A/N: This was originally uploaded on April 1st, 2016 as an April Fool's chapter to my main story, "The Nerevarine's Return." This was uploaded again as an archive for any who missed it the first time around, or who want to read it again. If you have not read "The Nerevarine's Return" and are interested, do not read this chapter. Major spoilers lie below.

THE BLACK CROWN

Jag

Valentine's screams filled the air as Jag produced a rag to wipe away his blood. He hummed to himself, listening to the music until it ended with a sudden splash. Cassius, the newest member of The Black Crown, appeared at the stern. He leaned against the railing and peered down to the oily water below. "You certain he wasn't telling the truth?"

"Jag is certain," he assured the Imperial. "Valentine has softened in the past few years. He is a different man than he used to be—less useful." Satisfied with the cleansing, he chucked the bloodied rag overboard. Considering all he'd dumped into the harbor, a ruined cloth wouldn't weigh heavy on his mind. First there were the gallons upon gallons of oil, and now the crippled thief. Would Valentine drown in the icy cold waters, or would he pop up for air and face the fires?

He was eager to see for himself. "Okawios, take up position at the wheel. Jag wishes to wave goodbye to Windhelm."

"Yes, captain," Okawios said, his voice raspy like all Argonians. The perfect yes man, he went straight to the wheel and curled his talons around the wheel. Jag once preferred brutes when it came to his second-in-command. The less loyal men in his service were easier to trust when he held a bear on a leash. But Okawios proved capable enough; decent with a sword and strong at the helm.

"And you," Jag said, turning to Cassius. "Why did you not kill Valentine when he captured Jag? You had the opening and opportunity, but instead you surrendered without request."

"I... I didn't want to risk him hurting you, captain."

A shade of doubt passed over the young blood's face, but it vanished quickly. Jag narrowed his eyes. This relative stranger had proven quite a surprise. Bringing him on the Blackreach expedition had been a test of faith. The rest of that crew he'd trusted, but Cassius had been some thug from Solitude. A promise to follow every one of Jag's command was easy to make before knowing exactly what he'd have to do. And yet, not only had Cassius gone above and beyond, he'd been one of two surviving crew members. There was more to him than met the eye; even one as vigilant as Jag's. Still, perhaps his survivor status was a fluke. Jenthry was the second survivor, and that was simply disappointing. That fat prick ate and drank more than he was worth. Jag would trade ten of Jenthry to get Gunnar, Alorik, or Jarvic back. But he'd secured the Elder Scroll and a safe escape, and that mattered more than anything or anyone.

"Next time, do not worry about Jag," he told the blond. "He can handle himself. Valentine was dead the second he decided to challenge Jag."

Cassius nodded, turning his attention back toward the harbor. Jag did the same and smiled, seeing how far the ship had gone since his momentary capture. The rest of the city hadn't a clue he'd up and left. At best, the city guards were only now realizing the numerous fires were harmless. Soon the harbor would wreck that trend. It'd be hours before the city could quell the fires and send ships after him.

But first, he needed someone to set that fire. "Go find a mage amongst the crew," Jag ordered.

Cassius departed from the helm, and in a rare moment of peace, Jag relaxed for the first time in a long time. The last piece of the puzzle had gone according to plan, despite Valentine's brigade on the dock. The rest of the puzzle, his month-long plan, had finally come to an end. So much risk went into his chase for the Scroll, and all of it born from a case of eavesdropping during the Burning of King Olaf. And yet, he had his prize, his ship, and his life when all three were on the line.

Valentine's death would be the icing on the sweetroll.

Footsteps approached him from behind. Valentine's steps had carried no sound, so he didn't fear for another invisible intruder. And he recognized the scent of cranberries, lingering just above the noxious oil in the water. "Jag's impressed you made that shot," he said.

Sherri stopped beside him, her bow shouldered. "Doubting me, boss?"

"Never. Jag wouldn't have posted you in the crow's nest if he didn't have faith in your aim." He chuckled. "You're the mage Cassius collected? Was there not one available on deck?"

"I caught sight of him bustling around the ship, but not even the elves responded to his presence. He's got a way to go before they care to learn his name. Since he wasn't getting anywhere, I figured I'd make his job easier." A twirl of fire danced between her fingers, slipping in and out like a fiery snake. "And I wanted the honor of burning Windhelm myself."

"After you already claimed the honor of killing the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild? You are a very selfish Breton."

She pointed out to the harbor. "Not yet."

Jag followed her finger. Sure enough, he detected a bobbing head and arms frantically waving in the water. So, Valentine has opted for fire to be his downfall? Somewhere deep, deep down, he felt some regret for Valentine. A thief needed his fingers, just like an assassin did, and Valentine had been both. Whatever sliver of chance he had to survive the night meant nothing. Magic worked wonders, but it couldn't grow body parts. Any life left worth living wouldn't compare to the one he'd lived.

But this was business. Dealing out punishment was a part of that. And Valentine had dared to get in his way. "Fire on my go."

The Black Crown sailed out a little further, pushing toward the White River. The dock had gone quiet, the battle between Valentine's men and the hired help finished. No one aboard could see in the dark as well as he, being the only Khajiit amongst his men. From what he saw, not a one remained of the fake guards. Rounding them and doubling the shipping crew had cost a few Septims. All received payment straight from Valentine's funds, now belonging to Jag. But on the tight schedule, he'd ignored quality in favor of quantity. And against the intruders, quantity meant nothing; all were alive and kicking.

Except one.

"Light him up."

Sherri took a deep breath, drawing her hands apart as a ball of fire expanded between them. Her spell reached the size of a man's head before she launched it. The fireball sailed outward, and Jag hoped she'd hit Valentine directly. No such luck, as the fire went over him, landing and igniting behind him. The oil went up at once, flames engulfing and spreading throughout the harbor. Direct impact might have killed him instantly, but now he'd suffer.

Jag shrugged. Valentine was going to die either way. It was just a matter of—

"Uh... Jag?" Okawios called out. "There's something ahead of us."

"What is it?" Jag asked, turning with Sherri to face his first mate. And he couldn't believe what he saw.

Down where the harbor ended and the White River began, there was... something in the sky. Skyrim nights had their glowing lights, but this was different. These were far lower and brighter, swirling purple and pink in an ellipse above port's exit. Almost like some far-seeing eye staring down on upon The Black Crown. Jag was suspicious by nature, and he wanted to avoid the fluctuating lights at all costs. But its position couldn't have been worse. They'd have to steer right beneath it to leave Windhelm. With the water burning behind them, turning back wasn't an option.

"Stay to the course," Jag commanded. "It's nothing we can avoid or ignore. Push forward."

"I've never seen nothing like that, captain," Sherri whispered.

"Neither has Jag."

He walked to the wheel, allowing Okawios to maintain the ship in his place. Jag only wanted to focus on the lights in the sky. The victory of escaping and Valentine's fiery death were distant memories to him now. Sherri left the helm, but she didn't climb back to the crow's nest. Only a fool would do so; the tallest mast would be cutting through the strange happening. The crewmen on deck weren't blind to the disturbance, but they worked regardless. There was no sense in patiently waiting for the inevitable.

Moments later, the anomaly was overhead. The crow's nest passed through and caught fire, wood and sails burning in unison. Shouts arose and Jag made no attempt to silence them. He'd stolen this ship fifteen years past—the first of his fleet. Seeing it damaged panged the tiny sentimental part of his heart. But if this was the extent of the damage, he'd get over it.

The light throbbed, sending a pulse across the sky. Its center opened, and from it, creatures began to fall.

Jag drew his blades, his spoils of war against the Blades and Thalmor both. Invaders from the sky dropped to the deck, masked in the shadow bloomed by the portal from elsewhere. Massive and four-limbed, they tore into the crew. A dozen fell through the portal before it sealed, but even one would have been enough.

He backed to the stern, trying to decide his course of action. The ship was burning, the crew was dying, and all around them was icy water and snow. Okawios abandoned the wheel and joined him, armed as well. Jag wasn't a fool. His swords were no match against these monsters, and his first mate was no better off. Fire and silver was all that could stop them. Vicious roars and harrowed cries echoed throughout the ship, on the deck and below. The intruders went everywhere but the helm, and Jag couldn't help but feel this was their plan.

The monsters came for him last. Soon they climbed the steps to the helm, squeezing through the narrow space. They filed into a single line, barring access to the rest of the ruined ship. The wolves growled at Jag and Okawios, the last survivors aboard. Blood dripped from their maws and their furry paws. But they did not attack. One stepped forward and began to change. He shrunk in size, withdrawing his dark curls and muscles into himself. A man formed from the beast. The last man Jag would have expected to see on his ship.

Finished with his shift, the Redguard stood firm. "Give me the Elder Scroll."

"You... you died down in Blackreach," Jag mumbled, absolutely bewildered.

"I got over it," said Kole, Harbinger of the Companions.

A startled gasp came from Okawios, and in the next instant he was hopping overboard. Following the same path as Valentine, he splashed down into the water. Jag wished he could do the same, but he was no Argonian. The water would cling to his fur and freeze him to death, if it didn't drag him to the river floor.

"We can search the ship once it sinks beneath the water," Kole continued formally, as if he weren't a dead man. "I doubt the Elder Scroll will suffer from a few hours sitting in the White River. But I want to get it and go. So tell me where it is, and I will grant you a clean death. Refuse me, and my men will eat you."

Jag didn't hear an empty threat in his words. The beasts at his back looked hungry, prepared to dine. Maybe if it were just Kole, in his current state, he'd have a chance. But the odds were against him. There was no getting out of this. Defeated, Jag let out a heavy sigh... and twirled his swords, pointing them at the werewolves. "Jag won't go down without a fight."

Kole nodded. "I didn't expect you to."

The Harbinger waved his hand, and his army attacked.