Chapter Thirteen: Reign of Fire.
"What is the flavour of fear? Sublime, my brother."
- Anvil Sanctuary door.
Haafingar Hold: Solitude. The Blue Palace. Macalla's Hall
The cheers continued unabated. Dragonborn! They all shouted. That insufferable Nordic cacophony. It vexed her immeasurably. Not as much as what transpired beforehand.
It was all that went through Laenafil's mind. Such power. Such Illusion, it wasn't possible. Perhaps the damnable Psijics held such abilities. No other. Not of this plane anyway. The chaotic butchery that was on the cusp of occurring would've been the ideal cover. A stray arrow to send Valens Tullius reeling into the Void. Yet it was stopped, ney halted, with a zephyr of serenity.
To calm man, mer and beast. It was a major discipline of the school of Illusion, yet... to soothe the souls of so many, with just the echoes of a voice. What of rage and anger? Could this Dragonborn, enthral with but a word? Set an army against itself in wanton madness? To Glamour her visage with but a thought?
The Wood Elf knew not the answer.
She'd been trained by some of the greatest Thalmor Wizards, to an exemplary degree in both Alteration and Illusion. The best training for a select few. And all completed in the rebuilt Crystal-Like-Law, a hallowed place only a handful of non-Altmer had ever trodden. Even they held but an ember to this proverbial firestorm.
"Fires can be doused and extinguished, dear Listener." She heard Lucien purr thoughtfully.
"And do not doubt yourself. I know of the Altmeri blood beating in your heart. Your beloved father-"
Enough. Speak not of my father! He acquiesced to that. Yet rather than utter more musings into her thoughts, only silence echoed, a deafening muteness in her mind. All the while, those around her roared and cried.
I misspoke, yet my father is dead to me. I serve the Dread Father now. It was enough, the silence ended.
"Ah, of course. We all serve Sithis." The spectre exclaimed fervently.
"Sabre Cat got your tongue, Brandr?" Laenafil held in an expression of surprise.
She half expected to hear another statement from Lachance, yet it was a Nord that spoke, a woman of the Gray-mane brood. So thorough was their captivation in the Moot, she could hardly believe that one of the Whiterun contingents would even attempt a conversation.
"Watching for danger. Can't be too careful, especially now." She said finally, her words gravelled and husky, the forgotten voice of a now dead man.
Laenafil's Glamour had worked exceedingly well. After the initial casting, only an anchor for the spell was needed to hold the masquerade together. A ring which this Brandr had born on one of his left fingers had performed admirably in that. Likewise, a golden bangle that had been on the Nord who Yvara now assumed the role of was fulfilling its function correctly. The Breton was but a pace from her. Engrossed in the role, as she too took up the chant for the Dragonborn.
"Indeed. Keep your eyes on those Markarth men, Hrongar too. He has Solitude at his back, so we must remain vigilant."
The Bosmer but nodded, observing as the Housecarl returned to the Jarl's side. She knew of the Silver-Bloods and their more than apt clan name. The Thane near Elisif, however, was of no consequence. Instead, Laenafil looked further afield, noting the Imperial archers now positioned upon the great Hall's overlook. Intriguing... of course. Tullius planned for the worst eventuality. Kill them if they choose the wrong Jarl? How very… Imperial.
Still, she found it rather surprising, Laenafil never thought he had it in him to wantonly slaughter a hall of drunken Nords. Thankfully, the archers above merely stood vigil, their bows unused. Because the chosen Jarl was the General's choice, perhaps? It was more than likely. Continuing her visual sweep of the upper balcony, the Listener noted, much to her annoyance that the General was no longer there, lording over the proceedings.
No matter. General Tullius will be dead before the week's end. For now, she'd remain Brandr. He'd observe the rest of this spectacle.
Soon enough, the roars of the Nords finally ended. What appeared to be a respite to her vexation, however, was merely a prelude to more. Instead of ceasing, their lungs brought more sounds to the forefront. Folk music, bard songs, all the hallmarks of a local tavern now began to play out in what was supposed to be a serious event for these people. Mirth and Gaiety spread, as ale was supped, stories were told, and games of dice, card and drink began. It was nauseating.
It left the few who remained silent, now apparent to her sight. Laenafil, of course, noticed the Silver-blood's defiance. Their section was muted, with many of their eyes steeled in wroth. This was true of a handful of the men from Falkreath, they too held their tongues in disagreement.
A chosen few in many of the other Hold contingents also found solace in silence. A couple in Morthal remained stalwart, protectively close to their crone of a Jarl. More a case of duty than hidden rebellion. The same was true of a few in the new High Queen's own detail of followers. A Dunmer, of all people, seemed calm in a maelstrom of merriment. The new monarch, appeared likewise, holding her emotions tightly inward, scanning the Hall, much like Laenafil herself.
Close to half an hour passed by before another change came to the proceedings. Solitude's High Priest now stood before them all on the raised dais which bore the Nord's excuse of a throne, with attendants of his on either side.
"Silence" He uttered, voice raised and hands held aloft. To her surprise, the throng of Nords followed the command, their mouths thankfully shutting to the fortune of her own sanity.
"The Moot has decided. Now the coronation will begin." Nords were indeed focussed, and to the point, Laenafil mused. Imperials, Redguard and Bretons would've taken weeks, perhaps even months to organise an official enthronement, whilst the Altmer would've taken years.
"Jarl of Windhelm. Chosen of this Moot, step forward." The new High Queen did so. Attired in the fur-trimmed garments usually worn by Skyrim's elite, she moved with both thoughtful grace and confidence. As much as Laenafil was to begrudge a Nord and their traditions, even she could admit that this Talia appeared almost majestic.
"Kneel before the Divines. Take in their blessings." The new Queen knelt, and as she did, a royal blue robe was draped around her. One which closely matched the colour of her garb.
"Take Shor's robe and guard this realm, and that of his children." Lorkhan's you mean. The trickster and deceiver.
The High Priest beckoned her to rise. Upon standing, the two attendants once unmovable ventured towards her. One bore an Orb, placed snugly upon a pillow of laced gold and bright azure, while the other held an ornate silver sceptre.
"Take the Rune Orb of Jhunal and the Storm Sceptre bestowed by Kyne herself. May you accept their guidance in your reign to come. The Throne of the Sky is now open to you, High Queen."
She sat. Now the High Queen appeared regal. In every sense of the word, bearing with an utmost pose, the vestments of state, Laenafil admitted silently. The High Priest continued.
"By the Divines, bound Akatosh above. We thank thee all, whose grace in need has always gone over our land in woeful and good times to this day.
Hear now, our prayer. We pray to thee, send thy grace to High Queen Talia, the First of her name. May Shor assist her with his spirit. May Julianos that was Jhunal Rune-master confer wisdom upon her. May Kyne's peace now find its way to the Children of the Sky and their lands. May her reign be blessed... by Talos... through her voice, she is kindred to Gods. By the shields of Stuhn and Tsun, may the deceits of Orkay be overturned, so he may knock, no more. May truth and goodness from thee be her power and gladness. May she love Skyrim as kin to Dibella herself. May the Handmaiden's mercy watch over her with understanding and compassion.
Aedra eternal, bless our High Queen. May she be always favoured in your thoughts, as those too of her blood now and yet to live.
Praise be."
The Hall about the Bosmer reverberated those last two words, the unexpected sound almost deafening to her elven ears after minutes of relative tranquillity. And unfortunately for Laenafil, further quiet was not to be, as another murmur rose to the centre of attention. Gasps of surprise and disbelief built to a fervour as the contingent of Windhelm parted, and a ruddy-faced Nord with a mane of blonde and a grimy beard stepped forward.
Of course, the Stormcloak attired Nord was of little consequence to her. It was what he clasped which kindled the Listener's intrigue.
He held a crown, one which was akin to a war-helmet in all essence, and wrought with both Dragonbone and Ebony. The diadem had clearly seen battles aplenty. No doubt it had been crafted for such, in its ancient days.
"Who are you to approach our new High Queen?" The High Priest uttered with more than a hint of vehemence. Unplanned? Quaint, then again I doubt most of this was planned. Nords have an art of winging most things.
"I am Ralof of Riverwood, Father Rorlund. I bring forth a gift, befitting the new High Queen."
"A… Bone Helmet?" The clergyman almost coughed out. The old dote was clearly stupefied. It appeared this man of Riverwood wasn't taken aback by the outburst, however, for he continued, taking it all in his stride.
"No mere Bone Helmet Father. Dragonbone and no simple Helmet either. A crown."
More Echoes of astonishment filled the Moot as that particular comment sunk in.
By Sithis… is that?
"The crown of Jolethe the First is more than worthy for this coronation, young Ralof. Not some beaten old war-crown, Dragonbone though it may be," The priest retorted.
"Hah! This 'beaten old war-crown' was taken from the very depths of Korvanjund, where the last of Ysgramor's direct line rests even now! King Borgas own. This is the Jagged Crown of legend, High Priest!"
"What proof do-" Yet before the priest's objections could be uttered further, another voice silenced him cold.
"Enough. If Ralof of Riverwood says it is indeed the Crown of King Borgas, then it is." The new monarch enforced.
"Besides, many former High Kings and Queens have worn crowned helmets in war and conventional ones in peacetime, correct? Jolethe's crown will be preferable in such instances." She said, in an apparent attempt at compromise to Laenafil's own ears.
He nodded slowly in agreement, despite this, the look of apprehension still swept across the High Priests features. Yet to his own surprise, it was the Nord from Riverwood who assisted him in his obvious embarrassment. Without fuss nor thought, he gifted the Crown to Rorlund, then bowed deeply in respect, before retreating slowly backwards. Following a few moments, the High Priest restarted. The viewpoint of the Hall was now unmistakable.
The Jagged Crown of all things would be returning to a reigning ruler of Skyrim. If only the Silvenar could see this now.
"...Receive this Royal Crown with the Divines blessing. May the Storm Goddess light your way as Jhunal shows you his wisdom."
Then it was finally placed upon her brow.
"Arise Talia Stormcrown. High Queen of Skyrim." The High Priest stated, as the last item of coronation was eventually bestowed upon its new owner.
And as Talia stood, the High Priest knelt.
"I, Rorlund of Clan Earth-Tamer, High Priest of Solitude, will be faithful and true, in all endeavours. I swear by the Gods my everlasting loyalty to you and your heirs."
He proclaimed, without the vestiges of anxiety as before. He reached forth for the High Queen's right hand then, held it for but a few moments with his own, before kissing a bare copper ring on her finger. Then as the High Priest rose, another moved forward. Almost spontaneously it appeared to Laenafil. There were no stewards or advisors beckoning individuals forward. Organised chaos. How the Nords ever built their First Empire and destroyed the Kingdoms of the ancient Falmer is beyond me.
The first of many to swear their oath of loyalty was Jarl Elisif the Fair. The Bosmer heard no resentment in her iteration nor did she see any in her features. It made her truly wonder if she even wished to be High Queen Regent.
"Perhaps more to do with vengeance and the Empire's whispers. One deed has been done and the other silenced. This Talia has helped in both dear Listener." Lachance reasoned, no doubt correctly. The first time he'd spoken since the coronations start.
The Jarl of Dawnstar motioned forward next. A Nord born in the Cyrodiilic city of Bruma, Brina Merilis' oath of allegiance came forth as if from rote. Fidelity clear in her every syllable.
"A true ruler and soldier to have at her side. Too trusting for her own good. Watch her, lest she attempts to desecrate our sanctuary, with this civil war nearly over." She took in his words with a silent acknowledgement.
Winterhold's ruler followed immediately afterwards. Jarl Korir Free-Winter, a traditionalist and naysayer of magic. Laenafil had seen the High Queen turn him into an unlikely ally following her defence of him against Thongvor Silver-blood. For now, of course, there'd be doubt. In future, the Bosmer knew that would be replaced with fervency.
"As long as Winterhold is supported. Perhaps even rebuilt?" The Spectre reasoned.
It was Hjaalmarch's own Idgrod Ravencrone who ventured towards the Throne of the Sky next. She remained standing.
"I saw this day." Laenafil heard her utter quietly. Her elven ears picking up the Jarl's hushed tone.
"You, atop a throne. Surrounded by snow white and gilded gold. In the centre of it all, High Queen."
Morthal's Jarl stopped momentarily. This time she knelt and gave the same oath as the Jarls before her. Then as she motioned to kiss the ring upon Talia's finger, she heard the Ravencrone whisper words, ones even she could barely hear.
"For Talia's ears only. Curious and more curious. A future prophecy?"
Perhaps a warning? The Listener replied. Seers always muddied the waters with their visions. Intentionally or not.
Surprisingly, a rather reluctant looking Dengeir of Stuhn, the paranoid Jarl of Falkreath, ventured forward next.
"...We all saw what you did. This Hall would've been a den of slaughter but for you. More Nords dead over mere words. Yet I voiced my lot against you, even after seeing the power of Akatosh and Talos. Now, the Moot has spoken. The defeated voters must follow the victor's sway. This is where I correct my mistake. You'll have my loyalty, High Queen."
It was upon saying his affirmation, where the ire that had been mounting over the course of the entire proceeding finally reached a flashpoint. The Hall doors slammed open, as the men of Markarth, as well as a handful from the Falkreath contingent, stormed out.
"We'll not kneel to a half-breed Nord puppet." The Reach's Jarl cursed and roared. "The Silver-bloods will never accept a Dunmer's brood on the throne of Skyrim!"
Once more, hands were on pommels and handle grips, hers included. More so due to the Bosmer's own anger at the Silver-bloods insults at this Talia's elven heritage, than due to an attempt to blend in.
This time, however, rather than the rattling of the sword, axe, and mace, the Nords in Macalla's Hall waited. For their High Queen, Laenafil mused correctly.
Still standing after receiving her Jarl's oaths of loyalty, the new monarch left the dais, motioning forward to the Hall's entrance, where close to fifty Nords waited impatiently both inside and out. Stopping but a few blade lengths from Thongvor, she spoke, with a tone that brooked no quarter.
"Hold your weapons, all of you!" she commanded of those loyal to her.
"Know this Jarl Thongvor. And know well, if you leave this Hall now, Clan Silver-blood will forever be remembered in the same breath of traitors as Mantiarco, Tharn and Mannimarco. You and yours will be attainted, as will your kin-in-laws. Your lands, wealth and titles will be forfeit, and I will have you executed for treason. You have your choice. Fight for me against the Thalmor or die the next time I see you."
I'm starting to like this new High Queen, Lucien. The spectre laughed darkly at that admittance.
"There's fire in her indeed Listener. Best you don't get burned."
The wave of dread that washed over those that wished to follow Thongvor out of the Coronation was now abundantly clear. The Bosmer noticed at least two from Falkreath who'd joined the band of Markarth now visibly wavering, both Thanes by their steel and attire, while she counted at least six of the Reach's number that appeared to be slowly creeping away from the now pariah Silver-blood.
"Hah!" The Jarl thundered once more.
"That'll be the day! Watch that rope you're on, one wrong step, and it'll be your death. Men of Markarth with me! Leave this manmer to her crowning."
And like that, the fool walked out, no doubt to his untimely death if Laenafil held any judgement of this Queen Talia. She'll go through with the threat, I can see it. Still, why not just take his head off right now?
A full thirty-five followed him, out of the forty-seven that initially ventured forth in his wake. All but two of Falkreath's Nords stayed, the remaining five slowly finding their way back to the relative safety of Jarl Dengeir's remaining guards and Thanes. Six of the Stone Sentinels broke rank and knelt at Talia's feet, placing their Dwemeri blades upon the Hall floor in both an attempt at supplication and fealty. All the while, the retreating Jarl looked on in fury and surprise at the seventh Nordic Reachman who stayed.
"You're a traitor Yngvar! A traitor!" Thongvor shouted as his remaining followers quickened their pace from the Great Hall.
"Better a traitor to a Jarl than the High Queen! I'll not fight the Dragonborn for you Silver-bloods, no matter how much you and Thonar pay me!" The former Markarth Housecarl responded in kind.
It was almost delightful how this province of Nords still teetered on more civil strife, without any action on her part. No more exchanges came from the pair as the Jarl entirely withdrew then. Outnumbered and alive only by the grace of the High Queen, this left only those loyal or fearful of the new monarch in attendance and as was expected, the oaths of allegiance continued as Talia regained her position a front the Throne of the Sky.
It was Old Vignar Gray-mane who next said his piece, the Nord-skin Brandr nodding sagely in agreement at every utterance. Surprisingly, Hrongar One-eye kept his mouth firmly shut. Yet for the glare he gave the new Jarl of Whiterun, it seemed that nothing was amiss. When Whiterun's new Jarl finished, the Thanes followed, then after that came the Housecarls. Without the excitement, boisterousness and annoyance of the hours prior, Laenafil's sight began to wonder once more, scanning for any further insights into the individuals in Macalla's Hall. All in attendance were showing rapt attention to the continuing oaths, Nords and Imperials both. Except one.
The Bosmer had just espied a solitary individual, who'd remained apart from the proceedings, nestled into the shadowed vestiges of the great hall. A figure that peaked her curiosity immeasurably. Laenafil saw the physique, she was female, of that, the Wood Elf was sure. A blackened hooded cloak adorned her head and body, hiding all but a few of her features. Her slight stature yet fair skin marked her as either a woman of northern Cyrodiil or perhaps even a Breton. The Wood Elf peered closer, taking in what other details she could garner. There was little else she could see, but for what appeared to be leather armour which matched the colour of her over-garment and...
...The weapon sheathed to her side.
"Ah, that's intriguing isn't it?"
That's an Akaviri Katana… She felt her heart tense.
"It appears the Thalmor weren't as thorough as you'd expect. Or perhaps it was bought at the local market? Or taken off a corpse, Fultheim's perhaps? Why does it trouble you so?" The grin she imagined LaChance holding at that infuriated her.
The Spectre but laughed. "Dear Listener, fret not. Sithis would welcome any soul into the void; hers included."
Her anger stilled somewhat. Laenafil acknowledged her spectral advisor.
Of course.
The Bosmer peered once again… and noted a pair of steel blue eyes staring right back at her. The events of the Moot were almost forgotten in that instant, as only one word came to her mind's eye.
Blade.
"Treason! Another interregnum?
Following up on our report on the execution of Duke Marius Tullius, the Black Horse Courier has learned that it wasn't just the Tullius patriarch who plotted to murder the Imperial family. His younger brother, Valens Tullius, General of the Fourth Legion has forsworn his oath to the Empire and the Elder Council. The Emperor died under the Generals watch after all. Did they plan it together? Is it all connected? Was the Stormcloak rebellion just a ploy to oust the Mede dynasty? And the rumours of Dragons in Skyrim, Eastern High Rock, and northern Hammerfall, merely an attempt to syphon more soldiers to his cause? When we find out more, you will too."
- The Black Horse Courier. Dated 23rd Sun's Dawn 202 4E. Morndas edition.
Haafingar Hold: Solitude. Castle Dour. General Tullius' office bedroom.
Tullius had been sat, just thinking all throughout the remainder of the Nord's Moot and the coronation that followed.
The Imperial Legion in Skyrim alongside Ulfric's old Stormcloaks were now both cast as traitors to the Empire. With Talia now crowned High Queen, the military Governorship which he held was but a void title. He was merely a General, a leader of men and mer, without one of his own.
No Emperor for an Empire man, Valens thought sullenly.
Legate Rikke had come and gone, informing him of the important details that which occurred in Macalla's Hall. The subversive actions of the leader from the Reach was to be expected. The Silver-blood's were die-hard Ulfric loyalists, and two Septim racists to boot. A Nord with Dark Elven blood would never go down well with them, nor with many others in fact. Winterhold certainly surprised him, Jarl Korir, he was sure would've gone against the young Indoril.
Perhaps if Thongvor had stayed his tongue, the Jarl of Winterhold would've supported him instead.
It was a small mercy certainly. Only one Hold remained defiant. Unwisely, in his opinion, Talia had allowed the Nordic Reachmen to leave Solitude, alongside a further two hundred and two of her new Stormcloaks. Most of them, natives of Markarth, while the remainder came from those who'd lost relatives or loved ones to that other Dragon she'd tamed. The feelings of pain, loss, and anger affecting their decision. Nowhere near the overall number of the Monarch's fifteen-thousand army but a loss, all the same.
Yet, it still didn't answer his own musings. He was in rebellion, the entire Fourth Legion was. No masters, only the Nine.
But what do I do? March on the Imperial city and oust Motierre? Plead my case to the Empress and hope the decimation is lifted? Nothing? Fight the Thalmor with the threat of other Legions attacking also? Oblivion damned bloody exile? Tullius knew not the answer.
"By the Scuttling Void!" He seethed aloud, uncaring as to who heard. Talia was supposed to meet him, despite it being close to midnight. She was late, judging by how far Masser and Secunda had moved in the sky. Finally, after waiting for a few more minutes, he got up and moved swiftly to his office bedroom's exit. Before stopping suddenly as a knock came thrice to the door.
"Who is it?" He questioned.
"Legate Rikke, sir. I've brought the High Queen and her Housecarl, as you requested."
Tullius smiled at the timing of it. I was just about to go and see her.
"Of course, of course. Come in." He remained stood.
They did as he bid them. The Legate came in first, still in her Imperial segmentata.
The Housecarl, Jordis the Sword-maiden followed shortly afterwards, attired in what looked to be newly crafted Nordic steel. To Valens' eyes, it appeared that the pauldrons were avian-shaped, whilst a Bear formed Helmet protected her head, and all the while ancient Runic danced uniformly down her breastplate. Apt armour for the protector of the High Queen and Jarl of Windhelm.
After that, Talia ventured inside, still wearing her noble fur-trimmed tonic blue vestments from the Moot, the only difference being that of the slender diadem around her head. A band of gold, with five cerulean gems at the front, the largest oval remained fixed in the centre, while the other four surrounded it on all corners.
Jolethe Septim's crown. The sister of Pelagius the Mad, and the grandmother of Cephorus the second, Valens realised quickly.
Was it chosen for symbolism? It certainly appeared that way. Jolethe was an Altmer, the only daughter of Emperor Magnus and his second wife Utheilla Direnni of Balfiera. Born of man and mer too. Yet Jolethe came out with pointy ears. She probably never had the stigma which touched individuals in this Era. The Aldmeri Dominion had been dead and buried for centuries in those times, during the conquests of Tiber Septim. Still, it begged the question. Was it a silent rebuke or a declaration that Talia's parentage mattered not?
"Do you like the gemstones?" The young Indoril asked, chuckling lightly as she did so.
Divines sake! Was I bloody staring?
"Ha! By Oblivion, no, no. I was thinking. About that crown, and what it means." Tullius replied candidly. Yet then, he stopped and looked over to Rikke with a sense of caution. It appeared she understood his silent glance. Closing the door, the Legate turned back in reply.
"Tribune Vernius has the hallways and Dour's interior. Men and women he and I hand-picked. Legate Caesennius has made sure."
An expression of confusion crossed Talia and Jordis' features at the Legate's comments. An eyebrow raised, the new monarch made her feelings known.
"Care to share? What's that about?" Before Valens answered, he asked a query of his own.
"Any reason for the tardiness?"
A stifling laugh escaped Talia's lips at the question. One laden with wariness.
"I wasn't late. I arrived precisely when I meant too." It was his turn to raise his brow in response, a touch of mirth creeping into his own voice.
"Oh really? I'm sure that excuse was only ever used in the old Mages guild. And even then, not very well." Serious once more, Tullius reiterated, adding what he believed to the answer to his inquiry.
"Was it the Silver-bloods?"
Talia nodded, and meekly at that. It was uncharacteristic of her.
"Certain actions needed to be put in place, while orders needed to be given." Was all she said, before swiftly returning to her own question.
"Well? Is this the reason you wished to see me?"
The General nodded in affirmation. It was. Partially.
"I've given the go ahead to arrest the officers of the Eighth Legion. From Praefect and upwards." Saying it out loud gave Valens some small measure of relief. He half-expected an argument or even a gesture of disagreement, some evidence that he'd done the wrong thing. Perhaps even, a solution to his problem at hand. Instead, he received something else.
"It needed to be done," Talia said firmly.
"Having the Praefects under quarters arrest would be preferable. I don't believe the rot would reach the entirety of them."
He agreed, thankfully it was the order he'd issued. The Legates and Tribunes would be given the Dour's dungeon, while the Praefects would be interrogated via either the carrot or the stick.
"Two Legates, two Tribunes and six Praefects." The young Indoril muttered.
"The rank and file? What of them?"
"Nothing as drastic. Auxiliaries of the Fourth Legion have joined the Eighth while I've had Legionnaires from the Eighth merged into the Fourth. Officially, those that have been transferred to the Fourth fall under decimation. Likewise, that's also true of those that have merged with the Eighth."
"Tarring them with the same brush?" The sudden comment came from the Housecarl before she quickly fell silent, her head bowed in reproach. Instead of a tongue lashing for interrupting, Tullius merely grinned. He knew Jordis to be trustworthy. Besides, it was the truth.
"You don't fall under my command, Housecarl. You're right. I've made Seutonis's cohorts join us in this boat Motierre's put me in. We'll all sink or swim together."
"And after that?" Talia probed once more.
He stopped, unsure of what to say. Therein lies the problem.
"The Emperor consort has branded us all traitors. Probably told the rest of the Elder council we've got in bed with Ulfric. Ha! By the Divine, he wouldn't be far wrong now. I'm a General of the Empire without an Emperor to serve." Valens paused, choosing his next words carefully. Even so, it was the only idea or scenario that seemed at all palpable, out of every other possibility.
"I brought you here to pledge the Imperial Fourth Legion to you, my High Queen."
Valens went to a knee, feeling the crack of his old bones as he did so. Wincing, he looked up, to see a look of sheer amazement on Talia's features.
"You know what this means, General? Where it will take us?" His new High Queen questioned, evidently still startled.
"Yes. Our own rebellion against the Empire. For the Empire."
Divines have mercy on my soul.
"Yol. In your tongue, the word simply means 'fire'. It is change given form, power at its most primal. That is the true meaning Yol – suleyk, power. You have it, as do all Dov. But power is inert without action and choice. Think of this as the fire builds in your su'um, in your breath. Su'um ahrk morah. What will you burn? What will you spare?"
- Paarthurnax, in conversation with Talia Indoril.
The Reach: West of Karthwasten. South of the Karth River.
It was different.
Flying above Keizaal, Skyrim, in Aan Ziin Viing Nir, A two-winged hunt. The air was still and silent, a wind kindness, as they followed the hewed stone roads of the Bron. Odahviing had always hunted alone, or when grouped together only begrudgingly by Alduin.
Daar Tiid, this time, his only misgivings were who he hunted with, not the order assigned. Nahfahlaar. Ziinin Zeymah. His Brother made similar. A twin, as the Thuri called it. Yet, as different as the Iilah, the moons that still flew above them. Rilahk ahrk Nahkorah, or Masser and Secunda, as the mortals named the astral pair.
The senses of a Dovah saw and heard much. Odahviing knew the command was reluctantly given; a cold stare, a slight lowering of her head. The voice turned to a whisper. Krosis, sorrow in abundance.
A Thuri must do what was needed to overcome all. Fin Hokoron Los Kos Evenaar, the enemy, is to be extinguished. Tahrovin Los Dinok, Treachery is death. She knew it, and as such, it would be done.
"Zeymah! Is it not glorious to be joined again?" Nahfahlaar roared in tamrielic.
"Druv Dreh Hi Ni Tinvaak Fin Dovahzhul?" He retorted angrily, the estranged Nahfahlaar merely laughed at the query.
"Too much time has passed since you were under the ground, Golt. This is now the world of men and mer. The Dov are the stuff of legend, Zoor. Alduin brought us back into their minds, but we'll fade again soon unless we keep our wing, Viing, to the Dragonborn, Dovahkiin."
Odahviing growled lowly at his brother's reasoning.
"Nahfahlaar... Your given name is apt." He finally answered, Krosis, but his Zeymah was right.
"I'd be dead, dinok, otherwise. Do not misunderstand my decision for ignorance. It is survival; it will be yours too if you follow it. I've felt the blade of mortal men, the burning of steel through heart and neck. A deathly sleep decades long. Is it more finite than the loss of a soul? No, yet it brings the concept of life to the front in your thinking. Almost as much as Dragonrend, Joor Zah Frul, brother."
"Meyus. Then you were foolish to issue such a challenge, Zeymah," Odahviing replied.
"Maybe. It is still our way; I will not forget that. If she had not bested me, then she was not worth the following. While if she had taken my soul, my knowledge and memories would have given her, even more, strength. Was that not your reasoning also?"
Again, Odahviing but growled. He was right once more. The Dovah had no illusions as to why he still lived, if his Thuri had not needed to fly to Skuldafn, his soul would've been forfeit too.
"Krosis, perhaps you are correct." He uttered slowly, before continuing as his sight espied the spectacle before them.
"Hmm, our Niraat, prey, it is ahead."
"Yes, brother, Sos Ahrk Dwiin."
Odahviing saw true, Fin Golz Muz, the stone men, were fighting more mortals as they poured from a broken tower on the Golt way to Markarth. The Duvahriin, Forsworn, if he remembered correctly. In truth, they were both Haadvohiik, those who denied their oath. The traitor Jarl's host had shrunk by close to half, with just over one hundred Bron, a mere handful of those now mounted.
They'd already seen this beforehand, with small groupings breaking off, only the night's sky and Yol kissed torches to light their path, away from both the Thuri and the Silon Sos, the Silver-blood. They'd been left alone, it was the one order of Aaz, mercy. He recalled the Thuri's voice in that instant. Her commands.
"I fear Jarl Thongvor Silver-blood's made a liar out of me, as I will not see him again. Odahviing, Nahfahlaar, I will have need of your service. If he reaches Markarth, more lives will be lost. He is to die when he crosses into the Reach but not by my hand." Silence, head bowed, voice now but a whisper. Krosis.
"...alongside the others who remain at his side. Anyone else who parts ways before then… leave them be. They are hurt and angry, they've lost relatives and loved-ones. Let them return to their homes." Another pause, a conflict of the mind. That of Muz and Dovah.
"Make sure there is no one left alive with Thongvor. Leave no survivors. Ag Fin Praan, Ag Niin Pah."
Burn the rest, Burn them all. Those who were still close to the Silon Sos would know the touch of Dragonfire.
It was then that Odahviing dove into the fray, Nahfahlaar following on his Viing. As the Dovah flew closer, he saw the Joor, mortals in the midst of bloodiest battle. He could smell death. Odahviing roared, his Thu'um voiced, clear and heard by all.
"Yol Toor Shul!" An Inferno cascaded indiscriminately over the Stone men and Forsworn alike, the mortal shouts of agony carrying now on Kyne's calm winds.
Seconds later, his Zeymah responded in kind. A second blast of a Dovah's fiery breath spread into the conflict's maelstrom. Many of the warhorses, once skittish, turned to flee, throwing their Markarth riders to the ground before them.
Now nearing the Golt, Odahviing grasped at a hapless Golz Muz, and as he gripped the Bron, his Dilfahliiluv Tuz, Dwarven blade fell, tumbling down to the carnage below. A scream came forth, dripping in Oblivion wrapped fear. The pleas of a mortal soul, knowing this was his final night. Then as the Dovah's talons sunk in, with bone crushing and flesh ripping, the sound died, now and forever. The lifeless body fell.
Odahviing roared once more, the sounds of the two Zeymah's third Thu'um finally turning the mortals struggle into abject chaos. Those who had not died from the first Dragonfire found themselves running towards the Broken Tower, which once nested the Reach's Forsworn, they all now fled to Golz for safety.
It appeared that his brother had seen likewise, for Nahfahlaar now hovered above the Golz Angaar, the stone tower, sending fiery plumes at its entrance and exit ways, bathing their only escape into that of Volok, the underworld.
He drove himself into the Golt after seeing that, bringing forth a shockwave that sent a half score of Muz onto the ground themselves, while the remaining Rouncies reeled at the sight, unseating the few riders which remained upon them. Odahviing snapped at once at the fallen Markarth man closest to him. His teeth wrapping around the unfortunate soul's leg. Twisting and tearing, the Bron flailed hopelessly about before biting deep, rupturing the limb from his now stricken remains.
A courageous few on both sides had drawn bows and nocked arrows after his landing. Odahviing felt the sting of five arrows before rending them asunder with his teeth and claws. Another hacked wildly with a bone-crafted hatchet, one blow landing on the Dovah's tail before he was able to turn and tear her chest and head clean off the remnants of her now Sos covered body.
Surprisingly, a pair of Forsworn and a Markarth Vak Roodam, a traitor-cloak, grouped closely together. The two males and a female, undaunted by their past battle now attempted to fight united against the threat of the Dov. It was Ferviit, curious.
"Krosis, you can not stand against me. Aal Hi Siiv Hin Sovngarde Das." Odahviing proclaimed, before his tail arched back then forward once more, buffeting the forlorn trio violently into the air. His Thu'um came then, the Unrelenting Force of his voice which sent them further upwards before finally, they descended, their journey coming to an end. The inevitable crack of their thin bones fractured and broken was their only lamentable response.
The Dovah stopped, more than curious.
No one else stood. Nahfahlaar too had ceased his near endless Thu'um, now landing a few metres from him. Odahviing scanned his surroundings, his vision taking in the dead around him.
Those piled together or apart, the bloodied and burnt. There was now little difference. A handful of wails escaped the few who lived still, pleads to Arkay and those that birthed them.
"Zokrosis. They did not have a chance. Somah, a tragedy they did not follow the Thuri." The Dovah uttered.
"Hmm? Odahviing, you sound like Zeymah Paarthurnax. Perhaps you are adapting to this mortal world after all." Nahfahlaar announced, uncaring as to the accusation.
He growled loudly. Paarthurnax refused the call of the Dov. He. Did. Not.
Yet as he turned to stare at his brother, there appeared no ill intent, he was more concerned at one of the Muz, still lying on the Golt.
"Zeymah, Faal Silon Sos Los Het." His brother beckoned. Moving forward, the Dovah looked to where he signalled.
The Silver-blood was missing a leg, for it appeared Odahviing himself had torn it asunder. His crimson lifeblood poured out of the wound, as Sos covered most of his armour and face. The Bron coughed violently, more crimson coming forth from his mouth. The fool Thongvor spat, clearing what he could.
"...so… Th...this is… the… power… of the… Dra...dragonborn. Oblivion... curs-"
Before he could finish, Nahfahlaar ripped his head off.
"It is done. The Thuri will be pleased." His Zeymah said before taking to flight once more.
Nid, Krosis. She will merely accept that it was necessary.
Perhaps Nahfahlaar was right. The mortal world was changing him, and Odahviing knew not if that was for better or worse.
Authors notes:
1. The crown of Jolethe is essentially the Aetherial Crown appearance wise.
2. Jolethe being the grandmother of Cephorus the second would completely fit chronologically in the Septim family tree (being a closer cousin than Andorak to the Septim bloodline) and would also give Cephorus a generation for him to actually become a 'Nord'. If Jolethe married a Nord and had one son. Let us call him Magnus the younger;
He'd be an Altmer like her (despite him having only one elven grandparent) but with increasingly mannish traits due to Magnus, his grandfather, being an Imperial. Less Magicka than a pure-blooded Altmer but more than a man of Skyrim, perhaps stouter and more resistant to the cold, yet less than your average Nord, not as weak against the effects of Magicka compared to other Altmer.
- If Magnus the younger's wife and Cephorus' mother were a Nord, Cephorus would be one also, yet with some slight Elven traits. Skin a mild shade more tanned than your natural snowy complexion, taller than your average Nord, more Magicka, yet weaker to it but not as much as his father and grandmother.
-I've also gone with Utheilla Direnni being the mother of Pelagius and Jolethe. Yet made her Magnus's second wife, as there's conflicting information surrounding their parentage. I've gone with it as Hellena Queen of Lilmoth being the first wife of Magnus, yet she died without issue. It will just be passed as the unreliable narrator and the author of the Wolf Queen getting his facts wrong. (That bloody Waughin Jarth!)
3. The Moot happened on Loredas 28th Sun's Dawn. (More for my own benefit this.) At the end of the Tullius section, it's just become a Sundas 1st First Seed. As Sun's Dawn only has 28 days (Our February).
4. As I made mention in chapter 3's author's notes. A legion is 5,000, and there are ten cohorts in each. Each cohort is commanded by a Legate (rather than them commanding a full legion as per the Roman Empire). The Tribune is a Legate's second-in-command. While the Praefects command a maniple (two centuria of men) and take charge in the construction of fortifications or encampments. The Centurian commands a centuria. I've placed the Quaestor into the ranking system below Centurian, as a second in command for them. They also deal with the supplying of the camp, be that food, clothing or arms, as well as with the wages of the soldiers. The Decanus commands eight men, so there are ten in each centuria. Then you have the Legionnaires who are the veteran rank and file, finally followed by the Auxiliaries, who are the Legion recruits.
Dragon Language Translations.
Aan Ziin Viing Nir. A two wing hunt.
Daar Tiid. This time.
Ziinin Zeymah. Twin brother.
Iilah. Moons.
Rilahk ahrk Nahkorah. Masser and Secunda.
Fin Hokoron Los Kos Evenaar. The enemy is to be extinguished.
Tahrovin Los Dinok. Treachery is death.
Haadvohiik. Who denies his oath.
Duvahriin. Forsworn.
Druv Dreh Hi Ni Tinvaak Fin Dovahzhul? Why do you not speak the Dragon tongue?
Niraat. Prey.
Sos Ahrk Dwiin. Blood and steel.
Ag Fin Praan. Ag Niin Pah. Burn the rest, burn them all.
Dilfahliiluv Tuz. Dwarven Blade.
Golz Angaar. Stone Tower
Volok. Underworld (Un-sky literally).
Vak Roodam. Traitor Cloak.
Ferviit. Curious.
Aal Hi Siiv Hin Sovngarde Das. May you find your afterlife soon.
Zokrosis. A sorry affair.
Faal Silon Sos Los Het. The Silver-blood is here.