The Atheron residence was well-lit when they arrived, despite the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the sunken, shabby Grey Quarter streets. The fire in the grate gave off an anemic warmth, though the air remained damp. Gallica could hear a low murmur from elsewhere in the house as she entered behind her Dunmer escort and removed her helm, and then footsteps as another Dunmer - Suvaris' other brother Aval, if she had to guess - emerged from the side room. He was older than Suvaris and Faryl, as evidenced by his darker complexion and the lines around his angry red eyes. The lines creased and he scowled as his gaze landed on her.

"What is she doing here? Faryl?"

It was an odd reaction, given that Gallica was known to be one of the few Nords of influence in Windhelm who was friendly to the Dark Elves. But Aval could not have been more furious. Gallica's heart pounded faster, trying to imagine all the possibilities – what could have happened to Suvaris that would have the brothers' so upset?

"Suvaris is my friend," Gallica soothed, as Faryl stepped up beside her, appeasing.

"She's the Dragonborn, brother. She can help."

"The same Dragonborn that's been toadying around with Ulfric and his cronies. I'm surprised you'd allow yourself to be seen down here with us greyskins," the merchant shot back venomously. He seemed about to continue his tirade, but turned as a soft voice spoke from the back room.

"Aval? Who is it?"

The Dark Elf lowered his voice curtly, though he did not cease glaring at Gallica.

"No one, sister. She's just leaving."

A slim form appeared in the doorway, brushing back dark hair from a familiar face, and Gallica's hand went to her mouth in shock before she could stop herself. Suvaris' face was badly bruised, dark purple against her normally bluish-grey skin. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and Gallica could see the silvery seam of a scar on her cheek, as if a gash had recently been healed. Her hair was ragged on that side, as if some of it had been torn away or cut.

"Gallica?" The elf woman's voice was thin and weary, and she turned away slightly as if to hide the bruised side of her face. Gallica moved over to her and laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. Suvaris winced slightly, and Gallica withdrew the touch. Anger flooded her like river-water escaping its banks in a storm.

"Are you alright? Who did this?"

"Aval gave me some potions for the worst of it. I'm alright, but - I was lucky he came home when he did." Suvaris swollen face hardened. Her tone was cold when she continued. "Rolff and some of his friends paid me a 'visit', like they said they would."

"But why?" Gallica exclaimed, outraged. "They can't really believe that you're a spy. That's ridiculous. Intimidation is one thing, but actually attacking people . . ."

"Do they need a reason?" Aval shot back, bitterly. "They walk up and down our roads almost every night shouting threats and obscenities at us. And what do the guards do about it? Nothing. By the Eight. They could have killed her."

Gallica was at a loss, trying to calm the rage that was beginning to build up within her.

I told him, she thought, remembering her conversation with Galmar. I told him what would happen, and now it has.

"The guards have to do something, this - this is unacceptable."

"I went to the guards first," Faryl explained, shaking his head. The Dark Elf ran a hand over his dark top-knot, his voice grieved. "They told me that since no one else saw it, we have no proof that it was Rolff. They said the only thing they can do is keep an extra watch on the road. And we all know how well that has worked up til now."

"If it was one of their own women, they'd be knocking down his door even now," his brother growled, pacing.

"It was Rolff," Suvaris repeated, certainly. The look on her face as she looked up at Gallica was heartbreaking. "He said that snitching to the Dragonborn proved that I was a spy. And if we didn't leave, it would be worse next time."

Gallica stared at her friend for a long moment, shaking her head as her fingers clenched into a fist. There were problems in Windhelm. There were prejudices. There were mistakes. But this was beyond tolerance. That the guards could stand by, seeing what had been done to Suvaris, and pretend that they did not know who had been tormenting the citizens of the Grey Quarter was ludicrous and insulting. And it was time something was done about it.

Perhaps it was because she was over-stressed from her journey tonight - perhaps it was just the buildup of so many days of tension in general - but this was the last straw. Gallica had thought Galmar would be smart enough to see that his brother's behavior was unproductive and dangerous. She had thought he would at least make the attempt to keep Rolff under his thumb – for appearances sake, if for no other reason - but apparently he couldn't even manage that. Or, more likely, he just didn't care.

It was time that someone in Windhelm cared.

If the law was not going to be upheld by the Palace, the guards had no reason to enforce it in the streets. And if the guards would not protect the citizens – all of the citizens – then Gallica would. Good timing or not, Ulfric was going to hear about this. Tonight.

"This place reeks of greyskin filth!" a distant male voice shouted further up the lane outside.

Like overstretched strings on a lute, something inside Gallica snapped.

"Stay inside," she told the Atherons and turned on her heel towards the door.

"What are you going to do?" Faryl called after her, a note of concern rising in his voice.

"What I should have done the first time," Gallica replied, almost a mutter, and closed the door behind her.

Out on the street, the night was cold. The clouds had cleared and the stars glimmered down through the narrow strip of sky between the ramshackle roofs like needles of ice. Gallica jammed her helmet onto her head and listened, waiting, her blood thrumming through her temples like a war drum.

"You like living in this filthy slum, dark elves? Maybe you should go back to Morrowind, where you belong!" the shout came again, echoing perfectly through the canyon of the Grey Quarter.

She turned in the direction of the voice and strode along the cobblestones, her breath steaming in the cold through the fearsome visage of her dragon helm as if she were a true dov.To the Dunmer men standing in front of the cornerclub, she might as well have been. They chose that moment to duck back inside to finish their drinks out of sight.

As she rounded the curve of the road, Gallica saw Rolff and three other men meandering through the narrow streets. They were clearly drunk, unsteady on their feet, their laughs, crude comments, and insults echoed off of the stones. The sight of their stupid, brutish faces brought a grimace of rage to her own. She quickened her pace, heading directly for Rolff - as always, in the lead.

"Dragonborn," the big stupid Nord called to her as he spotted her, grinning like an idiot and opening his arms in the face of approaching doom. "Fancy seein' you here. Care to join us?"

Before he or his friends knew what had happened, Gallica was upon them. With every bit of force she could muster, she slammed her gauntleted fist into Rolff Stone-Fist's face. There was a sickening crunch and he crumpled with a wet, agonized groan.

"Hey!" one of the other men cried out, but the unexpected violence of the blow had shocked them into inaction. They seemed rooted to the spot, staring with open mouths as Gallica reached down and grabbed their compatriot by his tunic and pulled him back up right.

"You think you're funny?" she snarled as she slammed Rolff against the nearby wall. The drunk gibbered in surprised anger as blood ran down his scruffy face, staining his clothes. Gallica back-handed him again. "Did you laugh while you were beating Suvaris Atheron earlier? Is this not as amusing to you as tormenting an unarmed woman?"

For an instant, Rolff seemed to mount enough courage to fight back, reaching for his belt knife. Gallica had a decade of Legion training on the younger Stormcloak, though, and within an instant the knife was clattering onto the stone and Rolff was roaring with pain, cradling his arm from where Gallica had disarmed him. She gripped the drunk by the neck, pressing him back against the stones as she leaned her face towards him, aware of her bared teeth, feeling as if she could bore holes in the man's head with her eyes as they met his frightened grey ones.

"Go on, you wretched sack of filth," she spat at him. "Laugh."

The two other drunks finally seemed to pull themselves together enough to try and help their friend, but Gallica whirled on them and let a Shout that had been building in her lungs since she had stepped onto the street escape her throat.

"Fus ro!"

The men were flung back up the road several yards, tumbling into each other, and Gallica turned her attention back on Rolff. His eyes had gone wide with mortal terror and he was emitting a sustained, sniveling noise of terror as he pried uselessly at the fingers clenched around his throat.

"I've fought beside Dark Elves," Gallica seethed at him, menacingly. She jerked his body angrily for emphasis. "Every single one of them was a better and braver man or woman than you could ever hope to be. Call them 'greyskin filth' again, Rolff. Let me see that fabled Nord courage that allows you to beat innocent civilians."

"What's going on here?" a voice demanded from nearby and she glanced up to see a contingent of guards standing further up the road near where the other thugs were trying to pick themselves up off of the stairs. There were five of them, their blue cloaks flapping in the draft of the narrow street. Their weapons were drawn.

"Just dealing with a disturbance," Gallica replied, calmly, as if she were not poised and ready to throttle the bloody, sniveling drunk in her grip.

The lead guard stepped towards her a few paces and craned his neck to see who she had pinned to the wall, then turned to exchange a glance with his fellows.

"We're going to have to ask you to come with us, Dragonborn," the man said finally. His tone was polite, almost apologetic, though there was a uneasy edge to it. The guards did not sheath their swords.

"And where would we be going?"

Gallica's fingers were still clenched around Rolff's throat. Her grip tightened as he attempted to wriggle away while her gaze was locked on the guard.

"We'll escort you back to the Palace," the guard explained after a moment of internal deliberation.

Gallica smiled grimly.

She exchanged her grasp on Rolff's neck down to the front of his tunic and jerked the miscreant roughly upright, shoving him along in front of her towards the guard.

"I think that's a fine idea. Let's all go together. I'm sure Jarl Ulfric will have something to say about all of this."

The guards hesitated, but Gallica was already pushing through them and navigating her whimpering charge before her and she drove him along towards the Palace of Kings. The guards fell cautiously in line behind her. Rolff's companions had already taken the opportunity to flee.

As she walked, Gallica was struck by the dreadful, sickening intuition that everything was going to change tonight. The storm that had been building over the last month was breaking. Whether it was for better or worse, she could not say.

~~0~~

The doors to the Palace echoed like dull thunder as they shut behind her, mingling with the sounds of the guards' armor and Rolff's pained snuffling. The light was dim, the torches smoldering in their brackets. It was late, she remembered suddenly.

Galmar, burning the midnight oil apparently, stepped out of the war room. His hand reached for his axe reflexively and then he recognized her, pausing in surprise.

"Dragonb-" he began, and then spotted his brother, whose face was beginning to flower with large dark bruises. The Stormcloak general's face twisted and reddened with anger. "Rolff?"

"It turns out your brother is even denser than he looks, Galmar," Gallica said, almost flippantly. She was too angry to care whether she angered the housecarl or not. If Galmar attacked her in a fit of rage, she would welcome it.

Give me an excuse, she thought, feeling her fingers rub hard on the hilt of her own sword. I'll take anything right now.

"What-" the general started and stopped, clearly trying to restrain himself. Gallica was in no mood to wait.

"Send for Ulfric. I don't want to tell this story twice," she snapped.

Several servants had clustered timidly at the door that lead to the kitchens on the far side of the hall and she turned her gaze sharply to them. One scurried off towards the upper rooms to fetch her master.

The uncomfortable moments ticked by. Rolff whimpered unintelligibly, trying to wipe the blood from his face. Galmar looked as if he might explode at any moment. The guards stood around awkwardly, clearly wishing they could just blend into the stonework of the walls. Gallica waited, glaring, and tried to calm the seething cauldron of anger inside of her.

Finally, Ulfric strode in looking hastily dressed. His expression as he passed through the doorway of the war room and into the hall was a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He stopped a few feet away and glanced from her to Rolff to Galmar, and then cleared his throat, conjuring up the impassible expression of a Jarl sitting in judgement once again.

"Dragonborn, I assume that you can explain this."

"This man badly abused a citizen of your city tonight in her own home. Your guards failed to respond despite it being reported to them and, being in the neighborhood, I took it upon myself to do their job for them."

Ulfric frowned deeply, turning his gaze to Rolff.

"Is this true?"

"She was just a bloody elf. Thought she was an Imperial spy," Rolff snuffled, wetly.

Gallica made towards him as if to backhand him again. The cur cringed away as his brother simultaneously started forward to defend him. A word from Ulfric held both Gallica and Galmar back, but she turned her glare on the Jarl just in time to see his expression relax a little in understanding.

Just an elf, then, she imagined him thinking. Not a proper citizen. Her rage thumped harder against her chest.

"Ysmir's beard," Galmar swore in irritation, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling as if she were wasting their time. "All this over some Grey Quarter slattern?"

Before Gallica could express her outrage at the housecarl, Ulfric held up his hands and stepped between the two of them.

"Enough. I think this can wait until morning," Ulfric decided, glancing warily at Gallica before turning to Galmar. "Have the guards ensure that your brother makes it home. And that he stays there."

"You can't be serious!" Gallica errupted, incredulously. She stabbed a finger at the younger Stone-Fist. "This thug belongs in a prison cell. If he was terrorizing Nord women rather than elves, that's where he would have been a long time ago."

"Watch what accusations you throw around, woman. All I see here is my brother's blood on your hands," growled Galmar, his eyes glinting fury.

"Oh, don't stand there and pretend you didn't know about his late night strolls through the Grey Quarter," she snarled back, bristling. "I warned you this would happen. I told you to keep him under control-"

"And I told you to keep your damned hands off of my kin!"

"Enough!" Ulfric roared. He glared between them, angry himself now. Scowling and drawing a deep breath, he gestured curtly to Galmar. "You. Take him away. I don't care where."

He rounded next on Gallica as she opened her mouth to protest.

"And you. stay here. I have some things to say to you."

"I demand justice," Gallica insisted, pressing past her reservations and returning his glare in equal measure.

The very air seemed to sizzle around them. Ulfric's blue eyes went cold. No one moved until she shook her head, pointing at Rolff.

"You ask me to help free Skyrim, Ulfric. Is this the Skyrim you want? Is this what you want me to fight for?"

"You will not disrespect the Jarl in my presence," Galmar thundered, drawing his axe.

Gallica faced him, teeth bared as her hand gripped the hilt of her sword, prepared to fight. Before she could draw, Ulfric stepped more firmly between her and Galmar, facing her. His eyes smoldered with wrath, angrier than she had seen him since that day at Helgen. The other Ulfric - Ulfric the lover - was entirely replaced by Ulfric the Jarl.

"I have allowed you the right to speak freely with me, Dragonborn," he began, his voice low and authoritative and chilling. "But you are dangerously close to overstepping my tolerance."

Gallica could tell he was struggling to hold his temper. She had pushed him right up to the edge this time, but she could not regret it. She stared back at him, her nerves clamoring for the fight, her blood pounding. Ulfric's face was like a mask of iron. When he spoke, it was not to reason. It was a command.

"Stand down – now - and I will dismiss your behavior here to fatigue from your journey. We will discuss this in the morning."

Gallica stared at him, shaking her head, feeling as if she was about to be sick. Her head was filled with a thousand conflicting thoughts, all shrieking at her. She finally understood the thing that she had refused to let herself see or think about since she had come here. She knew that nothing would happen to Rolff - or, if it did, it would be merely a gesture to appease her. Galmar would see to it that it was a minor slap on the wrist at best. Too many of Ulfric's supporters and soldiers held similar beliefs for him to take a public stand in favor of the elves. And, Gallica realized now, he didn't really care. The Dark Elves were nothing to him in comparison to the success of the war.

Ulfric was sincere in his love for Skyrim. Gallica knew this. However, that love extended only to a Skyrim that he ruled and in which there was room only for those who shared his vision and no one else. And she could not. Not if that vision ignored what had happened to Suvaris. Not if that vision protected violent bigots like Rolff Stone-Fist. In the end, whatever Ulfric might feel for her when they were alone, Gallica could see now that ultimately she was just another jewel in the crown that Ulfric was planning for himself - a legendary queen for a legendary king. Courting her was politically expedient in the same way that ignoring the suffering of the elves in his city was politically expedient. He might truly love her - but he would always love himself and his legend more. She had been foolish to ever hope otherwise.

This realization, too long in coming, hurt down to the very core of Gallica's being like no other wound ever had. Without a word, she turned her back on Ulfric and strode toward the doors.

"Dragonborn!" the Jarl shouted after her, furious, but this only quickened her pace.

Somewhere behind her, Gallica heard Galmar start after her and Ulfric stop him tersely, his voice only an echo as she reached the doors.

"Let her go. She'll come back when she's calmed down."

But Gallica would not go back. As she broke into a run on the moon-washed streets, she did not care where her feet were taking either, only that it was somewhere far away from Windhelm and Ulfric Stormcloak and the howling, empty tearing feeling that was building inside of her.