Author's Note: This is a sequel to Tenacity of Lathenil. A distant sequel, and one that stands by itself, but to my mind it's a thematically necessary one unless I want to wait about for Elder Scrolls VI. I've been hopping from chapter to chapter and from work to work for some time now; as the first chapter of this one is done, I feel like jumping the gun.

Waking the Sleeping Giant

Say what you will about "milk-drinkers" - Widamia was half-sure the term was a slur against Imperials in particular, but she couldn't see Etienne Rarnis aspiring to Sovngarde – whatever one may say against them, they will, at least, put up with a thorough healing after being nigh-hamstrung by a troll.

Short though his stay in the Embassy had been, it wasn't as though the Breton needed more scars to boast of.

Assured that she'd done what she could, she turned the golden light on herself.

"Don't know how you managed to get to me if you never heard the basics of monster-hunting," Etienne babbled, sounding as though he was going for more of a grouse. "Everyone knows you use a shield to fight trolls. I thought I saw one on you, but..."

But Malborn was dead by the time she'd even ascertained where his voice had come from. They'd cut his throat and cast him into the corner like a pile of old rags, and his eyes... she didn't have much time, but what she had, she'd used to give him some dignity in death, the dragon insignia on the shield at his side. His quiet courage was the only thing the Thalmor couldn't take from him.

"It's all right," she said distantly. "I didn't know what I was doing with the thing anyway."

Etienne looked as though he was about to make further inquiries, but then changed his mind. "A lot of light in here. Either there's a way out, or we can break through to one."

"Glad to hear it," said Widamia, focusing very hard on the walls of the icy cave, the better to eclipse the faint accusation in the Bosmer's sightless eyes. "Think we're headed... that way."

They ascended. As a draft began to blow in, Etienne sank to his knees. Staring, trembling. Disbelieving. Widamia held him tightly by the shoulder, kept alert for pursuers, and they stayed at the threshold a long time.

"You'll come visit me in Riften, I hope?" said Etienne at last.

"Hmm?" Widamia had barely given herself room to think a course in the Embassy. "Yes. Yes, I'll definitely come to Riften. And..."

She looked out on the snowy wood, imagining it an all-consuming, blinding white that resolved bit by bit into colors, and forms, and landmarks, and finally paths...

"I hope you'll meet me in Whiterun, when the war is over." The memory of her words made them almost an intonation. "When the war is over, and not a moment before."

"You really are an Imperial scout," said Etienne in wonder. "I mean, that's how you're dressed, and you've got the nose, but I didn't think..."

"You thought we liked the Dominion?" asked Widamia gently. The attitude was common enough here in Skyrim that bewilderment had long since faded. "Etienne, I grew up in Jerall Quarries – Bruma County – and put it this way: if ever you go there you'll see an awful lot of Imperial banners hung in pride of place over mantlepieces – bookshelves – surfaces generally. Yes, oath-bound to the Empire. Not for the best reasons initially, but I think it the right choice. Whiterun?"

"All right. Whiterun, after the war."


"I could use some mead," Widamia admitted over the Sleeping Giant's counter. "With currant infusion, if you have it."

Orgnar snorted. "No, Imperial, we do not."

Widamia thought the undertone was that her choice of strong spirits somehow made her a milk-drinker; regardless, she gratefully accepted a cheap mead. "I wonder, why did you name this place the Sleeping Giant? I thought the giants were on the other side of the river?"

"Everyone thinks I'm the innkeeper," muttered Orgnar. "Delphine's idea; she owns the place. Giants sleeping look peaceful as babes, she says. Wouldn't want to be the fool who found that for myself, mind."

"Then I trust she wouldn't object if I woke her?" said Widamia, feeling a vindictive smile creep on her.

"No need," came Delphine's weary voice behind her. "I suppose you wanted a room?"

Widamia had barely shut the false panel at the top of the stairs before she began.

"Well, I got in. But they twigged to me soon after, and I had to fight, which would have made a change from dealing with Tullius, only, only it meant I left a trail of dead Thalmor all throughout the Embassy, and I'll bet that skooma-sucking cat in the kitchen -"

Delphine closed her eyes in exasperation. "Spare me the play-by-play. Did you get any information?"

"Precious little," said Widamia quietly, "and the best of it none too timely. But Malborn died for it, Delphine. He gave years to the bastards that he might have lived free. We've got to use what we gained, every inch."

She laid out the intelligence she'd gained on the table. "First – we have to get to Riften. As soon as we can, because you were wrong, Delphine, you're not the last of the Blades. There's another, and the Thalmor have his scent there. And once that's done... we do whatever we can to end the war. As quickly and cleanly as possible."

"Not the last... you mean...? Never mind. I'm asking what you've learned about the dragons."

Right, yes. The dragons. Bringers of the apocalypse, just like everything unpleasant in the world since the first time the Empire let a fort go to seed.

The way Widamia saw it, the worst thing a dragon could do was bring your house down on your head. Dragons didn't make you choose between land and gods, cause childhood friends to cross swords. Dragons didn't keep torture chambers. But if Delphine needed so badly to take up a purpose for the Blades that existed before anyone had even heard of the Thalmor, then Widamia was glad she chose dragons over a new Interregnum with Widamia at the center.

"The Thalmor don't know much more than we do." As seemed usual for such allegations. There was cause and to spare against the Dominion without accusing them of destroying Vvardenfell or blotting out the moons; all the embellishment did was to weigh dread around one's neck. "But they think Esbern does. We'll... I'll gather my things, make for Whiterun. I can get my sleep in the carriage, but tell me what you can now, because I'll do this alone. For what it's worth, you've got the only genuine compliment Elenwen is capable of giving: she's scared shitless of you. But they were scared of Rynandor the Bold, too. If it goes wrong, I can't have them get both of you."

"The old coot's alive." Delphine shook her head, a gleam in her eye for all that the rest of her face was stony. "He'll know about the dragons, all right. Oh, but... if you think I'm paranoid... you may have some trouble getting Esbern to trust you. Tell him to remember the 30th of Frostfall. He'll know what it means." And she turned back to survey her map of dragons' graves.

Widamia opened the chest. Amazing how much of this stuff was superfluous, when you got down to the bone...

Oh, gods. Malborn. The shield. The Imperial crest. She'd implicated the Empire in the attack on the Embassy, for nothing more than a moment of sentimentality.

"Delphine," she said tentatively. "I've done something... very stupid. I've got to get to Castle Dour at once. You... the Thalmor say they need overwhelming force and the most careful preparation to deal with you. And that they'll have to catch Esbern off guard."

Delphine chuckled darkly. "I'll bet."

"Then I think I'll have to trust you. I guess Esbern will be quicker to listen to you, at least."

"All right. Do..." Delphine sighed with exasperation. "Do whatever you have to do. I won't drop my end, and if I meet Thalmor on the way, so much the better. But – confessed idiot or not – come back to Riverwood as soon as you can. Esbern won't be happy until he meets the Dragonborn."

Having shoved the rest of her belongings into her pack, Widamia retrieved the four Thalmor documents from the table; it was plain Delphine had no further interest in them.

But instead of returning to the legitimate part of the Inn, she found herself walking solemnly toward the little table on the opposite side of the wall. The Rise and Fall of the Blades. Her hand hovered over the book for a long moment – but no. This was Delphine's by right if anything was.

But she knew, all the same, that it would never occur to this brusque, hardened survivor to give Malborn even a small part of the tribute he had given her vanished order.