Note 7/12/2017 - I wrote this quite awhile ago. What started off as a one shot character sketch became an 18 chapter story. Looking back over it, I'm amazed at how my writing style has changed over the years. I went back and did a few general grammatical edits and simplified some of my more verbose sentences, but the story remains intact. I hope you enjoy it, because I enjoyed writing it very much. Thanks for reading!
The monastery of High Hrothgar loomed up the path through a swirl of snow and wind, the ancient stone spires of the building a welcome sight to Gallica after the long ride from Windhelm and the grueling trudge up the 7000 Steps. Lydia's footsteps stopped their crunching pursuit suddenly behind her and she looked over her shoulder, remembering that the housecarl had never been here before.
"That's the monastery? Where the Greybeards live?" Lydia asked reverently, as she brushed tendrils of dark hair that had become plastered to her face out of her eyes.
Gallica nodded her assent as she glanced over to where a small handful of Imperial soldiers were setting up camp for the night just off of the path. A similar cadre of Stormcloaks glared warily at them further along.
"It's usually quieter," she replied and withheld a sigh.
She regretted disturbing the monks' peace, but something had to be done about this war and there was no other way to make everyone see sense. The best she could do was try to get it all over with quickly. There were bigger and more immediate problems to be addressed.
"Do you remember our discussion? Your orders, if things should go bad?"
"Yes, my Thane," Lydia murmured soberly.
Gallica watched as the younger woman squared her shoulders self-consciously and was once again pleased that she had decided to bring the housecarl along. It would do Lydia good to see this. Their business was not all blood and blades. Sometimes, it was diplomacy. Knowing how to talk to people. Waiting for just the right moment. And it was nice to have another pair of hands and eyes around. What Lydia lacked in experience, she made up for in diligence.
"There you are," said another familiar voice before Gallica could continue up to the monastery.
She turned, careful to keep her face composed as she saw Delphine and Esbern making their way slowly up the slope towards them. Both looked weary and agitated and Gallica had to work hard to keep her expression from falling at the sight of them. It was not that she disliked either of them - she didn't, they had at various times over the last few months been the only people she could rely on -but she had purposefully not invited the Blades to this conference because she had anticipated the dramatic scene that was likely to erupt. There would be too much bickering already with the two opposing leaders of the civil war at the same table. Why add fuel to the fire by arousing the ancient enmity between the Blades and the Greybeards as well?
But, she admitted to herself with a sinking feeling, it had probably been too much to expect that Delphine would not hear about the peace conference. The leader of the Blades was too adept at her craft for her own good.
"Delphine. Esbern," Gallica acknowledging, nodding a greeting to each of them. "I'm glad to see that you're both safe."
"No thanks to you," the Blades-mistress reproached, frowning. "You should have told us. This concerns Alduin and the dragons. We have a right to be here."
"There wasn't much time to make the arrangements. My apologies," Gallica replied diplomatically and then hesitantly continued. "Do you think this is wise, Delphine? I know that little love is lost between the Greybeards and the Blades. The situation is delicate."
"Pah, those old fools can't keep us out."
I'm fairly certain that they could, Gallica thought to herself, remembering the day she had stood in the midst of the Greybeards as they formally greeted her as Ysmir, Dragon of the North.
Anyone else would have been killed instantly. Delphine was formidable and clever, but even she would be no match against the united Voices of High Hrothgar. Not that the Greybeards would resort to such crude measures, though Gallica suspect the temptation to make an exception for the Blades would be great.
"We need to be here. There is too much at stake," Esbern insisted as he finally caught up, puffing gouts of steam into the air as he caught his breath.
The old man did not look well. The journey up the steps had no doubt been a harrowing one for someone of his age and health and yet here he was. Gallica softened. They would get nowhere arguing the matter out here in the snow.
"We'll discuss it inside," she told them and turned back up the path, marching between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks towards the entrance to High Hrothgar.
Hopefully, the Greybeards would be in a generous mood and the Blades would summon the sense to keep their mouths shut long enough for Gallica to make their case for them. She quietly touched the hidden amulet of Talos beneath her breastplate in a silent prayer that it would be so.
~~0~~
"No," said Arngeir immediately as soon as he saw the Blades trooping in behind Gallica. "They have not been invited."
"We have just as much right to be here as anyone else, old man." Delphine growled darkly, her posture immediately becoming defensive.
Well, that didn't take long, Gallica thought with an internal sigh and she stepped in between the outraged parties.
"Master Arngeir-," Gallica started, but the aging monk fixed her with a cold expression.
"You would bring them here after all you have learned from us?"
"We have information that is vital to these discussions!" the Esbern bleated, his voice echoing off of the high vaulted stones of the main meditation chamber.
The carvings of dragons that swirled across the walls and pillars looked on, unimpressed.
"Master, I have the utmost respect for your order, but the fate of the world is at stake," Gallica cajoled, gently. "If Jarl Ulfric and General Tullius can put aside their differences to come here, then certainly the Greybeards - and the Blades - can do the same. In the interest of peace."
Arngeir stared at her for a long moment and then sighed. There was a world of weariness and sufferance in that simple long exhale.
"I suppose if we are making a mockery of our traditions already, it makes little difference," the monk replied stiffly. "Very well."
"Thank you," Gallica told him gratefully and then looked around, scanning the sounds and flickering shadows that indicated guests in the wings of the ancient stone monestary. "The others have arrived, I assume?"
"Yes. We have apportioned out what rooms we have available in the northern wing as quarters for them. As the hour is late, I suppose the talks must begin in the morning. You know the monastery well by now, Dragonborn. It is your home as well as ours. Show your - friends - where they can rest for the night."
Gallica bowed respectfully and glanced pointedly at Delphine to underscore that nothing further was to be said as she moved past the monks towards the back of the sanctuary and the north wing.
Do not make me regret this.
As she entered the long hallway, she could tell by which doors had a guard in front of them which were occupied. The Stormcloak and Legion guards watched each other like hawks. Finally, Gallica found space for the Blades and took the last, more cramped of the rooms for herself and Lydia. As she bid Delphine good evening, she saw General Tullius emerge from a room further up the corridor. He looked much the same as when she had last seen him, though his greying hair was possibly a little greyer and his armor was freshly shined. His dark Imperial eyes were the same though, and he gazed at her for a long moment before clearing his throat and walking away towards the main sanctuary. Feeling strangely slighted, Gallica ducked quickly into her own room after Lydia.
"There's dry rations in my pack. Rest up. I want to take a walk and clear my head before I sleep," she told the housecarl after dumping her satchel and held up a hand before the woman could volunteer to accompany her. "Stay. I want to be alone for a while and it's safe enough here. I need to collect my thoughts before tomorrow."
~~0~~
The training yard was Gallica's favorite place at the monastery. Skyrim looked so peaceful from the mountain with the northern lights dancing in sinuous ribbons of green and blue overhead - like a toy version of the world spread across the landscape far below her. Thousands of lives going on quietly and all the joys and sorrows of the world laid out at her feet. It was hard to believe that all of this might soon come to an end if she failed. And so she could not fail. Would not. Whether she had chosen the burden or not, it was hers. She might still wish for a lighter one, though. Her retirement was proving to be a bigger ordeal than her tenure in the Legion had ever been. And what if she had stayed in Cyrodiil? Who would be standing on this mountain now, if not her? Or was that simply the onus of prophecy? If she had remained in the Legion, she might simply have been sent here anyway when the war broke out. At least this way she was free to choose her own way.
The crunch of snow behind her made her turn slightly to see a tall figure moving towards her from the dark monastery. By his height and his - by now - all too familiar proud profile, she recognized him immediately.
"Beautiful, is it not?" Ulfric Stormcloak's voice rumbled as he stepped up beside her onto the overlook. He looked out into the darkness for a moment and then back down at her, smiling. "As are other things I could mention."
Gallica shut her eyes tightly in irritation for a quick moment, and then forced herself to be polite. Ever since she had first met him all those months ago while she was trying to coordinate resources to fight the dragons, Ulfric had been upfront about his interest in her. Other women might have been flattered at the attention from a Jarl, but Ulfric made no secret of his political aspirations and Gallica wasn't fooled. She wasn't willing to be anyone's pawn any longer and no handsome face or flattering tongue would change that.
"Jarl Ulfric," she acknowledged, formally. "I'm pleased that you came."
"Of course I did," he replied, dismissively. "I am good to my word, whatever the Empire might say. But, this is an exercise in your education only, Dragonborn. The Empire will not be content until Skyrim cowers under the Imperial boot once more."
This is not about you and your damned civil war, this is about the end of the world, Gallica wanted to shout at him, but held her tongue.
As exasperating as she found Ulfric most of the time, the slightest insult was likely to send him packing and then there would be no hope for a truce. It was not that she disliked him, exactly. She no longer believed that he was the murderous villain that many of the loyalist thought him, though the circumstances involving the former High King Torygg's death were peculiar to say the least. It was just that he was arrogant and disingenuous, reminding her much of the procession of noblemen's sons her mother had tried to foist on her before giving up the idea of an arranged marriage entirely. It was impossible for her to tell with Ulfric what was sincere and what was political. He was persistent beyond the bounds of all reason, confoundingly so, and she could not decide if that was an admirable quality or an irritating flaw. Possibly both.
"We'll see if that bears out tomorrow. Tullius may surprise you."
He eyed her a little suspiciously at that, shuffling in the snow, but continued. He chose his words carefully, she noted. "You have not responded to any of my summons."
"I have been somewhat preoccupied, as you can see," Gallica replied, gesturing at the monastery and smiling to try and put him at ease.
In fact, she had not responded because she could think of nothing she could say that would satisfy him and not result in yet another argument as he tried to convince her to join him against the Legion. Perhaps he was sincere about wanting something more than that from her, but even discounting her own feelings on the subject, she was in no position to give anyone that at the moment and so it was better just to avoid the conversation.
"A Jarl might expect a reply of some kind, however," he pressed, returning the smile weakly, before raising a heavy eyebrow. "Unless you have already chosen to side with the Empire in this war."
The tension in his voice rose and she could feel the intensity of his gaze searching her face for clues without even looking up at him. Whatever else anyone might say about him, no one could deny the Jarl of Windhelm was a man of many passions. Gallica had never been able to work out whether this was mere theater - whether she should despise him for his manipulations or feel sorry for him for his rampant idealism.
"This isn't my fight, Ulfric," she replied, as gently as she could. There was no reason to provoke him, especially here and now. "I don't choose sides. Neither yours nor the Legion's."
"It is your fight!" the Jarl exploded, scowling, and then lowered his voice as he remembered where he was and who he was talking to. His tone was insistent. "It's everyone's fight. You are a Nord, a daughter of Skyrim-"
"I was born and raised in Cyrodiil, as was my father. I had never set foot in Skyrim until two month ago," she reminded him, frowning at the outburst. "My blood is just as much Imperial as it is Nord."
He shook his head. "Even so, you are the Dragonborn. You know what that means to our people. You owe it to them to fight for their best interests. For their freedom."
"I'm here to fight for their lives, Ulfric," Gallica emphasized, stopping him. "If this truce doesn't happen, if Alduin is not defeated, then they'll be dead and what does it matter if they aren't free then? That's what I care about."
He was silent for a moment, hands clenched, and he turned and paced a few steps before stopping and glaring at her again.
"There are things worse than death," he told her, and she heard the edge of bitterness in his voice.
What had happened to the man that he hated the Empire and the Thalmor so much? He took a step towards her.
"If you will not do it for your people, for Skyrim, then will you do it for me?"
She stared at him in disbelief and then remember to close her mouth. The audacity of the question floored her. Ulfric had mentioned before that the Dragonborn at his side and eventually on the throne with him as Queen would be a fitting endgame for the legends. He had courted her relentlessly the last time she was in Windhelm, but she had always assumed that, at the base of it, he was proposing a political alliance rather than a romantic one. Could it actually be the other way around?
"How can I answer that?" Gallica began, stuttering as she tried to process the turn the conversation had taken, when Ulfric closed the distance between them. His fingers laced themselves into the hair that fell around her face and shoulders, the unexpected touch paralyzing her with surprise, and when she did not immediately push him away, he kissed her.
The tang of male scent and the smell of furs, the feel of arms around her after what had been a very long time overwhelmed her. Her body seemed frozen, as if by a mage's spell, with a building warmth in her belly that instantly brought the soldier in her to its senses. She wrenched herself free, shoving him away as she stepped back out of his reach. Her breath sighed out hard, her face burning with a tangle of outrage and a desire that she did not understand.
"This is not the time," she said, finally, when she found her voice again. The words sounded sharp and awkward to her ears.
By rights, she should have struck him for the imposition and left him there in the snow. She would never have tolerated such a presumptuous move from any other man. And yet, as much as Ulfric Stormcloak irritated and exasperated her, she was mortified to realize that there was also a part of her that had wanted him as well. Quickly, she turned towards the monastery, eager to get away.
"You will defeat Alduin, Dragonborn," Ulfric called at her and she stopped in her tracks, her back to him, her heart pounding. "That is your destiny, your wyrd. I have no doubt. And afterwards, there will be a day when you will no longer be able to remain in the middle of this war. You must make a choice." His voice was earnest, too much so to be calculated. "Fate has bound our destinies together for a reason. For more than one reason, I think. I will stand with you against the World-Eater. When the day comes, will you consider standing with me, too?"
The wind howled across the peaks, the sound of dragon wings in the dark.
How can I promise you something that I may not live to deliver on? Gallica thought.
For, whether she won or lost, she did not now expect that she would live through the final battle with Alduin. But, by the same token, what was the harm in considering Ulfric's offer? It would give him the impetus to cooperate with the truce, at least.
"When Alduin is dead," she replied, slowly, glancing back over her shoulder, "if I still live, I will consider what you have said. And I will make a choice. I can promise you nothing else."
"Then come to Windhelm, when it is over." Ulfric agreed, a triumph smile spreading across his bearded face. "I will expect you."
Without another word and with a growing uneasiness in her gut, she hurried back to the monastery, lest another moment in his presence cloud her judgment any further.
~~0~~
The monastery, usually chilly, was warm compared to the air outside. Gallica dropped the hood of her cloak and shooking the frost and snow off of her furs as she headed back towards her room.
I need to sleep, she thought. This will all be easier to deal with after I've had some rest. As she turned into the north wing, she spotted General Tullius pacing the wide hallway in front of her room. He looked up almost as soon as she saw him and, jaw clenching, started quickly towards her.
"We need to talk," he growled, lowly as he approached her. "Now."
You, too?, she thought, wearily. Her nerves were too frazzled for this, but she nodded and he followed her back to the storeroom that was her quarters for the night.
Lydia had been dozing near the brazier and woke with a start as Gallica opened the door, scrambling to her feet. The woman's eyes went large as they moved from her mistress to Tullius.
"If you would excuse us, Lydia. The General has some business that I presume requires privacy," Gallica explained, glancing at Tullius for confirmation. He inclined his head briefly and watched as the housecarl grabbed her cloak and stepped outside the room before relaxing very slightly.
"My housecarl. She is exuberantly loyal. If you questioned her trustworthiness," Gallica explained, and indicated the crate nearest the brazier. "Please. My hospitality, such as it is, is at your disposal."
But the General did not sit. He sniffed and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and fixing her with the same concentrative frown that every officer in the Legion seemed to develop immediately upon their promotion.
"I don't know whether to be offended by these Greybeards for sticking us all in glorified closets or to admire their practicality," he commented gruffly, by way of opening the conversation.
"They don't get many visitors. This conference is unprecedented, as I understand it. I'm not certain they're well-pleased by the intrusion."
"Neither am I," he huffed, and then smiled thinly. "Well, it's good to know that you still deign to speak with me. I've sent three messages with no reply. I was beginning to think you'd joined the Stormcloaks. But let's cut to the meat of the matter. I need to know where you stand on this civil war before we begin the discussions."
"Where I have always stood, General," Gallica sighed, wearily. "Out of the matter entirely."
He scowled at her, crossing his arms, his posture conveying both disappointment and disbelief.
"There is no 'out of the matter' for a citizen. You either stand with the Empire or against it. You're a legionnaire; you know better."
"Ex-legionnaire," she reminded and he scoffed, annoyed.
"When the security of the Empire is at stake, there are no ex-legionnaires. Your responsibilities to the Emperor and the citizenry last as long as there is a Legion tattoo on your arm." He continued, tersely, "Your grandfather was General Gallicus, as devoted to the Empire as any man ever to serve. If he were here to listen to this right now-"
The mention of her grandfather's name scorched Gallica like the touch of a blacksmith's heated tongs. She went silent, feeling her face go rigid, and waited as Tullius sensed the line he had crossed. He glanced sideways, his expression turning very slightly apologetic.
"I am not my grandfather," she said, after a moment, forcing her tone to remain calm and even. "I do care about the safety of the Empire, General. I've never expected anything but a life of service to the Emperor since I was small. But Alduin is a threat to the world, not just the Empire or Skyrim. I didn't ask for this, but if I am the only one who can stop Alduin, I have to believe that doing so is a better use of my time than interfering in politics."
"I suppose I can agree with you there," the general growled, rebuked, and glanced at her. "I knew your grandfather. I was a young officer at the time, but I served under him for a few months before I was transferred to my own command. There was never a better soldier, or general. You . . . remind me of him. More than you would like, perhaps."
She nodded, silently, and he sighed.
"I could conscript you, you know, if that's what it takes to make you see sense. It would be easy enough to reactivate your commission. I assume you are still loyal enough not to desert."
"If you were going to do it, you would have already," Gallica retorted, allowing herself a smile. "Besides, you have Rikke. She's capable enough for both of us."
"Rikke is a competent Legate," he mused, "but she isn't you."
Gallica cocked her head at that, but Tullius continued quickly, shaking his head as if to move past the response quickly.
"I mean that you are the Dragonborn. I have no patience for these Nord superstitions, but many would leave the rebels if they knew you stood with the Empire. Ulfric would lose half of his army overnight and any sense of legitimacy with the people."
"I go my entire life never thinking about Skyrim or my Nord heritage and suddenly I'm a folk hero," Gallica quipped, making an attempt at humor to leaven the seriousness of the General's expression. She liked Tullius on the whole. Having grown up among Cyrodiil's nobility and also among many legion officers, she understood him better than she did Ulfric. "I'm just a soldier, General. Who am I to decide the fate of these people?"
"Soldiers have always decided the fate of the people," he replied, sternly. "You're a soldier and a woman of honor, if everything I've heard is correct. Ignoring your obligation to the Legion and the Empire, Ulfric Stormcloak is a murderer in addition to being a traitor. Could you stand behind a murderer?"
"I can stand behind no one until the dragons are dealt with," she replied firmly, finishing the discussion. "If I live through what is to come, General, I'll make a decision about this war. Until then, I need to remain impartial."
"Then, I will hold you to that. And I will expect you to report to Solitude with that dragon's head, ready to take up the Legion banner," he agreed. He looked tired and she watched him run a hand over his face and through his short, grey hair. Gallica could feel the weight of exhaustion herself. "Get some sleep. You'll need it - for whatever happens tomorrow."
She rose from her seat and nodded politely as he went to the door. He stopped and turned as he reached for the handle.
"Gallica. The Empire needs you. I need you, as well, if we're to make this work. When the moment comes, remember that," he said and left.
She stared at the spot where he had stood for a moment, and then wearily began to shuck off her armor.
Ulfric. Tullius. She had promised them a decision, if she lived. To do that, she would have to defeat Alduin and ensure the continuation of the world and that was a going concern. If by some miracle she did survive, the question became who would she choose? Ulfric, chasing his own power? Did the Nords not have a right to stand on their own and shake off the chains of their oppressors if they chose? Tullius, honorable, but locked into the narrative of Emperor and Empire that Gallica thought she had left behind her in Cyrodiil. Did she not have a responsibility as a citizen and a soldier to remain true to her oaths? Both men made good points and neither would stop their pursuit until she had taken a side.
Troubled, she lay down on the bedroll that Lydia had rolled out for her and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and relieve her temporarily from this nightmare of dragons and politics. By the time her housecarl returned and lay down in her place near the door, Gallica was deep in the scant comfort of her own dreams, waiting to see what the next day would bring.
