I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

"Damn. That was a rough landing," Ibnor said. His voice was hoarse, an unintended effect of his perilous journey. He turned and saw Harin standing nearby. Seeing her filled him with a rush of joy, a confirmation that he had indeed returned to his own timeline. It was the same exact moment he'd been pulled into the rift in the sky. A thought flickered through his mind: perhaps the figure that had brushed against him in the time stream was his own past self, the one being pulled into the rift? He quickly dismissed it as a minor detail. He was simply overjoyed to be back.

A sound erupted from him, not quite a laugh at first. It began as a low chuckle, a dry, rattling sound deep in his chest, before escalating into a booming, almost painful guffaw that echoed across the mountaintop, scattering a flock of snow petrels. The laughter, while loud and boisterous, had a hollow, brittle quality, like dry leaves skittering across stone. It sounded forced, strained, a consequence of his sore throat. But he didn't care. He was back. A mischievous thought then crossed his mind.

"If it isn't little Harin." He paused, his masked head tilting slightly, as if studying her with an unseen gaze. A subtle shift in his posture, a slight tension in his shoulders, hinted at a playful glint that couldn't be seen behind the mask.

"Did you miss me?" His voice dropped to a whisper, the rough edges softening slightly. "Or should I say… miss me?" He gestured vaguely towards the sky with a tattered sleeve, the movement almost dismissive, as if brushing away a bothersome insect.

Harin's eyes widened. Her jaw tightened, the muscles clenching, and her lips thinned into a hard, unforgiving line. Her face, moments before etched with worry and confusion, now hardened into a mask of stern anger, her eyes narrowing into slits.

"Loki!" she hissed, the name escaping her lips like venom, each syllable sharp and distinct, laced not just with frustration, but with a deep-seated anger and betrayal.

Ibnor, still masked and going by the name Loki in this moment, held his ground, the forced laughter fading into a strained silence. He watched Harin's reaction, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. He knew he had some explaining to do, but a part of him couldn't resist the playful jab, the echo of a shared joke from a time before his journey through time. He had returned to the exact moment of his departure, but he was no longer the same man. The weight of his experiences, the raw power he now wielded, had changed him. He was back, but he was also Loki now, for this brief moment, a test of how much he had changed and if Harin would notice.

He tilted his head again, the mask still offering no readable expression. The tension in his shoulders remained, a subtle anticipation of her reaction. He waited, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken words and the weight of time itself.

Still being mischievous, Ibnor, as Loki, decided to push it further.

His jovial demeanor vanished instantly, like a candle snuffed out. The laughter died in his throat, and the air around him seemed to grow colder, a palpable shift in the atmosphere. His masked gaze shifted past Harin, first towards Paarthurnax, who had remained a silent, watchful presence throughout the ordeal, and then to the Elder Scroll lying on the ground.

A beastly aura radiated from him, a tangible sense of menace that made the hairs on Harin's arms stand on end. His hand instinctively went to his left hand, where a faint white line marked where a ring once sat. He flexed his fingers, the movement almost a caress.

"Let's see if you've improved," Loki said, his voice now low and dangerous, each word measured and deliberate. He shifted into a fighting stance, his muscles tensing beneath his tattered clothing, his hands flexing into fists. He winked, a gesture that seemed oddly out of place given the menacing atmosphere. "Or if you've just gotten… older."

Just as Harin instinctively moved to attack, her hand reaching for her sword, Loki held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

"Your opponent is coming," he said, a smile evident in his voice, even though his face remained hidden behind the mask. He tilted his head back, as if listening to something Harin couldn't hear. He sensed it: Alduin was coming.

A deafening roar, far more powerful than any she had heard before, tore through the air, shaking the very mountaintop. The wind whipped up again, carrying the stench of sulfur and burning flesh. Alduin descended from the sky, a vast, black silhouette against the stormy sky, landing heavily on the word wall with a force that sent tremors through the ground. His massive form eclipsed the sun, casting a long, ominous shadow across the mountaintop.

The sudden arrival of Alduin completely changed the dynamic. Harin, her anger momentarily forgotten, turned her attention to the dragon, her hand still hovering near her sword. The Greybeards, who had been watching the exchange between Harin and Loki with growing unease, now stood in a defensive formation, their faces grim. Paarthurnax, however, remained motionless, his gaze fixed on Alduin, a complex mix of emotions – sorrow, resignation, and perhaps even a flicker of defiance – etched on his draconic features.

Ibnor, however, simply stepped to the side. The menacing aura that had enveloped him dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. He crossed his arms, his masked face now turned towards Alduin, but his posture was relaxed, almost casual. He wasn't going to fight, not yet. He wanted to see how Harin would handle this. He had been gone, changed by his journey through time, and he was curious to see how she had changed as well. This was her fight, her moment. He would intervene if necessary, but for now, he would observe. He would be the silent witness, the masked spectator, watching the unfolding of a destiny he had already lived, but now from a different perspective.

Alduin roared his dominance, but Paarthurnax intervened, protecting Harin and initiating a fierce aerial battle. Harin, using Dragonrend, grounded Alduin and pressed her attack, enduring his fiery counterattacks and taunts. Despite his power, Alduin was weakened by the combined assault and retreated into the storm clouds, vowing future conflict. Harin, exhausted but victorious, leaned on her sword. Ibnor, still masked, watched the entire scene leisurely, confident that Harin could handle it.

Harin turned her attention to Ibnor. He wasn't pacing, or even standing in a posture of vigilance. He was sitting cross-legged on a jagged rock, seemingly unfazed by the recent life-or-death struggle. He was fanning himself with a tattered piece of his ripped shirt, the motion languid and deliberate, as if he were swatting away flies at a summer picnic. The utter nonchalance of his posture, the casual fanning, the complete lack of any indication that they had just faced down the World-Eater, was jarring, almost comical in its absurdity.

Harin stared at him, her brow furrowed, her chest heaving with exertion and lingering adrenaline. "You… you just sat there," she managed, her voice hoarse and strained. "You didn't even lift a finger."

Ibnor lowered the makeshift fan, a slow, almost predatory grin spreading beneath his mask, visible in the subtle upward curve of his beard. 

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he replied, his voice laced with amusement, a playful lilt in his tone. "I provided… moral support." He winked, then gestured towards the sky with a dismissive wave of his tattered sleeve, as if dismissing a minor inconvenience. "Besides," he added, "it wasn't my fight."

Harin clenched her fists, the rough leather of her gloves digging into her skin. Frustration, hot and sharp, bubbled within her. 

"Ibnor is gone," she said, her voice trembling slightly, the words catching in her throat. 

The image of him being sucked into the vortex, the terror in his eyes, flashed through her mind, a fresh wave of grief and helplessness washing over her.

Ibnor tilted his head slightly, his masked gaze fixed on her. The amusement in his voice deepened, taking on a teasing edge. 

"Ibnor? Oh, looks like you found someone you liked, hmm?" He drawled the word "liked," drawing it out with exaggerated emphasis.

Harin's anger flared. "Why are you here?" she demanded, her voice rising. "Where did you go? Why appear now?"

Ibnor raised his hands in mock surrender, his masked face still tilted in that unsettlingly playful way. "Whoa… looks like you really care for this Ibnor," he teased, emphasizing the name with a light, almost mocking tone, "that you even blame me for saving you back then."

"You abandoned me!" Harin snapped, her voice cracking with emotion. "And now… he's gone too…" Her voice dropped to a low, choked whisper, the pain of loss evident in every syllable.

Ibnor's head tilted again, a silent acknowledgment of her pain, but the teasing glint remained, though it was now tempered with a strange undercurrent of something else – perhaps regret, perhaps sadness, but it was difficult to tell behind the mask. 

"Hold on now, I didn't abandon you," he countered, his voice softening slightly, though the playful edge was still present. "I asked you to leave… for your safety." He placed a hand over his heart in mock sincerity.

"It doesn't matter!" Harin retorted, her voice rising again, tears pricking at her eyes. "You were… you are my only family," she said, the word catching in her throat, the unspoken "were" hanging heavy in the air. "And you left!"

Ibnor's masked gaze finally met hers directly, the amusement fading completely, replaced by something unreadable, something deep and complex that Harin couldn't decipher. He remained silent for a long moment, the only sound the howling wind and the distant rumble of thunder. Then, he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, of countless untold stories. He stood up slowly, stretching his limbs with a fluid grace that was oddly familiar, as if shaking off the stiffness of ages.

"Time… is a funny thing, little Harin," he said, his voice now tinged with a profound weariness, the teasing mask completely dropped. He walked towards the edge of the mountaintop, his back to her, his gaze sweeping across the vast expanse of Skyrim spread out below. The wind tore at his tattered clothing, whipping his long, thick beard around his face, but he stood unmoving, a solitary figure silhouetted against the stormy sky. He seemed to absorb the wind's fury, as if it were an old, familiar friend.

Harin followed him, her eyes fixed on his back. The way he held himself, the slight slump of his shoulders, the almost hesitant way he placed his weight on his left leg… each movement was a painful echo of Ibnor. The faint, almost faded markings on the backs of his hands, barely visible in the fading light, were the final pieces of a horrifying puzzle. The pieces were falling into place, clicking together with a sickening certainty, but her mind still recoiled from the full picture.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice small and tight with a growing sense of dread. The wind snatched at her words, carrying them away across the mountains.

Loki didn't turn. "Let's just say… some journeys take longer than others," he replied, his voice barely audible above the wind's howl, each word weighted with a sorrow that resonated deep within Harin. He paused, a long, drawn-out silence hanging in the air between them, broken only by the wind. Then, almost as an afterthought, his voice laced with a deep, aching sadness, he added, "And sometimes… they lead you back to where you began." He finally turned then, his masked face facing her.

Harin's carefully constructed composure shattered. "Stop with the cryptic riddles!" she cried, her voice rising, raw with frustration and grief. "Stop with the Prince of Persia reference! I'm tired of hearing it! I don't have time for this!" Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision.

"Come! Let's finish what we started!" She said

Ibnor's masked gaze softened, a flicker of understanding, perhaps even pity, showing through. He lowered his head slightly, as if in apology. The mask, which had seemed so menacing moments before, now seemed almost fragile.

"Why are you still hanging on to that silly oath?" Ibnor asked, his voice gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier teasing. "You know you can live your life as you wish, right?"

Harin's jaw tightened. "My word is my bond." She placed a hand over her heart, her fingers pressing against the fabric of her tunic. "Without it…" She trailed off, unable to articulate the hollowness she felt at the mere thought. "You taught me that."

Ibnor sighed, the sound lost almost instantly to the wind, yet Harin saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. "My stubborn little Harin…" A flicker of exasperated affection briefly softened the harsh lines of his mask.

"Your stubbornness…" He paused, then straightened, a renewed resolve in his posture. "Fine. The oath stands. The most important thing is to defeat me, yes? We never specified how. No more complaints." He drew a deep breath that whistled through the gaps in his mask. "Let's end this. Once and for all."

Harin rushed in with her blade, a whirlwind of motion and fury. However, unexpectedly, Ibnor stood still as the blade pierced him. There was no resistance, no attempt to parry or dodge. The force of the thrust blew him back, sending him stumbling several steps before he collapsed to the ground. Harin was in shock, her momentum carrying her forward a few more paces before she stopped, turning to face the fallen figure.

"Congratulations, little Harin," Ibnor said, his voice a strained whisper, a trickle of blood tracing a path from the corner of his mouth down his beard. "Now… you've bested me. You're free." He lay sprawled on the rough stone, the crimson stain spreading across his tattered tunic, a stark contrast against the worn fabric.

""No!!!" Harin's scream tore from her throat, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony. "Why? Why?" The question was a sob, a desperate plea against the impossible. Words failed her, caught in the suffocating grip of grief. Within the span of a single day, she had lost two people who were equally important to her. First, she thought she lost Ibnor to the time rift, and now, her masked protector. The pain was a physical blow, a crushing weight on her chest that stole her breath and made her vision swim with tears.

She stumbled to his side, collapsing to her knees beside him. Her hands hovered above him, trembling, unsure where to touch without causing further injury. "Loki… please," she whispered, her voice cracking, each word a fragile plea. "Why… Why did you let me?"

She looked at his masked face, searching for some sign, some explanation behind the emotionless surface. But the mask offered nothing, only a cold, impassive stare. She gently reached out and touched the mask, her fingers tracing the smooth, featureless surface. It felt cold, unnatural, a barrier between her and the man she knew.

"Stop crying. I'm not dead yet," Ibnor said nonchalantly. The words were punctuated by a slight wince. It hurt, true. The blade had pierced him deeply, and he was indeed injured, but thanks to his enhanced physique and Harin's intent—she had aimed to defeat him, not kill him—the wound wasn't immediately fatal.

His voice cut through her grief like a physical blow, jolting her back to reality. A whirlwind of emotions erupted within her: hope, sharp and sudden; overwhelming relief that he was alive; and a burning anger at the cruel trick he had played.

"And don't worry about Ibnor," he continued, his voice regaining some of its usual strength. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and removed the mask, revealing his own familiar features, now streaked with blood and grime. He offered a weak but genuine grin. "I'm back."

Harin stared at him, speechless. Then, a slow dawning horror spread across her face. It wasn't confusion anymore, but a sickening realization. The way Loki had moved, the familiar tilt of his head, the cadence of his voice, even the way he had touched his bare ring finger… it was all there, laid bare in the light of this moment. How could she have been so blind? The pieces clicked into place with a resounding, devastating finality. It wasn't that Ibnor resembled Loki. Loki was Ibnor.

"What… How…" she began, her voice barely a whisper, then it strengthened, laced with self-directed anger. "How could I be so stupid?" She felt a flush of shame creep up her neck. All the clues had been there, staring her in the face, and she had missed them all.

Ibnor knew that his current state—weakened and bleeding—was the only thing preventing Harin from unleashing her full fury upon him. He could practically feel the waves of barely contained rage radiating from her.

"Remove the blade from me first, please?" he pleaded, his voice laced with a hint of genuine pain.

As if enacting a small act of revenge, a way to vent some of her frustration, Harin gripped the hilt of her sword and yanked it free with brutal efficiency.

"Ohokh…" Ibnor let out a sharp cough, a spray of blood staining the ground beside him. He grimaced, but his eyes remained fixed on Harin. She immediately began to heal him, her hands glowing with a soft, warm light, but her eyes never left his, her gaze fixed on him with a venomous intensity mixed with deep self-loathing.

"I will explain…" he said weakly, wincing as her healing magic mended the torn flesh. He knew he had a lot to make up for. He just hoped she'd give him the chance.