Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and religious persecution. Loads of head-canon.
…
Black Wings Unfurled
The naginata was perfectly balanced. A full third of the spear was shining steel with an edge honed to sharpness that could wound the wind, curved subtly in the Akaviri style and etched with the marks of his former station, and the rest was Jerall mountain willow with a soft iron core. A gift from an ambitious uncaring father when Rustem Aurelius had made himself noticeable – or was of an age to be matched to the eldest daughter of the Jarl of Falkreath. The former First Blade, designated heir to the Grand Master, would never know until he reached Heaven's Reach. In that case, he would never know, because Rustem wanted the Far Shores of the Ra Gada for himself. In Hammerfell he'd found himself and his place – not for him the towering mountains, opalescent skies and bitter cold of Sovngarde or the staid temple where Blades went when they died.
Unfortunately, need drove him across the border in Skyrim, into the very Hold whence his unlamented bride hailed from. At least he wasn't alone – his son Ari and grandson Sayid travelled alongside him, followed by the proper Alik'r escort for high-ranking Forebears. But even a day past the border and at the foothill of the Jerall Mountains, Falkreath was very dark and gloomy, a pine forest that reeked of resin and grey skies that wept constantly.
"Tu'whacca is strong here," observed Ari grimly.
"Not Tu'whacca, but Arkay," Rustem corrected with a grimace. "My first wife was very emphatic on that. Falkreath is the graveyard of heroes and therefore belongs to Arkay."
"Perhaps Arkay and Tu'whacca come here to get drunk and bitch about the Nords," Sayid smirked.
Ari reached across and clipped his sixteen-year-old son over the ear. "Have some respect for the gods!"
Rustem had always thought Ari a little too devout – legacy of his third wife Maira, who reigned over the household and the other three wives back in Stros M'kai – but in this, he wouldn't argue. "And respect the Nords. This is their land."
"So far as I'm concerned, they can have it," Sayid grumbled, rubbing his ear.
In that, Rustem privately agreed but would not admit aloud. This cold, dark, gloomy forest had produced the stern, dour, humourless bride his father insisted was best for the clan. Once, the First Blade had agreed. Now, he could see the patterns of Arius Aurelius' ambition and the downfall of their family, one that had reached back to the time of Tiber Septim.
"It is here where the fate of humanity will be decided," Rustem suddenly said, taken by the cold clarity of prophecy, the curse of his great-grandfather's line. "Whether we live or die will rest in the hands of a Nord."
His naginata slid from its perch on his shoulder as the exhaustion took him, Ari and Sayid immediately catching him before he could fall. The other Alik'r, led by Kematu, waited patiently – they'd seen this happen more than once.
As always, Rustem pulled himself up, using his naginata as a staff. An Alik'r might catch a sibling to stop their fall but getting up was always the Redguard's duty. Nothing worth having came without struggle.
"Well, that could be interpreted several ways," Ari observed as they continued to walk along the beaten earth road that would lead them to the town which named the Hold.
"Oh?" Kematu asked, not quite disrespectfully but on the edges of it.
"Well, since Torygg's death, Skyrim's been in turmoil. It's why we're here at the orders of High King Sura." Ari was the most politically minded of the Alik'r, blessed with his grandfather's wits but none of his ambition. Sometimes Rustem wondered if that was a blessing or a curse. "So, the future of humanity could lie in the hands of the Empire – represented by Jarl Elisif the Fair here – if they're strong enough to win the Fatherland back."
Kematu's snort displayed his scepticism and Rustem wondered if he could lose the Crown somewhere in a bog. Skyrim had those, right?
"Or it's in the hands of Ulfric Stormcloak, who venerates Talos Stormcrown to the genocidal racist extreme that Nords are always so fond of," Ari continued dryly. "In that case, assuming he doesn't settle for kicking anyone who isn't over six feet tall, pale as the sands of Stros M'kai and thick as a bag of bricks out of Skyrim, he'll want to match the Hero-God's conquests – or at least give it a damn good try."
"At least the son of a bitch doesn't have a dragon," Sayid muttered.
"Oh, but he does in a way," Rustem corrected flatly. "That bastard, like Talos, can Shout."
"And none of us are Cyrus-HoonDing, able to sever a man from his Voice with one flick of the sword," Ari added unhappily.
The Crown sighed melodramatically. "The Nords are hardly a threat. We threw the Thalmor out, for Leki's sake! If they destroy the Empire…"
Rustem rather knew more than Kematu but he wouldn't inform him of that. "Do you recall when I told you that no man had defeated me in combat since I reached adulthood?"
"Yes." Kematu looked at him confusedly.
"I was technically speaking the truth. No man had defeated me. But two women did – and the first of them was a Shieldmaiden of Talos who hailed from this very Hold. If we're unlucky, we'll run into her father, Jarl Dengeir." Rustem's smile was humourless. "We are the greatest natural fighters on Tamriel but the Orcs beat us in strength and savagery, the Imperials are superior at tactics and organisation, and the Nords…"
He sighed, looking down the road. "The Nords are, in many ways, our equals and opposites. We are forged on the sands and quenched in the seas but they are tempered by cold so intense that a man can freeze to death within an hour of venturing outside. They're our equals as sailors. We're faster and more enduring but they're tougher and stronger. The first woman I lost to was a Nord in the classic mould and the second was a Breton. I wound up marrying them both."
Sayid looked up at the sky. "Can we go to the hall of Jorrvaskr? I hear the greatest fighters in Skyrim come from there."
"If our mission permits it," Rustem promised.
They followed the path until they reached a fork where a full Imperial squad was marching by, guarding two wagons stuffed full of prisoners in blue linen but for three – one was in elaborate chainmail with a bearskin mantle and the other two were in rags.
"Well, I'll be damned," Ari breathed. "Looks like the Imperials won the war."
His rangy son jerked his chin at the man in the chainmail. "Wheat-blond hair, scar on one cheek, the gag – that's Ulfric Stormcloak himself."
Rustem looked over his followers. "We're going to watch. However you feel about Ulfric, he hates the Thalmor as much as we do."
"Go if you wish, Forebear. But it's nothing to the Crowns if some ragged rebel dies without an audience." Kematu smiled smugly as Ari's hand tightened around his ninjato and Sayid's went for his scimitar.
"High King Sura sent us to observe this war," one of the older Crowns, a steadfast man named Berok, pointed out. "We must watch this."
"Seeing as we wouldn't want to bore you, anyone who feels the need to follow Kematu is to join him in finding a base we can work out of," Rustem commanded, drawing on the threatening mildness his brother Irkand had been a master of. "Plenty of bandit camps in Whiterun Hold a bit north of here."
A few good fights would settle the Crown's temper and maybe even remove the little shit from Rustem's hair.
"Very well, oh mighty leader," Kematu agreed with a bow. "When you return, we can discuss the leadership of the warband."
Rustem allowed himself a bloodthirsty grin. "I look forward to the discussion. You'll be on your back as easily as your mother was."
Then he turned away as Kematu exploded, Ari, Sayid and Berok joining him. "That was unwise," the old Crown said. "Before this, it was faction politics. Now it's personal."
"Just the way I like it," Rustem told the warrior. "Personal makes for a better fight."
Berok looked to the sky. "And it's moments like this I remember your bloodline has Nord in it, gods help us."
It was a short walk to Helgen in the wake of the Imperial squad, one of the rearguard – a heavy-shouldered Nord on a decent grey horse – falling back to question them. "Alik'r out of Hammerfell," Rustem admitted quietly. "We're here on diplomatic business, amongst other things."
"General Tullius will want to speak with you," the Nord said with the softest, gentlest voice the Redguard had ever heard from a Nord. "Just a heads up – Ambassador Elenwen's here too."
"Guess she's making sure Ulfric's dead," Rustem said grimly.
"Maybe it's the Stormsword. The Thalmor getting to oversee the execution of the last Shieldmaiden of Talos?" Then the Nord remembered he was a Quaestor and turned his horse around. "Come in with me. It'll be safer for you."
Sigdrifa survived Cloud Ruler? Oh damn. Rustem owed it to his wife to watch her death. They'd hated each other by the end, but there'd always been respect. He respected anyone who could kick his ass in combat.
"The Ambassador must be orgasming at the thought," Sayid muttered as they fell in.
"That was an image none of us needed," Rustem observed sourly.
Helgen was your average border town, built with the grey stone wrenched from the foothills of the Jeralls and peopled with tall Nords who were a bit darker and lither than the typical milk-pale variety. "Falkreath Nords," Ari murmured in Yokudan. "There's a lot of Imperial and Ra Gada blood in them."
"Don't tell your ex-stepmother that. The idea she's anything but a pure Nord of the purest Nordy type would piss her off. And no woman deserves to die being pissed off."
They passed through the gates of Helgen and the three men raised their burnooses. No need to be recognised by the goldskin bitch astride the fine black horse and talking to the General, a stocky Colovian with High Rock blood in him. Berok followed suit, though his black eyes were curious.
"My brother nearly killed her," Rustem murmured in Yokudan to him. "And she killed most of my family in Bruma as revenge."
"Ah." The gaze turned flinty. "Will you avenge her?"
"Not today. None of us will serve Hammerfell avenging corpses twenty-five years cold and dying in the process."
Berok nodded. "True. 'The timing of the blow is as important as the strength of it'."
Trust the man to quote from the Book of Circles.
"Besides, the only ones worth shedding blood for would be my brother and daughter. My father brought his fate upon himself, Delphine would have gone out with a full honour guard of foes, and Sigdrifa had long divorced me."
The Crown nodded again. Why couldn't all the nobility be as intelligent as Berok?
Something eerie cried out across the mountains and Ari stiffened. "What was that?"
"Damned if I know." But Rustem's hand tightened on his naginata.
The Imperials ignored it though – maybe it was some strange bird or troll in the mountains. Interestingly, the soft-voiced Quaestor looked over his shoulder worriedly before dismounting.
Tullius threw them a surprised look. "Why are there Redguards here?" he demanded.
"We're here to observe the executions," Rustem replied blandly. "The rest of it can be done when Ulfric's head's on a pike."
"Alik'r." The way Tullius said it, "chunk of shit" was implied, and Rustem fantasised killing the General where he stood for a moment. Unfortunately, the Empire winning the civil war was better for Hammerfell in the long term.
"We are," Rustem said mildly. "Don't worry, we're not here to rescue Ulfric."
"Why not?" One of the Nords on Ulfric's wagon, a blond man with a long braid at the side, demanded.
"Because your force was obviously too weak to win the war," Sayid responded scornfully before Rustem could stop him. "Hammerfell threw out the Thalmor on their own and sent the Empire packing after that."
"Sayid, you're a member of a diplomatic envoy!" Rustem snapped, turning on his grandson. "Act like it!"
"And no true warrior criticises one in binds," Berok added critically.
At least Sayid had the decency to flush red beneath his dark ochre complexion. Rustem looked like the half-Imperial that he was, beaky-nose and tawny-skinned, while Ari had the deep amber of his mother Maira. All three Aurelii men, however, had the bronze cast and almond-shaped eyes that came from the Akaviri. Before the Great War, such features would have been prized as marks of nobility (which they had been). Now, they were the reason they wore burnooses into Helgen.
"Sorry about that, General Tullius," Ari said, nodding to the Colovian. "He's young."
"I've heard worse," the General observed. "Still, if he's going to speak like a man, plenty of Legionnaires here will happily treat him like one."
"No duels," Ari told his son flatly. "We're here as diplomats, not because you want to test your skill."
Sayid lowered his brown gaze as Berok chuckled. "If we'd left him at home, his mother would have learned to fly just to tell us off," he informed Tullius. "I am Berok of the Crowns and the three here are Rustem, Ari and Sayid of the Forebears. Hammerfell is always interested in peaceful coexistence with the Empire."
Tullius nodded. "Plenty of your people still join the Legions to this day. But we'll talk about that later. I have a traitor to execute."
"You are a life-saver," Rustem muttered to Berok as the Colovian walked away to chew out Ulfric. As if an ignoble death wasn't humiliation enough for a Nord.
"I'm Sura's third cousin," the man replied dryly. "Crowns may look inward but we understand the necessity of the trade from Skyrim and Cyrodiil."
"I'd ask if your mother was a Lhotunic, you're making so much sense," Rustem said.
"She was." Berok smirked, earth-dark face twisting in amusement, before they turned to see how Nords died.
Ulfric carried himself like the Jarl he was while the other Nords looked brave enough. He saw Sigdrifa – threads of silver in her coarse black hair and a few lines around the corners of her turquoise eyes – and wished he could ask if, by some miracle, Aurelia Callaina had survived. Irkand had been more of a father to the graceful child but she was still Rustem's daughter.
The Stormsword looked at him disinterestedly before loudly praying to Talos to strike down the treacherous Legion and those who pissed on the Empire the Hero-God had won for them.
"I'm beginning to see why you divorced her," Berok observed blandly.
The cry came from the hills again – an eerie howl – and Rustem felt the chill of prophecy flow through his veins. "Berok?"
"Yes?"
"Something's coming. Be prepared for battle."
Ari went an unhealthy sallow hue and Rustem wondered what was wrong with his son. He'd been in plenty of battles before. "Sayid," he said carefully. "Sneak around the edge of the crowd and get into the Keep. Now."
"Father-"
"Go, Alik'r. That's an order." Ari had his own abilities of prescience and Rustem was preparing for something big. If one of them survived, let it be the boy.
Unnoticed by the Imperials, the execution carried on, the Priestess who called on the Eight shut down by a Nord eager to get the first mead in Sovngarde. He died taunting the Redguard executioner and Rustem murmured a Blades prayer of respect.
Then it was Sigdrifa's turn… and the cry, louder and sharper, echoed across the mountains as something black-winged and baleful landed atop the tower.
"What in Oblivion is that?" Tullius cried out in fear.
"Dragon!" one of the Stormcloaks yelled.
"Dragons have been dead for years," Berok began, only to be grabbed by Rustem.
"Run! We can't win this battle!"
The dragon Shouted and sent them all head over ass. Rustem rolled to his feet and readied his naginata. "Retreat, you idiots! That's-"
"The World-Eater!" Ari finished. "Now move it!"
They bolted for their lives as the black dragon taunted them. The Legionnaires, idiots that they were, were trying to fight the thing.
They reached the tower where the blond Nord was cutting everyone's bonds. "What is that thing?" he asked in a high voice.
"The World-Eater," Sigdrifa said, rubbing feeling into her hands. "Flight is the only option, Ulfric. Any hero who dies today will only fill Alduin's belly in this life and the next."
Rustem pulled off his burnoose – Ari and Berok did the same – and the Stormsword's face tightened. "Came to make sure I was dead?" she demanded.
"Don't flatter yourself," he automatically retorted. "We're here as part of a diplomatic envoy from Hammerfell to treat with whoever was strong enough to win Skyrim."
"Enough, Stormsword." Ulfric's voice was resonant. "You two can have a marital quarrel later."
One of the Stormcloaks went up the stairs and was promptly cooked alive by Alduin as he stuck his snout into the tower. Rustem swore. Today was just going to suck; why did he have to live to see the fulfilment of prophecy on the same day he ran into his ex-wife?
…
In the chaos of Helgen, Sayid found himself running out the gate without looking back. Just before they'd been separated, his father and grandfather ordered him to escape – and he did. No warrior, maybe not even Cyrus-HoonDing, could defeat the World-Eater in a duel. But he had to warn someone – wasn't there a Jarl around here? Dengeir or someone.
He followed a switchback road and found three stones that looked important. There was a stitch in his side as the Red Surge faded – no wonder he'd run from Helgen to the river so fast. Sayid slumped against the right-hand stone and felt it warm beneath his flesh, blue light spearing into the sky.
Leki help me, I've left a beacon! He couldn't waste his family's sacrifice. Sayid staggered to his feet, still panting, and prayed to Tava to give him enough wind to reach… whoever he should warn.
"Whether we live or die will rest in the hands of a Nord." His grandfather's prophecy returned to him and the meaning was now clear. The World-Eater was destined to eat everyone up, humanity included, and the Dragonborn was prophesised by the Nords. Since Nords like Ulfric used the Voice – that meant the Dragonborn that old Ralinde, the only Altmer allowed to settle in Stros M'kai, talked about would be a Nord hero.
And there was only one place in Skyrim where heroes could be found – Jorrvaskr, home of the legendary Companions.
Sayid had dreamed of going there but not like this. He choked back a bitter sob, reminded himself that his life was being bought with the weapons of his family and old Berok, and followed the road. He had a mission to achieve.
Within an hour, he found a small village where an old woman was talking about dragons and being dismissed by her son, and someone was pounding metal. Sayid ignored the curious eyes of two children who played by the side of the road and looked around for someone in charge. He didn't want to start a panic but they should know a dragon was coming here, right?
"Redguard-" The Nord voice startled him out of his brooding and Sayid spun to face the golden-blond Nord he'd taunted on the wagon.
"I'm sorry," he said. No man should die without settling a debt. "I shouldn't have insulted you. If you want my life, take it, but you have to warn people about the dragon."
The Nord sighed. "I'm not going to kill you, boy. It's good to see someone else survived Helgen."
"I saw a dragon!" the old woman repeated, pointing to the sky.
The Stormcloak looked in her direction. "If the World-Eater isn't here, we should stay quiet and warn the headwoman," he murmured. "That's my sister."
Sayid squared his shoulders. "Good idea. I was going to warn the Companions. The Dragonborn's going to be a Nord and where else would the greatest heroes in Skyrim be?"
"Ulfric's personal guard would argue the point but that's a pretty good idea. Though not all of them are Nords – it's roughly half and half." The Stormcloak sighed and turned for the lumber mill. "There's a Redguard there – used to be a Blade."
Sayid followed him, running through the stories he'd grown up on and coming up with exactly one Blade who'd be skilled enough to join the Companions of Jorrvaskr. "Irkand Aurelius?"
The Stormcloak eyed him in surprise. "You know him?"
"We're related," Sayid admitted. "Didn't know he was a Companion though. Then again, Grandfather didn't expect his ex-wife to be a Stormcloak either."
"I didn't even know the Stormsword had married. She always seemed devoted to Talos." The Stormcloak walked across the little bridge. "Your family made it out of Helgen but went to Falkreath to warn Jarl Dengeir."
Sayid remembered the trees and shuddered. "If that dragon sets fire to the forest…"
"Flame-grilled Kreathlings," the Stormcloak agreed. "By the way, I'm Ralof. You are?"
"Sayid." The young Alik'r sighed in relief. "I'm glad Father and Grandfather made it. Did old Berok?"
Ralof shook his head sadly. "No. He was run through by an Imperial. I caved in the bastard's head."
"Good." Sayid looked around. Everything was so green and the amount of wood here was a lot. Rich men made houses from wood in Stros M'kai but here, everyone's house was wood with a stone foundation.
"Ralof!" A sturdy blonde woman embedded an axe in the chopping block where she'd been cutting firewood and strode over. "Why are you here?"
"Get Hod, Gerdur," Ralof said, hugging his sister. "I have bad news."
Her blue eyes widened. "Not Ulfric…"
"Yes…and no. But I believe the true High King lives."
"Hod, get over here!" Gerdur's voice was commanding.
"Why? Sven drunk on the job again?" asked a man leaning against the lumber mill.
"Just come over here." Gerdur's tone brooked no argument before she turned to Ralof and Sayid. "Who's your friend?"
"He's Sayid. The Alik'r had come along to deal with whoever won the war," Ralof replied as Hod joined them. One of the children, a small blond boy, came running up with dog in tow.
"Uncle Ralof!"
Ralof ruffled the boy's hair. "Frodnar! How are you?"
"I'm nearly big enough to take on the Imperials! Can I see your axe? Have you met Jarl Ulfric?"
Sayid felt a pang of envy. At Frodnar's age, he was learning how to wield the tanto and being drilled relentlessly by his grandfather, who'd spoken of passing on his naginata to him. Out of rebellion, the younger Alik'r had chosen the traditional scimitar. He was Ra Gada, not an Akaviri masquerading as one.
"Soon you'll join the fight, I'm sure." The look in Ralof's eyes prayed it wasn't so. "I need you to go watch for Imperials. They killed everyone they could at Helgen if they were next to a Stormcloak, even Alik'r warriors."
Frodnar's eyes swung in Sayid's direction. "Are the Alik'r going to help Jarl Ulfric win the war?"
"The Ra Gada believe anything worth having is best gained through struggle and battle," Sayid responded, repeating what he'd grown up with. "Jarl Ulfric and the Stormcloaks need to prove they're worthy of our help."
"Before Tullius came along, we'd freed half of Skyrim," Ralof countered. "And even then, Tullius got lucky – a traitor and an ambush."
Sayid flushed with shame yet again. "When I spoke, I didn't know that, Ralof. And yeah, that's an Imperial for you. Treachery and letting others do the dirty work. Why do you think we kicked them out after we defeated the Thalmor on our own?"
"Your father…?"
"Imperial father, Redguard mother. And Grandfather was a Blade, so I guess things were a bit different for him." Sayid wished that Rustem and Ari were here to listen to this. He was beginning to feel for the Stormcloaks. "Is it true that Ulfric wants to throw everyone out who isn't a Nord?"
"Frodnar, go watch the road," Ralof repeated.
"Don't worry, Uncle Ralof. I'll make sure that no Legionnaires can sneak up on you!" The boy ran off and the Stormcloak sat down on a tree stump.
"We want to be free of the Empire that forbids us to worship Talos," Ralof said heavily. "Some Imperials and Redguards fight with us. I… won't lie that things are rough between us and the Dunmer, who seem to think it isn't their fight. I'm just a sword-swinger, not a Jarl. I fight for my god and my freedom."
"It took a dragon, a Dwemer airship and a Dunmer assassin to conquer Hammerfell," Sayid said softly. "And even then, Cyrus-HoonDing destroyed those and made Tiber Septim – your Talos – earn the right to rule us."
"Indeed," Ralof agreed. "The other kingdoms barely put up a fight but the Redguards gave Him a worthy battle."
Sayid nodded. "As for Talos, He's considered a god of Nords and Imperials. We have our own deities who demand much of us so while we respect Him, He's not a Divine to us, though He is a god. Make sense?"
"I guess so." Ralof sighed yet again. "Gerdur, there's no easy way to put this – a dragon attacked Helgen. And not just any dragon – the World-Eater."
"Mara's mercy…" Gerdur breathed, looking at Sayid. "Is this true?"
"Big, black, scaly, wanting to eat the world? Yeah. Remember what I said about my Grandfather being a Blade?" Sayid shuddered. "I grew up learning the Prophecy of the Dragonborn."
"Until Alduin comes to Riverwood, I won't lose hope," Gerdur declared stoutly. "But we do need to warn Jarl Balgruuf."
"Who's he?" Sayid wiped his sooty face with his burnoose.
"Ruler of Whiterun Hold and the only uncommitted Jarl in the war," Ralof replied with a hint of contempt. "In peacetime, he's not a bad man. But in war, a gullveig – gold-hungry – Jarl is little more than a nithing."
"He's not that bad," Gerdur countered. "Not yet, at least."
The lumberjack looked down at Sayid. It was strange having women tilt their heads to regard him when he was full-grown. "You're welcome to shelter at my house for the night. Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine."
"You'll have to go to Whiterun to see the Companions anyway," Ralof added. "Might as well climb a few more steps and warn the Jarl."
Sayid looked down at his Alik'r clothing. "I better get something a little less noticeable. If Imperials are killing Alik'r…"
"Good idea. If you're not attached to the scimitar, Alvor will pay generously for it, or at least trade some armour and an iron sword for it."
"I... can't. It belonged to my mother's father." Safiya would be worried sick with him gone and Father too. What if Alduin ate her when he was done with Skyrim?
"Understood." Ralof nodded in the direction of his sister's house. "We've got plain clothing and can spare a knife. Whiterun is just down the river about two hours' walk away."
"Thank you. I'll leave my stuff with you." Sayid looked up at the Nord who owed him no kindness. "If I die, give the scimitar to Frodnar."
"I'll hand it to your kin," Ralof promised softly. "The Empire have not been friends to the Redguards today."
Sayid nodded grimly as he dusted off his robes. No, they hadn't. Killing Berok because he'd escaped a dragon with Stormcloaks? That was inexcusable.
"I dunno if I can help much – Grandfather's in charge, Father after him and Kematu third – but I'll see if I can point out what the Empire was like today," he promised. "They want us back when they weren't strong enough to even hold their own fucking province."
"Thank you," Ralof said quietly. "We better get inside. I think my old friend Hadvar likely survived and he's… well, the man's Legion-loyal. He'll come here to warn his uncle Alvor and then report back to Tullius."
"I admire a man who keeps his oath but Hadvar needs to understand that the Imperials broke theirs first," Gerdur agreed sadly.
Sayid rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hadvar – big guy, quiet?"
"Yeah," Ralof confirmed.
"He met us on the trail and brought us in. Mother once claimed I could sweet-talk a coconut off the tree – reckon if a neutral third party points out the facts, especially after today…"
Ralof grinned. "I like you!"
Sayid smiled. "I won't win the war for you or Ulfric. Hell, somehow I think we're going to be fighting dragons instead of Legionnaires. But the Redguards and the Stormcloaks have a common enemy in the fucking goldskins – I lost an aunt to them, you know that, and she was only eight. Elenwen killed her, Father said, and she'd never done anything to the goldskins."
"The Stormsword's daughter," Ralof said softly, losing the grin. "Rustem asked after her and Sigdrifa told him that she was dead at Cloud Ruler Temple."
"Yeah. Reckon I have more in common with the Stormcloaks than with the Empire. Hopefully can talk Father and Grandfather into understanding that." Besides, High King Sura's son had been making noises about returning to the Empire. If the Empire wanted to rule Hammerfell again, let them earn the right.
Sayid followed Ralof and Hod to the cottage where the whole family lived. Tomorrow he'd speak to Hadvar, warn the Jarl and then go find the Companions. Then he supposed he should head out to Falkreath to rejoin his family.
The Dragonborn would deal with the dragons. He'd worry about the civil war.