A/N: You may notice that this story is rather different than when it was first uploaded; it has undergone massive rewrites as I felt the story could be told differently and in a more detailed setting.
So, returning readers, I apologize for the confusion. Don't worry, the story hasn't changed too much from what it was content wise. The rest of the chapters will be uploaded soon. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you like the updated version.

The battle with Alduin goes about as well as can be expected.

He is almost a deity after all. But Aldariel is the Last of Dragon's Blood, Chosen by the Night Mother.

And it is his sword that pierces Alduin's heart. He watches the first son of Akatosh, Alduin of the Black Wing, vanish into swirling light, a sense of hollowness echoing in his heart.

Alduin's soul was not his to take, it seems. The part of him that is a true-born dragon is wailing quietly in his chest, mourning the First Emperor of Dragons, the End and the Beginning, the Black-Winged Herald.

He steps back into Nirn, arriving to the sound of dragons roaring atop the peak of the Monavhen.

Paarthurnax looks him over and Aldariel stares back, his sword still dripping with Alduin's golden blood.

"So it is done," Paarthurnax says.

"It is," Aldariel replies, cleaning his sword and sliding it home. He leans on his staff. He is tired. The memory of his wife, her bright eyes worried and the warmth of her kiss lingers in his mind.

He needs to return.

"Farewell, Paarthurnax," Aldariel says, turning away. "May we meet again under clearer skies."

"Drem Thuri," Paarthurnax rumbles.

Aldariel doesn't remember much of the trip down the mountain, only that he had seemed to blink, and he was looking at the Greybeards in the courtyard.

"Dovahkiin?" Argneir asks.

"It is done," Aldariel says, and promptly passes out.

He wakes to Arngeir at his side, faint sunlight peeping through the far window, illuminating the pages of the book that the Greybeard was reading.

"You're awake, Dragonborn," the Nord says as Aldariel muffles a yawn behind one hand.

Aldariel notes the absence of his armor's weight, and finds it sitting on a nearby chair, the dragonscales still coated with Alduin's blood. He's worn the armor for months now, well-used to its weight. It's strange to feel so light without it.

"What day is it?" he asks, rolling his shoulders, hearing the faint crack of his spine as he stretches.

"The 23rd of Hearthfire," Arngeir answers.

Aldariel muses over that. It had been the 15th when he and Odahviing had landed at Skuldafn, the red dragon not daring to go further than the farthest edge of the temple complex.

It had taken him two days to traverse the massive temple, and then there was that Dragon Priest at the portal…

Aldariel remembers standing at the swirling portal's edge, knowing that Alduin lay beyond it and that he might not return from this battle with the World-Eater. It had taken a few moments to ask for the Dark Mother's protection and then he had leapt into the depths.

"Is it done then, Dovahkiin?" Arngeir asks suddenly, his voice urgent. "Is the World-Eater defeated?"

Aldariel studies the Greybeard for a long moment, then, "Yes, he is."

Angeir sighs, leaning back in his chair.

"Did you know that you can see almost the whole of Taazokaan from Skuldafn?" Aldariel asks softly, the words flooding out of him, the story flowing like water out of a broken dam.

He isn't sure of how long he speaks of the temple and the undead Dragon Priest at its summit, the portal to Soverngarde, the chill of the air in the land of the honored dead, the glowing auroras that wove through the starlit sky.

The Halls of Shor and its bone-bridge, the stern visage of its Gatekeeper, the gleaming golden walls of the inner keep and the roaring fires and songs that lasted from dusk to dawn.

And the final battle of the Dragonborn and Alduin Black-Winged, the First of Akatosh's Blood.

"I did not take his soul," Aldariel says, the sorrow of his true-born dragon soul still wailing in his chest at the remembrance of Alduin's death.

Arngeir nods, his dark eyes serious. "Perhaps then," he ventures, "the World Eater will yet return."

Aldariel huffs a laugh. "He seemed rather dead to me," he says, leaning against the wall.

"Only Akatosh knows for certain," Arngeir says softly.

"Perhaps," Aldariel says, and he is suddenly too tired to speak any more. His weariness must show on his face for Arngeir rises from his seat.

"I will leave you to rest," the Greybeard says. "You have our eternal thanks."

"Thank you, Sadon vum Arngeir," Aldariel says quietly. The words rumble faintly, an echo of the sound of draconic mourning that still came from the summit of the Monahven.

Arngeir nods and leaves.

Aldariel closes his eyes, lying back on the simple bed. He thinks of home, of bright sunlit skies, the sound of his wife's voice and the sweet laughter of his little girl as she danced. Gods, he was ready to go home.

Sleep is swift in coming, deep and restful. He doesn't dream.