The Tale of the Dragonborn
For a long time, Keshaara said nothing. As soon as her wails of despair faded, as soon as she stopped screaming her denial of what had happened to her, she said nothing.
The dragons withdrew from her, leaving her to the mourning of the Nords. Keshaara, eyes red and swollen, began the long watch after stealing her steel armor back.
There was no one to defend anymore, and she was no one’s Champion. Her armor was her own again.
The steel was a comforting, familiar weight. It was her armor, both physical and emotional. The Dovahkiin wore this steel, the Dovahkiin stood guard over the honored dead.
The armor was painfully Nordic, etched with designs she had not seen since she had first come to Asgard.
Had it been any other time that she had received this armor back, she perhaps would have felt the loss of her homeland, would have felt the pain of knowing she could not go back,
would have started weeping for reasons other than knowing that she had again, been separated from her Alunsegein.
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