Regrettably, I don't own Skyrim. Bethesda does.

To all my readers: welcome!

This is the third installment of a series I have taken to calling the 'Blacktyde Chronicles'.

You can begin this story without any knowledge of the series whatsoever, though I advice you to start at the beginning and read my other stories, 'Before the Storm' and 'A Wild and Wicked Youth' first; otherwise things might get confusing later on.

WARNING: If you have any trouble with the following topics: graphic violence, homosexuality, sex in general, coarse language, or other-worldly religion, please refrain from reading this fanfic.

Finally, I should be writing Argis's, but nay, all those 's' make for awkward reading (and writing). I hope you don't mind.

As always, thank you for reading and enjoy the adventure!


It started with a knock. One hesitant at first, and then another. When nobody answered, it turned into a light rapping before whoever was outside got frustrated enough to firmly thump on the front door. Muffled through the solid stone walls of his home the noise made its way into Argis' dreams.

The Nord warrior tensed, ready to jump aside and avoid collision with the group of galloping riders before they bore down upon him, trampling him to death. He could hear the hagraven's wild shrieks and gleeful cackles as she brandished a goat's leg, the roasting spit still attached. But the horses ran past, the beat of their hooves rapidly dwindling in the distance. "Watch out for the raven," Hákan said, as he raised his axe high above his head and brought it down with a dull thud upon the chopping block. It was a clean blow, decapitating the hagraven, whose head rolled over, blinked and grinned up at Argis.

Argis startled awake with a sharp intake of breath, not from the gruesome scene of his dream, for blood and death had lost their horror long ago - but upon seeing the ghost of a man now four years dead. It was then that he realized somebody was at the door and judging by the sound, ready to tear it off its hinges. With a grunt and a muttered curse at the incessant pounding, Argis rose, slipped into a pair of breeches and a shirt from the day before and shuffled down the hallway to answer the door. It was too early for Brigge to call on him, their unit would not be ready for another offensive strike until Fredas, which was, Argis groggily remembered, the day after tomorrow. Besides, the commander was not an early riser. In fact, it would require a major case of emergency to get him out of bed before dawn. And the sun had not yet risen, of that he was sure. Though the perpetual gloom of Vlindrel Hall gave no clue as to the time, Argis had learned to trust his own inner clock a long time ago.

At the door he was greeted by a blast of cold, fresh air and the face of a grumpy courier. The man's hand was raised, being interrupted mid-knock and he looked tired and pissed-off. Before Argis had a chance to ask what was so important it couldn't wait until a decent hour, the messenger spoke.

"Are you Argis?" the man enquired. "The one they call 'the Bulwark'?"

"Yeah," Argis replied, his voice still rough from sleep and saw the courtier give a curt nod, as if his answer had been expected. He cleared his throat and wanted to speak, but was cut off brusquely.

"The Jarl demands your immediate attendance."

Argis did not try to hide his astonishment. "What in blazes for?"

In response, he received a raised eyebrow and a biting retort. "How am I supposed to know? Jarl Igmund does not see fit to share counsel with me." The courier gave Arigs' rumpled appearance a disgusted once-over and continued "I trust you know the way to the keep. I have other affairs to attend to." And without a word of parting the man turned on his heels and left.

Argis was still trying to understand what just had happened when an icy gust drove him back into the warm interior of his home. Closing the door behind him he briefly debated returning to the cosy softness of his bed and sleep's welcoming embrace. Argis winced at the sudden pain in his chest and he felt a deep yearning sadness as he remembered the man in his dream. Most days he did not think about Hákan at all and sometimes...well, sometimes he needed to get his ass moving because duty was calling.

Uttering another oath the warrior snapped out of his gloomy thoughts and focused on the task at hand, which was making himself respectable. Wondering what Markarth's ruler wanted from him at the very butt creak of dawn Argis rummaged about his wardrobe in search of clean clothes – where had all his clothes gone? He finished dressing and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Feeling stubble on his face he frowned. This wouldn't do. Quickly, he splashed his face with cold water, shaved, and donned his armour – now that he could do anytime, awake or half-asleep and anywhere in daylight as easily as in total darkness. His fingers moved deftly, swiftly tying buckles and leather stripes. There was little Argis could do for his hair on such short notice. When he had returned yesterday evening, he had been too tired to do more than cursory scrub himself down with a wet towel before he hit the pillow. He had spent the last week scouting the wilds, keeping track of their enemy. He might still look like, though at least he no longer smelled like the local wildlife. So he simply ran a comb through the mess before tying his blonde hair into a ponytail. It would have to suffice. After casting his bed one last longing glance Argis left his home for the Understone Keep.

It had been four years since Argis had last spoken to Jarl Igmund. He pondered the reason for his summoning as he made his way through the silent streets of Markarth. Except for the occasional torch which lighted the alleys in the wealthier districts, the city was dark and Argis met no one, except for a miserable guard on duty whom he greeted with a nod. To the far east, over Markarth's walls he could make out the pale, rosy glow of dawn. The autumn air was chilly, bitter cold most people would say, but the cold did not bother Argis. He was a true Nord and he delighted in the way his breath misted over. It helped him clear his head and wash the last traces of sleep from his mind as he made his way up and down a multitude of stairways.

At the gates the guards waved him through with barely a glance, undoubtedly they had their orders and he was well known. Argis ascended the last flight of steps which led up to the Mournful Throne. Jarl Igmund had not aged well these past years. He appeared exhausted and sat slumped in the oversized seat of his throne. An old, dented shield lay across his knees. There were dark rings under his eyes and his attire was dishevelled, making Argis wonder whether he had gotten any sleep at all.

He came to a halt in front of Markarth's ruler and saluted him, noting the way Faleen's eyes tracked his every movement. The Redguard woman was the Jarl's housecarl, there to protect her sovereign –with her life if necessary. It was good to look at her and not feel the burning wave of resentment and failure. It had taken a long time, but Argis had finally overcome his bitterness.

"You summoned me, my Jarl," the warrior stated.

"Ah! Yes, yes it is good you have finally arrived. I trust everything went well on your mission?"

Argis hid his frown. If the Jarl wanted to discuss the soldiers' progress he could have simply awaited Brigge's report. That was not why he was here. Still, he replied politely, "It has, Jarl. Rolfrik, Thurek and me we finally managed to track the Forsworn down. They made camp a few miles from the Karthspire, down by the Laskjö Falls at Gudrun's Eye. A briarheart is with them, as well as a hagraven. We haven't caught sight of her, but we are fairly certain she is there. Commander Brigge is ready to launch an attack on Fredas. The recruits are eager for their first battle, they have trained hard." Argis smiled proudly. He had had an essential part in training Markarth's young warriors.

The Jarl nodded and murmured his assent, though Argis could tell he wasn't really listening. He waited in silence while Jarl Igmund stared off into space.

All of a sudden the Jarl spoke up, shaking himself out of his reverie with a small jerk of his head. "I am sure you are curious as to the reason why I called for you."

"I am at your command, my Jarl," Argis intoned formally.

He saw a small smile playing across the Jarl's mouth at his words. "Yes. You are. But as you have been out of the city these last weeks, allow me to bring you up to date. There have been several incidents with the Forsworn lately. They grow bold, attacking along the main routes in broad daylight. But instead of fighting us, whenever they see a contingent of our soldiers, they slink away like the cowardly goats they are." The Jarl's hand hit the armrest of his throne to underline his words; his voice rose in anger.

The Forsworn were the Reaches' natives, but the Nord had driven them out of their homeland over a thousand years ago. Or rather, they had tried to drive them out. Ever since the two people had been at war. But the Forsworn had survived, unforgiving, and bent upon reclaiming what they believed to be rightfully theirs, which included the city of Markarth and every other settlement in the Reach. Eighteen years ago they had almost succeeded. The Forsworn had gained control of Markarth and had it not been for Ulfric Stormcloak and his campaign, they might have retained control over the city.

"We haven't been able to engage them in direct combat, but thankfully, there are always adventurers ready to risk their heads in the name of glory."

Argis winced at the words, but the Jarl resumed – whether uncaring or not noticing, the warrior could not tell.

"You may have heard the rumours. One of them actually managed to pique my interest. To make a long story short, I decided to test his mettle and sent him on a – quest..." At this point the Jarl petted the shield.

Argis still had no idea where this was going and, more importantly, what it had to do with him, but he held his tongue and feigned interest. He had, in fact heard rumours about a group of adventurers taking on a whole camp of the Forsworn, but he had not been back long enough to catch up on the gossip. He might have been doing just that, the Nine knew soldiers loved to gossip as much as milkmaids. As fate would have it, here he was listening to the ramblings of his Jarl. Argis briefly wondered whether it was some disease the nobility was afflicted with, that they could not simply say what they wanted.

"Spit it out and be done with it," as Hákan used to say. "Better than chewin' on somethin' when ya don't like the taste". With a start, Argis realized his attention had been wavering. Thankfully, the Jarl did not notice.

"...to retrieve this very shield. It has been an heirloom of my family, passed down from father to son for many generations. Hrolfdir, my father gave it to me, but alas! When Markarth was occupied by these Forsworn...," he halted briefly, searching for the right word "...vermin...the shield was deemed lost. And now it has been reclaimed again!"

Argis watched the Jarl wearily as the man lovingly stroked what Argis could only call an old piece of junk metal. He distrusted the glint in the other man's eyes.

"And that is why for his dedication and bravery I have chosen to honour said adventurer with the title of Thane of Markarth." Jarl Igmund stopped, looked into Argis' one good eye and smiled. "And you, Argis, I appoint as his housecarl."

In the ensuing silence Argis could hear the blood roaring in his ears. Stunned, he had gone stock-still, ground his teeth and resisted the urge to ask whether this was a joke, because if so, it wasn't bloody funny.

Looking down upon the face of Markarth's prized warrior, now flushed red – with anger, no doubt – Jarl Igmund almost chuckled, feeling a slight pang of sympathy for the man. Adventurers really were the worst kind. And with Argis' past it was no wonder the warrior took this as an insult. Schooling his features the Jarl continued in a sympathetic voice.

"I called for you at this hour, because I thought you would appreciate having as much time as possible before he arrived. His swift advance to Thane was not entirely my decision. I would rather not give a stranger this much power, but he has served Markarth faithfully, so far."

Argis sighed, swallowing his anger. The Jarl was encumbered by politics; he might not have had much of a choice. As he had said, strangers were not welcome in Markarth. You never knew if one wasn't a spy for the Forsworn or the Thalmor. Which made Argis –what? His Thane's watchdog? Still, the Jarl had done alright by him in the past, so he was willing to trust him. In spite of that he had to clear his throat twice, before asking hoarsely "When will he arrive, my Jarl?"

"Today afternoon, at the earliest. After court, maybe. The purchase agreement of Vlindrel Hall was signed yesterday; I have already handed over the keys."

Upon hearing these words, Argis felt his blood run cold. "What about our agreement?" he burst out, in an unusual breach of his professional demeanour.

Jarl Igmund waved a hand, appeasing the distressed Nord. "It still stands, of course, and will continue to do so, don't you worry. And now, I must return to matters of state."

Knowing he was being dismissed, Argis saluted once more, before turning to leave. He had almost reached the bottom of the stairs, when he heard Jarl Igmund speak up again.

"And Argis – do not disappoint me this time."

"I will not, my Jarl," the warrior responded, but whether the Jarl had heard him, he did not know. He held his composure until he was safely back home, where he finally allowed himself to panic. With a litany of curses he kicked a bucket across the living room, before collapsing against the door of his house. Still swearing, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair in a nervous gesture. He wished he had never gotten out of bed.


AN: Since I have taken several years out between the Markarth Incident and now, we now happen to be in 4E 195. The Great war ended 20 years ago, and 17 years ago Ulfric's forces retook Markarth. Argis is 34 years old, Wulf is 30, Ulfric 42 and Galmar is in his 50s.
If you think back to AWWY, Wulf arrived in the Imperial City roughly a year and a half after the last battle, which is why it was so very run down at the time. All this will have no real impact on this story whatsoever, it's just meant for your information. The reason why I changed the date was because I want this series to continue for quite a while and I needed the characters to be younger. A bunch of 70-year-old 'heroes' just doesn't cut it.