Chapter Text
The cold, biting wind whipped through the streets of Whiterun, carrying with it the scent of snow and the distant howl of wolves in the night. The moon hung low, casting pale light over the cobbled pathways and the looming walls of the city. Jesper stood outside the prison gate, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the pommel of his sword, a habit he picked up to pass the time during long, uneventful patrols. The day had been long, the duties tedious, and all he wanted now was a quiet evening to rest.
But, of course, he wasn’t going to get that. He never did.
Keith was lounging inside the holding cell like it was the finest inn in the hold, sprawled out on the narrow bench. Carefree grin hidden by the loose mask over his face, his eyes still betrayed amusement, his boots kicked up against the bars. He was humming a tune, a light, carefree sound that seemed entirely out of place in the sterile silence of the prison. His eyes flicked up when Jesper approached, a mischievous glint lighting them up in the moonlight.
"Jesper! My favourite jailer," Keith called out, his voice casual as though he wasn’t currently sitting in a cage. "I was wondering when you’d return. Was getting a bit bored here, you know? The food’s terrible, the atmosphere’s grim—no entertainment, no excitement." He made a dramatic gesture, as if addressing a grand audience, even though the only company he had was a few rats scuttling along the stone floor.
Jesper let out a long, tired sigh and leaned against the bars. He could already feel the familiar frustration building in his chest. The thief had a way of making every problem feel like it was his idea of a joke.
“Really, Keith?” Jesper’s voice was sharp but exasperated, the kind of tone he had adopted after having this same conversation far too many times. “This is the fifth time this week. Fifth. How many times do I have to tell you that stealing is against the law?”
Keith didn’t seem bothered by the reprimand in the slightest. If anything, his grin only grew wider, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He tilted his head back, peering out through the bars as if the whole situation were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“Stealing?” Keith repeated, almost as if the word were foreign. “I prefer to think of it as... ‘liberating’ a few things from people who don’t need them. Besides, it’s not my fault the merchants here are so easily distracted. They practically begged me to take their coin purse. Who am I to refuse?” He chuckled lightly to himself.
Jesper’s brow furrowed. He had heard every variation of this excuse, and frankly, he was getting tired of it. “I’m serious, Keith. This isn’t some harmless little prank. You’re breaking the law, and this is the consequence.”
Keith just shrugged, unfazed by the scolding. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure this whole jail thing will blow over soon enough. You know I’ve got a way of getting out of these situations,” he said with a devil-may-care grin beneath his mask. He tapped a finger against the bars of his cell, as if to emphasize his point.
"Besides," Keith added, "This has to be more fun than cleaning up after the Dragonborn. Think of it as a little vacation for you too. No enchanting pranks, no shouting... just good old-fashioned jail duty.”
Jesper let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, at least cleaning up after the Dragonborn didn’t involve this.” He gestured toward the cell, the frustration in his voice building again. “And speaking of which... it’s been odd that he’s been gone for a couple weeks now. No word, no signs, nothing. He usually shows up out of nowhere, filling the market with cheese rolls or cabbages, maybe knocking over a stall or two. No shouting, no mayhem... it’s nice, sure, but it’s been strange.”
Keith raised an eyebrow, lounging further back. “Yeah, well, maybe he’s off terrorizing somewhere else. Or maybe he’s trying out a new hobby. Wouldn't hurt for the guy to take a break from being a walking disaster for a while.”
Jesper rubbed the back of his neck, still frowning. “Yeah, maybe. The peace and quiet has been a welcome change.” he sighed, "But then, I’ve got you to deal with and it's keeping me from my sleep."
Keith grinned, unfazed by the subtle jab. “Oh, don’t worry, Jesper. I’ll be outta here by morning."
Jesper sighed dejectedly. He had to admit, Keith was annoyingly skilled at slipping through tight spots. But no. He wasn’t going to let the man worm his way out of this one.
“No, Keith,” Jesper said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “You are going to stay right where you are. Until your sentence is served. And that means you’re going to learn the lesson I keep trying to teach you. No more running away.”
Though Jesper couldn't see it, Keith’s grin didn’t falter. He stretched his legs out, yawning lazily as if he had all the time in the world. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, pal.” His voice was completely devoid of any concern, as though being in jail was just a minor inconvenience he’d learned to live with. “You know, I might even leave you a note. Maybe a thank-you letter for keeping me in such luxurious accommodations.”
Jesper crossed his arms and shot him a hard look, leaning in closer to the bars. “You’re not leaving this time. Understand?”
Keith only smirked, tilting his head to one side in mock contemplation. “Oh, I understand, Jesper.” There was a pause as Jesper began to turn and leave when Keith added, “You know you’re wasting your time trying to keep me locked up.” He flashed an exaggerated wink. “I’ll be back on the streets before you even miss me. You’ll see.”
Jesper shook his head with a resigned sigh, turning on his heel anyway and heading toward the exit.
“Sleep tight, Keith,” he said dejectedly, “...I’m sure you’ll find a way out before dawn.”
Keith’s voice followed him as he walked away, light and teasing. “You know me too well.”
***
Jesper made his way back to The Bannered Mare, the evening still cold and dark around him. The city of Whiterun was quiet, the streets nearly empty as most people had retreated indoors to avoid the chill. Jesper’s mind was preoccupied with the events of the day, the weight of his duties, and the thought of the stubborn man who kept finding his way back to the jail.
Eventually, he made it to his bed in the attic, collapsing into it with a groan. He kicked off his boots and pulled the thick woollen blankets over himself, trying to quiet the endless thoughts that seemed to plague him lately.
His body relaxed, the tension of the day slowly ebbing away as he drifted off to sleep. But his mind… his mind refused to rest.
Meanwhile, far across Skyrim, the sound of clashing steel rang out in the dark expanse of a forgotten battlefield.
The Dragonborn stood tall, his armour gleaming faintly under the blood-red sky, his weapon in hand as he faced the Daedric Prince Molag Bal. The air crackled with dark energy, lightning flashing across the sky in jagged arcs as the battle unfolded with vicious intensity.
Molag Bal’s voice, twisted and cold, reverberated through the storm. “Foolish mortal. You dare challenge me?”
The Dragonborn stood his ground, his face set in a challenging grin, mouth open with heavy breath.
With a roar, Molag Bal summoned a surge of dark power that seemed to swallow the very light. The Dragonborn raised his sword in a final, desperate move to strike—but before he could land the blow, the Daedric Prince lashed out, sending the Dragonborn flying backward, his body crashing into the ground.
In a flash, Molag Bal’s hand reached out, and the air turned thick with the cold, choking presence of the Daedric Prince’s power. The Dragonborn struggled, but it was futile. In a whirl of wind, his soul was ripped from his body, consumed by Molag Bal’s darkness.
And then… silence.
***
Jesper’s sleep was fitful, his body shifting beneath the heavy covers as the stillness of the room seemed to press in on him. The shadows danced along the walls, and the distant sounds of the city—soft, muffled by the night—seemed to fade away, leaving only an eerie silence.
Then, without warning, the room began to change.
The air grew thick, a warmth creeping into the coldness of the air, and the dim light from the twin moons outside seemed to pale in comparison to the sudden brightness that filled the room. Jesper’s eyes fluttered open—only to find himself not in his bed, but standing on a vast, open plain, the sky a swirling mass of clouds and fire.
Before him stood a figure, colossal and powerful, its very presence like the weight of the heavens themselves. The figure wore an armour of golden scales, the light around it bending as though it were both part of the sky and yet something more. The dragon’s eyes—two fiery embers—pierced into Jesper’s soul with a gaze that felt both ancient and knowing.
Jesper's breath caught in his throat. The god before him was unmistakable.
“Akatosh...” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What... what is this?”
The god's voice reverberated through the air, deep and resonant, like the roar of a great dragon echoing from the farthest reaches of time. “You stand in the presence of Akatosh, Dragon God of Time. And I have come to you with a message.”
Jesper felt his knees go weak, and he tried to steady himself. “A message? From you?” His voice trembled, both in awe and disbelief. He had heard of Akatosh, of course—everyone had. But to stand before him in this way? It didn’t feel real.
“The fates have changed,” Akatosh continued, his voice like thunder, but strangely calm. “The Dragonborn, the one who was meant to fulfill the prophecy, has been... taken. His soul has been stolen, taken by dark forces. A Daedric Prince, one whose name is a stain on the world, has robbed Skyrim of its chosen hero.”
Jesper’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing to catch up with the words. “His... soul? Taken? But... he’s the Dragonborn. No one could just—”
“You are wrong,” Akatosh interrupted, the force of his words making the very ground beneath Jesper’s feet tremble. “The Dragonborn’s power, his soul, is not his alone. It is tied to the prophecy, to the fate of all of Tamriel. Without the Dragonborn, there will be no balance. No protection from the dragons, no hope for your people.”
Jesper opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. “What are you saying? If the Dragonborn’s soul is gone... what does that mean for Skyrim? For me?”
Akatosh’s gaze softened, the intensity in his eyes almost pitying. “It means the prophecy must still be fulfilled. And you, Jesper, are the one who must take his place. You are the one chosen to bear the weight of this responsibility.”
Jesper stumbled backward, his hands raised in protest. “Wait—no. This isn’t possible! I’m just a guard. I’m not some hero. I can’t... I can’t be the Dragonborn. You’ve got the wrong person.” His heart raced in his chest as disbelief turned into panic. “I’m not—there’s no way—”
The god’s voice grew softer, but no less powerful. “You are the one the prophecy calls. Whether you accept it or not, you must rise to the challenge. The fate of Skyrim rests on your shoulders now. Only you can restore balance. Only you can reclaim the Dragonborn’s soul and defeat the one who took it.”
Jesper opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. His vision began to blur, the landscape fading around him, the bright light of Akatosh’s presence dimming as though swallowed by an unseen force.
“Wake, Jesper,” Akatosh’s voice echoed one last time, fading into the void. “And know that your destiny has already begun.”
Jesper jerked awake, his chest heaving with the remnants of the dream, his eyes wide and wild. He gasped for breath, his mind still reeling from the impossible vision. For a long moment, he just stared at the ceiling, the silence of the room feeling suffocating in comparison to the vastness of the dream he’d just experienced.
“Just a dream,” he muttered, his voice shaky but firm as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Just... a dream.” But even as he said the words, a cold knot of unease settled in his stomach.
Still, the rational part of him—the part that had spent years patrolling the streets of Whiterun, making sense of the mundane—pushed the strange encounter aside. It had to be a product of exhaustion. The chaos with Keith, the weirdness of the Dragonborn’s absence—it had all just piled on his mind until his dreams twisted into something... bizarre.
Jesper rubbed his face with his hands, exhaling slowly. “No need to lose sleep over it. It’s just some ridiculous dream. Gods don’t come to you in your sleep.”
With a grunt, he threw off the covers, his feet hitting the cold floor. The sunlight had just begun to creep through the small window of his room. He’d had odd dreams before—nothing that crazy, but odd enough to shake him for a moment. He was sure this one, like the others, would fade with time.
Except the faintest echo of Akatosh’s voice lingered in his ears. Like a thunder clap and the words ghosting through his mind as if he almost heard them aloud.
Do..Vah.. Kiin..
And deep down, Jesper couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something—something was terribly wrong.
***
The morning sun crept lazily over the horizon, casting a pale, golden light across the stone walls of Whiterun.
Trudging through the streets toward the prison, Jesper’s breath came out in short, visible puffs. The warmth of dawn had yet to banish the frigid night air, and he pulled his orange cloak tighter around his shoulders, cursing the metal chainmail against his arms. He passed the market stalls, their tarps fluttering in the morning breeze, and a few early risers who nodded in greeting.
Somewhere deep down, he knew. He knew without even checking that Keith was long gone. Still, he trudged over to the prison, hoping—just this once—he might be wrong.
He wasn’t.
The sight that greeted him was exactly what he expected—and exactly what he dreaded. Keith’s cell was empty, the door hanging slightly ajar. A mocking note, scrawled hastily on a scrap of parchment, was pinned to the wall with a dagger.
"Thanks for the hospitality! See you around, Jesper. P.S. The rats weren’t great company."
Jesper stared at the note, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t bother to read it twice.
"Of course," he muttered to himself.
It wasn’t long before the captain of the guard stormed into the room, his face a deep shade of red that usually meant bad news for Jesper.
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?” the captain bellowed, his voice echoing through the barracks. His weathered face was red with frustration as he spoke. “Fifth time this month, Jesper! Fifth! How does one thief keep outsmarting us?”
Jesper stood at attention, biting back a retort. He didn’t have an answer—not one that wouldn’t earn him another reprimand.
“You’re on disciplinary again,” he growled, shoving a wooden sword into Jesper’s hands. The training weapon was crudely carved, its surface nicked and scratched from years of abuse. It was a symbol of humiliation among the guards, and Jesper’s cheeks burned as he took it.
“Yes, sir,” he muttered, his voice flat.
“And get out there on patrol. Maybe if you keep your eyes open, we won’t lose another prisoner,” the captain snapped before storming off.
Jesper sighed and adjusted the wooden sword on his belt as he stepped onto the main street for morning patrol. The familiar clatter of boots on cobblestones greeted him, and he soon spotted his usual companions, Dave and Kevin.
"Oh, hey Jesper." Dave called out, waving entirely too cheerfully for the early hour. His attention fell on the sword, “Oh, looks like you’re back on disciplinary duty!”
Kevin stood beside him, arms crossed, his expression the usual mix of amusement and mild disinterest. “Nice sword, Jesper. Planning to fend off dragons with that?” he jabbed playfully.
Jesper groaned, holding up the wooden blade. "Keith broke out again. So here I am."
Dave let out a low whistle. "Tough break, pal. Guess it’s back to babysitting duty for ya."
"Yeah, yeah," Jesper muttered. "Any sign of him?"
Kevin shook his head. "Nope. But knowing Keith, he’s probably halfway to Solitude by now. That or hiding in the meadery."
"Probably helping himself to their entire stock," Dave added with a chuckle.
Jesper frowned, his thoughts drifting. “He didn’t leave a clue this time. Just a stupid note.”
Kevin snorted. “Sounds about right. Well, things have been peaceful lately anyway, haven’t they? No dragons, no shouting lunatics in the streets…”
Dave grinned. “That reminds me of the time I was stationed in Falkreath. There was this drunk mage who—”
“Not another one of your stories,” Kevin interrupted, raising a hand. “I’m sure Jesper is a little too tired to listen to a tangent,” gesturing his way, he added, “Honestly man, you look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
Jesper stifled a yawn as he chuckled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah, well…”
The memories of bright light and fiery eyes flashed once more through the guard’s mind. Jesper hesitated, then spoke. “...I had the weirdest dream last night,” he said. “There was this dragon—big, golden, glowing. And it talked to me.”
They listened as he continued, “..It told me that it was Akatosh...and uh...that I was chosen to become the next Dragonborn….”
Dave and Kevin exchanged amused looks before bursting into laughter.
“Jesper, the Dragonborn?” Kevin wheezed, clutching his side. “That’s rich!”
“Yeah,” Dave added, wiping a tear from his eye. “Next you’ll be telling us you’re the Jarl’s long-lost heir.”
Jesper rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Their laughter was infectious, and the absurdity of the idea struck him too. “I know, right? Can you imagine me, running around Whiterun, shouting and leaving cheese wheels everywhere?” Jesper chuckled along at the thought.
From there, the three continued their patrol, their banter lightening the mood as the sun climbed higher. But as the morning wore on, Jesper’s thoughts lingered on the dream. It had felt so real, and that golden dragon’s words still echoed faintly in his mind.
For now, though, there was work to do—and a broom waiting for him back at the barracks.
***
The grand hall of Dragonsreach was steeped in the flickering glow of torches, their light dancing across the towering wooden beams and the ancient tapestries that lined the walls. The air smelled faintly of mead and the ever-present smoke from the great hearth that roared in the centre of the hall. Jarl Balgruuf sat upon his throne, his expression thoughtful as he rested his chin on his fist. His piercing eyes were locked onto the robed figure before him—a messenger of the Greybeards.
The man was clad in thick grey robes, the unmistakable emblem of the Voice embroidered subtly on his chest. He stood tall and composed, his weathered face partially obscured by the hood that shadowed his features. Despite the grandeur of the hall, he seemed entirely unaffected, as though he had delivered messages to kings and emperors before without so much as a flicker of hesitation.
Balgruuf’s steely gaze narrowed. “You’re telling me Jesper, one of my guards, has been chosen by the Greybeards?” His voice carried the weight of disbelief, echoing through the hall. “Surely there’s been some mistake. What of the Dragonborn? Surely he’s the one you are looking for.”
To the side, the captain of the guard stood with arms crossed, his brow furrowed in irritation. “With all due respect, my Jarl,” he interjected, his deep voice laced with skepticism, “Jesper is... well, he’s currently on disciplinary. He can hardly catch a simple thief, much less fight dragons." He paused, letting that fact hang in the air, his lips twitching with barely concealed disdain. "He hardly seems fitting for someone summoned by the Greybeards.”
The Greybeard messenger remained impassive, his voice calm and unwavering. “There is no mistake, my Jarl. The Dragonborn you know is no longer with us. The Greybeards do not call upon men lightly. They have spoken, and the one named Jesper has been chosen.”
Balgruuf leaned back in his throne, letting out a long breath as he rubbed his temples. “Akatosh help us,” he muttered under his breath. “Captain, go fetch Jesper and bring him to me.”
The guard captain nodded in reluctant acquiesce, asking one last time, “You’re sure that he’s the one they want?”
The messenger did not waver. “Yes. The summons stands. Jesper must make the journey to High Hrothgar.”
Balgruuf sighed heavily, casting a glance at Irileth.
“We can’t exactly ignore the Greybeards,” she muttered to the Jarl. “If they have truly called upon him, then we must honour it. But... Jesper?”
The captain exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’ll go fetch him,” he said, sounding like he'd rather do anything else. “Last I checked, he was whistling about, sweeping the steps outside the Bannered Mare.”
Balgruuf let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “The Dragonborn of legend, gone… And they want Jesper.” He leaned forward, a trace of amusement breaking through his concern. “Alright, Captain. Bring him here. Let’s hear what he has to say for himself.”
“Yes, sir,” he nodded stiffly and turned on his heel, muttering as he strode toward the doors.
Balgruuf glanced back at the Greybeard messenger, his face once again serious. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell me why him, of all people?”
The messenger merely inclined his head slightly. “The way of the Voice is not for us to question, only to follow.”
Balgruuf grunted. “Fine. But I’ll say this—you might have picked the most unlikely hero in all of Skyrim.”
The messenger's lips curled in the faintest hint of a smile. “Perhaps. But destiny often favours the unexpected.”
Balgruuf stared into the flames of the hearth, deep in thought. If the Dragonborn was truly gone... and if Jesper had been chosen in his place... Skyrim's troubles had only just begun.
***
Jesper dragged the broom across the stone floor of the barracks with all the enthusiasm of a man sentenced to an eternity of monotony. Dust swirled lazily in the air, illuminated by the soft afternoon light filtering through the small, grimy windows. The scent of stale mead and damp armour hung thick, mixing unpleasantly with the faint tang of old sweat that seemed permanently embedded into the walls.
His thoughts, however, were far from his tedious chore.
The Dragonborn... gone for weeks now, he mused, staring blankly at the floor as he swept another halfhearted pile of dirt into a corner. No grand entrances, no flying cabbages, no sudden Thu’um echoing through the streets. Just... gone.
Jesper frowned, leaning on the broom for a moment. And then there was that dream—the one that had stuck with him like a bad cold. A voice, deep and ancient, calling his name through mist and fire. It had felt so real, yet utterly ridiculous at the same time. He could still hear the echoes of it if he thought hard enough.
"Jesper..."
He shook his head with a tired sigh. “Maybe I need to lay off the sweetrolls before bed,” he muttered under his breath.
Up in the rafters, hidden within the shadowed beams, Keith lounged on his back with a stolen bottle of wine resting against his chest. He swirled the bottle absentmindedly, listening to Jesper mutter to himself. A smirk tugged at his lips. Jesper had always been the serious sort, far too concerned with rules and duty. Keith, on the other hand, preferred the finer things in life—like a good vintage and a lofty perch where no one could bother him.
Poor guy, Keith thought with a chuckle. Sweeping the barracks. Talk about drawing the short straw.
Just as Jesper resumed sweeping, the heavy door creaked open and in strode Jesper’s superior, his face set in the perpetual scowl of a man who had run out of patience years ago. His eyes scanned the room before landing squarely on Jesper, who straightened up immediately, clutching the broom like a weapon.
“Jesper,” the captain said, his voice curt and clipped. “The Jarl wants to see you. Now.”
Jesper blinked, brow furrowing. “The Jarl? What for?”
His boss exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. “Just get moving.”
Jesper hesitated, noting the irritation practically radiating from the captain. “This isn’t about Keith escaping again, is it? Because I swear—”
He cut him off with a glare. “Enough questions. Just go.”
Up in the rafters, Keith’s ears perked up. He nearly choked on his wine. The Jarl wants to see Jesper?
He peeked down between the beams, his eyes widening with intrigue. Did Jesper really get in that much shit because I escaped the jail again?
Keith rolled onto his stomach, watching with growing amusement as Jesper sighed in resignation and propped the broom against the wall. The captain of the guard looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, which, frankly, Keith found even more amusing.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Jesper muttered, wiping dust off his hands.
As they left the barracks, Keith grinned to himself and dropped silently from the rafters, landing with the grace of a cat. He took a quick swig of his wine, then slipped out after them, sticking to the shadows like a true professional.
If the Jarl’s calling Jesper up to Dragonsreach, I gotta see this.
***
Jesper stepped into the grand hall of Dragonsreach, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. The towering walls, adorned with intricate banners and decorative skulls, seemed to loom over him with a weight that felt heavier than usual. He stood stiffly beside the captain of the guard, who looked about as thrilled to be there as Jesper felt.
Seated on his throne, Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward, his piercing gaze locked onto Jesper. Standing beside him was a robed figure—stern and dignified, bearing the unmistakable air of someone not used to being ignored. The emblem of the Greybeards, stitched onto his cloak, stood out in the dim torchlight. Jesper swallowed hard.
The Jarl cleared his throat. "Jesper, do you know anything about the Dragonborn's whereabouts?" His voice carried the usual authority but was laced with something else—concern, perhaps.
Jesper rubbed the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably. "Uh... no, my Jarl. Not exactly." He hesitated. "I mean, it's been strange, him not showing up to cause chaos lately. No cart crashes, no sweetroll disasters... just peace and quiet. It's almost too quiet."
Jarl Balgruuf nodded thoughtfully, but his expression remained grim. "The Greybeards have sent a message, Jesper. They claim you should have been expecting to hear from them."
Jesper blinked. "Me?" He pointed to himself, incredulously. "Why would I—"
The Greybeard messenger stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. "You should have heard 'the call,' Jesper. It is fate that has chosen you. Have you not experienced anything unusual lately?"
Jesper opened his mouth to protest, but then the memory of his dream crept into his thoughts. The sweeping he'd been doing earlier seemed a lifetime away now. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the Jarl, the captain, and finally, the Greybeard’s messenger.
"Well..." he started slowly, "I did have this strange dream... Akatosh came to me. He said something about me becoming the next Dragonborn." Jesper scoffed nervously. "But that's ridiculous, right? I'm just a guard. I guard things. I arrest people. I sweep floors."
"Badly," the captain muttered under his breath, still clearly irritated by the entire ordeal.
Jesper ignored him and continued. "I mean, there has to be some kind of mistake. Why would Akatosh pick me of all people?"
The messenger remained composed, his piercing eyes meeting Jesper’s. "The gods do not make mistakes, Jesper. Your destiny awaits you. The time has come for you to journey to High Hrothgar."
Jesper stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "But... but I'm just..."
High above, hidden in the wooden beams of Dragonsreach, Keith watched the scene unfold, bottle of stolen wine in hand. He nearly choked on a sip. ‘ What do you mean The Greybeards want Jesper?’ His gaze snapped down to the guard, eyes wide with disbelief. The conversation continued, and Keith nearly dropped the bottle.
Jesper? The next Dragonborn? Keith’s mind raced, trying to make sense of it. He stifled a laugh but couldn’t stifle the grin creeping onto his face. Well... that's a new one.
He had heard a lot of crazy things in his life, but this took the sweetroll. Amused as he was, a small knot of worry settled in his chest. Jesper wasn't exactly hero material—he was barely guard material.
The idea of his friend—the guy who spent most of his time chasing after petty thieves and grumbling about his job—being the saviour of Tamriel was almost too much.
Still, beneath the amusement, something else gnawed at him. If the Greybeards were calling him, this wasn’t just a joke. Things were about to get a lot more complicated. And dangerous.
Back below, Jesper groaned, running a hand down his face. "Look, I appreciate the whole... prophetic destiny thing, but I think you've got the wrong guy."
The Jarl simply shook his head. "This is not a request, Jesper. It's an order."
Jesper sighed in resignation. "Of course it is."
Keith took another swig of his wine, leaning back into the rafters with a smirk. "Well, this is gonna be interesting," he muttered to himself.
But as the thief leaned back against the wooden beam, his grin faded slightly. If the Greybeards were involved, this wasn’t just some fluke. Jesper might actually have to go through with it. And that meant heading up to High Hrothgar—a journey filled with wolves, trolls, and worse. Jesper might have been decent with a sword, (wooden or otherwise, heh) but he wasn’t exactly battle-hardened. He could get himself killed out there.
Keith sighed, tapping the rim of the bottle with his thumb. I think I should go with him. Jesper was definitely not the heroic journey type. The guy barely left Whiterun, and when he did, it was usually to chase down some drunk who stole something of minor value. Keith, on the other hand, had seen a fair bit of the world, knew how to handle himself in a fight—and more importantly, wasn't afraid to take a life if he had to. Jesper, though... he was a bit of a pacifist. Too soft, always hesitating. That hesitation could get him killed if he wasn’t careful.
He could always follow in secret, keep an eye on him from the shadows. But... nah, sneaking around like that would get boring real fast. Maybe it’d be better to just approach him directly, tag along for the ride. Someone had to make sure Jesper didn’t trip over his own honour and end up as troll food. And besides... this whole thing could end up being very profitable.
Keith smirked, watching as Jesper groaned and rubbed his face in frustration. Yeah, Jesper was going to need all the help he could get.
Tucking the half-empty bottle into his belt, Keith shifted in the rafters, his mind made up. Looks like I’m going to High Hrothgar.
***
Jesper trudged down the steps of Dragonsreach, his thoughts swirling with doubt. The dream must have been real. Akatosh himself had spoken to him. But why him? He was just a guard—a glorified street sweeper who could barely keep up with petty thieves like Keith. How was he supposed to stand against dragons? What if he failed? What if this was all some massive mistake?
The weight of his thoughts made his feet feel heavier with each step. By the time he reached the Bannered Mare, the warm glow spilling from the windows offered a small comfort against the growing turmoil in his chest. Pushing open the door, the familiar scent of roasting meat and mead hit him like a wave, and he made his way to the counter with a sigh.
"Hulda," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "just... just a mug of mead. A big one."
Before Hulda could respond, a voice piped up from behind him. "Ah, drowning your sorrows already, eh, Jesper?"
Jesper groaned internally. "Keith..."
The thief slid onto the stool beside him, grinning. "I gotta say, heroism looks good on you. Never thought I'd see the day you'd be summoned to save the world. Must be nice, getting special treatment."
Jesper shot him a tired glare. "Listen, I honestly don't have time to deal with you right now, so if you're gonna steal something, just do it and get out of my hair."
Keith blinked, his grin faltering just a little. For a moment, he looked at Jesper more seriously than usual. "Jesper, come on... you really think I'd pull something like that? Right now?"
Jesper sighed, staring into the mead Hulda placed in front of him. "I don't know, Keith. I don't know anything anymore."
The thief leaned back, watching him with an unusual quietness. "Look," he said after a moment, his tone softer, "I know you’re not exactly thrilled about this whole ‘chosen one’ thing. But... you’re not going up that mountain alone."
Jesper glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
Keith smirked, but there was something genuine in his eyes. "Let’s just say... I figure you could use someone watching your back. You know, someone who can actually handle himself out there."
Jesper raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s in it for you?"
Keith chuckled. "Come on, Jesper. When have I ever needed a reason to tag along?"
Jesper shook his head, taking a long sip of his mead. "You're unbelievable."
Keith simply grinned. "That's what makes me so charming."
Jesper let out a tired chuckle despite himself, the weight on his shoulders feeling just a little lighter. As he lifted his mug to take another swig, the door to the Bannered Mare swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and the heavy footsteps of two familiar figures.
Dave and Kevin strode in, both shaking the chill from their cloaks as they spotted Jesper sitting with Keith.
"Well, well, look who it is!" Dave called out, amusement coating his voice, "Jesper, sittin' here all cozy with Whiterun's most notorious troublemaker. Well, other than the Dragonborn at least. Quite the pair, eh?"
Jesper groaned, already regretting his choice to not head directly to the attic and subsequently to bed. He took a long sip of his mead and muttered, "Fantastic. Just what I needed."
Keith, ever the opportunist, leaned back in his chair with a wide grin. "Ah, Dave, Kevin—glad you could join us. Jesper was just about to start telling me all about his grand new destiny." He gave Jesper a nudge. "Ain't that right, hero?"
Jesper shot him a glare. "I swear to the Divines, Keith—"
Before he could finish, Kevin waved down Hulda and ordered two mugs of mead. He plopped into the seat across from Jesper, smirking. "So... your dream really meant something after all, huh?"
Jesper blinked. "You heard about that? What, does all of Whiterun know now?" He buried his face in his hands. "Great. Just great."
Dave chuckled, clapping Jesper on the back a little too hard. "Oh yeah, buddy. The captain's got a big mouth, ya know. He told us right after he found out. Thought it was too funny to keep to himself."
Jesper groaned again. "Of course he did."
Kevin leaned back in his chair, swirling his mead. "Anyway, he assigned us to go with you. Says he doesn’t think you’ll make it up there in one piece without some... ‘proper supervision.’" He grinned.
Jesper frowned. "So he sent you guys too?"
Dave shrugged, taking a sip of his mead. "Aye, well, with the Dragonborn gone, things ‘round here’ve been real quiet, ya know? Not much to do ‘cept chase Keith here ‘round town, and that gets old real fast." He shot Keith a pointed look. "No offence."
Keith raised his hands innocently. "None taken."
Kevin nodded. "Truth is, we ain’t exactly gonna be missed. And hey, free trip up the mountain? Could be fun."
Jesper sighed, staring into his drink. "Yeah... fun."
Keith, watching the exchange, drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Well, looks like you’ve got quite the entourage, Jesper. The ‘Guarding Guard Squad,’ huh? I feel safer already."
Jesper rolled his eyes, but despite himself, he couldn’t help but feel just a little bit relieved. Even if they were a bunch of wisecracks, at least he wouldn’t be making the trip alone.
Jesper leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day's revelations pressing down on him like a heavy suit of plate armour. The mead had helped, at least a little, but the nagging doubts in his mind refused to let him fully relax. Dave, Kevin, and Keith continued chatting away, their laughter filling the Bannered Mare as the fire crackled in the hearth.
As the evening wore on, Jesper stretched and stood from his chair. “I should get some rest,” he said, offering a tired smile. “We’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
Dave raised his mug. “Aye, don’t wanna be noddin' off on the way up to High Hrothgar, eh?” he said with a grin.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jesper rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, guys.”
Kevin waved him off. “Sleep tight, Dragonborn.”
Jesper groaned. “Don't call me that.” With a weary sigh, he climbed the stairs to his attic quarters, pushing the door closed behind him with a soft creak. The room was small and modest—just a bed, a chest, and a small nightstand—but it was his, and it felt far removed from the weight of prophecy pressing down on his shoulders.
He moved to the chest at the foot of the bed and opened it, pulling out supplies—his spare tunic, some rations, a worn map of Skyrim. Packing each item carefully into his satchel, his thoughts churned in his head.
"The Greybeards wouldn’t call for me unless they were sure," he thought, placing a bundle of linen next to his waterskin. "But what if they made a mistake? I’m just a guard. I wasn’t born for this kind of thing."
Once his bag was packed, Jesper sat on the edge of his bed and slowly removed his helmet, placing it carefully on the nightstand. He stood and wandered over to the window, gazing up at the twin moons hanging in the night sky, their pale light casting a gentle glow over Whiterun.
He frowned. “I still don’t understand,” he muttered under his breath. “Why me, Akatosh? I’m just a guard… how could someone like me be expected to save all of Tamriel?”
The moons, of course, offered no answer. Just silent, cold indifference. Jesper sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before turning away from the window and crawling under the covers. His mind swirled with worry, but exhaustion eventually took hold, and he drifted into uneasy sleep.
Outside, perched high on a sturdy tree branch just beyond the window, Keith watched quietly. His sharp eyes followed Jesper’s every movement, the flicker of doubt plain as day on his face.
Keith smiled faintly, leaning against the trunk with his arms crossed. “I don’t know, Jesper,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely carrying over the rustling leaves. “But I’ll make sure you get out of this alive. I mean… someone has to.”
With that, he turned and leapt gracefully from the branch, vanishing into the night like a shadow, leaving only the rustle of leaves in his wake.
***