Mary Muir: Heck, yeah, and he doesn't even apologize to the Player for nearly executing them.
Too confusing for me. Empire, Nords, Talos. Who cares? Just tell me who need bludgeoning. – Farkas
1 Second Seed, 4 E 202, The Palace of the Kings, Windhelm
Just before dawn, Lydia entered her thane's room with news. Promising Cecilia she would find out what Ulfric was up to, she'd stayed out all night. Cecilia had tossed and turned through the night, waiting for Lydia's return. She'd hoped Lydia wasn't taking any huge risks. Her status as Cecilia's housecarl should protect her, but the Stormcloaks were already jumpy and paranoid of spies.
"Is everything all right?" Cecilia jumped from her bed at once.
"The messenger was Hrongar," Lydia told her. "I just managed to have a few words with him before he starts back for Whiterun."
"Why was he here?"
"He was bringing Jarl Balgruuf's axe to Ulfric. Ulfric sent it back."
"And that means?"
"It's war between them now. Hrongar called you a bitch, by the way. I'd have punched him out, but he's my own Jarl's emissary."
Cecilia smiled faintly. "Thanks for not punching him."
"I've also found out that Galmar Stone-Fist rode out of Windhelm in the middle of the night. He took just a handful of Stormcloaks with him."
"Off to Whiterun," said Cecilia gloomily. "But Ulfric's still here?"
"As far as I know. I've been watching the corridor up to his bedroom, but I had to move on whenever the guards came by."
"Thanks, Lydia. You should get some sleep now. I'll go see what's up."
"You're welcome." Lydia climbed into her bed. "Go demolish him."
It was too bad demolishing Ulfric Stormcloak was not an available choice. She'd felt rather kindly towards him last evening, but now she could cheerfully Shout him into a wall. True, he hadn't betrayed her by continuing his war. In fact, he had stated up front that he was marrying her to help the Stormcloaks' cause. But she had expected that her truce would linger on a little, and perhaps there would be an opportunity for another peace to be brokered, one that would let Skyrim prepare for a new war against the Dominion. She hadn't counted on that happening, but it stung that he and Balgruuf had immediately returned to their enmity. They'd not even consulted her about beginning their new war.
She lit the lamp by the washstand, and began to brush her hair. She was wearing a long white flannel nightgown, brought to her by the maids. She would make an excellent vengeful ghost, she thought, observing herself in the mirror.
When she went to look for her clothes, all she could find were the rumpled blue robes from the previous night. The servants must have taken the rest to the laundry. A mad idea was beginning to form in her head. She went to the chest at the foot of her bed, and rummaging through her luggage, pulled out a dagger. She closed the chest, then left her room, still in her nightgown.
The flagstones of the hallway chilled her bare feet. A guard was staring at her. "Are you all right, my Lady?" he hurriedly asked.
"Just taking a morning stroll," replied Cecilia. "Where are Jarl Ulfric's quarters?"
The guard took a step back. He looked terrified.
"I'd like to visit my betrothed," Cecilia said, reminding him of her status.
"All right, my Lady, follow me." The guard acquiesced. He still seemed uncomfortable, casting awkward glances over his shoulder as Cecilia stalked behind him, dagger in hand.
He led her up some more stairs to a closed door, at which he knocked.
"Come in." Ulfric's voice rumbled.
The guard opened the door, "My Jarl, the Lady-"
Cecilia pushed by him.
Ulfric Stormcloak's bedroom was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen in her life. His bed was in the centre of the room on a dais! With Eastmarch's banners hanging above it. The Jarl himself, though, was already up and dressed, sitting at a small table with Ralof. They both jumped to their feet as she entered. She had apparently interrupted their breakfast
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Ulfric asked.
"Is it really a pleasure?" asked Cecilia. She took another look at the dagger. She'd been feeling very resolute when she hatched this plan, but now she was losing her nerve.
"It should be." Ulfric took a cautious step towards her. "Though I hesitate to ask what the dagger is for."
"Oh well." She flashed him a bright smile, and decided to go for it. "The dagger's for me. If I need to use it."
"I can't think of any reason you'd need it here, Dragonborn."
Cecilia continued to smile. "You're right. Because I have my Shouts, right? You know I could just Shout down anyone that threatens me. But one can't shout oneself dead. That's what the dagger is for."
Ulfric's arm shot out and grabbed her hand, immobilizing the blade. "Don't you . . . What is wrong with you?"
"There's nothing wrong with me, my Jarl. I'd rather not die myself. But if I'm backed into a corner, I'm warning you now, that will be my choice."
She let Ulfric take the blade from her now. She'd made her point, she hoped.
"No one's backing you into a corner," Ulfric continued. "Ralof, I'm assigning you to Lady Cecilia today. I assume she has business of her own to attend to in Windhelm."
"I do, yes. Come along, Ralof." She turned and swept out of the room.
Ralof hurried to catch up with her. "Dragonborn, are you all right?" he demanded when he did.
"Yes. I just had to let him know I have an out," said Cecilia, continuing her march down the corridor. "You don't have to worry. I promised not to interfere in his war."
"But you threatened to kill yourself?"
"Only if everything I love is destroyed, Ralof."
"Cecilia," Ralof used her given name, as he had in Riverwood before she became Dragonborn. She stopped to look back him at him.
"Cecilia," he said again. "Do you love Jarl Ulfric?"
That was what broke her. Right then and there, she dropped all her pretenses, all her cool, calculated plans, and wept.
"I want to go home," she wailed. "I want to be back in Anvil with my father, and never ever have to see Skyrim again."
Ralof reached out and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "Is your father alive, Cecilia?"
"Ye-es." She gulped for air. "I hope so."
"Then you'll see him again. I promise you. Surely Jarl Ulfric will send for him."
She knew her father would never join the court of a traitor to the Empire. "He won't come."
"Well then, you can go to him some day. You're not locked up here. Are you?" He asked the last question sharply.
Cecilia shook her head. "No. I'm not. That was part of the deal. I chose to accept your Jarl's proposal, Ralof. And I'm not going to break my word. But I don't think I realized how much it would hurt. I feel like I've betrayed everyone in Whiterun."
Understanding dawned on Ralof's face then. "I see. Well, that's not true, you know. That's my home hold too, and you haven't betrayed me. Or Gerdur. Or Thorald Gray-Mane. Or half the hold, who only want to live and worship how they like."
This earnest Stormcloak speech did not persuade Cecilia, but the heart of the man giving it was pure, so somehow it did comfort her. She lifted her hand to wipe the tears from her face.
"You're not going to hurt yourself, are you?" Ralof pressed.
"No," she admitted. And just like that, he disarmed the threat she'd designed for Ulfric: Don't tread too far or you lose the Dragonborn. Ulfric Stormcloak might have more formidable soldiers, but none of them could have bested her like Ralof had with his honest kindness.
"Jarl Ulfric's worrying about you, I reckon," said Ralof. "I'll explain how you're upset about Whiterun. He'll understand. We all know how you wanted peace."
"Right." Cecilia gave up. She could not conduct a marriage like a war, after all.
1 Second Seed, 4E 202, The Reach
Tanulvie had thought she knew pain. One did not become a Thalmor Justiciar without learning to master oneself, even in the worst moments of suffering and desperation. Her teachers used lightning spells to teach that discipline first hand. And yet she felt now she had never truly known pain until she'd traveled Skyrim's Reach in the back of a wagon.
Thump, bump, bump, thump. The wagon jolted up and down on the cobblestone roads. There was no suspension at all. She'd considered for a while what sort of Alteration spell could improve the experience, but throwing around spells was exactly the sort of attention-drawing behaviour she was supposed to avoid.
She was not the only passenger in the wagon. An elderly couple had boarded at Solitude with her, and then at Dragon's Bridge, a young mother with three small children climbed in. The wagon bed was packed with goods being transported to market, and the passengers packed in between the goods. Healthy, normal adult people in Skyrim walked, and Tanulvie envied them.
The children had been wary of Tanulvie when they first climbed on board. They probably took their cue from their elders. The wagon driver and the other passengers avoided speaking to her when they could. But, as time wore on, the children lost their inhibitions and began to investigate this strange being riding along with them.
"Are you an elf?" one of the small boys asked.
"I am a mer," replied Tanulvie.
"See, she's not an elf, she's a mer," the little boy informed his older sister.
The girl, who seemed to be the oldest of the three children, scoffed at her brother. "Mer's just another word for elf, nitwit."
"Is that true?" the boy was appealing to Tanulvie. She confirmed that yes, this was true, but mer was much the superior word to use, as it was what her Aldmeri ancestors had called themselves. The children didn't seem to understand this at all. It seemed she had been quite correct to assume Nord children were dull-witted.
Unfortunately, this one interaction had cut through their inhibitions, and Tanulvie was soon plagued with a range of stupid questions.
"Why's your skin yellow?" (Ignored)
"Why are your ears pointy?" (Ignored)
"Where are you going?" "Markarth."
"Do you have kids?" "No."
"Do you have brothers?" "No."
"What about sisters?" "One."
"Do you like sweetrolls?" (Ignored)
"Do you know where dragons come from?" (Ignored. But wouldn't they all like to know the answer to that one?)
She answered some and ignored more. But the questions never ended.
"Do elves go to Sovngarde?"
"Certainly not," she snapped, and started the children crying for the poor elves. They only calmed down when one of them spotted a cave on the side of the road ahead: a good distraction from the eternal fate of elves.
"Is there a bear in there?"
"Shush," the wagon driver said. "All of you be quiet."
The wagon proceeded down the road, past the mouth of the cave. Tanulvie's eyes strained to pierce its darkness, but saw nothing. But her intuition was that something was wrong about this place. The driver certainly seemed to be on edge.
However, they passed the cave without a trouble and were coming to a small bridge over a rocky stream that raced down into the river.
"Kolskeggr Mine's just ahead. We're stopping to drop off some things the miners have ordered," the driver announced.
And then he fell backwards from his seat with an arrow through his neck.
There was a lot of screaming after that: Screams from the terrified children and the whoops of their attackers who swarmed out from the cave behind them and from beneath the bridge. These attackers were men and women, half naked, half clad in furs and decked out in human and animal bones. These must be the Forsworn of the Reach: the degraded offspring of a mongrel race.
In a split second, Tanulvie took stock of the situation. The driver was dead or as good as dead. The horses were in panic. But the old man was brandishing a dagger, the old woman was pulling out a bow, and the children's mother had taken out her sword. That was Skyrim for you. These Nords were completely unprepared for an ambush, but they'd die with a weapon in their hands.
Tanulvie wasn't going to die, but she had to decide what to do with the Nords. Thalmor guidelines on dealing with the Empire's civilians were complex. They were not stationed in these lands to protect these people, but they were enjoined to uphold the reputation of the Thalmor and to co-operate with local authorities in simple matters that did not concern the Dominion's interests. It was a matter of practicality. A Justiciar who lent their aid to the locals could then count on some amount of local co-operation in return.
So, while she didn't feel obligated to save her fellow passengers, it would probably be a good idea to do so, if she could assure her own survival as well.
"Lie down!" she ordered them all and began to place a ward on the wagon. Only the children listened to her. The old man and the mother sprung down from the cart, out of the ward's protection. They were cut down immediately. Tanulvie jumped down after them, casting lightning cloak as she went.
Her wall of lightning fell upon the nearest Foresworn. Two of the warriors were struck to the ground, but the others stumbled back, howling their pain and anger. In the short time this bought her, she could focus enough to summon some help: a simple Flame Atronach wouldn't overtax her magic. But as the flames roared into existence beside her, a blast of frost slammed into her from behind.
She spun around to face a figure out of a nightmare. He was a man, or once he had been a man. A deer skull's helmet covered his face, he wore only a tattered fur loincloth, and there were human skulls hung upon his belt. But her eyes were drawn foremost to the gaping bloody hole in his chest where his heart should be. A fiery bloom sat in its place. This must be one of the Reachmen's abominations: the Briarhearts.
There were other spellcasters approaching too. The Reachmen were mostly Breton by blood, she remembered: mongrels who were twisted mockeries of Auri-El's image. Their magic was strong, but nothing compared to a true mer of Alinor. She let her lightning jump from one enemy to another, then slashed forward at the Briarheart with her life-leeching glass dagger. She drew blood, but the creature jumped back, out of her reach.
From the protected wagon, the old woman was shooting arrows, which was of some use. But the ward on the wagon was failing. Tanulvie could not continue to hold it and fight the Foresworn. She'd have to let it fall then. Her own survival was the first priority.
But perhaps she should try some intimidation first. Elenwen had instructed her to stay incognito, but only as a precaution to avoid attack, not an absolute order. So, she shouted out a threat that could do wonders:
"Begone from this place or face the wrath of the Thalmor! I am a Justiciar of the Glorious Aldmeri Dominion, and no matter what hole you crawl into, anyone who stands against me will be hunted down by my brethren!"
She was counting on Chief Justiciar Ondolemar to have cemented the Thalmor's reputation in these parts, so that her words would not strike them as an empty threat. Judging by their reaction, however, Ondolemar had failed in his duties. Her declaration seemed to energize her opponents. Regretfully, she let the ward fall, and lost herself in the dancing storm of battle.
Then at her left side, she sensed a new figure. A warrior in dark armour had joined the fight against the Foresworn. Through the dancing sparks and flames, Tanulvie only caught glimpses of the newcomer but could see they were making short work of the ordinary Foresworn warriors. Breathing a short prayer to her ancestors, Tanulvie focused her attention again on the Briarheart five paces ahead of her.
Again and again, she threw her lightning bolts at him, but he seemed unhurt, and returned them with blasts of frost. But while they were fighting, she noticed movement in the juniper bushes behind him. Someone was creeping up on her opponent. Very well. She would keep serving here as the distraction.
The person in the bushes slowly stood up behind the Briarheart. He was a light-haired Bosmer, in light armour with a quiver and bow his back. But he had nothing in his hands. Meeting Tanulvie's eyes, he laid a finger across his lip. Then he reached forward, and thrust his hand into the Briarheart's chest. A second later, he pulled out the red blossom and the Briarheart slumped to the ground, dead.
There was silence at last. The Briarheart was the last of their enemies. Tanulvie opened her mouth to thank the Bosmer, then a spell hit her from behind. She fell forward on her face, unable to move. Caught just like the Briarheart in the newcomers' trap.
"Good work, Faendal, Esbern," she heard a woman's voice behind her, and then another spell hit her and she lost consciousness.
1 Second Seed, 4 E202, Solitude
Around noon, Varo departed Solitude on horseback, accompanied only by Legate Rikke and Emilin. Rikke rode beside him. Emilin, however, had refused the offer of her own horse, and as usual, climbed up behind him.
Despite their short stature, most Bosmer handled horses as well as they did any animal. Emilin was no exception, but she said that she'd learnt to ride and fight on horseback while sharing a horse with Varo's mother. She was indeed an expert at firing arrows while the rider in front of her urged their steed onwards.
None of them talked much as they rode out the gate and down the road that would at last bring them to Whiterun. There were too many people around with ears pricked for gossip. A few had even recognized Varo and were speculating what he was doing there. Once they got into the wilderness, however, they began to relax, and traded accounts of their lives since they'd last seen each other.
Rikke explained that she'd served under Tullius in the Colovian Highlands for the last few years. "So, when he got assigned up here, he insisted I come along," she explained to Varo. "I'm his expert on Nords and their strange ways, you saw that, right?"
"He's not exactly diplomatic," said Varo.
"No. He says what he thinks and half of it is truly atrocious. But Nords respect men like that. Our legionnaires curse him to Oblivion, but would follow him there, if he ordered them."
"You want me to say I forgive him?" asked Varo.
"I know you respect him," replied Rikke. "That's enough. You've valid reasons for your grudge."
"Hush," Emilin broke in suddenly. "There are horses waiting for us down the road."
Varo strained to listen, and then heard it. Far ahead of them, out of sight, the unmistakable sound of horses breathing heavily and stomping their feet.
"Any idea who that could be?" asked Varo, turning to Rikke.
"No idea," she replied.
"Should I slip off and scout ahead?" Emilin asked.
"If we start at every traveler along the way, we'll never get anywhere," said Rikke. "Haafingar's usually safe enough . . ." They road further along the road in silence, straining to see who was lying in wait.
"Thalmor," hissed Varo suddenly, and halted his horse.
"Talos preserve us," Rikke muttered under her breath, as she did the same.
Five figures were waiting on their horses in the clearing to the left of the road. The sunlight glinted off the gold armor of three. The other two were clad in black robes with gold trim.
"Well met, Legionnaires." One of the dark-clad Thalmor called out to them.
Rikke recognized the voice immediately. "Elenwen. What's she doing here?"
"Of all the places in Nirn," Varo groaned. Then he called back. "Hail Cousin! Were you waiting for me?"
Elenwen made a very undignified huffing sound, but rode forward into the road. Her companions followed.
"Cousin?" Rikke asked in a low tone.
"My mother's first cousin," Varo explained. "But I'm not invited to the family reunions."
"Legate Rikke, Junius Varo," Elenwen addressed them. "You are riding to Whiterun. We will accompany you as observers."
"No, you won't, Elenwen," Varo roared. "There's nothing in the White-Gold Concordat about stalking Legionnaires on military business."
"You may not be aware, Varo, but Whiterun's Jarl has barred the Thalmor from his gates, in defiance of the Concordat. But now that he is submitting to Imperial authority, we are simply asserting our right to enter Whiterun and examine the city for signs of the Talos heresy."
"Hah, you could go do that on your time," said Varo. "What's with the ambush?"
"We are going the same way. Safety in numbers, correct?"
"If you think I'll pull any strings to get you into the city, think again," Varo warned her.
This encounter made no sense at all. If the Thalmor were hunting him, they'd never have shown themselves like this. And it was not their style to interfere openly in a country's "internal politics", so he doubted they wanted to join the fight at Whiterun. Also, he must be the last person Elenwen wanted to meet in public, where men and mer could hear him call her kin. So if they were here now, specifically for him . . .
He burst out laughing. "You think I might be planning to defect to the Stormcloaks?"
"Surely not," replied Elenwen quickly.
"Certainly not. But I can see it now. You're worried that all of a sudden this war might move out of stalemate. The Dragonborn married to Stormcloak, and her Thalmor-hating battlemage of a father goes to his son-in-law's side. The war would be over before you could pack up your Embassy's wine cellar."
Elenwen sniffed. "I will not be drawn into your mental gymnastics, Varo. You are a loyal servant of the Empire and we have the Empire's approval for our mission here in Skyrim. Do not attempt to hinder us."
"Do you usually let her boss you around like this?" Varo asked Rikke.
"She does tag along sometimes," Rikke admitted. "She came up to High Hrothgar for the peace negotiations."
"Please tell me you're joking."
"Your daughter expelled us from the council," said Elenwen. "Is defying the Concordat your new family tradition?"
"You know what my family traditions are." Varo rattled Elf-biter loudly in its scabbard
"We're wasting time," Emilin's soft voice broke into the argument. "Let them follow along, Junius. I'll keep my eyes on them."
"Silence, traitor." Elenwen spat out the words.
Emilin chuckled. "Junius, ride."
He and Rikke did. Elenwen and her elves rode after them, but kept a little distance between them. He didn't feel safe with this arrangement, but at least Emilin had her eyes on Elenwen's posse. He also wondered what they would do when it came time to make camp. Would Elenwen insist on camping with them? He didn't know his mother's cousin well – their encounters had been limited to a couple duels over a few decades. But had she always been this audacious?
What were the gods even thinking? Were they gathering his mismatched family to Skyrim so they could all comfortably kill each other? If so, he hoped he got to be the one who took out Elenwen.
Notes:
Well, that was a lot. Any questions on the plot/timeline so far?
