A/N: Oh, hey, more Elder Scrolls stuff.

Remember about 5,000 years ago when I finished Second Seed, and I mentioned I was looking into making some side stories and one-shots in my TESV series? Well, this is where I plan on putting them all. Some of them will stand alone, others might have overarching plotlines—but all of them will have some connection to my entries in The Last Years of the Fourth Era.

Because of that, each update in this collection is automatically assumed to be rated M, in keeping with the source material—and there WILL be spoilers. I'll be putting author's notes at the beginning of every installment so as to let you know what ought to be read first, if anything. This won't be a fanfic with frequent updates, I will say that—nor is it unlikely that it will update out of order—it's more of a collection of smaller plots that I felt didn't quite have the length or the content to qualify for their own entry.

The story below takes place after The Last Years of the Fourth Era: First Seed, and is presented in two parts. Prior reading is recommended so as to avoid any confusion or spoilers, but not explicitly required.

And before anyone asks: yes, I do see the irony in releasing this during a chaotic election season. Would that it was solved so easily; that's all I'm saying about that.

Hope you enjoy! – K

"You Nords and your bloody sense of honor."

– Quote attrib. to Gen. Tullius, Military Governor of Skyrim (d. 4E 203?)

I

Whiterun

5th of Rain's Hand, 4E 203

'Background: Ulfric first came to our attention during the First War Against the Empire, when he was taken as a prisoner of war during the campaign for the White-Gold Tower. Under interrogation, we learned of his potential value (son of the Jarl of Windhelm) and he was assigned as an asset to the interrogator, who is now First Emissary Elenwen. He was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had broken), and then allowed to escape. After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset. The so-called "Markarth Incident" was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact.

'Operational Notes: Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off. … A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed … '

Varulf Blackmane could read no more.

He knew the words by heart—he'd practically memorized them by the time he'd arrived back from Winterhold that fateful day. He did not return to Windhelm, where he knew Aela was waiting for him in Hjerim.

No, he was in Jorrvaskr instead, hunched over the old desk that had once belonged to his predecessor, the former Harbinger of the Companions. He'd made sure to keep a candle burning there every day since Kodlak's untimely passing. The latest candle was now beginning to burn low; it was already sputtering, throwing shadows all over the place—across the wear and tear that lined the Harbinger's face, from thick black brows to thick black beard.

None of it convinced Varulf that every word he'd read was false—there could no longer be any doubt. Ulfric had been lied to, betrayed by the Thalmor. He'd been helping those thrice-damned elves win the war for them, and he didn't even know it.

A knock on his door distracted him suddenly: three taps, small but forceful—only one person could knock like that. "Come in!" Varulf called out—his voice was suddenly rough and scratchy, as if he hadn't used it in days.

The first he saw of Aela the Huntress was her flaming red hair, and the tattooed, worried face beneath it. Varulf wanted to get up and embrace her, and tried to stand up, but his entire body felt as if it was made of lead. He could not muster the willpower to even get up from his chair.

"They told me you'd come back here," Aela said, after embracing him in his seat. She had not sounded this grave since Kodlak's funeral. "I was waiting for you for one whole week, Varulf."

A whole week? Varulf only barely registered the words. Had it really been that long?

"I'm sorry, love," he croaked. "I've just been … " The Nord heaved a massive sigh. "I've had a lot on my mind, lately."

"Is it Kodlak again?"

Varulf shook his head. "No … no." Should I tell her? he was wondering in his mind all the while. Can I trust her to give me an answer?

He swallowed. "Aela," he said hesitantly, "has there ever been a moment when you wondered why you fight?"

"Of course not," said his wife. "We in the Companions fight for honor and glory. There's no better way to be a Nord than with proper Nord steel!"

Varulf laughed—but not for long. "That's not what I meant," he said. "Have you ever come back from a battle, wondering if you did the right thing?"

He heard Aela exhale from above him. "This is exactly why Kodlak chose not to take sides in that civil war," she said. "Leave the wars to the men and women who want to fight them. But there's some people who can't—or maybe they don't want to. Someone has to tell the people who don't fight—wives, children, or whoever they may be—that someone's still looking out for them while soldiers fight for the freedom of where they live."

A pause. "Running off to join the Stormcloaks was not something I'd have expected from a Harbinger," Aela went on. "Neither were a lot of the others. I know Athis still doesn't like talking to you unless he's got no other choice."

Varulf winced. The lone Dunmer—and by extension, the sole elf—in all of Jorrvaskr, had not taken Varulf's decision to join the civil war well. Though he was respected within the Companions, other Nords in the province were not quite so welcoming to people whom they believed to be Dominion spies—and Athis, however privately, had viewed this as a slight against him since.

"There's no need for the Companions to go out fighting threats to provinces and holds," Aela was saying. "We pick fights, take care of animal problems, that sort of thing—we help the little people do the things they can't."

Varulf grunted. "Yes, well, sometimes those 'threats to provinces and holds' have a habit of stomping on the little people," he replied.

Neither spoke for a few long moments. "I heard from Olfrid in passing that the Moot's to take place at high sun this Fredas—the Blue Palace," Aela said. "Vignar issued the summons this afternoon."

Fredas, Varulf dimly thought. Two days from now.

Aela's voice was strangely quiet. "You'll have to go?" It didn't sound like a question.

Either way, Varulf knew she was right. As one of Ulfric's right-hand men, it would be a disservice for him not to go—even if the Moot was just a formality at this point. With Tullius dead, and Elisif remaining the Jarl of Solitude, there would be none left to challenge his accession to High King. Anyone who thought otherwise had a death wish.

However … He glanced at the open book on his desk. "Aye," he said with a sigh, marking his page and closing the dossier without a word. "I'll have to leave tomorrow morning." There was no turning back from it, now the words had left his mouth. From here on out, it would be unto him to declare for Ulfric as the rightful ruler of Skyrim.

He rose from his chair at last, feeling his joints creak from today's lack of use. "Wake me up early," he said through a monumental yawn, preparing to turn in for the night. "I'll need a horse to get to Solitude—probably a carriage."

He heard Aela mumble a reply as she disappeared into her own quarters to dress for bed—but Varulf's mind was already too far elsewhere to really listen. Even as he stripped off his armor, he could feel the words of the dossier weighing him down—sapping his strength, both man's and beast's alike, until it felt as though his very soul was being crushed by the damning document.

Varulf lay there, in the stuffed bed of his predecessor—which now felt for all the world like one of those gods-forsaken stone beds in Markarth—until the room was gradually shrouded in darkness. As the last vestige of light faded from the room, he dimly remembered he'd forgotten to replace Kodlak's candle—but his mind was entire realms removed from Mundus now; he was burdened with a problem that he doubted even the old Harbinger could have counseled him on.

For the first time since he was a young lad chopping wood for his da in Bruma, not yet of age, Varulf Blackmane, the "Wolf of Whiterun", the Harbinger of the Companions—and the Second Stormblade to Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm—was fearful of his own future, the future he himself had helped to build.

Had it all been a lie?

Stormcloak though he was, Varulf could not deny what he'd read—and he now knew he was in a most unenviable position because of it. On the one hand, he could let this ugly truth lie, and let Ulfric take the throne—but in so doing, instill an unknowing mouthpiece of the Thalmor. On the other, he could bring that truth to light, expose the Jarl of Windhelm as a fraud—and immediately be branded a liar and executed for treason.

No matter what I do, he thought, cursing the Daedra under his breath, I will be a betrayer.

He did not hear Aela come to bed later on—his dreams were fraught with howling wolves, snarling beasts, and the faces of the shield-brothers and -sisters he'd come to know, both in the Companions and in the Stormcloak army.

Varulf rarely ever enjoyed a peaceful night's rest these past few years; such was the price to pay for the gift shared by the Circle: the elite fighters within the Companions. Aela was one of the Circle as well, and one of the few who truly reveled in the power the beast-blood granted her. Varulf would often accompany her on hunts outside the city; there was a tunnel underneath the Skyforge, leading into a sluice below the eastern wall of Whiterun, through which the couple would sneak out of without any city guards being the wiser.

The twins, Vilkas and Farkas, were different; Varulf had often seen Vilkas, the brains of the two, looking downcast in his private moments. He thought he might know why; when he had pored through Kodlak's journal, Varulf had read of how the young man had felt betrayed by the true extent of the price that had to be paid by the Circle. Farkas, on the other hand, was more of a bruiser than a reader; he seemed most unsure of himself, but Varulf knew, as again Kodlak once had, that he would eventually be swayed to follow in the footsteps of his more analytical brother.

As for Varulf himself … there were times when he truly had gloried in letting the beast inside him surface during the night—whether on hunts with Aela, the nights of passion they shared in the moonlight over a fresh kill … even in the vengeance he'd exacted upon the Silver Hand, who'd murdered Kodlak simply because for what he was. His time among more disciplined men, however—from a lowly Unblooded to a Stormblade general in Jarl Ulfric's army—had made Varulf more aware that that side of him could never be accepted among people like them. None of them, not even Ralof, who shared a special friend with him, one whom the most powerful people in the province would kill to—

Varulf sat up abruptly, not even bothering to acknowledge the grumbles of Aela, still half-asleep herself. A thought had just occurred to him—perhaps the last hope he might have of finding his way out of this quandary.

He rose out of bed, pausing only to kiss Aela's brow, and went to put on his armor.

The College of Winterhold

6th of Rain's Hand

The carved face stared back at him. Unblinking. Unmoving.

Varulf had seen the face that lay beyond precisely one time in his entire life; that had been during the incident with the Black Worm cult earlier this year, which had been responsible for several high-profile casualties in Skyrim. The list was a damning one indeed: Idgrod Ravencrone, Jarl of Morthal and reputed Seer; Erikur of Solitude, rumored to be next in line for the title of the city's Thane—and it had nearly included Varulf himself as well, were it not for the man sitting opposite him this morning.

The rumors had surfaced a little more than a week ago; they spoke of horrible injuries, battle scars that would have killed a lesser man. But the Dragonborn did not walk among men. If the soul he possessed was not proof enough of this, then his list of accomplishments—his besting of the dragon Alduin, the treacherous Thalmor Ancano, and Talos only knew who or what else—was more than enough to suffice.

But as brave and powerful as the Dragonborn was, he was all the more foolish for it.

Though he was, by all rights, a living Nordic legend, the newest Arch-Mage of Winterhold had outright refused any summons from Jarl Ulfric concerning his allegiance in the civil war that had only recently come to its conclusion in Solitude. This had been tempered slightly when the Dragonborn had shown him a large amount of unopened letters that bore the sigil of the Imperial Legion, and the seal of the late General Tullius. After all, the Dragonborn was more than just a man, and therefore above all their petty affairs.

Wasn't he?

Ulfric did not think so. Neither did Galmar Stone-Fist, his right-hand man … and apparently, neither did the esteemed General. They believed he was a hero of the people—and that as such, he was honor-bound to assist them in their respective campaign.

Up until recently, Varulf had not been so sure of this himself. But his da had always used to say, "Never meddle in the affairs of dragons." And there were other reasons why Varulf believed the Dragonborn to be mad.

One of those reasons was why he was currently sitting across from the most renowned dragonslayer in history.

"I wasn't expecting to see you back so soon," the moonstone mask of Grimnir Torn-Skull said with maddening calm, as if he had no idea what was going on in Varulf's head. "It has only been … a week since we first spoke, yes?"

Varulf found himself wishing he'd kept his heavy fur-and-mail cloak on, and perhaps worn something more adapted to the weather instead of his suit of pitted Atmoran steel. The Arch-Mage's quarters were on the topmost tower of the College of Winterhold, which itself was precariously perched on the Sea of Ghosts. On a good day, this tower was drafty as Coldharbour and moaned like the Quagmire.

This was not one of those good days.

"You know why I'm here, Dragonborn," he growled, doing his best to keep his teeth from chattering, "and it wasn't for the small talk. The pleasantries are … appreciated, but we have much to discuss."

Grimnir did not move. "Do tell."

Varulf chose his words carefully. "I want to know why you would give me this … thing—now, of all times," he began, gesturing towards the folio on the table, glaring at it like some evil thing. "Why not at High Hrothgar—the peace talks there, two years ago? You could have exposed that bitch Elenwen for what she was!"

"And your entire rebellion would have been revealed as a sham of the Thalmor," Grimnir said patiently. "For which lives on both sides were lost, and will never be brought back. The wounds had already been opened, Varulf. Releasing that dossier would never have closed them completely. And that's not getting into the other reason—the one why I suspect I found you, of all people, back on my doorstep."

Varulf narrowed his eyes. "Ulfric. You think this challenges his claim to Torygg's throne, don't you?"

Grimnir coughed. "Let's look at this from a different perspective," he sighed. Before Varulf could object, he carried on, "What did you know of Ulfric before all this? What were you told? What did you learn?"

Varulf thought this over for some time before he gave his reply. "He was a true son of Skyrim—even when he fought for the Empire during the War of the . He didn't just belong to his country, but to his people as well. He believed the Empire was only a shadow of what it once was—before the Forsworn … before the Thalmor. Back then, I was too young to understand what he meant; I was only a lad then, seven months out of my da's shack in Bruma. My head was still ringing with his words about 'honor' and 'glory.' But the way Ulfric said it all made me listen to him. It made a lot of us listen to him."

"Mm." Grimnir clicked his tongue. "Charisma's one of those attributes that you can find on both sides of the scale, Varulf. You can find it in people like Ysgramor or Martin Septim—or in people like Mannimarco or Jagar Tharn. But what about Ulfric?" he asked. "Where does he fall on this scale?"

Varulf found himself spluttering incoherently for a few moments. "You are talking about two completely different kinds of people!" he said in a strangled yell. "Nine's sake, Ysgramor and Mannimarco are practically black and white! They have nothing in common with each other—let alone with Ulfric!"

"They still inspire people to this day," said Grimnir coolly. "Entire cultures, even. Think of them what you will, Varulf, but even their staunchest of detractors cannot deny how inspirational those men were in their day."

He folded his hands on the table. "Do you believe Ulfric has the potential to carry that same sense of inspiration as High King of Skyrim?"

Varulf thought—and thought. He had always prided himself on being a man who led from the front of the lines; his prowess with a battleaxe had earned the praise of every son and daughter of Skyrim he'd fought alongside; from the footsoldiers he'd fought alongside in Whiterun, to Ralof, his family and friends—and eventually even to Ulfric and Galmar themselves. It had been at this last that Varulf remembered asking a question of Ulfric, shortly after his promotion to Stormblade, before the assault on Fort Hraggstad that had followed shortly thereafter:

"Why do you not fight with us, friend?"

Ulfric had paused at the question—in itself a rare sight. For a moment, Varulf had wondered if he had overstepped in asking. But the Jarl of Windhelm had sensed somehow that there was more on his mind, and so Varulf spoke it.

"Our morale has never been higher, my Jarl, and our chances at victory never stronger—but I still cannot help but wonder how decisive our victories would be if you were here to share in their glory. You are a Nord—you deserve this as much as any son and daughter of Skyrim!"

At this, Ulfric had smiled—a warm, friendly smile that never failed to remind Varulf of his da. "I am honored you would wish to see me fight alongside you, friend Varulf. You have made quite the name for yourself among the Imperials who still challenge us. The 'Wolf of Whiterun', I understand they're beginning to call you."

Varulf had felt his cheeks color faintly at the moniker.

"And that is why I do not need to fight," said Ulfric. "You see, Varulf, something happens to the Nord who does such deeds in his pursuit of glory as you have. His name spreads among the voices of the land—first in whispers, then in passing. As his fame grows with his deeds, he is spoken of in song by the tavern bards, for all the children of Skyrim to hear, and sing to their brothers and sisters. And it is then that he becomes more than just a Nord. He becomes a legend—a symbol of hope, for all who would listen to his tale, and so wish to follow in his footsteps."

He heaved himself off his throne. "They sing of the death of Torygg at my hands. Do I wish they did? Perhaps not; I would prefer they sing of something more heroic. But sing it they still do, and it is these songs that inspire us as Stormcloaks to act as all oppressed people should—to fight for the freedom of their homeland … "

"I see," said Grimnir as Varulf finished recounting the tale. The Harbinger thought he saw entirely too well; the Dragonborn, after all, surely had had more than a few songs of his own devoted to him. He was just as much of a living legend as Ulfric was—and, as Ulfric had hinted, that Varulf might soon be himself.

"But you haven't answered my original question," the Arch-Mage went on. "What was Ulfric like before all this? You've known him as a Jarl, as a potential High King—and as a freedom fighter all the while."

Varulf could almost feel the stare behind that mask. "Have you ever known him as anyone else?" he asked. "And has Ulfric ever known you as anything else … besides who you already are?"

The Harbinger sat there, listening to the wind beat against the topmost tower of the College. It felt a rather appropriate sound to hear; there was nothing in his mind that he could think would suffice for an answer.

Evidently, Grimnir was not expecting one. "Think about it," he said. "But I wouldn't think long. The Moot's in less than a day—and we're a long way from Solitude."

"Will you be there?" Varulf felt the words falling from his mouth almost before he could stop them. But he already knew the answer to his question.

Grimnir shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I have business elsewhere," he replied. "Besides, I suspect my presence there would create certain … complications. Not every Jarl has the same luxury of perspective that you do, Varulf."

Varulf frowned. "Perspective?"

"Oh, yes." Grimnir adjusted his mask slightly, as if tending to an aggravating itch on his face. "Most Jarls only see the Empire or the Stormcloaks, and therefore are predisposed to support one over the other. But you, Varulf, lend your support to something else entirely—something beyond politics and borders."

Varulf bit his lip. "What makes you so sure?"

Grimnir shrugged. "If you did not, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He stood up abruptly. "I must be off for Windhelm. One of my associates will be leaving for Tel Mithryn. She will want me to see her off. Tell the Jarls I send my best wishes."

Varulf knew there was no point in asking the Dragonborn to stay—but again, the words fell out seemingly of their own free will. "Arch-Mage—before you go?"

Grimnir turned around. "Yes?" Was it Varulf's imagination, or could he sense triumph within the simple question?

Dispelling the thought, the Harbinger steeled himself, and spoke very carefully, "If all should go well at the Moot, then you will know where to find me. But this will not be the last time I shall seek your counsel."

"What are you talking about?" Despite the innocent nature of the question, Varulf could almost feel the temperature of the room dropping like a stone.

Nonetheless, the Harbinger replied "If all should go well, there is one thing I wish you to do for me."

"Which would be … ?"

Varulf told him.

Five minutes later, after Grimnir had departed without a word, Varulf himself was speeding westward for Solitude, the meeting with the Arch-Mage still in his mind.

Deep inside, Varulf knew he'd crossed a line now. The closer his carriage bore him to Haafingar Hold, the slimmer his chance to go back would become—and the more uncertain he was that his position was no clearer than it had been last night.

No matter what, he thought dismally, I will be a betrayer.

Temple of the Divines, Solitude

7th of Rain's Hand

The sun high above Haafingar Hold beat upon the largest city in Skyrim as though unaware of the dilemma that had been plaguing Varulf for the entirety of the previous day. He'd had no sleep that night—there was no point in even trying. But his horse was not as blessed or cursed as he was—it could not go for so long without becoming fatigued.

So it was that the Harbinger of the Companions—dressed in his distinctive, ancient Nordic armor, Ysgramor's legendary axe and shield slung over his back—arrived at the Temple of the Divines well after the call to the Moot had begun. The keep had already been blocked off; the only way inside was blockaded by a platoon of the city guard. No doubt security was the foremost matter on their minds; Solitude had played host to a great many prominent deaths in its day. Torygg's hadn't even been the most recent, either; Tamriel would not soon forget the stain left by the Dark Brotherhood and their murders of Vittoria Vici—on these very grounds, no less—and of Emperor Titus Mede II shortly thereafter.

Regardless, he'd been let through without any trouble; the guards had only acknowledged him with a simple "Hail, Companion." For some reason, that provided a small modicum of comfort to Varulf; even here, at the site of the Empire's fall, there were still people in this city who saw him as neither traitor nor freedom fighter.

I wonder what they will see in me after today, he thought as he went inside.

The Temple of the Divines was the largest of its kind in all of Skyrim. All faiths were welcomed within its walls—especially after the fall of the Empire, Varulf noted as he saw the newly erected shrine to Talos on its plinth. The space was as high and wide as the Great Chapel of Talos in Bruma, though not quite so ornate in its construction. Where that holy space was illuminated by metal lanterns the size of a man, and windows of stained glass higher than a house, the Temple was lit only by candles in wooden chandeliers and rusted metal lamps, and the occasional beam of sunlight from the windows above the shrines within the structure's apse.

Today, the pews that normally lined the aisle had been moved to one side. In its place, a long table had been erected, stretching almost half the length of the entire building. It looked as though it had been set for a banquet, judging by the number of plates and cups that sat upon it. As if Varulf needed a further reminder of his lateness, most of the dishes already looked clean of food but for stray morsels, and those who were already seated at the table were staring at him expectantly.

Varulf recognized them all—the Jarls and their entourages—and it confirmed what he had already suspected.

Nearest to him, at the end of the table, sat Sorli the Builder and Thongvor Silver-Blood. Sorli, the new Jarl of Morthal, had inherited the title from the late Idgrod Ravencrone in the worst way possible. She'd done her part in attempting to rebuild Morthal after the destruction the Black Worm had wrought there—but if she was sitting here, there was no chance of her becoming High Queen; Varulf suspected that even she did not desire that honor.

Thongvor, on the other hand, was a surprise; the new Jarl of Markarth was the only surviving member of the Silver-Blood clan. They'd gained a reputation of possessing untold riches through controversial means that rivaled even the Black-Briars of Riften; that reputation, it soon transpired, had involved their manipulation of the Forsworn by Thonar, their patriarch, who had been brutally murdered by Madanach, the Forsworn "king", along with his wife Betrid in the mass breakout from Cidhna Mine, the town jail, that had taken place earlier this year. The scandal that had broken soon after had soured Thongvor's reputation across the province—only the Stormcloaks' liberation of Markarth and subsequent ousting of Igmund had made Thongvor's accession to Jarl possible in the first place. That opinion, it seemed, was not likely to change today—and Thongvor, Varulf suspected, might not last too long as Jarl, either, especially since the Forsworn's elite were now free to rampage throughout the Reach.

Adjacent to them sat Dengeir of Stuhn, recently reinstated as Jarl of Falkreath, and Laila Law-Giver of Riften. Varulf barely spared a second glance at either of them; he knew both of these people considered it enough that their predecessors—both of whom had allied themselves with the Empire—had been deposed from their positions after an all-too-brief rule. Laila, however, had made no small bones over the hollowness of her particular victory—everyone knew Maven Black-Briar had held all the real power in that city even before her short reign as Jarl. Perhaps even her becoming High Queen, however slim the chance, might … but Varulf shrugged it off; it would not happen. The remaining men and women at this table were simply far better known.

Jarl Korir of Winterhold, however, who sat further up the table to Laila's right, could only be seated so high up because of the Dragonborn's position as Arch-Mage in the College that defined his holdings. Perhaps Korir hoped a position as High King would better keep the College in check, Varulf thought—regardless of who served as its leader, he would blame the Great Collapse that had gutted most of his town on the mages who resided there.

Then there was Skald of Dawnstar. The old Jarl looked older than ever, and Varulf wasn't sure whether or not to blame him. He'd heard the rumors, after all, of the Dark Brotherhood settling into a new hideout on the doorstep of the town. That was enough to give anyone sleepless nights for weeks on end—which, by the sounds of it, had been happening to everyone else in Dawnstar. Varulf had also heard the rumors accompanying those stories—but, having not been to the city much himself, could only shrug them off. Probably just the wind, he'd thought; the northern coastlines tended to get especially cold and stormy—enough to give anyone restless nights. One way or another, though, Skald probably had enough on his mind already without having designs of being High King himself.

His eyes then traveled to the final two Jarls at the table—and of course he recognized old Vignar. The patriarch of the Grey-Mane clan, one of Whiterun's two oldest and most renowned clans, was often to be seen in Jorrvaskr even after the Stormcloaks had removed Balgruuf from his throne once they'd seized Whiterun Hold—a victory that, by all accounts, had been the turning point of the entire war. Vignar smiled as he went past him; Varulf, however, did not give any outward sign of recognition—he did not want to say anything to anyone right now. Not yet.

Finally, there was Elisif. Easily the youngest of the Jarls seated here—with the possible exception of Sorli—the widow of the previous High King, Torygg, possessed a grace and presence unlike any woman Varulf had ever met before, including Aela. Elisif had not even flinched as the Stormcloaks had sacked her city—nor had she given any visible reaction to being allowed by Ulfric to stay on as Jarl of Solitude. Perhaps that was why she was seated so close to Ulfric in the first place—he wanted to keep an especially close eye on Elisif, just in case she might decide to try something rash.

And speaking of Ulfric, there he was … standing at the opposite end of the table, and as always, flanked by Galmar Stone-Fist and Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, each one armed to the teeth and armored in the bear-pelts reserved for Stormcloak generals.

Next to Galmar, however, was a third person that Varulf recognized as Brunwulf Free-Winter. Varulf had no idea what he might be doing here; Brunwulf was known throughout Windhelm as a more liberal-minded figure, particularly towards the Argonians who worked at the docks, and the Dunmer who'd been forced to flee the destruction of their homeland two centuries ago—only to find themselves, largely, in poverty and squalor. It was most unlike Ulfric to bring someone along as part of his entourage, when his views were largely—

That was when it hit Varulf: Brunwulf was going to be made Jarl of Windhelm.

And what was more, no one had protested this, either. Varulf now knew everyone at this table was going to cast their vote for Ulfric—no one would dissent; the seating arrangements were all the proof of this he needed. The closer to Ulfric everyone sat, the more powerful in the province they were. It was a perfect means of quelling any dissenting votes as well; anyone who opposed Ulfric's accession to High King would be staring down the table at Ulfric—with more powerful Jarls in between. Similarly, if a powerful Jarl like Elisif were to reject Ulfric as rightful ruler, then they would find themselves in between the majority of the other Jarls—and Ulfric himself, Voice and all.

Varulf grimaced as the implications of what he was seeing sank in. Ulfric had manipulated the Moot with all the cunning of a high elf. Which could only mean …

His eyes fell upon the seated figure close to the door.

So focused on the table before him had Varulf been that he'd completely missed Elenwen on his way in. The First Emissary of the Thalmor—and the Aldmeri Dominion's Ambassador to Skyrim—was seated on one of the stone benches that lined the exterior walls of the Temple. Varulf noted with no small amount of scorn that Elenwen was seated on an overstuffed cushion; he wondered if she'd brought it herself, or if she'd persuaded the priestesses to fetch one for her. He wouldn't have put either option past her. At least she was alone; there were no Justiciars guarding her right now. Perhaps she was confident none of the Jarls or their entourages would turn on her today.

Right now, Elenwen's gaze was focused entirely on Ulfric, and Varulf thought he knew why; she wanted to make sure everything that happened inside this Temple happened according to the wishes of the Dominion. Varulf grimaced inwardly at this; Elenwen must have suspected that the Moot would jeopardize the Thalmor's long-term goals, and so she would sit in on it using her position as Ambassador—no doubt under the further pretext of some clause or other of the White-Gold Concordat, Varulf thought scathingly.

Slowly, deliberately, he walked past Elenwen—slowing his pace to a crawl the closer he drew to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the high elf draw back slightly in annoyance of how Varulf had blocked her view of Ulfric. At this, the Harbinger nodded once—again slowly and deliberately—and sat down on a bench across the aisle and opposite her, keeping his bloodshot eyes fixed on the Altmer.

Jarl Vignar stood up from his seat at that moment—and as if by magic, all noise within the Temple ceased. Varulf felt his heart rate increase as silence fell.

The Moot had begun.

"My fellow Jarls," Vignar began, his coarse voice echoing throughout the temple, "we are gathered here today by the grace of the Nine" (Varulf saw Elenwen visibly shift on her cushion at the emphasized word) "and in the face of a crossroads unlike any the land of Skyrim has ever faced before. After this long, violent, bloody struggle for our independence … we are finally free from the occupation of the Empire of Cyrodiil."

No one spoke. Skald and Thongvor nodded in agreement, and Vignar took this as his invitation to continue.

"But our freedom has not come without price," he said sadly. "Many lives were lost in needless bloodshed. Entire cities were ravaged and pillaged. There are many families without a roof over their heads, or hands to tend the crops that survived—and there are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who will never see their families again, having paid the greatest price of all. I ask now for a moment of silence, that their sacrifice may be long remembered, not only in the annals of our history … but in our hearts and minds. For it is to those brave sons and daughters of Skyrim that we owe our freedom."

Varulf bowed his head in silence, as did many of the other Jarls. He distinctly heard Elenwen sniff from her bench, though, and made a quick prayer to Talos that the elf would meet her own fate soon enough.

The moment soon passed, and at length, Vignar began speaking once more. "Though the battle is won, the war at large is not yet over," he added. "The Forsworn continue to run rampant in the Reach. The Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood haunt the shadows and the night. And our roads continue to be stalked by bandits and worse.

"Meanwhile, there are those outside of Skyrim who have seen what we have done, and prepare to make their move as well. The Elder Council and the nobility of Cyrodiil continue to fight among themselves for control of the vacant Ruby Throne. The Aldmeri Dominion, too"—he cast a look at Elenwen—"surely will not sit idly by while we assert our newfound independence."

Out of the corner of his eye, Varulf saw Galmar looking at him. Even from here, he could almost read the Nord's mind: Why aren't you standing with Ulfric? You belong by his side! He merely jerked his head towards Elenwen, and watched Galmar's eyes following his gaze. The Stone-fist's eyes narrowed, but he did not say anything further.

"But, my lords and ladies," rasped Vignar, "with the Imperial Legion now driven out of Skyrim, and its nine holds united under one Voice—if you'll excuse the turn of phrase," he muttered to Ulfric, who laughed, along with several other Jarls, "we are now free to address them in the only way we can. We must elect a new High King—a Nord who will lead the sons and daughters of Skyrim to the glorious and prosperous province that it once was!"

He sat down with the help of his steward Brill, aging joints creaking. "As he who issued the summons, tradition demands I cast my vote first. And so—as Talos is my witness—I nominate that that Nord should be the Jarl of Windhelm—Ulfric Stormcloak!"

Varulf exhaled. They were getting straight into it, then. He knew he had to decide on a course of action now.

Brunwulf Free-Winter now stepped forward. "As he who would succeed the challenger, should he be elected," he said, speaking carefully and evenly, "I am to cast the second vote. After much time and thought … I also wish to nominate Ulfric Stormcloak."

The Harbinger bit his lip. That's two out of nine in favor—three, counting Ulfric himself. But if Brunwulf was casting his vote in favor of Ulfric, then the vote was almost certainly a formality—it going to be unanimous—

"All others in favor?" Ulfric asked, his rich, deep voice booming throughout the Temple despite its softness.

"Aye!"

"Aye!"

"Aye!"

The votes came so rapidly that Varulf could not tell who spoke first, second, or from there. It seemed as though everyone had spoken at once; it was a miracle that anyone could keep track of who had spoken when. Elenwen, however, seemed to have no trouble, judging by her grim smile—Varulf bit his lip, trying to force the image out of his mind—it was now or never, thought a tiny voice in his mind—

"—all opposed?" Ulfric's voice came, as if from entire leagues away—

…

"Nay."

…

The voice was so soft that Varulf almost didn't hear it—he didn't even realize he'd heard it at first. But a few moments later, he became aware of the utter silence that had fallen over the temple …

… and the eyes of every single person inside gazing directly at him.

Only then did Varulf realize that that had been his voice—his dissention that had echoed off the walls of the Temple for all to hear; his objection to the most powerful Jarl in Skyrim being installed to the most powerful political position in the entire province.

What have I done? he thought, in a tiny corner within the back of his mind.

As if in reply, damnably, words he'd heard only recently, delivered in a language that only one human in Skyrim could possibly understand—and whose meaning Varulf Blackmane had only just now discovered:

Dah ro fus.

I push at the balance of force.

"Treachery!" he heard Galmar bellow. The bellicose Nord had unsheathed his axe—only to be rebuffed by Ulfric, who was giving Varulf a stare unlike any the Harbinger had ever seen before—although he thought he knew why.

… I have become a betrayer.

End of Part I