today was no different.

"Look for the red flowers," Maris said, bringing Alanna out of her thoughts.

Alanna blinked, realizing she had been lost in her daydreams again. She turned to find Maris watching her with a playful smile. "Daydreaming again, Alanna?" Maris teased gently.

Alanna smiled sheepishly. "I was thinking about how old these ruins are," she replied, her gaze drifting back to the towering structures and crumbling walls that surrounded them. The once-grand towers now leaned precariously, their stones chipped and weathered by centuries of rain and wind. The ground beneath their feet was uneven, littered with broken stones and the remnants of long-forgotten paths. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, and yet, it was slowly being reclaimed by nature.

The elders of the village often came to the Oldstones, leaving offerings at the graves of the ancient kings, hoping for protection or good fortune. Alanna had never left an offering herself, but today, as she looked around at the ruins, she felt a strong urge to do so. The village was in need of protection, now more than ever.

Alanna began searching the ruins for the red flowers Maris had mentioned. The plants were known to grow in the shaded corners of the Oldstones, their vibrant color a sharp contrast against the dull grays and greens of the ruins. She moved carefully through the overgrown pathways, her eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the flowers.

At last, she spotted a splash of red among the ivy near the base of an old, half-collapsed wall. The flowers were delicate, their petals a deep crimson that seemed to glow in the dim light. Alanna gently plucked a few of the blossoms, cradling them in her hands as if they were something precious. As she stood up, she took a moment to look around, the silence of the ruins pressing in on her once more. She felt a shiver run down her spine, but it wasn't fear—it was the feeling that she was being watched, that the spirits of the Oldstones were aware of her presence.

"Oh, there you are," Alanna heard Maris say, the sudden sound startling her. She quickly turned to see the healer standing nearby, hands on her hips, an expression of both relief and exasperation on her face.

"Alanna, I've told you to be careful in these ruins, and don't wander too much inside," Maris scolded gently, though her stern tone made it clear she was serious.

"I'm sorry, Maris, I just..." Alanna hesitated, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. "Do you think the old Mudd kings were honorable and kind? Would they have treated us better?"

Maris sighed deeply, her face softening slightly as she looked at the young girl. "Kings and nobles are all the same, Alanna," she replied, her voice tinged with bitterness. "Whether it's Harren the Black and his Ironborn reavers, who are strangling our village with their taxes, or the old Mudd kings, they would have done the same thing. They all take what they want, and we're left with the scraps."

Alanna frowned, her thoughts lingering on the tales she had heard. "I ain't heard of Mudd kings building anything like what Harren is building. Do you think what the merchants say is true? Will it be the largest castle in all the kingdoms?"

The merchants who passed through their village had spoken of King Harren's grand castle. Though only halfway built, it had already been called the greatest of all castles, its towering walls and vast halls unlike anything the realm had ever seen. But it was also the reason the Ironborn had increased their taxes twofold this year, demanding more from those who had little to give.

Maris shook her head, her expression grim. "It does not matter to us. We won't be living in it."

"Aye, but we're paying for it," Alanna muttered, following after Maris as the older woman turned to leave the ruins.

As they climbed down the small hill where the ruins stood, Alanna and Maris fell into a steady pace. The path back to the village would take nearly an hour.

"Do you think the Ironmen will come this week?" Alanna asked, her voice low, almost as if she didn't want to hear the answer.

Maris sighed, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. "My father, asked for two weeks more to pay the taxes they're owed. But I doubt they'll give us that time. They aren't known for their patience."

Alanna nodded, her heart sinking. The Ironborn had a reputation for cruelty, and the villagers had already sacrificed so much just to keep them at bay.

As they walked, the conversation died down, both women lost in their thoughts. But as they neared the village, something caught Alanna's eye—a thin line of smoke rising in the distance, curling up towards the sky.

"Maris," Alanna muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's smoke."

Maris's eyes widened in horror as she saw it too. "The Ironmen," she whispered, the basket she had been carrying slipping from her grasp and tumbling to the ground. Without another word, she broke into a run, racing towards the village.

Alanna followed, her heart pounding in her chest as terror gripped her. Her thoughts were only on her brother, Jory. She sent frantic prayers to the Seven, and even to the Old Gods her mother had once revered, begging for their protection.

When they reached the outskirts of the village, chaos greeted them. Men bearing the Kraken coat of arms—the sigil of House Greyjoy—were ransacking everything in sight. Homes were being torn apart, their contents thrown to the ground or set ablaze.

Alanna scanned the scene frantically, her heart leaping into her throat when she lost sight of Maris. But then she spotted her brother, Jory, running through the chaos. Relief surged through her, but it was short-lived—an Ironborn brute stepped into Jory's path, blocking his way.

"Trying to run away, are ye?" the man snarled, grabbing Jory by the arm and yanking him back. As Alanna drew closer, she saw two more Ironborn men approaching, their faces twisted with cruel glee.

"What's this one got, trying to run?" one of them sneered, eyeing Jory with contempt. "Must have some valuables hidden away."

The third man, taller and more menacing than the others, let his gaze slide over to her. His eyes gleamed with a dark, wicked intent as a slow, evil smile spread across his face.

"Aye, he does have something precious," he said, his voice a sickening purr as he started towards her.

Alanna's blood ran cold. She stood frozen in place, her limbs refusing to move, her voice caught in her throat. She knew what was about to happen, and terror seized her like never before. Around her, the sounds of the village in turmoil filled her ears—screams of fear, the pleading cries of Lysa, old Willem's daughter, begging the Ironborn not to hurt her father.

Jory's face went white with fear as the man spoke again, his tone mocking. "I tell you what, blacksmith," he said, addressing Jory with a sneer. "Let me have your sister here, and you don't have to pay anything."

The other two laughed, their amusement only deepening the horror in Jory's eyes. Alanna stood paralyzed, unable to move, unable to scream. Her mind raced, but her body refused to obey. The men stepped closer, their intentions clear, and Alanna felt a wave of helplessness crash over her.

But then, just as one of the men reached out for her, there was a deafening crack—like the most powerful thunderclap she had ever heard and then saw an Ironborn flying through the sky.

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Wherever Sheogorath had sent him, it definitely wasn't Tamriel. Harald knew this much as soon as he looked up at the evening sky and saw a single moon, stark and solitary, instead of the twin orbs of Masser and Secunda. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had somehow returned to Earth, but he quickly dismissed the thought. The moon hanging in the twilight sky was unlike anything he had ever seen from Earth—its surface scarred with strange, unfamiliar patterns.

He didn't linger there for long, his instincts urging him to move. Spying a river winding through the landscape, he decided to follow it, hoping it might lead him to some sign of human habitation. The water shimmered under the fading light, and he kept his pace steady, his eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of life.

It didn't take him long to find it. Sailing on the river were Viking-style boats, their long, curved prows cutting through the water with ease. The sight of them filled him with a mix of curiosity and wariness and he decided to follow.

Harald moved with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, his full set of ebony armor gleaming in the dying light. The dark plates of the armor were crafted with intricate designs, a blend of sharp angles and flowing curves, giving it an almost otherworldly appearance. The armor's surface was a deep black, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the surroundings with a faint, ominous glow. It covered him from head to toe, leaving no vulnerable spot exposed, and it was enchanted making it nearly impervious to normal weapons. On his back, he carried his ebony battleaxe, a massive weapon with a blade as black as night.

He didn't have to walk for long. The boats soon pulled up to a quaint village in the distance, surrounded by dense woodlands and fields, the thatched roofs of the houses barely visible among the trees.

At first, it seemed peaceful, but the moment was shattered by the distant sound of screams. The men from the boats weren't here to visit family or friends—they were raiders, come to pillage and destroy.

'Here we go again' he thought as he broke into a run, his armor clinking softly with each powerful stride. The village was on the other side of the river, but that wasn't going to stop him.

"Wuld... Nah... Kest!" he shouted, the words of power tearing from his throat.

In an instant, he was propelled forward, his body becoming a blur as he streaked across the water, barely disturbing its surface. The world around him shifted and stretched as he zoomed past the river, the distance closing in the blink of an eye.

He could see them now—men in armor bearing the insignia of a kraken, dragging villagers out of their homes, striking them with brutal force. A group of raiders set fire to a nearby hut, the flames quickly consuming the thatched roof. Further ahead, a man was dragging a woman, her screams piercing the night air as she struggled against him.

Rage flared in Harald's chest, his blood boiling at the sight. Without hesitation, he reached back and unslung his battleaxe, the familiar weight of it grounding him in the moment.

With a mighty roar, he shouted once more, "Wuld... Nah... Kest!"

The Shout carried him forward like a hurricane, closing the distance between him and the raider in an instant. Before the man could react, Harald's battleaxe arced through the air, the black blade slicing clean through the raider's neck with a single, fluid motion. The man's head flew off his shoulders, his body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap. Blood sprayed across the grass, the woman he had been dragging collapsing to the ground, trembling but alive.

One of the raiders near the headless corpse turned to look at Harald, his eyes wide with shock and fear. The expression on the woman's face was no different—her gaze was locked on him, a mix of terror and disbelief as she took in the sight of the towering figure before her. Harald couldn't blame her. Clad in armor as black as the deepest night and standing a massive six feet and six inches tall, he was a fearsome sight to behold. The dark, polished plates of his ebony armor glinted menacingly in the firelight, giving him the appearance of a vengeful specter.

The raider, driven by a surge of desperate courage, tightened his grip on his weapon and charged at Harald with a wild cry. But before he could even close the distance, Harald inhaled deeply, the power of his Thu'um building within him.

"Fus... Roh...!"

The shout tore through the air like a thunderclap, a wave of pure force that hit the raider like a battering ram. The man was lifted off his feet, flung through the air as if he were weightless, his body twisting and flailing uncontrollably as he vanished over the village.

Harald turned and sprinted toward the village, his eyes blazing with a singular purpose: to rid this place of the invaders.

As he reached the edge of the village, Harald saw more raiders wreaking havoc—dragging villagers from their homes, setting fire to buildings, and striking down anyone who dared resist. The sight only fueled his fury. He tightened his grip on his battleaxe, the weapon's dark blade seeming to pulse with a thirst for blood.

A raider with a sword ran at him, swinging wildly, but Harald was faster. "Zun!" he shouted and the raider's sword was ripped from his grasp by an unseen force, clattering uselessly to the ground. The man barely had time to react before Harald's battleaxe cleaved through his chest, splitting him open with a spray of blood. The raider's body crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.

Another raider, seeing the carnage, tried to muster the courage to stand his ground, but Harald's next shout shattered whatever resolve he had left. "Faas!" The word carried with it the power of terror, an ancient magic that pierced the raider's mind. His face twisted in fear, and with a panicked scream, he turned and fled, his weapon forgotten in the dirt as he ran for his life.

Harald did not slow. He moved through the village like a force of nature, his battleaxe swinging with deadly precision. As he engaged another group of raiders, he shouted, "Su... Grah... Dun!" The power of the shout surged through him, imbuing his weapon with supernatural speed. His battleaxe became a blur of motion, cutting down one raider after another in a flurry of strikes too fast for the eye to follow.

A raider tried to raise his shield, but Harald's axe shattered it with one powerful swing, the force carrying through to bury the blade deep in the man's side. Another raider attempted to strike from behind, but Harald spun around with blinding speed, his axe sweeping low to sever the man's legs from under him, the raider collapsing to the ground with a howl of pain before a final blow silenced him forever.

The village was soon painted with the blood of the invaders, the ground littered with the bodies of the fallen. Harald's fury was unstoppable; he was a whirlwind of death, cutting down raider after raider. One tried to crawl away, injured and terrified, but Harald's axe found his spine, ending his pitiful attempt to escape.

The final raider in his sights, seeing his comrades slaughtered, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. But Harald's cold gaze offered none. With a final, swift strike, he ended the man's life, the battleaxe slicing clean through the raider's neck, his head rolling away as his body slumped to the ground.

Harald looked around the village, taking in the scene of devastation. The villagers were emerging slowly from their hiding places, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. He could see them watching him, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. Wanting to ease their fear, he reached up and removed his helmet, revealing his face.

The villagers began to inch closer, their eyes shifting from the dead raiders scattered around the village to the man who had saved them. Just as some semblance of calm seemed to return, a woman's scream pierced the air.

Harald's head snapped toward the sound, and without a second thought, he broke into a run, following the cries. He rounded a corner to find a man on his knees, desperately begging for the life of his sister.

"I beg ye, let her go!" the man pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.

The raider had the woman in a tight grip, a knife pressed against her throat. His eyes widened in panic when he saw Harald approaching, his fear evident as he screamed, "Away, witch-sorcerer! If ye come closer, I'll slit her throat!"

The woman struggled against the raider's hold, her eyes wild with terror. The raider's grip tightened as he saw Harald still advancing. "Put the axe down!" he barked, his voice trembling but more confident as he saw Harald pause.

Harald glanced at the woman's brother, whose eyes were filled with pleading, silently begging him to save his sister. Harald gave a slow nod, then let his battleaxe fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

The raider, emboldened by what he perceived as victory, sneered. "Now you're going to let me…"

The raider's words were cut off as Harald swiftly conjured a fireball in his hand. Before the raider could react, Harald hurled the fireball straight at him. The flames engulfed the raider's face, and he screamed in agony, releasing the woman as he staggered back, clutching at his burning flesh.

The woman bolted free, running into her brother's arms, tears streaming down her face.

Harald wasted no time. "Fus... Roh...!" he shouted, the power of his voice sending the raider, who was still writhing in pain, flying into the air.

Harald watched the raider fall back to the ground with a satisfied smirk. "Never gets old," he muttered to himself.

He turned to the woman and her brother, who were huddled together, the man cradling his sister as if he'd never let go. The man looked up at Harald, their eyes locking. "Thank you," he stammered, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you… thank you."

Harald nodded, accepting the thanks with a solemn expression. He began to walk forward, looking around as the survivors of the village started to gather around him. They came cautiously at first, their steps hesitant, but soon they formed a small crowd.

For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the crackling of the still-burning hut. Then, the woman Harald had saved found her voice, her tone reverent and full of awe. "Who are you, ser knight?"

Harald looked at her, then at the faces of the villagers around him, all of them waiting for an answer. "I am Harald Stormcrown," he said, his voice carrying over the quiet. "And… I don't know where I am."

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