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Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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I need this

oww! So terrible and heartbreaking! I so loved the two, really! :'o

So different!A!A has made a fill. Short and not at all sweet. Well, maybe a little.

Vilkas glanced around, trying to figure the best way out of their current predicament. He should have known that there weren't enough Silver Hand guarding the shards of Wuuthrad, and now he and Lyra were going to pay for it.

Speaking of the remarkably tall Breton, she was pressed against his back, tension etched in every line of her person. He watched her knuckles whiten as one hand clenched her blade and the other lit up with a Destruction spell from the corner of his eye, even as he tightened his own grip on his greatsword.

They'd been through worse.

Right?

"Surrender now, you filthy beasts, and maybe you'll live to see another day," one of the werewolf hunters surrounding them offered.

"Like hell we will," Lyra spat back, the room echoing as her voice tinged with the thu'um.

Vilkas let his lips curve up slightly. He couldn't have said it better himself - and he could say a lot of things better than a lot of people.

"Then die!"

Several of the Silver Hand retreated to provide arrow cover as the building shook with the power of the Voice. "Yol... Toor Shul!"

Two of the thieving bastards he was fighting took the chance to glance away at the sound and met their deaths on the end of his blade. "There could be no other end," he said coldly to the corpses as an arrow pinged off of his armor, leaving a scratch and making him take note of the next victim to fall by his sword.

The Silver Hand, numerous as they were, were not terribly adroit and died fairly easily as he hacked and slashed, blocked and parried, his mind focused utterly on the battle.

It didn't take too much longer for him to find himself alone in a room full of corpses as he scoffed. "Fools."

And then he glanced up, expecting to see Lyra cleaning the blood off of her blade, or doubled over with exertion from the fight, or lazily dancing sparks across her fingertips, or shaking her hair out as she pulled off her helmet, or giving him that damnably attractive smirk that said she killed more than he did.

But she wasn't there.

Instead, he found himself - he, who never panicked, never ever - running to her body, sword dropped at some point in his haste and worry.

A jagged wound had been sloppily carved into her chest where a warhammer had cracked the armor earlier - the Spellsword had pointed it out to him before, not even a day ago, remarking that she would have to get it fixed when they went back to Whiterun.

Dying wasn't supposed to have been an option, and that was the only thought in his head as he carefully tugged her helmet clear of her face and checked her pulse with shaking hands.

Nothing. In fact, Lyra's skin was starting to chill quickly without the pulsing muscle in her chest to keep it warm.

For a moment, his anger flared and he though for sure he would shift right then and there and eat her body or something, but he reigned it in and settled for punching the cold stone floor angrily instead.

Damnit. Gods damn it all! It wasn't supposed to end like this! She was supposed to live so that they could head to Ysgramor's tomb and free Kodlak's soul.

She was supposed to live because she wanted to drive the Thalmor from the land.

She was supposed to live because she'd taken children into her home, despite being unmarried.

She was supposed to live because there were no doubts in his mind she would be named Harbinger.

She was supposed to live because he loved her; she'd made sarcastically true comments about wearing an Amulet of Mara once everything was sorted out.

Ignoring the wolf inside threatening to break through his skin, take him over and tear. Something. To. Shreds, Vilkas collected his blade and the shards of Wuuthrad - no point in making her death in vain - calmly, monotonously, like a hollow shell that barely had the will to move.

Once he had everything he needed, Vilkas picked up the lifeless woman (why, why hadn't he noticed sooner, why hadn't he saved her, why hadn't he done something, anything) and carried her through the door, taking care to make sure he didn't bump her against the frame or the wall.

There was a funeral to plan and revenge to be had.

Different!A!A here! :D

Vilkas glanced around, trying to figure the best way out of their current predicament. He should have known that there weren't enough Silver Hand guarding the shards of Wuuthrad, and now he and Lyra were going to pay for it.

Speaking of the remarkably tall Breton, she was pressed against his back, tension etched in every line of her person. He watched her knuckles whiten as one hand clenched her blade and the other lit up with a Destruction spell from the corner of his eye, even as he tightened his own grip on his greatsword.

They'd been through worse.

Right?

"Surrender now, you filthy beasts, and maybe you'll live to see another day," one of the werewolf hunters surrounding them offered.

"Like hell we will," Lyra spat back, the room echoing as her voice tinged with the thu'um.

Vilkas let his lips curve up slightly. He couldn't have said it better himself - and he could say a lot of things better than a lot of people.

"Then die!"

Several of the Silver Hand retreated to provide arrow cover as the building shook with the power of the Voice. "Yol... Toor Shul!"

Two of the thieving bastards he was fighting took the chance to glance away at the sound and met their deaths on the end of his blade. "There could be no other end," he said coldly to the corpses as an arrow pinged off of his armor, leaving a scratch and making him take note of the next victim to fall by his sword.

The Silver Hand, numerous as they were, were not terribly adroit and died fairly easily as he hacked and slashed, blocked and parried, his mind focused utterly on the battle.

It didn't take too much longer for him to find himself alone in a room full of corpses as he scoffed. "Fools."

And then he glanced up, expecting to see Lyra cleaning the blood off of her blade, or doubled over with exertion from the fight, or lazily dancing sparks across her fingertips, or shaking her hair out as she pulled off her helmet, or giving him that damnably attractive smirk that said she killed more than he did.

But she wasn't there.

Instead, he found himself - he, who never panicked, never ever - running to her body, sword dropped at some point in his haste and worry.

A jagged wound had been sloppily carved into her chest where a warhammer had cracked the armor earlier - the Spellsword had pointed it out to him before, not even a day ago, remarking that she would have to get it fixed when they went back to Whiterun.

Dying wasn't supposed to have been an option, and that was the only thought in his head as he carefully tugged her helmet clear of her face and checked her pulse with shaking hands.

Nothing. In fact, Lyra's skin was starting to chill quickly without the pulsing muscle in her chest to keep it warm.

For a moment, his anger flared and he though for sure he would shift right then and there and eat her body or something, but he reigned it in and settled for punching the cold stone floor angrily instead.

Damnit. Gods damn it all! It wasn't supposed to end like this! She was supposed to live so that they could head to Ysgramor's tomb and free Kodlak's soul.

She was supposed to live because she wanted to drive the Thalmor from the land.

She was supposed to live because she'd taken children into her home, despite being unmarried.

She was supposed to live because there were no doubts in his mind she would be named Harbinger.

She was supposed to live because he loved her; she'd made sarcastically true comments about wearing an Amulet of Mara once everything was sorted out.

Ignoring the wolf inside threatening to break through his skin, take him over and tear. Something. To. Shreds, Vilkas collected his blade and the shards of Wuuthrad - no point in making her death in vain - calmly, monotonously, like a hollow shell that barely had the will to move.

Once he had everything he needed, Vilkas picked up the lifeless woman (why, why hadn't he noticed sooner, why hadn't he saved her, why hadn't he done something, anything) and carried her through the door, taking care to make sure he didn't bump her against the frame or the wall.

There was a funeral to plan and revenge to be had.

So apologies for the double-post. It was an accident, I promise! D:

Also apologies that this is short and probably not as detailed as it could have been. :I

So, now that I've made a fool of myself, here are the tags:
char:F!DB
char:Vilkas
kink:angst
es:skyrim
race:nord
race:breton

I may have sniffled a little reading it. Poor Vilkas! Poor heartbroken Vilkas. *hugs him*

And you got his reactions spot on perfect. Of course his first reaction is to rip something to pieces. It's only later once the revenge is out of his system that he'll fall apart in private. Poor boy. :(

I barely knew Lyra and yet I'm grieving with him. Good one, A!A.

A/N: Last one before the big battle! I had fun with this one. Long but worth it. Half the camp is having heart to hearts, it seems.

Summary: It's the night before the battle and the Forsworn philosophy is to eat, drink and be merry. But merriment's proving hard to find for the various Blades as the ghosts of their past haunt them all. And it's not just on the Aalto that introspection is rife. In the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric is feeling fate closing in.

Do I need to warn for the aftermath of man-on-man action? Or drunkenness and discussion of addiction? Probably not, but it's in here. As is Argis/Farkas, Erandur/Aranea Ienith, and probably eventual Madanach/Elisif, but not yet.

Elisif found the King in Rags standing by the fire, Forsworn staff in his hands, talking to a surprised Argis. Farkas was hovering nervously at Argis's shoulder, shooting glances at Madanach.

“You're giving me this?” Argis said, sounding a little incredulous.

“Yes,” said Madanach firmly. “Yours. As a gift for all the years of loyal service, and also a way for me to preserve my sanity and avoid murdering your man here.”

Farkas's eyes widened a little but he didn't say anything. Argis frowned but accepted the staff. It looked like no magical staff Elisif had ever seen – a length of wood hacked straight off the nearest tree, with knots still visible, bound with leather and some sort of crystal bound at the top, with feathers hanging off it. There was a definite aura of Hagraven about it.

“What's it do?” Argis asked, looking vaguely suspicious. “Is it one of the Destruction ones?”

“No,” Madanach said, starting to grin. “Try it and find out.”

Argis gave it an experimental wave, aiming it at the fire. A soft hiss, a purple glow around the fire and it went silent, the crackling disappearing although the flames were still very much there. Argis looked, stared, then burst out laughing.

“You've given me a Muffle staff!” Argis laughed. “You were dead serious about the noise, weren't you?”

“Completely, I was ready to tear my ears off,” Madanach admitted. “Yes, I know I've got my own tent, but I've not seen the night sky for two decades, I don't want to spend my evenings hiding in a tent. Now. You have your staff, it's fully charged, but I've got a bag full of soul gems for the recharges – little ones Keirine didn't need for the shield mostly, and by this time tomorrow, one way or another we won't need the shield any more anyway. So, Argis, as long as your fellow over there is properly polite and respectful and treats you well...” Here, Madanach broke off to glare at Farkas, who shuffled behind him. Took a lot to make a big Nord warrior like Farkas look nervous but Madanach managed it. That and spiders. Farkas hated spiders.

“Thanks,” Argis said quietly, clutching the staff and looking a little embarrassed. “I mean, erm...”

“Just go and have a good time,” Madanach said, his voice gruff as he looked away, staring at the ground. “You're only young once.”

“I will. Thank you,” Argis said, still stumbling over the words... but his feet didn't stumble as he put an arm round Farkas and led him off. Madanach breathed a deep sigh before glancing up and seeing Elisif standing there, and his hopeful expression vanished.

“Elisif.”

“Madanach,” Elisif said, composing herself. “We need to talk.”

Four words that never heralded any good for anyone and Madanach muttered under his breath as he rolled his eyes before nodding at the others.

“Thought you might,” he sighed. “All right, the rest of you get out of here. I need to talk to the Dragon-Queen.”

The various Forsworn and Blades hanging around headed off, although judging from the sound of drumming and laughing and singing emanating from the rest of the camp, this wasn't likely to be a chore for any of them. Witchmist Redoubt was clearly gearing up for a party.

Karliah whispered a soft 'good luck' before melting into the shadows, and Erandur patted her shoulder before disappearing as well. Maybe he'd run into Aranea. Elisif secretly hoped so.

Of course this meant she was now alone with Madanach, who'd settled himself down on one of the logs and reached for a hip flask of what Elisif was fairly certain was not mead.

“Want a drink?” Madanach asked carelessly as he waved it in her general direction. Elisif politely declined, helping herself to a bottle from the stack of Honningbrew lying around. Pleasantly warm from being close to the fire but not too close and the natural warmth of the Aalto plain also helped.

Madanach took a deep swig from his flask, staring at the flames and pointedly neither looking at nor touching her.

“You came here to turn me down, didn't you?” he said quietly, voice oddly flat. “Of course you did, I'm over twice your age, you're young and beautiful and could have anyone, whereas I'm a Skooma-addicted ex-felon who needs to cast illusions on his eyes in the sunlight because otherwise he can barely see, and who still doesn't like wide open spaces.”

“With dragons around that's probably for the best,” Elisif said, then it occurred to her he might not think so. Then it occurred to her what else he'd said. “Wait, you're not a Skooma addict.”

He did look at her then, shaking his head and looking rather patronising. “I spent twenty years inside getting wasted on the stuff from lack of anything better to do. What do you think I am? Only reason I'm not tearing the camp apart trying to find some is because Keirine has me on these potions. They keep the cravings away somehow, stop the shakes. Thing is, they also make it impossible for me to have anything moon sugar based without getting sick. Told her I didn't need them, I was fine on my own, but there were these Khajiit caravaneers who travel the road every week or so, and I might have given orders to some of the younger soldiers to flag them down and get me some... I wasn't going to drink it!” he protested, looking suitably ashamed of himself and so he should, honestly.

“That's not the point,” Elisif said rather pointedly. “You don't need to use it as currency any more, you're not in prison!”

Slow shake of the head and a knowing smile. “Charama, I will always have part of me in that prison. It is never going to leave me, not until I die. Every day I wake up and it takes me a good ten minutes to remember there's a world out there. Look at me, I'm damaged and broken and time might heal me but I don't know how much time I've got even if I don't end up with my head on a spike. And that prospect isn't so very unlikely.”

“It won't happen,” Elisif said fervently. “I won't let them execute you, I'm going to give you a pardon, tell General Tullius this was all my fault.”

“Very kind of you, although I don't think he'll listen,” Madanach said, turning morosely back to the fire and taking another swig of his hip flask.

“He'll have to, I'm High Queen, I decide matters of local law enforcement, not him,” Elisif snapped. “And you're my friend and ally who's raised an entire army for me. Of course he's not allowed to hurt you.”

“And if he ignores you and has me sent to the block anyway?” Madanach asked casually.

“I Shout them all down and we flee into the hills,” Elisif said, the mead making her a bit reckless but sod it, she was about bloody tired of the Empire telling her what to do. She was almost wondering if Ulfric had the right idea, but he'd killed her husband and she didn't think she could ever forgive him that.

Madanach was staring at her, eyebrows raised, and then he turned back to the fire, chuckling to himself.

“By the old gods, you've got to stop saying things like that, you'll make me blush,” he said, but he looked pleased. “You're meant to be killing Ulfric and claiming Skyrim for the Empire, not embracing his cause for your own.”

“I know,” Elisif said, recalling what lay ahead of her tomorrow and shuddering. More mead needed, definitely. “And – and don't worry, I don't plan to stab you in the back or betray you, even if you do have Hagravens wandering openly about the place, and gods know how those portals work, or what other dark arts you have going on where I can't see them. Point is, you helped me. And you've kept your word. Falk told me how quiet the Reach has been lately. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me, it's quiet because they're all out here,” Madanach said gruffly. “Good thing Nepos is the Jarl out there now, if anyone sent any mercenaries to one of our camps, they'd find it practically deserted.”

“I can imagine,” Elisif said quietly, looking out at the many smaller fires and magelights lighting up the camp, hearing laughing and splashing around in the hot springs as the Forsworn enjoyed themselves. “It wasn't quite this raucous the last few nights. Don't they know the battle's tomorrow?”

“Of course they do, that's why they're enjoying themselves,” Madanach said wearily. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you might get killed. Not many won't have found themselves someone. Well, not the Hags or Briarhearts, obviously, and not Karliah either, it's understood she doesn't do that sort of thing. But everyone else.”

“Including you?” Elisif felt obliged to ask. Madanach shook his head.

“I've lived my life, Elisif. If I die tomorrow, I die knowing what love was, what sex was, what getting completely off my face was. Doesn't matter if I'm alone tonight. Besides, the only one in the camp I really wanted doesn't feel the same. It's all right. You don't have to. I'm still helping you take Windhelm. I just... you're one of the best things to happen to me in a long time and I guess I got carried away. You'll forgive an old man's foolishness, right?”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Elisif said softly, feeling sorry for him... and even a little regretful. Nice wasn't the word to use for him, but she had a feeling he might be quite a sensitive and caring lover... in private anyway.

She just wasn't ready for anyone but Torygg.

“If it's any consolation, it's flattering to be asked,” Elisif added, trying to comfort him a little. “But I'm not really looking for another lover. I suppose I'll need a husband eventually, but I was hoping to just marry for politics, have the children and then not see much of him. Easier that way. Someone who doesn't love me won't get upset when I can't love them back.”

“Because of Torygg.” Madanach's voice was low and husky as he stared into the fire, silver eyes narrowing and Elisif felt a little afraid of him then. Easy to forget he was quite at ease with killing people, and in that moment, Elisif was reminded.

“Because of Torygg,” Elisif said, reminding herself she was a Dragonborn and not scared of ordinary humans. “He was my husband, Madanach! And I loved him and he loved me. I'll always love him. I miss him so much...” And she did miss him, she really did, but the thought of him wasn't bringing tears to her eyes like it used to. It occurred to her she missed Torygg very much... but not Solitude, or being married to the High King and always having to sit quietly and take a back seat. She wondered how he'd have dealt with her being Dragonborn, and whether he'd have given her his blessing and some guards and let her get on with it, or been superprotective and refused to let her out of his sight. Then it occurred to her if he'd still been alive, there might not have been a war... and maybe no dragons. She certainly wouldn't be sitting out on the Aalto under the stars in a Forsworn camp having a quiet conversation with the King in Rags.

Torygg would be appalled to see what she'd inadvertently brought about.

“Your life didn't stop just because his did,” Madanach said quietly. “The dance goes on, with or without you, might as well join it.”

Easy for him to say. Not so easy for her, trying to make her way in a Torygg-less life, hoping she'd see him again one day... and fearing he'd no longer love who she was now. She was already feeling a bit nervous about how he'd take the whole alliance-with-the-Forsworn thing.

She didn't feel like answering him and they fell silent, both staring into the fire and drinking their drinks, neither feeling like moving although Elisif wondered if it was doing either any good to stay. Then she recalled what else she'd wanted to talk about.

“I know about Argis,” she said, and that did get a reaction.

“You know what exactly?” Madanach snapped, glaring at her.

“He's yours, isn't he?” Elisif asked, seeing it in his eyes as they widened and his face went pale. “You're his fath-”

“Ssh!” Madanach hissed. “You think I want the entire camp knowing?? Kaie doesn't even know! Keirine does, but she knows everything. Yes, all right, you're right, I had a... well, a fling with a young Nord girl once. Didn't go anywhere but nine years later, I'm taking Markarth and what do I find but my old lover and an eight-year-old son looking too much like me for comfort. I've never really been able to care for him as I'd like, what with being married and then in prison all these years, but I was able to send Karliah to get him and his mother to safety. She was too late to rescue Inga but she brought me my son. I raised him on a camp in secret, took care of him until they captured me, then he ended up with Nepos being trained as one of our agents. And he's been that ever since, we've kept his parentage quiet for his own protection. So don't you go telling anyone! Honestly, who told you, was it Karliah or Keirine?”

“Neither, I worked it out,” Elisif said, feeling rather pleased at being right and at the same time feeling rather sorry for Argis. It sounded like he'd had a rough life. No wonder he'd not seen much of his father, and it seemed his sisters didn't know he was even kin. “I can't believe you sent your own son to be my bodyguard, don't you know how dangerous it's been? We faced Alduin the World-Eater!”

“I know but who else could I trust?” Madanach shrugged. “And please, don't remind me about the Alduin thing, Argis has already told me, as have your two Dunmer friends, it sounds terrifying. But he seems to be in one piece, even if he is picking up unsuitable partners.”

“Farkas isn't unsuitable, he's an absolute sweetheart!” Elisif protested. “I think they're cute together.”

“And you call me crazy,” Madanach muttered, but he was smiling a little. “Still, nice to see the boy happy. He deserves it, life hasn't been kind. If I end up with my head on a spike, at least he'll have someone to look after him.”

“You're not going to get executed,” Elisif told him. “And when this is all done and you're Reach-King, you can finally tell Kaie and Eola and everyone else he's yours and then he'll have a family again.”

“I will, will I?” Madanach asked, eyebrow raised. Then he shrugged and nodded. “I'll think about it. Got a battle to fight first. But you're right, once I'm pardoned and safe, I can tell the girls, I suppose. Mireen's dead, I don't have to worry about her any more. Might tell Eola when she gets back from Dawnstar. She never got on with her mother anyway, she won't care I cheated on her once.”

Ah yes, Eola's mysterious venture in Dawnstar. No one was willing to talk about it, or why Cicero and Eola had gone there, only that Madanach wanted the place watching and it turned out Cicero knew a little hideaway up there. So off they'd gone and most of the camp seemed of the opinion that they didn't much care about anything other than how peaceful it was without Cicero there.

Elisif had a feeling she didn't want to know and wouldn't approve when she found out, but she had other priorities. Such as fighting Ulfric the next day. Victory or Sovngarde, and the thought of either terrified her. She just hoped it was quick if she did die.

More mead, was the answer to that one. So she drank more mead, and Madanach drank more of whatever potent moonshine he was on, and above them the aurora blazed and the moons rose and set as the fire burned down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Argis collapsed back on the straw pile while Farkas cleaned them both up, stars in his eyes and feeling dazed.

I'm not into men. Not really. I prefer women. This isn't going anywhere, it's just a bit of fun.

Apart from the way Farkas looked at him, and kept performing little acts of kindness such as getting him mead and cooking for him, and massaging tired muscles at the end of the day, and then Argis had had to reciprocate out of guilt, and one thing had led to another and...

And the offer to burn Farkas's face off if he ever dared hurt him, but Argis had expected that.

Farkas finished clearing up, left the leather cloth he'd used to one side and snuggled in to Argis, resting his head on his chest and wrapping an arm around him.

“You OK?” Farkas said quietly. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No,” Argis murmured, stroking Farkas's hair and pulling him closer. “No, you never do. Thanks. I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too,” Farkas said, giving him a squeeze. “I missed you. Was worried you'd get eaten by a dragon or something. Or that you'd fall in love with Elisif and forget all about me.”

“Not likely,” Argis laughed, kissing the top of Farkas's head, post-sex comedown relaxing him and lowering his inhibitions like nothing else. Truth be told, Elisif was stunningly pretty, there was no denying that, and Argis did fancy her, had done from the start. But his father was interested and even if Elisif didn't feel the same, there was no way Argis could go for her. That, and he'd travelled with her on the road now. Carrying her things. Listening to her go on about all her many insecurities, and about Torygg, and if she was doing the right thing by siding with the Empire, and what Torygg would think about her siding with the Forsworn (not a lot, apparently). Dealing with Elisif's menstrual cycle, which had mostly involved passing leather cloths to her and discreetly turning a blind eye while the change-over happened, and then passing the pain relief potions over and putting up with the renewed moping over not having a husband any more and not being pregnant.

All told, while Argis still thought Elisif was very pretty, he was no longer sure he actually wanted her in his bed. Farkas was a lot less complicated. Farkas's needs were very simple – feed him, provide a regular supply of mead and then fuck the living daylights out of him. Argis liked that. He could cope with that. And he could definitely cope with Farkas's gentle caretaking. It was very nice indeed to be looked after.

“Is he really all right with it?” Farkas whispered. “You know... us?”

No need to ask who he was talking about there.

“I think so,” Argis sighed. “I mean, I don't think he exactly approves, but he's just being protective. At least he's stopped growling at you now.”

“Yeah,” Farkas said, relieved. “Yeah, that was a bit scary. Don't expect to be kissing someone and then have the King of the Forsworn bearing down on you with lightning in his hands.”

Precisely, and what with being thirty-five and male, Argis had thought he'd escaped that particular experience. Apparently not – Madanach was as overprotective of his son as he was of his daughters, when men were involved anyway.

“Still can't believe he's your father,” Farkas said, shaking his head. After the whole lightning and growling incident, Argis had had to take Farkas aside and quietly explain precisely why Madanach had gone crazier than usual, and admit that the boy who'd attained manhood by throwing an elk carcass at his clan chief's feet and announcing he'd be in his tent awaiting any woman who fancied finishing the initiation off had gone on to be King. Farkas had taken the news rather well considering.

“He is,” Argis said apologetically. “But you can't tell anyone, right? Not even Vilkas. No one can know. It isn't... it isn't safe.”

“I'd look after you, you know,” Farkas said quietly. “You'll always be safe at Jorrvaskr.”

“Not me,” Argis whispered, holding Farkas closer. “Him. Both of us. I – Farkas, just trust me on this.”

“All right,” Farkas said. Then he hesitated, before speaking again. “That's gotta be tough though. Having your pa still alive but not being able to call him that.”

“I'm used to it,” Argis said, but it had been a lot easier when his father was in prison and Argis only got to see him every so often on delivery runs, with no one else around to see them. Here on a Forsworn camp, with eyes everywhere and Kaie oblivious but Keirine seeming to know all too well, it was harder than ever to act like his father was just his king, not his kin. And Madanach wasn't doing all that well at hiding it either.

And if he dies in the battle tomorrow, or gets caught and executed, no one will even know I'm grieving.

Maybe that was for the best. It certainly made it less likely anyone would come after him. But damned if the thought didn't terrify him.

Argis held on to Farkas tighter, glad someone at least knew, someone who wasn't part of the whole Forsworn clusterfuck, someone he could just go to and forget about it all, someone who understood. It wasn't the same as having his father back, as having sisters who knew they were his sisters... but tonight, it would help.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erandur swore he'd not walked this way deliberately. He'd just gone for a walk in the evening, taking a tour of the camp, having been assured his elven blood would protect him from any possible incidents, and so it had proved. The worst he'd had to deal with was a few drunken Forsworn women cheerfully offering a few lessons in love but they'd accepted his polite refusals with good grace. Mostly it was just squealing and exclamations of 'real elf! He's a real elf!' and 'can we see the ears??' from both men and women, and lots of giggling and whispering. Reachfolk apparently saw elven features as signs of great beauty when they cropped up among their number, so when a real elf turned up... Karliah had a similar reaction, but they were all a bit more used to her. Erandur could only wonder what sort of reception Aranea was getting.

He didn't have to wonder long. She was sitting up on one of the ridges, dressed in Forsworn gear, head bare and surrounded by a gaggle of young Forsworn, all listening eagerly to the teachings of Azura. At least some of them were. Some of them were clearly just there to stare at Aranea's chest, and not just the men either.

“And I think that's enough for today,” Aranea concluded, smiling as she saw him approach. “Now if you'll excuse me, my good friend Erandur's here. About time we caught up.”

The group dispersed, wishing her a good evening, and Erandur had to shiver a little at the way they all seemed to call her Matriarch.

“They know you're not a Hagraven, don't they?” Erandur said, shuddering at the thought of Aranea becoming one of those things. Why any sane woman would do that was a mystery to him.

“Of course, but they don't really have any other titles for a female priestess,” Aranea said, smiling as she indicated for him to sit down next to her. “Well, there's Shaman and Healer, but those are a bit specific. But they are all very interested in Lady Azura's wisdom, and absolutely no one's said anything uncomplimentary or called me a grey-skin, so I'm inclined to let them give me any title they like. I think I need to visit more camps, Keirine's already invited me to hers.”

Keirine gave Erandur the creeps and practically reeked of Daedra worship, but as she was Madanach's sister and in charge of all the Forsworn's magical capability, there wasn't a lot he could do about it. All the same, he'd pointedly refused to discuss any of Vaermina's rites with her. Mara only knew what she might do with the Dreamstride ritual. Those portals were dangerous enough.

“You'd never become... one of them, would you?” he had to ask. The thought of Aranea's face narrowing and the skin tightening, and teeth turning to fangs, and feathers sprouting and claws on her feet and toes horrified him.

“Me?” Aranea laughed. “No, it's not for me, I don't think. But all the same, they're not as bad as you think.”

That really wasn't saying a lot.

“They don't actually eat children then,” Erandur said. Aranea shook her head.

“No. Only the stillborn ones, I think. Or possibly the unwanted ones.” She noticed the horrified look on Erandur's face and changed the subject. “So how's Elisif doing? I heard that she finally found out Madanach's after her. Didn't go so well, I heard.”

“She's still grieving Torygg,” Erandur said, also relieved to get off the topic of Hagravens. “She's not ready for another lover, won't be for a while. I told him that when I first got here. She loved her husband, saw him brutally killed in front of her, it's not something you just move on from. But he seems to think she'll get over it eventually and if he just makes sure he's there, she'll choose him. I told him it didn't work like that, but he's a very stubborn man.”

“He is,” Aranea said calmly, faint smile on her face. “But that doesn't mean he's wrong. I saw them together in one of Azura's visions. On their wedding day. Lying in an expensive bed somewhere, her nestled asleep in his arms while he just holds her and smiles at her. Him with tears in his eyes as he holds their first child. I don't know if it'll ever happen, the visions are sometimes just what might be, not what will be. But they were happy together. Has Elisif actually said she's not interested? Because Madanach's not an idiot, in fact he's usually extremely perceptive.”

“She said it would never work, that she'd like to be able to go to Torygg in the afterlife not having been unfaithful. That she's after a loveless marriage just to get heirs,” Erandur sighed. “And there's no way Madanach would ever let her have that if she married him, he'd be constantly trying to seduce her. She's right about that at least. But as for the rest – I know she's still grieving, but marrying while intending for there to be no love... It's an affront to Mara. I can't tell her that to her face, I know she's still hurting. But it is, Aranea. Mara has her own ways and her own wisdom, it's not for us to fight it. She knows what's best for us. I wish Elisif could just see that and open her heart to the possibility of loving again. As it is, all I can do is pray she'll be healed enough one day to see it.”

“She will,” Aranea said, smiling at some secret knowledge, some vision she'd seen most like. “You really believe it, don't you? That Mara knows better than we do what's good for us. That we shouldn't fight love.”

“Ye-es,” Erandur said, not liking that look in her eyes. “Aranea, where is this going – mmph!”

She'd leaned forward, taken his head in her hands and kissed him. Erandur reached out blindly, trying to push her away, only for his hand to wind up on her breast. He leapt back like she'd shocked him.

“Don't,” Erandur rasped, wiping his mouth. “I didn't mean-!”

“No?” Aranea said, frowning. “You think Mara knows best for everyone except you? That people shouldn't fight love, apart from you?”

“Aranea...” Erandur said, starting to panic. “Aranea, stop it, we can't...”

“Why not?” Aranea demanded, red eyes flashing with anger. “I love you, Erandur, and I'm tired of hiding it. I missed you. I saw visions of you and wished I could go after you, but my faith in Azura held me back. Except now she's let me go and I don't have to hold back any more. I just don't understand why you still are!”

“I'm old enough to be your father!” Erandur cried. Aranea just shrugged.

“Madanach is old enough to be Elisif's father, that's not stopped him,” she pointed out.

“That's because he's a heathen old reprobate,” Erandur sighed. “I'm meant to be better than that. I'm meant to be atoning!”

“You've spent years, decades, atoning,” Aranea cried. “Haven't you done enough? Isn't Mara the forgiving type? The benevolent and loving type? Hasn't she forgiven you yet?”

“Of course she has, but it's not enough!” Erandur said, wondering why Aranea couldn't see it. Mara loved everyone, even the unworthy, but that didn't mean he wasn't still unworthy.

“Why not,” Aranea said quietly. “Are you saying Mara's wrong?”

“No!” Erandur cried. Damn her, why did she have to do this to him, interrupting his lonely penance, bringing love back into his life after so long, the first one to touch him intimately, the only one, Aranea Ienith who'd taken in and counselled even a Vaermina cultist who'd left his friends to die... and who still thought he was worth something. The sad thing was, he adored her still. It wasn't just lust, never really had been. She'd sent him towards Mara, and Erandur had gone willingly, needing love and forgiveness in his life... but he'd never really felt forgiven. Mara might have forgiven him but he'd yet to forgive himself. Mara couldn't be wrong, of course, but maybe he'd not entirely understood her will.

“Then why are you still fighting your feelings?” Aranea whispered, stroking his cheek, and Erandur could feel his cock hardening and his heart pounding, and he felt himself blushing. They needed to stop this, he needed to stop this, but it had been so long and he'd been so lonely and...

“You can't love me,” he whispered.

“Can't I,” Aranea said gently. “Why not.”

“Why would you?” Erandur whispered, decades of pain and shame and guilt threatening to overwhelm him. He didn't deserve Aranea – he didn't deserve to be happy. Not after all he'd done.

“You should perhaps be asking Mara that question,” Aranea said, tracing her fingers over his lips. “She's the goddess of love after all.”

Perhaps he should, but he wasn't sure he'd get any kind of answer. He mostly just wanted to know why. Why Lady Mara would allow him to have feelings for someone when he manifestly didn't deserve them.

“Please,” Erandur pleaded. “Stop pushing me. I can't give you what you want. What you need. What you deserve.”

“What do I deserve?” Aranea asked quietly. “You tell me if you know me so well.”

“To be happy,” Erandur said, unable to meet her eyes, staring at out at the tents and the torchlight and the sight of the Forsworn dancing in between them, singing and laughing with happy couples chasing each other. A happiness he didn't deserve and would likely never have again. “With someone who can love you like you should be.”

“Can't that be you?” Aranea asked, despairing.

“I can't,” Erandur whispered, feeling his throat tighten as it all threatened to overwhelm him – her, the sounds of the camp, all of it. He could sense that something was wrong somehow, but damned if he knew what or how to fix it.

“Erandur,” Aranea whispered, reaching out to him, and he could take no more. Not daring to look back, Erandur fled for the safety of his tent, where he could be alone and meditate on Lady Mara's Divine Benevolence in peace.

Leaving Aranea Ienith behind him, cursing quietly and wishing Lady Azura was still sending visions. Erandur who had been Casimir was a very frustrating man. How ironic – he'd not wanted to go when she sent him away all those years ago. But Azura had sent visions of him serving Mara, sent visions to them both, and in the end, Aranea had feared Vaermina's nightmares and Azura's visions were going to drive him mad. So she'd sent him away for his own sake.

Now here he was, back in her life but still damaged, healed from the nightmares and the visions long gone, but still haunted. A devotee of the goddess of love afraid to experience his own goddess's blessings. How deeply ironic.

Silence from Azura, and praying to Mara hadn't helped either. All Aranea could do was let him go and hope he'd realise for himself what he needed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I should go back to my tent. It's getting late.”

“Don't let me stop you.”

“Right. I'll be going then.”

Madanach took another sip of his jenever and counted quietly to five, having seen the pile of mead bottles that had been building up next to the Dragon-Queen and wondered if dragon blood actually gave you resistance to alcohol.

Apparently not, because Elisif got to her feet, swayed rather unsteadily, staggered a few steps off to her left, got about three feet then sank to her knees.

“Madanach?”

He was fairly certain Dragonborns weren't supposed to sound that plaintive.

“What?” he called back, repressing a smirk.

“Which tent's mine? I – I don't remember... they all look the same.”

Sithis help him. And here he was thinking his days of dealing with drunks were mostly behind him.

“It's that way,” he said, pointing in the vague direction of the one he'd assigned Elisif. Easy enough to find, none of the others had a dragon skull mounted on the roof.

Silence. Then...

“It's too dark! They keep moving... Madanach, please help me!”

He could see he wasn't getting out of this one.

“Fine, I shall escort you back to your bed, and then I am leaving you there and returning to my maudlin self-pitying.”

“... OK.” Confusion in her voice and clearly she was at that stage of drunkenness where complicated phrases were a bit beyond her. Madanach got to his feet, and then he belatedly recalled how jenever worked. It got you drunk from the feet up. You could drink lots of it and feel fine... until you tried to get up.

He got up, staggered round the log, felt the world spin and then he was face down in the grass, just about managing to break his fall with his hands.

Ah. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. Yes, moving was a terrible idea, he should just stay here on the ground until the world stopped moving and it all went away.

“Mad'nach? Mad'nach, why are you on the ground?” Elisif had crawled over, poking at him, looking concerned and a bit annoyed. “You were going to help me find my tent!”

“Well, I changed my mind,” Madanach growled. “Gonna stay here instead. Can't you find your own way home?”

“It's your camp!” Elisif snapped. “An' I'm a girl, you can't let pretty girls go home drunk on their own. It's no' right.”

Madanach glared, seeing her point but also feeling there was something rather unfair about this situation.

“Wha', so jus' because I'mma man, I gotta take care o' you when yer drunk?”

“Yes!” Elisif said firmly, folding her arms, seeming pleased. “Is the shiv-walrus thing to do.”

“That'sh notta word.”

“It so ish! Means yourra good person who helpsh people, anna brave an' noble warrior.”

Madanach was fairly certain he wasn't one of those any more. In fact...

“Ishn't that supposed to be your job?”

That got her, and while Elisif clearly wasn't entirely convinced of his reasoning, her drunken brain was having trouble working out why she shouldn't be. Time to push his point.

“In fact, I'm an old man, you're a young and strong warrior, you should be helping me home.” Madanach held out an arm expectantly. “Maybe I need a big, strong Nord warrior to look after me, hmm?”

“You hate Nords,” Elisif said, utterly bewildered by now.

“Don't hate 'em all,” Madanach shrugged. “Don't hate you. It was jusht the Shilver-Bloods really, but they're all dead. An' Ulfric an' his lot, an we're gonna kill them tomorrow. Don't care about the rest of them. Aela'sh all right and Vilkash ish tol'rable and Farkash is OK as long as he makes my Argiz happy and doesna break his heart, and Brynjolf's fine ash long as he keepsh his hands to himself, and... an' Inga was nice.” Wistful look came into his eyes as he remembered Inga, staring at him as he was lying on the ground, injured and dying, sole survivor of a skirmish. Inga had been out hunting, found him and her healing potions had saved his life. First and only Nord to ever be nice to him (until Elisif anyway), she'd nursed him back to health and apparently fallen in love with him. Hadn't done her any favours, although he'd almost thought about staying, leaving the Reachmen behind him. He'd only been a young man – talented warrior, brilliant young mage, engaged to the chief's daughter but only a minor player back then. He could easily have left it all behind... but he had a feeling Mireen would find him eventually. So he'd said goodbye and gone home, not knowing he'd left her pregnant.

That poor innocent woman had not deserved him, although he could never regret bringing Argis into the world.

“Do you miss her?” Elisif said quietly, kneeling next to him and putting his arm around her shoulders. Madanach let her pull him up, snuggling in next to her and nodding.

“She was nice. A good person. Not like me. Don't think it would have lasted. But I did care. Do care. Fuck it. El'zif, when you get to Shovn – Sovin – the afterlife, you give her a hug from me and tell her I'm shorry.”

Elisif bit her lip, looking at him with inexpressibly sad eyes before cuddling him, and that was nice, that was very nice, even if her armour was hard and cold. But the incredibly beautiful Dragonborn was cuddling him and that was never to be turned down. He slid arms around her waist and nestled up against her as she helped him up.

“You're nice too,” he murmured, breathing into her ear. “You remin' me of her a bit. Same caring nature. 'Xcept you're stronger somehow. More outgoing. She'd back down to avoid a fight. Don't think you would.”

“I can breathe fire, you know.” Note of warning there, and Madanach chuckled, taking the hint and shutting up, focusing on keeping his balance instead. A job made much easier with an Elisif to hold on to, and by Sithis, this was nice, staggering back through camp with a beautiful woman who was going to save him and his kingdom and the world at his side. Not in love with him, how could she be? But she was here and Madanach would make the most of it while he had her.

“Where are we going?” Elisif whispered, and Madanach pointed up ahead to a big tent with some dead animal bones mounted on top of it.

“That one.”

Elisif squinted at it then glared at him.

“That's your tent. Not mine!”

“I know. Yoursh is over there.” Madanach waved vaguely at the one with the dragon skull silhouetted in the aurora. “But mine has healin' potions. So we go there, we drink potionsh an' then unless you've changed your mind about me, you can go back to your own bed and leave me to my lonely mishery.”

Elisif tutted but did steer him back to his tent. Bigger than most Forsworn tents but not too big, enough room for a straw pile and furs and a chair and desk, and a storage chest. Mostly Madanach's mind was focused on the bedding and the chance to finally close his eyes and get some sleep.

Elisif let him go and he staggered to the bed, collapsing on it, about ready to sleep. But first, ensuring the hangover didn't kill him tomorrow.

“In that chest,” Madanach said, waving vaguely at it. “Couple of red potions, one pale, one dark. Anna green one – not that one, yeah, that's it. Give them to me.”

Madanach dosed himself up on the frankly vile concoctions his sister and her friends liked to knock up, but he did have to admit they worked. Done, he lay back on the straw, feeling the effects kicking in.

“Needed that,” he murmured, feeling the drunken haze start to abate. “Thanks, Elisif – Elisif?”

She was kneeling by the bed, staring into space, tears rolling down her cheeks. Madanach felt cold terror prickling down his spine. He hated it when people cried in front of him, he could cope with it in children, but in his adult loved ones it always worried him. Particularly when he didn't know what had caused it.

“Elisif?” he said nervously, propping himself up and reaching out to her. “Elisif, why are you crying? Don't cry, they'll all think I did it.”

“I'm a bad person!” Elisif sobbed. “I'm a terrible terrible person who doesn't deserve to be queen or happy or anything!”

Ah yes. The self-loathing stage of drunkenness. He held out a hand to her and she went to him, curling up in his arms and not resisting as he lay back down and held her to his chest.

“Why are you a bad person?” he asked, secretly rather liking the way she was cuddling up to him like this. A bit too trusting of her and he could wish she was smiling rather than crying, but it was still probably the closest he'd ever get.

“I killed someone!” she sobbed.

“I... see,” Madanach said, rubbing her back and hoping she could feel it through the armour. “But Elisif, cariad, you've killed lots of people since you became Dragonborn, hmm? You've fought Stormcloaks and necromancery types, you sent Cicero after the Dark Brotherhood and I don't think he was going back for tea and cake and a friendly little chat with Astrid. You certainly had no problem authorising Thonar's death.”

“They were strangers,” Elisif whispered. “Or they deserved it. Markarth's a better place without Thonar, the world's a better place without Malkoran and those other cultists and necromancers, the Dark Brotherhood were hunting me, and the Stormcloaks started it. I had no choice.”

“You chose to kill someone,” Madanach said, surprised. Now that was a change, Elisif had never struck him as the type to enjoy killing for its own sake. It was a duty she was always reluctant to carry out. He wondered what had changed. “Who was it?”

“Erikur,” Elisif said softly. “He was one of my Thanes. Well, it was Istlod who first Thaned him, I just inherited him. And I killed him in my own palace.”

“I see,” Madanach murmured, still stroking her hair. “What did he do? I can't see you randomly walking up to a man and stabbing him, still less them just letting you walk away after, even if you are Jarl.”

“It was him who took the contract out on me,” Elisif whispered. “His name was in the Brotherhood's ledger, Brynjolf and Karliah delivered it to Falk. They'd just arrested him when I got there. When I saw his name in the ledger, I just... I just lost it, Madanach. I shouted at him, not with the Thu'um, and just shoved Dawnbreaker through his chest. I killed him, Madanach! He was my Thane... and I killed him.”

She was crying quietly again and while Madanach did at least know why now, he still wasn't sure he understood.

“Of course you did,” he murmured into her hair. “If someone had tried to have me killed, I'd have done the same. You didn't do anything wrong!”

“Not the point!” Elisif sobbed. “Maybe he was guilty, probably we'd have executed him anyway, but it didn't need to be me! I could have signed the warrant and let the guards handle it! But I didn't...”

“No,” Madanach whispered to her, pulling her closer. “No, you didn't. You took care of it personally. Always the best way.”

“You would say that, you've killed loads of people,” Elisif whispered. Disapproving and yet here she was, nestled on top of him, apparently quite comfortable and not looking to move any time soon.

“Then why are you confessing to me,” Madanach murmured back, toying with a strand of her hair. “Talk to Erandur, he can do the absolution and forgiving thing. Me, I'm an old warlord who'd do exactly the same and barely think about it later. Why me?”

“Because I'm turning into a monster,” Elisif whispered, shivering all over and clinging to him. “I'm scared I'll go too far. If I go too far... only you can stop me.”

“What are you talking about?” Madanach sighed, baffled. “You're not turning into a monster and I'm sure others could stop you if you were.”

“Not like you,” Elisif whispered, finally looking up and she looked terrified. “You're the one with the army, you're the one who knows how to unseat corrupt Nord rulers, you're not blinded by the whole Dragonborn legend. You've got Cicero as a son-in-law. You can do it, I think you're the only one. And if even you think I've gone too far...”

“Even me?” Madanach said, feeling slightly offended but not enough to really care about. “I'm hurt.”

“You know what I mean,” Elisif whispered. “Well, will you? Stop me?”

“Stop you? Elisif, I don't think it's ever going to be necessary in my lifetime,” Madanach laughed... and then he realised she was serious. Which begged the question, could he do it? Stop her if her dragon blood took over and she started doing more harm than good.

He didn't think he could kill her. Not Elisif, soft and warm and pretty and gentle and presently clinging on to him. But he might be able to make other arrangements... if he had to.

“If I need to, I'll do it,” he promised. “You just go out there and do your thing. In the mean time, I've got your back.”

“Thank you,” Elisif whispered, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek, and Madanach couldn't stop himself gasping and by Sithis, she had to stop doing that. Especially as she was right there, nose barely touching his, eyes fluttering closed and whispering his name... and he definitely wanted to, no doubt about that. But he could also smell the mead on her breath, and maybe she was drunk and emotional and lonely but she wasn't using him to get her fix.

“You need to leave,” Madanach growled, rolling over on to his side and neatly lowering her to the ground. Elisif sat up, looking a bit dazed but nodding.

“And drink these,” he said, softening his voice a little. “They'll help with your head.”

Elisif nodded and drank the potions he gave her, staggering unsteadily to her feet.

“I should go,” she said, sounding very uncertain.

“Yes, you should,” Madanach said, relieved to hear it because if Elisif ever did end up in his bed, he'd like for her to be sober when it happened. “Go on, go get some sleep. Your tent's the one on the left when you leave, with the dragon skull on it.”

“Right,” Elisif said, still looking a bit vacant. “Right, I'll do that. Goodnight, Mad'nach.”

“Goodnight,” Madanach said quietly, watching her go and mentally kicking himself for the conscience he seemed to be developing lately. She'd been right there for the taking, even starting to initiate things... and he'd sent her away.

Never mind. It was something. And wasn't he quite capable of playing the long game?

She wouldn't grieve forever. She'd win this coming battle and be stronger because of it, and when she finally realised that the one she'd asked to rein her in was best placed to do that from beside her... he'd be there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late night in Windhelm and Ulfric Stormcloak was sitting in one of the upper rooms in the Palace of the Kings, mead in hand, staring out of the window, into the night, at Windhelm's streets and beyond the walls, the darkness that was the Aalto plain. The night sky blazed with aurora light and starlight and moonlight, but the ground was all darkness. There was a metaphor in that, he was sure.

“Not going to bed yet, Ulfric?”

Galmar. Fussing over him like a mother hen. As always. As it had been since he went off to fight in the Great War. After escaping the Thalmor. During the conquest of Markarth, his attempt to prove he was a mighty warrior despite the humiliation of being captured, his attempt to prove he was better than those witch-elves. Throughout his Jarldom. Galmar had been there throughout, the older brother Ulfric had never had.

“Not yet,” Ulfric said quietly. “I'm watching the Aalto.”

“There's nothing out there, Ulfric,” Galmar sighed. “It's pitch black out there. Go to bed, you'll strain your eyes.”

“In a moment,” Ulfric said, still frowning. “Galmar. The report from those scouts. That the dragons predating on travellers have gone.”

“Aye,” Galmar said quietly. “The one at Kynesgrove stayed dead for over a week, and that other one that was roosting near the Dwemer ruins was seen lying dead near Mistwatch for the same amount of time. No sign of that one near Bonestrewn Crest either.”

A good sign, that the dragons had stopped rising from the dead. But that they'd died in the first place... his men hadn't killed them. Not that he'd heard of, and killing a dragon was the sort of thing that men (and women) bragged of in barrack rooms and taverns for days after.

“Yes, but this latest report, Galmar. That the corpses have vanished entirely, but the dragons aren't flying anywhere. What do you make of it?”

Galmar just shrugged. “What of it, Ulfric. They're gone and they're not slaughtering our people and burning our Hold. We've got Imperials to fight, who cares about a few missing dragon corpses.”

“Dragons don't just vanish,” Ulfric said, brooding. No one was moving one of those creatures in a hurry, nor could anyone carve it to pieces easily. It was a puzzle, and Ulfric had never been fond of those.

He wondered if Elisif would know the answer. A Dragonborn could take a dragon's soul. Why not move the body too? Even if it did sound perilously close to necromancy.

She was out there somewhere, he was sure of it. Probably nearer to Windhelm than he was happy with. He didn't think it was coincidence the dragons had vanished all at once like this. And there were other reports too. A stray goat turning up at Hollyfrost Farm, clearly tame but not belonging to anyone nearby. Then the following night it had vanished again, and the snow melted in a neat path leading south along the road until the snowline was the only thing to mark its passing. Scouts and patrols were disappearing, and while Ulfric knew there was an Imperial presence somewhere in the Velothi foothills, the disappearances were increasing of late. He'd had hardly any news out of Riften recently, and nothing from Darkwater Crossing. For all he knew there could be an army camped out on the Aalto – not that he could see anything on the plain, but the Imperials were cunning.

And then there was the Great Soul Gem Shortage. A small thing, a seeming curiosity, of more concern to wizards and mages than true Nords, but Wuunferth had been furious at his entire supply going missing, and his Stone of Barenziah too, and enquiries had revealed everyone else who owned any had had theirs stolen too. Valuable items left largely untouched for the most part, but the soul gems? Gone. Didn't matter what size or if they were filled or not, they all vanished regardless.

Ulfric was damn near positive this was Elisif's doing somehow, but damned if he could work out why. Wuunferth had been no help whatsoever, merely saying that perhaps someone wanted to enchant an entire army's weapons, either that or set up soul gem traps to guard somewhere. Apparently mages liked to prime the things so they'd automatically cast Destruction spells at intruders, which was a possibility, but who would want so many? And guarding what?

He'd send runners to the College of Winterhold to ask their opinion, but as with the scouts to the south, they'd disappeared. He'd sent couriers on board ship, but the East Empire's ships all seemed to fall victim to the Blood Horkers whenever one of his men travelled with them, and when he'd tried one of Shatter-Shield's, the courier had sheepishly come back having had the letters stolen from him.

Someone was sabotaging his communications. Someone had stolen every soul gem in the city for magical purposes as yet unknown. Someone had dealt with the dragons.

Just as someone had got to his crown first despite Galmar swearing no one else could have known it was there, and someone had escaped from both Cidhna Mine, which Thonar had always said was an unbreakable fortress that no one got out of, and then from the Forsworn who couldn't possibly have let the beautiful young Queen of the Nords go voluntarily.

She'd even wiped out the Dark Brotherhood, and that story had had tankards raised in her name in his own city. Quietly, but they'd been raised.

Ulfric was beginning to wonder if he was going mad.

“Galmar,” he said quietly. “Do you think we're doing the right thing? By Skyrim, I mean. With the war.”

“What are you talking about?” Galmar scoffed, then he realised his Jarl was serious. “By the Nine, Ulfric, of course we're doing the right thing. Those witch-elves would have us grovelling at their feet and thanking them for the pleasure if we let them! We need to prove true Nords won't stand to be pushed around! The Empire's weak, Ulfric. We'll bring the whole rotten edifice crashing down and then we'll take the fight to the Dominion. Of course we're doing the right thing.”

Ulfric thought of the dreams, of Elenwen, of Markarth, of the wildman they called Madanach, eyes hollow and broken when they'd finally hauled the usurping, Jarl-killing bastard out of that filthy redoubt and off to prison. Of Torygg dying as Ulfric's sword skewered him, looking confused and personally betrayed as the light died out of his eyes, and Elisif screaming like some wild animal, all sanity and reason gone. Of Elisif the Dragonborn calling him a murderer and backing away like he was some sort of monster.

Of Ralof confessing Elisif had turned up where she couldn't possibly have known they'd be and taken the Jagged Crown, contemptuously telling Ralof to tell Ulfric she'd be coming for him, and Ulfric hadn't slept properly since. Ralof had been shaking from terror, whispering that he hadn't known she'd been that skilled. Or that queenly, he'd clearly been thinking but not dared to say, and for the first time since Ulfric had met Ralof, he'd seen something other than adoration in the man's eyes. He'd seen doubt.

And ever since then, he'd felt it himself. Doubt. Worry. Fear. That maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

“Do you think she'd be a good queen?” Ulfric asked quietly. Now Galmar was looking at him as if he really had gone insane.

“Are you joking, she's not even twenty four years old. The girl knows nothing about leadership, nothing. So she's killed a few dragons with help. So she's got Kodlak Whitemane wrapped round her finger. So she got lucky and got away from the Forsworn. Her luck will run out, Ulfric.”

Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn't. But as Ulfric finally left the window and retired to bed, he couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom closing in on him and the horrible sense that maybe his already had.

~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: And that's the setup. Next update will involve the Battle of Windhelm as the Dragonborn moves in for the kill. Dragons do not like rivals.

A!A is incredibly flattered! I don't even know what to say; I'm really glad you enjoyed it, and Vilkas is a bit of a toughy for me, so I'm glad you think I portrayed him well! :D As for Lyra, she'll probably show up again sometime...
Thank you for your kind words!

The snows deepen as they climb into the mountains. Even keeping to the road, the three often finds themselves struggling through drifts that have spilled across the track as though from a split sack of sugar. More than once they camp in the deep hole around the base of a massive spruce tree, heavily laden branches drooping to form a natural roof. They meet few travelers. This time of year, the most common signs of life beside their own are the neat prints of snow foxes threading between the trees.

The sprawling forest is far from empty, though. Rabbit stew becomes a common supper as they attempt to conserve their supplies. One day they stumble across a tribe of frostbite spiders, and the resultant fight leaves all three of them shivering and feverish, joints stiff from the foul creatures’ poison. They spend another tense evening listening to the hoots and growls of two male frost trolls arguing over territory. The land rises slowly, but steadily. When nights grow even colder and the enormous black spruces begin to grow smaller, gnarled and stunted by wind, Freyja knows that they are nearing the high point of their journey.

The old fort at Dunstad Pass is inhabited by bandits, who jeer at them from atop the walls; maybe they aren’t inclined to engage with a trio of armed and armored wanderers, or maybe the three of them just look skint. Even so, one of the bandits sends an arrow hissing into the snow near Freyja’s feet. The warning is clear. She gestures obscenely in the archer’s direction, but takes the lead in climbing around, cursing Dawnstar’s jarl.

“What sort of fool lets a gang of cutthroats take up residence in the most strategic fort in his entire hold?” she growls, as they wade through ice and snow on the mountain slope.

Thorald shrugs. “None of the jarls have any guards to spare. When I left Whiterun the old White River Gang was getting bold, and the state of Valtheim Towers is a bloody disgrace. Right on the border with Eastmarch, and neither Ulfric nor Balgruuf wants to be the one to tie down a detachment holding the place. Or antagonize each other by posting men at the border, come to that. Balgruuf keeps paying out bounties, but every time some adventurer comes in and clears the fort another pack of lowlifes moves in.”

“Charming.” Freyja shakes her head.

“The sooner this war is over, the better,” Thorald agrees. Freyja grimaces. He’s right, but personally she can’t see the conflict being anything but long and ugly. And while she’ll likely fill her empty pockets carving up such grubby hideouts, that doesn’t mean more of them is good news. She’s well-schooled in the misery their denizens can cause.

Eitri’s thoughts seem to follow the same path. He’s watching her out of the corner of his eye, a worried little frown dogging his mouth. Freyja shakes her head. There was indeed a time when just the idea of bandits set her burning with impotent rage, when she’d have stormed any fort in her path with the sort of single-minded ferocity that didn’t care for odds; she still carries a long white scar along her ribs from one particularly messy encounter. But every fire blazes itself out eventually, even those of fury and grief. After a year it’s only a smoldering background ache, and it takes more than a simple mention of outlaws to set it flaring to life. To be fair, Eitri’s only just learned that it might be an issue, but his anxious concern is grating. And a bit worrying, quite frankly. The man is too damned kind to fight in a war. “It was more than a year ago,” she tells him. By way of answer Eitri reaches over and squeezes her hand. He drops it quickly, but the gesture still leaves Freyja startled, and somewhat touched. Out of the corner of her eye she catches Thorald watching them with a tiny, satisfied smile. She’s a sudden sneaking suspicion that she’s not the only one he was urging to make peace.

“Was it strange?” Eitri murmurs, as they labor over a ridge of rock and corniced snow. The fort is grim but small below them, like a carven marker on a map. A frigid wind is dragging strands out of Freyja’s braids.

“Was what strange?”

“Having...” he twists his hands vaguely, awkward. “Being with someone – not human.”

Freyja shoves her windswept hair out of her eyes, wary. “How so?”

“Just – all the differences. Elves live so long, for one thing.”

Thorald looks curious. “You had an elven lover?”

“Yeah, that part was odd,” she says after a moment, leaving Thorald’s question to answer itself. She’s surprised by her own willingness to have this conversation, but somehow it feels natural. Perhaps because Eitri already knows part of the story; perhaps because she can recall the silent buckling of his face in Northwatch Keep. “He was young by elven standards, and yet he could remember the Great War. I’d barely been born, and he was in Cyrodiil, running supplies to the Legion.”

“He was a legionnaire?”

“No. After the Imperial City fell the army regrouped near Cheydinhal, and his family owned a general goods store there. He worked as a guard for the supply caravans. Dealt with the Legion a lot. I heard someone call it war profiteering once, actually, but he risked his life to smuggle supplies behind enemy lines. Talked his way past a Dominion patrol once by flirting with the commander, some utter flowery nonsense about Queen Morgiah of Firsthold and precedent for Altmer-Dunmer unions.” She shakes her head, remembering the way he could school his angular features into a cuttingly accurate depiction of Aldmeri snobbery, and then ruin the illusion by theatrically batting his eyelashes. “I can’t tell the story right.”

Eitri smiles. “He sounds like a rogue.”

“He grew up in the refugee quarter of Cheydinhal,” she says. “When Red Mountain erupted a lot of Dunmer fled there, especially the disenfranchised Hlaalu nobles. They had merchants’ ties to Cyrodiil, not that it did them much good in the end. Empire was too busy with its own problems. It’s not a bad place, but these days it’s...spare. Shabby. There’s not a lot of extras or kindness to go around. He was a survivor. Knew a bit about most everything, and how to turn it to profit. Youngest of three brothers and the only one not born in Morrowind, the one who worshipped the Divines alongside Azura.” Freyja shrugs. “He was good at that. Finding something he could use, in everything. Which rumors a tavern keeper would want to hear, which flowers would fetch a good price from the alchemist. And yes, he had a silver tongue, when he wasn’t sharpening it on everyone within reach. Which wasn’t often, frankly.”

“You loved him,” Eitri observes, quietly.

“Why shouldn’t I?” There’s a sudden snap in her voice, like a narrow branch whipping back across a path. Freyja is well aware of how some Nords feel about relations between men and elves.

“That’s not what I meant,” Eitri says, just as quietly. Freyja swallows. They don’t speak of it any more.

The slope of the land beyond the fort is a welcome change after the long, steady climb they’ve made since Dawnstar – although, with her heavy pack, Freyja soon feels the familiar downhill ache in her knees and the backs of her thighs. They make good time, but their hike around the pass ate at least an hour of daylight, and it’s bitterly cold. When the sun begins to settle low in the sky they are only too happy to turn off the path and stomp through the snow to the top of a little hill, where a downed spruce has created a small clearing. They pitch their tent in the natural windbreak formed by the big tree’s exposed roots, and then begin to gather firewood for a long, cold night.

The men spar as Freyja tends the fire, trying to force warmth into their limbs by crossing blades. Freyja frowns as she watches Eitri’s form. He’s improving, there’s no doubt about that. But she dearly hopes the Stormcloaks hand their recruits off to a weapons-master before sending them into the field. He’s not ready for organized battle. Freyja feels a surge of sudden fury at the idiots tearing Skyrim apart for their own blindness, at the Empire’s bloated bureaucracy and the Stormcloaks’ intransigent pride. Even at Thorald, for suggesting Eitri lend his arm to the cause – though gods know the man has his reasons. At the Thalmor most of all, for the way their machinations have rent her homeland along its seams. Good men shouldn’t die for nothing. But she can’t escape the foreboding that after all they’ve been through, the man she’s come to see as a friend will end as just another snow-dusted corpse in a muddied blue tabard.

They retreat to the tent as soon as they’ve eaten. Near midnight, Eitri shakes her awake to take the watch. Second watch is never pleasant – far better to rise early or stay up late than to interrupt a night’s rest – but tonight crawling out of the bedroll makes Freyja curse; the brutal cold rakes its claws over every sliver of exposed skin. The very air seems frozen. Night hangs suspended on the edge of the world, timeless and still, with only the slow revolution of the stars to mark the passage of the hours. Freyja wonders what High Hrothgar is like this late in the year. She’s chosen a poor time to develop a sense of duty. The Throat of the World is further south, but far higher; if it’s this frigid in the western end of the Anthors, the upper reaches of the mountain are sure to be colder than wraiths’ teeth, and buried in snow. She moves closer to the fire, tucking her fingers into her armpits and her nose in the fur of her cloak. At least the chill in the air makes it hard to doze. For long hours she sits staring into the darkness, wondering what the Greybeards will say when the Dragonborn arrives many months late.

There’s a soft crunch of snow. Freyja sits up, alert. The wind moves. Through a gap in the ice-stunted trees she sees the antlers of an elk silhouetted by the moons; when she moves the animal snorts a steaming breath and dashes away. Freyja settles back, relaxing her grip on the hilt of her sword.

A moment later, there’s another soft crunch. This time she slides the blade half out of its sheath, rising slowly to her feet. It may only be another night creature of the forest, but she would not put it past the bandits in the fort to follow their tracks, intending to raid while they are sleeping. Perhaps they even startled the elk from its bed. For a long time Freyja stands in the little clearing, listening. There’s nothing but the wind. Then between the trees, on the road below, she spots the gentle glow of magelight. “Find them,” someone mutters. Ominous-sounding, but it’s not the words that send a bolt of dread down Freyja’s spine.

It’s the smooth, clipped tones of someone raised on the Summerset Isles.

She kicks over the fire. Flies to the tent, fearing the smell of smoke, the hiss of the coals, the dry squeak of the snow beneath her boots. At her grip on their shoulders both men wake. “Thalmor,” she whispers, and in the dark she hears Thorald’s harsh intake of breath.

Eitri rolls out from under his furs. “How did they find us?”

“Does it matter?”

“Go,” Thorald says, with tightly reined panic in his voice.

They sprint for the high ground, where Freyja pulls the men down behind a huge snowdrift. It’s no use running far. In this bitter cold they need their tent and bedrolls, and their food. The Thalmor won’t stop searching; better to fight them now, where they have the element of surprise, than take the chance of their enemy catching them unawares on the road. Hopefully they won’t even find the tent, but in her mind’s eye Freyja can see the neat set of tracks they left where they turned off the path. At least here, the clearing and surrounding woods are crisscrossed with their footprints, made as they gathered wood for the fire.

Sure enough, they soon hear slow, stealthy steps climbing the hill. A black-hooded form is the first to step into sight; Freyja sees him nudge the still-smoking remains of their fire with his toe. Four more shapes fan out behind him. Another wizard, and three warriors in glass armor. Under the magelight the elves’ long thin shadows stretch across the clearing, nearly far enough to touch the drifts where they hide. The first justiciar makes a sharp motion with his hands, and one of the soldiers throws open the flap of their tent. Freyja hears his soft curse, but the one in charge only swivels on his heel, very slowly, scanning the clearing.

“Come on out,” calls his cultured voice from beneath his hood, dry and amused. Freyja sees Eitri’s face twist in a snarl and grips his arm harshly – no use giving away their position. Thorald looks like he wants to throw up. The soft vibration of a spell drifts on the wind. Then it’s silent. And then it isn’t.

Detect Life, Freyja thinks, too late.

The fireball whumps into the snowbank and punches sizzling out the other side, with a heat that’s enough to leave white streaks searing across Freyja’s vision. Another slams into the snow to their left. Freyja ducks, nearly flat on her face in the snow. She can hear the clink of glass armor as the soldiers fan out to flank them. Another fireball whizzes over their heads. They are caught like rats in a trap.

Thorald grabs her wrist, the panic on his face tempered with a feral courage. “Make them send you to Sovngarde,” he says. “Better than that hellhole they call a dungeon.”

“No one’s dying today,” Freyja hisses. He gives her a bitter smile.
Eitri catches something in that smile that she does not, because even in the dark Freyja sees alarm flare across his face; he makes a grab for the Grey-Mane, though it’s with his bad hand and the other man slips right through it. “Thorald--!”

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