Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers! :) Now that the firestorm has died down a bit, I think it's safe to post this here :3

And to those of you without PM:

Odilia: Thank you :) I'm glad you enjoy the story so much. I can't get this one published (copyrights, and all that), but I'm flattered that you think I should :)

Kazu: Nonsense, your English is fine :) And I'm glad you like the story, and am rather impressed you figured it out. You and HereLies are the only ones, really.

Kayla: I believe this chapter answers most of your questions. Sorry about the headache! :)

Aledis: Don't cry, have a chapter :)

Lurker: I thank you for your constructive criticism. I have my reasons for most of that, all of them in-game. However, if you're not a fan of the main character, not sure how to help you, there. I hope the next fanfic you click on is more to your liking. :)

Panda babii: of course! That's what I do best :3

Onward!

-)

Ulfric staggered backwards as though physically struck. "What?! Impossible!" He turned to Paarthurnax. "You're mistaken, In." Master, he called the dragon. "What you're suggesting is impossible. Absurd, even."

"I am not wrong, joor!" Paarthurnax bellowed at the tiny Nord standing before him. "I have felt the Dovahsos of the Dovahkiin since her…" he paused, looking for the human word. "…conception! And I have felt your pitiful Thu'um since your training, long ago—lingrah vod. There is no mistake, vojun." False king.

I had never seen Paarthurnax so furious, even when I fought Alduin atop the Throat of the World all those years ago. Ulfric was grasping at straws, trying to come up with an answer—though for Paarthurnax, himself, or me, I could not say. "In," he said again, almost timidly, "I do not remember when I would have…"

"You do, Stormcloak," Paarthurnax growled, lowering his head to ground level to stare down Ulfric, male-to-male. "And if you are so cowardly—nivahriin—that you will not tell your own kiir of her origins, than woe to you, joor, the next time you pick up a blade!"

That did him in. Ulfric turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Morwyn… you knew your mother, yes?" At my nod, he added, "Tell me about her. What did she look like, what did she do?"

I blinked in recoil. "Uhm, well." I hadn't expected that question. "My mother was a politician. Damn good one too, if you ask anyone she ever dealt with. Travelled all across Tamriel before Red Mountain, and even after. She was born into House Indoril, and adopted into House Redoran when she married my fath… well, the man I thought was my father until about a minute ago." Both Ulfric and Paarthurnax flinched at that. This was not the ideal way to tell a girl she was a bastard. "She was tall for a Dunmer, skin more blue than gray, like mine. I have her eyes; my oldest sister Neva does, too. She wasn't the warm and friendly type, but she loved her family with the fierce pride and joy of House Redoran."

"You speak of her in the past, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax noted dryly.

I drew in a shuddering breath. "She was murdered almost ten years ago."

"Acacia…" Ulfric was looking at me with new eyes, now. "Her name was Acacia, wasn't it? Acacia Indoril Morwyn…"

It hit me like a warhammer to the gut. That was my mother's name, all right. "You knew her…"

Ulfric nodded slowly, one hand clapped over his mouth as though he were going to be sick. "Aye, I knew her."

There was a thick silence then, one that not even Paarthurnax dared break.

"How?" I finally asked, the edges of my vision beginning to blur. "How is this even possible? You hate anything that isn't a Nord—that's common knowledge."

Ulfric let out a huge, shuddering sigh, running his fingers through his Nordic blond hair. "Are you sure you wish to know? It isn't a happy story…"

"If you tell me I am the product of anything less than harmonious adult consent, I will…!" I began.

"No!" Ulfric had his hands up, palms out, a gesture of negation and submission. "Nothing like that, I can assure you!"

"What then," I said with a vicious bite to the words, "makes it so unhappy?"

He sighed again, and folded his arms across his chest. "When I returned from the Great War, I had been tortured at the hands of the Thalmor, along with my father, the pervious Jarl of Eastmarch. He died during my incarceration. You knew this, yes?" I nodded, and so he continued. "When I returned to Windhelm, the people, so desperate for blood and revenge, named me Jarl and set me upon the Throne of Ysgramor." He drew in a sharp breath. "I was not ready."

It was the closest to vulnerable I had ever seen the man. "Why?" I asked, engrossed in the story of my birth despite myself.

He shook his head. "I was young, naïve, stupid. The Great War had hardened my outlook on life, but it hadn't been tempered with age and experience the way it should have. So when the remaining government of Morrowind sent a delegate to smooth over Nord-Dunmer relations a few years after the war, I thought I could handle it."

"My mother," I said quietly.

"Aye, they sent your mother." Ulfric nodded. "Damned good politician, the woman was. Polite, but firm, and with that fierce, Elven pride that I now see in you, Morwyn." He paused. "That's your surname, isn't it? Why use it?"

I nodded. "Why? Because it was easier to distance myself from who I was with a different name. But my given name is Tiberia. After Tiber Septim."

Uflric's countenance broke into a sad, wry smile. "Your mother named you for your Nord heritage, it seems." Funny, I had never realized that until he pointed it out. "Anyway, Acacia came to the Palace of the Kings to keep Morrowind's other neighbors from attacking, since they were knee-deep in Argonians at that point." The wars with Black Marsh had decimated the Dunmer after Red Mountain erupted, and we'd eventually been overrun. But that didn't mean rebel groups didn't skirmish throughout my homeland. "And she brought over terms and a treaty that she and I argued about for the gods-know-how-long."

"Why wasn't High King Torygg there?" I interrupted.

Ulfric shrugged. "He trusted me to handle it, and the other Jarls didn't much care one way or another. Most Dark Elves coming over from Morrowind put roots in Windhelm, and a few keep travelling down to Riften, but that's about as far as most get." I nodded. This was true. "So it fell to me to carve out this treaty in a way that wouldn't completely decimate every tradition, every Nord's sense of honor, dignity, and pride. We already had too many Dark Elves living in the Gray Quarter, and having an 'esteemed elven guest' in the Palace of Ysgramor was blasphemy to some."

The way he said that made me figure he was one of them. "I'm still not seeing how I come into the picture, here."

"Patience, Tiberia." Ulfric ran his fingers through his hair again, and this time his ring caught on one of his braids. The absurd comedy of the moment broke the specter that had been settling over us. After finally yanking his hand free, he continued, carefully slipping his ring into his pocket as he did so. "One night, after a particularly excruciating afternoon of butting heads, long after the rest of the Palace had gone to bed, I sat in the… well, you know it as the war room. I was poring over pages and pages of these documents, trying to work out a compromise that would leave both sides mollified. And that's when she burst through the door, in full-on tears."

My brow furrowed. "'Morwyns do not cry. They are resistant. Resilient. They do not weep,'" I quoted.

"Acacia said the same thing when I asked her what was the matter," Ulfric admitted with a half-hearted chuckle. "And then she told me the news she'd just received: her husband and eldest daughter had been killed while out hunting Cliff Racers." The Bear of Markarth shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot in the snow, and I knew that whatever came next would not be pleasant. "I had no idea how to react, beyond the typical, 'I am sorry for your loss, Lady Morwyn.' And suddenly I found myself being embraced by this Dark Elf, this politician, this woman I had a tough time liking."

"And it escalated," I ventured.

"Yes." Ulfric nodded. "That is where you come in, Tiberia. She and I… Ysmir's beard, I still don't know exactly how it happened. But when we awoke the next morning in my bed, the both of us were so embarrassed and shamed that the negotiations were finished within the hour. Or at least, that's what I thought happened."

"My elf father died when I was seven," I supplied.

Ulfric nodded. "Yes, well." He shifted again, his discomfort rising. "Imagine my surprise when I heard the gossip in the Gray Quarter nine months later. A child, they said. Born into House Morwyn of the Great House Redoran. To Lady Acacia, and her husband, Lord Amory. A beautiful baby girl—the third, now. And here, we thought she was well past her childbearing years." The story was closing now. I could hear it in his voice. "I was then treated to the acute shock of realizing I'd been seduced, and had slept with a married woman, but Tiberia…" He was grasping at straws again. "It never crossed my mind that you could be mine."

I knew he was telling the truth, there. But it didn't make it any easier to choke down. "So what you're telling me," I said slowly, "is that I'm not a child born of too much mead, misplaced affection, strangers passing in the night, or even traditional, hormonal stupidity. I was born of political necessity." It stung. Oh by Azura, it stung.

Ulfric's face fell before he masked it again. I could tell he'd never put it together like that. "Yes," he finally said. "I'm so sorry, but yes."

The corners of my eyes stung now, suicidal tears not unlike the ones I'd shed in Jorrvaskr were making their way down my face. "And you knew when I joined, didn't you?" I accused viciously. "And that's what the bounty was for—you wanted me back in Windhelm before someone else figured it out. Thirty-Thousand Septims will find someone real quick, won't it?"

"Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax rumbled, his huge head now level with mine. "Take heart, fahdon. No tears—luv." He gently nudged me with his huge scaly skull. "This does not change who you are."

Having a dragon attempt to comfort me was too much, just too damn much. The tears began falling in earnest, now, swiftly and silently. "You knew," I growled in Ulfric's general direction.

It took him an eternity to answer. "Galmar had his suspicions," the Jarl finally said. "'She commands an army just like you do, Ulfric. She's just as stubborn and restless as you were, back in the day. And she's the proper age.'" His impression of his Second-in-Command was uncanny. "I couldn't believe it, didn't want to."

I turned back to Paarthurnax, who was quickly becoming little more than a gray-green blur in my vision. "Are we finished, In?"

"Geh, Dovahkiin," he said. Yes, Dragonborn.

"I take my leave, then," I said, falling into Companion mode, even as I felt my heart squeezed in a vice and wrenched in half.

I barked "LOK VAH KOOR!" at the insufferable winds and took off down the side of the mountain, not caring if Ulfric Stormcloak—my bloody father—followed me down or not.

-)

We reached High Hrothgar less than an hour later. We burst through the doors and were immediately besieged by the Greybeards. What did the Grandmaster want? What, a second Oblivion Crisis!? Oh thank the Divines, it was only a false alarm! The Dragonborn is a Daedra worshipper, 'ey? Wait, why is said Dragonborn crying?

"Tiberia…?" Brynjolf called tentatively, his brow furrowed and confused.

"Are we finished, Masters?" I asked the Greybeards, keeping a tight rein on whatever dignity I had left.

"Aye, we are, but Dragonborn," Master Arngeir began, "whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing," I said, a clear lie. "May I take my leave?"

"Of course. Impatient to leave, I see." Arngeir chuckled despite himself. "So very much like another student I could mention." He glanced pointedly at Ulfric.

"Must run in the family," I choked out before I turned on heel, heading towards the large, bronzed doors out of this wretched place.

"Runs in the…?!" Master Arngeir called after me.

Galmar's shout of "I knew it!" was the last thing I heard before I slammed the door shut behind me (as best I could, anyway), and took off down the Seven-Thousand Steps. Running like this in the snow on the tallest mountain in Skyrim was probably suicidal, but right then, I didn't care. I needed to get away from people, from the Greybeards, from Ulfric.

I remembered too late, however, that someone had followed me up here. The realization was brought on when something—well, someone—tackled me from behind. We slammed into the snow, landing in an awkward heap on the ground. I try to scramble away, but Brynjolf pinned me down and caught my wrists in a grip that, though gentle, left no room for argument. "Sweet Mara, woman!" he exclaimed. "Slow down!"

I was painfully aware of his weight pressing on my floating ribs, on down. "Bryn, get off."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Do you promise not to run off again?"

"Yes," I choked out through the fresh onslaught of tears storming my face.

He rolled off me, and we both sat up in the ankle-deep snow. "By the Nine, Tiberia, whatever that Grandmaster said, whatever Stormcloak said…" He shook his head, as though that would clear whatever was in his mind. "I've got two war axes and a bad idea; all you have to do is say the word."

I smiled begrudgingly through the tears now openly streaming down my face. I smiled begrudgingly at this loyal friend of mine, this smooth-talking thief, this stubborn Nord, this sweet-natured man. I smiled begrudgingly because I was a Morwyn, and we do not weep. "No," I managed to get out.

Brynjolf's smirk held no scorn. "Wrong word, that. But Ty, in all seriousness, what happened up there?"

I just shook my head, scrubbing viciously at my face with the heel of each hand. "Paarthurnax knew my father," I said quietly.

"That's good news, isn't it?" He asked, taking my face in his hands so that I had to look him in the eyes. "Haven't you been searching for him since you realized you were part Nord?"

I glanced up at him, into that unwavering gaze, distinctly ashamed of how bleary mine was. "It's Ulfric Stormcloak, Bryn."

"Oh, Divines…" was all he said as he drew me into his embrace.

I'm still not sure how long we knelt there, me sobbing into his chest, and he just holding me tight.